Cover

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Cover

Also by Graham Hurley

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Afterwards

Also by Graham Hurley

The Faraday and Winter series

TURNSTONE

THE TAKE

ANGELS PASSING

DEADLIGHT

CUT TO BLACK

BLOOD AND HONEY

ONE UNDER

THE PRICE OF DARKNESS

NO LOVELIER DEATH

BEYOND REACH

BORROWED LIGHT

HAPPY DAYS

BACKSTORY

The Jimmy Suttle series

WESTERN APPROACHES

TOUCHING DISTANCE

SINS OF THE FATHER

THE ORDER OF THINGS

The Spoils of War series

FINISTERRE

AURORE

ESTOCADA

RAID 42

LAST FLIGHT TO STALINGRAD

The Enora Andressen series

CURTAIN CALL *

SIGHT UNSEEN *

OFF SCRIPT *

* available from Severn House

LIMELIGHT

Graham Hurley

Copyright

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

This first world edition published 2020

in Great Britain and the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

Trade paperback edition first published

in Great Britain and the USA 2021 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital

an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2020 by Graham Hurley.

The right of Graham Hurley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8980-5 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-734-7 (trade paper)

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0456-1 (e-book)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are

either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

Stirlingshire, Scotland.

Dedication

To Gerri and Rob with love

Epigraph

‘Remember that, whatever happens, all is well between us forever and ever …’

– Edward Thomas, January 1917

ONE

Thursday 12 September, 2019

Getting Pavel to Prague was never going to be easy. Pavel Sieger was a screenwriter of genius. Blindness lurked in his family genes and he had recognized the onset symptoms only too well. Determined that his last visual memories would be of somewhere truly special, he took a flight to Prague four years ago when his doctors told him to expect the darkness to descend. He went blind on a winter’s night in a pension in the Old Town, and always looked back to that last glimpse of the cobblestones of the Charles Bridge, the city silhouetted against the gathering dusk, and – when he peered over the balustrade of the bridge – the slow green suck of the river below.

We became lovers, a tribute to his playfulness, his imagination, and his raw courage in the face of blindness. Later, he had an accident that broke his neck and left him paralysed from the neck down. What was left – far more than you’d ever imagine – became my glad responsibility. My son’s natural father, H, paid for a specially adapted apartment and round-the-clock care overlooking the estuary in Exmouth. I was still living and working in London, but Pavel and I talked daily on the phone, and though a physical relationship was out of the question, I like to think we became even closer. A stroke took Pavel earlier this year, and disposal of his ashes falls to me.

Those ashes have been in my bedroom wardrobe all summer. I keep them in a brown plastic container about the size of one of those glass sweetie jars I remember from my childhood. The container has a screw lid and I’ve checked the contents. Pavel, when he died, was skin and bone. A thin grey dust, speckled with tiny white fragments of that same bone and something darkly granular, is all that remains. In my head we still talk, and we both agree that there’s only one resting place for what’s left of him. It has to be a moment on the Charles Bridge, preferably towards the end of one of those smoky autumnal dusks that Prague saves for special occasions. I will unscrew the lid, mutter a line or two from a poem I know he loves, and upend the container. Gravity, and the wind, will do the rest.

And so, this glad September morning, I’m en route to Gatwick Airport with my little black carry-on suitcase and a self-printed boarding card for the 11.55 EasyJet flight to Prague. Malo, my son, has a longstanding date with a couple of mates in Brighton and has volunteered to drop me off on his way. He has no idea why I’m going to Prague, and neither does he bother to ask, and in this respect I’m blessed by youth’s unrelenting self-absorption because this is a deeply private expedition and I’ve no great urge to share it.

We spend the journey discussing the apartment Malo and his girlfriend want to buy. His girlfriend’s name is Clemenza, Clem for short, and they’ve been together now for a couple of years. She’s the daughter of a wealthy Colombian businessman, beautiful, gifted, funny and unswervingly loyal. She drives a big Harley Davidson, currently works for a TV production company, and fronts a band in pubs in west London. For a small girl she has a big voice, husky, dark, occasionally wistful, and her weekend gigs attract a substantial following. There’s no way that my wayward son deserves a partner like this, and on good days he knows it. See them together, as I often do, and they could be the perfect couple. This, as I’ve often told Malo, is a tribute to his luck and her patience. Beware, I warn him. Things only last if you take very great care of them.

On the motorway, heading south, Malo wants to know what I’ve told H about the apartment. This is important because Malo’s natural father will be putting up half the money, and Malo knows already that everything will depend on me. H and I go back two decades now. We’ve only slept together once, and the result was Malo, but recently we’ve built a friendship that has proved commendably resilient. H owes his wealth to the drugs biz. He was a gifted cocaine dealer back in the day, but his feel for the property market is less certain. Hence his reliance on my verdict.

‘So, what do you think, Mum?’

‘It’s wildly over-priced.’

‘A mil? You really think so?’

I do. It’s a seventh-floor apartment off Ranelagh Gardens. It has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and views of the Thames. It’s a nice enough perch, especially if someone else is footing the bill, but thanks to the wonders of the internet, I know that the current owner bought it for £395,000 just eighteen years ago. Now, he’s after a million pounds. Even these days, a profit of £33,000 a year for doing nothing is near obscene.

‘It’s the market, Mum. You can’t argue with it. No one can. It’s what people will pay. Plus, it’s got really fast broadband.’

‘What about Mateo? What does he think?’ Mateo, Clem’s father, is evidently putting in the rest of the money.

‘He hasn’t seen it yet. Clem’s taking him and her mum round tomorrow morning.’

‘And the neighbours?’

‘Old. They need new blood. We met the bloke next door a couple of days ago. He was ancient enough to be Clem’s grandad, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. It’s perfect, Mum. You know it is. That’s all you have to say. That’s all Dad needs to know.’ He shoots me a look. ‘Yeah?’

We’re on the slipway off the M23, heading for the airport. When he drops me off, Malo gets out and helps me retrieve my suitcase from the Audi’s boot. At the kerbside, he looks me up and down. I’m forty-two years old. I’m clad entirely in white, a simple, body-hugging dress in soft mohair that Pavel adored. I toyed with wearing black in view of the occasion but that, I know, would offend him deeply.

‘Audition, Mum? Is that it?’ Malo grins, giving me a hug. ‘You look great. You’ll knock ’em dead.’

Knock ’em dead? I give him a wave as he accelerates away, and then step into the terminal building. I have more than an hour in hand, but I always like to get through security before settling down. The queues snake back and forth through a maze of ropes and we shuffle slowly forward until it’s my turn to hoist my suitcase on to the belt for the X-ray machine. As I step through the security gate and raise my hands for a pat-down, I’m aware of the woman in charge of the machine looking hard at the image on her screen. She stops the belt and looks up to summon a uniformed guy who I’m guessing is her supervisor. Then her perfectly lacquered fingernail descends lightly on the screen. Look, she’s saying. Just there.

Shit, I’m thinking. Pavel.

I’m right. As my suitcase emerges from the machine, it’s lifted from the belt and put to one side. I identify it as mine and confirm that no one else has had a hand in the packing.

‘Open it, please.’ This from the supervisor.

At his invitation, I lay everything out for inspection. My washbag. A towel. A light jacket for the evening. A silk scarf in blues and deep reds I especially treasure. A battered copy of a John Updike novel I acquired in a charity shop. Spare undies, plus a pair of comfortable Nikes for a brief walking tour I plan for tomorrow morning. The supervisor is interested in none of this. Instead, his eyes have settled on the container I picked up from the undertaker. I think the superviser’s Pakistani, but he could be Indian. Early middle-aged. Nice hands. Single gold ring. London accent.

‘What’s in there, madam?’

‘Ashes.’

‘What?’ His eyes flick up to my face.

‘Ashes. What’s left of a good friend of mine.’ I start to explain about Pavel, and his passion for Prague, and the mission that will take me to the Charles Bridge, but he cuts me short.

‘Can you prove that?’ he asks.

‘Prove what?’

‘That these are his ashes? They could be anything. They could be combustible.’

‘They were combustible. That’s the whole point. We cremated the poor man.’ I nod at the container. ‘And that’s what’s left.’

‘But can you prove it? Do you have a death certificate? Something from the crematorium?’

‘No.’ I shake my head. I have no paperwork. I should have thought this thing through, I tell myself. I should have come prepared.

‘Open it, please.’

I unscrew the lid of the container and he bends to peer inside, careful to avoid touching this object. His body language gives him away. He’s disgusted, and it shows.

He lowers his nose, takes a precautionary sniff, recoils at once.

‘No,’ he says.

‘No, what?’

‘No, you can’t take it on the flight. We need to get it analysed.’ He gestures at the line of waiting passengers. ‘We have a responsibility here. It could be anything.’ One of the passengers, a young woman, nods and whispers something to her partner before gathering up her infant son.

‘Like what?’

‘Like some form of explosive. These things happen. You wouldn’t believe what people get up to.’

‘You think I want to blow the plane up? With me in it?’

‘I’ve no idea, madam. But it’s a risk we can’t take. Like I just said, it could be anything.’

‘But it’s not anything,’ I insist. ‘It’s Pavel.’

‘You say.’

‘I say.’

The supervisor shrugs and checks his watch. He has a trillion people to get through to airside, and his decision is made.

‘You’re serious?’ I ask him. ‘I’m making this special trip to scatter the ashes and I’ve got to leave them here?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid that’s pretty much it. Unless you’ve got some form of proof that they are what you say they are.’ He pauses, trying to soften the bad news. ‘Why don’t you just go anyway? Prague’s a lovely place. Especially this time of year.’

‘But there’ll be no point. I can’t scatter ashes I haven’t got.’

‘I’m afraid that’s your problem, madam. We’ll give you a proper receipt, of course. The process should take a couple of weeks. We can courier the container back to you but I’m afraid there’ll be a charge.’

‘And the test? The analysis?’

‘We may be able to offer you a discount on that. I’ll have to check.’

I’m getting angry now but the passengers behind me are beginning to stir. I’m an actress by profession, and while I’m no stranger to public performance, this particular script is starting to wear thin.

‘I’ve changed my mind.’ I reach for the container. ‘I’ll scatter him somewhere else. Anywhere round here you might recommend?’

My sarcasm is wasted on the supervisor. He makes a dismissive gesture towards the container and turns away. Poor Pavel, I think, screwing his top on again, and then repacking my suitcase.

I make my way back against the tidal wave of passengers, escorted by another security guard, and phone Malo from the main concourse. Pavel, I know, would have found the last ten minutes of my life richly entertaining. Ever subversive, he’d have loved the thought of his remains being tested for explosives. All his life, privately and professionally, he’d been unpredictable, dangerous, ignoring conventions, breaking new ground, and even in death, it turns out that his reputation won’t leave him alone.

‘Mum? You’ve landed already? That’s gotta be a world record.’ It’s Malo.

‘Sadly not.’ I tell him about my encounter with airport security.

‘You’ve got his ashes? And you want to drop them off some bridge?’

‘I do.’

‘That’s gross.’

‘That’s what the supervisor thought.’

‘I don’t blame him. Why don’t you scatter him on the garden of remembrance or whatever? Plant a rosebush on top? Just like everyone else?’

‘Because he wasn’t everyone else,’ I say firmly. ‘And neither am I. We’re going to Prague, come what may.’

‘We?’

‘Me and Pavel.’

‘Weird.’

‘Listen …’ I’ve had time to think this through. I want my darling boy to drive me to Folkestone. We can put his Audi on the Eurotunnel. There are virtually no checks and once we get to Calais, Pavel and I can take a train to Brussels, and then another to Prague.

‘And me?’

‘You pop back to Folkestone. Job done.’ I try smiling at the phone. ‘I’m seeing your father next week. We’ll be discussing your new apartment.’

Malo mumbles something I don’t fully catch about his mates in Brighton. He says he’ll have to make a call, then phone me back. I say fine, and then hang up.

Seconds later, I’m looking at a WhatsApp from my lovely friend Evelyn. As a neighbour in Holland Park, she’s seen me through countless crises, both marital and medical. She’s worked in publishing all her life, becoming the doyenne of London editors with a fine list of authors who all adore her almost as much as I do, but recent retirement has bought her a rather nice bungalow in a seaside town called Budleigh Salterton. She’s had a long association with the place, thanks to their annual literary festival, and now – it seems – they want to stage a little welcome to celebrate her settling down for good.

A whole evening of yours truly, she’s written. Sorry about the short notice but it’s taken me by surprise, too.

The event is to take place tomorrow in St Peter’s Church, and I can tell by the rest of the message that she very definitely needs moral support. I’m in the middle of replying to her when Malo rings. He has H’s bluntness when it comes to bad news.

‘Sorry, Mum—’ he begins.

‘No problem.’ I cut him short. ‘I’ve got another date. Best to those mates of yours. I’ll take the train back to town.’

I hang up, and then finish my WhatsApp message to Evelyn. Of course I’ll come down for the event. Might I beg a bed afterwards?

She’s back within seconds, absolutely delighted. Of course I can stay the night – in fact I can stay forever if the mood takes me. The message ends with one of those cheesy emoticons, which is a bit of a departure for Evelyn.

I study it for a moment, and then reach down for my suitcase.

‘Later, eh?’ I know Pavel is listening. ‘Some other weekend?’

TWO

Not going to Prague turns out to be a godsend. Getting back to my apartment in Holland Park, I find a message waiting for me on my landline. My agent, Rosa, has been trying to raise me but without success. I apologize for having my cell phone switched off but she says it doesn’t matter. She has some interesting news. One of our favourite BBC development executives has been on. Like me, by some strange twist of fate, he’s been thinking hard about ways to mark Pavel’s passing and has caught wind of a script, or perhaps a long treatment, he evidently never showed to anyone.

The honchos at BBC drama, bless them, have always held a candle for Pavel, recognizing his distinctive voice and doing ample justice to script after script. Rather than wasting resources on some dutiful retrospective, with warm words and extravagant curtsies from his favourite thesps, they’re keen to lay hands on this rumoured masterpiece.

‘Any ideas, my precious?’

‘None, I’m afraid.’ I’m thinking hard. ‘Have they got a title? Subject matter? Lead names? Any other clue?’

‘Alas, no. They rather thought that you might be able to help.’

‘They think he told me everything?’

‘They think you were his muse. It might be the same thing.’

‘Christ, no. He didn’t even tell me he had a son. As you know, the guy had to fly halfway round the world and knock at my door before I twigged that bit of the back story.’

Rosa has a throaty laugh, a tribute to half a lifetime on the roll-ups. Ivan, Pavel’s son, teaches world literature at the University of Western Australia in Perth. He turned up in London a couple of months ago to attend a conference. Pavel’s obituary, and then a call to Rosa, brought Ivan to my apartment, where I was only too happy to share a story or two about the father he’d never known. That afternoon has stayed with me ever since, partly because Ivan’s smile and playful intelligence brought Pavel back to life, and partly because he left with the knowledge that his father’s estate was worth at least three and a half million pounds. When I share this news with Rosa, of course she isn’t surprised.

‘Five,’ she says briskly, ‘at least. I’m told the French have just come in with a huge rights bid on that Huguenot costume series he did way back, and Pavel’s agent is expecting something similar from the Canadians. Have you talked to Claude recently?’

‘No.’

‘Then maybe you should.’ Claude Ransome was Pavel’s solicitor, and is now acting as executor for his estate.

‘This missing gem …’ I say, wanting to change the subject. ‘I don’t even know where to start.’

‘His house, maybe? The one in Chiswick?’

‘It’s gone. Sold.’

‘That place you bought him down in the West Country?’

‘That went, too.’

‘That laptop of his?’

I nod, but say nothing. Before he went blind, Pavel used to write on an Apple MacBook, an object to which he was fond of ascribing almost supernatural powers. A decent bottle of Chablis plus Steve Jobs, he used to say, are the twin keys that will open any fictional door. Latterly, paralysed as well as blind, Pavel acquired a significantly expensive piece of software that would turn speech and dictated stage directions into screen text. This MacBook, I still have.

‘I can take a look,’ I tell Rosa. ‘No promises, though. You knew the man. He buried everything. Layers and layers of deceit, and that was just for the day-to-day stuff. Something like this, something he really wanted to hide, you’d need to be an archeologist, not a muse.’

Rosa grunts something I can’t make out. Then she asks whether I’ve recovered.

‘From?’

‘Your Dutch beau, my precious. The way I heard it, you were lucky to get out of that pub alive. Am I right? Or is this all hearsay?’

‘You’re right.’

‘And might I get the whole story one day?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Sleeping dogs?’

‘I’m afraid so. What’s done …’ I muster a shrug. ‘Is done. The bloody man’s dead. That’s all you need to know.’

‘Really?’ Rosa doesn’t bother to mask her disappointment. ‘And that’s all I get?’

‘That’s all you need. I’m off to Devon again.’

‘Exmouth?’

The Story Continues on BooksBarbecue!

Enjoyed this preview? ❤️ Do not stop here!

Read the complete book free online → 🔗

Continue reading now on BooksBarbecue and discover every page!

Love reading? Bookmark BooksBarbecue.com for more amazing books!

Happy Reading!