CHAPTER 37
Harry
It was the first warm evening of the year, and Harry, Charles, and Andre were sitting on the Hurlingham Club terrace sipping chilled New Zealand sauvignon blanc.
“Not a bad tipple, this one,” said Charles, holding his glass up to the evening sunlight. “Here’s to you—nicely played, Andre.” The powerful Russian had beaten him 6–4, 6–3.
“Was good match,” Andre replied. “And, Harry, you play soon too, my friend.”
“Yep, I’m stick-free at last.” That week, Harry had thrown it into the back of the cupboard of the St. Katharine Docks apartment he was leasing.
Megan had wanted him to find somewhere near them, but Harry had always felt drawn to the Thames.
The leg still ached, but he could walk on it properly now—his physio had worked wonders. He intended to kick the painkillers this summer, aware that the quantity he was taking was way out of proportion to the severity of the pain. But every time he tried to cut down, he’d get the jitters, couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t sleep.
“How is divorce coming, Harry?” asked Andre.
Harry’s smile faded. He wasn’t comfortable talking about his finances with Andre, aware that it was probably only their friendship keeping him from putting the Russian boot in. The latest figures for the football channel were abysmal.
“Excuse me, chaps, need to pay a visit,” said Charles, leaving Harry to answer Andre’s difficult question.
“Truth is, Andre, Ana’s being difficult,” he said. “That’s the kindest way I can phrase it. It’s not about the money—she’s got plenty of that. It’s all about revenge. Christ, I only had one affair in all the time we were married. One!”
“Pfft, English women. Her lawyer, I hear he is the best. How good is your Cranwell?”
“Suitably ruthless.” But then he remembered Tom’s misgivings. “I’m not sure he’s up to this particular War of the Roses, though.”
“You are on side of right. Rose Corp. was your father’s life work, no? You cannot let angry woman ruin his legacy.”
“Maybe I should find a lawyer who plays by different rules.”
“These English rules I think are difficult to break. Too much in favor of wives. Is wrong. Wives are not ones who make money, so why wives get half the money? Is crazy. I would not tolerate. In Russia we have ways of dealing with troublesome wives who make unreasonable demands.”
“You do?”
Andre gazed out across the grounds. And slowly drew his finger across his throat.
“Jesus, Andre. Tad extreme.”
“In Russia we take seriously our family battles. Someone threatens to bring us down, like you say, is war. Has always been this way. In England it was too, I think.”
“We haven’t beheaded our enemies for quite some time, Andre. Or our wives.”
“Not in public, Harry. In Russia we know how to do this, what is your word . . . discreetly. Ana, she make a big problem for you.”
“She does. But—”
“I can handle this problem for you.” He was still looking at the view.
“You are kidding? This is England. Wives generally aren’t disposable.”
Finally, Andre turned to him. “Harry. I much enjoy being business partner. You and Charles are my English family. But you think Russian money is like tap to turn on. You take Andre to football, you get money. You play tennis with Andre, you get more money. I am businessman. There is no more money for Rose until problem sorted. Your wife is problem.”
Harry felt himself breaking out in a cold sweat.
“You give me nod, I make problem go away,” said Andre.
“How?”
“Russian assets, especially military—many things we can get.”
Charles was coming back.
“We haven’t had this conversation, Andre.”
Harry woke up from a nightmare, bathed in sweat. His legs were twitching and his heart was racing. He flicked on the bedside lamp and looked at the clock: three a.m.
He made his way to the kitchen, where he poured a glass of water and swallowed four pills, staring out the window at the black waters of the Thames.
Andre hadn’t been serious. Of course he hadn’t. Even Russians didn’t go around bumping off other people’s wives because they were hampering football-related plans.
Harry sank onto the couch, feeling his heart rate slow. He noticed his stomach spilling over the waistband of his pajamas. He was out of condition, dependent on drugs. His life was unraveling. He needed to take control. He’d find a new doctor and be frank about his painkiller addiction. Most importantly, he’d go and see Ana, get her to see reason.
Ana
It was a Wednesday evening, and Ana was the only person left in the office. Eliza was at a sleepover, so she was working late on a concept for a new client. She’d put background music on and was enjoying the solitude.
It was different from being alone at home, where she’d obsess about the divorce and what to do about Harry. Megan reported he was like a coiled spring, apt to explode in a temper over the most inconsequential things. She suspected he was addicted to painkillers, which were apparently being supplied by bloody Andre.
Ana wouldn’t have given a damn, except, of course, there was Eliza to consider.
Tonight was her daughter’s first-ever night away from home. Ana couldn’t help wondering if she’d be all right. Eliza had been through so much upheaval this past year, with Harry’s accident and the breakup. But she seemed remarkably resilient, as sunny and happy as ever, and excelling at school.
Ana jumped as the cleaner appeared in her doorway. She hadn’t heard him come in.
He dragged his Hoover into her office and plugged it in behind her.
“Sorry for noise,” he said. He sounded Eastern European.
“No problem.”
In her final moment of consciousness, Ana was aware of the cleaner picking up her wastepaper bin. Then she felt a tiny prick in her neck. She spun around, shocked, and looked the man in the eye. Then everything went black.
Harry
Thursday morning, at about ten o’clock, Janette appeared in Harry’s office doorway, her eyes wide. “Harry, it’s the police.”
His first thought was that Andre had been caught for some misdemeanor, and he was about to be dragged in.
“Can I get you a coffee?” Janette asked as the two officers approached his desk.
“Nothing, thank you,” said the policeman. “Perhaps you could close the door on your way out.”
“Mr. Rose,” said the female officer. “It’s about your wife.”
Time seemed to slow down.
“Ana?”
“We’re very sorry to tell you that she was found dead in her office this morning.”
“Dead? No, that’s not possible.”
“There’s nothing to suggest foul play, sir. It looks like natural causes.”
Harry had lost the ability to think. His mind had gone blank.
“Mr. Rose, sir? Can we get you a cup of tea?”
“But . . . she can’t be dead. She just can’t be.”
The male officer went to the door.
“Sir, I know it’s a terrible shock,” said the policewoman. “Can we call someone to come and be with you?”
“We’re separated. Our daughter, Eliza. I’ll need to . . . the nanny will have to—”
“Sir, if you let us have the nanny’s phone number, we’ll get in touch. Is there someone else we can call for you?”
“My sister Megan. She’s Ana’s friend. Oh my god, Ana. How did she . . . no, it can’t be true.”
This couldn’t be anything to do with Andre. It just couldn’t. Stuff like that didn’t happen in real life.
He pictured Ana’s beautiful face, and the emotion finally hit. He swung his chair around so it was facing away from the officers, and put his head in his hands, which were now shaking uncontrollably. Tears seeped through his fingers.
There was a tap on the door, and the sound of a mug being placed on his desk.
“Harry?” said Janette.
“Ms. . . .”
“Morrissey. I’ve been with Mr. Rose for many years. Could I ask—”
“Sorry, ma’am, we can’t give you any information at this time.”
Harry swung back, wiping his eyes.
Janette gasped. “Harry, whatever’s happened?”
Harry and Eliza stayed with Charles and Megan for the rest of the week. No one could think further ahead. Handfuls of painkillers quieted the voice in Harry’s head. The voice that was calling him a wife murderer.
He argued with it. They were still awaiting the autopsy results, and surely those would show this was a tragic case of . . . what? A heart attack? Brain hemorrhage? One of those, surely.
He mixed more pills with whisky and cried for his beautiful Ana, until Megan told him to pull himself together; she was hurting too. And he needed to get a grip for Eliza’s sake.
The autopsy revealed an unusual cause of death—toxic shock syndrome. At first, everyone assumed it was a case of a forgotten tampon, but it appeared the bacteria causing the fatal condition had entered her body through a deep cut on her index finger, which the investigation suggested she’d acquired a few days earlier after a slipup with the office guillotine.
After the funeral, and a family conference, Megan, Charles, and Harry decided to accept Katie’s thoughtful invitation for Eliza to join them in Wales for a while, until Harry had made firmer plans for her future.
In the weeks that followed, IQ Design was taken over by Ana’s team in a management buyout, most of the substantial proceeds going back into Rose Corp., the sole investor.
Harry’s leg continued to improve, and he began a daily regimen of Thames-side walks to build up its strength. His fitness increased, and his trousers were no longer too tight. Newly aware of the fragility of life, he reduced, little by little, the size of the daily pile of pills, although giving them up altogether remained a terrifying prospect. No way could he sleep at night without them.
Janette was an enormous help, her visits distracting him from dark thoughts, from his fear of the knock at the door that could herald the arrival of Scotland Yard. Or MI5.
Harry’s first meeting with Andre after Ana’s death was at the Rose offices, around a table with the Football TV team. Without the threat of the divorce settlement, they were able to proceed with an alternative plan for the channel. As well as lower division and cup matches, it would feature magazine-style programs heavy on nostalgia.
As everyone filed out of the meeting room, Andre was the last to leave, ahead of Harry.
“Harry, my English brother,” he said, turning. “Time we saw a football game again. Life will be easier for you now, I think.” And he winked.