The Trinity Six - Charles Cumming [92]
He was at last beginning to feel tired. Time for bed. He put the phone back on the counter, emptied the ashtray, put his glass in the dishwasher and re-corked the wine. Two of Katya’s shoeboxes were still open on the table and he gathered up the loose pieces of paper in a half-hearted attempt to tidy up.
That was when he saw the letter. A single sheet of powder-blue, watermarked stationery with an address die-stamped at the top:
Robert Wilkinson
Drybread Road (RD2)
Omakau 9377
Central Otago
New Zealand
Chapter 32
It was a love letter.
My darling Katya
This is the last of the material I promised to send to you. If you look carefully, perhaps you will find something that catches the public’s attention. Keep your eye on Platov. He is the prize. I cannot say any more than that.
Life on the property is much the same. I walk, I read, I feel a very long way from home. Mostly I do not mind that feeling. I see Rachel all the time, because she lives just a few hours away, and she has given me two wonderful grandchildren. I don’t even seem to mind Rachel’s husband as much as I once did – perhaps I am mellowing with age.
But I miss Catherine and I miss you, my darling. I think of you constantly. I am not a sentimental man. You know this about me. But sometimes I cannot stand to think that I will never hold you again, that you will never sleep in my arms, that we will be forever apart. I have made so many mistakes and now it feels almost too late.
I regret so much, not least choosing a career over the possibility of a greater happiness with you. But you have heard all this from me so many times before. What use are regrets? I only ask that you give some thought, one last time, to the possibility of coming here, to New Zealand, even if it is just for a week or two. I promise that you will like it.
Good luck with the book, Katty. I have tried to help you and only wish that I could have done more.
With all my love, as always
Robert x
At the end of their first weekend together, Holly had mentioned to Gaddis that her mother had once had a boyfriend in MI6 who had leaked material to her about the KGB. This was surely him. Wilkinson was the source of the archive. The letter was dated 5 May 2000. But what had he meant by the lines in the first paragraph? ‘Keep your eye on Platov. He is the prize.’
It was almost half-past four in the morning. Gaddis read the letter again, trying to work out the precise nature of the relationship between Wilkinson and Katya Levette. Had they been married? Christ, was he Holly’s father? Only Holly would be able to provide the answers, but he could hardly wake her in the middle of the night. His questions would have to wait until morning.
‘What are you doing?’
She was standing on the far side of the room with scrunched eyes and sleep-twisted hair, a section of it stuck to her face. He was startled by the sound of her voice and put the letter on the table, as if he had been caught reading Holly’s private correspondence. She was wearing his dressing-gown, the cord hanging loose at the side.
‘Did I wake you?’
‘No. I just needed a glass of water. You weren’t there. I wondered what had happened to you.’ Her eyes were squinting against the light. ‘What are you doing up? What time is it?’
Gaddis looked beyond her, at the handbag on the floor, and felt a pang of remorse. ‘About half-four,’ he said. He was wide awake again, the soporific effects of the wine and the paracetamol long since worn off. ‘Who’s Robert Wilkinson?’
‘What?’
Her head had fallen to one side. She looked startled.
‘So you know him?’
‘Bob? Of course I know him. He was Mum’s boyfriend. How did his name come up?’
‘I found a letter.’ Gaddis held it up in his hand, inviting her to read it. But she was still half asleep and said: ‘Can’t I see it in the morning?’
He shook his head. ‘No. It’s important. Did he give your mum this stuff?’
He indicated the files on the table.