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Letter from a Stranger
Barbara Taylor Bradford
SCaptivating and evocative, Letter from Istanbul will take you on an unforgettable journey from idyllic Connecticut to exotic Istanbul to war-torn Berlin then back to the present day.When award-winning film maker Justine Nolan returns to her beautiful childhood home, she is intrigued by an envelope she finds in her absent mother’s post. But the letter inside contains a shocking revelation. If genuine, it will change everything she believes about her family’s recent history, her mother and her adored grandmother, Gabriele.With the support of her beloved twin brother, Richard, Justine resolves to uncover the truth. To do so she must travel to Istanbul – the teeming, beguiling city on the cusp of East and West. It is a place which holds its own secrets, leading her to a fascinating man who appears to know more than he is prepared to disclose.Yet even when her quest succeeds, Justine is faced with a further mystery: Gabriele’s background is not what it seems. Justine is given a book of memories in which the real story unfolds, taking her back to the darkest days of European history, with its suffering and astonishing acts of bravery. At the heart of it lie the final facts of Gabriele’s identity – and her own.The letter from a stranger has brought her not only to the truth about her family but also a chance to heal the wounds of past betrayals, to embrace a new love and a new life.



Barbara Taylor Bradford

Letter From a Stranger



Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2011
LETTER FROM A STRANGER. Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2011. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 9780007304134
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 9780007304226
Version: 2017-11-16

Dedication
Again for my husband Bob, and as always
with my love

Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Istanbul: April 2004
Prologue
The letter, contemplated and worried about for such a long…
Part One
The Letter
One
The view from the second-floor terrace was panoramic, and breathtaking.
Two
Later that afternoon, when Daisy was taking a nap, Justine…
Three
The moment they entered Richard’s glass-enclosed studio, Justine sat down…
Four
Once Richard had left with Daisy, Justine walked slowly down…
Five
‘You look great,’ Joanne Brandon exclaimed, walking across the worn…
Six
Tita brought coffee to the drawing room, and then disappeared.

Part Two
The Search
Seven
Justine recognized Iffet Özgönül at once. It helped, of course,…
Eight
A voice filled the room. A man’s voice. Melodic. Slightly…
Nine
They were in the middle of the teeming city in…
Ten
The man cut quite a swathe as he walked through…
Eleven
Istanbul. City of contrasts. European. Oriental. Exotic, Justine wrote in…
Twelve
Several hours later, Justine and Iffet boarded the sleek white…

Part Three
The Reunion
Thirteen
The driver had turned the boat around, and now it…
Fourteen
Justine, who had been frustrated all week, felt frustrated once…
Fifteen
The afternoon tea party was a jolly event, and everyone…
Sixteen
Michael Dalton was sitting on the terrace of the Çiragan…
Seventeen
The moment they were alone, Gabriele took hold of Justine’s…
Eighteen
It was a beautiful night, the midnight-blue sky sprinkled with…
Nineteen
‘And that, Richard, is Gran’s story of the estrangement, and…

Part Four
Coup de Foudre
Twenty
Michael sat down next to Justine on the garden seat,…
Twenty-One
‘This is the most beautiful fabric,’ Justine said, looking at…
Twenty-Two
Michael was waiting for her at the jetty as they…
Twenty-Three
Sitting back, Justine stared at herself in the mirror and…
Twenty-Four
It was one o’clock in the morning when Michael and…
Twenty-Five
They lay together side by side, catching their breath, both…

Part Five
The Mystery
Twenty-Six
Gabriele was, by nature, an early riser, and on this…
Twenty-Seven
Anita and Gabriele saw them off at the jetty, waving…
Twenty-Eight
Anita was sitting on Gabriele’s terrace, studying a floor plan,…
Twenty-Nine
The three women walked across the terrace and into Gabriele’s…
Thirty
After Anita had retreated to her own yali to rest,…
Thirty-One
Later that afternoon, Justine went out to the gardens to…
Thirty-Two
Once they had finished tea, which had been a bit…
Thirty-Three
The following afternoon, once Gabriele was ready to leave for…
Thirty-Four
Justine remained on the bed, trying to rest. Exhausted from…
Thirty-Five
Justine was about to pick up her grandmother’s book when…
Thirty-Six
The moment Justine walked into the bedroom she picked up…
Thirty-Seven
‘So tell me,’ Michael said, when Justine remained silent at…
Thirty-Eight
After supper on the terrace, Justine returned to her bedroom.
Thirty-Nine
As she returned to her bedroom, Justine made the decision…
Forty
After filling the kettle and putting it on the stove,…
Forty-One
‘It’s me, Rich,’ Justine said. ‘Is this a bad time?
Forty-Two
Light drifting in through the gauzy curtains awakened Justine early.
Forty-Three
After her shower, Justine dressed and went for a walk…
Forty-Four
Although Justine was longing to continue reading about her grandmother’s…
Forty-Five
Later that same day Justine settled herself in the chair…
Forty-Six
Knocking on the door brought Justine’s head up. She called,…
Forty-Seven
Although she didn’t want to stop reading, Justine knew she…
Forty-Eight
She was almost at the end of her grandmother’s memories…
Forty-Nine
‘Why did you come back early, Gran?’ Justine asked, looking…
Fifty
Anita was waiting for them in the gold room. As…
Fifty-One
Michael stood staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, thinking…
Fifty-Two
The little girl walking towards her wore a yellow muslin…
Fifty-Three
Justine and Richard sat together in the small lounge area…
Epilogue
The Litchfield Hills, Connecticut: July 2004
Epilogue
It was July the Fourth and glorious. The perfect day…
Bibliography
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford
About the Publisher

PROLOGUE
Istanbul April 2004

PROLOGUE
The letter, contemplated and worried about for such a long time, was finally written. But it was not mailed. Instead it was put in a drawer of the desk so that it could be thought about, the words carefully reconsidered before that last irretrievable step was taken.
The following morning the letter was read once more, corrected and locked away for the second time. On the third day it was perused again and the words deftly edited. Satisfied that everything had been said clearly and concisely, the writer copied the final draft onto a fresh piece of writing paper. This was folded, sealed in an envelope, addressed and affixed with the correct stamps. The words AIR MAIL were written in the top left-hand corner of the envelope, which was then propped against the antique French clock on the desk.
A short while later, the young son of the cook was summoned to the upstairs sitting room. The envelope was handed to him, instructions given, and he was told to take it to the post office at once.
The boy left the villa immediately, waving to the gardener as he trotted through the iron gates of the old-style Turkish yali. This was situated on the Asiatic side of Istanbul, on the shores of the Bosphorus, in Üsküdar, the largest and most historical district of the city.
As he walked in the direction of the post office, the boy held the letter tightly in his hand, proud that he had been given such an important task by his father’s employer. He was only ten, but everyone said he was capable, and this pleased him.
A light, balmy breeze wafted inland from the sea, carrying with it the hint of salt and the sounds of continuous hooting from one of the big cruise ships now ploughing its way down the Bosphorus, heading towards the Black Sea and new ports of call.
The boy hurried on, intent in his purpose, remembering his instructions… the letter must be put in the box marked ‘International’. It was going to America. He must not make the mistake of using the one that was for domestic mail. He was soon leaving the shoreline behind, walking up the long road called Halk Caddesi. The post office was at the top, and within minutes he found the letter box marked ‘International’ and dropped the letter in the slot. He then retraced his steps.
When the Bosphorus was in his line of vision once more, the boy began to run; he was soon pushing open the gates of the yali, heading for the kitchens. He found his father preparing lunch, and dutifully reported that he had posted the letter. His father picked up the phone, spoke to his employer, then ruffled his son’s hair, smiling down at him. He rewarded him with pieces of Turkish delight on a saucer.
The boy went outside, sat on the step in the sunshine, munching the delicious sweetmeat. He sat there daydreaming, had no way of knowing that the letter he had just mailed would change many lives forever. And so drastically they would never be the same again.
The writer of the letter knew this. But the consequences were of no consideration. Long ago, a terrible wrong had been done. The truth was long overdue. Finally it had been revealed, and if there was retribution then so be it. What mattered most was that a wrong had been righted.

PART ONE
The Letter
Read it a hundred times; it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of meaning that once unfolded by surprise it went.
Robert Frost: The Figure a Poem Makes

ONE
The view from the second-floor terrace was panoramic, and breathtaking. Justine Nolan, who knew it well, was nevertheless always startled when she saw it, even after a short absence, and today was no exception.
She leaned against the white-painted wooden railings, gazing out at the sweeping line of the Litchfield Hills flowing towards the distant horizon. Their thickly wooded slopes rolled down to verdant meadows; beyond them Lake Waramaug, set deeply in the valley, shimmered in the sunlight like a great swathe of fabric cut from cloth of silver. As usual, Justine caught her breath, filled with intense pleasure that she was back at Indian Ridge, the house where she had grown up and spent much of her life.
It was a clear bright day, with a blue sky and bountiful clouds, but there was a snap in the wind, a hint of winter still, and it was cold for April.
Shivering, Justine wrapped her heavy-knit red jacket around her body as she continued to devour the view… the white clapboard houses, so typical of Connecticut, dotted here and there on some of the meadows, and to her right, set against a stand of dark-green trees, three silos and two red barns grouped together in a distant field. They had been there for as long as she could remember, and were a much-loved and familiar sight.
Unexpectedly, a flock of birds swept past her, unusually close to the railings, and she blinked, startled by them. They soared upward in a V, a perfect formation and quite beautiful. She stared after them as they flew higher and higher into the haze of blue, and then turned around and went back into the house.
Picking up her overnight bag, which she had dropped on the landing a few minutes earlier, Justine carried it into her bedroom and immediately unpacked, putting away sweaters, trousers, shoes, and her toiletries bag. Ever since childhood she had been neat, very tidy in her habits, and it was her nature to be well organized. She hated clutter, which had to be avoided at all cost.
Glancing around the bedroom, smiling to herself, she experienced a sudden rush of happiness. She loved this room, and the entire house… some of her happiest times had been spent here at Indian Ridge, especially when her father was still alive. She and her twin had adored him.
She was glad her mother had kept the house, and that she and her brother Richard could continue to use it at weekends, as well as for long stretches in the summer. It was their mutual escape hatch, a safe haven and a place where they could relax from their busy schedules in New York.
For the past month Justine had stayed in Manhattan, working on the last stage of her newest documentary about Jean-Marc Breton, the world’s greatest living artist, supervising the cutting with the director and the film’s editor. It had been arduous – long days and nights of work; hours and hours and hours filled with tension, stress, anxiety, good and bad surprises, friction at times, and some disappointments. But when they had viewed the final cut, and not without some trepidation, they had been jubilant. The film, which they had considered to be problematical right from the first day of shooting because of the temperament and dictatorial attitude of their subject, had turned out to be good. Very, very good, in fact, much to their collective relief.
Now Justine prayed that the network would feel the same when she screened it for them next week. Miranda Evans, the head of documentaries for Cable News International, would view it with total detachment, which always pleased Justine and her team. Miranda brought no prejudices or preconceived ideas into the screening room, which was why Justine trusted her judgement. That impartiality was a rare quality. Miranda had believed in her right from the start, and had funded most of the Blood Diamonds documentary, another tough subject.
Suddenly, worry edged into her mind. She took a deep breath and pushed it away. The film was excellent, and it was the final cut. And that was that.
She shook her head, grimaced to herself, wished she could let go of a project the moment it was at an end. But she couldn’t; it always took her time to move on. And then she automatically went into a different mode, was filled with deflation, anxiety and a sense of loss.
She had mentioned this to Richard last night, and he had started to laugh, understanding exactly what she meant. Her twin and she were very much alike. He had pointed out that she was going up to the house to mentally and physically replenish herself, and fresh and exciting ideas would soon pop into her head when she was completely rested. And with that he had ended their phone call on a somewhat teasing note.
He’s right, of course, she decided, as she went out of her bedroom and down the stairs. Nobody knows me like he does, just as I know him inside out. She felt a small trickle of sadness running through her when she thought of Richard’s wife, Pamela, who had died two years ago of cancer.
To the outside world Richard was calm, strong and stoical, in control, but she knew how heartbroken he was inside. He kept up a good front, and ploughed on doggedly, because of his five-year-old daughter Daisy. She planned to look after them both this weekend: mothering one, and being a loving companion to the other.

At the bottom of the staircase Justine turned right, walked towards the small sitting room overlooking the lawn, which she also used as an office, mostly to do the household accounts and bookkeeping.
She had settled Daisy in there when they had arrived from New York half an hour ago, and her niece was still sitting at the desk with her box of crayons and colouring book spread out before her.
Kim, the nanny, had the weekend off, and Tita, one of the housekeepers, was hovering over her, encouraging her to use as many crayons as she wanted. ‘All the colours of the rainbow,’ Tita was saying, her voice loving.
Afternoon sunshine was streaming into the room and Daisy’s pale blonde curls shimmered in the light. What a lovely child she is, Justine thought, adorable in a variety of different ways, and it’s so hard not to spoil her.
Justine couldn’t help smiling to herself as she watched Tita being so attentive to Daisy, helping her. Tita and her sister Pearl loved Daisy as if she were their own, and, in a sense, she was. The two women had lived and worked at Indian Ridge for years and were part of the family by now.
She and Richard had grown up with them, and they appreciated everything the two of them did to keep the house, the gallery and their work studios in tiptop shape. They considered themselves blessed to have Tita and Pearl; Richard deemed them to be the salt of the earth.
Stepping into the room, Justine said, ‘What are you colouring, Daisy?’
Daisy and Tita both turned around on hearing Justine’s voice, and Daisy explained, ‘It’s a vase of flowers, Auntie Juju.’
‘She takes after her father,’ Tita grinned. ‘She’s got that talent he’s had since he was a boy.’
A small smile struck Justine’s face, and then she laughed. ‘Unlike the two of us! We weren’t very good painters, were we? Mine were a series of giant blotches.’
Tita joined in her laughter. ‘And mine, too, and there was more paint on me than the canvas.’
Daisy, staring intently at her aunt, said, ‘How much does it cost to go there?’
‘To go where, darling?’
‘To Heaven. I want to take my painting to Mommy. I’m doing it for her. I’ve got a lot of quarters in my piggy bank. Maybe ten dollars. It’s a big pig.’
Justine was unable to speak for a moment. Her throat was suddenly constricted. Swallowing several times, she finally managed to say, ‘It’s a bit more than that, I think.’
‘Oh.’ Daisy nodded, pursed her lips. ‘I’ll have to get some more quarters then. I’ll keep the painting for Mommy, and take it to her later. When I’ve saved up.’
‘That’s right.’ Justine’s low voice sounded hoarse. To her relief Daisy turned back to her colouring book, her blonde head bent over it once more in concentration.
The two women exchanged glances.
Tita was on the verge of tears, her dark eyes stricken. She was biting her bottom lip, struggling for control.
Clearing her throat, Justine said, ‘Come on, Tita, let’s go and plan the picnic for tomorrow.’
‘A picnic!’ The five-year-old swung her head, her bright blue eyes suddenly sparkling. ‘In the gazeboat?’
‘Gazebo, darling,’ Justine corrected gently. ‘And yes, it will be there, weather permitting. And guess what, Auntie Jo is coming with Simon.’
‘Oh goody! Simon’s my bestest friend.’
‘We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us for anything, Daisy.’ Justine beckoned to Tita, who almost ran out of the room ahead of her; she followed in concern.

Tita was clutching the sink, hunched over into herself, still fighting the tears.
Crossing the kitchen quickly, understanding exactly how she felt, Justine put her arms around Tita and held her close. ‘I know, I know, it’s hard. Some of the things she comes out with take my breath away, tear me apart, and Richard too. But suddenly she brightens up – you know that, Tita. Especially if she’s distracted. And she does forget.’
‘Yes… but I suffer for her. I can’t help it.’
‘We’ve got to keep her busy, Tita. Look how she reacted when I mentioned the picnic and Simon. And I’ve learned a lot from Kim, who packs her days with activities, keeps her very busy when she’s not at school. We’ve got to do that this weekend, as we’ve been doing for the last two years, actually.’
‘I know, I know…’ Tita cut herself off, blew out air, pulled herself together, and said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Let’s have a cup of tea.’
‘Good idea.’ Justine smiled at Tita, squeezed her arm. ‘She’ll be all right.’
Tita nodded and went to fill the kettle.
Justine walked over to the fire and stood in front of it, glancing around. The kitchen was a comforting room, warm, inviting, and one of her favourites in the house. Copper pots and pans hanging down from the saucepan rack affixed to the ceiling gleamed brightly. In between the pots were strings of onions and garlic, bunches of lavender and thyme, whole sausages and salamis, all of which added a French Provençal feeling.
It had always been the hub of the house, where everyone congregated, because part of it was furnished as a living room. A sofa and wing chairs, a television set and a Welsh dresser were all grouped near the fireplace, while a large wooden table, which seated ten, was used to divide the room; beyond the table were countertops and the usual appliances. With its terracotta tiled floor, pale-peach walls and floral fabrics, the kitchen had a certain charm and a welcoming air about it.
The phone started ringing, and Justine stepped over to the small desk in a corner near the fireplace, and picked up the receiver. ‘Indian Ridge,’ she said, and immediately sat down in the chair when she heard her assistant’s voice. ‘Hello, Ellen.’
‘Hi, Justine. I guess you made it up there in record time.’
‘I did. What’s happening?’
‘All’s well. I just had a call from Miranda’s PA, and she wants to see the film on Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock, instead of Thursday morning. I told her I thought it would be fine, but that I’d better check with you. There’s nothing in your book.’
‘I’ve a pretty empty week, I know that. So yes, we’ll screen the film whenever Miranda wants.’
‘I’ll confirm it with Angie. Everything’s okay there, I suppose.’
‘It is. I’m here with Tita, and Daisy’s busy with her colouring book. I haven’t seen Pearl yet – she went to the market; and apparently Carlos and Ricardo are up on the ridge, working on Richard’s current project.’
‘The guest house.’
‘Which we don’t really need. On the other hand, he needs it, Ellen, because it gives him work to do up here. It takes his mind off things.’
‘There’s still a lot of grief on him,’ Ellen murmured. ‘I wish I knew somebody nice to introduce him to.’
‘He wouldn’t be interested, I’m afraid,’ Justine shot back. ‘Anyway, I’ll now come back on Tuesday morning instead of Wednesday. Have a nice weekend, Ellen.’
‘And you too.’
As she hung up the phone, Justine had no way of knowing that her world, and Richard’s, was about to change forever.

TWO
Later that afternoon, when Daisy was taking a nap, Justine went into the small sitting room and sat down at the desk. It did not take her long to open the mail that had accumulated during the month she and Richard had stayed in New York.
The bulk of it was junk, which she promptly threw away; she then checked the bills, clipped them together, and looked at half a dozen invitations for local events, put these to one side as well.
At the bottom of the pile there was a square white envelope made of paper that looked foreign to her. Definitely European, she thought, as she picked it up.
Justine saw at once that it was addressed to her mother, Deborah Nolan, and that it bore an Istanbul postmark. Who did her mother know in Istanbul, of all places? On the other hand, how would she know? Her mother had friends all over the world. Looking at the back of the envelope, she saw there was no name of sender nor a return address. She stared at it for a moment longer, thinking that it may well be an invitation, such was its shape and size. She frowned, wondered whether to open it or not. Eight years ago, when her mother had moved to California, she had given them the use of this house. Her instructions to them had been very few: keep the house in good shape, pay the monthly bills and forward any letters if they pertained to legal matters.
This arrangement had worked well since its inception. Their mother paid the annual state tax, they took care of the overall upkeep and the salaries of the Chilean family who continued to run Indian Ridge with them – Tita, her sister Pearl, Carlos, Pearl’s husband, and his father Ricardo.
Now, for the first time in eight years, here was a personal letter. Justine shrugged, picked up the paper knife, slit the envelope, and took out the letter.
She noted the name engraved at the top of the writing paper, someone she had never heard of, and began to read.
ANITA LOWE
Dear Deborah:
I have wanted to write to you for some time, unfortunately my courage constantly deserted me. Now this letter cannot be put off any longer. You do not know me. I did come to see you in London when you were a baby but you won’t remember that. I am your mother’s closest and most longstanding friend and I write to you because I am extremely worried about her. For years she has been troubled and unhappy because of the estrangement between the two of you. Lately she has become even more morose and filled with a heartache I cannot bear to witness.
She longs to see you and Justine and Richard. She loves them dearly, just as she loves you. You are her only family.
I must ask you this, Deborah. Why are you keeping her away? I do not understand your behaviour towards your mother. Surely nothing is so bad that it cannot be repaired. Whatever the reason for this estrangement you must end it immediately, before it is too late, before she dies. After all, she is almost eighty, as you well know. And so I beg you to reach out to your mother, get in touch with her, bring her back into your life and the lives of her grandchildren. It is in your power, and yours alone, to end her suffering and heartbreak.
With great sincerity,
Anita Lowe
Justine was speechless. She sat staring at the words she had just read, feeling as if the earth’s tectonic plates had just shifted under her feet. Her shock was enormous. She noticed that her hand shook as she continued to hold the letter, then realized she was shaking all over. She could hardly believe what she had just read. Her grandmother was still alive? How could that be? What was this all about?
Taking a deep breath, she put the letter down on the desk, and endeavoured to control her swimming senses. After a few minutes she managed to calm herself, and leaned forward to reread the letter, wanting to absorb the words… they revealed something so momentous it took her breath away.
Her grandmother was still alive.
Therefore their mother had told them a horrendous and wicked lie ten years ago. She had told them their grandmother, Deborah’s mother Gabriele Hardwicke, had died suddenly in a private plane crash.
Her mind began to race. Was the letter genuine? Or was it a hoax? How could it be? Unless someone wanted to cause trouble. If so, why? For what reason? The letter had been written to their mother and it had the ring of truth to it. It was genuine, all right; there was no doubt in her mind about that.
Then unexpectedly it hit her. A wave of joy. Gran was alive. Blinking back the tears in her eyes, Justine noted the postmark. The letter was mailed at the beginning of April. Now it was almost the end of the month. The letter had been sitting here in this lacquered tray for three weeks. No one had responded to Anita Lowe. But then how could a response be made? There was no return address. And where was her grandmother actually? In London? Or was she in Istanbul? With Anita Lowe? She had frequently moved between both places in the past. And why had this woman not given more details of her grandmother’s whereabouts? Because she believed that Deborah knew exactly where her mother was. Obviously, that was the answer. Which brought her back to the lie her mother had told them.
Ten years ago, the day after they had graduated college, Deborah had explained their grandmother’s absence from the ceremony. Whilst they were in the midst of their final exams, Gabriele had been on a private plane that had crashed in Greece. No one had survived, no bodies had been retrieved.
Closing her eyes, thinking back in time, Justine remembered her mother’s words quite clearly. ‘I didn’t tell you about Gran’s death because I didn’t want to distract either of you when you were both under pressure.’
But none of that was true… this letter now revealed that. And their beloved grandmother was alive somewhere out there. The adoring grandmother who had come to stay with them so often and been such a big part of their lives.
According to Anita Lowe there was an estrangement between her mother and grandmother. About what? Something truly terrible? It must be, since it had lasted ten long years. All of those hours, days, weeks, months and years lost. Gone forever. For God’s sake, why? She had no answers for herself.
Fury with her mother swept through Justine, and she automatically reached for the phone, wanting to confront her; then her hand fell away. Her mother wasn’t in Los Angeles. Three days ago she had flown to China on a buying trip for her interior design business. From China she was going to Hong Kong, would not be returning for six weeks. She could not call her now. The time was all wrong.
She looked at her watch. It was almost three thirty. Richard would not arrive from New York for another hour. She needed to talk to him; they had to make a plan… the first thing they must do was find their grandmother. Before it was too late.

In the small back hall, Justine took Gran’s old loden green wool cape off a peg, threw it around her shoulders, then went outside. She needed to think coherently, to settle herself before her brother arrived.
A few moments ago she had been about to call Richard on his cell phone, then had instantly changed her mind. She knew she must curb her desire to immediately share this shattering news with him. That was their usual way of doing things, their modus operandi, and always had been.
As twins they were joined at the hip, and there was an extra special bond between them, an emotional attachment and a link that she realized was not exclusive to them. All twins were like that. But this afternoon she understood she must wait until he arrived, so that she could show him the letter and discuss everything with him face to face. Together they would come up with a plan of action, she was certain of that. They had been the best team all of their lives.
Crossing the back yard, she mounted the white wood staircase built into the hillside. Carlos, Pearl’s husband, had obviously repainted it recently, and it gleamed in the sunshine. Ten steps took her straight up to a wide landing, where on the left side of the hill there was a large gazebo, also freshly painted in readiness for the spring weather.
Her grandmother’s gazebo.
Justine paused and then stepped into it. She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the happy times they had spent here in her childhood. Opening her eyes, she glanced around, aware that anxiety about Gran was paramount. She couldn’t help worrying, wondering how she was, now that she knew she was not dead.
She left the gazebo and went on climbing the staircase until she came to the end. It stopped in front of a stretch of green lawn; just beyond was the gallery, originally built by her grandmother, then revamped by her father, and remodelled in certain areas by her brother four years ago.
The gallery was beautiful, made of limestone, and was two storeys high; long, simple, yet elegant in its architecture, the central building was flanked on each end by a studio. Each one had limestone half-walls topped with huge plate-glass windows. The studios were actually part of the gallery and the whole structure was finished with a sloping, green-tiled roof. This was new, and had been designed by her twin, considered to be one of the best architects in the business today. She thought it was an inspired touch. The green-tiled roof appeared to float above the gallery and the glass ‘boxes’, and there was a lovely unity and fluidity to the entire building which was somewhat European in its design inspiration.
Justine went into the gallery and turned on the lights, then took off her loden cape, put it on a small wooden bench just inside the door. Because of the many paintings hanging in the gallery, some of which were rather valuable, the air was permanently controlled and remained the same temperature year round. It was cool and peaceful, and she appreciated the airiness, the spaciousness, the vaulted ceiling, the stillness and calm that existed here.
Slowly, she walked through the gallery, not focusing on any of the paintings as she sometimes did, simply moving determinedly through the flowing vast white space. Richard had designed a large, freestanding partition on rollers, which he called ‘a floating wall’, because it could be easily rolled around at will, and repositioned anywhere. He had used several of them in the centre of the gallery, on which were hung some of his own paintings, as well as many by other artists. Justine moved between them with ease, pushing them gently aside as required.
Within seconds she was approaching the far end of the gallery, heading toward the corner where paintings by her grandmother were displayed. Coming to a standstill, she zeroed in on one of them in particular which she had admired for years. It was a painting of two girls, most likely in their teenage years, and they were standing in a flower-filled meadow with dark green hills in the distance under an azure sky. The girls were enchanting in their gauzy summer dresses, their skirts billowing around them, their hair blowing in the wind. She had known for as long as she could remember that the taller of the two girls, the blue-eyed blonde, was her grandmother, Gabriele. The other had always been anonymous. Her identity a mystery.
Could she be Anita Lowe?
Leaning forward, Justine read the little wood strip on the wall next to the painting. It was called Friends in the Meadows. Underneath the title was the name Gabriele Hardwicke, and the year it was painted, 1969.
Unexpectedly, she remembered something – her grandmother’s penchant for detail, how she had kept careful records of almost everything.
Reaching for the small painting, Justine lifted it off the wall, carried it into Richard’s design studio adjoining this end of the gallery. Carefully, she placed the painting face down on an empty table and stared at the back of the canvas. And there it was, a small label, close to the frame and yellowed with age. On it was written A & G: 1938. And the label was secured under a piece of Sellotape.
Gabriele had painted this from memory, hadn’t she? And did the A stand for Anita? Perhaps. Certainly she couldn’t help wondering about that, because in the letter Anita Lowe had said she was Gabriele’s most longstanding and closest friend. So it must be her, surely? But in a way it didn’t really matter whether this girl portrayed was Anita Lowe or not. Because the real Anita had spoken out most eloquently and effectively, three weeks or so ago, when she had finally put pen to paper after obviously hesitating about doing so for a number of years. She had helped her friend at last. Thank God she had. Vaguely, at the back of her mind, she now remembered her grandmother speaking about her best friend… Anita.
Carrying the painting back to the gallery, Justine hung it in its place, then stepped back and studied it for a few seconds. The other girl had brown hair and sparkling dark eyes, and there was something exotic-looking about her. She wondered why she had never noticed this before… perhaps because she had been looking only at the dazzling blonde girl who was her grandmother, the bewitching Gabriele. She knew, all of a sudden, that this was Anita.
Returning to the centre of the gallery, where the high-flung cathedral ceiling came to its peak, she sat down in the only chair, a white canvas director’s chair. The cool white space, the silence and the overwhelming sense of tranquillity usually had a soothing effect on her, and today especially so: a perfect peacefulness was enveloping her. She closed her eyes, thinking of her gran and the last time she had seen her.
She was drifting with her thoughts when the shrilling telephone brought her up with a start. She fumbled in her jacket pocket for her cell phone, and pulled it out. ‘Hello?’
‘I’m almost there,’ Richard said.
‘I’m glad. Where are you?’
‘What is it? You sound odd.’
‘I’m fine. Where are you?’
‘Just leaving New Preston. Why?’
‘I want you to do me a favour.’
‘Of course, what is it?’
‘I want you to drive right up here to the gallery, where I’m waiting for you.’
‘I’ll come up after I’ve said hello to Daisy.’
‘Please don’t do that, Rich! You must come here immediately! Something’s happened, and—’
‘What? Tell me what’s wrong!’
‘I can’t on the phone. Please, Rich, just come here first. Please.’
‘All right. See you shortly.’
Impatient, anxious for her brother to arrive, Justine stood up and headed in the direction of his glass-windowed studio. She would wait for him there. As she approached the glass cube, another painting caught her eye, and she went over to look at it, stared for a long moment. It was of her and her brother and had been painted by a famous portraitist in New York when they were about four.
The woman had captured them very well. How alike they looked with their fair hair and dimples and the same light blue eyes. Yes, definitely twins, she muttered under her breath. And emotionally co-dependent.
Their father had commissioned the painting, and he had always loved it. But not their mother. In fact, she was very much against it right from the beginning, before it had even been painted.
Now it struck her quite forcibly that her mother’s reaction had been odd, and she couldn’t help wondering why. What on earth had she had against it? No answer to that conundrum, she thought. But Deborah Nolan had been an odd bird then, just as she was an odd bird now… scatter-brained, a flake – and sometimes downright irresponsible. And a liar, she added to herself.
Sighing under her breath, turning away from the portrait, she went into Richard’s studio and glanced around. As usual it was sparkling clean, thanks to Tita and Pearl and their dedication to Indian Ridge.
Suddenly she heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel. Not wanting to wait for him, she hurried out of the studio, almost running through the gallery to the front door.
A second later Richard was alighting from the car, striding towards her, a worried expression in his eyes, his face tight with anxiety.
‘I know something’s wrong,’ he said, mounting the steps. ‘So come on, tell me. And how bad is it?’
She ran into his arms, hugged him tight, and then, as they moved away from the door and went inside, she answered, ‘Really, really bad. But part of the problem is good. Wonderful.’
She closed the door behind them, took hold of his arm and led him down the gallery. ‘Let’s go to your studio, I want you to read a letter I found today. But I must warn you, Rich. It’s going to shock you.’

THREE
The moment they entered Richard’s glass-enclosed studio, Justine sat down in one of the small modern chairs and indicated that her twin should take the other one.
He shook his head, went over to the empty drawing table and leaned against it, his tall, lean frame looking lankier than ever. It struck her that he had lost weight.
‘I don’t want to sit,’ he explained, his eyes not leaving her face. ‘I think best standing up.’
‘I knew you were going to say that.’
‘You always know what I’m going to say, just as I know what’s going to come out of your mouth… but not today, I don’t think.’ A brow lifted quizzically, and he continued to stare at her.
Justine nodded, put her hand in her jacket pocket and took out the envelope, handed the letter to him. ‘I’d better give you this.’
Richard looked down at it, his brow lifting again. ‘It’s addressed to Mom—’
She cut him off. ‘And be glad she isn’t here, didn’t get to open it, and that I did! Otherwise we might never have known the truth.’
His blue eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean, Juju? What is this all about?’
‘Gran. I have to tell you something…’ She cut herself off and took a deep breath. ‘The letter says Gran is still alive, Richard.’
‘What?’ He was flabbergasted by her words and he shook his head vehemently. ‘That can’t be…’ His voice trailed off; he was so shocked he was unable to finish his sentence.
‘It’s true,’ she answered, trying to keep her voice steady.
Richard pulled the letter out of the envelope and began to read it avidly. When he came to the end, he went over to the empty chair and sat down, looking as if he’d just been punched hard in the stomach.
Justine saw how truly stunned he was, as she herself had been earlier. All of the colour had drained from his face, and he was immobile in the chair. It was obvious to her that he was shaken to the very core of himself. And why wouldn’t he be? The news was incredible.
‘It’s hard to come to grips with it, Rich, I know that, and I—’
‘Do you believe it?’ he interrupted sharply, then looked down at the letter he was still clutching, bafflement on his face.
‘I do, yes. It has the absolute ring of truth to it, and why would this woman write such a letter if Gran wasn’t alive? That doesn’t make any sense,’ Justine pointed out.
‘I wonder why she didn’t write to Mom before?’ He gazed at Justine, puzzlement still flickering in his eyes.
‘I’ve no idea. But I do think something important has happened recently, which made Anita Lowe put pen to paper. Finally. She does say that Gran seems more unhappy – “morose” was her word – and look, Gran might even have been taken ill. Or maybe, in her desperation, Gran asked Anita to write.’ Leaning forward, Justine stared into her twin’s face. Her own was very serious and her eyes were troubled.
‘You could be right,’ Richard muttered. ‘In fact, I’m sure you are.’
‘We have to find Gran as quickly as possible,’ Justine announced.
‘Yes, I agree.’ He rose, walked over to his desk, a huge slab of thick glass balanced on top of two steel sawhorses. Sitting down behind it, he was thoughtful for a few seconds, staring out of one of the windows at the trees.
He finally brought his gaze back to his sister. ‘She lied. Our mother lied to us ten years ago. What a rotten thing to do. Telling us Gran had died. It was wicked, cruel. I remember very well how upset we both were, how we grieved for her.’ He snapped his eyes shut for a moment, and when he opened them he finished in an angry voice, ‘It’s the most unconscionable thing I’ve ever heard of, and it is unforgivable.’
Justine was silent. He had voiced everything she had thought earlier; but then they were like two halves of one person and had been since the day of their birth. There was only fifteen minutes’ difference between them; Richard had always teased her that he was the eldest, having been born first.
She said, ‘God knows what happened between Gran and our mother to cause this… estrangement. But to carry it on for ten years seems outrageous. Really ridiculous to me. It’s all our mother’s doing, obviously.’
‘Certainly Anita Lowe indicates that, Justine. Anyway, let’s not forget our mother was always a bit ditzy.’
Justine was taken aback. ‘That’s putting it mildly, don’t you think?’
‘I’m being kind, I guess. She was actually a weirdo when we were growing up. Unreliable, irresponsible, a flake, and you know what else.’
Justine frowned. ‘I do know, but let’s not go there today, okay?’ The thought that their mother might have been a little wild and unfaithful to their father always troubled her.
‘Okay. I know exactly how you feel about that.’
Justine simply nodded, thinking about their mother, and their strange childhood, and how much they had depended on their father. He had brought them up, if the truth be known. After a moment, she said, ‘For her to tell a lie of such magnitude, and to us, her children, about her own mother…’ She paused again, sighed, and finished in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, ‘It was evil, Rich; such an evil thing to do.’
‘Yes,’ was all he said, knowing how right his sister was. After a moment, he asked, ‘Isn’t she in China?’
‘Yes, and I know what you’re thinking. You want to confront her right now. On the phone. But the time is off, and anyway I think we should wait, confront her in person. I want to see her expression when she understands that we know exactly what she is – a bitch – and that we know what she did to Gran.’
‘And to us. We’ve been hurt. We’ll deal with our mother when the time is right though. How are we going to find our grandmother? Shouldn’t we call our mother, demand to know?’
‘No. She won’t tell us. She’ll say Gran is dead. We’ll do it through Anita Lowe. I have a feeling they live close to each other,’ Justine replied.
‘So you’re saying Gran is in Istanbul, not London, is that it?’
‘I think she probably is, because Anta lives there obviously, and she must know Gran’s not well. We have to go to Istanbul.’
‘I agree. But when?’
‘Immediately. She’ll be eighty in June. I don’t think we should waste any time.’
Richard stood up, and Justine turned around and also stood as Daisy came running down the gallery, calling, ‘Daddy! Daddy! Here I am… I’m coming to get you, Daddy!’ Tita was following hard on the child’s heels.
Justine said, ‘Let’s talk later. Your daughter is looking for you.’
‘All right, later this evening,’ he murmured.
‘Listen, Rich, just one thing. Do you mind if I tell Joanne about this situation?’
‘Why would you want anyone to know about this horrendous thing our mother has done?’ he asked, sounding horrified.
‘I don’t, and Joanne isn’t anyone, Rich, she’s our best friend, we grew up together. But the point is this… She knows Istanbul well, and has a lot of contacts there, many friends. We’re going to need help, and I think she can give us names and some good introductions.’
‘Then tell her. Confidentially, though,’ he answered.
Walking around the desk he swung his child into his arms as she came rushing into his office, her face full of smiles.

A few seconds later Richard was carrying Daisy out into the gallery, as she begged, ‘Swing me, Daddy, please swing me.’ And he did so.
Putting her down on the floor, he wrapped his arms around her from behind and, turning slowly, he swung her around and around, her legs flying out in front of her, her happy laughter echoing in the quiet gallery.
Richard started to laugh too, and watching him Justine was pleased he was enjoying this carefree moment with his daughter. She knew how upset he was about their mother’s incredible lie, as angry as she was herself about the whole terrible matter. Still, he was sheathing it well at this moment, and for obvious reasons. He did not want Daisy to know there was anything amiss.
The thought of their mother enjoying herself in China, having a great time there, as she undoubtedly was, filled Justine with sudden fury, made her see red. Then she blinked, and turned to Tita, who was standing by her side, speaking to her.
‘I’m sorry. I missed that,’ Justine said. ‘What did you say?’
‘That Richard’s a great father.’
‘That he is, Tita. By the way, I’m thinking of asking Joanne to dinner. I’m assuming there’s enough food.’
‘Oh yes. I made three cottage pies, and Pearl has a ham baking, and there’ll be lots of vegetables. Plenty for everyone.’ She grinned. ‘An army.’
Justine smiled. ‘As usual! I’ll call Joanne now, and I’ll let you know if she’s coming later.’
‘No problema,’ Tita answered, and went down the gallery, calling to Daisy, ‘See you soon, Honeybunny.’
Justine continued to watch her brother, wondering if he would be able to come with her to Istanbul. He wanted to desperately, she knew that; on the other hand, he was still working on a huge architectural project. His new boutique hotel in Battery Park was almost finished, and she was aware that the final and rather complicated installations would be taking place in the next couple of weeks. She just wasn’t sure he could break free – and anyway, she was not afraid to go alone. Justine was accustomed to travelling the world for her documentary filming, but Richard was overly protective of her, and he wouldn’t want her to go by herself; also, he was as anxious to find the truth as she was.
Richard finally stopped turning and put Daisy down. He held her close to his legs, stroking her hair, asking, ‘You’re not dizzy are you, Bunnykins?’
‘No, I’m not, Dad, I’m good.’
He looked across at his sister, standing in the door of his studio, and said, ‘About our friend… I think I would prefer it if you just said you might be planning to shoot a documentary in Turkey, and leave it at that.’
‘Agreed. It’s better to stay… cool on this matter, don’t you think?’
He nodded and, releasing Daisy, he walked over to Justine and said, sotto voce, ‘That letter is lethal, and our lives will never be the same again.’
‘I know,’ she responded, staring into those blue eyes remarkably like her own. ‘A lot of lives are going to be changed.’

FOUR
Once Richard had left with Daisy, Justine walked slowly down the gallery, dialling her closest friend, Joanne Brandon. There was no answer; she left a message and headed into her own glass studio.
Years ago, this had been her father’s office, although its design was totally different today. The huge plate-glass windows Richard had installed gave it spaciousness, wonderful clear daylight and spectacular views of the property.
Her desk was a replica of Richard’s, also of his design, a slab of heavy glass on steel sawhorses. Hers was a bit more cluttered than his, with several photographs in silver frames, mementos of some of her trips abroad, a Tiffany carriage clock Joanne had given her for her twenty-first, and a silver hunting cup filled with matching pens, another sign of Justine’s tidiness and perfectionism. Behind her, a glass console table held her computer and keypad. She turned it on, and a few minutes later, when she glanced behind her, she saw there were no messages.
Sitting back in her chair, she let her thoughts wander, waiting for Joanne to call back. They had been friends since childhood; Joanne’s mother had owned a house lower down on Indian Ridge Hill, and they had grown up together. Joanne had inherited the house, and their friendship had continued into adulthood. Joanne’s mother had been a widow, and Justine’s father had gone out of his way to give Joanne a great deal of affection and later good advice after her mother had died.
Tony Nolan. He had been struck down in his prime by a fatal heart attack, and he hadn’t even known he had a heart problem …twelve years ago. Justine was well aware that it was because of him that she and her twin had turned out so well. He was the one who had brought them up, given them a regime, a routine in their lives, instilling in them duty, responsibility and a genuine work ethic.
He had shown them a great deal of love, devoted himself to them, and, as a consequence, she and Richard had turned out to be wholesome, loving and relatively normal adults. Certainly they were well grounded.
Tony Nolan had taught them about ethics and integrity, given them a sense of honour. Being truthful was a phrase never far from his lips. Yes, he had been a truly good man and a wonderful father, and his values had been of sterling quality.
Quite unexpectedly, more than two decades fell away, and Justine saw him in her mind’s eye on the day Pearl, Tita and their mother Estrelita had arrived at the house. He had hired Estrelita, a Chilean, to be the housekeeper at Indian Ridge, because their mother was always away on decorating business.
To her father’s surprise and dismay, Estrelita had brought along her daughters, who had just arrived from Chile. She remembered how her father hadn’t had the heart to send the two girls back to Estrelita’s family in Chile, and so he had allowed them to stay. But he had hired an immigration lawyer at once, had undertaken to sponsor them. It helped that Estrelita had worked in New York for some years and had a green card, and matters had proceeded smoothly.
My God, twenty-two years ago, she muttered under her breath. She and Richard had been ten years old, Pearl eighteen, Tita sixteen.
Because their father had allowed the girls to stay, they fully understood they must help their mother in the house, and they had done so. But Pearl and Tita had longed to cook because they loved food, and it was her father who had taught them.
Justine closed her eyes, lost in sudden memories of her childhood, and saw them as they were all those years ago. She heard her father’s booming laughter, the girls giggling and Richard joining in the banter and the fun.
She had been troubled at that time because of her mother’s continuing absences – taken away from them by her work. Suddenly Justine now understood how much she had resented that in those days.
Rousing herself from her thoughts, sitting up straighter in the desk chair, Justine opened her eyes. And yet Pearl and Tita were still there, dancing around in her head. How devoted and loyal the two of them had been and still were.
They had stayed on after Estrelita had been taken seriously ill and had died here at Indian Ridge. The old house had become their beloved home over the years, just as it was her brother’s and hers.
Pearl had been married at the local church fourteen years ago and her father had given Pearl away; she and Tita had been bridesmaids. Pearl had married her third cousin, Carlos Gonzales, who had come to visit Pearl and Tita from Miami and had never left. Tony Nolan had given him a job as a gardener and carpenter; and after Carlos had married Pearl, his father had come from Miami to live with them, and help out at Indian Ridge. Like his son, Ricardo was a hard worker and a talented carpenter.
As she looked back, Justine realized that her mother had never really been part of their childhood at Indian Ridge, although her grandmother had. Deborah Nolan had always been aloof, remote, and had somehow managed to stand outside their joyousness over the years. In a certain sense, she had been like a stranger looking in.
What had made her mother tell that horrendous lie ten years ago? She had ruined Gabriele’s life, certainly caused her heartache. And she had caused them unnecessary grief. Only a monster would do something like that, something so cruel. Evil. What her mother had done was evil.
Her cell phone rang. She picked it up, put it to her ear.
‘It’s me. Jo.’
‘Hi. Where are you?’
‘I just arrived from New York. When did you get here, Juju?’
‘Early this afternoon. Any chance you can come to dinner with me and Rich? We need to pick your brains, quite aside of wanting to see you.’
‘I can. Delia will give Simon his supper. What do you want to pick my brains about?’
‘Istanbul. I have to go there for work. I need some introductions, your best contacts.’
‘God, I wish I could come with you, but I can’t. My contacts you can have. And what time do you want me for dinner?’
‘How’s seven?’
‘It’s a deal.’

The kitchen was filled with the most delicious smells… apples redolent of cinnamon, bubbling on the stove, sweet potatoes baking, and the most dominant of all was the spicy fragrance of the cloves studding the ham in the oven. Justine felt ravenous all of a sudden, her mouth watering, and she realized she hadn’t eaten lunch.
The moment Pearl saw her hovering in the doorway she put down the wooden spoon she was holding and rushed over to her, put her arms around her and held her close to her ample body. Just as Tita was petite and slender, her older sister was well padded and motherly. And yet they looked very much alike with their dark curls, dark eyes and permanent smiles. They both had warm and loving dispositions.
Finally releasing her, Pearl looked her over appraisingly. ‘Seems to me like you’ve lost weight!’
‘I have, that’s true. I’ve missed your cooking, Pearl, and you, too.’
Pearl beamed at her. ‘Joanne coming to supper?’
‘Naturally. Who’d pass up a chance to eat a meal cooked by you? You’re the best in the business.’
‘Flattery, flattery.’ Pearl laughed dismissively but looked pleased as she went back to the stove, stirred the apples in the pan and turned them off. She opened the oven door, glanced at the ham and nodded to herself, satisfied it was cooking nicely.
Justine walked across the floor and sat down at the big table. ‘Where’s Daisy?’
‘Tita took her up to her room to clean her teeth, wash up. She’ll be down soon to have her supper at six.’ As she spoke, Pearl stared at the kitchen clock, saw that it was five forty-five and hurried to the countertop under the window. She picked up a cottage pie in a glass casserole and carried the dish to the oven. ‘Got to get this brown,’ she muttered, more to herself than Justine.
‘Where’s Richard, do you know?’
‘He went up to his room. How about Parisian eggs to start?’
‘Gosh, Parisian eggs. I love them! We haven’t had them for ages. That’s a great idea.’
‘Good. Better check I’ve got anchovies and mayonnaise.’ Gliding over to the pantry, she went on talking. ‘Your grandmother taught me how to make Parisian eggs. She warned me …the eggs had to be boiled at the last minute. She used to say, “They must be really, really warm, Pearly Queen.”’
Pearl swung around, suddenly laughing. ‘Remember how she used to call me that, Justine? She said it was after the pearly kings and queens from that place in London.’
‘The East End, and the pearly kings and queens are always Cockneys.’ Memories flashed before her eyes unexpectedly: Gran in the kitchen here, teaching Pearl how to make cottage pie, steak-and-kidney pie, and fish and chips, as well as those hard-boiled eggs with mayonnaise and anchovies on top which they all enjoyed.
‘They wore clothes with pearls stitched on them,’ Pearl announced, closing the pantry door.
Justine slipped off the stool. ‘I’m going to get ready, but I’ll set the table first.’
‘No need, Tita did it,’ Pearl grinned. ‘It’s set for three.’
Justine laughed at the knowing expression on Pearl’s rosy-cheeked face, went out to the hall and up the stairs.
Richard’s door was ajar. She pushed it open and looked in. ‘Hi! I spoke to Jo. She’s coming over for dinner.’
He was at his desk. He turned around, nodded. ‘Good, it’ll be nice to see her.’
Justine came into his bedroom. ‘I did some research on Istanbul on the Internet,’ she said. ‘I remembered something all of a sudden, Rich. When Dad and Gran worked together at Dad’s showroom in the D & D Building on Third Avenue, they imported stuff from Turkey.’
Richard threw her a knowing look. ‘I thought of that myself. They had two companies, Exotic Places and Faraway Lands, and they bought furniture and accessories from China, Japan, Thailand and India. And Turkey, of course. Didn’t Gran used to go there from London? To Istanbul, I mean?’
‘I think she did with Uncle Trent,’ Justine said.
‘They were close friends,’ Richard murmured. ‘When he died thirteen years ago, Gran was very upset.’
‘Not long after Trent died, Gran went back to London… she said something about buying carpets to me,’ Justine said.
Instantly something occurred to Richard. ‘Hereke! That’s where the carpets are made. Dad showed me one when I was at the showroom with him on a Saturday; they’re made of silk, I think. Very beautiful, and expensive. The more I think about it, she knows Istanbul quite well – and you’re right, Juju, Gran’s more than likely there. It’s suddenly dawned on me that she had some special friends in Turkey.’
‘I want to leave next week, and as soon as I can,’ Justine announced. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to come?’
Looking across at her, he shook his head, his expression one of regret and concern. ‘No, I don’t. I’ve that big installation starting next week, and although I know Allen Fox is capable of overseeing it, Vincent Coulson will throw a fit if I’m not there. He’ll want me on the spot twenty-four/seven, and you know it.’
‘Yes, I do, and I will be all right, honestly. I can go it alone. I’ve done it before when I’ve been on foreign locations for my films. Don’t worry about me so much.’
‘How can I change after thirty-two years? I’ll always worry about you, Juju. But it’s not only that, I’m as concerned about Gran as you are, and I just feel I ought to be with you, helping to find her.’
‘Listen, Joanne’s been to Istanbul three times, twice on vacation and once on location for a movie she was handling. She’ll be helpful with contacts, and you know I’ll call you every day. And as soon as you can get away, you will.’
‘And I’ll bring Daisy.’ He jumped up. ‘Talking of Daisy, I said I’d sit with her while she has her supper. When’s Jo coming over?’
‘Seven o’clock. You’d better go down and be with your adorable daughter. I’m going to tidy up.’

FIVE
‘You look great,’ Joanne Brandon exclaimed, walking across the worn Persian carpet covering the drawing-room floor. ‘Hard work and no play agrees with you!’
Feeling more relaxed for the first time that day, Justine smiled and rushed to meet her closest friend. ‘You don’t look half bad yourself…’ She left her sentence unfinished as she grabbed hold of Joanne’s hands.
‘Come on, give me a hug,’ Jo said.
The two women embraced, then stepped away, gazed at each other for a long moment.
Justine said, ‘You’ve done something to yourself… it’s a new hairdo! Shorter, and I love it. Very chic.’
‘And you’re leaner, fitter, and your hair’s different, too. Longer, glossier. You glamour puss, you.’
The two of them broke into peals of laughter, both recalling how they always used to greet each other with comments like this… about their appearance. They had once again fallen into the old trap, on purpose, of course, since it had become something of a joke these days. When they were teenagers they had accused each other of being overly vain.
Joanna went and stood in front of the blazing fire as she usually did, enjoying the warmth, especially on this cool April evening. Justine walked over to the round table in the corner, where bottles of liquor and glasses stood, along with a white wine in a silver bucket. ‘Is this all right?’ Justine asked, her hand on the bottle. ‘It’s Sancerre.’
‘Couldn’t be better.’
After pouring the wine, Justine carried the crystal goblets over to the fireplace, handed one to Joanne. They clinked glasses.
‘So the picture went well, did it?’ Justine asked, sitting down opposite her friend.
‘The best I’ve worked on yet,’ Jo answered. ‘The stars were great, had no problem with my PR demands, knew their lines, no temperament or tantrums. And we came in on time and on budget. Thank God. I was glad to get back to New York, and Simon. Poor kid, he really missed me. But there was no way he could’ve been in Los Angeles when I was working. I didn’t want him to miss school either, and anyway his father wouldn’t have liked him to be out of New York.’
‘No, he wouldn’t. How’s he doing?’
‘Oh, the same as usual. Bad tempered, bossy, impatient. Nothing’s ever right. He’s a negative man, Malcolm Brandon is, and a trifle petty.’
‘But he can turn on the charm when he wants to.’
‘Don’t tell me. He does it now, even though we’re divorced. But how about you? How did your editing go in the end? You sounded worried sometimes.’
‘A heavy month, as I explained on the phone when you called. But the documentary came out great in the end. Jean-Marc Breton was a devil to work with, but ultimately he was brilliant and his art is just superb. Breathtaking really. His paintings are so vivid, so colourful, and Provence and Spain are wonderful places to film! I’m showing it to Miranda Evans on Tuesday afternoon. She saw some of the rushes when she came over to France, and she’s also seen the rough-cut. Even though I say it myself, the finished product is… perfect.’
‘Knowing you, it wouldn’t be anything else. What did she say about the new title?’
Justine made a moue. ‘At first she wasn’t sure about it… after all, “Proof of Life” means different things to people. Show me that the hostage is not dead, is one example. That’s what the police say to a kidnapper, or a fugitive holding someone against their will. To me it meant that if I could film the world’s greatest living artist, an extraordinary painter, who was a recluse, non-communicative, and an eccentric, then I had proof of life that he wasn’t dead, like so many people thought he was. He’s hardly ever seen in public these days, and there has been a lot of gossip and speculation about his well-being. And I’ve just proved he’s alive and kicking and as right as rain, to submerge myself in a bunch of clichés.’
‘Clichés are true, the truth, used frequently, which is why they are called clichés.’ Jo took a sip of wine and eyed Justine speculatively over the top of the glass. ‘Is he really the lady-killer he’s said to be, or is that all part of the myth and the legend, and all that jazz?’
Justine’s face changed slightly and she remained silent, her blue eyes suddenly thoughtful, her face solemn.
Knowing her as well as she did, Joanne had the feeling she had accidentally stepped on dangerous ground. Taking a deep breath, she murmured, ‘I guess he’s a man with what is called fatal charm. Isn’t that so? Did you succumb to it?’
‘No, of course not, don’t be so silly,’ Justine answered swiftly, her voice rising slightly.
Joanne nodded; she thought: I don’t believe her. She’s blushing. What is she hiding from me? Clearing her throat, Joanne murmured, ‘The whole world says he’s irresistible to women.’
‘I resisted, take my word for it.’
Richard asked, ‘Resisted what, Juju?’ He came strolling into the drawing room, went to hug and kiss Joanne, and then poured himself a glass of wine, joined her on the other sofa.
His sister said, ‘Jo was teasing me about Jean-Marc Breton, or rather about his reputation as a womanizer. I was just telling her that I resisted his so-called charms.’
Richard knew that his twin was embarrassed for some reason, and wanting to alleviate this, he said, ‘I thought he was truly a decent kind of guy when I met him, Jo. Fascinating to talk to, well informed about a lot of things, and it goes without saying that it was a great privilege to meet him in his home. And to be shown around his gallery by the maestro himself was an honour.’ Richard took a swallow of wine. ‘He didn’t strike me as a man who went around pouncing on women.’
‘I didn’t say he did!’ Joanne cried, and then laughed. Focusing on Justine, she changed the subject. ‘When are you planning to go to Istanbul?’
‘Next week, once I’ve shown the final cut to Miranda on Tuesday. I feel certain she’ll like the film, and when I get all the business with CNI out of the way, I’ll be on my way.’
‘So are you going to do a documentary on Istanbul?’ Joanne’s auburn brow lifted questioningly.
‘I’m not sure. I have an idea I want to pursue, and if I think it’ll work, then yes, I might well be filming there later this year.’
‘So what’s the idea then?’
‘You know I’m superstitious, Jo,’ she murmured, sidetracking her friend. ‘I never talk about an idea until I’ve developed it and finally got it nailed.’
‘I understand. I have a great friend there, and she’ll be extremely useful. First of all, she speaks perfect English. She’s actually a professor of archaeology. However, being smart, she knew she’d never make a proper living doing that, so she started a boutique travel business. She knows a lot of people, and everything there is to know about all of the ancient sites, ruins, palaces, and the history of the country from the Byzantine period through the Ottoman Empire up to today. Ask her anything. She’ll have the answer. I’ve already sent her an e-mail explaining that I will call her tomorrow.’
‘What’s her name?’ Richard asked.
‘Iffet Özgönül, and her company is called Peten – Peten Travels, actually.’ Opening her handbag, Joanne took out a sheaf of papers. ‘Here’s some information I pulled up on my computer about her and her background. And also some pages about Istanbul.’
Justine took the papers eagerly.

Richard and Joanne started to talk about a barn on her property which she wanted to convert into a studio, and Justine buried her head in the sheaf of papers, the computer printout. It was a relief to have them.
She had suddenly grown apprehensive when Joanne had launched into a discussion about Jean-Marc Breton and his reputation as a lady-killer. So called. Making a documentary film about a great artist, his work and his life had been problematic enough; things had grown much more complicated and complex when he had fallen for her. She had made a decision months ago not to discuss the making of the film with anyone, and she certainly had no intention of speaking about her relationship with him.
Brushing thoughts of the Frenchman aside, she went on reading about Iffet Özgönül, liking the sound of her. This was a person who could no doubt help her in a variety of different ways, and it was very likely that Iffet would be able to find Anita Lowe, who was the key to Gabriele’s whereabouts.
The sudden appearance of Tita in the doorway made Justine look up, and she raised a brow. ‘Do you want us to come to the table?’
‘Please, now Pearl says, for the eggs.’
‘I’m famished,’ Richard announced, standing up. ‘Come on, Jo, and bring your drink.’
Tita disappeared down the corridor and Richard led Joanne and his sister into the small cosy dining room next door, which had once been the breakfast room, full of sunny yellows and greens and glass furniture. Richard had redesigned it. Removing all of the glass pieces, except for two étagères on either side of the fireplace, he had used a colour scheme of scarlet and black …scarlet on the walls, a black floor plus mellow antiques made an enormous difference.
‘This has been a terrific transformation,’ Joanne remarked, as Richard pulled out a chair for her, then went to help Justine.
He whispered against his sister’s cheek, ‘Where’s the letter? I left it on my desk.’
‘I have it in my pocket,’ she murmured, and then, looking across at Joanne, said, ‘I agree with you about this room, and although I was only half listening when you were discussing the barn, I think Rich has some great ideas for remodelling it.’
‘He does. But then he’s the best,’ Jo responded.
‘I like Iffet before meeting her,’ Justine murmured.
‘Here’re the Parisian eggs,’ Pearl announced, striding into the room with a tray of plates, followed by Tita, who handed one to each of them.
‘Oh my, Parisian eggs like your grandmother used to make …I just love them.’ Joanne picked up her fork, and began to eat at once.
How weird it is that no one has mentioned Gran for ages, Justine thought. And now, today, her name’s on everyone’s lips. Anxiety about her grandmother edged into her mind, as it had done on and off all day. Where was she? Was she well? Did she need money? What did she think of them? Her and Rich? Did she think they were in on this crazy estrangement, something promulgated by their insane mother? She hoped, no prayed, this was not the case.
Her mother. Deborah Nolan really was off her rocker, wasn’t she? Two husbands since their father had died; both had divorced her – or she them, Justine wasn’t sure which. What man would put up with her antics? She was skittish, silly, shallow, a spendthrift. Talented, tortured, tricky, troubled. Justine sighed under her breath. She could easily go through the alphabet, defining her mother, who had always been the absent mother, hadn’t she?
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Richard said, sitting back in the chair, gazing at his sister, worrying about her and their grandmother.
‘Nothing much to tell you,’ Justine replied. ‘The eggs are good.’ She grinned at him.
‘And how. I’ve demolished them already. Great idea on your part.’
‘It was Pearl’s actually. By the way, I saw Carlos and Ricardo carrying some big planks of wood over to your building project this afternoon. How’s it coming along?’
‘They’re doing a great job, and it’ll be finished by the summer. But it’s really just a simple bungalow, Juju, not a stately home.’
She began to chuckle. ‘Simple? Don’t be silly, it’s beginning to look like something rather splendid, in my opinion.’
Joanne said, ‘I can’t wait to see it. When am I going to get the tour?’
‘Nothing to tour, as you call it, Jo – not yet. But I’ll show you around tomorrow before tea in the gazebo.’ He smiled lovingly at Joanne. ‘I heard all about tea from Daisy. She’s so excited that you and Simon are coming.’
‘So am I, so’s he,’ Jo murmured. She wanted to add that Justine and Richard were the only family they had, and that they loved them very much; that she and Simon were dependent on them in so many ways. But she refrained.
She stole a look at Richard, surreptitiously, as she had been doing for as long as she could remember. She had loved him all of her life, had hero-worshipped him, but he had never shown much interest in her, at least not romantically. And then one day she had been swept off her feet by the sweet-talking, fast-talking, aggressive Malcolm Brandon, who had turned out to be a glib dud. And Richard had married Pamela. Who had died. And Jo had divorced the glib monster of Wall Street fame.
As she sat eating cottage pie and savouring this favourite, it suddenly struck Jo that Richard did not seem so full of grief tonight. Distracted, yes. Preoccupied, yes. And worried. He was worrying about something.
She was suddenly absolutely certain he was not pining for Pamela at this moment. There was a difference in his demeanour; he appeared jumpy, on edge, and worry clouded those wonderfully blue eyes. He was thinking hard; she knew when he was doing that, had been aware of this even when they were kids.
Jo let her gaze rest on Justine, thinking that she was also different tonight, had retreated into herself after her comments about Jean-Marc. And yet… well, there was something else bothering her best friend. Was it a problem with their mother?
Deborah, the darling of every man who met her, that’s how Jo thought of her, and had since she was old enough to think about sex. The Sexpot. That’s what some people called Deborah Nolan. The sexiest sexpot on two legs. How old was she now? In her fifties? Yes. Fifty-three or thereabouts. But no doubt as beautiful as ever, with her sculpted face, flowing dark hair and liquid grey eyes. Come-to-bed eyes, that was the way Malcolm had described them, looking as if he fancied her. He fancied a lot of women and had a lot of women and that’s why they were divorced. And she was glad they were.
Clearing her throat, Joanne said, ‘There’s something wrong, Rich. I know there is, Juju.’ She fixed her eyes on them.
They stared back at her and said nothing.
‘Look, I’ve known the two of you since we were little kids, and we have a shared past. You can’t pretend with me. You’re both preoccupied and worried.’
Justine turned to her twin, her expression quizzical as she looked at him.
Richard pursed his lips, frowned. He said, ‘There is a problem, Jo, you’re correct. But I don’t want to talk about it now. Not here. Let’s finish dinner; Tita and Pearl have been working so hard in the kitchen. We can talk about it over coffee. Fair enough?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Jo answered, wondering what could be wrong.

SIX
Tita brought coffee to the drawing room, and then disappeared.
Once they were alone, Justine took the letter out of her jacket pocket; leaning forward, she handed it to Joanne sitting on the sofa opposite them. ‘The reason Richard and I are upset, worried, is because of this and what it reveals.’
Taking the letter from her, Joanne began to read, and as she did so she visibly stiffened. Finally, when she lifted her head and looked at them, her eyes were full of shock. ‘Why?’ she asked, her voice shaking. ‘Why did your mother tell you Gabriele was dead? Why did she lie to you?’
‘We don’t know,’ Richard answered quietly. ‘And we’ve no idea what this estrangement is about either. We’re as mystified as you are.’
‘But this is just horrible… that’s not even a strong enough word to use… it’s horrendous. And just think of your poor grandmother. Oh, God, I can’t bear it. How upset she must have been all of these years. What an appalling thing… to be dismissed in that way, to be kept away from you.’ Tears welled in Joanne’s light-green eyes, and she blinked several times before continuing, ‘She must have missed you both. Longed to see you. Gabriele must have suffered in the worst way.’
‘We think so, and we totally believe Anita’s letter, don’t we, Richard?’ Justine looked at her brother, and he nodded.
She sighed. ‘Obviously Gran’s not doing too well, and we need to find her as fast as we can.’
‘That’s the real reason you’re going to Istanbul, isn’t it? You genuinely believe she’s there,’ Joanne now asserted, staring at Justine pointedly.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘We both do,’ Richard interjected.
‘Couldn’t she be in London, though? After all, she is English, and she had a house there. I know she said she was selling it years ago, but surely she took an apartment…’ Joanne’s voice trailed off when she saw the negative expression settling on Justine’s face.
Richard said slowly, thoughtfully, ‘I’ve read the letter several times now, and I honestly think that she is with Anita. There’s every indication of that, reading between the lines.’
‘I’m going to call Eddie Grange first thing tomorrow,’ Justine announced. ‘He was my line producer on this last documentary, and I need him to check a few things out for me.’
‘Such as what?’ Richard asked, glancing at her curiously.
‘He can look in the London phonebook, see if Gran’s listed, for one thing—’
‘Why not try calling the international operator?’ Richard interrupted, raising a brow. ‘Or the Internet, check it out that way.’
‘Don’t be daft!’ Justine exclaimed. ‘Talking to the international operator takes an hour, maybe even longer, and you always get routed through New Delhi or somewhere else in India, so forget that. Eddie’s my best bet.’ Justine grimaced, then finished, ‘However, I know she’s not living in London. And on second thoughts, I’ll go on the Internet later.’
‘How can you be so sure she’s not in London?’ Joanne asked.
‘Gut instinct, to be honest. But listen to me, Jo. Anita is her most longstanding, closest friend. Anita says this in the letter, very pointedly in fact. So under these awful circumstances, when you’re missing your grandchildren, have been banished from your family, wouldn’t you want to be with your closest friend? Especially if you were getting on, and Gran will be eighty this coming June.’
‘You’re right, under such circumstances I would want to be with my closest friend, which is you… Iffet will find Anita Lowe if anyone can.’
‘I hope so. And by the way, don’t go into that when you speak to her tomorrow. Just say I’m thinking of making a documentary there. I’d like to keep this situation confidential, and so would Rich.’
‘I wouldn’t have said anything to Iffet, I really wouldn’t,’ Joanne answered. ‘And anyway, you can trust me to keep your confidence. I always have.’
‘I know it wasn’t necessary to say that to you, Jo, because you’re family to me, and to Rich. But I just wanted you to be clear how I am going to handle the matter when I get there. I’ll talk about business first before bringing up Anita.’
Joanne nodded, gave her a reassuring smile.
Richard said, ‘Can’t you go with Justine? It would make me feel better, Joanne, if you could. I’m afraid I’m stuck here for the next two weeks with my big installation at the hotel in Battery Park.’
‘I’m stuck too, Richard. I just signed a contract to do the public relations on a movie being shot in Manhattan.’ Frowning, she added, ‘I don’t think I can get out of it.’
‘Nor should you even attempt to,’ Justine murmured. She put her hand on Richard’s arm lovingly. ‘I’ll be all right, Rich. I’m thirty-two like you. A grown-up. And perfectly capable of travelling alone.’
Richard smiled, hugged her to him. She was his best friend as well as his twin and the most important person in his life except for his little daughter. The thought of ever being without Justine terrified him.
Joanne said, ‘When I was working on that crazy movie over there a few years ago, Iffet was indispensable, Richard. She’ll make things easy for Justine.’
‘That puts my mind at rest,’ he murmured.
‘So when do you plan to leave?’ Joanne asked Justine.
‘Next Wednesday, the day after I’ve screened the film for Miranda, and she’s signed off. Which I know she will. By the way, I checked the airlines this afternoon. There are quite a few flights from Kennedy to Istanbul. Night flights.’
‘That’s correct, and it’s about ten hours to Istanbul. Make sure you book a direct non-stop flight, which is the best. You don’t want to have to change planes in a foreign city.’
‘I’ll take an afternoon flight, either on Delta or Turkish Airlines. Both have direct flights.’
They went on talking about Justine’s trip for a short while longer, and then eventually Joanne stood up. ‘I’d better go. Thanks for dinner, the two of you. And I’m sorry.’ She stared at them. ‘What I mean is, I’m sorry your mother did this awful thing to Gabriele, and to you. But let’s face it, this is also wonderful news – your grandmother’s alive and not dead after all, and I for one can’t wait to see her again.’
‘We know you love her,’ Richard said, walking out of the drawing room with his sister and Joanne.
They saw her to the door, but stood talking to her on the step for several minutes longer.
Justine suddenly said, ‘I used to think you were wary of our mother, Joanne. Perhaps even a bit frightened of her when we were growing up. Were you?’
‘Wary perhaps, but not frightened,’ Joanne answered, frowning to herself. ‘You know, I think I was actually in awe of her, and also rather intimidated.’
‘That’s a funny word to use,’ Richard said, scrutinizing her for a moment. ‘She wasn’t particularly intimidating. Know what, I always thought our mother was ditzy. A real flake.’
Joanne nodded in agreement. ‘She was those things, yes. I suppose I was intimidated by her beauty, that’s the best way of describing it. And the way she affected grown men was incredible. They were struck dumb when they set eyes on her. To be honest, I never thought she was a bad person. Nor did I think she could ever do something so… so cruel, so very mean.’
‘Neither did we,’ Richard said in a hollow voice.
Justine was silent.

Justine awakened with a start, lay there feeling disoriented. There was light in her bedroom and for a split second she thought it was morning. Then she realized that it was the moonlight filling the space with its soft, silvery glow.
Throwing back the bedclothes, she slid her legs to the floor, went over to one of the windows overlooking the garden and stared out. Riding high in a cloudless black sky was a huge full moon. It was extraordinarily bright; the light it gave off was unusually powerful, and she stood admiring it for a moment, then turned away, got back into bed.
Thoughts she had had before falling asleep came back, gave her a jolt, as they had earlier. Did her mother know where her grandmother was living? Obviously Justine couldn’t be sure that she did, but there was a line in Anita’s letter which suggested differently: Get in touch with her before it’s too late, Anita had written. Of course, Anita might have just been making an assumption. Unless she had the true facts, was aware that Deborah could reach out, because she knew where to contact Gabriele directly. These were some of the thoughts that had hovered at the back of her mind over dinner. She had shoved them away. Now they were back again.
There was a sudden tapping on her door; it was opened gently. ‘Justine. Are you asleep?’
‘No, Rich,’ she answered, sitting up as her brother came into the bedroom and closed the door.
‘It’s okay, I’m wide awake,’ she murmured. He sat down at the end of the bed; there was a puzzled expression on his face.
‘What is it?’ she asked, noting a flicker of concern in his eyes.
‘I woke up about half an hour ago, because something was troubling me, I guess. I was remembering what Anita said in the letter to Mom. She told her to get in touch with Gran. But look, she didn’t say where, didn’t give Mom an address.’
‘I was thinking exactly the same thing only a few minutes ago! It woke me up… well, we do have the same thoughts fairly often, don’t we?’
‘Yep. So, do you think Mom has Gran’s address?’
‘It’s hard to say. Maybe. On the other hand, Anita might merely be making an assumption that she does. Why?’
‘I was wondering if we should call Mom after all? In China. Do you know the time difference?’
‘Thirteen hours. They’re ahead of us. I don’t think we should call her, Rich, honestly I don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s dangerous.’
‘In what way?’
‘In every way. First of all, she’ll go nuts if we say that we know Gran’s still alive, and that she lied to us. She’ll deny it, shout and scream. If we challenge her, explain how we found out, she’ll say the old lady who wrote the letter has dementia, doesn’t know what she’s doing or saying. You know what she’s like, and she’ll keep on denying everything, she’ll lie in her teeth. She’ll never admit Gran’s alive. And anyway—’
‘But we can cope with the hysteria and the histrionics. We have in the past.’
‘This situation is different, because I sense there’s something rather big, important behind the estrangement, and I think Mom’s the guilty one. Gran’s innocent of wrongdoing, of that I am really, really certain. Our grandmother always had her feet on the ground; she was extremely well mannered, even tempered, level headed, practical, and a very nice woman. I often wondered where Mom got her temperamental nature from – or rather, from whom. Listen to me, Rich, the thing is this… I believe it would be dangerous to let our mother know we know what she did, how she’s kept Gran away from us all these years. If she knows where Gran is, and also Anita, then who knows what could happen? She might go and see them, scare the wits out of them by harassing them.’
‘I don’t think she’d do them any physical harm,’ Richard protested, then frowned, ‘Is that what you’re getting at?’
‘No, I’m not. I agree, I don’t think she’d attack them physically. Verbally, yes. And that kind of abuse can be very disturbing to anyone, most especially two old ladies. And what if one of them had a heart attack or a stroke because our mother scared them?’
‘Yes, I see what you mean: she can be very voluble. And vicious. She’s got a nasty tongue.’
‘Only too true. She’s a loose cannon, in my opinion. Capable of anything. So no, I don’t want to phone her and ask her where Gran lives. I’ll find Anita, and she’ll take me to her. Don’t forget, I was a journalist before I became a filmmaker, and I know how to track someone down.’
‘And there’s Iffet. Jo thinks she’s going to be of great help to you.’
‘She probably is.’ Justine glanced at the clock. ‘My God, it’s almost two o’clock! Hey, Rich, I can call Eddie in London, get him to flip through the phonebook.’ She reached for the phone on the bedside table, and Richard grimaced. ‘Don’t call him at this hour, for heaven’s sake. It’s only seven o’clock in London.’
‘Knowing Ed, he’ll be up.’
‘But won’t he think it strange that you’re calling him in the middle of the night here?’
‘I guess so.’ Putting the receiver back in the cradle, she said, ‘I’ll give him a shout later. In the meantime, I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea… or hot milk. Something. And guess what, I’m hungry.’
‘So am I. So it’s settled then, we’re going to leave it alone. By that I mean we’re not going to call our mother in China? Or wherever the hell she might be?’
‘Correct. I’m going to find Gran, and it’s not going to take me as long as you think. I’ve a good feeling about this friend of Joanne’s, and I trust my own instincts. Gran’s in Istanbul. And a good-looking English woman, with a hint of regality, is more than likely part of local society, moving in the right circles.’
‘You’re right. Let’s go down to the kitchen. I’d love a mug of hot tea and some cake or cookies.’
Justine leapt out of bed, threw on her robe, and she and her twin went down the stairs to the kitchen. As she put the kettle on, Richard opened the refrigerator door but, finding nothing he wanted to eat, he went into the pantry. ‘Oh, my God, there’s a coconut cake in here,’ he exclaimed, carrying out the cake stand with a glass dome.
Justine stared at him. ‘If you touch that cake you’re in real trouble! Pearl will have your guts for garters!’
‘That’s one of Dad’s expressions!’
‘Borrowed from our grandmother. And I believe Pearl made the cake for the tea party in the gazebo tomorrow.’
‘Whoops. I’ll go and put it back.’ A moment later he emerged from the walk-in pantry with a glass biscuit jar. ‘What do you think? Will Pearl get mad if I have a couple of these cookies?’
‘I think you’re on safe ground.’

The fire had burned low, but there were a few glowing embers left, and so there was a warm and cosy feeling in the kitchen. Richard and Justine sat at the big square table, sipping their mugs of tea and munching on the cookies.
Neither of them spoke for a while, but their frequent and sometimes long silences were never awkward. Rather, they were comforting. It had always been like this since they were born. They were totally at ease with each other, and on the same wavelength. Very often they had the same thought simultaneously, and said what the other was thinking. Twinship. That was the way Richard described it, much to Justine’s glee.
As children they had done everything together, had gone to the same kindergarten and high school. Later, they went to Connecticut College in New London, a choice that had been perfect for them, as it turned out.
Joanne had asked if she could join them there, and they had been delighted when she got in. And so the childhood triumvirate had continued from their young adulthood into their college years, and afterwards.
Justine and Richard understood each other completely and on every level, and now Richard suddenly said, ‘We’ve both clamped down on our anger, and that’s best for the moment, don’t you agree?’
She nodded, and said in a low tone, ‘But the day of reckoning will come, you know.’
‘A confrontation with our mother would be an indulgence at this moment, Justine. The most important thing is to get you on your way to Turkey.’
‘Agreed.’ Reaching out, she put her hand on his, resting on the table. ‘I know you’re going to worry, but I’ll call you every day, I promise.’
‘Day or night, any time, my phone will be on.’ He shook his head, squeezed her hand. ‘I hope Gran’s all right. I can’t bear to think what the last ten years have been like for her… she must have been so hurt.’
‘And lonely,’ Justine remarked softly. ‘That’s the worst thing of all for anyone. Loneliness.’

PART TWO
The Search
To reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it – but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.
Oliver Wendell Holmes

SEVEN
Justine recognized Iffet Özgönül at once. It helped, of course, that the woman she zeroed in on was standing next to a tall man holding a sign with the name NOLAN printed on it in large letters.
But Justine knew it was her. She fitted Joanne’s description: slender, petite, a brunette with short curly hair and a big smile on her face. And now she was waving. Iffet had been told what to expect by Jo, no doubt about that: a lanky blonde American with long hair and blue eyes.
Waving back, then turning around, Justine beckoned to the young man carrying her two bags, and strode forward, increasing her pace. He hurried after her.
A moment later the two women were shaking hands, and Iffet was saying in perfect English, ‘Hello, hello. So pleased to meet you. And welcome to Istanbul.’
‘I’m glad I’m here, and pleased to meet you too, Ms Özgönül.’
‘Oh, please, call me Iffet, everyone does.’
‘Iffet it is, and I’m Justine, okay?’
‘Of course. And it’s a name we Turks know well. Centuries ago we had an emperor called Justinian, who built the now famous Haghia Sophia Church… But you don’t need a history lesson now. Let’s go to the car. And by the way, this is Selim, our driver.’
The tall man bowed courteously, and smiled; Justine smiled back and thrust out her hand, which he shook.
Iffet led her through Atatürk Airport and outside to the car, which turned out to be a small minibus. As the young baggage man was stowing her bags in the back, Justine glanced at Iffet and asked, ‘Are we picking up other people?’
‘Oh, no, not at all. But I always use these little buses.’ Lowering her voice, she added, ‘They’re cheaper than regular cars, and more comfortable.’ With a smile she hurried over to the baggage handler, and handed him money, thanking him.
Justine also thanked him. ‘I could have done that, Iffet,’ she murmured. ‘Look, I have the tip money right here in my pocket.’
‘Oh no, it’s fine, really. Come, let us go… isn’t it a beautiful day?’
‘It surely is,’ Justine answered, lifting her head, looking up. The sky was a perfect cerulean blue, with a few white clouds floating above in the vast sky; it was sunny and warm – perfect spring weather. She took several deep breaths, glad to be outside after the long night flight, and then bounded up the steps into the minibus.
Once they were on their way, Iffet asked her what she wanted to do that day, if anything at all, and also told her that she had booked her into the Çiragan Palace Hotel Kempinski, following Joanne’s instructions.
‘Yes, she told me she wanted me to stay there, that I would love it. As for doing something, I believe I’d like to take it easy today. I did sleep a bit on the plane, but not much. I was sort of restless, frankly. I’d prefer to do nothing.’
‘I don’t blame you, Justine. The hotel has a pool. More importantly, also a spa. A good spa. Perhaps you should indulge yourself.’ Iffet gave her a big smile, her whole face lighting up. ‘You can even have a Turkish bath, if you want. However, that might knock you out.’
Justine began to laugh. ‘Joanne’s a big fan of them, and insisted I had one at least. But not today.’
Changing the subject, Iffet now said, ‘I’m thrilled that you’re thinking of making a documentary here in Istanbul. May I ask what it’s about?’
‘I don’t really know yet,’ Justine admitted, giving her a wry smile. ‘I need to see the city, poke around, learn about the people, the life, and about Istanbul’s history, politics and religions. I do know that the latter fascinate me. I’ve done a bit of research, Iffet, and I think it’s amazing that Muslims, Jews and Christians have lived peacefully side by side in Istanbul for many centuries. What a feat that is. Unbelievable.’
‘It is, and I will be pleased to help you with your research, Justine. I am at your disposal, as is my entire office.’
‘Thank you.’

The lobby of the Çiragan Palace Hotel Kempinski was spacious and airy, with a high ceiling, handsome furnishings and enormous elegance in the grand manner.
Everyone from the doormen and bellboys to the assistant manager and the young public relations woman greeted them with courtesy and friendliness, and Justine realized that they knew Iffet well. That was the reason she was getting the royal treatment.
Within seconds of their arrival in the lobby, she and Iffet were whisked up in the lift by the public relations woman and the assistant manager. Alighting on the fifth floor, they were guided down the corridor to her room. When they were ushered inside, Justine saw at once that it faced the Bosphorus and had a magnificent view. It was large and comfortable, with a seating area in front of French doors, which opened onto a terrace furnished with chairs and a table.
‘This is great, thank you so much,’ she exclaimed to the hotel staff who had accompanied them, as she glanced around, taking everything in. Once they had explained everything, they departed, reminding her they were at her service if she needed anything.
When they were alone, Iffet said, ‘I’m happy you like the room, Justine. When I came over to inspect it this morning I was also pleased. I had requested one overlooking the Bosphorus, but they’re not always available.’
‘Thank you. And it suits my needs perfectly. I’d love to take you to lunch here, Iffet, to discuss a few things. Do you have time?’
‘I kept today open for you, and thank you. We should perhaps have lunch on the terrace, it’s a beautiful spot. Unless you prefer to be in air conditioning.’
‘No, outside. I’d just like to tidy up, if you’ll excuse me for a few minutes. But before I do that I need to do one other thing …find a telephone book.’ As she spoke, Justine glanced around the room, opened the wardrobe, then a cupboard and a chest of drawers, shaking her head, looking disappointed. ‘Not one in sight.’
‘I can get a number for you immediately.’ Iffet pulled out her mobile phone and asked, ‘What is the name of the person?’
‘Anita Lowe. And listen, I haven’t found her on any Google search, or anywhere else on the Web. But why not give the local book a shot?’
Iffet explained, ‘I shall call my office, that is the fastest way.’
Justine nodded, picked up her handbag and went into the bathroom. After washing her hands and face, she took out a hairbrush and attacked her mane of long blonde hair. Once it was sleek, no longer a tangled mess, she put on lipstick and sprayed herself with perfume.
Her mind was racing as she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, her thoughts focused on her grandmother and Anita. She knew she wouldn’t rest until she had found them. Her appearance didn’t matter; they took precedence in her head.
Straightening her black blazer, pulling out the collar of her white shirt, she decided she at least looked tidy, if nothing else. Grabbing her bag she went back to the bedroom, ready for action, prepared for what the rest of the day held.
Iffet glanced at her when she came in, and said in a regretful voice, ‘Anita Lowe is not listed in the Istanbul phonebook.’
‘Oh.’ Justine pursed her lips, then she said, ‘Could you try another name, please? Gabriele Hardwicke. That’s Hardwicke with an e at the end. Again, I tried to find her number without success.’
Once again Iffet dialled her office, passed on the name and waiting patiently. After a few seconds she shook her head. ‘No luck.’
‘I wonder how I’m going to find these two?’ Justine muttered, almost to herself, then forced a smile onto her face. ‘Thanks for trying, Iffet. Shall we go to lunch?’
‘I am ready.’
Going down in the lift, Iffet suddenly turned to Justine and asked, ‘Do you have an address for either of the two ladies? If so, you could write a note. I can have it delivered in an hour. There is a special service I use.’
‘I don’t have an address for either,’ Justine replied as they stepped out into the lobby. She thought: If I had an address I’d be hightailing it over there already. Swiftly she continued, ‘I really do need to find Anita. I’m fairly certain she lives in Istanbul, and—’ Justine cut herself off abruptly, and stood stock-still in the middle of the lobby, staring at Iffet.
Staring back, Iffet asked, ‘What is it? What is wrong?’
‘I’ve just thought of something. If a person owns a house in Istanbul, or an apartment, would the property have to be registered with a government agency? You know, for local taxes?’
‘It would, yes!’ Iffet exclaimed. ‘Ownership of property has to be registered at the deed and land office at the local municipality. Tapu ve Kadastro Dairesi, that’s the name of the land office. I must put one of my staff on this immediately. If you’ll excuse me, Justine, I must speak in Turkish to that person. It will be quicker.’
‘No problem.’
Taking a few steps away from Justine, Iffet again used her phone, and within a split second was talking rapidly to someone in her office.
‘It is being taken care of,’ she announced a moment later, a huge smile on her face, her brown eyes sparkling. She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s twelve thirty now. Lunchtime. So I might not receive the information until tomorrow.’
‘That’s all right, and thank you. Come on, let’s go and have lunch.’ Together Justine and Iffet walked across the lobby, through the lounge, the indoor café and out onto the terrace.
They were shown to a table in a corner, one that had a spectacular view of the hotel, its gardens and the swimming pool. Beyond was the Bosphorus flowing down into the Black Sea. As usual it was busy with varied traffic. Today there were sailing boats, private yachts, tourist boats and the ferries, plus a couple of cargo ships. In the distance, a huge cruise ship sat stationary on the far horizon, silhouetted against the bright blue sky like a behemoth.
‘What a fantastic sight this is!’ Justine said.
‘It is lovely. If you didn’t want to move you could stay here and keep very busy. There’s the spa, a hair salon, many shops, bars, restaurants, swimming and tennis.’
Justine smiled. ‘But I do want to move, I want to see this city, get to know it.’
‘I have made a list for you.’ Iffet immediately pulled a sheet of paper out of her bag. ‘A list of churches, such as the Haghia Sophia, the little Haghia Sophia, both built by your male namesake, Justinian. The Blue Mosque, the Topkapi Museum, and various palaces. I’ll take you wherever you want to go tomorrow.’
‘I’m in your hands, you’re the expert, but I wouldn’t want to miss the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Bazaar.’
‘I have them on the list for Saturday,’ Iffet answered, then glanced up at the waiter who had appeared at the table. She ordered sparkling water and so did Justine, and both women took the menus he handed to them.
‘I’m not a foodie, not very adventurous when it comes to food,’ Justine explained, ‘and I see several things here that I like. A club sandwich, for one, and a number of good salads. Do you know what you want, Iffet?’
‘Like you, I am a simple eater. I will select one of the salads.’
‘And I’m going to go for the club sandwich.’ Justine beckoned to the waiter who came over and took their order, and then Justine said to Iffet, ‘Have you ever been to New York?’
Iffet shook her head. ‘But I do know London quite well. I go there often. Do you want to travel here in Turkey? Is there anywhere special you’d like to visit?’
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Ephesus, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to do it this trip. Perhaps next time.’
‘If you make your documentary.’
‘That’s right.’

The two women liked each other, had clicked immediately during the drive from Atatürk Airport, and their conversation was nonstop both before and during lunch. On the plane, Justine had re-read Joanne’s computer printouts and the travel guide she had given her, and because she was a quick study and had a retentive memory, she was able to have an intelligent discussion with Iffet. But always at the back of Justine’s mind was an image of her grandmother, and thoughts of Anita Lowe. But she knew that once she had located one or both of them she would be able to relax. For the moment she remained tense inside, anxiety ridden.
At exactly two o’clock, Justine interrupted their conversation about the Basilica Cistern, a vast underground water system, saying to Iffet, ‘I’m sorry to cut this short for a moment, but I must call my brother. He’s expecting to hear from me about now.’
‘That is perfectly all right, Justine, I shall give you your privacy.’ Iffet made to stand up and leave the table.
Justine put out a hand, touched her arm, exclaimed, ‘No, no, that’s not necessary. I’m just calling him to let him know I’ve arrived safely and am in your care.’ She shook her head, sighed lightly. ‘He worries about me a lot.’ Taking out her mobile phone, she dialled Richard’s apartment, and within a few seconds she heard his voice.
‘It’s me, Rich,’ she said. ‘Safe and sound in Istanbul, sitting by the Bosphorus having lunch with Iffet. It’s exactly two o’clock here, and I guess you’re having breakfast in New York.’
‘I am. A piece of toast and a mug of coffee standing up in the kitchen. How was the flight? How’s Istanbul? What’s the hotel like?’ he asked in a rush of questions.
‘The flight was great, just under ten hours, and landed on time. Istanbul is fascinating, what little I’ve seen of it. The weather is fabulous, and so is the hotel. Oh, and Iffet is lovely …a friend already.’
‘So you’re in safe hands all round, and I can relax.’
‘Of course you can. Anyway, you know very well I can take care of myself. Any news, anything special happening?’
‘Nothing at all. Daisy is great, work’s going good, and the first part of the installation is under way. So far without any hitches.’
‘Great. I obviously don’t have any news about anything. Too soon. I’ll call you tomorrow at this time, but my phone’s always on if you need me. Big hug, love you.’
‘Love you too, Juju. My arms around you.’
After clicking off, Justine smiled at Iffet and confided, ‘He fusses about me, but he just can’t help himself. I guess I’m the same with him. We’re twins, and we’re almost literally joined at the hip.’
‘Oh, twins! I understand about twins. I have a friend who is a twin, and she and her sister are the same way.’
‘I can imagine. But it’s fantastic in so many different ways. Now, getting back to our interrupted conversation, you were telling me that the Basilica Cistern goes back to Byzantine times and was laid out under Justinian.’
‘It’s a cavernous vault underneath Istanbul. We can visit it if you are interested, it is open to the public.’
‘I’d love to see it.’ Justine opened her black leather handbag, pulled out her black Moleskine notebook. She found the page she was looking for, said, ‘I put the Basilica Cistern on my list, along with the two big bazaars.’
‘Good. We shall cover everything in the next few days. Perhaps this little tour of ancient places in Istanbul will produce an idea for your documentary.’
‘It just might,’ Justine murmured. ‘It just might.’

EIGHT
A voice filled the room. A man’s voice. Melodic. Slightly high pitched. Singing in a foreign language.
Justine opened her eyes and blinked in the dim light. Struggling up into a sitting position on the bed, she listened more attentively as the voice finally trailed off, stopped. Now there was perfect stillness. No sound at all.
Sliding off the bed, where she had been dozing, Justine went over to the seating area. The French doors were open, and she stepped out onto the terrace, looking around. Leaning against the terrace railings, she peered down into the garden below, expecting to see an orchestra, the singer preparing to sing another song. But there was no band. No musicians. No singer.
Then, suddenly, she understood. What she had just heard was the voice of a muezzin standing at the top of a minaret, calling the faithful to prayer. Joanne had mentioned this last weekend, explained that it happened five times a day, that electronic amplification carried the muezzin’s voice around entire districts, all of which were large and heavily populated.
The muezzin’s singing had awakened her from her languorous dozing, forced her off the bed, and she didn’t care. In fact, she was glad. She had some serious thinking to do.
After lunch with Iffet, she had come up to her room, unpacked, put everything neatly away and called Eddie Grange in London. He had not been able to find out anything on the Internet about the two companies her grandmother had been associated with. Very simply, there was no evidence that there had been either showrooms or offices for Exotic Lands and Faraway Places. It was as if they had not existed.
She had thanked Eddie and hung up. This new information, and the fact that her grandmother was not listed in the London phonebook, more or less proved that she did not live in London any longer. Perhaps she had vacated the city long ago and settled permanently. Unless she had an unlisted phone number. But Justine doubted that. Her grandmother wasn’t into the secrecy game. Unlike her mother, who was.
With her arms folded and resting on top of the railings, she stared out into the night, lost for a moment in the beauty. The sky was a lovely deep pavonine blue, the stars were coming out in a brightly scattered array, and there were twinkling lights everywhere, especially on the other side of the Bosphorus. The Asian side.
How odd it is, she thought, to be here in Istanbul and straddled between Europe and Asia Minor, on two continents at once. What an intriguing place this was. Straightening up, she realized she was more positive than ever that her grandmother was here, somewhere in this city. She felt it in her bones.
Now she couldn’t help wondering if the search at the land registry office would produce an address for Anita? Gran? Of course it was possible that Gabriele had her own home here. She had been independent by nature, decisive and driven, had stood on her own two feet, battling the world, making everything work for herself and for them.
Justine smiled inwardly. She had inherited those traits from her granny, no doubt about that. In fact, her father had told her she was more like her grandmother than her mother. And it was true, thank God.
Why would her grandmother come to live here in Istanbul? Justine was able to answer that question instantly.
Her grandmother’s lifelong friend Anita lived here, and there were several other good reasons as well. The weather was mild all year round, according to Iffet, and was certainly the perfect climate for an older woman; knowledge of Istanbul from years ago, when she was doing business; other old friends residing in the city; a lifestyle she enjoyed.
Justine went back into the room, turned on several lamps and sat down in a chair. She closed her eyes, focusing her mind on Gran, and intensely so.
To all intent and purpose, Gabriele Hardwicke had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. Just as if she had died. Justine knew she hadn’t. She had Anita’s letter to prove it.
Certainly there was nothing of her life remaining in London. Earlier today Eddie had told her so in no uncertain terms. Zilch, was the way he had put it. And certainly she had been surprised, even startled, when he had wondered aloud if her importing business in London had ever existed.
What if the same thing happened here? What if neither woman owned homes here? Then there would be no way to find them. She would be facing a brick wall…
A blue-and-white tiled wall. Unexpectedly she was seeing this in her mind’s eye… a blue-and-white tiled wall in her grandmother’s kitchen in New York. No, several walls. Tiles from Istanbul, Gran had told her. Like the blue-and-white vases, tubs, planters and urns her father and Gran used to sell to interior designers in Manhattan. And brass objects. And carpets. Those beautiful silk-woven carpets from Istanbul. No, from Hereke, a small town located outside the city.
As all this came rushing back to her, she thought: That’s it. She snapped open her eyes and sat bolt upright. Dealers in tiles, ceramic objects, antiques and carpets… those were the people she had to find, if it became necessary. Perhaps they would remember her grandmother, perhaps even still knew her, and therefore knew where she lived.
Justine went to the desk, began to make notes about the items that had been imported from Turkey by her father and grandmother. As she did this she felt an easing of the tension inside her, because she had thought of another way she might be able to trace Gabriele Hardwicke. She had to find her. She would not rest until she did. And she would start tomorrow.

At one moment, Justine roused herself from her unceasing thoughts of her grandmother and pushed herself up from the desk. She could not resist the pull of the terrace that opened off her room, and she went outside to sit under the night sky. She glanced up, marvelling at that midnight blue arc above her. The stars were amazing… so many of them here in Istanbul, littering a sky that was clear, peaceful and infinite.
Across the Bosphorus the lights of Turkey and Anatolia on the Asiatic side were pinpoints of brilliant colour glittering across the countryside, turning it into a fairyland. And downstairs people were already dining at the terrace café; she could hear the sound of muffled voices and laughter against the backdrop of a tinkling piano.
She immediately recognized the song, picking up the strains of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ from one of her favourite old movies, The Wizard of Oz. Her grandmother had loved that movie as much as she and Richard had when they were little. And she herself had always yearned for Dorothy’s sparkling, scarlet shoes.
That’s what I need, a Wizard, she thought, and a Good Fairy and a Magic Wand. She let out a small sigh, and then it nudged its way in… that maddening thought of the estrangement. What had happened between her mother and Gran to cause this insane rift? She wondered then if it could possibly have anything to do with money? Her mother was a spendthrift – she knew that only too well from her childhood, her father’s angry tones echoing in her head right now, as if he were standing next to her. Bankrupt was another word constantly on his lips. ‘You’ll bankrupt me, the way you spend,’ he used to shout angrily, and there would be another row between her parents, doors banging and raised voices for hours.
But they always made up eventually, and things normalized again. But looking back she acknowledged that they were either in each other’s arms or at each other’s throats… it had been the most tumultuous of marriages. After one of these rows had occurred, her grandmother had not come to the country for a while. She had gone instead to Huntington to stay with her close friend and lawyer, Trent, at his house on the water overlooking Long Island Sound. Sometimes Gran took them with her, and she and Rich enjoyed those trips, and enjoyed being with Uncle Trent, who made them laugh and spoiled them and thought up fantastic treats. Her mother never wanted them to go out there to Long Island, mostly because she did not like Trent Saunders. Not at all.
She was jealous, Justine suddenly thought, jealous of Trent’s presence in Gran’s life. What was it that she had once muttered? ‘Nobody can take the place of my father.’ But her father had died when her mother was seven. She had idealized him. She had always been going on about Peter Hardwicke.
How odd that she had forgotten hearing her mother say that to Gran, and for so many years. Unexpectedly, it stood out in her mind now, perhaps because it informed her, told her something important: Trent Saunders had been more than her grandmother’s American lawyer, he had been a special friend, very special indeed. I hope he was, Justine thought, seeing her grandmother in her mind’s eye, the lovely looking blonde with blue eyes and a mischievous laugh, always so elegant and charming, and ever the lady, the genuine thing. A class act.
Anger flared in her. Anger with her mother. For a split second, she was again tempted to call her in China, but resisted. Why alert her to anything? Far better to confront her when she had accomplished what she had come here to do. And yet again she was positive her grandmother’s whereabouts would not be forthcoming. Her mother’s modus operandi was always to deny everything.

Glancing at her watch, Justine saw that it was nine thirty, and she went into the bedroom. Picking up the phone, she called room service, ordered a green salad, a plate of assorted cheeses and a pot of English breakfast tea with lemon. This done, she found the zapper, turned on the television, found CNN, and sat down to watch the latest news, wanting to connect to the rest of the world again.
Even as a child she had loved news, was always thrilled to know what was happening around the world, which was why she had become a journalist. She had been, and still was, a news buff.
She watched CNN, found herself glancing at the rolling text at the bottom of the screen, and switched to Sky News out of London. Nothing but bad news tonight, she thought, as she gazed at the screen and the unfolding events. The voice of her first news editor at the local Connecticut paper now reverberated in her brain. ‘Bad news sells newspapers,’ he had constantly told his reporters. ‘Don’t bother to bring me good news.’ Well, the world these days was one big bad news story on a global scale.
Wanting variety, she zapped again, found her own network, Cable News International, and sat glued to the screen until room service came.
The waiter eventually arrived at her door, wheeled the table into the middle of the room, and placed it so that it faced the television set. She thanked him as she signed the room service bill, and then sat down, continuing to watch as she picked at the salad.
Suddenly Justine stiffened. There was her own face. On the screen. And an announcer’s voice saying, ‘Famed documentary filmmaker Justine Nolan takes you into the private realm of the world’s greatest living artist, Jean-Marc Breton. Her filmed biography of the master, “Proof of Life”, will air on this network in September as a CNI documentary special.’
Images of Jean-Marc Breton – his homes in Provence and Spain and some of his paintings – flashed across the screen and then were gone. And so was her face. The news continued to roll. Business as usual.
Justine was taken aback. She now realized what Miranda Evans had meant when she had said, immediately after the screening, ‘We’ve got to maximize this, Justine. It’s a brilliant film, and it’s going to be a worldwide hit. I’m going to make sure of that. I’ll prepare a campaign immediately, do some promos.’
Miranda had said this on Tuesday. Today was Thursday. So Miranda had done the work yesterday, splicing a few key frames together, writing a couple of lines to go with them, and having Eric Froman, of the golden voice, do a voice-over. Just a few good words had been enough to accompany those vivid visuals. And voilà! Here was a promo on air tonight. Miranda Evans was moving swiftly, working well ahead of time. She was obviously convinced she really did have a potential hit on her hands. But then Miranda has always promoted her, backed her with a network right from the beginning.
Wow, oh wow! Justine was pleased, and went to find her cell phone, punched in Richard’s number, needing to share this with her brother.
When he answered, she said, ‘Rich, it’s me. Is this a bad time? Or can you talk?’
‘Hi. And it’s okay, I’m in my office. What’s happening?’
‘Well, listen to this! Miranda’s worked wonders already. I’ve just seen the first promo for “Proof of Life” on CNI. Imagine that. I saw it by accident, and obviously she had the promo made yesterday when I was flying here. I must admit, it took me by surprise.’
‘Hey, that’s great. I’ll keep a look out for it tonight. And she is a fast worker. How was your day?’
‘A bit disappointing, in one sense. Anita and Gran are not in the Istanbul phonebook. But I guess we knew that. Iffet is checking with the land registry office, to see if they’re listed there. They would be if they own homes here. Eddie hasn’t been able to find any trace of those companies Gran was involved with. You know, Exotic Lands and Faraway Places. As he put it, “there’s zilch in London”. He even suggested they might not have existed.’
‘He’s wrong. Gran talked about them to us, and she didn’t invent such things. She probably closed them down many years ago, and he hasn’t gone back far enough. Let’s hope Iffet finds something positive.’
‘I came up with a couple of other ideas. I thought Iffet could take me to see some dealers in carpets and ceramics. If I’m lucky we’ll find somebody who knew Gran, and knows where she lives today.’
‘Brilliant idea. I know you’re on the right track, so just keep going. Call me tomorrow. I will have to run now, Juju, I’ve got a meeting starting in a few minutes.’
‘It’s ten o’clock at night here, so I’m going to bed soon. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
They both clicked off, and Justine sat back, cut into a piece of cheese and placed it on a cracker. She had a brainwave. Interviews, she thought. I can do some interviews about “Proof of Life”. Explain I’m here to do research, may make a documentary about Istanbul. Television, newspapers.
She jumped up, went to get her notebook, looked at the list of names Joanne had given her, contacts in the media here. A brainwave indeed. If she couldn’t find Anita and Gran she would have them find her. The media was the key. I’ve got to put my face in front of Gran, she added to herself. It’s the only way.

NINE
They were in the middle of the teeming city in the heat. It was unusually warm for May, according to Iffet, and Justine was relieved she had chosen to wear white-cotton trousers, a white-cotton shirt with a turquoise vest top underneath, and very comfortable shoes.
For the moment the two women were cooling off in the leafy gardens in Sultanahmet Square. Having started out early on this Friday morning, they had already been to Topkapi Palace, once the resident of the Ottoman sultans, in the adjoining district. When they had first arrived in this square, they had visited the Blue Mosque and then the Haghia Sophia Church, which faced each other across the gardens.
Justine had been impressed by both of these ancient monuments. The Blue Mosque, famous for its Ottoman architecture, had six minarets, a number of golden domes with spires and 250 windows. Once inside, she had been captivated by the blue-and-white ancient Iznik tiles lining the walls. Immediately they had reminded her of the blue-and-white reproductions which her father and grandmother had sold at their showroom in Manhattan.
Justine knew from Iffet that the Haghia Sophia Church was one of the world’s greatest architectural achievements. It had been built by the Emperor Justinian in the Byzantine period. The enormous edifice seemed more like a cathedral to her.
Now turning to Iffet, Justine said, ‘Thank you for showing me these extraordinary places. I’ve really enjoyed our morning of sightseeing, but I’d like to take a rest now, wouldn’t you?’
‘I would. I think touring these two religious places, plus the Topkapi Palace, is enough to take in on one morning.’
‘I wouldn’t mind going to the Spice Market later. But shall we go somewhere for lunch first?’
Iffet nodded, pulled out her mobile phone, and dialled. A moment later she was asking Selim, the driver, to come and pick them up. After listening to him for a few seconds, she clicked off, and said, ‘We must walk down here, Justine, towards the Bazaar Quarter. It will be easier for him. It’s all to do with parking.’

‘This restaurant is an old favourite – of mine and everyone else’s,’ Iffet explained. ‘But it is quite hard to find if you don’t know where to look.’ Her brown eyes danced. ‘But here we are,’ she added, walking past the main entrance to the Spice Market, and leading Justine towards a steep flight of stone stairs. ‘It’s called Pandeli’s, and it’s on the first floor.’
Iffet climbed quite swiftly; Justine followed on a little more slowly, telling herself she needed to get back to the gym. Immediately.
As they went inside the restaurant, Justine said in a low but excited voice, ‘Well, this was certainly worth the climb, Iffet.’
‘I know,’ she answered with a laugh.
The two women were greeted warmly by a waiter and led to a table near a window. They both ordered sparkling water, and took the menus offered. Justine, glancing around, exclaimed, ‘The aqua-coloured tiles are gorgeous and the domes architecturally stunning. What a lovely place.’
‘It’s popular with the discerning locals, and the food is delicious,’ Iffet said. ‘I hope you will try the börek, they are renowned here, Justine. Little pastry triangles with cheese and herb filling, and once they are fried they swell up and turn brown.’
‘I’m going to try them. Actually, I’m quite hungry, I didn’t eat much last night, and I never really have a proper breakfast.’ She picked up the menu and scanned it, and realized she liked the sound of many of the items listed. Finally she decided to order sea bass cooked in paper. ‘I’m going to have the fish,’ she said.
‘So am I.’ Iffet beckoned the waiter, and ordered for them, took a sip of water before continuing. ‘There are a lot of palaces to see, and other museums. We must go slowly. I do not want to tire you, Justine. It is a good idea to visit the Spice Market after lunch. Tomorrow perhaps you wish to go to the Grand Bazaar.’
‘I’d love it. You see, what happens to me is that I get visually overburdened if I view too many buildings and objects. I lose my judgement. I’m better if I pace myself. And listen, thanks for this morning. You are very knowledgeable. I was genuinely fascinated by Topkapi Palace – and especially the women’s quarters, the harem.’
Leaning forward, she then said, ‘I had something of a brainwave when we were going around Topkapi. It suddenly struck me that I would like to do a biography of Istanbul… on film, of course. This place has such an extraordinary story to tell… I think I would call it “Biography of a City”.’
Iffet was staring at her. ‘What a clever idea. Exciting.’
Justine was speaking the truth. The idea had suddenly hit her in the face when they were viewing the harem. She understood at once how fascinating a story about Istanbul could be. It was something she decided she would research once she had found her grandmother.
Iffet was asking how she could help Justine with this idea for the documentary when her cell phone buzzed. She answered it, listened attentively, gave her thanks and clicked off. ‘That was my office. I am so sorry, Anita Lowe is not listed at the land registry office.’
‘Oh.’ Justine felt a rush of dismay. She cleared her throat. ‘And Gabriele Hardwicke? Is she listed?’
‘No, she is not. If you knew which district they lived in, that could be a help. I could send someone to do an additional check.’
‘I have no idea,’ Justine murmured, and blinked, then glanced away.
Iffet realized immediately that Justine was tremendously disappointed. Her expression was crestfallen and her blue eyes looked moist, as if she might suddenly cry.
‘It is important to you, isn’t it, Justine? That you find these two ladies?’
‘Extremely important.’
A silence fell between the two women. Iffet couldn’t help wondering what this was all about and why her new friend was so upset.
Justine was asking herself if she should confide in Iffet, and immediately cancelled out that idea. She had met Iffet only yesterday, and could hardly tell her about the letter from Anita. She would hesitate to tell anyone. Her mother had done a horrifying thing and she didn’t want a soul to know. Other than Joanne, who was like a sister to her. On the other hand, perhaps she owed this very nice woman a bit of an explanation. An edited version of the truth.
She was about to speak out when the waiter arrived with the börek, and so she sat back in the chair, wanting to wait until they were alone.

Justine realized that she and her brother might have made a terrible mistake. They had decided Anita Lowe lived in Istanbul because the letter she had written bore an Istanbul postmark. But she might have simply been passing through the city, or on vacation. The truth was they didn’t have any idea where Anita lived, nor their grandmother either. And she was more anxiety ridden than ever.
For a moment her frustration soared. How foolish they had been, and she in particular. She pressed down on these feelings, and made up her mind to confide in Iffet, although only to a certain extent. She was far too ashamed of her mother’s behaviour to reveal that awful part of the story. She would have to fudge the estrangement, and put the focus on finding the two women.
Taking steely control of herself, Justine drank some of the sparkling water, and settled back on the banquette, glancing around. Several rooms formed the restaurant, and they were all visible to each other through the wide doorways. The cool aqua-tiled rooms, the windows and the starched white-linen tablecloths created a fresh look, and the setting provided a pleasant respite from the noise of the nearby markets and ferry terminals; it was a relaxing haven away from the jostling crowds.
‘I am glad I brought you here, Justine. I think you like it,’ Iffet said before picking up a börek and biting into the small triangle of pastry.
‘I love it, is it a new place?’ Justine asked, also starting to eat her own börek.
‘No, it’s very old. It was opened in 1901 by a fellow called Pandeli, and it has been a success ever since.’
When she had finished eating the börek, Justine looked across at Iffet and said quietly, ‘I think I owe you more of an explanation about my search for Anita Lowe, but let’s have lunch first. We’ll talk over coffee.’
This they did, after enjoying the sea bass cooked in paper and the grilled vegetables. Both women smilingly declined the delicious-looking desserts, and ordered Turkish coffee. ‘Rife with caffeine, but why not, for once?’ Iffet murmured, smiling at Justine. ‘What do you wish to explain about Anita Lowe?’
‘I must start with Gabriele Hardwicke,’ Justine murmured, holding Iffet with her eyes. ‘She is our grandmother, and it is she I am looking for, and I believed I would find her through Anita.’
Iffet looked taken aback, startled, and was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘And I haven’t been able to find Anita for you. Perhaps there are some other ways I might be able to locate her, if you are certain she lives in Istanbul.’
‘That’s just the point, I’m not. But wherever she is, I do think my grandmother will be with her. They have been friends since they were young girls, and have remained close. Let me tell you how all this came about.’
Justine told her story swiftly, giving only the details, resisting any embellishments, and explained that she and Richard were out of touch with their grandmother because of a quarrel between Gabriele and her daughter, their mother Deborah. Finally she finished, ‘And I’m worried about Gran because Anita indicated in her letter she is so despondent and misses Rich and me. Also, she might not be well – she is almost eighty.’
Iffet had listened attentively, and now she said slowly, thoughtfully, ‘Everyone has been making assumptions… Anita, you and your brother. I shall make one. Let us assume Anita and Gabriele do live here. If that is so, there are several other things I could do. What nationality are they? American?’
‘No, they’re both English. As I told you, I think they grew up together. In London. Although my grandmother does have some sort of connection to Yorkshire, in the north of England. But why do you ask?’
‘Because there are many foreign consulates here. Often foreign residents visit their consulates just to say hello, leave their names for future reference. Or for social events the consulate might give. There are also other organizations that foreign residents can join. I could make enquiries.’
‘Thanks, Iffet, that’s great, and I have a couple of ideas myself. My grandmother seems to have past connections to Turkey, buying ceramics, antiquities and carpets for a showroom in New York which she and my father ran. They sold to interior designers. I was wondering if you knew any dealers… one of them could have known Gran, might still know her.’
A dark brow lifted, and Iffet asked, ‘What kind of carpets? Kilims?’
Justine shook her head. ‘No, not kilims – they were woven silk carpets from Hereke.’
‘This is a good thought of yours, Justine,’ Iffet said, sounding enthusiastic. ‘I know one excellent carpet dealer; we could go to the shop whenever you want. It’s not far from here.’
‘Let’s do that. But here’s my other idea, and I know you’ll be able to help. Last night I was watching television, going to different news stations. When I clicked onto the network I work with, Cable News International, I was taken aback when I saw my own face. I couldn’t believe it. There I was on Turkish television. The network had made a promo for my new documentary. That’s what gave me the idea – to be interviewed on a local show. Anita or Gran might just happen to see me.’
The worried expression on Iffet’s face had dissolved and she was smiling. ‘Brilliant. I can arrange a television interview. What about a newspaper story? We have a Turkish daily newspaper called Zaman Daily English. I can phone them.’
‘You’ve brightened my day, given me hope!’ Justine exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face. ‘Let’s forget about the Spice Market today, head for the carpet shop instead.’

‘We’re going to Punto,’ Iffet explained. ‘It’s close to the Grand Bazaar over there. It won’t take long.’ Five minutes later she was ushering Justine down a narrow street and through a heavy wooden door which stood open. ‘The carpet dealer is located in this han. It is called the Vezir Han.’
‘What’s a han?’ Justine asked, always curious about everything.
‘A han is a big courtyard with several buildings around it, and originally, centuries ago, the han provided accommodation for travellers, their pack animals, plus their wares. At night the heavy door was locked for safety. Today these courtyards house workshops, and there are many of them all over Istanbul. Now, we must go around this corner and we will be there.’
A moment later, Iffet was leading her into a small, ancient shop called Punto. As they entered a young man came forward, smiling broadly. He bowed to Iffet, shook her hand, still smiling, and Iffet introduced him as Kemal, youngest son of the owner. After shaking Justine’s hand he immediately led them down a flight of steps, and Iffet said in a low voice, ‘He’s taking us to the private room reserved for special customers.’
‘I’m not a customer,’ Justine whispered back.
‘I know. And he knows we are mostly seeking information about Gabriele Hardwicke. I told him on the phone. He wants this to be done in private, and you will be shown rugs, as a matter of courtesy.’
‘I understand,’ Justine responded.
Kemal led them to a banquette, and said in English, ‘Please be seated, ladies. Comfortable, yes?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Iffet said, also speaking English. She then reverted to Turkish for a moment or two. Justine guessed she was explaining things to him. Kemal nodded, and disappeared, hurrying across the showroom, entering an office.
Turning to Iffet sitting next to her, Justine asked, ‘What did you tell him?’
‘I asked him if he could telephone his father, who is not here today, to enquire if he knows your grandmother. And then I spelled her name for him. He is sending out an assistant called Mustafa, who is going to show us some of the best Hereke silk carpets, and later a weaver will demonstrate how she works on a loom. I hope you don’t mind, but we must show politeness.’
‘I understand, and I don’t mind at all.’
Mustafa arrived, introduced himself, shook their hands, bowed, and then brought out the first carpet. It was beautiful, as were the next two, but when he presented the fourth, throwing it down and pulling it across the floor, Justine caught her breath in surprise. It was a mixture of various blues, on a deeper blue background, and it was gorgeous, that was the only word to describe it.
‘It’s breathtaking!’ she exclaimed to Iffet, and smiled up at Mustafa. ‘I’ve never seen such a wonderful carpet,’ she said, and it was obvious she meant this.
The young man beamed. ‘Thank you. It is special. Rare. An Ozipek. The best name, a good name.’
Another young man appeared carrying a tray with glasses of tea on it, and both women took a glass. Leaning closer, Iffet murmured, ‘It is the custom, serving tea. And we have to drink it, or they will be offended.’
When Kemal returned a short while later, Mustafa left the showroom and Kemal spoke swiftly in Turkish, after excusing himself to Justine.
Once he had finished, Iffet made a moue. ‘Some good news. Kemal’s father did know your grandmother. He told Kemal that an Englishwoman called Gabri did buy carpets from him. The bad news is that he hasn’t seen her for some years. I am so sorry.’
‘It’s okay. And at least we know Gran did spend time in Istanbul. Gabri is her nickname, by the way.’

TEN
The man cut quite a swathe as he walked through the lobby of the Çiragan Palace Hotel Kempinski, was well aware of the glances cast his way. He was used to it, therefore paid no attention.
His name was Michael Dalton, and he was tall, lithe, and in excellent physical condition at the age of thirty-nine. Because of his arresting dark good looks and last name, the movie buffs who met him thought he might be the brother of the British actor Timothy Dalton. But he was not, nor was he in the business of treading the boards or making movies.
Michael Dalton was in a very different kind of game, and it was one that was close to his heart. It took him all over the world and threw him into a mix of very diverse people. He always held his own whatever company he kept, and his geniality, charm and ready smile were captivating, disarming and persuasive, camouflaging the true nature of the man. Only a scant few were ever allowed to see the real Michael Dalton, get a glimpse of his superior intelligence, inside knowledge of international politics and formidable understanding of world history.
There was a lot of speculation about what he really did for a living. Some people said he was a secret agent with the CIA. Others maintained he was British-born, worked for British Intelligence, and went undercover for MI6. And there were those who insisted he was a negotiator, a fixer, a go-between for presidents and prime ministers. Others had decided he constructed huge financial deals for tycoons, tyrants and oligarchs. They insisted that was where all his money came from. But they were wrong.
Michael Dalton did exactly what he actually purported to do. He owned and ran an international security company with offices in London, Paris and New York. It was renowned, had a fine reputation and was highly successful with a raft of big clients, including major corporations, banks and multinationals.
Many of the other things bandied around about him happened to be true. He was an American, had been born in New York, had attended Princeton and Harvard, did have a law degree and had been engaged. Once. Now he was unencumbered and preferred it that way.
Michael Dalton had two mantras: Those who retire die; he who travels fastest travels alone. These thoughts were on his mind as he strode out onto the terrace of the hotel and glanced around. Only two tables were taken. In one corner there was a young blonde woman, in the other the man he had come to meet.
As he reached the table, put his hand on the man’s shoulder, he received the response he fully expected, ‘Take a gander at the other table, Michael. I’ve not seen such a beautiful blonde for centuries.’
Michael laughed and sat down. ‘You never change, Charlie; you’ve always got one eye on a girl, even when you’re doing business.’
Charles Anthony Gordon, who ran a private bank in London, laughed with Michael, and asked, ‘What are you drinking? Not the usual Coca-Cola, I hope?’
‘No. I’ll have tea instead.’
‘Guess what? I’ll have the same. It’s a bit too early for booze. So how do you feel now that you’ve broken off the engagement?’
‘Relieved. I was just thinking that as I came out onto the terrace. I was also reminding myself that when a man retires he dies.’
‘I expect that’s a dig at me, old chap, but guess what? I think I’m going to change my mind.’
‘You’re not going to retire after all?’ Michael sounded surprised. He stared at his old friend, who had not yet reached retirement age. ‘I hope you mean it, Charlie!’
‘I do. Scout’s honour and all that stuff. You’re looking pleased.’
‘I’m thrilled. How come you changed your mind? You were so adamant when I was in London two weeks ago.’
‘I know I was, and I did mean it. But I got talked out of it by our Scottish friend. He made good sense.’
Michael beckoned to a waiter, ordered English breakfast tea, one with milk, the other with lemon, and, once alone again with Charlie he added, ‘I’m glad Alistair did a number on you. I can’t tell you how essential you are to us. But then you know that.’
‘I do, I suppose. Which is why I changed my mind. Got to do one’s duty, protect the lands of the free and the brave.’
Michael leaned across the table. ‘I’m glad I didn’t bring a farewell gift for you.’
‘Yes, it would have been a waste of money.’ Charlie placed a cigarette lighter on the table and a packet of cigarettes. ‘I know you like a smoke now and again – have one of mine, Michael. It’s your favourite brand.’
‘Thanks, I will.’ Michael took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and brought the lighter to it. ‘It’s in the packet, correct?’
‘You’ve got it right.’
After taking several puffs of the cigarette, Michael stuck it in the ashtray to burn away, picked up the packet of cigarettes and put it in his jacket. He then pushed the lighter across to Charlie, who slipped it in his trouser pocket.
‘I’ve got bad news, I’m afraid,’ Michael now announced, focusing all of his attention on the Englishman. ‘Those birds we spoke about when I was in London, I’m afraid they may be delivered to someone else.’
‘The pheasants?’ Charlie raised a brow. ‘Damn and blast, and we were promised that wouldn’t happen.’
‘C’est la vie,’ Michael murmured, as he grimaced and shook his head. ‘Some people are untrustworthy.’
‘Any chance of a diversion?’ Charlie asked.
‘I’m working on it. That, or perhaps extinction. I do believe those pheasants in particular have to be off the market… permanently.’ When Charlie didn’t respond, Michael exclaimed, ‘If you can tear your eyes away from the blonde, I have a bit more news for you.’
‘Oh, sorry. I couldn’t help admiring her when she stood up. Quite the leggy colt, isn’t she?’
Michael simply smiled, and said sotto voce, ‘Stay close to our contact, make sure he understands we’re now all behind him.’
‘I will.’
The waiter arrived with the large pot of tea, and Charlie turned to Michael. ‘Will you be coming to London in early June? If so, I’d like you to be my guest at Wimbledon.’
‘No, I don’t think I will be there then,’ Michael answered, ‘but thanks for the invitation.’

The two men walked through the gardens of the hotel, heading in the direction of the marble Çiragan Palace, a rococo building which had been in ruins for years until it became part of the new hotel. Now it had sumptuous suites, private rooms for special events, and a traditional Turkish restaurant, yet it had not lost any of its nineteenth-century charm.
Michael Dalton and Charles Gordon had been associates and friends for many years. Michael knew that underneath that English ‘old school tie’ exterior Charles presented to the world was a man of integrity, steely determination and dependability. He ran the bank his grandfather had started in 1903, and which his father had brought to prominence; Charles, a financial genius, had only made it more prosperous than ever over the last twenty-five years. He was now fifty-nine, but looked so much younger.
The bank was a client of Dalton Incorporated, and Michael’s company handled all security matters for the bank and its top-level personnel. Charles and Michael had developed a special relationship over the last seven years, and exchanged a great deal of vital information about many other things, not always to do with the bank. Rather, these matters related to events that affected and often changed international politics. And so affected the financial world.
Now that they were entirely alone in the gardens, Michael turned to Charles, ‘Have you just given me some names?’
‘Yes, of three men. You’ll find a little strip of paper underneath the cigarettes. They could become dangerous men. Although not everyone knows that. You must keep them in your sights at all times.’
‘Enough said.’ Michael immediately changed the subject, and asked, ‘How long are you staying in Istanbul?’
‘Five days, I’m here with my wife and two of our kids, Randolph and Agnes. I think you’ve met them. It’s a nice weekend break for me, and gives me a chance to spend time with the family. I’m glad our trips coincided. How long are you staying?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m here to see several top clients, so probably a week, then I have to go back to Paris for a few days. I just took on a new client there, who’s become extremely security conscious of late.’
‘A lot of people have since nine/eleven, and I can’t say I blame them. It’s a dangerous world.’ Charlie grimaced, added, ‘Why am I telling you that? If anyone knows what it’s like out there, it’s you.’
‘A powder keg.’ Michael shook his head. ‘The world will never be the same again. And it’s changing every day. And so fast it’s hard for the average person to keep up. We just have to live life as normally as we possibly can.’
Charles Gordon made no comment, and the two men walked on in silence for a short while, as always at ease with each other. When they reached the old palace they turned around and walked back the way they had come, each lost in his own thoughts.
At one moment Charles said, ‘I was pleased when I learned you were staying in the same hotel, Michael. It turned out to be convenient.’
‘Yes, it did. And I’ll be in and out, around, if you need me for anything.’
‘I hope to God I won’t,’ Charles exclaimed.
‘So do I,’ Michael answered.

Once he was back in his suite, Michael took the cigarettes out of the packet, then shook it until a small slip of paper finally fell out. When he read the names Charles had written on it he was truly startled, and instantly understood why Charles Gordon had preferred to pass these names to him in this way, rather than say them out loud.
He tore the paper into small pieces, did the same with the packet and the cigarettes, and went and flushed everything down the toilet.
Returning to the sitting room, he opened the French doors and stepped out onto the terrace. How beautiful the Bosphorus looked at this hour. The sun was setting and the deep blue waters of the straits rippled with rafts of crimson, pink and gold, and the sky was aflame along the rim of the far horizon. He loved it here at this time of day. They had a name for it in the movie business. The Magic Hour they called it, and indeed it was exactly that. The world was a beautiful place. What a pity it was full of madness.
Taking off his blazer, he put it on the back of the chair and sat down, thinking about the clients he had to see here. But soon his thoughts drifted, and he focused on the words he had said to Charles a short while before. He had called the world a powder keg, and it was the truth. Anything could happen, anywhere, at any time.
As a historian he knew that the history of the world was actually a history of wars. Endless wars since the beginning of time. He was convinced that fighting was genetic, a compulsion man could not resist. There would always be wars because man had no choice. Making war was hardwired into the human mind. And whatever reason was given, it was to gain one thing, and one thing only. Power. He sighed under his breath. All he could do was what he was doing, and hope that sanity would prevail.
That expression immediately reminded him of Vanessa, his former fiancée, and the last conversation they had had four months ago. She had told him she hoped sanity would prevail and that he would sell his company, take the money he was being offered and run. With her by his side. He had known at this particular moment that she could not, would not change. She loathed what he did for a living, and wanted him to lead an entirely different life. In fact, she wanted to change him completely. Remake him into someone else.
And so he had run. Not with the money he got for his company, because he had turned down the deal, had declined to sell. He had run from her because the doubts he had had about her had suddenly become certainties. He understood she was not the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. That woman was one he had not yet met but hoped he would. What he wanted was to be loved for who and what he was, for the man he had become. He did not want to be turned into an entirely different person, or be some woman’s puppet.
The ringing phone brought him to his feet. He strode into the room and over to the desk. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, darling. What time shall I expect you?’
‘In about an hour, sweetheart. Is that all right?’
‘Of course it is, and I can’t wait to see you.’
‘I feel the same way.’
She simply laughed and hung up, and he smiled as he walked back to the terrace to get his blazer. He loved that laugh of hers. It was full of joy. That was what he wanted in his life. Joy. It struck him suddenly that this was something he had not experienced for the longest time, not for the entire year he had been with Vanessa. She was not acquainted with joy. It was an emotion she didn’t understand. Or perhaps didn’t even have.
Nasty thought, Michael, he chastised himself as he returned to the sitting room, hung his blazer in the closet and picked out a silk tie to wear to dinner. He wanted to look his best tonight. He smiled again at the thought of the evening ahead.

ELEVEN
Istanbul. City of contrasts. European. Oriental. Exotic, Justine wrote in her Moleskine notebook, then added, a cosmopolitan city: diverse in every way… and put down the pen as her cell phone began to sing its little tune. Pushing back the chair on the terrace, she ran into the bedroom and picked it up off the bedside table. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, Justine,’ her brother said, sounding as if he was next door.
He had taken her by surprise, and she exclaimed, ‘Is something wrong? Why are you calling me now? It’s four o’clock in the morning in New York.’
‘I couldn’t sleep; I woke up about half an hour ago. And I felt a compulsion to call you. I suppose you’re on the way out – it’s noon there, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, and oddly enough I’ve been wanting to speak to you too, Rich, but obviously I couldn’t, it was too early.’ She cleared her throat, went on, ‘How’s Daisy? And how’s the installation going?’
‘Daisy’s terrific, what with everyone fussing over her and all that jazz, and the installation has gone without a hitch, so far. It’ll be finished on time. I guess you’re down in the dumps?’
‘I am, yes, a bit. I arrived here a week ago yesterday and still haven’t found Gran, and it frustrates the hell out of me, Richard.’
‘I know… just as I know you’ve done everything you can. Local television interviews, stories in the newspapers: everybody in Istanbul must be aware that you’re there by now.’
‘I guess so. I did think of one thing… maybe Anita and Gran do live here but are away somewhere, and haven’t seen all the publicity about me and “Proof of Life”. That’s possible, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, it is…’ He paused, then said somewhat hesitantly, ‘Listen, Justine, I did have an idea—’
‘What?’ she asked, cutting across him, wondering what she could have missed. ‘What idea?’
‘We could call Mom. She must know where Anita Lowe lives, otherwise Anita would have written her address in the letter.’
‘I’m not going to call her. You have to do it.’
‘No, I can’t, it would be better if you called.’
‘No way. Tackling our mother on the phone won’t work. She’ll say that Anita Lowe has dementia or Alzheimer’s. We’ve discussed this before. The only way we’ll ever get the truth is to confront her in person and wrestle it out of her. You know what she’s like – you grew up with her too.’
‘Not really, if you think about it. We grew up with Dad, and Gran on the sidelines.’
‘True. Honestly, I won’t call her, Richard, and you shouldn’t either. She won’t tell us a single thing, and we’ll only alert her that we’re aware of the truth about her, what a despicable person she is.’
‘You’re correct in everything you say, but what are we going to do, Justine? We’ve reached a dead end.’
‘That’s the way it looks, and Iffet hasn’t come up with anything either, though she’s tried very hard. She had someone in her office check various organizations and clubs where foreign residents congregate for social evenings, and the British Consulate as well, but nobody seems to know them. As Eddie would say, we’ve come up with zilch.’ Justine paused, fighting back rising anxiety mingled with frustration yet again.
‘So, we’re adrift at sea in a leaky boat,’ Richard muttered. ‘About to sink.’
Justine couldn’t help laughing. ‘That was one of Gran’s favourite sayings.’
‘Along with, “There’ll be tears before midnight.” That was another favourite… warning.’
‘And “Stop crying, tears won’t get you anywhere.” Gran had a line for almost every situation, all from her auntie Beryl – at least that’s what she told me. Anyway, I did come up with one possibility and it might just work. I was waiting until a bit later to call you, to pass it by you, see whether you agree that I should do it.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’m going to take some newspaper ads and—’
‘Ads!’ he cried, his voice rising. ‘That’ll embarrass Gran, not to mention Anita Lowe, whom we don’t even know. You can’t do that.’
‘I don’t care about embarrassing anybody right now; I care about finding these two women, in particular our grandmother. Anyway, the ads aren’t about them, but about my new documentary. It’s called “Biography of a City”, and it’s all about the history and peoples of Istanbul.’
‘When did you think this up?’ he asked, sounding puzzled.
Justine could almost see him frowning as he spoke, and she answered, ‘Since I’ve been here. And it’s all started to come together in my head in the last few days – the documentary, I mean.’
‘So what are the ads, actually?’
‘I will ask foreign, English-speaking residents to come and see me, to talk about their feelings for the city, and their views. I will also invite Istanbulites who have unique stories to tell about their lives to come along also. They will speak to my researcher.’
‘You have a researcher already?’ Surprise now echoed in his tone.
‘Yes. Iffet Özgönül.’
‘She agreed?’
‘I haven’t actually asked Iffet yet. I’m going to talk about it with her today. We’re having lunch later and doing a boat trip around the Bosphorus.’
Richard, far away in New York, remained silent.
‘I intend to mention Gran and Anita in the advertisement. And you can be really helpful if you’ll go to my apartment and take the photograph of Gran out of its frame and send it to me by Fedex today. It’s on the chest in my bedroom.’
‘Do you want the photograph to use in the ads?’ Richard asked cautiously.
‘Correct.’
‘I don’t think our grandmother will like seeing her picture in an advertisement in a newspaper, I really don’t, Justine. It’ll go against the grain.’
‘I know that as well as you do, but I’m desperate to find her. And you are too, and so I have to use any means I can. I’m hoping she’ll see her photograph and come to see me. Which is what Anita said she wanted in her letter. And if Gran doesn’t see the ad, maybe Anita will, or another friend, and they’ll tell her.’ Taking a deep breath, Justine finished. ‘Please back me up on this, Rich, it’s so important.’
‘I do back you, that goes without saying. I’ll get the photograph this morning and send it out immediately. But listen, I hope you know what you’re doing—’
‘She won’t be angry, I promise you,’ Justine interrupted.
‘I wasn’t referring to Gran. I was referring to the fact that if you publish an advertisement in a newspaper, asking for people to come and talk to you about the city they live in, thousands will show up.’
Justine laughed. ‘I doubt that: most people are very shy about such things.’
‘You’ll see,’ he warned, and then laughed with her. ‘My God, only you could think up something like this.’
‘That’s not true, you could. Very easily. You’re my twin.’
‘Do you always have to have the last word?’
‘Yes, because you had the first when you were born fifteen minutes before me. Dad told me you yelled your lungs out.’
‘I can’t remember,’ he answered, the laughter still echoing in his voice. ‘Okay, so it’s a deal. Talk to you later.’
‘I’ll send the ads for your approval, once they’re done,’ Justine said. ‘I’ll need your feedback.’
‘Keep them simple. Remember, less is more.’

For the next half-hour Justine made additional notes about Istanbul in her Moleskine, and stopped, suddenly thinking about the advert. She now realized that Richard had been right on two points. Firstly, if she invited people to come and talk to her about Istanbul, hundreds might indeed show up. Secondly, her grandmother would most likely be unhappy to see her photograph in a newspaper. So she must rethink certain things, and carefully word the advert; she must make a decision also about using the photograph of Gabriele. Maybe it was a bad idea, after all.
As soon as she saw Iffet she would offer her the job as chief researcher on the project. She hoped Iffet would accept; she believed she would. Iffet was proud of her city and would want it to be shown in the best way, in the right light.
Now her next task, which had become a daily ritual, was to send her e-mails to Daisy, Joanne and Ellen at the office. All three were done swiftly, and Justine closed down her laptop and went to get ready.
Iffet had warned her it was going to be a very warm day again, and so after she had done her hair and make-up, she chose a light cotton dress and sandals for lunch and the boat trip around the Bosphorus.
The fact that they had not found the two women nagged at her unmercifully; on the other hand, Justine now found solace and renewed hope in the idea of the advertisement for the documentary about Istanbul. Also, she was looking forward to the trip on the boat, since it would show her different aspects of this city which she was coming to know and love.

‘And if you would become the researcher on the project, I would be thrilled,’ Justine said finally, looking intently at Iffet, having told her about the idea.
‘I would be very happy,’ Iffet replied in her lovely quiet way. ‘I am flattered that you would ask me.’
‘Thank you, Iffet, thank you so much. What a relief that is; my office will put you on the payroll of the new company I’m forming for the project. You just have to let me know what your fee will be.’
Iffet simply nodded. Taking a sip of the sparkling water, she then said, ‘I believe Richard is correct. You cannot invite people to visit you here at the hotel. Hordes will come. Might I make a suggestion, Justine?’
‘Yes, go ahead.’
‘I think you should ask people to write or e-mail to my office, and we will sort them. We can select the right candidates for you to interview.’
‘That’s a fabulous idea! And who better than you to choose the people. After all, you’re an Istanbulite.’

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