4:15 AM
TONI called Stanley at home as soon as she had a spare moment. There was nothing he could do, but he would want to know what was happening. And she did not want him to learn about the break-in from the news.
It was a conversation she dreaded. She had to tell him that she was responsible for a catastrophe that could ruin his life. How would he feel about her after that?
She dialed his number and got the "disconnected" tone. His phone must be out of order. Perhaps the snow had brought down the lines. She was relieved not to have to give him the dreadful news.
He did not carry a mobile, but there was a phone in his Ferrari. She dialed that and left a message. "Stanley, this is Toni. Bad news—a break-in at the lab. Please call my mobile as soon as you can." He might not get the message until it was too late, but at least she had tried.
She stared impatiently out of the windows of the Great Hall. Where were the police with their snowplow? They would be coming from the south, from Inverburn, on the main road. She guessed that the plow traveled at about fifteen miles per hour, depending on the depth of snow it had to clear. The trip should take twenty or thirty minutes. It should be here by now. Come on, come on!
She hoped it would leave here almost immediately, and get on the northward track of the Hibernian Telecom van. The van would be easy to spot, with the name in large white letters on a dark background.
But the thieves might have thought of that, she realized suddenly. They had probably planned to switch vehicles soon after leaving the Kremlin. That was how she would have done it. She would have picked a nondescript car, something like a Ford Fiesta that looked like a dozen other models, and left it in a car park, outside a supermarket or a railway station. The thieves would drive straight to the car park and be in a completely different vehicle a few minutes after leaving the scene of the crime.
The thought dismayed her. How then would the police identify the thieves? They would have to check every car and see whether the occupants were three men and a woman.
She wondered agitatedly whether there was anything she could do to hurry the process. Assuming the gang had switched vehicles somewhere near here, what were the possibilities? They needed a location where a vehicle might be parked for several hours without attracting attention. There were no railway stations or supermarkets in the vicinity. What was there? She went to the reception desk and got a notepad and ballpoint pen. She made a list:
Inverburn Golf Club
Dew Drop Inn ' Happy Eater
Greenfingers Garden Centre
Scottish Smoked Fish Products
Williams Press (Printing & Publishing)
She did not want Carl Osborne to know what she was doing. Carl had returned from his car to the warmth of the hall, and was listening to everything. Unknown to him, he could no longer phone from the car— Steve had sneaked out and taken the keys from the ignition—but all the same, Toni was taking no chances.
She spoke quietly to Steve. "We're going to do some detective work." She tore her sheet of paper into two and gave half to Steve. "Ring these places. Everything's closed, of course, but you should find a caretaker or security guard. Tell them we've had a robbery, but don't say what's missing. Say the getaway vehicle may have been abandoned on their premises. Ask if they can see a Hibernian Telecom van outside."
Steve nodded. "Smart thinking—maybe we can get on their trail and give the police a head start."
"Exactly. But don't use the desk phone, I don't want Carl to hear. Go to the far end of the hall, where he can't eavesdrop. Use the mobile you took from him."
Toni moved well away from Carl and took out her mobile. She called information and got the number for the golf club. She dialed and waited. The phone rang for more than a minute, then a sleepy voice answered: "Yes? Golf club. Hello?"
Toni introduced herself and told the story. "I'm trying to locate a van with 'Hibernian Telecom' on its side. Is it in your car park?"
"Oh, I get you, the getaway vehicle, aye."
Her heart missed a beat. "It's there?"
"No, at least it wasn't when I came on duty. There's a couple of cars here, mind you, left by gentlemen who found themselves reluctant to drive by the end of lunch yesterday, do you know what I mean?"
"When did you come on duty?"
"Seven o'clock in the evening."
"Could a van have parked there since then? Perhaps at about two o'clock this morning?"
"Well, maybe . . . I've no way of telling."
"Could you have a look?"
"Aye, I could look!" He spoke as if it were an idea of startling originality. "Hold the line, I'll just be a minute." There was a knock as he put the phone down.
Toni waited. Footsteps receded and returned.
"No, I don't think there's a van out there."
"Okay."
"The cars are all covered in snow, mind you, so you can't see them properly. I'm not even sure which is mine!"
"Yes, thank you."
"But a van, you see, would be higher than the rest, wouldn't it? So it would stand out. No, there's no van there."
"You've been very helpful. I appreciate it."
"What did they steal?"
Toni pretended not to hear the question, and hung up. Steve was talking and clearly had not yet struck gold. She dialed the Dew Drop Inn.
The phone was answered by a cheerful young man. "Vincent speaking, how may I help you?"
Toni thought he sounded like the kind of hotel employee who seems eager to please until you actually ask for something. She went through her routine again.
"There are lots of vehicles in our car park—we're open over Christmas," Vincent told her. "I'm looking at the closed-circuit television monitor, but I don't see a van. Unfortunately, the camera doesn't cover the entire car park."
"Would you mind going to the window and having a good look? It's really important."
"I'm quite busy, actually."
At this time of night? Toni did not voice the thought. She adopted a sweetly considerate tone and said, "It will save the police making a trip to interview you, you see."
That worked. He did not want his quiet night shift disrupted by squad cars and detectives. "Just hold on." He went away and came back.
"Yes, it's here," he said.
"Really?" Toni was incredulous. It seemed a long time since she had enjoyed a piece of luck.
"Ford Transit van, blue, with 'Hibernian Telecom' in large white letters on the side. It can't have been there long, because it's not under as much snow as the rest of the cars—that's how come I can see the lettering."
"That's tremendously helpful, thank you. I don't suppose you noticed whether another car is missing—possibly the car they left in?"
"No, sorry."
"Okay—thanks again!" She hung up and looked across at Steve. "I've found the getaway vehicle!"
He nodded toward the window. "And the snowplow's here."
4:30 AM
DAISY drained her cup of tea and filled it up again with whisky.
Kit felt unbearably tense. Nigel and Elton might be able to keep up the pretense of being innocent travelers accidentally stranded, but Daisy was hopeless. She looked like a gangster and acted like a hooligan.
When she put the bottle down on the kitchen table, Stanley picked it up. "Don't get drunk, there's a good girl," he said mildly. He stoppered the bottle.
Daisy was not used to people telling her what to do. Mostly they were too frightened. She looked at Stanley as if she was ready to kill him. He was elegantly vulnerable in his gray pajamas and black robe. Kit waited for the explosion.
"A little whisky makes you feel better, but a lot makes you feel worse," Stanley said. He put the bottle in a cupboard. "My father used to say that, and he was fond of whisky."
Daisy was suppressing her rage. The effort was visible to Kit. He feared what might happen if she should lose it. Then the tension was broken by his sister Miranda, who came in wearing a pink nightgown with a flower pattern.
Stanley said, "Hello, my dear, you're up early."
"I couldn't sleep. I've been on the sleepchair in Kit's old study. Don't ask why." She looked at the strangers. "It's early for Christmas visitors."
"This is my daughter Miranda," Stanley said. "Mandy, meet Nigel, Elton, and Daisy."
A few minutes ago, Kit had introduced them to his father and, before he realized his mistake, he had given their real names.
Miranda nodded to them. "Did Santa bring you?" she said brightly.
Kit explained. "Their car died on the main road near our turnoff. I picked them up, then my car gave out, too, and we walked the rest of the way here." Would she believe it? And would she ask about the burgundy leather briefcase that stood on the kitchen table like a bomb?
She questioned a different aspect of the story. "I didn't know you'd left the house—where on earth did you go, in the middle of the night, in this weather?"
"Oh, you know." Kit had thought about how he would respond to this question, and now he put on a sheepish grin. "Couldn't sleep, felt lonely, went to look up an old girlfriend in Inverburn."
"Which one? Most of the young women in Inverburn are old girlfriends of yours."
"I don't think you know her." He thought of a name quickly. "Lisa Fremont." He almost bit his tongue. She was a character in a Hitchcock movie.
Miranda did not react to the name. "Was she pleased to see you?"
"She wasn't in."
Miranda turned away and picked up the coffeepot.
Kit wondered whether she believed him. The story he had made up was not really good enough. However, Miranda could not possibly guess why he was lying. She would assume he was involved with a woman he didn't want people to know about—probably someone's wife.
While Miranda was pouring coffee, Stanley addressed Nigel. "Where are you from? You don't sound Scots." It seemed like small talk, but Kit knew his father was probing.
Nigel answered in the same relaxed tone. "I live in Surrey, work in London. My office is in Canary Wharf."
"You're in the financial world."
"I source high-tech systems for third-world countries, mainly the Middle East. A young oil sheik wants his own discotheque and doesn't know where to buy the gear, so he comes to me and I solve his problem." It sounded pat.
Miranda brought her coffee to the table and sat opposite Daisy. "What nice gloves," she said. Daisy was wearing expensive-looking light brown suede gloves that were soaking wet. "Why don't you dry them?"
Kit tensed. Any conversation with Daisy was hazardous.
Daisy gave a hostile look, but Miranda did not see it, and persisted. "You need to stuff them, so they'll keep their shape," she said. She took a roll of paper towel from the counter. "Here, use this."
"I'm fine," Daisy muttered angrily.
Miranda raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Have I said something to offend you?"
Kit thought, Oh, God, here it comes.
Nigel stepped in. "Don't be daft, Daisy, you don't want to spoil your gloves." There was an edge of insistence in his voice, making the words sound more like an order than a suggestion. He was as worried as Kit. "Do what the lady says, she's being nice to you."
Once again, Kit waited for the explosion. But, to his surprise, Daisy took off her gloves. Kit was astonished to see that she had small, neat hands. He had never noticed that. The rest of her was brutish: the black eye makeup, the broken nose, the zippered jacket, the boots. But her hands were beautiful, and she obviously knew it, for they were well manicured, with clean nails and a pale pink nail varnish. Kit was bemused. Somewhere inside that monster there was an ordinary girl, he realized. What had happened to her? She had been brought up by Harry Mac, that was what.
Miranda helped her stuff the wet gloves with paper towel. "How arc you three connected?" she asked Daisy. Her tone was conventionally polite, as if she were making conversation at a dinner party, but she was probing. Like Stanley, she had no idea how dangerous it was.
Daisy looked panicked. She made Kit think of a schoolgirl being questioned on homework she has forgotten to do. Kit wanted to fill the awkward silence, but it would look odd if he answered for her. After a moment, Nigel spoke. "Daisy's father is an old friend of mine."
That was fine, Kit thought, though Miranda would wonder why Daisy could not have said it herself.
Nigel added, "And Elton works for me."
Miranda smiled at Elton. "Right-hand man?"
"Driver," he replied brusquely. Kit reflected that it was a good thing Nigel was personable—he had to supply enough charm for the three of them.
Stanley said, "Well, I'm sorry the weather has turned out so poorly for your Christmas in Scotland."
Nigel smiled. "If I'd wanted to sunbathe, I would have gone to Barbados."
"You and Daisy's father must be good friends, to spend Christmas together."
Nigel nodded. "We go way back."
It seemed obvious to Kit that Nigel was lying. Was that because he knew the truth? Or was it apparent to Stanley and Miranda, too? Kit could not sit still any longer: the strain was unbearable. He jumped up. "I'm hungry," he said. "Dad, is it okay if I scramble some eggs for everyone?"
"Of course."
"I'll give you a hand," Miranda said. She put sliced bread in the toaster.
Stanley said, "Anyway, I hope the weather improves soon. When were you planning to return to London?"
Kit got a pack of bacon out of the fridge. Was his father suspicious, or merely curious?
"Heading back on Boxing Day," Nigel said.
"A short Christmas visit," Stanley commented, still gently challenging rhe story.
Nigel shrugged. "Work to do, you know."
"You may have to stay longer than you anticipated. I can't see them clearing the roads by tomorrow."
The thought seemed to make Nigel anxious. He pushed up the sleeve of his pink sweater and looked at his watch.
Kit realized he needed to do something to show he was not in league with Nigel and the other two. As he began to make breakfast, he resolved not to defend or excuse the strangers. On the contrary, he should question Nigel skeptically, as if he mistrusted the story. He might deflect suspicion from himself by pretending that he, too, was dubious about the strangers.
Before he could put his resolution into practice, Elton suddenly became talkative. "How about your Christmas, Professor?" he said. Kit had introduced his father as Professor Oxenford. "Got your family all around you, it seems. What, two children?"
"Three."
"With husbands and wives, of course."
"My daughters have partners. Kit's single."
"And grandchildren?"
"Yes."
"How many? If you don't mind me asking."
"I don't mind in the least. I have four grandchildren."
"Are all the grandkids here?"
"Yes."
"That's nice for you and Mrs. Oxenford."
"My wife died eighteen months ago, sadly."
"Sorry to hear that."
"Thank you."
What was this interrogation about? Kit asked himself. Elton was smiling and leaning forward, as if his questions were motivated by nothing more than friendly curiosity, but Kit could see that it was a charade, and he wondered anxiously whether that was just as obvious to his father.
Elton had not finished. "This must be a big house, to sleep, what, ten of you?"
"We have some outbuildings."
"Oh, handy." He looked out of the window, although the snow made it difficult to see anything. "Guest cottages, like."
"There's a cottage and a barn."
"Very useful. And staff quarters, I presume."
"Our staff have a cottage a mile or so away. I doubt if we'll see them today."
"Oh. Shame." Elton lapsed into silence again—having carefully established exactly how many people were on the property.
Kit wondered if anyone else had noticed that.