by Ken Follett
The place was dimly lit by a night-light next to the camp bed where Tom lay. Craig looked closely at the boy, wondering whether to wake him. He seemed to have recovered from Sophie's vodka, and was sleeping peacefully in his Spider-Man pajamas.
Craig's eye was caught by something on the floor beside the pillow. It was a photograph. Craig picked it up and held it in the light. It appeared to have been taken at his mother's birthday party, and showed Tom with Sophie, her arm around his shoulders. Craig smiled to himself. I'm not the only one who was captivated by her that afternoon, he thought. He put the picture back, saying nothing to Sophie.
There was no point in waking Tom, he decided. There was nothing the boy could do, and he would only be terrified. He was better off asleep.
Craig went quickly up the ladder that led to the hayloft bedroom. On one of the narrow beds he could make out the heap of blankets that covered his sister Caroline. She seemed fast asleep. Like Tom, she was better off that way. If she woke up and found out what was going on, she would have hysterics. He would try not to wake her.
The second bed had not been slept in. On the floor next to it he could see the shape of an open suitcase. Sophie said she had dropped her phone on top of her clothes. Craig crossed the room, moving cautiously in the near-dark. As he bent down, he heard, very near to him, the soft rustle and squeak of something alive, and he grunted a startled curse, his heart hammering in his chest; then he realized it was Caroline's damn rats moving in their cage. He pushed the cage aside and began to search Sophie's case.
Working by touch, he rummaged in the contents. On top was a plastic shopping bag containing a gift-wrapped parcel. Otherwise it was mostly clothes, neatly folded: someone had helped Sophie pack, he guessed, for he did not take her to be a tidy person. He was momentarily distracted by a silky bra, then his hand closed over the oblong shape of a mobile phone. He flipped its lid, but no lights came on. He could not see well enough to find the "On-Off" switch.
He hurried back down the ladder with the phone in his hand. There was a standard lamp by the bookshelf. He turned it on and held Sophie's phone under the light. He found the "Power" button and pressed it, but nothing happened. He could have cried with frustration. "I can't get the bloody thing to come on!" he whispered.
She held out her hand, still sitting on the radiator, and he gave her the phone. She pressed the same button, frowned, pressed it again, then jabbed at it repeatedly. At last she said, "The battery has run down."
"Shit! Where's the charger?"
"I don't know."
"In your suitcase?"
"I don't think so."
Craig became exasperated. "How can you possibly not know where your phone charger is?"
Sophie's voice went small. "I think I left it at home."
"Jesus Christ!" Craig controlled his temper with an effort. He wanted to tell her she was a stupid fool, but that would not help. He was silent for a moment. The memory of kissing her came back to him, and he could not be angry. His rage evaporated, and he put his arms around her. "All right," he said. "Never mind."
She rested her head on his chest. "I'm sorry."
"Let's think of something else."
"There must be more phones, or a charger we can use."
He shook his head. "Caroline and I don't carry mobiles--my mother won't let us have them. She doesn't go to the toilet without hers, but she says we don't need them."
"Tom hasn't got one. Miranda thinks he's too young."
"Hell."
"Wait!" She pulled away from him. "Wasn't there one in your grandfather's car?"
Craig snapped his fingers. "The Ferrari--right! And I left the keys in. All we have to do is get to the garage, and we can phone the police."
"You mean we have to go outside again?"
"You can stay here."
"No. I want to come."
"You wouldn't be alone--Tom and Caroline are here."
"I want to be with you."
Craig tried not to show how pleased he was. "You'd better get your coat on again, then."
Sophie came off the radiator. Craig picked her coat up from the floor and helped her into it. She looked up at him, and he tried an encouraging smile. "Ready?"
A trace of her old spirit came back. "Yeah. Like, what can happen? We could be murdered, that's all. Let's go."
They went outside. It was still pitch-dark, and the snowfall was heavy, bursts of stinging pellets rather than clouds of butterflies. Once again, Craig looked nervously across the yard to the house, but he could see no more than before, which meant the strangers in the kitchen were unlikely to see him. He took Sophie's hand. Steering by the courtyard lights, he led her to the end of the barn, away from the house, then crossed the yard to the garage.
The side door was unlocked, as always. It was as cold inside as out. There were no windows, so Craig risked switching on the lights.
Grandpa's Ferrari was where Craig had left it, parked close to the wall to hide the dent. Like a flash, he remembered the shame and fear he had felt twelve hours ago, after he had crashed into the tree. It seemed strange now that he had been so anxious and afraid about something as trivial as a dent in a car. He recalled how eager he had been to impress Sophie and get her to like him. It was not long ago, but it seemed far in the past.
Also in the garage was Luke's Ford Mondeo. The Toyota Land Cruiser had gone: Luke must have borrowed it last night.
He went to the Ferrari and pulled the door handle. It would not open. He tried again, but the door was locked. "Fuck," he said feelingly.
"What's the matter?" Sophie said.
"The car's locked."
"Oh, no!"
He looked inside. "And the keys have gone."
"How did that happen?"
Craig banged his fist on the car roof in frustration. "Luke must have noticed that the car was unlocked last night, when he was leaving. He must have removed the keys from the ignition, locked the car, and taken the keys back to the house for Grandpa."
"What about the other car?"
Craig opened the door of the Ford and looked inside. "No phone."
"Can we get the Ferrari keys back?"
Craig made a face. "Maybe."
"Where are they kept?"
"In the key box, on the wall of the boot lobby."
"At the back of the kitchen?"
Craig nodded grimly. "Just about two yards from those people with guns."
6:45 A.M.
THE snowplow moved slowly along the two-lane road in the dark. Carl Osborne's Jaguar followed it. Toni was at the wheel of the Jag, peering ahead as the wipers struggled to clear away the thickly falling snow. The view through the windshield did not change. Straight ahead were the flashing lights of the snowplow; on her near side was the bank of snow freshly shoveled up by the blade; on the off side, virgin snow across the road and over the moors as far as the car's headlights reached.
Mother was asleep in the back with the puppy on her lap. Beside Toni, Carl was quiet, dozing or sulking. He had told Toni that he hated other people driving his car, but she had insisted, and he had been forced to yield, as she had the keys.
"You just never give an inch, do you?" he had muttered before sinking into silence.
"That's why I was such a good cop," she replied.
From the back, Mother said, "It's why you haven't got a husband."
That was more than an hour ago. Now Toni was struggling to stay awake, fighting the hypnotic sway of the wipers, the warmth from the heater, and the monotony of the view. She almost wished she had let Carl drive. But she needed to stay in control.
They had found the getaway vehicle at the Dew Drop Inn. It contained wigs, false mustaches, and plain-lensed spectacles, obviously disguise materials; but no clues as to where the gang might be headed. The police car had stayed there while the officers questioned Vincent, the young hotel employee Toni had spoken to on the phone. The snowplow continued north, on Frank's instructions.
For once, Toni agreed
with Frank. It made sense for the gang to switch cars at a location that was on their route, rather than delay their getaway with a diversion. Of course, there was always the possibility that they had foreseen how the police would think and deliberately chosen a location that would mislead pursuers. But in Toni's experience villains were not that subtle. Once they had the swag in their hands, they wanted to get away as fast as they could.
The snowplow did not stop when it passed stationary vehicles. There were two police officers in the cab with the driver, but they were under strict instructions to observe only, for they were not armed, and the gang were. Some of the cars were abandoned, others had one or two people inside, but so far none contained three men and a woman. Most of the occupied cars started up and fell in behind the snowplow, following the track it cleared. There was now a small convoy behind the Jaguar.
Toni was beginning to feel pessimistic. She had hoped by now to have spotted the gang. After all, by the time the thieves had left the Dew Drop Inn, the roads had been all but impassable. How far could they have got?
Could they have some kind of hideout nearby? It seemed improbable. Thieves did not like to go to earth close to the scene of the crime--quite the opposite. As the convoy moved north, Toni worried more and more that her guess was wrong, and the thieves might have driven south.
She spotted a familiar direction sign saying "Beach," and realized they must be near Steepfall. Now she had to put the second part of her plan into operation. She had to go to the house and brief Stanley.
She was dreading it. Her job was to prevent this kind of thing happening. She had done several things right: her vigilance had ensured that the theft was discovered sooner rather than later; she had forced the police to take the biohazard seriously and give chase; and Stanley had to be impressed by the way she had reached him in a blizzard. But she wanted to be able to tell him that the perpetrators had been caught and the emergency was over. Instead, she was going to report her own failure. It would not be the joyous reunion she had anticipated.
Frank was at the Kremlin. Using Osborne's car phone, Toni dialed his mobile.
Frank's voice came out of the Jaguar's speakers. "Detective-Superintendent Hackett."
"Toni here. The snowplow is approaching the turnoff for Stanley Oxenford's house. I'd like to brief him on what's happened."
"You don't need my permission."
"I can't get him on the phone, but the house is only a mile down a side road--"
"Forget it. I've got an armed response team here now, bristling with firepower and itching to go. I'm not going to delay finding the gang."
"It will take the snowplow five or six minutes to clear the lane--and you'll get me out of your hair. And my mother."
"Tempting though that is, I'm not willing to hold up the search for five minutes."
"Stanley may be able to assist the investigation in some way. After all, he is the victim."
"The answer's no," Frank said, and he hung up.
Osborne had heard both sides of the conversation. "This is my car," he said. "I'm not going to Steepfall--I want to stay with the snowplow. I might miss something."
"You can stay with it. You'll leave me and my mother at the house and follow the plow back to the main road. When I've briefed Stanley, I'll borrow a car and catch you up."
"Well, Frank has nixed that scheme."
"I haven't played my ace yet." She dialed Frank again.
This time, his answer was abrupt. "What?"
"Remember Farmer Johnny."
"Go to hell."
"I'm using a hands-free phone, and Carl Osborne is beside me, listening to us both. Where did you tell me to go, again?"
"Pick up the fucking phone."
Toni detached the handset from its cradle and put it to her ear, so that Carl could not hear Frank. "Call the snowplow driver, Frank, please."
"You bitch, you've always held the Farmer Johnny case over my head. You know he was guilty."
"Everyone knows that. But only you and I know what you did to get a conviction."
"You wouldn't tell Carl."
"He's listening to everything I say."
Frank's voice took on a sanctimonious note. "I suppose there's no point in talking to you about loyalty."
"Not since the moment you told Carl about Fluffy the hamster."
That shot went home. Frank began to sound defensive. "Carl wouldn't do the Farmer Johnny story. He's a mate."
"Your trust is deeply touching--him being a journalist, and all."
There was a long silence.
Toni said, "Make up your mind, Frank--the turning is just ahead. Either the snowplow diverts, or I spend the next hour briefing Carl on Farmer Johnny."
There was a click and a hum as Frank hung up.
Toni cradled the phone.
Carl said, "What was that all about?"
"If we drive past the next left turn, I'll tell you."
A few moments later, the snowplow turned onto the side road leading to Steepfall.
7 A.M.
HUGO lay bleeding on the tiled floor, unconscious but breathing.
Olga was weeping. Her chest heaved as she was wracked with uncontrollable sobbing. She was close to hysterics.
Stanley Oxenford was gray with shock. He looked like a man who has been told he is dying. He stared at Kit, his face showing despair and bewilderment and suppressed rage. His expression said, How could you do this to us? Kit tried not to look at him.
Kit was in a rage. Everything was going wrong. His family now knew he was in league with the thieves, and there was no way they would lie about it, which meant the police would eventually know the whole story. He was doomed to a life on the run from the law. He could hardly contain his anger.
He was also afraid. The virus sample in its perfume bottle lay on the kitchen table, protected only by two transparent plastic bags. Kit's fear heated his wrath.
Nigel ordered Stanley and Olga to lie face down beside Hugo, threatening them with his gun. He was so angry at the beating he had taken from Hugo that he might have welcomed an excuse to pull the trigger. Kit would not have tried to stop him. The way he felt, he could have killed someone himself.
Elton searched out improvised ropes--appliance cords, a length of clothesline, and a ball of twine.
Daisy tied up Olga, the unconscious Hugo, and Stanley, binding their feet together and their hands behind their backs. She pulled the cords tight, so that they cut into the flesh, and yanked at the knots to make sure there was no looseness. Her face wore the ugly little smile she showed when she was hurting people.
Kit said to Nigel, "I need my phone."
Nigel said, "Why?"
Kit said, "In case there's a call to the Kremlin that I need to intercept."
Nigel hesitated.
Kit said, "For Christ's sake, I gave you your gun!"
Nigel shrugged and handed over the phone.
"How can you do this, Kit?" Olga said, as Daisy knelt on their father's back. "How can you watch your family being treated this way?"
"It's not my fault!" he rejoined angrily. "If you'd behaved decently to me, none of this would have happened."
"Not your fault?" his father said in bewilderment.
"First you fired me, then you refused to help me financially, so I ended up owing money to gangsters."
"I fired you because you stole!"
"I'm your son--you should have forgiven me!"
"I did forgive you."
"Too late."
"Oh, God."
"I was forced into this!"
Stanley spoke in a voice of authoritative contempt that was familiar to Kit from childhood: "No one is forced into something like this."
Kit hated that tone: it used to be a sign that he had done something particularly stupid. "You don't understand."
"I fear I understand all too well."
That was just typical of him, Kit thought. He always thought he knew best. Well, he looked pretty stupid now, with Daisy tying his
hands behind his back.
"What is this about, anyway?" Stanley said.
"Shut your gob," Daisy said.
He ignored her. "What in God's name are you up to with these people, Kit? And what's in the perfume bottle?"
"I said shut up!" Daisy kicked Stanley in the face.
He grunted with pain, and blood came out of his mouth.
That will teach you, Kit thought with savage satisfaction.
Nigel said, "Turn on the TV, Kit. Let's see when this bloody snow is going to stop."
They watched advertisements: January sales, summer holidays, cheap loans. Elton took Nellie by the collar and shut her in the dining room. Hugo stirred and appeared to be coming round, and Olga spoke to him in a low voice. A newscaster appeared wearing a Santa hat. Kit thought bitterly of other families waking up to normal Christmas celebrations. "A freak blizzard hit Scotland last night, bringing a surprise white Christmas to most of the country this morning," the newscaster said.
"Shit," Nigel said with feeling. "How long are we going to be stuck here?"
"The storm, which left dozens of drivers stranded overnight, is expected to ease around daybreak, and the thaw should set in by mid-morning."
Kit was cheered. They could still make it to the rendezvous.
Nigel had the same thought. "How far away is that four-wheel drive, Kit?"
"A mile."
"We'll leave here at first light. Have you got yesterday's paper?"
"There must be one somewhere--why?"
"Check what time sunrise is."
Kit went into his father's study and found The Scotsman in a magazine rack. He brought it into the kitchen. "Four minutes past eight," he said.
Nigel checked his watch. "Less than an hour." He looked worried. "But then we have to walk a mile in the snow, and drive another ten. We're going to be cutting it fine." He took a phone out of his pocket. He began to dial, then stopped. "Dead battery," he said. "Elton, give me your phone." He took Elton's phone and dialed. "Yeah, it's me, what about this weather, then?" Kit guessed he was speaking to the customer's pilot. "Yeah, should ease up in an hour or so . . . I can get there, but can you?" Nigel was pretending to be more confident than he really felt. Once the snow stopped, a helicopter could take off and go anywhere, but it was not so easy for the gang, traveling by road. "Good. So I'll see you at the appointed time." He pocketed the phone.