Driftnet (13 page)

She quickly
locked the door behind her. The package of photographs lay on the
mat. She picked it up and shoved it in her pocket.

The windows
were tightly closed and the flat was stuffy. Chrissy went straight
to the chest of drawers and threw some of Neil’s clothes in the bag
she’d brought, then went into the kitchen. The bottle of vodka was
under the sink and the money was where he’d said, in the brillo pad
box. She shoved the vodka in the bag and the money in her pocket
with the photos and headed out.

The panting
skirmish on the landing had begun. The woman was against the wall.
She caught Chrissy’s eye and started to grunt and moan more
energetically to hold the customer’s attention and cover Chrissy’s
departure.

Outside the
close, Chrissy passed the black car waiting for its driver’s
return.

Chapter
17

Edward gave
Fiona’s hand a squeeze and leaned back against the soft black
leather of Sir James Dalrymple’s Rolls Royce. Fiona returned the
pressure, turning from the view of the rolling Perthshire hills to
give Edward a smile.

Edward touched
the leather door with his other hand, admiring the taut shine. He
had already opened the walnut drinks cabinet and poured two
whiskies, which now sat on the fold down table, the ice gently
pinging on the elegant crystal as they swung smoothly round the
steep bends on the country road. When Sir James had offered the
previous night to send the car for them, Edward had protested it
wasn’t necessary. Sir James had insisted.

‘Nonsense,
Edward. I shan’t be needing it and you might as well travel in
comfort. I look forward to seeing you and Fiona at Falblair. The
first of many weekends I hope.’

Edward hoped so
too.

June had seen
the end of the rain and the start of the summer. Each day dawned
clear and blue. The sort of weather that raised spirits and made
people happy, despite everything.

Perfect
campaigning weather, Edward thought.

‘What are you
thinking about?’

‘Oh, things.
The campaign.’

‘And?’

‘Going well, I
think.’

‘Urquhart?
How’s he doing?’

Edward knew
what Fiona meant.

‘He’s at
Falblair already,’ he said. ‘Went up early to discuss campaign
finances with Sir James.’

‘That sounds
good.’

Fiona lifted
her glass and sipped her whisky. Edward looked at his wife with
pleasure. Her hair had been done recently. It was blonder, he
thought. Her face was smooth and one-toned, beige against the red
lips. She’s like fine porcelain, he thought.

She sensed his
desire. She put down her glass and let her fingers brush his
swelling crotch.

The car was
slowing down, preparing to turn in between two stone pillars topped
with ornate gargoyles. A man dragged the black metal gates over the
gravel and waved them through. A single track road wound ahead
through rowan, birch and pine. They heard a muffled crash as a roe
deer sprang from the woods and jumped lightly across the road in
front of them.

‘Sir James said
Falblair was a hunting estate,’ said Edward delighted. When he
spotted the house he was momentarily lost for words.

The Victorian
mansion stood in a wide expanse of parkland. It was an impressive
Gothic pile, fronted by a carefully manicured lawn that rolled down
to a private loch with a jetty and a moored rowing boat. Across the
loch in the trees, they caught a glimpse of the chimney of an
estate building.

‘That must be
the hunting lodge Sir James mentioned. He rents it out to weekend
parties,’ said Edward.

‘All in all,
very nice,’ murmured Fiona.

‘Indeed,’
agreed Edward, secretly wondering how many Boards he would have to
be on, to get a place like this.

The car drew up
in front of the magnificent entrance. As the chauffeur opened the
car door, Sir James appeared with Ian Urquhart. Edward’s Private
Secretary looked pleased with himself. It seemed discussions had
gone to plan.

Sir James
stepped forward to meet them.

‘Welcome to
Falblair, Edward, and Fiona. How lovely you look, my dear. Quite
flushed from your journey through the Perthshire hills. Come in and
make yourself at home.’

‘The trouble
with Scotland is that it’s full of Labour supporters!’

Sir James
raised an eyebrow humorously, the cue for a ripple of laughter to
make its way round the assembled company. ‘So, Edward,’ he
continued. ‘It’s your job to prove me wrong. Wake up the
electorate. Show them they’re better off with us.’

They were
sitting round a log fire after a delicious meal, served, Edward had
noted, by no less than three attractive young women. Now he was
nursing a fine brandy.

‘It’s rather
like the good old days of the Empire,’ Sir James was saying.
‘Sometimes the natives don’t recognise what’s in their own
interest.’

Edward joined
in the approving nods of agreement.

‘They simply
don’t understand our policies,’ Sir James continued. ‘That is the
reason they reject them.’

Someone let out
a snort of contempt.

‘It’s up to us
to go on explaining. Don’t worry, as the medicine takes effect
they’ll come round.’

‘Hear. Hear,’
Edward chimed in.

‘I’m glad you
agree Edward. Your election will be a step in the right direction.
Your predecessor was sound enough, but set in his ways. Should have
retired years ago. We need fresh blood. This is a tremendous
challenge, and I feel you are the man for the job. Sir James beamed
benificently.

Edward held out
his glass for the proffered refill. He could take any amounts of
this sort of life, he thought. The glorious ambience, the excellent
food, the wine, but best of all was the permeating odour of
opulence, a mix of silk, brocade and polished wood. Exactly what
he’d have he’d been trying to develop in his house and would have
done, if it hadn’t been for the dubious smells that emanated from
his children’s rooms.

‘Enough
business for tonight.’ Sir James’ glance followed Ian Urquhart as
he moved to replenish Fiona’s glass. ‘What about our plans for
tomorrow? A shoot for the gentlemen, of course and...’ he paused
here in admiration of his own magnanimity, ‘a morning’s pampering
at Gleneagles for the ladies.’

There was a
murmur of appreciation from the females, including Fiona, Edward
noticed. He had been looking forward to the prospect of some
shooting; the cool metal shotgun in his hands; its thrust as he
pulled the trigger. Bang. Bang. Bang. Edward glanced over at Fiona
and she smiled back at him.

The party was
breaking up, drifting towards the wide curve of the staircase. Ian
Urquhart came over to ask Edward if there was anything he needed to
discuss with him before he went to bed.

‘There’ll be
plenty of time to talk in the morning,’ interrupted Sir James. ‘I’m
sure you’re all anxious to get to bed. I should say, Edward, that
young Urquhart here has been zealously representing your interests
since he arrived. You’re very lucky to have him.’

‘I believe I
am, Sir James. I believe I am.’

Fiona closed
the bedroom door firmly behind them.

‘Well,’ she
said.

‘Indeed.’

Fiona crossed
to the dressing table and began to take off her jewellery. Edward
watched her, thinking how nice her neck looked in the
firelight.

‘Sir James
could hardly keep his eyes off Ian. I’m sure he got him to refill
the glasses so that he could admire his bottom,’ she said.

Edward came to
stand behind her. He laid his hands on her shoulders, massaging
them free of the black straps of her dress. ‘I can’t blame him for
that Fiona. I’ve been known to do the same to you.’

Fiona laughed
and looked up at him.

‘So what do you
think? Are they at it?’

‘Without a
doubt.’

‘You’re not
annoyed?’

‘On the
contrary, I’m delighted. As long as the romance lasts as far as the
by-election.’

‘You’re a
mercenary, Edward.’

‘And that’s why
you love me.’ He slid his hand down to hold her breast.

‘I could get to
like...’ she waved her arm around the room, ‘all this.’

‘Just what I
was thinking,’ Edward said.

‘So it all
depends on the result of the election.’

It was a
statement not a question.

‘The election
is a bygone conclusion.’ Edward wasn’t going to show nerves, even
to Fiona.

‘I wouldn’t
like anything to come between us and success,’ she said.

‘Nothing
will.’

Chapter
18

Jonathan had
not switched on the computer for two days. Instead he lay across
his bed and stared at the ceiling, which had an amazing capacity to
transform itself into sets of digital images. When this got too
freaky, he went out to buy fags and more drink. When he got back,
Mark had left a phone message to ask why he wasn’t answering his
email, and to tell him he was in Aviemore and would be back
Saturday to tell him all about it. Jonathan didn’t want to
know.

He got up from
the bed, collected four sticky glasses from various sentry points
about the room and went down to the kitchen. The kitchen was in as
big a mess as his room and he felt marginally guilty that Amy would
have to clean it up before his parents came home from their swanky
weekend in the country. But, he decided, it wasn’t all his mess.
Morag and her microwave slimmer’s meals! Foil wrappers covered
every kitchen surface, curled up in disgust at the remains in their
white containers. He had already told the stupid bitch that eating
two slimmers’ meals was the same as a fat-filled diet.

Jonathan
brushed the cartons into the already overflowing bin and reached in
the cupboard for what had to be the last tin of baked beans. He set
the dial on the microwave and went to look for a clean plate. Small
hope. He rinsed the least revolting one under the hot tap, tipped
the beans onto it and put it in the microwave. While he waited for
the bell to ping, he toyed with the idea of a drink of milk then
changed his mind when he saw the age of the carton and settled for
a coke instead.

As he closed
his mouth gingerly over the scaldingly hot beans he tried to work
out what he should do. It would have to be today. His parents would
be back tomorrow. He reached for the coke and pulled back the ring.
The can exploded angrily and some liquid frothed out onto the
floor. Fuck. There was a dish towel near the sink and he began
mopping up with it, but it was already stiff with the remains of
some earlier spillage.

Jonathan gave
up and threw it in the sink.

He took a swill
of the coke and munched it through the beans, cooling the burning
bits on his tongue. When he was finished he went back to his room
and tipped the rest of the coke into a glass with the vodka. He
switched on the computer.

The reply came
back within minutes. Jonathan wondered again if Simon carried his
computer back and forward to work with him, or maybe he had one in
both places, his replies were always so quick. They arranged to
meet outside the Art Gallery at seven o’clock. It was handy for the
town and the clubs, Simon said. They would get a taxi and go
wherever Jonathan fancied.

It was that
easy.

Jonathan shut
down and headed for the shower, taking the vodka with him. As the
water pounded his head, he sang at the top of his voice. Noone
banged on the door to tell him to hurry up or shut up.

Chapter
19

Chrissy’s
mother answered the phone. She told Rhona that Chrissy had left on
Friday night and wouldn’t be back till late Sunday.

‘What’s up hen?
Is everything alright?’

‘Fine,’ Rhona
assured her. ‘I just got back from Paris and I really wanted to
talk to her. Her mobile seems to be off. Do you have any way of
getting in touch with her?’

‘Naw, hen.
She’s gone camping.‘ Rhona heard the noise of a door slamming.
‘I’ll have to go dear. I’ll get Chrissy to get in touch as soon as
she gets back.’

Rhona’s heart
sank. She cursed herself for not checking her messages. But what
difference would it have made anyway? She hadn’t been there to talk
to Chrissy anyway.

She went
through to the kitchen.

In the convent
garden, her friend the gardener was at work raking the path through
the rhododendrons. He must have sensed someone watching for he
looked up and waved. On a normal morning Rhona would have taken him
a coffee. No this morning.

There had also
been a message from Sean but he was cut off almost immediately.
There was a second garbled attempt amputated mis- mid sentence.
Then came a voice scarcely recognisable as Chrissy.

Rhona stared
blankly at the pile of dishes left from last night. Whatever way
she looked at it, she just didn’t buy the story of the camping
trip. It struck her that Tony might know something. She hadn’t
phoned him at home before. It rang out until she was ready to give
up, when a sleepy female voice answered.

Rhona
apologised. ‘I was looking for Tony.’

‘That’s okay.
Just a minute, I’ll get him.’

When she heard
Tony’s voice Rhona apologised.

‘Sorry. Sounds
like I’m cramping your style,’ she said.

‘No problem.
Welcome back. How’s things?’

‘Fine. Look, I
was wondering, did Chrissy tell you where she was going this
weekend?’

‘No. Should she
have? Wait a minute. There was something. Someone rang her
yesterday afternoon and she went a bit funny after that. She said
her dad had gone on the rampage again.’

‘Right. Thanks.
That’s probably it.’

‘Can I do
anything?’

‘I don’t think
so, Tony.’

‘See you Monday
then.’

If she had been
worried why hadn’t she said something on Thursday, when they were
out shopping together? She had seemed cheerful. But maybe she had
been putting on a face. Rhona realised she had been so bound up
with her own stuff that she wouldn’t have noticed anything anyway.
wouldn’t have noticed anything anyway. If she was