Whiteout (27 page)

MIRANDA felt uneasy about the weird threesome of Nigel, Elton, and Daisy. Were they what they claimed to be? Something about them made her wish she were not wearing her nightdress.

She had had a bad night. Lying uncomfortably on the sleepchair in Kit's old study, she had drifted in and out of consciousness, dreaming of her stupid, shameful affair with Hugo, and waking to feel resentful of Ned for failing to stand up for her once again. He should have been angry with Kit for betraying the secret, but instead he just said that secrets always come out sooner or later. They had acted out a rerun of the quarrel in the car early that day. Miranda had hoped this holiday would be the occasion for her family to accept Ned, but she was beginning to think it might be the moment when she rejected him. He was just too weak.

When she heard voices downstairs, she had been relieved, for it meant she could get up. Now she felt perturbed. Did Nigel have no wife, family, or even girlfriend who wanted to see him at Christmas? What about Elton? She was pretty sure Nigel and Elton were not a gay couple: Nigel had looked at her nightdress with the speculative eyes of a man who would like to see underneath it.

Daisy would seem weird in any company. She was the right age to be Elton's girlfriend, but they seemed to dislike each other. So what was she doing with Nigel and his driver?

Nigel was not a friend of Daisy's family, Miranda decided. There was
no warmth between them. They were more like people who had to work together even though they did not get on very well. But if they were colleagues, why lie about it?

Her father looked strained, too. She wondered if he was also having suspicious thoughts.

The kitchen filled with delicious smells: frying bacon, fresh coffee, and toast. Cooking was one of the things Kit did well, Miranda mused: his food was always attractively presented. He could make a dish of spaghetti look like a royal feast. Appearances were important to her brother. He could not hold down a job or keep his bank account in credit, but he was always well dressed and drove a cool car, no matter how hard up he was. In his father's eyes, he combined frivolous achievements with grave weaknesses. The only time Stanley had been happy about Kit was when he was in the Winter Olympics.

Now Kit handed each of them a plate with crisp bacon, slices of fresh tomato, scrambled eggs sprinkled with chopped herbs, and triangles of hot buttered toast. The tension in the room eased a little. Perhaps, Miranda thought, that was what Kit had been aiming at. She was not really hungry, but she took a forkful of eggs. He had flavored them with a little Parmesan cheese, and they tasted delightfully tangy.

Kit made conversation. “So, Daisy, what do you do for a living?” He gave her his winning smile. Miranda knew he was only being polite. Kit liked pretty girls, and Daisy was anything but that.

She took a long time to reply. “I work with my father,” she said.

“And what's his line?”

“His line?”

“I mean, what type of business does he do?”

She seemed baffled by the question.

Nigel laughed and said, “My old friend Harry has so many things going, it's hard to say what he does.”

Kit surprised Miranda by being insistent. In a challenging tone he said to Daisy, “Well, give us an example of one of the things he does, then.”

She brightened and, as if struck by inspiration, said, “He's into property.” She seemed to be repeating something she had heard.

“Sounds as if he likes owning things.”

“Property development.”

“I'm never sure what that means, ‘property development.' ”

It was not like Kit to question people aggressively, Miranda thought. Perhaps he, too, found the guests' account of themselves hard to believe. She felt relieved. This proved that they were strangers. Miranda had feared in the back of her mind that Kit was involved in some kind of shady business with them. You never knew, with him.

There was impatience in Nigel's voice as he said, “Harry buys an old tobacco warehouse, applies for planning permission to turn it into luxury flats, then sells it to a builder at a profit.”

Once again, Miranda realized, Nigel was answering for Daisy. Kit seemed to have the same thought, for he said, “And how exactly do you help your father with this work, Daisy? I should think you'd be a good saleswoman.”

Daisy looked as if she would be better at evicting sitting tenants.

She gave Kit a hostile glare. “I do different things,” she said, then tilted up her chin, as if defying him to find fault with her answer.

“And I'm sure you do them with charm and efficiency,” Kit said.

Kit's flattery was becoming sarcastic, Miranda thought anxiously. Daisy was not subtle, but she might know when she was being insulted.

The tension spoiled Miranda's breakfast. She had to talk to her father about this. She swallowed, coughed, and pretended to have something stuck in her throat. Coughing, she got up from the table. “Sorry,” she spluttered.

Her father snatched up a glass and filled it at the tap.

Still coughing, Miranda left the room. As she intended, her father followed her into the hall. She closed the kitchen door and motioned him into his study. She coughed again, for effect, as they went in.

He offered her the glass, and she waved it away. “I was pretending,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you. What do you think about our guests?”

He put the glass down on the green leather top of his desk. “A weird bunch. I wondered if they were shady friends of Kit's, until he started questioning the girl.”

“Me, too. They're lying about something, though.”

“But what? If they're planning to rob us, they're getting off to a slow start.”

“I don't know, but I feel threatened.”

“Do you want me to call the police?”

“That might be an overreaction. But I wish
someone
knew these people were in our house.”

“Well, let's think—who can we phone?”

“How about Uncle Norman?” Her father's brother, a university librarian, lived in Edinburgh. They loved each other in a distant way, content to meet about once a year.

“Yes. Norman will understand. I'll tell him what's happened, and ask him to phone me in an hour and make sure we're all right.”

“Perfect.”

Stanley picked up the phone on his desk and put it to his ear. He frowned, replaced the handset, and picked it up again. “No dial tone,” he said.

Miranda felt a stab of fear. “Now I
really
want us to call someone.”

He tapped the keyboard of his computer. “No e-mail, either. It's probably the weather. Heavy snow sometimes brings down the lines.”

“All the same . . .”

“Where's your mobile phone?”

“In the cottage. Don't you have one?”

“Only in the Ferrari.”

“Olga must have one.”

“No need to wake her.” Stanley glanced out of the window. “I'll just throw on a coat over my pajamas and go to the garage.”

“Where are the keys?”

“Key cupboard.”

The key cupboard was on the wall in the boot lobby. “I'll fetch them for you.”

They stepped into the hall. Stanley went to the front door and found his boots. Miranda put her hand on the knob of the kitchen door, then hesitated. She could hear Olga's voice coming from the kitchen. Miranda had not spoken to her sister since the moment last night when Kit had
treacherously blurted out the secret. What would she say to Olga, or Olga to her?

She opened the door. Olga was leaning against the kitchen counter, wearing a black silk wrap that reminded Miranda of an advocate's gown. Nigel, Elton, and Daisy sat at the table like a panel. Kit stood behind them, hovering anxiously. Olga was in full courtroom mode, interrogating the strangers across the table. She said to Nigel, “What on earth were you doing out so late?” He might have been a delinquent teenager.

Miranda noticed a rectangular bulge in the pocket of the silk robe: Olga never went anywhere without her phone. Miranda was going to turn and tell her father not to bother to put his boots on, but she was arrested by Olga's performance.

Nigel frowned with disapproval, but answered all the same. “We were on our way to Glasgow.”

“Where had you been? There's not much north of here.”

“A big country house.”

“We probably know the owners. Who are they?”

“Name of Robinson.”

Miranda watched, waiting for an opportunity to quietly borrow Olga's phone.

“Robinson doesn't ring a bell. Almost as common as Smith and Brown. What was the occasion?”

“A party.”

Olga raised her dark eyebrows. “You come to Scotland to spend Christmas with your old friend, then you and his daughter go off to a party and leave the poor man alone?”

“He wasn't feeling too well.”

Olga turned the spotlight on Daisy. “What sort of a daughter are you, to leave your sick father at home on Christmas Eve?”

Daisy stared back in mute anger. Miranda suddenly feared that Daisy could be violent. Kit seemed to have the same thought, for he said, “Take it easy, Olga.”

Olga ignored him. “Well?” she said to Daisy. “Haven't you got anything to say for yourself?”

Daisy picked up her gloves. For some reason, Miranda found that ominous. Daisy put the gloves on then said, “I don't have to answer your questions.”

“I think you do.” Olga looked back at Nigel. “You're three complete strangers, sitting in my father's kitchen filling yourselves with his food, and the story you tell is highly implausible. I think you need to explain yourselves.”

Kit said anxiously, “Olga, is this really necessary? They're just people who got stranded—”

“Are you sure?” she said. She turned her gaze back to Nigel.

Nigel had seemed relaxed, but now anger showed as he said, “I don't like being interrogated.”

“If you don't like it, you can leave,” Olga said. “But if you want to stay in my father's house, you need to tell a better story than this farrago.”

“We can't leave,” Elton said indignantly. “Look out the window, it's a fucking blizzard.”

“Please don't use that word in this house. My mother always forbade obscenities, except in foreign languages, and we've kept her rule since her death.” Olga reached for the coffeepot, then pointed to the burgundy briefcase on the table. “What's this?”

“It's mine,” Nigel said.

“Well, we don't keep luggage on the table.” She reached out and picked it up. “Not much in it—ow!” She yelled because Nigel had grabbed her arm. “That hurts!” she cried.

Nigel's mask of urbanity had gone. He spoke quietly but distinctly. “Put the case down. Now.”

Stanley appeared beside Miranda in a coat, gloves, and boots. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he said to Nigel. “Take your hands off my daughter!”

Nellie barked loudly. With a quick movement, Elton reached down and grabbed the dog's collar.

Olga stubbornly kept hold of the briefcase.

Kit said, “Put the case down, Olga.”

Daisy grabbed the case. Olga tried to keep hold of it, and somehow the case flew open. Polystyrene packing chips scattered all over the kitchen table. Kit gave a shout of fear, and Miranda wondered momentarily what he was so frightened of. Out of the case fell a perfume bottle in two Ziploc bags.

With her free hand, Olga slapped Nigel's face.

Nigel slapped her back. Everyone shouted at once. Stanley gave a grunt of rage, pushed past Miranda, and strode toward Nigel. Miranda shouted: “No—”

Daisy stood in Stanley's way. He tried to push her aside. There was a blur of movement, and Stanley cried out and fell back, bleeding from his mouth.

Then, suddenly, both Nigel and Daisy were holding guns.

Everyone went quiet except Nellie, who was barking frantically. Elton twisted her collar, throttling her, until she shut up. The room was silent.

Olga said, “Who the hell are you people?”

Stanley looked at the perfume spray on the table and said fearfully, “Why is that bottle double-bagged?”

Miranda slipped out through the door.

KIT stared in fear at the Diablerie bottle on the kitchen table. But the glass had not smashed; the top had not fallen off; the double plastic bags had stayed intact. The lethal fluid remained safely inside its fragile container.

But now that Nigel and Daisy had pulled guns, they could no longer pretend to be innocent victims of the storm. As soon as the news from the laboratory got out, they would be connected with the theft of the virus.

Nigel, Daisy, and Elton might escape, but Kit was in a different position. There was no doubt who he was. Even if he escaped today, he would be a fugitive from justice for the rest of his life.

He thought furiously, trying to devise a way out.

Then, as everyone stood frozen, staring at the vicious little dark gray pistols, Nigel moved his gun a fraction of an inch, mistrustfully pointing it at Kit, and Kit was seized by inspiration.

There was still no reason why the family should suspect
him,
he realized. He might have been deceived by the three fugitives. His story that they were total strangers still stood up.

But how could he make that clear?

Slowly, he raised his hands in the traditional gesture of surrender.

Everyone looked at him. There was a moment when he thought the gang themselves would betray him. A frown passed over Nigel's brow. Elton looked openly startled. Daisy sneered.

Kit said, “Dad, I'm so sorry I brought these people into the house. I had no idea . . .”

His father gave him a long look, then nodded. “Not your fault,” he said. “You can't turn strangers away in a blizzard. There was no way you could have known”—he turned and gave Nigel a look of scorching contempt—“just what
kind
of people they are.”

Nigel got it immediately and jumped in to back up Kit's pretense. “I'm sorry to return your hospitality this way . . . Kit, is it? Yes . . . You saved our lives in the snow, now we're pointing guns at you. This old world never was fair.”

Elton's expression cleared as he grasped the deception.

Nigel went on: “If your bossy sister hadn't poked her nose in, we might have left peacefully, and you would never have found out what bad people we are. But she would insist.”

Daisy finally understood, and turned away with a scornful expression.

It occurred to Kit that Nigel and the gang might just kill his family. They were willing to steal a virus that would slaughter thousands, why would they hesitate to gun down the Oxenfords? It was different, of course: the notion of killing thousands with a virus was a bit abstract, whereas shooting adults and children in cold blood would be more difficult. But they might do it if they had to. They might kill Kit, too, he realized with a shudder. Fortunately, they still needed him. He knew the way to Luke's cottage and the Toyota Land Cruiser. They would never find it without him. He resolved to remind Nigel of that at the first opportunity.

“What's in that bottle is worth a lot of money, you see,” Nigel finished.

To reinforce the simulation, Kit said, “What is it?”

“Never you mind,” said Nigel.

Kit's mobile phone rang.

He did not know what to do. The caller was probably Hamish. There must have been some development at the Kremlin that the inside man thought Kit needed to know about. But how could he speak to Hamish without betraying himself to his family? He stood paralyzed, while everyone listened to his ring tone playing Beethoven's ninth symphony.

Nigel solved the problem. “Give me that,” he said.

Kit handed over his phone, and Nigel answered it. “Yes, this is Kit,” he said, in a fair imitation of a Scots accent.

The person at the other end seemed to believe him, for there was a silence while Nigel listened.

“Got it,” he said. “Thanks.” He hung up and pocketed the phone. “Someone wanting to warn you about three dangerous desperadoes in the neighborhood,” he said. “Apparently the police are coming after them with a snowplow.”

***

CRAIG could not figure Sophie out. One minute she was painfully shy, the next bold to the point of embarrassment. She let him put his hands inside her sweater, and even unfastened her bra when he fumbled with the hooks; and he thought he would die of pleasure when he held both her breasts in his hands—but then she refused to let him look at them in the candlelight. He got even more excited when she unbuttoned his jeans, as if she had been doing this sort of thing for years; but she did not seem to know what to do next. Craig wondered whether there was some code of behavior that he did not know about. Or was she just as inexperienced as he? She was getting better at kissing, anyway. At first she had been hesitant, as if not really sure whether she really wanted to do it; but after a couple of hours' practice she was enthusiastic.

Craig felt like a sailor in a storm. All night he had ridden waves of hope and despair, desire and disappointment, anxiety and delight. At one moment she had whispered, “You're so nice. I'm not nice. I'm vile.” And then, when he kissed her again, her face was wet with tears. What are you supposed to do, he wondered, when a girl starts crying while you've got your hand inside her panties? He had started to withdraw his hand, feeling that must be what she wanted, but she grabbed his wrist and held him there. “I think you're nice,” he said, but that sounded feeble, so he added: “I think you're wonderful.”

Although he felt bewildered, he was also intensely happy. He had
never felt so close to a girl. He was bursting with love and tenderness and joy. When he heard the noise from the kitchen, they were talking about how far to go.

She said, “Do you want to go the whole way?”

“Do you?”

“I do if you do.”

Craig nodded. “I really want to.”

“Have you got condoms?”

“Yes.” He fumbled in his jeans pocket and took out the little packet.

“So you planned this?”

“I didn't have a plan.” It was half-true: he hadn't had much of a plan. “I was hoping, though. Ever since I met you I've been thinking about, well, seeing you again, and so on. And all day today . . .”

“You were so persistent.”

“I just wanted to be with you like this.”

It was not very eloquent, but it seemed to be what she wanted to hear. “All right, then. Let's do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Now. Quickly.”

“Good.”

“Oh, my God, what's that?”

Craig had been aware of people in the kitchen below. He had vaguely heard the murmur of voices, then someone had clattered a saucepan, and he had smelled bacon. He was not sure what the time was, but it seemed early for breakfast. However, he had taken no notice, confident that no one would interrupt them here in the attic. Now the sounds could not be ignored. First he heard Grandpa shout—an unusual event in itself. Nellie started barking like a fiend; there was a scream that sounded remarkably like Craig's mother; then several male voices yelled at once.

Sophie said in a frightened voice, “Is this normal?”

“No,” he replied. “They have arguments, but not shouting matches.”

“What's going on?”

He hesitated. Part of him wanted to forget the noise and act as if he
and Sophie were in a universe of their own, lying on the old sofa under their coats. He could have ignored an earthquake to concentrate on her soft skin and hot breath and moist lips. But another part of him felt that the interruption was not entirely unwelcome. They had done almost everything: it might even be nice to postpone the ultimate, so that there was something else to look forward to, a further delight to anticipate.

Below them, the kitchen went quiet as suddenly as it had burst into sound.

“Strange,” he said.

“It's spooky.”

Sophie sounded frightened, and that made up Craig's mind. He kissed her lips once more, then stood up. He pulled up his jeans and stepped across the attic to the hole in the floor. He lay down and looked through the gap in the floorboards.

He saw his mother, standing up with her mouth open, looking shocked and frightened. Grandpa was wiping blood off his chin. Uncle Kit had his hands in the air. Three strangers were in the room. At first he thought they were all men, then he realized one was an ugly girl with a shaved head. The young black man was holding Nellie's collar, twisting it hard. The older man and the girl held guns.

Craig murmured, “Bloody hell, what's happening down there?”

Sophie lay beside him. After a moment she gasped. “Are those things guns?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God, we're in trouble.”

Craig thought. “We have to call the police. Where's your phone?”

“I left it in the barn.”

“Damn.”

“Oh, God, what can we do?”

“Think. Think. A phone. We need a phone.” Craig hesitated.

He was frightened. He really wanted to lie still and shut his eyes tightly. He might have done that, were it not for the girl beside him. He did not know all the rules, but he knew that a man was supposed to show
courage when a girl was frightened, especially when they were lovers, or nearly. And if he was not feeling brave, he had to pretend.

Where was the nearest phone? “There's an extension beside Grandpa's bed.”

Sophie said, “I can't do anything, I'm too scared.”

“You'd better stay here.”

“Okay.”

Craig stood up. He buttoned his jeans and buckled the belt, then went to the low door. He took a breath, then opened it. He crawled into Grandpa's suit cupboard, pushed at the door, and emerged into the dressing room.

The lights were on. Grandpa's dark brown brogue-style shoes were side by side on the carpet, and the blue shirt he had been wearing yesterday lay on top of a pile of clothes in the linen basket. Craig stepped into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, as if Grandpa had just got out of it. On the bedside table was a copy of
Scientific American
magazine, open—and the phone.

Craig had never dialed 999 in his life. What were you supposed to say? He had seen people do it on television. You had to give your name and location, he thought. Then what? “There are men with guns in our kitchen.” It sounded melodramatic—but probably all 999 calls were dramatic.

He picked up the phone. There was no dial tone.

He put his finger on the cradle and jiggled it, then listened again. Nothing.

He replaced the handset. Why were the phones out? Was it just a fault—or had the strangers cut the wires?

Did Grandpa have a mobile? Craig pulled open the bedside drawer. Inside he saw a flashlight and a book, but no phone. Then he remembered: Grandpa had a phone in his car, but did not carry a mobile.

He heard a sound from the dressing room. Sophie poked her head out of the suit cupboard, looking frightened. “Someone's coming!” she hissed. A moment later, Craig heard a heavy footstep on the landing.

He darted into the dressing room. Sophie ducked back into the attic. Craig fell on his knees and crawled through the suit cupboard just as he heard the bedroom door open. He had no time to close the cupboard door. He wriggled through the low door, then quickly turned and closed it softly behind him.

Sophie whispered, “The older man told the girl to search the house. He called her Daisy.”

“I heard her boots on the landing.”

“Did you get through to the police?”

He shook his head. “The phone's dead.”

“No!”

He heard Daisy's heavy tread in the dressing room. She would see the open cupboard door. Would she spot the low door behind the suits? Only if she looked carefully.

Craig listened. Was she staring into the open cupboard at this minute? He felt shaky. Daisy was not big—an inch or two shorter than he was, he guessed—but she looked absolutely terrifying.

The silence dragged out. He thought he heard her step into the bathroom. After a shorter pause, her boots crossed the dressing room and faded away. The bedroom door slammed.

“Oh, God, I'm so scared,” Sophie said.

“Me, too,” said Craig.

***

MIRANDA was in Olga's bedroom with Hugo.

When she left the kitchen she had not known what to do. She could not go outside—she was in her nightdress and bare feet. She had raced up the stairs with the thought of locking herself in the bathroom, but realized almost at once that that would be useless. She stood on the landing, dithering. She was so frightened that she wanted to vomit. She had to call the police, that was the priority.

Olga had her mobile in the pocket of her negligee—but Hugo probably had his own.

Frightened though she was, Miranda had hesitated for a split second
outside the door. The last thing she wanted was to be in a bedroom with Hugo. Then she heard someone step out of the kitchen into the hall. Quickly, she opened Hugo's door, slid inside, and closed it quietly.