Whiteout (31 page)

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.

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.

The newscaster said, “At the height of the blizzard, thieves raided the laboratories of Oxenford Medical, near Inverburn.”

The kitchen went silent. That's it, Kit thought; the truth is out.

“They got away with samples of a dangerous virus.”

Stanley spoke through smashed lips. “So that's what's in the perfume bottle . . . Are you people mad?”

“Carl Osborne reports from the scene.”

The screen showed a photo of Osborne with a phone to his ear, and his voice was heard over a phone line. “The deadly virus that killed laboratory technician Michael Ross only yesterday is now in the hands of gangsters.”

Stanley was incredulous. “But why? Do you imagine you can sell the stuff?”

Nigel said, “I know I can.”

On television, Osborne was saying, “In a meticulously planned Christmas caper, three men and a woman defeated the laboratory's state-of-the-art security and penetrated to BioSafety Level Four, where the company keeps stocks of incurable viruses in a locked refrigerator.”

Stanley said, “But, Kit, you didn't help them do this, did you?”

Olga spoke up. “Of course he did,” she said disgustedly.

“The armed gang overcame security guards, injuring two, one seriously. But many more will die if the Madoba-2 virus is released into the population.”

Stanley rolled over with an effort and sat upright. His face was bruised, one eye was closing, and there was blood down the front of his pajamas; yet he still seemed the most authoritative person in the room. “Listen to that fellow on TV,” he said.

Daisy moved toward Stanley, but Nigel stopped her with a raised hand.

“You're going to kill yourselves,” Stanley said. “If you really have Madoba-2 in that bottle on the table, there's no antidote. If you drop it and the bottle smashes and the fluid leaks out, you're dead. Even if you sell it to someone else and they release it after you've left, it spreads so fast that you could easily catch it and die.”

On the screen, Osborne said, “Madoba-2 is believed to be more dangerous than the Black Death that devastated Britain in . . . ancient times.”

Stanley raised his voice over the commentary. “He's right, even if he doesn't know what century he's talking about. In Britain in 1348 the Black Death killed one person in three. This could be worse. Surely no amount of money is worth that risk?”

Nigel said, “I won't be in Britain when it's released.”

Kit was shocked. Nigel had not previously mentioned this. Had Elton also made plans to go abroad? What about Daisy and Harry Mac? Kit himself intended to be in Italy—but now he wondered if that was far enough away.

Stanley turned to Kit. “You can't possibly think this makes sense.”

He was right, Kit thought. The whole thing bordered on insane. But then, the world was crazy. “I'm going to be dead anyway if I don't pay my debts.”

“Come on, they're not going to kill you for a debt.”

Daisy said, “Oh, yes, we are.”

“How much do you owe?”

“A quarter of a million pounds.”

“Good God!”

“I told you I was desperate, three months ago, but you wouldn't listen, you bastard.”

“How the hell did you manage to run up a debt—No, never mind, forget I asked.”

“Gambling on credit. My system is good—I just had a very long run of bad luck.”

Olga spoke up. “Luck? Kit, wake up—you've been had! These people lent you the money then made sure you lost, because they needed you to help them rob the laboratory!”

Kit did not believe that. He said scornfully, “How would you know a thing like that?”

“I'm a lawyer, I meet these people, I hear their pathetic excuses when they're caught. I know more about them than I care to.”

Stanley spoke again. “Look, Kit, surely we can find a way out of this without killing innocent people?”

“Too late now. I made my decision, and I've got to see this through.”

“But think about it, lad. How many people are you going to kill? Dozens? Thousands? Millions?”

“I see you're willing for me to be killed. You'd protect a crowd of strangers, but you wouldn't rescue me.”

Stanley groaned. “God knows I love you, and I don't want you to die, but are you sure you want to save your own life at that price?”

As Kit opened his mouth to reply, his phone rang.

Taking it out of his pocket, he wondered whether Nigel would trust him to answer it. But no one moved, and he held the phone to his ear. He heard the voice of Hamish McKinnon. “Toni's following the snowplow, and she's persuaded them to divert to your place. She'll be there any minute. And there are two police officers in the cab.”

Kit ended the call and looked at Nigel. “The police are coming here—now.”

CRAIG opened the side door of the garage and peeped out. Three windows were lit in the gable end of the house, but the curtains were drawn, so no casual observer could see him.

He glanced back to where Sophie sat. He had turned out the lights in the garage, but he knew she was in the front passenger seat of Luke's Ford, her pink anorak pulled close around her against the cold. He waved in her direction, then stepped outside.

Moving as quickly as he could, lifting his feet high as he stepped in the deep snow, he went along the blind wall of the garage until he came level with the front of the house.

He was going to get the Ferrari keys. He would have to sneak into the lobby at the back of the kitchen and take them from the key box. Sophie had wanted to go with him, but he had persuaded her that it was more dangerous for two people than for one.

He was more frightened without her. For her sake, he had to pretend to be brave, and that had made him braver. But now he had a bad attack of nerves. As he hesitated at the corner of the house, his hands were shaking and his legs felt strangely weak. He could easily be caught by the strangers, and then he did not know what he would do. He had never been in a real fight, not since he was about eight years old. He knew boys of his own age who fought—outside a pub, usually, on a Saturday night—and all of them, without exception, were stupid. The three
strangers in the kitchen were none of them much bigger than Craig, but all the same he was frightened of them. It seemed to him that they would know what to do in a fight, and he had no idea. Anyway, they had guns. They might shoot him. How much would that hurt?

He looked along the front of the house. He was going to have to pass the windows of the living room and the dining room, where the curtains were not drawn. The snowfall was not as thick as before, and he could easily be seen by someone glancing out.

He forced himself to move forward.

He stopped at the first window and looked into the living room. Fairy lights flashed on the Christmas tree, dimly outlining the familiar couches and tables, the television set, and four oversize children's stockings on the floor in front of the fireplace, stuffed with boxes and packages.

There was no one in the room.

He walked on. The snow seemed deeper here, blown into a drift by the wind off the sea. Wading through it was surprisingly tiring. He almost felt like lying down. He realized he had been without sleep for twenty-four hours. He shook himself and pressed on. Passing the front door, he half-expected that it would suddenly fly open, and the Londoner in the pink sweater would leap out and grab him. But nothing happened.