Whiteout - Ken Follett [104]
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 are 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