Whiteout - Ken Follett [105]
Nigel smiled. “If I’d wanted to sunbathe, I would have gone to Barbados.”
“You and Daisy’s father must be good friends, to spend Christmas together.”
Nigel nodded. “We go way back.”
It seemed obvious to Kit that Nigel was lying. Was that because he knew the truth? Or was it apparent to Stanley and Miranda, too? Kit could not sit still any longer: the strain was unbearable. He jumped up. “I’m hungry,” he said. “Dad, is it okay if I scramble some eggs for everyone?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Miranda said. She put sliced bread in the toaster.
Stanley said, “Anyway, I hope the weather improves soon. When were you planning to return to London?”
Kit got a pack of bacon out of the fridge. Was his father suspicious, or merely curious?
“Heading back on Boxing Day,” Nigel said.
“A short Christmas visit,” Stanley commented, still gently challenging the story.
Nigel shrugged. “Work to do, you know.”
“You may have to stay longer than you anticipated. I can’t see them clearing the roads by tomorrow.”
The thought seemed to make Nigel anxious. He pushed up the sleeve of his pink sweater and looked at his watch.
Kit realized he needed to do something to show he was not in league with Nigel and the other two. As he began to make breakfast, he resolved not to defend or excuse the strangers. On the contrary, he should question Nigel skeptically, as if he mistrusted the story. He might deflect suspicion from himself by pretending that he, too, was dubious about the strangers.
Before he could put his resolution into practice, Elton suddenly became talkative. “How about your Christmas, Professor?” he said. Kit had introduced his father as Professor Oxenford. “Got your family all around you, it seems. What, two children?”
“Three.”
“With husbands and wives, of course.”
“My daughters have partners. Kit’s single.”
“And grandchildren?”
“Yes.”
“How many? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind in the least. I have four grandchildren.”
“Are all the grandkids here?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nice for you and Mrs. Oxenford.”
“My wife died eighteen months ago, sadly.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.”
What was this interrogation about? Kit asked himself. Elton was smiling and leaning forward, as if his questions were motivated by nothing more than friendly curiosity, but Kit could see that it was a charade, and he wondered anxiously whether that was just as obvious to his father.
Elton had not finished. “This must be a big house, to sleep, what, ten of you?”
“We have some outbuildings.”
“Oh, handy.” He looked out of the window, although the snow made it difficult to see anything. “Guest cottages, like.”
“There’s a cottage and a barn.”
“Very useful. And staff quarters, I presume.”
“Our staff have a cottage a mile or so away. I doubt if we’ll see them today.”
“Oh. Shame.” Elton lapsed into silence again—having carefully established exactly how many people were on the property.
Kit wondered if anyone else had noticed that.
5 A.M.
THE snowplow was a Mercedes truck with a blade hooked to its front attachment plate. It had “Inverburn Plant Hire” on its side and flashing orange lights on its roof, but to Toni it looked like a winged chariot from heaven.
The blade was angled to push the snow to the side of the road. The plow quickly cleared the drive from the gatehouse to the main entrance of the Kremlin, its blade lifting automatically to clear speed bumps. By the time it stopped at the main entrance, Toni had her coat on, ready to go. It was four hours since the thieves had left—but if they had got stuck in the snow, they could still be caught.
The plow was followed by three police cars and an ambulance. The ambulance crew came in first. They took Susan out on a stretcher, though she said she could walk. Don refused to go. “If a Scotsman went to hospital every time he got a kick in the head, the doctors could never cope,” he said.
Frank came in wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and a tie. He had even found time to shave, probably in the car. Toni