Whiteout - Ken Follett [52]
Steve passed her a laminated sheet from the folder. It listed the agencies he was to phone in case of fire, flood, power cut, computer crash, phone system faults, and other problems.
Toni said, “I want you to ring each of these in the next hour. Just ask them if the number will be operational over Christmas.”
“Very good.”
She handed back the sheet. “Don’t hesitate to call the police at Inverburn if you’re the least worried about anything.”
He nodded. “My brother-in-law Jack is on duty tonight, as it happens. My missus has taken the children over to their place for Christmas.”
“How many people will there be at headquarters tonight, do you know?”
“On the night shift? An inspector, two sergeants, and six constables. And there’ll be a duty superintendent on call.”
It was a small complement, but there would be nothing much to do once the pubs had closed and the drunks had gone home. “You don’t happen to know who the duty super is?”
“Yes. It’s your Frank.”
Toni did not comment. “I’ll have my mobile phone with me day and night, and I don’t expect to be anywhere out of range. I want you to call me the minute anything unusual happens, regardless of the time, okay?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t mind being woken up in the middle of the night.” She would be sleeping alone, but she did not say that to Steve, who might have considered it an embarrassing confidence.
“I understand,” he said, and perhaps he did.
“That’s all. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.” She checked her watch; it was almost four. “Happy Christmas, Steve.”
“To you, too.”
Steve left. Twilight was falling, and Toni could see her own reflection in the window. She looked rumpled and weary. She closed down her computer and locked her filing cabinet.
She needed to get going. She had to return home and change, then drive to the spa, which was fifty miles away. The sooner she hit the road, the better: the forecast said the weather would not get worse, but forecasts could be wrong.
She was reluctant to leave the Kremlin. Its security was her job. She had taken every precaution she could think of, but she hated to hand over responsibility.
She forced herself to stand up. Her job was facilities director, not security guard. If she had done everything possible to safeguard the place, she could leave. If not, she was incompetent and should resign.
Besides, she knew the real reason she wanted to stay. As soon as she turned her back on the job, she would have to think about Stanley.
She shouldered her bag and left the building.
The snow was falling more heavily.
4 P.M.
KIT was furious about the sleeping arrangements.
He sat in the living room with his father, his nephew Tom, his brother-in-law Hugo, and Miranda’s fiancé, Ned. Mamma Marta looked down on them from her portrait on the wall. Kit always felt she looked impatient in that picture, as if she could hardly wait to get out of her ball gown, put on an apron, and start making lasagne.
The women of the family were preparing tomorrow’s Christmas dinner, and the older children were in the barn. The men were watching a movie on TV. The hero, played by John Wayne, was a narrow-minded bully, a bit like Harry Mac, Kit thought. He found it hard to follow the plot. He was too tense.
He had specifically told Miranda he needed to be in the cottage. She had been so sentimental about his joining the family for Christmas, she had practically gone down on her knees to plead with him to come. But, after he had agreed to do what she wanted, she had failed to fulfill the one condition he had made. Typical woman.
The old man was not sentimental, though. He was about as softhearted as a Glasgow policeman on a Saturday night. He had obviously overruled Miranda, with Olga’s encouragement. Kit thought his sisters ought to have been called Goneril and Regan, after the predatory daughters of King Lear.
Kit had