Whiteout - Ken Follett [74]
“Yes. I’ve called out a crew from Hibernian Telecom. They should be here in the next few minutes.”
“What about the alarms?”
“I don’t know whether they’re functional or not.”
“Damn. Have you told the police?”
“Yes. A patrol car dropped in earlier. The officers had a bit of a look around, didn’t see anything untoward. They’ve left now, gone to arrest Yuletide drunks in town.”
A man staggered into the road in front of Toni’s car, and she swerved to avoid him. “I can see why,” she said.
There was a pause. “Where are you?”
“Inverburn.”
“I thought you were going to a health farm.”
“I was, but a family problem cropped up. Let me know what the repairmen find, okay? Call me on the mobile number.”
“Sure.”
Toni hung up. “Hell,” she said to herself. First Mother, now this.
She wound her way through the web of residential streets that climbed the hillside overlooking the harbor. When she reached her building, she parked, but did not get out.
She had to go to the Kremlin.
If she had been at the spa, there would have been no question of her coming back—it was too far away. But she was here in Inverburn. The journey would take a while, in this weather—an hour, at least, instead of the usual ten or fifteen minutes—but it was perfectly possible. The only problem was Mother.
Toni closed her eyes. Was it really necessary for her to go? Even if Michael Ross had been working with Animals Are Free, it seemed unlikely that they could be behind the failure of the phone system. It could not easily be sabotaged. On the other hand, she would have said yesterday that it was impossible to smuggle a rabbit out of BSL4.
She sighed. There was only one decision she could make. Bottom line, the security of the laboratories was her responsibility, and she could not stay at home and go to bed while something strange was going on at Oxenford Medical.
Mother could not be left alone, and Toni could not ask neighbors to look after her at this hour. Mother would just have to come along to the Kremlin.
As she put the gearshift into first, a man got out of a light-colored Jaguar sedan parked a few cars farther along the curb. There was something familiar about him, she thought, and she hesitated to pull away. He walked along the pavement toward her. By his gait she judged that he was slightly tipsy, but in control. He came to her window and she recognized Carl Osborne, the television reporter. He was carrying a small bundle.
She put the gearshift back into neutral and wound down the window. “Hello, Carl,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you. I was ready to give up.”
Mother woke up and said, “Hello, is this your boyfriend?”
“This is Carl Osborne, and he’s not my boyfriend.”
With her usual tactless accuracy, Mother said, “Perhaps he’d like to be.”
Toni turned to Carl, who was grinning. “This is my mother, Kathleen Gallo.”
“A privilege to meet you, Mrs. Gallo.”
“Why were you waiting for me?” Toni asked him.
“I brought you a present,” he said, and he showed her what was in his hand. It was a puppy. “Merry Christmas,” he said, and tipped it into her lap.
“Carl, for God’s sake, don’t be ridiculous!” She picked up the furry bundle and tried to give it back.
He stepped away and held up his hands. “He’s yours!”
The little dog was soft and warm in her hands, and part of her wanted to hold it close, but she knew she had to get rid of it. She got out of the car. “I don’t want a pet,” she said firmly. “I’m a single woman with a demanding job and an elderly mother, and I can’t give a dog the care and attention it needs.”
“You’ll find a way. What are you going to call him? Carl is a nice name.”
She looked at the pup. It was an English sheepdog, white with gray patches, about eight weeks old. She could hold it in one hand, just. It licked her with a rough tongue and gave her an appealing look. She hardened her heart.
She walked to his car and put the puppy gently down on the front seat. “You name him,” she said. “I’ve got too much on my plate.”
“Well, think about