Be Careful What You Wish For: The Clifton Chronicles 4 (38 page)

Ross and Jean Buchanan went on a long walk in the Highlands after lunch.

They returned around five, when Ross once again reported for ‘guard duty’. The only difference being that this time he was reading an old copy of
Country Life.
He
didn’t move from his spot until he’d seen Don Pedro and his two sons return. Two of them looked rather pleased with themselves, but Diego appeared to be brooding. They all went up to
their father’s suite, and were not seen again that evening.

Ross and Jean had supper in the dining room, before climbing the one flight of stairs to their bedroom at around 9.40 p.m., when, as they always did, they both read for half an hour: she,
Georgette Heyer, he, Alistair MacLean. When he finally turned out the light with the usual, ‘Goodnight, my dear,’ Ross fell into a deep sleep. After all, he had nothing more to do than
make sure that the Martinez family didn’t leave for London before Monday morning.

When Don Pedro and his sons sat down for dinner in their suite that evening, Diego was singularly uncommunicative.

‘Are you sulking because you shot fewer birds than I did?’ taunted his father.

‘Something’s wrong,’ he said, ‘but I can’t put my finger on it.’

‘Well, let’s hope you’ve worked it out by the morning, so we can all enjoy a good day’s shooting.’

Once dinner had been cleared away just after nine thirty, Diego left them, and retired to his room. He lay on the bed, and tried to replay his arrival at King’s Cross, frame by frame as if
it was a black-and-white film. But he was so exhausted that he soon fell into a deep sleep.

He woke with a start at 6.25 a.m., a single frame in his mind.

Sunday evening

W
HEN
R
OSS
returned from his walk with Jean on Sunday afternoon, he was looking forward to a hot bath, a cup of tea and a
shortbread biscuit, before he went back on guard duty.

As they strolled up the drive towards Glenleven, he was not surprised to see the lodge’s driver placing a suitcase in the boot of the car. After all, several guests would be checking out
after a weekend’s shooting. Ross was only interested in one particular guest, and as he wouldn’t be leaving until Tuesday, he didn’t give it a second thought.

They were climbing the staircase to their room on the first floor, when Diego Martinez came bounding past them, two steps at a time as if he was late for a meeting.

‘Oh, I’ve left my newspaper on the hall table,’ said Ross. ‘You go on up, Jean, and I’ll join you in a moment.’

Ross turned and walked back down the stairs, and tried not to stare as Diego chatted to the receptionist. He was heading slowly towards the tea room when Diego marched out of the lodge and
climbed into the back seat of the waiting car. Ross changed direction and speed as he swung round and headed straight for the front door, and was just in time to see them disappearing down the
drive. He ran back inside and went straight to the reception desk. The young girl gave him a warm smile.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Buchanan, can I help you?’

This was not a time for small talk. ‘I’ve just seen Mr Diego Martinez leaving. I was thinking of inviting him to join my wife and me for supper this evening. Are you expecting him
back later?’

‘No, sir. Bruce is driving him into Edinburgh to catch the overnight sleeper to London. But Don Pedro and Mr Luis Martinez will be staying with us until Tuesday, so if you’d like to
have dinner with them . . .’

‘I need to make an urgent phone call.’

‘I’m afraid the line’s down, Mr Buchanan, and as I explained to Mr Martinez, it probably won’t be back in service before tomorrow—’

Ross, normally a courteous man, turned and bolted for the front door without another word. He ran out of the lodge, jumped into his car and set out on an unscheduled journey. He made no attempt
to catch up with Diego as he didn’t want him to realize that he was being followed.

His mind moved into top gear. First, he considered the practical problems. Should he stop and phone Cedric to let him know what had happened? He decided against the idea; after all, his top
priority was to make sure he didn’t miss the train to London. If he had time when he reached Waverley, that’s when he’d call Cedric to warn him that Diego was returning to London
a day early.

His next thought was to take advantage of being on the board of British Railways, and get the booking office to refuse to issue Diego with a ticket. But that wouldn’t serve any purpose,
because he would then book into a hotel in Edinburgh and phone his broker before the market opened in the morning, when he’d discover that Barrington’s share price had plummeted over
the weekend, giving him more than enough time to cancel any plans to place his father’s shares on the market. No, better to let him get on the train and then work out what to do next, not
that he had the slightest idea what that might be.

Once he was on the main road to Edinburgh, Ross kept the speedometer at a steady sixty. There should be no problem getting a sleeping compartment on the train, as there was always one reserved
for BR directors. He only hoped that none of his fellow board members were travelling down to London that night.

He cursed as he took the long route around the Firth of Forth Road Bridge, which wouldn’t be open for another week. By the time he reached the outskirts of the city, he was no nearer to
solving the problem of how to deal with Diego once they were on the train. He wished Harry Clifton was sitting next to him. By now he would have come up with a dozen scenarios. Mind you, if this
was a novel, he would simply bump Diego off.

His reverie was rudely interrupted when he felt the engine shudder. He glanced at the petrol gauge to see a red light flashing. He cursed, banged the steering wheel, and began looking around for
a petrol station. About a mile later, the shudder turned into a splutter and the car began to slow down, finally freewheeling to a halt by the side of the road. Ross checked his watch. There was
still another forty minutes until the train was due to depart for London. He jumped out of the car and began running until he came to an out-of-breath halt by the side of a signpost that read,
City Centre 3 miles
. His days of running three miles in under forty minutes had long gone.

He stood by the side of the road and tried to thumb a lift. He must have cut an unlikely figure, dressed in his lovat green tweed jacket, a Buchanan clan kilt and long green stockings, doing
something he hadn’t done since he was at St Andrews University, and he hadn’t been much good at it back then.

He changed tactics, and went in search of a taxi. This turned out to be another thankless task on a Sunday evening in that part of the city. And then he spotted his saviour, a red bus heading
towards him, boldly proclaiming
CITY CENTRE
on the front. As it trundled past him, Ross turned and ran towards the bus stop as he’d never run before, hoping, praying that the
driver would take pity on him and wait. His prayers were answered, and he climbed aboard and collapsed on to the front seat.

‘Which stop?’ asked the conductor.

‘Waverley station,’ puffed Ross.

‘That’ll be sixpence.’

Ross took out his wallet and handed him a ten-shilling note.

‘Nae change for that.’

Ross searched in his pockets for any loose change, but he’d left it all in his bedroom at Glenleven Lodge. That wasn’t the only thing he’d left there.

‘Keep the change,’ he said.

The astonished conductor pocketed the ten-bob note, and didn’t wait for the passenger to change his mind. After all, Christmas doesn’t usually come in August.

The bus had only travelled a few hundred yards before Ross spotted a petrol station, Macphersons, open twenty-four hours. He cursed again. He cursed a third time because he’d forgotten
that buses make regular stops and don’t just take you straight to where you want to go. He glanced at his watch whenever they came to a stop and again at every red light, but his watch
didn’t slow down and the bus didn’t speed up. When the station finally came into sight, he had eight minutes to spare. Not enough time to ring Cedric. As he stepped off the bus, the
conductor stood to attention and saluted him as if he was a visiting general.

Ross walked quickly into the station and headed for a train he had travelled on many times before. In fact, he had made the journey so often he could now have dinner, enjoy a leisurely drink and
then sleep soundly throughout the entire 330 miles of clattering-over-points journey. But he had a feeling he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

He received another, even smarter salute when he reached the barrier. Waverley ticket collectors pride themselves on recognizing every one of the company’s directors at thirty paces.

‘Good evening, Mr Buchanan,’ the ticket collector said. ‘I didn’t realize you were travelling with us tonight.’ I hadn’t planned to, he wanted to say, but
instead he simply returned the man’s salutation, walked to the far end of the platform and climbed on board the train, with only minutes to spare.

As he headed down the corridor towards the directors’ compartment, he saw the chief steward coming towards him. ‘Good evening, Angus.’

‘Good evening, Mr Buchanan. I didn’t see your name on the first-class guest list.’

‘No,’ said Ross. ‘It was a last-minute decision.’

‘I’m afraid the director’s compartment –’ Ross’s heart sank ‘– has not been made up, but if you’d like to have a drink in the dining car,
I’ll have it prepared immediately.’

‘Thank you, Angus, I’ll do just that.’

The first person Ross saw as he entered the dining car was an attractive young woman seated at the bar. She looked vaguely familiar. He ordered a whisky and soda and climbed on to the stool
beside her. He thought about Jean, and felt guilty about abandoning her. Now he had no way of letting her know where he was until tomorrow morning. Then he remembered something else he’d
abandoned. Worse, he hadn’t made a note of the street where he’d left his car.

‘Good evening, Mr Buchanan,’ said the woman, to Ross’s surprise. He gave her a second look, but still didn’t recognize her. ‘My name’s Kitty,’ she said,
offering a gloved hand. ‘I see you regularly on this train, but then, you are a director of British Railways.’

Ross smiled and took a sip of his drink. ‘So what do you do that takes you to London and back so regularly?’

‘I’m self-employed,’ said Kitty.

‘And what kind of business are you in?’ asked Ross as the steward appeared by his side.

‘Your compartment is ready, sir, if you’d like to follow me.’

Ross downed his drink. ‘Nice to meet you, Kitty.’

‘You too, Mr Buchanan.’

‘What a charming young lady, Angus,’ said Ross as he followed the steward to his compartment. ‘She was about to tell me why she travels so frequently on this train.’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir.’

‘I’m sure you do, Angus, because there’s nothing you don’t know about
The Night Scotsman
.’

‘Well, let’s just say she’s very popular with some of our regulars.’

‘Are you suggesting . . . ?’

‘Aye, sir. She travels up and down two or three times a week. Very discreet and—’

‘Angus! We’re running
The Night Scotsman
, not a nightclub.’

‘We’ve all got to make a living, sir, and if things go well for Kitty, everybody benefits.’

Ross burst out laughing. ‘Do any of the other directors know about Kitty?’

‘One or two. She gives them a special rate.’

‘Behave yourself, Angus.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Now, back to your day job. I want to see the bookings for all the first-class passengers. There may be someone on the train I’d like to have dinner with.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Angus removed a sheet of paper from his clipboard and handed it to Buchanan. ‘I’ve kept your usual table free for dinner.’

Ross ran his finger down the list, to discover that Mr D. Martinez was in coach no.4. ‘I’d like to have a word with Kitty,’ he said as he passed the list back to Angus.
‘And without anyone else finding out.’

‘Discretion is my middle name,’ said Angus, suppressing a smile.