Authors: Robin Pilcher
R
oger Dent pulled back the sleeve of the new jacket that his wife, Cathy, had had made up for him for the final show, a blousy black windcheater with the ESC logo embroidered on the back in gold thread and studded with sparkling diamante buttons. His watch read ten to nine. Ten minutes more and the display would begin. There was nothing more he could do now. Every connection, every cable, every slave unit and every shell rack had been checked a hundred times. Preparation was complete, and it now just remained for Phil to call the show.
He walked quickly across the courtyard to the firing position under the one-o’clock gun. Annie Beardsley gave the thumbs-up when she saw him and slipped her earphones onto her head. Returning the gesture, Roger ran off to do a last check with Dave Panton and Graham Slattery, who were manning the other two firing positions in the tunnel and in the gardens. Five minutes later he entered the small glass-fronted box where Phil Kenyon and Helen, his score reader, sat next to each other, looking down onto the huge white-shrouded stage set up in Princes Street Gardens where members of the Scottish Chamber Orchestra were readying themselves for the concert.
“Are we ready to go, Phil?”
The Australian leaned back in his chair and turned to him with a broad grin on his face. “Yeah, mate, we’re just about to hit it.”
Roger simply nodded in reply, letting out a long nervous breath.
Phil laughed. “Jeez, Rog, don’t get so uptight. It’s going to be fine.” He pulled out the chair next to his. “Come and sit down and enjoy your finest hour.”
Roger shook his head. “Not this time.”
Phil looked at him quizzically. “What d’you mean? You always sit here.”
Roger flicked a thumb towards the door. “I’m going to be out there. I want to stand on the castle walls and watch the people in Princes Street. I want to watch those hundred thousand faces look up and marvel at what we’ve created for them.” He shot his colleague a knowing wink. “Because that’s what it’s all about, Phil. Sheer, unadulterated entertainment.”
Phil grunted sardonically and shook his head. “Go on, get outta here. I think you’ve finally flipped.”
A loud roar went up from the crowds below and Phil turned to look down onto the stage. “That’s our conductor on,” he said, taking the earphones from around his neck and putting them on his head, “so let’s get ready to roll.”
Four hundred miles to the south, in a tall office block overlooking Victoria Station in London, Nick Springer sat with his feet up on his desk, flicking through the remote control as he reran the video that had been delivered to his office late that afternoon. Stretching his arms above his head, he let out a long contented yawn before pulling back the cuff of his Turnbull and Asser shirt and looking at his watch. It was nearly bang on nine o’clock. Definitely time to call it a day.
He swung his feet off the desk and got up and took his jacket from the back of the chair. Pulling it on, he walked across to the television and switched it off and made his way over to the door. As he opened it, the telephone on his desk began to ring. He stared at it for a moment, thinking about just letting it go onto the ansaphone, but then returned to pick it up.
“Nick Springer…oh, hi, T.K., how’re things going? I’ve just been watching the footage you sent down yesterday. It really is quite fantastic. Leonard and you have done a hell of a job…I’m sorry, T.K., I was talking over you. What did you just say?”
As he listened the colour drained from his face and he sat down heavily on the side of his desk.
“When did this happen?” he asked in a quavering voice, rubbing his hand against his forehead. “Oh, my God! And where is he now?”
He wound the telephone cord so tight around his fingers that he could feel their tips go numb. “And were you with him?”
He felt his eyes prick with tears of emotion as the boy talked on. “Oh, T.K., I know exactly what you mean. If it’s any comfort, I think he saw you a bit like a grandson as well…yes, I know, lad…no, don’t you worry yourself about that. I’ll drive straight down to Kingston and break the news to her.” He took in a deep sad breath. “So where are you now? Are you still in the hospital?…why on earth have you gone back to the warehouse?…have you really?…Well, you’re a great lad, T.K., Leonard would be really proud of you. I’ll see if I can fly up tomorrow with Grace and I’ll arrange for someone to pick up all the equipment. You say the remainder of the exposed stock is in the camera case?…Right, and will the place be locked?” He turned and picked up a pen from his desk and began scribbling on a pad of paper. “Under the brick below the rubbish skip outside the door. Okay, I’ve got that, T.K., and you have the mobile if I need to get in touch with you…T.K.?…T.K., I’m sorry I didn’t understand what you just said. Your voice sounds a bit slurred…T.K., are you there, lad?”
Nick hung up the telephone and put his hands to his face, pressing his fingers hard against his eyes. “Oh my God, what have I done?” he murmured to himself. “What the hell have I done?” He pulled his hands down the sides of his face. “And how on earth am I ever going to tell Grace?”
T.K. sat in pitch darkness in the centre of the empty warehouse, the packed camera and lighting cases clustered about him. He pushed the mobile phone into the pocket of his jacket and bent down and picked up the half-empty bottle of vodka from the cold concrete floor. He took an enormous swig, coughing involuntarily as the neat alcohol ran down the back of his throat, burning his gullet. He got to his feet and began to stagger unsteadily towards the door. He stopped and then turned to walk back to pick up something that lay on top of the camera case. He cradled Leonard’s Weston light meter in the palm of his hand, and for a few brief seconds, brought it up to his nose to inhale the smell of its time-worn leather case before putting it into the pocket of his jacket alongside the mobile phone. He walked aimlessly across the warehouse floor for the last time and opened the door, seeing the dark night sky above the buildings opposite light up in blues and greens. The fire-works had started.
He turned the key in the heavy padlock and then placed it under the brick next to the rubbish skip. He straightened up and took another swig from the vodka bottle and then realized that the street, usually empty save for the film company van, was now lined with cars. He nodded his head in comprehension. The fireworks. People would have had to park this far away and walk uptown.
He began to make his way along the street, and then stopped, casting an admiring eye over the brand-new BMW parked there, its dark gleaming body reflecting the light of yet another firework that hit the night sky. He stood weaving back and forth as he eyed its plush cream-tan interior and leather-covered steering wheel. He let out a drunken laugh and walked back to the rubbish skip, and ten seconds later returned to the car with a heavy metal rod he had found buried in it. T.K., the master car thief, he thought to himself. That’s all that’s left for ye now. No broken windaes to attract attention, ’cos you know exactly how tae handle this joab.
Walking round to the front of the BMW, he raised the metal rod and brought it crashing down against the front bumper, caving it in. The effect was immediate. The airbags ballooned out from the steering wheel and the dashboard in front of the passenger seat, the locks clicked and the doors sprang open. Approaching the driver’s door, T.K. placed the metal bar against the side of the car and took a last long swig from the vodka bottle before shattering it against the wall of the warehouse. He pulled open the door, and leaning in, slashed at the airbags with the broken glass. The interior was showered with white powder, settling itself on every square inch of the car’s leather upholstery. T.K. clambered into the driver’s seat, not caring about the powder now covering his clothes, and threw the broken bottle out onto the pavement. He reached for the metal rod and wedged it between the spokes of the steering wheel, and using every bit of his strength, he yanked it downwards until the steering lock gave way. He freed the rod, jammed it into the plastic covering below the steering wheel and removed it with a simple flick of his wrist, exposing the multicoloured wiring. He dropped the iron rod into the gutter and rubbed his hands hard on the legs of his jeans. Right, T.K., he thought to himself, this is where the fun starts. If ye can get past the immobilizer on this beast withoot haein’ tae use a laptop computer tae break the code, then ye truly are a bloody master at yer craft.
Lillian Lafitte sat in her wheelchair at one side of the crowded lobby of the Caledonian Hotel, listening to the thunderous booms of the fireworks exploding and the appreciative roar of the crowd outside in Princes Street. She lifted her hand with immense effort and brought it down on top of Angélique’s.
“Now…you must…go…to watch…them,” she said, smiling at the girl.
Angélique glanced across to Jamie, who sat, cross-legged and relaxed, in an armchair next to the old lady. “We do not need to see them, do we?”
Jamie shook his head. “No, I’ve seen them often enough before.”
“I would prefer to stay here and talk to you,” Angélique said, rubbing her hand gently against Madame Lafitte’s arm.
“No…I insist,” the old lady continued, “but first…I tell you something.” She looked sternly at Angélique. “You are twenty-one…years old now and you can handle…your own affairs. I am therefore…instructing my lawyers…to buy you a house…in London. It will be…a good place…for you…to base yourself.”
Angélique clasped her hands to her mouth in amazement. “Oh, Madame Lafitte, that is…that is what I’ve always wanted!” She jumped to her feet and made to put her arms around the old lady’s neck, but again Madame Lafitte raised her hand a fraction to stop her.
“And I have also…spoken to someone…who I hope will become your…new manager…and you will travel together…to your concerts.”
“Who is this person?” Angélique asked.
“I cannot say yet…because the…answer will be given…tomorrow.” She let out a tired sigh. “Now…I cannot talk more…so please…go!”
Madame Lafitte visibly slumped in her wheelchair at the sheer effort of speaking. Angélique leaned over her and gave her a kiss on either cheek. “I love you so much, madame,” she said quietly to her. “You have been so good to me.”
The old lady raised her eyebrows. “Go…Angélique.”
Taking this as the definite cue to leave, Jamie got to his feet and took hold of Angélique’s hand and began to pull her towards the entrance door of the hotel. “Come on, those were our marching orders.”
“You will still be here when it is finished,” Angélique called back as Jamie hurriedly dragged her away.
Lillian Lafitte smiled her reply and watched as they entwined their arms around each other and left the hotel, talking excitedly together.
Five hundred metres along Princes Street from the Caledonian Hotel, high above the mass of spectators, Gavin and Jenny Mackintosh stood on the balcony of the New Club, gazing up at the streams of light that showered down upon the castle. He waited with anticipation, slipping a hand around her waist, as the orchestra in the gardens below built up to a crescendo, and then, at the precise moment when the kettle drums pounded and the cymbals crashed, the whole of the rock face below the castle exploded into colour, cascading downwards, never losing its blazing flare until it hit the ground sixty metres below.
“Oh, my word,” Gavin murmured in astonishment. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that done before.”
Jenny turned and smiled at him. “When was the last time you ever saw the Fireworks Display?”
Gavin laughed and gave her a squeeze. “True, very true.”
“Well, you certainly got yourself involved this year, didn’t you?” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder.
“Yes, I can quite honestly say that, for myself, it’s been a very satisfactory three weeks”—he let out a relieved sigh—“but I am extremely glad it’s all over.”
Jenny looked up at him, her eyebrows raised questioningly. “No misgivings, then? You won’t go pining after your young girl too much?”
Gavin leaned over and gave her a kiss on the top of the head. “My dear, there’s only one young girl in my life and she’s standing right next to me.”
Across the roofs of Waverley Station, in a building adjacent to the North Bridge, Harry Wills sat in his office, oblivious to the noise and celebration that was taking place outside his window, as he typed away on the keyboard of his computer. He watched the final word of the article come up on his screen and then thumped the “full-stop” button with a flourish. Blowing out a satisfied breath, he scrolled back to the beginning of the document and began to read it through. It was headed “The Inquisitive Little Girl Who Became a Worldwide Star” and opened with the line
“Once, long ago, in the darkened drawing room of a house in Clermont Ferrand…”
It had been Madame Lafitte’s suggestion that they should wait until they were on the plane before he started to ask her questions about Angélique, so as soon as they were airborne and climbing high above the jutting peaks of the Massif Central, Harry had taken his tape recorder from his briefcase and switched it on. Due to Madame Lafitte’s faltering speech and her constant need to rest, the story was not finished being told until they finally touched down in Edinburgh. But during the course of the two-hour flight he gleaned from the old lady every bit of information he had been seeking over the past three years.
He saved the document and then selected the “send e-mail” icon at the top of his computer screen, and as the flash of a firework lit the dingy interior of his office he pressed the button on his mouse, sending the article off for inclusion in the next day’s edition of
The Sunday Times.
Tess Goodwin climbed the final staircase of the tall Georgian block in Dundas Street and blew out a long breath, the result of both exhaustion and trepidation, before putting the key in the front door of her flat and opening it.