Be Careful What You Wish For

35

Sunday evening

WHEN ROSS 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.

‘It’s not what you think it is.’

‘It never is, sir.’

‘And I want you to allocate my table in the dining car to Mr Martinez, who has a compartment in coach four.’

‘Aye, sir,’ said Angus, now completely baffled.

‘I’ll keep your little secret, Angus, if you keep mine.’

‘I would, sir, if I had any idea what yours was.’

‘You will by the time we reach London.’

‘I’ll go and fetch Kitty, sir.’

Ross tried to marshal his thoughts as he waited for Kitty to join him. What he had in mind was nothing more than a stalling tactic, but it might just give him enough time to come up with something more effective. The door of his compartment slid open, and Kitty slipped in.

‘How nice to see you again, Mr Buchanan,’ she said as she took the seat opposite him and crossed her legs to reveal the top of her stockings. ‘Can I be of service?’

‘I hope so,’ said Ross. ‘How much do you charge?’

‘Rather depends on what you’re looking for.’ Ross told her exactly what he was looking for.

‘That’ll be five pounds, sir, all in.’

Ross took out his wallet, extracted a five-pound note and handed it across to her.

‘I’ll do my best,’ Kitty promised as she lifted her skirt and slipped the note into the top of a stocking, before disappearing as discreetly as she’d arrived.

Ross pressed the red button by the door and the steward reappeared moments later.

‘Have you reserved my table for Mr Martinez?’

‘Aye, and found you a place at the other end of the dining car.’

‘Thank you, Angus. Now Kitty is to be seated opposite Mr Martinez, and anything she eats or drinks is to be charged to me.’

‘Very good, sir. But what about Mr Martinez?’

‘He will pay for his meal, but he’s to be given the finest wines and liqueurs, and it’s to be made clear to him that they are on the house.’

‘Are they also to be charged to you, sir?’

‘Yes. But he’s not to know, because I’m rather hoping Mr Martinez will sleep soundly tonight.’

‘I think I’m beginning to understand, sir.’

After the steward had left, Ross wondered if Kitty could pull it off. If she could get Martinez so drunk that he remained in his compartment until nine the next morning, she would have done her job, and Ross would happily have parted with another fiver. He particularly liked her idea of handcuffing him to the four corners of the bed and then hanging the Do not disturb sign on the door. No one would be suspicious, because you didn’t have to leave the train until 9.30, and many passengers appreciated a lie-in before enjoying a late breakfast of Arbroath Smokies.

Ross left his compartment just after eight, made his way to the dining room and walked straight past Kitty, who was sitting opposite Diego Martinez. As he passed, he overheard the chief sommelier taking them through the wine list.

Angus had placed Ross at the far end of the carriage, with his back to Martinez, and although he was tempted more than once to look round, unlike Lot’s wife he resisted. After he’d finished his coffee, having rejected his usual balloon of brandy, he signed the bill and made his way back to his compartment. As he passed his usual table, he was delighted to see that it was no longer occupied. Feeling quite pleased with himself, he almost strutted back to his carriage.

The feeling of triumph evaporated the moment he opened his compartment door and saw Kitty sitting there.

‘What are you doing here? I thought—’

‘I couldn’t arouse any interest, Mr Buchanan,’ she said. ‘And don’t think I didn’t try everything from bondage to gymslips. To start with, he doesn’t drink. Some religious thing. And long before the main course, it became clear that it’s not women that turn him on. I’m sorry, sir, but thank you for dinner.’

‘Thank you, Kitty. I’m most grateful,’ he said as he sank into the seat opposite her.

Kitty lifted her skirt, took the five-pound note from the top of her stocking and handed it back to him.

‘Certainly not,’ he said firmly. ‘You earned it.’

‘I could always . . .’ she said, placing a hand under his kilt, her fingers moving slowly up his thigh.

‘No, thank you, Kitty,’ he said, raising his eyes to the heavens in mock horror. That was when the second idea came to him. He handed the five-pound note back to Kitty.

‘You’re not one of those weird ones, are you, Mr Buchanan?’

‘I must admit, Kitty, what I’m about to propose is pretty weird.’

She listened carefully to what service she was expected to perform. ‘What time do you want me to do that?’

‘Around three, three thirty.’

‘Where?’

‘I’d suggest the lavatory.’

‘And how many times?’

‘I would think once would be enough.’

‘And I won’t get into trouble, will I, Mr Buchanan? Because this is a steady earner, and most of the gentlemen in first class are not very demanding.’

‘You have my word, Kitty. This is a one-off, and no one need ever know you were involved.’

‘You’re a gent, Mr Buchanan,’ she said and gave him a kiss on the cheek before slipping out of the compartment.

Ross wasn’t sure what might have happened if she’d stayed a minute or two longer. He pressed the steward’s bell and waited for Angus to appear.

‘I hope that was satisfactory, sir?’

‘I can’t be sure yet.’

‘Anything else I can do for you, sir?’

‘Yes, Angus. I need a copy of the railway’s regulations and statutes.’

‘I’ll see if I can find one, sir,’ said Angus, looking mystified.

When he returned twenty minutes later, he was carrying a massive red tome that looked as if its pages hadn’t been turned very often. Ross settled down for some bedtime reading. First he scanned the index, identifying the three sections he needed to study most carefully, as if he was back at St Andrews preparing for an exam. By three a.m. he’d read and marked up all the relevant passages. He spent the next thirty minutes trying to commit them to memory.

At 3.30 a.m. he closed the thick volume, sat back and waited. It had never crossed his mind that Kitty would let him down. 3.30, 3.35, 3.40. Suddenly there was a massive jolt that almost threw him out of his seat. It was followed by a loud screeching of wheels as the train slowed rapidly, and finally came to a halt. Ross stepped out into the corridor, to see the chief steward running towards him.

‘Problem, Angus?’

‘Some fucker, excuse my French, sir, has pulled the communication cord.’

‘Keep me briefed.’

‘Aye, sir.’

Ross checked his watch every few minutes, willing the time to pass. A number of passengers were now milling around in the corridor, trying to find out what was going on, but it was another fourteen minutes before the chief steward returned.

‘Someone pulled the communication cord in the lavatory, Mr Buchanan. No doubt mistook it for the chain. But no harm done, sir, as long as we’re on the move again in twenty minutes.’

‘Why twenty minutes?’ asked Ross innocently.

‘If we hang about for any longer, The Newcastle Flyer will overtake us, and then we’d be stymied.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘We’d have to fall in behind it, and then we’d be bound to be late because it stops at eight stations between here and London. Happened a couple of years back when a wee bairn pulled the cord, and by the time we arrived at King’s Cross, we were over an hour behind schedule.’

‘Only an hour?’

‘Aye, we didnae get into London until just after eight forty. Now we wouldn’t want that, would we, sir? So with your permission, I’ll get us on the move again.’

‘One moment, Angus. Have you identified the person who pulled the cord?’

‘No, sir. Must have bolted the moment they realized their mistake.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to point out, Angus, that regulation 43b in the railway’s statutes requires you to find out who was responsible for pulling the cord, and why they did so, before the train can proceed.’

‘But that could take for ever, sir, and I doubt we’d be any the wiser by the end of it.’

‘If there was no good reason for the cord being pulled, the culprit will be fined five pounds and reported to the authorities,’ said Ross, continuing to recite the railway’s statutes.

‘Let me guess, sir.’

‘Regulation 47c.’

‘May I say how much I admire your foresight, sir, having asked for the railway’s statutes and regulations only hours before the communication cord was pulled.’

‘Yes, wasn’t that fortunate? Still, I’m sure the board would expect us to abide by the regulations, however inconvenient that might prove to be.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

‘I say so.’

Ross kept looking anxiously out of the window, and didn’t smile until The Newcastle Flyer shot past twenty minutes later, giving them two prolonged peeps of its whistle. Even so, he realized that if they arrived at King’s Cross at around 8.40, as Angus had predicted, Diego would still have more than enough time to reach a phone box on the station, call his broker and withdraw the proposed sale of his father’s shares before the market opened at nine.

‘All done, sir,’ said Angus. ‘Can I tell the driver to get a move on, because one of our passengers is threatening to sue British Railways if the train doesn’t get to London before nine.’

Ross didn’t need to ask which passenger was making the threat. ‘Carry on, Angus,’ he said reluctantly before closing the door of his compartment, not sure what more he could do to hold the train up for at least another twenty minutes.

The Night Scotsman made several more unscheduled stops as The Newcastle Flyer pulled in to disgorge and pick up passengers at Durham, Darlington, York and Doncaster.

There was a knock on the door and the steward entered.

‘What’s the latest, Angus?’

‘The man who’s been making all the fuss about getting to London on time is asking if he can leave the train when the Flyer stops at Peterborough.’

‘No, he cannot,’ said Ross, ‘because this train isn’t scheduled to stop at Peterborough, and in any case, we’ll be standing some way outside the station, and therefore putting his life at risk.’

‘Regulation 49c?’

‘So if he attempts to leave the train, it’s your duty to forcefully restrain him. Regulation 49f. After all,’ added Ross, ‘we wouldn’t want the poor man to be killed.’

‘Wouldn’t we, sir?’

‘And how many more stops are there after Peterborough?’

‘None, sir.’

‘What time do you estimate we’ll arrive at King’s Cross?’

‘Around eight forty. Eight forty-five latest.’

Ross sighed deeply. ‘So near and yet so far,’ he murmured to himself.

‘Forgive me for asking, sir,’ said Angus, ‘but what time would you like this train to arrive in London?’

Ross suppressed a smile. ‘A few minutes after nine would be just perfect.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, sir,’ said the chief steward before leaving the carriage.

The train kept a steady speed for the rest of the journey, but then suddenly, without warning, it stuttered to a halt just a few hundred yards outside King’s Cross station.

‘This is the steward speaking,’ said a voice over the intercom. ‘We apologize for the late arrival of The Night Scotsman, but this was due to circumstances beyond our control. We hope to disembark all passengers in a few minutes’ time.’

Ross could only wonder how Angus had managed to add another thirty minutes to the journey. He walked out into the corridor to find him trying to calm a group of angry passengers.

‘How did you fix it, Angus?’ he whispered.

‘It seems that another train is waiting on our platform, and as it isn’t due to leave for Durham until five past nine, I’m afraid we won’t be able to disembark passengers much before nine fifteen. I am sorry for the inconvenience, sir,’ he said in a louder voice.

‘Many thanks, Angus.’

‘My pleasure, sir. Och no,’ said Angus, rushing across to the window. ‘It’s him.’

Ross looked out of the window to see Diego Martinez running flat out along the track towards the station. He checked his watch: 8.53 a.m.

Monday morning

Cedric had walked into his office just before seven that morning, and immediately began to pace up and down the room while he waited for the phone to ring. But no one called until eight. It was Abe Cohen.

‘I managed to get rid of the lot, Mr Hardcastle,’ said Cohen. ‘The last few flew in Hong Kong. Frankly, no one can fathom why the price is so low.’

‘What was the final price?’ asked Cedric.

‘One pound and eight shillings.’

‘Couldn’t be better, Abe. Ross was right, you’re simply the best.’

‘Thank you, sir. I only hope there was some purpose in you losing all that money.’ And before Cedric could reply, added, ‘I’m off to get some sleep.’

Cedric checked his watch. The stock market would open for business in forty-five minutes. There was a quiet knock on the door, and Sebastian walked in carrying a tray of coffee and biscuits. He sat down on the other side of the chairman’s desk.

‘How did you get on?’ asked Cedric.

‘I’ve rung fourteen of the leading stock brokers to let them know that if any Barrington’s shares come on the market, we’re buyers.’

‘Good,’ said Cedric, looking at his watch once again. ‘As Ross hasn’t rung, we must still be in with a chance.’ He took a sip of coffee, glancing at his watch every few moments.

When nine began to strike on a hundred different clocks throughout the Square Mile, Cedric rose and acknowledged the City’s anthem. Sebastian remained seated, staring at the phone, willing it to ring. At three minutes past nine, someone obeyed his command. Cedric grabbed the receiver, juggled with it and nearly dropped it on the floor.

‘It’s Capels on the line, sir,’ said his secretary. ‘Shall I put them through?’

‘Immediately.’

‘Good morning, Mr Hardcastle. It’s David Alexander of Capels. I know we’re not your usual broker, but the grapevine has it that you’re looking to buy Barrington’s, so I thought I’d let you know that we have a large sale order with instructions from our client to sell at spot price when the market opened this morning. I wondered if you were still interested.’

‘I could be,’ said Cedric, hoping he sounded calm.

‘However, there is a caveat attached to the sale of these shares,’ said Alexander.

‘And what might that be?’ asked Cedric, knowing only too well what it was.

‘We are not authorized to sell to anyone who represents either the Barrington or the Clifton family.’

‘My client is from Lincolnshire, and I can assure you, he has no past or present connection with either of those families.’

‘Then I am happy to make a trade, sir.’

Cedric felt like a teenager trying to close his first deal. ‘And what is the spot price, Mr Alexander?’ he asked, relieved that the broker from Capels couldn’t see the sweat pouring down his forehead.

‘One pound and nine shillings. They’re a shilling up since the market opened.’

‘How many shares are you offering?’

‘We have one million two hundred thousand on our books, sir.’

‘I’ll take the lot.’

‘Did I hear you correctly, sir?’

‘You most certainly did.’

‘Then that is a buy order for one million two hundred thousand Barrington’s Shipping shares at one pound and nine shillings. Do you accept the transaction, sir?’

‘Yes I do,’ said the chairman of Farthings Bank, trying to sound pompous.

‘The deal has been closed, sir. Those shares are now held in the name of Farthings Bank. I’ll send the paperwork round for your signature later this morning.’ The line went dead.

Cedric jumped up and punched the air as if Huddersfield Town had just won the FA Cup. Sebastian would have joined him, but the phone rang again.

He grabbed the receiver, listened for a moment, then quickly passed it to Cedric.

‘It’s David Alexander. Says it’s urgent.’