White Corridor

28

Princess Beatrice’s social secretary, Rosemary Armstrong, was an astonishingly angry woman. Among the things that angered her were socialists, untidiness, public transport, modern architecture, poor handwriting, economic migrants, curry houses, scruffy people who refused to better themselves, council houses, the residents of London, all of whom were rude and wanted something for nothing, foxhunt saboteurs, litter, shop assistants who spoke badly and people who didn’t carry fresh handkerchiefs. Most of all, she was angry about existing in a substratum of upper-middle-class folk who had not attained the higher rank of lords or ladies. To be so close to the wellborn and find the station forever out of reach was like a corrosive poison rotting her soul. To temper this pain, she indulged herself in things she liked, which included dinner parties, pearls, life peers, limousines, Victorian teddy bears, holidays in Barbados, decent society, big hats, matching luggage, flowers, traditional English cooking and Pulling Yourself Up By Your Own Bootstraps.

Perusing the schedule for the Princess’s visit to the PCU with distaste, she wondered if there was any way she might be able to get the trip cancelled, before recalling that the Princess was Oskar Kasavian’s second cousin once removed. The unit was apparently some kind of left-wing experimental think tank, and the thought of mingling with the personnel there made her hackles rise. Princess Beatrice had made some unfortunate remarks about the quality of British police recruits in the press, and it was to be hoped that her public appearance would repair some of the bad feeling, but Kasavian was on record voicing his hatred of such organisations; she wondered why he had been so insistent about fast-tracking the Princess on a visit.

She decided to give Leslie Faraday a call.

“Mrs. Armstrong, how delightful to hear from you.” She could tell Faraday was wetting himself with excitement to receive a call from a lady positioned so close to royalty. “I well remember our meeting at the Cafe Royal Metropolitan Police Benevolent Society Dinner in September 1998, when my wife had the good fortune to win a year’s subscription to the Tatler on the tombola-‘

Rosemary Armstrong hated being called a ‘Mrs.“ when she should have been a Right Hon, and had no time for obsequious chitchat. She steamrollered over the minister’s pleasantries, cutting him off in mid-flow. ”The Princess Royal’s visit to this police unit, I see it has been scheduled for Thursday afternoon from five p.m. until six p.m. The Princess is attending a dinner in Kensington at six forty-five P.M., so I think we can shave half an hour from her appearance, yes? So five P.M. to five-thirty P.M., yes? And no formal presentations to staff, only the division heads, yes? We’d prefer not to have lilies or tulips in the presentation bouquet, best to stick with a small-bud pastel English arrangement. Get your florist to take a tip from Sissinghurst, which the Princess patronises. Still water and a selection of China teas during the photo opportunity; I’ll fax you a full list of requirements, yes? No “Meet the People” walkabouts, no presentation on the future of national policing, just a few opening pleasantries, a tour of the refurbished offices, “This is the operations room,” a quick demonstration of the latest technology, et cetera, photo opportunity and out, yes?“

“Well, I suppose we can squeeze the schedule down to half an hour,” said Faraday, who had no idea just how unprepared the unit was to receive royal visitors, “but I do think it’s a shame when-‘

“Jolly good, that’s all settled, then, yes? We shall have a chance to chat further on Thursday afternoon, no doubt.” Over my dead body, you ghastly little man, she thought, replacing the receiver before he had a chance to reply.

In the white Vauxhall van, Madeline lay awake, holding onto the jammed door handle. Ryan was buried under her arm once more, snoring lightly, untroubled by the cold.

We could die here, she thought. At the rate this snow is falling, we’ll be buried beneath the drifts soon. For a split second the idea seemed almost appealing, to slip away into the frozen darkness and have all her problems resolved. Then she glanced back at Ryan’s calm features and knew she would fight to protect him, whatever the cost.

How far was it to the nearest town? Those who had been equipped for such an emergency had long ago set off on the road, before it had become entirely impassable. Now it was too late, deep into the night, and all they could do was wait for the rescue services to arrive. Her breath blossomed in misted arabesques. She could hardly feel her lips.

At least the glittering signatures of frost on the windows prevented Johann from seeing in. Judging by the noise of the maelstrom outside, he was too concerned with his own safety now to try and find them. Kate Summerton had warned her that psychically sensitive women could develop extraordinary connections to the men with whom they made love. She felt a growing sureness about their bond now; within a few hours it would be light, and he would come to track her down once more. He wanted no salvation, only protection from exposure, but she was determined not to surrender the incriminating packet of horrific photographs.

It would be important to keep up their strength. She remembered there was a bar of chocolate in her pocket; it was better than nothing. And perhaps others were still trapped in their vehicles. Surely someone would be able to help her. She pressed her eyes shut and concentrated. Whoever you are, wherever you are, I’m sending out a message for help.

With the collar of her padded jacket pulled over them both, she shifted Ryan closer to her breast and tried to sleep.