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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 Center 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 savior, a red bus heading toward him, boldly proclaiming City Center on the front. As it trundled past him, Ross turned and ran toward 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 traveled 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 traveled 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 traveling 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 toward the directors’ compartment, he saw the chief steward coming toward 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 whiskey 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.”
