Sitting at the control panel, looking a bit out of place in a well-cut dark suit and immaculate collar and tie, Marway spoke into the microphone on its silver stalk. He flicked a couple of switches, checked off the fares on a clipboard, and then gave his attention back to Susie and her somewhat strained smile.
'Day shift is from nine until three, night shift from four until three, and you'll be driven home.' Marway's voice was a dead fit with his appearance, anyway: tasteful, evenly modulated, an educated man, no question.
'I have two boys at school, so that would be fine,' Susie said, anxious to reassure him. 'My husband is working in Scotland… I'd need someone to show me how the – er -' She made a little nervous gesture towards the control panel.
'Of course.'
Marway got up, smiling, lifted the flap in the counter and extended the palm of his hand, bidding her enter. 'What about right now?'
'You mean start straight away?' Susie said, taken aback.
'If it's convenient, and the pay is acceptable.'
Susie's eyes lit up. 'Oh yes! Yes!' She smiled delightedly, absolutely thrilled. 'I've got the job then? Oh, that's marvellous,' she said, taking his hand and shaking it. 'Thank you!'
It was that simple. Literally walking off the street and into a job. She could hardly believe it. Wait till she told Frank! But that thought didn't exactly fill her with unbounded joy, knowing his old-fashioned views on women going out to work when they had a couple of young kids to look after. Anyway, Susie thought defiantly, that's why she was doing this, for the kids, for the family. They needed money, so why not go out and earn it?
Simpler getting a job than actually doing it, Susie soon discovered. Marway wrote out a sheet of instructions, gave her an A-Z, and left her to get on with it. In-between taking calls and relaying instructions to the drivers, she managed to sneak in a call to her mother, asking her to pick up the boys from school. Bit of a white lie, that, telling Marway the job fitted round the school routine. Helen moaned at first, but then agreed, as Susie knew she would.
Less than an hour later, Helen rang back. Didn't want to panic unduly, but Kenny was complaining of a sore throat and his temperature was up. The panel started buzzing and flashing, calls piling up. In a rush, Susie told her to put him to bed, take up his favourite meal if he could face it, fish fingers and beans, chocolate-chip ice cream. She'd be home soon. 'Has Frank called?' she asked before ringing off, and instantly regretted the question even before Helen's reply came through the headphones, tart as vinegar. 'No, he's not called. But then you know him!'
Susie cut her off and went back to work.
'Marway MiniCabs… is it cash or account?… Be about half an hour, okay… Right, your name…?'
Susie was getting the hang of it now, it hadn't taken too long, and as soon as she had got over her initial fear of fouling up the switchboard, she grew less and less flustered. She was actually beginning to enjoy working and the newfound confidence it gave her. If Frank hadn't called, it was nothing new, she'd spent half their married life waiting for him to call or write – at least in Scotland there was no fear of the call or the telegram to say he was dead.
CHAPTER 16
Apart from the Tower of London, Dillon couldn't recall ever seeing a real castle, complete with turrets and ramparts, before he laid eyes on McGregor Castle, the centrepiece of the vast McGregor Estate. Riding up in the jeep with Jimmy and Cliff, the castle suddenly presented itself at the head of the glen, grey, jutting, uncompromising, outlined against a clear blue sky with faint wisps of cirrus high above. At the wheel, Jimmy gave a low whistle of awe and admiration, and from the back seat Cliff muttered grudgingly, 'Some have it all, don't they? Bet it freezes the bollocks off 'em in winter.'
The jeep juddered over a cattle grid, and the countryside became more cultivated, with sweeping lawns, groves of trees, and carefully tended flowerbeds. Harry Travers waved them down as they came up the drive and hopped on the running-board, directing them to take a side road leading to the stables and outhouses.
'You know who's in charge, do you, Frank?' Harry looked down, broad florid face and ginger moustache, wide-set piercing blue eyes fixed on Dillon. 'Old friend of yours. Malone.'
Malone. Dillon shot a venomous look at Harry, suspecting that the big man was winding him up. But Harry wasn't smiling.
'He's been in civvies for four years now.'
It was five since Dillon had seen him last. The night Hennessey's Bar went up, and the yellow bastard had run off, left the injured and dying behind, including his own comrades, in that hellish inferno.
Jimmy stopped the jeep outside the stable block. Don Walker, bandanna around his head, was in the paddock, feeding an apple to a beautiful chestnut mare. Don nuzzled the horse's soft nose, whispered to it and at the same time he clocked the lads' arrival, but he made no effort to cross over or even welcome them. He found it difficult to interact with anyone, even his own kind, his shyness and his inability to form personal relationships made him a loner. It was only with the animals that he felt at peace, felt the anger inside fade. Dillon was about to stroll over when a tall black-haired figure, dressed in an old Denison smock, emerged from one of the outhouses into the sunlight. Malone started towards the jeep, and then halted mid-stride, took a pace back as he saw Dillon. The two men locked eyes, the mutual hatred passing between them like a electrical charge.
'Well, well,' Malone said, getting a sneer into his voice, 'finding it tough in Civvy Street, are we, Frank?' Face stiff, black eyes sweeping coldly from Dillon to take in the others. 'Any aggro from any of you and you're on your way, understand?'
'Malone? Can I have a word?'
The estate manager, John Griffiths, appeared at the office door and beckoned him over. A tall, slender, fair-haired man with a beaked nose and receding chin, he had public school written all over him, and sounded it too, a drawling, negligent tone as if all the world was at his beck and call, which of course it was. Jodhpurs tucked into green Wellington boots, thick polo-neck sweater, heavily darned, with leather patches on the sleeves, he was fashionably scruffy in the approved upper-class manner, and played the part to perfection.
'You think they'll be enough? Sure they can handle it?' asked Griffiths, nodding to the group clustered round the jeep.
'The dark-haired guy's an ex-sergeant, explosives expert,' Malone said, indicating Dillon. 'We were in the same Regiment. The other four are good, steady soldiers.'
'Yes, well, this isn't exactly a war, Malone,' Griffiths retorted, a trifle testily.
Malone grinned at him insolently, not bothering to hide his distaste. He turned his head to look at Dillon, muttering under his breath, 'Wanna bet?'
Griffiths took Dillon and the others on a tour of the estate, pointing out the lie of the land, and where he felt they were most vulnerable to the poaching gangs. The scenery was breathtaking, but after seeing Malone Dillon wasn't in the mood to have his breath taken. Had he known the score, he wouldn't have accepted the job in the first place. He sat beside Griffiths in an open-topped Land Rover, the rest following on in the jeep, and tried to show polite interest, though his heart wasn't in it.
'Malone tells me you were in the same Regiment.'
'Yes, sir.' Dillon stared straight ahead. 'Then he quit, went over to the RMPs.'
'Explosives expert I believe,' Griffiths said, getting a nod and nothing more. 'How long have you been out of the Army?'
'Couple of months, sir. Eighteen years' service, sir.'
Griffiths pulled over suddenly and produced his field glasses, aiming them towards a rocky crag about five hundred yards away. 'There he is, see him?'
Dillon took the field glasses and found himself gazing at the proud, uplifted head of a magnificent stag with a huge spread of antlers. The animal surveyed the glens and lochs below, his world, his kingdom.