“Oh, mum,” the children whined in unison.
“Come on then,” the old man said, “let’s have our supper. Then I’ll have a word with her.” He added in a stage whisper, “And remember at the end to tell her how delicious the pudding is.”
Slaton heard their footsteps fade off and then a door banged shut. The cargo compartment was almost completely dark now, virtually no light creeping in through the two openings. He felt for his bag and stuffed the rum back inside. Had the old man gone to open the rear door, Slaton would have splashed the liquor around and sprawled to the floor, simulating a drunk who’d sought some shelter and passed out. He’d done it before, convincingly, but it wouldn’t be necessary this time.
He went blindly to the back of the compartment and his hands searched until they found the thin strand of rope, which went under the door to disable the latch on the outside. He untied the knot that held the arrangement in place, then raised the door a few inches to get a look outside. The only structure he could make out was a barn fifty feet away. A fence bordered an open field in the distance. As far as he could tell, there were no people. And better yet, no dogs.
He opened the door high enough to slide out, then quietly rolled it back closed, noting that it did so without the trace of a squeak. The equipment might be dated, but old Smitherton cared for it well. Slaton considered spending the night in the barn, but decided against it. If he were discovered, the connection to Smitherton’s truck and the London market would be all too easy. He reckoned there were probably a lot of other barns around, maybe even something more comfortable. The question of how far off course he’d gotten would have to wait. Tonight he needed a place to rest. His body required it, and he suspected the opportunity might not come again for some time. Slaton ran low to the barn, planning to use it for cover as he distanced himself from the house. Ten yards away, the barn door creaked and swung open.
Slaton froze, caught helplessly in the open. A dim shaft of light cast from the entrance, and a little girl, probably no more than six or seven, backed out through the door. She held a bucket with both hands and was clearly struggling with its weight. She closed the door, turned and then stopped, her eyes wide as she saw the unfamiliar man standing straight in her path.
Slaton smiled quickly and assumed an Irish brogue, “And hello there. You must be Charlotte.”
The little girl was clearly put off by the stranger’s presence, but she didn’t seem afraid. “No, I’m Jane.”
Slaton raised a brow. He pulled out his wallet, opened it sideways and squinted, as if struggling to read a very small book. “Jane … Jane … no.” He flipped through the cards in the wallet, then held one up. “Oh, Mary above! I’ve got the wrong week.”
“Wrong week for what?” she asked cautiously.
Slaton smiled again and looked over his shoulder at the farmhouse. He could hear the faint sound of voices inside. He bent down on one knee. “To deliver the surprise.”
Jane put down her bucket. “Surprise?” She eyed his backpack hopefully.
He spoke in a whisper. “It’s in me truck, up at the top of the drive. I just come down here to make sure I knew where it was going before I tackled that road.”
“What is it?” she asked, curiosity overriding caution.
Slaton wagged a finger for her to come closer. The girl left her bucket and closed the gap, still stopping a few feet away.
“Well now, I don’t think I should really be telling ye that.”
Her eyes lit. It was clearly the answer she wanted. “Is it for me?”
“Ahh, Miss Jane, I canno’ speak of it. But listen,” he said, holding up his now closed wallet, “I’m not supposed to deliver this until next week. If my boss finds out I’ve messed up another delivery, I think he’ll sack me.”
The girl wore a look of forced concern.
“I’ll be back this same time next week to deliver it. But I need you to help me out of this jam,” he said seriously. “Don’t tell anyone I’ve been here. Not your parents or your friends. Nobody. That should keep me out of trouble, and it’ll keep my delivery schedule on time next week.”
“It’s a Christmas present, isn’t it?”
He winked and the little girl squealed. Slaton put a finger to his lips, but it was too late. The front door of the house creaked open.
“Janie?” a voice called out.
“Yes, mum?” The girl looked to the house. Jane could be seen from the porch, but Slaton was behind the truck, still out of sight.
“Janie, who are you talking to?”
“Oh, no one, mum.” Jane lied with that complete lack of conviction reserved for children. She went back for the bucket. Struggling to lift it, she sloshed some of the fresh milk onto her dress.
“Do be careful!”
“Yes, mum.” The girl shuffled her feet under the load and made her way to the house. As she passed Slaton, who was still in the shadow of her grandfather’s truck, she looked directly at him. Slaton put an index finger to his lips again, which only made her giggle.
“Jane?”
Slaton heard footsteps, hollow across the wooden porch, then crunching over the gravel and dirt driveway. He eased into a shadow and saw Jane approach her mother, the girl’s head-low posture a model of contrition. The woman stood with her hands on her hips. After watching her daughter pass, she walked down the drive to where the girl had been standing. With a quick look around, she shook her head.
“That girl will be the end of me,” she muttered, turning back to the house.
When the door closed, Slaton ran at full speed up the drive to the main road. It had been a small mistake, but years in the field had convinced him — it was the small mistakes that killed you. There was a good chance the girl wouldn’t say anything, or if she did, that it wouldn’t be believed. Still, her mother might have heard something, and Slaton had to assume the worst. After five minutes, he slowed to a sustainable pace and checked the time. It was quarter past seven in the evening.
In fact, it took less than an hour. Angela Smitherton-Cole’s suspicion had been aroused. And Jane was a rotten secret-keeper. Right after dinner the girl confessed that a delivery man had come to bring the big Christmas present, but that he was early and he wasn’t supposed to deliver it until next week and he might get sacked if she told anyone and, by the way, he was very nice.
Jane was the fourth child, so her mother and grandfather were both well versed in children’s storytelling, experts at distinguishing fact from fantasy. Jane’s account had details and a touch of guilt that left no doubt in their mind. She had been talking to a man outside.
When Jane was done with her confession, she was dismissed to her room to get ready for bed. Angela and her father exchanged a serious look and went outside. He retrieved a tire iron from the cab of his truck, then walked back to the cargo door. There were large footprints in the fresh mud all around the rear bumper. He gripped the iron and threw open the door, only to find the compartment empty. He did notice a small piece of rope tied to the latch that had never been there before. Old man Smitherton looked at the tracks on the ground again. He could see where the person had moved around to the far side of the truck, and then, judging by the gap between steps, run back up the drive toward Brightly Road.
“I don’t like it,” he said to his daughter. “Might have brought him here all the way from London.”
Angela held her arms across her chest as if she were cold. “He’s gone now, at least. Whoever it was.”
She waited for her father to confirm this thought. Instead, he said, “Let’s call Rodney.”