them leaving from the manor. A beauty therapist from Gazelle’s in Oakham turned up at three o’clock to style the girls’ hair and apply their makeup.
“We’re not leaving till six,” Tim protested when she arrived. The look he got from Annabelle froze any further comment. Sue’s old bedroom was taken over for the afternoon by the girls. Mrs. Mayberry and Lucy Duke were also drafted to help them get ready.
Tim and Simon took a brief quarter of an hour to dress. Tim’s tux had been delivered by the Community Service Supply van only that morning. It had been chosen after several rushed video calls with Sue, who had surveyed current suitable evening attire in several London outfitters. In the end she’d gone for a classic style, with a modern cut for his trousers and a slender silk collar on the jacket. Jeff had to tie their bow ties for them. Tim hadn’t dared suggest an elastic one to his mother.
The florist arrived at quarter to six, the corsages in a cool storage box on the back of her e-trike. As he waited down in the hall, Tim was beginning to feel the impact of the event with a fluttery stomach and tingling feet. At five past six, Lucy Duke appeared at the top of the stairs and coughed. Both boys wheeled around.
Rachel looked superb, her strapless purple satin dress stroking the contours of her figure. Tim never noticed her. Annabelle was dressed in a white evening gown that was so bright it was almost silver; it had a deep plunge back, which was countered by a demure neckline blending into a seamless bodice section that was surely sprayed on; the skirt was made up from an array of long panels that slid about fluidly as she walked, to reveal momentary glimpses of her legs. Her thick gold-chestnut hair had been swept back and down in a straight glossy mane, with thin strands corkscrewing at either side of her brow.
Tim stood at the foot of the stairs as both girls made their grand entrance. He put his hand out for Annabelle when she was a couple of steps from the bottom, entirely unsurprised to find it was trembling. She took it gently and alighted on the hall’s marble tiles.
“You look beautiful,” Tim whispered.
“Thank you.” She brought her lips together for a slight kiss. “Don’t muss me.”
He hadn’t even noticed she was wearing makeup it was so subtle, highlighting strong cheekbones, a mild mascara deepening her eyes. Her scent was the kind of air that gusted off a meadow of summer wildflowers.
“Sorry.” He proffered the corsage, a scarlet rose bordered with tiny saffron freesias. Annabelle curtsied as she took it.
There was a burst of applause around the hall, led by Jeff, with Mrs. Mayberry and the Europol team smiling on behind him. The four youngsters were suddenly a knot of happy flustered grins.
The limousine that had pulled up outside the manor’s portico belonged to the era of movie stars, glam rock princes, and decadent opening nights in London’s West End. It was a stretch white Lincoln with black windows and small orange running lights, a boomerang TV aerial sticking up out of the trunk.
Tim saw it and gasped. “Dad! Oh my God!” He couldn’t believe anything like it still existed outside a transport museum.
“My treat,” Jeff said. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t find you a pink Cadillac.”
“It’s brilliant!” Rachel squealed. She stood on tiptoes and gave Jeff a kiss. “Thanks so much.”
“No problem.”
“Yes,” Annabelle said. “Thank you.” Her lips brushed his cheek. Their eyes locked for an instant. Then she was pulling Tim down the stairs, both of them laughing gleefully.
“Be good!” Jeff called after them.
The chauffeur held the rear door open, somehow managing to crack open a bottle of champagne at the same time. The kids whooped excitedly as they ducked inside, looking around the extravagant interior. They found the cut crystal flutes, and held them out for the foaming champagne.
Jeff stood on the top step in the shade of the portico. There was a gentle smile on his lips as he listened to the animated exclamations coming from inside the ludicrous vehicle. They were cut off abruptly as the chauffeur closed the back door. The Europol team clambered into their own BMW, slamming the doors shut.
Then the stretch limousine was pulling out of the drive, crunching gravel beneath its whitewalled tires.
“Didn’t little Timmy look grand, just grand,” Mrs. Mayberry said. “And Annabelle’s as pretty as a picture. You must be very proud.”
Jeff turned to see the housekeeper clasping her hands together, her face all puckered up as she watched the limousine depart.
“I am, yes.”
30. WILL THE REAL JEFF BAKER PLEASE STAND UP
TEN TO THREE IN THE MORNING and Jeff had almost gone to sleep. He’d spent the whole evening reviewing data for the superconductor project. Not that he’d had any insights yet; he wasn’t expecting any. That would come later, when he had acquired a great more detail and information on state-of-the-art systems and theories. Possibly. That was his thing. Sometimes entire solutions would just rise out of a whole mass of seething raw data, utterly obvious with hindsight. Sometimes the routes to solutions would flare in his mind like little nova bursts of illumination. Ninety-nine percent of the time he just slogged along with the rest of the pack, making mistakes and floundering down dead ends. But he did possess that elusive ability. His mind could hold aloft the whole problem and look at it from new angles.
Call it genius. Or even intermittent genius. It had worked a few times in his life, though the world at large only knew of the one. The rest were dull stuff, inapplicable outside of esoteric physics laboratories, although they had cemented his status within the scientific community far more than the showbiz-style glamour of memory crystals, a status high enough for Brussels to spin their trillion-euro gamble on his head.
And somehow, throughout the whole ridiculous circus of faith that an entire continent had placed upon him, he didn’t feel pressured. Like everyone else, he too believed he might manage to produce results.
A neat trick if you can do it.
As the actress said to the bishop.
The security camera picked up the stretch limousine as it turned in to the drive. Jeff watched it blankly for a moment, his eyes still half registering the scrawl of data on the main display screens. Then he saw the time.
“Oh, bugger it. Click. Save, safe store duplicate, and switch the hell off. We’re through for the night.”
“I understand that, Jeff,” HAL9000’s melodiously menacing voice assured him.
The screens blanked out, and began to slide back into their recesses. He stretched elaborately. Empty teacups and his supper plates cluttered one half of the desk. He couldn’t be bothered to take them to the dishwasher.
Jeff stood at the top of the portico as the limousine braked to a sharp halt. The driver’s door flew open, and the furious chauffeur got out, flinging his cap onto his seat. He stormed off toward the back of the vehicle. The rear door opened before he reached it. Jeff heard the unmistakable sound of someone puking. He rolled his eyes toward the lazy silver stars glittering above. “Oh Christ,” he muttered.
Tim half fell out of the limo. He wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore; his bow tie was askew around his neck, both shirt-sleeve cuffs were undone, flapping about. One arm flopped down, patting the gravel. Then he tensed and heaved again.
“Get out of my fucking car!” the chauffeur yelled. He put his hands under Tim’s shoulder and started pulling.
“All right,” Jeff said loudly. “All right, I’ll take him from here.”
The chauffeur ignored him, and dropped Tim on the gravel. For one moment Jeff thought he was going to kick the semiconscious boy. Tim giggled in the gurgling way that only the truly drunk can manage, a sound guaranteed to infuriate the sober.
The chauffeur was glaring down at Tim, clenching his fists. Jeff stepped in front of him, hands held out to placate the man. “I’ve got him.”
“Oh, you’ve got him, have you? Where the hell were you when he was chucking up in the back of my car, man? Huh?”
