"Less brilliant," Alison admitted, "but not bad. Oh, by the way, I meant to ask you—what is the name of the man you're working for?"
"Peter Quinnell."
"Oh right. That was my mistake, then."
"What was?"
"Well, I knew it was Quinnell, but I couldn't remember the first name, and last week in Waterstones I saw this book by a man named Quinnell, so I bought it, thinking it might be your boss, you see." She paused for breath. "But anyway, once I got it home and took a proper look, I saw it couldn't have been your Quinnell, because the man who wrote the book is dead, according to the dust jacket."
"Ah." I digested the information. "It was thoughtful of you to buy it, at any rate."
"Yes, well, I ought to have known that it wasn't the sort of thing an archaeologist would publish. It's just a lot of photographs . .. you know, a coffee-table book. But Quinnell's not a common name, and I thought—"
"Photographs?" I cut her off. "The author wouldn't be a Philip Quinnell, by any chance?"
"Hang on, let me check, I've got the thing right here. Yes, that's it... Philip. Who is he, then?"
"He was Peter's son."
"Really? Well, his photographs are deeply weird," was her pronouncement. "They're those awful computer- enhanced things, all distorted. But the man himself looks gorgeous, in his photograph. Does his father look like that?"
"Peter? Yes, he's very handsome."
"Is he nice to work for?"
"Wonderful."
"Then it must be Adrian."
I frowned, uncomprehending. "What?"
"Making you unhappy. And don't tell me you're not, because you never ring me at five in the morning unless you're unhappy. You're not involved with him again, are you?"
"With Adrian'! Don't be absurd."
"Then who—?" She broke off, paused, and shifted gears subtly. "Who else is in your field crew, did you say?"
The Spanish Inquisition, I thought, could have used someone like Alison. Once she hit on something she was like a terrier with a rat; she never let go.
"You're way off beam," I told her, trying to sound convincing. "It's nothing to do with a man. It's just... well, we had rather a crisis here, tonight. Someone's mother had a heart attack, and we don't know yet how she is, and I'm just on edge, that's all. Waiting."
"Oh," said my sister.
"Honestly."
"I believe you," she said.
"Look, I probably ought to go, come to think of it. Keep the line clear, in case someone's trying to ring."
"Right. Shall I keep this book, then? The one by Philip Quinnell?"
"Please. I'd rather like to see it."
Something was nagging at me as I rang off—some minor point that I'd just heard, but couldn't quite remember. Closing my eyes, I replayed the conversation, trying to recall what Alison had said ...
No, it was gone. Whatever it was, it was gone.
I sighed again, with feeling. Charlie the cat showed me a weary eye as I gently lifted her for the umpteenth time. "Sorry, darling," I apologized. "It's time to move."
Peter's sitting room was out, I thought, since Adrian was still asleep in there. But across the hall, the posh sitting room offered warmth and light and a glowing gas fire. I drew an armchair up to the hearth and stretched my legs out, coaxing the cat to settle down once more. With a less than trusting look at my face, Charlie lay down and fell instantly asleep, her small sharp claws hooked neatly through the fabric of my jeans. Time crawled.
I leaned my head back, counting off the minutes on the mantel clock, a great gilt clock with a soporific tick. Another half-hour had passed before I saw the gleam of headlights curving up the drive, and heard a car door slam above the unrelenting wind. The front door opened and closed. Soft, measured footsteps crossed the entrance hall; paused in the doorway behind me.
"My dear girl," Peter Quinnell said, his low voice mingling faint surprise and weariness. "You ought to be in , bed."
j I twisted around in my chair, gently so as not to disturb
the slumbering cat. "I couldn't sleep." He looked gray, I thought, and frightfully old, and I asked my next question with some hesitation. "How is she?"
"Nancy? Resting comfortably, the doctors say, but doctors always say that, don't they?" Rubbing the worry from his forehead with a tired hand, he crossed to the drinks cabinet. "Can I get you something? Brandy? It's good medicine, for sleepless nights."
He poured one for himself as well, and lowered his long frame into the chair next to mine, staring at the hearth. "You've got the fire on," he said, after a long moment. "Yes. I was cold."
"Were you? It's the house, I expect. Old houses," he informed me, "feel the cold more. Like old bodies." He sat back, eyes half closed, and let the silence stretch until I killed it with a cough.
"David found you all right, then, did he?”
“What?" His eyes slid sideways, not really seeing me at first, and then he seemed to pull himself together. "Oh, yes. Yes, he did. He's a great help, that lad. A good son. He'll stay all night with her, I shouldn't wonder."
"It must have been a frightful scare for him." I looked at his face and amended my statement. "For both of you."