Jack Higgins - Midnight Never Comes

'So she's decided to take the law into her own hands?'

'If she hasn't changed her plans since I left her four days ago, she should be flying in to Glasgow tomorrow morning. She intends to carry on from there by train and arrive unannounced. Poor kid-I hope she makes out all right.'

'You liked her, didn't you?'

'A lot better than her step-father. He's the kind of man who smiles with his face only, never with his eyes.'

'And you don't think she's mixed up in his affairs?'

Peggy shook her head firmly. 'Not a chance.'

Chavasse nodded. 'All right, Peggy. Thanks.'

The Irish girl looked at Mallory who nodded. She moved to the door, opened it and turned with a smile. 'And Mr. Chavasse, I don't know just how susceptible you are, but I'd better warn you. I don't think you've ever seen anything in a skirt that could be an improvement on Asta Svensson.'

The door closed before he could reply. Mallory chuckled and took several more photos out of the folder. 'Better have a look at these, Paul. I think you'll see what she means.'

Chavasse only needed to look at the first one to see what three years had done to the child in the bikini. She gazed out at him calmly, lips slightly parted, the hair, so blonde that it was almost white, hanging to her shoulders. She was standing on a sand dune, the sea behind her, the strong sunlight outlining her firm young thighs perfectly through the thin cotton of the simple dress she wore. And those eyes. They seemed to look through and beyond him and his throat went dry. It was as if he had been waiting for this girl all his life.

It was very peaceful in the small station by the lochside and Chavasse peered out of the window of the rear compartment keeping out of sight. On the other side of the glen, the mountain reared its bald head more than three thousand feet into a clear blue sky, sunlight glinting on a waterfall high on the slope that spilled in a white apron across granite to disappear into the birch trees that fringed the base.

A door opened in the front coach and Asta Svensson stepped down on to the platform. She wore a soft leather jacket, a pleated tweed skirt, nylon stockings and handmade leather brogues.

With the pale blonde hair glinting in the sunlight, she made an attractive, vibrant figure in the quiet setting of the little railway station. She moved across to the ticket collector who stood at the barrier beside the small waiting room. There was some conversation, a burst of laughter and she went out through the barrier.

Chavasse waited, wondering what she was up to. Following her from Glasgow to Fort William had been easy, for the train had been quite busy, but the branch line to Arisaig and Mallaig was little used now that the holiday season was over and he'd had difficulty keeping out of sight.

The ticket collector moved to join the guard as he emerged from the waiting room. 'You've lost a passenger, Tam,' he said in a soft highland blas.

'Is that a fact now?' the guard observed calmly.

'Aye, a bonny lass with hair of corn and a face to thank God for. A Miss Svennson. Her step-father's yon fella Donner that bought Glenmore last year. She's away over the mountain. You're to put down her baggage at Lochailort.'

'I hope it keeps fine for her.' The guard took out his watch. 'The long short cut she'll find it if the weather breaks.'

Chavasse reached for his raincoat, opened the door and got out. 'Did I hear you say there was a short cut over the mountain?'

'Well now, sir, and that would depend on where you want to be.'

'Ardmurchan Lodge.'

The guard nodded. 'Over the top of Ben Breac and a twelve mile walk on the other side. You'll be staying with Colonel Craig, the new tenant?'

'My uncle. He'll be waiting for me at Lochailort. Perhaps you'd be good enough to tell him where I am?'

The five shillings he slipped into the guard's hand was pocketed without inspection. 'Leave it to me, sir.'

He blew his whistle and boarded the train. As it moved away from the platform, Chavasse turned to the ticket collector. 'And where do I go from here?'

'Through the village and over the bridge, sir. You'll find a path through the birches on your left. It's hard going, but you can't miss the cairns that mark the way. Once over the top, the track is plain to the glen below.'

'Do you think the weather will hold?'

The ticket collector squinted up at the mountain. 'A touch of mist perhaps and rain in the evening. I shouldn't waste time on top.' He smiled suddenly. 'I'd tell the young lady that if I were you, sir. It's no place for a lassie to be on her own.'

Chavasse grinned. 'I'll do that. A pity to see her get wet.'

'A thousand pities, sir.'

At a small general store he purchased an extra packet of cigarettes and two half-pound bars of milk chocolate. Twelve miles on the other side of the mountain, the ticket collector had said and that wasn't counting the miles that stood up on end. A long walk and something told him he might be hungry before the end of it.

He marched down the quiet village street, his raincoat slung over one shoulder and crossed the bridge over a clear flowing stream. It was still and quiet in the hot afternoon sun and the road stretched before him, lifting upwards and away from the waters of the loch shining through the trees below.

There was no sign of the girl which suited him for the moment. Sooner or later a meeting was inevitable, in fact necessary, but he preferred that it should be at a time and place of his own choosing.

The track snaked up through the birch trees, lifting steeply, bracken pressing in on either side. It was cool and dark and somehow remote from the world, the path dappled with light where shafts of sunlight pierced the roof of green branches.

The trees grew sparser until he moved out on to a slope where the track disappeared into bracken that in places was waist high. Occasionally grouse or plover lifted out of the heather, disturbed by his passing. He moved up over a steep ridge and found himself on the edge of a boulder-strewn plain that lifted to meet the lower slopes of Ben Breac.

In the same moment he saw the girl, up on the shoulder of the mountain to his right, six or seven hundred feet above him.

She paused, turning to look out over the loch and he dropped back into cover. When he peered cautiously over the edge of the ridge a moment later, she had disappeared round the shoulder of the mountain.

She was certainly moving fast. Faster than he would have thought possible, but hardly surprising, remembering her litheness and the healthy glow of her golden skin and he took out an ordnance survey map of Moidart and unfolded it. The track she was following was plainly marked, skirting the shoulder of the mountain, climbing gradually to the final plateau and the summit. There was a quicker way, of course-straight up. But only a fool would try that.

Chavasse raised his eyes to the swelling breast of the mountain above, the great wall of granite beyond. A steady eye and strong nerves were all that was needed and he could be sitting on the summit cairn waiting to greet her when she arrived. He folded the map, put it away and started to climb.

It was easy enough on the lower slopes with the heather springy to the feet, but within half an hour, he came out onto a great cascading bank of scree and loose stones that moved alarmingly beneath him with each step he took, bringing the heart into his mouth.

He worked his way to the left, making for the waterfall he had observed from the train, and when he reached it, followed the channel upwards, jumping from one great boulder to the other. Finally, he moved out on to a small plateau and faced the granite cliffs.

From the station, they had looked impossible, but now he was close enough to see that instead of being perpendicular, they leaned backwards gently in a series of great tilted slabs, cracked and fissured by the years.