Sam Bourne - The Chosen One

‘Quite true. I did say it. And I do.’

‘Could I test you?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Pamela.’

Did she imagine it, or was there an intake of breath at the other end of the phone?

‘You’ll need to give me more than that, Ms Muir. I wouldn’t ask the boys to shoot at the hoop with one arm tied behind their back.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have a last name. Best I can give you is that she was a contemporary of Robert Jackson and Stephen Baker.’

‘Same class as them, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, I don’t think so. Let me try to picture the class. That’s how I do it, I visualize the class as I taught them.’ He began muttering names, as if taking a register.

Maggie, standing in the doorway of Swanson’s grocery store, closed her eyes in silent prayer.

Schilling murmured for a moment or two longer, then said, ‘No. As I thought, no Pamela in that class.’

Maggie sighed. ‘What about the year below them, a year younger?’

‘So that would have been the class of, when was it? Oh yes, I remember that class. No stars in that one, I’m afraid. Very weak debate team.’

‘And a Pamela? I’m sorry, Mr Schilling: this is very important.’

‘Let me think.’ More muttering and then he said, ‘Do you mean Pamela Everett?’

‘I’m not sure. Who was she?’

‘Well, she did stand out. Not the way Baker and Jackson stood out. But she was extremely pretty. The students called her Miss America.’ He paused. ‘Terribly sad.’

‘Why sad?’ Maggie’s pulse began to race.

‘She died just a couple of years after graduation. Just tragic.’

‘And how did she die?’

‘An illness. I forget the details. Very quick apparently.’

Maggie could feel the pain in her skull return as her brow involuntarily furrowed. ‘An illness? Are you absolutely sure about that?’

‘Yes of course.’

‘Did you see her?’

‘No,’ Mr Schilling said, slightly taken aback by the question. ‘She had left the school by then. Besides, it all happened very suddenly. But the parents asked me to read a lesson at her funeral. St Paul’s epistle to the Corinthians.’

Maggie was thinking fast. ‘Do you think I might speak with them?’

‘They left Aberdeen very soon after Pamela died. They wanted to get as far away from here as possible.’

‘Do you have any idea where they went?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

She was about to ring off, but there was something about the way Ray Schilling was breathing into the phone that suggested he was hesitating. Maggie kept silent, not wanting to scare him off. Eventually, and warily, he spoke.

‘Ms Muir, I have not been completely frank with you. I do know where the Everetts are and it will not be difficult for me to find their address: I can access the school computer system from home. But I need you to be very clear about my terms.’

‘Of course.’ Terms? Was he going to ask for money?

‘We have kept the Everetts’ address on file all these years on the strict understanding that we share it with no one. The school has never broken that undertaking. Not once.’

‘I see.’

‘Now you’ll have noticed that I have asked you no questions about your work. I have not wanted to pry. And I won’t now. But when you came to me on Friday, you told me that a large sum of money is involved here. I am working on the assumption that you would not be asking me questions about Pamela Everett if the late Robert Jackson had not – for whatever reason – remembered her in his will.’

Maggie said nothing, hoping he would take her silence as confirmation.

‘I could not in conscience stand in the way of some financial comfort coming the way of the Everetts. Lord knows they have had their share of misfortune.’

‘You are a good man, Mr Schilling.’

‘I trust you, Ms Muir. Now I hope you have your snowshoes with you. If you think Aberdeen is the middle of nowhere, wait till you hear where the Everetts live.’

Undisclosed location, Sunday March 26, 16.00 GMT

‘My thanks to all of you for making time for this conference call: I know that the weekends are precious.’

A murmur of agreement, conveyed through the desktop speaker. These were men like him, with no time or talent for small talk.

‘I wanted to brief you on the latest developments in the case we discussed last time. I am glad to tell you that we have sent in some very experienced…’ he hesitated, unsure of the appropriately delicate term for such work, ‘ personnel and I am assured that there will be results very soon.’

‘How soon?’ Germany again. Of course.

‘Well, put it this way. If you read your newspapers thoroughly over the next twenty-four hours, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ Manhattan. Perhaps he had broken up that particular US-German alliance: he hoped so.

‘Can we say we are back on track?’ A new voice: the accent, Middle Eastern, was initially difficult to make out. ‘I read something in the press this weekend that suggested we still had cause for concern.’

‘We are not out of the woods yet, that’s true. As we all know, politics is an unpredictable business.’ He smiled his silkiest smile, though he knew it was wasted on a phone call.

‘Except that’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it?’ said Germany, his tone edgy once more. ‘To make politics as predictable as possible. Am I right?’

Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, Sunday March 26, 20.55 PST

In normal circumstances, Coeur d’Alene, Idaho would have been a perfectly lovely place to visit. Not that Maggie could remember what normal circumstances were. But a weekend here, in this snow-covered ski resort of a town, with its alpine chalets and cosy, crackling fires, would have been a treat. With the right person.

It had taken two tiny planes to get here, first the short hop from Aberdeen to Seattle then a connection for the longer flight to Coeur d’Alene – Maggie willingly dipping into the Sanchez slush fund to pay cash for a whisky miniature on each leg, the better to suppress the fact that her battered, aching body was now folded into a glorified baked beans can bobbing through icy skies powered by no more than a propeller.

She thought about the upcoming encounter with the Everetts. Should she stick with the story Mr Schilling had imagined for her? That she was an insurance agent needing to check out a claim that might lead to a windfall? Too cruel. So she came up with something else. Not brilliant, but it would have to do.

The cab now turned off the main thoroughfare through the town, with its cafés and charming bookshop, past several residential roads, and finally onto a lane that wound its way up a mountainside. So far up the mountain that she felt compelled to ask the driver to check his satnav was working properly. He gave her a look that told her she was not in New York any more.

She checked her watch. Nearly 9pm. It was crazy to do this in the evening – who wanted to open the door of their remote home to a stranger emerging out of the darkness? – but urgency drove her on.

The headlights were set on full-beam now; the street lighting had long gone and the last car they had seen had passed nearly ten minutes ago. Maggie looked over her shoulder: some distant lights still twinkled.

‘You a journalist?’ the driver said suddenly, breaking the silence.

That took her by surprise. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘Only, we don’t get much call to come up round here. ‘Cept to see the compound. And that’s usually media.’

‘The compound?’

‘That’s right. The Aryan Nations compound. They’re not far from here.’