Red Christmas

by Reginald Hill

  He put the teasing problem of Sawyer’s motives out of his mind as he made for the conference room. It was silly to play chess when you could be playing tiggy with hammers. As long as you held the hammer. All he had to do now was tell Swinburne. Let him play chess if he wanted to. He, Boswell, would merely keep Sawyer safe. Dead if need be, but safe. He and his little force of seven men. We are seven. He chuckled to himself. And three of us with Sawyer dwell; James, Grose and Joe. One is servicing the conference room; Dave, the coachguard. One is up aloft in the attic; Alf, the driver. One is on duty at the metal door; Anderson. Which leaves one outside still; Johnson.

  A fairly formidable band. And as soon as this damned snow gave up, reinforcements would arrive whether he wanted them or not Colley may have got through, or at least be well placed to get through quickly once the weather changed. But even without Colley’s report it was certain some kind of investigatory action would be taken. They must be getting worried out there at the silence surrounding Dingley Dell. Possibly some poor bastards had already been dragged from the bosom of their families this Christmas morning and were at present ploughing their reluctant way towards the hotel.

  Swinburne came out of the conference room quickly in response to a note from Boswell. He greeted the news of Sawyer’s capture with a small nod, as though confirming to himself the accuracy of his own strategy. Boswell’s difficulty in interpreting the situation was also treated as something to be expected.

  ‘You’ve got seven men, and yourself,’ he said coldly. ‘Five up here, you and one other below with the guests. And one outside. In the stables perhaps. Always cover your outside, Boswell. Think you can manage it?’

  Only the memory of the man’s son, lying pale and unconscious in Arabella’s bed, prevented Boswell from replying concisely and forcibly. He stuck at conciseness.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

  ‘This man Sawyer. Watch him, of course. But no questioning. No conversation even. I want him unspoilt for the experts.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. I’d better get back in there.’

  ‘Everything going all right?’ ventured Boswell. A frosty smile touched the thin lips and momentarily the man became almost human.

  ‘Fine. If only it weren’t for these damn’ foreigners.’

  Boswell smiled in return and held his smile till the conference-room door closed behind Swinburne. He wished he could believe that the joke was nothing more than a joke. But everything in his own experience told him that there were few things more chauvinistic than national security agencies. Information which Foreign Secretaries might exchange over cocktails at a reception was hoarded as protectively as the most sacrosanct defence secrets. It worked both ways. On several occasions information had been obtained at a high price—sometimes financial, sometimes human—only for the proud agent to discover his masters in Whitehall already knew the greater part of it.

  The kind of security union which Boswell hoped might evolve out of Europe’s economic unity had a long hard road ahead of it. He pushed aside the thought which had started forming in his mind with increasing frequency in the last twenty-four hours that perhaps the delegates next door were by no means the best equipped for the job in hand. If the present operation was ballsed up, God knows when those ruthless, hard-thinking men could be brought together in one place again.

  Perhaps that had been Sawyer’s aim, or the aim of his masters whom Boswell now automatically assumed to be the KGB. Perhaps one of the other Eastern European countries. The CIA would be just as interested in the Dingley Dell operation, but the agency would never play it so rough with their NATO allies. Not if there was any chance of being caught at it, that was.

  But even the disruption-by-Russia theory did not really ring true. Observation and infiltration would have been much more useful—and typical for that matter. Perhaps the old rivalry between the KGB and the GRU had taken a new form. There had been several reports from America in the past few years of espionage activities becoming suddenly and alarmingly active. Sabotage. Assassinations. Stuff for the cinema! A name had been mentioned, but it escaped him. Worth checking later.

  If this snow ever let up sufficiently for anyone to get out or in! he thought gloomily.

  He checked back to see all was well with the three men looking after Sawyer.

  ‘I want two of you in here at all times,’ he said. He produced a piece of chalk and drew a line on the floor.

  ‘If he crosses that line, shoot him. And you don’t cross it either. Understood?’

  ‘They nodded and he left. As an afterthought he brought Alf down from the attic and sat him on a chair outside the room in which Sawyer was being held.

  ‘Any disturbance in there,’ he said, ‘You don’t go in. You wait here and see who comes out. OK?’

  Alf nodded. A cheerful red-cheeked countryman, he was type-cast in his role as the weather-braving, horse-controlling Dickensian coach-driver. But he was a wicked man with a gun and his cheeriness stopped at his eyes.

  Slightly happier at the thought that Sawyer at least was safely out of the way, Boswell left the conference suite and went to Arabella’s former room to check if Stephen had recovered consciousness yet. Besides his genuine concern with the boy’s health, he was eager to hear what he could tell of the attack on him. It seemed as motiveless as the rest of Sawyer’s activities. Unless, and his mind kept on returning uneasily to this qualification, unless they weren’t all Sawyer’s activities; an ambiguous form of words without much comfort in either part of the ambiguity.

  To his surprise, Arabella was there, despite the presence by the bedside of one of the hotel staff, a large, comfortable woman who had had some experience of nursing as a girl during the war.

  ‘I’m just collecting the rest of my gear,’ said Arabella in explanation. After her outburst the previous night she seemed to have withdrawn to a position of armed neutrality.

  ‘Fine. How’s young Swinburne?’

  ‘He seems to be much better. Mrs. Hislop was here a few moments ago. What she said in simple terms was that he has passed out of a state of unconsciousness into one of deep sleep. At least I think that’s what she said. Anyway, the longer this goes on, the better at the moment, until he can be got into a hospital.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Boswell. ‘The minute this snow gives up, we’ll get things arranged. Can I help you with anything?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Arabella, festooning him generously with a selection of garments, some of which he was certain one or two of the more ancient dons at his college would scarcely believe to exist.

  As he laid them on the bed in her new room, Arabella said casually, ‘So you found Sawyer?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ smiled Boswell ruefully. ‘More precisely, he let himself be found.’

  Briefly he described what had happened. He was still far from the stage where he could possibly discountenance Arabella as Sawyer’s hypothetical ally, but this only made the appearance of complete confidence all the more essential. Or perhaps he just wanted to thaw her coldness.

  ‘What happens now?’ she asked next.

  ‘We’ll keep him under very close guard until the weather breaks. Then we’ll ship him out of here as fast as we can.’

  ‘Where to? The village bobby’s back kitchen?’

  ‘Somewhere a little more discreet than that, I should imagine. It will all be done very quietly.’

  ‘And me?’ she asked challengingly. ‘Will I be swept under some special mat too?’

  ‘I see no reason for that,’ replied Boswell. ‘Not if you cooperate.’

  ‘And how should I co-operate?’

  ‘To start with, perhaps you could tell me all you know about Bloodworth. That might help.’

  ‘Why, certainly, Mr. Boswell,’ she answered sweetly. ‘He’s an old man suffering from a heart condition exacerbated by being chased round the hotel by a gang of hoodlums waving guns. Shouldn’t you be taking notes?’

  ‘You know him, don’t you?’


  ‘You know everything. You tell me.’

  ‘All right. I will if you like. I’ve had a long talk with Mrs. Hislop and she’s proved much more co-operative.’

  It was a feeble bluff. His attempts to cross-question the woman doctor had proved even more unsuccessful than his present conversation with Arabella, who was laughing wholeheartedly. At least it was an aesthetically pleasing reaction. He found himself joining in.

  ‘I’d better go and get the thumbscrews,’ he said finally. At least the atmosphere in the room was no longer as metaphorically chilly as when he entered.

  ‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘If you are on our side, make sure you’re not doing anything—or leaving anything undone—which could cause harm. Bullets don’t ask questions.’

  He turned to go now.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘You’d better have these.’

  From beneath her pillow she produced a small pile of loose papers and handed them over.

  He riffled through them quickly, then at a slower pace.

  ‘Where did you get these?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘They were lying around when I found Stephen last night.’

  ‘You know what they are?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Records of the conference sessions. Details of proposals. Facts, figures. Not very interesting really.’

  ‘Why didn’t you give them to me last night?’

  ‘I hadn’t had a chance to read them, had I?’ she answered pertly. ‘And later I didn’t feel in a very giving mood as far as you were concerned.’

  ‘You acted wrongly,’ he said. ‘Both times. Especially the second time. Personal feelings have got to be kept out of this.’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ said Arabella, looking at him ironically. ‘Before you stalk off in your cloak and dagger, though, here’s something else for your collection. Stephen’s, I presume. I found it in the wardrobe.’

  She tossed a small metal badge on to the garment-strewn bed. It fell on a pair of tiger-striped knickers and Boswell let it lie there while he examined it in silence. It was in the form of a bronze olive leaf with the initials I.P. on it in green enamel.

  ‘I.P.’ said Boswell meditatively.

  ‘InterPax,’ said Arabella. ‘The student pressure group for international peace.’

  ‘A worthy cause,’ said Boswell.

  ‘Crap!’ snorted Arabella. ‘We both know where their finance comes from.’

  Well, I certainly do, thought Boswell. But how do you? He picked up the badge and put it in his pocket.

  ‘Find anything else?’ he asked noncommitally.

  ‘Just a sex-guidance manual evidently written for contortionists. Have you spoken to Madame Leclerc yet?’

  It was a nice juxtapositioning of ideas, offered completely deadpan. But two could play at that.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget dinner’s at twelve. You’d better go along to the gown room.’

  He looked critically at her slacks and ski-sweater.

  ‘Christ!’ she said. ‘You mean it all goes on, the charade? Yes, I suppose it would. I suppose if the charade ever stopped, people like you would be out of a job.’

  ‘Excuse me now,’ he said politely. ‘People like me have work to do.’

  He wasn’t merely being ironic. There was indeed a great deal to do. Well trained though the staff were, someone had to check that arrangements for the noontide Christmas dinner were in train. This, coupled with frequent appeals to his Dickensian expertise, kept him busy for a solid hour and it was twenty to twelve before he found a breathing space. Beckoning Johnson to follow him, he stepped out into the front porch of Dingley Dell.

  The snow had drifted high here, six feet or more on some parts of the front of the house, though the blizzard had gusted too erratically to produce any consistency of drift. Now the . wind had almost died away, though the snow still fell; large, soft Christmas-card flakes floating gently down, completely lacking in menace. One or two of the guests had boldly ventured out, only to admit defeat after a few yards. It had taken very energetic shovel work to clear a path through to the stables so that the horses could be fed. A surrealistic white shape beside the stables puzzled Boswell for a while until he realised it was the tractor used to haul tree-trunks down from the hillside.

  The sight annoyed him. It should have been put away the night before. It was no longer just a question of authenticity; the vehicle might have been able to get through the snow to the village, but now it would probably be impossible to start it! Still, even tractors could hardly negotiate six-foot snowdrifts.

  ‘Shall I try to get through?’ asked Johnson, peering up at the sky.

  ‘Not now!’ said Boswell. ‘Colley’s out there somewhere already. Wait till it stops, then at least your tracks won’t be filling in behind you. We’ll have our Christmas dinner first.’

  He glanced at his watch.

  ‘It’s time they were coming down,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and hurry them up. And I want you to stay up there. Right?’

  His strategy was simple. During dinner everyone would be together where he could keep an eye on them. If anyone did slip through the net and make an attempt to get Sawyer out, there would be seven well armed and efficiently trained men waiting for him.

  When he returned to the conference area he discovered the morning session had already broken up. Some of the delegates hurried off to change for dinner with token protests about the inconvenience of having to resume their Dickensian dress. A few, like Herr Bear, had kept their costumes on and now made their way straight downstairs to join the other guests in the parlour for a pre-dinner drink. Boswell felt a little concerned lest any of the genuine guests, forced by the inclement weather to stay together indoors, might have wondered at the absence and mass reappearance of the delegates. But this was the least of his worries at the moment.

  He issued a final instruction to his men.

  ‘No one gets in here but me. Understand? No one!’

  Then he put on his maître-d’ hôtel smile and descended to the parlour.

  The wassail bowl had appeared once more. Glasses were being filled and emptied at a rate surpassing that even of the previous night. The Yule log on the fire at the kitchen end crackled and sparkled, reflecting heat and light from the red floor-tiles. From the kitchen beyond drifted all the smells of Christmas, some spicy, some pungent, with the unmistakable odour of roasting goose predominant.

  The hotel guests, now very much at ease in their borrowed robes, laughed and chattered like old friends. The whole atmosphere was so filled with good cheer and cordiality that Boswell felt himself strangely touched. The lines from Pickwick Papers came into his mind. It was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness; the old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends around him, and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry to pass gently and calmly away. Gay and merry was the time…

  Suddenly, hollowly, the dinner gong sounded in the hall. Feeling he was no longer playing a part, he stepped forward, clapped his hands and shouted, ‘Ladies, gentleman. My friends! Our poor board awaits your attention. Take your ladies on your arm, gentlemen, and with good cheer and love in your hearts lead them through into the dining room.’

  With a great deal of laughter and movement, the guests began to sort themselves out. There was a pause, with no one wishing to be the first to make a move. Then suddenly Mrs. Burton, jolly as ever, darted forward and, much to Boswell’s surprise, kissed him on the cheek. There was a general laugh. Looking up he realised that a large bunch of mistletoe hung right above his head.

  ‘Come on, father,’ said Mrs. Burton to her smiling husband. ‘Don’t let dinner get cold!’

  Arm in arm they passed through the door. Given this lead, the rest readily followed, almost all the women, much to Boswell’s embarrassment, pausing to kiss him. Suzie Leclerc, however, merely glanced scornfully at him, and Frau Cow, her eyes fixed firmly ahead, marched stoutly by. Mrs. Swinburne, looking a
little happier at the news of her son’s improvement, kissed him warmly. She at least was not blaming him for the attack on the boy. Arabella would have been content to brush his cheek, but when he turned his head so that their lips met, she did not draw back.

  Mrs. Hislop was the last through the door. She was unescorted and he offered her his arm.

  ‘How’s your uncle doing?’ he asked politely.

  ‘He certainly doesn’t feel up to Christmas dinner,’ said Mrs. Hislop. ‘In any case, he wouldn’t have eaten till onefiftcen. That’s his regular lunch hour.’

  She raised her eyebrows slightly as she spoke—enough, with Boswell’s knowledge of her as the efficient professional woman, to indicate an ironic resignation to the absurdities of age.

  All present and correct then, except for Bloodworth. He couldn’t really see the old man as any kind of danger, though there was still the oddity of Arabella’s interest in him to be explained. But there could be no real danger there. Especially not with his seven aides up above waiting for it.

  Up above. The thought did cross his mind as he entered the dining room that it was rather an uneven division of the armed security force of Dingley Dell; seven upstairs with one man, one downstairs with everybody else.

  But the thought slid from his mind as he looked along the huge polished oaken table, bright with silver and pewter which threw back the whiteness of the world outside in a clear pure light. Music was enriching the air, the heart-stirring strains of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen coming from the unlikely instruments of Thomas Traherne and his four Temple-Haunting Martlets. They were playing it straight this time and had dressed for the occasion, a singular improvement, Boswell felt, on their garb of the night before.

  Three great tureens of soup stood ready along the sideboard. In the kitchen the final touches were being given to the five huge roast geese soon to be carved up between the thirty guests. The guests sat down noisily in joyful anticipation.

  As the last notes of the carol died away, Boswell struck his glass forcefully with a spoon so that the clear bell-like noise rang round the room.