Spiders Read online

  The main road was a dual carriageway curving smoothly away through the mountains. A red articulated lorry passed in a mist of cold spray and sounded its horn as Adam and Abbie stepped up on to the verge. Lorries and cars sped past, also throwing up enough water to make other drivers use their windscreen wipers.

  They stood next to a blue-and-white post with some numbers on it. ‘This is meant to tell us where the nearest emergency phone is, I think,’ said Adam. ‘But I’ve no idea how it works.’

  They walked on a little way, then saw a lay-by in the distance and broke into a run. More vehicles raced past. Shouts came from a couple of passing cars, but it was impossible to hear what was said.

  They had no choice but to stand in the lay-by and try to flag someone down. They both waved vigorously, looking like overenthusiastic and underdressed hitchhikers. Every time a car passed without stopping, Abbie would shout abuse after it. They knew time was slipping away.

  Eventually a green lorry approached with a hiss and a squeak, slowing down, and they saw that its indicator was flashing. A large Eddie Stobart trailer stopped in front of them.

  Adam ran round to the driver’s window. ‘Can we use your phone?’

  ‘And hello to you,’ said the driver in a deep Scottish burr.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we’re desperate,’ said Adam.

  ‘Are you and the lassie in some sort of trouble?’

  ‘Yes, you could say that.’ Adam put his hands on the driver’s door.

  ‘We need to call the police,’ added Abbie.

  ‘Aye,’ said the driver, slowly extracting and examining a mobile phone from the jacket on the back of his seat. ‘You seem to be in very good luck. I have one wee blob of reception.’ He switched his hazard lights on and leaned over to open the other door.

  Sitting in the cab, Abbie sighed with relief when she heard a crackly voice at the end of the phone. There was just enough signal to make a connection. She was put through to the police.

  ‘My name is Abbie Hopkins,’ she started. ‘I need to report something serious.’

  There was a pause. ‘Thank you.’ Another much longer pause. ‘Thank you, Abbie. Please hold the line.’

  Abbie turned to Adam: ‘I don’t believe it. They’re making me wait.’

  ‘If you’re one mile an hour over the speed limit, the police are keen enough,’ said the lorry driver sympathetically.

  After another long pause and intermittent clicks on the line, a different voice was heard. ‘Hello, Abbie. Where are you?’

  ‘On a road in the Highlands.’ She looked at the sign ahead. ‘I think it’s the A9.’

  ‘Abbie,’ the voice was low and a bit cynical, like a disappointed teacher, ‘we have spoken to your father and must ask you to wait for a police officer to pick you up. Do you have a boy called Adam Grant with you?’

  ‘No, I’m on my own.’ The lie spilt out just in case it was useful later. ‘I’m worried about what is going on at Castle Dreich,’ she continued. ‘Just send someone there to have a look.’

  ‘We have, Abbie. Two police officers have seen the meeting and confirmed that everything is in order. They spoke with the man in charge and we have seen your father here in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Send them again, for God’s sake! My father is part of the problem.’ Abbie pressed one hand to her mouth to prevent herself adding something rude.

  ‘We know all about your argument, Abbie.’ It was a patronizing tone. ‘Where did you say you were?’

  ‘I’m . . .’ Abbie looked at Adam and out of the window, and the driver started to say something. ‘Actually, I can be more precise. I’m at the water-treatment place outside Edinburgh. Can you come to get me?’ She put the phone down and turned to the driver, smiling as sweetly as possible. ‘Please, Mr Driver, can we just have five more minutes of your time?’

  ‘I suppose – only five, mind.’

  Abbie started to say something, but Adam was louder, talking over her: ‘Listen, listen. Stop. You don’t know much about me, but trust me. The police are going to be useless, at least until they understand what’s really going on. We need to split up.’

  ‘There are three problems!’ Abbie used her fingers as if she had to make it really simple for Adam. ‘Castle Dreich –’ one finger – ‘Edinburgh –’ two – ‘and London.’

  ‘I know, if you’ll just listen. You go to your dad. That was a smart move with the cops. I’ll go back to the castle and try to save the other kids.’ His mind was whirring.

  ‘And then we’ll fly down to London, with no money to get us there, for this evening?’ said Abbie.

  The driver, half listening as he got out of the cab for a fag break, smiled indulgently.

  ‘No. I know someone down there who can help.’ Adam addressed the driver: ‘Can I borrow your phone again, please?’

  ‘Aye.’ The driver handed it through the cab window, rooting out some cigarettes from his jacket at the same time.

  Adam couldn’t remember Megan’s mobile number. He pressed his hand against his forehead and tried to visualize typing it into his contacts, tried to recall hearing it on his voice messages, but it was hopeless. The more he struggled to remember, the more it eluded him.

  ‘It’s Saturday lunchtime,’ he said, dialling her home number. ‘She’ll be in.’ He handed the phone to Abbie. ‘Just ask for Megan. Say you’re a friend from school.’

  After three rings a man answered.

  ‘Hello, it’s Georgia here from school. Can I speak to Megan?’

  Georgia? Adam mouthed.

  There was a bit of chatter and a shout on the other end of the line, then Megan’s voice: ‘Hello? Who is it?’

  Abbie handed the phone to Adam.

  ‘It’s Adam. Don’t panic – don’t say it’s me – I’m fine – but I need your help.’

  Megan thought, just for a second. ‘Yes, Georgia, I’m free this afternoon,’ she replied.

  ‘You’re amazing, Megan. Look, I’m still in Scotland, but I’m fine.’ He wasn’t going to mention the being kidnapped, imprisoned and drugged, nearly drowning, almost falling to his death side of things. ‘But there’s a problem and, usual story for us, the police won’t help. It’s all . . . complicated . . .’

  ‘That sounds great, Georgia,’ Megan parroted. ‘Shall I come over to your place?’

  ‘There’s a man, he’s . . .’

  ‘Thin, with a birthmark on his left cheek, um, nasty, and he wears glasses,’ said Abbie. ‘Called Alistair.’

  ‘Got that? That’s Abbie, she’s helping me.’

  Abbie continued, ‘And he’s going to put poison gas into the London Underground somehow at the British Museum stop.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Megan, while her parents listened to her half of the conversation, ‘I’m sure we can help one another.’

  ‘There will be containers of a drug, and probably a large machine of some sort – a big operation. The stop for the British Museum. You need to go there and get the police or someone to stop him.’

  ‘That’s great, Georgia,’ said Megan. ‘Sounds useful. I’ll bring my textbook.’

  ‘Get her mobile number,’ Abbie said, then shook her head, implying Adam was being dim.

  A pad and pen were on the dashboard. The driver was still outside, smoking, so Abbie grabbed a sheet and wrote while Megan said her number.

  ‘Megan, you have to go this afternoon. It’ll all happen today or tonight.’

  ‘Good, I’ll see if I can come over. I didn’t really get it in class either. And I know we need it for GCSE.’ Megan cradled the phone in her hand for a second, then airily asked if she could go out to see Georgia so that they could do their homework together.

  Megan went into her room and switched on her computer. She typed in British Museum , then went through to the Getting Here page on the museum’s website.

  A map came up on the screen, with the British Museum in the middle.

  ‘Adam!’ she muttered in frustration. The British Museum was almost exactly i
n the middle of four different tube stations: Tottenham Court Road, Holborn, Russell Square and Goodge Street. The first two were a bit closer, but it all depended which entrance you went into the museum.

  ‘I can’t go to all four,’ she said to herself.

  After a pause she dialled a number: Rachel. Then another: Asa. Then a third: Leo. Each time she said the same thing, more or less. ‘I’m asking for a huge favour. I need you to meet me outside the British Museum, by the front gate, right by the place I was kidnapped about a year ago, in one hour.’

  ‘Of course, Meg,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Sure,’ said Leo.

  ‘Okey-dokey,’ said Asa. ‘I’ll get out of bed and put some clothes on. It’s just as well this isn’t a Skype.’

  ‘I need to get moving,’ said the driver.

  Adam and Abbie were frantically discussing plans. The lorry driver had agreed to take Abbie into Edinburgh as he was going that way, and he even gave Adam some leftover sandwiches, a tatty coat and some old trainers that were lying around in his cab. The clothes smelt of smoke, but Adam had never more gratefully received a gift.

  Outside the open door of the cab, Adam gave Abbie a quick hug.

  ‘Come on,’ shouted the driver.

  ‘You know what you’re doing?’ said Abbie.

  ‘If you know what you’re doing,’ said Adam.

  Adam saw her hand wave from the cab window as the lorry pulled out on to the dual carriageway. Then he started making his way back to Castle Dreich.

  CHAPTER 31

  BRITISH MUSEUM (SATURDAY 20TH DECEMBER 2014)

  It was five past four when Asa arrived outside the British Museum, still trying to flatten down an eccentric upright piece of hair. ‘What’s the excitement?’ he asked.

  Leo, standing behind the girls, stared at the back of Megan’s head, breathed in silently through his teeth and shook his head quickly from side to side as if to say she’s gone a bit mad .

  ‘Leo,’ Asa said, ‘have you got some sort of twitch?’

  Ignoring Leo’s red face, Megan ploughed on. ‘I’ve had a message from Adam.’

  ‘Where is he?’ said Asa.

  Megan explained what she knew.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Asa said. ‘I always wanted to be involved in this James Bond stuff, saving London, keeping the British end up.’ He looked at Rachel, then back at Megan. ‘There won’t be any real danger, will there?’

  ‘There could be some danger,’ Megan said. ‘But hopefully not. All we need to do is go to the nearest tube stations and look for anyone acting suspiciously.’

  ‘Right . . .’ Asa said warily.

  ‘Hmmm . . .’ added Leo.

  ‘OK – I think,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Listen,’ Megan continued. ‘The man we’re worried about is thin, has a birthmark on his face and wears glasses.’

  Asa pointed at Leo with a look of sudden and excited discovery.

  Megan flashed Asa the sort of look that often precedes violent words or actions. ‘. . . And he’s called Alistair. He might have a large device of some sort for distributing poison gas – it’ll probably be really obvious.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll be dressed as a London Underground worker and carrying boxes,’ suggested Leo.

  ‘Good thinking,’ said Megan.

  ‘Or he could trick us by wearing it, like a weird fancy-dress costume,’ added Asa.

  Megan ignored him. ‘There are four possible stations – Adam didn’t specify which. So we’ll split up, warn each station and keep an eye out. Let’s meet back here at five.’

  RUSSELL SQUARE

  Asa was relieved to think that Russell Square was the least likely target, as it wasn’t on the side of the main British Museum entrance.

  He breezed up to a man in a London Underground uniform standing in front of the ticket barrier and the three lifts. ‘Hey,’ he started, ‘how’s it going?’

  ‘Can I help you?’ The man didn’t look easily amused.

  ‘I’m, er, worried that something might be about to happen in this station,’ Asa ventured.

  The attendant leaned forward until his nose was about six inches away from Asa’s. ‘Are you delivering a specific threat, son?’

  ‘No, no,’ Asa mumbled, backing away. ‘I just wanted to check everything was OK and that nobody has carried in any machines . . .’

  The man looked as if he was about to speak frankly to Asa and throw him out, but he controlled himself in time. ‘We’ll be vigilant,’ he said bluntly. ‘Every part of the station is under surveillance. You should remember that.’

  ‘Is it OK if I go into the station?’

  ‘Are you a threat?’

  ‘No,’ Asa said, ‘I just want to get a train.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to go into the station. The trains are down the lift.’

  Asa went down in the lift. It was clear to him that no one could get a sizeable device past the man at the front and into these lifts, or drag it down the stairs. There weren’t even escalators.

  He hung around for a while, wandering up and down both platforms until the same man arrived. ‘Leave,’ was all he said.

  GOODGE STREET

  Leo strode off to Goodge Street. Megan trusted him to do a thorough job, but was terrified about what would happen if he did discover something. She hoped that there would be police nearby, or at least a tough attendant.

  Like Russell Square, Goodge Street was all lifts and no escalators.

  Leo headed straight to the platform and did a methodical check. He looked under the seats and examined the tiling, even trying to work out what lay behind locked doors.

  Nothing.

  An hour later: still nothing.

  Leo thought that the whole idea was rather fantastical. He wondered how he would try to deliver poisoned gas. He would have to wear a mask and other protective clothing. He would need lots of the source material, unless it was something tiny and powerful, like the poison those people used in Tokyo. He would need to pump it out. True, moving trains would then disperse it, terrifyingly, through the system, but surely people would see the machine.

  Maybe in a tunnel? But the trains ran so close to the wall – they’d squash anyone.

  Then one idea led to another and Leo realized exactly how he would do it. They had been really stupid. He had to find Megan.

  HOLBORN

  Rachel headed off to Holborn Station.

  It was large and busy. Rachel wandered up to a young attendant standing by the ticket barrier. ‘Excuse me,’ she said confidently, ‘could you help me out?’

  ‘Of course I can,’ he said, smiling. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I’m trying to find someone – he’s slim and . . .’ She didn’t want to say anything negative. ‘And has a sort of birthmark on his face. I think he’s lost.’

  Agreement being the easiest course of action, the attendant let Rachel into the station without a ticket. But it was soon clear that there was no one matching her description on any of the four platforms, though she looked twice. There was nothing suspicious at all.

  TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD

  Megan wove past people as she approached one of the station’s entrances. People were milling around outside the ticket barriers, never still, but not actually seeming to go anywhere. She nudged into several people vaguely matching the description of Alistair, but without noticeable birthmarks.

  She was being swept along by a crowd of tourists following a man with a raised umbrella when she saw a slim man heaving a large bag through one of the barriers. A heavy rucksack made him lean backwards slightly. She looked closer but couldn’t see his face. He wore a long white cloak. Megan watched him go down the escalator marked Central Line .

  Megan shouted ‘Hey!’ half at the man and half at one of the attendants. ‘Stop!’ Then she saw two police officers leaning over the ticket barrier and laughing with one of the station staff. ‘Help!’ she shouted. ‘Over here!’

  The female police officer hurried over.

 
; ‘There’s a man acting suspiciously. Something might be about to happen. He’s gone down there.’ She pointed.

  The policewoman looked surprised. ‘What makes you think he’s suspicious?’ she asked.

  Megan was on tiptoe, trying to see if the man was still visible. ‘I’m worried there’s going to be an attack. He had a heavy bag and a rucksack. Acting very suspiciously. I can point him out, if we’re quick.’

  Megan followed the officers down the escalator. As they came to the bottom, just as a train was entering the station, the man was there, halfway along the platform.

  ‘Sir, please stop and stand still,’ said the officer.

  The man looked around as if someone else was being addressed.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. You! With the bag and the rucksack.’

  Fear raced through those nearby. A wide circle formed around the man; some people left the platform, parents shuffling kids in front of them.

  An athletic-looking man with a crew cut pounced forward and took hold of the man from behind as Megan and the policewoman arrived. ‘Don’t try anything,’ he growled.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ asked the man with the case. ‘I am a good man, a peaceful man.’

  Megan was undeterred, though she realized now that he had moles on his face, not a birthmark. Perhaps Abbie had got them mixed up.

  The policewoman peered into the man’s rucksack. She was cautious, using two fingers and leaning back as if there might be an animal inside waiting to bite her. She only found two large bottles of water and a folded rug. Even more slowly, the suitcase was unzipped – then, all of a sudden, gifts for children spilt out.

  ‘I am a British man, born in London,’ he said. ‘I know why you stop me; it is not fair.’

  Megan looked at the ground, avoiding the man’s stare. ‘No. You’re right. Sorry.’ She noticed that the policewoman was also sending her annoyed glances. ‘I’m sorry to you as well,’ Megan added. ‘It’s just that . . .’ Megan then mentioned that she had a tip-off about an attack.

  ‘If there’s a specific threat, we’ll have to close the station . . .’