I can’t drop onto the roof. Not realistically.’ Stephanie looked at the plans again. ‘The lifts …’
‘No. The main lift and the service lift both stop automatically on the floor beneath the penthouse. Every time the doors open, they’re checked by the guards. You wouldn’t even get to the right floor.’
‘Not the actual lifts. The lift-shafts.’
It takes forty-five minutes to reach it. A large ledge of soaking black granite, sodden grass beneath it, grassy tufts and dead trees above it, and above them, a one-hundred-foot granite wall.
I look at Boyd. He grins mischievously. ‘Not that. The ledge.’
Icy water falls from the ledge, a veil made of dozens of streams, some as heavy as a running tap, others needle-thin. The sound of the trickle, gurgle and rush is all we can hear.
‘Look at it. Doesn’t it remind you of something?’
I shrug. ‘Not immediately.’
‘Central Park West. The cornice around the top of the building.’
In my mind, I see the photographs again. Gothic, heavy, monstrous.
‘The cornice above the penthouse is about the same size and angle as this piece of rock. You’re going to have to come down over it.’
‘I’ll be suspended, though …’
‘Yes. But you need to climb down over it, not drop.’
‘Okay.’
‘But before you make a descent here, I want you to try to climb up it.’
I look at the reverse angle. I’ve tackled far worse and Boyd knows it. My mother, who was Swiss, was a climber of some fame when she was young. She made it to the top of Everest at the second attempt and conquered most of Europe’s greatest peaks, with the notable exception of the Eiger, which denied her twice. I’ve inherited her love of climbing and her lack of fear on rock.
I walk up to the face and place my palms against it. Hard, wet and freezing cold. Before I start, I make a map in my head of the route I’ll take. Crevices for toes, slender finger-holds, chunks small enough to grab but large enough to take the whole weight of my body. It’s join-the-dots. When I’ve seen exactly how I’ll make it to the lip of the ledge, I start.
I’m ten feet off the ground when I fall. I’m reaching to my right, spread-eagled across the rock, leaning back at an angle of almost forty-five degrees. I grab a sharp but thick ledge and I’m beginning to transfer my weight when, without warning, the rock shears, coming away in my hand. There’s no time to react. I’m already falling. I land on thick grass with a squelch.
As I struggle for breath, Boyd says, ‘You okay?’
I try to say something but can’t form a word. He leaves me to recover for a moment.
‘I thought that might happen.’
To prove the point, he steps through the gossamer waterfall, grabs a secure-looking wedge of rock and yanks it. It snaps free of the face, leaving a light scar beneath.
‘Bastard,’ I gasp.
‘It could happen again.’
I sit up. I’m soaked to the skin. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The plasterwork on the cornice. It’s old and rotten. It’s liable to come away in your hand.’
‘You must be pretty pleased with yourself.’
‘Very. Now let’s try it from the top.’
Stephanie pulled the curtains. It was a breezy morning, the wind sending washboard ripples across the loch. There was frost on the grass. She dressed quickly. The T-shirt she’d left to dry overnight was stiff and smelt of peat. She pulled a sweatshirt over the top. She collected her boots from the small drying room by the back door. They were warm.
Boyd was in the kitchen, drinking coffee, leaning against the sink. He wore an old pair of combat trousers and a chunky black V-neck over a white T-shirt.
‘Aren’t we going for a run?’
‘Valeria’s gone. She didn’t want to wake you. She asked me to say goodbye to you.’
‘When did she go?’
‘Early this morning. I drove her into Lairg.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Your preparation is over. At least, this part of it is.’
Stephanie wanted to say something, to protest. But she couldn’t.
Boyd seemed to sense it. ‘I got a call last night, after you’d gone to bed. Tomorrow morning, you’re going home.’
‘It’s not home.’
Boyd poured coffee from the pot into an enamel mug and offered it to her. ‘You can go for a run if you like, but I thought we might give it a miss this morning. You’re in good enough shape.’
‘But not so much fun to look at?’
He smiled. ‘No, I’m afraid not. I miss the bouncy bits you arrived with.’
‘You’ll get over it.’
‘Don’t be too sure.’ He refilled his own mug. ‘I need to go to Durness. Do you want to come?’
She could taste the sea before she saw it. They drove slowly on roads where sheep were the major source of traffic. They entered Durness at midday, sweeping past the primary school before halting outside the Mace store, a small supermarket with a post office counter, where green fees could be paid for Durness Golf Club, mainland Britain’s most northerly and windswept course. There was a BP filling station opposite the store, a small wooden hut beside the old pumps.
They bought groceries at Mace. There were half a dozen people inside the store. Boyd appeared to know them all. He fell into conversation with a couple at the till. A wiry man with copper hair shot a glance at Stephanie and then cracked a sly joke she couldn’t hear. Laughter all round. A fat woman in a grubby black fleece asked Boyd how his season had been.
He caught Stephanie’s eye. ‘More challenging than usual, Mary. But more rewarding, too.’
There was more conversation, more laughter, Boyd at the centre of it, relaxed, social. To Stephanie, who was silent and watching, it was a minor revelation. Outside, he suggested a walk. They headed out towards
