Page 90 of At the Crossroads

“Two things worry me. One is the toll his job takes on him. The other is this terrorist nonsense. Max may make light of the whole thing, but he’s at the cracking point. And none of us want him back in that place near Cambridge.”

The memory of Max telling me about the motorbike crash, the therapy, the counseling washes over me, wave after wave. “I think he’s frustrated he can’t do more about it. And MI6 seems to want him as a staked goat.”

“Allan Mason is a bawbag.”

I’m not sure exactly what that means, but it’s definitely not a compliment.

“He went to school with Max, and they never got on. Looks like they still don’t.” He pauses for more tea. “Shame too. His brother went to school with Ian, and they were best mates. Max and Allan, though, oil and water through and through.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.” My fingers twist. “You know how close-mouthed Max can be.”

“Always good at keeping secrets. It’s what made him so good at his job. Well, nothing to be done. Events are going to play out, however. I hope, when we’re on the other side, Max will take some time off. The two of you need a good long holiday, or maybe a honeymoon.”

“With the problems at his company I don’t imagine that happening. This meeting he’s in is all about getting updates on their current software problem.”

Brian explodes. “That’s what I mean. He’s never away from it. I have a mind to talk to Clay Brandon myself.”

“Max wouldn’t thank you for the interference.”

He runs a hand over his face.“You’re right and I won’t. But once a dad, always a dad.” He picks up the now-empty mugs and puts them on the countertop. “Let’s go back and find out what everyone’s up to.”

“I meant to ask about Max’s birthday surprise.”

Brian, now in a better mood, smiles. “Driving. We’re taking everyone to the track. And now you know how to drive, you can take one of the cars.”

I knew learning to drive was a bad idea.

ChapterTwenty-Five

Max

When we pull up to the Lohan Beinn Hotel near Aberlour, I’m gobsmacked. Familiar with the elegant country house hotel, I can’t imagine why we’ve made the half-hour drive here.

“Lunch?” I suppose if this is my belated birthday treat, a meal is not out of the question, although ten-thirty in the morning seems a bit early.

“We could have lunch here,” Meggy throws out doubtfully.

“Racing.” Mum grins at me.

Dad fills in the gaps. “The Robertsons have turned some of the land into a private racetrack, designed to be like the original Brands Hatch track in Kent.”

We troop into the hotel lobby, where we’re greeted by Graeme Robertson in a thick Glaswegian accent. “Nice to have you and the family here to try out our wee track, Mr. Grant.”

“Good to be here, Graeme.” Of course Dad is on a first-name basis. “I keep telling you to call me Brian. Unless you’d prefer Wing Commander,” he jokes.

“Of course.” For a moment, Robertson looks slightly uncomfortable. Maybe he feels a certain deference is due. Dad would roar at that. We all wait, as if Wing Commander might pop out at any moment.

Then Robertson comes over and claps me on the back. “You’re the birthday boy?”

I wince, then force a smile. “That’s me.”

“We’ll make this a birthday to remember.”

“What made you decide to put in the track?” I ask to break the awkward pause well as pure curiosity. This area mostly brings in tourists to fish and shoot, as well as to climb. Not that motor sports aren’t popular.

“Too much competition for the shooting and the salmon. Turns out there’s a fair few people looking for a bit of track driving when they’re on their holidays.”

“Why did you choose a Brands Hatch type of design?” Frank wonders.