Storm and Silence (Storm and Silence 1)

‘On the contrary, Mr Linton.’ Mr Ambrose wasn’t paying the slightest attention to my fierce battle against the little fiends, but was instead studying the hotel and the beach with dark intensity. ‘This is brilliant. Dalgliesh’s style, executed to perfection. Blinding people with glamour - so perfect, and so him!’

Bending down, my little tormentor picked up an acorn and chucked it at my hat. I ducked just in time to prevent it being knocked off.

‘Glamour? To be honest, I can’t see what is glamorous here, Sir. You just wait, you little snot monster, till I get my hands on you!’

‘I beg your pardon, M

r Linton?’

‘Sorry, Sir. Wasn't talking to you, Sir.’

‘Focus, Mr Linton. Focus.’

‘Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. Come here, you bloody little blaggard!’

‘Mr Linton!’

‘Sorry, Sir. So sorry. What was that you said about Glamorgan?’

Mr Ambrose made an impatient gesture at our surroundings. ‘Glamour, Mr Linton, Glamour. This hotel, the tourists, the pretty beaches - all is a disguise for the real purpose of this island - to serve as a centre for some, if not all, of Lord Dalgliesh’s less-than-legal operations. That purpose is also the reason for the headquarters being on the French side of the Channel, i.e. outside British jurisdiction.’

He let his eyes wander over the scene before him, the glitter within them reminiscent of freshly fallen snow.

‘It is perfect. The perfect place. I must see whether I can persuade Dalgliesh to part with it somehow.’

I was so stunned I nearly didn’t manage to duck the next acorn that came flying at me. Had I heard right? Surely he did not mean that he, too, engaged in illegal operations for which he would need a place like this?

I took a look at his cool, granite profile, at the glitter in his dark eyes, and suddenly, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

Dear God… What manner of man did you get mixed up with, Lilly? And worse, you didn’t just get mixed up with him! You let him kiss-

But no! That had all been pure imagination.

An acorn hit me in the forehead, jerking me painfully from my thoughts.

‘Why, you darn little rug-rat…’

‘Excuse me, Mr Linton?’

‘Didn’t mean you, Sir! Sorry, Sir!’

‘Focus, Mr Linton. Focus.’

‘Yes, Sir. But let me respectfully point out that it is hard to focus while being pelted with missiles, Sir.’

‘It is simply a matter of concentration. Now listen closely, Mr Linton. We need to discuss our next move and coordinate our plans.’

‘Fine by me,’ I said, ducking the next acorn and making a grab for the brat’s sleeve. He danced away, cackling like the devil.

‘We need to split up. We need to gather as much information about this place as possible, and we can do that more quickly if we do it separately. I will go to the beach and ask questions there. You will go to the hotel, where the staff is likely to speak English. Our aim is to find out where exactly on this island Lord Dalgliesh’s headquarters is located. He will have to have privacy for his operations. Try to determine - unobtrusively, mind you - whether there is some place both locals and tourists avoid, or some place that is out of bounds for any reason. Such a spot would be the ideal centre for Dalgliesh’s operations. Understood?’

‘Yes, Sir. Only, Sir…’ I ducked another acorn. ‘It will be rather difficult to make unobtrusive enquiries with this little beast on my tail.’

‘Is that all?’

Mr Ambrose turned his attention towards the brat a few feet away from him. Only now did I realize that the little snot-monster had so far only chosen me as a target for his missiles, not aiming a single one at His Mightiness, Ambrose the Icy. I didn’t have long to ponder the reason for this. Mr Ambrose advanced on the child until he was standing right in front of it. Slowly, he bent down, until his face was on one level with the child. The little brat’s fist, already holding the next acorn, slowly sank down until it hung loosely at his side. He made a mistake and met Mr Ambrose’s dark gaze. The fist opened, and the acorn fell to the ground.

‘Toi.’ Mr Ambrose said, his voice calm and cold as the Antarctic. ‘Va-t'en. Maintenant.’