Turning Point Read Free Page B

term
cuckoo clock
was a wind-up, a joke, a veiled reference to something only the Swiss would understand, since all they had met up with so far had been efficiency – plain and simple. Not only had the plane landed precisely to time but queues for immigration had failed to materialise, and the loo he had popped into had positively sparkled with cleanliness. By the time they reached the luggage hall, suitcases were already breaking through the rubber flanges at the end of the conveyor belt, dropping them off at their customers’ feet rather like an obedient dog bringing in the newspaper.
    He glanced across the limousine at his father wondering how he was holding up, his expression tinged with worry. It was a familiar expression; Scott saw it often enough when staring at himself in the mirror. Plain features, nothing to write home about, although so far his skin had remained clear of spots, his long fair hair neatly trimmed above stormy grey eyes that carried a permanent frown. When the obsession for styling gel had swept into school Scott had steered clear, deciding it smacked of narcissism. Besides, he didn’t have time to bother with stuff like that; the life-threatening incidents of the past six months had left a very clear picture of what was important. On his list, number one was staying alive by any means possible.
    The anxious look had appeared the day a bullet blasted his dad’s shoulder to pieces, and had rapidly become a permanency. Even though doctors had assured anyone who cared to listen, that Bill would make a full recovery, the word
full recovery
still sat uneasily with Scott.
    The limousine, black and elegant with tinted windows, its chassis reinforced with armour-plating guaranteed to stop anything other than a missile, followed docilely behind a long line of vehicles crawling along the lakeshore towards Geneva; the skyline to the south dominated by the unmistakable shape of Mont Blanc. A majestic silhouette, its crest was topped with snow all year round. In summer, when climbing the Alps became a pastime for both the skilful and foolhardy, it was possible to reach the summit and retreat down again in a little over five hours.
    Lake Geneva lay unmoving, dark and uninviting, although the intense frost of the early morning had cleared, leaving a sky darkening towards snow. The travel brochure, which Scott had browsed through on the plane, proclaimed the lake a fun spot in the summer, with people flocking to the water to escape the heat and humidity of the city. Gazing now upon its sullen surface, it seemed impossible to imagine even donning a swimsuit and sunbathing. The heat gained from long months of summer sunshine had long since dissipated, like a flock of birds heading south for the winter. Only health fanatics would trespass on its shores now. The thought of dipping a foot into the icy water made him shiver uncontrollably.
    â€˜What?’
    Scott grinned, embarrassed at being so feeble-minded. ‘Nothing really, it was the idea of people taking a swim in that.’ He pointed at the unmoving stretch of water.
    â€˜It doesn’t look like this in summer.’
    The man occupying the passenger seat next to the driver slid back the intervening glass partition. Shifting sideways, his jacket snagged against the back of his seat, the outline of a bulky strap clearly visible through the lined material. Without being told, Scott knew it was a holster for a gun – a M1911 – a semi-automatic pistol, magazine fed, with a .45 cartridge. And despite a somewhat controversial history, still the weapon of choice for many American departments. Scott knew this because Tulsa, who had accompanied them to Switzerland, often chatted to him about guns. And he did so with a sense of pride that marked him out as being American.
    Guns were something that Scott had quickly become used to, ever since… He glanced out of the corner of his eye at his father, noticing how stiffly he still held the