One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night by Christopher Brookmyre Page A

consumer principles had also lined his bookshelves with the complete works of Clancy, Grisham and Archer.
    They parked at the Kilbokie Liftings Jetty and travelled the half‐
mile or so out to the Floating Jobbie by powerlaunch, several of which would ordinarily be shuttling back and forth while construction work was underway. Refurbishment activities were now suspended at weekends, Delta Leisure having found the overtime outlay to be the only thing more expensive than the interest payments. This meant that all the boats were at Gavin’s disposal, but he had instead sprung for a helicopter charter to take the guests out to the platform that afternoon. This was presumably in accordance with the philosophy that ostentation was its own reward, even – maybe especially – when you’re skint.
    ‘Darling, would you mind taking the gear up to our suite?’ Gavin said, stepping out of the elevator and handing her the overnight bag. ‘I’d better make my presence visible to the staff, check on a couple of things. And maybe you should give your mother a call, make sure the twins are all right.’
    ‘I shouldn’t imagine anything fatal’s happened to them in the five hours since I last saw them, dear.’
    ‘Indulge me, darling,’ he added, giving her a peck on the cheek and a thin smile, ostensibly a gesture of affection but translating in the language of their marriage to ‘Fuck off out of my face, can’t you see I’m busy?’
    Indulge him. Indulge what? Gavin could often go a fortnight at a time without seeing Rachel and Patricia; one morning was hardly going to leave him wounded by their absence. The true intention of his remark was to restate (once more) that
she
ought to be with them. This was less motivated by any fears over her mother’s child‐
care competence than by Gavin’s never explicitly spoken – but nonetheless bluntly obvious – desire that Simone shouldn’t be at the party tonight.
    Not that he wasn’t concerned for his daughters’ welfare. He loved them and treasured them, undoubtedly far more than any of the material accoutrements his success had garnered. However, he didn’t love them
differently
from those material accoutrements: he wanted to take them out and admire them – even play with them – while the mood took him, but once he was finished, he wanted to put them back in their boxes again and play with something else.
    His wife was the box‐
keeper.
    Simone watched him skip off towards the administration suites, impatient to start pushing the buttons and flicking the switches on his latest, biggest toy. She picked up the overnight bag and began walking towards the Laguna Hotel, the most luxurious of the accommodation blocks and so far the first to have its furnishing and decoration completed. She took the most direct route, using the ornate footbridges to cross the network of water‐
channels, islets and cascades that fed in and out of the largest of the resort’s swimming pools. A breath of wind found its way between the buildings and the screens, the briefest smell of salt a welcome natural intruder amid the interchanging wafts of chlorine, fresh paint and gypsum.
    She arrived at the Laguna’s lobby doors, which obstinately failed to open for her. Through the glass she noticed one of the skeleton staff gesticulating at her from where he sat behind the reception desk. He was pointing with a bored expression at the unlit chandeliers and wall‐
mounted uplighters, communicating not only that the electricity was temporarily off but also that she must have the visual acuity of a pipistrelle not to have noticed.
    She shifted the bag to her other arm and walked to the right‐
most door, which sported a blue triangular handle in the shape of the Delta Leisure logo. Neither pushing nor pulling yielded a result. The receptionist pointed with a pencil towards the other side of the entrance, this time not even looking up from his paper. Sighing, she changed her grip on the bag once more,