Free Whiteout by Ken Follett

had now intruded into her working life, and she welcomed the chance to explain. “I honestly don’t know why Frank hates me. I never rejected him. He left me—and he did it at a moment when I really needed help and support. You’d think he’d punished me enough for whatever I did wrong. But now this.”
    â€œI can understand it. You’re a standing reproach to him. Every time he sees you, he’s reminded of how weak and cowardly he was when you needed him.”
    Toni had never thought about Frank in quite that way, and now his behavior made a kind of sense. She felt a warm surge of gratitude. Careful not to show too much emotion, she said, “That’s perceptive.”
    He shrugged. “We never forgive those we’ve wronged.”
    Toni smiled at the paradox. Stanley was clever about people as well as viruses.
    He put a hand on her shoulder lightly, a gesture of reassurance—or was it something more? He rarely made physical contact with his employees. She had felt his touch exactly three times in the year she had known him. He had shaken her hand when he gave her the initial contract, when he tookher on the staff, and when he promoted her. At the Christmas party, he had danced with his secretary, Dorothy, a heavy woman with a maternally efficient manner, like an attentive mother duck. He had not danced with anyone else. Toni had wanted to ask him, but she was afraid of making her feelings obvious. Afterward she had wished she were more brash, like Susan Mackintosh.
    â€œFrank may not have leaked the story merely to spite you,” Stanley said. “I suspect he would have done it anyway. I imagine Osborne will show his gratitude by reporting favorably on the Inverburn police in general and Superintendent Frank Hackett in particular.”
    His hand warmed her skin through the silk of her blouse. Was this a casual gesture, made without thought? She suffered the familiar frustration of not knowing what was in his mind. She wondered if he could feel her bra strap. She hoped he could not tell how much she enjoyed being touched by him.
    She was not sure he was right about Frank and Carl Osborne. “It’s generous of you to look at it that way,” she said. All the same, she resolved that somehow she would make sure the company did not suffer from what Frank had done.
    There was a knock at the door and Cynthia Creighton, the company’s public-relations officer, came in. Stanley took his hand off Toni’s shoulder quickly.
    Cynthia was a thin woman of fifty in a tweed skirt and knitted stockings. She was a sincere do-gooder. Toni had once made Stanley laugh by saying Cynthia was the kind of person who made her own granola. Normally hesitant in manner, she was now on the edge of hysteria. Her hair was disheveled, she was breathing hard, and she talked too fast. “Those people shoved me,” she said. “They’re animals! Where are the police?”
    â€œA patrol car is on its way,” Toni said. “They should be here in ten or fifteen minutes.”
    â€œThey should arrest the lot of them.”
    Toni realized, with a sinking feeling, that Cynthia was not capable of dealing with this crisis. Her main job was to dispense a small charitybudget, giving grants to school football teams and sponsored walkers, ensuring that the name of Oxenford Medical appeared frequently in the Inverburn Courier, in stories that had nothing to do with viruses or experiments on animals. It was important work, Toni knew, for readers believed the local press, whereas they were skeptical of national newspapers. Consequently, Cynthia’s low-key publicity immunized the company against the virulent Fleet Street scare stories that could blight any scientific enterprise. But Cynthia had never dealt with the jackal pack that was the British press in full cry, and she was too distressed to make good decisions.
    Stanley was thinking the same thing. “Cynthia, I want you