Ash

  He also had an incentive, one provided by Sir Victor Haelstrom himself. Just a week or so ago, when Twigg and Eddy were making arrangements for their trip to London, Sir Victor had mentioned privately to the apprentice assassin that he might just keep a watchful eye on Twigg while they were in the capital.

  There had been no explanation, not even a direct order; but the message was clear enough. Sir Victor had rarely addressed him personally before. He frowned, then the corners of his mouth twitched. He smiled. Those words, he realized, had for the first time given him some authority.

  Almost creeping now, Eddy spied a splash of off-white further on, and the thin curling of smoke obviously from a chimney told him he’d nearly reached the cottage. Although it was October, the apprentice was perspiring just a little, and gave himself the excuse (he was always clean) that Hugo Boss material wasn’t good for jungle trekking. Neither was his William Hunt shirt.

  He crouched as he moved forward, for once wanting to challenge Twigg before the senior assassin spotted him.

  The cottage was in a forest clearing, the area around it full of flowers and neatly pruned shrubs. The heather-thatched roof, with its minuscule wall chimney, smoke lazily rising from it, would be considered enchanting by kids, newlyweds and estate agents, but to Eddy it was just a country hovel. He half expected the seven dwarfs to come marching out at any moment, the dopey one – what was his name? – tripping over the doorstep as the others whistled on into the woods. There were plenty of birds about, twittering and fussing, as if to betray his light footsteps.

  Scarcely breathing, he crept through freshly turned flower beds as a magpie swooped past his left shoulder and squawked. It flew off, over the roof of the chocolate-box house, while Eddy froze on the spot. Twigg had acute hearing, the apprentice knew that, and Eddy was afraid that the alarmed squawk had given his presence away.

  But no, there were no sounds from within, no scraping of a chair, no footsteps on the hard flagstone floor. Still he waited until he was sure that the bald-headed fucker hadn’t been roused. Maybe Twigg was sleeping – it had been a long day for him. Or maybe he was strolling in the woods. Either way, Twigg was too much of an old hand to leave the top half of the front door open.

  Well, Eddy told himself, you can’t stand here for the rest of the day. He thought of calling out casually, as though he expected Twigg to be inside. But then, what would Eddy be doing trampling all over Twigg’s flower beds when there was a perfectly sound path of evenly spaced flagstones leading straight up to the front door? And anyway, there seemed to be no sign of activity inside the cottage, so Twigg had to be napping. Cautiously, Eddy ventured on. Could be Twigg was testing him.

  When he was near one of the closed windows, the apprentice ducked low, but continued his approach. Stooping even lower, he placed both hands on the window sill and tried a sneaky look through the glass.

  He immediately ducked down again, a ploy he’d been taught to save himself a bullet in the head should someone inside be expecting him. That way he instantly had the lie of the land without exposing himself long enough to have his head blown from his shoulders.

  Yet he’d almost frozen in full view because of the sight that had greeted him – only rigid training made him drop instinctively. He waited out of sight while the scene beyond the glass played back in his mind.

  The interior was gloomy, and even though light streamed in through the open half-door and window, Cedric Twigg was plain enough to see.

  Afraid, but no coward, Eddy shifted his position, leaning his left shoulder to scuff against the whitewashed wall, and slowly raised his head again until his eyes were level with the window ledge. Dangerously, he had to raise a hand sideways against the glass pane to see inside more clearly.

  Yes, as he’d thought, it was Cedric Twigg sitting there at the scarred old table in profile view. This time Eddy didn’t pull away but remained as he was and watched the other man in astonishment.

  Twigg was seated at the table, wearing a collarless old shirt with the sleeves rolled up, as if he’d been toiling in the garden. One of his hands was pressed against the table’s scratched surface, yet twitching and jumping as if its owner had no power over it. But it was Twigg’s other hand that caused Eddy even more consternation.

  It was in constant fidget, a strange one at that, because it was as if it were rolling a pill or ball bearing over and over between thumb and first finger, the motion increasing in speed and becoming more jerky, Twigg, it seemed, unable to take his eyes from the movement.

  Over and over the thumb and finger went, with the assassin bent over the table, his normally rigid back stooped, his head low as he watched his own shaky fingers move again and again, rolling the minute or non-existent object.

  That disturbing hand mime refused to be still, even though Twigg stared, his thin lips moving, as if he were commanding the fingers to stop.

  Eddy slid down below window height and squatted there, the back of his suit smeared with white dust. Never before had he been so afraid of Twigg, and that was because the senior assassin was always in strict command of himself. At this moment he wasn’t, and Eddy didn’t want to witness any more. Especially, he didn’t want to be in the same room as the man whose eyes now bulged with craziness.

  Yet sometimes fear has its own fascination.

  Although scared – hell, fucking terrified! – Eddy just had to take one more peek through that wood-framed window. Almost robotically, he dug the muddy heels of his Shipton & Heneage rustic-grain calf shoes into the dirt and pushed himself haltingly up the flaking wall that dusted the back of his sharp Hugo Boss jacket.

  When the back of his head rose above the window sill, he slowly turned to look directly into the room once more . . .

  . . . To see Cedric Twigg, perfectly still and straight-backed at the table, his head now turned, those far-gone, crazy bulbous eyes staring directly into Eddy’s own. It was the assassin’s malign, thin-lipped smile that provoked the high, terrified shriek from Nelson.

  The apprentice assassin struggled to his feet, stumbling twice before he made it and, mouth agape, he fled that hideous little thatched-roof cottage in the clearing deep inside the suddenly hushed autumnal woods.

  21

  The driver’s words slowly sank in as Ash gazed at Comraich Castle. It felt as though the centuries-old fortress were revealing the towering menace of its full grandeur specifically to him – maybe as a warning after what had happened to the medium. The grey mists that had swirled around the substructure only moments before (or so it seemed), making the building appear rootless, distanced from the earth itself, had roamed onwards, thinning and dispersing as they went. The now almost-blue sky outlined the castle’s ramparts and towers as if they marked the edge of the world.

  The ghost hunter hadn’t expected a display of this magnitude and of such proportionate design, even though it was obvious that it had gone through much renovation work and additions throughout the years.

  The castle spread out before him, its high solid sandstone walls, with their crenel and merlon battlements ending in round towers, was a magnificent sight. Two more towers rose even higher in the middle section of the edifice, both projecting from the main structure itself. He expected to find arrow loops in the walls, simple vertical slits through which arrows and later, guns, could be fired in defence, but in their place were many windows of differing sizes, some tall, some low, indicating that this was no longer the age of arrows and muskets, and certainly not spears. To the right of the old building was a defensive, crenellated walkway leading to much smaller buildings and a battery of cannons, all pointing seawards. Comraich itself was too wide to see what lay beyond the far side.

  Ash was impressed. The sun had made its presence known and the lower mists around the castle had faded to gossamer – but there was something inaccessible, intangible about how it made him feel. He was mesmerized.

  The big arched wooden doors centred in the facade directly across the vast courtyard suddenly opened
and two figures emerged to descend the short flight of steps; they strolled casually towards what Ash presumed were the castle’s walled gardens.

  Ash had been aware that while he studied the castle, Dalzell had been casting surreptitious looks his way as though waiting for a reaction.

  ‘Are you okay, Mr Ash?’

  Ash was surprised. ‘I’m fine, although I must admit, I’m still a bit shaken by the sudden death of the medium – what was her name, Moira Glennon?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But the sunlight makes a difference to Comraich.’

  ‘Um, Mr Ash, we’ve been sitting here between ten and fifteen minutes, y’ken?’

  ‘What?’ The investigator glanced down at his wristwatch. ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘’Fraid so, sir. Y’were certainly engrossed in the place. I didnae like to disturb you.’ And I didnae want to describe the circumstances of her death, Dalzell thought. Someone else can tell him.

  Ash let out a breath of mild exasperation. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Dalzell.

  ‘Nae need. It’s a wondrous vision at the right time of day and with the right kind of weather.’

  You got that right, thought Ash, still stunned by his first sighting of the castle. ‘Maybe you should have brought Moira Glennon along when the sun was out.’ He saw Dalzell wince.

  The driver’s voice was serious. ‘What’s it to be, Mr Ash?’ he asked intently, as if there were an option.

  It took Ash a second or two to register the question. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘D’you want me to drive in? Or d’you want me to take y’straight back to the airport?’

  Ash had recovered his wits by then. ‘Now why in the hell would I want you to do that?’

  Dalzell let out a long sigh, as though he were already having regrets.

  ‘Right y’are,’ he said and the Mercedes began to glide forward.

  While Ash had been studying the castle, the car had been parked just under the arch leading into the broad courtyard, and he guessed that this had once been the main entrance – the gatehouse – to the whole castle area. Across the courtyard, more people were descending the steps and sauntering off in different directions, as if taking advantage of the late sunshine for a leisurely stroll. Most were casually well-dressed, and he wondered if they were castle residents or staff. He put the question to Dalzell as the driver guided the big car slowly around the courtyard to approach the broad steps side-on.

  ‘Both,’ came the answer, ‘although most are guests. They tend to enjoy a wee bit of exercise before lunch.’

  Ash eyed two people as they drove by. The pair seemed as curious about Ash as he was of them. The man was tall, hands clasped behind the back of his navy blue blazer. He wore a bold red-striped tie over a pale blue shirt, and beneath the blazer was a pair of sharply pressed grey slacks that creased where the hem met the brown suede loafers; the woman had on a sleek, fawn, unbuttoned overcoat over a grey silk pleated skirt and blouse. Both looked to be around sixty to sixty-five years old, and Ash guessed that they were a wealthy and healthy couple, perhaps retired and perhaps married.

  What they thought of him, he’d no idea, but neither one acknowledged the nod of his head in greeting. The car passed on while they stared at Ash.

  ‘Do they all live in Comraich?’ he asked the driver discreetly, as if they could hear him.

  ‘Aye, the seriously rich ones do. Our head people occupy the classier rooms and suites mostly in the upper floors of the castle. There are also modern apartments and suites built on the side of Comraich, which y’havenae been able to see yet. The barracks are a short distance from the castle.’

  ‘Barracks?’

  ‘Aye, but dinnae let that put you off. It’s just what we call the complex for guards, rangers and employees, including the intern doctors. Oh, and that includes our resident dentist.’

  ‘Christ,’ Ash said, almost in awe, ‘it’s a little self-contained kingdom.’

  ‘It’s that, all right. But the problems are inside the castle itself.’

  That quickly brought the investigator back to his assignment there.

  They had neared the steps to the huge, arched oak doors of Comraich Castle when a blonde, mussy-haired girl tripped down the steps arm in arm with a youth about her own age who resembled her so much that he could be no one other than her twin brother. Petra Pendine now wore a long dark loose-knit cardigan with a ruffled collar over a white sweater, the hem of the cardigan just reaching the top of the knees of her deep indigo leggings. Bulky tan Ugg boots paid mind to the air’s chilly crispness. The boy – wasn’t he called Peter? – wore a comfortable-looking rigger jacket over loose, casual jeans and similar to his sister’s, brown laceless Ugg boots. His head was covered by a striped knitted beanie and around his neck he wore a ragged, sizeable olive-and-black patterned desert scarf.

  Petra’s presence surprised Ash, for he thought she would still be sleeping off the injection Delphine Wyatt had given her on the jet; he could only conclude that habitual class-A usage had made her somewhat resistant to prescription drugs. Or maybe the excitement of reuniting with her twin brother had set the adrenaline rushing once more and the crashout was yet to come.

  She spied Ash in the Mercedes and elatedly pointed him out to her brother, before running forward and pressing her face to the passenger window like a juvenile fan who had just set eyes on her idol. Ash cringed in his seat and put up a hand to hide half his face, as if that would help the situation.

  ‘Peter, Peter,’ Petra cried, ‘come and meet him, he’s the hero that kept us calm when the plane took a dive!’

  He could hardly claim that, and he slid the passenger window down a couple of inches so she could hear as he tried to explain he’d done nothing so courageous. Obviously, she’d forgotten her dire warning to him; or maybe she hadn’t even been conscious of it.

  ‘Oh yes you did!’ Petra cried. ‘I want you to meet my brother, please come and say hello!’

  Petra yanked open the door, then grabbed at him and tried to pull him from the car. Ash realized the only thing to do was to unsnap his seatbelt before an awkward scene developed.

  Reluctantly, the investigator got out and tried to extricate himself from the arms she’d thrown enthusiastically around his neck. Whatever she was on now, he thought to himself, it wasn’t lorazepam. He got a clue when her brother shoved an asthma inhaler into his nostril and pressed down the plastic lever twice. Then Petra grabbed the small blue device, blatantly spraying its white powdery contents into both nostrils. Jesus, Delphine was going to have problems with this pair.

  Peter came forward – lurched forward might have been a more accurate depiction – to shake Ash’s hand. His wide smile revealed brilliantly white teeth, but there was a reserve in his perfectly blue eyes – matched in colour with his sister’s – that long ago Ash had come to recognize as suspicion or dislike.

  ‘It’s been nice,’ the young man said curtly as he grabbed his twin’s elbow and began to extract her from Ash.

  She let go of the investigator quite easily, although she gave her brother a sulky look. But both sets of blue eyes remained coke-wide and overexcited.

  ‘Let’s forget about the walk: I can show you round later. I’ve got something for you in my room,’ Peter stage-whispered, and instantly Petra perked up even more.

  ‘What about lunch?’ she whined as an afterthought.

  ‘Let’s call it an appetizer,’ he responded in a softer whisper that Ash only just caught.

  What the hell is going on in this place? he wondered. Dr Wyatt’s small case of ready-filled syrettes had already provided evidence that Comraich was lenient with regard to certain drugs, and he wondered if this was part of the regime, allowing rich folk to indulge in whatever they felt they needed. It was none of his business, of course, but he intended to confront Delphine with the suggestion sometime when they were alone.

  The car was parked so near the castle’s stone steps that there was no point in climbing back
inside the Mercedes. Dalzell opened the rear door and brought out the investigator’s leather shoulder bag. He also donned his smart charcoal-grey chauffeur’s cap, which apparently had been out of sight behind the driver’s seat while they were travelling.

  ‘I’ll see y’inside, Mr Ash,’ he said with his customary grin, ‘then y’ll be looked after by the boss, I think.’

  Ash fished inside his jacket to find his wallet, intending to give Dalzell a twenty-pound note.

  Seeing his intention, the driver raised a hand to ward off the gratuity. ‘Not necessary, sir,’ he said, but obviously grateful for the gesture. ‘All part of the service.’

  ‘Just a drink on me?’

  ‘Nae. I enjoyed y’company.’ Something or someone caught his eye. ‘Oh, I see the big guns are already out t’greet you.’

  Ash turned back to the castle steps and once more was surprised at what he saw.

  22

  A man – so big in bulk that his descent of the steps should have been cumbersome, heavy, even awkward – fairly skipped towards Ash. He barely took a breath when he seized Ash’s hand in his own, almost threatening to crush the investigator’s fingers in a grip so hard it made Ash wince.

  Ash made the excuse of looping his travel bag over a shoulder, the strap across his chest, before his hand was crushed permanently.

  ‘Good to see you, Mr Ash. Excellent to see you.’ Before Ash could reply, the big man, who was three inches taller than him, was introducing himself.

  ‘I’m Sir Victor Haelstrom, as you may have assumed, and the CEO of Comraich Castle.’

  ‘I expected nothing less than a laird,’ Ash returned with a smile. ‘Does that mean you’re also the Chief Executive Officer of the Inner Court?’

  Haelstrom looked at him curiously. ‘What do you know about the Inner Court?’