The reason he’d decided to hide Nelson’s mutilated corpse would seem crazy to most. It was because he felt in league with the wildcats. Of course, no love would ever exist between himself and the vicious felines, but he felt an indefinable affinity with them, and he somehow knew that he was their protector. Otherwise, the woods would be swept by gun-toting guards until the problem had been eradicated. Maybe his affiliation was fanciful, illusory, but it felt real.
The assassin went over to the body secreted beneath the woodland detritus of crispy leaves and damp ferns and reached for its one shod foot – the other was bare, although the caked blood resembled a red sock (not at all to Nelson’s taste, but then it didn’t really matter any more). Twigg pulled both feet towards him and the now-loosely constructed body slithered from its hiding place.
Oddly, the body looked in an even worse state than before; either that or the time spent bringing quicklime and water, not forgetting the shovel, back to the spot had deadened the shock of its image slightly. He pulled again and, the covering leaves disturbed, Twigg saw and felt the still-soft body stretching, only strands of skin and the spine managing to keep it in one piece. With less force, Twigg eased the pieces towards the shallow hole in the ground, and when grave and corpse were more or less adjacent he knelt and rolled the body in. Jawless head and torso first, then the hips and legs, still joined tenuously to the whole by the spine, skin, and some flesh.
Twigg found it difficult to rise to his feet again, for it had been a long and difficult day so far, and he comforted himself that any man would have been near exhaustion by now. But he made it, smacking the palms of his hands together to dislodge dirt and bits of bloody debris.
He surveyed his work for a moment or two before dragging the sack of lumpy quicklime over to the grave. He pondered on the stupidity of some murderers, those who simply poured ordinary garden or chlorinated lime over the victim, expecting to hide the smell of putrefaction. Smugly, he picked up the quicklime sack and spread the white powder over the body in the grave, then quickly used the water in the bucket to slake the lime. This method would keep the flesh dry and firm, avoiding the worst of the corruption and hence creating little stench once the earth was replaced. If Eddy Nelson’s cadaver were to be discovered in, say, six months’ time, then, apart from the foulness of his shredded parts, it would be in good condition: the flesh would be dry and firm, if a little shrunken, and there’d be no further rupturing of skin beyond that caused by the malicious ferocity of the wildcats.
With his grin drooling more saliva, the assassin picked up the standing shovel and covered his dead apprentice with dirt, remembering to scatter more fallen leaves and forest ferns over the low bump in the ground before he returned to his own sanctuary, the little cottage lost in the heart of the woodland paradise.
30
The breeze coming off the darkened sea was icy, but at least the air was fresh and cleansing. Which was how David Ash wanted to feel – cleansed from the dank mustiness and dirt in so many neglected regions of the huge castle.
He sat on a bench that was thoughtfully situated on the long walkway leading from Comraich overlooking the great Scottish waters. The red sun was low on the horizon, helping to warm the greyness of the land mass in the far distance, this just visible through a soft sanguine mist. The peaceful view at least helped Ash shed some of the tension he’d felt during his searches, a tension he knew was shared with Derriman, while Babbage seemed oblivious to the unease of his companions, as well as to the gloomy tenseness in the atmosphere. Ash, of course, was seasoned enough to differentiate imagination from sensing, and he was sufficiently attuned to know paranormal activity was present in this place. With the nature of Hoyle’s death, how could it be otherwise?
And it was not just the coldness of certain corridors and stairways, not even the draughts that swept or drifted through the old refurbished chambers. At times, when Ash had asked the others to pause so that he could consider whether a ‘mood’ was either static or transient through a location, Babbage would stand there, thick legs braced apart, arms folded, as if challenging any hint of spectral presence in the room or hallway. Ash knew that such stubborn scepticism was not conducive to supernatural revelation, but he couldn’t forget that a few years ago he would probably have adopted the same negative stance.
From his shoulder bag, he took out a journalist’s notebook and began to read through the brief observations he’d made during the tour of the castle’s lower floors. He also studied rough sketches he’d made of certain locations. Later, in the privacy of his own room, he would transfer the notes into his laptop, perhaps making more sense of them to gain an overview.
Although there hadn’t been time to assess the upper floors, he and the two guides, with Babbage acting as a resentful malcontent, had scoured several levels of the ancient building, including the kitchens, drawing rooms, libraries and armouries (including the one that had given Ash a fright earlier that day), as well as stairs, hallways and corridors. The investigator had marked a few locations that warranted further research, places where he would later instal cameras and sensors. More complicated equipment might be brought in after this initial search, but that was for another day – or night.
Ash had been both frustrated and angered by Babbage’s refusal to grant full access to the levels beneath Douglas Hoyle’s wrecked apartment. The security chief had been adamant that the lowest reaches were out of bounds to the investigator, and Derriman had apologetically concurred. Strict orders from Sir Victor Haelstrom had already vetoed any request to descend further than the second lower level, and neither Babbage nor Derriman was prepared to overrule him, even after witnessing Ash’s startling ejection into the corridor.
Ash was convinced that the haunting, and he had no doubts it was a haunting, emanated from the depths of Comraich, and during his meeting with Haelstrom in – he consulted his wristwatch – just over forty minutes, he would insist he be allowed down there. If not, then the deal was off: he would leave and return to London, even if it meant getting there under his own steam.
As he scribbled in the notepad resting on the flattened leather shoulder bag laid across his lap, a shadow fell over the page.
‘Mind if I sit with you a moment, old son?’ a crisp yet somehow weary voice said.
Ash looked up but couldn’t get a clear image of the individual standing before him because of the setting sun behind the man’s back; all he could see was someone tall and ramrod straight, almost of military bearing.
‘Help yourself,’ Ash replied, and felt the bench’s wooden planks lift, then sag as the stranger slumped next to him with a heavy sigh. In profile, the man looked as though he’d been handsome in his younger days, with a strong aquiline nose and firm jaw, spoilt only by longish lank hair that fell over his high forehead, its strands of grey easily winning against the blackness of youth. He wore a long, thick drooping moustache which, and despite its overgrown style, didn’t detract from the man’s military demeanour. In his day, his new companion might have been a member of the Queen’s Guard, so erect and proud was his comportment. Ash guessed him to be in his mid-to-late seventies.
The straight-shouldered man squinted his eyes towards the mellowing red sun and said to Ash without prompting, ‘They got it all wrong, y’know.’
Ash felt as though he’d just walked into a conversation in mid-sentence. He kept quiet.
The man shook his head slowly, as if regretfully. ‘They didn’t get the picture at all; thought I meant to batter her to death, as if I’d waste time on that silly bitch. Y’know, she ran naked in the street and into the nearest pub she could find, screaming blue murder, telling ’em her husband was trying to kill her.’
He gave a little dry chortle.
‘No, it was Sandra I intended to murder, and I did so. But out of rage,’ he added, as if that made the offence forgivable. He turned his head directly towards Ash, and the parapsychologist sat as if mesmerized. In fact, Ash was mesmerized. There was something famili
ar about this tall man and his story. If Ash was right – and he had a good memory for these things – it was one of those news items that never went away, was revived and speculated on every decade or so. And all because it had never been fully resolved. Ash was much too young to remember it himself, but he’d heard about it.
A cause célèbre. Almost folklore.
So Ash was patient and listened, even though not quite sure of the events that were being related to him. Besides, he already had some notion of the kind of people who resided in Comraich.
‘Not often we get fresh blood here,’ the lank-haired man observed, studying the investigator tip to toe. ‘On the run, is it? Damnable lonely place Comraich, you’ll come to find, even when full of guests. Always good to greet a newcomer, someone perhaps, who’ll listen to my side of the story. Others here don’t seem to care.’
Interested, Ash pressed him with a recollected detail. ‘You mentioned Sandra. She was the kiddies’ nanny, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Here they think I’ve forgotten, keep feeding me pills, the odd injection, do you see? And hypno, mustn’t forget the hypnotherapy. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but I can’t think what it is for the moment. Anyway, I don’t always swallow the pills, hide them under m’tongue; spit them out after. So sometimes I get really clear flashbacks, remember nearly everything. I’ve been at Comraich for, oh, six or seven years, but often it feels like yesterday, y’know?’
A bit longer than that if I’ve got it right, thought Ash. A few decades ago, if you only knew.
‘You said they’d got it wrong. Who was that? The police? The newspapers?’ he prompted again.
‘Yes. Yes.’ The second ‘yes’ was drawn out, as if the man were sending his mind back in time. ‘It was Sandra Rivett I wanted. She was married to a merchant seaman then, but they’d decided to split up, so she lived in a small bedsit in Clapham when she wasn’t at the house. In Belgravia, it was. You know the police discovered she kept a full-size picture of a naked man over her bed. Flighty little thing.’
He slowly leaned forward, elbows on knees, head in his hands.
‘I got it wrong, too, do you see? Thought she was up for it. But she laughed in my face when I tried it on. I wanted her nice little round body, so different to my wife’s bony backside. We were downstairs in the basement dining room when I made my move. At first, she was upset, then she started to laugh at me. That’s when the red mist descended. I’d already spent years listening to my scrawny bitch of a wife complaining about my gambling – they used to call me Lucky, my friends did, and usually, I was. Ran out of luck that evening though.’
He gave another weary sigh. ‘So I clobbered her. Sandra, I mean. I can’t remember what with, but suddenly she was lying dead at my feet, her eyes staring straight into mine like a dead mackerel’s.’ He gave a little shiver.
‘And that was the moment the cow chose to come downstairs. Wearing a dressing gown, I believe. She’d either just got into the bath or just got out. Wouldn’t bloody well stop screaming when she saw what I’d done. So I went for her, almost laid her out, grabbed the dressing gown but she struggled out of it and ran screaming into the street.’
Ash could feel a chill seeping through him.
‘Lucky’ hadn’t seemed to notice. ‘Well, that was when I knew my number was up. Fortunately, I had good friends. Nobility sticks together, y’know. We hide our scandals. Oh, if you knew how many secrets we shared. Anyway, got a friend to drive a car I was borrowing at the time; he took it down to Newhaven and left it there, about a mile from the marina to make the rozzers think I’d skipped the country. Meanwhile, I was on a different route entirely. Acquaintances of great influence, people who knew and honoured my forebears, spirited me away by private plane to this place. And in this place,’ he said with a devitalized sigh, ‘I remain.’
He looked sightlessly into the distance, his face creased with regret. ‘Miss the kiddies, y’know. Frances – Lady Frances – must be all of fifteen by now. Then young Lord Bingham must be in his teens. Then my little sweetie, Lady Camilla. Don’t even remember how old she was when I left. Sometimes I’m ashamed I stay here. Should I give myself up, just to get to see ’em, but it’s bloody impossible to get out of this place. Believe me, I’ve tried.’
Ash realized the man had lost all sense of time: those ‘kiddies’ would be adults by now, probably middle-aged, or even older.
The man straightened and clapped his hands on his knees, the military sharpness about him regained.
‘Well now, must get on, things to do. Ah look, we’re soon to be joined.’
He motioned towards a figure that had just risen onto the crenellated walkway and Ash followed his direction. He immediately recognized the V-neck aubergine jumper and the longish gypsy-type skirt, the lush hair, its edges tinted ruby-red by the setting sun.
‘Our beauteous Brazilian, our Amazonian Aphrodite,’ his companion announced with pleasure and with something else – circumspection? ‘She’s my shrink, don’t you know. Dr Wyatt. Delphine is her first name, which is appropriate because she’s always delving into my mind. Sorry, weak play on words. Such a delectable woman, but out of bounds to the likes of you and me.’
Ash was puzzled. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh well, it’s just that I get the impression she belongs, if you know what I mean, to the abominable Nurse Krantz. Just a suspicion, mind. But . . . well, Krantz seems very proprietorial about her. But who can tell?’
The man rose abruptly. ‘Another time, perhaps?’ he said as he looked down at Ash, who was frowning, confused by Lucky’s previous remark about the relationship between Delphine and the senior nurse. ‘I can see you don’t believe me,’ the tall man said with a smile. ‘It’s only a suspicion, old boy. Probably nothing in it at all. To my knowledge, though, our Brazilian beauty has never been involved with any man since she arrived here.’
Delphine was drawing closer and Ash could see there was a look of apprehension on her face.
Ash’s companion was all briskness again, and he said hurriedly, as if wanting to be on his way before the psychologist reached them. ‘We must talk again. You’re a very interesting fellow.’
Ash almost smiled as he watched his apparently new friend walking away: throughout the conversation, Ash had hardly said a word.
By then, Delphine had reached the investigator’s bench. She was smiling and Ash felt suddenly uplifted.
‘I see you’ve met one of my patients,’ she said, still smiling.
‘Indeed I have,’ said Ash. ‘A rather sought-after individual, if I’m not mistaken.’
Delphine’s face fell. ‘You can’t tell anyone—’ she began.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ash reassured her. ‘Lucky’s secret is safe with me.’
‘Lucky’ Lord Lucan? Ash smiled at the irony.
31
‘You know, Lucan was a kind of legend in this country,’ Ash told Delphine, as they sat on the bench seat facing the sea.
Shadows were lengthening as the sun began to sink below the horizon. It was getting chillier by the minute, yet neither of them was willing to leave the walkway. Ash found it hard to believe Lucan’s insinuation regarding Delphine and Krantz; he also valued the psychologist’s company too much to end their conversation just yet.
‘Yes, I know the story. I was briefed on his history when I first arrived. Apart from sessions with me, he’s undergoing hypnotherapy under Dr Singh. Dr Singh is our psychiatrist; have you met him yet?’
Ash shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t. I suppose you know Lucan isn’t taking all his medication.’
With a smile, she gave a small nod of her head. ‘Yes, we do. He still receives enough treatment to keep him passive though.’
‘Passive?’ He couldn’t say he was shocked – at lunch Comraich’s senior surgeon, the dandified Dr Vernon Pritchard, had listed the various sedatives that were administered to the clientele, but the fact that these residents were, in fact, prisoners, had only
truly been confirmed by Lucan himself. And that was why Delphine sometimes wouldn’t look at him directly, but would gaze off to one side. She wasn’t comfortable with the deception. Then it dawned on him why she was so eager to tell him of the worthy work the hospital unit carried out, perhaps to ease her own guilt and maybe prove her own self-worth.
Nearly forty years after he’d committed the crime, Lord Lucan was still on the run from the police who, presumably, were still after him. Then there was Douglas Hoyle, the financier who had cheated thousands out of their hard-earned savings and embezzled his own company. And the perverted Archbishop Carsely, with his proclivity for sexually molesting children.
He regarded Delphine Wyatt in a new light and suddenly, as if she’d read his thoughts, she turned not just her eyes from him but her face too.
Ash wasn’t going to allow that to happen this time. Gently, he placed the palm of his hand against her cheek and drew her face back to him. Her skin glowed almost golden under the rays of the dying sun, and her eyes – which this time didn’t evade his – were dark and lustrous, but also a little fearful. Such was the mysterious union between them – which he now realized both had felt when they first set eyes on each other – that she knew his mind and was ashamed, yet desperate not to be condemned.
‘I was aware my father was an associate of the Inner Court,’ she began to say as tears formed and glittered like tiny flames in the sun’s reflection, ‘although never in a high capacity, just as someone who was useful to it in certain ways which, frankly, I never understood. When he knew he was dying of cancer he wanted me to be secure, but he’d been bled dry by his second wife, my stepmother, whom I haven’t seen since his funeral. I had already gained a medical degree, so before he died he arranged for the Inner Court to take over payment to further my studies as a psychiatrist. I owe the organization an awful lot and I don’t mean that just in financial terms but for their overall generosity to me. This job, for instance. Once I’d gained my Masters Degree I joined Sunil – Dr Singh – here and we work in conjunction, practically as a team, although he is the senior partner, of course.’