Ash

  ‘One of ’em’s just turned up,’ Ash told Kate.

  ‘First, I want to thank you for accepting the assignment,’ Kate said, pleased that Ash was so peppy this morning.

  But his tone changed when he replied. ‘I still think it’s a matter for the police. We’re talking serious crime here, no matter how weird and unlikely. Tell you the truth, I don’t see how they can get away with not reporting it. I only accepted the job because you seemed desperate for me to do it. Is the Institute really so badly off?’

  The man in the trench coat appeared in the open doorway further down the cabin. Ginny was giving him that same beaming smile, almost making Ash feel cuckolded.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Twigg,’ Ash heard her say. ‘How nice to see you again.’

  The response was little more than a quick grimace. He had strange, unblinking eyes that stared straight ahead rather than at the stewardess. With his bald pointed head and narrow rounded shoulders, he reminded Ash of someone, but he couldn’t think who.

  ‘Sorry, Kate. What were you saying?’ The new arrival had distracted the investigator while Kate was still talking.

  ‘I said we would soon have had money problems if it hadn’t been for this deal with Simon Maseby. Oh, no doubt we could have eked things out. We’d have got through it somehow, but this investigation will pay the bills for quite some time to come, not to mention salaries. With this recession, people are just not interested in things paranormal; they have too many material problems to worry about.’

  Ginny was waving a hand, inviting the man she’d addressed as Mr Twigg to pick any unoccupied seat, and as he approached, he ducked his bald head as if the cabin ceiling might be too low for him, which was a pointless exercise for a person so short.

  That’s it, Ash thought to himself. Mr Twigg looked similar to a certain actor, but for the life of him the investigator couldn’t recall the actor’s name. The little man with the pale staring eyes chose a seat that backed on to the one opposite Ash. When he’d placed his small battered suitcase and umbrella (which he’d declined to hand over to the stewardess for storage) on the floor, Twigg slid down into his seat, the tip of his head just visible to Ash above the padded headrest. Before he sat, though, he’d taken in the parapsychologist without giving any acknowledgement.

  Suit yourself, thought Ash, who had given a cheery smile, and returned to his conversation with Kate.

  ‘. . . didn’t call in the police, because, well, Comraich’s own senior doctor certified that it had been an accident.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’ Ash frowned disbelievingly, keeping his voice even lower so as not to be overheard by the new arrival.

  ‘David, these people are very influential. Over dinner last night, Simon told me a little more about the organization he represents.’

  ‘Okay, I’m listening.’

  ‘First of all, it is a kind of clandestine . . .’ she paused for a moment ‘. . . consortium, you might say. Or an association, a confederation, or just an elite body of people who quietly work for the good of the country and avoid publicity of any kind. And at any price.’

  ‘Are they legal?’

  ‘Well, you might look on it as an upmarket Rotarian Society. Ludicrously, massively, upmarket. Like the Freemasons, only—’

  ‘Only more sinister,’ Ash cut in.

  ‘I don’t know. And, to be honest, I don’t care. With the fee they’re paying, I can forget about a lot of things that aren’t really important anyway.’

  ‘Uh-huh. You’re the boss. I’m intrigued, though.’

  ‘Don’t be. As far as the Institute is concerned, it’s just another paranormal investigation.’

  ‘Kate, you don’t sound too convinced yourself.’

  ‘Simon is an honest man, with great integrity. I’m sure he wouldn’t be associated with anything doubtful.’

  Ash shrugged, aware it was pointless to argue further: he’d signed the contract – both contracts, one on behalf of the Psychical Research Institute and another personal nondisclosure agreement – so he might just as well get on with the job. Nevertheless, he couldn’t entirely resist pressing her.

  ‘Just give me a little more info, Kate,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.’

  ‘David, I can’t – well, shouldn’t – say any more. But let me give you an idea of their importance. Simon made it plain again last night that the organization has no true power. What it has, though, is immense influence. Much more than you might think possible and more than it would ever admit to.’

  ‘So how does that work?’

  She ignored the cynicism. ‘They’re a collection of high-powered individuals who call themselves—’

  ‘Let me guess again. Scientologists? No? Okay, how about the Opus Dei? The Kabbalah, then? That could be fun.’

  ‘The IC.’

  ‘Icy? Is that as in ice skating? Ice hockey? Ice cream?’

  She knew he would be grinning. ‘No. The I-C. It’s an acronym for the Inner Court.’

  ‘So nothing to do with religion? Politics?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Not exactly? What does that mean?’

  ‘I only got the name from Simon because he was half-cut. He buttoned up again once he realized what he’d said.’

  Ash surprised himself by hoping Kate didn’t mean that literally. The thought of Maseby making love to her somehow angered him, even though he and Kate hadn’t been lovers for a long time now.

  She sensed his mood just as she’d sensed his grin. ‘He came in for coffee after our dinner together and I plied him with a few more brandies to loosen his tongue, then I sent him on his way. Even so, he was very discreet.’

  ‘So that was all, just a name? The contract agreement we signed was for Maseby Associates on behalf of Comraich Castle. I didn’t see the title Inner Court on any of those documents. Just a name: Sir Victor Haelstrom.’

  ‘I know. That’s how covert they are. But I did learn something more.’

  ‘About the Inner Court?’ Ash was now talking in a ridiculously hushed voice.

  ‘Sort of, but not directly. The man Nurse Krantz found pinned to the wall. He suddenly dropped, by the way, just as she was calling for help on her radio. She said he’d curled over, head first, as if peeling himself from the wall like Velcro. His body weight released his legs.’

  ‘So we only have this nurse’s word that he’d been suspended above the floor.’

  ‘Yes, but why should she lie? Krantz is well regarded at Comraich, and apparently not one to exaggerate. She was believed even though closer examination still found no wounds to his hands and feet.’

  ‘It’s a bit hard to take. I mean, the body of a full-grown man stuck to a wall well above the floor with no visible means of support?’

  ‘David, you’ve witnessed extraordinary things yourself in the past.’

  He was silent for a while and Kate regretted stirring up unfortunate memories.

  ‘David . . . ?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. You said this Inner Court had something to do with the man pinned to the wall at the castle?’

  ‘Only in that the organization owns Comraich Castle and he had some kind of contract with the IC to be given refuge there.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he was punished for breaking the rules. Now that I’m definitely uncomfortable with.’

  ‘No, no. We’re fine.’

  ‘We’ll only know that’s true if we break our contract with them. Are there any penalty clauses that I missed? Apart from the secrecy agreement, I mean.’

  ‘You read through both contracts.’

  ‘I skimmed through them. I didn’t bother with the small print because I thought you would’ve gone through it with a fine-tooth comb.’

  ‘I did, and we don’t have a problem. But let me get back to the point.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Simon told me – and he regretted it afterwards, making me swear to keep it to myself – he told me the name of the poor victim at
the castle.’

  ‘Someone I should know?’

  ‘You might have a year or so ago. D’you remember the front-page reports about the millionaire venture capitalist who killed himself by walking off into the North Sea? He’d left his wallet with credit cards, driving licence, and his car, with the keys still in the ignition, on the shoreline?’

  Ash racked his brain. ‘Yeah . . . yeah, I seem to recollect . . . when the business almost bankrupted the country. Didn’t a few financiers top themselves because they’d lost everything, including their high-maintenance wives and mistresses?’

  ‘Ever the cynic.’

  ‘It’s in my nature. But yeah, I remember the story; it made the news worldwide because it was happening globally, especially in America.’

  ‘It was because he was the first case in this country. His name was Douglas Hoyle.’

  Ash drew in a short breath. ‘You’re not telling me the victim in Comraich and Hoyle are one and the same man. The so-called financial genius who gambled wildly with other people’s money and lost it all?’

  ‘The same. His high-profile and once highly respected company lost millions of its clients’ money.’

  ‘And Hoyle led the way,’ breathed Ash.

  ‘Yes, David. Douglas Hoyle, the supposedly dead financial genius who didn’t commit suicide by drowning in the sea as everybody believed – which is why his body was never recovered – but went into hiding at Comraich Castle.’

  ‘Jesus. Wait. Wouldn’t the police have investigated a bit further than a wallet and car and its keys left on a beach? It’s been tried before. Then there was his wife and family, business associates even – wouldn’t the authorities have found him through them?’

  ‘He hasn’t had contact with his family from the day he went missing. That apparently is a strict condition imposed on Comraich clientele. He knew he would never see his loved ones and friends again. Oh, and the price of refuge is staggeringly high.’

  ‘I thought Hoyle was bankrupted.’

  ‘As far as City assessors and his own investors were aware, he was.’

  ‘No wonder Simon Maseby was coy about his employers.’

  ‘I told you the Inner Court members are immensely influential, powerful people. And they’re incredibly rich. And very secretive. That’s why you and millions of others have never heard of them.’

  ‘So they are illegal?’

  ‘I’d say they’re above the law.’

  ‘Nobody’s above the law.’

  ‘Keep assuming that, David: it’ll make you feel better. Now look, what they are, who they are, and where they are, is not important. We – mainly you – will carry on with our commission.’

  ‘God, I was uneasy before . . .’

  ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘Why did you, Kate?’

  ‘Because Simon Maseby is an old acquaintance; you’re something more to me. I didn’t want you going in blind.’

  ‘I can get off the plane right now.’

  ‘No, we’re committed. If you did renege on the deal, there’d be too high a price to pay. Believe me on that. Besides, Simon would be in big trouble if it was discovered he’d been such a blabbermouth. I called him an old acquaintance a moment ago, but the IC wouldn’t make allowances for even that.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll go on as planned.’

  ‘And you won’t let on what you now know?’

  ‘No, of course I won’t. Anyway, once I’m up at the castle I’ll probably find out a lot more. I’ll try to look surprised. You think there might be others like Douglas Hoyle at Comraich?’

  ‘I’d bank on it. Excuse the pun. But hiding wealthy fugitives could be what the Inner Court is all about. The reward could be fantastically high if they only favour very wealthy runaways. It costs the client or their patrons £2 million per year just to stay at Comraich and a £5 million penalty should the client abscond.’

  ‘How much?’ Ash gasped incredulously.

  ‘You heard. And once you’re a guest – that’s the term used: “guest” – then you leave the outside world for ever. No exemptions, no exceptions.’

  ‘So they become prisoners.’

  ‘Very well-looked-after prisoners. According to Simon, they live the rest of their life in absolute luxury.’ Kate paused, then added, ‘When Simon realized how much information he’d given away he practically begged me never to tell another living soul about the Inner Court and Comraich Castle.’ She didn’t say that plea had come from Simon Maseby when he woke sober in her bed at dawn that morning and realized just how much he’d divulged during the night. Alcohol and sex: sometimes a lethal combination.

  Ash had been leaning forward, hunched over the phone, elbows on knees, his voice low, when a movement outside the thick window caught his eye again. A sleek black limousine had drawn up beside the aircraft and, as he watched, a grey-suited chauffeur stepped out and marched briskly round the long bonnet to a rear passenger door. Moving closer to the plexiglas, Ash looked down to see the opposite rear door open to reveal a dark-haired woman wearing a smart black wool business jacket and a knee-length skirt over black tights and ankle boots. He just caught a glimpse of a crisp white shirt collar against a light coffee-coloured neck, her chin tucked in as she bent forward, getting out of the vehicle and hurrying round to the other rear door, which the driver had already opened. He was now standing at loose attention, waiting for his other passenger – obviously the more important of the two – to emerge.

  The dark-haired woman had reached the open door and was leaning in to help the person now climbing awkwardly from the limousine.

  From his elevated position inside the jet, Ash just saw the top of the other passenger’s head emerging, a mass of unruly blonde hair, dark at the roots, when Kate’s voice drew him back to the phone.

  ‘Still with me, David?’

  He settled back into his seat. ‘Yeah, sorry. Looks like the late arrivals are here. We should be taking off quite soon.’

  ‘The psychiatrist, Dr Wyatt?’

  ‘Psychologist these days, Maseby said. There’s a difference. Psychology’s the study of human development and behaviour, and it’s classified as a social science, whereas psychiatry’s more to do with abnormal mental or emotional condition and disorders. Naturally, they can overlap,’ Ash said.

  ‘I already knew that, professor. I am ex-uni.’

  ‘Well, I had to look it up. Anyway, I presume it’s her, and the client appears to be a young woman.’ He took a quick peek out the window again and noticed that the chauffeur, who had obviously popped the boot from inside before alighting from the limo, was hauling out two distinctively styled Louis Vuitton suitcases. Expensive, but no surprise there. The two women were no longer in sight and Ash assumed they were on the short flight of steps leading into the aircraft.

  ‘Good morning,’ he heard the air stewardess greet the young girl as she entered the cabin with her shoulders hunched, head bent. ‘Hello again, Dr Wyatt,’ Ginny said to the woman following close behind.

  It struck Ash that the vivacious stewardess hadn’t used the blonde girl’s name and he wondered if that was company policy with pre-guests. Maybe Ginny didn’t even know what it was. He remembered he still had Kate on the line.

  ‘Kate, I’ll phone you when I get to Comraich, but if you need to, you can call me again mid-air.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be necessary. I’ll be interested in your take on the castle, though.’

  ‘Okay. Later.’ He closed the mobile phone and returned it to his jacket pocket.

  The girl with the mussed-up blonde hair plodded her way down the cabin, the sulky, sullen look of a Geldof daughter spoiling her otherwise pretty face. She barely glanced at Ash as Dr Wyatt guided her from behind to the sofa seat across the aisle from him. In contrast to the psychologist’s modish outfit, her charge wore an odd match of clothes that seemed thrown on rather than carefully chosen when she’d stirred (probably reluctantly) from her bed to make the morning flight. She wore a dee
p-mauve open blazer that was longer than her high-waisted dotted skirt, which was loosely tied with a cloth belt. A white T-shirt was tucked into the skirt’s high waist and three silver chains of different lengths hung down around her neck. She was slight of stature (worsened by the hunching of her shoulders). Her fishnet tights, slightly torn at one knee, ran down into chunky wedge heels, and clutched in both hands was a brown overfilled Mulberry bag. Pretty though she was, the girl’s over-kohled, downcast eyes only added to her air of sulky recalcitrance.

  ‘We’ll sit here, Petra,’ said Dr Wyatt, easing the girl into the seat, ‘then after take-off you can lie down and sleep for a little while.’

  Settling herself beside Petra, the psychologist tucked her own crinkled leather satchel behind her ankles and beamed a smile towards Ash.

  He returned the smile but it faltered in surprise, for her dark eyes, her finely etched lips, the light tan of her smooth skin . . .

  Well, she wasn’t quite what he’d expected.

  8

  Kate sat at her desk, her swivel chair turned to face one of the tall windows of her office. Beyond the glass it was yet another fine early autumnal day, although nippy in the streets. She usually got to the Institute around 8 a.m., which gave her quiet time to deal with the paperwork – the government rules, red tape and health-and-safety directives – that was every employer’s bane. By the time other staff arrived and things started to get busy, she would be able to concentrate on her proper duties, which meant sending and checking emails, making and receiving phone calls, writing reports on any supernatural or paranormal activities that had come to the Institute’s notice, genuine or suspect, which would then be filed and copies sent to other psychical research establishments around the world (she believed in sharing information with those who were both friendly and legitimate), while taking on board any new accounts of phenomena and interviewing prospective clients (she’d no idea why, but people seemed more susceptible to hauntings when the days grew colder and the darkness earlier).

  But this morning Kate was spending more time on reflection.

  Had she done the right thing in sending David up to Scotland? Was he mentally strong enough to handle a genuine and apparently vicious haunting? And had she been right in accepting this commission when the organization that Simon Maseby represented was so shadowy, even if so lucrative for the Institute?