Not to be outdone, Graham interposed, ‘Anyway, we got to her and despite looking like a drowned rat – sorry, Dr Wyatt – she insisted we search further out. We saw nothing but rough waves until eagle-eyes here’ – he pointed at the ranger again – ‘spotted you clinging to the sewage pipe. But it was only when you were further in that we could reach you.’
He seemed satisfied with his story.
Ash heard the whumph-whumph-whumph of helicopters hovering and looked up. He could make out the castle on the top of the promontory: behind its burning windows and balcony doors there was a complete inferno, and even as he watched, part of a wing collapsed with a grinding roar audible over the combined sounds of the sea, the wind, helicopter blades – and gunfire.
‘What . . . ?’ He looked around at the others.
It was Gordon who answered. ‘Scotland Yard’s Metropolitan Police, the Serious Organized Crime Agency and the SAS, along with the Strathclyde Police Force, of course, have joined together to lance this bliddy boil on the backside of the United Kingdom. They’re havin’ somethin’ of a set-to with Mr Babbage’s men. Why they’ve chosen to intrude at this time, well – it may have something to do with you, Mr Ash. It became known to them that you were never gonnae be allowed to leave this place alive.’
‘Me? I didn’t realize I was that important.’
‘Let’s just say the authorities have had enough.’
‘Then it’s the Inner Court they’re after?’
Gordon looked at Graham, who shrugged.
‘It means y’gonnae have to sign the Official Secrets Act, but I don’t s’pose y’ll mind.’
Delphine was watching Ash in a state of perplexity.
‘And I’m afraid, Dr Wyatt, they’ll put you through the wringer as well. But I’m sure Mr Ash’s word will go a long way concerning your involvement.’
Ash began to protest, but Graham put up a hand. ‘Don’t worry, she’s already been thoroughly investigated and the word is she’s in the clear. Believe me, there’s gonnae be a mighty upheaval over what’s happened here tonight and what’s behind it all. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dr Wyatt and y’good self, Mr Ash, will be invited t’leave the country together for a few months until it’s all sorted out. After a full debrief, that is. You know what spooks are like.’
‘Oh,’ put in Gordon against a backdrop of gunfire, shouting, screaming, and helicopters coming in to land, ‘and I think your leave of absence – your holiday, let’s call it – will be all expenses paid. As long as you understand that there are one or two things you must remain completely shtum about.’
‘We’ll see,’ replied Ash, his mind beginning to function normally again.
‘Oh, I’m sure you can drive a hard bargain, David,’ said Graham, grinning from ear to ear. ‘You’ve done the country a great service, I believe, even if others might, er, take the opposite view. But nothing will prevent tonight’s activities getting out and y’kin be sure the media will be all over it.’
‘And by the way,’ added Gordon, ‘your boss, Ms McCarrick, will receive a hefty donation to the Physical Research Institute, as well as double payment for your time. T’be honest, David, I think you’ve hit the jackpot.’
Ash was unimpressed by any financial reward that might be offered as compensation, but he was interested in the reasons behind it. ‘This all sounds as though it was planned. Something else has been going on here, hasn’t it?’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Graham, now deadly serious. ‘Well, that is, the Inner Court has been known to the authorities for generations. As for Comraich, it also served its purpose for both good and evil associations. Let’s say it saved much embarrassment for certain high-ranking individuals.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Ash looked intently first at Gordon and then Graham, his mind so concentrated that he hadn’t noticed the wind had become even milder, the waves calming themselves, although the seawater remained choppy. ‘You two . . . You’re only a pair of chauffeurs, for God’s sake. How do you know all this?’ He looked from Gordon to Graham again.
It was Gordon who answered. ‘Basically, the story I told you in the car was true, except that our chauffeur business was set up not in Edinburgh but in London, where we got to drive some very important people. Government people. But we missed Glasgow and moved back up. We were fine until the business took a downturn some years back, and that was when that greasy squirt Maseby popped his head in the door with an offer we could hardly afford to refuse. But we asked for time to think on it . . .’
Dalzell broke off as a heavy rumbling noise reached them from above. They all looked towards Comraich up on the clifftop. Huge walls were falling inwards, the fire totally out of control despite the jets of water from fire-fighters’ hoses.
‘Ah, the end of an era,’ it prompted Graham to say almost woefully.
‘Yeah, and we’ve done our bit. Mebbe they’ll give us our retirement benefit now.’ Gordon gazed up at the ruined castle, fascinated by the lights, sirens, shouted commands, and again, the faraway crackle of heavy-duty machine-gun fire.
Hugging Delphine close to him, in part to warm her, but mainly because he wanted her there in his arms, Ash said gently, ‘Gordon, you haven’t finished your story.’
‘Oh aye. Well, the very next day we got another visitor, this one from MI5, who made us an even better offer to report everything going on here to them. Swore us in, made us sign the Official Secrets Act, all of that. So we’ve been spying here ever since. They know pretty much everything that’s happened here.’
‘But how did you communicate with them?’ asked Delphine.
‘That was easy enough. We often had to go into Glasgow or up to Edinburgh and we had a special number to ring. We were warned we’d be under surveillance by one of Kevin Babbage’s men for the first few months, which was true, but we became trusted soon enough.’
‘Also, we had dead drops,’ added Graham.
‘Aye.’ Gordon grinned at Ash. ‘Just like in the films. No doubt y’remember when I brought you here and we stopped at the Electric Brae.’
‘Now that was scary,’ said Ash.
‘Gets plenty of tourists. Well, y’remember I left y’on y’own to get the full illusion? In fact, I’d gone off to our dead drop, a kinda’ hollow spike thing which you push into soft ground. It’s big enough t’tek notes or even rolls of film, and has a lid t’keep everything inside dry. It wasn’t far away from the car but off the road in a bushy area. That day I just had to let the powers that be know you’d arrived safety. As well as about the problem with the jet before y’landed.’
‘Who planted the bombs in the castle?’ Delphine wanted to know. ‘Was it you two?’
‘Good God, no!’ Gordon exclaimed, genuinely aggrieved. ‘We dinnae do that sorta thing. And it wasn’t the SAS or SOCA, either. No doubt they’ll find out in time.’
Ash shivered, feeling the cold and damp working into his bones again now that the adrenaline was draining from him. ‘So what happens now?’ he asked, looking at Jonas McKewin, who was discreetly making his way over the rocky shoreline, his retreating figure clear in the moonlight.
They followed Ash’s gaze.
Gordon chuckled, but it was Graham who spoke. ‘T’tell the truth, we honestly don’t know. I wouldnae thought they could keep a story as big as this secret, even if they served every news editor in the country with a D notice, or whatever they call it nowadays. And never forget the power of the internet. McKewin there, for example, they’ll catch up with him sooner or later. His helping us find you down here will go in his favour. With so many big fish to fry, I doubt he’ll even get to court. My guess is that many workers here will receive long suspended sentences, to be invoked only should they be tempted to speak out about Comraich.’
‘But will it involve the Inner Court itself?’ Ash wondered aloud. With Lord Edgar, Sir Victor and Andrew Derriman all dead, what other names would be connected to the IC?
He looked at Delphine, and her sad face remained pale in the moon?
??s sheen. Pale and pure. Like Louis’.
And that was one story, Ash promised himself, which would never get out.
Never.
Because as far as he was aware, apart from the Queen and Prince Philip, only he, David Ash, a commoner, knew the full truth of the prince’s life, and he alone knew its end.
101
‘Lucky’ Lord Lucan, his frayed half-velvet collar pulled up around the fine, long strands of his hair, walked with shoulders hunched against the chill of the night along the road leading out of the estate. Every time he saw headlights or heard sirens coming his way, he stepped over the verge and into the trees where he couldn’t be seen by the many and varied military and police vehicles sweeping by. There were even fire engines bowling down the road – six of them, he’d counted so far.
He squinted back at the orange glow in the sky and knew the castle would probably be burned to the ground.
Ah well, game’s up for Comraich, he thought to himself. And who knew, perhaps the Inner Court, itself? What a fuss there would be among the aristos. He’d learned as a young lad what kind of skeletons were hidden in the closets of grand folk such as himself. These days, though, he hardly missed the friends of his own ilk, the gentry, as they used to be called, the upper classes. No, he no longer missed them. He didn’t miss anything of his old life. Except its freedom.
Ah yes, he missed his freedom.
He stumbled back over the verge and into the trees and was amazed to see three rather fine-looking luxury coaches hurtling down the road towards the glow in the sky. Undoubtedly these would be for the guests at Comraich.
Chuckling to himself, he took to the smooth tarmac again. There was still the sporadic sound of gunfire back there, but it was obvious the guards on the estate’s gates hadn’t shown much resistance, for not a peep came from up ahead now.
At last, sure the action was all behind him, he took to the middle of the road. The moon threw a long shadow before him – his own shadow – and as he passed the blockhouse near the wide-open metal gates, he stiffened his nearly eighty-year-old body and threw back his shoulders as if at attention. His head was erect and his eyes stared straight ahead, as was only befitting an ex-lieutenant of the Coldstream Guards.
And in this bold manner he marched across the threshold and out into the open roads of Scotland, a lonely, solitary figure.
In his heart he knew he would never return to Comraich.
102
On the way back to his cottage in the heart of the estate’s woodland, Cedric Twigg grew tired. He’d abandoned his big bag with his detonators and timer equipment a long way back.
He’d slouched through the undergrowth and had strayed from the secret narrow path leading to his cottage, so that currently, although headed in the right direction, he was a little lost. Through the trees behind him he could hear the clamour of gunfire: soldiers or police discharging their weapons and shouting at the guests and castle staff to stay where they were. He’d blown up the small Gazelle helicopter on its landing pad before it had even taken off, killing both pilot and passengers. That had warned the army choppers to stand off and sweep the area with their powerful searchlights before landing, trying to find the perpetrator. He froze each time a beam of light shone through the trees, but the many conifers here made a thick canopy and he was sure he hadn’t been seen.
Stumbling onwards, tripping over exposed tree roots every so often, he was determined to make his way back to the one place he’d feel safe. His breathing was shallow and sharp, barely filling his laboured lungs. His limbs trembled in a worrying way. Not far now. He’d soon be home. Must remember to get his tools of the trade down from the loft and bury everything in the woods. Dig a nice deep hole. Certainly wouldn’t do for them to be found and the cottage was bound to be thoroughly searched. He didn’t plan to spend however long he had left in some stinking prison cell.
His nose twitched. Cat’s piss? No, more than that. Whatever it was, it was coming from the direction in which he was walking.
Twigg had to stretch out an arm and rest his aching body against a solid old cedar. He tried to steady his breathing, drawing in great wheezing breaths that hurt his throat on their way to his lungs. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he wondered how much further he had to go. Shouldn’t be far now, should be quite near. Unless he’d been walking round in circles. Don’t be so bloody daft! He knew these woods like the back of his hand.
There! There was the bloody path. Not four yards away and he hadn’t noticed it until now. It was the excitement of it all. Blowing up the bloody castle! How he wished he could go back and watch it fall in on itself. What fun that would be! Too dangerous though. Might get caught. Best be getting back to the cottage.
He staggered onwards.
And glory be, there it was, just waiting for him to come home to it. Nice little white house, nice little path leading to the stable-style front door . . . the open stable-style front door.
Hadn’t he locked it when he left earlier with his holdall of goodies? He always locked up when he went out, surely? Perhaps the thrill of the day had got to him, causing him to forget his usual routine. It was this bloody illness, that’s what it was. Taking over his body. Medicine and pills were inside the cottage – they’d soon calm him down.
But was that a light shining from the windows? And the bloody windows were open! He can’t have missed that. This wasn’t like him at all.
Warily, the assassin approached his charming little woodland home.
The smell of cats grew stronger the closer he got. He wished he’d taken a pistol with him. He tried to step lightly when he reached the crazy-paving path up to the front door, but his legs were clumsy, his balance a bit askew. Slowly, not because of his Parkinson’s but because he was beginning to feel some kind of dread, he walked – shuffled – cautiously up to the open door.
He paused on the doorstep.
And peered inside.
Lit by just one inadequate oil lamp, the interior was cast in gloom and shadows.
As Twigg squinted into the shadowy room, with moonlight shining through the tops of trees behind him, he began to make out shapes. For some reason, his tremors became a constant trembling as the shapes became more evident.
Now Cedric Twigg was not a cowardly man – his profession did not allow for that – but this night he suddenly knew true fear and it weakened his bladder. The shapes occupied the top of his small square table, while more squatted on the stairs leading up to the first floor. Two sat on a hard straight-backed kitchen chair, and more lay sprawled before the hearth of the unlit fire. From each one there came a contended purring which sounded more like a pleasurable snarling. One or two of the big cats prowled the room, their thick bushy tails waving in the air.
All watched him with evil yellow eyes.
He took one reluctant step into the feline-crowded room to see something even more strange. Someone – or something – occupied the lumpy old armchair by the hearth. And it was watching him. Watching him with only one eye.
A sane person might have turned swiftly and headed off back into the woods as fast as their legs would carry them. But an assassin, by definition, had to be somewhat insane even if it was their own dark secret.
Twigg took two further steps into the room for a closer look, because he could not quite understand what his eyes were telling him.
For, sitting in his lumpy, threadbare armchair, was someone who couldn’t possibly be there.
What hair Twigg possessed prickled and suddenly it was as if his body had forgotten to tremble any more. In his shabby old raincoat, he stood stock-still as his beady, bulbous eyes took in the . . . the person? . . . in his own favourite seat.
Eddy Nelson, his apprentice, his dead apprentice, looked up at Twigg through the one eye the wildcats had left in his face. Holding up his dislodged jaw with one slashed hand to what was left of the upper part of his face he said, ‘Ayo, Ce-dic.’
Twigg staggered back a step. The dead man’s expensive blue
suit hung in tatters, smeared with quicklime and dirt from his freshly dug woodland grave.
‘Sh . . . shudna dunnit, Ce-dic,’ the mutated rasp of a voice complained, Nelson working the gore-dried mandible as a ventriloquist would move the jaw of a dummy.
Twigg found he’d nothing to say in response. Instead, his gaze roamed down to the corpse’s open belly, where entrails and intestines were hanging out of a great gash of a wound. Nelson was trying to hold back all he could of those silvery tubes and strings of meat which glistened dully under the poor light from the oil lamp by the dead man’s . . . feet?
They were shoeless and sockless and toeless as well. Just lumps of mouldering meat, which made the speechless Twigg wonder how this man, now slightly shrivelled and withered, had got himself to the cottage. Had he dragged himself across the woodland floor? Or walked awkwardly on the stumps? And had he dug himself out of the shallow grave, or had the wildcats returned to exhume him?
At the thought of the wildcats, Twigg became more aware of them. They were prowling around him now; one of the biggest, with mangy, dirty, bristling hair, was on the table nearby, ready to launch itself at him.
‘Mu . . . my . . . frens,’ Nelson announced with what might have been pride.
The stench of corruption and cats’ piss was almost overwhelming, making the assassin feel faint. And the trembling had returned, although it was more like shuddering now.
His big mistake was turning around and trying to make it back through the door. Not that he had any other choice, of course.
The wildcat leapt at his half-turned figure and landed squarely on Twigg’s head, its long claws digging into his cheek for purchase. Twigg cried out, which proved to be the signal for every cat in the room to pounce.
The form in the armchair started to laugh, a peculiar grating, jarring, empty sound that paused only when the ragged corpse of Eddy Nelson, real name Nelson Eddy, clumsily dropped his jaw onto the floor, as the frenzied wildcats pulled Twigg down and rapaciously tore him to pieces.