‘I didnae mean to scare you,’ he said by way of an apology.
‘You didn’t. You got my bloody mind screwed up, is all.’
Engine running, the long car headed down the hill as normal.
‘What caused it?’ Ash had to admit he was fascinated. ‘An optical illusion, obviously.’
‘That it is. It’s called the Electric Brae, although the locals hereabouts know it as Croy Brae. The configuration of the land on both sides of the road and in the distance causes the illusion. One time, they thought it was because of electric or magnetic attraction in the Brae, which is how it got its name. Seems they got it wrong – no one really understands the phenomenon – but the name stuck. When I was a boy and we got to stay in Glasgow, my pa used to bring me here for the fun of it, although I have t’confess, it always bothered me somewhat.’
‘Any other weird places in the neighbourhood?’
‘Apart from Comraich?’ Dalzell responded.
‘So you do think there’s something unusual about the castle, then? Apart from the curse on it, I mean.’
The driver shrugged. ‘Ach, it’s centuries old and had more than its share of violence and murders over the years. It can look very haunted when the sea mist drifts in. There’s bound to be stories. I can tell you some of the latest—’
‘No,’ Ash cut in. ‘I need to be open-minded when I begin my investigation. In fact, you’ve already told me too much, but then I guess it’s my fault for asking.’
‘Ah, so that will be the reason you’re here. M’partner said so last night, though none of the staff will admit to it. They dinnae want their guests getting more stressed than they already are. Comraich is supposed to be a haven of tranquillity.’
‘But the man found—’
It was Dalzell’s turn to interrupt. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ash. I almost told you before, so it’s just as well we were distracted.’
‘Okay, I understand that.’ Besides, Ash thought wryly, you were the one who caused the distraction. ‘Wouldn’t want to jeopardize your job.’
‘And I’m grateful t’you for that. I like my job. Now look, see, we’ve not much further to go.’ He indicated a milestone almost concealed by overlapping foliage at the side of the road.
It was Dalzell’s marker, but it meant nothing to Ash. All he saw through the windscreen was more road and more greenery.
On impulse, Ash reached inside his jacket for his tiny Samsung phone, but when he slid the top section back and pressed the ON button he was surprised to see the ‘no signal’ sign displayed on the small screen.
Dalzell glanced at the mobile, then briefly up at Ash, who obviously was puzzled by the message.
‘Y’ll nae get a reception in this area,’ he told his passenger. His attention was already back on the road.
‘No mast nearby?’ It troubled the investigator, who had wanted to contact Kate McCarrick to let her know he’d arrived safely (at this point he wouldn’t mention the near-fatal incident with the jet) and he was disappointed not to be able to talk to her.
Dalzell nodded his head without looking at Ash again. ‘It affects Comraich, too.’
‘Only landline contact?’ said Ash, perturbed.
‘Well . . .’ the driver dragged out the word, ‘y’ll find rules about that as well.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Ash was rankled. ‘You’re wearing a mobile phone attached to your sock.’
‘Aye, but it’s no use trying to contact Comraich with it. I carry it for when I’m in different parts of the country, but nae to make calls to the castle – the car has its own radio transmitter for that.’
‘I assume, then, Comraich has petitioned for a local mast?’
Dalzell merely said, ‘I dinnae think so,’ and left it at that.
Ash consoled himself with the thought that at least they must be near the castle by now.
The journey had taken time, but they’d passed little traffic along most of the winding roads and lanes they had used. Right now, there were hardly any other vehicles at all.
Dalzell began to ease off the accelerator and the Mercedes smoothly slowed down. Alert once more, Ash searched the road on both sides for an entrance or sign, and he realized that on his own, he would have missed the opening entirely. But the chauffeur turned the steering wheel to the right and it was only when they entered the small lane with hedges and trees on either side, high branches meeting overhead to create a shaded avenue, that Ash guessed they were drawing close to their destination.
Surprised by the absence of any visible indication that the pot-holed road they were on led to Comraich Castle, Ash pressed a button situated on his left armrest and the side window slid down with barely a whisper. He breathed in the cool fragrance of mixed country and sea air. The bumpy road twisted and turned, and he wondered if this was another way of deterring unwelcome visitors or sightseers; it seemed to lead nowhere. Despite the onset of the autumn chill, which brought with it the variegation of rich colours from russet to gold, there was still enough leafy green and wild foliage to screen anything beyond on either side. The Mercedes’ soft pneumatic suspension dealt easily with the dips and turns, and the breeze coming through the open window revived Ash from the languor to which he’d almost succumbed. That, and the thought that they were practically at their destination alerted his senses even more. He strained his eyes to see as far ahead as possible, expecting Comraich Castle to rise up before them round the next bend. But, for the moment anyway, he was disappointed when they came only to a set of high iron gates, and to the right, an old and neglected gatekeeper’s lodge.
‘Not far now,’ Dalzell announced cheerily to Ash, who had expected the castle to be at least within sight of the massive gates.
The chauffeur tooted the car’s horn and after a few seconds, an aged and bent man emerged from the lodge’s open door. If a man could look grizzled, then this was him. He wore baggy trousers held up by braces and a thick leather belt, a crinkled and tired-looking collarless shirt, together with an equally wrinkled and tired-looking waistcoat, whose faded brown corduroy matched the fading of his loose trousers. Big muddy boots and the curved smoking pipe held at the corner of his thin-lipped mouth almost completed the image of an old family retainer whose duty apparently was to guard the entrance gates and warn off any intruder or busybody as well as shoot an unsuspecting rabbit or two, maybe even a wandering pheasant, for the laird’s supper. And maybe a trespasser or poacher would also be fair game.
A thick thatch of grey-white hair met the thick grey-white mess of beard at the sides of his face as though the matted ensemble were all one piece. To show that he wasn’t all hostility, he left the twelve-bore shotgun he carried leaning against the weather-beaten frame of the lodge door, then shuffled forward to thrust his broken-veined face against the gate’s metal bars.
Ash couldn’t help but think the old gatekeeper looked exactly how you’d imagine a hoary old sentinel to a venerable Scottish castle’s estate would look like. Always suspicious, the investigator wondered if that was the point.
‘That you, Dalzell?’ the gatekeeper enquired, squinting at the Mercedes, his pipe projecting through the black, rusting bars. His eyes were rheumy, their pale blue irises lacking definition.
‘Aye, y’know ’tis, y’bent old rapscallion,’ Dalzell called out with a grin, his side window open fully so that he could lean out.
‘I was told t’expect you wi’ a passenger.’ The bearded man regarded Ash suspiciously through the windscreen, his scowl implying he hadn’t yet made up his mind if Ash were friend or foe.
‘Yes, I told you, m’self, Angus, if y’remember correctly.’
The old man’s voice was gravelly, probably from too many inhalations of strong shredded baccy. But there was nothing truly fierce about him, despite his crotchety manner. ‘I’ll trouble y’for y’pass, if it’s all the same t’ye. Y’might be a lookalike.’ He wasn’t smiling.
‘Yeah, and Brad Pitt might be my doppelgänger.’ Dalzell had already unclipped hi
s safety belt so that he could reach into the sporran on his lap for the evidently official pass. He held it through the window and the old boy pretended to inspect it from yards away.
Quietly, Dalzell spoke to Ash. ‘The old bugger cannae see the writing nor the pic, but he likes to make a show; helps him assert his own importance but it does nae harm.’
‘Come on in,’ Angus grouched, waving arthritic fingers before producing a ring of keys chain-linked to his belt, the longest of which he inserted into the gate’s hefty-looking lock. It seemed to turn easily enough, as though it was always kept well oiled or well used. The bent gatekeeper swung one side of the gate open, then ambled over to the other one to repeat the performance.
Ash was surprised and, he had to admit to himself, a little disappointed. For all of Comraich Castle’s secrecy and the apparent influential but shadowy consortium behind it, it was remarkably easy to gain entry. Security could hardly be described as hi-tech.
As Dalzell guided the Mercedes-Benz through the gateposts, Angus leaned close to the passenger window for better scrutiny of the intruder.
His and Ash’s eyes locked for a moment as the car went by and the parapsychologist saw the weariness of many years of unappreciated servitude in the other man’s watery gaze. But there was something more lurking behind those tired old eyes and Ash shivered inside a little before chiding himself for being over-imaginative. Kate would have put it down to his highly tuned intuition, but the shiver of apprehension, Ash realized, was not because of the gatekeeper’s suspicious inspection and the shotgun lurking nearby: it was because now he was entering the grounds of Comraich Castle itself.
They drove in and the road soon became firmer, the bordering verdure and branches pruned severely to prevent any hindrance to wide or high-sided vehicles. And soon the road broadened into passing places along the way so that those same vehicles might make way for oncoming traffic or vice versa.
It would have been an agreeable pleasure for Ash, with the rich and varied autumnal colours all around and the very smell of nature itself mixed with the faint tang of salt breezes drifting in from the sea that must have been close by, had not a mounting trepidation spoilt the mood. Again, he was annoyed at himself. Certainly, it was a curious assignment – for a start, a human body stuck to the wall as if by its own blood (although in the past he’d investigated cases of equal peculiarity – some even more so) and these other alleged hauntings. Of course, he’d nearly died in a plane crash that very morning, so naturally he should not be feeling calm or at ease with himself, yet there was something more tormenting his psyche, a foreboding, a presentiment of – what? He had no idea.
He closed his eyes. Maybe there had been too much fear in his life; maybe over the years his resolve, his fortitude, had been sapped. Maybe he hadn’t allowed sanity enough time to heal old scars. Well, Kate obviously thought he was ready to take on the vicissitudes of ghost hunting again (unless she was testing his capability in dealing with such strange and possibly damaging investigations). He knew she sensed the dread hidden beneath his veneer of cynicism and his dry manner, but her faith in him had never wavered. They hadn’t been bed-partners for a long, long time, yet their affection – and their respect – for each other had endured. That alone gave him inner strength. He almost smiled at the thought of her. Sometimes she could be like a mother hen.
‘Rach air muin!’
Those Gaelic words that sounded like an expletive again tugged Ash back from his nervous cogitations. He opened his eyes as the Mercedes’ brakes were applied and his seatbelt checked his helpless lunge forward. He just had time to see a blur that could have been a fox or a medium-sized dog dash into the undergrowth on his side of the road.
‘Tha mi duilich,’ Dalzell said to him as the long car came to a halt then rocked lightly on its suspension. ‘Sorry to gi’ you a fright again, Mr Ash. Y’ve had your share today.’
Ash peered into the undergrowth. ‘What was it?’ he asked. ‘Dog or fox?’
‘Neither one. Did y’nae see its striped fur and bushy tail? It was a bliddy cat!’
‘A cat? That size?’
‘Aye. A wildcat. I should’ve run the bugger down. There’s a whole tribe of ’em hereabouts and they’ve become an awful nuisance.’
‘I wasn’t aware that wildcats existed any more in the UK.’
‘Oh aye, they’re about. But mostly they live in the Highlands. It’s only recently that we’ve begun to see ’em in the South. Bliddy pests, the lot of ’em!’
‘Are they dangerous?’
‘They can be very dangerous. They’d tear the skin off y’face if’n y’were foolish enough to corner one.’
Ash visibly blanched for the driver’s warning had jolted his mind back to another case just two years ago and Grace Lockwood, whose skin had been shredded from her whole body by unseen forces while he’d looked on helplessly.
Ash forced the memory away. At least, for the moment, for it was one that would never really leave him.
Dalzell gently applied pressure on the accelerator once more and the car resumed its journey with gentle speed.
Because they were in the shade of overhead tree branches and also because, Ash assumed, they were drawing near to the coastline, the air was considerably cooler. He used the button on his armrest to close the passenger window and the glass slid upwards with barely a whisper.
‘The cats,’ Dalzell was saying, ‘they’re trying to get into the compound for some reason, and we think a lot of ’em have made it. God knows how.’
‘The compound . . . ?’
‘Ach, it’s just something we call it. The castle grounds and land around Comraich. Fortunately, it’s protected by an electric wire fence. Keeps trespassers out and inmates in.’
Ash frowned. ‘Inmates?’
‘They keep trying though.’
‘The inmates?’
The driver chuckled. ‘Sorry, I didnae mean to call ’em that,’ he said, glancing at his passenger. ‘I’d be obliged if y’d nae mention that lapse of respect to Sir Victor Haelstrom.’
‘You’ve got my word on it. But I can’t help wonder why you’d describe them that way.’
‘It’s just that many of ’em have been here for years – way longer than I’ve worked for Comraich – and none of ’em ever seem to leave, not even for a day or a couple of hours. I shouldnae say it, but sometimes m’partner an’ me, we wonder about it, and none of the castle staff will gi’ an opinion.’
‘But an electrified fence is used to keep the, uh, guests inside the grounds?’
‘Well, no. That was a little quip on my part. All the residents seem happy enough to be here. Mind you, a 100,000-volt shock would make sure of that, too.’
‘Seems excessive,’ Ash remarked.
‘Aye, but it keeps people safe.’
‘I bet.’
Dalzell suddenly looked serious. ‘Y’ever heard a cat howling at night, Mr Ash?’ he asked. Without waiting for an answer he went on. ‘Sounds like a human baby crying. And when one starts up, then so does another. And another after that. Soon it sounds like the woods are full of ’em. It’s an awful eerie sound.’
He eased up on the accelerator as they reached another bend in the road.
‘What y’ll see next will surprise you,’ he told Ash. ‘But dinnae let it intimidate you.’
Nevertheless, it did.
16
The sleek car rounded the bend, and when Ash caught sight of what lay ahead, he was taken aback. The tall, solid metal gates made an imposing and somewhat sinister barrier that completely hid whatever view lay beyond them, which, he assumed, was the castle’s inner grounds. A sign on the ivy-clad brick wall beside them said ALL GOODS, with a red arrow pointing left just to clarify the message. The road itself continued in that direction, but Dalzell pulled the Mercedes Tourer over into the open space before the gates.
‘Are they meant to keep callers out or guests in?’ Ash asked before the driver could speak.
‘Both, Mr As
h. You’ll find the security at Comraich quite extreme, but y’ll get used to it.’
‘I don’t intend to stay that long.’
Dalzell shrugged. ‘Well, I hope there’s nae need.’
That remark had sounded almost ominous, but Ash let it go.
Dalzell unclipped his seatbelt and then rummaged through the sporran on his lap. He brought out a small gadget that looked like a pager but with a red button beneath its text window. He pointed it at the looming black gates and pressed the button.
‘That little thing’s going to open those?’ Ash asked in mild bemusement.
Tucking the gadget back into the sporran, the driver replied, ‘Not exactly. You’ll see . . .’
A wicket door in the right-hand gate opened and a big man stepped out. He wore the quasi-uniform now familiar to Ash. Grey shirt and black tie, black trousers and black commando boots; he also wore a black beret, and a dark radio earpiece that looked like a slug crawling from his ear. Ash had gained a fair knowledge of police armoury during the many occasions on which the Institute had loaned him out privately – very privately – to police forces baffled by extraordinary events which only a psychic investigator might resolve. He saw that, amazingly, the guard was fitted out with full Kessler rubberized chest armour, a Glock 17 9mm self-loading pistol holstered to his side. He also carried a Heckler and Koch L104A1 37mm single-shot rubber baton launcher and a stun gun capable of delivering 50,000 volts.
Ash assumed the big man was a guard – the real keeper of the gate, he mused – and his size alone made him formidable enough to substantiate the assumption. Leaving the wicket door open, the man strolled towards the car, raising a thick, indolent arm at Dalzell, who waved back, his hand barely lifted.
The driver’s side window glided down and Dalzell poked his head out a fraction.
‘Come on, Henry,’ he called, ‘y’ken it’s me. Open up!’ He pulled his head back in. ‘Henry always goes by the book,’ he said quietly to Ash, his half-smile showing no malice. ‘I like to pull his chain occasionally, just to rile him. Unfortunately he’s too serious about his job t’appreciate humour.’