‘No!’ Paul snapped. ‘I’ll have the money by the end of the next account on the 21st. That is all you need to know. You’ve got to give me until then.’
That gave him fourteen more days.
‘You know, I was really pleased when they cancelled the gig.’ Kathleen sat back in Neil’s Land Rover and stared out of the window as they drove north out of Aberdeen. ‘The club was damaged by fire, so their insurance will pay me anyway. It was nice you could meet me at the station. I didn’t fancy paying a taxi to take me up to Duncairn.’
Neil was staring through the windscreen wipers. He said nothing.
‘You didn’t mind me coming up to be with you?’ She was babbling and she knew it. She groped in the bag at her feet for her cigarettes.
‘Of course not.’ For the first time Neil glanced at her. He smiled. ‘Things are going well up here. We’re trying to get a date organised for the public enquiry, so we’ve been busy. We’re going to have to bring in a lot of people from outside.’
‘You mean the poor bastards who actually live at Duncairn would love to see oil there?’ She struck a match, defiantly aware of his disapproving glance, and lit her cigarette, inhaling deeply. Winding down the window a quarter of an inch she pushed out the dead match. ‘Oh Christ! That’s me, littering the road! Sorry.’ She took another drag at the cigarette.
‘You look tired.’ Neil changed gear as they approached a roundabout. His expression softened slightly. ‘Has it been a tough week?’
‘Three one-nighters. I hate them. What I want is a good long engagement to set me up. In London or Newcastle or somewhere. I read my cards before I left,’ she went on suddenly.
Neil shook his head. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that. You know there are periods when I think you are probably quite normal, then you slip back again. So, what did they say? Are we going to win?’
She pushed a strand of black hair back from her eyes and blew smoke at the roof of the Land Rover. She hadn’t asked the cards about the campaign at Duncairn. She had asked them about her future with Neil, and she had not liked what they said. There had been a predominance of swords in the spread and there was no sign of the Queen of Pentacles, her own special card. Instead there was another woman.
‘I can stay up here with you for a few days if you like.’ She turned sideways on the bench to face him, easing the seatbelt on her shoulder.
‘Good.’ He was concentrating on the road. The shower was becoming heavier; hailstones rattled on the glass. ‘It looks as if winter is on its way at last. We’ll have to get our first meeting in before the snows start.’
‘They haven’t definitely got the licence to test drill yet, have they?’ she asked, throwing out the stub of the cigarette.
Neil frowned. ‘Not yet.’ He forced himself to smile across at her. ‘Jack Grant will be glad of some female company at the hotel. In fact perhaps we can use you to bring in some customers. Are you ready to sing for your supper?’
‘If I must.’ She gave a thin smile. ‘I hoped you’d be glad of some female company too.’
‘Of course.’ He patted her knee briefly. ‘Look over there, at the sea. It’s getting pretty rough. You are sure you wouldn’t rather have flown south with the swallows for the weekend?’
Across the fields to their right they could see the thin line of the beach. The sea beyond it was grey and angry, whipped into white, the clouds so low and heavy that they seemed to be part of it.
It took half an hour to cover the twenty or so miles to Duncairn and by then Kathleen had smoked four cigarettes. As he parked in front of the hotel Neil gave an inward sigh. She was taut, defensive, suspicious and he wasn’t looking forward to a weekend with her, almost alone at the hotel. Kathleen belonged to the city. She needed people to make her sparkle. As he watched her climb out of the car, her hair torn back by the strength of the wind, he found himself thinking, not for the first time, how ill she fitted into this wild rugged place.
He picked up her case and carried it in, closing the door behind her, leaning all his weight against it to shut out the wind. ‘Come on. I’ll show you our room.’
They climbed the broad oak staircase to the first floor, aware the whole time of the drumming of the wind around the huge old house. Neil’s room was the last one on the left of the corridor. It faced the castle and beyond it, the sea.
He put Kathleen’s case down beside the huge Edwardian wardrobe. ‘The bathroom is through there. If you want to settle in, I’ll meet you in the bar, later.’
In the corridor outside he paused and took a deep breath. Poor Kath. By Sunday evening she would be out of her mind with boredom.
Jack was somewhere in the kitchens. In the bar Neil helped himself to a large malt whisky then he walked over to the windows and stared out gloomily. The sunny intervals of the morning had gone. The sky was deep lowering grey and the rain as the wind swung inexorably round to the north had turned first to hail and now to sleet. The stand of trees which bordered the small rough lawn bent before the wind; behind it he could see the grey stone of the castle keep dark with rain.
‘So, where is the glamorous lady?’ Jack Grant walked into the bar and stared round. ‘Don’t tell me she didn’t come?’
Neil turned from the window. ‘She’s just settling in. She’ll be down in a minute. What is the weather forecast?’
‘Winter.’ Grant brought the whisky bottle over and topped up Neil’s measure before pouring one for himself. ‘The temperature is going to drop over the next couple of days.’ He looked gloomily out of the window. ‘The glass is falling fast. I doubt we’ll get many people to a meeting.’
Neil grimaced. ‘It’s a pity it’s this time of year, but we’ll get people in if I have to bus them up from Edinburgh.’
‘You might have to.’ Grant threw himself into a worn arm chair. ‘The locals are beginning to think on-shore oil might be a hell of a better way to earn a living than fishing the North Sea holes.’
Neil shook his head. ‘Jobs for the locals is a blind, Jack. You know that. And you’ve got to help me convince them. Sigma will bring in heavy labour from down south to build the pipe line and they’ll bring in their own employees to run things.’
‘And meanwhile your birds and flowers are more important than oil anyway.’ There was no irony in Grant’s voice, only mild resignation.
‘We’ve got to use every argument we can, Jack. People, environment, conservation. The lot.’
‘Aye.’ Grant leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes wearily. ‘You’ll not do it, you know. They always win.’
‘Never!’ Neil punched him on the shoulder. ‘Here. Let me give you another drink, then you can start preparing a gourmet meal to put the lady in a good mood!’
‘If she ever puts in an appearance.’ Grant stood up slowly. Just as Neil had done he went to the window and stood staring out towards the castle. ‘What is she up to up there, anyway?’
In the silent bedroom Kathleen was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She stared up suddenly as a particularly strong gust of wind vibrated the window frames and hurled a barrage of hailstones against the glass; then she looked down again at the spread of cards before her on the old Indian carpet. There she was again: the witch woman; the papess; the high priestess and with her the Ace of Cups.
Both men were late for their appointment. Paul arrived first and ordered himself a large whisky. He was already sweating.
Rex stood for a moment in the doorway of the smoking room at the club, staring at him as he waited to hand over his immaculate camelhair coat. Paul did not look up.
They did not make small talk. Ordering himself a Perrier with lemon and ice Rex stared pointedly at Paul’s glass, already nearly empty, and waited for him to speak first.
Paul took a deep breath. ‘How much time do I have to complete the deal?’
‘None.’ Rex’s voice was flat. ‘Sigma have withdrawn their offer.’
Paul went white. His fingers closed convulsively around the glass. ‘You
can’t do that!’ He shut his eyes, not wanting to see the handsome cold face opposite him. ‘You’ve made a legal offer.’
‘Which your wife turned down.’
‘Well, she’s changed her mind, and I have her power of attorney.’ Paul looked him straight in the eye.
‘Indeed.’ Rex met his gaze evenly. ‘Well, it may be that we can do business if you still want to sell.’ He paused. He had recognised Paul’s panic, seen the desperation, and he knew enough about his man now to gauge the situation to a tee. Paul Royland was sweating, in every sense of the word.
He smiled coldly. ‘Only this time the price has come down. If you can deal within two weeks, I’ll take the land myself, at agricultural value, which is all it’s worth. There will be no drilling now. Oil prices have dropped too far to make even on-shore exploration viable.’
‘That’s not true.’ Paul stood up. ‘The OPEC agreement –’
‘Means nothing, Mr Royland. Sit down, man. The whole goddam room is looking at you.’ Rex pushed his own chair back from the low table uncomfortably. He reached into his inside pocket as Paul sat down again. ‘I have the valuation of the Duncairn estates here which Mitchison had drawn up for me. Now, I am prepared to offer more than that – to cover the value of the hotel and the ruin –’ he paused, trying to conceal his excitement. ‘It is less than Sigma were prepared to offer, but I am willing to split the difference. That is my figure.’ He pushed the piece of paper over towards Paul. ‘And that is final. It will cover your debts.’ His hands had begun to shake. Firmly he picked up his glass of Perrier and raised it to his lips.
Paul was staring down at the document. Abruptly he looked up. ‘What do you know about my debts?’ His face was white with anger. It wouldn’t cover them, not by a long way. But it would help.
‘Enough. Shall we say I know enough about them and your business methods to spoil your cosy reputation in the City.’ Rex met his gaze coldly. ‘If you accept my offer there would of course be no need for me to say a word to a soul.’ He smiled. ‘So, do we have a deal?’
Paul’s hands were shaking visibly. ‘That is blackmail,’ he said furiously.
Rex smiled. He said nothing, waiting.
There was a long silence. ‘All right,’ Paul whispered at last. ‘I agree.’
Rex nodded slowly, trying to hide his elation. ‘Good. I’ll get my solicitors to contact yours.’
Paul nodded, trying to recover his composure. ‘I’ll have the power of attorney by the time they are ready.’
Sharply Rex looked up: ‘I thought you said you had it?’
‘I have. I have. It’s just the final formalities,’ Paul blustered. ‘Clare has agreed to the sale. She’s going away. As you know she was ill. She has to rest …’
Rex scanned his face thoughtfully. ‘Just so long as there is no delay,’ he said at last. He sat back in his chair with a sigh. ‘I want all this out of the way fast. I have to return to the States by the end of the month. If the transaction is not completed by then I shall pull out.’
‘It will be completed.’ Paul’s face was grim. The new settlement day was only thirteen days away now. He did not have until the end of the month.
‘Make sure of it.’ Rex smiled benignly. ‘I’d just hate to have your wife see your name all over the papers in another of your City scandals.’
Paul left the club without finishing his drink, pushing out into the cold blustery sunshine. His stomach was churning. Behind him Rex sat back in his chair and smiled. On impulse he called the waiter and ordered a bottle of Krug, all for himself.
The sun was reflecting in the puddles in the gutter; damp leaves lay thick on the pavement, their brilliant colours muddied and dirtied by a thousand passing feet. If Clare were dead there would be no problem. If she had died, there in the lift … Angrily Paul shook his head. What kind of a man was he turning into for Christ’s sake? He didn’t need her dead, but she had to be found and she had to be forced to agree to the sale. She had to. He had rung the house – both houses – again and again that morning but Sarah Collins had not seen her in London and there had been no reply from Bucksters. She had disappeared.
In a daze he walked all the way back to Coleman Street, arriving just after five. He spoke to no one as he let himself into his office, and without taking off his coat he wrote down the list of names he had been rehearsing in his head as he walked. He was still standing when, pulling the phone towards him, he began to dial.
He rang Zak first. The phone was answered by a curt and uncommunicative young man who informed Paul in tones which verged on rudeness that Zak was away in the States for three weeks and that Clare Royland had been nowhere near them for months. Paul felt inclined to believe him.
Next he tried Jack Grant at Duncairn. He was equally uncompromising. ‘She has not been in touch, Mr Royland, and my hotel is full. There is no room for her here.’
Paul bit back an angry retort. The man was insufferable and the hotel Clare’s, for the moment at least. How dare he speak like that about her. But then Grant knew about the offer; his livelihood was at stake. Perhaps the man was entitled to feel angry.
He rang Airdlie next. Archie Macleod answered. ‘Clare’s not here, Paul. She did ring your mother a couple of days or so ago, but we told her it wasn’t really a good time for a visit. Not at the moment.’
Paul smiled wryly. Poor Clare. Unwanted on every side. Nursing the receiver against his ear he sat down on the edge of his desk.
‘Archie, can I ask you a favour? It may be that she is on her way to you. I’m pretty sure she would be going north. Look old boy, I don’t quite know how to say this, but Clare is ill. Very ill. In her mind. I was going to come up and see you both and explain but there is no time now. God knows how we’re going to tell Antonia that her daughter is going off her head, but somehow we must. Listen, if she arrives you’ve got to keep her there and ring me at once, do you understand?’
There was a long silence the other end of the phone. Then, ‘Paul, what exactly are you saying?’ Archie’s voice was cold.
Paul clutched the receiver tighter to his ear. ‘Archie, she’s got involved with one of these Satanic cults. She has become deeply involved in raising demons, worshipping the devil, that sort of thing. She has become a danger to herself and everyone around her.’ He swallowed hard. ‘And like all these people she has become very clever at hiding the truth. She will deny it. God, Archie! I didn’t want to have to tell you all this over the phone. Our doctor and my brother, Geoffrey – you remember him? He is a member of the Church. They had the whole thing in hand. Then yesterday Clare disappeared. I thought maybe she had gone to the leader of the cult, this man in Cambridge, but I gather he is in America, so maybe she is on her way north. One of the things she is trying to do is give him all her money, her possessions, her land – even Duncairn – everything.’ Paul was warming to his story now, and sounding more positive.
At the other end of the line Archie sat down at his desk and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. He was glad Antonia was out.
‘I believe that is one of the conditions of belonging to the coven or whatever it is,’ Paul went on. ‘I had to warn you, Archie. You haven’t seen her for so long, I didn’t want you to be fooled by her. If she turns up keep her there. I mean it. Lock her up if you have to. And call me.’
There was another long silence. Paul closed his eyes, waiting for Archie’s reaction. What if his father-in-law didn’t believe him?
But at last Archie spoke. ‘I always did think the girl was unstable.’ His voice was full of disgust. ‘There is a weird streak in all that branch of the Gordon family, so I can’t say I’m altogether surprised. But how the hell do I tell her mother?’ He seemed unaware that he had just bracketed his wife in with Clare.
‘Gently.’ Paul had gone hot and cold with relief. His hands were shaking again. ‘But be firm, Archie. If she turns up, you’ve got to keep her there, for all our sakes as well as her own. I’ll catch the first plane after you ring me.’
‘And what do I do if she brings Satan into my house?’
Paul allowed himself a brief smile. Had he been that convincing? The sanctimonious fool! ‘Hold up a crucifix, like they do in films.’ For a moment he was almost sorry for Clare.
‘And where do I get a crucifix? Nasty Popish things?’ Archie was becoming increasingly indignant.
Paul shrugged. Then he remembered. ‘Take two pieces of rowan, tied together into a cross with red thread. Hold that up before her and keep your distance. Whatever she says to deny it, don’t listen to her. Lock her up, Archie, and don’t open the door until I get there.’
He smiled grimly as he hung up. It was Clare who had told him once about the rowan cross. They had both laughed about it and vowed to remember it, just in case either of them ever met a witch.
19
The Jaguar hurtled northwards over the long switchback of the A68. All around there was nothing but heather, brown and matted, covering the misty distances of the Cheviot hills which were empty of life as far as the eye could see. Clare lowered the window until her hair was blowing wildly across her face. She was exhilarated and, suddenly, happy again.
The night before, watching Isobel trapped in the web of her husband’s anger, she had suddenly become aware of the sound of the television blaring around the room, the noise beating at her ears and over it a furious knocking on the door. Dazed, she had stared round. Casta was lying flattened under the bed, trembling. Clare staggered to her feet stiffly and switched off the TV, relieved at the sudden tangible silence as she went to the door. The woman outside was red-faced with fury. ‘Can you turn that damn television off and keep it off! Some of us have been trying to get to sleep!’ she screamed at Clare.
Clare pushed her hair back from her face, confused. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was so loud. I must have fallen asleep –’