Ash (16 page)

He knew Twigg didn’t like him – a feeling that was mutual – but Eddy was eager to learn the tricks of the trade. He was also receptive to the methods of killing: sniper’s rifle, cheese wire, stabbing, drowning, poison, hit-and-run, shooting, strangulation, a quick shove off a platform into the path of an oncoming train. Hanging corpses in hotel wardrobes, hinting at sexual masochism, always amused him. He’d been taught about concealed cameras, lock-picking, industrial sabotage, bugging devices, moles and sleepers. There was a lot more that Eddy had to learn, but the lessons were usually interesting, if not always a bundle of fun.

The only sour note for Eddy was Twigg’s mean-spirited tutelage. It seemed he could do nothing right for the older man and, for fuck’s sake, Twigg had never forgiven him for the scrappy job Eddy had done on the Kelly assignment a few years ago. The old man refused to discuss it, but Eddy knew the veteran assassin still fumed about the bungled affair.

Anyway, what about Twigg’s own fuck-up before Eddy was even born? The IC had helped out a senior Liberal politician called Jeremy Thorpe, who claimed he was being blackmailed by a younger man with whom Thorpe had had a homosexual affair (both a serious offence and a career killer in those days). The alleged blackmailer was a reclusive male model by the name of Norman Scott. The Inner Court arranged for someone to drive Scott onto the moors one day, where Twigg was waiting armed with a gun. Scott’s dog had got yappy, so Twigg shot it in the head. Unfortunately for several people, but not for Scott, when the would-be assassin had aimed the firearm at the male model, the fucking gun had jammed, and there was nothing Twigg could do about the bullet stuck in the chamber, so he’d run off to his waiting car.

The trial in 1979 must have been one of the biggest farces in British legal history, and Thorpe, with three other cohorts, was cleared of any conspiracy to murder, and walked free – ‘Scott free’, said the headline writers – after the IC used its influence.

Of course, Cedric Twigg’s name had gone unmentioned, as had his presence at the crime scene. But Twigg’s blunder had become the stuff of legend among assassins the world over, and it had taken many more successful missions for him to regain respect. For Eddy, it was one of the first stories he’d heard when he was brought to Comraich years afterwards, but it was always told in sly whispers and never in front of Twigg. So even the mighty Cedric Twigg had disgraced himself at least once, the loony fuckwit! Eddy sniggered again as he tramped through the woods. He was determined to bring it up in Twigg’s presence sometime, but not just yet. The bald-headed man was too scary for that at the moment. But the day would come – Eddy had already noticed Twigg was a bit shaky – and what a fucking glorious day that would be!

Neither the twittering birds in the trees, nor the dappled sunlight on the woodland floor, helped to raise Nelson’s mood though. A squirrel, a
red
squirrel – not rare in these parts – shot up a tree trunk nearby and disappeared among the branches; from somewhere not far away came the soft sound of a muffled drill, which was in fact, the repetitive rapping of a woodpecker on tree bark. There was life all around the apprentice assassin, but his sullen state of mind allowed no joy in his awareness of it.

He plodded onwards, aware the cottage was not too far ahead by now. God, if he could live there on his own instead of the room he had at the barracks, the women Eddy would have for overnight stays. Mind you, he’d been through a good number of female staff already, but the psychologist,
oh
, the fucking sultry psychologist, she was his wildest wet-dream, with her tanned Latin looks and trim little figure. She was well fit! Unfortunately, she was also out of his league for now. But if
he
took over from Twigg, then maybe he’d be in with a chance.

Don’t kid yourself
, the sour little voice in the back of his brain sneered.
You know you’re not good enough to suck her toes.
He gritted his teeth, angry at this little voice he knew was his very own.

Anyway, there was something going on between Wyatt and Senior Nurse Rachael Krantz. They hid it well, but he wasn’t alone in being suspicious . . .

The younger nurses whispered that Krantz was a dyke who had special feelings towards the young, glamorous psychologist, and that didn’t surprise Eddy at all. Mind you, Krantz was fit as well: big boobs, which he liked on a woman, not exactly pretty, but she certainly had something going for her. Great body, even in her white uniform; good legs, nice ankles despite the white brogues she wore, and nice wide hips. Maybe just a little bit too tall. A thought hit him so hard that he almost stopped in his tracks. Now Krantz and Wyatt together! Oh, what a dream! With . . . even his thoughts stumbled . . . with him in the middle!

Yeah, dream on, son
.

That fucking voice again!

Eddy Nelson, aged twenty-nine, and apprentice assassin for nearly a decade now, kicked out at some pretty bluish-purple flowers in his path. Crushing them underfoot, then regretting that he’d muddied his shoes even more in the process, he stalked onwards with his temper rising a few more notches.

The welcoming smell of a wood-burning fire was drifting down the trail.
Must be getting close at last
, he thought. He slowed his pace, his footsteps becoming lighter and his breathing shallower and considerably quieter. He’d never yet managed to sneak up on Twigg without giving himself away, but
this
time Eddy had the initiative.

He also had an incentive, one provided by Sir Victor Haelstrom himself. Just a week or so ago, when Twigg and Eddy were making arrangements for their trip to London, Sir Victor had mentioned privately to the apprentice assassin that he might just keep a watchful eye on Twigg while they were in the capital.

There had been no explanation, not even a direct order; but the message was clear enough. Sir Victor had rarely addressed him personally before. He frowned, then the corners of his mouth twitched. He smiled. Those words, he realized, had for the first time given him some authority.

Almost creeping now, Eddy spied a splash of off-white further on, and the thin curling of smoke obviously from a chimney told him he’d nearly reached the cottage. Although it was October, the apprentice was perspiring just a little, and gave himself the excuse (he was
always
clean) that Hugo Boss material wasn’t good for jungle trekking. Neither was his William Hunt shirt.

He crouched as he moved forward, for once wanting to challenge Twigg before the senior assassin spotted him.

The cottage was in a forest clearing, the area around it full of flowers and neatly pruned shrubs. The heather-thatched roof, with its minuscule wall chimney, smoke lazily rising from it, would be considered enchanting by kids, newlyweds and estate agents, but to Eddy it was just a country hovel. He half expected the seven dwarfs to come marching out at any moment, the dopey one – what was his name? – tripping over the doorstep as the others whistled on into the woods. There were plenty of birds about, twittering and fussing, as if to betray his light footsteps.

Scarcely breathing, he crept through freshly turned flower beds as a magpie swooped past his left shoulder and squawked. It flew off, over the roof of the chocolate-box house, while Eddy froze on the spot. Twigg had acute hearing, the apprentice knew that, and Eddy was afraid that the alarmed squawk had given his presence away.

But no, there were no sounds from within, no scraping of a chair, no footsteps on the hard flagstone floor. Still he waited until he was sure that the bald-headed fucker hadn’t been roused. Maybe Twigg was sleeping – it had been a long day for him. Or maybe he was strolling in the woods. Either way, Twigg was too much of an old hand to leave the top half of the front door open.

Well
, Eddy told himself,
you can’t stand here for the rest of the day
. He thought of calling out casually, as though he expected Twigg to be inside. But then, what would Eddy be doing trampling all over Twigg’s flower beds when there was a perfectly sound path of evenly spaced flagstones leading straight up to the front door? And anyway, there seemed to be no sign of activity inside the cottage, so Twigg had to be napping. Cautiously, Eddy ventured on. Could be Twigg was testing him.

When he was near one of the closed windows, the apprentice ducked low, but continued his approach. Stooping even lower, he placed both hands on the window sill and tried a sneaky look through the glass.

He immediately ducked down again, a ploy he’d been taught to save himself a bullet in the head should someone inside be expecting him. That way he instantly had the lie of the land without exposing himself long enough to have his head blown from his shoulders.

Yet he’d almost frozen in full view because of the sight that had greeted him – only rigid training made him drop instinctively. He waited out of sight while the scene beyond the glass played back in his mind.

The interior was gloomy, and even though light streamed in through the open half-door and window, Cedric Twigg was plain enough to see.

Afraid, but no coward, Eddy shifted his position, leaning his left shoulder to scuff against the whitewashed wall, and slowly raised his head again until his eyes were level with the window ledge. Dangerously, he had to raise a hand sideways against the glass pane to see inside more clearly.

Yes, as he’d thought, it was Cedric Twigg sitting there at the scarred old table in profile view. This time Eddy didn’t pull away but remained as he was and watched the other man in astonishment.

Twigg was seated at the table, wearing a collarless old shirt with the sleeves rolled up, as if he’d been toiling in the garden. One of his hands was pressed against the table’s scratched surface, yet twitching and jumping as if its owner had no power over it. But it was Twigg’s other hand that caused Eddy even more consternation.

It was in constant fidget, a strange one at that, because it was as if it were rolling a pill or ball bearing over and over between thumb and first finger, the motion increasing in speed and becoming more jerky, Twigg, it seemed, unable to take his eyes from the movement.

Over and over the thumb and finger went, with the assassin bent over the table, his normally rigid back stooped, his head low as he watched his own shaky fingers move again and again, rolling the minute or
non-existent
object.

That disturbing hand mime refused to be still, even though Twigg stared, his thin lips moving, as if he were
commanding
the fingers to stop.

Eddy slid down below window height and squatted there, the back of his suit smeared with white dust. Never before had he been so afraid of Twigg, and that was because the senior assassin was always in strict command of himself. At this moment he wasn’t, and Eddy didn’t want to witness any more. Especially, he didn’t want to be in the same room as the man whose eyes now bulged with craziness.

Yet sometimes fear has its own fascination.

Although scared –
hell, fucking terrified!
– Eddy just
had
to take one more peek through that wood-framed window. Almost robotically, he dug the muddy heels of his Shipton & Heneage rustic-grain calf shoes into the dirt and pushed himself haltingly up the flaking wall that dusted the back of his sharp Hugo Boss jacket.

When the back of his head rose above the window sill, he slowly turned to look directly into the room once more . . .

. . . To see Cedric Twigg, perfectly still and straight-backed at the table, his head now turned, those far-gone, crazy bulbous eyes staring directly into Eddy’s own. It was the assassin’s malign, thin-lipped smile that provoked the high, terrified shriek from Nelson.

The apprentice assassin struggled to his feet, stumbling twice before he made it and, mouth agape, he fled that hideous little thatched-roof cottage in the clearing deep inside the suddenly hushed autumnal woods.

The driver’s words slowly sank in as Ash gazed at Comraich Castle. It felt as though the centuries-old fortress were revealing the towering menace of its full grandeur specifically to him – maybe as a warning after what had happened to the medium. The grey mists that had swirled around the substructure only moments before (or so it seemed), making the building appear rootless, distanced from the earth itself, had roamed onwards, thinning and dispersing as they went. The now almost-blue sky outlined the castle’s ramparts and towers as if they marked the edge of the world.

The ghost hunter hadn’t expected a display of this magnitude and of such proportionate design, even though it was obvious that it had gone through much renovation work and additions throughout the years.

The castle spread out before him, its high solid sandstone walls, with their crenel and merlon battlements ending in round towers, was a magnificent sight. Two more towers rose even higher in the middle section of the edifice, both projecting from the main structure itself. He expected to find arrow loops in the walls, simple vertical slits through which arrows and later, guns, could be fired in defence, but in their place were many windows of differing sizes, some tall, some low, indicating that this was no longer the age of arrows and muskets, and certainly not spears. To the right of the old building was a defensive, crenellated walkway leading to much smaller buildings and a battery of cannons, all pointing seawards. Comraich itself was too wide to see what lay beyond the far side.

Ash was impressed. The sun had made its presence known and the lower mists around the castle had faded to gossamer – but there was something inaccessible, intangible about how it made him feel. He was mesmerized.

The big arched wooden doors centred in the facade directly across the vast courtyard suddenly opened and two figures emerged to descend the short flight of steps; they strolled casually towards what Ash presumed were the castle’s walled gardens.

Ash had been aware that while he studied the castle, Dalzell had been casting surreptitious looks his way as though waiting for a reaction.

‘Are you okay, Mr Ash?’