Ash (4 page)

Maseby’s voice was sombre as he began to explain.

‘A week ago, Comraich Castle’s senior nurse, Rachael Krantz, was on her early-morning rounds, checking the special units below ground level.

‘All the code-locked doors down there are metal, each with a small toughened-glass viewing window so that patients can be observed without the observer entering the room.

‘There was nothing amiss in the first few rooms – the patients inside were either sleeping or sitting quietly – but the fourth appeared to be empty.

‘Nurse Krantz was not too concerned initially, because the occupant might have been in a blind spot beside the door itself. But she noticed a pool of blood seeping out from under the door and heard an agonized moaning coming from within that had her punching in the door’s key code. Most of the nurses and other ancillary staff have radio transmitters attached to the lapels of their uniforms, but Krantz decided not to waste time alerting others before assessing the full nature of the situation.

‘She pushed open the door, but waited a second or two before going through – and who could blame her for that? There was so much blood pooling over the floor she said she could smell its coppery odour. The moaning she’d heard was, of course, louder now that the door was wide open, but it remained low and muted, as if it came from someone barely conscious.

‘She went in, careful not to tread in the blood-soaked section of carpet. Then she turned to see what had been hidden from view beyond the observation window.

‘Any other person, male or female, might have screamed and run from the room, but Nurse Krantz is made of sterner stuff. Instead of fleeing or calling for assistance, she moved closer to the mutilated man who was pinned to the wall several feet above the floor.

‘She knew who the man was, of course, but barely recognized him beneath the thick mask of blood. It was running from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth onto his chest and stomach. His genitals had been cut off. He was naked and spread-eagled on the stone wall, his arms outstretched, the blood streaming onto the carpet below, soaking in and spreading.

‘She assumed he’d been somehow physically pinned there, but when she looked at his hands and feet she saw there was nothing to hold him, no wounds, no marks, no deep cuts.

‘It was a crucifixion without nails.’

‘And without death, it seems,’ Ash murmured.

Kate McCarrick stepped out of the shower, her auburn hair hanging limp and almost straight against her neck and scalp. She took a thick white bath towel from the heated rail and quickly rubbed her body down, leaving her hair till last, patting it gently, the towel absorbing surface dampness.

Kate studied her naked body in the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the bathroom door. The glass was steamed up just enough to blur her image, but as she turned sideways for a different view she sighed, not in despair but in rueful resignation.

Breasts that had been full since puberty had lost their ‘lift’, and her tummy bulge seemed a little more prominent than only a few months ago (the tightness of the waistband in her skirts and slacks gave independent testimony to that!). But her legs were still good, if slightly heavier round the thighs. For a woman in her mid-forties, she was in good shape overall, even though her hair, presently damply dark, needed help from a bottle to disguise the encroaching grey threads.

Slipping into her luxurious white robe, Kate left the bathroom, intending to blow-dry her hair before it got too lank to shape, but decided she needed a preparatory drink before her dinner date arrived. She’d accepted Simon’s invitation on the understanding that it was merely a reunion dinner with an old friend, no strings attached. If Simon expected more, then he was sadly deluded; she was no longer young and capricious, nor was she quite middle-aged and desperate. There were other men in her life, but no one special, nobody she wished to grow old – older – with.

At one time, David had certainly been a consideration, even though she was ahead of him in years. That was long ago though, and both of them had wandered off along their separate paths since – only the Institute itself sustaining their relationship. Sometimes she regretted not having become more serious with him. Certainly, she’d tried, but it would always come back to the truth of the situation: in essence, David Ash was a loner, and in all probability he would remain so. Instead of advancing years mellowing his temperament, David had become even more detached. Some women might find it attractive in a man, feel that his brooding manner and dark good looks somehow made him interesting, gave him a Heathcliffian allure. But Kate knew his self-containment and complexity of mind would eventually wear them down, even prove tiresome, if not vexatious. After a while, it would sap any serious partner’s devotion.

Two previous investigations had taken their toll on him: the last one, concerning a village in the Chilterns called Sleath, had almost destroyed him. He’d needed weeks of special care and recuperation afterwards in the psychiatric wing of a private hospital a few miles outside London and, although he’d been patched up mentally, Kate had wondered if he would ever really be the same again. That had been two years ago, and he was still unable to explain precisely what had happened in Sleath.

Years of repressed guilt had come to the fore, its origins a tragic accident that had occurred when he was just a child. He’d told her of it in intimate conversations during their brief spell as lovers, and it had helped her understand him a little more.

When they were children, David and his older sister, Juliet, had fallen into a dangerous river, whose strong mid-stream current had swept Juliet away. He too would have been carried off but for his father, who had jumped in after them. David was hauled back to the bank, but Juliet had drowned, their father unable to find her in the murky, fast-flowing river. And for some reason, David had blamed himself ever since; perhaps he felt guilt because he’d been saved while she had drowned.

Some years before the Sleath case he’d been involved in an investigation concerning an alleged haunting of an old mansion called Edbrook. He told Kate that the ghost of his sister, Juliet, had returned to haunt him there. And she had not been alone.

Even now, it was difficult to make sense of David’s claim, but he’d come back from that place a changed man with a short but deep gash on his cheek. Always somewhat cynical (that was what made him so good as a psychic investigator: he was never fooled by a phoney haunting or fake mediums) he was now even more guarded.

It was as if those deep mental scars had been raked open again when he’d visited the little village of Sleath some years later. It had taken some time to bring him back from the brink of madness.

But she’d never truly unravelled the traumatic events that had occurred in Sleath, a bizarre haunting that had involved the whole village and centred on David. She was aware that a woman called Grace Lockwood had died when the walls of an old ruined manor house had collapsed and crushed her. Kate guessed that she had been very special to David, but he’d refused to discuss their relationship.

Typical Ash: suppress all true feelings; keep them at bay, especially away from himself, lest they render him even more vulnerable.

Kate poured herself a gin and tonic and went to sit on the sofa facing the apartment’s floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the dark waters of the River Thames. Simon would be collecting her within the hour, but she was content to dwell on her thoughts for a while. Twenty years ago, maybe even less, she would have been rushing around to get ready for a date: varnishing her nails, fingers
and
toes, choosing the right underwear (one never knew how the evening might end) and tights, applying make-up, drying and styling her hair then choosing her outfit. Including bath or shower, it would take a couple of hours. Was she getting too old for such fuss? It seemed so.

Then again, her dinner date with Simon Maseby definitely didn’t fall into the ‘special’ bracket. But at least she might learn a bit more about this covert organization he represented.

The private jet’s stewardess welcomed Ash aboard with a beaming smile and bright blue eyes that were almost sincere. She led Ash along the Gulfstream G450’s short cabin, turning to ask which seat he would like to take. As he was the only passenger so far, the investigator had plenty of choice; he opted for a beautifully designed single armchair which faced another that was identical. Both were made of soft grey suede with charcoal-black cushions, broad with high headrests.

In fact, the whole cabin, with room for up to eight passengers, was decked out in the same muted greys. The ambience was of stylized (and reassuring) comfort.

Ash settled into his seat, noticing that across the narrow aisle from him, its backrest against the curved cabin wall, was a sofa-type seat with room enough for three people. He dropped his leather shoulder bag onto the floor beside him.

‘I’m Ginny,’ the slim stewardess announced. (
No plastic name tag for you, then
, thought Ash.) ‘Can I get you something to drink, Mr Ash?’ She was leaning over him, professionally manicured hands clasped together against her knees. She had light brown hair pulled back into a neat ponytail and was without the usual hostess’s cap.

Foolishly pleased she knew his name without asking, Ash said with a returned smile, ‘That would be nice.’

‘We’ve a choice of teas and coffees: Jamaican Blue Mountain, Columbian, Arabic coffee, not too strongly roasted. Or I can make you a blend of Robusta and Arabica. Teas are Twinings Lapsang, herbal – a blend of rosehip, hibiscus – Twinings or Jackson’s Earl Grey, Black Russian or English breakfast tea. Unless you’d prefer something stronger? We’re still waiting for the arrival of three more passengers on this morning’s flight, so there’s time to relax before take-off.’

Three more? Maseby had only mentioned two other passengers – the psychologist Wyatt and a new client. Ash wondered who the third person might be.

‘Mr Ash . . . ?’

‘Uh, sorry.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Eight-thirty in the morning is a little too early for alcohol.’ He briefly wondered if Ginny had been instructed by Maseby to offer him booze as a test, then quickly dismissed the thought as paranoid. ‘Yeah, coffee could be good. Black, two sugars?’ The sugar should jimmie up the caffeine to get his brain functioning this early in the morning.

Ginny, whose lovely smile had never once wavered, nodded her head as though he’d made a brilliant choice.

‘What kind of coffee?’

‘Oh, just regular. Strong and hot. I’m no connoisseur.’

‘Be right back.’

She straightened and turned away. Ash watched her trim figure make its way to the aircraft’s galley. Her mid-grey suit – designed to match the cabin’s interior decor, obviously – was not quite a uniform, with its elegant cut and quality material, the skirt reaching just above her knees, the three-button jacket with lightly padded square shoulders. It gave her an air of calm authority; she could easily have been on her way to a business meeting at an exalted fashion house. And no standard stewardess’s silk scarf to cover her chest, the jacket’s plunging neckline teasingly arrested by the top button he’d noticed when she’d leaned over him. Just a glimpse of her bra’s black lacy edging was enough to excite the attention of any warm-blooded male. It had been a long time since . . . he stopped the thoughts dead in their tracks because he knew they would only bring on regret and anguish.

Fortunately, the mobile phone began to vibrate silently inside the deep pocket of his jacket, distracting him. Angling his body in the plush soft-suede seat, Ash took out the phone and checked the caller’s ID. Ginny was on her way back to him, bearing a tiny silver tray with a bone china cup and saucer, a sugar bowl and a small array of unwrapped biscuits on a tiny plate, the pleasing aroma of roasted coffee beans preceding her along the deck. He held up the neat little phone in the palm of his right hand, pointing at it with his left; he wasn’t sure of the regulations regarding the use of mobile phones on aeroplanes nowadays.

‘Of course,’ she reassured him with that same lovely smile. ‘As long as you don’t use it during take-off or landing. Just a precaution, but you’re free to use it again when we’re in the air.’

Ginny leaned over him again and pulled out a cleverly recessed mini-table from the arm of his chair. She left the tray with him while he took the call.

‘Morning, Kate.’ His voice was low and husky at this time of day.

‘Where are you?’

‘Where I’m supposed to be.’

‘Good, you made it.’

‘What did you expect?’

‘Just checking, David. I know you’re hopeless with mornings.’

‘Daylight
burns
.’

‘Enough. Sorry I doubted you. So you’re on the plane?’

‘Yup. Y’know, I could get used to this lifestyle. Cab I pre-booked was on time, the journey to City Airport dragged a bit because of rush-hour traffic, and the area around the airport is remarkably soulless but, with the letter of authorization Maseby gave me yesterday, I was through check-in and on the plane inside twenty minutes. Didn’t even have to carry my own suitcase; it was taken care of before I even entered the terminal building. Right now I’m sipping steaming-hot coffee and waiting for the other passengers to show.’

Even as he spoke, he glanced out the small round plexiglas window to see a shabby little man wearing an old-fashioned trench coat leave the single terminal building to hurry across the tarmac towards the jet. In one hand he carried a small case while in the other was a rolled umbrella.

‘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?’