Ash (55 page)

He was pleased to see the plaster and padding across the obviously broken nose, as well as the dark purple and yellow bruising beneath her eyes. He’d never liked her – nor she him.

‘Sir Victor asked me to take a look at the lift-shaft damage,’ he lied, before adding another lie. ‘I used to be an engineer years ago and I think he wants a professional assessment.’

She sneered behind the mask concealing her injured nose. ‘You? An engineer?’

He struggled not to giggle, for her voice had that blocked nasal sound, so different from the harsh, crisp quality of her usual tones.

‘I’ve done many things in my time, my dear, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t hinder me.’ He hoped she hadn’t noticed the slurring of some of his words and decided to keep the conversation as brief as possible.

‘Where’s your pass?’ she snapped. ‘Nobody goes down to the lowest level unless they’ve got one from Sir Victor.’

Twigg reached into his raincoat pocket and produced a dark titanium key-lock card. ‘You’re aware of how busy everybody is today preparing for tonight’s meeting, and Sir Victor is no exception. In fact, he’s busier than anybody else, so rather than waste time writing me a pass to show to anyone who should get in my way, he issued me with this.’ He waved the hard metal card at her as back-up.

As a matter of fact, it really was Haelstrom’s key-lock card, which Twigg had slipped into his pocket over a year ago after the big man had carelessly left it lying on the corner of his desk. The funny thing was, Haelstrom had admitted to no one that he’d lost his key-card to the sub-basement, as if he might look a fool for mislaying it. Instead, he’d merely ordered a fresh card to be made without informing anyone as to the reason. Vanity, Twigg supposed. Sir Victor obviously did not want his employees to know he could be stupid enough to lose anything of such importance.

Senior Nurse Krantz continued to study Twigg suspiciously. ‘What have you got in that bag?’ she demanded, pointing at the satchel he was holding so close to his chest.

The assassin was growing impatient, for he was having difficulty containing the symptoms of his illness. He licked away the drool that was beginning to gather on the side of his mouth and stiffened his neck to stop the slight but constant nodding of his head.

‘My tools!’ he all but shouted. ‘Tools to help me assess the structural problems the crashed lift may have caused!’

Although Twigg was a strange character who had very little verbal contact with lower members of staff, his anger was something new to Krantz; dour and unfriendly though he might be, nobody had heard him raise his voice before, and now it shook her.

It had been a bad morning for her, having had to explain the injury to her face. She wasn’t sure if her story of slipping over and hitting a stone wall as she toppled was believed. But she’d caught the smirks passed between junior nurses and the medical team. To add to her ire, Twigg said, ‘If you’d like to check with Sir Victor on this busiest of days, I’m sure he’d appreciate your call.’ His speech was a little unclear.

It was a bluff, but one that Twigg found usually worked where confusion and nervousness were involved.

Instead of declining the suggestion, Nurse Krantz merely turned on the heels of her white brogues, and stomped back into the initiation and special care unit: many of Comraich’s clients were under observation in there, complaining of nausea and stomach pains (not to mention severe mental trauma) after last evening’s terrifying incident. Krantz was far too busy to be wasting her time, let alone Sir Victor’s.

‘Don’t be too long,’ she growled over her shoulder at Twigg, which was said only to have the last word.

The tall guard, who had been observing this heated exchange, immediately stepped aside so that Twigg could slide his metal card down the coded doorlock slot. Although almost twice the size of the small, bald-headed man, the guard instinctively knew there was something dangerous about him. Maybe it was Twigg’s cold, unblinking, protuberant eyes. Or maybe the guard had watched too many Halloween movies.

‘Would you like me to accompany you, sir?’ asked the guard, holding his chunky stun-gun across his chest. He wasn’t happy – he didn’t normally go down there where the lunatics were caged (especially since the cell doors had become unreliable, allowing the loonies to roam the long corridor outside their cells) but felt it was his unpleasant duty to make the offer.

‘No, I’ll . . . I’ll be f-fine.’

‘Sorry, sir?’ The words had been difficult to understand.

‘I said I’ll be all right on my own,’ Twigg snapped back, his irritation forcing his voice to be clearer.

‘Very well, sir,’ the guard came back with. ‘I’ll just go with you to the bottom of the stairs to make sure it’s clear.’

The guard, Grunwald, entered first and Twigg followed him down the stairway. If Comraich’s upper floors were palatial, then the castle’s lowest level was the antithesis. The stone walls smelt, and seeped water, the edges of the steps themselves were worn and bowed. And the muted wailing soon came to their ears as they descended. A rat – a rather large one – scuttled across their path at the bottom, disappearing somewhere into the darkness. All the ceiling lights were protected by mesh ironwork covers, and pools of water gathered in the indents of the concrete flooring.

The guard, who also wore a Glock model 34 sidearm, magazine capacity of seventeen rounds, as well as two flash grenades on the left side of his broad chest, nevertheless felt nervous in this dingy, underground domain that looked as if nothing had changed for centuries apart from having dim ceiling lights and code-lock doors. Even the foul air, musty and oppressive, somehow seemed old. But it was the soft moaning and muffled wailing coming from separate lock-ups that spooked him mostly.

‘Right, sir,’ he said, brisk with the need to leave this rotten place, ‘corridor’s clear, but if you need help there’s a red alarm button inserted in the wall on the right-hand side. I’ll be off then.’ With that he took to the stairs once more, two at a time on the way up.

Twigg shuffled down the corridor, clutching his satchel as might Shylock a bag of silver. He ignored the indistinct cries and whispers that came from behind the doors, although he sensed some of the cause of their anguish: it was as if something unbearable but invisible had entered the confines of Comraich Castle. Some of the more impressionable staff had told him they’d seen small black orbs floating around down here. Portents of death, they said. If so, their arrival would not be unexpected by him.

He continued what was becoming an arduous journey along the dank corridor and occasionally felt eyes watching him from the slots in the cell doors. Yet no one tried to attract his attention by tapping on the glass, or calling out to him. He found that strange, given the dire atmosphere here in the very depths of the historic building.

Spotting what he was looking for directly ahead, he attempted to speed up, but his legs refused to obey him. He was also finding it difficult to breathe in the close environment, as though the air were somehow thicker, even cloying. He thought he could detect the faintest aroma of the sea, but it didn’t seem to help much. Finally, he found himself at his destination.

The spot was marked by debris, dust and large pieces of rubble, masonry mixed with loosened iron reinforcing rods, dangling cables and other lengths of bent metal rails and chunks of stone. The pile of detritus virtually blocked the corridor and he carefully set the heavy satchel on a clear space before clambering over to the other side. The lift car was destroyed, its walls buckled and twisted, but as he leaned forward and peered upwards, he noticed a large hole had been smashed through one side of the lift, with another hole further up creating a sort of chute from the lift’s bowed roof and crooked floor. He had to look away quickly as fine floating particles of dust irritated his bulbous eyeballs. He blinked several times to clear them.

It would take months to clear the blockage and install a new lift. No difference to him. If his plan worked as it should, then ultimately the whole place would be destroyed. Twigg turned away, eager to get on with his job.

Stumbling back over the debris, he reached for the satchel and lifted it cautiously, warily, paying the device he’d carefully assembled the respect and attention that was its due.

The C4 explosive inside the cardboard box had already been primed, its timer already counting down. There would be no need for concealment, for here, among the rubble left by the crashed lift, it would never be noticed in the few hours before its detonation.

Cedric Twigg smirked at his handiwork and the thought of the consequences that would soon follow. Behind him was an old but strong-looking wooden door. With luck, the blast would rebound from it and direct the explosion to where it would cause the most damage among the castle foundations.

Unnoticed by him another door, the one opposite the lift, had opened while he’d been going about his work. Just a couple of inches. Just enough for a pair of crazed, slitted eyes to follow his progress.

The door quickly closed again and Cedric Twigg stood back to admire his own skill and cunning as he slapped his hands together to rid them of dust.

Grim-faced, Ash descended the broad, sweeping staircase, both furious and mystified by what he’d discovered. His equipment, which he’d left in strategic positions around the building, had been destroyed.

He’d kissed Delphine lingeringly before leaving her room to change into fresh clothes. He’d felt aroused once more, even so soon after they’d left her bed, and her smile had been warm and almost mischievous as she’d sent him on his way with an admonition that they should both get back to work. The thrill in her eyes had been still evident, though.

He’d gone to take the morning’s readings and found every one of his sensors smashed to pieces. He was both angry and confused. Could any of Haelstrom’s people have been responsible? If so, why? What purpose could be achieved by such wanton destruction? Or had the supernatural elements somehow found a channel, a conduit to enter the very depths of this wicked place, entities drawn here by something or someone? He recalled the crazed woman in the castle’s lowest dungeon and the floating Stygian orbs in her dank, ill-lit cell. The possibility could not be ignored, yet the people who governed Comraich seemed strangely reluctant to acknowledge the danger they were in, or give him free rein to deal with it. The time had come for Haelstrom to tell him the full truth about the ancient castle. He’d asked Ash to give him a progress report, so this was the perfect opportunity.

The old guard who sat at the bottom of the stairs barely gave the investigator a second glance as he passed.

From behind the reception desk, Veronica looked up in surprise as the investigator strode by and knocked loudly on the manager’s office door. She thought he looked tired, and was about to give him her warm smile and ask him how he was today, but on seeing the scowl on his brooding yet decidedly handsome face, decided not to do so. Besides, there was a lot for her to be getting on with. She’d been told to expect the arrival of many important visitors throughout the day for a hastily called conference, preceded by some sort of banquet that Gerrard was arranging.

Ash banged on the door again and Derriman’s voice came over the small intercom, sounding both mechanical and tremulous at the same time. ‘Yes, who is it?’ The investigator guessed that Derriman was also having a bad day.

‘It’s David Ash,’ he responded. ‘Here to see Sir Victor.’

‘Oh yes, Sir Victor mentioned he’d sent you a note. I think you’re a little late.’

That should please the big man
, Ash thought to himself and said, ‘You’d better let me in, then.’

There was a buzz and the office door swung open an inch. Ash pushed it wide and marched directly towards Haelstrom’s closed office door, ignoring Andrew Derriman’s outstretched hand as he rose to greet the investigator. He knocked once with the heel of his hand, then barged straight in without waiting for an invitation.

‘You’re either in serious trouble here, or someone is playing nasty games,’ he said before the surprised CEO could utter a word.

Haelstrom, seated behind his large cedarwood desk, looked briefly at his computer screen and then back up at Ash, the long, flat cheeks of his face already reddening before he’d even spoken.

Ash stepped forward, resting the knuckles of his slashed hands on the desk, and looked into the big man’s compacted scowl.

‘You’re late!’ Haelstrom growled at the investigator, who remained leaning over the desk.

‘Bloody right I am.’ Ash sensed that an overbearing man like Haelstrom, despite his contrary periods of politeness, had to be stood up to rather than pandered to. ‘I’ve just been to check out the equipment I’d positioned around the castle. I was going to analyse the results for my report. The trouble was, I had nothing to analyse. Every piece of the equipment was smashed beyond repair.’

He studied Haelstrom’s peculiar tight-featured face, staring into the small inset eyes. Haelstrom glared back at him.

‘What are you implying?’ he demanded, pushing his chair back as if to rise and tackle the angry investigator.

‘What I’m
saying
is there is someone – or something – here in the castle who has deliberately destroyed my equipment. Either you’ve got a human saboteur, or Comraich is in as bad a paranormal situation as I’ve been warning you.’

Ash stood straight, hands off the desk. ‘My advice to you, as before, is to evacuate the building immediately, or deal with these demons yourself. There’s nothing I can do! If it’s supernatural, it’s gone too far and you should have called me in a lot sooner.’

‘You know perfectly well we can’t ask all our guests to leave Comraich. And besides, tonight there will be a banquet for important members of the Inner Court, followed by a crucial meeting. We can’t do without you now, Mr Ash. If you leave, you’ll have broken our contract and I will take appropriate action.’

Before Ash could speak, there was a knock on the door behind him. The general manager poked his head through nervously.