Ash (60 page)

‘I’ll try, but I doubt it.’ Delphine tried SIR VICTOR HAELSTROM and a number of variations without success. ‘No, that’s not going to work,’ she said, staring at the screen. ‘Much too easy.’

‘Yeah, it was a silly idea.’ Ash rested a hand on her left shoulder, as if lending support. ‘COMRAICH?’

She typed it in, three ways, one in caps, next in lower case, lastly with only an initial C. Failure.

Unwilling to be beaten, she began to try random words: COURT, GULFSTREAM, REFUGE. All wrong. Her shoulders slumped, but REFUGE had given Ash pause for thought.

‘Not REFUGE. But try . . .’ he started to say, but she was ahead of him.

‘SANCTUARY,’ she said, feeling a buzz of excitement.

But it was wrong, yet again.

‘This is hopeless, David. We could be here all night long and still not come up with the correct password.’

But her last attempt had jogged something in his memory. Somebody – he couldn’t remember who – had given Comraich Castle another name.

‘Sanctum.’ He stood straight, staring into space as if trying to remember more. ‘Inner Sanctum, that was it! But just try SANCTUM.’

She did and instantly the screen faded to black, then came back with the words PASSWORD ACCEPTED.

He bent over and hugged her and Delphine smiled when the once-blank screen was suddenly filled with information:

There followed a truncated life history, but what interested Ash and Delphine was the reason for Betterfield’s incarceration at Comraich for twenty years. It seemed he – although British through and through and thought to be a champion of British imperialism and trade at the time – had secretly been an agent of Germany, which had been trying to break Britain’s trading and manufacturing dominance. Betterfield had helped in Germany’s struggles to gain power and territory in Africa.

So, confidential arrangements were made with the Inner Court.

Well, there was some justice in that
, reflected Ash as he skimmed through the more formal notes displayed on the computer screen. When questioned by senior security figures, Betterfield had collapsed and confessed all. Ash wondered what interrogation methods were used in those days. Pretty brutal, he imagined.

Bertram Betterfield agreed to disappear from society – he was warned that it was only because Queen Victoria herself would not sanction his execution that he remained alive. Ironically, the fortune Betterfield had accumulated went to help pay for his unwanted stay at Comraich.

‘And so here he died eventually,’ said Ash, stretching his shoulders after leaning over the computer for so long.

‘Shall we try some more?’

Ash shook his head. ‘I’d like to find someone more recent, or at least a person we might know of.’

He returned to the filing cabinets and studied his notebook again. He picked one at random.

‘There’s one here that looks as if it has seven digits, which should be more recent but I’m guessing that rather than eleven, as I’ve put down, the middle has worn away and it should be an M.’

He forced open the ‘M’ drawer with the ruler, reached in and brought out a memory stick at random. Delphine removed the first stick and inserted the one Ash handed to her.

‘Fingers crossed,’ she said as the request for a password was demanded on screen. ‘Let’s pray it’s not a different password every time.’

She typed SANCTUM again and smiled as access was granted.

‘Holy Jesus . . .’ breathed Ash as the name came up, blasphemy not usually part of his dialogue.

‘We’ve hit the jackpot, Delphine,’ Ash said in awe.

‘Robert Maxwell – the newspaper magnate?’ Delphine swung back to look at the screen.

‘He was a publishing tycoon, his only rival as a media giant was Rupert Murdoch, and Murdoch won out in the end. Eventually, they say, Maxwell committed suicide or died of a heart attack after fraudulent financial deals he’d set up to bolster his collapsing empire began unravelling. He’d even dipped into his employees’ pension funds to shore up his newspaper empire. Look at the screen

Ash was shaking his head. ‘This can’t be right.’ But he and Delphine read on, discovering more about the man.

‘So far,’ murmured Ash to Delphine, ‘all in the public domain. Maybe he
was
killed by Mossad. Israel’s secret service is highly regarded among intelligence agencies worldwide, but it’s never been known for its subtlety.’

He pointed at the next piece of information as Delphine scrolled down.

‘No, look, there it is,’ he said, quickly reading through the fresh lines that came up and giving Delphine a summary. ‘It was the Inner Court working with our own security forces that had Robert Maxwell kidnapped by the Special Boat Service. He knew so much about so many people in so many countries that it became a race to take him out first when his business empire started to crumble. He was left vulnerable; all those government officials and businessmen had washed their hands of him.’

Ash rose for a moment and stretched his aching back. ‘He’d stolen as much as £400 million from his companies’ pensions investments. It looks like the Inner Court and the British government struck a dodgy deal between them. If the SBS could secretly capture him and hand him over to the IC, all his secrets could be dragged out of him using sodium pentothal—’

‘And other, more dangerous drugs I wouldn’t care to name,’ Delphine cut in.

‘Right,’ said Ash, ‘the ideal solution. Then he could be left alone to live out his days here, sedated by lithium, or whatever.’

‘But the body pulled from the sea three days later?’

‘It could have been anyone of the right age and build, some down-and-out or drunk who wouldn’t be missed. There was never a proper post-mortem and the corpse was quickly cremated. No one ever made a proper identification.’

‘That’s horrible.’ Delphine was shaking her head in disgust.

‘It’s a wicked world.’ Ash leaned over her again as more type came up.

‘Jesus,’ he whispered again in wonder. ‘Would you look at this.’

The psychologist’s eyes widened when she read further. ‘Maxwell’s eventual death on 9th August 1996 was the result of suicide . . .’

‘I suppose he couldn’t stand the idea of being cooped up, no matter how luxurious the prison.’

The next line came up and they both gasped at what was displayed onscreen.

‘. . . following an overdose of yew-tree berries.’

‘Yew berries? How—’

Delphine stopped him. ‘Yew seeds are toxic. A lethal dosage would be fifty to a hundred grams. I’d guess he wandered through the woods one day, perhaps part of his exercise regime. Found himself among the crematorium plaques and assumed that one day this was how he’d end up, far from the public eye and, of course, his precious sons and daughters. Whether he cared for his wife, who knows? He’d left her in 1991.’

‘So he chose his own way out,’ said Ash, a trifle sadly. ‘He must have visited the area over the weeks, each time collecting and taking the berries back with him to the castle, hiding them in his clothes, which would be easy enough . . . He was a self-made man from what was then Czechoslovakia, who used to claim – or boast – that he never wore shoes until he was seven years old. He fought in the Czech army, rising to captain. Something of a hero if you believe what he said. In a way, his nemesis was Rupert Murdoch, who managed to outwit him in taking over two big-selling newspapers – the
Sun
and the now defunct
News of the World.
’

Delphine suddenly became anxious. ‘David, we’ve been in Sir Victor’s office a long time . . .’

‘You’re right. We don’t want to push our luck. Let’s get going.’ He hastily took a handful of memory sticks from each of the drawers he had broken open and stuffed them into his jacket.

‘I’ve no idea who we’ve got, but I imagine some of the names will interest the police. Maybe even puzzled historians.’

‘Surely you’re not thinking of showing them to the authorities. My God, it could bring the Inner Court down if it were exposed! You –
we’ll
– be in terrible danger if Sir Victor finds out.’

He returned to her and kissed her cheek. ‘Exactly. In any case, something tells me tonight Comraich Castle will be a risky place to be. That’s why I’m so keen for us to be gone.’

She stood, slipped her spectacles inside her coat pocket. ‘But how?’ she pleaded. ‘How are we going to get away from here?’

‘Like I said, I’ll go to Shawcroft-Draker and explain the situation to him. Not that we’ve pilfered Haelstrom’s special files, but, first, to warn him he needs to evacuate the place, and second, if he should refuse, I’ll ask his permission for just us to leave.’

‘He’ll never allow that.’

‘We’ll see. Don’t forget Maxwell’s memory stick,’ he said.

She handed it to Ash and it joined the others in his jacket.

‘Now let’s go!’

As they walked back through the main office Ash noticed that, even though no window was open, the papers on the desks were moving, as if touched by a breeze. Ash frowned and paused. He could feel a faint rumbling beneath his feet.

It’s beginning
, he thought.

Delphine carefully closed the main office door, then looked up and down the reception hall. It was still and silent, like some vast underground cavern.

‘David,’ she said, touching his arm, ‘Placid Pat’s gone.’

‘The old guard? Yeah, I noticed.’ Maybe Placid Pat had felt the underground rumbling too and had gone to investigate.

‘He rarely leaves that spot,’ said Delphine, indicating the empty chair. ‘Occasionally, he might patrol the building, but not at this time.’

‘Let’s move away from here,’ Ash suggested. ‘I don’t want anyone wondering what we’re doing. So far we’ve been lucky and I don’t want to push it.’

They began walking down the hallway, the sound of their shoes echoing off the walls and high ceiling. Ash couldn’t shake off the feeling of being inside a cathedral, only there was nothing holy about Comraich Castle.

The investigator drew Delphine to a halt, peering around to make sure there really was no one else to hear him.

‘Delphine, d’you mind if we drop by your office?’ he whispered.

‘No, but why?’

‘I’ll tell you inside.’

They were already close to her room. Once they were inside the anteroom, he closed the door softly behind them.

‘What did—’ she began, but he cautioned her with a rigid first finger to his lips. ‘Let’s go through to your office.’

She shot him a doubtful look. Her thoughts were easy to read and he gave her an innocent smile. ‘Don’t think it’s not on my mind, but this will be less fun.’

Looking mystified, she unlocked the door to her consulting room, where Ash almost collapsed on her comfortable couch.

‘Delphine, I don’t know about you, but after yesterday’s near-fatal plane journey, the episode with the flies, last night’s vigil, the sea caves this morning, and then those bloody wildcats, I’m just about all in. Now something tells me that tonight things are going to get worse around here. Whether we stay or leave, I can get through it, but . . .’

‘But you’d like something that could help keep you going.’

He turned his palms upwards, managing a tired grin as he lifted them from his knees.

‘I noticed earlier that you had a drugs cabinet in this room, and I thought if you had any Benzedrine or something . . .’ He looked sheepish.

‘I’m against amphetamines of any sort,’ she said. ‘But I do have something that might help you, though it certainly isn’t Benzedrine. Times have moved on, David.’

She took a bunch of keys from her bag and opened the metal cabinet. ‘A company in America came up with a drug in tablet form whose effect in some ways replicates Ritalin. Originally it was part of a group of pharmaceuticals used to treat narcolepsy, even Alzheimer’s.’

She stretched her body, standing on tiptoes to reach a small carton on the top shelf.

Still seated, Ash asked doubtfully, ‘Isn’t Ritalin used on overactive kids?’

Delphine turned back to him and laid the cardboard box on her desk. ‘Not in the way you think. Ritalin actually improves attention, memory and cognitive flexibility, so it helps control those who suffer ADHD.’ She held up the box. ‘This is Modafinil. Like caffeine, it stimulates the central nervous system. It’ll keep you awake all night, maybe longer, and it will concentrate your mind, but I’ve got to warn you, too much and it’ll mess with your circadian cycle; you’ll act as if night is day, and vice versa. Do you really want this, David?’

Her concern was touching, yet undoubtedly the night ahead was going to take a lot of endurance. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I do. And I think you might need some as well.’

‘This is highly unethical. I could be struck off if it got out. You should go through a proper medical examination and counselling first.’

He reached out a hand to take the box, but she withheld it.

‘I’ll give you a strip of ten, which is far too many, but you may have to share with me.’

He grinned as she opened the box and took out a silver-foil blister pack, then leaned across the desk to give it to him. He took the foil, glad she lived in the real world.