Ash (7 page)

So it wasn’t a company plane, nor chartered, but privately owned. He decided that when he had a chance, he’d use his laptop to do a bit more detailed research on Sir Victor Haelstrom.

Once again he glanced across the aisle to see Dr Wyatt tying her deep-black shoulder-length hair into a bunch at the back of her neck. She suddenly looked more serious and a little older. Instead of late twenties, Ash now thought she was probably in her very early thirties. She reached into her shoulder bag and donned a pair of dark-framed glasses. When she took out a notebook and pen from the bag, she caught his appreciative eyes on her.

Ash felt as though
he
was blushing, although he knew from experience that his face remained pale. Pale and worn, he told himself. And probably older than his thirty-eight years.

This time the psychologist didn’t smile back at him, but consulted her wristwatch, then flipped open the notebook and jotted down a note. From the way she quickly checked the sleepy-eyed girl at her side, Ash guessed it was about her patient’s medication and the reaction to it.

‘You can lie down once we’re in the air, Petra,’ he heard her say in a soft but clear voice.

The blonde girl merely yawned and rested her head on the psychologist’s shoulder again. She was bleary-eyed and sluggish, and Ash thought it seemed due to sedation rather than early-morning tiredness. Possibly Dr Wyatt had given her something to calm her nerves before flying. He was still pondering his own reaction to the psychologist when the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Despite our late arrivals, we’re still on for our scheduled slot.’

His manner was relaxed yet authoritative, a perfect pilot’s voice.

‘For those of you who haven’t had the good fortune to fly with us before, my name is Mike Roberts and I’m your captain for this flight. My first officer, and sitting by my side as copilot, is Marty “Chuckles” Collins. We call him “Chuckles” because he seldom laughs. He’s the spirit of gloom, but don’t let that put you off.’

A muffled groan came over the intercom and Ash guessed that Collins was growing weary of his captain’s obviously frequent put-downs.

‘Fortunately,’ the captain continued, ‘it’s only a short hop to Scotland, so I won’t have to put up with his lugubrious presence for too long.’

It occurred to Ash that while the plane was still on the tarmac warming up, the pilot could have just as easily opened the cockpit door which had been closed, unnoticed by Ash, and made his pre-flight patter even more personal.

Captain Roberts finished the rest of his spiel in the same breezy manner. Ash rested back in his seat again, letting his eyelids droop; he’d never been afraid of flying, but found the pilot’s easy, laid-back style reassuring all the same.

Just a couple of feet or so from Ash, Dr Wyatt had persuaded the girl called Petra to sit up while her seatbelt was adjusted round her waist, and he couldn’t resist another sneaky look at the psychologist as she then fastened herself in. She met his gaze, although again she didn’t return his smile.

Instead she frowned, as though something about Ash concerned her.

He quickly looked away and clicked in his own belt.

Ash had almost drifted off to sleep when he sensed movement in front of him. Opening his eyes, he found Dr Wyatt settling into the opposite seat.

‘So sorry. Did I disturb you?’ She placed her soft leather satchel behind her ankles. Her black-rimmed glasses had been put away, but her raven-black hair was still tied at the back.

‘No,’ he assured her, ‘I wasn’t asleep.’ He smiled at her warmly.

‘Good. I’ve left our new guest, Petra, to rest on the couch.’

Across the aisle, the young blonde girl was stretched out on the three-seater. Her knees were bent and her head rested on a plush charcoal-grey cushion; a blanket of the same colour had been placed over her. She seemed to be out for the count, a thumb resting against her lips; a fraction more and she would have been sucking her thumb like a baby.

‘You’re the investigator, aren’t you?’ Dr Wyatt had leaned forward, clasped hands resting on her knees, as if she wanted to talk to him in confidence.

She spoke softly, but as the genial Mike Roberts had told them, the acoustical insulation was excellent, so every word was clear. Because of the light-coffee colour of Dr Wyatt’s skin, and the deepest ebony of her hair, he’d half expected her to speak with an accent – Spanish; or South American, maybe? – but her words had no foreign inflection whatsoever.

‘Oh, yeah,’ he replied, unconsciously straightening himself in the seat. ‘Psychic investigator, that is. Or, if I’m being pompous, parapsychologist.’

‘A ghost hunter,’ she responded.

‘Well, that’s the popular name for it. And you’re Dr Wyatt, I presume.’

She put forward a hand and he only had to lean forward slightly to shake it. It was a one-shake, but for some reason, neither let go. They stared at each other, and Ash could plainly see the confusion in her wonderfully seductive deep brown eyes.

He felt a similar confusion himself, although he tried to conceal it. The moment passed and then, as if by mutual consent, they let their hands drop.

It took her a little while to compose herself and he looked away to give her time. Through the small window the white tops of the clouds stretched into the distance like a huge rumpled white duvet, and the brightness as they flew above the weather cheered him. He turned back to the psychologist.

‘Are you permanently based in Scotland, or are you some kind of flying consultant?’ he enquired, anxious to prolong their conversation.

‘I’m based at Comraich Castle, but I take frequent trips away. Sometimes it helps if I can accompany new guests to the castle just to reassure them. It’s a big step for a client to take.’

Her voice was pleasant but subdued, as if she were a touch nervous of him. At least, that was how he read it, and he was good at picking up on the mindset of others. Years of determining honesty and dishonesty, bravura or restraint, fear or courage, had honed him sharply to the nuances of those his profession had compelled him to interview. Or was Dr Wyatt merely chary of what she might unconsciously reveal about the Inner Court?

‘So, the girl . . .’ he indicated the sleeping blonde across the aisle ‘. . . is obviously in your charge.’

The psychologist nodded but said no more.

‘You implied she was a guest,’ Ash insisted politely. ‘Isn’t she really a patient?’

‘Yes, but at Comraich we prefer to regard patients as guests, otherwise it might suggest they had mental health problems, or some contagious illness, which isn’t necessarily the case.’

‘Yesterday I met Simon Maseby, who called Comraich a retreat.’

‘Well, then,’ Dr Wyatt replied. ‘I think retreat is an ideal way of describing the castle, even though we’re licensed to carry out medical procedures there.’

‘Like what?’

She wasn’t fazed by his blunt question. The psychologist smiled at him. ‘Like major and minor operations, counselling, and the use of new, superior medication for those who need it. We use the most up-to-date treatments for all kinds of ailments, including mental instability.’

‘And all in luxurious surroundings, going by the hefty fees your guests or their benefactors have to pay.’

‘Yes,’ she replied simply.

‘Paid to the Inner Court?’

Her dark eyes skittered to one side.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Ash,’ she said, ‘that’s privileged information. May I ask where you heard it?’

He smiled pleasantly. ‘Why does everything have to be so covert?’ He was gently pressing her, genuinely interested, but he also had a mischievous desire to rock the boat.

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, and she looked truly apologetic as she swung her eyes back to meet his. ‘I have to keep to the code.’

‘The code?’ This was becoming even more interesting.

‘Oh, it’s nothing formalized, just a general rule, but we are expected to be discreet. Why don’t you tell me more about yourself? I knew you were coming to Comraich Castle to investigate the strange goings-on there. Being a parapsychologist must be fascinating.’

She was deliberately changing the subject, and Ash had no wish to push his luck. ‘It is sometimes,’ he responded to help her out. ‘What have you been told about this investigation?’

She was immediately more relaxed now that he’d changed tack. ‘Just that you’d be with us for possibly up to a week and that we were to keep out of your way while you explored the castle.’

‘A week or so?’ Ash was dismayed: he’d hoped to draw conclusions within a couple of days.

Dr Wyatt nodded affirmation. ‘It’s a huge place.’

‘So I gathered. But I’d hoped to finish my job sooner than that. Tell me, have you personally had any strange or unaccountable experiences at Comraich?’

‘You mean have I seen a ghost, heard footsteps when there’s nobody there? Screams in the night, rattling chains, freezing areas, that kind of thing?’ She was joking, her voice low and eerie.

‘Not necessarily.’ He ignored the exaggerated dark humour.

‘Oh, Mr Ash, you don’t know Comraich.’

He grinned back at her. ‘How old is the castle, by the way?’ Maseby had already told him, but now Ash was only making conversation.

‘I think it dates back to the fourteenth century but it was considerably enlarged and improved on over the years. It was built on a clifftop, which makes it look very dramatic.’

He changed the subject again. ‘How long have you been with Comraich?’ He’d nearly said
with the Inner Court
, the answer to which might have proved more interesting; instead he put his question less obviously.

‘Almost three years,’ she answered without hesitation. ‘My father knew Sir Victor and some of his associates and I think he wanted me to be taken care of before he died.’

‘I’m sorry. I mean, about your father.’

‘Don’t be. It was a blessed relief when he was released from all the months of pain. The end for him was swift, mercifully so, and frankly it came as a relief. It’s hard to watch someone you love suffer.’

She lowered her eyes and her grief was palpable.

To move on, Ash asked, ‘Where are you from, Dr Wyatt?’

‘My mother was Brazilian, and Brazil was where I was born. My father was an English diplomat and he met my mother in São Paulo, the country’s largest city rather than Rio de Janeiro, as many foreigners seem to think. Rio is the playground that entices the tourists – and criminals – and Brasilia is the seat of government, but São Paulo is Brazil’s financial centre.’

She cocked her head sideways and stared into Ash’s eyes as if to see whether he was interested.

He was. ‘You were born in São Paulo?’

‘My mother was a
Paulistano
; that’s what people who live in the city are known as. Ambitious Brazilians flock there for the chance of a better life. It’s a modern city, expanding all the time. My mother was a translator working at the British Embassy, which was how my father got to know her. I’m the only consequence of their marriage.’ She said this with a hint of regret.

‘They divorced?’ The question was carefully put, and not, he hoped, intrusively.

‘No, my mother died when I was three.’

Ash could have kicked himself. ‘I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .’

‘Pry?’ she finished for him, smiling so that he could see his curiosity didn’t trouble her. ‘As I told you, I was barely three years old and now I can hardly remember her.’ She paused, as if in thought. ‘Although,’ she went on, ‘I sometimes see her in dreams. I’ve only a few faded photographs of her, but they’re enough for me to recognize her in those sleeping moments. At least, I think I do.’

She gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Listen to me, and
I’m
a psychologist! It isn’t hard to understand why I choose to identify this woman as my mother, despite having no real knowledge of her.’

‘I guess Freud would have the answer,’ Ash commented lamely.

‘Don’t be so sure. Many psychologists today are not in total agreement with all of Sigmund Freud’s tenets. Even Jung disagreed with certain Freudian precepts, especially with their constant emphasis on infantile sexuality.’

‘So which are you – Freudian or Jungian?’

‘It isn’t that simple: both have theories that are perfectly sound. Besides, they’re not the only psychologists worthy of study.
And
. . .’ she emphasized the word, ‘there’s a lot of overlapping going on in so many areas of different theories. Then there’s another approach called gestalt psychology, founded by Max Wertheimer, whereby it’s claimed that every aspect of thinking can have a gestalt character – emotional, interpersonal and social. I’m beginning to bore you, aren’t I?’

He was taken aback and raised his eyebrows at her.

Her chuckle was throaty and her face lit up at his embarrassment.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, still smiling. ‘I thought I saw your eyes glazing over.’

Ash grinned back. ‘You know, parapsychology is sometimes – no, often – linked with psychology.’

‘Of course. It’s why I wanted to have this conversation with you. Wouldn’t you accept that a good number of so-called hauntings are caused by the psychological make-up of their victims or observers, whatever you’d call them?’

‘Well, I couldn’t disagree with that.’

‘I know. You said much the same in your book.’

‘You’ve read it?’ Ash was genuinely pleased. ‘It was written some time ago.’

‘You’ve changed your opinions?’

‘Not completely. Let’s just say I’ve learned a lot more about the paranormal and supernatural.’

‘Does that mean you no longer dismiss the supposition of ghosts and disembodied souls? In your book – which, by the way, has been required reading for myself and Dr Singh, my psychiatric counterpart at Comraich, over the last few days – you’re very cynical regarding spiritualists and clairvoyants, branding many as no more than charlatans who are either in it for the money, or who truly believe in what they do but are misguided, even somewhat eccentric, if not deranged.’

‘As I said, I know a lot more about the phenomena than I did then. So how did you get a copy of the book? It’s been out of print for years.’