Kingdom of Shadows (55 page)

Sharply Rex looked up: ‘I thought you said you had it?’

‘I have. I have. It’s just the final formalities,’ Paul blustered. ‘Clare has agreed to the sale. She’s going away. As you know she was ill. She has to rest …’

Rex scanned his face thoughtfully. ‘Just so long as there is no delay,’ he said at last. He sat back in his chair with a sigh. ‘I want all this out of the way fast. I have to return to the States by the end of the month. If the transaction is not completed by then I shall pull out.’

‘It will be completed.’ Paul’s face was grim. The new settlement day was only thirteen days away now. He did not have until the end of the month.

‘Make sure of it.’ Rex smiled benignly. ‘I’d just hate to have your wife see your name all over the papers in another of your City scandals.’

Paul left the club without finishing his drink, pushing out into the cold blustery sunshine. His stomach was churning. Behind him Rex sat back in his chair and smiled. On impulse he called the waiter and ordered a bottle of Krug, all for himself.

The sun was reflecting in the puddles in the gutter; damp leaves lay thick on the pavement, their brilliant colours muddied and dirtied by a thousand passing feet. If Clare were dead there would be no problem. If she had died, there in the lift … Angrily Paul shook his head. What kind of a man was he turning into for Christ’s sake? He didn’t need her dead, but she had to be found and she had to be forced to agree to the sale. She had to. He had rung the house – both houses – again and again that morning but Sarah Collins had not seen her in London and there had been no reply from Bucksters. She had disappeared.

In a daze he walked all the way back to Coleman Street, arriving just after five. He spoke to no one as he let himself into his office, and without taking off his coat he wrote down the list of names he had been rehearsing in his head as he walked. He was still standing when, pulling the phone towards him, he began to dial.

He rang Zak first. The phone was answered by a curt and uncommunicative young man who informed Paul in tones which verged on rudeness that Zak was away in the States for three weeks and that Clare Royland had been nowhere near them for months. Paul felt inclined to believe him.

Next he tried Jack Grant at Duncairn. He was equally uncompromising. ‘She has not been in touch, Mr Royland, and my hotel is full. There is no room for her here.’

Paul bit back an angry retort. The man was insufferable and the hotel Clare’s, for the moment at least. How dare he speak like that about her. But then Grant knew about the offer; his livelihood was at stake. Perhaps the man was entitled to feel angry.

He rang Airdlie next. Archie Macleod answered. ‘Clare’s not here, Paul. She did ring your mother a couple of days or so ago, but we told her it wasn’t really a good time for a visit. Not at the moment.’

Paul smiled wryly. Poor Clare. Unwanted on every side. Nursing the receiver against his ear he sat down on the edge of his desk.

‘Archie, can I ask you a favour? It may be that she is on her way to you. I’m pretty sure she would be going north. Look old boy, I don’t quite know how to say this, but Clare is ill. Very ill. In her mind. I was going to come up and see you both and explain but there is no time now. God knows how we’re going to tell Antonia that her daughter is going off her head, but somehow we must. Listen, if she arrives you’ve got to keep her there and ring me at once, do you understand?’

There was a long silence the other end of the phone. Then, ‘Paul, what exactly are you saying?’ Archie’s voice was cold.

Paul clutched the receiver tighter to his ear. ‘Archie, she’s got involved with one of these Satanic cults. She has become deeply involved in raising demons, worshipping the devil, that sort of thing. She has become a danger to herself and everyone around her.’ He swallowed hard. ‘And like all these people she has become very clever at hiding the truth. She will deny it. God, Archie! I didn’t want to have to tell you all this over the phone. Our doctor and my brother, Geoffrey – you remember him? He is a member of the Church. They had the whole thing in hand. Then yesterday Clare disappeared. I thought maybe she had gone to the leader of the cult, this man in Cambridge, but I gather he is in America, so maybe she is on her way north. One of the things she is trying to do is give him all her money, her possessions, her land – even Duncairn – everything.’ Paul was warming to his story now, and sounding more positive.

At the other end of the line Archie sat down at his desk and mopped his brow with his handkerchief. He was glad Antonia was out.

‘I believe that is one of the conditions of belonging to the coven or whatever it is,’ Paul went on. ‘I had to warn you, Archie. You haven’t seen her for so long, I didn’t want you to be fooled by her. If she turns up keep her there. I mean it. Lock her up if you have to. And call me.’

There was another long silence. Paul closed his eyes, waiting for Archie’s reaction. What if his father-in-law didn’t believe him?

But at last Archie spoke. ‘I always did think the girl was unstable.’ His voice was full of disgust. ‘There is a weird streak in all that branch of the Gordon family, so I can’t say I’m altogether surprised. But how the hell do I tell her mother?’ He seemed unaware that he had just bracketed his wife in with Clare.

‘Gently.’ Paul had gone hot and cold with relief. His hands were shaking again. ‘But be firm, Archie. If she turns up, you’ve got to keep her there, for all our sakes as well as her own. I’ll catch the first plane after you ring me.’

‘And what do I do if she brings Satan into my house?’

Paul allowed himself a brief smile. Had he been that convincing? The sanctimonious fool! ‘Hold up a crucifix, like they do in films.’ For a moment he was almost sorry for Clare.

‘And where do I get a crucifix? Nasty Popish things?’ Archie was becoming increasingly indignant.

Paul shrugged. Then he remembered. ‘Take two pieces of rowan, tied together into a cross with red thread. Hold that up before her and keep your distance. Whatever she says to deny it, don’t listen to her. Lock her up, Archie, and don’t open the door until I get there.’

He smiled grimly as he hung up. It was Clare who had told him once about the rowan cross. They had both laughed about it and vowed to remember it, just in case either of them ever met a witch.

19

The Jaguar hurtled northwards over the long switchback of the A68. All around there was nothing but heather, brown and matted, covering the misty distances of the Cheviot hills which were empty of life as far as the eye could see. Clare lowered the window until her hair was blowing wildly across her face. She was exhilarated and, suddenly, happy again.

The night before, watching Isobel trapped in the web of her husband’s anger, she had suddenly become aware of the sound of the television blaring around the room, the noise beating at her ears and over it a furious knocking on the door. Dazed, she had stared round. Casta was lying flattened under the bed, trembling. Clare staggered to her feet stiffly and switched off the TV, relieved at the sudden tangible silence as she went to the door. The woman outside was red-faced with fury. ‘Can you turn that damn television off and keep it off! Some of us have been trying to get to sleep!’ she screamed at Clare.

Clare pushed her hair back from her face, confused. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was so loud. I must have fallen asleep –’

‘Asleep!’ The woman stared at her. ‘With that noise even the dead couldn’t sleep!’ And she turned and flounced down the corridor, disappearing into a room two doors up, slamming the door behind her.

As Clare stood staring after her Casta slipped out of the room and fled down the passage, her tail between her legs.

‘Casta!’ Clare called frantically. ‘Come back.’

The dog was scratching at the outside door into the car park. Pulling her bathrobe around her Clare ran after her but already Casta had pushed open the door which hadn’t been properly latched and had run outside. Clare followed her.

The tarmac of the car park was cold and rough under her bare feet, and the wind icy. Shivering violently Clare called again and again as she groped her way between the parked cars, but the dog had disappeared into the darkness. She stared round, the wind whipping her hair into her eyes. There were no lights on in the hotel now and she had no idea what the time was. She took a few steps forward, blindly peering into the wind, and then suddenly she felt a muzzle pushing against her hand.

‘Casta!’ She crouched down and hugged the dog, burying her face in the animal’s fur. ‘They’ve gone. They’ve gone, darling. They’ve gone. There’s nothing to be afraid of any more.’ There were tears on her cheeks as she wound her fingers into Casta’s collar.

The hotel bedroom was hot and stuffy. She couldn’t imagine how she had ever thought it cold as she threw open the window. She turned and looked round the room, half expecting for one terrified moment to see the figures of the earl and his wife waiting in the corner, but they really had gone. Casta would not have come back if they were still there. Locking the bedroom door Clare climbed into the bed, still wrapped in her bathrobe, and patted the pillow beside her. The dog jumped up with alacrity and licked her face. ‘What am I going to do, Castie?’ Clare murmured. She could feel the cool breeze now from the window, lowering the temperature of the room. ‘I didn’t want her to come. I didn’t want it to happen. She’s haunting me.’ Every light in the room was on.

She lay back, her arms around the dog’s neck, and tried to sleep, but the first pale glow had begun to show in the sky behind the stand of dying elms on the edge of the road outside the hotel before she nodded at last into an uneasy doze.

She had breakfasted at ten and then set out on the road once more. This time the bottle of magic oil was in her pocket. Behind her Casta lay on the back seat, eyes closed, her tail occasionally thumping the black leather up-holstery.

There was no hurry: she could take all day or all week. Slowly. Clare’s happy mood of yesterday had returned. Perhaps she would stay in Edinburgh for a few days before deciding where to go. Paul and London were far behind her. No one knew where she was. No one, that is, except Isobel. She frowned, slipping her hand into the pocket of her cords, and her fingers closed around the small bottle. That morning she had self-consciously put a small dab of the oil on her forehead, and on her hands and on her heart, as Zak had told her. It smelt rich and exotic, like an expensive, but slightly crude perfume. Strangely Casta, who hated all perfumes and acted as though they hurt her nose, seemed to like it. She sniffed appreciatively and nuzzled Clare’s hand. Clare had looked down at her. ‘Do you think it will keep them away?’ she asked in a whisper. ‘It is a special oil, to protect us.’ And gently she had anointed the dog’s head with a small cross.

She stopped the car at Carter Bar and climbed out. Standing at last on the top of the summit after the long drive up over the Northumberland hills, through the evergreen forests, and past the dark, sinister stretch of Kielder Water she stretched her arms above her head and stared around over the brown hills as she took deep breaths of the clear cold air. Once more she felt suddenly incredibly happy. Her heart was singing. She had come home.

A coachload of tourists had pulled into the lay-by behind her and were climbing out, rushing to pose with one foot on either side of the border as they had their photos taken, half in England and half in Scotland. She watched them for a moment, amused, as Casta ran, tail wagging, towards a small larch wood near the road, on the scent of a rabbit. The Border. It ran for miles across the desolate hills, marked only in places by signposts or as here by a huge stone. How many people had died fighting over and around this mystical line? She shivered suddenly and turned back to the car.

She stopped in Edinburgh for lunch, leaving the disgruntled Casta in the car, then she set out again. The roads out of Edinburgh were busy and, tired after the long drive, she found herself concentrating with extreme care as she guided the car out along the Queensferry Road towards the Forth Bridge.

The water of the firth was white-topped, whipped into spinsdrift by the wind, and as she queued to pay her toll she watched a yacht sail close hauled out of Queensferry, heel over steeply and cream into the thick green water below the twin bridges. She paid her toll at last and drove slowly across and on to the motorway, glancing eastwards with a shudder towards the high chimneys and flares at Mossmorran. Was that what they wanted to do to Duncairn? Bring to yet more of the quiet countryside of Buchan the roar of the flares and the nights that were never dark?

The countryside was brilliant now in the sunshine, the clouds still racing across the sky, their shadows streaming black along the ground. Clare felt for her sunglasses in the glove pocket as she swung the heavy Jaguar around the roundabout at the end of the motorway and headed up the A9 towards Dunkeld. She had made up her mind. She was going to Airdlie. There, at least for the time being, she would be safe from Paul.

Emma was sitting on the bed watching Peter pack. ‘I could still come with you, I suppose,’ she said miserably.

Peter lifted a pile of shirts and threw them into the case. ‘We’ve been through this a dozen times before, Em. If you want to come with me you must make up your mind in good time. You can’t just decide on the spur of the moment and you know it. There’s Julia and your gallery to consider.’ He folded a pair of white flannels into the case and walking to the cupboard pulled it open. ‘It’s not as though I’m going for very long this time.’

‘I know.’ She got up restlessly and walked over to the dressing table.

‘So. Is something wrong?’ He glanced at her. ‘It’s not like you to care one way or the other. I thought you said you were too busy with the gallery even to miss me.’ He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

‘I am busy.’ She shrugged. ‘But I do miss you.’

Peter put down the jacket he was holding. For a moment he hesitated, then he walked over to her and awkwardly gave her a hug. ‘I tell you what. Next time we’ll get our act together properly. We’ll send Julia to stay with Geoffrey and Chloe and get the gallery organised and then we can have a week or two on our own somewhere nice after I’ve finished with work. Go up to Penang perhaps, or even to Australia. How does that sound?’