Powerstone (29 page)

‘We are creating a database of the
known collectors of rare artefacts, legal and illegal. Obviously an
organisation so old as ours has a number of assets; Sandy Meigle is a financial
wizard and manages our finances with great aplomb, so we are offering incentives
for any information that will lead to the recovery of the artefacts, but
without actually revealing the provenance of the Clach-bhuai.’

‘Will that work? Will that be
enough?’

‘It’s early days yet. Dealers in
artefacts prize their reputations for honesty. If they lose that, they lose
quite a lot, so some, at least, will be pleased to help.’ He smiled again, with
the stem of his pipe clicking cheerfully against his teeth. ‘I have forwarded
full particulars to the collectors within the Society.’

‘You said that Stefan had not sent
us the full names of the thieves,’ the woman did not seem reassured. ‘Could you
tell us what you do know?’

‘There were five of them. Desmond
Nolan, a man named Bryan, a woman he knew as Mary and a young marine named
Patrick.’ Drummond glanced toward Meigle. ‘There was also another woman, but
Stefan was not sure of her. Her name was Irene or Amanda; he was not sure
which.’ He gestured toward the television with the stem of his pipe. ‘It is
possible that the young lady on the video recording is this person, but it may
also be Mary.’

‘It’s like a detective story,
isn’t it?’ a tall man with a weathered face said.

‘Indeed.’ Meigle stood up.
‘Obviously if any of you hear of anything at all, you will contact Colonel
Drummond or myself. There has been some sort of news blackout imposed, which
may mean that the police are pursuing some positive line of enquiry, or that
they do not wish the public to know exactly what is happening.’

‘Bad PR to lose your crown
jewels,’ the weathered man said.

‘Indeed. And bad for us to lose
the Clach-bhuai, particularly as we were warned about the impending attempt.’ Meigle
glanced at Drummond, ‘would you like to draw this meeting to a close, James?
You are the security officer.’

Drummond did not show any offence
at the implied slight. Instead he again showed the picture of the blonde woman.
‘This woman, Amanda, Irene or Mary, may be the key to the whole thing. If we
can find her, or find out who she is, I think we will unravel the rest. I have
people making prints of her face even as we talk, and they will be delivered to
your address first thing tomorrow morning. From this time onward, our Society
has one objective. Locate this woman, ladies and gentleman, and bring news of
her to me.’

Just for a second Meigle saw the
urbane mask drop from Drummond’s face, revealing the stark severity of a
lifetime in the British Army. He was suddenly very glad that he was not the
young woman whose face smiled from the television. He also thought it would be
a good idea to retain James Drummond in his present position.

Edinburgh
, July 13

‘Amanda?’ Drew stood in the
doorway for a long second, then threw the door wide open and held out a hand.
‘Man, you look terrible! Come away in.’

Even as she collapsed over the
threshold, Irene’s analytical mind noted that the flat was different to
anything she had expected, with rugs scattered over the sanded wooden floors
and walls devoid of pictures. Suddenly she could not restrain her sobbing and
Drew guided her to a rope-and-canvas chair. ‘You’re hurt, Amanda. There’s blood
on your face.’ He eased her down. ‘What happened? Your phone went dead
yesterday. I kept mine on in case you phoned back, but my batteries ran out.’

Irene shook her head. She had not prepared
a lie, so spoke as much of the truth as seemed sensible. ‘I was watching for
the Queen when the explosions went off, and I was caught in the panic. I don’t
know where I ran, or why, but I got trampled.’ The tears were genuine.

‘Your hand is hurt too.’ Drew
narrowed his eyes as he studied her. ‘And you’re favouring your left side.
You’ve had a rough time, I think.’ Irene thought that he hesitated. ‘Do you
trust me?’

‘Of course,’ she looked up.

‘Then let’s have a look.’ He knelt
at her side. ‘Where does it hurt?’

‘Everywhere.’ Irene spoke through
her sobs. She looked up. ‘Will you help me?’

‘Of course I will.’

Drew’s hands were gentle as he
stripped off her outer clothing, exclaiming at the extensive bruising and deep
scrapes across her ribs and side. ‘It’s all right, Amanda,’ he said as she
placed a protective hand on her breasts. ‘You’re safe with me. You’ve been in
the wars, haven’t you? Maybe we’d best take you to the hospital.’ He sounded
concerned.

‘No,’ Irene shook her head. ‘No.
It looks worse than it is. Just let me sleep for a while and I’ll be OK.’

‘Aye. Maybe.’ He knelt at her
side. ‘A bath first, I think, then into bed. We’ll discuss this later, but I
think you’d better see a doctor. I think you have at least one broken finger
there.’

The throbbing in her fingers was
so constant that Irene could almost ignore it. She glanced at her hand, seeing
the mud and congealed blood. ‘Maybe.’ She heard Drew draw the bath and allowed
him to carry her into the bathroom.

‘Can you manage to climb in
yourself?’ his voice was quiet.

Irene nearly laughed. During the
last eighteen hours she had taken part in an armed robbery, witnessed at least
three killings, endured a car chase, been stamped on by a woman, fallen from a
helicopter and dodged the Edinburgh police, to say nothing of stealing and
concealing a priceless national treasure. Now this kind, naïve man was asking
if she needed help to step inside a bath.

She considered the problem.

‘I don’t think so.’ The lip of the
bath seemed immensely high as her injuries stiffened. ‘Could you lift me in?’
She looked down at herself, seeing the bruises that stretched from just under
her left arm to her thigh and the shallow scrapes that the sceptre had caused
across her ribs. As Drew reached down, sudden embarrassment caused her to cover
herself with her hands. ‘I’ll take off my things in the bath. Once you’ve
gone.’

‘Of course.’ Drew did not press
the issue. She was no lightweight but he lifted her without effort and lowered
her tenderly into the warm water.

Irene gasped at the initial sting,
and then smiled. ‘Thank you. I hate to be a pain, but could you unhook my bra?’
She leaned forward, her left arm covering her breasts as he complied. ‘Thank
you again.’

‘Call me if you need anything.’
Drew kept his back turned as he left the room, ‘and don’t worry. You’re safe
with me.’

Given her situation, the words
sounded ironic. Irene wondered if Drew would be so helpful if he knew that he
was harbouring a fugitive. She waited until he had left the room before wriggling
off her pants and lying back, allowing the warm water to soothe away some of
her aches. Her hand was throbbing, but it was not the pain that caused tears to
seep from her eyes. She could still see people retching in the street and could
hear Desmond’s scream as the bayonet plunged in. Why had it all gone wrong? She
shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate on something else. She checked
out her surroundings.

The bathroom was decidedly
masculine in its lack of frills, but it was also scrupulously clean, with stark
white tiles, a small circular mirror and a simple shower unit in the corner.
Deciding that the room desperately needed a woman’s touch, Irene smiled and
began to gently soap the most tender of her injuries. Even the soap was plain
white, with hardly a scent.

There was a tap on the door, and
as Irene covered herself and invited him to enter, Drew poked in his hand.
‘Towels,’ he said, ‘and some clean clothes. Not quite your size but better than
nothing. I’ll just drop them.’ He paused for a second. ‘I’ve no lady’s
underclothing, I’m afraid, so you’ll have to go commando for a while.’

Irene looked round and smiled her
thanks, until she realised that he could not see her. ‘Thank you, Drew.’

‘Just take your time.’

The door closed again and Irene
lay back. She closed her eyes, listening to Drew moving around the flat. She
heard a slight click, followed by the drone of the television. She had not
considered Drew as an avid television watcher, and wondered about his taste in
programmes. He would be watching something intellectual, no doubt, but
certainly nothing about interior decoration.

Only when the water began to cool
did Irene ease herself out of the bath. ‘Is it all right if I borrow your
shower to wash my hair?’

‘Of course it is.’

The power jet took her by
surprise, but she luxuriated in the tingle of hot water against her scalp. Only
when she opened her eyes and saw the black rivulets trickling down her body did
Irene realise that she was washing away her hair dye. The combination of CS gas
and sweaty exertion must have created some reaction to loosen the chemicals.

‘Oh fuck!’ She jerked back from
the nozzle and wiped the condensation from the mirror. A black and red badger
stared back. ‘Oh God, Oh Lord help me.’ For a second Irene panicked; Drew would
know at once that she had something to hide. He would put two and two together;
he would work out that she had stolen the Honours and would hand her in to the
police.

A deep breath calmed her nerves.
Why should he think anything of the sort? Many women dyed their hair; it was
not suspicious.

‘Are you all right in there?’ Drew’s
voice managed to combine cheerfulness with concern.

‘Just washing the dye from my hair,’
Irene tried to sound as natural as possible. It seemed strange to clean up in a
strange bathroom, but she did not want Drew to think of her as a slob this
early in their relationship.

What relationship?

The towels were clean but hard, and
Drew’s choice of clothing was utilitarian. Irene was not sure what she had
expected, tweeds perhaps, but instead there was a pair of jeans that flapped
loosely past her feet, a voluminous blue rugby shirt with a small white thistle
and a pair of brown slippers that were at least five sizes too large.

With her trouser legs rolled up,
Irene shuffled into the living room and plumped herself onto the practical,
wood-and-fabric three-piece suite. There was a small television opposite, with
a round table and two chairs, while the books seemed to be colour-coded into
the plain bookcase. Everything was functionally neat. Drew was standing looking
out of the window, but turned when he heard her enter. ‘That’s the rain on,’ he
said, inconsequentially, and then grinned across to her. ‘How’s the hand?’

‘Sore,’ Irene held up her fingers.
‘But I don’t think that it’s broken. Soaking it in the bath helped.’

‘Can you move it?’ Drew moved
closer. ‘Give a wee wiggle.’

Irene tried and winced. ‘Maybe not
yet.’

‘Maybe not at all.’ He took her
hand very gently. ‘I think that we’ll take you to the outpatients and have a
doctor look at these.’

Feeling better after her bath,
Irene nodded. ‘If you think so.’

‘I do.’ He stepped back, head to
one as he examined her. ‘Red hair, eh? Do you have the temper to go with the
colouring?’

‘Oh yes.’ Irene nodded. ‘I can
have a vile temper when I choose.’

‘Excellent,’ Drew approved. ‘Then
we can have some fine arguments. There’s nothing better than a good shouting
match to sweeten the air.’

Irene looked away. Her father had
been the last man to raise his voice at her. Since leaving home, she had always
chosen men whom she could dominate. She did not know how she would react to a
man who shouted back.

‘That was a joke,’ Drew told her.
‘There’s no need to look worried.’ He stepped back. ‘You have been through a
bad time, haven’t you?’

Irene shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’
she said, and stopped. She could not remember when she had last apologised to
anybody. She must concentrate; she had to use Drew to escape from this mess
that she was in. ‘I hate to ask this, Drew, but do you have anything to eat in
the house?’

‘Of course. Stupid of me.’ Drew
tapped his head. ‘Some host me, eh? You must be starving. Sit down and I’ll see
what’s in the fridge.’

Used to Patrick’s invariable diet
of pizzas and coke, Irene was surprised when Drew served her a cooked, if not
particularly healthy, meal of sausage, egg and bacon. She ate heartily, wincing
only when she had occasion to use her left hand, and did not complain when Drew
leaned over to cut her food.

She was even more impressed when
Drew carried her sodden clothes through to the kitchen and placed them in the
washing machine. ‘I’ll give these a quick run-through’ he said, as nonchalantly
as if he had known her for years. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No, no.’ Irene shook her head.
‘Thank you.’ She felt herself colour as she thought of the underwear that she
had left in the bathroom, but Drew forestalled her.

‘I collected your bits and pieces.
I’ll do them too.’

Irene listened to the sudden hum
and rattle of the washing machine and smiled as Drew appeared with a mug in
each hand. ‘Is that coffee?’