A woman in a smart denim skirt lifted her hand. ‘Surely that makes it easier then? To dispose of things?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Drummond was using specialist knowledge to regain control of his position. ‘However, every known antiquity and every artistic artefact is now known, catalogued and easily recognisable. That means that it would be very difficult to sell the Clach-bhuai, the entire sceptre or the Crown on the open market. As soon as they appear for sale, we will be aware of them.’
‘So we just have to wait?’ The woman seemed pleased with the simplicity of the plan.
‘Not quite.’ Producing his pipe, Drummond looked to Meigle, received a quiet nod of permission and began to stuff tobacco into the bowl. ‘It is unlikely that the Honours were stolen for a speculative sale. There are two other possibilities.’ He held up his left hand and raised a finger. ‘One: they may have been stolen to make some political point. We know that this fellow Desmond Nolan has a strong Irish Republican connection, so it is possible that his colleagues are similarly involved. Unfortunately, Stefan did not send us all their names. Perhaps they intend to ransom the Honours for some political advantage. In that case we will eventually hear from them and will act accordingly.’
‘So that’s hopeful,’ the woman said.
‘As far as we are concerned, that is extremely hopeful.’ Drummond lit his pipe and puffed aromatic smoke toward the members. ‘The government may not be so happy.’
‘And the other possibility?’ The woman was looking quite optimistic.
‘Not so good. The Honours may have been stolen to order. We suspect that some master criminal has ordered them stolen, so he can offer them for sale on the underground market. If we are correct, then they will be far more difficult to trace. There are quite a number of crooked dealers out there.’
As the denim-skirted woman nodded cautiously, Drummond shook his head. ‘Even worse, the Honours may have been stolen for the personal enjoyment of just such a Mr Big. The last few decades have seen an upsurge in the theft of cultural heritage. The Taliban destroyed everything they could in Afghanistan, but there was still a strong trickle of artefacts that left the country, and the Iraq War saw massive looting. You will remember that the Iraqi National Museum in Baghdad was virtually stripped bare? Some of the oldest and most famous artefacts in the world disappeared, such as the Uruk Vase, which is the world’s oldest narrative work of art.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s probably older than our Clach-bhuai, if not as important to us. The stolen art trade is the second largest traffic in the world, after drugs.’
‘So what can we do?’ The woman’s confidence had evaporated as quickly as it had risen, but Drummond replaced his pipe in his mouth and smiled around the stem.
‘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.
Chapter Eighteen
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 arm
ed 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?’
‘You’re American, aren’t you? Then you prefer coffee to tea. I’ve seen the films.’
They laughed together.
‘Coffee’s good,’ Irene approved.
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, until Drew asked Irene to tell her story. He listened as she related how she had been waiting for the Queen, and then had been caught up in the panic after th
e bombs had gone off.
‘They were only smoke canisters and thunder-flashes, apparently,’ Drew told her, ‘mingled with CS gas to cause the maximum panic. Most of the security was drawn to the Queen and other heads of state while the terrorists hit the crown jewels.’
‘Was it terrorists?’
Drew shrugged. ‘So they say on the News. They have identified one of them as an American IRA man, and they’ve published pictures of some woman that they think was involved. The BBC seems to think that she financed the operation.’
‘Oh?’ Irene felt the sudden hammering of her heart. She measured the distance to the door, wondering if she could make it out before Drew caught her. ‘A woman? What’s she like?’
‘No idea.’ Drew shook his head. ‘The picture on my telly went days ago and I haven’t got round to getting it repaired, so I can only listen to the news.’
Irene grinned as relief replaced the tension. It may be only a temporary reprieve, but she would take the opportunity to recover her strength. ‘God, but I’m tired.’
‘You will be,’ Drew looked over to her. ‘How’s your hand?’
‘Much better,’ Irene stifled a yawn.
‘OK. You get some sleep now, Amanda, and we’ll see how it looks later.’
She hesitated for only a minute. ‘Irene. My name’s Irene. I wasn’t sure of you then, so I used a false name.’ She waited, bracing herself for his anger.
‘Irene?’ He surveyed her again, head to one side. ‘Aye, it suits you better. Amanda is for dark haired women, Irene’s right for a red head. My name’s still Drew, though.’ He nodded to a door across the tiny corridor. ‘The bedroom’s through there. Off you go.’
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