‘Your life in my hands; your soul is my gift; your blood is your beginning and end.’ She held the blade close to his throat, the tiny pressure sending another stream of red along its length. ‘Will you give yourself to me this night?’
‘Aye.’
She hesitated for a minute, feeling the power of life and death course through her, balancing need with want, existence and oblivion. ‘So be it.’
The knife moved gently in the darkness, as the wind began to whip through the trees. The old song would be sung again. The serenade had begun.
Lynton, Brady and Maxwell stared at the bank of blinking screens in the old outbuilding that had been converted into a large communications facility at Kersivay House. With a wealth of modern technology at their fingertips, the Shannon family were no longer isolated when they paid their annual visit to their clifftop retreat. Even the local power cut didn’t pose a problem, due to the state-of-the art back-up generators the Shannon family had installed. Maxwell enjoyed the fact that from this place where horses had once been stabled, one of the world’s most successful companies, its tendrils reaching out to every continent, could be managed.
He felt little joy now, as rows of numbers flashed and changed colour, mostly to red.
‘What is this? I mean, how is it even possible?’ croaked Maxwell, the sight in front of him making his throat constrict. ‘We’re losing money across all of our ghosts in the USA. How is this fucking happening!’
‘Please don’t refer to them as “ghosts”,’ said Lynton, peering through his small spectacles at another red line on the screen. ‘These are diversified public holding companies.’
‘Yeah, that nobody knows about but us,’ added Brady. ‘At first, I thought this was a blip, but it can’t be. If this was a general run on the market it would be bad enough, but it only involves organisations in which we have our “shareholding”. We’re being deliberately shorted on every front.’
Shannon thumped the desk in front of him with a clenched fist. ‘Not only is this virtually impossible to do in such a coordinated way, who the fuck knows about the connection other than us?’
‘Do I really need to answer that?’ sighed Lynton. ‘Only four of us have knowledge of the complete picture. Others are aware of our discreet PLC operations, but we four are the only ones who know how it all fits together.’
‘And there’s no elephant in the room, guys, if you get my drift,’ said Brady, looking between both men, his hand, in which he held a glass of bourbon, shaking slightly.
‘That is a fucking ridiculous notion, Charles,’ said Maxwell. ‘Are you seriously saying that Lars Bergner disappeared into the snow this afternoon in order to cause a run on our company’s assets around the world? Come on.’
‘Are you kidding me, Maxwell!’ Brady stood, flinging his glass onto the carpeted floor, where it bounced rather than smashed. ‘We own controlling shares in one hundred multinational PLCs. Remember, spread the risk across many jurisdictions, too big to fail? Only me, you, Lynton and Lars know about every one and the full extent of our exposure. So Lars takes a walk in the fucking snow and a few hours later the bottom is falling out of every one of those organisations. Every fucking one! Even your dumb niece would be able to work this out!’
‘Don’t patronise me, you prick. Your job is to keep an eye on this. How come this is the first I’ve heard about it?’
‘Only started happening in New York about three hours ago,’ replied Lynton. ‘There lies the good news, though.’
‘How can you possibly extrapolate good news from this?’ asked Maxwell.
Lynton looked at his wristwatch. ‘Trading stops on Wall Street soon. The markets don’t start up again until the day after tomorrow because of the New Year break. We have to source what’s happening and fix it before then. Or . . .’
‘Or we have to go to the rest of the board and tell them they’ve gone from being one of the richest families on the planet to paupers overnight,’ said Brady. ‘I’ve just worked out how much we’ve lost in the last ninety minutes, or so.’
‘Well, do tell,’ insisted Maxwell.
‘The thick end of a billion dollars. If this spreads around the world after the holidays, well, I don’t need to tell you guys.’
‘No, you don’t. And may I remind you gentlemen that we have the AGM of that board tomorrow. The consequences for us would be much worse than mere bankruptcy. Collectively, we’ve broken almost every company law and protocol that exists. We’d make those chaps from Enron look like the back-street gang that robbed the corner store.’ Lynton took off his thin glasses and rubbed them with his handkerchief. ‘Regardless of the jurisdiction, they’d throw away the key.’
‘Fucking cool hand, over here,’ remarked Brady. ‘I don’t need reminding that we’re stuck up in this eyrie with the world collapsing around our ears. Shit, even the power has failed. I sure hope that old man can keep the generators going.’
‘It’s not his job. We have contractors,’ said Maxwell. ‘Don’t worry about anything else but this. We have to work this problem and work it quick.’
‘And what of Lars?’ asked Lynton.
‘Lars is on his fucking own.’ Maxwell stared at the screen as yet more numbers turned red.
‘And what if someone else gets wind there’s something up? All this is well disguised as far as we’re concerned, but it’s already causing ripples around the business world. Some of the PLCs will be beyond the point of no return soon. I’m thinking mainly of your aunt, Maxwell. She’s no fool, plus she retains a merry band of most able advisors.’ Lynton placed his spectacles firmly back on his nose.
‘They can’t be that sharp, we’ve not been discovered so far,’ said Brady.
‘Nothing like this has happened before.’
‘Shut up, both of you,’ said Maxwell. ‘We turn our current location to our advantage. We can limit internet access and cut the power when required. In short, we keep everyone that matters cooped up here until we sort this out. Lars’s disappearing act gives us the perfect excuse.’
‘Happy New Year.’ Brady grimaced at the thought.
17
Scott was now in the Black Wherry. To his left, drinks were being served across a busy counter, while to his right a few men stood around a pool table. At the back of the room a small group of locals looked on as a man, hand poised in front of his face, aimed at a dart board, one eye closed in concentration. An old man with wavy grey hair sat on his own at a table, staring at a folded newspaper through old-fashioned reading glasses.
The subdued atmosphere surprised Scott. Though it was early evening, it was Hogmanay, but Scott detected none of the exuberance or high spirits normally associated with New Year’s Eve in Scotland.
He ordered a coffee from the barmaid who told him to take a seat and that the beverage would be brought to him.
He sidled up to the old man reading the newspaper and asked if he minded sharing his table. The man nodded and smiled so Scott sat down, pleased to take the weight off his feet and be out of the snow. He had agonised about leaving his room and putting himself in the way of temptation in the public bar, but he needed company. Sitting alone upstairs, the face of the little boy had begun to encroach on his thoughts.
‘It’s no’ real,’ he kept whispering to himself. ‘Just get over this and you’ll be back to normal, Brian boy.’ He repeated these words over and over again like a mantra. Secretly, though, he found it hard to be convinced of their veracity. The child had seemed so real. He cursed himself for being so stupid and allowing abuse of alcohol to burden his life in such a way.
At least here, despite the subdued atmosphere, he was amongst other folk. Yes, he would love to be waiting for a large whisky to land on his table rather than a black coffee, but he was determined to beat the urge.
‘Quiet in here, eh?’ he said to the old man, who peered at him over the rim of his glasses.
‘Aye, it is now, won’t be later on, mind.’
‘So everyone’s just sa
ving themselves for tonight, then? Oh, well. I’m Brian Scott, by the way, pleased to meet you.’
‘Jock Munro, at your service, Brian.’ He took Scott’s hand in a firm grip. ‘You’re a police officer, if I’m not mistaken?’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Well, we don’t get too many visitors at this time of year. And bearing in mind the rumours in the village, it wasn’t too hard to put two and two together.’ Jock had a deep, resonant voice and spoke slowly, with just a hint of a local accent. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll not be fishing for information. I spent too many years doing that for a living to be worried about such things now.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I was a member of the fourth estate for more years than was wise, Brian. A hack, in other words. I worked on the dailies in Glasgow for twenty years until I saw the light and started writing for myself.’
‘What kind of stuff do you write?’ asked Scott, warming to the old man.
‘Oh, I had a pretty eclectic portfolio. Latterly biography, but children’s books, history, sci-fi, even a bit of crime. I retired a few years ago, so I prefer reading to writing now.’ He noted Scott’s slight sigh as his coffee was placed on the table by a young waitress. ‘Are you on duty?’
‘What? Oh, aye – well, sort of,’ said Scott. ‘You’ll know yourself, a policeman’s work is never done and all that.’
‘Goodness me, things must have changed. I remember sharing a bottle of whisky or two in the old Press Bar in Glasgow with a lot of cops who weren’t particularly concerned whether they were on duty or not. Different days, I daresay.’
‘Oh, aye. You can say that again. Anything stronger than a wine gum noo and you’re doon tae the supermarket looking for a job as a security guard. So, when will things liven up here, Jock?’
‘Och, no’ until the folks here have been to the kirk. We’re an old farming community here, Brian. Most of the lads here will head off to church and sing a couple of hymns and listen to our minister before they get in the mood for the bells. Strange, we normally see a Shannon or two in the bar before now on Hogmanay.’
‘They’re feart tae step oot o’ Kersivay Hoose, Jock,’ shouted one of the pool players. ‘Last I heard, they were a’ cooped up in the big ballroom wae half o’ the SAS for company.’
‘I heard a Chinook was on the way tae ferry the whole lot o’ them back tae London, jeest in case the the old yins get the rest o’ them. Is that no’ right, officer?’ shouted a thin man holding a pool cue.
‘You all know fine I canna say anything about such things. Get on wae your game an’ stop gossiping like a parcel o’ auld women.’
‘Who are these “auld yins”?’ he asked Jock, in a much quieter voice.
The old man leaned forwards. ‘They have a lot o’ names, Brian. The healers, the magicians, the Society of the Golden Bough, even the wise men from the Good Book itself. You would probably call them druids.’
‘What, seriously? The only druids I’ve seen prance aboot Stonehenge wae white sheets on their heids and they funny hats.’
‘There’s lot that would say the same. But, as I said, old traditions run deep in places like this. Traditions, stories, folklore – the ghosts of the past, Mr Scott. There’s a thin veil between our world and the place beyond, of that I’ve no doubt.’
Scott looked at his coffee cup, deep in thought. ‘I don’t think a family like the Shannons will give two hoots about druids, or the like,’ he said eventually, forcing a smile, his thoughts transported to the terrifying experience he’d had at Kersivay House.
‘They might say that, but I wonder if it’s true,’ replied Jock. ‘That old house is built on the site of an ancient tinker’s encampment. You can think what you like about the tinkers, but they have some of the oldest human DNA on the planet. In every sense, they are the old people, likely on these islands for millennia before the Scots or anyone else got here. People think of them as travellers, but their name refers to their skill with metal – tin in the old days. The family of tinkers in Blaan, the Stuarts, have lived here for hundreds of years, aye, maybe thousands. A tinker’s curse is not a thing to be taken lightly and the Shannons were cursed with one a long time ago. A hundred years, to be exact.’
‘I wouldn’t have though a man like you would believe in such things.’
‘When I was your age, Brian – aye, and long before – there was nobody more sceptical than me. But I tell you, as the years go on and the little notions you have in your head get more pronounced, well, the less of a sceptic you become. The druids were guardians of their world, making medicines from plants, caring for man and creature alike. Though they had another side.’
‘Don’t tell me, they liked a good party and a few bevies.’
‘No. You just have to read Julius Caesar to find out that he thought them to be the most formidable force Rome had faced. There were many cruelties: execution, torture, barbarity beyond belief.’
‘Bit schizophrenic, is it no’? One minute you’re making them sound like a cross between Mother Theresa and James Herriot, the next like Hannibal Lecter.’
‘They would do anything to defend their land. Caesar had them massacred on their sacred island, Ynys Môn – Anglesey, as we know it. But he just pushed the power base north.’
‘You talk like it was all yesterday, Jock.’
‘By our measure it’s a long time ago. But ask the old hill or the stone about time and you’ll get a different response.’
‘Aye, right,’ replied Scott. Suddenly he didn’t feel as content again.
Daley was driving down Main Street in Kinloch when he spotted Mary trudging through the snow. He stopped his car and wound down the window.
‘When did you get back to the town?’
‘Oh, about half an hour ago. Superintendent Symington said I could take the rest of the night off. She’s still in Blaan with the Support Unit. I got back to the station with the backshift guys.’
‘Jump in, I’ll give you a lift. Where are you off to?’
She hesitated then jumped into the car. ‘I’m going to Angus’s parents’ house to take in the New Year,’ she said with a forced smile.
Daley smiled back, though his heart sank. He tried his best to keep any contact with Mary to a minimum: work only. With Kinloch being so small in size, when Dunn had began her relationship with the young doctor they had bumped into each other in the town’s bars and restaurants. Over time, Daley had learned to cope with seeing her with her new boyfriend. But the sight of her now, at such close quarters in his car, made his heart leap.
He was about to drive away when his phone rang. He answered it, a look of surprise growing on his face.
‘What’s up?’ asked Dunn, as he ended the call.
‘Seems the late Colin Grant had quite a bit of money in his bank account.’
‘Oh. How much is quite a bit?’
‘Nearly half a million pounds.’
‘Wow! Really? But I thought he was just a freelance hack.’
‘Didn’t we all. More than that, most of this money came from one source.’
‘Who?’
‘The big payments into his account all come from Shannon International, through an account registered to one of their subsidiaries on Switzerland.’ Daley thought for a moment.
‘Listen, I’ll drop you off, then I better take a trip back to Blaan. Time I had a word with Maxwell Shannon.’
‘So he wasn’t on the trail of some cult then? Listen, don’t bother dropping me off,’ replied Dunn. ‘I’ll come with you.’
‘What about Angus and his folks?’
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve never liked Hogmanay, anyway.’
Veronica fussed around a vase of flowers on a small table beneath the pulpit. She could hear the clunk of the old pipes as the ancient oil-fired heating system stuttered into life. With no electricity, the church was bedecked in candles, giving the old white walls and rows of wooden pews an otherworldly feel. It would be a strug
gle to keep warm in the old kirk at Blaan this Hogmanay.
She watched her husband as he prepared for the last service of the old year. He had a long black overcoat on over his vestments and was thumbing through the pages of tonight’s sermon with gloved hands. He looked up at her and smiled.
‘Bloody cold in here, love,’ he said, stamping his feet on the floor to aid his circulation. ‘Hope the punters have had a dram or two before they arrive. They’ll need it.’
‘Not too many, though. Do you remember old Mr Hunter last year?’ She laughed. ‘Snored the whole way through. I hope your sermon will be short, Iggy. You know there’s not a great collective attention span at this time of year.’
‘Oh, no worries. Short, sweet, with the promise of salvation and a joke at the end. What more could any congregation want on Hogmanay?’ His smile faded. ‘Though not everyone’s going to be full of the joys, considering what’s been going on and all.’
‘It’s your job to raise spirits, my love. I’m sure you’ll be equal to the task.’
‘Make them forget about old bones and dead bodies, you mean? It’s all that anyone in the village can talk about. Just lucky the weather’s like it is or we’d be all over the news.’
‘No doubt they’ll be here soon enough. Have you heard from the Shannons?’
‘No, not a whisper. Don’t think we’ll be seeing them this year. Staying put up on the cliff, so I heard. They’ve got the police and security up there. With one of their top guys going missing this afternoon, as well as everything else, it’s no wonder they’re a bit jumpy.’
‘Shame, though, it would be nice to see as many souls as possible.’
‘We’ll miss the hefty donation, you mean.’
‘No, I did not mean that,’ she said, mocking hurt pride. ‘Though you must admit the money comes in handy when we’re trying to keep this place going.’
‘Yeah, but that’s all you get from them, isn’t it? Money. No bloody soul, that lot.’
‘Why do you dislike them so much?’
‘I don’t dislike them, more what they stand for, the way they earn that wealth. You show me a global company and I’ll show you money made off the back of the poor and exploited. It’s a fact, love.’
The Rat Stone Serenade Page 12