Scott watched the three policemen make their way down the jetty and turned to the older man. ‘Thanks for that, Hamish. I’m obliged tae you, man.’
‘Fine if I wisna lying through my teeth, Brian. Did you know whoot you were shouting oot?’
‘No, I kind o’ blacked oot, sorry.’
‘You were shouting tae John Donald tae leave you alone. I’ve had a few drams mysel’ today, Brian, but I’m no’ seeing the deid come back tae life.’
Scott shook his head. ‘I don’t want you tae tell anyone aboot this, OK?’
‘No, you have my word on that. But, I tell you, I’ve seen plenty o’ folk wae the heebie jeebies. Fuck me, Kinloch’s full o’ them. I used tae work wae an auld fisherman that widna go tae the wee toilet in the boat because he thought there was a monster living in the pan. Used tae shite o’er the side o’ the boat – in a’ weathers, tae.’
‘And what are you saying?’
‘You’ve got a worse case o’ it than him.’
‘Oh, thanks for that, buddy.’
‘I’ll have your back, until we can find Jim Daley. But you’ve got tae get help.’
Scott watched the old man walk up the uneven pile of rocks that comprised the old quay. He knew Hamish was right, but first he had to find his friend. He shivered as he looked around the bay. The big house stood on the high cliff in the distance, dark and unyielding in the white landscape. Something about it made him think of the stone. He remembered the vision he’d had of Jim Daley being trodden into the dirt as his back was slashed by the man in black; he thought of little Archie Shannon with his dark hair and pleading eyes; the rugged face of Nathaniel Stuart, standing on the pier with the young children. It was as though the past, present and future, things that had happened and others that never would, had coalesced in his mind.
He pulled the phone from his pocket and dialled Symington’s number. ‘Ma’am, we’ve just landed. Have you managed to come up with anything?’ He listened, his heart sinking when the answer came back in the negative. ‘I have an idea, just a notion, ma’am. I’m going tae this Rat Stone.’ He didn’t wait for her reply.
He’d listened to Jim Daley for years, banging on about his gut feelings and his instinct. To save his friend’s life, Scott was going to take a leaf from Daley’s book.
As Daley shivered, the pain in his head got worse. He clenched his teeth in an effort to banish the throbbing from his skull, so acute that he could see it pulsing in his vision.
Mercifully, the narcotic effect of whatever he’d been forced to drink was starting to fade. He was still trussed up in the back of the freezing van and, by the look of the light coming through the filthy back window, it was already getting dark.
He held his breath and tried to listen for anything that could give him an idea of where he was, or at least if he was alone or not. He could hear a scraping noise, low and slow, like steel on steel. It took him back to when his father used to sharpen the big carving knife for the Sunday roast.
Someone was sharpening a blade. The greater the sacrifice, the greater the reward. His captor’s words echoed in his head.
He heard footsteps and the back doors of the van were thrown open by two figures dressed entirely in black. He was pulled out of the vehicle by his legs. Again, his head battered off the cold metal floor and he cried out in pain.
He landed heavily on the ground, the impact and the shock of the cold snow winding him. He struggled to control his breathing.
‘Why are you doing this to me?’ he said breathlessly. ‘You of all people.’
He heard the snow crumple underfoot as his tormentor walked towards him.
‘You need help. You and whoever is aiding you in this need help.’
There was no reply.
‘I remember now. I know who you are.’
37
More looked through almost every stitch of his wife’s clothes. Finding nothing to help him, he moved onto her make-up case, handbag and personal files containing her passport, birth certificate, qualifications and driving licence. He found nothing.
There was no sign that she was anyone other than the woman he had met five years before at a retreat on the island of Iona, the nun who had been so abused by her fellow sisters that she had given up her calling and looked for another life. The tall, dark-haired beauty who had made him remember that he was flesh and blood, that his life wasn’t all about his parish and the scores he had to settle.
He had been flattered by her attentions. He’d always kept himself trim and fit, but he couldn’t keep age at bay; the greying hair, fading eyesight, the lines on his forehead and shadows under his eyes, the aches and pains he felt merely getting out of bed in the morning. He was getting old and he was pleased that someone still in possession of her youth and vitality could possibly wish to spend the rest of her life with him.
But, like him, she appeared to have a secret.
He remembered finding her in the dark church, wrapped in that cloak, and shivered. He thought back to their first few days together: the passion with which she made love; the way she liked to hurt him, the mixture of pain and pleasure bringing him to a climax like he had never experienced before.
He had seen her as a damaged woman – broken, just as he had been. He thought he could make her well, bring her back to life.
Exhausted, he sat on the old Chesterfield sofa and stared into the flames of the roaring fire. Suddenly he felt the pain of being small and alone, the pain of being taken away from a life he had barely known. He had spent so long trying to remember, lying under the stars in the Northern Territory, grabbing onto any little detail that brought him back to who he really was. The grey skies, the warm house, his mother’s eyes.
His adoptive father always punished him in the same room. Punish wasn’t even the right word, for usually he had done nothing to merit the beatings he was forced to endure. It was as though the rough man, stinking of alcohol and sheep shit, flayed him with the old leather belt just because he liked it. He could feel the pain anew, the agony each time the belt made contact with his back, opening old wounds and making new ones. All the time he was forced to lean on the old bureau, his hands grasping the dark wood, desperately trying not to cry, knowing that if he did the beating would only gain intensity.
He remembered the little brass plaque on the old piece of furniture: Property of Shannon Agricultural (Australia) Ltd.
Like many other children, he’d been taken thousands of miles from the orphanage to be a slave on the other side of the world, all in the name of charity and good deeds.
His phone rang. ‘Yes, mate,’ he said, looking up at the old clock on the wall. ‘What’s Plan B?’ He listened for a while, then ended the call.
Yes, he wanted revenge – but at any price? The hatred of a faceless organisation was one thing, the death of an old woman something else entirely. He had to think.
And where – and who – was his wife?
Daley squirmed as she pushed her face into his. Someone unseen was holding him down as the woman straddled him. A fire blazed, sending sparks into the darkness. He was naked from the waist up and the cold stone made his back ache. He’d been forced to drink something else and this time, instead of being rendered unconscious, he felt only a strange calm, as though the man pinioned to the dark artefact was someone else.
‘Jim Daley.’ Veronica was silhouetted by the fire that crackled behind her. ‘The greater the sacrifice, the greater the reward.’
Her hair covered his face as she slid her fingernails down his neck and onto his chest. She arched her back and screamed, ‘You will give me your last!’
He was aware of voices, people crowding round; they began to chant. Veronica appeared to be in a trance. She swung her head back, staring up into the black sky with her arms outstretched.
Bruce leaned forwards, his head in his hands, in his mother’s room in Kersivay House. ‘I had to do something – the plan was simple. Why wasn’t I kept up to speed about the Chinese and the Russ
ians?’
‘You could have told me what you were doing,’ replied Ailsa. She was speaking to her son but her attention was focused on her granddaughter Nadia, who was gazing out of the huge window into the darkness. The electricity was still down and the back-up generators supplied power only to certain parts of the large mansion, so Ailsa’s room was lit by dim, battery-powered LED bulbs, installed in the house as a failsafe.
‘What did you think you would achieve, Bruce?’
‘The plan was simple, Mother. Let Maxwell gain control of the company then leave him holding the baby when something nasty was uncovered. He wouldn’t be the first businessman to go down, would he? We’d get rid of the bastard then carry on as my father wanted.’
‘As your father wanted – how wonderful.’
‘That’s what you’ve always worked for, isn’t it?’
‘How would you know what I want, Bruce? You and I haven’t been close since before you went to Cambridge.’ She ran her hand along the parcel that she’d been given in the ballroom. ‘I wonder what this is.’
‘Never mind the bloody present. How much do you know about all of this?’
‘Darling, I’ve known for two years that Maxwell and his cohorts had set up these shadow companies. He made the same mistake as you.’
‘Which is?’
‘Thinking I’m a sad old woman, living in the past, trying to keep the spirit of your wonderful father and my lost son alive.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You and your father are so similar. The same love of the good things in life: the wine, the women, the music, even the drugs.’
‘Only he was a success and I’m a nothing. Is that what you mean?’
‘I know you are aware of your own shortcomings, darling. But your father was no better. He found his inspiration at the bottom of a glass, a white line on the table, or between the thighs of his latest tart.’
‘Come on, Mum. You can’t take away what he did for this company – you mentioned it yourself at the meeting.’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ said Alisa, a flash of anger in her voice. ‘Do you really think your washed-up father made all those mineral deals, all the banking and oil agreements? This company was heading for ruin until I took control.’
‘What?’ Bruce was incredulous.
‘Can you imagine? Your poor mother running this great business edifice. A mere woman. Impossible, isn’t it? Especially when you consider that I’m not even one of your precious Shannons.’
‘What are you saying? I don’t understand.’
‘Again you fail to grasp the obvious. Until your stupid uncle descended into dementia, I was the one running this company.’
‘What, even before my father died?’
‘Of course. It was our little understanding. He could stuff lines of coke up his nose and whore about as much as he wanted, as long as he left everything important to me.’
‘And you just carried on when my uncle took over? I’m sorry, that’s even harder to believe.’
‘Oh, it took him a few weeks to grasp the reality of things. But, to his credit, he soon came around when he realised that the famous company constitution left behind by Archibald Shannon meant bugger all. Power is power – and the power to reward is the greatest of all. Remember, dear, I have an excellent degree from Oxford, not the miserable third-class efforts you and Maxie managed to attain.’
‘At least I wasn’t trying – at university, I mean. Maxie worked his arse off.’
‘I would remember that, if I were you. What a fitting epitaph for your time on this planet. At least I wasn’t trying.’
Bruce watched in disbelief as his mother calmly went about opening the parcel that had been left on the steps of Kersivay House earlier in the day. Everything he had been so certain of had suddenly changed. He had always thought of his father as a flawed genius, the man who had turned Shannon International into a truly global company. To discover that his mother was behind it all was bizarre. But rather than stoking any great feelings of pride in his mother’s achievements, it kindled a new empathy for his father, who had no doubt been just as crushed and browbeaten as he.
He flinched as his mother stood up, sending the contents of the parcel spilling onto the floor. She looked down, hand to her mouth, all the composure she had shown that day entirely gone.
‘What the hell is the matter?’ asked Bruce, bending down to pick up the object that had rolled to the floor. It was old fashioned, with a crepe sole. The tan leather was cracked and shrivelled with age, but it was still easily identifiable as a child’s right shoe.
It was only when his mother remained silent that significance of what he was holding dawned on him, and he dropped the tiny item of footwear to the floor as though it was red hot.
*
Daley’s breathing was growing heavier. Veronica was swaying above him, her hair brushing his bare chest. He tried to think through the haze of the drugs, but lost his way in the flickering flames and the heat of her flesh.
‘Why?’ he managed to say.
‘The end for you and all those who aid the Shannons.’
She looked down at him, green eyes blazing in her face, red lips parted. ‘In this way, we create new power – a power that will save our planet, not destroy it. Now!’
Something was placed around Daley’s neck and roughly tightened. As he struggled for breath she leaned over him, her face nearly touching his.
As Jim Daley choked, she placed her lips on his, drawing the last breath from his body.
38
‘This way,’ said Hamish as they struggled through another drift. It was completely dark now, the winter afternoon fading quickly under the snow-laden sky.
‘How do you know so much about Blaan?’ asked DS Scott, trudging at the back of the little group.
‘Och, as I said to you before, my mother used tae work at the big hoose. And in them days, before a’ this jetting off tae Spain and the like, folk used tae take holidays nearer home. Much better if you ask me. We used tae jump ontae the bus tae Blaan wae oor buckets and spades. My faither had an auld army tent we stayed in on the shore. Limpets for tea and jeest blue sky and sea, that’s what he used tae say.’
‘Idyllic stuff, Hamish. You’re right, the old days were the best, nae doubt about it.’
‘Well, the limpets wirna too clever, but you’re right apart fae that.’
‘Sergeant, what’s that noise?’ shouted a cop up ahead.
The little group stopped and Scott listened carefully. Sure enough, from somewhere up ahead came a low chant. Scott flashed his torch at the young policeman. ‘I can hear folk humming, like monks or something. Is that what you heard?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. And I thought I heard someone cry out before that.’
‘That’s the Rat Stone,’ said Hamish with a shiver. ‘It’s jeest o’er that hill.’
‘Right, come on. We need tae be quick,’ said Scott.
‘Yous’ll no’ mind too much if I jeest stay here,’ said Hamish. ‘I heard too much aboot that place when I was a boy tae want tae go rushing up there in the dark.’
The policemen left the old fisherman behind as they struggled up the slope, heading for the Rat Stone.
Daley’s vision was beginning to fade. He could only manage to draw in tiny breaths with a high-pitched whine in his throat, so tight was the belt he had around his neck.
Just as he was about to be enveloped by darkness, he heard shouting. The pressure around his neck slackened and he managed to suck in just enough breath to stay conscious.
He heard her scream as a hooded figure tried to pull her off him. ‘Leave me, we haven’t finished!’
In the light of the fire, a blade flashed red. Daley moved his head to one side as it crashed down. There was a flurry of sparks as steel hit stone, only nicking his left ear.
Veronica squirmed free of the hands trying to drag her away and wrenched hard on the belt around Daley’s neck. The shadowy figures were meltin
g into the darkness beyond the fire as she pulled herself up on her knees, the long blade gripped between both hands and held high above her head.
‘Now you give your life!’ She threw her arms forwards, ready to plunge the knife into Daley’s chest.
The faces of his son, of Liz, his mother and father flashed before his eyes. He felt the warmth of a kiss on his cheek, saw her smile as her face vanished into the blackness.
‘Mary,’ he whispered, waiting for the pain to hit.
There was a loud crack. Astonished, Veronica looked down at the huge hole that had appeared in her chest, then fell backwards, the blade slipping from her hands and onto the stone.
‘Jim – Jim!’ Scott rushed to his friend’s side, ignoring the woman he had just shot. He placed his fingers on Daley’s neck – there was no pulse. Without another thought he began CPR on Daley, alternatively pumping his chest, then trying to re-inflate his lungs. ‘Come on, Jimmy, come on, man!’ he shouted, massaging Daley’s heart. Peering at his friend’s face in the firelight, he could see nothing behind his blank stare.
A large security guard placed the tiny shoe into a plastic bag. ‘This will have to go to the cops. I’ll give it to that superintendent when she gets back. I’d better gather the packaging, too. Has anyone touched anything apart from you, Mrs Shannon?’
‘I did. I handled the shoe,’ said Bruce. He looked at his mother, sobbing in her high-backed leather chair, Nadia comforting her. ‘Mum, don’t fret. It’s just another sick wind-up, like the bones on the stone.’
She looked up at him. ‘No, no, it isn’t. It’s his shoe.’
‘Oh, come on, you can’t be certain.’
‘Go into the top drawer of that old chest,’ she said, pointing to the corner of the room.
Bruce slid the drawer open to find a small box. He lifted it out and handed it to his mother. ‘Is this what you wanted?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, laying it on her lap. With shaking hands, she lifted the lid from the box and angled it towards her son. ‘You see, there can be no doubt.’
Bruce stared at the tiny shoe. It was in better condition than the one she had been sent, but there was no doubt they were a pair.
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