The Rat Stone Serenade

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘It was all I had left of him for so long.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I really don’t understand why this is all happening.’

  Nadia walked back to the window. It had started to snow again; huge, pale flakes drifted in the darkness. ‘They’re coming for us,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Darling, please, this is not the time for one of your little flights of fancy,’ said Bruce.

  ‘They are!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I know this is the last thing you need right now.’

  ‘She’s right, Bruce. They are coming.’

  Bruce looked at his mother’s face; there was something about her expression he didn’t understand. As in the boardroom when Maxwell had seemingly won the day, her face was inscrutable.

  ‘What – who – what the bloody hell are you all on about?’ He turned quickly at the sound of the door being opened. There, in the flickering gas light, stood Percy, a large bruise on his face.

  Just as Scott was beginning to tire, utter despair in his heart at the thought of losing his best friend, Daley turned his head and started to cough. ‘Brian, please, get this off my neck.’

  ‘It’s no’ on your neck, Jim. We took it off. Just try and breathe, my friend.’

  Scott pulled off his jacket as the two of the cops cut away Daley’s bonds with the knife that, only moments ago, had been about to take his life – a human sacrifice to a cult, a power, that he knew nothing about.

  Now that Daley was out of danger, Scott walked around to where Veronica was lying. Her breath was laboured, bubbles of blood forming at the corner of her mouth and trickling down her chin. He leaned down to cover her with another jacket, thinking he could at least keep her warm, when she caught his arm.

  Her eyes were focused, blazing with hate and fury. ‘Tonight they die. Tonight it’s over,’ she whispered, her long nails digging into Scott’s arm.

  ‘Who dies?’

  ‘The Shannons, all of them . . .’ The words caught in her throat and her grip eased. She slumped backwards, her head resting on the black Rat Stone.

  ‘Jim, she’s gone.’ He turned to Daley, who was trying to sit up, swathed in a large ski jacket and rubbing at his neck. ‘You OK, bud? I’ll no’ lie, I thought you were a gonner, there.’

  ‘I’m OK. Well, at least I will be,’ he said, his voice a croak.

  ‘Maist minister’s wives arrange the flowers and take the Sunday school,’ Scott observed. ‘Clearly no’ this one.’

  ‘Where are the rest of them?’

  ‘Ran off when they saw us coming, Jim. They must have seen the beams of oor torches as we were coming through the trees.’ He looked at his friend, who was shivering and wheezing. ‘That was a close one.’

  ‘It’s not over, Brian. We have to get back to Kersivay House. I was just the starter. The main meal is still to come.’

  *

  ‘Percy! What’s happened to you?’ cried Ailsa, looking at the old man’s face.

  ‘I was kidnapped.’

  ‘Kidnapped, what on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Something’s going on here – something big. Your nephew Maxwell is involved, but he’s scared, I’ll tell you that. They thought I was unconscious but I heard everything. Somebody is trying to take over the company, I’m telling you!’

  Ailsa tried to calm the old man down as he ranted on about checking the outbuildings, then being taken prisoner in his own cottage.

  ‘Big Irish boy, a bruiser. I’ve seen the day when I could have tackled him. Not now, too bloody old. They took one of those useless cops prisoner, too. To keep the rest of them busy looking for him – eyes off the ball. I’m telling you, something’s not right.’

  ‘How did you escape?’ asked Bruce, wondering if the old man’s situation had been something to do with the plan he was involved in.

  ‘They just took off. The big chap got a call and off they went – not a bloody word.’

  ‘Where is Maxwell now?’ asked Ailsa, once again composed in front of the old retainer.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Has the world gone mad? The things I’ve been through with this family.’ He stared at Ailsa, his face suddenly calm. ‘Is this it – the end of all this shit?’

  ‘What on earth are you on about?’ said Bruce. He looked at his mother, who looked only at the huge snowflakes on the black window, her face a mask.

  39

  The police officers warmed themselves in front of a roaring fire in Jock Munro’s tidy cottage. Scott’s men had found the policemen who had been taken with Daley lying drugged in an old van near the Rat Stone. They were being taken care of in the Black Wherry by the local district nurse.

  Jock looked around the room. Superintendent Symington was checking her phone and DC Dunn was in the corner with Daley; the huge welt around his neck where he had been strangled was clearly visible. Three younger constables, nursing cups of tea, talked quietly amongst themselves, still bemused by finding their boss about to become a ritual sacrifice and two other colleagues trussed up in an old van. DS Scott was sitting beside Hamish on the old couch, trying not to look envious as the old man sipped at a large dram of whisky.

  ‘Right,’ said Symington. ‘It would appear that we are now alone. Phone, internet, power – everything is down.’ She looked around the room, arms crossed. ‘The snow is heavy again, so we must assume that the road to Kinloch is still blocked and the cavalry are not about to come charging over the hill. We must also assume, given what happened to DCI Daley and the threat made by Veronica as she drew her last, that we are facing a formidable foe, intent on doing real harm to the Shannon family. Suggestions, people.’

  ‘I could fair go another dram,’ said Hamish, holding his glass out. ‘If yous don’t mind, I’d rather sit oot this battle wae evil here on Jock’s couch wae a fine bottle o’ malt. I’m only here as a guide and I think my guiding duties have come tae their natural conclusion.’

  ‘Our advantage is that we now have the element of surprise,’ said Daley, his voice a harsh rasp. ‘We know where they’re going, but they can’t know where we are.’

  ‘Och, in this place, Jim – sir,’ said Scott, suddenly remembering protocol in front of Symington. ‘There’ll be eyes everywhere. And in this snow, if we’re going tae get back up tae that nightmare hoose, we’d better make it snappy. At least we’re armed.’

  ‘Aitcheson is at the house with three colleagues and the Shannon security team. How many of them are there, DC Dunn?’

  ‘Six, ma’am. Though can they be relied on if things get really nasty?’

  ‘Good point. What do you think, Jock?’

  The big man was standing with his back to the fire, a mug of steaming tea in his large hand. ‘Anyone employed by the Shannons will be top notch. They normally use ex-military as bodyguards. The question is, who can you trust? These are strange days as far as Kersivay House is concerned.’

  ‘Do you think it’s this hundred-year curse thing that’s brought all this on, big man?’ asked Scott.

  ‘It sounds ridiculous, but I do, what with the anniversary and those bones turning up. I’ve never heard so much talk about Nathaniel Stuart and the history of the village since the wee boy went missing all those years ago. Would you say that it’s just coincidence, Superintendent?’

  ‘No,’ said Symington. ‘As far-fetched as it all seems, I think we’re dealing with some kind of cult that means to do the family real harm. We’ve seen what they can do.’ She nodded at Daley. ‘These people are organised, significant in number and purposeful. A bloodbath in that mansion house is the last bloody thing I, or any of us, want.’

  ‘We’d better get up there, I suppose,’ said Scott, eyeing Hamish with resentment as Jock handed him a half-full bottle of whisky.

  ‘Yes, but not en masse,’ said Daley. ‘The phones are down but our radios still work on their direct settings. Well, until the batteries run out. I think, instead of marching up there as a group, we should go in twos and threes. One big target is too easy.’

&n
bsp; ‘Agreed,’ said Symington. ‘DCI Daley, you take DC Dunn and one of the lads. DS Scott, you’re with another. Same goes for me.’

  ‘And what am I to do, Superintendent?’ boomed Jock. ‘Just sit here pouring drinks for my old friend from Kinloch? You’ll need someone with a bit of local knowledge up there. Aye, and remember, as far as that family are concerned, nothing is ever as it seems.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning exactly that. Allies and alliances come and go. You’ll never be able to tell friend from foe with any confidence.’

  ‘You’re with me, then,’ replied Symington. ‘But remember, if anything kicks off, you stay out of it and do exactly as I say.

  ‘Your wish is my command, Superintendent.’

  The three constables immediately started to get their equipment together and prepare for the long trek up to Kersivay House. Dunn reached out to assist Daley to his feet but he gently brushed away her offer of help.

  ‘Here, Brian,’ he said. ‘Give me a look at those pictures you took on your phone.’

  After a short struggle with the device, Scott managed to bring up the images. ‘Ring any bells, Jimmy?’

  Daley looked at the boy on the edge of the sepia group photograph, then the children on the pier with Nathaniel Stuart. ‘Yes, it does, Bri. Hard to believe, but . . .’

  Symington caught Daley by the sleeve and pulled him into the tiny hall. ‘Are you sure you’re up to this, Jim? DS Scott thought he’d lost you back there at the stone.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I’m a bit shaky, that’s all. We need all the manpower we can get. These are the people that did away with Grant and Brockie. We know that they’re insane and will resort to anything. You need me out there.’

  ‘Indeed, DCI Daley. So what are your suggestions?

  ‘One group through the back door, one through the front. One group to remain in the grounds, scouting about in reserve, until we know what we’re facing. Our job is to contain everyone in one space and secure the area until help arrives. This snow can’t last for ever.’

  ‘Very good, that’s how we’ll proceed.’

  ‘I don’t want my last case to be a massive fail, ma’am.’

  Symington smiled, looking at Dunn as she secured her body armour in the living room. ‘We both know that’s not true, Jim.’

  ‘What’s not true?’

  ‘This isn’t your last case.’

  *

  Maxwell was in the large office annexe with two security guards, the satellite phone to his ear.

  ‘I want you to make sure none of our assets in China and Russia are operable,’ he said. ‘I don’t care how you do it, just get it done. If they are to remove us from the mineral contracts, they sure as hell won’t get to commandeer our plants and equipment. Blow the fucking places up if you have to. And what about those transactions I asked you to find out about? Who authorised the payment to those journalists?’

  He listened carefully, scribbling notes down on a piece of paper. He paused before writing the last words. ‘Are you sure? It can’t be. Why . . .’ He scribbled Lars Bergner in bold letters and underlined it twice.

  Nadia Shannon stood on the freezing balcony terrace at Kersivay House, snow falling on the thick coat draped around her shoulders. Having had to deal with unexplained, unannounced and often terrifying hallucinations for most of her life, she was now much better able to deal with the problem of her temporal lobe than had once been the case. It was a battle that had required great resolve – alongside expensive drugs and counselling.

  Often now, she could see something playing out in front of her that she knew existed only in her own mind and ignore it. If it doesn’t seem real, it isn’t real. The mantra played out in her head, placed there by the Harley Street psychologist.

  As she looked out over Blaan, she knew what she was seeing wasn’t real. On the promontory at the end of the long beach stood a castle, its curtain walls and crenulations ablaze with fire as crowds of men fought with each other on the machair below. She knew she was looking at the course her father had taught her how to play golf on, not a raging battlefield.

  She kept her breath steady and fought to keep the panic in her heart at bay. If it doesn’t seem real, it isn’t real. She was in control, not the part of her brain that concocted all of this.

  She heard footsteps behind her and turned her head away from the carnage, hoping that this interruption would, as was so often the case, break the spell.

  At first she thought there was nobody there, until, from behind a wrought-iron table piled with snow, a little boy appeared. He wore a jacket with a velvet collar and tan shoes. He smiled at her from under a mop of dark, wavy hair.

  Nadia felt a rush of wind as the little boy stepped closer to her. The sounds of battle had ceased. If it doesn’t seem real, it isn’t real. She moved her lips in time with the silent mantra.

  ‘Can you help me?’ asked the little boy. ‘I’m lost. I’ve been lost for a long time. I can’t find my way home and I miss my mummy.’

  Nadia began to gulp down air, backing away from the child, who walked towards her, a pleading look on his face.

  ‘Please don’t go. Everyone runs away. No one will talk to me and I’m lonely.’

  She gasped as her back collided with the railings at the end of the terrace.

  ‘Please help me.’ Tears started to spill from the boy’s eyes.

  ‘No, no – I can’t help you. please leave me.’ She had to make the child go away. She’d seen the little face before, staring out from so many photographs and the heartbreaking cine films her grandmother played over and over again. The footage was grainy, everyone’s movements slightly too quick, flashes of white where the old film was damaged.

  ‘I can’t help you,’ she sobbed, pulling herself up against the rails, determined to escape the child, his tiny hand held out for her to hold.

  She scrambled onto the edge of the railings; behind her was the sheer drop down the cliff and onto the rocks below.

  ‘I know you,’ said the little boy. ‘I know you.’

  She leaned back as her hands fought for purchase on the freezing ironwork.

  ‘Nadia, no!’ It was her father’s voice. He bounded across the terrace and pulled her down from the railings atop the stone parapet. They landed in a heap in the cold snow as she sobbed into his shoulder.

  ‘Dad,’ she cried, clutching at her father. ‘I’m so lonely. Why did you leave me?’

  Bruce looked down at her, his heart breaking. At that moment he knew that he would swap all the women, drugs, booze and money in the world to help his daughter. Shame welled up in his chest. He had abandoned her, but he would never leave her again.

  They sobbed together on the terrace of the big house, high, high above Blaan.

  40

  Daley tried the back door of Kersivay House, surprised to find it open. He walked into the narrow corridor, noting the various doors and passages leading from it. This was the preserve of servants and underlings; a place that had existed to tend to the Shannon family’s every whim for a hundred years.

  He heard a shuffling noise and hurried to the door from behind which the sound came and flung it open, much to the surprise of the room’s only occupant.

  ‘You? I thought you were missing,’ said Percy.

  ‘What exactly is that?’ asked Daley.

  ‘A bit of wood. What did you think it was?’ replied the old man. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what’s happened to the constabulary. Used to be full of fine, upstanding men. Now it’s buggers like you and that useless oaf Pollock, all carrying too much weight. Couldn’t catch cold, never mind a crook. If this gets tasty, I’ll soon subdue them with this.’

  ‘Put it down, Percy.’

  ‘Indeed I will not. While you’ve been out on a wild goose chase, I’ve been held hostage in my own house and Mrs Shannon’s been assaulted – not to mention the bloody shoe. Didn’t you see me trying to signal to you when you came to my door earlier?’

  ‘No –
what signal?’

  ‘I was narrowing my eyes. Like this,’ he said, giving a demonstration.

  ‘I thought that was your normal expression, sorry. Who kept you in the house – and why?’

  ‘Big Irish bruiser. Something to do with Maxwell, that little snake.’

  ‘Give the cosh to DC Dunn, Percy.’

  ‘To this girl? What use will she be when those hoods come back? Better making herself useful and getting the kettle on.’

  Dunn stepped from behind Daley and with one swift movement caught Percy’s wrist and sent the cosh clattering to the flagstone floor.

  ‘What did you do that for, you stupid bitch?’ Percy hissed, rubbing his wrist.

  ‘To disarm you – and teach you some manners,’ said Dunn, picking up the weapon.

  ‘I hope you’ll be as brave against that big Irish boy. He’s not an old man like me, you know.’

  ‘Right, Percy, come on, enough of this. You’ve been here a long time. What do you think is going on?’

  ‘It’s a reckoning, Mr Daley. Nathaniel Stuart, back from the grave, to claim what is rightly his. If there’s a Shannon left alive by tomorrow, I’ll be surprised.’

  The attic was dark, illuminated by only a couple of flickering candles. A dim glow was cast on the clutter: an old rocking horse, a rusty bike with perished tyres, a faded couch from which the horsehair stuffing was escaping, crockery, boxes and a brass coal scuttle. All items that had been discarded over the years by those who occupied Kersivay House.

  Sitting cross-legged on the bare floorboards was a man, draped in the folds of an old cloak, the hood pulled down over his face. The little radio in his hand buzzed.

  ‘Is everything in place?’ He listened to the tinny voice in silence. ‘Good, then we can proceed.’

  The voice on the radio spoke again.

  ‘Of course her loss is regrettable. Don’t you think I know that – me of all people? She has given herself to a greater cause; a sacrifice that any of us would be proud to make.’ He paused, controlled himself and spoke again, his voice harder. ‘There are police in the house. They must be dealt with first – in any way. Leave the Shannons to me, we have arrangements in place. We will put the final part of our plan into place an hour from now. After this is finished you will need to be ready to defend our cause. The world will again know our name.’