Читать книгу Kingdom of Shadows - Barbara Erskine - Страница 15

‘James Gordon is here, Mr Royland.’ The voice on Paul’s desk rang out suddenly in the silence.

Paul turned from the window and pressed the intercom switch. ‘Thank you, Penny. Could you ask him to come in?’

He smiled wearily as the door opened. ‘I’m sorry about lunch last week.’

James shrugged. ‘No problem. Did you talk to Clare?’

Paul nodded slowly. He threw himself down into a chair, gesturing at his brother-in-law to do the same. ‘We discussed things at some length.’ He hesitated, giving James a quick appraising glance. ‘I want this conversation to be completely confidential. It is to ask you about Clare.’

James sat down slowly. His expression was carefully guarded.

‘As you predicted,’ Paul went on, ‘she is adamant in her refusal to contemplate the sale of Duncairn. Irrationally so.’ He paused again, allowing the words to hang for a moment in the air. ‘It is of course a very difficult time for Clare. The discovery that she can never have children has upset her enormously. It is perfectly understandable that her entire outlook on life is a little disturbed at the moment. The problem is that she is allowing her emotional distress to interfere with her business acumen.’

For the first time James’s face flickered. ‘I never thought my sister had any business acumen at the best of times.’

Paul looked at him sharply. ‘Indeed?’ he said. ‘Well, I assure you she has. Which is why she would be the first to be furious if she found that she had missed out on a massively profitable deal while the balance of her mind was disturbed.’

James let out a soundless whistle. ‘That’s a bit strong, surely.’

Paul stood up restlessly. He walked across to the window and stood looking down into Coleman Street for a moment in silence. When he spoke it was with extreme care. ‘I understand that there have been times, even from her earliest childhood, when Clare has had periods of, shall we say, strangeness?’ He put his hands in his pockets, leaning forward slightly, as if studying something below on the pavement.

‘Hardly strangeness.’ James was staring at Paul’s back. ‘She’s always been highly strung, I suppose. And Aunt Margaret used to call her fey. But I don’t think that means what one thinks it does, does it?’ He gave a forced laugh.

‘It means doomed to die young.’ Paul turned sharply, leaning against the window sill.

James licked his lips. They had gone rather dry. ‘I’m sure Aunt Margaret did not mean that.’

‘What then?’

James hadn’t realised before what hard eyes Paul had. Brown, like nuts; expressionless in the handsome, slightly overweight face.

‘I think she meant slightly spooky; seeing ghosts, that sort of thing. Like those nightmares she used to get all the time.’

‘She still has them.’

‘Does she?’ James glanced up at him.

‘And she is still suffering from claustrophobia. That has something to do with the nightmares, I think.’

James hesitated uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know that it does, actually,’ he said at last. ‘I think that may be my fault.’ He stood up and slowly paced up and down the carpet. Paul was watching him, a frown on his face. ‘It was when we were children,’ James went on after a second or two. ‘A game that got out of hand.’ He glanced up at Paul with an apologetic smile. ‘Aunt Margaret used to tell us stories about Robert the Bruce, Scottish history, battles and stuff.’ He paused again. ‘One of the stories was about a woman who was put in a cage and left there to die.’ He shuddered. ‘It was pretty horrible really. Clare was obsessed by it and Aunt Margaret would go on about it; it never seemed to dawn on her that Clare was really upset by the whole thing. Anyway, we used to play Robert the Bruce games: the Battle of Bannockburn, that sort of thing. And once we played the woman in the cage.’ There was a long silence. ‘Kids can be pretty cruel, can’t they, and there were times when I thought I hated Clare. She was older than me, and I always thought she was mother’s favourite, so I didn’t have too much conscience about what I did.’ He stopped pacing the floor. Looking down he kicked viciously at the carpet.

‘And what did you do?’ Paul prompted softly.

‘I locked her in a cage at Airdlie.’ James resumed pacing the floor. ‘There was a cage at the back of the stables – a small run really, where grandfather kept his dogs. I found an old padlock and pushed her in and left her there. It was quite late at night. Completely dark. There was no one around.’

‘How long was she there?’ Paul’s eyes were fixed on his face.

‘All night. We started playing after we were supposed to be in bed. The grown-ups were having a dinner party. No one noticed she was missing. No one heard her call.’

‘What happened?’

‘In the morning I went to let her out. I thought it was a great lark but she was unconscious. I can still remember how frightened I was. I thought she was dead. I didn’t know what to do. The woman who looked after Aunt Margaret came and I helped her carry Clare to bed. She was terrified because she was supposed to have been looking after us. She put hot-water bottles at her feet and smacked her hands and face and in the end Clare woke up.’

‘And?’

‘That’s the strange part. She didn’t seem to remember anything about it. And no one ever said anything. You’re the first person I’ve ever told.’ James gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘It was shortly after that that she started getting attacks of claustrophobia – quite serious ones. I felt as guilty as hell.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ Paul said grimly.

James grimaced. ‘Aunt Margaret blamed herself. I think she suspected that it was to do with the woman in the cage, but she didn’t know what I had done. She never told us that particular story again.’ He paused again. ‘The woman in the cage. I think she died at Duncairn.’

‘I see.’ Paul turned away, walking back to the window thoughtfully. There was a long silence, then at last he spoke. ‘It is my opinion, and that of our doctor, that Clare is heading for a nervous breakdown. To avoid such a thing happening, I am going to take as much as possible off her shoulders; take over the management of her affairs; send her away for a long rest so that she can get things back into perspective.’

‘And sell Duncairn while she isn’t looking,’ James said almost under his breath.

Paul swung round. ‘I can see no merit in keeping the property. That hotel will be nothing but a drain on our resources. However, if there is really some family attachment to the place I am prepared to offer it to you first.’

‘At the same price Sigma are offering?’ James raised an eyebrow.

Paul inclined his head slightly. ‘The property has become valuable and I am a businessman.’

‘How do you propose to get Clare’s agreement to all this?’

‘I will see to it that I get power of attorney.’

‘You mean you’re going to have her certified?’

Paul noted the sudden indignation in his brother-in-law’s voice. ‘There is no question of that. She will give it to me willingly.’

‘You think so?’ James looked sceptical. He paused, then he shook his head. ‘Thanks for the offer, Paul, but I’m not interested in buying Duncairn. I wouldn’t do that to Clare, and besides, I’m not about to throw that kind of money into any property, whether it has oil or not. Nor am I sure anyway that I necessarily want to stand around and watch them put nodding donkeys all over the headland.’

Paul gave him a withering look. ‘I didn’t see you as sentimental.’

‘No?’ James raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you forget that I’m a Scot too, Paul. Aunt Margaret left the place to Clare because she thought I wouldn’t appreciate it fully. Perhaps she was right, I don’t know. But I wouldn’t have sold it. I may be a businessman, but to see Duncairn raped would hurt even me. I won’t go so far as to try and stop you selling; no one could ignore the kind of offer you’ve had, but I won’t stand and watch.’

Paul inclined his head slightly. ‘Fair enough. We understand one another, I think.’

James looked him in the eye. ‘Indeed we do,’ he said slowly. ‘Indeed we do.’

Rex Cummin sat down on the white leather sofa and pulled the telephone towards him. Mary was out, and the flat was quiet. His cases still lay humped together in a heap in the lobby where he had dropped them as he came through the front door. It took him only a few moments to be connected with Alec Mitchison in Edinburgh.

‘I’ve received a letter from Mr Paul Royland, the owner’s husband.’ The crisp Scots voice, crackling with energy, came down the wire. ‘He says that Mrs Royland is unwell and he is handling her affairs. I gather he may be prepared to discuss matters.’

Rex sat forward eagerly, his knuckles white on the receiver. ‘What did he say exactly?’

‘He says he would be prepared to meet you, that’s all.’

‘That’s enough.’ Rex took a deep breath. ‘Set it up, will you? In London or Edinburgh. Wherever he wants. You’ll be there, of course.’

There was a pause the other end of the line. When the voice resumed it was heavy with disapproval. ‘You wish to reveal your identity so early in the negotiations, Mr Cummin? I would have thought that a grave mistake.’

Rex could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead. The supercilious Scotsman was right, of course, but he couldn’t wait. Not now. There wasn’t time. He took a deep breath.

‘I feel sure,’ he said slowly, ‘that Mr Royland and I can meet as private individuals. I will not mention my company’s identity at this stage. I will allow him to think that I am interested in developing the hotel.’ He knew Mitchison didn’t think he could pull it off; the man probably thought Royland knew about Sigma already. If so, so be it. They would negotiate with all the cards on the table. And he meant every card. As he put the phone down, he had already decided to find out all there was to know about Paul Royland. And he meant all. He was going to leave nothing to chance.

Behind him the door opened and his wife appeared, laden with carrier bags. ‘Rex! When did you get in, honey? Why didn’t you say you were flying back today?’ She dropped the bags and kissed him on the cheek.

Rex stepped back a little. ‘I came back sooner than I expected, that’s all,’ he said testily.

‘Is something wrong?’ His wife’s radar was finely tuned to every nuance of tone.

‘Nothing, honey, nothing. They are a load of old women back there in the States, that’s all. The drop in the price of oil is scaring the shit out of them.’

‘And they don’t want to invest any more in Europe?’

He shrugged. ‘They haven’t said yes or no. They’re hesitating and while they hesitate, someone else is going to get his goddam hands on Duncairn.’ He walked over to the bar and reached for a bottle of Bourbon. ‘Except they’re not. The Royland woman’s husband has written to Mitchison. He’s prepared to talk. She’s ill apparently.’

Mary sat down slowly, unbuttoning her white raincoat. She kicked off her shoes with a groan. ‘Poor woman. We must send her some flowers or something.’ She glanced at her husband and frowned. ‘Go easy on that stuff, honey, you know what the doctor said.’

‘That doctor is a fool.’ Rex refused to meet her eye. ‘I reckon he thinks I’m getting old. They all think I’m getting old.’ He drained the glass and slapped it down on the bar.

‘Were there problems in Houston, Rex?’ Mary asked gently.

‘Nothing I can’t handle.’ Hooking his finger into the knot of his tie he loosened it slowly. ‘I’ll be flying up to Aberdeen tomorrow and as soon as Mitchison can arrange it I’ll meet with Royland and get this deal tied up. Then perhaps that would be a good time to think about planning our retirement, what do you say?’ He turned away from her before he could see the alarm in her eyes.

The roses glowed in the misty morning sunshine as Clare reached up to cut them from the back wall, putting them gingerly into her basket one by one. She swore as a thorn pricked her.

Paul had driven straight to the office when he returned from Bucksters on Monday morning so she hadn’t seen him until yesterday evening when he had returned at about seven.

‘David and Gillian missed you,’ he said curtly as he walked in. ‘I explained that you were unwell.’

‘Was it a good party?’ She smiled at him tentatively, trying to gauge his mood.

‘Their parties are always amusing.’ He walked across to the sideboard and began to rummage in it for his whisky. ‘May I ask what you did all weekend?’

‘Nothing. You told them the truth, as it happens. I wasn’t feeling well.’ She knew she sounded defensive.

‘I see. Clare, I’ve been thinking.’ He poured two double whiskies, neat, and handed her one. ‘I think perhaps you should go away for a holiday. A couple of months in the sun would do you good.’

She shook her head. ‘Perhaps after Christmas; I don’t want to go away now.’

‘Why not?’

‘I want to go up to Scotland. I have to sort out one or two things.’ There was a moment of silence.

When he spoke his voice was grim. ‘May I ask what sort of things?’

‘Duncairn, for one.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘I want to discuss the future with Jack Grant. There are repairs that need doing as soon as possible to the hotel.’

‘I see. And where is the money going to come from?’

‘I am sure I can find it. I still have money of my own, Paul.’

‘Yes; and I know exactly how much. How far do you think that will go?’

‘Far enough for the time being.’

‘Clare! You’re crazy. You might as well stand on the edge of that damn cliff and tear up the money, note by note, and throw it into the sea. No one in their right mind would contemplate pouring money into that hotel.’

‘Except the man who wants to buy it. You wouldn’t object to him throwing his money away, I take it?’ She tried to keep her voice steady.

‘He doesn’t want the hotel, Clare. He wants the oil.’

‘Well, he’s not getting it.’ She clenched her fists. ‘I thought I would go up north later this week.’

‘We have a dinner party on Saturday, if you remember.’

‘Early next week, then. I’ve made my mind up, Paul.’

He had slept in the spare room, and he had left for the office before she was awake.

Thoughtfully she reached up to clip another rose, sniffing it absent-mindedly before she dropped it into her basket. Since Zak’s visit she had not left the house.

When the meditation had ended, she had remained sitting on the floor, still staring at the guttering candle, waiting for him to speak. Slowly he had risen to his feet and walked across to the window. Opening the curtains, he stood, looking out into the road. For a long time he said nothing, then at last he turned.

‘Clare, I think I must suggest you turn your meditations in a different direction. What you are doing is a valid exercise, but it is not one which is going to bring you the results you need. I want you to go back and practise some of the methods I first taught you. Especially the counting.’ He smiled. ‘That is the one you find so boring, I think you said.’

‘But why can’t I go on as I am?’ She looked up at him. ‘What am I doing wrong?’

‘You are not doing anything wrong, as such.’ He hesitated. ‘I have been trying to decide what is taking place. As you suspected, although your technique is correct, what is happening to you is not usual; it is not what you expect from a simple visualisation. There are several possible explanations. The most obvious, and the one I hope it is, because it is the least complicated, is that you are remembering a previous incarnation; that you were this Isobel in another life and that meditation has given you access to the memory.’ He gave an almost apologetic smile.

Clare stared at him in astonishment. ‘That’s not possible!’

‘Why? Don’t you believe that you have lived before?’ He frowned.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it. I suppose I’ve had feelings that I’ve been here before – doesn’t everyone? But not as Isobel, Zak.’ She shook her head firmly.

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘I know. All right, you want something more positive than that. Well, Aunt Margaret saw her too. We can’t both have been her in a previous life, can we?’

‘Ah.’ Zak moved slowly back and sat down stretching his long legs out on the carpet in front of him. He was silent for a moment. ‘Then we must consider some of the other possibilities.’

‘Zak.’ Clare was thoughtful. ‘How do you know about Isobel? Did I talk out loud?’

He frowned. ‘A little. I prompted you and you answered.’

‘Without knowing it?’

He nodded. ‘You were hundreds of miles away, Clare, and you were in a different time. You had no knowledge of me being there, but with part of your mind you heard me and you replied.’ He hesitated, unwilling to give up his theory. ‘Are you sure your aunt saw the same things?’

Clare nodded.

‘And she spoke to you of them?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did she ever tell you how she summoned Isobel?’ He was feeling his way with care.

She nodded. ‘She used to tell me that she closed her eyes and imagined as hard as she could, and if I imagined hard enough I would see her too: that when I opened my eyes again she would be there.’

‘And it worked?’

‘Always.’

‘So that was that you were doing just now?’

‘Not consciously.’ She hesitated. ‘At least, I don’t think so. I’m not aware that I was trying as such – or at least not in the same way …’ She stopped, confused. ‘She just comes.’

‘That is because of the meditation technique. You have learned how to open your mind to the past without effort.’ He pushed. ‘When you were a child, was Isobel a child?’

She nodded. ‘I played games with her.’ She paused again, embarrassed. ‘She was very real to me when I was little, Zak.’

‘And she’s very real now, isn’t she?’ Zak was becoming more and more uneasy.

She nodded again. ‘And now she’s grown up. Each time I see her she is older, closer to my age. It isn’t meditation, is it?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think it is. I hoped you were reliving a past incarnation. That may be traumatic, cathartic even, but I don’t think it can really harm one. If that is not it …’ He stopped, again, trying to choose his words carefully. ‘I think, Clare that you must have managed to get the knack of doing something which takes people years of study. You have a natural aptitude for a science which should not be undertaken by someone who is not properly prepared, or by someone who is’ – he hesitated – ‘uninitiated. I think for your own sake you must stop, Clare.’

‘But why? Surely it can’t do me any harm? You yourself said anything I enjoy doing would be better than nothing.’ Something like panic had crept into her voice.

‘I didn’t realise then what you were doing,’ he interrupted her.

‘But you don’t know now for sure! All you could do was see me sitting there with my eyes closed and ask me a few questions!’ She scrambled to her feet and pinching out the candle put it on to the sideboard. Her eyes were alight with rebellion.

‘I do know,’ he repeated. He was watching the trail of smoke rising from the wick. ‘You see, I saw them, Clare.’

‘What?’ She stared at him, aghast.

‘I saw them. You have learned to project thought forms. You have made these people real. I don’t know if they are actual physical entities or whether I saw them telepathically, but I saw them. I don’t know if they are spirits, or from your imagination – I think perhaps the latter, as they seem unconcerned about relaying messages and only re-enact their own lives – but the power of your imagination has given them reality. And that is dangerous. Please, believe me, Clare. You should stop.’

‘And what will happen if I don’t? What if I enjoy it?’ She pushed her hair back from her face.

Zak sighed. ‘No one can stop you doing it if you want to continue, Clare, but you would be crazy to go on. The power of thought is very real. To a certain extent these people you have created have a life of their own now. And they will take you over if they can.’

‘You’re not serious!’

‘I am and I’d blame myself if something happened to you, don’t you see? You have, in a sense, set a mechanism in train which is very hard to switch off, not least because you, on your own admission, enjoy it.’

‘And is that so bad?’

‘It is once you lose control.’

‘But that won’t happen –’

‘It might.’ He was looking at her very seriously. ‘You might find you had no choice but to go on, Clare. I think maybe your Lady Isobel needs you as much as you need her.’

Clare stared at him. Her face had gone white. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Zak! You’re not serious? What I am doing is a child’s game. Pretend, that’s all. They are part of my imagination. It’s the meditation technique which has allowed my imagination to run wild, that’s all. You said that yourself. It’s a game! Just a game!’

‘Then why did you call me? Clare, you were worried enough about what you were doing to want to talk to me about it.’

She glanced at him almost guiltily. ‘I called you because I couldn’t do it any more. I panicked because I thought I would never see her again. Then I could and – well’ – she hesitated. ‘I wanted you to tell me it was all right, not tell me I’m engaged in some sort of occult practice! For God’s sake, Zak!’

‘You panicked because you thought you’d never see her again,’ he repeated, quoting her. ‘Leave it alone, Clare. I mean it.’

She had never seen Zak angry before. It was out of character. His cool, gentle tone had gone and he had sounded almost afraid.

And he had refused to change his mind.

‘Clare, please think about what I’ve said.’ He stood up slowly. ‘Promise me.’

‘I’ll think about it. Of course I will.’

‘Look, I’ve got to go, it’s late.’ Zak picked up his jacket almost with relief. Outside it was nearly dark. ‘But I’ll come back on Monday or Tuesday and we’ll talk again. I want you to promise me you won’t do any more meditation of any kind until we’ve talked again.’

‘Zak –’

‘Promise me, Clare. Please.’

‘All right.’ She sighed.

‘And don’t be alone, Clare. Don’t give yourself the opportunity to be tempted.’

‘I won’t.’

She did try to ring Emma, but there was no reply.

That night the dream came back. Alone in the big double bed Clare turned this way and that, fighting the pillows, her hair damp with perspiration, and when at last she sat up, suddenly and violently awake, there was no dog to comfort her.

She lay still, shaking, too afraid and disorientated for a moment to move at all, then, slowly she dragged herself out of bed and switched on the light. The house was completely silent. She sat for a long time on the side of the bed, trying to calm herself, then at last she lay back on the pillows, worn out. But sleep had not come back.

She took the roses into the kitchen and put them carefully into a porcelain vase, glancing up at the clock as she did so. Zak was coming back that afternoon before he returned to Cambridge, but she still had most of the morning to get through. She had already spent two days fighting the longing to retreat into her dream world. She wanted so much to know what was happening to Isobel. Isobel who had become pregnant so easily and who wanted so desperately to lose her child. Clare shivered. Surely her curiosity was natural? Morbid, perhaps, perverse even, but not sinister. It couldn’t mean that already Isobel was gaining some kind of hold over her. Could it? That Zak was right, that already she preferred the past of her dreams to the present. She shook her head slowly. She had to get out of the house. That at least would distract her until he came.

Harrods was crowded. For a long time she wandered around the ground floor, staring at the displays, browsing at different counters, picking up scarves and handbags and putting them down again; she bought an olive-green suede belt, a pair of gilt earrings and in another department a length of pale blue silk, none of which she really wanted. At about half past eleven she decided she would like a cup of coffee and she walked up the stairs, heading for the coffee shop. As she threaded her way across the fashion floors she could hear in the distance the jerky rhythmic music which accompanied a dress show and unconsciously her steps quickened. Anything to keep her mind occupied for a few more minutes. It was very hot upstairs, and she unbuttoned her jacket as she made her way between the displays of clothes, through the shoppers towards the crowd of spectators.

The music was loud, the beat subliminally painful as she stood on the edge of the crowd. Strobe lights cut the air in a whirling mock disco as models danced and jerked their way, marionette-like, around the floor. Behind them the scene was set with a huge hardboard slab of prison bars; to the left of them another stretch of bars, the real things this time, glinting in the lights. They were hung with chains. The models too wore chains, their clothes brief, erotic, black and khaki, their limbs painted silver and covered with sequins, their faces immobile, their black wigs short and masculine. Clare glanced around her. The women near her had their eyes glued to the production; she could see the beads of perspiration on one woman’s lip. Her mascara had run and her lipstick was caked at the corners. She was swaying to the music, fascinated.

The arcs of colour crossed and recrossed the bars, throwing their shadows across the floor as the elegant, gawky limbs jerked and dangled their way around the dais. The music grew louder and more insistent; the air was stifling with rich perfume and a less discreet hint of sweat. Near Clare a security man was scanning the crowd, a radio clipped to his breast pocket, his face shaded and sliced by the lights. The shadow of the bars fell across him and she could see the whites of his eyes gleaming, watching, staring …

She didn’t realise that she had screamed. Dropping her parcels she turned and began desperately fighting her way back towards the stairs, pushing out of the crowd, her heart thudding with panic, her throat dry, oblivious of the startled faces near her, pushing out of the heavy swing doors on to the cool broad staircase.

The door opened immediately behind her and the security man appeared. He stopped abruptly, seeing her leaning against the wall, her face glazed. ‘Can I help you, madam?’ He was staring at her suspiciously, only with difficulty restraining himself from taking her arm.

Still trying to steady herself Clare shook her head. ‘I’m all right. I’m sorry. It was the lights –’ She could barely speak.

Behind them a second figure appeared in the doorway, carrying Clare’s belongings. It was the woman who had been standing next to her. ‘Are you all right?’ Pushing the man aside she put her arm around Clare’s shoulders. ‘It’s all right, officer, or whatever you are. I’ll take care of her. I could see you going funny, love. All that heat and those lights and the crowds: it’s enough to make anyone feel faint.’

The security man frowned, obviously out of his depth.

‘If you’re sure –’

Desperately Clare nodded and with a thankful shrug the man disappeared. The woman gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘Disappointed. He thought you’d snatched something! And it was me that ended up with your bags! Here.’ She pushed them at Clare. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? Do you want me to get you a taxi?’ The cheerful voice pattered on as, slowly, she guided Clare down the broad staircase and out into the Brompton Road. ‘A bit of fresh air and you’ll be fine.’

Clare barely heard her. Her head still whirled: bars; lights; noise, the searching, probing eyes; the eyes, the bars of her nightmares. Clutching her parcels she allowed herself to be pushed into a taxi; she heard herself thank the woman, heard herself reciting her address to the driver, then she flung herself back in the seat and knew that she was crying.

‘Paul Royland.’ Neil Forbes sat on the edge of the desk reading from the typed notes in front of him. ‘Aged thirty-eight. Eton and Oxford – I knew that – we were at the same college, though he was a couple of years ahead of me. Career in the City. Coutts; Lombards, from 1981 a partner in Beattie Cameron, now a director of BCWP. Married in 1981 to Clare Gordon, daughter of the Hon. Alec Gordon who died in 1962.’ He threw the notes down on the desk. ‘Paul Royland!’ he repeated in disgust. ‘The bastard tried to talk me down in the Union once. Then he tried to get me banned.’

‘I didn’t know you were at Oxford.’ The folk singer, Kathleen Reardon, was standing watching him, her coat on, her bag already slung from her shoulder. Four years older than Neil, she looked ten years younger. ‘Quite the gentleman yourself, aren’t you?’ The soft Belfast accent was mocking.

Neil stood up. He went across to her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘There are a lot of things about me you don’t know.’

‘And a lot I do.’ She narrowed her light blue eyes. ‘I know you’re a chauvinist bastard; I know Mr and Mrs Royland have got up your nose; I know that if the poor bugger went to Eton you’ll be ready to string him up from a lamp post, and I know that you promised to buy me some supper. And if we sit here much longer, sure every food outlet in Edinburgh will be locked and barred and bolted and the sun will rise over my poor bleached empty bones!’

Neil chuckled. ‘I always forget what an amazing appetite you have.’ He reached to turn off the light. ‘I’m going up to Duncairn again,’ he said as they left the office and turned out into the cold Grassmarket, the huge bulk of the castle walls looming high behind them in the dark. ‘I want to get this campaign off the ground before the Roylands know what has hit them, and before Sigma realise that their interest in the place is out in the open. We’ve got the edge on them, but only for a very short time.’ He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. ‘Earthwatch is mounting a huge campaign against onshore drilling and in today’s climate with oil prices at rock bottom, we should be able to win. I’m going to use Duncairn to spearhead our campaign in Scotland.’

Kathleen glanced at him curiously. ‘Just because you hate this Royland man and his wife so much?’

‘It’s got nothing to do with personalities, Kath.’

‘Oh no? Like hell it hasn’t!’ Glancing at him, her face illuminated by a street lamp, she tossed her long black hair back over her shoulders. ‘You know I almost feel sorry for those two.’

Two days later Neil was back at Duncairn. He climbed on a bar stool and leaned on the counter, a glass of malt whisky nursed reverently between his hands. ‘Have you heard anything from your new owner yet, Jack? I remember last time I was here you mentioned that the place had changed hands.’ He glanced casually up at the landlord’s craggy face as the man tidied up the bar.

Jack Grant had run the Duncairn Hotel for twenty years now. He had moved there from Aberdeen after his wife died, full of ideas to renovate the place and make it popular. Margaret Gordon had initially given him the money to improve the fabric of the building, a Victorian grey granite pile built from the stones of the old castle itself, but his plans to modernise it had met with a veto. No new bar with piped music; no ceilidh nights; no large notice on the main road to bring in the passing trade. She wanted the place to remain a haven of peace for the people who knew it. She was not interested in making a profit, and slowly Jack had come round to her way of thinking and he had come to love this rugged piece of headland with its ever-changing skies. The only solace to his former ambition, the only extravagance he permitted himself now, was the excellence of his menu which was slowly gaining a reputation throughout north-eastern Scotland. There were few evenings in the summer when the restaurant wasn’t full and often at weekends the guests would stay a night or two in the faded splendour of the baronial rooms. But now, in October, the hotel was all but empty.

He ran the place with a minimum of staff. Mollie Fraser and her daughter Catriona actually lived in the hotel, helping him in the kitchen and looking after the occasional guests. In the summer two or three women came up from the village to help, glad of any extra work that was going. But apart from that they coped. He and Mollie had an understanding. They were comfortable.

Behind Neil the room was empty. From the low, broad windows, he could see the top of the remaining tower of the castle, the stone, yellowed with lichen, rising above the trees. Even from here he could hear the soft soughing of the waves below the cliffs.

Grant shrugged. ‘Not a word. Mrs Royland came up here in June shortly after old Miss Gordon died.’ He sniffed. ‘She used to come up here a lot as a lass, wee Clare Gordon. A cute little thing, she was, but now she’s married to an Englishman she hasn’t time for us any more.’

‘Do you think she’ll sell the place?’ Neil dropped the question casually into the conversation.

‘Never. It’s in her blood. Even if she doesn’t come back, she’d not sell.’

‘She’s had an offer for it.’

Grant looked him straight in the eye, suddenly suspicious. ‘How come you know so much about it?’

‘I work for Earthwatch. I don’t want to see this coast spoiled by on-shore drilling, and I don’t want to see this hotel closed. Your whisky is too good!’

Ignoring the compliment Grant pulled himself up on to a stool his side of the bar, and leaned forward. ‘Are you saying there’s oil at Duncairn?’

Neil nodded.

‘And you think Clare Royland will sell up?’

‘She’s been offered a hell of a lot of money, Jack.’

‘I still can’t believe she’d sell.’ Grant shook his head. ‘It would be right out of character.’

‘What if her husband wanted her to? He’s not interested in Scotland.’

‘As to that, I don’t know. I’ve not seen him more than once.’

‘We’re going to fight the oil, Jack. Are you with us?’ Neil watched him closely.

‘Oh, aye, I’m with you. I’m too old to change to the fast-food and fast-women market. Leave that to the boys in Aberdeen.’

‘Even if it means fighting Clare Royland?’

‘She won’t sell.’

Neil scowled. ‘I wish I had your faith in her.’

Grant sat for a moment, lost in thought. ‘Surely it doesn’t matter who owns the land if there’s oil there. The bastards will take it anyway.’ Unprompted he reached for Neil’s glass and refilled it.

‘Maybe, but if the oil company already own the land they want to drill we have far less chance of winning. If, on the other hand, it has belonged to the same family for generations –’

‘For seven hundred and fifty years.’

‘That long?’ Neil said dryly. ‘And if we can shame Clare Royland into opposing any drilling, then we’ll get public opinion on our side. The English public; the public in Edinburgh and Glasgow, they love a romantic tragedy; theirs is the support we need. That and the fact that rare plants and animals and birds live here on these cliffs, with the real threat of environmental pollution – it would all give us a working chance of saving this place.’

He walked around the castle again later, watching as the mists slowly crept landwards across the sea. The stones were passive in the cold sunlight; no echoes this time. He pictured Clare as he had seen her, her hair blowing in the wind, her high-heeled shoes sinking into the grass. Strangely she had looked at home, he realised now; decadent and beautiful, like her castle. If only she had kicked off those damn fool shoes he might even have felt some sympathy for her. He frowned. Was Kathleen right then? Had it become a personal vendetta?

Kathleen had stayed in Edinburgh. She was booked to sing at a club for the week and anyway he hadn’t wanted her up here with him. Somehow she always came between him and the scenery; not intentionally, but as a distraction, a discordant note, in the tranquillity of a landscape of which he felt completely a part. For all her ethnic clothes and other-worldly manner she was a city animal – a beautiful black-haired panther of a woman, who would be as out of place here at Duncairn as a bird of paradise on a grouse moor.

He climbed up into the tower and stared out to sea, feeling the strange throbbing power of the wind and waves in his very soul. Dear God, he had to save this place!

‘What’s wrong with me, Zak? Am I going mad? I don’t understand. I’ve been claustrophobic since I was a child, but like that! In Harrods! With hundreds of people watching! I made such a fool of myself!’ Clare put her face in her hands for a second, then she straightened and looked at him. ‘What is the matter with me?’ she whispered.

Zak sat down slowly and stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Nothing’s the matter. People often feel like that in crowds. You’re reading too much into a fairly common reaction. Think cool, remember?’

‘Think cool! How can I? The only thing I had to help me was the meditation, and you told me not to do that any more.’

He looked uncomfortable. ‘I’ve been thinking about that, Clare.’

‘And?’

‘And more than ever I am certain that you must stop doing it. I’ve been talking to someone about you, someone who knows about these phenomena. He agrees that the way you are approaching the exercise is wrong. Wrong for you. It is too risky. I still feel meditation could help you, Clare, but not this kind, please believe me.’

‘Zak?’ She sat down near him suddenly. ‘The nightmares, the claustrophobia. Do they have something to do with Isobel? Is this all connected?’

He frowned. ‘I don’t know, Clare. Everyone has nightmares – they are externalisations of one’s inner fears and worries –’

‘Are my worries that terrible?’

‘They are to you, Clare. But you are facing them with your conscious mind now, and that should help. They should get better. Meditation, real meditation, the kind you think is boring. That will help.’ He looked uncomfortable.

Watching him, Clare suddenly felt sorry for him. He was out of his depth. She had leaned on him too far. What for him had been a straightforward exercise without complications, without questions, had turned out to be for her a tortuous path. He could not help her any more and he was frightened by what he had started.

Standing up restlessly she turned away from him. She should tell him to go; tell him it was all over; tell him she wouldn’t be tempted to meddle with the past again. Get on with her life. And yet he was in a sense her only lifeline.

‘Tell me one thing, Zak.’ She faced him, her voice calm. ‘Have I been conjuring up the spirits of the dead?’

‘I think you were well on your way towards it.’ He refused to meet her eye.

‘You think I’m a medium of some sort?’

‘Maybe.’

‘And you think Isobel would hurt me if I went on contacting her?’ Her fists were clenched tight.

‘She seems to have a very powerful personality –’

‘More powerful than mine, you mean.’ Clare raised an eyebrow.

‘I didn’t say that –’

‘But that is what you meant.’

‘Look, Clare. This is crazy.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t advise you. I’ve told you what I think. I’ve told you it is dangerous to meddle in this. I think you should stop, but I can’t force you to. Only please, be warned by what I’ve said. It may be that you are actually contacting the spirits; it may be that you’re only producing some powerful thought forms; either way what you are doing is dangerous!’

‘Are you sure you’re not the one that’s crazy, Zak?’ She smiled sadly, shaking her head. ‘All this could be rubbish, absolute rubbish, couldn’t it? You can’t conjure real people out of daydreams. Daydreams can’t hurt you!’

‘No?’ He grinned back amiably, standing up. ‘Well, I hope not, for your sake.’ He held out his hands to her. ‘Whatever I say you’ll do what you want. Take care, Clare. I have to catch my train. You know where I am if you need me. I’ll be thinking of you, OK?’

‘OK.’ She gave him a wan smile. And that was that. He had gone, leaving her alone. They both knew she wouldn’t ring him.

Instinctively she knew that she had to go to Duncairn. There she would find the answer to all her questions. Perhaps. She longed to be there, to feel the wind on her face, to hear the sea birds, to taste the North Sea spray on her lips. There she would find peace.

She never gave a thought to the menace of the oil. As far as she was concerned it was over, settled by her letter to Alec Mitchison.

On Thursday she rang Jack Grant. ‘I’ll come up to Duncairn next week. If you could give me a room for a few days, perhaps we can discuss the position, sort out our plans for the future.’

He could hardly refuse to have her, but after she had hung up she sat thoughtfully gazing at the phone. Had she imagined it or had there been suspicion and hostility in his voice? She shrugged. She had always liked Jack Grant when she was a child and the thought of him there at the hotel when she went back to the castle was reassuring. And she had to go to the castle. That much she knew.

They had asked six guests to dinner on Saturday night: Sir Duncan and Lady Beattie, George Pierce, who had been senior partner of Westlake Pierce, with his wife Susan, Henry Firbank and Diane Warboys.

Diane was sitting on the window seat, her legs elegantly crossed, dressed in a tight black skirt, slit to the thigh with a lace camisole beneath her black silk jacket. With her shoulder-length blonde hair she looked dramatic and very sexy. Henry could not take his eyes off her. She had eyes only for Paul.

As Paul poured the rest of the guests their drinks and handed them round, Clare stood by the fire with Henry. Dragging his gaze away from Diane he gave her a conspiratorial grin. ‘How are you?’

‘All right. Thank you for coming round the other night.’

Henry threw a quick glance towards Paul. ‘It was a pleasure. I hope you haven’t had any more turns like that one in the lift.’

For a fraction of a second she hesitated then she smiled. ‘I haven’t been in any more lifts. It’s usually possible to avoid them, thank goodness.’

‘I heard about your getting stuck in the lift, my dear.’ Lady Beattie’s sharp ears had picked up their conversation. ‘I am so terribly sorry. Duncan has told the lift company to come and check every single nut and bolt on the wretched things.’

Henry grinned. ‘I don’t think it was the lift, Lady Beattie. There was a short power failure, I understand.’

‘Whatever it was,’ Clare managed a bright social smile, ‘I shan’t go near those lifts again. Next time I have to go to the conference suite I shall take crampons and a pickaxe and climb the outside of the building.’

‘What a riveting thought,’ Henry applauded. ‘If ever you need an anchor man, Clare, don’t hesitate to ask me.’

Amidst the general laughter Clare saw Paul turn and look speculatively at his partner. There was something in his expression which made her shiver.

Diane moved forward from the window seat and sat down next to him, her glass dangling from red painted fingertips. In the office she wore black too, but sober, high-necked black, and her hair was usually drawn back into a tight, slim queue, held with a velvet ribbon. She eased her position imperceptibly so that her thigh was touching Paul’s. ‘One should never allow one’s life to be run by phobias,’ she said into the silence. ‘Have you ever thought of seeing a psychiatrist, Clare?’

Clare swallowed. She glanced at Paul. There was a slight smile on his lips. ‘No, Diane.’ She managed a quiet dignified laugh. ‘I have never felt sufficiently mad. Not yet.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean –’

‘Of course she didn’t.’ George Pierce broke in. ‘I expect Diane was thinking of psychotherapy. Everyone is into that these days, aren’t they? Making people stroke spiders – that sort of thing!’

In the corner of the room Sir Duncan Beattie emptied his glass and held it out for a refill. He had been watching Paul closely, a speculative frown on his face. ‘Aversion therapy, I believe it’s called,’ he said. ‘There are many ways of trying to cure phobias, and I suspect claustrophobia is one of the commonest. I must confess I dislike those lifts myself.’ He gave Clare a kind smile as Paul got up to take his glass.

Clare smiled back. She had seen Diane edging closer to Paul on the sofa and she had seen Paul’s seeming indifference. She sighed. It was going to be a strained evening. A few minutes later she excused herself so that she could go downstairs to put the finishing touches to the food.

It had been fun preparing a dinner party herself again. These days Sarah Collins was always there when they had a party, and she had been content to allow the woman to do everything once she had chosen the menu. This time, to Paul’s annoyance, she had refused to ask Sarah to come up to London to take over the organisation of the food and for the last three days she had thrown herself into the preparations, doing even the shopping and cleaning. She had her reasons, of course. She was still desperately trying to keep herself occupied; to fill every moment and to fall into bed each night so tired that she slept, dreamless, at once.

To her surprise she had enjoyed it. She was a good cook and she had forgotten the fact. She resented Paul’s unspoken hint that Sarah could do better, and if she was tired, that was her intention. She had not wanted to allow herself one single second to think.

She glanced round the kitchen. Outside, in the garden, it was foggy and dank. She peered through the blind and shuddered. Inside it was warm and bright. The hors d’oeuvres were laid out neatly on the kitchen table ready to take into the dining room; the casserole was in the oven, the vegetables ready, the salad and dressing prepared. She walked through and glanced around the dining room. The wine had been opened an hour before; the last of the cream roses filled a silver bowl on the centre of the table; the glasses sparkled under the lights. All was ready. She picked a box of matches off the sideboard and leaned across to light the candles in the silver candelabra, then, exhausted, she sat down in Paul’s chair at the head of the table. One quiet moment was all she needed before she went back upstairs and marshalled her guests for dinner.

But Isobel was waiting in the shadows in the corner of the room.