by N Williams
Carefully descending the rungs into the cold, damp hole, shoes clanging against each step, Farrell pulled a rusty chain affixed to a black Bakelite fitting alongside. The bulb in the pendant jammed into a crack in the cave roof teased for a second or two before it relented and illuminated the tunnel below the castle. The electrics needed urgent attention. The castle had been the first private house in Wales to have electricity installed, and the wiring down here looked as if it hadn’t been updated since.
*
Sir Eddie Stockwell opened a cabinet and took out a silver case of tablets required for the day. Twelve different medicinal concoctions had been sorted into ordered compartments.
Shit! He hated old age. Not like others hated it - he had more reason to want to live. It was so unfair. He had contributed so much to society, he had helped so many people with his medicines, yet here he was now, unable to walk unassisted and dying of cancer.
His office was the size of a large four-bedroom house, split over two floors, and accessed by a private lift. The room served as a place of work and a research library. The outer annex - with the view of the Thames - served the purpose of a meeting room for business associates. The top floor inner sanctum was accessed by no one other than Sir Eddie and a handful of very close friends and trusted employees. This private room was wall-to-wall bookcases filled with scientific research papers and notes from leading geneticists around the world.
Placing his hand onto a palm scanner, a quiet click announced the release of the locking system. He pushed open the heavy door and entered his private laboratory.
His bones ached, and his muscles failed to do what they once could, but Stockwell still had a keen intellect and kept on top of the research his small army of chemists were employed to carry out on his behalf. He could afford to waste money on the research, but he couldn’t afford to waste time.
A ceiling mounted four-way television monitor pod hung down above a centrally positioned computer console. Around this was the most advanced array of experimental equipment - all state-of-the-art.
Stockwell read the latest results off the large screen and silently cursed; so close, and yet so far away.
He wheeled himself to the elevator and smoothly dropped to the lower office.
The large antique oak and leather desk was scattered with scribbled notes and books. Another large computer monitor was mounted on the far wall. The computer was constantly linked to a team of scientists sending regular progress reports to the screen for Stockwell to be kept up to date on his projects.
For the last three years, he had devoted his time and money to finding the genetic signatures for aging. Progress had been made in recent months. Researchers had been able to isolate some of the markers, yet Sir Eddie knew that it might take another ten years before they had a clear picture of the process - ten years he didn’t have.
There was still a slim chance left. He would do everything to secure the diary. The notes held the key to something so astounding that it would extend human life far beyond present expectations, and he knew it still had to be somewhere near the castle. If that meddling odd job man hadn’t taken the diary to sell, he’d be looking at the analysis reports of the relics now, rather than speculative test results for work that promised little in return. The castle hadn’t cost as much as he had expected, but one-point-five million was still too much to throw away, even for someone of Stockwell’s limitless finances.
He finished taking his morning tablets, pressed a button on his intercom and spoke to his secretary. ‘Margaret, Get me Farrell.’
*
Farrell had his phone on silent but felt the vibrations in his pocket. He had begun to wish he hadn’t installed the military-spec underground antenna to update his boss from the tunnel. He dropped the rock he was holding and clicked the button.
*
Farrell’s voice echoed. ‘Sir Eddie?’
‘Any news on the diary, Bradley?’
‘No sir. But I don’t think we’re going to need it. I'm convinced we're on the right track.’
Stockwell smiled. ‘Excellent. It's cost me too much to give up now.’
‘I have a slight problem at this moment, sir.’
‘Problem?’ Stockwell’s voice began to rise.
‘I still haven’t broken through.’ Farrell didn’t need to elaborate; Stockwell knew only too well what he was referring to. ‘I could use some local help, but that would draw attention to our plans.’
‘No. Keep at it, Bradley. I know it must be hard, but we cannot afford to let anyone else know what you’re doing.’
Farrell sighed. It was just down to him then. ‘As I thought, sir.’
‘Whatever’s down there was obviously important to Patti. Why else would she block off the passage?’
‘I don’t want to sound pessimistic, but it could be she didn’t want to leave it as a route someone could use to break in to the castle. We have to consider the worst case scenario.’
‘You don’t believe that Bradley, do you?’
‘No sir, I don’t.’
‘Excellent, Bradley! I’ll see to it there’ll be a substantial bonus for you at the end of all this.’
Stockwell flicked the intercom off and slumped in his chair. Not much longer now, it would all be right soon.
CHAPTER 30
After taking the call from Sally, Zac and Gates drove to Cardiff Central Police Station to pick her up. She was seething from her experience, but at least she had been safe in the station. Zac introduced Sally to Gates before they set off to Sally's apartment to collect some overnight things. Zac insisted that it would be better if she stayed close to him and Gates for a while, something that seemed to make more sense as she tucked into her drive-through burger.
Having tried calling Fenwick to arrange another meeting, Zac was worried when there was no reply. He left a message on his answer-phone. Fenwick needed to be careful. No one involved with this cursed diary was safe. He had expected an update from Fenwick or MacKenzie by now.
Sally had agreed to use Zac’s spare room for a few days until things cooled down. A text message from Fenwick chimed its arrival in Zac’s inbox as they drove along the coast road into Swansea. “Need to speak - in person. In all day - pot of tea waiting. Handel.”
The X-type barely crawled along the country road through Pen-Y-Cae, heading toward Brecon. Zac had quickly changed his plans and decided they needed to get to Fenwick as soon as possible, maybe even bringing him back to stay with them for a while until the whole mess was resolved. No one had spoken for nearly an hour. Radio 2 played tunes quietly in the background. The traffic was all but gridlocked. Road signs warning of road works had been no help. The summer holiday traffic had made the road a nightmare. A rare warm and dry day had brought the world, his wife and their children to the local roads.
There wasn’t another route they could take to avoid the traffic. They were too far along the A4067 to turn around and use an alternative. He generally wasn’t an impatient man but, like most people, he derived no pleasure in wasting minutes or hours stuck in a winding conga line of increasingly impatient drivers.
A glimpse of the turrets of the Craig-Y-Nos castle poked through the line of trees that bordered the narrow country road. The road works were only about two miles further ahead now and at their current rate Zac reckoned it would take them another fifty minutes to clear the restrictions.
The castle looked impressive from road level. A Neo-gothic limestone and red sandstone facade, surrounded by a large limestone perimeter wall, flanked the main road.
Zac remembered the large stone cross on the roof of the building he had seen from the air and wondered why a devout Catholic would put it somewhere nobody could see.
After thirty minutes, they had only managed to go another mile or so along the road. Zac noticed a familiar car in the rear view mirror. Zac nudged Gates. ‘Take a sneaky look behind us.’
‘What’s up, pal?’
‘It’s probably nothing, but there’s
one of those Porsche Cayennes behind us. It looks a lot like the one I saw the two goons in yesterday. It could be a coincidence, but I’m not convinced.’
Gates pulled down the sun visor and flipped up the cover from the vanity mirror. He could just about see the Cayenne; it was about ten vehicles behind them.
‘I don’t think it would be that far behind if it's following us. He’d want to be a bit closer in case we pulled off.’
‘There’s nowhere to turn off yet, but that’s what I’m going to do at our first opportunity. Did you bring the gear?’
Gates smiled. ‘Don’t worry. The big stuff’s in the boot.’ Gates pulled his Glock out of his coat pocket and checked the magazine.
Zac took a peek at Sally in the rearview mirror as Gates checked his gun. She was clearly shocked.
‘What the hell?’
Gates grinned. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just a precaution.’
‘But th-those things are dangerous... and illegal,’ she stammered.
‘No point in having one if it wasn’t dangerous. We’re the good guys, remember?’
Sally’s face had turned white. Zac could see her slide down in the rear seat and felt the need to explain. ‘I didn’t tell you that Gates and I used to work together on the tactical firearms team in London before I transferred home to Wales. Gates has some connections, a bit shady, but nonetheless vital if we’re dealing with people out to do us a serious injury.’
Sally smiled nervously. ‘Well I suppose that’s alright then,’ she said, unconvincingly.
The castle disappeared behind a line of trees as the snaking line of slow moving traffic dropped down around some bends before eventually straightening up to pass the entrance to the Dan-Yr-Ogof Show-caves.
‘I worked there, as a teenager; guiding people around the caves. Bloody fantastic it was. Good money in tips...’ Zac paused, then added quietly; ‘...and we got the chance to do a bit of caving.’
‘You caving? Do me a favour,’ laughed Gates.
Sally saw Zac’s ears turn red. He was blushing. ‘What’s the big deal with caving?’
Gates turned around in his seat and draped a heavy muscular arm over the backrest. ‘Our hero, Zac here, can’t even take the lift to his apartment. He’s bloody claustrophobic.’ Gates patted Zac on the shoulder.
Sally was intrigued. ‘So how did you become a tour guide if you’re claustrophobic? Not a terribly smart move, I would have thought.’
Zac shook his head. ‘I wasn’t claustrophobic back then. But something happened.’
He was not offering any more. Sally could see he wasn’t comfortable talking about it and didn’t push. Gates made secret eyes at her and sat back around in his seat.
After what seemed like an eternity, they reached the waterworks and the last set of temporary traffic lights. A narrow road led off on the left hand side which Zac knew wound up over the mountain. Barely wider than a single carriageway, the road passed some farms and emerged in a side valley where a pretty narrow, shallow stream cut through the bottom.
The X-Type passed through the lights and reached the turn off. As they took the side road, out of sight of the main road behind a small farm, Zac floored the car.
‘As good a place as any to check on the intentions of that Porsche - a pretty detour.’ Zac smiled and accelerated off along a narrow winding lane.
There was no need to bother with the vanity mirror now. If the Cayenne was following, he'd know soon enough.
Sally kept a lookout from the back seat. ‘Shit Zac. The thing’s behind us and a lot closer than before.’
Shifting his considerable frame in his seat, Gates turned to see the Cayenne only a hundred metres behind them, ‘Who are they and what the hell do they want?’
Zac kept his foot to the floor, ‘I have no idea, but in the light of recent events I’m not going to hang around and find out.’
The X-type responded swiftly and rose to seventy within seconds. The roar of the V6 engine was always satisfying, and the car handled superbly through corners. The adrenaline was coursing through him, keening his senses and alerting him to all the hazards around him. Zac was well trained. He had spent several of his police years as a traffic officer with the South Wales police.
The Jag was probably not a match for the Cayenne in a straight line, but the three litre sport X-type could certainly hold its own on roads like the narrow lane. There was no traffic coming the other way and Zac saw the Cayenne accelerate behind them, trying to match their pace.
The road was perfect for Zac to refresh his skills. He switched back to advanced driving mode and read the hedge-lined corners as he’d been taught many years before. He looked through the gaps in hedges for any signs of something coming to meet them.
Holding onto the roof-mounted handle with her left hand, and gripping the back of the front passenger seat with her right, Sally sat rigid, eyes as wide as dinner plates.
Gates whooped with joy. ‘Give it some stick Zac-ee boy.’
Grinning like a small boy in a toy shop, Zac set the car up perfectly for each corner, checking the speed until he could see the apex of the bend start to move away; that was his signal to apply the power.
The Cayenne was struggling to keep pace; in the corners it was no contest. The car was either not as well balanced for the bends, the higher centre of gravity being a disadvantage, or the driver was not as skilled as Zac. Either way, the Cayenne’s Porsche engine clearly had more torque and showed this in a straight line, but the Jag was able to increase the distance between them in each of the corners.
The road opened up about a mile further on. Zac could see along the valley for another couple of miles. He could see problems - sun worshippers sprawled across the grass verge between the road and the little mountain stream, trying to catch some sun in an otherwise damp summer. Cars were half-parked on the grass banks, narrowing the lane even further. Children were playing in the water and families were sprawled along the bank on coloured blankets having picnics and playing ball games.
‘Shit!’ Zac eased off the gas and let the speed bleed away to a little over forty, still too fast for a narrow road full of unsuspecting people. Fathers and mothers started pointing at the two fast approaching cars. The Porsche had caught up now, and Zac could see the big bald guy in the passenger seat.
People were now shouting warnings to others, and waving at the two cars to slow down. One father picked up a full can of Cola and threw it at the X-type. The cola can bounced off the roof of the car with a loud bang and hit the Cayenne dead centre of the windshield. The screen shattered, and the mighty 4x4 swerved momentarily before a boot kicked out a large hole in the screen.
Children playing in the little waterfall-fed pools of the stream stopped and watched open-mouthed as the X-type took off over a brow and crashed down on the other side. The Cayenne bounced over in pursuit and Zac heard the screams of families as he noticed what looked like a small automatic rifle being pushed through the hole in the screen of the chasing car.
There was no option. He floored the accelerator again, throwing the car around the tight corners until the road rose up and away from the little river and the angry people. Now they had a chance.
The two cars hurtled over a brow in the road and slammed down on the other side, sparks flashing from the bottom of the X-type as the sump guard hit the tarmac. The road levelled off and opened up, the hill sloping down to the road on the left and dropping gently away to the right to the wide expanse of valley.
A cattle-grid and T-junction appeared ahead of them. Zac pushed the vehicle hard and braked at the last moment. The junction was wide, and he could see well in both directions, a low sparse hedge providing glimpses of the road. He knew that to turn right would take him away from his intended northward track and he wasn’t entirely sure where the road to the right went. He didn’t have time to think. He kept his foot on the brake as the Cayenne closed up behind.
Fifty feet from the junction, Zac saw a small lorry making its way from the
right, directly towards them on a collision course.
Zac wanted the goons behind to think he was going to make the right turn. He needed his pursuer to slow for the bend, to allow him to accelerate again and exploit the X-Type’s lighter weight advantage to put some more space between them. But the lorry gave Zac another idea.
He threw the car around the corner, drifting it slightly as he took the corner far too fast for the loose stone surface. The lorry was approaching them fast along the narrow road. Zac aimed the car between the lorry and the low verge to the left, clipping the bank and bouncing back onto the road. Zac managed to control the bounce and slowed.
‘What the fuck… put your foot down,’ Gates shouted.
There was no reply from Zac - he was looking in the rear view mirror.
The Cayenne entered the junction too quickly. The driver hadn’t seen the truck and the hulking Daf truck struck the rear offside wing, sending it into a spin and pushing the front end under the rear wheels of the lorry.
The Jag pulled over to the side of the road,
‘Fuck. I hope it wasn’t just a joy-rider wanting a race.’ Gates turned to Sally. ‘Stay put. Don’t get out of the car.’ His tone of voice left her in no doubt that it would be foolish to disobey the big man.
They ran back to the scene of the crash. The lorry driver had jumped down from the cab and was waving his arms and shouting, clearly in a state of shock, anger and panic,
‘What the fuck... you stupid bastards... ’ He fell silent as he saw the two men approach him.
The lorry driver had to be distracted. ‘If you’ve got a phone, call the ambulance and the police... now!’ Zac insisted.
The driver returned to the cab and fished around for his phone as Zac and Gates pulled open the doors of the Cayenne. Inside were the two men Zac had seen before at Morgan’s Hotel. Now he could clearly see that both were solidly large. They were dressed in jeans and had leather bomber jackets over casual polo shirts. They looked like clones. Zac was reminded of the Schwarzenegger and DeVito film “Twins”, except even the smaller of the two was built like Schwarzenegger. The smaller man - the driver - had short-cropped brown hair whilst the bigger of the two was shaved bald, the shadow of fresh growth showing it was a style choice rather than a genetic trait.
