Irene whistled, ‘you’ve sure got me sussed, haven’t you? July the 12th,’ she told him. ‘Go now and book.’ Suddenly she was desperate to be alone. Taking responsibility for a corporate business was easy compared to giving personal orders to a small group of egoists and idealists. ‘I must go for a walk.’ She felt his puppy-dog eyes on her as she retreated, and reminded herself that he was expendable.
Chapter Eight
Edinburgh, May
There seemed something essentially British about lying in bed listening to the song of a blackbird while early morning sun filtered through the curtains. Irene struggled to sit up, adjusting the pillows to create a comfortable nest for her head. Reaching to her right, she opened the top drawer of the bedside table, pulled out a joint and lit it. She drew sweet-tasting smoke into her lungs.
It was very rarely that Irene used even the mildest of drugs, but the pressure of this project demanded something more powerful than alcohol. She exhaled slowly, smiling as Patrick stirred into wakefulness. He lay on his side, muttering in his half sleep.
‘Morning has broken,’ Irene said.
Patrick pulled the covers further over his head.
Irene smiled, inhaling again, and gently eased the covers back to his knees. She ran her thumbnail down the entire length of his naked spine ‘It’s time for coffee.’
‘Coffee and marijuana? The perfect combination to start the morning.’ He eased onto his back, sat up beside her and reached out his hand.
Irene allowed him a few minutes to wake up. ‘Off you go then. The machine is in the corner.’
He inhaled deeply, passed back the joint, gave that appealingly boyish grin and slid out of bed. Irene leaned back, enjoying the view as he walked to the coffee maker, replaced the filter and measured in the coffee. Her eyes followed the ripple of muscle down his back to the pert swell of his buttocks, and centred on the deep scratches on the offensive tattoo.
She grinned, admiring her handiwork as much as she appreciated Patrick’s backside. She hoped that it really smarted. If she kept him for much longer, she must surely tear away Linda’s name. Of course, she could take him to a professional and have the tattoo permanently erased; an Nd-YAG laser would be the most efficient, and probably fun to watch, but Irene knew that she would never do that. She liked having something on which to focus her aggression, and Patrick’s tattoo could not be in a better position.
‘Thanks, honey,’ she sipped her coffee, patting the bed to invite him back to her side. He slid beside her, smiling, but she restrained his eager hand. ‘Not just now.’ She tempered her refusal with a smile. ‘You’ll wear me out.’
Irene let him press close. It would be hard to part with Patrick; he was an energetic lover, and easily controlled. Indeed, it would be difficult to find another man so suitable for her needs. Perhaps she could place him in a small apartment somewhere that Ms Manning could not discover, and visit him when she felt the inclination. She looked at him with growing affection; maybe later, when she was in full charge of the Manning Corporation, or the Armstrong Corporation, as it would then be, she could ease Patrick back into the centre of her life. Irene smiled as the marijuana relaxed her.
‘You were really good last night,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘You really turned me on.’ She waited for his small wriggle of pleasure. ‘But I made a real mess of your butt. Let’s have a look. Come on.’ She gestured for him to stretch across her. ‘I’d better put something on that,’ she smiled and reached for the iodine cleansing wipes that she always carried in her handbag. ‘Brace yourself; this might sting.’
Walking in Edinburgh was a new pleasure. Irene found that she appreciated the atmosphere of history that the city provided, as well as the crisp air of the Queen’s Park. She wondered if James V had walked here, and smiled that she would be stealing his crown. ‘Johnnie Armstrong’s revenge,’ she said to herself, and hoped that her father would be pleased.
The Palace of Holyroodhouse was not as large as she had expected, indeed smaller than the mansion of many American actors, but the history and the situation, hard by the Scottish Parliament building, enhanced its appeal. For a moment Irene imagined if the Queen would retire here to mourn the loss of her Scottish Honours, then dismissed the thought. She was here to research, not to daydream.
There was a guided tour of the palace, and stories of the murder of Rizzio, the secretary of Mary, Queen of Scots, and that queen’s unfortunate marriages. ‘Poor Mary,’ Irene murmured as she learned about plots and counter plots, imprisonments and battles. In common with many thousands of others, Irene found herself captivated by the tragedy of Mary Stuart, and left the palace with a sense of sadness. If even a queen could suffer so many misfortunes, what chance was there for her?
A brisk walk up the Canongate helped clear her mind; she was far more astute than a Renaissance queen, and far better equipped to control her men. The memory of Patrick reassured her and she examined her nails with satisfaction. If the story of Mary Stuart taught anything, it was to maintain control of her own life.
After eating at a surprisingly good, but dangerously expensive restaurant in the High Street, Irene spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the closes of the Old Town, wandering from one narrow lane to another, glancing into dark doorways where murders and abductions had once occurred and stepped into a public house half way along Fleshmarket Close. The place was busy with tourists and locals, but nobody gave her a second look as she squeezed into a corner seat and sipped at her Glen Moray malt whisky and ice. Whisky was not her usual drink, but when in Rome…
Leaning back in her seat, Irene allowed the hum of conversation to wash over her as she contemplated her future. She had always sought power and wealth, but now all she had to do was perform one task successfully and she would have both in abundance, and would have helped right an ancient wrong. One task, and that required only careful planning and a few hours of direct, forceful action.
The whisky seemed stronger in Scotland, but she bought another and thought about Patrick. She would definitely find him an apartment, and once she was installed as head of the Manning Corporation she could openly bring him back into her life. That was a nice thought, although he might have to share her with others. Irene smiled at the prospect of having a host of men at her command, then remembered Ms Manning’s swimming pool with its bevy of sculptures. Perhaps the head of such a vast empire would not have time for men. In which case, Irene decided, easing back her whisky, she had better make the most of it now.
She checked the time. Patrick had told her that there was American football on Sky Sports at three, so that would confine him to the hotel room; well, she had other plans for him this afternoon. Reaching in her bag for her cell phone, Irene was about to dial his number when she stopped. Better to surprise him. She grinned, bought a bottle of champagne from behind the bar and stepped outside, suddenly desperate for Patrick’s company. Smiling, she examined her nails, clawing the air in anticipation.
With her footsteps quiet on the thick carpet, Irene hurried along the hotel corridor, threw open the door of her room and walked in, champagne held high. She stopped, momentarily unable to comprehend what she saw. Patrick lay face up on the bed, eyes closed and mouth open. Mary was on top of him, completely naked and making little noises of pleasure as she moved rhythmically back and forward. She looked over her shoulder as Irene walked in, and grinned.
‘Fine man you have here,’ she said, unashamed. ‘I told you that we had more in common than you realised.’
Irene placed the bottle of champagne beside the bed. ‘When you’re done,’ she said, ‘you can celebrate with this.’ She walked out, closing the door quietly behind her.
Chapter Nine
Pitlochry Scotland, May
‘Can you hear that?’ Alexander Meigle stopped and lifted his head. Hacked from the living granite, the steps rose before him until they merged with the white mist that drifted across the summit of Ben Vrackie.
‘I heard it.’ Drummon
d paused in mid stride and allowed his boot to gently touch ground. He leaned on his cromach and met Meigle’s eyes. ‘I’ve been listening to it for the past ten minutes, ever since we left Loch Choice.’
Meigle blew softly, unwilling to admit that this ascent was tiring him. He wished that he could regain the athleticism of his youth, smiled and reassessed his years; man alive, he would even be grateful for the desperate energy of his middle age. ‘Bagpipes, do you think?’
‘No,’ Drummond shook his head. ‘Not powerful enough. Some sort of wind instrument, though. It’s hard to tell in this mist.’ He took another step upward. ‘We’ll find out soon enough.’
‘No doubt.’ Meigle looked upward. The steps seemed to go on forever. He was sure that this hill grew higher every time he climbed it. He followed Drummond, aware of the sucking drop on his right.
‘Wait!’ Drummond’s hiss was urgent and Meigle instinctively froze. He saw the shape emerge in front, tendrils of mist clinging to the proud head as it pranced across the steps and stopped to test the scent. It was a young red deer, with immature antlers and huge eyes. For a second, deer and humans stared at each other, then the animal eased off the steps and disappeared. The mist closed behind it.
‘That was worth seeing,’ Meigle said.
‘There are usually deer on Ben Vrackie,’ Drummond’s grin belied his age. ‘But I still get a thrill of pleasure when I meet one.’
‘I miss the hills,’ Meigle regretted the self-pity in his own voice. ‘I don’t get up nearly often enough.’
‘Well, Sandy, you’re up today.’ Drummond was walking faster now, pulled on by the thought of the summit.
Meigle followed, wishing that there was more opportunity for exercise in his life. He hated Jamie to show him up so easily. ‘Nearly, James, nearly.’
Ben Vrackie was one of his favourite hills, partly because it was so accessible from Pitlochry, partly for the spectacular views from the top, but also because it was relatively easy to climb. With Pitlochry one of Scotland’s premier mountain resorts, kindly hands had fashioned these stone steps from Loch Choice right up the cone to the summit plateau. If he had the power, he would confer sainthood on the owners of these hands that enabled an elderly man to ascend the staircase to his own particular heaven. He could still hear that damned noise, though, distorted by the mist so only faint snatches reached him, enough to tantalise, but not enough for him to recognise the source or direction.
Twice Meigle thought that the mist was thinning, but both times it returned with renewed density, so they clambered the final hundred steps in a cover of damp greyness that blocked out anything but the stone underfoot and the heather immediately to the side. Meigle walked slowly, testing each foothold, more concerned with retaining his dignity than the damage that a slip may cause.
‘It’s a shame we can’t see the view,’ he gasped at last, halting as if to admire the mist.
‘As the old saying goes,’ Drummond spoke as easily as if he were standing in his own garden, which, in a way, he was. ‘If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute and it will change.’
When the steps ended there was a muddied track that led on to the summit cairn, and only then did a slant of wind shred the mist to open the view around them.
‘I must have seen this a hundred times,’ Drummond said, ‘but I still can’t believe it.’
With the breath burning in his lungs, Meigle thrust himself up the volcanic rock on which the cairn was built and sank onto a suitably level surface. He sat there, dragging in oxygen as he hugged his heavy walking stick to his chest. ‘That’s some view,’ he agreed. ‘It’s like half of Scotland is before you.’
For a full five minutes neither man spoke as they allowed the calmness of the scene to enter them. Drummond removed his deerstalker, as if in homage to the hills, then he addressed each summit, caressing the Gaelic names in a personal mantra of devotion. ‘There’s Meall an Daimh, Meall Garbh, Creag Breac, Crungie Clach, and Crungie Dubh,’ he used his cromach as a pointer. ‘Each with her own character and shape.’ He replaced the deerstalker on his head and pulled the rim down low. Touching Meigle’s arm, he shifted position so he overlooked the town of Pitlochry that nestled in its sheltering valley, and pointed to the west. ‘And over there is Schiehallion, queen of them all. The fairy hill of the Caledonians.’
Meigle followed his finger, admiring, as he had so often done, the sheer beauty of Perthshire and the dominating lines of Schiehallion. He had travelled the world for business and pleasure and had seen mountain ranges that could dwarf anything that Scotland produced, but he had experienced nothing that could compare with the atmosphere generated by these Highland hills.
‘Our hills,’ he said quietly, and allowed the old feelings to seep through.
‘Worth defending.’ Drummond leaned on his cromach with the jut of his chin balancing the peak of his deerstalker hat.
They relapsed into silence, contemplating the panorama of the granite heart of Scotland as a kindly sun highlighted the peaks. Somewhere beneath them a buzzard keened.
It was then that the sound began again; a low whistling that seemed to emanate from Ben Vrackie herself. Drummond glanced at Meigle and grinned. ‘I know it now,’ he said. ‘You wait here and I’ll circle around.’
‘Are you not a bit old for that sort of thing?’ Meigle asked, but Drummond laid down his cromach, jammed his deerstalker firmer onto his head and winked.
Sliding around the base of the rocky mound, Drummond flitted above the dizzy drop to the southwest and vanished into a fold of ground. Watching from his seat, Meigle nearly smiled, knowing that the Colonel was enjoying using his old military skills once more, even although it was only to satisfy his own curiosity. Drummond could never be in any danger on one of his native Perthshire hills. The whistling continued for a while. When it stopped, Meigle raised his head, but a low murmur of voices and Drummond’s distinctively genial laugh reassured him that all was well.
‘Look who I’ve found,’ Drummond paced across the springy heather with a slender, unsmiling man at his side.
‘Morning, Kenny,’ Meigle waved his stick. ‘I should have known that it would be you making all the noise.’
Kenny Mossman lifted a finger in acknowledgement. Sallow faced, he carried a rucksack that seemed too large for his sparse frame, while his thick woollen hat was pulled low over his brow. ‘I came up here for some peace,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think it would be full of Society men.’
‘No peace without Clan Donald,’ Drummond misquoted cheerfully. ‘And no peace with you tootling away on your penny whistle.’
‘Penny whistle!’ Kenny gave a baleful look. ‘You’re a bit out of touch, James. They cost a fortune now.’ He showed the long, bronze-coloured tin whistle that he held in is hand. ‘The wife complains when I play in the house, so I grab every opportunity I can.’ Placing the whistle in his mouth, he blew gently, so the notes of MacGregor’s Gathering sounded across the summit of the ben.
‘That’ll waken a few ghosts,’ Drummond said soberly, ‘having the MacGregors coming snooping around this area. The locals will be checking their cattle and locking up their daughters.’
‘Not nowadays,’ Meigle commented sourly. ‘The daughters will be tearing off their knickers and hunting for the MacGregors,’
‘Aye, the youth of today,’ Drummond shook his head. ‘Lucky buggers.’
Kenny grunted and changed to the more modern Highland Cathedral, so Meigle allowed the tune to fade into the landscape and drifted away into the reverie that the hills often evoked. That was one of the pleasures of the wild places; extreme exertion followed by a near-melancholic peace that rejuvenated a body and soul drained by city life. He allowed the hills to reenergize him, for he sensed that he might need all his strength for the forthcoming conference.
‘Up there,’ and when Drummond pointed skyward, Meigle followed his finger. At first he saw nothing, and then made out a distant speck that gradually grew in size as it descended.
‘No; that’s a golden eagle.’ Drummond spoke softly. ‘You don’t see many of those around here.’
They watched the eagle for a long five minutes, admiring the immense wingspan and the ease with which it dominated the sky. There were no other birds visible now, even the buzzard having given way to the eagle.
‘It’s patrolling its territory,’ Drummond said, ‘searching for food.’
‘There’s a nice wee chippy in Pitlochry,’ Kenny said, then closed his mouth as his attempt at humour fell flat. ‘It’s coming down.’
The eagle swooped so close overhead that its shadow flickered over them, and Kenny involuntarily ducked, but then it regained a little height and hovered on an up-draught of air just fifty yards off the hill.
‘It’s watching that deer,’ Kenny said softly. He gestured with his whistle. ‘Over there.’
Meigle watched as the eagle rose slightly higher, its wingtips quivering, before diving down upon the young stag that they had passed on the ascent. The stag ran a few steps and then tossed its head as if attempting to fend off the attack with its immature antlers.
‘Christ,’ Kenny blasphemed. ‘They’re going to fight. I’ve never seen that before.’
‘Like I said,’ Drummond spoke quietly. ‘The eagle is after food. It’s testing the deer, seeing how vulnerable it is. If it’s weak, the eagle will try and drive it over the edge so it can feed its chicks with the dead body.’
‘And I thought the Scottish countryside was a quiet place,’ Kenny said. ‘That’s evil.’
‘That’s nature. The eagle has a responsibility; it must care for its young.’ Drummond rested his chin on the crook of his cromach. ‘As we must care for the Clach-bhuai. It’s a protector as well as a predator.’
Powerstone Page 10
