Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  As he had expected, every member leaned forward intently. Even Doctor Wallace paused to inspect the shining globe that he presented.

  The Clach-bhuai would have fitted comfortably inside the fist of anybody that was present. Except for the setting, it did not look different from the ball of any fairground fortuneteller.

  ‘That’s only crystal,’ Doctor Wallace pointed out.

  ‘Yes.’ Meigle agreed, ‘but crystal with a history of much greater significance than you would suspect.’

  ‘God!’ Doctor Wallace stood up. ‘You mean you’ve called me here to look at pictures of a crystal ball? Don’t you realise that some of us have a life?’ Pushing back her chair, she stepped toward the door. Drummond stepped aside. ‘I should have known that I was wasting my time when I saw all you old men in tweed jackets!’ Pulling open the door, she spoke over her shoulder. ‘This is straight from the pages of Harry Potter and I have real work to do. Just wait until the media hear about this!’ She slammed the door shut so the draught rocked the chandeliers.

  Meigle held up his hand for silence. ‘Does anybody else feel like that? If you do, I apologise for wasting your time and invite you to leave now. Naturally your transport costs and all expenses will be reimbursed.’ He waited for a few minutes. ‘Good. Then I think we should have a break. We will reconvene tomorrow morning. In the meantime, please feel free to enjoy the facilities of Drummond House. There is a putting course and a swimming pool, as well as a tennis court, and, of course, the beautiful garden to walk around.’

  There was a murmur of appreciation and a slow movement toward the door. Meigle nodded to Drummond, who had taken position beside the window. ‘James, I think that we have work to do.’

  Drummond nodded. ‘Unfortunately,’ he sighed. ‘This is not how I had hoped the day would turn out.’

  ‘We are here to ensure the security of the Clach-bhuai.’ Meigle reminded. ‘It is our responsibility.’ He smiled as Andrew walked up, his face concerned. ‘Andrew, my boy!’ They shook hands, until Meigle winced under the pressure of the younger man.

  ‘What was all that about, Sandy?’

  ‘A small local difficulty, shall we say,’ Meigle nodded to Drummond, who slipped quietly into a corner of the room and dialled a number on his mobile phone. ‘You take a stroll around the grounds, Andrew, or perhaps try the putting.’ Glancing around the room, he indicated a smallish, plump-faced man in a dark suit. ‘That’s Iain Stewart from Peebles. He’s a scratch player.’ Iain raised a single finger in acknowledgement.

  Andrew nodded to Iain, ‘sounds about right. And when he’s hammering me all over the course, what will you be doing?’

  ‘Your father and I have things we must do.’

  Andrew opened his mouth to speak, but Meigle had a lifetime of experience in dealing with people. He gestured to the door and Andrew left without a word.

  Chapter Ten

  Perthshire, May

  ‘Well James?’

  Drummond nodded. ‘She got into a bronze Nissan 350Z,’ he quoted the registration number, ‘and she was in a right tizzy. She stormed right down the drive like a maniac.’

  ‘Nissan 350Z? That’s a powerful vehicle. Expensive too.’ They left the ballroom together, running to the car park.

  ‘Dr Wallace must be in love with herself to drive such a fancy vehicle on her salary.’ Drummond slid into the driving seat of his Landrover and waited for Meigle to join him. ‘Young woman, good job, big ego. That one’s got too high an opinion of herself. Perhaps we should vet our members more thoroughly. People are not as dependable as they once were.’ He started the engine and pulled smoothly down the drive.

  ‘We’ll never catch her in this.’ Meigle said. The Landrover Defender was as reliable and robust as its driver, but lacked the Nissan’s speed. ‘We should have taken my car.’

  ‘This one is better for what I have in mind,’ Drummond told him. ‘Where do you think she is going?’

  ‘In that mood? Back to Aberdeen to continue with her very important job. And then to the press. We cannot allow that.’

  Drummond nodded. He worked on the sat-nav system that was on his dashboard and studied the results. ‘She has four options then. One, she can take the A9 to Perth, change to the A90 to Dundee and head northward to Stonehaven and Aberdeen. Two, she can take the A9 to Dunkeld, then cut across Perthshire on the A923 to Blairgowrie, then the A926, joining the A90 near Forfar. Three, she can… wait!’

  Leaving the sat-nav, Drummond answered his hands-free mobile phone. ‘Drummond.’

  ‘MacFarlane, sir. There’s a bronze Nissan 350Z heading northwest along the A924. Just passing Kinnaird and motoring. Man, is it motoring.’

  ‘North?’ Drummond eased the Landrover into Pitlochry. ‘Damned woman’s going toward Strathardle. She’s taking the hill road.’

  Meigle nodded. ‘Good man, James. Helicopter?’

  ‘Of course. I phoned MacFarlane. He was on stand-by in case of emergency.’ Drummond slammed the Defender into fifth gear and overtook a tour bus as he turned from Atholl Road. He ignored the sudden fear in the faces of the occupants and acknowledged the justified anger of the driver with a raised hand.

  ‘Do you have a contingency plan?’ Despite the seriousness of the situation, Meigle felt the adrenalin begin to work through him. He had experienced the same feelings when about to announce a take-over bid, or launch a new financial package with his company.

  ‘That’s a narrow road that she’s chosen.’ Drummond said. ‘There are plenty of positions for a successful ambush.’ Glancing ahead, he negotiated the climb out of Pitlochry, squeezed past a lumbering tractor and powered ahead. To their left, rolling mist had completely obscured Ben Vrackie.

  ‘I did not expect this,’ Meigle did not conceal his concern.

  ‘Not quite like your usual decisions, Sandy?’ Drummond took a hairpin bend so wide that he forced an approaching car to brake. He said nothing as the driver swore loudly through his open window.

  The Defender pulled up a steep hill, with the surroundings becoming wilder by the mile as they entered the range of mountains that acted as a protective barrier for Pitlochry. Sheep scattered as Drummond sounded his horn.

  ‘Somebody should teach these damned creatures the highway code.’ He raised his voice, speaking toward the hands-free. ‘MacFarlane! Where is she?’

  ‘Just approaching Straloch, and she’s still travelling. You’ll no’ catch her in the Drover.’ The sound of rotors made MacFarlane’s voice even more disembodied.

  ‘Pick me up,’ Drummond ordered. ‘There’s a level piece of ground a mile ahead.’ He looked at Meigle. ‘I want you to keep driving and do exactly as I say.’ When his eyes met Meigle’s they were as devoid of expression as Perthshire granite. ‘All right?’

  ‘All right.’

  Drummond nodded and looked ahead. The helicopter was already coming in to land. ‘Have you driven a Drover before?’

  Meigle shook his head.

  ‘She’s wide at the corners. Keep the hands-free alive and follow my instructions.’ Meigle slowed and halted, leaving the vehicle on his last word. He walked quickly to the helicopter that sat, rotors turning, ten yards from the road. The noise of the blades reminded Meigle of old films about the Vietnam War.

  Meigle slid into the Defender’s driving seat, checking the controls and involuntarily ducking as the helicopter lifted. Sheep scattered, bleating to their lambs when the machine chopped overhead. Meigle gunned the motor and drove on, struggling with the steering wheel that seemed very stiff after the luxury of his BMW. Trust Jamie to buy a state-of-the-art helicopter for his estate, but drive in a ten-year-old basic Landrover without even power steering.

  ‘She’s taking the B950, after Kirkmichael,’ the voice seemed to echo in the cab of the Defender. ‘Don’t follow her. Keep to the road that you are on, but put your foot down. You’re driving like an old woman!’

  Meigle had driven this road before, and remembered the turn-off that cut across som
e rough country to Glenshee. By taking that route, Eileen was committing herself to the hill road by the Cairnwell and Braemar to Aberdeen. She had a long, lonely drive in front of her. He pressed his foot onto the accelerator, feeling the surge of power from the engine as the Defender responded. He took the next corner too wide, adjusted his steering and nearly clipped a dry stane dyke, straightened up and pushed down harder.

  ‘Sandy!’ Drummond’s voice was calm as ever. ‘When you reach Bridge of Cally, turn left on the A93, and then take the first left after Milton. That way you will be heading toward her, on the same road.’

  Meigle grunted. ‘Her route is far shorter than mine and she has the faster vehicle. By the time I reach the road end she’ll be long gone.’

  ‘She won’t.’ There was something so final about those two words that Meigle sat back and said nothing. He pushed the accelerator as far as he could and concentrated entirely on the driving, hurtling through a small village without reducing speed, so that an elderly woman hardly had time to stare as he passed.

  ‘There’s a tractor in front of her,’ Drummond spoke over the sound of rotor blades. ‘That’s slowing her down nicely,’ he chuckled. ‘She should have stuck to the main roads.’

  There was a Range Rover pulling away from the small shop at Bridge of Cally, but Meigle ignored the driver’s protests as he hit the junction at fifty, veered across the road, straightened up and pressed on, heading north toward the end of the road that Doctor Wallace was travelling. He had left the hands-free on and could hear Drummond’s voice, distorted by static, giving sharp orders to MacFarlane.

  ‘Those sheep there. Drive them, shift them onto the road. She’ll have to slow down again.’ There was the sound of Drummond’s short barking laugh.

  Meigle visualised the scene. Drummond was using the noise of the helicopter to drive sheep from the surrounding land onto the road. ‘How are we doing?’

  ‘Fine. There are about a hundred sheep milling about in front of her, running every which way.’ Drummond sounded satisfied. ‘She’s pulled in to the side until they clear.’

  ‘How far over the road is she?’

  ‘About half way. At the quarries of Bleaton; it’s the only unfenced part of the road.’ Drummond’s laughter was more sinister than reassuring. ‘She’s left the car now and she’s trying to chase the sheep away.’

  Meigle passed the monotonous conifers of a forestry plantation and turned sharp left onto the B950. He was only a couple of miles from Doctor Wallace, and driving toward her. High up, he could see the helicopter hovering ahead, and was not surprised when the machine came closer. ‘Stop just there,’ Drummond ordered. ‘And move into the passenger seat. I’m coming back.’

  There was a level piece of ground to the right, but the helicopter did not land. Instead it hovered a few feet above the ground and Drummond jumped out, rolled once and leaped up as if he were a twenty-year-old youth rather than a man approaching his pension. As the helicopter lifted, he ran toward the Defender and slid into the driver’s seat.

  ‘All right, Sandy?’ Drummond drove for a few minutes, pulled into the shelter of a copse of trees and cut the engine.

  After the clatter of the helicopter and the hum of the diesel, the sudden silence was welcome. Taking a can of oil from the back of the Defender, Drummond walked a few paces and poured about half a litre onto the road. The dark golden liquid spread easily, slicking over the irregularities in the tarmac to lie in venomous innocence, a trap for any oncoming vehicle.

  ‘Now we wait,’ Drummond said, returning the can to the back of the Defender. He pressed the switch to ease down the side window.

  Meigle looked ahead, not quite sure what Drummond had in mind. Directly in front of them the road dipped, and then rose into a sharp bend. Sunlight glinted from oil that dripped into a drainage ditch on either side.

  ‘We’ll hear her coming before we see her.’ Drummond sounded very calm. ‘I’ve sent MacFarlane away. Better if there is only the two of us.’

  Meigle nodded. He felt as if something tight was being fastened around his chest. He had been introduced to the Society on his thirtieth birthday, and had accepted the responsibility willingly, rising with pride to be Chairman and head decision maker. Now, for the first time in three decades, he was experiencing some doubt.

  ‘Listen.’ Drummond lifted a finger. There was the sound of rising and falling gears as an oncoming motor vehicle negotiated the intricate curves and hills of the road. Drummond checked his seat belt. ‘Ready? This will be over quick.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Meigle looked toward him, but it was already too late.

  The Nissan appeared with startling speed. One second the road was empty, the next the bronze vehicle was hammering down the slope and approaching the corner. Drummond pulled out, directly in Doctor Wallace’s path, with his lights on full and his hand pressed hard on the horn.

  Doctor Wallace must have reacted instinctively, switching her right foot from the accelerator to the brake and slamming her left foot onto the clutch. There was the painful scream of brakes and the Nissan slowed, until the front wheels made contact with the oil. Bereft of traction, they slewed sideways and the Nissan skidded from the road, carved great grooves in the rough grass verge and thumped nose first into the ditch. The engine whined its protest.

  ‘My God.’ Meigle watched the devastation in horror. ‘She might be dead.’ He reached for the door handle to get out but Drummond forestalled him.

  ‘Stay inside.’ His eyes were as calm as ever, but there was no mistaking the steel in his voice. ‘As Kirkpatrick said at Greyfriars, I’ll mak siccar.’ He reversed the Defender to its previous position and killed the engine before walking slowly to the Nissan. Meigle saw him slide into the ditch and try to open the driver’s door. There was a pause, and then the noise stopped as Drummond switched off the Nissan’s engine. He returned a few minutes later, his sleeve smeared with blood.

  ‘She’s dead.’ He said laconically and picked up his telephone.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Drummond fought down his nausea. He knew that it had been necessary to protect the Clach-bhuai, but the incident had still shocked him. He was a businessman, used to the cut and thrust of negotiations and the ruthless demands of money, but he had never before witnessed a violent death. He shook his head: he knew the rules. Generation after generation of the same family served the Society, but if the first demand was to protect the Clach-bhuai, the second was loyalty. Any hint of dissent meant a threat to the existence of the Society; there could be no wavering.

  ‘I’m going to call the police and an ambulance,’ Drummond replied. ‘We were witnesses to a tragic accident. We have to report it; after all, I am a Justice of the Peace.’

  ‘Of course,’ Meigle agreed. He heard the distant bleating of sheep. At one time it had been a spider that saved the Kingdom of Scots, now it was a different animal. ‘Then what?’

  ‘Return home.’ There was a trace of surprise in Drummond’s voice. ‘You have to inform the Society of the threats to the Clach-bhuai.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Edinburgh, May

  At first Irene had felt sick, then humiliated and dirty, and finally angry. After leaving the bottle of champagne she had shut the door and retreated from the hotel room as quickly as she could. The receptionist looked up enquiringly when she rushed past, but Irene ignored her hesitant offer of assistance, thrust through the front door and back into the street.

  She had known Patrick for nearly eighteen months and thought that she understood him. ‘Bastard,’ she mouthed, ‘dirty, two-timing, double crossing, cheating bastard.’ The avalanche of abuse did not help, so she increased her speed, walking without direction as she struggled with this new concept. Patrick was the first man to ever cheat on her; she had always called the shots in a relationship, deciding on its direction and when it should end. The fact that it was Patrick, compliant, obedient Patrick, only made it worse.

  Patrick had always been there to listen
to her problems and to bolster her plans. She had turned to him unthinkingly for support in her bid to become Ms Manning’s neophyte and had automatically enlisted him in her campaign to steal the Honours. God, it had been Patrick who recruited everybody from his circle of Irish dissidents and other malcontents. Now he had betrayed her, and with a woman who was neither particularly young nor particularly attractive.

  Walking on to the Dean Bridge, Irene stared over the parapet. What had Mary got to entice a man? She was short and slender, wiry even, with stringy muscles and hair that lacked even a pretence of style. What could Patrick see in her? Mary could offer nothing, except free sex. Obviously that had been enough to tempt him. She closed her eyes, reliving the images from her bedroom until she could unfreeze her natural prejudice and try to see Mary through Patrick’s eyes. She shook her head; there was nothing to see, no shape, minimal curves, no personality even.

  Irene swore, shouting a string of the foulest words she knew into the deep gorge that gaped beneath. Balling her fists, she hammered at the unforgiving stone parapet. If Patrick had betrayed her with such an unprepossessing creature as Mary Kelly, then how many others had there been? Was their relationship that frail, that meaningless? Pushing herself away, Irene allowed her anger to drive her in an aimless march that continued until her legs burned and the orange glow of streetlights softened the severe stone tenements.

  The images repeated themselves in her mind; Patrick laughing as Mary gyrated across his hips, Mary turning slowly to the door with her face triumphant, Patrick’s expression of serenity gradually changing to shock.

  Irene stopped and looked around. She was in a broad street with a mixture of tall stone tenements and more modern buildings. A sign above a row of street level shops announced the single word Grassmarket. Above her, eerily lit by floodlights, the castle seemed to hang from the sky as if separate from the city that it dominated.