Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  Irene rose obediently. She hesitated. If she fell asleep and Drew saw the news or read a newspaper, she would be trapped. She might waken to a room full of police.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Drew mistook her indecision. ‘I won’t jump in beside you. You’re perfectly safe here.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think you would.’ Irene shook her head. ‘I just don’t like to abuse your hospitality. I can’t pay you back or anything.’

  Drew shrugged again. ‘Pay me back for what? What man would not like a beautiful redhead to descend upon their house on a Sunday morning?’ He grinned. ‘This is all like a fairy story for me. And you haven’t slapped my face yet.’

  ‘Nor will I,’ Irene promised. Extending a hand, she touched his shoulder. ‘Thank you, Drew.’

  The bedroom was as Spartan as the rest of the house, with a simple bed that could either have been a small double or a wide single. The sheets were crisp and white, with a plain blue coverlet. A single blue runner adorned the varnished floorboards and the only piece of furniture was a plain pine wardrobe. With no mirror, Irene could not even inspect her appearance, but despite Drew’s words, she still closed the door tightly before sliding into bed. The last thing she heard was the drumbeat of rain on the window.

  * * *

  The outpatients department of the Western General was busy with a host of minor casualties, from an elderly woman who had burned her hand to a boy who had fallen from his bike. Drew remained at Irene’s side, flicking through the pile of magazines that the management provided. Irene stepped forward when she heard her name called, explained that she had lost her passport and was surprised when the young Asian doctor waved away her excuses.

  ‘I’m a doctor, not a bureaucrat,’ he said. ‘We don’t care about that sort of thing in Scotland.’

  He examined her fingers with gentle care, pressed into the knuckle and nodded. ‘Not broken, but badly bruised. Don’t use them for a few weeks and they’ll be fine, but I would certainly see your own doctor when you get back home.’ He looked at her through tired eyes. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘No,’ the bath and sleep had eased away Irene’s other injuries. ‘But thank you,’ she felt relief that there would be no more official probing. When she stepped out of the consultancy room, Drew was waiting for her.

  ‘There’s the News,’ Drew said, when she had relayed the doctor’s advice. ‘We’ll see what’s happened with the Crown jewels robbery.’

  Irene felt a sickening slide of despair. She thought quickly. ‘Oh, I don’t really care,’ she said, and began to pull him toward the exit. ‘Come on, it’s not fair expecting you to spend your Sunday in a hospital.’

  Where Patrick would have done exactly as she ordered, Drew proved more stubborn. ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘I’m interested in this.’ He remained behind as Irene hovered at the door. She prepared to run the second her face flashed onto the screen.

  The first image was on the procession, with the Queen waving to the crowd. Then the camera panned onto the glass-topped Rolls Royce, concentrating on the glittering jewellery of the Honours. The voice-over mentioned the great age of the jewels and their long previous history, before focussing on the sudden jets of smoke and ensuing panic.

  ‘It is believed that a hitherto unknown splinter group of Irish terrorists are behind the attack. Security forces recovered the Sword of State, while one of the terrorists was killed at the scene. Police have identified the body as Desmond Nolan, who was known to have been active in Northern Ireland.’

  Irene shuddered as a picture of a younger-looking Desmond flicked onto the screen.

  ‘A second man died when the attackers apparently fought before boarding a helicopter.’ The newsreader’s urbane tones altered as he put a hand to his ear. ‘We have breaking news on this report. The police have lifted a news blanket on various aspects of the story, but we can now send you live to the island of Islay, off the west coast of Scotland, where significant events have occurred.’

  Irene watched with sick fascination as a picture of a ragged bay with smooth sand appeared. There was a grey-painted naval vessel offshore, beside a long white yacht, from which smoke drifted.

  ‘We are now in a position to inform you that in a joint operation between the army, Royal Navy and various Scottish police forces, the Scottish Crown has been recovered. Security reasons have not allowed us to show this footage until now.’

  The picture changed again, showing a small helicopter hovering above Edinburgh, before it disappeared into the distance. A detached voice gave a running commentary, explaining how radar and a police helicopter tailed the machine right across Scotland, but could not intercept for fear of risking damage to the crown, or causing casualties among people living below.

  ‘The helicopter descended on the west coast of Islay and two men and one woman ran into this boat.’ The picture showed the yacht that Irene had chartered. ‘The Royal Navy patrol boat, Somerled, intercepted the yacht before it left Scottish waters.’

  There was a picture of a confused chase, white water around the bows of Somerled and the sharp crack of gunfire.

  ‘When the yacht refused to heave to when ordered, Somerled fired a warning shot across her bows and sent a boarding party of Royal Marines.’

  The picture snapped to a library shot of a group of tough looking men speeding across a stretch of water that certainly was not off Scotland, and then changed back to the yacht. ‘Unfortunately there was resistance and one of the Royal Marines was slightly wounded. Three people on board the yacht were killed, and one wounded.’

  Irene closed her eyes, unsure what to think. After all her planning, the British authorities had ended her robbery attempt within a day. Was Patrick one of the three dead? And Bryan? Or had the Royal Marines killed three members of the yacht’s crew? She staggered as she realised that only Patrick’s betrayal had saved her from death or capture, but Drew was there to support her.

  ‘Easy now Irene. That’s reaction to the doctor.’ His voice was calm and gentle as he lowered her gently onto a seat. Nobody in the waiting room looked at her, for every eye was on the television.

  ‘Police have not yet released pictures of those killed in the yacht, but say there were two men and one woman. As yet, the police do not know the names of the deceased. One of the bodies was badly burned when an explosion set fire to the yacht, but police have stated that he had a tattoo with the name ‘Linda.’ However, the woman the police believe masterminded the operation is still loose. They have released a picture of this woman, and ask anybody who may recognise her to contact them as soon as possible. They also stress that she may be highly dangerous and advise that nobody approaches her.’

  Irene looked toward the door. Somebody was bound to recognize her now. Her dreams would end here, in this crowded out-patients department of the British National Health Service.

  ‘Now there’s a tough looking girl.’ Drew commented quietly. ‘Did you see her yesterday?’

  Irene looked up, fighting the fear that drained the strength from her legs. The woman stared out from the television screen, her face slightly blurred and her mouth open as she spoke to Desmond. She was blonde and fairly attractive, but the television definition had imposed a hard line along her jaw. Irene recognized her at once. She had been with the protesters calling for a Scottish Republic.

  ‘Oh sweet Jesus Lord,’ Irene could not prevent the tears. ‘She stood right beside me.’ Hysteria returned with the sudden release of tension and she leaned her face against Drew’s arm, sobbing. She was safe; Patrick was dead and the police did not have her picture.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Edinburgh, July

  The relief was so strong that Irene had to prevent herself from giggling. She was in the clear. She had a forged passport and had given a false name at the hotel. She had given a different name again when she chartered the yacht, and with Patrick and the others dead, there was nobody who could recognize her.

  ‘Suck an elf,’ she breathed ou
t loud as the strain of the last few days evaporated. A few seconds ago she had looked failure in the face, but now she contemplated success. She had done it. The police would search for this Scottish Republican woman, no doubt question her for days and either frame her, or release her, but every hour now was valuable. All she had to do was remain calm, retrieve the sceptre and get it back home. After that, her future was secure. Once again Irene visualised the immense riches of the Manning Corporation, the power to hire and fire and build, and all the prestige that she had never known.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Drew was at her side, immediately solicitous as he knelt down.

  ‘Oh yes. Oh yes, I am.’ Irene stalled her smile in time. ‘I just realized how close I came to being killed.’

  ‘It was that bad, eh?’ Drew nodded his sympathy. ‘Well, you’re safe enough now.’ When he held out his hand it seemed only natural that she should take it. ‘Where to? My place, or back to your hotel.’

  The implications were so obvious that Irene smiled. ‘You’re not the most subtle of men, are you?’

  ‘That’s not one of my faults,’ he agreed.

  ‘So what exactly are you offering?’ Irene knew that she should feel grief, or at least remorse, for the death of Patrick and the others, but compared to the fact that she was alive, safe and on course for success, they just did not matter.

  ‘My flat and my company,’ Drew said bluntly.

  ‘In return for what?’

  ‘Your company and conversation.’

  ‘Nothing else?’ Irene enjoyed this flirting game, when she could tease a man to test his limits, but Drew seemed immune.

  ‘What else could I possibly want?’

  Irene was unsure whether to slap him, laugh or feel grateful. ‘A patient to nurse?’ she suggested, and patted his arm, smiling. ‘Honestly, Drew, I don’t know what I would have done without you.’ She thought quickly. She had arrived under an assumed name, and if she checked out of her room, there would be no record of her at all. About to ask him for a lift to her hotel, Irene quickly changed her mind. Perhaps it would be better if he did not know from where she had come.

  ‘Could you take me to the railroad station?’ She felt satisfaction as disappointment flickered in Drew’s face.

  ‘If that’s what you want. Are you leaving then?’

  ‘No, but my hotel is near there, and I must pick up my bags.’ She leaned closer, allowing him to experience the warmth of her body. ‘You don’t expect a gal to come to your apartment without her stuff, do you? After all, I have no change of clothes with me, and I can’t wear your old jeans for ever!’ She put her mouth against his ear. ‘Denim is a fine material, but it can be a mite rough with nothing beneath.’

  ‘There once was a fairy…’ Drew began, but Irene stopped him with a laugh.

  ‘And she was called Nough. I’ve heard that one. Could you take me to the station?’

  ‘Of course. But there is one stipulation.’

  ‘Oh?’ Irene waited for the axe to fall.

  ‘I’d like you to wear this.’ Drew produced the box from his inside pocket and snapped it open. The Luckenbooth brooch was inside, simple, silver and insidiously serene.

  ‘That would be my pleasure.’ Lifting the brooch, Irene pinned it onto her tee shirt just beneath her left breast. ‘Although nobody wears brooches nowadays and it does not quite fit in with the rest of my present wardrobe.’ She had given no commitment, so there was no reason why she should feel such a charlatan.

  Drew stepped back and examined her critically. ‘I’ve no complaints,’ he said. ‘It looks fine just where it is.’ His grin seemed impulsive. ‘Come on then, what are you hanging about there for?’

  Irene felt nervous as she checked out of the hotel, but the receptionist only commented on the heavy rain as she accepted Irene’s cash payment. Lifting her single travelling bag, Irene headed for the teeming shops of Princes Street before she returned to Drew’s flat.

  Drew was smiling as he opened the door to her. He had changed into a checked shirt and a pair of neatly pressed, if slightly faded, corduroy trousers. ‘I’ve got the wine ready,’ he said.

  She held up the bottle of champagne that she had purchased. ‘So have I.’

  Unable to function properly without her daily dose of drivel, Irene persuaded Drew to buy a new television and they spent the entire evening watching DVDs, with breaks for the news. The first time she heard the theme music for the News, Irene felt her mouth go dry, but the police were still jubilant that they had recovered the Crown and were getting closer to the arrest of the blonde woman.

  ‘Nasty business, that,’ Drew said casually. ‘Six killed, a policeman wounded and scores of people hospitalised with smoke inhalation and minor injuries.’ He stretched out on the chair, ‘I hope that woman is feeling guilty.’

  She was, Irene thought, but feigned nonchalance. ‘She’s probably living in the South of France by now, on the proceeds of her robbery.’

  Drew nodded. ‘Could be. That sceptre thing must be worth a few quid. Don’t know who’d buy it though.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe she’ll melt it down for gold.’

  Irene killed the impulse to tell him that it was silver-gilt. ‘Maybe she will. She spoiled my day anyway. I never did get to see the Queen.’

  ‘Neither you did.’ Drew grinned across to her. ‘I’d write to her, if I were you, and demand a private audience.’

  They both laughed and Drew opened the wine. When he pulled two glasses from a presentation box, Irene wondered briefly if they had been a Christmas present or if he had bought them specially, decided that she did not care much either way and watched him pour.

  ‘Nice glasses,’ she said.

  ‘Edinburgh Crystal,’ he told her. ‘I had to buy them specifically for you, so I hope you feel privileged. My previous female guests would be more likely to drink lager straight from the can.’

  Irene smiled at this straightforward admission. ‘Classy gals, eh?’

  ‘Nothing but the best for me.’ He lifted his glass in salute and for a second Irene saw his face distorted by the deep red wine. He looked thoughtful, perhaps slightly worried and on an impulse she leaned across and kissed him.

  ‘What was that for?’ He touched his cheek, surprised.

  ‘For everything,’ she said. ‘And just for being there.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Drew smiled across to her. ‘It’s a real pleasure to have you.’

  Irene smiled back. ‘You haven’t had me,’ she reminded. ‘Not yet anyway.’ She was surprised when he looked almost shocked. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at once. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you.’

  ‘Quite the reverse,’ Drew shook his head slowly. ‘I’m just not used to drop-dead-gorgeous women saying things like that to me. I thought that it only happened in films.’

  Irene waited for a moment or two, and then spoke softly and slowly. ‘Oh no, Drew. It happens in real life too, and thanks for the drop-dead compliment.’ She lifted her glass and sipped, allowing the wine to moisten her lips. She could feel Drew watching her. ‘Do you have work tomorrow?’

  ‘Nor the next day,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Good.’ Irene stood up and stretched slowly. ‘Then there’s no need to rush.’

  ‘Absolutely none,’ he agreed.

  * * *

  Irene felt a sense of déjà vu when she rose early and slipped out of the bed. She glanced behind her, watched Drew shift slightly to claim more space on the cramped bed and then closed the door. Her bag lay outside the bedroom. Long and leather, it was battered from hard usage and plastered with stickers from her travels. Removing every document that might possibly be used to identify her, Irene stuffed them inside her spare coat, turned the bag upside down and emptied the contents onto the floor. Taking only the coat and the empty bag, she left the remainder for Drew to wonder over and slipped outside. The papergirl stared as she ran down the stairs.

  Rain had cleansed the Dean Village of its summer dust, leaving it baby-bright in t
he early sun. Save for the diligent blackbirds, the streets were quiet, so Irene headed toward the riverbank where she had left the sceptre. Already she felt the familiar stimulation of anticipation, mingled with sick dread at the prospect of being caught. She wondered if risk was inherent to every success; perhaps businesswomen and criminals shared the buzz of high-stake gamblers.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the iron railing at the waterside. She stopped abruptly, staring at the river. Only two days ago it had been a gentle brown drift, but the heavy rain since then had raised the level far higher than she had imagined. It surged across the bank, completely submerging the bed of nettles where she had hidden the sceptre, and leaping against the wall in which the railings were set.

  Irene looked downward as the torrent washed the optimism from her world. The downside of the gambling buzz was the speed in which hope malformed into catastrophe. She could not have calculated the relationship between Patrick and Mary, nor could she have foreseen the downpour of the last two days. Once again fate had intervened with her dreams, and she would have to innovate.

  The current looked viciously swift and the river dangerous. Without the nettles as a guide, she could only guess where she had placed the sceptre. Swallowing, Irene glanced counted her options. She could give up and fly home as a failure, she could wade into the water, or she could wait until the river subsided, which, given the fickle Scottish weather, might be days. The longer she waited, the greater the chance of discovery and arrest.

  Irene closed her eyes. She was wrong; there was only one possible option. Swearing, she leaned her bag against the wall, climbed over the iron railings and lowered herself into the water. It was neither as cold nor as deep as she had feared, but the current tugged unpleasantly at her legs as she felt her way along the banking. She stumbled over something hard, and gasped as her foot sank deep into a hole.

  ‘Shitting hell!’

  For the first time Irene wondered if the holes were natural, or had some sort of animal made them? Irene flinched; rats were a pet hate; they symbolised the dirt and disorder that she despised so much. Swearing to combat her fear, she thrust her uninjured left hand under the water, groping cautiously.