Requiem

by Clare Francis

  Campbell grabbed her arm, ‘Hold it there! Hold it there!’ he roared, sending a shower of spittle over her. ‘You’re sayin’, you’re sayin’ …’ It was a moment before he got a grip on his thoughts. ‘You’re sayin’ we should apply to the court just so they can send that person back to torture Adrian?’

  She grasped his hand and lifted it gently away from her sleeve. ‘Whatever course we take involves risk. But any-thing’s better than having Adrian removed altogether, surely.’

  His rage made him speechless. ‘But … Why should they want to take him?’ he said at last in a broken voice.

  ‘Because they want to get their way, that’s why. You have to realize, Campbell, that these people are convinced they’re right, and there’s no stopping people who believe they’ve got right on their side.’

  He couldn’t take it in. ‘I must talk to Meg. Must talk with Meg.’

  A weariness came over Daisy, but also an acceptance. She could see that there was an inevitability to this, that Campbell would never dare move alone, that indeed he had no right to do so. But how long would these discussions take? It was Friday, midday. The legal weekend started early.

  She offered: ‘Do you want me to come back to Loch Fyne and go through it with Meg, then?’

  He nodded doggedly.

  She looked away across the water and took stock. Even if everything went smoothly, there wouldn’t be a hope of getting anything before a judge before midday tomorrow. And tomorrow was the day of her meeting with Nick Mackenzie. A meeting, she hardly needed reminding, on which the financial future of Octek, if not the entire Silveron project, depended.

  In the end she compromised with Campbell. While Campbell agreed to continue up the hill to see Dermott, to get the benefit of his advice on Scottish law regarding minors, Daisy promised to stop for an hour’s discussion with Meg Bell before continuing on to London. She would return promptly on the Sunday, to help Campbell and his sister come to a firm decision.

  To do the round journey by road would kill her; she would have to fly. But then when would she be able to get back to Octek? Monday night? Tuesday even? When she was away, the problems always seemed to pile up.

  Waiting in Dermott’s office it occurred to her that there was one further option, and borrowing a phone, she dialled Nick Mackenzie on the London number his accountant had given her. It rang for a long time then, just as she was about to give up, suddenly answered. For some reason, her heart did a leap against her ribs. Nerves.

  A voice said: ‘Hullo, can I help you?’ It was a female voice with a northern accent, not young, probably quite old.

  Mr Mackenzie was not at home, the voice said. This was the housekeeper speaking.

  Daisy explained about the difficulty of keeping her appointment, and asked if there might be another time when he was free.

  ‘He’s going away,’ said the voice. ‘He leaves tomorrow evening. I’m not sure how long he’ll be away.’

  ‘Abroad?’

  There was a pause, as if the housekeeper were uncertain whether to impart the information or not. ‘Scotland,’ she said eventually.

  ‘He’s coming to Glen Ashard?’ she asked.

  Yes, it was to Glen Ashard.

  She left a message. She would be at the George Hotel in Inveraray, she said, and would come to Glen Ashard on Sunday at eleven, unless she heard to the contrary.

  Dermott found a moment to see them, though in the way of lawyers who are not really very busy, he made it clear that it was not terribly convenient. There was no such thing as wardship in Scotland, he announced. And even if there was, such extreme measures were surely unnecessary. If anything needed to be done – and by his tone he clearly doubted it – then a reasoned dialogue with the social services would be the most sensible course. Everyone, after all, had the child’s interests at heart. He spoke with complacency and a confidence that seemed to Daisy to spring more from inertia than good judgement.

  In the car Daisy said: ‘I think we should move Adrian. Take him to England.’

  ‘You mean hide him away?’

  ‘I mean …’ She sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose that is what I mean. But not too obviously. Not so we can’t pretend that we were just taking him in search of medical treatment.’

  Campbell shifted unhappily in his seat. ‘Meg will never agree,’ he sighed. ‘She’ll never be wantin’ to leave Loch Fyne.’

  This thought had also loomed large in Daisy’s mind, and she fell silent for the rest of the journey.

  It was three when they reached Loch Fyne. After a long chat with Adrian, who was up and sitting in a chair, looking a little fuller in the face but still very weak and with newly acquired liver problems, Daisy gave the idea of removing Adrian to England a first run past Mrs Bell. Later she went through it with her again in more detail. But Mrs Bell was not to be moved, not for the moment at least.

  After a supper of thick stew and dumplings Daisy left Campbell and Mrs Bell to talk it through in the kitchen and, lying on the sofa next to Adrian, fell asleep to the flickering of an old movie. She didn’t wake till morning.

  Chapter 27

  THE MASSIVE GATES were closed, the lodges at either side apparently deserted, the woodland beyond, impenetrable. High on one of the gateposts was a security camera and, lower down, an intercom with a bell and an integral camera lens. Daisy rang, and a light came on above the lens. She faced the camera and waited. A single low buzz, and the gates swung silently open. She got hastily into the Metro and drove through before they closed again.

  The road wove gently through the woodland until, after a long bend, the Metro ground over a cattle grid, its suspension rattling alarmingly, and the shrubs gave way to a wide expanse of rough grassland dotted with large trees that rose like sentinels out of the mist.

  It was only when the car had jangled over a second grid that the mass of Ashard House came into view. The place sprang straight out of a Walter Scott novel or an Errol Flynn film: heavily buttressed and turreted, windows not just leaded but mullioned as well, ivy growing dutifully up the walls towards a main tower which sported a tall undraped flagstaff.

  In the porch was another security camera with a red winking light, its lens pointing to the spot a couple of feet in front of the door where callers stood to operate the old-fashioned metal bell-pull. But for all the hi-tech, security wasn’t that rigid because the massive oak door was lying half-open.

  She pulled the bell anyway, and heard an electronic ring echoing through the house. No one came. She checked her watch; she was dead on time. She gave it two more minutes and another ring before stepping inside. The hall was large and baronial, with a lot of dark wood and a wide staircase towards the far end. Someone was moving house. Along one wall a stack of cardboard and wooden packing cases rose three-high.

  Several doors led off the hall. She knocked and looked in each in turn.

  Beyond the staircase was a passage which led almost immediately to a large and immaculate kitchen. This too was empty, although she noticed that on the table a place had been set for breakfast.

  She retreated, feeling indecisive. A sound came drifting down the passage from the far end, a sound so slight that at first she thought it was the buzz of an insect. Then it changed pitch, and she realized it was broadcast music of some kind. She followed the trail to a closed door. She knocked, and again, louder. There was no reply. She opened the door.

  The music surged up, amazingly loud, as if someone had suddenly turned up the volume. The light from the three tall windows was very bright, and it was a second before she made out the figure sitting with his back to her, in front of a control panel. His hands were moving over a keyboard, and she realized he was playing along with the music in some way. He stopped to scribble something, and the music sped on, multi-stranded, but incomplete. He put the pencil down, listened for a moment, then reached out and flicked a switch. The music stopped with a squawk and turned into a high-speed caterwauling as the tape rewound.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.<
br />
  Nick jerked round, looking startled, and stared at her for a moment. ‘It’s not time already, is it? God!’ Shaking his head, he twisted back in his revolving seat and flicked more switches until the noise stopped. ‘You got my message then?’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Ten was okay, was it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘Fine.’

  He hunched over the sheets he’d been scribbling on. ‘Always the same,’ he murmured. ‘Have to stop just when it’s going well …’

  ‘If I’m interrupting …’

  ‘No, no. Got to stop anyway.’ He lifted the sheets of music and threw them onto a next-door table. Facing her at last, he shot her an oblique look that was both appraising and cautiously welcoming, before striding across to the window and looking up at the sky. ‘Mist!’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘No good while there’s mist.’

  ‘No good …?’

  ‘Can’t go till it’s lifted.’

  She gave an uncertain laugh. ‘Go?’

  He turned. ‘Didn’t I say?’

  ‘Not unless the hotel clerk got amnesia.’

  ‘Ah, I didn’t say then.’ He frowned at her, and it occurred to her that the omission had been intentional. Inviting her to follow he walked out into the passage. She caught up with him in the kitchen as he was coming out of a side room with a cool-box in either hand.

  ‘Well, the important part’s ready,’ he said. ‘Hope you like smoked salmon? And white wine? Otherwise it’s mineral water – still or bubbly or in between. But look – would you like some coffee while we wait?’ Running out of things to say, he looked down at her, his face pursed into an expression that was wary and watchful and amiable all at the same time.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ she asked.

  His mouth twitched. ‘Ah, well … I’ve got to go and see something. I thought you might like to come along.’

  ‘Surprise time?’

  He shrugged. ‘If you like.’ But he didn’t mind the idea.

  ‘Oh, I like,’ she declared firmly. ‘The surprises I’ve been getting recently have all been the nasty sort.’

  A glint came into his eye, a tiny but unmistakable warning that he didn’t want to hear about any of that, not yet anyway.

  ‘You’re moving?’ she asked, gesturing towards the packing cases.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘A pity.’ She meant, because the place was so beautiful. But she sensed it was the wrong thing to say.

  ‘Oh well,’ he remarked calmly. ‘Things change, things move on.’ He led the way across the hall and into a book-lined room with an open fire. ‘Though I don’t know about the house. I might keep it. Sell the rest – the farm, the estate.’ He stood in the middle of the room and gave a small shrug. ‘It seems to be the only place I can work. God only knows why.’ Suddenly remembering his manners, he said abruptly: ‘Sit down. I’ll get some coffee.’

  When he had gone she wandered over to the window, feeling unaccountably ill at ease, then turned and looked back across the room. To one side of her, in an alcove set into the book-shelves, were a number of photographs mounted in silver frames. She moved closer. Nick. Nick and Alusha. Alusha on her own, looking like her newspaper pictures but more so. An unusual face, arresting, beautiful.

  The great house, the beautiful dead wife: shades of Rebecca – except that Nick had loved Alusha. And had not as yet taken a second wife.

  Daisy reached out and lightly touched the frame.

  ‘No time for coffee.’ Nick dodged briefly around the door and beckoned.

  She followed him through the hall and out onto the gravel. He pointed to a spot just above the trees.

  The noise came first, the dull clacking of rotor blades, then a black dot appeared in the distance, coming in over the loch.

  ‘I’ll get the lunch,’ said Nick, making for the door again. By the time he came back with the cool-boxes, the helicopter had clattered down onto an open expanse of lawn not far from the house, almost blasting the ivy off the walls.

  Daisy felt an almost childish excitement. ‘I’ve never been in one of these things before,’ she shouted as they walked towards it.

  He insisted she took the front seat, next to the pilot, while he sat in the middle of the three seats behind. They took off immediately. Daisy had barely slipped on the headset before the trees were passing under the glass window set into the floor, and the long expanse of the loch was opening out before them, a plate of blue steel glistening through the last smears of mist.

  Soon they had left the water behind and were crossing the opposite shore, flying over hills reduced to mild corrugations, like crumpled paper, and forests condensed into strange geometric shapes.

  Nick and the pilot were talking, their voices shrill in the headset, but she didn’t listen until Nick’s arm appeared over her shoulder, pointing towards two fingers of water ahead. ‘Loch Riddon, Loch Striven. And beyond – you can hardly see it yet – the Firth of Clyde.’

  Clyde. South. The city of Glasgow. But her disappointment was momentary. This was a day to let things happen, to sit back and enjoy.

  They followed the right-hand shore for some minutes before cutting across to meet the Firth as it looped back towards the brown haze of the city. The helicopter slowed, and she realized they were coming in to land on the near shore.

  The area was heavily industrialized. They came down on a derelict patch of concrete, surrounded by Victorian factories and warehouses, junk heaps and rusting corrugated-iron fencing, and tall blank walls.

  As the rotors wound slowly down, a Mercedes appeared out of nowhere, as if by magic, and bounced cautiously over the cratered concrete towards them.

  Climbing out, Daisy laughed: ‘That was wonderful! Wonderful! I didn’t want it to end!’

  Nick led the way to the car. ‘It hasn’t. Not yet.’

  She got into the back of the car next to him and let the driver close the door for her. The heating was on, the seating soft.

  ‘This could get too much, you know,’ she remarked, only half joking.

  He almost smiled, and she noticed that a couple of times after that he looked at her surreptitiously, as if to remind himself of what it was like to experience something thrilling for the first time.

  After a few minutes the car slowed and turned in at a decrepit security gate manned by an elderly guard who peered at them myopically and waved them through.

  They entered what appeared to be a shipyard, one that had seen better times, with rust-streaked cranes, vast sheds with patchwork iron roofs, and barren docks with long empty wharves.

  The car picked its way carefully over the ruts, came to the end of a long shed and rounded a corner. The contrast could not have been more dramatic. In front of them was a flash of blinding, brilliant newness: a great, gleaming sea creature, immaculate and dazzlingly white, with shining metal trim and, high on the upper storey, sinister-wraparound black-tinted windows.

  The craft was out of the water, sitting at a backward tilt on a slipway. Maybe it was the low vantage point, maybe it was the sheer height of the hull, but the thing looked enormous, like a vast shark. It must have been close on two hundred feet long. It was sleek in an aggressively modern way, the front very sharp, the lines severe. Two enormously tall masts and a web of rigging rose from the deck, looking like later additions. Daisy supposed the yacht – or maybe it was a ship – carried sails, though from the ruthlessly aerodynamic lines it looked as if it ran on rocket fuel.

  ‘Blimey,’ she said. ‘What an outrage!’

  Nick shot her a quick glance and shifted in his seat. ‘It’s only a thought,’ he said with a slight edge to his voice. ‘I haven’t decided anything yet.’

  Getting a sudden idea of what this was about, Daisy murmured a diplomatic, ‘Ah-ha,’ and shut up.

  A succession of ladders and platforms took them up the side of the vessel to the deck. A two-man reception committee stood waiting for them, like something out of a royal visit. One introduced himself as the agent, the other as the cap
tain. The captain came complete with white uniform and brass buttons and scrambled egg on the shoulder.

  The captain led the conducted tour. Not a stereo socket was missed from the inventory, not a built-in TV, heating control or en-suite bathroom. Each stateroom was close-carpeted in a different theme colour, every curtain and bedcover was ruthlessly co-ordinated. Even the loo-rolls matched. The kitchen had everything that baked, froze and chopped. The bridge was straight out of Star Trek, with wall-to-wall controls and raised swivel chairs, like the ones on sport-fishing boats. Desalination plants, air-conditioning, ice-making machines: there was nothing this floating palace didn’t possess, except, perhaps, the smallest suggestion of atmosphere or heart.

  At one point they were asked to admire the Jacuzzi in the master suite, complete with gold taps and built-in stereo. Nick said nothing, but she saw his eyes roll slightly, though whether from disbelief or disapproval she wasn’t sure.

  When it came to the engine room, Daisy developed information fatigue and slowed down, intending to give it a miss, but Nick, turning back, widened his eyes in silent entreaty and beckoned her forward.

  ‘I need moral support,’ he whispered.

  ‘Stay around here, and you’ll be needing more than that!’

  ‘Tell me what to say,’ he asked in mock panic.

  ‘Me? I don’t know a cylinder from a carburettor.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ he said and gave a slight giggle.

  ‘Pat the machinery – isn’t that the thing? Give it a good stroke!’

  He giggled again, a wonderfully infectious sound, before turning a serious face to the sales agent.

  The ridiculousness of the vessel, the echo of that giggle, caused the bubble of suppressed laughter to rise in Daisy in ripples, and she had to look away until she had regained some sort of control. But for a time the laughter was never far from both of them, she could see it in the quiver of his mouth, and it wasn’t until they returned to the sitting room – termed by the captain, the saloon – that she dared to look him in the eye.