Wounded Knights
Page 13
She sniffed. ‘Yeah. Just get caught out sometimes when I least expect it.’
He laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Same here. The office seems too empty without her. I might only have passed her in the corridor once or twice a day but knowing that she was there . . .’
She stood and rubbed his upper arms. ‘I’m sorry I’m not more help. I’m shit at this kind of thing. A shit friend really.’
He turned to the stove. ‘Get us a couple of plates out. This will help fill a hole.’
‘Yeah, if you can’t beat them feed them. I’ve no issue with that.’
For a few minutes they sat gorging on delicious carbonara. Mollie made an occasional whimper, and nuzzled her damp nose against Viv’s thigh. ‘Not for dogs; too much garlic for dogs.’ She stood and reached into a cupboard for a dog chew. Mollie twirled and sat, then took off into the conservatory as soon as she had it in her jaws.
‘Easily pleased. I wish I could take a leaf out of her book.’
‘What, walk with your nose to the ground taking in the scents of a thousand dog poos?’
She gently patted his back. ‘You know what I mean. Keeping life simple.’
‘You don’t know whether her life is simple or not.’
‘Okay, okay, I concede. I can’t read her mind, but I don’t think she frets at quite the same levels about the small stuff that I do.’
He nodded, his mouth full of spaghetti. ‘As I said, you don’t know that.’
‘Piss off and eat your dinner. What do you think I’ll find in the family papers?’
‘No idea. I wonder how far back they go? Catholic families had to hide everything. Scottish Catholics copped the full brutality of the Reformation. All we hear about is the dissolution of the English monasteries but it was equally brutal up here. I’d guess, though, that most families sent their precious papers to the Vatican for safe keeping. I might join you if you’ll let me.’
‘Of course. But I want no comments about my maverick ways.’
‘Moi?’
‘Don’t give me “moi?” when I start taking photographs of documents, I don’t want you breathing impatiently at my back.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’ He laughed. ‘Well, not much.’
She shook her head and polished off the last of her carbonara. ‘Oh my God, that was out of this world. You defo have a chef’s touch.’
‘Praise indeed. Now when are you planning to make a start on those family papers?’
‘I have another hair day in Edinburgh tomorrow but I can be back up here by about five. If I go then I’ll be able to give Sholto a couple of hours of boredom before he retreats for dinner. Then I’ll have them to myself. Unless you tag along then we’ll have them to ourselves. But remember no sighing or tutting at my research techniques or I’ll send you packing. By the way, I wonder if Pamela discovered that the Auchenban papers were in the Vatican? That would make sense of her conversation with the librarian.’
He shrugged. ‘Seeing anyone interesting tomorrow?’
‘Kind of. I have another client who’s been involved in lots of charity work. Not with the Knights of Malta but I bet most charities are competitors. There’s only so much disposable cash around and people have to choose. Could be interesting. But otherwise I’m seeing a couple of tricky women who’ll need gentle handling.’ She grabbed their plates and stacked them in the dishwasher. Both of them yawned. ‘Time for an early night.’
‘I’ll wash the pots before I head.’
‘No, you’re all right I’ll do that. It’ll give me thinking time.’
He laughed. ‘You’re never not thinking.’
‘I know, but there are different kinds of thoughts, some more applied than others.’
‘I’m not even going to ask.’
‘Good. That means I won’t be distracted trying to explain something to you when my brain could be better engaged elsewhere.’
He stood and stretched, his shirt freeing itself from his trousers and exposing tight abs and his Jacobs-Ladder. She glanced away. Don’t even go there.
He lifted his jacket from the back of the chair, ‘Right I’ll get going.’
Mollie saw this as a sign for going out and began to circle her way to the door. Mac stared at Viv. ‘Shall I do the honours?’
‘Let’s both do it. We could probably do with some fresh air.’
She slipped her boots on and clipped a lead onto Mollie. ‘Okay, you win.’
When they’d first met up again after uni, Mac had been sniffy about her hairdressing business until he realised just how many contacts she had because of it. He was gradually getting the hang of her potential to reach people that he didn’t have access to. Ruddy, on the other hand, had seen the benefits of her networking right from the get go. What neither could get their heads around was how committed she was to confidentiality. Without it she wouldn’t have trust, and distrust could knock her out of business in a heartbeat.
Chapter Seventeen
Maisie Ross was fond of a change and Viv had been the right hairdresser to provide this for her. She opened the door dressed in a kimono and silk slippers; her bright reddish pink hair wet and straggly dripped onto her shoulders.
‘Oh boy, do I need you. Come in, come in.’ She glanced out onto her landing as if someone might be listening in, ‘I’ve just put a colour on it and I’ve no idea how it’s turned out.’
Viv could see that it was on the pinkish side of red but that shouldn’t be an issue for Maisie whose cosmetic regime could turn on a sixpence. Her round face with gorgeous chubby cheeks could woo anyone regardless of the colour of her hair.
Viv walked behind Maisie into the kitchen, and began to set up. Maisie flipped the switch on the kettle and it began to boil as if it had already been on.
‘Coffee?’
‘Why not?’
‘You on black or white today? Shit! What the heck have you . . .’ This was the first time she’d actually looked at Viv since her arrival.
‘Don’t ask. White with sugar if that’s okay.’
‘Not anyone I have to report or kill on your behalf then?’
Viv smiled. ‘You are a darling for saying that. But I think he’s probably worse off than I am. Might even have broken his nose.’
‘Bravo. I’m sure you wouldn’t have done anything that he didn’t deserve.’
Viv lifted a chair from the table and put it square on her mat. ‘I’m not sure about that but it’s done now.’
Maisie made a pot of coffee and pulled milk from the fridge and sugar from a cupboard and left them on the worktop. She sat on the chair and Viv swirled a gown round her shoulders.
Maisie said, ‘I almost asked if you’d had cosmetic surgery.’ She laughed. ‘Remind me never to get on your bad side.’ She chuckled. ‘I love a woman who can defend herself.’
Viv unfolded her tool-roll and began to comb through Maisie’s hair. As it dried it became more luminous. ‘So what are we doing today?’ Knowing that she would not hear the words ‘The usual’ she waited expectantly for what was to come.
‘I’m thinking of going short, choppy, scrunchy or maybe not. Maybe I’ll wear it up.’
‘Keeping your options open won’t be a bad thing. There’s a lot of hair to come off if you go short and choppy. Although you’d look great with it short.’
‘Well that doesn’t help, does it Viv? Let’s take a couple of inches off and I’ll wear it up. Got some whacky clips that I haven’t had the chance to flaunt.’
‘So how’s work?’
‘Nightmare as usual. There was a Scottish sale recently and loads of people who would normally support us were buying up Fergussons, and what’s her name that does the kids from Glasgow?’
‘Joan Eardley?’
‘Yeah, that’s her.’
‘I’d be tempted myself. I love her stuff.’
Maisie said, ‘Don’t you start. Anyway where would you get the dosh to spend on art?’
Viv combed her hair, sectioned it and smiled. Her hair clients had n
o idea of her finances, why would they?
‘One day. But who are the people who buy art but usually give to your charity?’
‘I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential. Well until they talk about it in the newspapers then . . . Google it. There’s nothing you can’t find on Google. Actually, I can tell you this since it has already gone to press. We had one big donation from Fitzroy and Maclean.’
Viv pricked up her ears. That was the firm that Sholto’s lover worked for. Why would they choose to donate to ‘Lourdes’, the enemy charity of the Knights of Malta? Could this be why David was missing?’
The internet had given her the chance to become someone she’d never have imagined she would and that wasn’t about to stop anytime soon.
Chapter Eighteen
By the time she was on her way back to Doune she was irritable and hungry. A couple of oatcakes and a walk over the park with Mollie was all it took to revive her. She was about to set off for the Hall when an email arrived from Ruddy. She’d no sooner read the email than her phone rang. It was him.
‘I know you’re concerned with the priest at the moment but there’s something I’d like to speak to you about. Are you in Doune?’
‘Sure am. I take it you want me in Edinburgh?’
‘No, actually, I’m in training in the west and if you could come here I’d be able to brief you properly.’
It wasn’t in Ruddy’s nature to brief people properly or otherwise. He wouldn’t be asking unless they’d been trained enough to be trusted.
‘I was planning a night in the archives. Where are you?’
He snorted. ‘I’ll pick you up at the Green Welly. How soon could you get there?
‘An hour, maybe less. No tourists at this time of day.’
‘Okay. See you then.’
She emailed Sholto and told him she wasn’t going to make it until the next day. She rang Brian and asked if could look in on Mollie. Then equipped with a few more oatcakes and an apple she drove up to meet Ruddy, a man who had some enigmatic power over her that she was disinclined to fight. She’d worked out it was partly to do with his relationship to her dad and maybe his sense of duty, but beyond that she’d been intrigued by the jobs he’d asked her to do. Freud would have had a field day with it.
The road was empty and it was an easy drive to Tyndrum, but she was hoping that the trip was worth putting off a night in Sholto’s archive for. A few minutes sitting in the car park and an old long-based Land Rover pulled up next to her and Ruddy gestured for her to join him.
She went to his window. ‘What will I need?’
‘You got gym kit?’
She nodded, went back to her boot and pulled out a bag containing a tee, joggers and trainers. She gave it a cursory sniff before returning to the passenger seat next to him. ‘Bit cloak and dagger, is it not?’
‘You feeling fit?’
‘Not especially. I’ve had a busy day.’
‘I’m sure you’ll raise your game.’
‘Where are we going?’
He smiled. ‘You’ll see. You’re in for a special test. Although by the look of your face you’ve had one recently.’
She ignored his comment and said, ‘No way I need any kind of test at this time of day. Why now?’
‘Because it’s exactly at times like this that you’ll need to dig deep and the powers that be are cracking down on us using consultants who don’t meet the fitness requirement of Special Services.’
She sighed. “I’ve already done a ton of your crazy spy craft, listening skills, decoding intensives and I’m fit enough.’
‘You think there won’t be times when you need to brush off fatigue and get out of a fix? The kind of demands you’ll meet in this job require a level of fitness that you have to maintain daily. I know that you’re . . .’
‘If you’re thinking of pulling the grieving card, don’t even go there. I don’t need excuses. I’ll do what I can.’
They took the road toward Oban but after about fifteen minutes they turned onto an unmarked road on the right. To begin with it looked like any other forestry track leading into a mono-plantation but it didn’t. After a few hundred yards the track became tarmac, wide enough for a couple of lorries to pass. Further on the road twisted round a tight dogleg to the right where an expansive drive with a circular lawn in the centre sat in front of a huge brooding house. They drove beneath an archway between two tall round towers into a courtyard.
‘Welcome to Camp 16.’
Her eyes scanned the imposing buildings. There was nothing attractive about them. She guessed they were Edwardian or late Victorian. Because someone had way too much money to lavish on architecture didn’t mean they had taste. It was like an architectural Woolworth’s pick’n’mix, a bit of Scottish baronial, a bit of mock Georgian, a bit of mock medieval. Solid but hideous.
Ruddy pointed to a heavy oak door. ‘Head in there. I’ll meet you in the gym.’
She changed and went in search of the gym. When she found it she noted that all the equipment was top of the range. Everyone there was wearing khaki. Was this the Special Services’ version of the naughty step? She’d read about a place where rogue agents had to be ‘debriefed’ to make them more acceptable in the field. Sometimes it worked, other times not so much. There were some pretty heavy lifters in the room. Talk about punching above your weight. She was beginning to get the idea of what Ruddy had said. She was fit but she didn’t have pecs that could be punched a dozen times without impact. The very idea made her belly contract. She warmed up with a few stretches. Being self-conscious wasted energy, so she ignored the competition with their deep breaths and excessive exhaling and continued. By the time Ruddy appeared she was plenty warm enough.
He nodded to a couple of sets of high bars. They took a set each and began. Each pulled up and released, pulled up and released, pulled up and released. She’d lost count how many pull-ups she’d done and had no intention of stopping whilst Ruddy, her competitor, was still looking fresh. At first no one in the gym had paid them any heed, but by the time they edged close to fifty a crowd began to draw closer. Her sense was that they were willing Ruddy, who was almost twice her age, to keep going and show the newbie what the ‘special test’ actually meant. In the end Ruddy’s telephone had given out a shrill ringtone and he’d jumped off the bar and marched towards the exit. The disappointed crowd clapped nonetheless. Viv dropped to the floor. A female threw her a towel. She almost didn’t catch it, and could barely lift it to wipe her face. After that amount of strain, she could swear her muscles were crystallising. She’d heard of it but never believed it. Now she understood. She shook and shook her wrists keeping them at a distance from her body. Everyone in the room returned to their own workout. Some, inspired by what they’d seen Ruddy achieve, upped their game; others less in need of affirmation, continued at their own steady pace.
She sank onto a bench and grabbed a bottle of water from her pack. After a few sips she poured the rest over her head. A slow clap echoed from across the room. She glanced up to see the woman who’d given her the towel.
‘Better to drink it.’
Viv was in no mood to chat but was grateful for the use of the towel. So instead of answering she lifted the bottle and emptied the dregs onto her head before taking another bottle from her pack and glugging it back. The brew of testosterone laced with deodorant in the room was overwhelming and although the shower room wouldn’t be much better it was on the way to fresher air. As she passed the woman she nodded, ‘Thanks. Appreciate the gesture.’ She handed the towel back and left the room.
Ruddy was at the far end of a narrow corridor where the changing rooms with shower blocks were. He beckoned to her to come. She used her tee shirt to catch some of the water that was running down her neck and made toward him. His body language and tone indicated a tense conversation with a superior. He finished the call and said, ‘Sorry about that. Bad form to leave a test but . . .’
She shrugged. ‘No worries.’
‘What, without knowing anything about . . . ‘
He walked away.
‘What? You can’t expect . . .’
‘Oh, but I do. What do you think this is about?’ He gestured with a sweep of his arm.
She put her hands on her hips and nodded. ‘Okay, I’m in.’
He hesitated by the exit then gave a curt nod. ‘I’ll meet you in the refectory once you’ve cleaned up.’
The shower released a stream of only lukewarm water. She pumped out enough generic shampoo from a dispenser on the wall to do her hair. These washing facilities weren’t designed for glamour, merely for efficiency. Adrenalin still coursed through her arms and upper body and she wondered if she’d actually damaged her biceps. She dried off then fished out a small jar of tiger balm from her pack and massaged it into her upper arms. The burn felt good, but would it address the problem?
Signs directed her to the refectory on the far side of a closed courtyard of gloomy grey stone buildings three storeys high. Three wings had a pillared walkway linking their ground floors. The final side had a high-gated archway with a cobbled exit. The only obvious way in or out. The refectory, a long room with oak panelled walls was nothing grand; more like a religious institution. Not quite Presbyterian in style since, although there were no carvings or statues. There was one embellishment, a single crucifix at the far end. Viv wondered if it was only still there because it had been too high to remove. The food prep area was tucked away in an annexe, more galley than catering kitchen.
As she walked towards it, Ruddy came out holding a tray with two mugs of coffee and two bacon rolls. ‘No posh cuisine here. Hearty. Just what you’d expect.’ He glanced at her.
Everything that she said or did was for the record. He knew that, she knew that, so neither needed to play games. Yet every time she was in his company she felt as if that’s exactly what they were doing. He took a seat at a long table with benches on either side. Above the door that she’d just come through hung a huge painting of a military man in a swanky uniform, with a ton of bling on both of his shoulders. She didn’t recognise the uniform, so it was probably only for formal occasions, like having this portrait painted. She sat opposite Ruddy and they each took up their rolls and didn’t speak until half way through them. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, a delicate action for his thick fingers, and said, ‘You heard the call.’