Never Go Back (6 page)

The strictly logical answer to Geddes’s question was that no-one could be sure. Chipchase had told Dangerfield he was flying to Manchester. But he could have travelled south by train instead and boarded the London to Aberdeen train at Dundee — or Edinburgh, come to that. Almost anything was possible. But where was Geddes’s speculation leading? He surely did not suspect Chipchase of murdering Askew. The very idea was absurd. Except that Geddes did not know Chipchase as well as Harry did, so perhaps the absurdity was not apparent to him. He reckoned he was onto something. Or someone. And the obvious candidate was the former proprietor of Chipchase Sheltered Holdings Ltd — long since in receivership.

The true explanation for his old friend’s daylight flit from Aberdeen seemed clear to Harry. It was what Geddes had grudgingly suggested himself. Chipchase had persuaded Askew to invest in one of his dodgy enterprises, with predictable results he had no wish to discuss during the weekend at Kilveen Castle that had loomed ahead of him. Cue dead sister and grieving dash to Manchester. It was as simple as that.

Ironically, as things turned out, he would never have had to discuss the matter with Askew. But Askew, of course, might not have been the only veteran of Operation Clean Sheet duped into trusting Chipchase with his money, which Harry could have told them from personal experience was an act of folly. It would be interesting to find out how many had fallen for the silver-tongued old rogue’s patter — assuming anyone was prepared to admit it.

—«»—«»—«»—

The clouds thinned as the afternoon turned towards evening. Mellow sunlight bathed the castle. A call from the reception desk alerted Harry to a change of venue for pre-dinner drinks. They were to be held on the roof. The upper reaches of the tower had been out of bounds to Professor Mac’s students during Operation Clean Sheet and the door leading to the roof permanently locked. This was actually their first chance to sample its panoramic views. Dangerfield, it was revealed, had planned that they should do so all along, on a ‘weather permitting’ basis. And the weather had happily permitted.

—«»—«»—«»—

Harry phoned Donna before leaving his room and came clean about Askew’s death. He presented it as a complete mystery, which it was, of course, while failing to mention the connection with Chipchase Sheltered Holdings Ltd. ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ he explained lamely, only for her to retort, as well she might, ‘But now I’m worried about what else you mightn’t be telling me.’ He assured her there was nothing, by which he really meant nothing he judged she needed to know. A weekend of domestic normality was about to unfold in Vancouver. Daisy would be going back to school on Monday after the Easter break. Donna would be preparing to stretch her students’ minds at UBC. Fretting over what might be happening to him in Scotland would not be good for them. Accordingly, Harry struck a jaunty tone throughout the conversation — and hoped it was more convincing over a long-distance telephone line than it would have been face to face.

—«»—«»—«»—

He spent longer talking to Donna and Daisy than he had anticipated and was consequently the last to make it to the roof party. It was strange to have spent three months at Kilveen Castle without ever stepping out onto the flagged and balustraded platform at the top of the tower. The gilded weathercock on the next turret was shimmering in the sun, the flag of St Andrew above them stirring lazily in the slightest of breezes. A golden hue had been cast over the ruckled carpet of farmland around the castle, while the mountains to the north and west and the undersides of the clouds were purpling in the evening light.

Waitresses were on hand with champagne and canapes. Matthews, the hotel manager, was schmoozing with his guests. There was laughter amid the burble of conversation and the popping of corks. A phrase drifted into Harry’s ear as he accepted a glass of bubbly and took a first sip. ‘Crooked would have wanted us to carry on, I’ll bet.’ The words were Judd’s, but there were nods and murmurs of endorsement all round.

‘Do you think it’s true?’

Harry turned to find Erica standing close beside him, looking intently at him as she rotated her nearly empty glass back and forth by the stem. Judd for one, Harry sensed, would approve of the closer fitting outfit she was wearing this evening — and its lower neckline. ‘Hello,’ he said, smiling. ‘Isn’t it lovely up here?’

She smiled back at him. ‘It is.’

‘As for Peter, I don’t know. It’s the sort of thing people say, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. So, here’s another platitude. Tell me about your day. Braemar, Balmoral, Craigievar and a pub somewhere in the middle, according to Johnny. Is that right?’

‘Spot-on.’

‘All new territory for you?’

‘Absolutely. Professor Mac and your boss kept us chained to our desks. There were no jaunts into the countryside during Operation Clean Sheet.’

‘And getting out onto this roof with its unforgettable views is a first too?’

‘Not according to some,’ Tancred cut in, rounding a corner of the balustrade to join them and flashing Erica a raffish smile. ‘Jabber’s just been telling Magister and me that he’s been up here before.’

‘Really?’ Harry watched Erica’s gaze slide past Tancred towards Lloyd and Wiseman. ‘How did that come about?’

‘He was more than somewhat vague as to specifics. Indeed, it may be no more than stress-induced déjà vu. He hasn’t had the carefree day the rest of us have enjoyed, after all. I certainly don’t envy him his visit to the mortuary in Dundee. Are you familiar with the city of jam, jute and journalism, Erica?’

‘Not at all. Actually, excuse me, will you? Dr Starkie’s looking lost.’ And with that she was gone, threading a path through the Clean Sheeters and waitresses towards Dr Starkie, who was standing alone near the flagpole.

‘I think you frightened her off, Tapper,’ said Harry.

‘Nonsense. More likely my arrival on the scene was the excuse she was waiting for to shake you off.’

‘If you say so.’

‘What she sees in that bloodless creep Starkie I can’t imagine.’

‘A mentor, I should think.’

‘Should you? Well, your judgement isn’t exactly flawless, is it, Ossie? Choosing Fission as a business partner doesn’t say much for your powers of discrimination. From what Jabber’s been telling us, he’s still up to his old tricks. What was it? Chipchase Sheltered Holdings Ltd? Were you involved in that?’

‘No. I wasn’t. Were you?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘No reason to be so tetchy, then, is there?’

‘What?’

‘You’d be more of an expert than me on the etiquette of occasions like this, Tapper, but isn’t the idea to have a pleasant little chat over a glass of champoo and admire the view?’

‘Yes.’ Tancred smiled through clenched teeth. ‘Isn’t that what we’re doing?’

—«»—«»—«»—

They were joined by Judd, Gregson and Fripp, sparing Harry further verbal fencing with Tancred. He swiftly drifted to the margins of the group and, noticing that Wiseman had left Lloyd to join Dangerfield and Matthews, walked across to where the Welshman was leaning heavily against the wall flanking the door at the top of the spiral staircase. His face was flushed, sweat sheening his upper lip. His gaze was skittering and unfocused.

‘This stuff goes straight to your head, doesn’t it?’ said Harry, raising his glass.

‘It’s not that,’ said Lloyd huskily. ‘Bloody vertigo. Came over me while I was standing by the parapet. And not just vertigo either. Something… weird.’

‘Tapper said you’d… been up here before.’

‘Feels like it.’ Lloyd shook his head. ‘God, this is… the strangest bloody thing.’

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘No. Matter of fact, I’m… sure I’m not.’

‘You’ve had a long hard day, Jabber. You’re probably just tired. We’re not as young as we were.’

‘Have you been up here before, Ossie?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘Absolutely. It was always kept locked.’

‘Yeah. It was, wasn’t it? So, how did I get up here?’

‘Maybe you didn’t. We’ve all experienced déjà vu. It doesn’t mean—’

‘This means something.’ Lloyd drained his glass. ‘You can take my word for that.’ He pushed himself away from the wall and clasped Harry by the elbow, swaying slightly as he did so. ‘Do me a favour, will you, Ossie?’

‘Sure.’

‘Apologize to the others for me. I’m going down to my room. I need a lie-down. Might skip dinner. Ask them to send me up a sandwich later. I’d be sorry to, er, miss out on the… grand supper, but… I just can’t… at the moment…’ Lloyd’s hand fell back to his side. ‘I just can’t. OK?’

‘OK, Jabber. They’ll understand. You take it easy.’

‘Thanks. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.’

‘Of course.’

‘Yeah. A rest. OK. Thanks. I’ll, er, see you, Ossie.’

Lloyd turned and started down the stairs, taking each step with exaggerated care, his hand grasping the rail tightly, like a man negotiating a ship’s companionway in a storm. But there was no storm. Unless it was inside his head.

—«»—«»—«»—

Harry was never to speak to him again.

Dinner that night, planned by Dangerfield as the high spot of the weekend, never quite lived up to its billing. The quality and quantity of the food and drink could not be faulted and Dangerfield did his best to jolly them along. But Lloyd’s absence — and the shadow cast by Askew’s death — took a perceptible toll. There was also the question of their stamina, both mental and physical. Harry suspected he was not alone in running short of amusing recollections of life at Kilveen in 1955, nor in yearning for a beer and a light snack followed by an early night, instead of fine wine, haute cuisine and a soak in the bar until the small hours.

His suspicion was confirmed when Gregson headed for bed as soon as dinner was over. Dr Starkie soon followed. Then Erica made her excuses and left them to it. Harry felt he had done his duty when the longcase clock in the lounge adjoining the bar struck midnight. Judd had just proposed a few rounds of a game called Cardinal Puff they had sometimes played at the Macbeth Arms to decide who would buy the next round. Harry could not recall the rules, but was certain it was a bad idea. With slurred accusations of cowardice ringing in his ears, he took himself off.

—«»—«»—«»—

He woke late next morning, no more than mildly hung over and relieved to realize that the reunion had nearly run its course. He would stay until Monday and travel back to London on the train with the others because that was the easy option. The truth was, however, as he explained in a phone call to Donna, that he would rather clear out straight away.

‘I guess Barry was the biggest draw. I’d have enjoyed seeing him again, despite all the bad turns he’s done me. If I’d known he wasn’t going to show up, well, I’m not sure I’d have bothered.’

‘You’ll be glad you went in the end, hon. You know you will. There’ll be the pics to laugh at for a start. Taken many?’

‘Pics?’

‘You did buy a camera, didn’t you?’

‘Well, er… no, I…’

‘Oh, Harry. I told you to. A cheap disposable. Come on. There’s still time.’

‘It’s Sunday. All the shops will be closed.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘Well, most of them. This is Scotland.’

‘Yeah. And this is your wife speaking. Buy camera. Take pictures. That’s an order.’

—«»—«»—«»—

After a bath and room-service breakfast, Harry headed out into the grey, still morning. He doubted if the post office and general store in Lumphanan would sell cameras, but the receptionist reckoned the shop would at least be open, so he had little choice but to make the effort.

The village had grown in fifty years. The view through the trees as he descended the hill from the castle revealed a lobe of modern housing east of the main street, which had been farmland back in 1955. The gaps between the old cottages in the centre had been filled in as well. Strangely, this did not make it a busier place. Sunday morning in Lumphanan was as quiet as it had ever been.

There was a modest queue at the post office, however. Newspapers, cigarettes and milk were much in demand. Harry toured the shelves in vain search of a camera, but decided he had better double-check before giving up. He joined the queue.

The man in front of Harry turned round and squinted oddly at him, then did so again. He looked local, flat-capped and dressed in ancient tweed. He was a short, lean, tanned old fellow, with an unshaven chin and watery but sharply focused eyes. There was a smell about him of damp dog and stale tobacco. Harry suspected the venerable Jack Russell terrier tethered outside was his. They made a natural pairing.

‘Morning,’ said Harry in response to the second squint.

The man held the squint, then said, ‘Good morning to you.’

‘Nice one, for the time of year.’

‘Aye. We get such mild springs now. Not what I’m used to. And not what you got last time you were here, I seem to recall.’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re staying up at the castle?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, you’re here for the reunion?’

‘I am. Yes.’

‘Then you’ll understand what I mean.’ He turned away as he reached the head of the queue and handed over the money for a newspaper already folded for him to take. Then he was gone. Leaving Harry to confirm the shop’s stock of necessities did not extend to cameras before making his own exit.

The old fellow was waiting for him outside, Jack Russell untethered. ‘Which one are you, then?’ he enquired with a cock of the head.

‘Which one?’

‘I remember most of your names. Let me see.’ He nodded. ‘Aye. You’re Barnett, I reckon.’

‘Good God. How did you—’

‘It’s Stronach, man. Do you not know me?’

‘Stronach.’ Of course. The gardener-handyman kept on when the University acquired the castle, whose wife had been responsible for cooking their meals — if cooking was the right word to describe what she had done with food. But the couple had surely been middle-aged. Stronach had to be ninety if he was a day. ‘Is it really you?’

‘It is.’

‘How are you?’

‘As you see me.’

‘Mrs Stronach?’

‘Dead and gone.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘I’ve had a good few years to get over it.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘You’ll not be surprised to know I eat better now I’m cooking for myself.’

‘I’m amazed you remember me.’

‘Well, fifty year ago is sharper in my mind than last week. And you’ve not changed so very much. White hair and a beer belly aren’t so hard to imagine away.’

Harry laughed despite himself. ‘It’s good to know you still tell it like it is.’

‘Are you going back to the castle?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll walk with you as far as my cottage.’

They set off, rounding the corner by the Macbeth Arms at a faster pace than Harry would have expected a nonagenarian to set.

‘What were you after in the shop?’

‘A camera.’

‘For some snapshots to remember your old comrades by?’

‘Something like that.’

‘It’s too late to snap Askew, though, isn’t it?’

‘What?’ Harry could not disguise his surprise at the question. How did Stronach know about Askew?

‘They named him on the local news last night. Travelling to Aberdeen for an RAF reunion, so they said he was. And the police are keeping an open mind about the circumstances of his death. They said that as well.’

‘Did they?’

‘That’ll have blown some of the froth off your get-together, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘You could say that.’

‘He was a nervy one, as I recall. Jump at his own shadow, would Askew.’

‘Not any more.’

‘Who else have you got up there, then?’

‘Johnny Dangerfield’s organized the do. Then there’s, er, Milton Fripp, Owen Gregson, Bill Judd, Mervyn Lloyd, Gilbert Tancred… and Neville Wiseman.’

‘What about the rest?’

‘Most of them are dead, I’m afraid.’

‘Aye, well, fifty years is a long time. You’d expect that, I suppose.’

‘Why don’t you come up and say hello?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Stronach pulled up by the gate of his cottage, a hotchpotch of brick, timber, slate and corrugated iron camouflaged by an overgrown garden. There was a well-tilled vegetable patch off to one side, but otherwise little sign of active cultivation. Picture-postcard countryman’s dwelling it was not. ‘I was surprised when I heard about the reunion.’ He slipped the latch, stepped through with the dog and closed the gate behind him. Harry was clearly not being invited in. ‘A mite risky, that kind of thing.’

‘Risky?’

‘You never know what’ll come of it, man. Simple as that.’

But it did not seem simple to Harry. And then a thought struck him that made it even less so. ‘When we were here, in ‘fifty-five, the upper floors of the tower and the roof were kept locked, weren’t they?’

Stronach frowned. ‘Aye. They would have been.’

‘Why?’

‘The Urquharts, my original employers, left behind a good deal of their furniture when they moved out. It was stored in the tower. They’d not have wanted you lot clodhopping around up there.’

‘So, none of us could ever have gone up to the roof?’

‘Not in the ordinary way of things, no.’

‘Was there an inordinary way of things?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

Stronach’s only answer was a half-smile and a faint nod of the head. ‘I’m away in to read my paper, so I’ll say goodbye.’ He turned towards the shrub-shrouded door of his cottage. ‘Enjoy the rest of your reunion.’

—«»—«»—«»—

Harry wandered off along the street, puzzling over Stronach’s remarks. It was hard to judge whether they meant anything, or were just an old man’s deliberate attempts at mystification. There was no reason why Stronach should know more of events at Kilveen than the Clean Sheeters themselves — no reason, at any rate, that Harry was aware of.

As he approached the sharp bend below the church, a car nosed into view, descending the hill from the castle. It was a silver-grey Peugeot saloon, identical to one Harry had seen parked at the hotel. As it rounded the bend, he recognized the driver as Wiseman. Lloyd was sitting next to him in the passenger seat.

Harry raised his hand, but Wiseman drove straight on, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, apparently oblivious to Harry’s presence on the verge. Lloyd did see him, however. Their eyes met as the car passed him.

Whether Lloyd said anything to Wiseman there was no way to tell. The car cruised on along the village street at a steady pace, turned onto the main road at the end and vanished from Harry’s sight.

—«»—«»—«»—

He was never to see Mervyn Lloyd again.