lay still, shaking, too afraid and disorientated for a moment to move at all, then, slowly she dragged herself out of bed and switched on the light. The house was completely silent. She sat for a long time on the side of the bed, trying to calm herself, then at last she lay back on the pillows, worn out. But sleep had not come back.
She took the roses into the kitchen and put them carefully into a porcelain vase, glancing up at the clock as she did so. Zak was coming back that afternoon before he returned to Cambridge, but she still had most of the morning to get through. She had already spent two days fighting the longing to retreat into her dream world. She wanted so much to know what was happening to Isobel. Isobel who had become pregnant so easily and who wanted so desperately to lose her child. Clare shivered. Surely her curiosity was natural? Morbid, perhaps, perverse even, but not sinister. It couldn’t mean that already Isobel was gaining some kind of hold over her. Could it? That Zak was right, that already she preferred the past of her dreams to the present. She shook her head slowly. She had to get out of the house. That at least would distract her until he came.
Harrods was crowded. For a long time she wandered around the ground floor, staring at the displays, browsing at different counters, picking up scarves and handbags and putting them down again; she bought an olive-green suede belt, a pair of gilt earrings and in another department a length of pale blue silk, none of which she really wanted. At about half past eleven she decided she would like a cup of coffee and she walked up the stairs, heading for the coffee shop. As she threaded her way across the fashion floors she could hear in the distance the jerky rhythmic music which accompanied a dress show and unconsciously her steps quickened. Anything to keep her mind occupied for a few more minutes. It was very hot upstairs, and she unbuttoned her jacket as she made her way between the displays of clothes, through the shoppers towards the crowd of spectators.
The music was loud, the beat subliminally painful as she stood on the edge of the crowd. Strobe lights cut the air in a whirling mock disco as models danced and jerked their way, marionette-like, around the floor. Behind them the scene was set with a huge hardboard slab of prison bars; to the left of them another stretch of bars, the real things this time, glinting in the lights. They were hung with chains. The models too wore chains, their clothes brief, erotic, black and khaki, their limbs painted silver and covered with sequins, their faces immobile, their black wigs short and masculine. Clare glanced around her. The women near her had their eyes glued to the production; she could see the beads of perspiration on one woman’s lip. Her mascara had run and her lipstick was caked at the corners. She was swaying to the music, fascinated.
The arcs of colour crossed and recrossed the bars, throwing their shadows across the floor as the elegant, gawky limbs jerked and dangled their way around the dais. The music grew louder and more insistent; the air was stifling with rich perfume and a less discreet hint of sweat. Near Clare a security man was scanning the crowd, a radio clipped to his breast pocket, his face shaded and sliced by the lights. The shadow of the bars fell across him and she could see the whites of his eyes gleaming, watching, staring …
She didn’t realise that she had screamed. Dropping her parcels she turned and began desperately fighting her way back towards the stairs, pushing out of the crowd, her heart thudding with panic, her throat dry, oblivious of the startled faces near her, pushing out of the heavy swing doors on to the cool broad staircase.
The door opened immediately behind her and the security man appeared. He stopped abruptly, seeing her leaning against the wall, her face glazed. ‘Can I help you, madam?’ He was staring at her suspiciously, only with difficulty restraining himself from taking her arm.
Still trying to steady herself Clare shook her head. ‘I’m all right. I’m sorry. It was the lights –’ She could barely speak.
Behind them a second figure appeared in the doorway, carrying Clare’s belongings. It was the woman who had been standing next to her. ‘Are you all right?’ Pushing the man aside she put her arm around Clare’s shoulders. ‘It’s all right, officer, or whatever you are. I’ll take care of her. I could see you going funny, love. All that heat and those lights and the crowds: it’s enough to make anyone feel faint.’
The security man frowned, obviously out of his depth.
‘If you’re sure –’
Desperately Clare nodded and with a thankful shrug the man disappeared. The woman gave a sarcastic laugh. ‘Disappointed. He thought you’d snatched something! And it was me that ended up with your bags! Here.’ She pushed them at Clare. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? Do you want me to get you a taxi?’ The cheerful voice pattered on as, slowly, she guided Clare down the broad staircase and out into the Brompton Road. ‘A bit of fresh air and you’ll be fine.’
Clare barely heard her. Her head still whirled: bars; lights; noise, the searching, probing eyes; the eyes, the bars of her nightmares. Clutching her parcels she allowed herself to be pushed into a taxi; she heard herself thank the woman, heard herself reciting her address to the driver, then she flung herself back in the seat and knew that she was crying.
‘Paul Royland.’ Neil Forbes sat on the edge of the desk reading from the typed notes in front of him. ‘Aged thirty-eight. Eton and Oxford – I knew that – we were at the same college, though he was a couple of years ahead of me. Career in the City. Coutts; Lombards, from 1981 a partner in Beattie Cameron, now a director of BCWP. Married in 1981 to Clare Gordon, daughter of the Hon. Alec Gordon who died in 1962.’ He threw the notes down on the desk. ‘Paul Royland!’ he repeated in disgust. ‘The bastard tried to talk me down in the Union once. Then he tried to get me banned.’
‘I didn’t know you were at Oxford.’ The folk singer, Kathleen Reardon, was standing watching him, her coat on, her bag already slung from her shoulder. Four years older than Neil, she looked ten years younger. ‘Quite the gentleman yourself, aren’t you?’ The soft Belfast accent was mocking.
Neil stood up. He went across to her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘There are a lot of things about me you don’t know.’
‘And a lot I do.’ She narrowed her light blue eyes. ‘I know you’re a chauvinist bastard; I know Mr and Mrs Royland have got up your nose; I know that if the poor bugger went to Eton you’ll be ready to string him up from a lamp post, and I know that you promised to buy me some supper. And if we sit here much longer, sure every food outlet in Edinburgh will be locked and barred and bolted and the sun will rise over my poor bleached empty bones!’
Neil chuckled. ‘I always forget what an amazing appetite you have.’ He reached to turn off the light. ‘I’m going up to Duncairn again,’ he said as they left the office and turned out into the cold Grassmarket, the huge bulk of the castle walls looming high behind them in the dark. ‘I want to get this campaign off the ground before the Roylands know what has hit them, and before Sigma realise that their interest in the place is out in the open. We’ve got the edge on them, but only for a very short time.’ He pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. ‘Earthwatch is mounting a huge campaign against onshore drilling and in today’s climate with oil prices at rock bottom, we should be able to win. I’m going to use Duncairn to spearhead our campaign in Scotland.’
Kathleen glanced at him curiously. ‘Just because you hate this Royland man and his wife so much?’
‘It’s got nothing to do with personalities, Kath.’
‘Oh no? Like hell it hasn’t!’ Glancing at him, her face illuminated by a street lamp, she tossed her long black hair back over her shoulders. ‘You know I almost feel sorry for those two.’
Two days later Neil was back at Duncairn. He climbed on a bar stool and leaned on the counter, a glass of malt whisky nursed reverently between his hands. ‘Have you heard
