Never Go Back (4 page)

For the last few miles of their route to Lumphanan, the road ran alongside the disused cuttings and embankments of the railway line. The countryside was bare and empty, stands of silver birch and pine giving it a vaguely Nordic look. Spring had been in spate in Wiltshire, but was still feeling its way in Aberdeenshire. Harry had forgotten just how bleak and alien the surroundings of the castle had initially looked to him. Some of the gloom they had plunged him into washed back over him as he gazed through the minibus window at the twilit hills and fields and patches of scrub.

The village of Lumphanan had not changed much in its essentials. The disappearance of the railway station and the humpback bridge over the line was disorientating at first glance. Bungalows had been built in the old goods yard and the station building itself converted into a private house. The footbridge which Harry and Chipchase had trudged over with their kitbags that cold March evening in 1955 was now just a memory in thin air. But the post office, the Macbeth Arms, the main street of the village and the narrow-steepled parish church on its hillock at the far end were instantly familiar.

‘See the spire, chaps?’ said Tancred. ‘An admonitory finger of a Calvinist God raised over the cowering villagers.’

‘They didn’t do a lot of cowering, as I recall,’ Judd laughed.

‘That’s because you never went to church.’

‘We wouldn’t have been welcome if we had,’ said Lloyd. ‘They didn’t want us here.’

‘So we should have hit it off straight away,’ said Judd. ‘We didn’t want us here either.’

—«»—«»—«»—

Kilveen Castle stood half a mile out of the village, on the southern flank of Glenshalg Hill. The estate’s boundary wall, so tumbledown and overgrown in 1955 as to be barely distinguishable from the rock-strewn woods screening the castle from the lane, appeared on their left, solid and well maintained. Daffodil-sown glades had been opened up in the woods, affording glimpses of the castle as they climbed. They turned in between stout granite pillars, past the swag-lettered hotel sign and up the no longer potholed drive.

The photographs had not lied. The damp and draughty hybrid of medieval stronghold and Georgian villa where Harry and his fellow Clean Sheeters had passed their unproductive days was now an elegant retreat for well-heeled tourists. The lawns were trimmed, the paths neatly gravelled, the harling of the tower honey-tinged by the setting sun. The very appearance of the place promised ease and indulgence. And most of Harry’s companions seemed in the mood for both.

They pulled into the yew-hedged car park and clambered out. A couple of porters appeared with trolleys to take their bags. Dangerfield led the way into the reception area on the ground floor of the tower, where a massive fire blazed and tartan-uniformed staff flitted around them. The manager, a small, trim, sleek-haired fellow called Matthews, introduced himself and welcomed them to Kilveen. Dr Starkie and Erica Rawson had arrived, he reported, but Mr Wiseman was still awaited. Dangerfield broke the bad news about Askew and Chipchase. Matthews took it in his modest stride. The register was signed. Keys were distributed.

Harry followed a bright-eyed young woman identified by her lapel badge as Bridget to his room, high up in the tower. A lift had been installed in place of one of the two spiral staircases he remembered stumbling up and down. Bridget praised the view, which was panoramic, and rattled through detailed advice about heating controls, meal times and telephone extension numbers. Then she was gone. To his relief, Harry found himself alone. But not for long. The porter arrived with his bag. Soon, however, bag delivered and tip dispensed, Harry’s solitude was restored.

He sat down on the four-poster bed and looked about him. Every comfort was on hand. But he did not feel comfortable. He did not feel relaxed in any way. And neither a satellite television nor a Jacuzzi bath was going to change that. Where was Chipchase? What was he up to? What in God’s name was going on?

—«»—«»—«»—

Harry took a shower and dressed for dinner, which meant donning the dark-grey suit he had worn at his mother’s funeral, paired with a rainbow-striped tie Donna had given him for Christmas a few years ago. Then, after casting a wary eye over the telephone tariff, he put a call through to Seattle.

Donna and Daisy were having brunch, prior to their drive back to Vancouver. It was good to hear their calm, cheerful voices. He reported Chipchase’s no-show, but not Askew’s disappearance. He did not want Donna to worry, especially when there was, obviously, nothing to worry about. She promised to give him a wake-up call in the morning. He promised not to drink too much.

When he put the phone down, Harry realized how much he missed his wife and daughter. He wanted to be with them, not carousing with half-forgotten comrades from fifty years ago. He wished profoundly that he had not come to Scotland. But he had. And if he did not head down to the bar soon, they would probably send up a search party. With a sigh, he grabbed his key and set off.

—«»—«»—«»—

Halfway down the stairs, he literally bumped into another guest, who was emerging from his room. They stepped back to examine each other and Harry’s brain scrambled to deduce who the fellow might be. Tall and fleshy, with thinning, white, curly hair, an eagle’s-beak nose, a broad but not altogether warm smile and an intense, faintly sceptical gaze, he was wearing an expertly cut suit of some shimmering dark-blue material, a blue shirt with a white collar and bright-red tie that matched the hue of a flamboyantly disarranged breastpocket handkerchief.

‘Magister.’

‘That’s right. And you must be… Ossie Barnett.’ They shook hands, the band of a signet ring grinding into the knuckle on Harry’s little finger.

‘You made it, then.’

‘Got here half an hour ago. Checked in with Danger. He seemed relieved to hear from me. I gather Crooked and Fission have dropped out.’

‘Looks like it.’

‘On your way to the bar?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let’s go, then.’

They carried on down. ‘Buy anything at the auction?’ Harry asked as they went.

‘That.” Wiseman’s laugh echoed in the stairwell. ‘No. Complete and utter waste of time. Telephone bidders are taking all the fun out of the auction business.’

‘But you’re still active in it.’

‘You’ve got to stay active, Ossie. You must know that. The brain as well as the body. They have to be kept in trim.’

‘Oh, absolutely.’

‘And what this brain and this body need at the moment… is a stiff drink.’

—«»—«»—«»—

The bar was next to the dining room on the ground floor of the Georgian wing. There was a stag’s head over the mantelpiece, but otherwise little in the way of Caledonian kitsch, just a welcoming fire and lots of soft leather armchairs. Harry and Wiseman were evidently the last to arrive, for Dangerfield and the rest were all there, along with Dr Starkie and Erica Rawson, who seemed to be coping well with being the only woman in a gathering of men too old to have absorbed many feminist principles.

Short and slender, with boyishly cropped black hair, the young woman’s large, teak-brown eyes had a sharpness of focus that made Harry feel, albeit briefly, the undivided object of her attention as they shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. She was plainly but elegantly dressed in a dark top and palazzo pants, prompting Judd to mutter in Harry’s ear, ‘It’d be nice to know what she’d look like in something a bit more figure-hugging, don’t you reckon, Ossie?’ as Dangerfield piloted her away to meet Wiseman.

Donald Starkie, who had stooped slightly, even as a young man, stooped even more fifty years later. His mop of black hair had turned wire-wool grey and his spectacles had acquired alarmingly thick lenses, but otherwise he had changed little, remaining beanpole thin, scruffily dressed (even with an Aberdeen University tie on) and unsmilingly lugubrious.

‘You heard of Professor McIntyre’s death, Barnett?’ he husked to Harry.

‘Not at the time. But he’d be over a hundred now, so… it was no surprise.’

‘He achieved a lot, let me tell you. More than his obituarists could comprehend.’

‘But not with us, hey? We must have been a sore disappointment to him.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’

‘No?’

‘What I mean…’ Starkie took a sip from his glass of mineral water. ‘What I mean is that Professor McIntyre regarded failure… as no less instructive than success.’

‘So, at least we were instructive.’

‘Aye.’ Starkie looked thoughtful. ‘So you were.’

The table of twelve planned for dinner had become a table of ten, with the advantage, according to Dangerfield, of more elbow room all round. He had devised a seating plan based on the alphabetical order of the Clean Sheeters’ surnames, from which he had exempted only himself. He was seated at the head of the table, with Dr Starkie and Erica Rawson to his left and right. In Askew’s absence, Harry found himself sitting next to Erica, with Fripp on his other side and Wiseman opposite. Judd, at the far end of the table, looked disappointed by his distance from Erica and shot Harry an envious glance as they sat down.

It was the same room where they had eaten their plain and not always wholesome meals during Operation Clean Sheet, but barely recognizable as such. Silver service, fine napery and haute cuisine heightened the contrast. ‘Danger’s doing us proud,’ Harry murmured to Fripp. But the response hardly came freighted with gratitude. ‘I wish I’d gone into oil instead of bookkeeping. My God, I do.’

It was no hardship for Harry to concentrate his conversational attentions on Erica Rawson. To his surprise, she spoke to him more than anyone. Dangerfield and Starkie became immersed in a discussion of the effects of the oil boom on Aberdeen, while Tancred and Wiseman began trading points in delicately barbed arguments ranging from politics to poetry.

‘It’s a pity only eight of you made it in the end,’ Erica said, as she toyed with her starter. ‘Eight out of fifteen isn’t very representative.’

‘Representative?’ Harry responded. ‘Are you studying us?’

‘In a sense, yes.’ She turned to smile at him. ‘I hope you’re not shocked.’

‘Depends why, I suppose.’

‘Oh, to see whether Professor McIntyre’s experiment really was as futile as his colleagues maintained. Ever since Dr Starkie told me about it, it’s interested me. This reunion gave me a chance to meet some of the people I’ve only previously known by name.’

‘What exactly do you do at the University, Erica?’

‘Teaching and research. In the Psychology Department. My specialism’s the effect of extreme environments on mental states, short- and long-term. Aberdeen’s a good base for it, what with the offshore oil and gas industries and the fishing fleet.’

Harry suspected the rig workers and fishermen would be duly grateful for her ministrations. But all he said was, ‘There was nothing extreme about the environment here, I can tell you.’

‘No. But it was unusual, wasn’t it? Very unusual, I’d say.’ She laughed. ‘That counts as extreme for my purposes.’

‘I’m afraid we didn’t learn much, despite Professor Mac’s best endeavours.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I think so. Well, I’m sure I didn’t.’

‘What about Barry Chipchase? Johnny tells me you and he stayed friends over the years. Do you mind me calling you Harry, by the way? I can’t get the hang of these nicknames you’ve all been throwing around.’

‘Harry’s fine.’

‘Great. So, Harry, do you think your friend Barry Chipchase got much out of his time here?’

‘Same as me, I’d say.’

‘Zilch?’

‘More or less.’

‘You see, I don’t buy that. I’ve checked the facts as best I can. A surprisingly large proportion of you have gone on to achieve success in your own field. You may not have learned much that was tangible or examinable, but what you may have acquired… is a certain way of thinking.’

‘Kind of you to say so, Erica, but—’

‘Did life seem clearer after you left here? More manageable? Did you feel, however slightly, different?’

Harry thought for a moment, but the instinctive reply did not change. He felt obliged, though, to dress it up a little. ‘I knew a few more Shakespearean quotes. And I thought I understood relativity. That was about it. Mind you, I’ve forgotten most of the quotes since. And I’ve had second thoughts about understanding relativity.’

Erica laughed. ‘I get the feeling you’re underselling yourself, Harry.’

‘Impossible.’

She laughed again. ‘Come on. Johnny said you were over from Canada, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Vancouver.’

‘What took you there?’

‘Er, my wife… works at the University of British Columbia.’

‘Really? So she’s an academic — like me?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Small world, hey? But hold on. Barnett. She’s not Donna Trangam-Barnett, is she?’

Harry could not have looked more surprised than he felt. ‘Yes. How did—’

‘I read her piece on disconnection syndromes in one of the neuroscience journals a few months back. Impressive stuff. You’re married to her?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I am.’

‘Amazing. And it rather proves my point, doesn’t it?’

‘Does it?’

‘Well, we’ve Johnny here, the affluent oilman. Plus a merchant banker and an art dealer across the table. Then there’s you, husband of an eminent neuroscientist. Given the position you were all in before coming here, isn’t that quite something?’

‘I don’t—’

‘And mightn’t it be partly because of what you learned while you were here?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Harry was confused. There was something about Erica’s line of reasoning he did not trust. He was not sure, in fact, that he trusted her at all. He had the disquieting impression that she knew more about him than she logically should. ‘I got lucky. Several of us did. But several of us didn’t. That’s life.’

‘Exactly,’ Wiseman cut in. Harry looked up, unaware till then that anyone had been listening to their conversation. Clearly Wiseman had for one, though for how long was hard to guess. His hooded gaze was fixed on Erica. ‘Harry’s quite right, my dear.’ He had dropped Harry’s nickname, as if some contexts were too important for its use. ‘I’m afraid the idea that the three months we spent here fifty years ago had a significant effect — or any effect at all — on our lives is, well, I won’t say absurd, but…’

‘Wide of the mark?’ suggested Erica, with a self-deprecating smile.

Wiseman returned the smile. ‘I’m afraid so. Ask any of us. It really didn’t amount to anything.’

‘That you’re aware of.’

‘Well, obviously.’ Wiseman sighed and sat back in his chair. He sipped some wine. ‘That goes without saying.’

‘Not planning to psychoanalyse us this weekend, are you, Erica?’ Harry asked, seeking to lighten the mood.

‘Absolutely not.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Unless you want me to.’

—«»—«»—«»—

Their conversation drifted onto other, blander topics as the meal progressed. Mellowing with each glass of wine, Wiseman reeled off a few entertaining anecdotes about the art world. Dangerfield chipped in with some less rarefied recollections of the oil business. Starkie said little, as had always been his wont, but watched Erica closely throughout. Harry tried not to wonder why. His own attempts to draw Erica out on the subject of her career were deftly deflected and he was too fuddled by alcohol and fatigue to sustain them. He kept reminding himself to drink plenty of water, as Donna was forever encouraging him to do, but somehow found himself picking up the wineglass more often than not. The evening took a woozy turn. Dangerfield made an impromptu speech. There was a lot of laughter, then an adjournment to the bar, where Harry was persuaded to sample one of the hotel’s malts. He was going to regret drinking it, he knew. Dawn was going to be a painful experience. But it tasted very, very good.

—«»—«»—«»—

Halfway through his second whisky, Harry became aware of Dangerfield waving to him through the doorway from the corridor leading to reception. He managed a quizzical gesture of raised eyebrows and hands, but Dangerfield went on waving, if anything more frantically. Harry had thought he was on the other side of the bar, puffing at a cigar, and so he had been at one point. But no longer. There was no sign of Lloyd either, who had surely been with him. Harry registered this much during his unsteady progress across the room.

‘What’s up, Danger?’ he asked on reaching the corridor.

‘Jabber and I are in the conference room,’ Dangerfield replied in a whisper. ‘With the police.’

‘The… what?’

‘The police. They want to talk to you.’

‘What about?’

‘Not what. Who. Peter Askew. He’s dead.’