Edinburgh, July
‘Go! Move!’ Bryan leaned over the back seat. ‘Just motor through.’ The crowds in Holyrood Road were increasing as people pushed down the closes to escape the gas and smoke in the High Street. Police in yellow jackets struggled to establish order as a long line of ambulances helped the coughing casualties.
Irene leaned back, gasping for breath as she relived the horror of Desmond’s bayoneting, and wondered where it had all gone wrong.
‘Are you happy?’ Mary shouted over her shoulder. ‘You’ve got your trinkets now.’
Irene shook her head, wordless. Hollywood had not prepared her for this sordid reality. Was Ms Manning’s lifestyle worth it?
‘Move it!’ Bryan had removed his gas mask but pulled a green baseball cap low over his face. ‘Keep rolling, Mary.’
With her hand firm on the horn, Mary weaved from side to side to negotiate the crowds. Twice they passed people lying retching on the ground, and once a man tried to flag them down. He carried a child and looked desperately at them, mouthing the word ‘hospital.’
‘The diversions worked then,’ Bryan had already recovered. ‘We should be home free in a few moments.’
Irene shook her head. ‘Oh, God, I didn’t expect it to be like this.’
‘No? What did you expect, Irene? Disneyland? A film set with lots of tough heroes and only the villains being hurt?’ Mary’s laugh cut deeply. ‘Better hope that’s not right, because in this film, we’re the villains!’
‘Watch your driving.’ Stefan said quietly. ‘Police.’
The Edinburgh police had acted swiftly to place a line of orange and white cones across Holyrood Road, and manned it with four uniformed officers. Two were busy giving first aid to the injured, but the policewoman who stepped forward had sergeant’s stripes on her arm. She held up her hand.
Mary slowed until she was within five yards of the barrier, then rammed down the accelerator and swerved around the sergeant, who jumped aside, her mouth working rapidly. The Cherokee hit the cones at speed, flicking one high in the air. A second jammed beneath the front axle and scraped along the road for the next fifty yards until Mary stopped, threw the vehicle in reverse and curved around the cone.
‘Lost it,’ Mary said briefly. ‘Who needs Hollywood when we can have Edinburgh, eh? Here’s our junction.’ She turned into the Pleasance, dropped down a gear and threw the Cherokee onward.
Irene looked behind her she heard the approaching wail of sirens. ‘Police. No, it’s a Landrover.’
‘Redcaps,’ Bryan told her. ‘Military Police. Bastards with snouts.’
‘We can outrun them,’ Mary said calmly. ‘Watch this.’ Dropping her gear again, she moved to the right side of the road, forcing an oncoming car to swerve across the road, and then quickly returned to the left side. Faced with the suddenly approaching vehicle, the Military Police Landrover abruptly braked, skidded, and slammed sideways into a lamppost.
‘Amateurs!’ Mary raised her gears again and powered on. ‘There might be more ahead though. It depends how many were diverted to the High Street.’ She overtook a BMW, flicked on her lights to make the driver think she was braking and laughed when he dropped behind. ‘That’s another obstacle for the police.’
‘Well done, Mary,’ Bryan approved.
Stefan glanced at his watch. ‘How are we for time?’
Irene glanced upward, hoping that Patrick was there with the helicopter. She thought of the man Bryan had shot, and of Desmond lying in his own blood, and of the casualties the CS gas had caused. She had not intended such hurt. She had not realised the pain and suffering that her idea would cause. Shaking her head, she looked down at the gaudy crown that squeezed in the space between the back and front seats, and the sceptre that she unconsciously gripped in her hand. These trinkets were her tickets to power but she no longer knew if the price justified the prize.
Ignoring red traffic signals, Mary eased around slower moving traffic, weaving around a toiling cyclist. ‘Nearly there.’ She laughed again as a solitary police car emerged from a side street just behind them. Irene shuddered at the wail of sirens and sunk lower in her seat.
Mary shook her head. ‘Don’t they realize that sitting behind me is useless? I won’t go any slower and people in front just clear out of the road quicker.’
There was a build up of traffic ahead, but Mary jinked around the congestion like the superb driver that she was. Turning left at the Commonwealth Pool, she circled both roundabouts and slammed through the entrance to the Queen’s Park.
‘He’s not here! Jesus and Mary, he’s not here!’ Bryan stared beyond the red crags of Salisbury, scanning the sky. ‘The police will be with us in a minute.’
‘Calm down.’ Mary’s voice was sharp. ‘Paddy won’t let us down.’ Heading left, she veered off the road onto the wide stretch of grass. ‘He’ll be here.’
Putting a hand over her face, Irene glanced backward. The police car had negotiated the roundabout but had had been halted by a slow moving bus.
‘There he is.’ Stefan gestured upward just as Irene became aware of the slightly sinister beat of a helicopter rotor.
Mary pushed the Cherokee into a wide curve, waited until the helicopter hovered above them, and then braked. ‘All out, and don’t forget the crown jewels.’
‘Never travel without them,’ Bryan assured her.
Irene felt her legs trembling as she nearly fell from the seat and staggered outside. The helicopter hovered above them, the downdraught from its rotors flattening the short grass and causing their coats to flap madly around their legs.
‘Oh look,’ Mary sounded terribly calm. ‘It’s not very large.’ She shrugged toward Irene, ‘I hope that we can all fit in.’
‘Of course we can,’ Irene snapped back. ‘Patrick worked out the passenger capacity months ago.’
The helicopter touched down smoothly, its blades rotating. The passenger door slid open and Patrick looked out. ‘Hurry! The bastards have put an air exclusion zone in place, there’s a police car coming into the park and army Landrovers driving from Holyrood!’
‘Oh Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Keeping low to avoid the rotor blades, Irene ran toward the helicopter. Mary was there first, laughing as Patrick pulled her on board. She eased into the seat at his side. Stefan waited by the door, shouting above the noise of the engine.
‘Come on Irene. I’ll hold that while you get on board.’
Nodding, Irene handed over the sceptre. She paused at the door. ‘This is not the same chopper!’
‘No!’ Patrick shook his head. ‘This is a much faster craft. Much smaller too. It only has space for two passengers.’
‘What? Irene stared as Bryan tossed the crown to Mary and eased on board.
‘Sorry, Irene, but there’s no room at the inn.’ Reaching into his pocket, Bryan pulled out a pistol and shot Stefan through the head. The Ukrainian fell without a sound.
‘No!’ Irene screamed the word.
‘I’ll get the sceptre,’ Bryan volunteered, but Patrick shook his head.
‘No time! The crown will do! It’s the best of the bunch anyway.’ When he looked round Patrick wore the familiar boyish grin that Irene knew so well. ‘Bye, Irene. I’ll think of you clawing ass in jail, you perverted bitch.’
‘Patrick!’ Irene reached forward, grabbing at the door of the helicopter, but Mary was quicker. She placed her foot against Irene’s chest and pushed hard. Irene screamed as she fell back, her fingers scrabbling uselessly.
Mary leaned out of the open door, grinning. ‘Paddy prefers a real woman to an arrogant child!’ Extending her fingers, she blew on her nails, mocking. ‘But don’t you fret, girl, I’ll treat him real good, better than you ever did!’
As the helicopter began to rise, Irene jumped up. Her fingers closed on the rounded steel lip of the doorframe. ‘You can’t leave me! Patrick! Please!’
‘Bye, Irene. Thanks for the crown.’ Mary placed her foot on Irene’s hand and exerted a little pressure. She leaned closer, ‘we’ll talk lots about you.’
‘No!’ Irene looked up, but Patrick was concentrating on the controls. Mary lifted her foot and stamped down hard.
As the pain lanced through her fingers, Irene jerked back her hand and felt a sickening second of nothingness as she fell the fifteen feet that the helicopter had risen since she had taken told of the doorframe. She yelled again at the immediate agony down her left side as she thumped on to the ground.
The churning throb of the helicopter receded into the distance, carrying off the Scottish crown and her dreams of success.
She lay on the short grass for a long moment, hearing her breath gasping in her lungs and waiting for the first thrust of pain to diminish. The temptation to remain down was very strong, but she knew that she had to rise, for she could hear oncoming police sirens. Pushing herself to her feet, Irene gasped at the sickening pain in her right hand and down her left side. She began to hobble backward until she kicked something soft and solid.
Stefan lay face up with a tiny hole between his eyes. There was an ugly patch of blood and a puddle of brains behind his head, and the sceptre lay just outside his outstretched fingers. For a second, Irene could only stare at the glittering item with the clear bauble on top, and then she stooped, scooped it up and stuffed it inside her coat. If she was going to prison, at least she could hold the damned thing that sent her there.
The sound of sirens increased and a car slithered onto the grass. A policewoman emerged, gesticulating at the crowd of onlookers that was gathering.
‘God,’ Irene glanced behind her. There was a stretch of smooth grass, and then a scattering of trees; while to her right were the scree slopes that led to the red crags of Salisbury.
‘You there! That woman!’
Irene heard the police moving toward her. She had no choice. She had to run. With the pain begging her to stop, she began to move through the crowd and toward the Crags.
‘There it is!’ A man pointed upward, where Patrick’s helicopter was a rapidly diminishing speck. ‘They shot that man and escaped! A woman tried to stop them but they pushed her out!’
‘Bastard! Bastards, bastards!’ Irene drew strength from her anger as she increased her speed. Intent on the helicopter, the crowd parted to allow her passage, and then closed again as a hundred faces concentrated on the free drama that she had provided. A small convoy of police cars rolled along the road that encircled the park, and a score of uniformed officers descended on Stefan’s body.
‘She was one of them!’ A small girl jabbed a finger toward Irene, but nobody listened to the accusations of a child.
Irene moved on, heading right, away from the mob. She contemplated the Radical Road that led around the Crags, but the slope was too steep and she limped on, with the noise gradually diminishing behind her. Holding the sceptre tight beneath her coat, she reached the smooth black tarmac of the road that encircled the Queen’s Park. Her dreams were shattered, Patrick had betrayed her and she was a stranded fugitive in a foreign country. When Irene closed her eyes she could only see the panicking crowd, children gasping for breath and an old woman with tears weeping from her swollen red eyes.
There were more sirens ahead, but a low iron railing to her right suggested sanctuary. She glanced over hopefully, but she could not have negotiated the steep cliff even when she was fully fit. She had no chance with her present injuries and the sirens were coming at speed. Sobbing with pain, Irene crossed the road, and angled back, up a short incline that led to the edge of the Crags. Keeping her head low, she forced herself to keep moving, fighting the weakness and the agony but grasping the sceptre as if it would repair all her ills.
This part of the park was unfamiliar and virtually empty of people. Sinking onto a shattered red rock, Irene looked for somewhere to hide. She sat in the rear of Salisbury Crags, where the ground declined in uneven undulations to a straight path and then rose again in the rougher slopes of Arthur’s Seat, the eight-hundred-foot high hill that dominated the eastern section of Edinburgh. There were a dozen people walking here, but none gave her more than a passing glance. Incongruous in the midst of a city, a rabbit jinked from cover and scurried upward among tangled undergrowth.
Moving uphill toward the rearmost lip of the Crags, Irene found an area of broken ground, screened by yellow gorse. She slumped down, swearing, dashed away tears of frustration and scanned her surroundings. The crags provided cover from any searching police, but she knew that any asylum was temporary. As soon as they learned that she had been thrown from Patrick’s helicopter, the police would scour the park. However, the confusion in the Royal Mile would keep them occupied for some time yet. Lying on her back, Irene closed her eyes.
She should be cruising over the Hebrides now, approaching the tiny pier at Bunnahabhain in Islay, where her chartered yacht was waiting. Within the hour she would have been out in the Atlantic, heading west. Instead she was cowering in a gouge in the ground, grasping only one third of the treasures that she planned to take to Ms Manning. Irene glanced at her watch. It had been just after two when Desmond triggered the first of the smoke bombs. Now it was nearly four. What had happened to the time? She lay back, fighting the nausea of tension, CS gas and fear. The memory of Desmond’s death was so vivid that she had to think about something else, she had to use her analytical brain to get out of this mess.
There were three questions. How could she get away from Edinburgh, how could she reach safety and should she still hand the sceptre to Ms Manning?
The first question was more immediate. The city was already crammed with police and security. They could hardly fit any more in, but most would concentrate on the safety of the heads of state. What remained would pursue the trail of the thieves. Once the police heard what had happened, they would expect her to run out of the city as quickly as she could. The best answer then, was to remain in Edinburgh, perhaps even as herself. Dispose of Amanda and recreate Irene Armstrong.
That answer helped the second question. If she kept her nerve, she could use her own passport to return to the USA. With her original plans in disarray, she could not yet think how to carry the sceptre.
The third question was more awkward. With the worldwide publicity that this day would create, Ms Manning might be reluctant to accept the stolen sceptre, however valuable it was. At present she could do nothing to alter that, so she must concentrate on the first two points. She was an intelligent, logical woman; she could think her way clear of this situation.
Taking a deep breath, Irene viewed her situation rationally. Despite the smoke, CCTV cameras would have caught her image, but the wig and dark glasses should have provided a disguise. Now she had to lose them, together with her outer clothing, so she was not immediately recognisable. After that she could plan her next move.
Removing the wig, Irene stuffed it inside the pocket of her coat, which she took off, reversed and draped over her shoulder. The sceptre was a larger problem. It was longer than she had thought, and bulged awkwardly around the crystal ball. Lacking any choice, Irene stuffed the lowest part into the waistband of her jeans and thrust the upper half under her loose tee shirt. It felt extremely uncomfortable, but there was little else she could do. Standing up, she hobbled downward, toward the rough track.
With every step, the shaft of the sceptre scraped against her leg and ribs, but Edinburgh in summer was used to eccentrics. She was just another tourist among thousands. When the track merged with the road that encircled the park, Irene turned right, away from the Royal Mile. She could hear the continual scream of sirens, while the air still held the sting of CS gas.
Irene checked her watch again. Nearly five in the evening and it was still full daylight. This far north, darkness would not come until well after ten, so she had no natural shield under which to shelter. Her choice now was stark; either she walked out of the park in full view of the police, or waited for night. She glanced ahead, seeing a small loch to the right, beside which a group of mothers-and-children fed a horde of ducks, uncaring of the drama that had happened only a few hours ago. Beyond the loch was a road junction, with two police cars, lights flashing, and a group of dark uniformed officers.
Irene turned to the loch, lifted a piece of discarded bread and pretended to join the happy feeders. She could feel the frantic hammer of her heart and hoped that she did not look conspicuous.
‘It’s a lovely day,’ she said to the nearest of the young mothers.
‘Certainly is,’ the woman replied. ‘Big trouble in town though.’ She looked about seventeen; far too young to be responsible for the child that stood at her knee, and the second that wriggled in the pram she rocked back and forth.
‘Oh? I wondered why there were so many police. What happened?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Somebody attacked the Queen, I think. Something like that. They’re closing off all the park exits anyway.’
Irene looked up. The police were speaking with a small group of men. ‘So I see. Was anybody hurt?’
‘Don’t know.’ The woman shrugged. ‘Anyway, I’d better be off. I’m on night shift.’ She gave Irene a small, frightened, smile. ‘Are you all right? You’re bleeding.’
Irene raised her left hand, for her right was throbbing painfully. For the first time she felt the dried blood and mud on her face where she had fallen from the helicopter. ‘I had a bit of a fall,’ she explained. If this busy young mother had noticed, then so would the police at the park entrance. Forcing a smile, Irene waited until the woman wheeled away her pram before she began to walk slowly back toward the park. She would have to wait until night before trying again.
Standing on a prominent knoll, the ruin of an ancient building overlooked the loch. It might have been important at one time, but now consisted of a stone shell with only three walls and no roof. Irene struggled up the slope, stopping to nurse her ribs or her leg every few steps, and collapsed thankfully into the angle of two of the walls. Now she had shelter and a viewpoint. The sceptre was hard and warm against her body so she slipped it free and placed it at her side.
Perhaps it was the strain of the previous few hours, but she suddenly felt very tired. As she closed her eyes, images from the day burst into her mind. She saw Desmond being bayoneted; yellow smoke slithering between the Canongate tenements; the retching casualties in Holyrood Road, Mary’s sneer as she stamped on her hand, Patrick’s taunting face as he left her behind.
Irene woke with a start, aware that she was shivering and in a very unfamiliar place. She looked around, seeing utter blackness in one direction and the glow of streetlights in another. Something splashed coldly in the loch beneath. She checked her watch. It was two in the morning, with stars pricking the sky and the breeze moaning through the gaps of her ruin.
Where could she go? Not back to the hotel, for if she had been identified the police would be waiting for her. Where then? For a second she thought about approaching the United States Consulate, but dismissed the idea immediately.
The memory of Drew’s calm presence came to her. Drew. Although she hardly knew him, something instinctively told her that he would provide sanctuary. Drew would know what to do. Irene shivered and straightened her legs, gasping at the renewed pain in her side and the constant throbbing of her knuckles. Lifting her coat, she held it tight in her left hand as she replaced the sceptre under her clothes, flinching when the cold metal touched her skin. Her injuries had stiffened while she slept so the descent from the ruin to the loch was jolting agony.
Guessing that there would still be police at the main entrances to the park, Irene reluctantly turned away from the orange glow of Edinburgh and headed into the darkness. After ten stumbling minutes, she came to the tarmac road, crossed quickly and slipped down a slope of grass. She fell, stifling her moans as the sceptre scraped against her side, and slammed against a stone wall.
Lying still until the waves of pain subsided, Irene rolled away as headlights gleamed on the road. A police car grumbled past, its blue lights flashing a warning. Fear forced her to her feet and she pulled herself over the wall, feeling the rough stone rasp against her ribs, renewing yesterday’s pain.
There was a short drop on the opposite side, and a piece of mercifully soft ground on which to land. Irene shuddered as she saw an array of windows, some dark, some lit. She was in what appeared to be a communal back yard, with a smooth lawn and a garden shed. Voices murmured above her, and somebody laughed. She lay still as a figure appeared at one of the illuminated windows and a man peered outside.
As soon as he ducked back again, Irene ran forward, tripped and stumbled down an unlit flight of steps. She landed with a clatter, bit her lip to kill her yell and remained still in case somebody came to investigate. Somewhere in the night, a cat yowled. After a few minutes she rose, whimpering.
A doorway gaped before her, and Irene stumbled forward until she emerged from the dimness of a passageway into the orange glow of street lamps. She staggered onward, passing dark tenements and dingy basements, rows of parked cars and small clusters of graffiti-garnished shops. There was a main road ahead, with traffic lights and what was obviously a sporting stadium.
Irene hesitated for a second and turned left, holding the sceptre close to her body and moving as quickly as she could. Her watch told her that it was four in the morning but already the light was strengthening, and people were on the move. A red Royal Mail van hummed past, then a double-decker bus.
‘Where the hell am I?’ Irene wondered.
It was another hour before Irene came to a part of the city that she recognised, weaving around the orderly streets of the New Town with their end-to-end parked cars and identical cliffs of buildings. Her feet were sore, her ribs ached constantly, but she had to keep moving. She had to reach Drew. He would help her.
The hill sloped abruptly downward, its opening nearly hidden in the half-light of morning. The street was narrow, nearly mediaeval in its crooked descent but Irene paused only briefly, frantic to reach shelter before full daylight revealed her to the remorseless stares of Edinburgh’s godly. Limping, she held onto the iron rail that ran down one wall, and allowed her feet to follow the uneven pavement. Drew’s apartment was down here, but so much had happened since last she saw him last; it was hard to believe that only a few days had passed.
She had to reach Drew. He would help her.
The fairy-tale towers of the Dean Village seemed to exude mystery. Irene stood outside, staring upward; she knew that Drew lived on the top floor of one of those buildings, for he had mentioned the views, but she did not know exactly where. She had to reach him. He would help her. But not if he found out that she was a thief. Irene felt the sceptre pressing against her side. She must hide it somewhere, so that Drew would never know.
She looked around frantically, searching for a suitable hiding place, swearing in a low monotone that alarmed a passing teenager. She gave a parody of her most charming smile and the girl hurried on, looking over her shoulder.
‘She must think that I’m a junkie,’ Irene told herself, and recognised her immediate laughter as hysteria. ‘Oh shit, how did I get into this mess?’
The sound of leaves rustling in the wind inspired her to duck to the walkway beside the Water of Leith. Birdcall and whispering water soothed her nerves, but desperation drove her over the iron railing that separated the path from the riverbank. She sobbed as her feet sunk into the hole- pitted earth of the banking, until she realised that the inconvenience was a muddy blessing. It was the work of a moment to wrap the sceptre in her coat and thrust it deep into one of the holes, and another minute to conceal her handiwork with a tangle of bracken. Barely noticing the sting of nettles, Irene hauled herself back onto the path. She waited until the pain in her ribs subsided, and then returned to the street.
It was lighter now, full daylight by half past five, and she still had to find Drew. Each building in the courtyard had its own entrance, and with no names displayed on the ground floor, and no commissionaire to give friendly guidance, Irene had to labour up each stone stairway to the top flat. There were four towers, each five stories high, and two doors on each flat. The first two doors had no names at all, so she noted their position and hoped that she would not have to return.
She struggled on, repeating the same phrase, as if it were mantra of divine protection. ‘Drew. I must find Drew.’
‘Are you going to the top?’ The papergirl was blonde haired and young, with sharp eyes and piercings through each eyebrow.
‘I’m looking for Drew. Drew Drummond?’ Irene hid in the shadows to try and hide her appearance.
‘Aye, top floor. That’s what I said.’ The girl sighed, as if she was granting a major favour in speaking to Irene. She handed her a small pile of newspapers. ‘You can take this with you. Save me the bother, ken?’
Irene accepted the newspapers, thankful that she had at last found Drew’s apartment. She climbed slowly, with every muscle in her body screaming. Working in a penthouse office with a brass-mirrored elevator and a smart commissionaire to push the buttons had not prepared her for this type of exertion.
The name was bold and plain across the door. Andrew Drummond. Irene nearly sobbed with relief as she knocked. When the door opened she fell inside, sobbing.
‘Drew. Drew, you must help me.’