VAL McDERMID
A
Darker
Domain

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the memory of Meg and Tom McCall, my maternal grandparents. They showed me love, they taught me about community, and they never forgot the shame of standing in line at a soup kitchen to feed their bairns. Thanks to them, I grew up loving the sea, the woods and the work of Agatha Christie. No small debt.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Wednesday 23rd January 1985; Newton of Wemyss

Wednesday 27th June 2007; Glenrothes

Tuesday 19th June 2007; Edinburgh

Wednesday 27th June 2007; Glenrothes

Thursday 21st June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

Wednesday 27th June 2007; Glenrothes

Monday 25th June 2007; Edinburgh

Wednesday 27th June 2007; Glenrothes

Thursday 28th June 2007; Edinburgh

Monday 18th June 2007; Campora, Tuscany, Italy.

Thursday 28th June 2007; Edinburgh

Thursday 28th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

Friday 14th December 1984; Newton of Wemyss

Thursday 28th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

Friday 14th December 1984; Newton of Wemyss

Thursday 28th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

Saturday 15th December 1984; Newton of Wemyss

Thursday 28th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

Glenrothes

Rotheswell Castle

Wednesday 13th December 1978; Rotheswell Castle

Thursday 28th June 2007; Rotheswell Castle

Glenrothes

Kirkcaldy

Sunday 2nd December 1984; Wemyss Woods

Thursday 28th June 2007; Kirkcaldy

Friday 29th June 2007; Nottingham

Friday 14th December 1984

Friday 29th June 2007

Rotheswell Castle

Saturday 19th January 1985

Dysart, Fife

Friday 29th June 2007; Rotheswell Castle

Nottingham

Thursday 30th November 1984; Dysart

Friday 29th June 2007; Glenrothes

Saturday 30th June 2007; East Wemyss

Newton of Wemyss

Kirkcaldy

Rotheswell Castle

Monday 21st January 1985; Rotheswell Castle

Saturday 30th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

Friday 23rd January 1987; Eilean Dearg

Saturday 30th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

Wednesday 23rd January 1985; Rotheswell Castle

Saturday 30th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

Sunday 1st July 2007; East Wemyss

Monday 2nd July 2007; Glenrothes

Campora, Tuscany

Peterhead, Scotland

Monday 21st January 1985; Kirkcaldy

Monday 2nd July 2007; Peterhead

Wednesday 23rd January 1985; Newton of Wemyss

Monday 2nd July 2007; Peterhead

Campora, Tuscany

East Wemyss, Fife

Campora, Tuscany

Kirkcaldy

Boscolata

East Wemyss

Tuesday 3rd July 2007; Glenrothes

San Gimignano

Coaltown of Wemyss

San Gimignano

Edinburgh

Campora

Wednesday 4th July 2007; East Wemyss

Rotheswell Castle

Glenrothes

Hoxton, London

Dundee

Siena

Glenrothes

Edinburgh Airport to Rotheswell Castle

Thursday 5th July 2007; Kirkcaldy

Sunday 14th August 1983; Newton of Wemyss

Thursday, 5th July 2007

Glenrothes

Rotheswell Castle

Kirkcaldy

Celadoria, near Greve in Chianti

Thursday 26th April 2007; Villa Totti, Tuscany

Thursday 5th July 2007; Celadoria, near Greve in Chianti

Kirkcaldy

Boscolata, Tuscany

Friday 6th July 2007; Kirkcaldy

A1, Firenze-Milano

Rotheswell Castle

Friday 13th July 2007; Glenrothes

Wednesday 18th July 2007

Thursday 19th July 2007; Newton of Wemyss

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008

Copyright © Val McDermid 2008

Val McDermid asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007243297

Ebook edition © SEPTEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007287451

Version: 2019-10-10

Wednesday 23rd January 1985; Newton of Wemyss

The voice is soft, like the darkness that encloses them. ‘You ready?’

‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

‘You’ve told her what to do?’ Words tumbling now, tripping over each other, a single stumble of sounds.

‘Don’t worry. She knows what’s what. She’s under no illusions about who’s going to carry the can if this goes wrong.’ Sharp words, sharp tone. ‘She’s not the one I’m worrying about.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Nothing. It means nothing, all right? We’ve no choices. Not here. Not now. We just do what has to be done.’ The words have the hollow ring of bravado. It’s anybody’s guess what they’re hiding. ‘Come on, let’s get it done with.’

This is how it begins.

Wednesday 27th June 2007; Glenrothes

The young woman strode across the foyer, low heels striking a rhythmic tattoo on vinyl flooring dulled by the passage of thousands of feet. She looked like someone on a mission, the civilian clerk thought as she approached his desk. But then, most of them did. The crime prevention and public information posters that lined the walls were invariably wasted on them as they approached, lost in the slipstream of their determination.

She bore down on him, her mouth set in a firm line. Not bad looking, he thought. But like a lot of the women who pitched up here, she wasn’t exactly looking her best. She could have done with a bit more make-up, to make the most of those sparky blue eyes. And something more flattering than jeans and a hoodie. Dave Cruickshank assumed his fixed professional smile. ‘How can I help you?’ he said.

The woman tilted her head back slightly, as if readying herself for defence. ‘I want to report a missing person.’

Dave tried not to show his weary irritation. If it wasn’t neighbours from hell, it was so-called missing persons. This one was too calm for it to be a missing toddler, too young for it to be a runaway teenager. A row with the boyfriend, that’s what it would be. Or a senile granddad on the lam. The usual bloody waste of time. He dragged a pad of forms across the counter, squaring it in front of him and reaching for a pen. He kept the cap on; there was one key question he needed answered before he’d be taking down any details. ‘And how long has this person been missing?’

‘Twenty-two and a half years. Since Friday the fourteenth of December 1984, to be precise.’ Her chin came down and truculence clouded her features. ‘Is that long enough for you to take it seriously?’

Detective Sergeant Phil Parhatka watched the end of the video clip then closed the window. ‘I tell you,’ he said, ‘if ever there was a great time to be in cold cases, this is it.’

Detective Inspector Karen Pirie barely raised her eyes from the file she was updating. ‘How?’

‘Stands to reason. We’re in the middle of the war on terror. And I’ve just watched my local MP taking possession of 10 Downing Street with his missus.’ He jumped up and crossed to the mini-fridge perched on top of a filing cabinet. ‘What would you rather be doing? Solving cold cases and getting good publicity for it, or trying to make sure the muzzers dinnae blow a hole in the middle of our patch?’

‘You think Gordon Brown becoming Prime Minister makes Fife a target?’ Karen marked her place in the document with her index finger and gave Phil her full attention. It dawned on her that for too long she’d had her head too far in the past to weigh up present possibilities. ‘They never bothered with Tony Blair’s constituency when he was in charge.’

‘Very true.’ Phil peered into the fridge, deliberating between an Irn Bru and a Vimto. Thirty-four years old and still he couldn’t wean himself off the soft drinks that had been treats in childhood. ‘But these guys call themselves Islamic jihadists and Gordon’s a son of the manse. I wouldn’t want to be in the Chief Constable’s shoes if they decide to make a point by blowing up his dad’s old kirk.’ He chose the Vimto. Karen shuddered.

‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,’ she said. ‘Have you never noticed it’s an anagram of vomit?’

Phil took a long pull on his way back to his desk. ‘Puts hairs on your chest,’ he said.

‘Better make it two cans, then.’ There was an edge of envy in Karen’s voice. Phil seemed to live on sugary drinks and saturated fats but he was still as compact and wiry as he’d been when they were rookies together. She just had to look at a fully leaded Coke to feel herself gaining inches. It definitely wasn’t fair.

Phil narrowed his dark eyes and curled his lip in a good-natured sneer. ‘Whatever. The silver lining is that maybe the boss can screw some more money out of the government if he can persuade them there’s an increased threat.’

Karen shook her head, on solid ground now. ‘You think that famous moral compass would let Gordon steer his way towards anything that looked that self-serving?’ As she spoke, she reached for the phone that had just begun to ring. There were other, more junior officers in the big squad room that housed the Cold Case Review Team, but promotion hadn’t altered Karen’s ways. She’d never got out of the habit of answering any phone that rang in her vicinity. ‘CCRT, DI Pirie speaking,’ she said absently, still turning over what Phil had said, wondering if, deep down, he had a hankering to be where the live action was.

‘Dave Cruickshank on the front counter, Inspector. I’ve got somebody here, I think she needs to talk to you.’ Cruickshank sounded unsure of himself. That was unusual enough to grab Karen’s attention.

‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s a missing person,’ he said.

‘Is it one of ours?’

‘No, she wants to report a missing person.’

Karen suppressed an irritated exhalation. Cruickshank really should know better by now. He’d been on the front desk long enough. ‘So she needs to talk to CID, Dave.’

‘Well, yeah. Normally, that would be my first port of call. But see, this is a bit out of the usual run of things. Which is why I thought it would be better to run it past you, see?’

Get to the point. ‘We’re cold cases, Dave. We don’t process fresh inquiries.’ Karen rolled her eyes at Phil, smirking at her obvious frustration.

‘It’s not exactly fresh, Inspector. This guy went missing twenty-two years ago.’

Karen straightened up in her chair. ‘Twenty-two years ago? And they’ve only just got round to reporting it?’

‘That’s right. So does that make it cold, or what?’

Technically, Karen knew Cruickshank should refer the woman to CID. But she’d always been a sucker for anything that made people shake their heads in bemused disbelief. Long shots were what got her juices flowing. Following that instinct had brought her two promotions in three years, leapfrogging peers and making colleagues uneasy. ‘Send her up, Dave. I’ll have a word with her.’

She replaced the phone and pushed back from the desk. ‘Why the fuck would you wait twenty-two years to report a missing person?’ she said, more to herself than to Phil as she raided her desk for a fresh notebook and a pen.

Phil thrust his lips out like an expensive carp. ‘Maybe she’s been out of the country. Maybe she only just came back and found out this person isn’t where she thought they were.’

‘And maybe she needs us so she can get a declaration of death. Money, Phil. What it usually comes down to.’ Karen’s smile was wry. It seemed to hang in the air in her wake as if she were the Cheshire Cat. She bustled out of the squad room and headed for the lifts.

Her practised eye catalogued and classified the woman who emerged from the lift without a shred of diffidence visible. Jeans and fake-athletic hoodie from Gap. This season’s cut and colours. The shoes were leather, clean and free from scuffs, the same colour as the bag that swung from her shoulder over one hip. Her mid-brown hair was well cut in a long bob just starting to get a bit ragged along the edges. Not a doleite, then. Probably not a schemie. A nice, middle-class woman with something on her mind. Mid to late twenties, blue eyes with the pale sparkle of topaz. The barest skim of make-up. Either she wasn’t trying or she already had a husband. The skin round her eyes tightened as she caught Karen’s appraisal.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Pirie,’ she said, cutting through the potential stand-off of two women weighing each other up. ‘Karen Pirie.’ She wondered what the other woman made of her - a wee fat woman crammed into a Marks and Spencer suit, mid-brown hair needing a visit to the hairdresser, might be pretty if you could see the definition of her bones under the flesh. When Karen described herself thus to her mates, they would laugh, tell her she was gorgeous, make out she was suffering from low self-esteem. She didn’t think so. She had a reasonably good opinion of herself. But when she looked in the mirror, she couldn’t deny what she saw. Nice eyes, though. Blue with streaks of hazel. Unusual.

Whether it was what she saw or what she heard, the woman seemed reassured. ‘Thank goodness for that,’ she said. The Fife accent was clear, though the edges had been ground down either by education or absence.

‘I’m sorry?’

The woman smiled, revealing small, regular teeth like a child’s first set. ‘It means you’re taking me seriously. Not fobbing me off with the junior officer who makes the tea.’

‘I don’t let my junior officers waste their time making tea,’ Karen said drily. ‘I just happened to be the one who answered the phone.’ She half-turned, looked back and said, ‘If you’ll come with me?’

Karen led the way down a side corridor to a small room. A long window gave on to the car park and, in the distance, the artificially uniform green of the golf course. Four chairs upholstered in institutional grey tweed were drawn up to a round table, its cheerful cherry wood polished to a dull sheen. The only indicator of its function was the gallery of framed photographs on the wall, all shots of police officers in action. Every time she used this room, Karen wondered why the brass had chosen the sort of photos that generally appeared in the media after something very bad had happened.

The woman looked around her uncertainly as Karen pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit down. ‘It’s not like this on the telly,’ she said.

‘Not much about Fife Constabulary is,’ Karen said, sitting down so that she was at ninety degrees to the woman rather than directly opposite her. The less confrontational position was usually the most productive for a witness interview.

‘Where’s the tape recorders?’ The woman sat down, not pulling her chair any closer to the table and hugging her bag in her lap.

Karen smiled. ‘You’re confusing a witness interview with a suspect interview. You’re here to report something, not to be questioned about a crime. So you get to sit on a comfy chair and look out the window.’ She flipped open her pad. ‘I believe you’re here to report a missing person?’

‘That’s right. His name’s -’

‘Just a minute. I need you to back up a wee bit. For starters, what’s your name?’

‘Michelle Gibson. That’s my married name. Prentice, that’s my own name. Everybody calls me Misha, though.’

‘Right you are, Misha. I also need your address and phone number.’

Misha rattled out details. ‘That’s my mum’s address. I’m sort of acting on her behalf, if you see what I mean?’

Karen recognized the village, though not the street. Started out as one of the hamlets built by the local laird for his coal miners when the workers were as much his as the mines themselves. Ended up as commuterville for strangers with no links to the place or the past. ‘All the same,’ she said, ‘I need your details too.’

Misha’s brows lowered momentarily, then she gave an address in Edinburgh. It meant nothing to Karen, whose knowledge of the social geography of the capital, a mere thirty miles away, was parochially scant. ‘And you want to report a missing person,’ she said.

Misha gave a sharp sniff and nodded. ‘My dad. Mick Prentice. Well, Michael, really, if you want to be precise.’

‘And when did your dad go missing?’ This, thought Karen, was where it would get interesting. If it was ever going to get interesting.

‘Like I told the guy downstairs, twenty-two and a half years ago. Friday 14th December 1984 was the last time we saw him.’ Misha Gibson’s brows drew down in a defiant scowl.

‘It’s kind of a long time to wait to report someone missing,’ Karen said.

Misha sighed and turned her head so she could look out of the window. ‘We didn’t think he was missing. Not as such.’

‘I’m not with you. What do you mean, “not as such”?’

Misha turned back and met Karen’s steady gaze. ‘You sound like you’re from round here.’

Wondering where this was going, Karen said. ‘I grew up in Methil.’

‘Right. So, no disrespect, but you’re old enough to remember what was going on in 1984.’

‘The miners’ strike?’

Misha nodded. Her chin stayed high, her stare defiant. ‘I grew up in Newton of Wemyss. My dad was a miner. Before the strike, he worked down the Lady Charlotte. You’ll mind what folk used to say round here - that nobody was more militant than the Lady Charlotte pitmen. Even so, there was one night in December, nine months into the strike, when half a dozen of them disappeared. Well, I say disappeared, but everybody knew the truth. That they’d gone to Nottingham to join the blacklegs.’ Her face bunched in a tight frown, as if she was struggling with some physical pain. ‘Five of them, nobody was too surprised that they went scabbing. But according to my mum, everybody was stunned that my dad had joined them. Including her.’ She gave Karen a look of pleading. ‘I was too wee to remember. But everybody says he was a union man through and through. The last guy you’d expect to turn blackleg.’ She shook her head. ‘Still, what else was she supposed to think?’

Karen understood only too well what such a defection must have meant to Misha and her mother. In the radical Fife coalfield, sympathy was reserved for those who toughed it out. Mick Prentice’s action would have granted his family instant pariah status. ‘It can’t have been easy for your mum,’ she said.

‘In one sense, it was dead easy,’ Misha said bitterly. ‘As far as she was concerned, that was it. He was dead to her. She wanted nothing more to do with him. He sent money, but she donated it to the hardship fund. Later, when the strike was over, she handed it over to the Miners’ Welfare. I grew up in a house where my father’s name was never spoken.’

Karen felt a lump in her chest, somewhere between sympathy and pity. ‘He never got in touch?’

‘Just the money. Always in used notes. Always with a Nottingham postmark.’

‘Misha, I don’t want to come across like a bitch here, but it doesn’t sound to me like your dad’s a missing person.’ Karen tried to make her voice as gentle as possible.

‘I didn’t think so either. Till I went looking for him. Take it from me, Inspector. He’s not where he’s supposed to be. He never was. And I need him found.’

The naked desperation in Misha’s voice caught Karen by surprise. To her, that was more interesting than Mick Prentice’s whereabouts. ‘How come?’ she said.

Tuesday 19th June 2007; Edinburgh

It had never occurred to Misha Gibson to count the number of times she’d emerged from the Sick Kids’ with a sense of outrage that the world continued on its way in spite of what was happening inside the hospital behind her. She’d never thought to count because she’d never allowed herself to believe it might be for the last time. Ever since the doctors had explained the reason for Luke’s misshapen thumbs and the scatter of café-au-lait spots across his narrow back, she had nailed herself to the conviction that somehow she would help her son dodge the bullet his genes had aimed at his life expectancy. Now it looked as if that conviction had finally been tested to destruction.

Misha stood uncertain for a moment, resenting the sunshine, wanting weather as bleak as her mood. She wasn’t ready to go home yet. She wanted to scream and throw things and an empty flat would tempt her to lose control and do just that. John wouldn’t be home to hold her or to hold her back; he’d known about her meeting with the consultant so of course work would have thrown up something insurmountable that only he could deal with.

Instead of heading up through Marchmont to their sandstone tenement, Misha cut across the busy road to the Meadows, the green lung of the southern city centre where she loved to walk with Luke. Once, when she’d looked at their street on Google Earth, she’d checked out the Meadows too. From space, it looked like a rugby ball fringed with trees, the criss-cross paths like laces holding the ball together. She’d smiled at the thought of her and Luke scrambling over the surface like ants. Today, there were no smiles to console Misha. Today, she had to face the fact that she might never walk here with Luke again.

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the maudlin thoughts. Coffee, that’s what she needed to gather her thoughts and get things into proportion. A brisk walk across the Meadows, then down to George IV Bridge, where every shop front was a bar, a café or a restaurant these days.

Ten minutes later, Misha was tucked into a corner booth, a comforting mug of latte in front of her. It wasn’t the end of the line. It couldn’t be the end of the line. She wouldn’t let it be the end of the line. There had to be some way to give Luke another chance.

She’d known something was wrong from the first moment she’d held him. Even dazed by drugs and drained by labour, she’d known. John had been in denial, refusing to set any store by their son’s low birth weight and those stumpy little thumbs. But fear had clamped its cold certainty on Misha’s heart. Luke was different. The only question in her mind had been how different.

The sole aspect of the situation that felt remotely like luck was that they were living in Edinburgh, a ten-minute walk from the Royal Hospital for Sick Children, an institution that regularly appeared in the ‘miracle’ stories beloved of the tabloids. It didn’t take long for the specialists at the Sick Kids’ to identify the problem. Nor to explain that there would be no miracles here.

Fanconi Anaemia. If you said it fast, it sounded like an Italian tenor or a Tuscan hill town. But the charming musicality of the words disguised their lethal message. Lurking in the DNA of both Luke’s parents were recessive genes that had combined to create a rare condition that would condemn their son to a short and painful life. At some point between the ages of three and twelve, he was almost certain to develop aplastic anaemia, a breakdown of the bone marrow that would ultimately kill him unless a suitable donor could be found. The stark verdict was that without a successful bone marrow transplant, Luke would be lucky to make it into his twenties.

That information had given her a mission. She soon learned that, without siblings, Luke’s best chance of a viable bone marrow transplant would come from a family member - what the doctors called a mismatched related transplant. At first, this had confused Misha. She’d read about bone marrow transplant registers and assumed their best hope was to find a perfect match there. But according to the consultant, a donation from a mismatched family member who shared some of Luke’s genes had a lower risk of complications than a perfect match from a donor who wasn’t part of their extended kith and kin.

Since then, Misha had been wading through the gene pool on both sides of the family, using persuasion, emotional blackmail and even the offer of reward on distant cousins and elderly aunts. It had taken time, since it had been a solo mission. John had walled himself up behind a barrier of unrealistic optimism. There would be a medical breakthrough in stem cell research. Some doctor somewhere would discover a treatment whose success didn’t rely on shared genes. A perfectly matched donor would turn up on a register somewhere. John collected good stories and happy endings. He trawled the internet for cases that had proved the doctors wrong. He came up with medical miracles and apparently inexplicable cures on a weekly basis. And he drew his hope from this. He couldn’t see the point of Misha’s constant pursuit. He knew somehow it would be all right. His capacity for denial was Olympic.

It made her want to kill him.

Instead, she’d continued to clamber through the branches of their family trees in search of the perfect candidate. She’d come to her final dead end only a week or so before today’s terrible judgement. There was only one possibility left. And it was the one possibility she had prayed she wouldn’t have to consider.

Before her thoughts could go any further down that particular path, a shadow fell over her. She looked up, ready to be sharp with whoever wanted to intrude on her. ‘John,’ she said wearily.

‘I thought I’d find you hereabouts. This is the third place I tried,’ he said, sliding into the booth, awkwardly shunting himself round till he was at right angles to her, close enough to touch if either of them had a mind to.

‘I wasn’t ready to face an empty flat.’

‘No, I can see that. What did they have to say?’ His craggy face screwed up in anxiety. Not, she thought, over the consultant’s verdict. He still believed his precious son was somehow invincible. What made John anxious was her reaction.

She reached for his hand, wanting contact as much as consolation. ‘It’s time. Six months tops without the transplant.’ Her voice sounded cold even to her. But she couldn’t afford warmth. Warmth would melt her frozen state and this wasn’t the place for an outpouring of grief or love.

John clasped her fingers tight inside his. ‘It’s maybe not too late,’ he said. ‘Maybe they’ll -’

‘Please, John. Not now.’

His shoulders squared inside his suit jacket, his body tensing as he held his dissent close. ‘So,’ he said, an outbreath that was more sigh than anything else. ‘I suppose that means you’re going looking for the bastard?’

Wednesday 27th June 2007; Glenrothes

Karen scratched her head with her pen. Why do I get all the good ones? ‘Why did you leave it so long to try to trace your father?’

She caught a fleeting expression of irritation round Misha’s mouth and eyes. ‘Because I’d been brought up thinking my father was a selfish blackleg bastard. What he did cast my mother adrift from her own community. It got me bullied in the play park and at school. I didn’t think a man who dumped his family in the shit like that would be bothered about his grandson.’

‘He sent money,’ Karen said.

‘A few quid here, a few quid there. Blood money,’ Misha said. ‘Like I said, my mum wouldn’t touch it. She gave it away. I never saw the benefit of it.’

‘Maybe he tried to make it up to your mum. Parents don’t always tell us the uncomfortable truths.’

Misha shook her head. ‘You don’t know my mum. Even with Luke’s life at stake, she wasn’t comfortable with me trying to track down my dad.’

To Karen, it seemed a thin reason for avoiding a man who might provide the key to a boy’s future. But she knew how deep feelings ran in the old mining communities, so she let it lie. ‘You say he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. What happened when you went looking for him?’

Thursday 21st June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

Jenny Prentice pulled a bag of potatoes out of the vegetable rack and set about peeling them, her body bowed over the sink, her back turned to her daughter. Misha’s question hung unanswered between them, reminding them both of the barrier her father’s absence had put between them from the beginning. Misha tried again. ‘I said -’

‘I heard you fine. There’s nothing the matter with my hearing,’ Jenny said. ‘And the answer is, I’ve no bloody idea. How would I know where to start looking for that selfish scabbing sack of shite? We’ve managed fine without him the last twenty-two years. There’s been no cause to go looking for him.’

‘Well, there’s cause now.’ Misha stared at her mother’s rounded shoulders. The weak light that spilled in through the small kitchen window accentuated the silver in her undyed hair. She was barely fifty, but she seemed to have bypassed middle age, heading straight for the vulnerable stoop of the little old lady. It was as if she’d known this attack would arrive one day and had chosen to defend herself by becoming piteous.

‘He’ll not help,’ Jenny scoffed. ‘He showed what he thought of us when he left us to face the music. He was always out for number one.’

‘Maybe so. But I’ve still got to try for Luke’s sake,’ Misha said. ‘Was there never a return address on the envelopes the money came in?’

Jenny cut a peeled potato in half and dropped it in a pan of salted water. ‘No. He couldn’t even be bothered to put a wee letter in the envelope. Just a bundle of dirty notes, that’s all.’

‘What about the guys he went with?’

Jenny cast a quick contemptuous glance at Misha. ‘What about them? They don’t show their faces round here.’

‘But some of them have still got family here or in East Wemyss. Brothers, cousins. They might know something about my dad.’

Jenny shook her head firmly. ‘I’ve never heard tell of him since the day he walked out. Not a whisper, good or bad. The other men he went with, they were no friends of his. The only reason he took a lift with them was he had no money to make his own way south. He’ll have used them like he used us and then he’ll have gone his own sweet way once he got where he wanted to be.’ She dropped another potato in the pan and said without enthusiasm, ‘Are you staying for your dinner?’

‘No, I’ve got things to see to,’ Misha said, impatient at her mother’s refusal to take her quest seriously. ‘There must be somebody he’s kept in touch with. Who would he have talked to? Who would he have told what he was planning?’

Jenny straightened up and put the pan on the old-fashioned gas cooker. Misha and John offered to replace the chipped and battered stove every time they sat down to the production number that was Sunday dinner, but Jenny always refused with the air of frustrating martyrdom she brought to every offer of kindness. ‘You’re out of luck there too.’ She eased herself on to one of the two chairs that flanked the tiny table in the cramped kitchen. ‘He only had one real pal. Andy Kerr. He was a red-hot Commie, was Andy. I tell you, by 1984, there weren’t many still keeping the red flag flying, but Andy was one of them. He’d been a union official well before the strike. Him and your father, they’d been best pals since school.’ Her face softened for a moment and Misha could almost make out the young woman she’d been. ‘They were always up to something, those two.’

‘So where do I find this Andy Kerr?’ Misha sat down opposite her mother, her desire to be gone temporarily abandoned.

Her mother’s face twisted into a wry grimace. ‘Poor soul. If you can find Andy, you’ll be quite the detective.’ She leaned across and patted Misha’s hand. ‘He’s another one of your father’s victims.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Andy adored your father. He thought the sun shone out of his backside. Poor Andy. The strike put him under terrible pressure. He believed in the strike, he believed in the struggle. But it broke his heart to see the hardship his men were going through. He was on the edge of a nervous breakdown, and the local executive forced him to go on the sick not long before your father shot the craw. Nobody saw him after that. He lived out in the middle of nowhere, so nobody noticed he was away.’ She gave a long, weary sigh. ‘He sent a postcard to your dad from some place up north. But of course, he was blacklegging by then, so he never got it. Later, when Andy came back, he left a note for his sister, saying he couldn’t take any more. Killed himself, the poor soul.’

‘What’s that got to do with my dad?’ Misha demanded.

‘I always thought your dad going scabbing was the straw that broke the camel’s back.’ Jenny’s expression was pious shading into smug. ‘That was what drove Andy over the edge.’

‘You can’t know that.’ Misha pulled away in disgust.

‘I’m not the only one around here that thinks the same thing. If your father had confided in anybody, it would have been Andy. And that would have been one burden too many for that fragile wee soul. He took his own life, knowing that his one real friend had betrayed everything he stood for.’ On that melodramatic note, Jenny got to her feet and lifted a bag of carrots from the vegetable rack. It was clear she had shot her bolt on the subject of Mick Prentice.

Wednesday 27th June 2007; Glenrothes

Karen sneaked a look at her watch. Whatever fine qualities Misha Gibson might possess, brevity was not one of them. ‘So Andy Kerr turned out to be literally a dead end?’

‘My mother thinks so. But apparently they never found his body. Maybe he didn’t kill himself after all.’ Misha said.

‘They don’t always turn up,’ Karen said. ‘Sometimes the sea claims them. Or else the wilderness. There’s still a lot of empty space in this country.’ Resignation took possession of Misha’s face. She was, Karen thought, a woman inclined to believe what she was told. If anyone knew that, it would be her mother. Perhaps things weren’t quite as clear cut as Jenny Prentice wanted her daughter to think.

‘That’s true,’ Misha said. ‘And my mother did say that he left a note. Will the police still have the note?’

Karen shook her head. ‘I doubt it. If we ever had it, it will have been given back to his family.’

‘Would there not have been an inquest? Would they not have needed it for that?’

‘You mean a Fatal Accident Inquiry,’ Karen said. ‘Not without a body, no. If there’s a file at all, it’ll be a missing-person case.’

‘But he’s not missing. His sister had him declared dead. Their parents both died in the Zeebrugge ferry disaster, but apparently their dad had always refused to believe Andy was dead so he hadn’t changed his will to leave the house to the sister. She had to go to court to get Andy pronounced dead so she would inherit. That’s what my mother said, anyway.’ Not a flicker of doubt disturbed Misha’s expression.

Karen made a note, Andy Kerr’s sister, and added a little asterisk to it. ‘So if Andy killed himself, we’re back with scabbing as the only reasonable explanation of your dad’s disappearance. Have you made any attempts to contact the guys he’s supposed to have gone away with?’

Monday 25th June 2007; Edinburgh

Ten past nine on a Monday morning, and already Misha felt exhausted. She should be at the Sick Kids by now, focusing on Luke. Playing with him, reading to him, cajoling therapists into expanding their regimes, discussing treatment plans with medical staff, using all her energy to fill them with her conviction that her son could be saved. And if he could be saved, they all owed it to him to shovel every scrap of therapeutic intervention his way.

But instead, she was sitting on the floor, back to the wall, knees bent, phone cradled in her lap, notepad at her side. She told herself she was summoning the courage to make a phone call, but she knew in a corner of her mind exhaustion was the real reason for her inactivity.

Other families used the weekends to relax, to recharge their batteries. But not the Gibsons. For a start, fewer staff were on duty at the hospital, so Misha and John felt obliged to pile even more energy than usual into Luke. There was no respite when they came home either. Misha’s acceptance that the last best hope for their son lay in finding her father had simply escalated the conflict between her missionary ardour and John’s passive optimism.

This weekend had been harder going than usual. Having a time limit put on Luke’s life imbued each moment they shared with more value and more poignancy. It was hard to avoid a kind of melodramatic sentimentality. As soon as they’d left the hospital on Saturday Misha had picked up the refrain she’d been delivering since she’d seen her mother. ‘I need to go to Nottingham, John. You know I do.’

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his rain jacket, thrusting his head forward as if he was butting against a high wind. ‘Just phone the guy,’ he said. ‘If he’s got anything to tell you, he’ll tell you on the phone.’

‘Maybe not.’ She took a couple of steps at a trot to keep pace with him. ‘People always tell you more face to face. He could maybe put me on to the other guys that went down with him. They might know something.’

John snorted. ‘And how come your mother can only remember one guy’s name? How come she can’t put you on to the other guys?’

‘I told you. She’s put everything out of her mind about that time. I really had to push her before she came up with Logan Laidlaw’s name.’

‘And you don’t think it’s amazing that the only guy whose name she can remember has no family in the area? No obvious way to track him down?’

Misha pushed her arm through his, partly to make him slow down. ‘But I did track him down, didn’t I? You’re too suspicious.’

‘No, I’m not. Your mother doesn’t understand the power of the internet. She doesn’t know about things like online electoral rolls or 192.com. She thinks if there’s no human being to ask, you’re screwed. She didn’t think she was giving you anything you could use. She doesn’t want you poking about in this, she’s not going to help you.’

‘That makes two of you then.’ Misha pulled her arm free and strode out ahead of him.

John caught up with her on the corner of their street. ‘That’s not fair,’ he said. ‘I just don’t want you getting hurt unnecessarily.’

‘You think watching my boy die and not doing anything that might save him isn’t hurting me?’ Misha felt the heat of anger in her cheeks, knew the hot tears of rage were lurking close to the surface. She turned her face away from him, blinking desperately at the tall sandstone tenements.

‘We’ll find a donor. Or they’ll find a treatment. All this stem cell research, it’s moving really fast.’

‘Not fast enough for Luke,’ Misha said, the familiar sensation of weight in her stomach slowing her steps. ‘John, please. I need to go to Nottingham. I need you to take a couple of days off work, cover for me with Luke.’

‘You don’t need to go. You can talk to the guy on the phone.’

‘It’s not the same. You know that. When you’re dealing with clients, you don’t do it over the phone. Not for anything important. You go out and see them. You want to see the whites of their eyes. All I’m asking is for you to take a couple of days off, to spend time with your son.’

His eyes flashed dangerously and she knew she’d gone too far. John shook his head stubbornly. ‘Just make the phone call, Misha.’

And that was that. Long experience with her husband had taught her that when John took a position he believed was right, going over the same ground only gave him the opportunity to build stronger fortifications. She had no fresh arguments that could challenge his decision. So here she was, sitting on the floor, trying to shape sentences in her head that would persuade Logan Laidlaw to tell her what had happened to her father since he’d walked out on her more than twenty-two years earlier.

Her mother hadn’t given her much to base a strategy on. Laidlaw was a waster, a womanizer, a man who, at thirty, had still acted like a teenager. He’d been married and divorced by twenty-five, building the sour reputation of a man who was too handy with his fists around women. Misha’s picture of her father was patchy and partial, but even with the bias imposed by her mother, Mick Prentice didn’t sound like the sort of man who would have had much time for Logan Laidlaw. Still, hard times made for strange company.

At last, Misha picked up the phone and keyed in the number she’d tracked down via internet searches and directory enquiries. He’d probably be out at work, she thought on the fourth ring. Or asleep.

The sixth ring cut off abruptly. A deep voice grunted an approximate hello.

‘Is that Logan Laidlaw?’ Misha said, working to keep her voice level.

‘I’ve got a kitchen and I don’t want any insurance.’ The Fife accent was still strong, the words bumping into each other with the familiar rise and fall.

‘I’m not trying to sell you anything, Mr Laidlaw. I just want to talk to you.’

‘Aye, right. And I’m the Prime Minister.’

She could sense he was on the point of ending the call. ‘I’m Mick Prentice’s daughter,’ she blurted out, strategy hopelessly holed beneath the waterline. Across the distance, she could hear the liquid wheeze of his breathing. ‘Mick Prentice from Newton of Wemyss,’ she tried.

‘I know where Mick Prentice is from. What I don’t know is what Mick Prentice has to do with me.’

‘Look, I realize the two of you might not see much of each other these days, but I’d really appreciate anything you could tell me. I really need to find him.’ Misha’s own accent slipped a few gears till she was matching his own broad tongue.

A pause. Then, with a baffled note, ‘Why are you talking to me? I haven’t seen Mick Prentice since I left Newton of Wemyss way back in 1984.’

‘OK, but even if you split up as soon as you got to Nottingham, you must have some idea of where he ended up, where he was heading for?’

‘Listen, hen, I don’t have a clue what you’re on about. What do you mean, split up as soon as we got to Nottingham?’ He sounded irritated, what little patience he had evaporating in the heat of her demands.

Misha gulped a deep breath then spoke slowly. ‘I just want to know what happened to my dad after you got to Nottingham. I need to find him.’

‘Are you wrong in the head or something, lassie? I’ve no idea what happened to your dad after I came to Nottingham, and here’s for why. I was in Nottingham and he was in Newton of Wemyss. And even when we were both in the same place, we weren’t what you would call pals.’

The words hit like a splash of cold water. Was there something wrong with Logan Laidlaw’s memory? Was he losing his grip on the past. ‘No, that’s not right,’ she said. ‘He came to Nottingham with you.’

A bark of laughter, then a gravel cough. ‘Somebody’s been winding you up, lassie,’ he wheezed. ‘Trotsky would have crossed a picket line before the Mick Prentice I knew. What makes you think he came to Nottingham?’

‘It’s not just me. Everybody thinks he went to Nottingham with you and the other men.’

‘That’s mental. Why would anybody think that? Do you not know your own family history?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Christ, lassie, your great-grandfather. Your father’s granddad. Do you not know about him?’

Misha had no idea where this was going but at least he hadn’t hung up on her as she’d earlier feared he would. ‘He was dead before I was even born. I don’t know anything about him, except that he was a miner too.’

‘Jackie Prentice,’ Laidlaw said with something approaching relish. ‘He was a strike breaker back in 1926. After it was settled, he had to be moved to a job on the surface. When your life depends on the men in your team, you don’t want to be a scab underground. Not unless everybody else is in the same boat, like with us. Christ knows why Jackie stayed in the village. He had to take the bus to Dysart to get a drink. There wasn’t a bar in any of the Wemyss villages that would serve him. So your dad and your granddad had to work twice as hard as anybody else to be accepted down the pit. No way would Mick Prentice throw that respect away. He’d sooner starve. Aye, and see you starve with him. Wherever you got your info, they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.’

‘My mother told me. It’s what everybody says in the Newton.’ The impact of his words left her feeling as if all the air had been sucked from her.

‘Well, they’re wrong. Why would anybody think that?’

‘Because the night you went to Nottingham was the last night anyone in the Newton saw him or heard from him. And because my mother occasionally gets money in the post with a Nottingham postmark.’

Laidlaw breathed heavily, a concertina wheeze in her ear. ‘By Christ, that’s wild. Well, sweetheart, I’m sorry to disappoint you. There was five of us left Newton of Wemyss that December night. But your dad wasn’t among us.’

Wednesday 27th June 2007; Glenrothes

Karen stopped at the canteen for a chicken salad sandwich on the way back to her desk. Criminals and witnesses could seldom fool Karen, but when it came to food, she could fool herself seventeen ways before breakfast. The sandwich, for example. Wholegrain bread, a swatch of wilted lettuce, a couple of slices of tomato and cucumber, and it became a health food. Never mind the butter and the mayo. In her head, the calories were cancelled by the benefits. She tucked her notebook under her arm and ripped open the plastic sandwich box as she walked.

Phil Parhatka looked up as she flopped into her chair. Not for the first time, the angle of his head reminded her that he looked like a darker, skinnier version of Matt Damon. There was the same jut of nose and jaw, the straight brows, The Bourne Identity haircut, the expression that could swing from open to guarded in a heartbeat. Just the colouring was different. Phil’s Polish ancestry was responsible for his dark hair, brown eyes and thick pale skin; his personality had contributed the tiny hole in his left earlobe, a piercing that generally accommodated a diamond stud when he was off duty. ‘How was it for you?’ he said.

‘More interesting than I expected,’ she admitted, getting up again to fetch herself a Diet Coke. Between bites and swallows, she gave him a concise précis of Misha Gibson’s story.

‘And she believes what this old geezer in Nottingham told her?’ he said, leaning back in his chair and linking his fingers behind his head.

‘I think she’s the sort of woman who generally believes what people tell her,’ Karen said.

‘She’d make a lousy copper, then. So, I take it you’ll be passing it across to Central Division to get on with?’

Karen took a chunk out of her sandwich and chewed vigorously, the muscles of her jaw and temple bulging and contracting like a stress ball under pressure. She swallowed before she’d finished chewing properly then washed the mouthful down with a swig of Diet Coke. ‘Not sure,’ she said. ‘It’s kind of interesting.’

Phil gave her a wary look. ‘Karen, it’s not a cold case. It’s not ours to play with.’

‘If I pass it over to Central, it’ll wither on the vine. Nobody over there’s going to bother with a case where the trail went cold twenty-two years ago.’ She refused to meet his disapproving eye. ‘You know that as well as I do. And according to Misha Gibson, her kid’s drinking in the last-chance saloon.’

‘That still doesn’t make it a cold case.’

‘Just because it wasn’t opened in 1984 doesn’t mean it’s not cold now.’ Karen waved the remains of her sandwich at the files on her desk. ‘And none of this lot is going anywhere any time soon. Darren Anderson - nothing I can do till the cops in the Canaries get their fingers out and find which bar his ex-girl friend’s working in. Ishbel Mackindoe - waiting for the lab to tell me if they can get any viable DNA from the anonymous letters. Patsy Millar - can’t get any further with that till the Met finish digging up the garden in Haringey and do the forensics.’

‘There’s witnesses in the Patsy Millar case that we could talk to again.’

Karen shrugged. She knew she could pull rank on Phil and shut him up that way, but she needed the ease between them too much. ‘They’ll keep. Or else you can take one of the DCs and give them some on-the-job training.’

‘If you think they need on-the-job training, you should give them this stone-cold missing person case. You’re a DI now, Karen. You’re not supposed to be chasing about on stuff like this.’ He waved a hand towards the two DCs sitting at their computers. ‘That’s for the likes of them. What this is about is that you’re bored.’ Karen tried to protest but Phil carried on regardless. ‘I said when you took this promotion that flying a desk would drive you mental. And now look at you. Sneaking cases out from under the woolly suits at Central. Next thing, you’ll be going off to do your own interviews.’

‘So?’ Karen screwed up the sandwich container with more force than was strictly necessary and tossed it in the bin. ‘It’s good to keep my hand in. And I’ll make sure it’s all above board. I’ll take DC Murray with me.’

‘The Mint?’ The tone in Phil’s voice was incredulous, the look on his face offended. ‘You’d take the Mint over me?’

Karen smiled sweetly. ‘You’re a sergeant now, Phil. A sergeant with ambitions. Staying in the office and keeping my seat warm will help your aspirations become a reality. Besides, the Mint’s not as bad as you make out. He does what he’s told.’

‘So does a collie dog. But a dog would show more initiative.’

‘There’s a kid’s life at stake, Phil. I’ve got more than enough initiative for both of us. This needs to be done right and I’m going to make sure it is.’ She turned to her computer with an air of having finished with the conversation.

Phil opened his mouth to say more, then thought better of it when he saw the repressive glance Karen flashed in his direction. They’d been drawn to each other from the start of their careers, each recognizing nonconformist tendencies in the other. Having come up the ranks together had left the pair of them with a friendship that had survived the challenge of altered status. But he knew there were limits to how far he could push Karen and he had a feeling he’d just butted up against them. ‘I’ll cover for you here, then,’ he said.

‘Works for me,’ Karen said, her fingers flying over the keys. ‘Book me out for tomorrow morning. I’ve a feeling Jenny Prentice might be a wee bit more forthcoming to a pair of polis than she was to her daughter.’

Thursday 28th June 2007; Edinburgh

Learning to wait was one of the lessons in journalism that courses didn’t teach. When Bel Richmond had had a fulltime job on a Sunday paper, she had always maintained that she was paid, not for a forty-hour week, but for the five minutes when she talked her way across a doorstep that nobody else had managed to cross. That left a lot of time for waiting. Waiting for someone to return a call. Waiting for the next stage of the story to break. Waiting for a contact to turn into a source. Bel had done a lot of waiting and, while she’d become skilled at it, she had never learned to love it.

She had to admit she’d passed the time in surroundings that were a lot less salubrious than this. Here, she had the physical comforts of coffee, biscuits and newspapers. And the room she’d been left in commanded the panoramic view that had graced a million shortbread tins. Running the length of Princes Street, it featured a clutch of keynote tourist sights - the castle, the Scott Monument, the National Gallery and Princes Street Gardens. Bel spotted other significant architectural eye candy but she didn’t know enough about the city to identify it. She’d only visited the Scottish capital a few times and conducting this meeting here hadn’t been her choice. She’d wanted it in London, but her reluctance to show her hand in advance had turfed her out of the driving seat and into the role of supplicant.

Unusually for a freelance journalist, she had a temporary research assistant. Jonathan was a journalism student at City University and he’d asked his tutor to assign him to Bel for his work experience assignment. Apparently he liked her style. She’d been mildly gratified by the compliment but delighted at the prospect of having eight weeks free from drudgery. And so it had been Jonathan who had made the first contact with Maclennan Grant Enterprises. The message he’d returned with had been simple. If Ms Richmond was not prepared to state her reason for wanting a meeting with Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant, Sir Broderick was not prepared to meet her. Sir Broderick did not give interviews. Further arm’s-length negotiations had led to this compromise.

And now Bel was, she thought, being put in her place. Being forced to cool her heels in a hotel meeting room. Being made to understand that someone as important as the personal assistant to the chairman and principal shareholder of the country’s twelfth most valuable company had more pressing calls on her time than dancing attendance on some London hack.

She wanted to get up and pace, but she didn’t want to reveal any lack of composure. Giving up the high ground was not something that had ever come naturally to her. Instead she straightened her jacket, made sure her shirt was tucked in properly and picked a stray piece of grit from her emerald suede shoes.

At last, precisely fifteen minutes after the agreed time, the door opened. The women who entered in a flurry of tweed and cashmere resembled a school mistress of indeterminate age but one accustomed to exerting discipline over her pupils. For one crazy moment, Bel nearly jumped to her feet in a Pavlovian response to her own teenage memories of terrorist nuns. But she managed to restrain herself and stood up in a more leisurely manner.

‘Susan Charleson,’ the woman said, extending a hand. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. As Harold Macmillan once said, “Events, dear boy. Events.”’

Bel decided not to point out that Harold Macmillan had been referring to the job of Prime Minister, not wet nurse to a captain of industry. She took the warm dry fingers in her own. A moment’s sharp grip, then she was released. ‘Annabel Richmond.’

Susan Charleson ignored the armchair opposite Bel and headed instead for the table by the window. Wrong-footed, Bel scooped up her bag and the leather portfolio beside it and followed. The women sat down opposite each other and Susan smiled, her teeth like a line of chalky toothpaste between the dark pink lipstick. ‘You wanted to see Sir Broderick,’ she said. No preamble, no small talk about the view. Just straight to the chase. It was a technique Bel had used herself on occasion, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed the tables being turned.

‘That’s right.’

Susan shook her head. ‘Sir Broderick does not speak to the press. I fear you’ve had a wasted journey. I did explain all that to your assistant, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

It was Bel’s turn to produce a smile without warmth. ‘Good for him. I’ve obviously got him well trained. But there seems to be a misunderstanding. I’m not here to beg for an interview. I’m here because I think I have something Sir Broderick will be interested in.’ She lifted the portfolio on to the table and unzipped it. From inside, she took a single A3 sheet of heavyweight paper, face down. It was smeared with dirt and gave off a faint smell, a curious blend of dust, urine and lavender. Bel couldn’t resist a quick teasing look at Susan Charleson. ‘Would you like to see?’ she said, flipping the paper.

Susan took a leather case from the pocket of her skirt and extracted a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. She perched them on her nose, taking her time about it but her eyes never leaving the stark black-and-white images before her. The silence between the women seemed to expand, and Bel felt almost breathless as she waited for a response. ‘Where did you come by this?’ Susan said, her tone as prim as a Latin mistress.

Monday 18th June 2007; Campora, Tuscany, Italy.

At seven in the morning, it was almost possible to believe that the baking heat of the previous ten days might not show up for work. Pearly daylight shimmered through the canopy of oak and chestnut leaves, making visible the motes of dust that spiralled upwards from Bel’s feet. She was moving slowly enough to notice because the unmade track that wound down through the woods was rutted and pitted, the jagged stones scattered over it enough to make any jogger conscious of the fragility of ankles.

Only two more of these cherished early-morning runs before she’d have to head back to the suffocating streets of London. The thought provoked a tiny tug of regret. Bel loved slipping out of the villa while everyone else was still asleep. She could walk barefoot over cool marble floors, pretending she was chatelaine of the whole place, not just another holiday tenant carving off a slice of borrowed Tuscan elegance.

She’d been coming on holiday with the same group of five friends since they’d shared a house in their final year at Durham. That first time, they’d all been cramming for their finals. One set of parents had a cottage in Cornwall that they’d colonized for a week. They’d called it a study break, but in truth, it had been more of a holiday that had refreshed and relaxed them, leaving them better placed to sit exams than if they’d huddled over books and articles. And although they were modern young women not given to superstition, they’d all felt that their week together had somehow been responsible for their good degrees. Since then, they’d gathered together every June for a reunion, committed to pleasure.

Over the years, their drinking had grown more discerning, their eating more epicurean and their conversation more outrageous. The locations had become progressively more luxurious. Lovers were never invited to share the girls’ week. Occasionally, one of their number had a little wobble, claiming pressure of work or family obligations, but they were generally whipped back into line without too much effort.

For Bel, it was a significant component of her life. These women were all successful, all private sources she could count on to smooth her path from time to time. But still, that wasn’t the main reason this holiday was so important to her. Partners had come and gone, but these friends had been constant. In a world where you were measured by your last headline, it felt good to have a bolthole where none of that mattered. Where she was appreciated simply because the group enjoyed themselves more with her than without her. They’d all known each other long enough to forgive each other’s faults, to accept each other’s politics and to say what would be unsayable in any other company. This holiday formed part of the bulwark she constantly shored up against her own insecurities. Besides, it was the only holiday she took these days that was about what she wanted. For the past half dozen years, she’d been bound to her widowed sister Vivianne and her son Harry. The sudden death of Vivianne’s husband from a heart attack had left her stranded emotionally and struggling practically. Bel had barely hesitated before throwing her lot in with her sister and her nephew. On balance it had been a good decision, but even so she still treasured this annual work-free break from a family life she hadn’t expected to be living. Especially now that Harry was teetering on the edge of teenage existential angst. So this year, even more than in the past, the holiday had to be special, to outdo what had gone before.

It was hard to imagine how they could improve on this, she thought as she emerged from the trees and turned into a field of sunflowers preparing to burst into bloom. She speeded up a little as she made her way along the margin, her nose twitching at the aromatic perfume of the greenery. There was nothing she’d change about the villa, no fault she could find with the informal gardens and fruit trees that surrounded the loggia and the pool. The view across the Val d’Elsa was stunning, with Volterra and San Gimignano on the distant skyline.

And there was the added bonus of Grazia’s cooking. When they’d discovered that the ‘local chef’ trumpeted on the website was the wife of the pig farmer down the hill, they’d been wary of taking up the option of having her come to the villa and prepare a typically Tuscan meal. But on the third afternoon, they’d all been too stunned by the heat to be bothered with cooking so they’d summoned Grazia. Her husband Maurizio had delivered her to the villa in a battered Fiat Panda that appeared to be held together with string and faith. He’d also unloaded boxes of food covered in muslin cloths. In fractured English, Grazia had thrown them out of the kitchen and told them to relax with a drink on the loggia.

The meal had been a revelation - nutty salamis and prosciutto from the rare-breed Cinta di Siena pigs Maurizio bred, coupled with fragrant black figs from their own tree; spaghetti with pesto made from tarragon and basil; quails roasted with Maurizio’s vegetables, and long fingers of potatoes flavoured with rosemary and garlic; cheeses from local farms, and finally, a rich cake heavy with limoncello and almonds.

The women never cooked dinner again.

Grazia’s cooking made Bel’s morning runs all the more necessary. As forty approached, she struggled harder to maintain what she thought of as her fighting weight. This morning, her stomach still felt like a tight round ball after the meltingly delicious melanzane alla parmigiana that had provoked her into an excessive second helping. She’d go a little further than usual, she decided. Instead of making a circuit of the sunflower field and climbing back up to their villa, she would take a track that ran from the far corner through the overgrown grounds of a ruined casa colonica she’d noticed from the car. Ever since she’d spotted it on their first morning, she’d indulged a fantasy of buying the ruin and transforming it into the ultimate Tuscan retreat, complete with swimming pool and olive grove. And of course, Grazia on hand to cook. Bel had few qualms about poaching, neither in fantasy nor reality.

But she knew herself well enough to understand it would never be more than a pipe dream. Having a retreat implied a willingness to step away from the world of work that was alien to her. Maybe when she was ready to retire she could contemplate devoting herself to such a restoration project. Except that she recognized that as another daydream. Journalists never really retired. There was always another story on the horizon, another target to pursue. Not to mention the terror of being forgotten. All reasons why past relationships had failed to stay the course, all reasons why the future probably held the same imperfections. Still, it would be fun to take a closer look at the old house, to see just how bad a state it was in. When she’d mentioned it to Grazia, she’d pulled a face and called it rovina. Bel, whose Italian was fluent, had translated it for the others; ‘ruin’. Time to find out whether Grazia was telling the truth or just trying to divert the interest of the rich English women.

The path through the long grass was still surprisingly clear, bare soil packed hard by years of foot traffic. Bel took the opportunity to pick up speed, then slowed as she reached the edge of the gated courtyard in front of the old farmhouse. The gates were dilapidated, hanging drunkenly from hinges that were barely attached to the tall stone posts. A heavy chain and padlock held them fastened. Beyond, the courtyard’s broken paving was demarcated with tufts of creeping thyme, camomile and coarse weeds. Bel shook the gates without much expectation. But that was enough to reveal that the bottom corner of the right-hand gate had parted company completely with its support. It could readily be pulled clear enough to allow an adult through the gap. Bel slipped through and let go. The gate creaked faintly as it settled back into place, returning to apparent closure.

Close up, she could understand Grazia’s description. Anyone taking this project on would be in thrall to the builders for a very long time. The house surrounded the courtyard on three sides, a central wing flanked by a matching pair of arms. There were two storeys, with a loggia running round the whole of the upper floor, doors and windows giving on to it, providing the bedrooms with easy access to fresh air and common space. But the loggia floor sagged, what doors remained were skewed, and the lintels above the windows were cracked and oddly angled. The window panes on both floors were filthy, cracked or missing. But still the solid lines of the attractive vernacular architecture were obvious and the rough stones glowed warm in the morning sun.

Bel couldn’t have explained why, but the house drew her closer. It had the raddled charm of a former beauty sufficiently self-assured to let herself go without a fight. Unpruned bougainvillea straggled up the peeling ochre stucco and over the low wall of the loggia. If nobody chose to fall in love with this place soon, it was going to be overwhelmed by vegetation. In a couple of generations, it would be nothing more than an inexplicable mound on the hillside. But for now, it still had the power to bewitch.

She picked her way across the crumbling courtyard, passing cracked terracotta pots lying askew, the herbs they’d contained sprawling and springing free, spicing the air with their fragrances. She pushed against a heavy door made of wooden planks hanging from a single hinge. The wood screeched against an uneven floor of herringbone brick, but it opened wide enough for Bel to enter a large room without squeezing. Her first impression was of grime and neglect. Cobwebs were strung in a maze from wall to wall. The windows were mottled with dirt. A distant scurrying had Bel peering around in panic. She had no fear of news editors, but four-legged rats filled her with revulsion.

As she grew accustomed to the gloom, Bel realized the room wasn’t completely empty. A long table stood against one wall. Opposite was a sagging sofa. Judging by the rest of the place, it should have been rotten and filthy, but the dark red upholstery was still relatively clean. She filed the oddity for further consideration.

Bel hesitated for a moment. None of her friends, she was sure, would be urging her to penetrate deeper into this strange deserted house. But she had built her career on a reputation for fearlessness. Only she knew how often the image had concealed levels of anxiety and uncertainty that had reduced her to throwing up in gutters and strange toilets. Given what she’d faced down in her determination to secure a story, how scary could a deserted ruin be?

A doorway in the far corner led to a cramped hallway with a worn stone staircase climbing up to the loggia. Beyond, she could see another dark and grubby room. She peered in, surprised to see a thin cord strung across one corner from which half a dozen metal coat hangers dangled. A knitted scarf was slung round the neck of one of the hangers. Beneath it, she could see a crumpled pile of camouflage material. It looked like one of the shooting jackets on sale at the van that occupied the lay-by opposite the café on the main Colle Val d’Elsa road. The women had been laughing about it just the other day, wondering when exactly it had become fashionable for Italian men of all ages to look as if they’d just walked in from a tour of duty in the Balkans. Weird, she thought. Bel cautiously climbed the stairs to the loggia, expecting the same sense of long-abandoned habitation.

But as soon as she emerged from the stairwell, she realized she’d stepped into something very different. When she turned to her left and glanced in the first door, she understood this house was not what it seemed. The rancid mustiness of the lower floor was only a faint note here, the air almost as fresh as it was outside. The room had obviously been a bedroom, and fairly recently at that. A mattress lay on the floor, a bedspread flung back casually across the bottom third. It was dusty, but had none of the ingrained grime the lower floor had led Bel to expect. Again, a cord was strung across the corner. There were a dozen empty hangers, but the final three held slightly crumpled shirts. Even from a distance, she could see they were past their best, fade lines across the sleeves and collars.

A pair of tomato crates acted as bedside tables. One held a stump of candle in a saucer. A yellowed copy of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung lay on the floor next to the bed. Bel picked it up, noting that the date was less than four months ago. So that gave her an idea of when this place had been last abandoned. She lifted one of the shirtsleeves and pressed it to her nose. Rosemary and marijuana. Faint but unmistakable.

She went back to the loggia and checked out the other rooms. The pattern was similar. Three more bedrooms containing a handful of leftovers - a couple of T-shirts, paperbacks and magazines in English, Italian and German, half a bottle of wine, the stub of a lipstick, a leather sandal whose sole had parted company with its upper - the sort of things you would leave behind if you were moving out with no thought of who might come after. In one, a bunch of flowers stuck in an olive jar had dried to fragility.

The final room on the west side was the biggest so far. Its windows had been cleaned more recently than any of the others, its shutters renovated and its walls whitewashed. Standing in the middle of the floor was a silk-screen printing frame. Trestle tables set against one wall contained plastic cups stained inside with dried pigments, and brushes stiff with neglect. A scatter of spots and blots marked the floor. Bel was intrigued, her curiosity overcoming any lingering nervousness at being alone in this peculiar place. Whoever had been here must have cleared out in a hurry. Leaving a substantial silk-screen frame behind wasn’t what you would do if your departure was planned.

She backed out of the studio and made her way along the loggia to the wing opposite. She was careful to stay close to the wall, not trusting the undulating brick floor with her weight. She passed the bedroom doors, feeling like a trespasser on the Mary Celeste. A silence unbroken even by bird-song accentuated the impression. The last room before the corner was a bathroom whose nauseating mix of odours still hung in the air. A coil of hosepipe lay on the floor, its tail end disappearing through a hole in the masonry near the window. So they had improvised some sort of running water, though not enough to make the toilet anything less than disgusting. She wrinkled her nose and backed away.

Bel rounded the corner just as the sun cleared the corner of the woods, flooding her in sudden warmth. It made her entry into the final room all the more chilling. Shivering at the dank air, she ventured inside. The shutters were pulled tight, making the interior almost too dim to discern anything. But as her eyes adjusted, she gained a sense of the room. It was the twin of the studio in scale, but its function was quite different. She crossed to the nearest window and struggled with the shutter, finally managing to haul it halfway open. It was enough to confirm her first impression. This had been the heart of the occupation of the casa rovina. A battered old cooking range connected to a gas cylinder stood by a stone sink. The dining table was scarred and stripped to the bare wood, but it was solid and had beautifully carved legs. Seven unmatched chairs sat around it, an eighth overturned a few feet away. A rocking chair and a couple of sofas lined the walls. Odd bits of crockery and cutlery lay scattered around, as if the inhabitants couldn’t be bothered collecting them when they’d left.

As Bel walked back from the window, a rickety table caught her eye. Standing behind the door, it was easy to miss. An untidy scatter of what appeared to be posters lay across it. Fascinated, she moved towards it. Two strides and she stopped short, her sharp gasp echoing in the dusty air.

Before her on the limestone flags was an irregular stain, perhaps three feet by eighteen inches. Rusty brown, its edges were rounded and smooth, as if it had flowed and pooled rather than spilled. It was thick enough to obscure the flags beneath. One section on the farthest edge looked smudged and thinned, as if someone had tried to scrub it clean and soon given up. Bel had covered enough stories of domestic violence and sexual homicide to recognize a serious bloodstain when she saw it.

Startled, she stepped back, head swivelling from side to side, heart thudding so hard she thought it might choke her. What the hell had happened here? She looked around wildly, noticing other dark stains marking the floor beyond the table. Time to get out of here, the sensible part of her mind was screaming. But the devil of curiosity muttered in her ear. There’s been nobody here for months. Look at the dust. They’re long gone. They’re not going to be back any time soon. Whatever happened here was good reason for them to clear out. Check out the posters…

Bel skirted the stain, giving it as wide a berth as she could without touching any of the furniture. All at once, she felt a taint in the air. Knew it was imagination, but still it seemed real. Back to the room, face to the door, she crab-walked to the table and looked down at the posters strewn across it.

The second shock was almost more powerful than the first.

Bel knew she was pushing too hard up the hill, but she couldn’t pace herself. She could feel the sweat from her hand coating the good quality paper of the rolled-up poster. At last the track emerged from the trees and became less treacherous as it approached their holiday villa. The road sloped down almost imperceptibly, but gravity was enough to give her tired legs an extra boost and she was still moving fast when she rounded the corner of the house to find Lisa Martyn stretched out on the shady terrace in a pool chair with Friday’s Guardian for company. Bel felt relief. She needed to talk to someone and, of all her companions, Lisa was least likely to turn her revelations into dinner party gossip. A human rights lawyer whose compassion and feminism seemed as ineluctable as every breath she took, Lisa would understand the potential of the discovery Bel thought she had made. And her right to handle it as she saw fit.

Lisa dragged her eyes away from the newspaper, distracted by the unfamiliar heave of Bel’s breath. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘You look like you’re about to stroke out.’

Bel put the poster down on a chair and leaned over, hands on knees, dragging breath into her lungs, regretting those secret, stolen cigarettes. ‘I’ll be - OK in - a minute.’

Lisa struggled ungainly out of the chair and hurried into the kitchen, returning with a towel and bottle of water. Bel stood straight, took the water and poured half over her head, snorting as she breathed it in by accident. Then she rubbed her head with the towel and slumped into a chair. She swallowed a long draught of water while Lisa returned to her pool chair. ‘What was all that about?’ Lisa said. ‘You’re the most dignified jogger I know. Never seen an out-of-breath Bel before. What’s got you into such a state?’

‘I found something,’ Bel said. Her chest was still struggling but she could manage short bursts of speech. ‘At least, I think I found something. And if I’m right, it’s the story of my career.’ She reached for the poster. ‘I was kind of hoping you might be able to tell me whether I’ve completely lost the plot.’

Intrigued, Lisa tossed the paper to the ground and sat up. ‘So, what is it, this thing that might be something?’

Bel unrolled the heavy paper, weighing it down at the corners with a pepper grinder, a coffee mug and a couple of dirty ashtrays. The image on the A3 sheet was striking. It had been designed to look like a stark black-and-white woodcut in the German Expressionist style. At the top of the page, a bearded man with an angular shock of hair leaned over a screen, his hands holding wooden crosses from which three marionettes dangled. But these were no ordinary marionettes. One was a skeleton, the second a goat and the third a representation of Death with his hooded robe and scythe. There was something indisputably sinister about the image. Across the bottom, enclosed by a funereal black border, was a blank area about three inches deep. It was the sort of space where a small bill might be posted announcing a performance.

‘Fuck me,’ Lisa said. At last, she looked up. ‘Catriona Maclennan Grant,’ she said. There was wonder in her voice. ‘Bel…where the hell did you find this?’

Thursday 28th June 2007; Edinburgh

Bel smiled. ‘Before I answer that, I want to clarify a few things.’

Susan Charleson rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t imagine you’re the first person who’s walked through the door with a faked-up copy of the ransom poster. I’ll tell you what I’ve told them. The reward is contingent on finding Sir Broderick’s grandson alive or demonstrating conclusively that he is dead. Not to mention bringing Catriona Maclennan Grant’s killers to justice.’

‘You misunderstand me,’ Bel said, smile mischievous but not giving an inch. ‘Ms Charleson, I’m really not interested in Sir Broderick’s money. But I do have one condition.’

‘You’re making a mistake here.’ Susan Charleson’s voice had acquired an edge. ‘This is a police matter. You’re in no position to be imposing conditions.’

Bel placed a hand firmly on the poster. ‘I can walk out the door now with this poster and forget I ever saw it. I’d have little difficulty in lying to the police. I’m a journalist, after all.’ She was beginning to enjoy herself far more than she’d anticipated. ‘Your word against mine, Ms Charleson. And I know you don’t want me to walk out on you. One of the skills a successful journalist has to learn is how to read people. And I saw the way you reacted when you looked at this. You know this is the real thing, not some faked-up copy.’

‘You’ve a very aggressive attitude.’ Susan Charleson sounded almost nonchalant.

‘I like to think of it as assertive. I didn’t come here to fall out with you, Ms Charleson. I want to help. But not for free. In my experience, the rich don’t appreciate anything they don’t have to pay for.’

‘You said you weren’t interested in money.’

‘That’s true. And I’m not. I am, however, interested in reputation. And my reputation is built on being not just first with the story but with getting to the story behind the story. I think there are areas where I can help unravel this more effectively than official channels. I’m sure you’ll agree once I’ve explained where this poster came from. All I’m asking is that you don’t obstruct me looking into the case. And beyond that, that you and your boss cooperate when it comes to sharing information about what was going on around the time Catriona was kidnapped.’

‘That’s quite a significant request. Sir Broderick is not a man who compromises his privacy readily. You’ll appreciate I don’t have the authority to grant what you are asking.’

Bel shrugged one shoulder delicately. ‘Then we can meet again when you have an answer.’ She slid the poster across the table, opening the portfolio to replace it there.

Susan Charleson stood up. ‘If you can spare me a few more minutes, I might be able to give you an answer now.’

Bel knew at that point that she had won. Susan Charleson wanted this too badly. She would persuade her boss to accept the deal. Bel hadn’t been this excited in years. This wasn’t just a slew of news stories and features, though there wasn’t a paper in the world that wouldn’t be interested. Especially after the Madeleine McCann case. With access to the mysterious Brodie Grant plus the chance of discovering the fate of his grandson, this was potentially a bestseller. In Cold Blood for the new millennium. It would be her ticket for the gravy train.

Bel gave a little snort of laughter. Maybe she could use the proceeds to buy the casa rovina and bring things full circle. It was hard to imagine what could be neater.

Thursday 28th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

It had been a few years since Karen had last taken the single-track road to Newton of Wemyss. But it was obvious that the hamlet had undergone the same transformation as its sister villages on the main road. Commuters had fallen ravenous upon all four of the Wemyss villages, seeing rustic possibilities in what had been grim little miners’ rows. One-bedroomed hovels had been knocked through to make lavish cottages, back yards transformed by conservatories that poured light into gloomy living-kitchens. Villages that had shrivelled and died following the Michael pit disaster in ’67 and the closures that followed the 1984 strike had found a new incarnation as dormitories whose entire idea of community was a pub quiz night. In the village shops you could buy a scented candle but not a pint of milk. The only way you could tell there had ever been a mining community was the scale model of pit winding gear that straddled the point where the private steam railway had once crossed the main road laden with open trucks of coal bound for the railhead at Thornton Junction. Now, the whitewashed miners’ rows looked like an architect’s deliberate choice of what a vernacular village ought to look like. Their history had been overwhelmed by a designer present.

Since her last visit, Newton of Wemyss had spruced itself up. The modest war memorial stood on a triangle of shaven grass in the centre. Wooden troughs of flowers stood around it at perfect intervals. Immaculate single-storey cottages lined the village green, the only break in the low skyline the imposing bulk of the local pub, the Laird o’ Wemyss. It had once been owned collectively by the local community under the Gothenburg system, but the hard times of the eighties had forced it to close. Now it was a destination restaurant, its ‘Scottish Fusion’ cuisine drawing visitors from as far afield as Dundee and Edinburgh and its prices lifting it well out of her budget. Karen wondered how far Mick Prentice would have had to travel for a simple pint of heavy if he’d stayed put in Newton.

She consulted the Mapquest directions she’d printed out and pointed to a road at the apex of the triangle to her driver, DC Jason ‘the Mint’ Murray. ‘You want to go down the lane there,’ she said. ‘Towards the sea. Where the pit used to be.’

They left the village centre behind immediately. Shaggy hedgerows fringed a field of lush green wheat on the right. ‘All this rain, it’s making everything grow like the clappers,’ the Mint said. It had taken him the full twenty-five-minute journey from the office to summon up a comment.

Karen couldn’t be bothered with a conversation about the weather. What was there to say? It had rained all bloody summer so far. Just because it wasn’t raining right this minute didn’t mean it wouldn’t be wet by the end of the day. She looked over to her left where the colliery buildings had once stood. She had a vague memory of offices, pithead baths, a canteen. Now it had been razed to its concrete foundation, weeds forcing through jagged cracks as they reclaimed it. Marooned beyond it was a single untouched miners’ row; eight raddled houses stranded in the middle of nowhere by the demolition of the buildings that had provided the reason for their existence. Beyond them was a thick stand of tall sycamores and beeches, a dense windbreak between the houses and the edge of the cliff that plunged down thirty feet to the coastal path below. ‘That’s where the Lady Charlotte used to be,’ she said.

‘Eh?’ the Mint sounded startled.

‘The pit, Jason.’

‘Oh. Right. Aye. Before my time.’ He peered through the windscreen, making her wonder uneasily if he needed glasses. ‘Which house is it, guv?’

She pointed to the one second from the end. The Mint eased the car round the potholes as carefully as if it had been his own and came to a halt at the end of Jenny Prentice’s path.

In spite of Karen’s phone call setting up the meeting, Jenny took her time answering the door, which gave them plenty of time to examine the cracked concrete flags and the depressing patch of weedy gravel in front of the house. ‘If this was mine,’ the Mint began, then tailed off, as if it was all too much to contemplate.

The woman who answered the door had the air of someone who had spent her days lying down so life could more easily trample over her. Her lank greying hair was tied back haphazardly, strands escaping at both sides. Her skin was lined and puckered, with broken veins mapping her cheeks. She wore a nylon overall that came to mid-thigh over cheap black trousers whose material had gone bobbly. The overall was a shade of lavender found nowhere in nature. Karen’s parents still lived in a street populated by ex-miners and their kin in unfashionable Methil, but even the most dysfunctional of their neighbours would have taken more trouble with their appearance when they knew they were in for any kind of official visit. Karen didn’t even bother trying to avoid judging Jenny Prentice on her appearance. ‘Good morning, Mrs Prentice,’ she said briskly. ‘I’m DI Pirie. We spoke on the phone. And this is DC Murray.’

Jenny nodded and sniffed. ‘You’d better come in.’

The living room was cramped but clean. The furniture, like the carpet, was unfashionable but not at all shabby. A room for special occasions, Karen thought, and a life where there were few of those.

Jenny waved them towards the sofa and perched on the edge of an armchair opposite. She was clearly not going to offer them any sort of refreshment. ‘So. You’re here because of our Misha. I thought you lot would have something better to do, all the awful things I keep reading about in the newspapers.’

‘A missing husband and father is a pretty awful thing, wouldn’t you say?’ Karen said.

Jenny’s lips tightened, as if she’d felt the burn of indigestion. ‘Depends on the man, Inspector. The kind of guy you run into doing your job, I don’t imagine too many of their wives and kids are that bothered when they get taken away.’

‘You’d be surprised. A lot of their families are pretty devastated. And at least they know where their man is. They don’t have to live with uncertainty.’

‘I didn’t think I was living with uncertainty. I thought I knew damn fine where Mick was until our Misha started raking about trying to find him.’

Karen nodded. ‘You thought he was in Nottingham.’

‘Aye. I thought he’d went scabbing. To be honest, I wasn’t that sorry to see the back of him. But I was bloody livid that he put that label round our necks. I’d rather he was dead than a blackleg, if you really want to know.’ She pointed at Karen. ‘You sound like you’re from round here. You must know what it’s like to get tarred with that brush.’

Karen tipped her head in acknowledgement. ‘All the more galling now that it looks like he didn’t go scabbing after all.’

Jenny looked away. ‘I don’t know that. All I know is that he didn’t go to Nottingham that night with that particular bunch of scabs.’

‘Well, we’re here to try to establish what really happened. My colleague here is going to take some notes, just to make sure I don’t misremember anything you tell me.’ The Mint hastily took out his notebook and flipped it open in a nervous flurry of pages. Maybe Phil had been right about his deficiencies, Karen thought. ‘Now, I need his full name and date of birth.’

‘Michael James Prentice. Born 20th January 1955.’

‘And you were all living here at the time? You and Mick and Misha?’

‘Aye. I’ve lived here all my married life. Never really had a choice in the matter.’

‘Have you got a photo of Mick you could let us have? I know it’s a long time ago, but it could be helpful.’

‘You can put it on the computer and make it older, can’t you?’ Jenny went to the sideboard and opened a drawer.

‘Sometimes it’s possible.’ But too expensive unless there’s a more pressing reason than your grandson’s leukaemia.

Jenny took out an immaculate black leather album and brought it back to the chair. When she opened it, the covers creaked. Even upside down and from the other side of the room, Karen could see it was a wedding album. Jenny quickly turned past the formal wedding shots to a pocket at the back, thickly stuffed with snaps. She pulled out a bundle and flicked through them. She paused at a couple, then finally settled on one. She handed Karen a rectangular picture. It showed a head and shoulders of two young men grinning at the camera, corners of the beer glasses in shot as they toasted the photographer. ‘That’s Mick on the left,’ Jenny said. ‘The good-looking one.’

She wasn’t lying. Mick Prentice had tousled dark blond hair, cut in the approximation of a mullet that George Michael had boasted in his Wham period. Mick had blue eyes, ridiculously long eyelashes and a dangerous smile. The sickle crescent of a coal tattoo sliced through his right eyebrow, saving him from being too pretty. Karen could see exactly why Jenny Prentice had fallen for her husband. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Who’s the other guy?’ A raggedy mop of brown hair, long, bony face, a few faint acne scars pitting the sunken cheeks, lively eyes, a triangular grin like the Joker in the Batman comics. Not a looker like his pal, but something engaging about him all the same.

‘His best pal. Andy Kerr.’

The best pal who killed himself, according to Misha. ‘Misha told me your husband went missing on Friday the fourteenth of December 1984. Is that your recollection?’

‘That’s right. He went out in the morning with his bloody paints and said he’d be back for his tea. That was the last I saw him.’

‘Paints? He was doing a bit of work on the side?’

Jenny made a sound of disdain. ‘As if. Not that we couldn’t have used the money. No, Mick painted watercolours. Can you credit it? Can you imagine anything more bloody useless in the 1984 strike than a miner painting watercolours?’

‘Could he not have sold them?’ the Mint chipped in, leaning forward and looking keen.

‘Who to? Everybody round here was skint and there was no money for him to go someplace else on the off chance.’ Jenny gestured at the wall behind them. ‘He’d have been lucky to get a couple of pounds apiece.’

Karen swivelled round and looked at the three cheaply framed paintings on the wall. West Wemyss, Macduff Castle and the Lady’s Rock. To her untutored eye, they looked vivid and lively. She’d have happily given them house room, though she didn’t know how much she’d have been willing to pay for the privilege back in 1984. ‘So, how did he get into that?’ Karen asked, turning back to face Jenny.

‘He did a class at the Miners’ Welfare the year Misha was born. The teacher said he had a gift for it. Me, I think she said the same to every one of them that was halfway good looking.’

‘But he kept it up?’

‘It got him out of the house. Away from the dirty nappies and the noise.’ Bitterness seemed to come off Jenny Prentice in waves. Curious but heartening that it didn’t seem to have infected her daughter. Maybe that had something to do with the stepfather she’d spoken about. Karen reminded herself to ask about the other man in Jenny’s life, another who seemed notable by his absence.

‘Did he paint much during the strike?’

‘Every day it was fair he was out with his kitbag and his easel. And if it was raining, he was down the caves with his pals from the Preservation Society.’

‘The Wemyss caves, do you mean?’ Karen knew the caves that ran back from the shore deep into the sandstone cliffs between East Wemyss and Buckhaven. She’d played in them a few times as a child, oblivious to their historical significance as a major Pictish site. The local kids had treated them as indoor play areas, which was one of the reasons why the Preservation Society had been set up. Now there were railings closing off the deeper and more dangerous sections of the cave network and amateur historians and archaeologists had preserved them as a playground for adults. ‘Mick was involved with the caves?’

‘Mick was involved in everything. He played football, he painted his pictures, he messed about in the caves, he was up to his eyes in the union. Anything and everything was more important than spending time with his family.’ Jenny crossed one leg over the other and folded her arms across her chest. ‘He said it kept him sane during the strike. I think it just kept him out the road of his responsibilities.’

Karen knew this was fertile soil for her inquiries but she could afford to leave it for later. Jenny’s suppressed anger had stayed put for twenty-two years. It wasn’t about to go anywhere now. There was something much more immediate that interested her. ‘So, during the strike, where did Mick get the money for paints? I don’t know much about art, but I know it costs a few bob for proper paper and paint.’ She couldn’t imagine any striking miner spending money on art supplies when there was no money for food or heating.

‘I don’t want to get anybody into trouble,’ she said.

Yeah, right. ‘It was twenty-three years ago,’ Karen said flatly. ‘I’m really not interested in small-scale contra from the time of the miner’s strike.’

‘One of the art teachers from the high school lived up at Coaltown. He was a wee cripple guy. One leg shorter than the other and a humphy back. Mick used to do his garden for him. The guy paid him in paints.’ She gave a little snort. ‘I said could he not pay him in money or food. But apparently the guy was paying out all his wages to the ex-wife. The paints he could nick from the school.’ She refolded her arms. ‘He’s dead now anyway.’

Karen tried to tamp down her dislike of this woman, so different from the daughter who had beguiled her into this case. ‘So what was it like between you, before Mick disappeared?’

‘I blame the strike. OK, we had our ups and downs. But it was the strike that drove a wedge between us. And I’m not the only woman in this part of the world who could say the same thing.’

Karen knew the truth of that. The terrible privations of the strike had scarred just about every couple she had known back then. Domestic violence had erupted in improbable places; suicide rates had risen; marriages had shattered in the face of implacable poverty. She hadn’t understood it at the time, but she did now. ‘Maybe so. But everybody’s story’s different. I’d like to hear yours.’

Friday 14th December 1984; Newton of Wemyss

‘I’ll be back for my tea,’ Mick Prentice said, slinging the big canvas bag across his body and grabbing the slender package of his folded easel.

‘Tea? What tea? There’s nothing in the house to eat. You need to be out there finding food for your family, not messing about painting the bloody sea for the umpteenth time,’ Jenny shouted, trying to force him to halt on his way out the door.

He turned back, his gaunt face twisted in shame and pain. ‘You think I don’t know that? You think we’re the only ones? You think if I had any idea how to make this better I wouldn’t be doing it? Nobody has any fucking food. Nobody has any fucking money.’ His voice caught in his throat like a sob. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Down the Welfare last night, Sam Thomson said there was talk of a food delivery from the Women Against Pit Closures. If you get yourself down there, they’re supposed to be here about two o’clock.’ It was so cold in the kitchen that his words formed a cloud in front of his lips.

‘More handouts. I can’t remember the last time I actually chose what I was going to cook for the tea.’ Jenny suddenly sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. She looked up at him. ‘Are we ever going to get to the other side of this?’

‘We’ve just got to hold out a bit longer. We’ve come this far. We can win this.’ He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

‘They’re going back, Mick. All the time, they’re going back. It was on the news the other night. More than a quarter of the pits are back working. Whatever Arthur Scargill and the rest of the union executive might say, there’s no way we can win. It’s just a question of how bloody that bitch Thatcher will make the losing.’

He shook his head vehemently. ‘Don’t say that, Jenny. Just because there are a few pockets down south where they’ve caved in. Up here, we’re rock solid. So’s Yorkshire. And South Wales. And we’re the ones that matter.’ His words sounded hollow and there was no conviction in his face. They were, she thought, all beaten. They just didn’t know when to lie down.

‘If you say so,’ she muttered, turning away. She waited till she heard the door close behind him, then slowly got up and put her coat on. She picked up a heavy-duty plastic sack and left the freezing chill of the kitchen for the damp cold of the morning. This was her routine these days. Get up and walk Misha to school. At the school gate, the bairn would be given an apple or an orange, a bag of crisps and a chocolate biscuit by the Friends of the Lady Charlotte, a rag, tag and bobtail bunch of students and public sector workers from Kirkcaldy who made sure none of the kids started the day on an empty stomach. At least, not on school mornings.

Then back to the house. They’d given up taking milk in their tea, when they could get tea. Some mornings, a cup of hot water was all Jenny and Mick had to start the day. That hadn’t happened often, but once was enough to remind you how easy it would be just to fall off the edge.

After a hot drink, Jenny would take her sack into the woods and try to collect enough firewood to give them a few hours of heat in the evening. Between the union executives always calling them ‘comrade’ and the wood gathering, she felt like a Siberian peasant. At least they were lucky to live right by a source of fuel. It was, she knew, a lot harder for other folk. It was their good fortune that they’d kept their open fireplace. The miners’ perk of cheap coal had seen to that.

She went about her task mechanically, paying little attention to her surroundings, turning over the latest spat between her and Mick. It sometimes seemed it was only the hardship that kept them together, only the need for warmth that kept them in the same bed. The strike had brought some couples closer together, but plenty had split like a log under an axe after those first few months, once their reserves had been bled dry.

It hadn’t been so bad at the start. Since the last wave of strikes in the seventies, the miners had earned good money. They were the kings of the trade union movement - well paid, well organized and well confident. After all, they’d brought down Ted Heath’s government back then. They were untouchable. And they had the cash to prove it.

Some spent up to the hilt - foreign holidays where they could expose their milk-white skin and coal tattoos to the sun, flash cars with expensive stereos, new houses that looked great when they moved in but started to scuff round the edges almost at once. But most of them, made cautious by history, had a bit put by. Enough to cover the rent or the mortgage, enough to feed the family and pay the fuel bills for a couple of months. What had been horrifying was how quickly those scant savings had disappeared. Early on, the union had paid decent money to the men who piled into cars and vans and minibuses to join flying pickets to working pits, power stations and coking plants. But the police had grown increasingly heavy-handed in making sure the flyers never made it to their destinations and there was little enthusiasm for paying men for failing to reach their objectives. Besides, these days the union bosses were too busy trying to hide their millions from the government’s sequestrators to be bothered wasting money in a fight they had to know in their hearts was doomed. So even that trickle of cash had run dry and the only thing left for the mining communities to swallow had been their pride.

Jenny had swallowed plenty of that over the past nine months. It had started right at the beginning when she’d heard the Scottish miners would support the Yorkshire coalfield in the call for a national strike not from Mick but from Arthur Scargill, President of the National Union of Mineworkers. Not personally, of course. Just his yapping harangue on the TV news. Instead of coming straight back from the Miners’ Welfare meeting to tell her, Mick had been hanging out with Andy and his other union pals, drinking at the bar like money was never going to be a problem. Celebrating King Arthur’s battle-cry in the time-honoured way. The miners united will never be defeated.

The wives knew the hopelessness of it all, right from the start. You go into a coal strike at the beginning of winter, when the demand from the power stations is at its highest. Not in the spring, when everybody’s looking to turn off their heating. And when you go for major industrial action against a bitch like Margaret Thatcher, you cover your back. You follow the labour laws. You follow your own rules. You stage a national ballot. You don’t rely on a dubious interpretation of a resolution passed three years before for a different purpose. Oh yes, the wives had known it was futile. But they’d kept their mouths shut and, for the first time ever, they’d built their own organization to support their men. Loyalty, that was what counted in the pit villages and mining communities.

And so Mick and Jenny were still hanging together. Jenny sometimes wondered if the only reason Mick was still with her and Misha was because he had nowhere else to go. Parents dead, no brothers or sisters, there was no obvious bolthole. She’d asked him once and he’d frozen like a statue for a long moment. Then he’d scoffed at her, denying he wanted to be gone, reminding her that Andy would always put him up in his cottage if he wanted to be away. So, no reason why she should have imagined that Friday was different from any other.

Thursday 28th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

‘So this wasn’t the first time he’d gone off with his paints for the day?’ Karen said. Whatever was going on in Jenny Prentice’s head, it was clearly a lot more than the bare bones she was giving up.

‘Four or five times a week, by the end.’

‘What about you? What did you do for the rest of the day?’

‘I went up the woods for some kindling, then I came back and watched the news on the telly. It was quite the day, that Friday. King Arthur was in court for police obstruction at the Battle of Orgreave. And Band Aid got to number one. I tell you, I could have spat in their faces. All that effort for bairns thousands of miles away when there were hungry kids on their own doorsteps. Where was Bono and Bob Geldof when our kids were waking up on Christmas morning with bugger all in their stockings?’

‘It must have been hard to take,’ Karen said.

‘It felt like a slap in the face. Nothing glamorous about helping the miners, was there?’ A bitter little smile lit up her face. ‘Could have been worse, though. We could have had to put up with that sanctimonious shite Sting. Not to mention his bloody lute.’

‘Right enough.’ Karen couldn’t hide her amusement. Gallows humour was never far from the surface in these mining communities. ‘So, what did you do after the TV news?’

‘I went down the Welfare. Mick had said something about a food handout. I got in the queue and came home with a packet of pasta, a tin of tomatoes and two onions. And a pack of dried Scotch broth mix. I mind I felt pretty pleased with myself. I collected Misha from the school and I thought it might cheer us up if we put up the Christmas decorations, so that’s what we did.’

‘When did you realize it was late for Mick to be back?’

Jenny paused, one hand fiddling with a button on her overall. ‘That time of year, it’s early dark. Usually, he’d be back not long after me and Misha. But with us doing the decorations, I didn’t really notice the time passing.’

She was lying, Karen thought. But why? And about what?

Friday 14th December 1984; Newton of Wemyss

Jenny had been one of the first in the queue at the Miners’ Welfare and she’d hurried home with her pitiful bounty, determined to get a pot of soup going so there would be something tasty for the tea. She rounded the pithead baths building, noticing all her neighbours’ houses were in darkness. These days, nobody left a welcoming light on when they went out. Every penny counted when the fuel bills came in.

When she turned in at her gate, she nearly jumped out of her skin. A shadowy figure rose from the darkness, looming huge in her imagination. She made a noise halfway between a gasp and a moan.

‘Jenny, Jenny, calm down. It’s me. Tom. Tom Campbell. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ The shape took form and she recognized the big man standing by her front door.

‘Christ, Tom, you gave me the fright of my life,’ she complained, moving past him and opening the front door. Conscious of the breathtaking chill of the house, she led the way into the kitchen. Without hesitation, she filled her soup pan with water and put it on the stove, the gas ring giving out a tiny wedge of heat. Then she turned to face him in the dimness of the afternoon light. ‘How are you doing?’

Tom Campbell shrugged his big shoulders and gave a halfhearted smile. ‘Up and down,’ he said. ‘It’s ironic. The one time in my life I really needed my pals and this strike happens.’

‘At least you’ve got me and Mick,’ Jenny said, waving him to a chair.

‘Well, I’ve got you, anyway. I don’t think I’d be on Mick’s Christmas card list, always supposing anybody was sending any this year. Not after October. He’s not spoken to me since then.’

‘He’ll get over it,’ she said without a shred of conviction. Mick had always had his reservations about the wider ripples of the schoolgirl friendship between Jenny and Tom’s wife Moira. The women had been best pals forever, Moira standing chief bridesmaid at Jenny and Mick’s wedding. When it came time to return the favour, Jenny been pregnant with Misha. Mick had pointed out that her increasing size was the perfect excuse to turn Moira down, what with having to buy the bridesmaid’s dress in advance. It wasn’t a suggestion, more an injunction. For although Tom Campbell was by all accounts a decent man and a handsome man and an honest man, he was not a miner. True, he worked at the Lady Charlotte. He went underground in the stomach-juddering cage. He sometimes even got his hands dirty. But he was not a miner. He was a pit deputy. A member of a different union. A management man there to see that the health and safety rules were followed and that the lads did what they were supposed to. The miners had a term for the easiest part of any task - ‘the deputy’s end’. It sounded innocuous enough, but in an environment where every member of a gang knew his life depended on his colleagues, it expressed a world of contempt. And so Mick Prentice had always held something in reserve when it came to his dealings with Tom Campbell.

He’d resented the invitations to dinner at their detached house in West Wemyss. He’d mistrusted Tom’s invitations to join him at the football. He’d even begrudged the hours Jenny spent at Moira’s bedside during her undignified but swift death from cancer a couple of years before. And when Tom’s union had dithered and swithered over joining the strike a couple of months before, Mick had raged like a toddler when they’d finally come down on the side of the bosses.

Jenny suspected part of the reason for his anger was the kindness Tom had shown them since the strike had started to bite. He’d taken to stopping by with little gifts - a bag of apples, a sack of potatoes, a soft toy for Misha. They’d always come with plausible excuses - a neighbour’s tree with a glut, more potatoes in his allotment than he could possibly need, a raffle prize from the bowling club. Mick had always grumbled afterwards. ‘Patronizing shite,’ he’d said.

‘He’s trying to help us without shaming us,’ Jenny said. It didn’t hurt that Tom’s presence reminded her of happier times. Somehow, when he was there, she felt a sense of possibility again. She saw herself reflected in his eyes, and it was as a younger woman, a woman who had ambitions for her life to be different. So although she knew it would annoy Mick, Jenny was happy for Tom to sit at her kitchen table and talk.

He drew a limp but heavy parcel from his pocket. ‘Can you use a couple of pounds of bacon?’ he said, his brow creasing in anxiety. ‘My sister-in-law, she brought it over from her family’s farm in Ireland. But it’s smoked, see, and I can’t be doing with smoked bacon. It gives me the scunners. So I thought, rather than it go to waste…’ He held it out to her.

Jenny took the package without a second’s hesitation. She gave a little snort of self-deprecation. ‘Look at me. My heart’s all a flutter over a couple of pounds of bacon. That’s what Margaret Thatcher and Arthur Scargill have done between them.’ She shook her head. ‘Thank you, Tom. You’re a good man.’

He looked away, unsure what to say or do. His eyes fixed on the clock. ‘Do you not need to pick up the bairn? I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking about the time when I was waiting, I just wanted to…’ He got to his feet, his face pink. ‘I’ll come again.’

She heard the stumble of his boots in the hall then the click of the latch. She tossed the bacon on to the counter and turned off the pan of water. It would be a different soup now.

Moira had always been the lucky one.

Thursday 28th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

Jenny’s eyes came off the middle distance and focused on Karen. ‘I suppose it was about seven o’clock when it dawned on me that Mick hadn’t come home. I was angry, because I’d actually got a half-decent tea to put on the table. So I got the bairn to her bed, then I got her next door to sit in so I could run down the Welfare and see if Mick was there.’ She shook her head, still surprised after all these years. ‘And of course, he wasn’t.’

‘Had anybody seen him?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘You must have been worried,’ Karen said.

Jenny shrugged one shoulder. ‘Not really. Like I said, we hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms. I just thought he’d taken the huff and gone over to Andy’s.’

‘The guy in the photo?’

‘Aye. Andy Kerr. He was a union official. But he was on the sick from his work. Stress, they said. And they were right. He’d killed himself within the month. I often thought Mick going scabbing was the last straw for Andy. He worshipped Mick. It would have broken his heart.’

‘So that’s where you assumed he was?’ Karen prompted her.

‘That’s right. He had a cottage out in the woods, in the middle of nowhere. He said he liked the peace and quiet. Mick took me out there one time. It gave me the heebie jeebies. It was like the witch’s house in one of Misha’s fairy stories - there was no sign of it till suddenly you were there, right in front of it. You wouldn’t catch me living there.’

‘Could you not have phoned to check?’ the Mint butted in. Both women stared at him with a mixture of amusement and indulgence.

‘Our phone had been cut off months before, son,’ Jenny said, exchanging a look with Karen. ‘And this was long before mobiles.’

By now, Karen was gagging for a cup of tea, but she was damned if she was going to put herself in Jenny Prentice’s debt. She cleared her throat and continued. ‘When did you start to worry?’

‘When the bairn woke me up in the morning and he still wasn’t home. He’d never done that before. It wasn’t as if we’d had a proper row on the Friday. Just a few cross words. We’d had worse, believe me. When he wasn’t there in the morning, I really started to think there was something badly wrong.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I got Misha fed and dressed and took her down to her pal Lauren’s house. Then walked out through the woods to Andy’s place. But there was nobody there. And then I remembered Mick had said that now he was on the sick, Andy was maybe going to go off up to the Highlands for a few days. Get away from it all. Get his head straight. So of course he wasn’t there. And by then, I was really starting to get scared. What if there had been an accident? What if he’d been taken ill?’ The memory still had the power to disturb Jenny. Her fingers picked endlessly at the hem of her overall.

‘I went up to the Welfare to see the union reps. I figured if anybody knew where Mick was, it would be them. Or at least they’d know where to start looking.’ She stared down at the floor, her hands clasped tight in her lap. ‘That’s when the wheels really started to come off my life.’

Saturday 15th December 1984; Newton of Wemyss

Even in the morning, without the press of bodies to raise the temperature, the Miners’ Welfare Institute was warmer than her house, Jenny noticed as she walked in. Not by much, but enough to be perceptible. It wasn’t the sort of thing that usually caught her attention but today she was trying to think of anything except the absence of her husband. She stood hesitant for a moment in the entrance hall, trying to decide where to go. The NUM strike offices were upstairs, she vaguely remembered, so she made for the ornately carved staircase. On the first-floor landing, it all became much easier. All she had to do was to follow the low mutter of voices and the high thin layer of cigarette smoke.

A few yards down the hall, a door was cracked ajar, the source of the sound and the smell. Jenny tapped nervously and the room went quiet. At last, a cautious voice said, ‘Come in.’

She slid round the door like a church mouse. The room was dominated by a U-shaped table covered in tartan oilcloth. Half a dozen men were slouched around it in varying states of despondency. Jenny faltered when she realized the man at the top corner was someone she recognized but did not know. Mick McGahey, former Communist, leader of the Scottish miners. The only man, it was said, who could stand up to King Arthur and make his voice heard. The man who had been deliberately kept from the top spot by his predecessor. If Jenny had a pound for every time she’d heard someone say how different it would have been if McGahey had been in charge, her family would have been the best-fed and best-dressed in Newton of Wemyss. ‘I’m sorry,’ she stuttered. ‘I just wanted a word…’ Her eyes flickered round the room, wondering which of the men she knew would be best to focus on.

‘It’s all right, Jenny,’ Ben Reekie said. ‘We were just having a wee meeting. We’re pretty much done here, eh, lads?’ There was a discontented murmur of agreement. But Reekie, the local secretary, was good at taking the temperature of a meeting and moving things along. ‘So, Jenny, how can we help you?’

She wished they were alone, but didn’t have the nerve to ask for it. The women had learned a lot in the process of supporting their men, but face to face their assertiveness still tended to melt away. But it would be all right, she told herself. She’d lived in this cocooned world all her adult life, a world that centred on the pit and the Welfare, where there were no secrets and the union was your mother and your father. ‘I’m worried about Mick,’ she said. No point in beating about the bush. ‘He went out yesterday morning and never came back. I was wondering if maybe…?’

Reekie rested his forehead on his fingers, rubbing it so hard he left alternating patches of white and red across the centre. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he hissed from between clenched teeth.

‘And you expect us to believe you don’t know where he is?’ The accusation came from Ezra Macafferty, the village’s last survivor of the lock-outs and strikes of the 1920s.

‘Of course I don’t know where he is.’ Jenny’s voice was plaintive, but a dark fear had begun to spread its chill across her chest. ‘I thought maybe he’d been in here. I thought somebody might know.’

‘That makes six,’ McGahey said. She recognized the rough deep rumble of his voice from TV interviews and open-air rallies. It felt strange to be in the same room with it.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Six what? What’s going on?’ Their eyes were all on her, boring into her. She could feel their contempt but didn’t understand what it was for. ‘Has something happened to Mick? Has there been an accident?’

‘Something’s happened, all right,’ McGahey said. ‘It looks like your man’s away scabbing to Nottingham.’

His words seemed to suck the air from her lungs. She stopped breathing, letting a bubble form round her so the words would bounce off. It couldn’t be right. Not Mick. Dumb, she shook her head hard. The words started to seep back in but they still made no sense. ‘Knew about the five…thought there might be more…always a traitor in the ranks…disappointed…always a union man.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’

‘How else do you explain him not being here?’ Reekie said. ‘You’re the one that came to us looking for him. We know a van load went down last night. And at least one of them is a pal of your Mick. Where the hell else is he going to be?’

Thursday 28th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss

‘I couldn’t have felt worse if they’d accused me of being a whore,’ Jenny said. ‘I suppose, in their eyes, that’s exactly what I was. My man away scabbing, it would be no time at all before I’d be living on immoral earnings.’

‘You never doubted that they were right?’

Jenny pushed her hair back from her face, momentarily stripping away some of the years and the docility. ‘Not really. Mick was pals with Iain Maclean, one of the ones that went to Nottingham. I couldn’t argue with that. And don’t forget what it was like back then. The men ran the game and the union ran the men. When the women wanted to take part in the strike, the first battle we had to fight was against the union. We had to beg them to let us join in. They wanted us where we’d always been - in the back room, keeping the home fires burning. Not standing by the braziers on the picket lines. But even though we got Women Against Pit Closures off the ground, we still knew our place. You’d have to be bloody strong or bloody stupid to try and blow against the wind round here.’

It wasn’t the first time Karen had heard a version of this truth. She wondered whether she’d have done any better in the same position. It felt good to think she’d stand by her man a bit more sturdily. But in the face of the community hostility Jenny Prentice must have faced, Karen reckoned she’d probably have caved in too. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘But now that it looks like Mick might not have gone scabbing after all, have you got any idea what might have happened to him?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘Not a scooby. Even though I couldn’t believe it, the scabbing kind of made sense. So I never thought about any other possibility.’

‘Do you think he’d just had enough? Just upped and left?’

She frowned. ‘See, that wouldn’t be like Mick. To leave without the last word? I don’t think so. He’d have made sure I knew it was all my fault.’ She gave a bitter laugh.

‘You don’t think he might have gone without a word as a way of making you suffer even more?’

Jenny’s head reared back. ‘That’s sick,’ she protested. ‘You make him sound like some kind of a sadist. He wasn’t a cruel man, Inspector. Just thoughtless and selfish like the rest of them.’

Karen paused for a moment. This was always the hardest part when interviewing the relatives of the missing. ‘Had he fallen out with anybody? Did he have any enemies, Jenny?’

Jenny looked as if Karen had suddenly switched into Urdu. ‘Enemies? You mean, like somebody that would kill him?’

‘Maybe not mean to kill him. Maybe just fight him?’

This time, Jenny’s laugh had genuine warmth. ‘By Christ, that’s funny coming from you.’ She shook her head. ‘The only physical fights Mick ever got into in all the years we were married were with your lot. On the picket lines. At the demonstrations. Did he have enemies? Aye, the thin blue line. But this isn’t South America, and I don’t recall any talk about the disappeared of the miners’ strike. So the answer to your question is no, he didn’t have the kind of enemies that he’d get into a fight with.’

Karen studied the carpet for a long moment. The gung-ho violence of the police against the strikers had poisoned community relationships for a generation or more. Never mind that the worst offenders came from outside forces, bussed in to make up the numbers and paid obscene amounts of overtime to oppress their fellow citizens in ways most people chose to avoid knowing about. The fallout from their ignorance and arrogance affected every officer in every coalfield force. Still did, Karen reckoned. She took a deep breath and looked up. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘The way they treated the miners, it was inexcusable. I like to think we wouldn’t act like that now, but I’m probably wrong. Are you sure there wasn’t anybody he’d had a run-in with?’

Jenny didn’t even pause for thought. ‘Not that I knew about. He wasn’t a troublemaker. He had his principles, but he didn’t use them as excuses to pick fights. He stood up for what he believed in, but he was a talker, not a fighter.’

‘What if the talking didn’t work? Would he back down?’

‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

Karen spoke slowly, feeling her way into the idea. ‘I’m wondering if he bumped into this Iain Maclean that day and tried to talk him out of going to Nottingham. And if Iain wouldn’t change his mind, and maybe had his pals there to back him up…Would Mick have got into a fight with them, maybe?’

Jenny shook her head firmly. ‘No way. He’d have said his piece and, if that didn’t work, he’d have walked away.’

Karen felt frustrated. Even after the passage of so much time, cold cases usually provided one or two loose ends to pick away at. But so far, there seemed to be nothing to reach for here. One last question, then she was out of this place. ‘Do you have any idea at all where Mick might have gone painting that day?’

‘He never said. The only thing I can tell you is that in the winter he often went along the shore to East Wemyss. That way, if it came on rain, he could go down to the caves and shelter there. The preservation group, they had a wee bothy at the back of one of the caves with a camping stove where they could brew up. He had keys, he could make himself right at home,’ she added, the acid back in her voice. ‘But I’ve no idea whether he was there that day or not. He could have been anywhere between Dysart and Buckhaven.’ She looked at her watch. ‘That’s all I know.’

Karen got to her feet. ‘I appreciate your time, Mrs Prentice. We will be continuing our inquiries and I’ll keep you informed.’ The Mint scrambled to his feet and followed her and Jenny to the front door.

‘I’m not bothered for myself, you understand,’ Jenny said when they were halfway down the path. ‘But see if you can find him for the bairn’s sake.’

It was, Karen thought, the first sign of emotion she’d shown all morning. ‘Get your notebook out,’ she said to the Mint as they got into the car. ‘Follow-ups. Talk to the neighbour. See if she remembers anything about the day Mick Prentice disappeared. Talk to somebody from the cave group, see who’s still there from 1984. Get another picture of what Mick Prentice was really like. Check in the files for anything about this Andy Kerr, NUM official, supposedly committed suicide around the time Mick disappeared. What’s the story there? And we need to track down these five scabs and get Nottingham to have a chat with them.’ She opened the passenger door again as the Mint finished scribbling. ‘And since we’re here already, let’s have a crack at the neighbour.’

She was barely two steps from the car when her phone rang. ‘Phil,’ she said.

No pleasantries, just straight to the point. ‘You need to get back here right now.’

‘Why?’

‘The Macaroon is on the warpath. Wants to know why the hell you’re not at your desk.’

Simon Lees, Assistant Chief Constable (Crime), was temperamentally different from Karen. She was convinced his bedtime reading consisted of the Police, Public Order and Criminal Justice (Scotland) Act 2006. She knew he was married with two teenage children but she had no idea how that could have happened to a man so obsessively organized. It was sod’s law that on the first morning in months when she was doing something off the books the Macaroon should come looking for her. He seemed to believe that it was his divine right to know the whereabouts of any of the officers under his command, whether on or off duty. Karen wondered how close he’d come to stroking out on discovering she was not occupying the desk where he expected to find her. Not close enough, by the sounds of it. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘I said you were having a meeting with the evidence store team to discuss streamlining their cataloguing procedures,’ Phil said. ‘He liked the idea, but not that fact that it wasn’t listed in your electronic appointments list.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Karen said, confusing the Mint by getting back into the car. ‘Did he say why he was looking for me?’

‘To me? A mere sergeant? Gimme a break, Karen. He just said it was “of the first importance”. Somebody probably stole his digestive biscuits.’

Karen gestured impatiently at the Mint. ‘Home, James, and don’t spare the horses.’ He looked at her as if she was mad but he did start the car and drove off. ‘I’m coming in,’ she said. ‘Get the kettle on.’

Glenrothes

The double helix of frustration and irritation twisted in Simon Lees’ gut. He shifted in his chair and rearranged the family photos on his desk. What was wrong with these people? When he’d gone looking for DI Pirie and failed to find her where she should be, DS Parhatka had acted as if that were perfectly fine. There was something fundamentally lackadaisical about the detectives in Fife. He’d realized that within days of arriving from Glasgow. It amazed him that they’d ever managed to put anyone behind bars before he’d arrived with his analytical methods, streamlined investigations, sophisticated crime linkage and the inevitable rise in the detection rate.

What riled him even more was the fact that they seemed to have no gratitude for the modern methods he’d brought to the job. He even had the suspicion that they were laughing at him. Take his nickname. Everybody in the building seemed to have a nickname, most of which could be construed as mildly affectionate. But not him. He’d discovered early on that he’d been dubbed the Macaroon because he shared the surname of a confectionery firm whose most famous product had become notorious because of an ancient advertising jingle whose cheerful racism would provoke rioting in the streets if it were to be aired in twenty-first-century Scotland. He blamed Karen Pirie; it was no coincidence that the nickname had surfaced after his first run-in with her. It had been typical of most of their encounters. He wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but she always seemed to wrong-foot him.

Lees still smarted at that early memory. He’d barely got his feet under the table but he’d started as he meant to go on, instigating a series of training days. Not the usual macho posturing or tedious revision of the rules of engagement, but fresh approaches to issues of modern policing. The first tranche of officers had assembled in the training suite and Lees had started his preamble, explaining how they would spend the day developing strategies for policing a multicultural society. His audience had looked mutinous and Karen Pirie had led the charge. ‘Sir, can I make a point?’

‘Of course, Detective Inspector Pirie.’ His smile had been genial, hiding his annoyance at being interrupted before he’d even revealed the agenda.

‘Well, sir, Fife’s not really what you’d call multicultural. We don’t have many people here who are not indigenous Brits. Apart from the Italians and the Poles, that is, and they’ve been here so long we’ve forgotten they’re not from here.’

‘So racism’s all right by you, is it, Inspector?’ Maybe not the best reply, but he’d been driven to it by the apparently Neanderthal attitude she’d expressed. Not to mention that bland, pudding face she presented whenever she said anything that might be construed as inflammatory.

‘Not at all, sir.’ She’d smiled, almost pityingly. ‘What I would say is that, given we have a limited training budget, it might make more sense to deal first with the sort of situations we’re more likely to encounter day to day.’

‘Such as? How hard to hit people when we arrest them?’

‘I was thinking more of strategies to deal with domestic violence. It’s a common call-out and it can easily escalate. Too many people are still dying every year because a domestic has got out of hand. And we don’t always know how to deal with it without inflaming the situation. I’d say that was my number one priority right now, sir.’

And with that short speech, she’d cut the ground from under his feet. There was no way back for him. He could carry on with the planned training, knowing that everyone in the room was laughing at him. Or he could postpone till he could put together a programme to deal with DI Pirie’s suggestion and lose face completely. In the end, he’d told them to spend the rest of the day researching the subject of domestic violence in preparation for another training day.

Two days later, he’d overheard himself referred to as the Macaroon. Oh yes, he knew who to blame. But as with everything she did to undermine him, there was nothing he could pin directly on her. She’d stand there, looking as shaggy, stolid and inscrutable as a Highland cow, never saying or doing anything that he could complain about. And she set the style for the rest of them, even though she was stranded on the fringes in the Cold Case Review Team where she should be able to wield no influence whatsoever. But somehow, thanks to Pirie, dealing with the detectives of all three divisions was like herding cats.

He tried to avoid her, tried to sideline her via his operational directives. Until today, he’d thought it was working. Then the phone had rung. ‘Assistant Chief Constable Lees,’ he’d announced as he picked up the phone. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

‘Good morning, ACC Lees. My name is Susan Charleson. I’m personal assistant to Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant. My boss would like to talk to you. Is this a good time?’

Lees straightened up in his chair, squaring his shoulders. Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant was notorious for three things - his wealth, his misanthropic reclusiveness, and the kidnap and murder of his daughter Catriona twenty-odd years before. Unlikely though it seemed, his PA calling the ACC Crime could only mean that there had been some sort of development in the case. ‘Yes, of course, perfect time, couldn’t be better.’ He dredged his memory for details, only half listening to the woman on the phone. Daughter and grandson kidnapped, that was it. Daughter killed in a botched ransom handover, grandson never seen again. And now it looked as if he was going to be the one to have the chance finally to solve the case. He tuned in to the woman’s voice again.

‘If you’ll bear with me, I’ll put you through now,’ she said.

The hollow sound of dead air, then a dark, heavy voice said, ‘This is Brodie Maclennan Grant. And you’re the Assistant Chief Constable?’

‘That’s right, Sir Broderick. ACC Lees. Simon Lees.’

‘Are you aware of the unsolved murder of my daughter Catriona? And the kidnapping of my grandson Adam?’

‘Of course, naturally, there’s not an officer in the land who -’

‘We believe some new evidence has come to light. I’d be obliged if you’d arrange for Detective Inspector Pirie to come to the house tomorrow morning to discuss it with me.’

Lees actually held the phone away from his face and stared at it. Was this some kind of elaborate practical joke? ‘DI Pirie? I don’t quite…I could come,’ he gabbled.

‘You’re a desk man. I don’t need a desk man.’ Brodie Grant’s voice was dismissive. ‘DI Pirie is a detective. I liked the way she handled that Lawson business.’

‘But…but it should be a more senior officer who deals with this,’ Lees protested.

‘Isn’t DI Pirie in charge of your Cold Case Review Team?’ Grant was beginning to sound impatient. ‘That’s senior enough for me. I don’t care about rank, I care about effectiveness. That’s why I want DI Pirie at my house at ten tomorrow morning. That should give her enough time to acquaint herself with the basic facts of the case. Good day, Mr Lees.’ The line went dead and Simon Lees was left alone with his rising blood pressure and his bad mood.

Much as it grieved him, he had no choice but to find DI Pirie and brief her. At least he could make it sound as though sending her was his idea. But in spite of there being no appointment in the electronic diary system he had instituted for his senior detectives, she hadn’t been at her desk. It was all very well, officers doing things on their own initiative, but they had to learn to leave a record of their movements.

He was on the point of marching back down to the CCRT squad room to find out why DI Pirie hadn’t appeared yet when a sharp rap on the door was followed without any interval by the entrance of DI Pirie. ‘Did I invite you to come in?’ Lees said, glowering across the room at her.

‘I thought it was urgent, sir.’ She kept walking and sat down in the visitor’s chair across the desk from him. ‘DS Parhatka gave me the impression that whatever it is you wanted me for, it couldn’t wait.’

What an advert for the service, he thought crossly. Shaggy brown hair flopping into her eyes, the merest smudge of make-up, teeth that really could have done with some serious orthodontics. He supposed she was probably a lesbian, given her penchant for trouser suits that really were a mistake given the breadth of her hips. Not that he had anything against lesbians, his internal governor reminded him. He just thought it gave people the wrong impression about today’s police service. ‘Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant called me earlier this morning,’ he said. The only sign of interest was a slight parting of her lips. ‘You know who Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant is, I take it?’

Karen looked puzzled by the question. She leaned back in her seat and recited, ‘Third richest man in Scotland, owns half of the profitable parts of the Highlands. Made his money building roads and houses and running the transport systems that serve them. Owns a Hebridean island but lives mostly in Rotheswell Castle near Falkland. Most of the land between there and the sea belongs either to him or to the Wemyss estate. His daughter Cat and her baby son Adam were kidnapped by an anarchist group in 1985. Cat was shot dead when the ransom handover went wrong. Nobody knows what happened to Adam. Grant’s wife committed suicide a couple of years later. He remarried about ten years ago. He has a wee boy who must be about five or six.’ She grinned. ‘How did I do?’

‘It’s not a contest, Inspector.’ Lees felt his hands closing into fists and lowered them below the desk. ‘It appears that there may be some fresh evidence. And since you are in charge of cold cases, I thought you should deal with it.’

‘What sort of evidence?’ She leaned on the arm of her chair. It was almost a slouch.

‘I thought it best that you confer directly with Sir Broderick. That way there can be no possibility of confusion.’

‘So he didn’t actually tell you?’

Lees could have sworn she was enjoying this. ‘I’ve arranged for you to meet him at Rotheswell Castle tomorrow morning at ten. I need hardly remind you how important it is that we are seen to be taking this seriously. I want Sir Broderick to understand this matter will have our full attention.’

Karen stood up abruptly, her eyes suddenly cold. ‘He’ll get exactly the same attention as every other bereaved parent I deal with. I don’t make distinctions among the dead, sir. Now, if that’s all, I’ve got a case file to assimilate before morning.’ She didn’t wait for a dismissal. She just turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Lees feeling that she didn’t make many distinctions among the living either.

Yet again, Karen Pirie had left him feeling like an idiot.

Rotheswell Castle

Bel Richmond took a last quick look through her file on Catriona Maclennan Grant, double-checking that her list of questions covered all the angles. Broderick Maclennan Grant’s inability to suffer fools was as notorious as his dislike of publicity. Bel suspected that he would pounce on the first sign of unpreparedness on her part and use that as an excuse to break the deal she had brokered with Susan Charleson.

Truth to tell, she was still amazed that she had pulled it off. She stood up, closing her laptop and pausing to check her look in the mirror. Tits and teeth. You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression. Country house weekend, that was the look she’d gone for. She’d always been good at camouflage. Another of the many reasons she was so good at what she did. Blending in, becoming ‘one of us’, whoever the ‘us’ happened to be, was a necessary evil. So if she was sleeping under Brodie Grant’s baronial roof, she needed to look the part. She straightened the Black Watch tartan dress she’d borrowed from Vivianne, checked her kitten heels for scuffs, pushed her crow black hair behind one ear and parted her scarlet lips in a smile. A glance at her watch confirmed it was time to head downstairs and discover what the formidable Susan Charleson had lined up.

As she turned the corner of the wide staircase, she had to jink to one side to avoid a small boy careering up. He brought his flailing limbs under control on the half-landing, gasped, ‘Sorry,’ then hurtled on upwards. Bel blinked and raised her eyebrows. It had been a couple of years since she’d last had a similar small boy encounter and she hadn’t missed it a bit. She carried on down but before she reached the bottom, a woman wearing cords the colour of butter and a dark red shirt swung round the newel post then stopped dead, taken by surprise. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ she said. ‘You haven’t seen a small boy go past, have you?’

Bel gestured over her shoulder with her thumb. ‘He went thataway.’

The woman nodded. Now she was nearer, Bel could see she was a good ten years older than she’d first thought; late thirties, at least. Good skin, thick chestnut hair and a trim build gave the illusion a helping hand. ‘Monster,’ the woman said. They met a couple of steps from the bottom. ‘You must be Annabel Richmond,’ she said, extending a slender hand that was chilly in spite of the comfortable warmth trapped inside the thick walls of the castle. ‘I’m Judith. Brodie’s wife.’

Of course she was. How could Bel have imagined a nanny so perfectly groomed? ‘Lady Grant,’ she said, wincing inside.

‘Judith, please. Even after all these years married to Brodie, I still want to look over my shoulder when someone calls me Lady Grant.’ She sounded as though she wasn’t just saying it out of fake humility.

‘And I’m Bel, apart from my by-line.’

Lady Grant smiled, her eyes already scanning the stairs above. ‘Bel it is. Look, I can’t stop now, I have to capture the monster. I’ll see you at dinner.’ And she was off, taking the stairs two at a time.

Feeling overdressed in comparison with the chatelaine of Rotheswell, Bel made her way back down the stone-flagged hallways to Susan Charleson’s office. The door was open and Susan, who was talking on the phone, beckoned her in. ‘Fine. Thank you for organizing that, Mr Lees.’ She replaced the phone and came round the desk, ushering Bel back towards the door. ‘Perfect timing,’ she said. ‘He likes punctuality. Is your room to your liking? Do you have everything you need? Is the wireless access working?’

‘It’s all perfect,’ Bel said. ‘Lovely view too.’ Feeling as if she’d wandered into a BBC2 drama scripted by Stephen Poliakoff, she allowed herself to be led back through the maze of corridors whose walls were lined with poster-sized photographs of the Scottish landscape printed on canvas to resemble paintings. She was surprised by how cosy it felt. But then, this wasn’t quite her idea of a castle. She’d expected something like Windsor or Alnwick. Instead, Rotheswell was more like a fortified manor with turrets. The interior resembled a country house rather than a medieval banqueting hall. Substantial but not as intimidating as she’d feared.

By the time they stopped in front of a pair of tall arched mahogany doors, she was beginning to regret not having thought of breadcrumbs.

‘Here we are,’ Susan said, opening one of the doors and leading Bel into a billiard room panelled in dark wood with shutters over the windows. The only light came from an array of lamps above the full-size table. As they walked in, Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant looked up from sighting down his cue. A thick shock of startling silver hair falling boyishly over a broad forehead, eyebrows a pair of silver bulwarks over eyes so deep set their colour was guesswork, a parrot’s bill of a nose and a long thin mouth over a square chin made him instantly recognizable; the lighting made him a dramatic figure.

Bel knew what to expect from photographs but she was startled by the crackle of electricity she felt in his presence. She’d been in the company of powerful men and women before, but she’d only felt this instant charisma a handful of times. She understood at once how Brodie Grant had built his empire from the ground up.

He straightened up and leaned on his cue. ‘Miss Richmond, I take it?’ His voice was deep and almost grudging, as if he hadn’t used it enough.

‘That’s right, Sir Broderick.’ Bel wasn’t sure whether to advance or stay put.

‘Thank you, Susan,’ Grant said. As the door closed behind her, he waved towards a pair of well-worn leather armchairs flanking a carved marble fireplace. ‘Sit yourself down. I can play and talk at the same time.’ He returned to study his shot while Bel shifted one of the chairs so she could watch him more directly.

She waited while he played a couple of shots, the silence rising between them like a drowning tide. ‘This is a beautiful house,’ she said finally.

He grunted. ‘I don’t do small talk, Miss Richmond.’ He cued swiftly and two balls collided with a crack like a gunshot. He chalked his cue and studied her for a long moment. ‘You’re probably wondering how on earth you managed this. Direct access to a man notorious for his loathing of the media spotlight. Quite an achievement, eh? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you just got lucky.’ He walked round the table, frowning at the position of the balls, moving like a man twenty years younger.

‘That’s how I’ve got some of my best stories.’ Bel said calmly. ‘It’s a big part of what successful journalism is about, the knack of being in the right place at the right time. I don’t have a problem with luck.’

‘Just as well.’ He studied the balls, cocking his head for a different angle. ‘So, are you not wondering why I’ve chosen to break my silence after all these years?’

‘Yes, of course I am. But to be honest, I don’t think your reasons for talking now will have much to do with what I end up writing. So it’s more personal curiosity than professional.’

He stopped halfway through his preparation for a shot and straightened up, staring at her with an expression she couldn’t read. He was either furious or curious. ‘You’re not what I expected,’ he said. ‘You’re tougher. That’s good.’

Bel was accustomed to being underestimated by the men in her world. She was less used to them admitting their mistake. ‘Damn right, I’m tough. I don’t rely on anybody else to fight my battles.’

He turned to face her, leaning on the table and folding his arms over his cue. ‘I don’t like being in the public eye,’ he said. ‘But I’m a realist. Back in 1985, it was possible for someone like me to exert a degree of influence over the media. When Catriona and Adam were kidnapped, to a large extent we controlled what was printed and broadcast. The police cooperated with us too.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘For all the good it did us.’ He leaned the cue on the table and came to sit opposite Bel.

He sat in the classic alpha male pose: knees spread wide, hands on his thighs, shoulders back. ‘The world is a different place now,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen what you people do to parents who have lost children. Mohamed Al Fayed, made to look like a paranoid buffoon. Kate McCann, turned into a modern-day Medea. Put one foot wrong and they bury you. Well, I’m not about to let that happen. I’m a very successful man, Miss Richmond. And I got that way by accepting that there are things I don’t know, and understanding that the way to overcome that is to employ experts and listen to them. As far as this business goes, you are my hired gun. Once the word gets out that there is new evidence, the media will go wild. But I will not be talking to anyone but you. Everything goes through you. So whatever image reaches the public will be the one you generate. This place was built to withstand a siege and my security is state of the art. None of the reptiles gets near me or Judith or Alec.’

Bel felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Exclusive access was every hack’s wet dream. Usually she had to work her arse off to get it. But here it was, on a plate and for free. Still, let him keep on thinking that she was the one doing him a favour. ‘And what’s in it for me? Apart from becoming the journalist that all the others love to hate?’

The thin line of Grant’s lips compressed further and his chest rose as he breathed deeply. ‘I will talk to you.’ The words came out as if they’d been ground between a pair of millstones. It was clearly meant to be a moment reminiscent of Moses descending from Mount Sinai.

Bel was determined not to be impressed. ‘Excellent. Shall we make a start then?’ She reached into her bag and produced a digital recorder. ‘I know this is not going to be easy for you, but I need you to tell me about Catriona. We’ll get to the kidnapping and its consequences, but we’re going to have to go back before that. I want to have a sense of what she was like and what her life was like.’

He stared into the middle distance and for the first time Bel saw a man who looked his seventy-two years. ‘I’m not sure I’m the best person for that,’ he said. ‘We were too alike. It was always head to head with me and Catriona.’ He pushed himself out of the armchair and went back to the billiard table. ‘She was always volatile, even when she was wee. She had toddler tantrums that could shake the walls of this place. She grew out of the tantrums but not out of the tempers. Still, she could always charm her way right back into your good graces. When she put her mind to it.’ He glanced up at Bel and smiled. ‘She knew her own mind. And you couldn’t shift her once she was set on something.’

Grant moved round the table, studying the balls, lining up his next shot. ‘And she had talent. When she was a child, you never saw her without a pencil or a paintbrush in her hand. Drawing, painting, modelling with clay. She never stopped. She didn’t grow out of it like most kids do. She just got better at it. And then she discovered glass.’ He bent over the table and stunned the cue ball into the red, slotting it into the middle pocket. He respotted the red and studied the angles.

‘You said you were always head to head with each other. What were the flashpoints?’ Bel said when he showed no sign of continuing his reminiscences.

Grant gave a little snort of laughter. ‘Anything and everything. Politics. Religion. Whether Italian food was better than Indian. Whether Mozart was better than Beethoven. Whether abstract art had any meaning. Whether we should plant beech or birch or Scots pine in the Check Bar wood.’ He straightened up slowly. ‘Why she didn’t want to take over the company. That was a big one. I didn’t have a son then. And I’ve never had a problem with women in business. I saw no reason why she shouldn’t take over MGE once she’d learned how it all works. She said she’d rather stick needles in her eyes.’

‘She didn’t approve of MGE?’ Bel asked.

‘No, it wasn’t anything to do with the company or its policies. What she wanted was to be an artist in glass. Sculpting, blowing, casting - anything you could do with glass, she wanted to be the best. And that didn’t leave any room for building roads or houses.’

‘That must have been a disappointment.’

‘Broke my heart.’ Grant cleared his throat. ‘I did everything I could to talk her out of it. But she wouldn’t be talked out of it. She went behind my back, applied for a place at Goldsmiths in London. And she got it.’ He shook his head. ‘I was all for cutting her adrift without a penny, but Mary - my wife, Cat’s mother - she shamed me into agreeing to support her. She pointed out that, for somebody who hated being in the public eye, I’d be throwing a hell of a bone to the tabloids. So I let myself be talked into it.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Almost reconciled myself to it too. And then I found out what was really going on.’

Wednesday 13th December 1978; Rotheswell Castle

Brodie Grant swung the Land Rover into a gravel-scattering turn and ground to a halt yards from the kitchen door of Rotheswell Castle. He stamped into the house, a chocolate Lab at his heels. He strode through the kitchen, leaving a swirl of freezing air in his wake, barking at the dog to stay. He moved through the house with the speed and certainty of a man who knows precisely where he is going.

At last he burst into the prettily decorated room where his wife indulged her passion for quilting. ‘Did you know about this?’ he said. Mary looked up, startled. She could hear the rush of his breathing from across the room.

‘About what, Brodie?’ she said. She’d been married to a force of nature long enough not to be ruffled by a grand entrance.

‘You talked me into this.’ He threw himself into a low armchair, struggling to untangle his legs. ‘“It’s what she wants, Brodie. She’ll never forgive you if you stand in her way, Brodie. You followed your dreams, Brodie. Let her follow hers.” That’s what you said. So I did. Against my better judgement, I said I would back her up. Finance her bloody degree. Keep my mouth shut about what a bloody waste of time it is. Stop reminding her how few artists ever make any kind of a living from their self-indulgent bloody carry-on. Not till they’re dead, anyway.’ He banged his fist on the arm of the chair.

Mary continued piecing her fabric and smiled. ‘You did, Brodie. And I’m very proud of you for it.’

‘And now look where it’s got us. Look what’s really going on.’

‘Brodie, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Do you think you could explain? And with due consideration for your blood pressure?’ She’d always had the gift of gently teasing him out of his extreme positions. But today, it wasn’t working well. Brodie’s dander was up, and it was going to take more than an application of sweet reason to restore him to his normal humour.

‘I’ve been out with Sinclair. Checking the drives for the shoot on Friday.’

‘And how were the drives?’

‘Perfectly fine. They’re always fine. He’s a good keeper. But that’s not the point, Mary.’ His voice rose again, incongruous in the cosy room with its stacked riot of fabrics on the shelves.

‘No, Brodie. I realize that. What is the point, exactly?’

‘Fergus bloody Sinclair, that’s what. I told Sinclair. Back in the summer, when his bloody son was sniffing round Cat. I told him to keep the boy away from my daughter, and I thought he’d listened to me. But now this.’ He waved his hands as if he was throwing a pile of hay in the air.

Mary finally put down her work. ‘What’s the matter, Brodie? What’s happened?’

‘It’s what’s going to happen. You know how we breathed a sigh of relief when he signed up for his bloody estate management degree at Edinburgh? Well, it turns out that wasn’t the only iron in his bloody fire. He’s only gone and accepted a place at London University. He’s going to be in the same bloody city as our daughter. He’ll be all over her like a rash. Bloody gold-digging peasant.’ He scowled and smacked his fist down on the chair again. ‘I’m going to settle his hash, you see if I don’t.’

To his astonishment, Mary was laughing, rocking back and forward at her piecing table, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. ‘Oh, Brodie,’ she gasped. ‘I can’t tell you how funny this is.’

‘Funny?’ he howled. ‘That bloody boy’s going to ruin Cat and you think it’s funny?’

Mary jumped to her feet and crossed the room to her husband. Ignoring his protests, she sat on his lap and ran her fingers through his thick hair. ‘It’s all right, Brodie. Everything’s going to be fine.’

‘I don’t see how.’ He jerked away from her hand.

‘Me and Cat, we’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you for the past week.’

‘Tell me what, woman?’

‘She’s not going to London, Brodie.’

He straightened up, almost toppling Mary on to the floor. ‘What do you mean, not going to London? Is she giving up this daftness? Is she coming to work with me?’

Mary sighed. ‘Don’t be silly. You know in your heart she’s doing what she should be doing. No, she’s been offered a scholarship. It’s a combination of academic study and working in a designer glass factory. Brodie, it’s absolutely the best training in the world. And they want our Catriona.’

For a long moment, he allowed himself to be torn between pride and fear. ‘Where about?’ he said at last.

‘It’s not so far, Brodie.’ Mary ran the back of her hand down his cheek. ‘It’s only Sweden.’

‘Sweden? Bloody Sweden? Jesus Christ, Mary. Sweden?’

‘You make it sound like the ends of the earth. You can fly there from Edinburgh, you know. It takes less than two hours. Honestly, Brodie. Listen to yourself. This is wonderful. It’s the best possible start for her. And you won’t have to worry about Fergus being in the same place. He’s not likely to turn up in a small town between Stockholm and Upsala, is he?’

Grant put his arms round his wife and rested his chin on her head. ‘Trust you to find the silver lining.’ His mouth curled in a cruel smile. ‘It’s certainly going to put Fergus bloody Sinclair’s gas at a peep.’

Thursday 28th June 2007; Rotheswell Castle

‘So you argued with Cat about boyfriends as well?’ Bel said.

‘Was it all of them, or just Fergus Sinclair in particular?’

‘She didn’t have that many boyfriends. She was too focused on her work. She went out for a few months with one of the sculptors at the glass factory. I met him a couple of times. Swedish, but a sensible enough lad all the same. I could see she wasn’t serious, though, so there was no need to argue about him. But Fergus Sinclair was a different kettle of fish.’ He paced the perimeter of the table, the anger obvious. ‘The police never took him seriously as a suspect, but I wondered at the time whether he might have been behind what happened to Cat and Adam. He certainly couldn’t accept it when she finally cut the ties between them. And he couldn’t accept that she wouldn’t acknowledge him as Adam’s father. At the time, I thought it was possible he took the law into his own hands. Though it’s hard to see him having the wit to put something that complicated together.’

‘But Cat continued her relationship with Fergus after she went to Sweden?’

Tiredness seemed suddenly to hit Grant and he dropped back into the chair opposite Bel. ‘They were very close. They’d run about together when they were kids. I should have put a stop to it but it never crossed my mind that it would ever come to anything. They were so different. Cat with her art and Sinclair with no more ambition than to follow his father into keepering. Different class, different aspirations. The only thing that I could see pulling them together was that life had landed them in the same place. So yes, when she came back in the holidays and he was around, they got back together again. She made no secret of it, even though she knew how I felt about Sinclair. I kept hoping she’d meet someone she deserved but it never happened. She kept going back to Sinclair.’

‘And yet you didn’t sack his father? Move him off the estate?’

Grant looked shocked. ‘Good God, no. Have you any idea how hard it is to find a keeper as good as Willie Sinclair? You could interview a hundred men before you’d find one with his instincts for the birds and the land. A decent man, too. He knew his son wasn’t in Cat’s league. He was ashamed that he couldn’t stop Fergus chasing Cat. He wanted to bar him from the family home, but his wife wouldn’t have it.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t say I blame her. Women are always soft with their sons.’

Bel tried to hide her surprise. She’d assumed Grant would stop at nothing to have his own way where his daughter was concerned. He was apparently more complex than she’d given him credit for. ‘What happened after she came back from Sweden?’

Grant rubbed his face with his hands. ‘It wasn’t pretty. She wanted to move out. Set up a studio where she could work and sell things from, somewhere with living quarters attached. She had her eye on a couple of properties on the estate. I said the price of my support was that she stop seeing Sinclair.’ For the first time, Bel saw sadness seeping round the edges of the simmering anger. ‘It was stupid of me. Mary said so at the time, and she was right. They were both furious with me, but I wouldn’t give in. So Cat went her own way. She spoke to the Wemyss estate and rented a property from them. An old gatehouse with what had been a logging shed, set back from the main road. Perfect for attracting customers. A parking area in front of the old gates, studio and display space, and living quarters tucked away behind the walls. All the privacy you could want. And everybody knew. Catriona Maclennan Grant had gone to the Wemyss estate to spite her old man.’

‘If she needed your support, how did she pay for it all?’ Bel asked.

‘Her mother equipped the studio, paid the first year’s rent and stocked the kitchen till Cat started selling pieces.’ He couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘Which didn’t take long. She was good, you know. Very good. And her mother saw to it that all her friends went there for wedding presents and birthday gifts. I was never angrier with Mary than I was then. I was outraged. I felt thwarted and disrespected and it really did not help when bloody Sinclair came back from university and picked up where he’d left off.’

‘Were they living together?’

‘No. Cat had more sense than that. I look back at it now and I sometimes think she only went on seeing him to spite me. It didn’t last that long after she’d set the studio up. It was pretty much over about eighteen months before…before she died.’

Bel did her mental arithmetic and came up with the wrong answer. ‘But Adam was only six months old when they were kidnapped. So how could Fergus Sinclair be his father if he split up with Cat eighteen months earlier?’

Grant sighed. ‘According to Mary, it wasn’t a clean break. Cat kept telling Sinclair it was over but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. These days, you’d call it harassment. Apparently he kept turning up with a pathetic puppy face and Cat didn’t always have the strength to send him away. And then she got pregnant.’ He stared at the floor. ‘I’d always imagined what it would be like to be a grandfather. To see the family line continue. But when Cat told us, all I felt was anger. That bastard Sinclair had wrecked her future. Saddled her with his child, ruined her chances of the career she’d dreamed of. The one good thing she did was refuse to have anything more to do with him. She wouldn’t acknowledge him as the father, she wouldn’t see him or talk to him. She made it plain that, this time, it really was over and done.’

‘How did he take that?’

‘Again, I got it second-hand. This time from Willie Sinclair. He said the boy was devastated. But all I cared about was that he’d finally got the message that he was never going to be part of this family. Willie advised the boy to put some distance between himself and Cat, and for once, he listened. Within a few weeks, he’d got a job in Austria, working on some hunting estate near Salzburg. And he’s worked in Europe ever since.’

‘And now? You still think he might have been responsible for what happened?’

Grant made a face. ‘If I’m honest, no. Not really. I don’t think he had the brains to come up with such a complicated plot. I’m sure he’d have loved to get his hands on his son and take his revenge on Cat at the same time, but it’s much more likely that it was some politically motivated bastards who thought it would be clever to get me to fund their revolution.’ Wearily, he got to his feet. ‘I’m tired now. The police are coming tomorrow morning and we’ll be going through all the other stuff then. We’ll see you at dinner, Miss Richmond.’ He walked out of the room, leaving Bel with plenty to ponder. And to transcribe. When Brodie Grant had said he would talk to her, she hadn’t imagined for a moment he would provide her with this rich seam of information. She was going to have to consider very carefully how to present him to the world’s media. One foot wrong and she knew the mine would be closed down. And now she’d had a taste of what lay within, that was definitely the last thing she wanted.

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