by Val McDermid
Karen wanted to believe him, but she couldn’t. Nobody could find her chunky figure appealing, not unless they were a lot more hard up for female company than Phil need be. ‘Aye, right.’ She opened her briefcase and ran through the key points of the case file for Phil’s benefit. She’d barely reached the end of her summary when they turned into the gateway of Rotheswell. They could see the castle in the distance beyond the bare branches of a stand of trees, but before they could approach their identities had to be verified. They both had to get out of the car and hold their warrant cards up to the CCTV camera. Eventually, the solid wooden gates swung open, allowing the car access to a sort of security airlock. Phil drove forward, Karen walking beside the car. The wooden gates swung shut behind them, leaving them contained in a sort of giant cattle pen. Two security men emerged from a guardhouse and inspected the exterior and interior of the car, Karen’s briefcase and the pockets of Phil’s duffel coat.
‘He’s got better security than the Prime Minister,’ Karen said as they finally drove up the drive.
‘Easier to get a new Prime Minister than a new Brodie Grant,’ Phil said.
‘I bet that’s what he thinks, anyway.’
As they approached the house, an elderly man in a waxed jacket and a tweed cap rounded the nearest turret and waved them towards the far side of the gravel apron in front of the house. By the time they’d parked, he’d vanished, leaving them no option but to approach the massive studded wooden doors in the middle of the frontage. ‘Where’s Mel Gibson when you need him?’ Karen muttered, raising a hefty iron door knocker and letting it fall with a satisfying bang. ‘It’s like a very bad film.’
‘And we still don’t know why we’re here.’ Phil looked glum. ‘Hard to see what could live up to this build-up.’
Before Karen could reply, the door swung open on silent hinges. A woman who reminded her of her primary school teacher said, ‘Welcome to Rotheswell. I’m Susan Charleson, Sir Broderick’s personal assistant. Come on in.’
They filed into an entrance hall that, provided the grand staircase had been removed, could comfortably have accommodated Karen’s house. She had no chance to take much in other than a general atmosphere of rich colour and warmth before they were hustled a short distance down a wide corridor. ‘You’re DI Pirie, I presume,’ Susan Charleson said. ‘But I’m not familiar with your colleague’s name and rank.’
‘Detective Sergeant Phil Parhatka,’ he said with as much pomp as he could muster in the teeth of her formality.
‘Good, now I can introduce you,’ she said, stepping to one side and opening a door. She waved them into a drawing room where CID could comfortably have staged their annual Burns’ Supper. They’d have had to push some of the furniture back to the walls to make room for the country dancing, but still, it wouldn’t have been much of a squeeze.
There were three people in the room, but Karen was instantly focused on the one who radiated the charisma. Brodie Grant might be knocking at the wrong side of seventy, but he was still more glamorous than either of the women who flanked him. He stood to one side of the substantial carved stone mantel, left hand cupping his right elbow, right hand casually holding a slim cigar, face as still and striking as the magazine cover shot she’d found on Google Images. He wore a grey-and-white tweed jacket whose weight suggested cashmere and silk rather than Harris or Donegal, a black polo neck, matching trousers and the sort of shoes Karen had only ever seen on the feet of rich Americans. She thought they were called tasselled oxfords or something. They looked like something a kiltie doll would wear rather than a captain of industry. She was so busy studying his weird footwear that she almost missed the introductions.
She looked up in time to catch the faintest twitch of a smile on the mouth of Lady Grant, elegant in a heather mixture suit with the classic velveteen collar that somehow always spoke of money and class to Karen. But the smile felt strangely complicit.
Susan Charleson introduced the other woman. ‘This is Annabel Richmond, a freelance journalist.’ Wary now, Karen nodded an acknowledgement. What the hell was a journalist doing here? If she knew one thing about Brodie Grant, it was that he was so allergic to the media he should be going into anaphylactic shock any moment now.
Brodie Grant stepped forward and indicated with a wave of his cigar that they should sit on a sofa within loudhailing distance of the fireplace. Karen perched on the edge, conscious that it was the type of seat that would swallow her, making anything other than a clumsy exit impossible. ‘Miss Richmond is here at my request for two reasons,’ Grant said. ‘One, I’ll come to in a moment. The other is that she’ll be acting as liaison between the media and the family. I will not be giving press conferences or making sentimental televised appeals. So she is your first port of call if you’re looking for something to feed the reptiles.’
Karen inclined her head. ‘That’s your prerogative,’ she said, trying to sound as if she was making a concession out of the goodness of her heart. Anything to claw back some control. ‘I understand from Mr Lees that you believe some new evidence has emerged relating to the kidnap of your daughter and grandson?’
‘It’s new evidence all right. No doubt of that. Susan?’ He glanced expectantly at her. Smart enough to anticipate her boss’s demands, she was already advancing towards them with a plastic-covered sheet of plywood. As she drew near, she turned it round to face Karen and Phil.
Karen felt a shimmer of disappointment. ‘This isn’t the first time we’ve seen something like this,’ she said, studying the monochrome print of the puppeteer and his sinister marionettes. ‘I came across three or four instances in the files.’
‘Five, actually,’ Grant said. ‘But none like this. The previous ones were all dismissed because they diverged in some way from the originals. The reproductions DCI Lawson distributed to the media at the time were subtly altered so we could weed out any copycats. All the ones that have turned up since were copies of the altered versions.’
‘And this one’s different?’ Karen said.
Grant nodded his approval. ‘Spot on, Inspector. It’s identical in every respect. I’m well aware that the reward I’ve offered is a temptation to some people. I kept my own copy of the original so I could compare anything that was brought directly to me. As this was.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘Not that I needed a copy. I’ll never forget a single detail. The first time I clapped eyes on it, it burned itself on to my memory.’
Saturday 19th January 1985
Mary Grant poured her husband a second cup of coffee before he noticed he’d finished his first. She’d been doing it for so many years it still surprised him that his cup needed so many refills when he stayed in hotels. He turned the page of his newspaper and grunted. ‘Some good news at last. Lord Wolfenden’s shuffled off this mortal coil.’
Mary’s expression was one of weary resignation rather than shock. ‘That’s a horrible thing to say, Brodie.’
Without lifting his eyes, he said, ‘The man made the world a more horrible place, Mary. So I’m not sorry he’s gone.’
Years of marriage had knocked most of the combativeness out of Mary Grant. But even if she’d intended to say anything, she wouldn’t have had the chance. To the surprise of both Grants, the door to the breakfast room burst open without a knock and Susan Charleson practically ran in. Brodie dropped his paper on to his scrambled eggs, taking in her pink cheeks and shortness of breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ she gabbled. ‘But you have to see this.’ She thrust a large manila envelope at him. On the front was his name and address, with the words ‘Private’ and ‘Confidential’ written in thick black marker above and below.
‘What in the name of God is it that can’t wait till after breakfast?’ he said, poking two fingers into the envelope to reveal a thick piece of paper folded into quarters.
‘This,’ Susan said, pointing to the envelope. ‘I put it back in the envelope because I didn’t want anybody else to get a look at it.’
Making an impatient n
oise, Grant pulled out the paper and unfolded it. It looked like an advertising poster for a macabre puppet show. In stark black and white, a puppeteer leaned over the set, manipulating a group of marionettes that included a skeleton and a goat. It reminded him of the kind of prints he’d once seen on a TV programme about the art Hitler hated. Even while he was thinking this, his eyes were scanning the bottom section of the poster. Where one would expect to find details of the puppet show performance there was a very different message.
Your greedy exploitative capitalism is about to be punished. We have your daughter and your grandson. Do as we tell you if you want to see them again. No police. Just go about your business as usual. We are watching you. We will contact you again soon. The Anarchist Covenant of Scotland.
‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’ Grant said, throwing it down on the table and pushing his chair back. As he stood up Mary snatched the poster then dropped it as if it had burned her fingers.
‘Oh my God,’ she breathed. ‘Brodie?’
‘It’s a trick,’ he said. ‘Some sick bastard trying to give us a bit of a fright.’
‘No,’ Susan said. ‘There’s more’ She picked up the envelope where it had fallen to the floor and shook out a Polaroid photo. Silently she handed it to Grant.
He saw his only daughter tied to a chair. A slash of packing tape covered her mouth. Her hair was a mess, a smudge of dirt or a bruise marked her left cheek. Between her and the camera, a gloved hand held enough of the front page of the previous day’s Daily Record to leave no room for doubt. He felt his legs give way and he collapsed back into his chair, his eyelids fluttering as he tried to regain control of himself. Mary reached for the photograph but he shook his head and held it tight against his chest. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, Mary.’
There was a long silence then Susan said, ‘What do you need me to do?’
Grant couldn’t form words. He didn’t know what he thought, what he felt or what he wanted to say. It was an experience as alien and as unlikely as taking recreational drugs. He was always in charge of himself and most of what happened around him. To be powerless was something that hadn’t happened for so long he had forgotten how to cope with it.
‘Do you want me to call the Chief Constable?’ Susan said.
‘It says not to,’ Mary said. ‘We can’t take risks with Catriona and Adam.’
‘To hell with that,’ Grant said in a pale approximation of his normal voice. ‘I’m not being pushed around by a bunch of bloody anarchists.’ He forced himself upright, sheer will overcoming the fear that was already eating him from the inside out. ‘Susan, call the Chief Constable. Explain the situation. Tell him I want the best officer he has who doesn’t look like a policeman. I want him at the office in an hour. And now I’m going to the office. Going about my business as usual, if they really are watching.’
‘Brodie, how can you?’ White-faced, Mary looked stricken. ‘We have to do what they tell us.’
‘No, we don’t. We just have to look as if we are.’ His voice was stronger now. Having fixed on the bare beginnings of a plan gave him strength to recover himself. He could deal with the fear if he could make himself believe he was doing something to resolve the situation. ‘Susan, get things moving.’ He went to Mary and patted her on the shoulder. ‘It’ll be all right, Mary. I promise you.’ If he couldn’t see her face, he didn’t have to deal with her doubt or terror. He had enough to worry about without that extra burden.
Dysart, Fife
Other men might have paced the floor waiting for the police to arrive. Brodie Grant had never been one to waste his energy on pointless activity. He sat in his office chair, swivelled away from the desk so he faced the spectacular view across the Forth estuary to Berwick Law, Edinburgh and the Pentlands. He stared out over the stippled grey water, ordering his thoughts to avoid any waste of time once the police arrived. He hated to squander anything, even that which could be readily replaced.
Susan, who had followed him to work at the usual time, came through the door that separated her office from his. ‘The police are here,’ she said. ‘Shall I bring them in?’
Grant swung round in his chair. ‘Yes. Then leave us.’ He registered the look of surprise on her face. She was accustomed to being privy to all his secrets, to knowing more than Mary ever cared to. But this time, he wanted the circle to be as small as possible. Even Susan was one person too many.
She ushered in two men in painters’ overalls, then pointedly closed the door behind her. Grant was pleased with the ruse. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly. And so discreetly,’ he said, studying the pair of them. They looked too young for so important a task. The elder, lean and dark, was probably in his early to mid-thirties, the other, fair and ruddy, his late twenties.
The dark one spoke first. To Grant’s surprise, his introduction went straight to the heart of his own reservations. ‘I’m Detective Inspector James Lawson,’ he said. ‘And this is Detective Constable Rennie. We’ve been personally briefed by the Chief Constable. I know you’re probably thinking I’m on the young side to be running an operation like this, but I’ve been chosen because of my experience. Last year the wife of one of the East Fife players was abducted. We managed to resolve the matter without anybody getting hurt.’
‘I don’t remember hearing anything about that,’ Grant said.
‘We managed to keep the lid on very successfully,’ Lawson said, the briefest of proud smiles flitting across his face.
‘Wasn’t there a trial? How could you keep that out of the papers?’
Lawson shrugged. ‘The kidnapper pleaded guilty. It was over and done with before the press even noticed. We’re pretty good at news management here in Fife.’ His quick smile flashed again. ‘So you see, sir, I’m the man with the relevant experience.’
Grant gave him a long appraising stare. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He took a pair of tweezers from his drawer and delicately shifted the blank sheet of paper that he’d placed over the ransom poster. ‘This is what arrived in the post this morning. Accompanied by this -’ Carefully lifting it by its edges, he turned over the Polaroid.
Lawson moved closer and studied them intently. ‘And you’re sure this is your daughter?’
For the first time, Grant’s grip on his self-control slipped a fraction. ‘You think I don’t know my own daughter?’
‘No, sir. But for the record, I have to be sure you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘In that case, there’s not much room for doubt,’ Lawson said. ‘When did you last see or hear from your daughter?’
Grant made an impatient gesture with his hand. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I saw her last about two weeks ago. She’d brought Adam over to visit. Her mother will have spoken to her or seen her since then. You know how women are.’ The sudden guilt he felt was not so much a twinge as a slow pulse. He didn’t regret anything he’d said or done; he regretted only that it had caused a rift between him and Cat.
‘We’ll talk to your wife,’ Lawson said. ‘It would be helpful for us to get an idea of when this happened.’
‘Catriona has her own business. Presumably if the gallery was closed, someone will have noticed. There must be hundreds, thousands of people who drive past every day. She was scrupulous about the open and closed sign.’ He gave a tight, wintry smile. ‘She had a good head for business.’ He pulled a pad towards him and scribbled down the address and directions to Catriona’s gallery.
‘Of course,’ Lawson said. ‘But I thought you didn’t want the kidnappers to know you had come to us?’
Grant was taken aback by his own stupidity. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m not thinking straight. I…’
‘That’s my job, not yours.’ There was kindness in Lawson’s tone. ‘You can rest assured that we’ll make no inquiries that raise suspicion. If we can’t find something out in an apparently natural way, we leave it alone. The safety of Catriona and Adam is paramount. I promise you that.’
‘That’s a pr
omise I expect you to keep. Now, what’s the next step?’ Grant was back in command of himself, but unnerved by the emotions that kept throwing him off balance.
‘We’ll be putting a tap and a trace on your phone lines in case they try to contact you that way. And I’m going to need you to go to Catriona’s home. It’s what the kidnappers would expect. You have to be my eyes inside her house. Anything out of place, anything unusual, you need to make a note of it. You’ll have to carry a briefcase or something, so if for example there’s two mugs on the table, you can bring them out to us. We’ll also need something of Catriona’s so that we can get her prints. A hairbrush would be ideal, then we get her hair too.’ Lawson sounded eager.
Grant shook his head. ‘You’ll have to get my wife to do that. I’m not very observant.’ He wasn’t about to admit he’d only crossed the threshold once, and that reluctantly. ‘She’ll be happy to have something to do. To feel useful.’
‘Fine, we’ll see to that.’ Lawson tapped the poster with a pen. ‘On the surface, this looks like a political act rather than a personal one. And we’ll be checking out intelligence on any group that might have the resources and the determination to pull off something like this. I need to ask you, though - have you had any run-ins with any special interest group? Some organization that might have a few hotheads on the fringes who would think this was a good idea?’
Grant had already asked himself the same question while he’d been waiting for the police. ‘The only thing I can think of is a problem we had a year or so ago with one of those “save the whale” outfits. We had a development on the Black Isle that they claimed would adversely affect the habitat of some bunch of dolphins in the Moray Firth. All nonsense, of course. They tried to stop our construction crew - the usual stunt, lying in front of the JCBs. One of them got hurt. Their own stupid fault, which was how the authorities saw it. But that was the end of it. They went off with their tail between their legs and we got on with the development. And the dolphins are perfectly fine, by the way.’
