by Val McDermid
‘Nothing that can’t wait for tomorrow,’ Jenny said, folding her arms across her chest.
‘All the same, no reason not to get them out of the way today,’ Karen said, smiling at Misha.
‘I don’t see my daughter that often,’ Jenny said. ‘I don’t want to waste the time we’ve got talking to you.’
‘It won’t take long,’ Karen said. ‘And it does concern Misha too.’
‘Come on, Mum. They’ve come all the way out here, the least we can do is invite them in,’ Misha said, steering her mother away from her position on the threshold. The look Jenny gave them would have shrivelled smaller souls, but she conceded and swung away from them, back into the front room they’d spoken in last time.
Karen refused the tea Misha offered, barely allowing mother and daughter to settle before she went straight to the point. ‘When we last spoke, you never mentioned Tom Campbell.’
‘Why should I?’ Jenny couldn’t keep the hostility from her voice.
‘Because he was here the day your husband disappeared. And not for the first time, either.’
‘Why shouldn’t he be here? He was a friend of the family. He was very generous to us during the strike.’ Jenny’s mouth clamped tight as a mousetrap.
‘What are you suggesting, Inspector?’ Misha sounded genuinely puzzled.
‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking Jenny why she’s never mentioned that Campbell was here that day.’
‘Because it was irrelevant,’ Jenny said.
‘How long was it after Mick disappeared that you and Tom started having a relationship?’ The question hung alongside the dust motes that inhabited the air.
‘You’ve got a very nasty mind,’ Jenny said.
Karen shrugged. ‘It’s a matter of record that he moved in here. That you lived together as a family. That his will left everything to Misha. All I’m asking was how much time elapsed between Mick vanishing and Tom getting his feet under the table.’
Jenny flashed an unreadable look at her daughter. ‘Tom was a good man. You’ve got no right to come here with your innuendos and slanders. The man wasn’t long widowed. His wife was my best pal. He needed friends about him. And he was a deputy, so most of the men didn’t want to know.’
‘I’m not disputing any of that,’ Karen said. ‘I’m just trying to get the facts straight. It doesn’t help me find Mick, you not telling me the whole story. So how long was it before Tom and you moved from friendship to something more?’
Misha made an impatient noise. ‘Tell her what she wants to know, Mum. She’ll just get it from somebody else otherwise. It’s got to be better coming from you than the local sweetie wives.’
Jenny stared at her feet, studying battered slippers nearly through at the toes as if the answer was written there and she didn’t have the right glasses on. ‘We were both lonely. We’d both been abandoned, it felt like. And he was good to us, very good to us.’ There was a long pause, then Misha put out her hand to cover her mother’s clenched fist. ‘I asked him to my bed six weeks to the day after Mick walked out on us. We’d have starved if it hadn’t been for Tom. We were both looking for comfort.’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’ The gentle words came, surprisingly, from Phil. ‘We’re not here to make judgements.’
Jenny gave the barest of nods. ‘He moved in with us in May.’
‘And he was a great stepdad,’ Misha said. ‘He couldn’t have done a better job if he’d been my real dad. I loved Tom.’
‘We both did,’ Jenny said. Karen couldn’t help thinking she was trying to convince herself as much as them. She remembered Mrs McGillivray’s contention that Jenny Prentice’s heart had only ever belonged to Mick.
‘Did you ever wonder whether Tom had anything to do with Mick leaving?’
Jenny’s head snapped back, her eyes blazing at Karen. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean? You think Tom did something to Mick? You think he did away with Mick?’
‘You tell me. Did he?’ Karen was as implacable as Jenny was roused.
‘You’re barking up the wrong tree,’ Misha said, her voice loud and defiant. ‘Tom wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘I didn’t say anything about Campbell causing Mick any harm. I find it extremely interesting that you both leapt to the assumption that that’s what I meant,’ Karen said. Jenny looked baffled, Misha furious. ‘What I was wondering was whether Mick realized there was some bond between you and Tom. By all accounts, he was a proud man. Maybe he decided it would be best for everybody if he left the field clear for a man you seemed to prefer.’
‘You’re talking pure shite,’ Jenny hissed. ‘There was nothing going on between me and Tom back then.’
‘No? Well, maybe Tom thought there might be if he could take Mick out of the picture. He had plenty of money. Maybe he bought Mick off.’ It was an outrageous suggestion, she knew. But outrage often precipitated interesting outcomes.
Jenny pulled her hand away from Misha and shifted away from her daughter. ‘This is your fault,’ she shouted at her daughter. ‘I don’t have to listen to this. In my own home, she dares to slander the man that gave you everything. What have you brought down on us, Michelle? What have you done?’ Tears spilled down her cheeks as she drew her hand back and slapped Misha hard across the face.
Karen was on her feet and moving. But she wasn’t fast enough. Jenny had made it out of the room before anyone could stop her. Stunned, Misha pressed a hand to her scarlet cheek. ‘Leave her,’ she shouted. ‘You’ve done enough damage for one day.’ She caught her breath then collected herself. ‘I think you should leave,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry things got out of hand,’ Karen said. ‘But that’s the trouble with taking the lid off the box. You never know what’s going to pop out.’
Monday 2nd July 2007; Glenrothes
ACC Simon Lees stared at the piece of paper Karen Pirie had placed in front of him. He’d read it three times and still it made no sense. He knew he was going to have to ask her for an explanation and that somehow he would end up on the back foot. It felt so unfair. First thing on Monday morning, and the sanctuary of his office was already breached. ‘I’m not entirely clear why we’re paying for this -’ he checked the paper again, trying to shake the suspicion that Pirie was indulging in a twisted practical joke - ‘Dr River Wilde to lead a team of students in a “forensic dig” in a cave at East Wemyss.’
‘Because it’s going to cost us about a tenth of what the forensic science service would charge us. And I know how you like us to get value for money,’ Karen said.
Lees thought she knew full well that wasn’t what he had meant. ‘I’m not referring to the budget implications,’ he said peevishly. ‘What I’m trying to understand is why this…’ he cast his hands upwards in a gesture of frustration ‘…this circus is happening at all.’
‘I thought I was to leave no stone unturned in my investigation of Catriona Maclennan Grant’s kidnap,’ Karen said sweetly.
Was she making fun of him? Or did she really not understand what she’d just said? ‘I didn’t mean that literally, Inspector. What the hell is all this in aid of?’ He waved the budget requisition form at her.
‘It came to my notice in the course of my inquiries that there had been a somewhat unusual roof fall in one of the Wemyss caves in January 1985. I say unusual, because since the Michael pit closed in 1967, the ground has settled and there have been no other major falls.’ Karen savoured the look of bafflement on Lees’ face. ‘When I looked into this further, I found out that the fall had been discovered on Thursday 24th January.’
‘And?’ Lees looked uncomprehending.
‘That’s the day after Catriona was killed, sir.’
‘I know that, Inspector. I am familiar with the case. But I still fail to see what a roof fall in an obscure cave has to do with anything.’ He fiddled with the photograph frame on his desk.
‘Well, sir, it’s like this.’ Karen leaned back in her chair. ‘As far as the locals are concerned
, the caves aren’t really obscure. Everybody knows about them. Most folk have played in them at least once when they were wee. Now, one of the things that we never found out back then was where Catriona and Adam were being held. We never had any witness reports that tied them in to any particular location. And I got to thinking. That time of year, the caves are pretty well deserted. It’s too cold for kids to be playing outside, and there’s never enough bright daylight to tempt passers-by beyond the first few feet of any of the caves.’
Lees felt himself drawn into her narrative in spite of himself. She didn’t deliver reports the way his other officers did. Mostly it drove him slightly crazy, but sometimes, like today, he couldn’t resist the shape of her storytelling. ‘You’re saying the caves could have been a potential hiding place for the kidnappers? Isn’t that a bit Enid Blyton?’ he said, trying to reassert himself.
‘Very popular, Enid Blyton, sir. Maybe she could even be called inspirational. Anyway, the cave in question, the Thane’s Cave, has a gated railing along the front to keep people out these days. But back then, there was just a fence across the access passageway. It wasn’t meant to be impregnable. The cave society used the Thane’s Cave as a kind of club-house. Still do, as a matter of fact. The railing was just there to discourage the casual explorer. So it wouldn’t have been difficult for anyone to gain access.’
‘But they’d have been like rats in a trap if they’d been found,’ Lees protested.
‘Well, that’s the thing. We can’t be entirely sure about that. There’s always been a story that there was a passageway down from Macduff Castle to the cave.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Inspector. Have you been taking drugs? This is insane.’
‘With respect, sir. It makes a kind of sense. We know the kidnappers escaped from the scene in a boat. Police witnesses said at the time it sounded like a small outboard. But by the time they scrambled the chopper and got the spotlight on the sweep, there was no sign of any wee boats anywhere in range of the Lady’s Rock. Now, it was a high tide that night. What if they just shot a couple of miles up the shore and hid the boat in the cave? They’d have got an inflatable in, no bother. They dump it with the rest of their make-shift camp, then get out, bringing the roof down behind them.’
Lees shook his head. ‘It sounds like a cross between The Dangerous Book for Boys and Die Hard. How exactly do you think they went about -’ he paused to do that thing with two fingers that indicated quotation marks and also for some reason irritated his wife out of all proportion to the offence ‘- bringing the roof down behind them?’
Karen smiled far too brightly for his liking. ‘I’ve no idea, sir. Hopefully Dr Wilde’s team will be able to tell us. I’m pretty sure we’ll find something behind that rock fall that will justify all this expense.’
Lees held his head in his hands. ‘I think you’ve lost your mind, Inspector.’
‘Never mind,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘It’s the Brodie Grant case. You can spend pretty much what you like, sir. This is one time when nobody’s going to question the budget.’
Lees could feel the blood pounding in his ears. ‘Are you taking the piss?’
Immediately he regretted swearing, not least because she looked as if she thought it was definitely an improvement. ‘No, sir,’ Karen said soberly. ‘I’m taking this case very seriously.’
‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it.’ Lees slammed his palms down on the desk. ‘I want to see some proper police work here, not a day trip to Kirrin Island. It’s time you did some digging into the past. It’s time you went to talk to Lawson.’ That would teach her who was boss.
But somehow she’d already defused his little bomb. ‘I’m glad you think so, sir. I’ve arranged an appointment for -’ she consulted her watch ‘- three hours’ time. So if you don’t mind, I’m away to put the pedal to the metal and head for the Blue Toon.’
‘Pardon?’ Why could these Fifers not speak plain English?
Karen sighed. ‘I’ve to drive to Peterhead.’ She headed for the door. ‘I keep forgetting you’re not from here.’ She cast a quick look over her shoulder. ‘You don’t really get us, do you, sir?’
But before he could respond, she was gone, the door left wide open. Like a barn door behind a cow, he thought bitterly, getting up to slam it shut. What had he done to deserve this bloody woman? And how the hell was he going to come out of the Brodie Grant case smelling of roses when he was forced to rely on the investigative skills of a woman who thought it might be interesting to dig up a bloody cave?
Campora, Tuscany
With a sense of relief, Bel Richmond turned off the SS2, the treacherous dual carriageway that corkscrews down Tuscany from Florence to Siena. As usual, the Italian drivers had scared the living shit out of her, driving too fast and too close, wing mirrors almost touching as they shot past her in tight bends that seemed to make the narrow lanes even smaller. The fact that she was in a hire car only magnified the unpleasantness. Bel thought of herself as a pretty good driver, but Italy never failed to shred her nerves. And thanks to this latest assignment, she was feeling sufficiently shredded, thank you very much.
On Sunday evening, she’d eaten dinner off a tray in her room. Her choice; she’d been invited to join the Grants in the dining room but she’d pleaded the demands of work. The reality was more prosaic, but its selfishness made it impossible to admit to. In truth, Bel craved her own company. She wanted to hang out of the window smoking the red Marlboros Vivianne had nagged her into supposedly giving up months before. She wanted to watch some crap TV and she wanted to gossip on the phone with any of the women friends whose connection made her feel better. She wanted to run away home and play some shoot ’em up Playstation game with Harry. It was always the same when she found herself living at close quarters with the subjects of her journalism. There was only so much intimacy she could take.
But her pleasure in her own company had been short-lived. She’d barely started watching the first episode of a new US cop show when there was a knock at the door. Bel muted the TV, put down her glass of wine and got up from the sofa. She opened the door to find Susan Charleson, a thin plastic folder in her hand. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid this is rather urgent.’
Disguising the ill grace she felt, Bel stepped back and waved her in. ‘Come in,’ she sighed.
‘May I?’ Susan gestured to the sofa.
‘Make yourself at home.’ Bel sat down at the opposite end, leaving as much space between them as possible. She hadn’t taken to Susan Charleson. Behind the chilly efficiency, there was nothing to latch on to, no glimmer of sisterly warmth to build the conspiracy of friendship on. ‘How can I help you?’
Susan cocked her head to one side and gave a wry little smile. ‘You’ll have realized that Sir Broderick is given to quick decisions that he expects everyone else to turn into realities.’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Bel said. Used to getting his own way might have been a better one. ‘So what has he decided he needs from me?’
‘You’re pretty quick off the mark yourself,’ Susan said. ‘That’s probably why he likes you.’ She gave Bel a measured look. ‘He doesn’t like many people. When he does, he rewards us very well.’
Flattery and bribery, the twisted twins. Thank heavens she’d reached a point in her career where she could feed and clothe herself without having to cave in to their poisoned gifts. ‘I do things because they interest me. If they don’t interest me, I don’t do them well, so there’s not much point, really.’
‘Fair enough. He’d like you to go to Italy.’
Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. ‘Why?’
‘Because he thinks the Italian police have no investment in this case so they won’t be working it very hard. If DI Pirie goes out there, or sends one of her team, she’ll be hampered by the language and by being an outsider. He thinks you might do better, given that you speak Italian. Not to mention the fact that you’re just
back from there and presumably have some recent acquaintance with the locals. Not the police, obviously. But the locals who might actually know something of what’s been going on at that ruined villa.’ Susan smiled at her. ‘If nothing else, you get an expenses-paid trip back to Tuscany.’
Bel didn’t have to think about it for long. This was probably the only chance she’d have to get the jump on the police in terms of new information. ‘How do you know I speak Italian?’ she stalled, not wanting to look too much of a pushover.
A wintry smile. ‘It’s not just journalists who know how to do research.’
You asked for that. ‘When does he want me to go?’
Susan held out the folder. ‘There’s a flight to Pisa at six tomorrow morning. You’re booked on it, and there’s a hire car arranged at the airport. I didn’t reserve accommodation - I thought you’d rather sort out your own. You will, of course, be reimbursed.’
Bel was taken aback. ‘Six in the morning?’
‘It’s the only direct flight. I’ve checked you in. You’ll be driven to the airport. It only takes forty minutes at that time of the morning -’
‘Yes, fine,’ Bel said impatiently. ‘You were very sure I’d agree.’
Susan put the folder on the sofa between them and stood up. ‘It was a pretty safe bet.’
So here she was, bouncing down a dirt road in the Val d’Elsa past fields of sunflowers just bursting into dramatic flower, the hot beat of excitement pulsing in her throat. She didn’t know if Brodie Grant’s name would open doors in Italy as easily as it did in Scotland, but she had a sneaking suspicion that he’d know exactly how to manipulate the bone-deep corruption that underpinned everything here. There was nothing in Italy these days that couldn’t be reduced to a transaction.
Except friendship, of course. And thanks to that, at least she had a roof over her head. The villa, of course, was out of the question. Not because of the cost - she was pretty sure she could have made Brodie Grant spring for it - but because it was high season in Tuscany. But she’d been lucky. Grazia and Maurizio had converted one of their old barns into holiday apartments and the smallest, a studio with a tiny terrace, had been available. When she’d called from the airport, Grazia had tried to offer it to her for free. It had taken Bel almost ten minutes to explain that someone was paying her expenses so Grazia should overcharge as much as she liked.
