A Darker Domain

by Val McDermid

  ‘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.