by Val McDermid
Lawson had visibly perked up at Grant’s information. ‘Nevertheless, we’ll have to check it out,’ he said.
‘Mrs Charleson will have all the files. She’ll be able to tell you what you need to know.’
‘Thanks. I also have to ask you if there’s anyone you can think of who has a personal grievance against you. Or anyone in your family.’
Grant shook his head. ‘I’ve tramped on a lot of toes in my time. But I can’t think of anything I’ve done that would provoke someone into doing this. Surely this is about money, not spite? Everybody knows I’m one of the richest men in Scotland. It’s not a secret. To me, that’s the obvious motive here. Some bastard wants to get their hands on my hard-earned cash. And they think this is the way to do it.’
‘It’s possible,’ Lawson agreed.
‘It’s more than possible. It’s the most likely scenario. And I’m damned if they’re going to get away with it. I want my family back, and I want them back without giving an inch to these bastards.’ Grant slammed the flat of his hand down on the desk. The two policemen jumped at the sudden crack.
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Lawson said. ‘We’ll do everything possible to produce the outcome you’re looking for.’
Back then, Grant’s confidence was still intact. ‘I expect nothing less,’ he said.
Friday 29th June 2007; Rotheswell Castle
Listening to Grant’s account of that first morning after the world had changed, what struck Karen was everybody’s assumption that this had all been about Brodie Grant. Nobody seemed to have considered that the person being punished here was not Grant himself but his daughter. ‘Did Catriona have any enemies?’
Grant gave her an impatient frown. ‘Catriona? How could she have enemies? She was a single parent and an artist in glass. She didn’t live the sort of life that generated personal animosity.’ He sighed and pursed his lips.
Karen told herself not to be daunted by his attitude. ‘Sorry. I expressed myself badly. I should have asked if you knew of anyone she’d upset.’
Grant gave her a small nod of satisfaction, as if she’d passed a test she hadn’t even known about. ‘The father of her child. He was upset, all right. But I never really thought he had it in him, and your colleagues could never find any evidence to connect him to the crime.’
‘Are you talking about Fergus Sinclair?’ Karen asked.
‘Who else? I thought you’d brought yourself up to speed with the background?’ Grant demanded.
Karen was beginning to feel sorry for everyone obliged to put up with Brodie Grant’s level of irritation. She suspected it wasn’t reserved for her. ‘There’s only one mention of Sinclair in the file,’ she said. ‘In the notes of an interview with Lady Grant, Sinclair is mentioned as Adam’s putative father.’
Grant snorted. ‘Putative? Of course he was the boy’s father. They’d been seeing each other on and off for years. But what do you mean, there’s only one reference to Sinclair? There must be more. They went to Austria to interview him.’
‘Austria?’
‘He worked over there. He’s a qualified estate manager. He’s worked in France and Switzerland since, but he went back to Austria about four years ago. Susan can give you all the details.’
‘You’ve kept tabs on him?’ It wasn’t surprising, Karen thought.
‘No, Inspector. I told you: I never thought Sinclair had the gumption to pull this off. So why would I keep tabs on him? The only reason I know where Sinclair’s living is that his father is still my head keeper.’ Grant shook his head. ‘I can’t believe this isn’t all in the file.’
Karen was thinking the same thing, but she didn’t want to admit it. ‘And as far as you know, was there anybody else Catriona had upset?’
Grant’s face was as wintry as his hair. ‘Only me, Inspector. Look, it’s obvious from where this new evidence has turned up that this had nothing to do with Cat personally. It’s obviously political. Which makes it about what I stand for, not whose heart Cat had broken.’
‘So where did this poster turn up?’ Phil said. Karen was grateful for the interruption. He was good at jumping in and steering interviews in more productive directions when she was in danger of getting bogged down.
‘In a ruined farmhouse in Tuscany. Apparently the place had been squatted.’ He extended his arm towards the journalist. ‘This is the other reason Miss Richmond is here. She’s the person who found it. Doubtless you’ll want to talk to her.’ He pointed to the poster. ‘You’ll want to take that with you, too. I expect there will be tests you need to do on it. And, Inspector…?’
Karen recovered her breath in the face of his highhandedness. ‘Yes?’
‘I don’t want to read about this in the paper tomorrow morning.’ He glared at her as if defying her to respond.
Karen held her fire for a moment, trying to compose a reply that encompassed what she wanted to say and left out anything that might be misconstrued. Grant’s expression changed to a prompt. ‘Whatever we release to the media and the timing of any release will be an operational decision,’ she said at last. ‘It will be made by me and, where appropriate, my superior officers. I fully understand how painful all this is for you, but I’m sorry, sir. We have to base our decisions on what we think is most likely to produce the best outcome. You might not always agree with that, but I’m afraid you don’t get a veto.’ She waited for the explosion, but none came. She supposed he’d save that for the Macaroon or his bosses.
Instead, Grant nodded mildly to Karen. ‘I have confidence in you, Inspector. All I ask is that you communicate with Miss Richmond here in advance, so we’re forearmed against the mob.’ He ran a hand through his thick silver hair in a gesture that looked well practised. ‘I have high hopes that this time the police will get to the truth. With all the advances in forensic science, you should have a head start on Inspector Lawson.’ He turned away in what was clearly a dismissal.
‘I expect I’ll have some further questions for you,’ Karen said, determined not to cede all control of the encounter. ‘If Catriona didn’t have any enemies, maybe you could think of the names of some of her friends who might be able to help us. Sergeant Parhatka will let you know when I want to talk to you again. In the meantime - Miss Richmond?’
The woman inclined her head and smiled. ‘I’m at your disposal, Inspector.’
At least someone round here had a vague notion of how things were supposed to work. ‘I’d like to see you in my office this afternoon. Shall we make it four o’clock?’
‘What’s wrong with interviewing Miss Richmond here? And now?’ Grant said.
‘This is my investigation,’ Karen said. ‘I’ll conduct my interviews where it suits me. And because of other ongoing inquiries, it suits me to be in my office this afternoon. Now, if you’ll excuse us?’ She got to her feet, registering Lady Grant’s guarded amusement and Susan Charleson’s prim disapproval. Grant himself was still as a statue.
‘It’s all right, Susan, I’ll see the officers out,’ Lady Grant said, jumping to her feet and heading for the door before the other woman gathered her self-possession.
As they followed her down the hallway, Karen said, ‘This must be hard for you.’
Lady Grant half-turned, walking backwards with the assurance of someone who knows every inch of her territory. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Watching your husband revisit such a terrible time. I wouldn’t want to see someone I cared about going through all that.’
Lady Grant looked puzzled. ‘He lives with it every day, Inspector. He may not give that impression, but he dwells on it. Sometimes I catch him looking at our son Alec, and I know he’s thinking about what might have been, with Adam. About what he’s lost. Having something fresh to focus on is almost a relief for him.’ She swivelled on her toes and turned her back to them again. As they followed her, Karen caught Phil’s eye and was surprised by the anger she saw there.
‘Still, you wouldn’t be human if a part of you wasn’t hopi
ng we won’t find Adam alive and well,’ Phil said, the lightness of his tone a contrast to the darkness of his expression.
Lady Grant stopped in her tracks and whirled round, eyebrows drawn down. A blush of pink spread up her neck. ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘I think you know exactly what I mean, Lady Grant. We find Adam and suddenly your boy Alec isn’t Brodie’s only heir,’ Phil said. It took guts, Karen thought, to assume the role of the investigation’s lightning rod.
For a moment Lady Grant looked as if she might slap his face. Karen could see her chest rising and falling with the effort of holding herself in check. Finally, she forced herself to assume the familiar pose of civility. ‘Actually,’ she said, her words clipped and tight, ‘you’re looking at this from precisely the wrong angle. Brodie’s absolute commitment to uncovering his grandson’s fate fills me with confidence about Alec’s future. A man so bound by obligation to his own flesh and blood is never going to let our son down. Believe it or not, Sergeant, Brodie’s quest for the truth gives me hope. Not fear.’ She turned on her heel and marched to the front door where she pointedly held it open for them.
Once the door had closed behind them, Karen said, ‘Jeez, Phil, why not tell us what you really think? What brought that on?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He opened the passenger door for her, a small courtesy he seldom bothered to extend. ‘I’d had enough of playing at Miss Marple. All that country house murder bollocks. Bloodless and civilized. I just wanted to see if I could provoke an honest reaction.’
Karen grinned. ‘I think it’s safe to say you did that. I just hope we don’t get buried in the fallout.’
Phil snorted. ‘You’re not exactly behind the door when it comes to being a hardarse. “This is my investigation”,’ he mimicked, not unkindly.
She settled herself in the car. ‘Aye, well. The illusion of being in charge. It was nice while it lasted.’
Nottingham
The beauties of the Nottingham Arboretum were not so much diminished as rendered invisible by the sheets of rain that blinded DC Mark Hall as he followed Femi Otitoju up the path that led to the Chinese Bell Tower. She’d finally shown some emotion, but it wasn’t exactly what Mark had been hoping for.
Logan Laidlaw had been even less pleased to see them than Ferguson and Fraser. Not only had he refused to let them across the threshold of his flat, he’d told them he had no intention of repeating what he’d told Mick Prentice’s daughter. ‘Life’s too bloody short to waste my energy going over that stuff twice,’ he’d said, then slammed the door shut in their faces.
Otitoju had turned the deep purple of pickled beetroot, breathing heavily through her nose. Her hands had bunched into fists and she’d actually drawn her foot back as if she was going to kick the door. Pretty wild, considering there wasn’t that much of her. Mark had put a hand on her arm. ‘Leave it, Femi. He’s within his rights. He doesn’t have to talk to us.’
Otitoju had swung round, her whole body compressed in anger. ‘It shouldn’t be allowed,’ she said. ‘They should have to talk to us. It should be against the law for people to refuse to answer our questions. It should be an offence.’
‘He’s a witness, not a criminal,’ Mark said, alarmed by her vehemence. ‘It’s what they told us when we were doing our induction. Police by consent, not coercion.’
‘It’s not right,’ Otitoju said, storming back to the car. ‘They expect us to solve crimes, but they don’t give us the tools to do the job. Who the hell does he think he is?’
‘He’s somebody whose opinion of the police was set in stone back in 1984. Have you never seen the news reports from back then? Mounted police charged the pickets, like they were Cossacks or something. If we used our batons like that, we’d be up on a charge. It wasn’t our finest hour. So it’s not really surprising that Mr Laidlaw doesn’t feel like talking to us.’
She shook her head. ‘It just makes me wonder what he has to hide.’
The drive across town from Iain Maclean’s house to the Arboretum hadn’t done much to improve her temper. Mark caught up with her. ‘Leave this to me, OK?’ he said.
‘You think I can’t conduct an interview?’
‘No, I don’t think that. But I know enough about ex-miners to know they’re a pretty macho bunch. You saw back there with Ferguson and Fraser - they didn’t take kindly to you asking questions.’
Otitoju stopped abruptly and threw her head back, letting the rain course down her face like cold tears. She straightened up and sighed. ‘Fine. Let’s pander to their prejudices. You do the chat.’ Then she set off again, this time at a more measured pace.
They arrived at the Chinese Bell Tower to find two middle-aged men in council overalls sheltering from the downpour. The narrow pillars that supported the elegant roof offered little protection from the scatterings of rain thrown around by the gusty wind but it was better than being completely out in the open. ‘I’m looking for Iain Maclean,’ Mark said, glancing from one to the other.
‘That would be me,’ the shorter of the two said, bright blue eyes sparkling in a tanned face. ‘And who are you?’
Mark identified them both. ‘Is there somewhere we can go and get a cup of tea?’
The two men looked at each other. ‘We’re supposed to be tidying up the borders, but we were just about to give up and go back to the greenhouses,’ Maclean said. ‘There’s no café here, but you could come back with us and we could brew up there.’
Ten minutes later, they were squashed into a corner at the back of a large polytunnel, out of the way of the other gardeners, whose curious stares quickly subsided once they realized there was no drama happening. The smell of humus hung heavy in the air, reminding Mark of his granddad’s allotment shed. Iain Maclean wrapped his large hands round a mug of tea and waited for them to speak. He’d shown no surprise at their arrival, nor had he asked them why they were there. Mark suspected Fraser or Ferguson had warned him.
‘We wanted to talk to you about Mick Prentice,’ he began.
‘What about Mick? I’ve not seen him since we moved south,’ Maclean said.
‘Neither has anybody else,’ Mark said. ‘Everybody assumed he’d gone south with you, but that’s not what we’ve been hearing today.’
Maclean scratched the silver bristles that covered his head in a neat crew cut. ‘Aye well. I’d heard folk thought that back in the Newton. It just shows you how willing they are to think the worst. There’s no way Mick would have joined us. I don’t see how anybody who knew him could think that.’
‘You never contradicted them?’
‘What would be the point? As far as they’re concerned I’m a dirty blackleg miner. Nothing I have to say in anybody’s defence would carry any weight in the Newton.’
‘To be fair, it’s not just a matter of jumping to conclusions. His wife’s had money sent to her on and off since he left. The postmark was Nottingham. That’s one of the main reasons everybody thought he’d done the unthinkable.’
‘I can’t explain that. But I’m telling you this: Mick Prentice could no more go scabbing than fly to the moon.’
‘That’s what everybody keeps telling us,’ Mark said. ‘But people do things that seem out of character when they’re desperate. And by all accounts, Mick Prentice was desperate.’
‘Not that desperate.’
‘You did it.’
Maclean stared into his coffee. ‘I did. And I’ve never been so ashamed all my days. But my wife was pregnant with our third. I knew there was no way we could bring another bairn into that life. So I did what I did. I talked about it with Mick beforehand.’ He flashed a swift glance at Mark. ‘We were pals, me and him. We were at the school together. I wanted to explain to him why I was doing it.’ He sighed. ‘He said he understood why I was set on going. That he felt like getting out too. But scabbing wasn’t for him. I don’t know where he went, but I knew for sure it wasn’t down another pit.’
‘When did you know he’d gone missing?’
He screwed his face up as he thought. ‘It’s hard to say. I think it was maybe when the wife came down to join me. So that would make it round about the February. But it might have been after that. The wife, she’s still got family back in the Wemyss. We don’t go back there. We wouldn’t be welcome. Folk have got long memories, you know? But we stay in touch and sometimes they come here for a visit.’ A pale apology of a smile crossed his face. ‘The wife’s nephew, he’s a student at the university down here. Just finishing his second year. He comes round for his dinner now and again. So aye, I heard Mick had gone on the missing list, but I couldn’t tell you for sure when I knew.’
‘Where do you think he went? What do you think happened?’ In his eagerness, Mark forgot the cardinal rule of only asking one question at a time. Maclean ignored both of them.
‘How come you’re interested in Mick all of a sudden?’ he said. ‘Nobody’s come looking for him all these years. What’s the big deal now?’
Mark explained why Misha Gibson had finally reported her father missing. Maclean shifted awkwardly in his seat, his coffee slopping over his fingers. ‘That’s hellish. I mind when Misha was just a wee lassie herself. I wish I could help. But I don’t know where he went,’ he said. ‘Like I said. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since I left the Newton.’
‘Have you heard from him?’ Otitoju chipped in.
Maclean gave her a flat hard look. On his weatherbeaten face, it looked as impassive as Mount Rushmore. ‘Don’t get smart with me, hen. No, I haven’t heard from him. As far as I’m concerned, Mick Prentice fell off Planet Iain the day I came down here. And that’s exactly what I expected.’
Mark tried to rebuild the rapport, injecting sympathy into his voice. ‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘But what do you think happened to Mick? You were his pal. If anyone can come up with an answer, it would be you.’