A Darker Domain

by Val McDermid

  Slick answer, Karen thought. Not that she expected Bel Richmond to admit any interest in the substantial reward Brodie Grant still offered. Nor in the prospect of gaining unrivalled access to the ultimate source. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘Now, you said you had the impression that whoever had been living there had cleared out in a hurry. And you told me about what looked like a bloodstain in the kitchen. Did it seem to you that the two things were connected?’

  A moment’s silence, then Bel said, ‘I’m not sure how I would be able to make a judgement about that.’

  ‘If the stain on the floor was old, or it wasn’t blood, it could be part of the landscape. Chairs sitting on it, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, right. Yes, I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. No, I don’t think it was part of the scenery. There was a chair overturned near it.’ She spoke slowly, obviously summoning the scene in her mind. ‘One section looked like someone had tried to clean it up then realized it was pointless. The floor’s made of stone slabs, not glazed tiles. So the stone soaked up the blood.’

  ‘Were there any other posters or printed material?’

  ‘Not that I saw. But I didn’t search the place. To be honest, the poster freaked me out so much I couldn’t wait to get out.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Not really the image of the intrepid investigative hack, am I?’

  Karen couldn’t be bothered bolstering her ego. ‘The poster freaked you out? Not the blood?’

  Again a pause for thought. ‘You know something? That hadn’t occurred to me till now. You’re right. It was the poster, not the blood. And I don’t really know why.’

  Saturday 30th June 2007; East Wemyss

  The sea wall was new since Karen had last visited East Wemyss. She’d deliberately arrived early so she could take a stroll around the lower part of the village. They’d sometimes walked along the foreshore between there and Buckhaven when she’d been a kid. She remembered a run-down fag-end of a place, shabby and forlorn. Now it was spruced up and smart, old houses recently harled white or sandstone red and new ones looking fresh out of the box. The deconsecrated church of St Mary’s-by-the-Sea had been saved from dilapidation and turned into a private home. Thanks to the EU, a sea wall had been built with sturdy blocks of local stone to hold the Firth of Forth at bay. She walked along the Back Dykes, trying to get her bearings. The woodland behind the manse was gone, replaced by new houses. Same with the old factory buildings. And the skyline ahead of her was transformed now the pit winding gear and the bing were gone. If she hadn’t known it was the same place, she’d have been hard pressed to recognize it.

  She had to admit it was an improvement, though. It was easy to be sentimental about the old days and forget the appalling conditions so many people were forced to live in. They were economic slaves too, trapped by poverty into shopping only at the local establishments. Even the Co-operative, supposedly run for the benefit of its members, was pricey compared to the shops in Kirkcaldy High Street. It had been a hard way of life, the community spirit its only real compensation. The loss of that small offset must have been a killer blow for Jenny Prentice.

  Karen turned back towards the car park, looking along the seashore to the striated red sandstone bluff that marked the start of the string of deep caves huddled along the base of the cliff. In her memory, they were quite separate from the village, but now a row of houses butted right up against the outside edge of the Court Cave. And there were information boards for the tourists, telling them about the caves’ five thousand year history of habitation. The Picts had lived there. The Scots had used them as smithies and glassworks. The back wall of the Doo Cave was pocked with dozens of literal pigeonholes. Down through time, the caves had been used by the locals for purposes as diverse as clandestine political meetings, family picnics on rainy days and romantic trysts. Karen had never dropped her knickers there, but she knew girls who had and thought none the worse of them for it.

  Walking back, she saw Phil’s car draw up where tarmac gave way to the coastal path. Time to explore a different conjunction of past and present. By the time she had reached the car park, Phil had been joined by a tall, stooped man with a gleaming bald head, dressed in the kind of jacket and trousers that the middle classes had to buy before they could attempt any walk more challenging than a stroll to the local pub. All zips and pockets and high-tech materials. Nobody Karen had grown up with had special clothes or boots for walking. You just went out for a walk in your street clothes, maybe adding an extra layer in the winter. Didn’t stop them doing eight or nine miles before dinner.

  Karen mentally shook herself as she approached the two men. Sometimes she freaked herself out, thinking like her granny. Phil introduced her to the other man, Arnold Haigh. ‘I’ve been secretary of the Wemyss Caves Preservation Society since 1981,’ he said proudly in an accent that had its roots a few hundred miles south of Fife. He had a long thin face with an incongruous snub nose and teeth that gleamed an unnatural white against weatherbeaten skin.

  ‘That’s real dedication,’ Karen said.

  ‘Not really.’ Haigh chuckled. ‘No one else has ever wanted the job. What exactly is it you wanted to talk to me about? I mean, I know it’s Mick Prentice, but I haven’t even thought of him in years.’

  ‘Why don’t we take a look at the caves and we can talk as we go?’ Karen suggested.

  ‘Surely,’ Haigh said graciously. ‘We can stop off in the Court Cave and the Doo Cave, then have a cup of coffee in the Thane’s Cave.’

  ‘A cup of coffee?’ Phil sounded bemused. ‘They’ve got a café down here?’

  Haigh chuckled again. ‘Sorry, Sergeant. Nothing so grand. The Thane’s Cave was closed to the public after the rock fall of 1985, but the society has keys to the railings. We thought it was appropriate to maintain the tradition of the caves having a useful function, so we set up a little clubhouse area in a safe part of the cave. It’s all very ad hoc, but we enjoy it.’ He strode off towards the first cave, not seeing the look of mock horror Phil gave Karen.

  The first sign that the cliffs were less than solid was a hole in the sandstone that had been bricked up years before. Some of the bricks were missing, revealing darkness within. ‘Now, that opening and the passage behind it is man-made,’ Haigh said, pointing to the brickwork. ‘As you can see, the Court Cave juts out further than the others. Back in the nineteenth century, high tide reached the cave mouth, cutting off East Wemyss from Buckhaven. The lasses who gutted the herring couldn’t get between the two villages at high tide, so a passage was cut through the west side of the cave, which allowed them to pass along the shore safely. Now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll go in by the east entrance.’

  When she’d said, ‘talk as we go,’ this hadn’t been quite what Karen had had in mind. Still, since they were doing this in their own time, for once there was no hurry and, if it settled Haigh down, it could work to their advantage. Glad that she’d chosen jeans and trainers, she followed the men round the front of the cave and up a path by a low fence. Near the cave, the fence had been trampled down and they stepped over the bent wires and made their way into the cave, where the beaten-earth floor was surprisingly dry, given the amount of rain there had been in recent weeks. The fact that the roof was supported by a brick column with a sign warning DANGER: NO ENTRY was less reassuring.

  ‘Some people believe the cave got its name from King James the Fifth, who liked to go among his people in disguise,’ Haigh said, switching on a powerful torch and shining it up into the roof. ‘He was said to have held court here among the gypsies who lived here at the time. But I think it’s more likely that this was where the baronial courts were held in the Middle Ages.’

  Phil was roaming around, his face eager as a schoolboy on the best ever day trip. ‘How far back does it go?

  ‘After about twenty metres, the floor rises to the roof. There used to be a passage that ran three miles inland to Kennoway, but a roof fall closed the opening at this end so the Kennoway entrance was sealed up for safe
ty’s sake. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? What were they up to here that they needed a secret passage to Kennoway?’ Haigh chuckled again. Karen could only imagine how irritated this little tic would make her by the time they’d finished their interview.

  She left the two men exploring the cave and walked back into the fresh air. The sky was dappled grey with the promise of rain. The sea reflected the sky and came up with a few more shades of its own. She turned back to the lush green summer growth and the brilliant colours of the sandstone, both still vibrant in spite of the gloominess of the weather. Before long, Phil emerged, Haigh still talking at his back. He gave Karen a rueful grin; she returned a stony face.

  Next came the Doo Cave and a lecture on the historical necessity of keeping pigeons for fresh meat in winter. Karen listened with half an ear then when Haigh paused for a moment she said, ‘The colours are amazing in here. Did Mick paint inside the caves?’

  Haigh looked startled by the question. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact he did. Some of his watercolours are on display at the cave information centre. It’s the various mineral salts in the rock that create the vivid colours.’

  Before he could get into his stride on that subject, Karen asked another question. ‘Was he here a lot during the strike?’

  ‘Not really. He was helping with the flying pickets to start with, I believe. But we didn’t see him any more than usual. Less, if anything, as autumn and winter wore on.’

  ‘Did he say why that was?’

  Haigh looked blank. ‘No. Never occurred to me to ask him. We’re all volunteers, we all do what we can manage.’

  ‘Shall we get that cup of coffee now?’ Phil said, his struggle between duty and pleasure obvious to Karen though not, thankfully, to Haigh.

  ‘Good idea,’ Karen said, leading them back into daylight. Getting to the Thane’s Cave was harder work, involving a clamber over the rocks and concrete that acted as a rough breakwater between the sea and the foot of the cliffs. Karen remembered the beach being lower, the sea less close and she said so.

  Haigh agreed, explaining that over the years the level of the beach had risen, partly because of the spoil from the coal mines. ‘I’ve heard some of the older residents talk about golden sands along here when they were children. Hard to credit now,’ he said, waving a hand at the grainy black of the tiny smooth fragments of coal that filled the spaces between the rocks and pebbles.

  They emerged on to a grassy semi-circle. Perched on the cliff above them was the sole remaining tower of Macduff Castle. Something else Karen remembered from her childhood. There had been more ruins around the tower, but they’d been removed by the council on the grounds of health and safety some years before. She remembered her father complaining about it at the time.

  In the base of the cliff were several openings. Haigh headed for a sturdy metal grille protecting a narrow entrance a mere five feet tall. He unlocked the padlock and asked them to wait. He went inside, disappearing round a turn in the narrow passage. He returned almost immediately with three hard hats. Feeling like an idiot, Karen put one on and followed him inside. The first few yards were a tight fit and she heard Phil cursing behind her as he banged an elbow against the wall. But soon it opened out into a wide chamber whose ceiling disappeared into darkness.

  Haigh groped in a niche in the wall and suddenly the pale yellow of battery-operated lights cast a soft glow round the cave. Half a dozen rickety wooden chairs sat round a Formica-topped table. On a deep ledge about three feet above the ground sat a camping stove, half a dozen litre bottles of water and mugs. The makings for tea and coffee were enclosed in plastic boxes. Karen looked around and just knew that the mainstays of the cave preservation group were all men. ‘Very cosy,’ she said.

  ‘Supposedly there was a secret passage from this cave to the castle above,’ Haigh said. ‘Legend has it that was how Macduff escaped when he came home to find his wife and children slain and Macbeth in possession.’ He gestured to the chairs. ‘Take a seat, please,’ he said, fiddling with stove and kettle. ‘So, why the interest in Mick after all this time?’

  ‘His daughter has only just got round to reporting him missing,’ Phil said.

  Haigh half-turned, puzzled. ‘But he’s not missing, surely? I thought he’d gone off to Nottingham with another bunch of lads? Good luck to them, I thought. There was nothing here but misery back then.’

  ‘You didn’t disapprove of the blackleg miners, then?’ Karen asked, trying not to make it sound too sharp.

  Haigh’s chuckle echoed spookily. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’ve got nothing against trade unions. Working people deserve to be treated decently by their employers. But the miners were betrayed by that self-serving egomaniac Arthur Scargill. A true case of lions led by a jackass. I watched this community fall apart. I saw terrible suffering. And all for nothing.’ He spooned coffee into mugs, shaking his head. ‘I felt sorry for the men, and their families. I did what I could - I was the regional manager for a specialist food importer, and I brought as many samples as I could back to the village. But it was just a drop in the ocean. I totally understood why Mick and his friends did what they did.’

  ‘You didn’t think there was something selfish about him leaving his wife and child behind? Not knowing what had happened to him?’

  Haigh shrugged, his back to them. ‘To be honest, I didn’t know much about his personal circumstances. He didn’t discuss his home life.’

  ‘What did he talk about?’ Karen asked.

  Haigh brought over two plastic tubs, one containing sachets of sugar pilfered from motorway service stations and hotel bedrooms, the other little pots of non-dairy creamer from the same sources. ‘I don’t really recall, so it was probably the usual. Football. TV. Projects to raise money for work on the caves. Theories about what the various carvings meant.’ Again the chuckle. ‘I suspect we’re a bit dull to outsiders, Inspector. Most hobbyists are.’

  Karen thought about lying but couldn’t be bothered. ‘I’m just trying to get an impression of what Mick Prentice was like.’

  ‘I always thought he was a decent, straightforward sort of bloke.’ Haigh brought the coffees over, taking almost exaggerated care not to spill any. ‘To be honest, apart from the caves, we didn’t have a great deal in common. I thought he was a talented painter, though. We all encouraged him to paint the caves, inside and out. It seemed appropriate to have a creative record, since the main fame of the caves rests on their Pictish carvings. Some of the best are here in the Thane’s Cave.’ He picked up his torch and targeted it at a precise spot on the wall. He didn’t have to think about it. In the direct line of the beam, they could see the unmistakable shape of a fish, tail down, carved in the rock. In turn, he revealed a running horse and something that could have been a dog or a deer. ‘We lost some of the cupping designs in the fall of ’85, but luckily Mick had done some paintings of them not long before.’

  ‘Where was the fall?’ Phil said, peering towards the back of the cave.

  Haigh led them to the furthest corner, where a jumble of rocks were piled almost to the roof. ‘There was a small second chamber linked by a short passage.’ Phil stepped forward to take a closer look, but Haigh grabbed his arm and yanked him back. ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Where there’s been a recent fall, we can never be sure how secure the roof is.’

  ‘Is it unusual to have caveins?’ Karen said.

  ‘Big ones like this? They used to happen quite regularly when the Michael pit was still working. But it closed in 1967 after -’

  ‘I know about the Michael disaster,’ Karen interrupted. ‘I grew up in Methil.’

  ‘Of course.’ Haigh looked suitably rebuked. ‘Well, since they stopped working underground, there hasn’t been much movement in the caves. We haven’t had a major fall since this one, in fact.’

  Karen felt the twitch of her copper’s instinct. ‘When exactly was the fall?’ she said slowly.

  Haigh seemed surprised at her line of questioning, giving Phil a glance of what felt like
male complicity. ‘Well, we can’t be precise about it. To be honest, from mid-December to mid-January is pretty much a dead time for us. Christmas and New Year and all that. People are busy, people are away. All we can say with any certainty is that the passage was clear on 7th December. One of our members was here that day, taking detailed measurements for a grant proposal. As far as we know, I was the next person in the cave. It’s my wife’s birthday on 24th January and we had some friends visiting from England. I brought them along to see the caves and that’s when I discovered the fall. It was quite a shock. Of course, I cleared them out at once and called the council when we got back.’

  ‘So, some time between 7th December 1984 and 24th January 1985, the roof fell in?’ Karen wanted to be sure she had it right. Two and two were coming together in her head and she was pretty sure they weren’t making five.

  ‘That’s right. Though I think myself it was earlier rather than later,’ Haigh said. ‘The air was clear in the cave. And that takes longer than you might think. You could say the dust had well and truly settled.’

  Newton of Wemyss

  Phil looked at Karen with concern. In front of her was a perfectly presented pithivier of pigeon breast, surrounded by tiny new potatoes and a tower of roasted baby carrots and courgettes. The Laird o’ Wemyss was more than living up to its reputation. But the plate had been sitting before Karen for at least a minute and she hadn’t even lifted her cutlery. Instead of tucking in, she was staring at her plate, a frown line between her eyebrows. ‘Are you all right?’ he said cautiously. Sometimes women behaved in strange and unpredictable ways around food.

  ‘Pigeons,’ she said. ‘Caves. I can’t get my mind off that fall.’