A Darker Domain

by Val McDermid

  ‘What about it? Cave falls happen. That’s why they’ve got signs up warning people. And padlocked railings to keep them out. Health and safety, that’s the bosses’ mantra these days.’ He cut off a piece of his crispy fillet of sea bass and loaded it on his fork with the sesame hoisin vegetables.

  ‘But you heard that guy. This is the only significant roof fall in any of the caves since the pit closed back in ’67. What if it wasn’t an accident?’

  Phil shook his head, chewing and swallowing hastily. ‘You’re doing that melodrama thing again. This is not Indiana Jones and the Wemyss Caves, Karen. It’s a guy who went on the missing list when his life was shite.’

  ‘Not one guy, Phil. Two of them. Mick and Andy. Best pals. Not the kind to go scabbing. Not the kind to leave loved ones behind without a word.’

  Phil put down his fork and knife. ‘Did it ever occur to you that they might have been an item? Mick and his best pal Andy with the isolated cottage deep in the heart of the woods? Being gay in a place like Newton of Wemyss back in the early eighties can’t have been the easiest thing in the world.’

  ‘Of course it occurred to me,’ Karen said. ‘But you can’t just run with theories that have absolutely nothing to back them up. Nobody we’ve spoken to has even hinted at it. And believe me, if Fife has one thing in common with Brokeback Mountain, it’s that folk talk. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not dismissing it. But until I have something to base it on, I’ve got to file it right at the back of my mind.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Phil said, starting in on his food again. ‘But you’ve got no more foundation for your notion that there’s somebody buried under an unnatural cave fall.’

  ‘I never said anybody was buried,’ Karen said.

  He grinned. ‘I know you, Karen. There’s no other reason you’d be interested in a pile of rock.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ she said without a trace of defensiveness. ‘But I’m not just punting wild ideas. If there’s one group of people who know all about shot-firing to bring down rock precisely where they want it, it’s miners. And the shot-firers also had access to explosives. If I was looking for someone to blow up a cave, the first person I would go to would be a miner.’

  Phil blinked. ‘I think you need to eat. I think you’ve got low blood sugar.’

  Karen glowered at him for a moment, then she picked up her knife and fork and attacked the food with her usual gusto. Once she’d demolished a few mouthfuls, she said, ‘That takes care of the low blood sugar. And I still think I’m on to something. If Mick Prentice didn’t go on the missing list of his own free will, he disappeared because somebody wanted him out of the way. Lo and behold, we have somebody that wanted him out of the way. What did Iain Maclean tell us?’

  ‘That Prentice discovered Ben Reekie had his hand in the union’s till,’ Phil said.

  ‘Exactly. Pocketing money that was supposed to go to the branch. From all we’ve heard about Mick, he wouldn’t have let that pass. And it’s hard to see how he could pursue it without Andy being involved, since he was the one keeping the records. I don’t think it was in their natures to do nothing about it. And if it had become common knowledge, Reekie would have been lynched, and you know it. That’s a very tasty motive, Phil.’

  ‘Maybe so. But if it was two against one, how did Reekie kill the pair of them? How did he get the bodies in the cave? How did he get his hands on explosive charges in the middle of a strike?’

  Karen’s grin had always managed to disarm him. ‘I don’t know yet. But, if I’m right, sooner or later I will know. I promise you that, Phil. And try this for starters: we know when Mick went missing, but we don’t have an exact date for Andy’s disappearance. It’s entirely possible they were killed separately. They could have been killed in the cave. And as for getting hold of explosives - Ben Reekie was a union official. All sorts of people will have owed him favours. Don’t pretend you don’t know that.’

  Phil finished his fish and pushed his plate away from him. He raised his hands, palms towards Karen, indicating surrender. ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Clear those rocks and see what’s behind them,’ she said, as if the answer was obvious.

  ‘And how are we going to do that? As far as the Macaroon’s concerned, you’re not even investigating this. And even if it was official, there’s no way he’d stretch his precious budget to cover an archaeological dig for a pair of bodies that probably aren’t there.’

  Karen paused with a forkful of pigeon breast halfway to her mouth. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘There’s no budget.’

  ‘No, no. You said “an archaeological dig”. Phil, if it wasn’t for this pigeon coming between us, I could kiss you. You are a genius.’

  Phil’s heart sank. It was hard to avoid the feeling that this was another fine mess he’d got himself into.

  Kirkcaldy

  Sometimes it was more sensible to make work calls from home. Until she’d actually got things under way and had her pitch firmly in place, Karen didn’t want the Macaroon to get a sniff of what she was up to. Phil’s words had set off a chain reaction in her brain. She wanted that rock fall cleared. The dates Arnold Haigh had given her offered the promise of being able to sneak it past the Macaroon under the pretext of a possible connection to the Grant case, but the cheaper she could make it, the less likely he would be to ask too many questions.

  She settled herself down at the dining table with phone, notepad and contacts book. Comfortable though she was with new technology, Karen still maintained a physical record of names, addresses and phone numbers. She reasoned that if the world ever went into electronic meltdown she would still be able to find the people she needed. It had naturally occurred to her that, in that event, there would be no functioning telephones and the transport network would also be in meltdown, but nevertheless her contacts book felt like a security blanket. And if it ever came to it, much easier to destroy without trace than any electronic memory.

  She flicked it open at the appropriate page and ran her finger down the list till she came to Dr River Wilde. The forensic anthropologist had been one of the mentors on a course Karen had attended aimed at improving the scientific awareness of detectives with responsibility at crime scenes. On the face of it, it would have been hard to find much common ground between the two women, but they had formed an instant if unlikely bond. Although neither of them would ever have explained it thus, it was something to do with the way they both appeared to play the game while subtly undermining the authority of those who had failed to earn their respect.

  Karen liked the way River never tried to blind her audience with science. Whether lecturing to a group of cops whose scientific education had ended in their teens or sharing an anecdote in the bar, she managed to convey complicated information in terms that a lay person could understand and appreciate. Some of her stories were horrifying; others reduced her listeners to helpless laughter; still others gave them pause.

  The other thing that made River a great potential ally was that the man in her life was a cop. Karen hadn’t met him, but from everything River had said, he sounded like her kind of cop. No bullshit, just a driven desire to get to the heart of things the straight way. So she’d come away from the forensics course with a greater understanding of her job but also with what felt like a new friendship. And that was rare enough to be worth nurturing. Since then, the women had met up a couple of times in Glasgow, the mid-point between Fife and River’s base in the Lake District. They’d enjoyed their nights out, occasions that had cemented what their first encounter had started. Now Karen would find out if River had been serious when she’d offered her students as a cut-price team for exploratory work that couldn’t really justify a big-budget spend.

  River answered her mobile on the second ring. ‘Rescue me,’ she said.

  ‘From what?’

  ‘I’m sitting on the verandah of a wooden hut watching Ewan’s terrible cricket team and praying for rain. The things we do for love.’

&nb
sp; Chance would be a fine thing. ‘At least you’re not making the teas.’

  River snorted. ‘No way. I made that clear right from the start. No washing of sports kit, no slaving away in primitive kitchens. I get the hard stare from a lot of the other WAGs, but if they think I’m bothered, they’re confusing me with someone who gives a shit. So how’s tricks with you?’

  ‘Complicated.’

  ‘So, nothing new there, then. We need to get together, have a night out. Uncomplicate yourself.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. And we might just manage it sooner than you think.’

  ‘Ah-hah. You’ve got something brewing?’

  ‘You could say that. Listen, you remember you once said that you had a small army of students at your disposal if I ever needed help on the cheap?’

  ‘Sure,’ River said easily. ‘You trying to get something done off the books?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Karen explained the bare bones of the scenario. River made small noises of encouragement as she spoke.

  ‘OK,’ she said when Karen had finished. ‘So we need forensic archaeologists first, preferably the big strong ones who can hump rocks. Can’t use the final-year students because they’re still doing exams. But it’s nearly the end of term and I can press-gang the first and second years. Plus any of the anthros I can get my hands on. I can call it a field trip, make them think there’s Brownie points to be had. When do you need us?’

  ‘How about tomorrow?’

  There was a long silence. Then River said, ‘Morning or afternoon?’

  The phone call with River left Karen feeling all revved up with nowhere to go. She used some of her sudden excess of energy to arrange accommodation for the students at the campsite on the links at nearby Leven. She tried to watch a DVD of Sex and the City but it only irritated her. It was always like this when she was in the middle of a case. No appetite for anything but the hunt. Hating being stalled because it was the weekend, or tests took time, or nothing could be done till the next bit of information fell into place.

  She tried to distract herself by cleaning. Trouble was, she never spent long enough in the house to make much mess. After an hour’s blitzing, there was nothing left that warranted attention.

  ‘To hell with it,’ she muttered, grabbing her car keys and making for the door. Strictly speaking, the laws of evidence required that she shouldn’t be flying solo when she was talking to witnesses. But Karen told herself she was only colouring in the background, not actually taking evidence. And if she stumbled across something that might be relevant later in court, she could always send a couple of officers back another day to take a formal statement.

  The drive back to Newton of Wemyss took less than twenty minutes. There was no sign of life in the isolated enclave where Jenny Prentice lived. No children played; nobody sat in their garden to enjoy the late afternoon sunshine. The short terrace of houses had assumed a dispirited air that would take more than a bit of summer weather to disperse.

  This time, Karen approached the house next door to Jenny Prentice. She was still on a quest to get a sense of what Mick Prentice had really been like. Someone who was close enough to the family to be entrusted with the care of Misha must have had some dealings with her father.

  Karen knocked and waited. She was just about to give up and head back to her car when the door cracked open on the chain. A tiny wizened face peered out at her from beneath a mass of heavy grey curls.

  ‘Mrs McGillivray?’

  ‘I don’t know you,’ the old woman said.

  ‘No.’ Karen took out her official ID and held it up in front of the smeared lenses of the big glasses that made faded blue eyes swim large behind them. ‘I’m a police officer.’

  ‘I didn’t call the police,’ the woman said, cocking her head and frowning at Karen’s warrant card.

  ‘No, I know that. I just wanted to have a wee word with you about the man who used to live next door.’ Karen gestured with her thumb towards Jenny’s house.

  ‘Tom? He’s been dead years.’

  Tom? Who was Tom? Oh shit, she’d forgotten to ask Jenny Prentice about Misha’s stepdad. ‘Not Tom, no. Mick Prentice.’

  ‘Mick? You want to talk about Mick? What are the police doing with Mick? Has he done something wrong?’ She sounded confused, which filled Karen with foreboding. She’d spent enough time trying to get coherent information out of old people to know that it could be an uphill struggle with dubious results.

  ‘Nothing like that, Mrs McGillivray,’ Karen reassured her. ‘We’re just trying to find out what happened to him all those years ago.’

  ‘He let us all down, that’s what happened,’ the old woman said primly.

  ‘Right enough. But I just need to clear up some of the details. I wonder if I could come in and have a wee chat with you?’

  The woman exhaled heavily. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right house? Jenny’s the one you want. There’s nothing I can tell you.’

  ‘To be honest, Mrs McGillivray, I’m trying to get an idea of what Mick was really like.’ Karen switched on her best smile. ‘Jenny’s a wee bit biased, if you get my drift?’

  The old woman chuckled. ‘She’s a besom, Jenny. Not a good word to say about him, has she? Well, lassie, you’d better come through.’ A rattle as the chain came off then Karen was admitted to a stuffy interior. There was an overwhelming smell of lavender, with bass notes of stale fat and cheap cigarettes. She followed Mrs McGillivray’s bent figure through to the back room which had been knocked through to make a kitchen diner. It looked like the work had been done in the seventies and nothing had been changed since, including the wallpaper. The various fades and stains bore witness to sunlight, cooking and smoking. The low sun streamed in, slanting a gold light across the worn furniture.

  A caged budgie chattered alarmingly as they walked in. ‘Quiet now, Jocky. This is a nice police lady come to talk to us.’ The budgie let out a stream of chirrups which sounded as if it was swearing at them, then subsided. ‘Sit yourself down. I’ll get the kettle on.’

  Karen didn’t really want a cup of tea, but knew the conversation would go better if she let the old woman fuss around her. They ended up facing each other across a surprisingly well-scrubbed table, a pot of tea and a plate of obviously home-made biscuits between them. The sun lit Mrs McGillivray like stage lighting, revealing details of make-up that had clearly been applied without the benefit of her glasses. ‘He was a lovely lad, Mick. A braw-looking fella, with that blond hair and big shoulders. He always had a smile and a cheery word for me,’ she confided as she poured the tea into china cups so fine you could see the sunlight in the tea. ‘I’ve been a widow thirty-two years now, and never had a better neighbour than young Mick Prentice. He’d always turn his hand to any wee job that I couldn’t manage. It was never a trouble to him. A lovely laddie, right enough.’

  ‘It must have been hard on them, the strike.’ Karen helped herself to one of the proffered bourbon creams.

  ‘It was hard on everybody. But that’s not why Mick went away scabbing.’

  ‘No?’ Keep it casual, don’t show you’re particularly interested.

  ‘She drove him to it. Keeping company with that Tom Campbell right under his nose. No man would put up with that, and Mick had his pride.’

  ‘Tom Campbell?’

  ‘He was never away from the door. Jenny had been a pal of his wife. She helped nurse the poor soul when she had the cancer. But after she died, it was like he couldn’t stay away from Jenny. You had to wonder what had been going on all along.’ Mrs McGillivray winked conspiratorially.

  ‘You’re saying Jenny was having an affair with Tom Campbell?’ Karen bit her tongue on the questions she wanted to ask but knew she’d be better leaving till later. Who was Tom Campbell? Where is he now? Why did Jenny not mention him?

  ‘I won’t say what I can’t swear to. All I know is that there was hardly a day went by when he didn’t come calling. And always when Mick was out of the house. He never came empty-hande
d either. Wee parcels of this, packets of that. During the strike, Mick used to say his Jenny could make a pound go further than any other woman in the Newton. I never told him the reason why.’

  ‘How come Tom Campbell had stuff to hand out? Was he not a miner, then?’

  Mrs McGillivray looked like the tea she’d just drunk had turned to vinegar. ‘He was a deputy.’ Karen suspected she’d have accorded more respect to the word ‘paedophile’.

  ‘And you think Mick found out what was going on between them?’

  She nodded emphatically. ‘Everybody else in the Newton knew what was what. It’s the usual story. The other half is always the last to know. And if anybody had their doubts, Tom Campbell was in there fast enough after Mick took his leave.’

  Too late, Karen remembered she hadn’t followed up the subject of Misha’s stepfather. ‘He moved in with Jenny?’

  ‘A few months went by before he moved in. Keeping up appearances, for what it was worth. Then he had his feet right under Mick’s table.’

  ‘Did he not have a house of his own? On a deputy’s money, I’d have thought…’

  ‘Oh aye, he had a braw house along at West Wemyss. But Jenny wouldn’t move. She said it was for the bairn’s sake. That Mick going had been upheaval enough for Misha without being uprooted from her own home.’ Mrs McGillivray pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘But you know, I’ve often wondered. I don’t think she ever loved Tom Campbell the way she loved Mick. She liked what he could give her, but I think her heart aye belonged to Mick. For all her carrying on, I never quite believed that Jenny stopped loving Mick. I think she stayed put because deep down she believes Mick’ll come back one day. And she wants to be sure he knows where to find her.’

  It was, Karen thought, a theory based on soap opera sentimentality. But it did have the merit of making sense of what seemed otherwise inexplicable. ‘So what happened with her and Tom?’

  ‘He rented out his own house and moved in next door. I never had much to do with him. He didn’t have Mick’s easy way with folk. And things were never easy between the Lady Charlotte boys and the deputies, especially after the pit was closed in 1987.’ The old woman shook her head, jiggling the lank grey curls. ‘But Jenny got her come-uppance.’ Her smile was gleeful.