She backed out of the studio and made her way along the loggia to the wing opposite. She was careful to stay close to the wall, not trusting the undulating brick floor with her weight. She passed the bedroom doors, feeling like a trespasser on the Mary Celeste. A silence unbroken even by bird-song accentuated the impression. The last room before the corner was a bathroom whose nauseating mix of odours still hung in the air. A coil of hosepipe lay on the floor, its tail end disappearing through a hole in the masonry near the window. So they had improvised some sort of running water, though not enough to make the toilet anything less than disgusting. She wrinkled her nose and backed away.
Bel rounded the corner just as the sun cleared the corner of the woods, flooding her in sudden warmth. It made her entry into the final room all the more chilling. Shivering at the dank air, she ventured inside. The shutters were pulled tight, making the interior almost too dim to discern anything. But as her eyes adjusted, she gained a sense of the room. It was the twin of the studio in scale, but its function was quite different. She crossed to the nearest window and struggled with the shutter, finally managing to haul it halfway open. It was enough to confirm her first impression. This had been the heart of the occupation of the casa rovina. A battered old cooking range connected to a gas cylinder stood by a stone sink. The dining table was scarred and stripped to the bare wood, but it was solid and had beautifully carved legs. Seven unmatched chairs sat around it, an eighth overturned a few feet away. A rocking chair and a couple of sofas lined the walls. Odd bits of crockery and cutlery lay scattered around, as if the inhabitants couldnt be bothered collecting them when theyd left.
As Bel walked back from the window, a rickety table caught her eye. Standing behind the door, it was easy to miss. An untidy scatter of what appeared to be posters lay across it. Fascinated, she moved towards it. Two strides and she stopped short, her sharp gasp echoing in the dusty air.
Before her on the limestone flags was an irregular stain, perhaps three feet by eighteen inches. Rusty brown, its edges were rounded and smooth, as if it had flowed and pooled rather than spilled. It was thick enough to obscure the flags beneath. One section on the farthest edge looked smudged and thinned, as if someone had tried to scrub it clean and soon given up. Bel had covered enough stories of domestic violence and sexual homicide to recognize a serious bloodstain when she saw it.
Startled, she stepped back, head swivelling from side to side, heart thudding so hard she thought it might choke her. What the hell had happened here? She looked around wildly, noticing other dark stains marking the floor beyond the table. Time to get out of here, the sensible part of her mind was screaming. But the devil of curiosity muttered in her ear. Theres been nobody here for months. Look at the dust. Theyre long gone. Theyre not going to be back any time soon. Whatever happened here was good reason for them to clear out. Check out the posters
Bel skirted the stain, giving it as wide a berth as she could without touching any of the furniture. All at once, she felt a taint in the air. Knew it was imagination, but still it seemed real. Back to the room, face to the door, she crab-walked to the table and looked down at the posters strewn across it.
The second shock was almost more powerful than the first.
Bel knew she was pushing too hard up the hill, but she couldnt pace herself. She could feel the sweat from her hand coating the good quality paper of the rolled-up poster. At last the track emerged from the trees and became less treacherous as it approached their holiday villa. The road sloped down almost imperceptibly, but gravity was enough to give her tired legs an extra boost and she was still moving fast when she rounded the corner of the house to find Lisa Martyn stretched out on the shady terrace in a pool chair with Fridays Guardian for company. Bel felt relief. She needed to talk to someone and, of all her companions, Lisa was least likely to turn her revelations into dinner party gossip. A human rights lawyer whose compassion and feminism seemed as ineluctable as every breath she took, Lisa would understand the potential of the discovery Bel thought she had made. And her right to handle it as she saw fit.
Lisa dragged her eyes away from the newspaper, distracted by the unfamiliar heave of Bels breath. My God, she said. You look like youre about to stroke out.
Bel put the poster down on a chair and leaned over, hands on knees, dragging breath into her lungs, regretting those secret, stolen cigarettes. Ill be - OK in - a minute.
Lisa struggled ungainly out of the chair and hurried into the kitchen, returning with a towel and bottle of water. Bel stood straight, took the water and poured half over her head, snorting as she breathed it in by accident. Then she rubbed her head with the towel and slumped into a chair. She swallowed a long draught of water while Lisa returned to her pool chair. What was all that about? Lisa said. Youre the most dignified jogger I know. Never seen an out-of-breath Bel before. Whats got you into such a state?
I found something, Bel said. Her chest was still struggling but she could manage short bursts of speech. At least, I think I found something. And if Im right, its the story of my career. She reached for the poster. I was kind of hoping you might be able to tell me whether Ive completely lost the plot.
Intrigued, Lisa tossed the paper to the ground and sat up. So, what is it, this thing that might be something?
Bel unrolled the heavy paper, weighing it down at the corners with a pepper grinder, a coffee mug and a couple of dirty ashtrays. The image on the A3 sheet was striking. It had been designed to look like a stark black-and-white woodcut in the German Expressionist style. At the top of the page, a bearded man with an angular shock of hair leaned over a screen, his hands holding wooden crosses from which three marionettes dangled. But these were no ordinary marionettes. One was a skeleton, the second a goat and the third a representation of Death with his hooded robe and scythe. There was something indisputably sinister about the image. Across the bottom, enclosed by a funereal black border, was a blank area about three inches deep. It was the sort of space where a small bill might be posted announcing a performance.
Fuck me, Lisa said. At last, she looked up. Catriona Maclennan Grant, she said. There was wonder in her voice. Belwhere the hell did you find this?
Thursday 28th June 2007; Edinburgh
Bel smiled. Before I answer that, I want to clarify a few things.
Susan Charleson rolled her eyes. You cant imagine youre the first person whos walked through the door with a faked-up copy of the ransom poster. Ill tell you what Ive told them. The reward is contingent on finding Sir Brodericks grandson alive or demonstrating conclusively that he is dead. Not to mention bringing Catriona Maclennan Grants killers to justice.
You misunderstand me, Bel said, smile mischievous but not giving an inch. Ms Charleson, Im really not interested in Sir Brodericks money. But I do have one condition.
Youre making a mistake here. Susan Charlesons voice had acquired an edge. This is a police matter. Youre in no position to be imposing conditions.
Bel placed a hand firmly on the poster. I can walk out the door now with this poster and forget I ever saw it. Id have little difficulty in lying to the police. Im a journalist, after all. She was beginning to enjoy herself far more than shed anticipated. Your word against mine, Ms Charleson. And I know you dont want me to walk out on you. One of the skills a successful journalist has to learn is how to read people. And I saw the way you reacted when you looked at this. You know this is the real thing, not some faked-up copy.
Youve a very aggressive attitude. Susan Charleson sounded almost nonchalant.
I like to think of it as assertive. I didnt come here to fall out with you, Ms Charleson. I want to help. But not for free. In my experience, the rich dont appreciate anything they dont have to pay for.
You said you werent interested in money.
Thats true. And Im not. I am, however, interested in reputation. And my reputation is built on being not just first with the story but with getting to the story behind the story. I think there are areas where I can help unravel this more effectively than official channels. Im sure youll agree once Ive explained where this poster came from. All Im asking is that you dont obstruct me looking into the case. And beyond that, that you and your boss cooperate when it comes to sharing information about what was going on around the time Catriona was kidnapped.
Thats quite a significant request. Sir Broderick is not a man who compromises his privacy readily. Youll appreciate I dont have the authority to grant what you are asking.
Bel shrugged one shoulder delicately. Then we can meet again when you have an answer. She slid the poster across the table, opening the portfolio to replace it there.
Susan Charleson stood up. If you can spare me a few more minutes, I might be able to give you an answer now.
Bel knew at that point that she had won. Susan Charleson wanted this too badly. She would persuade her boss to accept the deal. Bel hadnt been this excited in years. This wasnt just a slew of news stories and features, though there wasnt a paper in the world that wouldnt be interested. Especially after the Madeleine McCann case. With access to the mysterious Brodie Grant plus the chance of discovering the fate of his grandson, this was potentially a bestseller. In Cold Blood for the new millennium. It would be her ticket for the gravy train.
Bel gave a little snort of laughter. Maybe she could use the proceeds to buy the casa rovina and bring things full circle. It was hard to imagine what could be neater.
Thursday 28th June 2007; Newton of Wemyss
It had been a few years since Karen had last taken the single-track road to Newton of Wemyss. But it was obvious that the hamlet had undergone the same transformation as its sister villages on the main road. Commuters had fallen ravenous upon all four of the Wemyss villages, seeing rustic possibilities in what had been grim little miners rows. One-bedroomed hovels had been knocked through to make lavish cottages, back yards transformed by conservatories that poured light into gloomy living-kitchens. Villages that had shrivelled and died following the Michael pit disaster in 67 and the closures that followed the 1984 strike had found a new incarnation as dormitories whose entire idea of community was a pub quiz night. In the village shops you could buy a scented candle but not a pint of milk. The only way you could tell there had ever been a mining community was the scale model of pit winding gear that straddled the point where the private steam railway had once crossed the main road laden with open trucks of coal bound for the railhead at Thornton Junction. Now, the whitewashed miners rows looked like an architects deliberate choice of what a vernacular village ought to look like. Their history had been overwhelmed by a designer present.
Since her last visit, Newton of Wemyss had spruced itself up. The modest war memorial stood on a triangle of shaven grass in the centre. Wooden troughs of flowers stood around it at perfect intervals. Immaculate single-storey cottages lined the village green, the only break in the low skyline the imposing bulk of the local pub, the Laird o Wemyss. It had once been owned collectively by the local community under the Gothenburg system, but the hard times of the eighties had forced it to close. Now it was a destination restaurant, its Scottish Fusion cuisine drawing visitors from as far afield as Dundee and Edinburgh and its prices lifting it well out of her budget. Karen wondered how far Mick Prentice would have had to travel for a simple pint of heavy if hed stayed put in Newton.
She consulted the Mapquest directions shed printed out and pointed to a road at the apex of the triangle to her driver, DC Jason the Mint Murray. You want to go down the lane there, she said. Towards the sea. Where the pit used to be.
They left the village centre behind immediately. Shaggy hedgerows fringed a field of lush green wheat on the right. All this rain, its making everything grow like the clappers, the Mint said. It had taken him the full twenty-five-minute journey from the office to summon up a comment.
Karen couldnt be bothered with a conversation about the weather. What was there to say? It had rained all bloody summer so far. Just because it wasnt raining right this minute didnt mean it wouldnt be wet by the end of the day. She looked over to her left where the colliery buildings had once stood. She had a vague memory of offices, pithead baths, a canteen. Now it had been razed to its concrete foundation, weeds forcing through jagged cracks as they reclaimed it. Marooned beyond it was a single untouched miners row; eight raddled houses stranded in the middle of nowhere by the demolition of the buildings that had provided the reason for their existence. Beyond them was a thick stand of tall sycamores and beeches, a dense windbreak between the houses and the edge of the cliff that plunged down thirty feet to the coastal path below. Thats where the Lady Charlotte used to be, she said.
Eh? the Mint sounded startled.
The pit, Jason.
Oh. Right. Aye. Before my time. He peered through the windscreen, making her wonder uneasily if he needed glasses. Which house is it, guv?
She pointed to the one second from the end. The Mint eased the car round the potholes as carefully as if it had been his own and came to a halt at the end of Jenny Prentices path.
In spite of Karens phone call setting up the meeting, Jenny took her time answering the door, which gave them plenty of time to examine the cracked concrete flags and the depressing patch of weedy gravel in front of the house. If this was mine, the Mint began, then tailed off, as if it was all too much to contemplate.
The woman who answered the door had the air of someone who had spent her days lying down so life could more easily trample over her. Her lank greying hair was tied back haphazardly, strands escaping at both sides. Her skin was lined and puckered, with broken veins mapping her cheeks. She wore a nylon overall that came to mid-thigh over cheap black trousers whose material had gone bobbly. The overall was a shade of lavender found nowhere in nature. Karens parents still lived in a street populated by ex-miners and their kin in unfashionable Methil, but even the most dysfunctional of their neighbours would have taken more trouble with their appearance when they knew they were in for any kind of official visit. Karen didnt even bother trying to avoid judging Jenny Prentice on her appearance. Good morning, Mrs Prentice, she said briskly. Im DI Pirie. We spoke on the phone. And this is DC Murray.