A Darker Domain. Val McDermidЧитать онлайн книгу.
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