A Darker Domain - Val McDermid

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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. There’s been nobody here for months. Look at the dust. They’re long gone. They’re 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 couldn’t 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 Friday’s 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 Bel’s breath. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘You look like you’re 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. ‘I’ll 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. ‘You’re the most dignified jogger I know. Never seen an out-of-breath Bel before. What’s 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 I’m right, it’s the story of my career.’ She reached for the poster. ‘I was kind of hoping you might be able to tell me whether I’ve 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. ‘Bel…where the hell did you find this?’

      Bel smiled. ‘Before I answer that, I want to clarify a few things.’

      Susan Charleson rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t imagine you’re the first person who’s walked through the door with a faked-up copy of the ransom poster. I’ll tell you what I’ve told them. The reward is contingent on finding Sir Broderick’s grandson alive or demonstrating conclusively that he is dead. Not to mention bringing Catriona Maclennan Grant’s killers to justice.’

      ‘You misunderstand me,’ Bel said, smile mischievous but not giving an inch. ‘Ms Charleson, I’m really not interested in Sir Broderick’s money. But I do have one condition.’

      ‘You’re making a mistake here.’ Susan Charleson’s voice had acquired an edge. ‘This is a police matter. You’re 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. I’d have little difficulty in lying to the police. I’m a journalist, after all.’ She was beginning to enjoy herself far more than she’d anticipated. ‘Your word against mine, Ms Charleson. And I know you don’t 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.’

      ‘You’ve a very aggressive attitude.’ Susan Charleson sounded almost nonchalant.

      ‘I like to think of it as assertive. I didn’t come here to fall out with you, Ms Charleson. I want to help. But not for free. In my experience, the rich don’t appreciate anything they don’t have to pay for.’

      ‘You said you weren’t interested in money.’

      ‘That’s true. And I’m 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. I’m sure you’ll agree once I’ve explained where this poster came from. All I’m asking is that you don’t 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.’

      ‘That’s quite a significant request. Sir Broderick is not a man who compromises his privacy readily. You’ll appreciate I don’t 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 hadn’t been this excited in years. This wasn’t just a slew of news stories and features, though there wasn’t a paper in the world that wouldn’t 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.

      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

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