e 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 as well." He studied the balls, cocking his head for a different angle. "So, are you not wondering why I've chosen to break my silence after all these years?"

"Yes, of course I am. But to be honest, I don't think your reasons for talking now will have much to do with what I end up writing. So it's more personal curiosity than professional."

He stopped halfway through his preparation for a shot and straightened up, staring at her with an expression she couldn't read. He was either furious or curious. "You're not what I expected," he said. "You're tougher. That's good."

Bel was accustomed to being underestimated by the men in her world. She was less used to them admitting their mistake. "Damn right, I'm tough. I don't rely on anybody else to fight my battles."

He turned to face her, leaning on the table and folding his arms over his cue. "I don't like being in the public eye," he said. "But I'm a realist. Back in 1985, it was possible for someone like me to exert a degree of influence over the media. When Catriona and Adam were kidnapped, to a large extent we controlled what was printed and broadcast. The police cooperated with us too." He sighed and shook his head. "For all the good it did us." He leaned the cue on the table and came to sit opposite Bel.

He sat in the classic alpha male pose: knees spread wide, hands on his thighs, shoulders back. "The world is a different place now," he said. "I've seen what you people do to parents who have lost children. Mohamed Al Fayed, made to look like a paranoid buffoon. Kate McCann, turned into a modern-day Medea. Put one foot wrong and they bury you. Well, I'm not about to let that happen. I'm a very successful man, Miss Richmond. And I got that way by accepting that there are things I don't know, and understanding that the way to overcome that is to employ experts and listen to them. As far as this business goes, you are my hired gun. Once the word gets out that there is new evidence, the media will go wild. But I will not be talking to anyone but you. Everything goes through you. So whatever image reaches the public will be the one you generate. This place was built to withstand a siege, and my security is state of the art. None of the reptiles gets near me or Judith or Alec."

Bel felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Exclusive access was every hack's wet dream. Usually she had to work her arse off to get it. But here it was, on a plate and for free. Still, let him keep on thinking that she was the one doing him a favour. "And what's in it for me? Apart from becoming the journalist that all the others love to hate?"

The thin line of Grant's lips compressed further, and his chest rose as he breathed deeply. "I will talk to you." The words came out as if they'd been ground between a pair of millstones. It was clearly meant to be a moment reminiscent of Moses descending from Mount Sinai.

Bel was determined not to be impressed. "Excellent. Shall we make a start then?" She reached into her bag and produced a digital recorder. "I know this is not going to be easy for you, but I need you to tell me about Catriona. We'll get to the kidnapping and its consequences, but we're going to have to go back before that. I want to have a sense of what she was like and what her life was like."

He stared into the middle distance, and for the first time Bel saw a man who looked his seventy-two years. "I'm not sure I'm the best person for that," he said. "We were too alike. It was always head to head with me and Catriona." He pushed himself out of the armchair and went back to the billiard table. "She was always volatile, even when she was wee. She had toddler tantrums that could shake the walls of this place. She grew out of the tantrums but not out of the tempers. Still, she could always charm her way right back into your good graces. When she put her mind to it." He glanced up at Bel and smiled. "She knew her own mind. And you couldn't shift her once she was set on something."

Grant moved round the table, studying the balls, lining up his next shot. "And she had talent. When she was a child, you never saw her without a pencil or a paintbrush in her hand. Drawing, painting, modelling with clay. She never stopped. She didn't grow out of it like most kids do. She just got better at it. And then she discovered glass." He bent over the table and stunned the cue ball into the red, slotting it into the middle pocket. He respotted the red and studied the angles.

"You said you were always head to head with each other. What were the flashpoints?" Bel said when he showed no sign of continuing his reminiscences.

Grant gave a little snort of laughter. "Anything and everything. Politics. Religion. Whether Italian food was better than Indian. Whether Mozart was better than Beethoven. Whether abstract art had any meaning. Whether we should plant beech or birch or Scots pine in the Check Bar wood." He straightened up slowly. "Why she didn't want to take over the company. That was a big one. I didn't have a son then. And I've never had a problem with women in business. I saw no reason why she shouldn't take over MGE once she'd learned how it all works. She said she'd rather stick needles in her eyes."

"She didn't approve of MGE?" Bel asked.

"No, it wasn't anything to do with the company or its policies. What she wanted was to be an artist in glass. Sculpting, blowing, casting-anything you could do with glass, she wanted to be the best. And that didn't leave any room for building roads or houses."

"That must have been a disappointment."

"Broke my heart." Grant cleared his throat. "I did everything I could to talk her out of it. But she wouldn't be talked out of it. She went behind my back, applied for a place at Goldsmiths in London. And she got it." He shook his head. "I was all for cutting her adrift without a penny, but Mary-my wife, Cat's mother- she shamed me into agreeing to support her. She pointed out that, for somebody who hated being in the public eye, I'd be throwing a hell of a bone to the tabloids. So I let myself be talked into it." He gave a wry smile. "Almost reconciled myself to it too. And then I found out what was really going on."

Wednesday, 13th December 1978; Rotheswell Castle

Brodie Grant swung the Land Rover into a gravel-scattering turn and ground to a halt yards from the kitchen door of Rotheswell Castle. He stamped into the house, a chocolate Lab at his heels. He strode through the kitchen, leaving a swirl of freezing air in his wake, barking at the dog to stay. He moved through the house with the speed and certainty of a man who knows precisely where he is going.

At last he burst into the prettily decorated room where his wife indulged her passion for quilting. "Did you know about this?" he said. Mary looked up, startled. She could hear the rush of his breathing from across the room.

"About what, Brodie?" she said. She'd been married to a force of nature long enough not to be ruffled by a grand entrance.

"You talked me into this." He threw himself into a low armchair, struggling to untangle his legs. " 'It's what she wants, Brodie. She'll never forgive you if you stand in her way, Brodie. You followed your dreams, Brodie. Let her follow hers.' That's what you said. So I did. Against my better judgement, I said I would back her up. Finance her bloody degree. Keep my mouth shut about what a bloody waste of time it is. Stop reminding her how few artists ever make any kind of a living from their self-indulgent bloody carry-on. Not till they're dead, anyway." He banged his fist on the arm of the chair.

Mary continued piecing her fabric and smiled. "You did, Brodie. And I'm very proud of you for it."

"And now look where it's got us. Look what's really going on."

"Brodie, I've no idea what you're talking about. Do you think you could explain? And with due consideration for your blood pressure?" She'd always had the gift of gently teasing him out of his extreme positions. But today, it wasn't working well. Brodie's dander was up, and it was going to take more than an application of sweet reason to restore him to his normal humour.

"I've been out with Sinclair. Checking the drives for the shoot on Friday."

"And how were the drives?"

"Perfectly fine. They're always fine. He's a good keeper. But that's not the point, Mary." His voice rose again, incongruous in the cosy room with its stacked riot of fabrics on the shelves.

"No, Brodie. I realize that. What is the point, exactly?"

"Fergus bloody Sinclair, that's what. I told Sinclair. Back in the summer, when his bloody son was sniffing round Cat. I told him to keep the boy away from my daughter, and I thought he'd listened to me. But now this." He waved his hands as if he was throwing a pile of hay in the air.

Mary finally put down her work. "What's the matter, Brodie? What's happened?"

"It's what's going to happen. You know how we breathed a sigh of relief when he signed up for his bloody estate management degree at Edinburgh? Well, it turns out that wasn't the only iron in his bloody fire. He's only gone and accepted a place at London University. He's going to be in the same bloody city as our daughter. He'll be all over her like a rash. Bloody gold-digging peasant." He scowled and smacked his fist down on the chair again. "I'm going to settle his hash, you see if I don't."

To his astonishment, Mary was laughing, rocking back and forward at her piecing table, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. "Oh, Brodie," she gasped. "I can't tell you how funny this is."

"Funny?" he howled. "That bloody boy's going to ruin Cat and you think it's funny?"

Mary jumped to her feet and crossed the room to her husband. Ignoring his protests, she sat on his lap and ran her fingers through his thick hair. "It's all right, Brodie. Everything's going to be fine."

"I don't see how." He jerked away from her hand.

"Me and Cat, we've been trying to figure out how to tell you for the past week."

"Tell me what, woman?"

"She's not going to London, Brodie."

He straightened up, almost toppling Mary on to the floor. "What do you mean, not going to London? Is she giving up this daftness? Is she coming to work with me?"

Mary sighed. "Don't be silly. You know in your heart she's doing what she should be doing. No, she's been offered a scholarship. It's a combination of academic study and working in a designer glass factory. Brodie, it's absolutely the best training in the world. And they want our Catriona."

For a long moment, he allowed himself to be torn between pride and fear. "Where about?" he said at last.

"It's not so far, Brodie." Mary ran the back of her hand down his cheek. "It's only Sweden."

"Sweden? Bloody Sweden? Jesus Christ, Mary. Sweden?"

"You make it sound like the ends of the earth. You can fly there from Edinburgh, you know. It takes less than two hours. Honestly, Brodie. Listen to yourself. This is wonderful. It's the best possible start for her. And you won't have to worry about Fergus being in the same place. He's not likely to turn up in a small town between Stockholm and Uppsala, is he?"

Grant put his arms round his wife and rested his chin on her head. "Trust you to find the silver lining." His mouth curled in a cruel smile. "It's certainly going to put Fergus bloody Sinclair's gas at a peep."

Thursday, 28th June 2007; Rotheswell Castle

"So you argued with Cat about boyfriends as well?" Bel said. "Was it all of them, or just Fergus Sinclair in particular?"

"She didn't have that many boyfriends. She was too focused on her work. She went out for a few months with one of the sculptors at the glass factory. I met him a couple of times. Swedish, but a sensible enough lad all the same. I could see she wasn't serious, though, so there was no need to argue about him. But Fergus Sinclair was a different kettle of fish." He paced the perimeter of the table, the anger obvious. "The police never took him seriously as a suspect, but I wondered at the time whether he might have been behind what happened to Cat and Adam. He certainly couldn't accept it when she finally cut the ties between them. And he couldn't accept that she wouldn't acknowledge him as Adam's father. At the time, I thought it was possible he took the law into his own hands. Though it's hard to see him having the wit to put something that complicated together."

"But Cat continued her relationship with Fergus after she went to Sweden?"

Tiredness seemed suddenly to hit Grant and he dropped back into the chair opposite Bel. "They were very close. They'd run about together when they were kids. I should have put a stop to it but it never crossed my mind that it would ever come to anything. They were so different. Cat with her art and Sinclair with no more ambition than to follow his father into keepering. Different class, different aspirations. The only thing that I could see pulling them together was that life had landed them in the same place. So yes, when she came back in the holidays and he was around, they got back together again. She made no secret of it, even though she knew how I felt about Sinclair. I kept hoping she'd meet someone she deserved but it never happened. She kept going back to Sinclair."

"And yet you didn't sack his father? Move him off the estate?"

Grant looked shocked. "Good God, no. Have you any idea how hard it is to find a keeper as good as Willie Sinclair? You could interview a hundred men before you'd find one with his instincts for the birds and the land. A decent man, too. He knew his son wasn't in Cat's league. He was ashamed that he couldn't stop Fergus chasing Cat. He wanted to bar him from the family home, but his wife wouldn't have it." He shrugged. "I can't say I blame her. Women are always soft with their sons."

Bel tried to hide her surprise. She'd assumed Grant would stop at nothing to have his own way where his daughter was concerned. He was apparently more complex than she'd given him credit for. "What happened after she came back from Sweden?"

Grant rubbed his face with his hands. "It wasn't pretty. She wanted to move out. Set up a studio where she could work and sell things from, somewhere with living quarters attached. She had her eye on a couple of properties on the estate. I said the price of my support was that she stop seeing Sinclair." For the first time, Bel saw sadness seeping round the edges of the simmering anger. "It was stupid of me. Mary said so at the time, and she was right. They were both furious with me, but I wouldn't give in. So Cat went her own way. She spoke to the Wemyss estate and rented a property from them. An old gatehouse with what had been a logging shed, set back from the main road. Perfect for attracting customers. A parking area in front of the old gates, studio and display space, and living quarters tucked away behind the walls. All the privacy you could want. And everybody knew. Catriona Maclennan Grant had gone to the Wemyss estate to spite her old man."

"If she needed your support, how did she pay for it all?" Bel asked.

"Her mother equipped the studio, paid the first year's rent, and stocked the kitchen till Cat started selling pieces." He couldn't suppress a smile. "Which didn't take long. She was good, you know. Very good. And her mother saw to it that all her friends went there for wedding presents and birthday gifts. I was never angrier with Mary than I was then. I was outraged. I felt thwarted and disrespected and it really did not help when bloody Sinclair came back from university and picked up where he'd left off."

"Were they living together?"

"No. Cat had more sense than that. I look back at it now and I sometimes think she only went on seeing him to spite me. It didn't last that long after she'd set the studio up. It was pretty much over about eighteen months before... before she died."

Bel did her mental arithmetic and came up with the wrong answer. "But Adam was only six months old when they were kidnapped. So how could Fergus Sinclair be his father if he split up with Cat eighteen months earlier?"

Grant sighed. "According to Mary, it wasn't a clean break. Cat kept telling Sinclair it was over but he wouldn't take no for an answer. These days, you'd call it harassment. Apparently he kept turning up with a pathetic puppy face and Cat didn't always have the strength to send him away. And then she got pregnant." He stared at the floor. "I'd always imagined what it would be like to be a grandfather. To see the family line continue. But when Cat told us, all I felt was anger. That bastard Sinclair had wrecked her future. Saddled her with his child, ruined her chances of the career she'd dreamed of. The one good thing she did was refuse to have anything more to do with him. She wouldn't acknowledge him as the father, she wouldn't see him or talk to him. She made it plain that, this time, it really was over and done."

"How did he take that?"

"Again, I got it second-hand. This time from Willie Sinclair. He said the boy was devastated. But all I cared about was that he'd finally got the message that he was never going to be part of this family. Willie advised the boy to put some distance between himself and Cat, and for once, he listened. Within a few weeks, he'd got a job in Austria, working on some hunting estate near Salzburg. And he's worked in Europe ever since."

"And now? You still think he might have been responsible for what happened?"

Grant made a face. "If I'm honest, no. Not really. I don't think he had the brains to come up with such a complicated plot. I'm sure he'd have loved to get his hands on his son and take his revenge on Cat at the same time, but it's much more likely that it was some politically motivated bastards who thought it would be clever to get me to fund their revolution." Wearily, he got to his feet. "I'm tired now. The police are coming tomorrow morning and we'll be going through all the other stuff then. We'll see you at dinner, Miss Richmond." He walked out of the room, leaving Bel with plenty to ponder. And to transcribe. When Brodie Grant had said he would talk to her, she hadn't imagined for a moment he would provide her with this rich seam of information. She was going to have to consider very carefully how to present him to the world's media. One foot wrong and she knew the mine would be closed down. And now she'd had a taste of what lay within, that was definitely the last thing she wanted.

Glenrothes

The Mint was staring at the computer screen as if it was an artefact from outer space when Karen got back to her office. "What have you got for me?" she asked. "Have you tracked down the five scabs yet?"

"None of them's got a criminal record," he said.

"And?"

"I wasn't sure where else to look."

Karen rolled her eyes. Her conviction that the Mint had been dumped on her as a form of sabotage by the Macaroon intensified daily. "Google. Electoral rolls. 192.com. Vehicle licensing. Make a start there, Jason. And then fix me up a site meeting with the cave preservation person. Better leave tomorrow clear, see if you can get him to meet me on Saturday morning."

"We don't work Saturdays usually," the Mint said.

"Speak for yourself," Karen muttered, making a note to herself to ask Phil to come with her. Scots law's insistence on corroboration for all evidence made it hard to be a complete maverick.

She woke her computer from hibernation and tracked down the contact details of her opposite number in Nottingham. To her relief, DCI Des Mottram was at his desk, receptive to her request. "I think it's probably a dead end, but it's one that needs to be checked out," she said.

"And you don't fancy a trip down to the Costa del Trent," he said, amused resignation in his voice.

"It's not that. I've just had a major case reopen today and there's no way I can spare a couple of bodies on something that probably won't take us any further forward except in a negative way."

"Don't worry about it. I know how it goes. It's your lucky day, though, Karen. We got two new CID aides on Monday and this is exactly the kind of thing I can use to break them in. Nothing too complicated, nothing too dodgy."

Karen gave him the names of the men. "I've got one of my lads looking for last known addresses. Soon as he's got anything, I'll get him to e-mail you." A few more details, and she was done. Right on cue, Phil Parhatka walked back into the room, a bacon roll transmitting a message straight to the pleasure centres of Karen's brain. "Mmm," she groaned. "Christ, that smells glorious."

"If I'd known you were back, I'd have got you one. Here, we'll go halves." He took a knife out of his drawer and cut the roll in half, tomato sauce squirting over his fingers. He handed over her share, then licked his fingers. What more, Karen wondered, could a woman ask for in a man?

"What did the Macaroon want?" Phil said.

Karen bit into the roll and spoke through a mouthful of soft sweet dough and salty bacon. "New development in the Catriona Maclennan Grant case."

"Really? What's happened?"

Karen grinned. "I don't know. King Brodie didn't bother to tell the Macaroon. He just told him to send me round tomorrow morning. So I need to get myself up to speed smartish. I've already sent for the records, but I'm going to check it out online first. Listen..." She drew him to one side. "The Mick Prentice business. I need to talk to somebody on Saturday and obviously the Mint doesn't do Saturdays. Any chance I can talk you into coming along with me?"

"Coming along where?"

"The Wemyss caves."

"Really?" Phil perked up. "We get to go behind the railings?"

"I expect so," Karen said. "I didn't know you were into the caves."

"Karen, I used to be a wee boy."

She rolled her eyes. "Right enough."

"Besides, the caves have got really cool stuff. Pictish inscriptions and drawings. Iron Age carvings. I like the idea of being a secret squirrel and taking a look at the things you don't usually get to see. Sure, I'll come with you. Have you logged the case yet?"

Karen looked embarrassed. "I want to see where it goes. It was a hard time round here. If something bad happened to Mick Prentice, I want to get to the bottom of it. And you know how the media are always poking around in what we're doing in CCRT. I've a feeling this is one where we've got a better chance of finding out what happened if we can keep the lid on it a bit."

Phil finished his roll and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Fair enough. You're the boss. Just make sure the Macaroon can't use it as a stick to beat you with."

"I'll watch my back. Listen, are you busy right now?"

He tossed the empty paper bag in the bin with an overhead action, preening himself when it landed right in the middle. "Nothing I can't put to one side."

"See what you can dig up on a guy called Andy Kerr. He was an NUM official during the strike. Lived in a cottage in the middle of Wemyss woods. He was on the sick with depression around the time Mick went missing. Supposedly topped himself, but the body was never recovered."

Phil nodded. "I'll see what I can find."

As he returned to his own desk, Karen was Googling Catriona Maclennan Grant. The first hit took her to a two-year-old broadsheet newspaper feature published to mark the twentieth anniversary of the young sculptor's death. Three paragraphs in, Karen felt a physical jolt in the middle of her chest. "It's amazing how few people are available to talk about this case," she read. "Cat Grant's father has never spoken to the press about what happened. Her mother killed herself two years after the death of her daughter. Her ex-boyfriend, Fergus Sinclair, refuses to be interviewed. And the officer in charge of the case is also beyond our reach-he is himself serving life for murder."

"Oh Christ," she groaned. She hadn't even seen the case file but already this was turning into the assignment from hell.

Kirkcaldy

It was after ten when Karen walked through her front door with a bundle of files and a fish supper. The notion that she was playing at keeping house had never deserted her. Maybe it was something to do with the house itself, an identikit box on a 1960s warren development to the north of Kirkcaldy. The sort of place people started out in, clinging to the hope it wasn't going to be where they ended up. Low-crime suburbia, a place where you could let kids play out in the street so long as you didn't live on one of the through roads. Traffic accidents, not abductions, were what parents feared here. Karen could never quite remember why she'd bought it, though it had seemed like a good idea at the time. She suspected the appeal had been that it came completely refurbished, probably by somebody who'd got the idea from a TV property development programme. She'd bought the furniture with the house, right down to the pictures on the walls. She didn't care that she hadn't chosen the stuff she lived among. It was the kind of thing she'd probably have picked anyway and it had saved her the hassle of a Sunday in IKEA. And nobody could deny that it was a million times nicer than the faded floral clutter her parents inhabited. Her mother kept waiting for her to revert to type, but it wasn't going to happen. When she had a weekend off, Karen wanted nothing more than a curry with her pals and a significant amount of time on the sofa watching football and old films. Not homemaking.

She dumped everything on the dining table and went in search of a plate and cutlery. She still had some standards, for God's sake. She tossed her coat over a chair and sat down to her meal, flipping a folder open and reading as she ate. She'd worked her way through the Grant case files earlier and made a note of the questions she wanted answers to. Now finally she had the chance to look over the material Phil had gathered for her.

As she'd expected, the original missing persons report could hardly have been more sketchy. Back then, the disappearance of an unmarried, childless adult male with a history of clinical depression barely dented the police consciousness. It was nothing to do with the fact that the miners' strike had stretched the force's staffing levels almost to breaking point and everything to do with the fact that, back then, missing persons were not a priority. Not unless they were small children or attractive young women. Even these days, only the fact of Andy Kerr's medical problems would have guaranteed him mild interest.

He'd been reported missing by his sister Angie on Christmas Eve. He'd failed to show up at their parents' home for the traditional family celebration. Angie, home from teacher training college for the holidays, had left a couple of messages on his answering machine in the previous week, trying to arrange meeting up for a drink. Andy hadn't responded, but that wasn't unusual. He'd always been dedicated to his job, but since the strike had begun, he'd become workaholic.

Then on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Mrs. Kerr had admitted that Andy was on sick leave for depression. Angie had persuaded her father to drive her over to Andy's cottage in the Wemyss woods. The place had been cold and deserted, the fridge empty of fresh food. A note was propped up against the sugar bowl on the kitchen table. Amazingly, it had been bagged and included in the file. If you're reading this, it's probably because you're worried about me. Don't be. I've had enough. It's just one thing after another and I can't take it any more. I've gone away to try and get my head straight. Andy.

It wasn't exactly a suicide note, but if you found a body near a message like that, you wouldn't be expecting a murder victim. And the sister had said Andy liked to go mountain walking. She could see why the uniform who'd checked out the cottage and the surrounding woodland had recommended no further action aside from circulating the information to other forces in Scotland. A comment on the file in a different hand noted that Angie Kerr had applied to have her brother declared dead in 1992 and the application had been granted.

The last page was in Phil's familiar writing. "The Kerr parents died in the Zeebrugge ferry disaster in 1987. Angie couldn't claim their estate till she could have Andy declared dead. When she finally got probate in 1993, she sold up and emigrated to New Zealand. She teaches piano in Nelson on the South Island, works from home." Angie Kerr's full address and phone number followed.

She'd had a rough time of it, Karen thought. Losing her brother and both parents in the space of a couple of years was tough enough, without having to go through the process of having Andy formally declared dead. No wonder she'd wanted to move to the other side of the world. Where, she noted, it would now be half past eleven in the morning. A perfectly civilized time to call someone.

One of the few things Karen had bought for her home was an answering machine that allowed her to make digital recordings of her phone calls, recordings which she could then transfer via a USB connection to her computer. She'd tried to persuade the Macaroon to acquire some for the office, but he'd seemed unimpressed. Probably because it hadn't been his idea. Karen wouldn't have minded betting something similar would turn up in the main CID office before long, the brainchild of ACC Lees himself. Never mind. At least she could use the system at home and reclaim the cost of the calls.

A woman answered on the third ring, the Scots accent obvious even in the two syllables of "Hello?"

Karen introduced herself then said, "Is this Angie Kerr?"

"Kerr as was. Mackenzie as is. Is this about my brother? Have you found him?" She sounded excited, pleased almost.

"I'm afraid not, no."

"He didn't kill himself, you know. I've always thought he had an accident. Came off a mountain somewhere. No matter how depressed he was, Andy would never have killed himself. He wasn't a coward." Defiance travelled well.

"I'm sorry," Karen said. "I really have no answers for you. But we are looking again at events around the time he went missing. We're investigating the disappearance of Mick Prentice, and your brother's name came up."

"Mick Prentice." Angie sounded disgusted. "Some friend he turned out to be."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think it's any coincidence that he went scabbing just before Andy took off."

"Why do you say that?"