h, please," Bel said. "Let's not make this a pissing contest. I'm here now, so let it go."

Karen didn't take her eyes off Bel. "We need to talk about Italy."

"Why not? Lovely country. Fabulous food, wine's getting better all the time. And then there's the art-"

"Stop it. I mean it. I will charge you with police obstruction and put you in a cell and leave you there till I can bring you before a sheriff. I am not going to be jerked around by Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant or his minions."

"I'm not a minion of Brodie Grant," Bel said. "I'm an independent investigative journalist."

"Independent? You're living under his roof. Eating his food, drinking his wine. Which I bet is not Italian, by the way. And who paid for that little jaunt to Italy? You're not independent, you're bought and paid for."

"You're wrong."

"No, I'm not. I've got more freedom of action than you have right now, Bel. I can tell my boss to shove it. Come to think of it, I just have. Can you say the same? If it wasn't for the Italian police, I wouldn't even know you'd been talking to people in Tuscany about the Villa Totti. The very fact that you've been reporting to Grant and not talking to us tells me that he owns you."

"That's bullshit. Reporters don't talk to cops about their investigations till their work is finished. That's what's going on here."

Karen shook her head slowly. "I don't think so. And, to tell you the truth, I'm surprised. I didn't think you were that kind of woman."

"You don't know anything about me, Inspector." Bel settled herself more comfortably in the chair, as if she was getting ready for something pleasurable.

"I know you didn't earn your reputation spouting clich¨¦s like that." Karen pulled her chair closer to the table, cutting the distance between them to less than a couple of feet. "And I know that you've been a campaigning journalist for almost the whole of your career. You know what people say about you, Bel? They say you're a fighter. They say you're someone who does the right thing even if it's not the easiest. Like the way you took your sister and her boy under your roof when they needed looking after. They say you don't care about the popularity of your position, you drag the truth out kicking and screaming and make people confront it. They say you're a maverick. Somebody who operates to her own set of rules. Somebody who doesn't take orders from the Man." She waited, staring Bel down. The journalist blinked first, but she didn't look away. "You think they'd recognize you now? Taking your orders from a man like Sir Broderick Maclennan Grant? A man who epitomizes the capitalist system? A man who resisted his daughter's every attempt at self-determination to the point where she ended up putting herself in harm's way? Is that what you've come down to?"

Bel picked up her cigarette and tapped it end to end on the table. "Sometimes you have to find a place inside the enemy's tent so you can find out what he's really like. You of all people should understand that. Cops use undercover all the time when there's no other way of getting a story. Do you have any idea how many press interviews Brodie Grant has given in the last twenty years?"

"Taking a wild guess, I'd say... none?"

"Right. When I found a piece of evidence that might just crack this cold case open, I figured there would be a lot of interest in Grant. Publisher-type interest. But only if someone could get alongside Grant and see what he was like for real." She raised one corner of her mouth in a cynical half-smile. "I thought it might as well be me."

"Fair enough. I'm not going to sit here and pick holes in your self-justification. But how does your quest to give the world the definitive book about that miserable family grant you the right to stand above the law?"

"That's not how I see it."

"Of course it's not how you see it. You need to see yourself as the person who's acting on behalf of Cat Grant. The person who's going to bring her son home, dead or alive. The hero. You can't afford to see yourself in a true light. Because that true light shows you up as the person who is standing in the way of all of those things. Well, here's the scoop, Bel. You haven't got the resources to bring this to an end. I don't know what Brodie Grant's promised you, but it's not going to be clean. Not in any sense." Karen could feel her anger coiling inside her, getting ready to spring. She pushed her chair back, putting some space between them.

"The Italian police don't care about what happened to Cat Grant," Bel said.

"You're right. And why should they?" Karen felt her face flush. "But they do care about the person whose blood is all over the kitchen floor of the Villa Totti. So much blood that that person is almost certainly dead. They care about that, and they're doing everything they can to find out what happened there. And in the course of that, there will be information that will help us. That's how we do things. We don't hire private eyes who tailor their reports to what the client wants to hear. We don't construct our own private legal system to serve our own interests. Let me ask you a question, Bel. Just between the two of us." Karen turned to the uniformed constable who was still standing by the door. "Could you give us a minute?"

She waited till he had closed the door behind him. "Under Scots law, I can't use anything you say to me now. There's no corroboration, you see. So here's my question. And I want you to think about it very carefully. You don't need to tell me the answer. I just want to be sure that you've thought about it honestly and sincerely. If you were to find the kidnappers, what do you think Brodie Grant would do with that information?"

The muscles round Bel's mouth tightened. "I think that's a scurrilous implication."

"I didn't imply. You inferred." Karen got up. "I'm not a numpty, Bel. Don't treat me like one." She opened the door. "You can come back in now."

The constable took up his station by the door, and Karen returned to her chair. "You should be ashamed of yourself," she said. "Who the hell do you people think you are, with your private law? Is this what you've spent your career working for? A law for the rich and powerful that can thumb its nose at the rest of us?" That hit home. About bloody time.

Bel shook her head. "You misjudge me."

"Prove it. Tell me what you found out in Tuscany."

"Why should I? If you people were any good at your job, you'd have found it out yourself."

"You think I need to defend my ability? The only thing I have to defend is that our investigations struggle under the weight of rules and regulations and resources. That sometimes means it takes me and my team a while to cover the ground. But you can be sure that, when we do, there's not a blade of grass goes unexamined. If you give a toss about justice, you should tell me." She gave Bel a cold smile. "Otherwise, you might find yourself on the other end of the reporters' notebooks."

"Is that a threat?"

To Karen's ear, it sounded like bluster. Bel was close to spilling, she could sense it. "I don't need to threaten," she said. "Even Brodie Grant knows what a leaky sieve the police are. Stuff just seems to slip out into the public domain. And you know how the press love it when someone camped out on the moral high ground gets caught up in a mudslide." Oh yes, she was right. Bel was definitely growing uneasy.

"Look, Karen-I can call you Karen?" Bel's voice dropped into hot chocolate warmth.

"Call me what you like, it makes no odds to me. I'm not your pal, Bel. I've got six hours to question you without a lawyer and I plan to make the most of every minute. Tell me what you found out in Italy."

"I'm not telling you anything," Bel said. "I want to go outside for a cigarette. I'll just leave my bag here on the table. Careful you don't knock it over, things might spill out." She stood up. "Is that OK with you, Inspector?"

Karen struggled not to smile. "The constable will need to keep you company. But take your time. Make it two. I've got plenty to keep me occupied." Watching Bel leave the room, she couldn't help a momentary flash of admiration for the other woman's style. Give it up without giving in. Nice one, Bel.

Her arm brushed against the straw shopping bag, which fell over on its side, fanning a wedge of paper out on the table. Without reading it, Karen scooped it up and hustled down the hall to her office. Into the photocopier, the whole bundle copied inside ten minutes, a set of copies locked in her drawer, the originals in her hand. And back to the interview room, where she settled down to read.

As she digested Bel's report for Brodie Grant, her mind arranged the bullet points. Mongrel bunch of puppeteers squatting the Villa Totti. Daniel Porteous, British painter, not so much friend of the house as friend of Matthias the boss and his girlfriend. Matthias the set designer and poster maker. Gabriel Porteous, son of Daniel. Seen with Matthias the day before BurEst scattered to the four winds. Blood on the kitchen floor, fresh that morning. Daniel Porteous a fake. Already a fake in November 1984, when he registered his son's fake birth.

She stumbled for a moment on the mother's name, knowing she'd come across it but struggling for context. Then she said it out loud and it clicked. Frida Kahlo. That Mexican artist that Michael Marra wrote the song about. "Frida Kahlo's Visit to the Taybridge Bar." She had a bad time with her man. So, nothing new there, then. But somebody was being a smartarse with the registrar, laughing up his sleeve at some minor civil servant who wouldn't know Frida Kahlo from Michelangelo. Showing off. Thinking he was being clever but not realizing he was saying something about himself in the process. He must have been a skilful forger though, this Daniel Porteous, to turn up with all the necessary documentation to convince the registrar. And bold, to carry it through.

It was all very interesting, but what had convinced Bel that Gabriel Porteous was Adam Maclennan Grant? And, by logical extension, Daniel Porteous his biological father? And by extending the logic further, that Daniel Porteous and Matthias were the kidnappers? Still in touch after all these years, still in possession of the original silk screen. Based on the poster, you could draw the thread through, but it was only circumstantial.

Aware that Bel would be back any moment, Karen flicked forward through the pages, skimming for sense, hunting for something that might anchor the theory to solid fact. The last few pages were photographs-originals taken at some party, and enlarged sections with captions.

Her stomach flipped and her mind at first refused to accept what she was looking at. Yes, it was true that the boy Gabriel bore a striking resemblance to both Brodie and Cat Grant. But that wasn't what had provoked the turmoil inside. Karen stared at the image of Daniel Porteous, nausea churning her guts. Dear God, what was she to make of this? And then with the suddenness of a light coming on, she realized something that turned everything on its head.

Daniel Porteous had registered the birth of his son three months before the kidnap. He'd assumed a fake identity at least three months ahead of the time that he was going to use it to make his getaway. Fair enough. It demonstrated forethought. But he'd also established the right to take his son with him. "You don't do that if you're planning to ransom him," she said under her breath.

Karen stuffed Bel's papers back in the straw bag and headed for the door. This was insane. She needed to talk to someone who could help her make sense of this. Where the hell was Phil when she needed him?

As she burst out of the interview room, she practically collided with the Mint. He sidestepped, looking startled. "I was looking for you," he said.

Definitely not mutual. "I can't stop now," she said, pushing past him.

"I've got this for you," he said plaintively.

Karen whirled round, grabbed the sheet of paper, and broke into a run. She felt as if an army of messengers were running round inside her head, each with a jigsaw piece. Right now, none of the matching pieces were joining up. But she had a shrewd suspicion that, when they did, the picture would rock everybody back on their heels.

Rotheswell Castle

There had been a shift change in the security team since Bel left for her interview with Karen Pirie, so the guard on duty at the gate had to clear her return via taxi with the castle. That knocked on the head any hopes of slipping back quietly. As she paid off the cab, the front door swung open to reveal a grim-faced Grant. Bel assumed a look of pleasure and walked towards him.

No pleasantries today. "What did you tell her?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Bel said. "A good journalist protects her sources and her information. I told her nothing." It was, technically, the truth. She had told Karen Pirie nothing. She hadn't had to. The inspector had come haring out of the building, pausing only to tell Bel she was free to go.

"Something's just broken on another case I'm working, I've got to go to Edinburgh. I'll be in touch. You can go back to Rotheswell as soon as you like," Karen had said. Then she'd given Bel a wink. "And you can put your hand on your heart and tell Brodie you didn't talk."

Secure in the knowledge that she wasn't actually lying, Bel moved into the house, leaving him no choice but to grab her or follow her.

"You're telling me you told her nothing and she just let you go?" He had to extend his stride to its full length to keep up with her as she bustled down the hall to the stairs.

"I made it clear to DI Pirie that I was not going to talk. She recognized there was no point in prolonging the stalemate." Bel glanced over her shoulder. "This isn't the first time in my career I've had to hold information back from the police. I told you there was no need to try and put the frighteners on her."

Grant conceded with a nod. "I'm sorry I didn't take you at your word."

"So you should be," Bel said. "I-" She broke off to reach for her ringing phone. "Bel Richmond," she said, holding a finger up to still Grant.

A torrent of Italian poured into her ear. She made out "Boscolata," then recognized the voice of the youth who had seen Gabriel with Matthias the night BurEst had done a runner. "Slowly, just take your time," she protested gently, switching to his language.

"I saw him," the boy said. "Yesterday. I saw Gabe in Siena again. And I knew you wanted to find him, so I followed him."

"You followed him?"

"Yeah, like in the movies. He got on a bus, and I managed to sneak on without him seeing me. We ended up in Greve. You know Greve in Chianti?"

She knew Greve. A perfect little market town stuffed with trendy shops for the rich English, redeemed by a few bars and trattorie where the locals still ate and drank. A meeting place for young people on Fridays and Saturdays. "I know Greve," she said.

"So, we end up in the main piazza and he goes into this bar, sits down with a bunch of other guys about the same age. I stayed outside, but I could see him through the window. He had a couple of beers and a bowl of pasta, then he came out."

"Were you able to follow him?"

"Not really. I thought I could, but he had a Vespa parked a couple of streets back. He went off down the road that heads east out of town."

Near, but not near enough. "You did well," she said.

"I did better. I left it about twenty minutes, then I went into the bar he'd been in. I said I was looking for Gabe, I was supposed to meet him there. His mates said I'd not long missed him. So I went all innocent and said, could they direct me to his place, only I didn't know how to get there."

"Amazing," Bel said, genuinely taken aback by his initiative. Grant started to walk away, but she beckoned him back.

"So they drew me a map," he said. "Pretty cool, huh? Apparently it's, like, one step up from a shepherd's hut."

"What did you do?"

"I got the last bus home," he said, as if it was blindingly obvious. Which she supposed it was if you were a teenage boy.

"And you've got this map?"

"I brought it back with me," he said. "I thought it might be worth something to you. I thought maybe a hundred euros?"

"We'll talk about it. Listen, I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't talk to anybody except Grazia about this, OK?"

"OK."

Bel ended the call and gave Grant the thumbs-up. "Result," she said. "Forget the private eyes. My contact has discovered where Gabriel is living. And now I need to get back to Italy to talk to him."

Grant's face lit up. "That's tremendous news. I'm coming with you. If this boy is my grandson, I want to see him face to face. The sooner the better."

"I don't think so. This needs to be handled carefully," Bel said.

From behind her, a voice chimed in. "She's right, Brodie. We need to know a lot more about this boy before you put your head over the parapet." Judith stepped forward and laid a hand on her husband's arm. "This could all be an elaborate set-up. If these are the people who kidnapped Adam and robbed you twenty-two years ago, we know they're capable of the most cruel behaviour. We don't know anything else for sure. Let Bel handle it." Grant made a protest, but she shushed him. "Bel, do you think you can get a DNA sample without this young man realizing?"

"It's not so hard," Bel said. "One way or another, I'm sure I can manage it."

"I still think I should go," Grant said.

"Of course you do, darling. But the women are right this time. And you will just have to possess your soul in patience. Now, where's the plane?"

Grant sighed. "It's at Edinburgh."

"Perfect. By the time Bel's packed a bag, Susan will have everything arranged." She glanced at her watch. "You said you would take Alec fishing after school, so I can drive Bel over." She smiled at Bel. "Better get cracking. I'll see you downstairs in fifteen?"

Bel nodded, too gobsmacked to argue. If she'd ever wondered how Judith Grant held her own in her marriage, she'd just witnessed a spectacular demonstration. Grant had been totally sandbagged and, short of throwing a temper tantrum, there was no way back for him. She turned and ran up the stairs. Add another zero to the advance. This was turning into the story of her career. Everyone who had ever dissed her was going to have to eat their words. It was going to be blissful. OK, there was some tedious legwork to be got through, but there was always tedious legwork. There just wasn't always glory at the end of it.

Kirkcaldy

Karen paced the floor, an unwavering ten steps across the living room, then a swivel and ten steps back. Usually movement helped her get her thoughts lined up in order. But this evening, it wasn't working. The jumble in her head was intractable, like herding cats or wrestling water. She suspected it was because, at some deep level, she was resisting the inevitable conclusion. She needed Phil here to hold her hand while she thought the unthinkable.

Where the hell was he? She'd left a message on his voicemail almost two hours ago, but he hadn't got back to her. It wasn't like him to go off the radar. As that thought circled for the hundredth time, her doorbell pealed out.

She'd never covered the distance to the front door faster. Phil stood on the doorstep, looking sheepish. "I'm sorry," he said. "I went to the National Library in Edinburgh and I had to turn my phone off. I forgot to turn it back on again till a few minutes ago. I thought it would be quicker to just come straight over."

Karen was ushering him into the living room as he spoke. He looked around curiously. "This is nice," he said.

"No, it's not. It's just a machine for living in," she said.

"But it's a good one. It's relaxing. The colours all work with each other. You've got a good eye."

She didn't have the heart to tell him it was someone else's eye. "I didn't ask you round to appreciate the d¨¦cor," she said. "Do you want a beer? Or a glass of wine?"

"I've got the car," he said.

"Never mind that. You can always get a cab home. Believe me, you are going to need a drink." She thrust the photocopy of Bel's notes at him. "Beer or wine?"

"Have you got some red wine?"

"Read that. I'll be right back." Karen went through to the kitchen, chose the best of the half-dozen reds she had in the rack, unscrewed the cap, and poured two big glasses. The jammy spice of the Australian shiraz tickled her nose as she picked up the drinks. It was the first external thing she'd noticed since she'd left the office.

Phil had made his way through to the dining area and was sitting at the table, intent on the report. She put the glass down by his hand. Absently, he took a swig. Karen couldn't keep still. She sat down, then she stood up. She went through to the kitchen and returned with a plate of cheese crackers. Then she remembered the sheet of paper the Mint had given her. She'd stuffed it in her bag without looking at it.

She tracked her bag down in the kitchen. The Mint's notes weren't exactly the most clear or succinct that she'd ever read, but she got the gist of what he had found out. Three of Cat's friends were clearly of no interest. But the forum message he'd copied about Toby Inglis leapt out at her with all the force of a coiled spring... just like Kate Mosse's book. But you'll never guess who we bumped into in a bistro in Perpignan. Only Toby Inglis. You remember how he was going to set the world on fire, be the next Olivier? Well, it obviously hasn't worked out quite the way he planned. He was pretty evasive when it came to the details, but he said he's a theatre director and designer. IMHO he was being a bit economical with the truth. Brian said he looked more like a superannuated hippy. He certainly smelled like one, all patchouli and dope. We asked where we could see one of his productions, but he said he was taking a summer break. I was dying to do some more digging but then this German woman arrived. I think she thought they were eating there, but he hustled her out of the door as fast as he could. I think he didn't want us talking to her and finding out the truth. Whatever that is. So, after Perpignan...

Karen re-read the Mint's scrawl. Could this be Matthias? It certainly sounded like the mysterious Matthias who hadn't been seen since he was spotted in Siena with Gabriel Porteous. Another piece that appeared to belong with the jigsaw but didn't seem to fit.

Karen forced herself to breathe deeply, then joined Phil at the dining table. He'd spread the prints in front of him. He poked one with his finger to align it with the others. "It's him, isn't it?" he said.

"Adam?"

He flapped an impatient hand at her. "Well yes, of course it's Adam. It's got to be Adam. Not just because he looks like his mother and his grandfather. But because the man who's brought him up is Mick Prentice."

Karen experienced a moment of weightlessness. The agitation stilled and she could think straight again. She wasn't losing her mind or letting her imagination run away with her. "Are you sure?"

"He's not actually changed that much," Phil said. "And look, there's the scar-" He traced it with his fingertip. "The coal tattoo through his right eyebrow. The thin blue line. It's Mick Prentice. I'd put money on it."

"Mick Prentice was one of the kidnappers?" Even to her own ears, Karen sounded a bit wobbly.

"I think we both know he was more than that," Phil said.

"The registration," Karen said.

"Exactly. This was all planned even before Mick left Jenny. He'd set up his fake identity so he could start a new life. But there can be only one reason why he needed to set up a fake identity for Adam."

"He wasn't planning to ransom him at all," Karen said. "Because he was Adam's father. Not Fergus Sinclair. Mick Prentice." She took a gulp of red wine. "It was a set-up, wasn't it? There were no anarchists, were there?"

"No." Phil sighed. "It looks like there were two miners. Mick and his pal Andy."

"You think Andy was part of the plot?"

"It looks that way. How else do you account for him ending up buried in the cave at just the right time?"

"But why? Why kill him? He was Mick's best mate," Karen protested. "If he could trust anyone, he could trust Andy. The way you guys operate, he could probably have trusted Andy more than Cat."

"Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he hit his head getting in or out of the boat."

"River said the back of his head was smashed in. That doesn't sound like an accident getting into a boat."

Phil threw his hands in the air in a "whatever" gesture. "He could have tripped, smacked his head on the quay. It was chaos that night. Anything could have happened. I'd put my money on Andy being the co-conspirator."

"And Cat? Was she part of the plan or was she the victim? Were she and Mick still an item or was he trying to get his kid and enough of Brodie Grant's money to set the pair of them up for life?"

Phil scratched his head. "I think she was in on it," he said. "If they'd split up and he'd taken them both, she'd never have let Adam out of her arms. She'd have been too scared of him taking the bairn away from her."

"I can't believe they got away with it," she said.

Phil gathered the prints together and straightened the edges. "Lawson was looking in the wrong direction. And with good reason."

"No, no. I don't mean the kidnap. I mean the affair. Everybody knows everybody else's business in a place like the Newton. Easier to get away with murder than an extra-marital affair, I'd have said."

"So it looks like we've done what Lawson couldn't do. Solved the kidnapping, tracked down Adam Maclennan Grant."

"Not quite," Karen said. "We don't actually know where he is. And there's the small matter of a lot of blood spilled in Tuscany. Which could be his."

"Or it could have been spilled by him. In which case he's not going to be very keen on being found."