A Darker Domain. Val McDermid

       Siena

       Glenrothes

       Edinburgh Airport to Rotheswell Castle

       Thursday 5th July 2007; Kirkcaldy

       Sunday 14th August 1983; Newton of Wemyss

       Thursday, 5th July 2007

       Glenrothes

       Rotheswell Castle

       Kirkcaldy

       Celadoria, near Greve in Chianti

       Thursday 26th April 2007; Villa Totti, Tuscany

       Thursday 5th July 2007; Celadoria, near Greve in Chianti

       Kirkcaldy

       Boscolata, Tuscany

       Friday 6th July 2007; Kirkcaldy

       A1, Firenze-Milano

       Rotheswell Castle

       Friday 13th July 2007; Glenrothes

       Wednesday 18th July 2007

       Thursday 19th July 2007; Newton of Wemyss

       Keep Reading

      Acknowledgements

      About the Author

       By the Same Author

      About the Publisher

      Copyright

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008

      Copyright © Val McDermid 2008

      Val McDermid asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

      A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

      HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

      Source ISBN: 9780007243297

       Ebook edition © SEPTEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007287451

      Version: 2019-10-10

Wednesday 23rd January 1985; Newton of Wemyss

      The voice is soft, like the darkness that encloses them. ‘You ready?’

      ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

      ‘You’ve told her what to do?’ Words tumbling now, tripping over each other, a single stumble of sounds.

      ‘Don’t worry. She knows what’s what. She’s under no illusions about who’s going to carry the can if this goes wrong.’ Sharp words, sharp tone. ‘She’s not the one I’m worrying about.’

      ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

      ‘Nothing. It means nothing, all right? We’ve no choices. Not here. Not now. We just do what has to be done.’ The words have the hollow ring of bravado. It’s anybody’s guess what they’re hiding. ‘Come on, let’s get it done with.’

      This is how it begins.

Wednesday 27th June 2007; Glenrothes

      The young woman strode across the foyer, low heels striking a rhythmic tattoo on vinyl flooring dulled by the passage of thousands of feet. She looked like someone on a mission, the civilian clerk thought as she approached his desk. But then, most of them did. The crime prevention and public information posters that lined the walls were invariably wasted on them as they approached, lost in the slipstream of their determination.

      She bore down on him, her mouth set in a firm line. Not bad looking, he thought. But like a lot of the women who pitched up here, she wasn’t exactly looking her best. She could have done with a bit more make-up, to make the most of those sparky blue eyes. And something more flattering than jeans and a hoodie. Dave Cruickshank assumed his fixed professional smile. ‘How can I help you?’ he said.

      The woman tilted her head back slightly, as if readying herself for defence. ‘I want to report a missing person.’

      Dave tried not to show his weary irritation. If it wasn’t neighbours from hell, it was so-called missing persons. This one was too calm for it to be a missing toddler, too young for it to be a runaway teenager. A row with the boyfriend, that’s what it would be. Or a senile granddad on the lam. The usual bloody waste of time. He dragged a pad of forms across the counter, squaring it in front of him and reaching for a pen. He kept the cap on; there was one key question he needed answered before he’d be taking down any details. ‘And how long has this person been missing?’

      ‘Twenty-two and a half years. Since Friday the fourteenth of December 1984, to be precise.’ Her chin came down and truculence clouded her features. ‘Is that long enough for you to take it seriously?’

      Detective Sergeant Phil Parhatka watched the end of the video clip then closed the window. ‘I tell you,’ he said, ‘if ever there was a great time to be in cold cases, this is it.’

      Detective Inspector Karen Pirie barely raised her eyes from the file she was updating. ‘How?’

      ‘Stands to reason. We’re in the middle of the war on terror. And I’ve just watched my local MP taking possession of 10 Downing Street with his missus.’ He jumped up and crossed to the mini-fridge perched on top of a filing cabinet. ‘What would you rather be doing? Solving cold cases and getting good publicity for it, or trying to make sure the muzzers dinnae blow a hole in the middle of our patch?’

      ‘You think Gordon Brown becoming Prime Minister makes Fife a target?’ Karen marked her place in the document with her index finger and gave Phil her full attention. It dawned on her that for too long she’d had her head too far in the past to weigh up present possibilities. ‘They never bothered with Tony Blair’s constituency when he was in charge.’

      ‘Very true.’ Phil peered into the fridge, deliberating between an Irn Bru and a Vimto. Thirty-four years old and still he couldn’t wean himself off the soft drinks that had been treats in childhood. ‘But these guys call themselves Islamic jihadists and Gordon’s a son of the manse. I wouldn’t want to be in the Chief Constable’s shoes if they decide to make a point by blowing up his dad’s old kirk.’ He chose the Vimto. Karen shuddered.

      ‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,’ she said. ‘Have you never noticed it’s an anagram of vomit?’

      Phil