‘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 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
