"hy don't we take a look at the caves and we can talk as we go?" Karen suggested.

"Surely," Haigh said graciously. "We can stop off in the Court Cave and the Doo Cave, then have a cup of coffee in the Thane's Cave."

"A cup of coffee?" Phil sounded bemused. "They've got a caf¨¦ down here?"

Haigh chuckled again. "Sorry, Sergeant. Nothing so grand. The Thane's Cave was closed to the public after the rock fall of 1985, but the society has keys to the railings. We thought it was appropriate to maintain the tradition of the caves having a useful function, so we set up a little clubhouse area in a safe part of the cave. It's all very ad hoc, but we enjoy it." He strode off towards the first cave, not seeing the look of mock horror Phil gave Karen.

The first sign that the cliffs were less than solid was a hole in the sandstone that had been bricked up years before. Some of the bricks were missing, revealing darkness within. "Now, that opening and the passage behind it is man-made," Haigh said, pointing to the brickwork. "As you can see, the Court Cave juts out further than the others. Back in the nineteenth century, high tide reached the cave mouth, cutting off East Wemyss from Buckhaven. The lasses who gutted the herring couldn't get between the two villages at high tide, so a passage was cut through the west side of the cave, which allowed them to pass along the shore safely. Now, if you'll follow me, we'll go in by the east entrance."

When she'd said "talk as we go," this hadn't been quite what Karen had in mind. Still, since they were doing this in their own time, for once there was no hurry and, if it settled Haigh down, it could work to their advantage. Glad that she'd chosen jeans and sneakers, she followed the men round the front of the cave and up a path by a low fence. Near the cave the fence had been trampled down, and they stepped over the bent wires and made their way into the cave, where the beaten-earth floor was surprisingly dry, given the amount of rain there had been in recent weeks. The fact that the roof was supported by a brick column with a sign warning DANGER: NO ENTRY was less reassuring.

"Some people believe the cave got its name from King James the Fifth, who liked to go among his people in disguise," Haigh said, switching on a powerful flashlight and shining it up into the roof. "He was said to have held court here among the Gypsies who lived here at the time. But I think it's more likely that this was where the baronial courts were held in the Middle Ages."

Phil was roaming around, his face eager as a schoolboy's on the best-ever day trip. "How far back does it go?"

"After about twenty metres, the floor rises to the roof. There used to be a passage that ran three miles inland to Kennoway, but a roof fall closed the opening at this end, so the Kennoway entrance was sealed up for safety's sake. Makes you wonder, doesn't it? What were they up to here that they needed a secret passage to Kennoway?" Haigh chuckled again. Karen could only imagine how irritated this little tic would make her by the time they'd finished their interview.

She left the two men exploring the cave and walked back into the fresh air. The sky was dappled grey with the promise of rain. The sea reflected the sky and came up with a few more shades of its own. She turned back to the lush green summer growth and the brilliant colours of the sandstone, both still vibrant in spite of the gloominess of the weather. Before long, Phil emerged, Haigh still talking at his back. He gave Karen a rueful grin; she returned a stony face.

Next came the Doo Cave and a lecture on the historical necessity of keeping pigeons for fresh meat in winter. Karen listened with half an ear; then when Haigh paused for a moment she said, "The colours are amazing in here. Did Mick paint inside the caves?"

Haigh looked startled by the question. "Yes, as a matter of fact he did. Some of his watercolours are on display at the cave information centre. It's the various mineral salts in the rock that create the vivid colours."

Before he could get into his stride on that subject, Karen asked another question. "Was he here a lot during the strike?"

"Not really. He was helping with the flying pickets to start with, I believe. But we didn't see him any more than usual. Less, if anything, as autumn and winter wore on."

"Did he say why that was?"

Haigh looked blank. "No. Never occurred to me to ask him. We're all volunteers, we all do what we can manage."

"Shall we get that cup of coffee now?" Phil said, his struggle between duty and pleasure obvious to Karen though not, thankfully, to Haigh.

"Good idea," Karen said, leading them back into daylight. Getting to the Thane's Cave was harder work, involving a clamber over the rocks and concrete that acted as a rough breakwater between the sea and the foot of the cliffs. Karen remembered the beach being lower, the sea less close, and she said so.

Haigh agreed, explaining that over the years the level of the beach had risen, partly because of the spoil from the coal mines. "I've heard some of the older residents talk about golden sands along here when they were children. Hard to credit now," he said, waving a hand at the grainy black of the tiny smooth fragments of coal that filled the spaces between the rocks and pebbles.

They emerged on to a grassy semi-circle. Perched on the cliff above them was the sole remaining tower of Macduff Castle- something else Karen remembered from her childhood. There had been more ruins around the tower, but they'd been removed by the council on the grounds of health and safety some years before. She remembered her father complaining about it at the time.

In the base of the cliff were several openings. Haigh headed for a sturdy metal grille protecting a narrow entrance a mere five feet tall. He unlocked the padlock and asked them to wait. He went inside, disappearing round a turn in the narrow passage. He returned almost immediately with three hard hats. Feeling like an idiot, Karen put one on and followed him inside. The first few yards were a tight fit, and she heard Phil cursing behind her as he banged an elbow against the wall. But soon it opened out into a wide chamber whose ceiling disappeared into darkness.

Haigh groped in a niche in the wall and suddenly the pale yellow of battery-operated lights cast a soft glow round the cave. Half a dozen rickety wooden chairs sat round a Formica-topped table. On a deep ledge about three feet above the ground sat a camping stove, half a dozen litre bottles of water, and mugs. The makings for tea and coffee were enclosed in plastic boxes. Karen looked around and just knew that the mainstays of the cave preservation group were all men. "Very cosy," she said.

"Supposedly there was a secret passage from this cave to the castle above," Haigh said. "Legend has it that was how Macduff escaped when he came home to find his wife and children slain and Macbeth in possession." He gestured to the chairs. "Take a seat, please," he said, fiddling with stove and kettle. "So, why the interest in Mick after all this time?"

"His daughter has only just got round to reporting him missing," Phil said.

Haigh half-turned, puzzled. "But he's not missing, surely? I thought he'd gone off to Nottingham with another bunch of lads? Good luck to them, I thought. There was nothing here but misery back then."

"You didn't disapprove of the blackleg miners, then?" Karen asked, trying not to make it sound too sharp.

Haigh's chuckle echoed spookily. "Don't get me wrong. I've got nothing against trade unions. Working people deserve to be treated decently by their employers. But the miners were betrayed by that self-serving egomaniac Arthur Scargill. A true case of lions led by a jackass. I watched this community fall apart. I saw terrible suffering. And all for nothing." He spooned coffee into mugs, shaking his head. "I felt sorry for the men, and their families. I did what I could-I was the regional manager for a specialist food importer, and I brought as many samples as I could back to the village. But it was just a drop in the ocean. I totally understood why Mick and his friends did what they did."

"You didn't think there was something selfish about him leaving his wife and child behind? Not knowing what had happened to him? "

Haigh shrugged, his back to them. "To be honest, I didn't know much about his personal circumstances. He didn't discuss his home life."

"What did he talk about?" Karen asked.

Haigh brought over two plastic tubs, one containing sachets of sugar pilfered from motorway service stations and hotel bedrooms, the other little pots of non-dairy creamer from the same sources. "I don't really recall, so it was probably the usual. Football. TV. Projects to raise money for work on the caves. Theories about what the various carvings meant." Again the chuckle. "I suspect we're a bit dull to outsiders, Inspector. Most hobbyists are."

Karen thought about lying but couldn't be bothered. "I'm just trying to get an impression of what Mick Prentice was like."

"I always thought he was a decent, straightforward sort of bloke." Haigh brought the coffees over, taking almost exaggerated care not to spill any. "To be honest, apart from the caves, we didn't have a great deal in common. I thought he was a talented painter, though. We all encouraged him to paint the caves, inside and out. It seemed appropriate to have a creative record, since the main fame of the caves rests on their Pictish carvings. Some of the best are here in the Thane's Cave." He picked up his flashlight and targeted it at a precise spot on the wall. He didn't have to think about it. In the direct line of the beam, they could see the unmistakable shape of a fish, tail down, carved in the rock. In turn, he revealed a running horse and something that could have been a dog or a deer. "We lost some of the cupping designs in the fall of '85, but luckily Mick had done some paintings of them not long before."

"Where was the fall?" Phil said, peering towards the back of the cave.

Haigh led them to the furthest corner, where a jumble of rocks were piled almost to the roof. "There was a small second chamber linked by a short passage." Phil stepped forward to take a closer look, but Haigh grabbed his arm and yanked him back. "Careful," he said. "Where there's been a recent fall, we can never be sure how secure the roof is."

"Is it unusual to have cave-ins?" Karen said.

"Big ones like this? They used to happen quite regularly when the Michael pit was still working. But it closed in 1967 after-"

"I know about the Michael disaster," Karen interrupted. "I grew up in Methil."

"Of course." Haigh looked suitably rebuked. "Well, since they stopped working underground, there hasn't been much movement in the caves. We haven't had a major fall since this one, in fact."

Karen felt the twitch of her copper's instinct. "When exactly was the fall?" she said slowly.

Haigh seemed surprised at her line of questioning, giving Phil a glance of what felt like male complicity. "Well, we can't be precise about it. To be honest, from mid-December to mid-January is pretty much a dead time for us. Christmas and New Year and all that. People are busy, people are away. All we can say with any certainty is that the passage was clear on 7th December. One of our members was here that day, taking detailed measurements for a grant proposal. As far as we know, I was the next person in the cave. It's my wife's birthday on 24th January and we had some friends visiting from England. I brought them along to see the caves and that's when I discovered the fall. It was quite a shock. Of course, I cleared them out at once and called the council when we got back."

"So, some time between 7th December 1984 and 24th January 1985, the roof fell in?" Karen wanted to be sure she had it right. Two and two were coming together in her head, and she was pretty sure they weren't making five.

"That's right. Though I think myself it was earlier rather than later," Haigh said. "The air was clear in the cave. And that takes longer than you might think. You could say the dust had well and truly settled."

Newton of Wemyss

Phil looked at Karen with concern. In front of her was a perfectly presented pithivier of pigeon breast, surrounded by tiny new potatoes and a tower of roasted baby carrots and courgettes. The Laird o' Wemyss was more than living up to its reputation. But the plate had been sitting before Karen for at least a minute and she hadn't even lifted her cutlery. Instead of tucking in, she was staring at her plate, a frown line between her eyebrows. "Are you all right?" he said cautiously. Sometimes women behaved in strange and unpredictable ways around food.

"Pigeons," she said. "Caves. I can't get my mind off that fall."

"What about it? Cave falls happen. That's why they've got signs up warning people. And padlocked railings to keep them out. Health and safety, that's the bosses' mantra these days." He cut off a piece of his crispy fillet of sea bass and loaded it on his fork with the sesame hoisin vegetables.

"But you heard that guy. This is the only significant roof fall in any of the caves since the pit closed back in '67. What if it wasn't an accident?"

Phil shook his head, chewing and swallowing hastily. "You're doing that melodrama thing again. This is not Indiana Jones and the Wemyss Caves, Karen. It's a guy who went on the missing list when his life was shite."

"Not one guy, Phil. Two of them. Mick and Andy. Best pals. Not the kind to go scabbing. Not the kind to leave loved ones behind without a word."

Phil put down his fork and knife. "Did it ever occur to you that they might have been an item? Mick and his best pal Andy with the isolated cottage deep in the heart of the woods? Being gay in a place like Newton of Wemyss back in the early eighties can't have been the easiest thing in the world."

"Of course it occurred to me," Karen said. "But you can't just run with theories that have absolutely nothing to back them up. Nobody we've spoken to has even hinted at it. And believe me, if Fife has one thing in common with Brokeback Mountain, it's that folk talk. Don't get me wrong. I'm not dismissing it. But until I have something to base it on, I've got to file it right at the back of my mind."

"Fair enough," Phil said, starting in on his food again. "But you've got no more foundation for your notion that there's somebody buried under an unnatural cave fall."

"I never said anybody was buried," Karen said.

He grinned. "I know you, Karen. There's no other reason you'd be interested in a pile of rock."

"Maybe so," she said without a trace of defensiveness. "But I'm not just punting wild ideas. If there's one group of people who know all about shot-firing to bring down rock precisely where they want it, it's miners. And the shot-firers also had access to explosives. If I was looking for someone to blow up a cave, the first person I would go to would be a miner."

Phil blinked. "I think you need to eat. I think you've got low blood sugar."

Karen glowered at him for a moment, then she picked up her knife and fork and attacked the food with her usual gusto. Once she'd demolished a few mouthfuls, she said, "That takes care of the low blood sugar. And I still think I'm on to something. If Mick Prentice didn't go on the missing list of his own free will, he disappeared because somebody wanted him out of the way. Lo and behold, we have somebody that wanted him out of the way. What did Iain Maclean tell us?"

"That Prentice discovered Ben Reekie had his hand in the union's till," Phil said.

"Exactly. Pocketing money that was supposed to go to the branch. From all we've heard about Mick, he wouldn't have let that pass. And it's hard to see how he could pursue it without Andy being involved, since he was the one keeping the records. I don't think it was in their natures to do nothing about it. And if it had become common knowledge, Reekie would have been lynched, and you know it. That's a very tasty motive, Phil."

"Maybe so. But if it was two against one, how did Reekie kill the pair of them? How did he get the bodies in the cave? How did he get his hands on explosive charges in the middle of a strike?"

Karen's grin had always managed to disarm him. "I don't know yet. But, if I'm right, sooner or later I will know. I promise you that, Phil. And try this for starters: we know when Mick went missing, but we don't have an exact date for Andy's disappearance. It's entirely possible they were killed separately. They could have been killed in the cave. And as for getting hold of explosives-Ben Reekie was a union official. All sorts of people will have owed him favours. Don't pretend you don't know that."

Phil finished his fish and pushed his plate away from him. He raised his hands, palms towards Karen, indicating surrender. "So what do we do now?"

"Clear those rocks and see what's behind them," she said, as if the answer was obvious.

"And how are we going to do that? As far as the Macaroon's concerned, you're not even investigating this. And even if it was official, there's no way he'd stretch his precious budget to cover an archaeological dig for a pair of bodies that probably aren't there."

Karen paused with a forkful of pigeon breast halfway to her mouth. "What did you just say?"

"There's no budget."

"No, no. You said 'an archaeological dig.' Phil, if it wasn't for this pigeon coming between us, I could kiss you. You are a genius."

Phil's heart sank. It was hard to avoid the feeling that this was another fine mess he'd got himself into.

Kirkcaldy

Sometimes it was more sensible to make work calls from home. Until she'd actually got things under way and had her pitch firmly in place, Karen didn't want the Macaroon to get a sniff of what she was up to. Phil's words had set off a chain reaction in her brain. She wanted that rock fall cleared. The dates Arnold Haigh had given her offered the promise of being able to sneak it past the Macaroon under the pretext of a possible connection to the Grant case, but the cheaper she could make it, the less likely he would be to ask too many questions.

She settled herself down at the dining table with phone, note-pad, and contacts book. Comfortable though she was with new technology, Karen still maintained a physical record of names, addresses, and phone numbers. She reasoned that if the world ever went into electronic meltdown she would still be able to find the people she needed. It had naturally occurred to her that, in that event, there would be no functioning telephones and the transport network would also be in meltdown, but nevertheless her contacts book felt like a security blanket. And if it ever came to it, much easier to destroy without trace than any electronic memory.

She flicked it open at the appropriate page and ran her finger down the list till she came to Dr. River Wilde. The forensic anthropologist had been one of the mentors on a course Karen had attended aimed at improving the scientific awareness of detectives with responsibility at crime scenes. On the face of it, it would have been hard to find much common ground between the two women, but they had formed an instant if unlikely bond. Although neither of them would ever have explained it thus, it was something to do with the way they both appeared to play the game while subtly undermining the authority of those who had failed to earn their respect.

Karen liked the way River never tried to blind her audience with science. Whether lecturing to a group of cops whose scientific education had ended in their teens or sharing an anecdote in the bar, she managed to convey complicated information in terms that a lay person could understand and appreciate. Some of her stories were horrifying; others reduced her listeners to helpless laughter; still others gave them pause.

The other thing that made River a great potential ally was that the man in her life was a cop. Karen hadn't met him, but from everything River had said, he sounded like her kind of cop. No bullshit, just a driven desire to get to the heart of things the straight way. So she'd come away from the forensics course with a greater understanding of her job but also with what felt like a new friendship. And that was rare enough to be worth nurturing. Since then, the women had met up a couple of times in Glasgow, the mid-point between Fife and River's base in the Lake District. They'd enjoyed their nights out, occasions that had cemented what their first encounter had started. Now Karen would find out if River had been serious when she'd offered her students as a cut-price team for exploratory work that couldn't really justify a big-budget spend.

River answered her mobile on the second ring. "Rescue me," she said.

"From what?"

"I'm sitting on the verandah of a wooden hut watching Ewan's terrible cricket team and praying for rain. The things we do for love."

Chance would be a fine thing. "At least you're not making the teas."

River snorted. "No way. I made that clear right from the start. No washing of sports kit, no slaving away in primitive kitchens. I get the hard stare from a lot of the other WAGs, but if they think I'm bothered, they're confusing me with someone who gives a shit. So how's tricks with you?"

"Complicated."

"So, nothing new there, then. We need to get together, have a night out. Uncomplicate yourself."

"Sounds good to me. And we might just manage it sooner than you think."

"Ah-hah. You've got something brewing?"

"You could say that. Listen, you remember you once said that you had a small army of students at your disposal if I ever needed help on the cheap?"

"Sure," River said easily. "You trying to get something done off the books?"

"Sort of." Karen explained the bare bones of the scenario. River made small noises of encouragement as she spoke.

"OK," she said when Karen had finished. "So we need forensic archaeologists first, preferably the big strong ones who can hump rocks. Can't use the final-year students because they're still doing exams. But it's nearly the end of term and I can press-gang the first- and second-years. Plus any of the anthros I can get my hands on. I can call it a field trip, make them think there's Brownie points to be had. When do you need us?"

"How about tomorrow?"

There was a long silence. Then River said, "Morning or afternoon?"

The phone call with River left Karen feeling all revved up with nowhere to go. She used some of her sudden access of energy to arrange accommodation for the students at the campsite on the links at nearby Leven. She tried to watch a DVD of Sex and the City but it only irritated her. It was always like this when she was in the middle of a case. No appetite for anything but the hunt. Hating being stalled because it was the weekend, or tests took time, or nothing could be done till the next bit of information fell into place.

She tried to distract herself by cleaning. Trouble was, she never spent long enough in the house to make much mess. After an hour's blitzing, there was nothing left that warranted attention.

"To hell with it," she muttered, grabbing her car keys and making for the door. Strictly speaking, the laws of evidence required that she shouldn't be flying solo when she was talking to witnesses. But Karen told herself she was only colouring in the background, not actually taking evidence. And if she stumbled across something that might be relevant later in court, she could always send a couple of officers back another day to take a formal statement.

The drive back to Newton of Wemyss took less than twenty minutes. There was no sign of life in the isolated enclave where Jenny Prentice lived. No children played; nobody sat in their garden to enjoy the late afternoon sunshine. The short terrace of houses had assumed a dispirited air that would take more than a bit of summer weather to disperse.

This time, Karen approached the house next door to Jenny Prentice. She was still on a quest to get a sense of what Mick Prentice had really been like. Someone who was close enough to the family to be entrusted with the care of Misha must have had some dealings with her father.

Karen knocked and waited. She was just about to give up and head back to her car when the door cracked open on the chain. A tiny wizened face peered out at her from beneath a mass of heavy grey curls.

"Mrs. McGillivray?"

"I don't know you," the old woman said.

"No." Karen took out her official ID and held it up in front of the smeared lenses of the big glasses that made faded blue eyes swim large behind them. "I'm a police officer."

"I didn't call the police," the woman said, cocking her head and frowning at Karen's warrant card.

"No, I know that. I just wanted to have a wee word with you about the man who used to live next door." Karen gestured with her thumb towards Jenny's house.

"Tom? He's been dead years."

Tom? Who was Tom? Oh shit, she'd forgotten to ask Jenny Prentice about Misha's stepdad. "Not Tom, no. Mick Prentice."

"Mick? You want to talk about Mick? What are the police doing with Mick? Has he done something wrong?" She sounded confused, which filled Karen with foreboding. She'd spent enough time trying to get coherent information out of old people to know that it could be an uphill struggle with dubious results.

"Nothing like that, Mrs. McGillivray," Karen reassured her. "We're just trying to find out what happened to him all those years ago."

"He let us all down, that's what happened," the old woman said primly.

"Right enough. But I just need to clear up some of the details. I wonder if I could come in and have a wee chat with you?"

The woman exhaled heavily. "Are you sure you've got the right house? Jenny's the one you want. There's nothing I can tell you."

"To be honest, Mrs. McGillivray, I'm trying to get an idea of what Mick was really like." Karen switched on her best smile. "Jenny's a wee bit biased, if you get my drift?"

The old woman chuckled. "She's a besom, Jenny. Not a good word to say about him, has she? Well, lassie, you'd better come through." A rattle as the chain came off, then Karen was admitted to a stuffy interior. There was an overwhelming smell of lavender, with bass notes of stale fat and cheap cigarettes. She followed Mrs. McGillivray's bent figure through to the back room, which had been knocked through to make a kitchen diner. It looked like the work had been done in the seventies and nothing had been changed since, including the wallpaper. The various fades and stains bore witness to sunlight, cooking, and smoking. The low sun streamed in, slanting a gold light across the worn furniture.

A caged budgie chattered alarmingly as they walked in. "Quiet now, Jocky. This is a nice police lady come to talk to us." The budgie let out a stream of chirrups which sounded as if it was swearing at them, then subsided. "Sit yourself down. I'll get the kettle on."

Karen didn't really want a cup of tea but knew the conversation would go better if she let the old woman fuss around her. They ended up facing each other across a surprisingly well-scrubbed table, a pot of tea and a plate of obviously home-made cookies between them. The sun lit Mrs. McGillivray like stage lighting, revealing details of make-up that had clearly been applied without the benefit of her glasses. "He was a lovely lad, Mick. A brawlooking fella, with that blond hair and big shoulders. He always had a smile and a cheery word for me," she confided as she poured the tea into china cups so fine you could see the sunlight in the tea. "I've been a widow thirty-two years now, and never had a better neighbour than young Mick Prentice. He'd always turn his hand to any wee job that I couldn't manage. It was never a trouble to him. A lovely laddie, right enough."

"It must have been hard on them, the strike." Karen helped herself to one of the proffered bourbon creams.

"It was hard on everybody. But that's not why Mick went away scabbing."

"No?" Keep it casual, don't show you're particularly interested.

"She drove him to it. Keeping company with that Tom Campbell right under his nose. No man would put up with that, and Mick had his pride."

"Tom Campbell?"

"He was never away from the door. Jenny had been a pal of his wife. She helped nurse the poor soul when she had the cancer. But after she died, it was like he couldn't stay away from Jenny. You had to wonder what had been going on all along." Mrs. McGillivray winked conspiratorially.

"You're saying Jenny was having an affair with Tom Campbell?" Karen bit her tongue on the questions she wanted to ask but knew she'd be better leaving till later. Who was Tom Campbell? Where is he now? Why did Jenny not mention him?

"I won't say what I can't swear to. All I know is that there was hardly a day went by when he didn't come calling. And always when Mick was out of the house. He never came empty-handed either. Wee parcels of this, packets of that. During the strike, Mick used to say his Jenny could make a pound go further than any other woman in the Newton. I never told him the reason why."

"How come Tom Campbell had stuff to hand out? Was he not a miner, then?"

Mrs. McGillivray looked like the tea she'd just drunk had turned to vinegar. "He was a deputy." Karen suspected she'd have accorded more respect to the word "paedophile."

"And you think Mick found out what was going on between them?"

She nodded emphatically. "Everybody else in the Newton knew what was what. It's the usual story. The other half is always the last to know. And if anybody had their doubts, Tom Campbell was in there fast enough after Mick took his leave."