by Val McDermid
"Same thing applies if a Land Rover suddenly appears smack bang outside our house," Ziggy said.
"So what do we do?"
Ziggy kicked at the snow between his feet. "I suppose we just have to wait till the heat dies down, then I'll come back and shift it. Thank God I remembered about the keys in time to shove them into the waistband of my underpants. Otherwise we'd have been screwed when Maclennan made us turn out our pockets."
"You're not kidding. You sure you want to move it?"
"The rest of you have got holiday jobs. I can easily get away. All I have to do is make some excuse about needing the university library."
Alex shifted uneasily on his perch. "I suppose it has occurred to you that covering up the fact we had the Land Rover might just be letting a killer off the hook?" Ziggy looked shocked. "You're not seriously suggesting…?"
"What? That one of us could have done it?" Alex couldn't believe he'd given voice to the insidious suspicions that had wormed their way into his consciousness. Hastily, he tried to cover up. "No. But those keys were floating around at the party. Maybe somebody else saw a chance and took it…" His voice tailed off.
"You know that didn't happen. And in your heart, you know you don't really believe one of us could have murdered Rosie," Ziggy said confidently.
Alex wished he could be so sure. Who knew what went on in Weird's head when he was drugged up to the eyeballs? And what about Mondo? He'd driven that girl home, obviously thinking he was in there. But what if she'd knocked him back? He'd have been pissed off and frustrated, and maybe just drunk enough to want to take it out on another lassie who had knocked him back as Rosie had more than once in the Lammas. What if he'd come across her on his way back? He shook his head. It didn't bear thinking about.
As if sensing the thoughts in Alex's head, Ziggy said softly, "If you're thinking about Weird and Mondo, you have to include me in the list. I had just as much chance as them. And I hope you know what a ludicrous idea that is."
"It's insane. You'd never hurt anybody."
"Same goes for the other two. Suspicion's like a virus, Alex. You've picked it up off Maclennan. But you need to shake it off before it takes hold and infects your head and your heart. Remember what you know about us. None of that matches up with a cold-blooded killer."
Ziggy's words didn't quite dispel Alex's unease, but he didn't want to discuss it. Instead, he put his arm round Ziggy's shoulders. "You're a pal, Zig. Come on. Let's go into town. I'll treat you to a pancake."
Ziggy grinned. "Last of the big spenders, huh? I'll pass, if you don't mind. Somehow, I don't feel that hungry. And remember: All for one and one for all. That's not about being blind to each other's faults, but it is about trusting each other. It's a trust that's based on years of solid knowledge. Don't let Maclennan undermine that."
* * *
Barney Maclennan looked round the CID room. For once it was packed out. Unusually among plainclothes detectives, Maclennan believed in including the uniformed officers in his briefings on major cases. It gave them a stake in the investigation. Besides, they were so much closer to the ground, they were likely to pick up things detectives might miss. Making them feel part of the team meant they were more inclined to follow those observations through rather than put them to one side as irrelevant.
He stood at the far end of the room, flanked by Burnside and Shaw, one hand in his trouser pocket obsessively turning over coins. He felt brittle with tiredness and strain, but knew that adrenaline would keep him fired for hours to come. It was always the way when he was following his gut. "You know why we're here," he said once they'd settled down. "The body of a young woman was discovered in the early hours of this morning on Hallow Hill. Rosie Duff was killed by a single stab wound to her stomach. It's too early for much detail, but it's likely she was also raped. We don't get many cases like this on our patch, but that's no reason why we can't clear it up. And quickly. There's a family out there that deserves answers.
"So far, we've not got much to go on. Rosie was found by four students on their way back to Fife Park from a party in Learmonth Gardens. Now, they may be innocent bystanders, but equally they might be a hell of a lot more than that. They're the only people we know that were walking around in the middle of the night covered in blood. I want a team to check out the party. Who was there? What did they see? Have our lads really got alibis? Are there any chunks of time unaccounted for? What was their behavior like? DC Shaw will lead this team, and I'd like some of the uniformed officers to work with him. Let's put the fear of God into these partygoers.
"Now, Rosie worked in the Lammas Bar, as I'm sure a few of you know?" He looked around, seeing a handful of nods, including one from PC Jimmy Lawson, the officer who had been first on the scene. He knew Lawson; young and ambitious; he'd respond well to a bit of responsibility. "These four were drinking in there earlier in the evening. So I want DC Burnside to take another team and talk to everybody you can find who was in there last night. Was anybody taking particular notice of Rosie? What were our four lads doing? How were they acting? PC Lawson, you drink in there. I want you to liaise with DC Burnside, give him all the help you can to nail down the regulars." Maclennan paused, looking round the room.
"We also need to do door-to-door in Trinity Place. Rosie didn't walk to Hallow Hill. Whoever did this had some sort of transport. Maybe we'll get lucky and find the local insomniac. Or at least somebody who got up for a pee. Any vehicles seen on the move down that way in the early hours of the morning, I want to know about it."
Maclennan looked round the room. "Chances are Rosie knew the person who did this. Some stranger grabbing her off the street wouldn't have bothered to move her dying body. So we need to go through her life too. Her family and friends aren't going to enjoy that, so we need to be sensitive to their grief. But that doesn't mean we settle for coming back with half a tale. There's somebody out there who killed last night. And I want him brought to book before he gets the chance to do it again." There was a murmur of agreement through the room. "Any questions?"
To his surprise, Lawson raised a hand, looking faintly embarrassed. "Sir? I wondered if there was any significance in the choice of where the body was dumped?"
"How do you mean?" Maclennan asked.
"With it being the Pictish cemetery. Maybe this was some sort of satanic rite? In which case, could it not have been a stranger who just picked on Rosie because she fitted in with what he needed for a human sacrifice?"
Maclennan's skin crawled at the possibility. What was he thinking of, not to have considered this option? If it had occurred to Jimmy Lawson, it might well occur to the press. And the last thing he wanted was headlines proclaiming there was a ritual killer on the loose. "That's an interesting thought. And one we should all bear in mind. But not one we should mention outside these four walls. For now, let's concentrate on what we know for sure. The students, the Lammas Bar and the door-to-door. That doesn't mean closing our eyes to other possibilities. Let's get busy."
The briefing over, Maclennan walked through the room, pausing for a word of encouragement here and there as officers bunched around desks, organizing their tasks. He couldn't help hoping they could tie this to one of the students. That way, they might get a swift result, which was what counted with the public in cases like this. Even better, it wouldn't leave the town with the taste of suspicion on its tongue. It was always easier when the bad guys came from the outside. Even if the outside, in this instance, was a mere thirty miles away.
* * *
Ziggy and Alex got back to their residence with an hour to spare before they had to leave for the bus station. They'd walked down to check and had been assured that the country services were running, although the timetable was more honored in the breach than the observance. "You take your chances," the booking clerk had told them. "I can't guarantee a time, but buses there will be."
They found Weird and Mondo hunched over coffee in the kitchen, both looking disgruntled and unshaven. "I thought you were o
ut for the count," Alex said, filling the kettle for a fresh brew.
"Fat fucking chance," Weird grumbled.
"We reckoned without the vultures," Mondo said. "Journalists. They keep knocking at the door and we keep telling them to piss off. Doesn't work, though. Ten minutes go by and there they are again." "It's like a fucking 'knock, knock' joke in here. I told the last one if he didn't piss off, I'd knock his puss into the middle of next week."
"Mmm," said Alex. "And the winner of this year's Mrs. Joyful Prize for Tact and Diplomacy is…"
"What? I should have let them in?" Weird exploded. "These assholes, you have to talk to them in language they understand. They don't take no for an answer, you know."
Ziggy rinsed a couple of mugs and spooned coffee into them. "We didn't see anyone just now, did we, Alex?"
"No. Weird must have persuaded them of the error of their ways. If they come back, though, you don't think we should just give them a statement? It's not like we've got anything to hide."
"It would get them off our backs," Mondo agreed, but in the way that Mondo always agreed. He specialized in a tone of voice that managed to suggest doubt, always leaving himself a way out if he found himself accidentally swimming against the tide. His need to be loved colored everything he said, everything he did. That and his need to protect himself.
"If you think I'm talking to the running dogs of capitalist imperialism, you've another think coming." Weird, on the other hand, never left room for qualms. "They're scum. When did you ever read a match report that bore any resemblance to the game you'd just seen? Look at the way they ripped the piss out of Ally McLeod. Before we went to Argentina, the man was a god, the hero who was going to bring the World Cup home. And now? He's not good enough to wipe your arse with. If they can't get something as straightforward as football right, what chance have we got of getting away without being misquoted?"
"I love it when Weird wakes up in a good mood," Ziggy said. "But he's got a point, Alex. Better to keep our heads down. They'll have moved on to the next big thing by tomorrow." He stirred his coffee and made for the door. "I've got to finish my packing. We better give ourselves a bit of leeway, leave a bit earlier than usual. It's hard going underfoot and, thanks to Maclennan, none of us have got decent shoes. I can't believe I'm walking around in wellies."
"Watch out, the style police'll get you," Weird shouted after him. He yawned and stretched. "I can't believe how tired I am. Has anybody got any dexys?" "If we did, they'd have been flushed down the toilet hours ago," Mondo said. "Are you forgetting the pigs have been crawling all over the place?"
Weird looked abashed. "Sorry. I'm not thinking straight. You know, when I woke up, I could almost believe last night was nothing more than a bad trip. That would have been enough to put me off acid for life, I tell you." He shook his head. "Poor lassie."
Alex took that as his cue to disappear upstairs and cram a last bundle of books in his holdall. He wasn't sorry to be going home. For the first time since he'd started living with the other three, he felt claustrophobic. He longed for his own bedroom; a door he could close that nobody else would think of opening without permission.
* * *
It was time to leave. Three holdalls and Ziggy's towering rucksack were piled in the hall. The Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy were ready to head for home. They shouldered their bags and opened the door, Ziggy leading the way. Unfortunately, the effect of Weird's hard words had apparently worn off. As they emerged on the churned-up slush of their path, five men materialized as if from nowhere. Three carried cameras, and before the foursome even realized what was happening, the air was thick with the sounds of Nikon motor drives.
The two journalists were coming round the flank of the photographers, shouting questions. They managed to make themselves sound like an entire press conference, so quick-fire were their inquiries. "How did you find the girl?" "Which one of you made the discovery?" "What were you doing on Hallow Hill in the middle of the night?" "Was this some sort of satanic rite?" And of course, inevitably, "How do you feel?"
"Fuck off," Weird roared at them, swinging his heavy bag in front of him like an overweight scythe. "We've got nothing to say to you."
"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," Mondo muttered like a record stuck in the groove.
"Back indoors," Ziggy shouted. "Get back inside."
Alex, bringing up the rear, reversed hastily. Mondo tumbled in, almost tripping over him in his haste to get away from the insistent badgering and the clicking cameras. Weird and Ziggy followed, slamming the door behind them. They looked at each other, hunted and haunted. "What do we do now?" Mondo asked, voicing what they were all wondering. They all looked blank. This was a situation entirely out-with their limited experience of the world.
"We can't sit tight," Mondo continued petulantly. "We've got to get back to Kirkcaldy. I'm supposed to start at Safeway at six tomorrow morning."
"Me and Alex too," said Weird. They all looked expectantly at Ziggy.
"OK. What if we go out the back way?"
"There isn't a back way, Ziggy. We've only got a front door," Weird pointed out.
"There's a toilet window. You three can get out that way, and I'll stay put. I'll move around upstairs, putting lights on and stuff so they'll think we're still here. I can go home tomorrow, when the heat's died down."
The other three exchanged looks. It wasn't a bad idea. "Will you be all right on your own?" Alex asked.
"I'll be fine. As long as one of you rings my mum and dad and explains why I'm still here. I don't want them finding out about this from the papers."
"I'll phone," Alex volunteered. "Thanks, Ziggy."
Ziggy raised his arm and the other three followed suit. They gripped hands in a familiar four-way clasp. "All for one," Weird said.
"And one for all," the others chorused. It made as much sense now as it had when they'd first done it nine years before. For the first time since he'd stumbled over Rosie Duff in the snow, Alex felt a faint flicker of comfort.
7
Alex trudged over the railway bridge, turning right into Balsusney Road. Kirkcaldy was like a different country. As the bus had meandered its way along the Fife Coast, the snow had gradually given way to slush, then to this biting gray damp. By the time the northeast wind made it this far, it had dumped its load of snow and had nothing to offer the more sheltered towns further up the estuary but chilly gusts of rain. He felt like one of Breughel's more miserable peasants plodding wearily home.
Alex lifted the latch on the familiar wrought-iron gate and walked up the short path to the little stone villa where he'd grown up. He fumbled his keys out of his trouser pocket and let himself in. A blast of warmth enveloped him. They'd had central heating installed over the summer, and this was the first time he'd experienced the difference it made. He dumped his bag by the door and shouted, "I'm home." His mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish-towel. "Alex, it's lovely to have you back. Come away through, there's soup and there's stew. We've had our tea, I was expecting you earlier. I suppose it was the weather? I saw on the local news you'd had it bad up there."
He let her words wash over him, their familiar tone and content a security blanket. He hauled off his kagoule and walked down the hall to give her a hug. "You look tired, son," she said, concern in her voice.
"I've had a pretty terrible night, Mum," he said, following her back into the tiny kitchen.
From the living room, his father's voice. "Is that you, Alex?"
"Aye, Dad," he called back. "I'll be through in a minute."
His mother was already dishing up a plate of soup, handing him the bowl and a spoon. While there was food to be served, Mary Gilbey had no attention to be spared for minor details like personal grief. "Away and sit with your dad. I'll heat up the stew. There's a baked potato in the oven."
Alex went through to the living room where his father sat in his armchair, the TV facing him. There was a place set at the dining table in the corner and Alex sat down to his soup. "Al
l right, son?" his father asked, not taking his eyes off the game show on the screen.
"No, not really."
That got his father's attention. Jock Gilbey turned and gave his son the sort of scrutiny that schoolteachers are adept at. "You don't look good," he said. "What's bothering you?"
Alex swallowed a spoonful of soup. He hadn't felt hungry, but at the first taste of homemade Scotch broth, he'd realized he was ravenous. The last he'd eaten had been at the party and he'd lost that twice over. All he wanted now was to fill his belly, but he was going to have to sing for his supper. "A terrible thing happened last night," he said between mouthfuls. "There was a girl murdered. And it was us that found her. Well, me, actually, but Ziggy and Weird and Mondo were with me."
His father stared, mouth agape. His mother had walked in on the tail end of Alex's revelation and her hands flew to her face, her eyes wide and horrified. "Oh, Alex, that's… Oh, you poor wee soul," she said, rushing to him and taking his hand. "It was really bad," Alex said. "She'd been stabbed. And she was still alive when we found her." He blinked hard. "We ended up spending the rest of the night at the police station. They took all our clothes and everything, like they thought we had something to do with it. Because we knew her, you see. Well, not really knewher. But she was a barmaid in one of the pubs we sometimes go to." Appetite deserted him at the memory, and he put his spoon down, his head bowed. A tear formed at the corner of his eye and trickled down his cheek.
"I'm awful sorry, son," his father said inadequately. "That must have been a hell of a shock."
Alex tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "Before I forget," he said, pushing his chair back. "I need to phone Mr. Malkiewicz and tell him Ziggy won't be home tonight."