by Val McDermid
Lynn, who had stayed firmly anchored to her roots, couldn't understand why anyone would want to sever himself from his personal history. It wasn't as if Mondo had had a shitty childhood and a horrible adolescence. Sure, he'd always been a bit of a jessie, but once he'd hooked up with Alex, Weird and Ziggy, he'd had a bulwark against the bullies. She remembered how she'd envied the four boys their rock-solid friendship, the casual way they'd always created a good time for themselves. Their terrible music, their subversive edge, their complete disregard for the opinion of their peers. It seemed to her entirely masochistic to turn his back on such a support system.
He'd always been weak, she knew that. When trouble walked in the door, Mondo had always been straight out the window. All the more reason, in Lynn's world view, why he should have wanted to cling to the friendships that had sustained him through so much difficulty. She'd asked Alex what he'd thought and he'd shrugged. "That last year at St. Andrews— it was tough. Maybe he just doesn't want to be reminded of it."
It made a kind of sense. She knew Mondo well enough to understand the shame and guilt he'd felt over Barney Maclennan's death. He'd endured the bitter taunts of the barroom bullies who suggested next time he wanted to kill himself, he do it properly. He'd suffered the personal anguish of knowing a piece of selfish grandstanding had robbed someone else of his life. He'd had to put up with counseling that served mostly to remind him of that terrible moment when a bid for attention had turned into the worst of nightmares. She supposed the presence of the other three served only as a cue for memories he wanted to erase. She also knew that, although he never said so, Alex had not been able entirely to shrug off a lingering suspicion that Mondo might know more than he'd told about Rosie Duff's death. Which was nonsense, really. If any of them had been capable of committing that particular crime on that particular night, it had been Weird, off his head on a mixture of drink and drugs, frustrated that his antics with the Land Rover hadn't impressed the girls as much as he'd hoped. She'd always wondered about that sudden damascene conversion of his. But whatever the underlying reasons, she'd missed her brother over the past twenty years or so. When she was younger, she'd always imagined that he'd marry some girl who would become her best friend; that they'd be brought even closer with the arrival of children; that they'd develop into one of those comfortable extended families who live in each other's pockets. But none of it had come true. After a string of semiserious relationships, Mondo had finally married Hélène, a French student ten years his junior who scarcely bothered to hide her contempt for anyone who couldn't discourse with equal ease on Foucault or couture. Alex she openly despised for choosing commerce over art. Lynn she patronized with lukewarm enthusiasm for her career as a fine art restorer. Like her and Alex, they were childless thus far, but Lynn suspected that was from choice and that they would remain that way.
She supposed distance should make the passing on of this news easier somehow. But still, lifting the phone was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. The call was answered on the second ring by Hélène. "Hallo, Lynn. How nice to hear from you. I'll just get David," she said, her almost perfect English a reproach in itself. Before Lynn could utter a warning about the reason for her call, Hélène was gone. A long minute passed, then her brother's familiar voice sounded in her ear.
"Lynn," he said. "How are you doing?" Just like someone who cared.
"Mondo, I'm afraid I've got some bad news."
"Not the parents?" He jumped in before she could say more.
"No, they're fine. I spoke to Mum last night. This is going to come as a bit of a shock. Alex got a call this afternoon from Seattle." Lynn felt her throat closing at the thought of it. "Ziggy's dead." Silence. She couldn't tell if it was the silence of shock or of uncertainty as to the appropriate response. "I'm sorry," she said.
"I didn't know he was ill," Mondo finally said.
"He wasn't ill. The house went on fire in the night. Ziggy was in bed, asleep. He died in the fire."
"That's terrible. Jesus. Poor Ziggy. I can't believe it. He was always so careful." He made a strange sound, almost like a snort of laughter. "If any of us was going to go up in flames, you'd have to have put your money on Weird. He's always been accident prone. But Ziggy?"
"I know. It's hard to take it in."
"God. Poor Ziggy." "I know. We had such a lovely time with him and Paul in California in September. It feels so unreal."
"And Paul? Is he dead too?"
"No. He was away overnight. He came back to find the house burned down and Ziggy dead."
"God. That's going to point the finger at him."
"I'm sure that's the last thing on his mind right now," Lynn snapped.
"No, you misunderstand me. I just meant it would make it all so much worse for him. Christ, Lynn, I know what it means to have everybody looking at you as if you're a murderer," Mondo flashed back.
There was a brief silence while both retreated from confrontation. "Alex is going over for the funeral," Lynn offered as an olive branch.
"Oh, I don't think I'll be able to manage that," Mondo said hastily. "We're off to France in a couple of days. We've got the flights booked and everything. Besides, it's not like I've been as close to Ziggy recently as you and Alex."
Lynn stared at the wall in disbelief. "You four were like blood brothers. Isn't that worth a bit of disruption to your travel plans?"
There was a long silence. Then Mondo said, "I don't want to go, Lynn. It doesn't mean that I don't care about Ziggy. It's just that I hate funerals. I'll write to Paul, of course. What's the point of going halfway across the world for a funeral that will only upset me? It won't bring Ziggy back."
Lynn felt suddenly worn out, grateful that she had taken the burden of this wounding conversation from Alex. The worst of it was that she could still find it in her heart to sympathize with her oversensitive brother. "None of us would want you to be upset," she sighed. "Well, I'll let you go, Mondo."
"Just a minute, Lynn," he said. "Was it today Ziggy died?"
"The early hours of the morning, yes."
A sharp suck of breath. "That's pretty spooky. You know it's twenty-five years today since Rosie Duff died?"
"We hadn't forgotten. I'm surprised you remembered."
He gave a bitter laugh. "You think I could forget the day my life was destroyed? It's carved on my heart."
"Yeah, well, at least you'll always remember the anniversary of Ziggy's death," Lynn said, spite rising as she realized that, yet again, Mondo was turning the kaleidoscope so that everything was about him. Sometimes she really wished you could dissolve family ties.
* * *
Lawson glared at the phone as he replaced it in its cradle. He hated politicians. He'd had to listen to the MSP who represented Phil Parhatka's new chief suspect droning on for ten minutes about the scumbag's human rights. Lawson had wanted to shout, "What about the human rights of the poor bastard he killed?" but he'd had far more sense than to give voice to his irritation. Instead, he'd made soothing noises and a mental note to himself to have a word with the parents of the dead man, to get them to remind their MSP that his loyalties should lie with the victims, not the perpetrators. All the same, he'd better warn Phil Parhatka to watch his back.
He glanced at his watch, surprised at the lateness of the hour. He might as well stick his head round the door of the cold case squadroom on his way out, on the off chance that Phil was still at his desk.
But the only person there at this late hour was Robin Maclennan. He was poring over a file of witness statements, his brow furrowed in concentration. In the pool of light cast by his desk lamp, the resemblance to his brother was uncanny. Lawson shivered involuntarily. It was like seeing a ghost, but a ghost who had aged a dozen years since he'd last walked on earth.
Lawson cleared his throat and Robin looked up, the illusion shattered as his own mannerisms superimposed themselves on the fraternal resemblance. "Hello, sir," he said.
"You're late at it," Lawson said.
Robin shrugged. "Diane's taken the kids to the pictures. I thought I might as well be sitting here as in an empty house."
"I know what you mean. I often feel the same myself since Marian died last year."
"Is your boy not at home?" Lawson snorted. "My boy's twenty-two now, Robin. Michael graduated in the summer. MA in economics. And now he's working as a motorbike courier in Sydney, Australia. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I worked so hard for. You fancy a pint?"
Robin looked mildly surprised. "Aye, OK," he said, closing the file and getting to his feet.
They agreed on a small pub on the outskirts of Kirkcaldy, a short journey home for both of them afterward. The place was buzzing, a thrum of conversation battling the selection of Christmas hits that seemed inescapable at that time of year. Strands of tinsel festooned the gantry and a garish fiber-optic Christmas tree leaned drunkenly at one end of the bar. As Wizzard wished it could be Christmas every day, Lawson bought a couple of pints and whiskey chasers while Robin found a relatively quiet table in the furthest corner of the room. Robin looked faintly startled at the two drinks in front of him. "Thanks, sir," he said cautiously.
"Forget the rank, Robin. Just for tonight, eh?" Lawson took a long draft of his beer. "To tell you the truth, I was glad to see you sitting there. I wanted a drink tonight, and I didn't want to drink alone." He eyed him curiously. "You know what today is?"
Robin's face suddenly grew cautious. "It's the sixteenth of December."
"I think you can do better than that."
Robin picked up his whiskey and knocked it back in one. "It's twenty-five years since Rosie Duff was murdered. Is that what you want me to say?"
"I thought you'd know." Neither could think of what to say next, so they drank in uneasy silence for a few minutes.
"How's Karen getting on with it?" Robin asked.
"I thought you'd know better than me. The boss is always the last to know, isn't that how it goes?"
Robin gave a wry smile. "Not in this case. Karen's hardly been in the office lately. She seems to spend all her time down at the property store. And when she is at her desk, I'm the last person she wants to talk to. Like everybody else, she's embarrassed to talk about Barney's big failure." He swallowed the last of his pint and got to his feet. "Same again?"
Lawson nodded. When Robin returned, he said, "Is that how you see it? Barney's big failure?"
Robin shook his head impatiently. "That's how Barney saw it. I remember that Christmas. I'd never seen him like that. Beating himself up. He blamed himself for the fact that there hadn't been an arrest. He was convinced he was missing something obvious, something vital. It was eating him alive."
"I remember he took it very personally."
"You could say that." Robin stared into his whiskey. "I wanted to help. I only ever went into the police because Barney was like a god to me. I wanted to be like him. I asked for a transfer to St. Andrews to get on the squad. But he put the black on it." He sighed. "I can't help thinking that maybe if I'd been there…"
"You couldn't have saved him, Robin," Lawson said.
Robin threw his second whiskey back. "I know. But I can't help wondering."
Lawson nodded. "Barney was a great cop. A hard act to follow. And the way he died, it made me sick to my stomach. I always thought we should have charged Davey Kerr."
Robin looked up, puzzled. "Charged him? What with? Attempting suicide's not a crime."
Lawson looked startled. "But… Right enough, Robin. What was I thinking about?" he stammered. "Forget what I said."
Robin leaned forward. "Tell me what you were going to say."
"Nothing, really. Nothing." Lawson tried to cover his confusion by taking a drink. He coughed and choked, spluttering whiskey down his chin.
"You were going to say something about the way Barney died." Robin's eyes pinned Lawson to the seat.
Lawson wiped his mouth and sighed. "I thought you knew."
"Knew what?"
"Culpable homicide, that's what the charge sheet against Davey Kerr should have read."
Robin frowned. "That would never have stood up in court. Kerr didn't mean to go over the edge, it was an accident. He was just drawing attention to himself, not seriously trying to commit suicide."
Lawson looked uncomfortable. He pushed his chair back and said, "You need another whiskey." This time, he came back with a double. He sat down and eyed Robin. "Christ," he said softly. "I know we decided to keep it quiet, but I was sure you would have heard."
"I still don't know what you're talking about," Robin said, his face intense with interest. "But I think I deserve an explanation."
"I was the front man on the rope," Lawson said. "I saw it with my own eyes. When we were pulling them back up the cliff, Kerr panicked and kicked Barney off him."
Robin's face screwed up in an expression of incredulity. "You're saying Kerr pushed him back into the sea to save his own skin?" Robin sounded incredulous. "How come I'm just hearing this now?"
Lawson shrugged. "I don't know. When I told the superintendent what I'd seen, he was shocked. But he said there was no point in pursuing it. The fiscal's office would never have gone through with a prosecution. The defense would have argued that in those conditions I couldn't have seen what I saw. That we were being vindictive because Barney died trying to save Kerr. That we were being vexatious in alleging culpable homicide of Barney because we couldn't nail Kerr and his pals for Rosie Duff. So they decided to keep the lid on it."
Robin picked up his glass, his hand shaking so much it chattered against his teeth. All color had drained from his face, leaving him gray and sweaty. "I don't believe this."
"I know what I saw, Robin. I'm sorry, I assumed you knew."
"This is the first…" He looked around him, as if he couldn't understand where he was or how he'd got here. "I'm sorry, I've got to get out of here." Abruptly he got to his feet and headed for the door, ignoring the complaints of fellow drinkers as he jostled them in passing.
Lawson closed his eyes and exhaled. Nearly thirty years on the force and he still hadn't grown accustomed to the hollow feeling that imparting bad news left in his stomach. A worm of anxiety gnawed at his insides. What had he done, revealing the truth to Robin Maclennan after all these years?
24
The wheels of his suitcase rumbled behind Alex as he emerged into the concourse of Sea Tac airport. It was hard to focus on the people waiting to meet the passengers, and if Paul hadn't waved, he might have missed him. Alex hurried toward him and the two men embraced without self-consciousness. "Thanks for coming," Paul said quietly.
"Lynn sends her love," Alex said. "She really wanted to be here, but…"
"I know. You've wanted this baby so long, you can't take chances." Paul reached for Alex's suitcase and led the way toward the terminal exit. "How was the flight?"
"I slept most of the way across the Atlantic. But I couldn't seem to settle on the second flight. I kept thinking about Ziggy, and the fire. What a hellish way to go."
Paul stared straight ahead. "I keep thinking it was my fault."
"How could that be?" Alex asked, following him out to the car park.
"You know we converted the whole of the attic into one big bedroom and bathroom for us? We should have had an external fire escape. I kept meaning to get the builder to come back and put one in, but there was always something more important to be done…" Paul came to a stop by his SUV and stowed Alex's suitcase in the luggage space, his broad shoulders straining against his plaid jacket.
"We all put things off," Alex said, his hand on Paul's back. "You know Ziggy wouldn't blame you for that. It was just as much his responsibility."
Paul shrugged and climbed behind the wheel. "There's a decent motel about ten minutes from the house. I'm staying there. I booked you in too, if that's OK? If you'd rather be in the city, we can change it."
"No. I'd rather be with you." He gave Paul a wan smile. "That way we can get maudlin together, right?"
They fell silent as Paul headed out on the highway toward Seattle. They skirted the city and continued north. Ziggy and Paul's home had been outside the city limits, a two-story wooden house built on a hillside with breathtaking views of Puget Sound, Possession Sound and, in the distance, Mount Walker. When they'd first visited, Alex had thought they'd been dropped into a corner of paradise. "Wait till it starts raining," Ziggy had said.
Today it was overcast, with the clear light that accompanies high cloud. Alex wanted rain, to match his mood. But the weather seemed reluctant to oblige. He stared out of the window, catching occasional glimpses of the snow caps on the Olympics and the Cascades. The roadside was lined with gray slush, ice crystals glittering occasionally as they caught the light. He was glad he'd only ever previously visited in summer. The view from the window was different enough not to bring too many painful memories flooding back.
Paul turned off the main highway a couple of miles before the exit that led to his former home. The road led through pine trees to a bluff that looked across toward Whidbey Island. The motel had gone for the log cabin style, which Alex thought looked ridiculous on a building as large as the one that housed the reception, bar and restaurant. But the individual cabins set back in a row at the edge of the trees were attractive enough. Paul, whose cabin was next to Alex's, left him to unpack. "I'll see you in the bar in half an hour, OK?"