by Val McDermid
Speechless, Alex let the car glide to a halt. He climbed out and took a few slow steps toward the ruin. To his surprise, the smell of burning still hung in the air, cloying in the throat and nostrils. He gazed at the charred mess before him, scarcely able to superimpose his memory of the house on this wreckage. A few heavy beams stuck up at crazy angles, but there was almost nothing else that was recognizable. The house must have gone up like a burning brand dipped in pitch. The trees nearest the house had also been engulfed by the fire, their twisted skeletons stark against the view of the sea and the islands beyond.
He barely registered Weird walking past him. Head bowed, the minister stopped right at the edge of the crime-scene tapes that ringed the burned-out debris. Then he threw his head back, his thick mane of silvered hair shimmering in the light. "Oh Lord," he began, his voice sonorous in the open air.
Alex fought the giggle rising in his chest. He knew it was partly a nervous reaction to the intensity of emotion the ruin had provoked in him. But he couldn't help it. No one who had seen Weird off his face on hallucinogenics, or throwing up in a gutter after closing time could take this performance seriously. He turned on his heel and walked back to the car, slamming the door to seal himself off from whatever claptrap Weird was spouting at the clouds. He was tempted to drive off and leave the preacher to the elements. But Ziggy had never abandoned Weird— or any of the rest of them, for that matter. And right now, the best Alex could do for Ziggy was to keep the faith. So he stayed put.
A series of vivid visual images projected themselves against his mind's eye. Ziggy asleep in bed; a sudden flare of fire; the tongues of flame licking at the wood; the drift of smoke through familiar rooms; Ziggy stirring vaguely as the insidious fumes crept into his respiratory tract; the blurred shape of the house wavering behind a haze of heat and smoke; and Ziggy, unconscious, at the heart of the blaze. It was almost unbearable, and Alex wanted desperately to disperse the pictures in his head. He tried to conjure up a vision of Lynn, but he couldn't hold onto it. All he wanted was to be out of there, anywhere his mind could focus on a different vista.
After about ten minutes, Weird returned to the car, bringing a blast of chill air with him. "Brrr," he said. "I've never been convinced that hell is hot. If it was up to me, I'd make it colder than a meat freezer."
"I'm sure you could have a word with God when you get to heaven. OK to go back to the motel now?"
The journey seemed to have satisfied Weird's desire for Alex's company. Once he had checked in at the motel, he announced he'd called a cab to take him into Seattle. "I have a colleague here I want to spend some time with." He'd arranged to meet Alex the following morning to drive to the funeral, and he seemed strangely subdued. Still, Alex dreaded what Weird would come out with at the funeral.
The Brahms died away and Paul walked up to the lectern. "We're all here because Ziggy meant something special to us," he said, clearly fighting to keep control of his voice. "If I spoke all day, I still couldn't convey half of what he meant to me. So I'm not even going to try. But if any of you have memories of Ziggy you'd like to share, I know we'd all like to hear them."
Almost before he'd stopped speaking, an elderly man stood up in the front row and walked stiffly to the podium. As he turned to face them, Alex realized the toll that burying a child took. Karel Malkiewicz seemed to have shrunk, his broad shoulders stooped and his dark eyes shrunk back into his skull. He hadn't seen Ziggy's widowed father for a couple of years, but the change was depressing. "I miss my son," he said, his Polish accent still audible beneath the Scots. "He made me proud all his life. Even as a child, he cared for other people. He was always ambitious, but not for personal glory. He wanted to be the best he could be, because that was how he could do his best for other people. Ziggy never cared much about what other people thought of him. He always said he would be judged by what he did, not by other people's opinions. I am glad to see so many of you here today, because that tells me that you all understood that about him." The old man took a sip of water from the glass on the lectern. "I loved my son. Maybe I didn't tell him that enough. But I hope he died knowing it." He bowed his head and returned to his seat.
Alex pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to hold his tears at bay. One after another, Ziggy's friends and colleagues came forward. Some said little more than how much they'd loved him and how much they would miss him. Others told anecdotes of their relationship, many of them warm and funny. Alex wanted to get up and say something, but he couldn't trust his voice not to betray him. Then the moment he had dreaded. He felt Weird shift in his seat and rise to his feet. Alex groaned inwardly.
Watching him stride to the podium, Alex wondered at the presence Weird had managed to acquire over the years. Ziggy had always been the one with charisma, Weird the awkward gangling one who could be relied on to say the wrong thing, make the wrong move, find the wrong note. But he'd learned his lesson well. A pin dropping would have sounded like the last trump as Weird composed himself to speak.
"Ziggy was my oldest friend," he intoned. "I thought the road he chose was misguided. He thought I was, to use a word for which there is no American-English equivalent, a pillock. Maybe even a charlatan. But that never mattered. The bond that existed between us was strong enough to survive that pressure. That's because the years we spent in each other's pockets were the hardest years in any man's life, the years when he grows from childhood to manhood. We all struggle through those years, trying to figure out who we are and what we have to offer the world. Some of us are lucky enough to have a friend like Ziggy to pick us up off the floor when we screw up."
Alex stared in disbelief. He couldn't quite believe his ears. He'd expected hellfire and damnation, and instead what he was hearing was unmistakably love. He found himself smiling, against all the odds.
"There were four of us," Weird continued. "The Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy. We met on our first day at high school and something magical happened. We bonded. We shared our deepest fears and our greatest triumphs. For years, we were the worst band in the world, and we didn't care. In any group, everybody takes on a role. I was the klutz. The fool. The one who always took things too far." He gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. "Some might say I still do. Ziggy was the one who saved me from myself. Ziggy was the one who kept me from destruction. He preserved me from the worst excesses of my personality until I found a greater Savior. But even then, Ziggy didn't let me go.
"We didn't see much of each other in recent years. Our lives were too full of the present. But that didn't mean we threw away the past. Ziggy still remained a touchstone for me in many ways. I won't pretend I approved of all the choices he made. You'd recognize me as a hypocrite if I pretended otherwise. But here, today, none of that matters. What counts is that my friend is dead and, with his death, a light has gone from my life. None of us can afford to lose the light. And so today, I mourn the passing of a man who made my way to salvation so much easier. All I can do for Ziggy's memory is to try to do the same thing for anyone else who crosses my path in need. If I can help any one of you today, don't hesitate to make yourself known to me. For Ziggy's sake." Weird looked round the room with a beatific smile. "I thank the Lord for the gift of Sigmund Malkiewicz. Amen."
OK, Alex thought. He reverted to type at the end. But Weird had done Ziggy proud in his own way. When his friend sat down again, Alex reached across and squeezed his hand. And Weird didn't let go.
* * *
Afterward, they filed out, pausing to shake hands with Paul and with Karel Malkiewicz. They emerged into weak sunshine, letting the flow of the crowd carry them past the floral tributes. In spite of Paul's request that only family should send flowers, there were a couple of dozen bouquets and wreaths. "He had a way of making us all feel like family," Alex said to himself.
"We were blood brothers," Weird said softly.
"That was good, what you said in there."
Weird smiled. "Not what you expected, was it? I could tell from your face."
A
lex said nothing. He bent down to read a card. DearestZiggy,theworld'stoo big withoutyou.Withlovefromallyourfriendsattheclinic. He knew the feeling. He browsed the rest of the cards, then paused at the final wreath. It was small and discreet, a tight circlet of white roses and rosemary. Alex read the card and frowned. Rosemaryforremembrance
"You see this?" he asked Weird.
"Tasteful," Weird said approvingly.
"You don't think it's a bit… I don't know. Too close for comfort?"
Weird frowned. "I think you're seeing ghosts where none exist. It's a perfectly appropriate tribute."
"Weird, he died on the twenty-fifth anniversary of Rosie Duff's death. This card isn't signed. You don't think this is a bit heavy?"
"Alex, that's history." Weird spread his hand in a gesture that encompassed the mourners. "Do you seriously think there's anybody here but us who even knows Rosie Duff's name? It's just a slightly theatrical gesture, which should hardly come as a surprise, given the crowd that's here."
"They've reopened the case, you know." Alex could be as stubborn as Ziggy when the mood took him.
Weird looked surprised. "No, I didn't know."
"I read about it in the papers. They're doing a review of unsolved murders in the light of new technological advances. DNA and that."
Weird's hand went to his cross. "Thank the Lord."
Puzzled, Alex said. "You're not worried about all the old lies being taken out for an airing?"
"Why? We've nothing to fear. At last our names will be cleared."
Alex looked troubled. "I wish I thought it would be that easy."
* * *
Dr. David Kerr pushed his laptop away from him with a sharp exhalation of annoyance. He'd been trying to polish the first draft of an article on contemporary French poetry for the past hour, but the words had been making less and less sense the longer he glared at the screen. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, trying to convince himself there was nothing more bothering him than end-of-term exhaustion. But he knew he was kidding himself.
However hard he tried to escape the knowledge, he couldn't get away from the realization that, while he sat fiddling with his prose, Ziggy's friends and family were saying their final farewells half a world away. He wasn't sorry that he hadn't gone; Ziggy represented a part of his history so distant it felt like a past-life experience and he believed he didn't owe his old friend enough to counterbalance the hassle and upset of traveling to Seattle for a funeral. But the news of his death had rekindled memories David Kerr had worked hard to submerge so deep they seldom surfaced to trouble him. They were not memories that made for comfort.
Yet when the phone rang, he reached for it without any sense of apprehension. "Dr. Kerr?" The voice was unfamiliar.
"Yes. Who's this?"
"Detective Inspector Robin Maclennan of Fife Police." He spoke slowly and distinctly, like a man who knows he's had one more drink than was wise.
David shivered involuntarily, suddenly as cold as if submerged in the North Sea once more. "And why are you calling me?" he asked, hiding behind belligerence.
"I'm a member of the cold case review team. You may have read about it in the papers?"
"That doesn't answer my question," David snapped.
"I wanted to talk to you about the circumstances of my brother's death. That would be DI Barney Maclennan."
David was taken aback, left speechless by the directness of the approach. He'd always dreaded a moment like this, but after nearly twenty-five years he'd persuaded himself it would never come.
"Are you there?" Robin said. "I said, I wanted to talk to you about…"
"I heard you," David said harshly. "I have nothing to say to you. Not now, not ever. Not even if you arrest me. You people ruined my life once. I will not give you the opportunity to do it again." He slammed the phone down, his breath coming in short pants, his hands shaking. He folded his arms across his chest and hugged himself. What was going on here? He'd had no idea that Barney Maclennan had had a brother. Why had he left it so long to challenge David about that terrible afternoon? And why was he raising it now? When he'd mentioned the cold case review, David had felt sure Maclennan wanted to talk about Rosie Duff, which would have been enough of an outrage. But Barney Maclennan? Surely Fife Police hadn't decided after twenty-five years to call it murder after all?
He shivered again, staring out into the night. The twinkling lights of the Christmas trees in the houses along the street seemed a thousand eyes, staring back at him. He jumped to his feet and yanked the study curtains closed. Then he leaned against the wall, eyes shut, heart pounding. David Kerr had done his best to bury the past. He'd done everything he could to keep it from his door. Clearly, that hadn't been enough. That left only one option. The question was, did he have the nerve to take it?
26
The light from the study was suddenly obscured by heavy curtains. The watcher frowned. That was a break in the routine. He didn't like that. He worried over what might have provoked the change. But eventually, things went back to normal. The lights went off downstairs. He knew the pattern by now. A lamp would come on in the big bedroom at the front of the Bearsden villa, then David Kerr's wife would appear in silhouette at the window. She'd draw the heavy drapes that shut out all but the barest glimmer of light from within. Almost simultaneously, an oblong of light would shine down on the garage roof. The bathroom, he presumed. David Kerr going about his bedtime ablutions. Like Lady Macbeth, he'd never get his hands clean. About twenty minutes later, the bedroom lights would go out. Nothing else would happen tonight.
Graham Macfadyen turned the key in the ignition and drove off into the night. He was beginning to get a feel for David Kerr's life, but he wanted to know so much more. Why, for example, he hadn't done what Alex Gilbey had, and caught a plane for Seattle. That was cold. How could you not pay your respects to someone who was not only one of your oldest friends but also your partner in crime?
Unless of course there had been some sort of estrangement. People talked about thieves falling out. How much more natural it would be for murderers to do the same. It must have taken time and distance to create such a rift. There had been nothing obvious in the immediate aftermath of their crime. He knew that now, thanks to his Uncle Brian.
The memory of that conversation ticked over in the back of his mind during most of his waking hours, a mental string of worry beads whose movement reinforced his determination. All he'd wanted was to find his parents; he'd never expected to be consumed by this search for a higher truth. But consumed he was. Others might dismiss it as obsession but that was typical of people who didn't understand the nature of commitment and the need for justice. He was convinced that his mother's unquiet shade was watching him, spurring him on to do whatever was necessary. It was the last thing he thought about before sleep consumed him and his first conscious thought on waking. Somebody had to pay.
His uncle had been less than thrilled by their encounter in the graveyard. At first, Macfadyen had thought the older man was going to attack him physically. His hands had bunched into fists and his head had gone down like a bull about to charge.
Macfadyen had stood his ground. "I only want to talk about my mother," he said. "I've got nothing to say to you," Brian Duff snarled.
"I just want to know what she was like."
"I thought Jimmy Lawson told you to stay away?"
"Lawson came to see you about me?"
"Don't flatter yourself, son. He came to see me to talk about the new investigation into my sister's murder."
Macfadyen nodded, understanding. "So he told you about the missing evidence?"
Duff nodded. "Aye." His hands dropped and he looked away. "Useless twats."
"If you won't talk about my mother, will you at least tell me what went on when she was killed? I need to know what happened. And you were there."
Duff recognized persistence when he saw it. It was, after all, a trait this stranger shared with him and his brother. "You're not going to
go away, are you?" he said sourly.
"No. I'm not. Look, I never expected to be welcomed into my biological family with open arms. I know you probably feel I don't belong. But I've got a right to know where I came from and what happened to my mother."
"If I talk to you, will you go away and leave us alone?"
Macfadyen considered for a moment. It was better than nothing. And maybe he could find a way under Brian Duff's defenses that would leave the door ajar for the future. "OK," he said.
"Do you know the Lammas Bar?"
"I've been in a few times."
Duff's eyebrows rose. "I'll meet you there in half an hour." He turned on his heel and stalked off. As the darkness swallowed his uncle, Macfadyen felt excitement rise like bile in his throat. He'd been looking for answers for so long, and the prospect of finally finding some was almost too much.
He hurried back to his car and drove straight to the Lammas Bar, finding a quiet corner table where they could talk in peace. His eyes drifted around, wondering how much had changed since Rosie had worked behind the bar. It looked as if the place had had a major make-over in the early nineties, but judging by the scuffed paintwork and the general air of depression, it had never made the grade as a fun pub.
Macfadyen was halfway down his pint when Brian Duff pushed the door open and strode straight to the bar. He was clearly a familiar face, the barmaid reaching for the glass before he even ordered. Armed with a pint of Eighty Shilling, he joined Macfadyen at the table. "Right then," he said. "How much do you know?"