by Val McDermid
Alex turned towards the Canongate and began to run again, the fresh snow creaking beneath his boots. He wished he’d kept up his rugby training as a stitch seized his side, turning his rhythm into a lopsided hop and skip as he fought to pull enough air into his lungs. Only a few dozen more yards, he told himself. He couldn’t stop now, when Rosie’s life might depend on his speed. He peered ahead, but the snow was falling more heavily now and he could barely see further than a couple of yards.
He was almost upon the police car before he saw it. Even as relief flooded his perspiring body, apprehension clawed at his heart. Sobered by shock and exertion, Alex realized he bore no resemblance to the sort of respectable citizen who normally reported a crime. He was dishevelled and sweaty, bloodstained and staggering like a half-shut knife. Somehow, he had to convince the policeman who was already halfway out of his panda car that he was neither imagining things nor playing some kind of prank. He slowed to a halt a couple of feet from the car, trying not to look like a threat, waiting for the driver to emerge.
The policeman set his cap straight on his short dark hair. His head was cocked to one side as he eyed Alex warily. Even masked by the heavy uniform anorak, Alex could see the tension in his body. “What’s going on, son?” he asked. In spite of the diminutive form of address, he didn’t look much older than Alex himself, as he possessed an air of unease that sat ill with his uniform.
Alex tried to control his breathing, but he failed. “There’s a lassie on Hallow Hill,” he blurted out. “She’s been attacked. She’s bleeding really badly. She needs help.”
The policeman narrowed his eyes against the snow, frowning. “She’s been attacked, you say. How do you know that?”
“She’s got blood all over her. And…” Alex paused for thought. “She’s not dressed for the weather. She’s not got a coat on. Look, can you get an ambulance or a doctor or something? She’s really hurt, man.”
“And you just happened to find her in the middle of a blizzard, eh? Have you been drinking, son?” The words were patronizing, but the voice betrayed anxiety.
Alex didn’t imagine this was the kind of thing that happened often in the middle of the night in douce, suburban St. Andrews. Somehow he had to convince this plod that he was serious. “Of course I’ve been drinking,” he said, his frustration spilling over. “Why else would I be out at this time in the morning? Look, me and my pals, we were taking a short cut back to halls and we were messing about and I ran up the top of the hill and tripped and landed right on top of her.” His voice rose in a plea. “Please. You’ve got to help. She could die out there.”
The policeman studied him for what felt like minutes, then leaned into his car and launched into an unintelligible conversation over the radio. He stuck his head out of the door. “Get in. We’ll drive up to Trinity Place. You better not be playing the goat, son,” he said grimly.
The car fishtailed up the street, tyres inadequate for the conditions. The few cars that had travelled the road earlier had left tracks that were now only faint depressions in the smooth white surface, testament to the heaviness of the snowfall. The policeman swore under his breath as he avoided skidding into a lamppost at the turning. At the end of Trinity Place, he turned to Alex. “Come on then, show me where she is.”
Alex set off at a trot, following his own rapidly disappearing tracks in the snow. He kept glancing back to check the policeman was still in his wake. He nearly went headlong at one point, his eyes taking a few moments to adjust to the greater darkness where the streetlights were cut off by the tree trunks. The snow seemed to cast its own strange light over the landscape, exaggerating the bulk of bushes and turning the path into a narrower ribbon than it normally appeared. “It’s this way,” Alex said, swerving off to the left. A quick look over his shoulder reassured him that his companion was right behind him.
The policeman hung back. “Are you sure you’re no’ on drugs, son?” he said suspiciously.
“Come on,” Alex shouted urgently as he caught sight of the dark shapes above him. Without waiting to see if the policeman was following, Alex hurried up the slope. He was almost there when the young officer overtook him, brushing past and stopping abruptly a few feet short of the small group.
Ziggy was still hunkered down beside the woman’s body, his shirt plastered to his slim torso with a mixture of snow and sweat. Weird and Mondo stood behind him, arms folded across their chests, hands tucked in their armpits, heads thrust down between their raised shoulders. They were only trying to stay warm in the absence of coats, but they presented an unfortunate image of arrogance.
“What’s going on here, then, lads?” the policeman asked, his voice an aggressive attempt to stamp authority in spite of the greater weight of numbers arrayed against him.
Ziggy pushed himself wearily to his feet and shoved his wet hair out of his eyes. “You’re too late. She’s dead.”