The distant echo
by
Val McDermid


val mcdermid grew up in a Scottish mining community then read English
at Oxford.  She was a journalist for sixteen years, spending the last
three years as Northern Bureau Chief of a national Sunday tabloid.  She
is now a full-time writer and lives in South Manchester.

Her novels have won international acclaim and a number of prestigious
awards.  A Place of Execution won both the Anthony Award for best novel
and the Los Angeles Times 2001 Book of the Year Award Mystery/ Thriller
category), while The Mermaids Singing took the 1995 Gold Dagger for
best crime novel of the year.

Jacket photograph (c) Getty Images Author photograph by Mimsy Moller

VAL McDERMID

Val McDermid grew up in Kirkcaldy on the east coast of Scotland, then
read English at Oxford.  She was a journalist for sixteen years,
spending the last three years as Northern Bureau Chief of a national
Sunday tabloid.  Now a full-time writer, she lives in Cheshire.

In addition to storming the bestseller lists, her novels have won a
host of awards, including the 1995 Gold Dagger Award for Best Crime
Novel of the Year for The Mermaids Singing, and the 2001 Los Angeles
Times Book of the Year Award for A Place of Execution (which also won
the Anthony Award and the Macavity for best crime novel).

By the same author

Killing the Shadows A Place of Execution

TONY HILL NOVELS

The Last Temptation The Wire in the Blood The Mermaids Singing

KATE BRANNIGAN NOVELS

Star Struck

Blue Genes Clean Break Crack Down

Kick Back

Dead Beat

LINDSAY GORDON NOVELS

Booked for Murder

Union Jack

Final Edition

Common Murder

Report for Murder

NONFICTION

A Suitable Job for a Woman

VAL McDERMID

The Distant Echo

BCA1

This edition published 2003

by BCA by arrangement with HarperCollmsPublishers

CN 115034

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.  The names,

characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's
imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events
or localities is entirely coincidental.

Copyright (c) Val McDermid 2003

Val McDermid asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of
this work

Typeset in Sabon by Palimpsest Book Production Limited Polmont,
Stirlingshire

Printed and bound in Germany by GGP Media, Possneck r

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of
the publishers.

Acknowledgements

It's a welcome relief to write a book that doesn't take much research.
Nevertheless, I'm indebted for their backstage assistance to Sharon at
That Cafe, Wendy at the St.  Andrews Citizen, Dr.  Julia Bray of St.
Andrews University and forensic anthropologist Dr.  Sue Black.

As always, my efforts were improved by suggestions from my editors,
Julia Wisdom and Anne O'Brien, my editorial consultant Lisanne Radice,
my agent Jane Gregory and my legal adviser and first reader Brigid
Baillie.

For the ones who got away; and for the others,

particularly the Thursday Club, who made the getaway possible

I now describe my country as if to strangers

From Deacon Blue's "Orphans', lyrics by Ricky Ross

Prologue

November 2003; St.  Andrews, Scotland He always liked the cemetery at
dawn.  Not because daybreak offered any promise of a fresh beginning,
but because it was too early for there to be anyone else around.  Even
in the dead of winter, when the pale light was so late in coming, he
could guarantee solitude.  No prying eyes to wonder who he was and why
he was there, head bowed before that one particular grave.  No nosy
parkers to question his right to be there.

It had been a long and troublesome journey to reach this destination.
But he was very good at uncovering information.  Obsessive, some might
say.  He preferred persistent.  He'd learned how to trawl official and
unofficial sources, and eventually, after months of searching, he'd
found the answers he'd been looking for.  Unsatisfactory as they'd
been, they had at least provided him with this marker.  For some
people, a grave represented an ending.  Not for him.  He saw it as a
beginning.  Of sorts.

He'd always known it wouldn't be sufficient in itself.  So he'd waited,
hoping for a sign to show him the way forward.  And it had finally
come.  As the sky changed its colour from the outside to the inside of
a mussel shell, he reached into his pocket and unfolded the clipping
he'd taken from the local paper.

FIFE POLICE IN COLD CASES REVIEW

Unsolved murders in Fire going back as far as thirty years are to be
re-examined in a full-scale cold case review, police announced this
week.

Chief Constable Sam Haig said that new forensic breakthroughs meant
that cases which had lain dormant for many years could now be reopened
with some hope of success.  Old evidence which has lain in police
property stores for decades will be the subject of such methods as DNA
analysis to see whether fresh progress can be made.

Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) James Lawson will head the review. He
told the Courier, "Murder files are never closed.  We owe it to the
victims and their families to keep working the cases.

"In some instances, we had a strong suspect at the time, though we
didn't have enough evidence to tie them to the crime.  But with modern
forensic techniques, a single hair, a bloodstain or a trace of semen
could give us all we need to obtain a conviction.  There have been
several recent instances in England of cases being successfully
prosecuted after twenty years or more.

"A team of senior detectives will now make these cases their number one
priority."

ACC Lawson was unwilling to reveal which specific cases will be top of
the list for his detectives.

But among them must surely be the tragic murder of local teenager Rosie
Duff.

The 19-year-old from Strathkinness was raped, stabbed and left for dead
on Hallow Hill almost 25 years ago.  No one was ever arrested in
connection with her brutal murder.

Her brother Brian, 46, who still lives in the family home, Caberfeidh
Cottage, and works at the paper mill in Guardbridge, said last night,
"We have never given up hope that Rosie's killer would one day face
justice.  There were suspects at the time, but the police were never
able to find enough evidence to nail them.

"Sadly, my parents went to their grave not knowing who did this
terrible thing to Rosie.  But perhaps now we'll get the answer they
deserved."

He could recite the article by heart, but he still liked to look at it.
It was a talisman, reminding him that his life was no longer aimless.
For so long, he'd wanted someone to blame.  He'd hardly dared hope for
revenge.  But now, at long last, vengeance might possibly be his.

PART ONE

1978; St.  Andrews, Scotland

Four in the morning, the dead of December.  Four bleary outlines
wavered in the snow flurries that drifted at the beck and call of the
snell north-easterly wind whipping across the North Sea from the Urals.
The eight stumbling feet of the self-styled Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy
traced the familiar path of their short cut over Hallow Hill to life
Park, the most modern of the halls of residence attached to St. Andrews
University, where their perpetually unmade beds yawned a welcome,
lolling tongues of sheets and blankets trailing to the floors.

The conversation staggered along lines as habitual as their route. "I'm
telling you, Bowie is the king," Sigmund Malkiewicz slurred loudly, his
normally impassive face loosened with drink.  A few steps behind him,
Alex Gilbey yanked the hood of his parka closer to his face and giggled
inwardly as he silently mouthed the reply he knew would come.

"Bollocks," said Davey Kerr.  "Bowie's just a big Jessie.  Pink Floyd
can run rings round Bowie any day of the week.  Dark Side of the Moon,
that's an epic.  Bowie's done nothing to touch that."  His long dark
curls were loosening under the weight of melted snowflakes and he
pushed them back impatiently from his waif-like face.

And they were off.  Like wizards casting combative spells at each
other, Sigmund and Davey threw song titles, lyrics and guitar riffs
back and forth in the ritual dance of an argument they'd been having
for the past six or seven years.  It didn't matter that, these days,
the music rattling the windows of their student rooms was more likely
to come from the Clash, the Jam or the Skids.  Even their nicknames
spoke of their early passions.  From the very first afternoon they'd
congregated in Alex's bedroom after school to listen to his purchase of
Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, it had been inevitable that
the charismatic Sigmund would be Ziggy, the leper messiah, for
eternity.  And the others would have to settle for being the Spiders.
Alex had become Gilly, in spite of his protestations that it was a
Jessie nickname for someone who aspired to the burly build of a rugby
player.  But there was no arguing with the accident of his surname. And
none of them had a moment's doubt about the appropriateness of
christening the fourth member of their quartet Weird.  Because Tom
Mackie was weird, make no mistake about it.  The tallest in their year,
his long gangling limbs even looked like a mutation, matching a
personality that delighted in being perverse.

That left Davey, loyal to the cause of the Floyd, steadfastly refusing
to accept any nickname from the Bowie canon.  For a while, he'd been
known half-heartedly as Pink, but from the first time they'd all heard
"Shine on, You Crazy Diamond' there had been no further debate; Davey
was a crazy diamond, right enough, flashing fire in unpredictable
directions, edgy and uncomfortable out of the right setting.  Diamond
soon became Mondo, and Mondo Davey Kerr had remained through the
remaining year of high school and on to university.

Alex shook his head in quiet amazement.  Even through the blur of far
too much beer, he wondered at the glue that had held the four of them
fast all those years.  The very thought provoked a warm glow that kept
the vicious cold at bay as he tripped over a raised root smothered
under the soft blanket of snow.  "Bugger," he grumbled, cannoning into
Weird, who gave him a friendly shove that sent Alex sprawling. Flailing
to keep his balance, he let his momentum carry him forward and stumbled
up the short slope, suddenly exhilarated with the feel of the snow
against his flushed skin.  As he reached the summit, he hit an
unexpected dip that pulled the feet from under him.  Alex found himself
crashing head over heels to the ground.

His fall was broken by something soft.  Alex struggled to sit up,
pushing against whatever it was he had landed on.  Spluttering snow, he
wiped his eyes with his tingling fingers, breathing hard through his
nose in a bid to clear it of the freezing melt.  He glanced around to
see what had cushioned his landing just as the heads of his three
companions appeared on the hillside to gloat over his farcical
calamity.

Even in the eerie dimness of snow light, he could see that the bulwark
against his fall was no botanical feature.  The outline of a human form
was unmistakable.  The heavy white flakes began to melt as soon as they
landed, allowing Alex to see it was a woman, the wet tendrils of her
dark hair spread against the snow in Medusa locks.  Her skirt was
pushed up to her waist, her knee-length black boots looking all the
more incongruous against her pale legs.  Strange dark patches stained
her flesh and the pale blouse that clung to her chest.  Alex stared
uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then he looked at his hands and
saw the same darkness contaminating his own skin.

Blood.  The realization dawned at the same instant that the snow in his
ears melted and allowed him to hear the faint but stertorous wheeze of
her breath.

"Jesus Christ," Alex stuttered, trying to scramble away from the horror
that he had stumbled into.  But he kept banging into what felt like
little stone walls as he squirmed backwards.  "Jesus Christ."  He
looked up desperately, as if the sight of his companions would break
this spell and make it all go away.  He glanced back at the nightmare
vision in the snow.  It was no drunken hallucination.  It was the real
thing. He turned again to his friends.  There's a lassie up here," he
shouted.

Weird Mackie's voice floated back eerily.  "Lucky bastard."

"No, stop messing, she's bleeding."

Weird's laughter split the night.  "No' so lucky after all, Gilly."

Alex felt sudden rage well up in him.  "I'm not fucking joking.  Get up
here.  Ziggy, come on, man."

Now they could hear the urgency in Alex's voice.  Ziggy in the lead as
always, they wallowed through the snow to the crest of the hill.  Ziggy
took the slope at a jerky run, Weird plunged headlong towards Alex, and
Mondo brought up the rear, cautiously planting one foot in front of the
other.

Weird ended up diving head over heels, landing on top of Alex and
driving them both on top of the woman's body.  They thrashed around,
trying to free themselves, Weird giggling inanely.  "Hey, Gilly, this
must be the closest you've ever got to a woman."

"You've had too much fucking dope," Ziggy said angrily, pulling him
away and crouching down beside the woman, feeling for a pulse in her
neck.  It was there, but it was terrifyingly weak.  Apprehension turned
him instantly sober as he took in what he was seeing in the dim light.
He was only a final-year medical student, but he knew life-threatening
injury when he saw it.

Weird leaned back on his haunches and frowned.  "Hey, man, you know
where this is?"  Nobody was paying him any attention, but he continued
anyway.  "It's the Pictish cemetery.  These humps in the snow, like wee
walls?  That's the stones they used like coffins.  Fuck, Alex found a
body in the cemetery."  And he began to giggle, an uncanny sound in the
snow muffled air.

"Shut the fuck up, Weird."  Ziggy continued to run his hands over her
torso, feeling the unnerving give of a deep wound under his searching
fingers.  He cocked his head to one side, trying to examine her more
clearly.  "Mondo, got your lighter?"

Mondo moved forward reluctantly and produced his Zippo.  He flicked the
wheel and moved the feeble light at arm's length over the woman's body
and up towards her face.  His free hand covered his mouth,
ineffectually stifling a groan.  His blue eyes widened in horror and
the flame trembled in his grasp.

Ziggy inhaled sharply, the planes of his face eerie in the shivering
light.  "Shit," he gasped.  "It's Rosie from the Lammas Bar."

Alex didn't think it was possible to feel worse.  But Ziggy's words
were like a punch to his heart.  With a soft moan, he turned away and
vomited a mess of beer, crisps and garlic bread into the snow.

"We've got to get help," Ziggy said firmly.  "She's still alive, but
she won't be for long in this state.  Weird, Mondo get your coats off."
As he spoke, he was stripping off his own sheepskin jacket and wrapping
it gently round Rosie's shoulders.  "Gilly, you're the fastest. Go and
get help.  Get a phone.  Get somebody out of their bed if you have to. 
Just get them here, right?  Alex?"

Dazed, Alex forced himself to his feet.  He scrambled back down the
slope, churning the snow beneath his boots as he fought for purchase.
He emerged from the straggle of trees into the streetlights that marked
the newest cul-de-sac in the new housing estate that had sprung up over
the past half dozen years.  Back the way they'd come, that was the
quickest route.

Alex tucked his head down and set off at a slithering run up the middle
of the road, trying to lose the image of what he'd just witnessed.  It
was as impossible as maintaining a steady pace on the powdery snow. How
could that grievous

thing among the Pictish graves be Rosie from the Lammas Bar?  They'd
been in there drinking that very evening, cheery and boisterous in the
warm yellow glow of the public bar, knocking back pints of Tennent's,
making the most of the last of their university freedom before they had
to return to the stifling constraints of family Christmases thirty
miles down the road.

He'd been speaking to Rosie himself, flirting with her in the clumsy
way of twenty-one-year-olds uncertain whether they're still daft boys
or mature men of the world.  Not for the first time, he'd asked her
what time she was due to finish.  He'd even told her whose party they
were going on to.  He'd scribbled the address down on the back of a
beer mat and pushed it across the damp wooden bar towards her.  She'd
given him a pitying smile and picked it up.  He suspected it had
probably gone straight in the bucket.  What would a woman like Rosie
want with a callow lad like him, after all?  With her looks and her
figure, she could take her pick, go for somebody who could show her a
good time, not some penniless student trying to eke his grant out till
his holiday job stacking supermarket shelves.

So how could that be Rosie lying bleeding in the snow on Hallow Hill?
Ziggy must have got it wrong, Alex insisted to himself as he veered
left, heading for the main road.  Anybody could get confused in the
flickering glow of Mondo's Zippo.  And it wasn't as if Ziggy had ever
paid much attention to the dark-haired barmaid.  He'd left that to Alex
himself and Mondo.  It must just be some poor lassie that looked like
Rosie.  That would be it, he reassured himself.  A mistake, that's what
it was.

Alex hesitated for a moment, catching his breath and wondering where to
run.  There were plenty of houses nearby, but none of them was showing
a light.  Even if he could rouse someone, Alex doubted whether anyone
would be inclined to open their door to a sweaty youth smelling of
drink in the middle of a blizzard.

Then he remembered.  This time of night, there was regularly a police
car parked up by the main entrance to the Botanic Gardens a mere
quarter of a mile away.  They'd seen it often enough when they'd been
staggering home in the small hours of the morning, aware of the car's
single occupant giving them the once-over as they attempted to act
sober for his benefit.  It was a sight that always set Weird off on one
of his rants about how corrupt and idle the police were.  "Should be
out catching the real villains, nailing the grey men in suits that rip
the rest of us off, not sitting there all night with a flask of tea and
a bag of scones, hoping to score some drunk peeing in a hedge or some
eejit driving home too fast.  Idle bastards."  Well, maybe tonight
Weird would get part of his wish.  Because it looked like tonight the
idle bastard in the car would get more than he bargained for.

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, and he possessed
an air of unease that sat ill with his uniform.

Alex tried to control his breathing, but 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."

Nothing in Alex's twenty-one years had prepared him for a police
interrogation in the middle of the night.  TV cop shows and movies
always made it look so regimented.  But the very disorganization of the
process was somehow more nerve wracking than military precision would
have been.  The four of them had arrived at the police station in a
flurry of chaos.  They'd been hustled off the hill, bathed in the
strobing blue lights of panda cars and ambulances, and nobody seemed to
have any clear idea of what to do with them.

They'd stood under a street lamp for what felt like a very long time,
shivering under the frowning gaze of the constable Alex had summoned to
the scene and one of his colleagues, a grizzled man in uniform with a
scowl and a stoop.  Neither officer spoke to the four young men, though
their eyes never strayed from them.

Eventually, a harassed-looking man huddled into an overcoat that looked
two sizes too big for him slithered over to them, his thin-soled shoes
no match for the terrain.  "Lawson, Mackenzie, take these boys down to
the station, keep them apart when you get there.  We'll be down in a
wee while to talk to them."  Then he turned and stumbled back in the
direction of their terrible discovery, now hidden behind canvas

screens through which an eerie green light permeated, staining the
snow.

The younger policeman gave his colleague a worried look.  "How are we
going to get them back?"

He shrugged.  "You'll have to squeeze them in your panda.  I came up in
the Sherpa van."

"Can we not take them back down in that?  Then you could keep an eye on
them while I'm driving."

The older man shook his head, pursing his lips.  "If you say so,
Lawson."  He gestured to the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy.  "Come on, you se
Into the van.  And no messing about, right?"  He herded them towards a
police van, calling over his shoulder to Lawson, "You better get the
keys off Tarn Watt."

Lawson set off up the slope, leaving them with Mackenzie.  "I would nae
like to be in your shoes when the CID get off that hill," he said
conversationally as he climbed in behind them.  Alex shivered, though
not from the cold.  It was slowly dawning on him that the police were
regarding him and his companions as potential suspects rather than
witnesses.  They'd been given no opportunity to confer, to get their
ducks in a row.  The four of them exchanged uneasy looks.  Even Weird
had straightened out enough to realize this wasn't some daft game.

When Mackenzie hustled them into the van, there had been a few seconds
when they'd been left alone.  Just sufficient time for Ziggy to mutter
loud enough for their ears, "For fuck's sake, don't mention the Land
Rover."  Instant comprehension had filled their eyes.

"Christ, aye," Weird said, head jerking back in terrified realization.
Mondo chewed the skin round his thumbnail, saying nothing.  Alex merely
nodded.

The police station hadn't felt any more composed than the crime scene.
The desk sergeant complained bitterly when the two uniformed officers
arrived with four bodies who were supposed to be prevented from
communicating with each

other.  It turned out there were insufficient interview rooms to keep
them separate.  Weird and Mondo were taken to wait in unlocked cells,
while Alex and Ziggy were left to their own devices in the station's
two interview rooms.

The room Alex found himself in was claustrophobically small.  It was
barely three paces square, as he established within minutes of being
shut in to kick his heels.  There were no windows, and the low ceiling
with its greying polystyrene tiles made it all the more oppressive.  It
contained a chipped wooden table and four unmatching wooden chairs that
looked exactly as uncomfortable as they felt.  Alex tried them all in
turn, finally settling for one that didn't dig into his thighs as much
as the others.

He wondered if he was allowed to smoke.  Judging by the smell of the
stale air, he wouldn't have been the first.  But he was a
well-brought-up lad, and the absence of an ashtray gave him pause.  He
searched his pockets and found the screwed-up silver paper from a
packet of Polo mints.  Carefully, he spread it out, folding the edges
up to form a rough tray.  Then he took out his packet of Bensons and
flipped the top open.  Nine left.  That should see him through, he
thought.

Alex lit his cigarette and allowed himself to think about his position
for the first time since they'd arrived at the police station.  It was
obvious, now he thought about it.  They'd found a body.  They had to be
suspects.  Everybody knew that the prime candidates for arrest in a
murder investigation were either the ones who last saw the victim alive
or the ones who found the body.  Well, that was them on both counts.

He shook his head.  The body.  He was starting to think like them. This
wasn't just a body, it was Rosie.  Somebody he knew, however slightly. 
He supposed that made it all the more suspicious.  But he didn't want
to consider that now.  He wanted that horror far from his mind. 
Whenever he closed his eyes, flashbacks to the hill played like a
movie.  Beautiful,

sexy Rosie broken and bleeding on the snow.  Think about something
else," he said aloud.

He wondered how the others would react to questioning.  Weird was off
his head, that was for sure.  He'd had more than drink tonight.  Alex
had seen him with a joint in his hand earlier, but with Weird, there
was no telling what else he might have indulged in.  There had been
tabs of acid floating around.  Alex had refused it himself a couple of
times.  He didn't mind dope but he preferred not to fry his brains. But
Weird was definitely in the market for anything that would allegedly
expand his consciousness.  Alex fervently hoped that whatever he'd
swallowed, inhaled or snorted, it would have worn off before it was his
turn to be interviewed.  Otherwise, Weird was likely to piss the cops
off very badly indeed.  And any fool knew that was a bad idea in the
middle of a murder investigation.

Mondo would be another kettle of fish.  This would freak him out in a
totally different way.  Mondo was, when you got right down to it, too
sensitive for his own good.  He'd always been the one picked on at
school, called a Jessie partly because of the way he looked and partly
because he never fought back.  His hair hung in tight ringlets round
his pixie face, his big sapphire eyes always wide like a mouse keeking
out from a divot.  The lassies liked it, that was for sure.  Alex had
once overheard a pair of them giggling that Davey Kerr looked just like
Marc Bolan.  But in a school like Kirkcaldy High, what won you favour
with the lassies could equally earn you a kicking in the cloakroom.  If
Mondo hadn't had the other three to back him up, he'd have had a pretty
thin time of it.  To his credit, he knew that, and he repaid their
services with interest.  Alex knew he'd never have got through Higher
French without Mondo's help.

But Mondo would be on his own with the police.  Nobody to hide behind.
Alex could picture him now, head hung low, tossing the odd glance out
from under his brows, picking at

the skin round his thumbnail or flicking the lid of his Zippo open and
shut.  They'd get frustrated with him, think he had something to hide.
The thing they'd never suss, not in a million years, was that the big
secret with Mondo was that ninety-nine times out of a hundred, there
was no secret.  There was no mystery wrapped in an enigma.  There was
just a guy who liked Pink Floyd, fish suppers with lashings of vinegar,
Tennent's lager and getting laid.  And who, bizarrely, spoke French
like he'd learned it at his mother's knee.

Except of course tonight there was a secret.  And if anybody was going
to blow it, it would be Mondo.  Please God, let him not give up the
Land Rover, Alex thought.  At the very least, they'd all be landed with
the charge of taking and driving away without the owner's consent.  At
the very worst, the cops would realize one or all of them had the
perfect means to transport a dying girl's body to a quiet hillside.

Weird wouldn't tell; he had most to lose.  He'd been the one who'd
turned up at the Lammas grinning from ear to ear, dangling Henry
Cavendish's key-ring from his finger like the winner at a wife-swapping
party.

Alex wouldn't tell, he knew that.  Keeping secrets was one of the
things he did best.  If the price of avoiding suspicion was to keep his
mouth shut, he had no doubts he could manage it.

Ziggy wouldn't tell either.  It was always safety first with Ziggy.
After all, he was the one who had sneaked away from the party to move
the Land Rover once he'd realized how off his head Weird was getting.
He'd taken Alex to one side and said, "I've taken the keys out of
Weird's coat pocket.  I'm going to shift the Land Rover, put it out of
temptation's way.  He's already been taking people for a spin round the
block, it's time to put a stop to it before he kills himself or
somebody else."  Alex had no idea how long he'd been gone, but when
he'd returned, Ziggy had told him the Land Rover was safely stowed up
behind one of the industrial units off the

Largo Road.  "We can go and pick it up in the morning," he'd said.

Alex had grinned.  "Or we could just leave it there.  A nice wee puzzle
for Hooray Henry when he comes back next term."

"I don't think so.  As soon as he realized his precious wheels weren't
parked where he left them, he'd go to the police and drop us right in
it.  And our fingerprints are all over it."

He'd been right, Alex thought.  There was no love lost between the
Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy and the two Englishmen who shared their six-room
campus house.  There was no way Henry would see the funny side of Weird
helping himself to the Land Rover.  Henry didn't see the funny side of
much that his house-mates did.  So, Ziggy wouldn't tell.  That was for
sure.

But Mondo just might.  Alex hoped Ziggy's warning had penetrated
Mondo's self-absorption enough for him to think through the
consequences.  Telling the cops about Weird helping himself to someone
else's car wouldn't get Mondo off the hook.  It would only put all four
of them firmly on it.  Besides, he'd been driving it himself, taking
that lassie home to Guardbridge.  For once in your life, think it
through, Mondo.

Now, if it was a thinker you wanted, Ziggy was your man.  Behind the
apparent openness, the easy charm and the quick intellect, there was a
lot more going on than anyone knew.  Alex had been pals with Ziggy for
nine and a half years, and he felt as though he'd only scratched the
surface.  Ziggy was the one who would surprise you with an insight,
knock you off balance with a question, make you look at something
through fresh eyes because he'd twisted the world like a Rubik's Cube
and seen it differently.  Alex knew one or two things about Ziggy that
he felt pretty sure were still hidden from Mondo and Weird.  That was
because Ziggy had wanted him to know, and because Ziggy knew his
secrets would always be safe with Alex.

He imagined how Ziggy would be with his interrogators.  He'd seem
relaxed, calm, at ease with himself.  If anyone could persuade the cops
that their involvement with the body on Hallow Hill was entirely
innocent, it was Ziggy.

Detective Inspector Barney Maclennan threw his damp coat over the
nearest chair in the CID office.  It was about the size of a primary
school classroom, bigger than they normally needed.  St.  Andrews
wasn't high on life Constabulary's list of crime hotspots, and that was
reflected in their staffing levels.  Maclennan was head of CID out at
the edge of the empire not because he lacked ambition but because he
was a fully paid-up member of the awkward squad, the sort of bolshie
copper senior officers liked best at a distance.  Normally, he chafed
at the lack of anything interesting to keep him occupied, but that
didn't mean he welcomed the murder of a young lassie on his patch.

They'd got an ID right away.  The pub Rosie Duff worked in was an
occasional drop-in for some of the uniformed boys, and PC Jimmy Lawson,
the first man at the locus, had recognized her immediately.  Like most
of the men at the scene, he'd looked shell-shocked and nauseous.
Maclennan couldn't remember the last time they'd had a murder on his
patch that hadn't been a straightforward domestic; these lads hadn't
seen enough to harden them to the sight they'd come upon on the snowy
hilltop.  Come to that, he'd only seen a couple of murder victims
himself, and never anything quite as pathetic as the abused body of
Rosie Duff.

According to the police surgeon, it looked like she'd been raped and
stabbed in the lower abdomen.  A single, vicious blow carving its
lethal track upwards through her gut.  And it had probably taken her
quite a while to die.  Just thinking about it made Maclennan want to
lay hands on the man responsible and beat the crap out of him.  At
times like this,

the law felt more like a hindrance than a help when it came to
achieving justice.

Maclennan sighed and lit a cigarette.  He sat down at his desk and made
notes of what little information he'd learned so far.  Rosemary Duff.
Nineteen years old.  Worked in the Lammas Bar.  Lived in Strathkinness
with her parents and two older brothers.  The brothers worked in the
paper mill out at Guardbridge, her father was a grounds man up at
Craigtoun Park.  Maclennan didn't envy Detective Constable Iain Shaw
and the WPC he'd sent up to the village to break the news.  He'd have
to talk to the family himself in due course, he knew that.  But he was
better employed trying to get this investigation moving.  It wasn't as
if they were swarming with detectives who had a clue about running a
major inquiry.  If they were going to avoid being pushed out to the
sidelines by the big boys from headquarters, Maclennan had to get the
show on the road and make it look good.

He looked impatiently at his watch.  He needed another CID man before
he could start interviewing the four students who claimed they'd found
the body.  He'd told DC Allan Burnside to get back down to the station
as soon as he could, but there was still no sign of him.  Maclennan
sighed.  Goons and balloons, that was what he was stuck with out
here.

He slipped his feet out of his damp shoes and swivelled round so he
could rest them on the radiator.  God, but it was a hell of a night to
be starting a murder inquiry.  The snow had turned the crime scene into
a nightmare, masking evidence, making everything a hundred times more
difficult.  Who could tell which traces had been left by the killer,
and which by the witnesses?  That was assuming, of course, that those
were separate entities.  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Maclennan
thought about his interview strategy.

All the received wisdom indicated he should speak first to the lad
who'd actually found the body.  Well-built lad, broad shouldered, hard
to see much of his face inside the big snorkel

hood of the parka.  Maclennan leaned back for his notebook.  Alex
Gilbey, that was the one.  But he had a funny feeling about that one.
It wasn't that he'd been exactly shifty, more that he'd not met
Maclennan's eyes with the kind of piteous candour that most young lads
in his shoes would have shown.  And he certainly looked strong enough
to carry Rosie's dying body up the gentle slope of Hallow Hill.  Maybe
there was more going on here than met the eye.  It wouldn't be the
first time a murderer had engineered the discovery of his victim's body
to include himself.  No, he'd let young Mr.  Gilbey sweat a wee bit
longer.

The desk sergeant had told him that the other interview room was
occupied by the medical student with the Polish name.  He was the one
who had been adamant that Rosie had still been alive when they found
her, claiming he'd done all he could to keep her that way.  He'd seemed
pretty cool in the circumstances, cooler than Maclennan would have
managed.  He thought he'd start there.  Just as soon as Burnside showed
his face.

The interview room that housed Ziggy was the double of Alex's. Somehow,
Ziggy managed to look comfortable in it.  He slouched in his chair,
half-leaning against the wall, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. 
He was so exhausted he could easily have fallen asleep, except that
every time he closed his eyes, the image of Rosie's body flared
brilliant in his mind.  No amount of theoretical medical study had
prepared Ziggy for the brutal reality of a human being so wantonly
destroyed.  He just hadn't known enough to be any use to Rosie when it
mattered, and that galled him.  He knew he should feel pity for the
dead woman, but his frustration left no room for any other emotion. Not
even fear.

But Ziggy was also smart enough to know he should be afraid.  He had
Rosie Duff's blood all over his clothes, under his fingernails.
Probably even in his hair; he remembered

pushing his wet fringe out of his eyes as he'd desperately tried to see
where the blood was coming from.  That was innocent enough, if the
police believed his story.  But he was also the man without an alibi,
thanks to Weird's contrary notions of what constituted a bit of fun. He
really couldn't afford for the police to find the best possible vehicle
for driving in a blizzard with his fingerprints all over it. Ziggy was
usually so circumspect, but now his life could be blown apart by one
careless word.  It didn't bear thinking about.

It was almost a relief when the door opened and two policemen walked
in.  He recognized the one who had told the uniforms to bring them to
the station.  Stripped of his overwhelming overcoat, he was a lean
whippet of a man, his mousy hair a little longer than was fashionable.
The stub bled cheeks revealed he had been rousted from bed in the
middle of the night, though the neat white shirt and the smart suit
looked as if they'd come straight from the dry cleaner's hanger.  He
dropped into the chair opposite Ziggy and said, "I'm Detective
Inspector Maclennan and this is Detective Constable Burnside.  We need
to have a wee chat about what happened tonight."  He nodded towards
Burnside.  "My colleague will take notes and then we'll prepare a
statement for you to sign."

Ziggy nodded.  "That's fine.  Ask away."  He straightened up in his
seat.  The don't suppose I could get a cup of tea?"

Maclennan turned to Burnside and nodded.  Burnside rose and left the
room.  Maclennan leaned back in his chair and checked out his witness.
Funny how the mod haircuts had come back into fashion.  The dark-haired
lad opposite him wouldn't have looked out of place a dozen years
earlier in the Small Faces.  He didn't look like a Pole to Maclennan's
way of thinking.  He had the pale skin and red cheeks of a Fifer,
though the brown eyes were a bit unusual with that colouring.  Wide
cheekbones gave his face a chiselled, exotic air.  A bit like that
Russian dancer, Rudolph Nearenough, or whatever his name was.

Burnside returned almost immediately.  "It's on its way," he said,
sitting down and picking up his pen.

Maclennan placed his forearms on the table and locked his fingers
together.  "Personal details first."  They ran through the
preliminaries quickly, then the detective said, "A bad business.  You
must be feeling pretty shaken up."

Ziggy began to feel as if he was trapped in the land of cliches.  "You
could say that."

"I want you to tell me in your own words what happened tonight."

Ziggy cleared his throat.  "We were walking back to life Park .. ."

Maclennan stopped him with a raised palm.  "Back up a bit.  Let's have
the whole evening, eh?"

Ziggy's heart sank.  He was hoping he might avoid mentioning their
earlier visit to the Lammas Bar.  "OK.  The four of us, we live in the
same unit in life Park so we usually eat together.  Tonight, it was my
turn to cook.  We had egg and chips and beans and about nine o'clock we
went down into the town.  We were going to a party later on and we
wanted to have a few pints first."  He paused to make sure Burnside was
getting it down.

"Where did you go for your drinks?"

"The Lammas Bar."  The words hung in the air between them.

Maclennan showed no reaction, though he felt his pulse quicken.  "Did
you often drink there?"

"Pretty regularly.  The beer's cheap and they don't mind students, not
like some of the places in town."

"So you'll have seen Rosie Duff?  The dead girl?"

Ziggy shrugged.  "I didn't really pay attention."

"What?  A bonnie lassie like that, you didn't notice her?"

"It wasn't her that served me when I went up for my round."

"But you must have spoken to her in the past?"

Ziggy took a deep breath.  "Like I said, I never really paid attention.
Chatting up barmaids isn't my scene."

"Not good enough for you, eh?"  Maclennan said grimly.

"I'm not a snob, Inspector.  I come from a council house myself.  I
just don't get my kicks playing macho man in the pub, OK?  Yes, I knew
who she was, but I'd never had a conversation with her that went beyond
"Four pints of Tennent's, please."

"Did any of your friends take more of an interest in her?"

"Not that I noticed."  Ziggy's nonchalance hid a sudden wariness at the
line of questioning.

"So, you had a few pints in the Lammas.  What then?"

"Uke I said, we went on to a party.  A third-year mathematician called
Pete that Tom Mackie knows.  He lives in St.  Andrews, in Learmonth
Gardens.  I don't know what number.  His parents were away and he threw
a party.  We got there about midnight and it was getting on for four
o'clock when we left."

"Were you all together at the party?"

Ziggy snorted.  "Have you ever been to a student party, Inspector?  You
know what it's like.  You walk through the door together, you get a
beer, you drift apart.  Then when you've had enough, you see who's
still standing and you gather them together and stagger off into the
night.  The good shepherd, that's me."  He gave an ironic smile.

"So the four of you arrived together and the four of you left together,
but you've no idea what the others were doing in between?"

"That's about the size of it, yeah."

"You couldn't even swear that none of them left and came back later?"

If Maclennan had expected alarm from Ziggy, he was disappointed.
Instead, he cocked his head to one side, thoughtful.  "Probably not,
no," he admitted.  "I spent most of the time in the conservatory at the
back of the house.  Me and a couple of English guys.  Sorry, I can't
remember their names.  We were talking about music, politics, that sort
of thing.  It got quite

heated when we got on to Scottish devolution, as you can imagine.  I
wandered through a few times for another beer, went through to the
dining room to grab something to eat, but no, I wasn't being my
brothers' keeper."

"Do you usually all end up going back together?"  Maclennan wasn't
quite sure where he was going with this, but it felt like the right
question.

"Depends if anybody's got off with somebody."

He was definitely on the defensive now, the policeman thought.  "Does
that happen often?"

"Sometimes."  Ziggy's smile was a little strained.  "Hey, we're
healthy, red-blooded young men, you know?"

"But the four of you usually end up going home together?  Very cosy."

"You know, Inspector, not all students are obsessed with sex.  Some of
us know how lucky we are to be here and we don't want to screw it
up."

"So you prefer each other's company?  Where I come from, people might
think you were queer."

Ziggy's composure slipped momentarily.  "So what?  It's not against the
law."

"That depends on what you're doing and who you're doing it with,"
Maclennan said, any pretence of amiability gone.

"Look, what has any of this got to do with the fact that we stumbled
over the dying body of a young woman?"  Ziggy demanded, leaning
forward.  "What are you trying to suggest?  We're gay, therefore we
raped a lassie and murdered her?"

"Your words, not mine.  It's a well-known fact that some homosexuals
hate women."

Ziggy shook his head in disbelief.  "Well known to whom?  The
prejudiced and ignorant?  Look, just because Alex and Tom and Davey
left the party with me doesn't make them gay, right?  They could give
you a list of girls who could show you just how wrong you are."

"And what about you, Sigmund?  Could you do the same thing?"

Ziggy held himself rigid, willing his body not to betray him.  There
was a world of difference the size of Scotland between legal and
comprehended.  He'd arrived at a place where the truth was not going to
be his friend.  "Can we get back on track here, Inspector?  I left the
party about four o'clock with my three friends.  We walked down
Learmonth Place, turned left up the Canongate then went down Trinity
Place.  Hallow Hill is a short cut back to life Park .. ."

"Did you see anyone else as you walked down towards the hill?"
Maclennan interrupted.

"No.  But the visibility wasn't great because of the snow.  Anyway, we
were walking along the footpath at the bottom of the hill and Alex
started running up the hill.  I don't know why, I was ahead of him and
I didn't see what set him off.  When he got to the top, he tripped and
fell into the hollow.  The next thing I knew was he was shouting to us
to come up, that there was a young woman bleeding."  Ziggy closed his
eyes, but opened them hastily as the dead girl rose before him again.
"We climbed up and we found Rosie lying in the snow.  I felt her
carotid pulse.  It was very faint, but it was still there.  She seemed
to be bleeding from a wound to the abdomen.  Quite a large slit, it
felt like.  Maybe three or four inches long.  I told Alex to go and get
help.  To call the police.  We covered her with our coats and I tried
to put pressure on the wound.  But it was too late.  Too much internal
damage.  Too much blood loss.  She died within a couple of minutes." 
He gave a long exhalation.  There was nothing I could do."

Even Maclennan was momentarily silenced by the intensity of Ziggy's
words.  He glanced at Burnside, who was scribbling furiously.  "Why did
you ask Alex Gilbey to go for help?"

"Because Alex was more sober than Tom.  And Davey tends to go to pieces
in a crisis."

It made perfect sense.  Almost too perfect.  Maclennan

pushed his chair back.  "One of my officers will take you home now, Mr.
Malkiewicz.  We'll want the clothes you're wearing, for forensic
analysis.  And your fingerprints, for the purposes of elimination.  And
we'll be wanting to talk to you again."  There were things Maclennan
wanted to know about Sigmund Malkiewicz.  But they could wait.  His
feeling of unease about these four young men was growing stronger by
the minute.  He wanted to start pushing.  And he had a feeling that the
one who went to pieces in a crisis might just be the one to cave in.

The poetry of Baudelaire seemed to be doing the trick.  Curled into a
ball on a mattress so hard it scarcely deserved the name, Mondo was
mentally working his way through Les Fleurs du Mai.  It seemed
ironically appropriate in the light of the night's events.  The musical
flow of the language soothed him, rubbing away the reality of Rosie
Duff's death and the police cell it had brought him to.  It was
transcendent, raising him out of his body and into another place where
the smooth sequence of syllables was all his consciousness could
accommodate.  He didn't want to deal with death, or guilt, or fear, or
suspicion.

His hiding place imploded abruptly with the crashing open of the cell
door.  PC Jimmy Lawson loomed above him.  "On your feet, son.  You're
wanted."

Mondo scrambled back, away from the young policeman who had somehow
changed from rescuer to persecutor.

Lawson's smile was far from soothing.  "Don't get your bowels in a
confusion.  Come on, look lively.  Inspector Maclennan doesn't like
being kept waiting."

Mondo edged to his feet and followed Lawson out of the cell and into a
brightly lit corridor.  It was all too sharp, too defined for Mondo's
taste.  He really didn't like it here.

Lawson turned a bend in the corridor then flung a door open.  Mondo
hesitated on the threshold.  Sitting at the table was the man he'd seen
up on Hallow Hill.  He looked too small to be a copper, Mondo thought.
"Mr.  Kerr, is it?"  the man asked.

Mondo nodded.  "Aye," he said.  The sound of his own voice surprised
him.

"Come in and sit down.  I'm DI Maclennan, this is DC Burnside."

Mondo sat down opposite the two men, keeping his eyes on the table top.
Burnside took him through the formalities with a politeness that
surprised Mondo, who had expected The Sweeney: all shouting and macho
swaggering.

When Maclennan took over, a note of sharpness entered the conversation.
"You knew Rosie Duff," he said.

"Aye."  Mondo still didn't look up.  "Well, I knew she was the barmaid
at the Lammas," he added as the silence grew around them.

"Nice-looking lassie," Maclennan said.  Mondo did not respond.  "You
must have noticed that, at least."

Mondo shrugged.  "I didn't give her any thought."

"Was she not your type?"

Mondo looked up, his mouth hitched up in one corner in a half-smile. "I
think I definitely wasn't her type.  She never took any notice of me. 
There were always other guys she was more interested in.  I always had
to wait to get served in the Lammas."

"That must have annoyed you."

Panic flashed in Mondo's eyes.  He was beginning to understand that
Maclennan was sharper than he had expected a copper to be.  He was
going to have to box clever and keep his wits about him.  "Not really.
If we were in a hurry, I just used to get Gilly to go up when it was my
round."

"Gilly?  That would be Alex Gilbey?"

Mondo nodded, dropping his eyes again.  He didn't want

to let this man see any of the emotions churning inside him.  Death,
guilt, fear, suspicion.  He desperately wanted to be out of this, out
of the police station, out of the case.  He didn't want to drop anyone
else in it in the process, but he couldn't take this.  He knew he
couldn't take it, and he didn't want to end up acting in a way that
would make these cops think there was something suspicious about him,
something guilty.  Because he wasn't the suspicious one.  He hadn't
chatted up Rosie Duff, much as he might have wanted to.  He hadn't
stolen a Land Rover.  All he'd done was borrow it to drive a lassie
home to Guardbridge.  He hadn't stumbled over a body in the snow.  That
was down to Alex.  It was thanks to the others he was in the middle of
this shit.  If keeping himself secure meant making the cops look
elsewhere, well, Gilly would never find out.  Even if he did, Mondo was
sure Gilly would forgive him.

"So she liked Gilly, did she?"  Maclennan was relentless.

"I don't know.  Far as I'm aware, he was just another customer to
her."

"But one she paid more attention to than she did to you."

"Aye, well, that didn't exactly make him unique."

"Are you saying Rosie was a bit of a flirt?"

Mondo shook his head, impatient at himself.  "No.  Not at all.  It was
her job.  She was a barmaid, she had to be nice to people."

"But not to you."

Mondo tugged nervously at the ringlets falling round his ears.  "You're
twisting this.  Look, she was nothing to me, I was nothing to her. Now,
can I go, please?"

"Not quite yet, Mr.  Kerr.  Whose idea was it tonight to come back via
Hallow Hill?"

Mondo frowned.  "It wasn't anybody's idea.  That's just the quickest
route from where we were back to life Park.  We often walk back that
way.  Nobody gave it a second thought."

"And did any of you ever feel the need to run up to the Pictish
cemetery before?"

Mondo shook his head.  "We knew it was there, we went up to look at it
when they were excavating it.  Like half of St.  Andrews.  Doesnae make
us weirdos, you know."

"I never said it did.  But you never made a detour there on the way
back to your residence before?"

"Why would we?"

Maclennan shrugged.  "I don't know.  Daft boys' games.  Maybe you've
watched Carrie a few too many times."

Mondo tugged at a lock of his hair.  Death, guilt, fear, suspicion.
"I'm not interested in horror films.  Look, Inspector, you're reading
this all wrong.  We're just four ordinary guys that walked into the
middle of something extraordinary.  Nothing more, nothing less."  He
spread his hands in a gesture of innocence that he prayed was
convincing.  "I'm sorry for what happened to the lassie, but it's got
nothing to do with me."

Maclennan leaned back in his chair.  "So you say."  Mondo said nothing,
simply letting his breath out in a long sigh of frustration.  "What
about the party?  What were your movements there?"

Mondo twisted sideways in his seat, his desire for escape obvious in
every muscle.  Would the lassie talk?  He doubted it.  She'd had to
sneak in to the house, she'd been supposed to be home hours before. And
she wasn't a student, had known almost nobody there.  With a bit of
luck, she'd never be mentioned, never questioned.  "Look, why do you
care about this?  We just found a body, you know?"

"We have to explore all the possibilities."

Mondo sneered.  "Just doing your job, eh?  Well, you're wasting your
time if you think we had anything to do with what happened to her."

Maclennan shrugged.  "Nevertheless, I'd like to know about the
party."

Stomach churning, Mondo produced an edited version he hoped would pass
muster.  "I don't know.  It's hard to remember

every detail.  Not long after we arrived, I was chatting up this
lassie.  Marg, her name was.  From Elgin.  We danced for a while.  I
thought I was in there, you know?"  He pulled a rueful face.  "Then her
boyfriend turned up.  She hadn't mentioned him before.  I was pretty
fed up, so I had a couple more beers, then I went upstairs.  There was
this wee study, just a box room really, with a desk and a chair.  I sat
there feeling sorry for myself for a bit.  Not long, just the time it
took to drink a can.  Then I went back downstairs and mooched around.
Ziggy was giving some English guys his Declaration of Arbroath speech
in the conservatory, so I didn't hang around there.  I've heard it too
many times.  I didn't really pay attention to anybody else.  There
wasn't much in the way of talent, and what there was was spoken for, so
I just hung around.  Tell you the truth, I was ready to go ages before
we finally left."

"But you didn't suggest leaving?"

"No."

"Why not?  Don't you have a mind of your own?"

Mondo gave him a look of loathing.  It wasn't the first time he'd been
accused of following the others around like a mindless sheep.  "Of
course I do.  I just couldn't be bothered, OK?"

"Fine," Maclennan said.  "We'll be checking your story out.  You can go
home now.  We'll want the clothes you were wearing tonight.  There'll
be an officer at your residence to take them from you."  He stood up,
the chair legs grating on the floor in a screech that set Mondo's teeth
on edge.  "We'll be in touch, Mr.  Kerr."

WPC Janice Hogg closed the door of the panda car as quietly as she
could.  No need to wake the whole street.  They'd hear the news soon
enough.  She flinched as DC Iain Shaw slammed the driver's door without
a thought and directed a glare at the back of his balding head.  Only
twenty-five and already he had an old man's hairline, she thought with
a flash

of smug pleasure.  And him thinking he was such a catch.

As if the tenor of her thoughts had penetrated his skull, Shaw turned
and scowled.  "Come on, then.  Let's get it over with."

Janice gave the cottage the once-over as Shaw pushed open the wooden
gate and walked briskly up the short path.  It was typical of the area;
a low building with a couple of dormer windows thrusting out of the
pantile roof, crow-stepped gables dressed with snow.  A small porch
thrust out between the downstairs windows, the harling painted some dun
colour that was hard to identify in the weak light shed by the street
lamps.  It looked well enough kept, she reckoned, wondering which room
had been Rosie's.

Janice put the thought from her mind as she prepared herself for the
coming ordeal.  She'd been brought in to deliver the bad news on more
than her fair share of occasions.  It came with the gender.  She braced
herself as Shaw banged the heavy iron knocker on the door.  At first,
nothing stirred.  Then a muted light glowed behind the curtains at the
right-hand downstairs window.  A hand appeared, pulling the curtain to
one side.  Next, a face, lit on one side.  A man in late middle-age,
hair greying and tousled, stared open-mouthed at the pair of them.

Shaw produced his warrant card and held it out.  There was no mistaking
the gesture.  The curtain fell back.  A couple of moments later, the
front door opened to reveal the man, tying the cord of a thick woollen
dressing gown round his waist.  The legs of his pyjamas pooled over
faded tartan slippers.  "What's going on?"  he demanded, hiding
apprehension imperfectly behind belligerence.

"Mr.  Duff?"  Shaw asked.

"Aye, that's me.  What are you doing at my door at this hour?"

"I'm Detective Constable Shaw, and this is WPC Hogg.  Can we come in,
Mr.  Duff?  We need to talk to you."

"What have they laddies of mine been up to?"  He stood

back and waved them inside.  The inner door gave straight on to the
living room.  A three-piece suite covered in brown corduroy laid siege
to the biggest TV set Janice had ever seen.  "Have a seat," he said.

As they made for the sofa, Eileen Duff emerged from the door at the far
end of the room.  "What's going on, Archie?"  she asked.  Her naked
face was greasy with night cream, her hair covered in a beige chiffon
scarf to protect her shampoo and set.  Her quilted nylon housecoat was
buttoned awry.

"It's the polis," her husband said.

The woman's eyes were wide with anxiety.  "What's the matter?"

"Could you come and sit down, Mrs.  Duff?"  Janice said, crossing to
the woman and taking her elbow.  She steered her to the sofa and
gestured to her husband that he should join her there.

"It's bad news, I can tell," the woman said piteously, clutching at her
husband's arm.  Archie Duff stared impassively at the blank TV screen,
lips pressed tightly together.

"I'm very sorry, Mrs.  Duff.  But I'm afraid you're right.  We do have
some very bad news for you."  Shaw stood awkwardly, head slightly
bowed, eyes on the multicoloured swirls of the carpet.

Mrs.  Duff pushed her husband.  "I told you not to let Brian buy that
motorbike.  I told you."

Shaw cast a glance of appeal at Janice.  She took a step closer to the
Duffs and said gently, "It's not Brian.  It's Rosie."  > A soft mewing
noise came from Mrs.  Duff.  "That can nae be right," Mr.  Duff
protested.

Janice forced herself to continue.  "Earlier tonight, the body of a
young woman was found on Hallow Hill."

"There's been some mistake," Archie Duff said stubbornly.

"I'm afraid not.  Some of the officers at the scene recognized Rosie.
They knew her from the Lammas Bar.  I'm very sorry to have to tell you
that your daughter is dead."

Janice had delivered the blow often enough to know that most people
fell into one of two reactions.  Denial, like Archie Duff.  And
overwhelming grief that hit the surviving relatives like an elemental
force of nature.  Eileen Duff threw her head back and roared her pain
at the ceiling, her hands twisting and wringing in her lap, her whole
body possessed by anguish.  Her husband stared at her as if she were a
stranger, his brows drawn down in a firm refusal to acknowledge what
was happening.

Janice stood there, letting the first wave break over her like a spring
tide on the West Sands.  Shaw shifted from one foot to the other,
unsure what to say next.

Suddenly there were heavy footfalls on the stairs that led off one end
of the room.  Legs clad in pyjama bottoms appeared, followed by a naked
torso then a sleepy face topped with a shock of tousled dark hair.  The
young man stopped a couple of steps from the bottom and surveyed the
scene.  "What the hell's going on?"  he grunted.

Without turning his head, Archie said, "Your sister's dead, Colin."

Colin Duff's mouth fell open.  "What?"

Janice stepped into the breach again.  "I'm very sorry, Colin.  But
your sister's body was found a short while ago."

"Where about?  What happened?  What do you mean, her body was found?"
The words tumbled out as his legs gave way and he crumpled on to the
bottom tread of the stairs.

"She was found on Hallow Hill."  Janice took a deep breath.  "We
believe that Rosie was murdered."

Colin dropped his head into his hands.  "Oh Jesus," he whispered over
and over again.

Shaw leaned forward.  "We're going to need to ask you some questions,
Mr.  Duff.  Could we maybe go through to the kitchen?"

Eileen's first paroxysm of grief was easing now.  She'd stopped wailing
and turned her tear-streaked face to Archie.

"Bide here.  I'm no' a hairn that needs to be kept from the truth," she
gulped.

"Have you got some brandy?"  Janice asked.  Archie looked blank.  "Or
some whisky?"

Colin stumbled to his feet.  "There's a bottle in the scullery.  I'll
get it."

Eileen turned her swollen eyes to Janice.  "What happened to my
Rosie?"

"We can't be certain yet.  It appears that she was stabbed.  But we'll
need to wait for the doctor before we can be sure."

At her words, Eileen recoiled as if she herself had been struck.  "Who
would do a thing like that to Rosie?  Her that would nae hurt a fly."

"We don't know that yet either," Shaw chipped in.  "But we'll find him,
Mrs.  Duff.  We'll find him.  I know this is the worst time in the
world to be asking you questions, but the sooner we get the information
we need, the quicker we can make progress."

"Can I see her?"  Eileen asked.

"We'll arrange for that later today," Janice said.  She crouched down
beside Eileen and put a comforting hand on her arm.  "What time did
Rosie usually come in?"

Colin emerged from the kitchen carrying a bottle of Bells and three
glasses.  "The Lammas has last orders at half-past ten.  Most nights,
she was in by quarter-past eleven."  He put the glasses down on the
coffee table and poured three stiff measures.

"But some nights she was later?"  Shaw asked.

Colin handed his parents a whisky each.  Archie downed half of his in
one gulp.  Eileen clutched the glass but didn't put it to her lips.
"Aye.  If she was going to a party or something."

"And last night?"

Colin swallowed some whisky.  "I don't know.  Mum?  Did she say
anything to you?"

Eileen looked up at him, her expression dazed and lost.  "She said she
was meeting some friends.  She did nae say who, and I did nae ask. 
She's got a right to her own life."  There was a defensive tone in her
voice that told Janice this had been a bone of contention, probably
with Archie.

"How did Rosie usually get home?"  Janice asked.

"If me or Brian was in the town, we'd stop by at closing time and give
her a lift.  One of the other barmaids, Maureen, she'd drop her off if
they were on the same shift.  If she couldn't get a lift, she'd get a
taxi."

"Where's Brian?"  Eileen said suddenly, anxious for her chicks.

Colin shrugged.  "He's not come home.  He must have stayed down in the
town."

"He should be here.  He should nae hear this from strangers."

"He'll be back for his breakfast," Archie said roughly.  "He needs to
get ready for his work."

"Was Rosie seeing anybody?  Did she have a boyfriend?"  Shaw let his
eagerness to be away take over and shunt the interview back on the
track he wanted.

Archie scowled.  "She was never short of boyfriends."  "Was there
anyone in particular?"

Eileen took a tiny sip of whisky.  "She's been going out with somebody
lately.  But she would nae tell me anything about him.  I asked her,
but she said she'd tell me in her own good time."

Colin snorted.  "Some married man, by the sounds of it."

Archie glared at his son.  "You keep a civil tongue in your head when
you talk about your sister, you hear me?"

"Well, why else would she keep it secret?"  The young man's jaw jutted
out defiantly.

"Maybe she did nae want you and your brother sticking your oar in
again," Archie retorted.  He turned to Janice.  "They once gave a
laddie a battering because they thought he was nae treating Rosie
right."

"Who was that?"

Archie's eyes widened in surprise.  "That was years ago.  It's got
nothing to do with this.  The laddie does nae even live here any more.
He moved down to England not long after it happened."

"We'll still want his name," Shaw insisted.

"John Stobie," Colin said mutinously.  "His dad's a green keeper at the
Old Course.  Like Dad says, he would nae dare go near Rosie."

"It's not a married man," Eileen said.  "I asked her.  She said she
would nae bring trouble like that to our door."

Colin shook his head and turned away, nursing his whisky.  "I never saw
her with anybody lately," he said.  "But she liked her secrets, did
Rosie."

"We'll need to take a look at her room," Shaw said.  "Not just now. But
later today.  So if you could avoid moving anything in there, that
would be helpful."  He cleared his throat.  "If you'd like, WPC Hogg
can stay with you?"

Archie shook his head.  "We'll manage."

"You might get reporters coming to the door," Shaw said.  "It would be
easier for you if you had an officer here."

"You heard my dad.  We're better left to ourselves," Colin said.

"When can I see Rosie?"  Eileen asked.

"We'll send a car up for you later.  I'll make sure somebody calls you
to arrange it.  And if you remember anything Rosie said about where she
was going tonight, or who she was seeing, please let us know.  It would
be helpful if you could make a list of her friends.  Especially anyone
who might know where she was last night and who she was with.  Can you
do that for us?"  Shaw was gentle now he could see his escape route
clear.

Archie nodded and got to his feet.  "Later.  We'll do it."

Janice stood up, her knees complaining at their prolonged crouch.
"We'll see ourselves out."

She followed Shaw to the door.  The misery in the room felt like a
tangible substance, filling the air and making it hard to breathe.  It
was always the same.  The melancholy seemed to grow incrementally in
those first hours after the news arrived.

But that would change.  Soon enough, the anger would come.

Weird glared at Maclennan, skinny arms folded across his narrow chest.
"I want a smoke," he said.  The acid he'd taken earlier had worn off,
leaving him jittery and fractious.  He didn't want to be here, and he
was determined to get out as quickly as he could.  But that didn't mean
he was going to give an inch.

Maclennan shook his head.  "Sorry, son.  I don't use them."

Weird turned his head and stared at the door.  "You're not supposed to
use torture, you know."

Maclennan refused to rise to the bait.  "We need to ask you some
questions about what happened tonight."

"Not without a lawyer, you don't."  Weird gave a small, inward smile.

"Why would you need a lawyer if you've got nothing to hide?"

"Because you're the Man.  And you've got a dead lassie on your hands
that you need to blame somebody for.  And I'm not signing any false
confessions, no matter how long you keep me here."

Maclennan sighed.  It depressed him that the dubious antics of a few
gave smart-arsed boys like this a stick to beat all cops with.  He'd
bet a week's wages that this self-righteous

adolescent had a poster of Che Guevara on his bedroom wall.  And that
he thought he had first dibs on the role of working class hero.  None
of which meant he couldn't have killed Rosie Duff.  "You've got a very
funny notion of the way we do things round here."

"Tell that to the Birmingham Six and the Guildford Four," Weird said,
as if it were a trump card.

"If you don't want to end up where they are, son, I suggest you start
co-operating.  Now, we can do this the easy way, where I ask a few
questions and you answer them, or we can lock you away for a few hours
till we can find a lawyer who's that desperate for work."

"Are you denying me the right to legal representation?"  There was a
note of pomposity in Weird's voice that would have made the hearts of
his friends sink if they'd heard it.

But Maclennan reckoned he was more than a match for some student on his
high horse.  "Please yourself."  He pushed back from the table.

"I will," Weird said stubbornly.  "I've got nothing to say to you
without a lawyer present."  Maclennan made for the door, Burnside on
his tail.  "So you get someone here, right?"

Maclennan turned at the open doorway.  That's not my job, son.  You
want a lawyer, you make the phone call."

Weird calculated.  He didn't know any lawyers.  Hell, he couldn't
afford a lawyer, even if he'd known one.  He could imagine what his dad
would say if he phoned home and asked for help with the situation.  And
it wasn't an appealing thought.  Besides, he'd have to tell a lawyer
the whole story, and any lawyer paid for by his father would be bound
to make a full report back.  There were, he thought, far worse things
than being nicked for stealing a Land Rover.  "I tell you what," he
said grudgingly.  "You ask your questions.  If they're as harmless as
you seem to think, I'll answer them.  But any hint you're trying to
stitch me up, and I'm saying nothing."

Maclennan closed the door and sat down again.  He gave

Weird a long, hard stare, taking in the intelligent eyes, the sharp
beaky nose and the incongruously full lips.  He didn't think Rosie Duff
would have seen him as a desirable catch.  She'd probably have laughed
at him if he'd ever propositioned her.  That sort of reaction could
breed festering resentment.  Resentment that might have spilled over
into murder.  "How well did you know Rosie Duff?"  he asked.

Weird cocked his head to one side.  "Not well enough to know what her
second name was."

"Did you ever ask her out?"

Weird snorted.  "You've got to be joking.  I'm a wee bit more ambitious
than that.  Small-town lassies with smalltime dreams; that's not my
scene."

"What about your friends?"

"Shouldnae think so.  We're here precisely because we've got bigger
ideas than that."

Maclennan raised his eyebrows.  "What?  You've come all the way from
Kirkcaldy to St.  Andrews to broaden your horizons?  My, the world must
be holding its breath.  Listen, son, Rosie Duff has been murdered.
Whatever dreams she had have died with her.  So think twice before you
sit here and patronize her."

Weird held Maclennan's stare.  "All I meant was that our lives had
nothing in common with hers.  If it hadn't been for the fact that we
stumbled across her body, you wouldn't even have heard our names in
connection with this investigation.  And frankly, if we're the best you
can do in the way of suspects, you don't deserve to be called
detectives."

The air between the two of them was electric with tension.  Normally,
Maclennan welcomed the raising of the stakes in an interrogation.  It
was a useful lever to get people to say more than they meant to.  And
he had a gut feeling that this young man was covering something with
his apparent arrogance.  It might be nothing of significance, but it
might be everything that mattered.  Even if all he'd gain by pushing

him would he a sinus headache, Maclennan still couldn't resist.  Just
on the off chance.  "Tell me about the party," he said.

Weird cast his eyes upwards.  "Right enough, I don't suppose you get
invited to many.  Here's how it goes.  Males and females congregate in
a house or a flat, they have a few bev vies they dance to the music.
Sometimes they get off with each other.  Sometimes they even get laid.
And then everybody goes home.  That's how it was tonight."

"And sometimes they get stoned," Maclennan said mildly, refusing to let
the boy's sarcasm rile him further.

"Not when you're there, I bet."  Weird's smile was scornful.

"Did you get stoned tonight?"

"See?  There you go.  Trying to fit me up."

"Who were you with?"

Weird considered.  "You know, I don't really remember.  I arrived with
the boys, I left with the boys.  In between?  I can't say I recall. But
if you're trying to suggest I slipped away to commit murder, you're
barking up the wrong tree.  Ask me where I was and I can give you an
answer.  I was in the living room all night except for when I
wemxupstairs for a piss."

"What about the rest of your friends?  Where were they?"

"I haven't a clue.  I am not my brothers' keeper."

Maclennan immediately noticed the echo of Sigmund Malkiewicz's words.
"But you look out for each other, don't you?"

"No reason why you'd know that that's what friends do," Weird
sneered.

"So you'd lie for each other?"

"Ah, the trick question.  "When did you stop beating your wife?"
There's no call for us to lie for each other where Rosie Duff is
concerned.  Because we didn't do anything that needs lying about."
Weird rubbed his temples.  He wanted his bed so badly it was like a
deep itch in his bones.  "We just got unlucky, that's all."

"Tell me how it happened."

"Alex and me, we were mucking about.  Pushing each other in the snow.
He kind of lost his balance and carried on up the hill.  Like the snow
was making him excited.  Then he tripped and fell and the next thing
was, he was shouting us to come up quick."  For a moment, Weird's
cockiness slipped and he looked younger than he was.  "And we found
her.  Ziggy tried .. . but there was nothing he could do to save her."
He flicked a smudge of dirt off his trouser leg.  "Can I go now?"

"You didn't see anybody else up there?  Or on the way there?"

Weird shook his head.  "No.  The crazed axe-murderer must have gone
another way."  His defences were back in place, and Maclennan could see
that any further attempts to extract information would likely be
fruitless.  But there would be another day.  And he suspected there
would be another way under Tom Mackie's defences.  He just had to
figure out what that might be.

Janice Hogg slithered across the car park in Iain Shaw's wake.  They'd
been more or less silent on the drive back to the police station, each
relating the encounter with the Duffs to their own lives with varying
levels of relief.  As Shaw pushed open the door leading into the
welcome warmth of the station, Janice caught up with him.  "I'm
wondering why she wouldn't let on to her mum about who she was seeing,"
she said.

Shaw shrugged.  "Maybe the brother was right.  Maybe he was a married
man."

"But what if she was telling the truth?  What if it wasn't?  Who else
would she be secretive about?"

"You're the female here, Janice.  What do you think?"  Shaw carried on
through to the cubbyhole occupied by the officer charged with keeping
local intelligence up to date.  The office was empty in the middle of
the night, but the cabinets with their alphabetically arranged filing
cards were unlocked and available.

"Well, if her brothers had a track record of warning off unsuitable
men, I suppose I'd have to think about what sort of man Colin and Brian
would consider unsuitable," she mused.

"And that would be what?"  Shaw asked, pulling open the drawer marked
"D'.  His fingers, surprisingly long and slender, began to riffle
through the cards.

"Well, thinking aloud .. . Looking at the family, that but toned-up,
life respectability ... I'd say anybody they considered beneath her or
above her."

Shaw glanced round at her.  That really narrows it down."

"I said I was thinking aloud," she muttered.  "If it was some toe rag
she'd probably think he could hold his own against her brothers.  But
if it was somebody a bit more rarefied .. ."

"Rarefied?  Posh word for a woolly suit, Janice."

"Woolly suit doesn't mean woolly brain, DC Shaw.  Don't forget you were
in uniform yourself not so long ago."

"OK, OK.  Let's stick to rarefied.  You mean, like a student?"  Shaw
asked.

"Exactly."

"Like one of the ones that found her?"  He turned back to his search.

"I wouldn't rule it out."  Janice leaned against the doorframe.  "She
had plenty of opportunity to meet students at her work."

"Here we are," Shaw said, pulling a couple of cards out of the drawer.
"I thought Colin Duff rang a bell with me."  He read the first card,
then passed it over to Janice.  In neat handwriting, it read, Colin
James Duff.  DoB: 5/3/55 LKA: Caberfeidh Cottage, Strathkinness.
Employed at Guardbridge paper mill as fork-lift truck driver.  9/74
Drunk and disorderly, fined 25.  5/76 Breach of the peace, bound over.
6/78 Speeding, fined 37.  Known associates: Brian Stuart Duff, brother.
Donald Angus Thomson.  Janice turned the card over.

In the same handwriting, but in pencil this time so it could be erased
if ever called into evidence, she read, Duff likes a fight when he's
had a drink.  Handy with his fists, handy at keeping out of the frame.
Bit of a bully.  Not dishonest, just a handful.

"Not the sort of guy you'd want mixing it with your sensitive student
boyfriend," Janice commented as she took the second file card from
Shaw.  Brian Stuart Duff.  DoB 27/5/57 LKA Caberfeidh Cottage,
Strathkinness.  Employed at Guardbridge paper mill as warehouseman.
6/75 Assault, fined 50 pounds pence5/76 Assault, three months, served
at Perth.  3/78 Breach of the peace, bound over.  Known associates:
Colin James Duff, brother.  Donald Angus Thomson.  When she flipped it
over, she read, Duff junior is a lout who thinks he's a hard man.
Record would be a lot longer if big brother didn't drag him away before
the trouble really gets going.  He started early -John Stobie's broken
ribs and arm in 1975 likely down to him, Stobie refused to give a
statement, said he'd had an accident on his bike.  Duff suspected of
involvement in unsolved break-in at the off-licence at West Port 8/78.
One day he's going to go away for a long time.  Janice always
appreciated the personal notes their local record-keeper appended to
the official record.  It helped when you were going out on an arrest to
know if things were likely to turn ugly.  And by the looks of it, the
Duff boys could turn very ugly indeed.  A pity really, she thought. Now
she looked back, Colin Duff was rather hunky.

"What do you think?"  Shaw asked, surprising her both because of her
train of thought but also because she wasn't used to CID expecting her
to be capable of joined-up thinking.

"I think Rosie was keeping quiet about who she was seeing because she
knew it would provoke her brothers.  They seem like a close family.  So
maybe she was protecting them as much as her boyfriend."

Shaw frowned.  "How do you mean?"

"She didn't want them getting into more trouble.  With Brian's record
especially, another serious assault would get them both jail time.  So
she kept her mouth shut."  Janice put the cards back in the file.

"Good thinking.  Look, I'm going up to the CID room to write up the
report.  You go down to the mortuary and see about arranging a viewing
for the family.  The day shift can take the Duffs down, but it would be
helpful if they know when that's likely to happen."

Janice pulled a face.  "How come I get all the good jobs?"  Shaw raised
his eyebrows.  "You need to ask?"  Janice said nothing.  She left Shaw
in the intelligence office and headed for the women's locker room,
yawning as she went.  They had a kettle in there that the guys knew
nothing about.  Her body craved a hit of caffeine and if she was going
to the mortuary, she deserved a treat.  After all, Rosie Duff wasn't
going anywhere.

Alex was on his fifth cigarette and wondering if the packet was going
to last him when the door to his interview room finally opened.  He
recognized the thin-faced detective he'd seen up on Hallow Hill.  The
man looked a lot fresher than Alex felt.  Hardly surprising, since it
was getting on for breakfast time for most people.  And Alex doubted
very much if the detective was experiencing the dull ache of a
fledgling hangover at the base of his skull.  He crossed to the chair
opposite, never taking his eyes off Alex's face.  Alex forced himself
to hold the policeman's gaze, determined not to let exhaustion make him
look shifty.

"I'm Detective Inspector Maclennan," the man said, his voice clipped
and brisk.

Alex wondered what the etiquette was here.  "I'm Alex Gilbey," he
tried.

"I know that, son.  I also know you're the one that fancied Rosie
Duff."

Alex felt a blush rising across his cheeks.  "That's not a crime," he
said.  Pointless to deny what Maclennan seemed so certain of.  He
speculated which of his friends had betrayed his interest in the dead
barmaid.  Mondo, almost certainly.  He'd sell his granny under
pressure, then convince himself it was the best possible outcome for
the old woman.

"No, it's not.  But what happened to her tonight was the worst kind of
crime.  And it's my job to find out who did it.  So far, the only
person connected to the dead girl and also connected to the discovery
of her body is you, Mr.  Gilbey.  Now, you're obviously a smart boy. 
So I don't have to spell it out for you, do I?"

Alex tapped nervously on his cigarette although there was no ash to
dislodge.  "Coincidences happen."

"Less often than you might think."

"Well, this is one."  Maclennan's gaze felt like insects crawling under
Alex's skin.  "I just got unlucky, finding Rosie like that."

"So you say.  But if I'd left Rosie Duff for dead on a freezing cold
hillside and I was worried I'd maybe got some blood on me, and I was a
smart boy, I'd engineer it so that I was the one who found her.  That
way, I've got the perfect excuse for being covered in her blood."
Maclennan gestured at Alex's shirt, smeared with the dirty rust of
dried blood.

"I'm sure you would.  But I didn't.  I never left the party."  Alex was
starting to feel genuinely scared.  He'd been half expecting some
awkward moments in the conversation with the police, but he hadn't
expected Maclennan to go in so hard so soon.  Clammy sweat coated his
palms and he had to struggle against the impulse to wipe them on his
jeans.  "Can you provide witnesses to that?"

Alex squeezed his eyes shut, trying to quiet the pounding in his head
enough to remember his movements at the party.  "When we got there, I
was talking to a woman on my course for a while.  Penny Jamieson, her
name is.  She went off for

a dance, and I hung around in the dining room, just picking at the
food.  Various people were in and out, I didn't pay much attention.  I
was feeling a bit drunk.  Later, I went into the back garden to clear
my head."

"All by yourself?"  Maclennan leaned forward slightly.

Alex had a sudden flash of memory that brought a flicker of relief in
its wake.  "Yes.  But you'll probably be able to find the rose bush I
was sick next to."

"You could have been sick any time," Maclennan pointed out.  "If you'd
just raped and stabbed someone and left her for dead, for example. That
might make you sick."

Alex's moment of hope crashed and burned.  "Maybe, but that's not what
I did," he said defiantly.  "If I had blood all over me, don't you
think someone would have noticed when I went back into the party?  I
was feeling better after I'd thrown up.  I went back inside and joined
in the dancing in the living room.  Any number of people must have seen
me then."

"And we'll be asking them.  We're going to need a list of everyone who
was at that party.  We'll be speaking to the host.  And to everybody
else we can trace.  And if Rosie Duff showed her face, even for a
minute, you and me will be having a much less friendly conversation,
Mr.  Gilbey."

Alex felt his face betray him again and hurriedly looked away.  Not
soon enough, however.  Maclennan pounced.  "Was she there?"

Alex shook his head.  "I never saw her after we left the Lammas Bar."
He could see something dawning behind Maclennan's steady gaze.

"But you invited her to the party."  The detective's hands gripped the
edge of the table as he leaned forward, so close Alex could smell the
incongruous drift of shampoo from his hair.

Alex nodded, too riven with anxiety to deny it.  "I gave her the
address.  When we were in the pub.  But she never turned

up.  And I never expected her to."  There was a sob in his voice now,
his tenuous control slipping as he remembered Rosie behind the bar,
animated, teasing, friendly.  Tears welled up as he stared at the
detective.

"Did that make you angry?  That she hadn't turned up?"  Alex shook his
head.  "No.  I never really expected she would.  Look, I wish she
wasn't dead.  I wish I hadn't found her.  But you've got to believe me.
 I had nothing to do with it."

"So you say, son.  So you say."  Maclennan held his position, inches
from Alex's face.  All his instincts told him there was something
lurking under the surface of these interviews.  And one way or another,
he was going to find out what it was.

WPC Janice Hogg glanced at her watch as she made for the front counter.
Another hour and she'd be off duty, at least in theory.  With a murder
inquiry in full swing, the chances were she'd be stuck on overtime,
particularly since women officers were thin on the ground in St.
Andrews.  She pushed through the swing doors into the reception area
just as the street door was barged open so hard it bounced against the
wall.

The force behind the door was a ypung man with shoulders almost as wide
as the doorframe.  Snow clung to his dark wavy hair and his face was
wet either with tears, sweat or melted flakes.  He hurtled towards the
front counter, rage a deep growl in his throat.  The duty constable
reared back in shock, almost toppling off his high stool.  "Where are
they bastards?"  the man roared.

To his credit, the PC managed to find some sangfroid from the deepest
recesses of his training.  "Can I help you, sir?"  he asked, moving out
of reach of the fists that were pounding on the counter top.  Janice
hung back unnoticed.  If this turned as nasty as it promised, she'd be
best served by the element of surprise.

"I want those fucking bastards that killed my sister," the man
howled.

So, Janice thought.  The news had reached Brian Duff.

"Sir, I don't know what you're talking about," the PC said gently.

"My sister.  Rosie.  She's been murdered.  And you've got them here.
The bastards that did it."  Duff looked as if he was about to clamber
over the counter in his desperate desire for vengeance.

"Sir, I think you've been misinformed."

"Don't come it with me, you cunt," Duff screamed.  "My sister's lying
dead, somebody's going to pay."

Janice chose her moment.  "Mr.  Duff?"  she said quietly, stepping
forward.

He whirled round and glared at her, wide-eyed, white spittle at the
corners of his mouth.  "Where are they?"  he snarled.

"I'm very sorry about your sister.  But nobody's been arrested in
connection with her death.  We're still in the early stages of our
investigation, and we're questioning witnesses.  Not suspects.
Witnesses."  She put a cautious hand on his forearm.  "You'd be better
at home.  Your mother needs her sons about her."

Duff shook off her hand.  "I was told you'd got them locked up.  The
bastards that did this."

"Whoever told you made a mistake.  We're all desperate to catch the
person who did this terrible thing, and sometimes that makes people
jump to the wrong conclusions.  Trust me, Mr.  Duff.  If we had a
suspect in custody, I would tell you."  Janice kept her eyes on his,
praying that her calm, unemotional approach would work.  Otherwise he
could break her jaw with a single blow.  "Your family will be the first
to know when we make an arrest.  I promise you that."

Duff looked baffled and angry.  Then suddenly, his eyes filled with
tears and he slumped into one of the chairs in the waiting area.  He
wrapped his arms round his head and shook in a paroxysm of violent
sobbing.  Janice exchanged a helpless look with the PC behind the
counter.  He mimed

the application of handcuffs but she shook her head and sat down next
to him.

Gradually, Brian Duff regained his composure.  His hands dropped like
stones into his lap and he turned his tearstained face to Janice.
"You'll get him, though?  The bastard that's done this?"

"We'll do our best, Mr.  Duff.  Now, why don't you let me drive you
home?  Your mum was worried about you earlier.  She needs to be
reassured that you're all right."  She got to her feet and looked down
at him expectantly.

The rage had subsided for the moment.  Meekly, Duff stood up and
nodded.  "Aye."

Janice turned to the duty constable and said, "Tell DC Shaw I'm taking
Mr.  Duff home.  I'll catch up with what I'm supposed to be doing when
I get back."  Nobody was going to give her a hard time for acting on
her own initiative for once.  Anything that could be discovered about
Rosie Duff and her family was grist to the mill right now, and she was
perfectly placed to catch Brian Duff with his defences down.  "She was
a lovely girl, Rosie," she said conversationally as she led Duff out of
the front entrance and round the side to the car park.

"You knew her?"

"I drink in the Lammas sometimes."  It was a small lie, expedient in
the circumstances.  Janice considered the Lammas Bar about as enticing
as a bowl of cold porridge.  A smoke flavoured one at that.

The can nae take it in," Duff said.  "This is the kind of thing you see
on the telly.  Not the kind of thing that happens to people like us."

"How did you hear about it?"  Janice was genuinely curious.  News
generally travelled through a small town like St.  Andrews at the speed
of sound, but not usually in the middle of the night.

The crashed at one of my pals' last night.  His girlfriend works the
breakfast shift at the greasy spoon on South Street.  She

heard about it when she turned in for work at six and she got straight
on the phone.  Fuck," he exploded.  "I thought it was some kind of
stupid bad-taste joke at first.  I mean, you would, wouldn't you?"

Janice unlocked the car, thinking, No, actually, I don't have the sort
of friends who would find that amusing.  She said, "You don't want to
think even for a second that it could be the truth."

"Exactly," Duff said, climbing into the passenger seat.  "Who would do
a thing like that to Rosie, though?  I mean, she was a good person, you
know?  A nice lassie.  Not some slut."

"You and your brother kept an eye on her.  Did you see anybody hanging
around her that you didn't like the look of?"  Janice started the
engine, shivering as a blast of cold air gusted out of the vents.
Christ, but it was a bitter morning.

There were always lowlifes sniffing around.  But everybody knew they'd
have me and Colin to answer to if they bothered Rosie.  So they kept
their distance.  We always looked out for her."  He suddenly slammed
one fist into the palm of his other hand.  "So where were we last night
when she really needed us?"

"You can't blame yourself, Brian."  Janice edged the panda out of the
car park on to the glassy compressed snow of the main drag.  The
Christmas lights looked sickly against the yellowish grey of the sky,
the glamorous laser laid on by the university physics department an
unremarkable pale scribble against the low clouds.

"I don't blame myself.  I blame the bastard that did this.  But I just
wish I'd been there to stop it happening.  Too fucking late, always too
fucking late," he muttered obscurely.

"So you didn't know who she was meeting?"

He shook his head.  "She lied to me.  She said she was going to a
Christmas party with Dorothy that she works with.  But Dorothy turned
up at the party I was at.  She said Rosie had gone off to meet some
bloke.  I was going to give her what

for when I saw her.  I mean, it's one thing keeping Mum and Dad out of
the picture.  But me and Colin, we were always on her side."  He rubbed
his eyes with the back of his hand.  "I can nae bear it.  Last thing
she said to me was a lie."

"When did you see her last?"  Janice slewed to a halt at the West Port
and edged forward on to the Strathkinness road.

"Yesterday, after I'd finished my work.  I met her in the town, we went
shopping for Mum's Christmas present.  The three of us clubbed together
to get her a new hair drier  Then we went to Boots to get her some nice
soap.  I walked Rosie to the Lammas and that's when she told me she was
going out with Dorothy."  He shook his head.  "She lied.  And now she's
dead."

"Maybe she didn't lie, Brian," Janice said.  "Maybe she was planning to
go to the party but something came up later in the evening."  That was
probably as truthful as the story Rosie had offered up, but Janice knew
from experience that the bereaved would grasp at any straw that kept
intact their image of the person they'd lost.

Duff acted true to form.  Hope lit his face.  "You know, that's
probably it.  Because Rosie wasn't a liar."

"She had her secrets, though.  Like any girl."

He scowled again.  "Secrets are trouble.  She should have known that."
Something struck him suddenly and his body tensed.  "Was she .. . you
know?  Interfered with?"

Nothing Janice could say would offer him any comfort.  If the rapport
she appeared to have established with Duff was going to survive, she
couldn't afford to let him think she too was a liar.  "We won't know
for sure until after the post mortem, but yes, it looks that way."

Duff smashed his fist into the dashboard.  "Bastard," he roared.  As
the car fishtailed up the hill towards Strathkinness, he turned in his
seat.  "Whoever did this, he better fucking hope you catch him before I
do.  I swear to God, I'll kill him."

The house felt violated, Alex thought as he opened the door into the
self-contained unit the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy had turned into their
personal fiefdom.  Cavendish and Greenhalgh, the two English former
public schoolboys they shared the house with, spent as little time
there as possible, an arrangement that suited everyone perfectly.
They'd already gone home for the holidays, but today the braying
accents that sounded so stridently posh to Alex would have been far
more welcome than the police presence that seemed to dominate the very
air he breathed.  Maclennan at his heels, Alex ran upstairs to the room
where he slept.  "Don't forget, we want everything you're wearing. 
That includes underwear," Maclennan reminded him as Alex pushed the
door open.  The detective stood on the threshold, looking mildly
puzzled at the sight of two beds in the tiny room that had clearly been
designed for only one.  "Who do you share with?"  he demanded.

Before Alex could reply, Ziggy's cool tones cut through the atmosphere.
"He thinks we're all queer for each other," he said sarcastically. "And
that of course is why we murdered Rosie.  Never mind the complete
absence of logic, that's what's going on in his mind.  Actually, Mr.
Maclennan, the explanation is far more mundane."  Ziggy gestured over
his shoulder at the closed door across the landing.  "Take a look," he
said.

Curious, Maclennan seized Ziggy's invitation.  Alex took the
opportunity of his turned back to strip himself hastily, grabbing at
his dressing gown to cover his embarrassment.  He followed the other
two across the landing and couldn't help a smug smile when he saw
Maclennan's bemused expression.

"You see?"  Ziggy said.  There's simply no room for a full drum kit, a
Farfisa organ, two guitars and a bed in one of these rabbit hutches. So
Weird and Gilly drew the short straws and ended up sharing."

"You boys are in a group, then?"  Maclennan sounded like

his father, Alex thought with a pang of affection that surprised him.

"We've been making music together for about five years," Ziggy said.

"What?  You're going to be the next Beatles?"  Maclennan couldn't let
it go.

Ziggy cast his eyes heavenwards.  There are two reasons why we're not
going to be the next Beatles.  For one thing, we play purely for our
own pleasure.  Unlike the Rezillos, we have no desire to be on Top of
the Pops.  The second reason is talent.  We're perfectly competent
musicians, but we haven't got an original musical thought between us.
We used to call ourselves Muse until we realized we didn't have one to
call our own.  Now we call ourselves the Combine."

"The Combine?"  Maclennan echoed faintly, taken aback by Ziggy's sudden
access of confidentiality.

"Again, two reasons.  Combine harvesters gather in everybody else's
crop.  Like us.  And because of the Jam track of the same name.  We
just don't stand out from the crowd."

Maclennan turned away, shaking his head.  "We'll have to search in
there as well, you know."  "

Ziggy snorted.  "The only lawbreaking you'll find evidence of in there
is breach of copyright," he said.  "Look, we've all co-operated with
you and your officers.  When are you going to leave us in peace?"

"Just as soon as we've bagged all your clothes.  We'd also like any
diaries, appointment books, address books."

"Alex, give the man what he wants.  We've all handed our stuff over.
The sooner we get our space back, the sooner we can get our heads
straight."  Ziggy turned back to Maclennan.  "You see, what you and
your minions seem to have taken no notice of is the fact that we have
had a terrible experience.  We stumbled on the bleeding, dying body of
a young woman that we actually knew, however slightly."  His voice
cracked, revealing the fragility of his cool surface.  "If we seem odd
to

you, Mr.  Maclennan, you should bear in mind that it might have
something to do with the fact that we've had our heads royally fucked
up tonight."

Ziggy pushed past the policeman and took the stairs at a run, wheeling
into the kitchen and slamming the door behind him.  Maclennan's narrow
face took on a pinched look around the mouth.

"He's right," Alex said mildly.

"There's a family up in Strathkinness who've had a far worse night than
you, son.  And it's my job to find some answers for them.  If that
means treading on your tender corns, that's just tough.  Now, let's
have your clothes.  And the other stuff."

He stood on the threshold while Alex piled his filthy clothes into a
bin liner.  "You need my shoes as well?"  Alex said, holding them up,
his face worried.

"Everything," Maclennan said, making a mental note to tell forensics to
take special care with Gilbey's footwear.

"Only, I've not got another decent pair.  Just baseball boots, and
they're neither use nor ornament in weather like this."

"My heart bleeds.  In the bag, son."

Alex threw his shoes on top of the clothes.  "You're wasting your time
here, you know.  Every minute you spend concentrating on us is a minute
lost.  We've got nothing to hide.  We didn't kill Rosie."

"As far as I'm aware, nobody has said you did.  But the way you guys
keep going on about it is starting to make me wonder."  Maclennan
grabbed the bag from Alex and took the battered university diary he
proffered.  "We'll be back, Mr.  Gilbey.  Don't go anywhere."

"We're supposed to be going home today," Alex protested.

Maclennan stopped two steps down the stairs.  "That's the first I've
heard of it," he said suspiciously.

"I don't suppose you asked.  We're due to get the bus this afternoon.
We've all got holiday jobs starting tomorrow.  Well,

all except Ziggy."  His mouth twitched in a sardonic smile.  "His dad
believes students need to work on their books in the school holidays,
not stacking shelves in Safeway."

Maclennan considered.  Suspicions based mostly on his gut didn't
justify demanding that they remained in St.  Andrews.  It wasn't as if
they were about to flee the jurisdiction.  Kirkcaldy was only a short
drive away, after all.  "You can go home," he said finally.  "Just as
long as you don't mind me and my team turning up on your parents'
doorsteps."

Alex watched him leave, dismay dragging him further into depression.
Just what he needed to make the festive season go with a swing.

The events of the night had caught up with Weird at least.  When Alex
went upstairs after a glum cup of coffee with Ziggy, Weird was in his
usual position.  Flat on his back, his gangling legs and arms thrown
out from under the bedclothes, he shattered the relative peace of the
morning with grumbling snores that mutated every now and again into a
high-pitched whistle.  Normally, Alex had no trouble sleeping to the
strident soundtrack.  His bedroom at home backed on to the railway
tracks, so he'd never been accustomed to night silence.

But this morning, Alex knew without even trying that he'd never drop
off with Weird's noises as a backdrop to his racing thoughts.  Even
though he felt light-headed with lack of sleep, he wasn't in the least
drowsy.  He gathered an armful of clothes from his chair, scrabbled
under the bed for his baseball boots and backed out of the room.  He
dressed in the bathroom and crept downstairs, not wanting to wake Weird
or Mondo.  He didn't even want Ziggy's company for once.  He paused by
the coat hooks in the hall.  His parka was gone with the police.  That
only left a denim jacket or a kagoule.  He grabbed them both and headed
out.

The snow had stopped, but the clouds were still low and

heavy.  The town seemed smothered in cotton wool.  The world had turned
monochrome.  If he half-closed his eyes, the white buildings of life
Park disappeared, the purity of the vista defeated only by the
rectangles of blank windows.  Sound had disappeared too, smothered
under the weight of the weather.  Alex struck out across what would
have been grass towards the main road.  Today, it resembled a track in
the Cairngorms, flattened snow indicating where occasional vehicles had
toiled past.  Nobody who didn't absolutely have to was driving in these
conditions.  By the time he reached the university playing fields, his
feet were wet and freezing, and somehow that felt appropriate.  Alex
turned up the drive and headed out towards the hockey pitches.  In the
middle of an expanse of white, he brushed a goal mouth backboard clear
of snow and perched on it.  He sat, elbows on knees, chin cupped in his
hands and stared out over the unbroken tablecloth of snow until little
lights danced in front of his vision.

Try as he might, Alex couldn't get his mind as blank as the view.
Images of Rosie Duff flitted behind his eyes like static.  Rosie
pulling a pint of Guinness, serious concentration on her face.  Rosie
half turned away, laughing at some quip from a customer.  Rosie raising
her eyebrows, teasing him about something he'd said.  Those were the
memories he could just about cope with.  But they wouldn't settle. They
were constantly chased away by the other Rosie.  Face twisted in pain. 
Bleeding on the snow.  Gasping for her last breaths.

Alex leaned down and grabbed a couple of handfuls of snow, clenching
them tight in his fists until his hands started to turn reddish purple
with cold and drops of water ran down to his wrists.  Cold turned to
pain, pain to numbness.  He wished there was something he could do to
provoke the same response in his head.  Turn it off, turn it all off.
Leave a blank the brilliant white of the snowfield.

When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he nearly pissed himself.  Alex
stumbled forward and upward, almost sprawling

in the snow but catching himself just in time.  He whirled round, hands
still fists against his chest.  "Ziggy," he shouted.  "Christ, you
nearly scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry."  Ziggy looked on the point of tears.  "I said your name, but
you didn't react."

"I didn't hear you.  Christ, creeping up on people like that, you'll
get a bad name, man," Alex said with a shaky laugh, trying to make a
joke of his fear.

Ziggy scuffed at the snow with the toe of his wellies.  "I know you
probably wanted to be on your own, but when I saw you go out, I came
after you."

"It's OK, Zig."  Alex bent over and swept more snow off the backboard.
"Join me on my luxurious couch, where harem girls will feed us sherbet
and rose water."

Ziggy managed a faint smile.  "I'll pass on the sherbet.  It makes my
tongue nip.  You don't mind?"

"I don't mind, OK?"

"I was worried about you, that's all.  You knew her better than any of
us.  I didn't know if you wanted to talk, away from the others?"

Alex hunched into his jacket and shook his head.  "I've nothing much to
say.  I just keep seeing her face.  I didn't think I could sleep."  He
sighed.  "Hell, no.  What I mean is, I was too frightened to try.  When
I was wee, a friend of my dad's was in an accident in the shipyard.
Some sort of explosion, I don't know exactly what.  Anyway, it left him
with half a face.  Literally.  He had half a face.  The other half's a
plastic mask he has to wear over the burn tissue.  You've probably seen
him down the street or at the football.  He's hard to miss.  My dad
took me to see him in the hospital.  I was only five.  And it freaked
me out completely.  I kept imagining what was behind the mask.  When I
went to sleep at night, I'd wake up screaming because he'd be there in
my dreams.  Sometimes when the mask came off, it was maggots. Sometimes
it was a bloody mess, like those illustrations in your anatomy

textbooks.  The worst one was when the mask came off and there was
nothing there, just smooth skin with the echoes of what should be
there."  He coughed.  "That's why I'm frightened to go to sleep."

Ziggy put his arm round Alex's shoulders.  That's a hard one, Alex.
Thing is, though, you're older now.  What we saw last night, that was
as bad as it gets.  There's really nothing much your imagination can do
to make it worse.  Whatever you dream now, it's not going to be half as
bad as seeing Rosie like that."

Alex wished he could take more comfort from Ziggy's words.  But he
sensed they were only half true.  "I guess we're all going to have
demons to deal with after last night," he said.

"Some more practical than others," Ziggy said, taking his arm back and
clasping his hands.  "I don't know how, but Maclennan picked up on me
being gay."  He bit his lip.

"Oh, shit," Alex said.

"You're the only person I've ever told, you know that?"  Ziggy's mouth
twisted in a wry smile.  "Well, apart from the guys I've been with,
obviously."

"Obviously.  How did he know?"  Alex asked.

"I was being so careful not to lie, he spotted the truth in between the
cracks.  And now I'm worried that it's going to spread out further."

"Why should it?"

"You know how people love to gossip.  I don't suppose cops are any
different from anybody else in that respect.  They're bound to talk to
the university.  If they wanted to put pressure on us, that would be
one way to do it.  And what if they come and see us at home in
Kirkcaldy?  What if Maclennan thinks it would be a smart move to out me
to my parents?"

"He's not going to do that, Ziggy.  We're witnesses.  There's no
mileage for him in alienating us."

Ziggy sighed.  The wish I could believe you.  As far as I can

see, Maclennan is treating us more like suspects than witnesses.  And
that means he'll use anything as a pressure point, doesn't it?"

"I think you're being paranoid."

"Maybe.  But what if he says something to Weird or Mondo?"

"They're your friends.  They're not going to turn their backs on you
over that."

Ziggy snorted.  "I tell you what I think would happen if Maclennan lets
slip that their best mate is a poof.  I think Weird will want to fight
me and Mondo will never walk into a toilet with me again as long as he
lives.  They're homophobic, Alex.  You know that."

"They've known you half their lives.  That's going to count for a lot
more than stupid prejudice.  I didn't freak out when you told me," Alex
said.

"I told you precisely because I knew you wouldn't freak out.  You're
not a knee-jerk Neanderthal."

Alex pulled a self-deprecating face.  "It was a pretty safe bet,
telling somebody whose favourite painter is Caravaggio, I suppose.  But
they're not dinosaurs either, Ziggy.  They'd take it on board.  Revise
their world view in the light of what they know about you.  I really
don't think you should lose sleep over it."

Ziggy shrugged.  "Maybe you're right.  I'd prefer not to put it to the
test, though.  And even if they're all right, what happens if it gets
out?  How many out gays can you name in this university?  All those
English public schoolboys who spent their teens buggering each other,
they're not out of the closet, are they?  They're all running about
with Fionas and Fenellas, securing the succession.  Look at Jeremy
Thorpe.  He's standing trial for conspiring to murder his ex-lover,
just to keep his homosexuality quiet.  This isn't San Francisco, Alex.
This is St.  Andrews.  I've got years before I qualify as a doctor, and
I tell you now, my career is dead in the water if Maclennan outs me."

"It's not going to happen, Ziggy.  You're getting things out of
proportion.  You're tired, and you said yourself, we've all had our
heads fucked up by what's happened.  I tell you what I'm a lot more
concerned about."

"What's that?"

"The Land Rover.  What the fuck are we going to do about that?"

"We'll have to bring it back.  There's no other option.  Otherwise it
gets reported stolen, and we're in big trouble."

"Sure, I know that.  But when?"  Alex asked.  "We can't do it today.
Whoever dumped Rosie there must have had some sort of vehicle, and the
one thing that makes us look less like suspects is that none of us has
a car.  But if we're spotted tooling around in the snow in a Land
Rover, we go straight to number one on Maclennan's hit parade."  "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 plain-clothes 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 life 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 behaviour 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 honoured 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 out 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 arse holes
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 coloured
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 hold alls 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 enquiries.  "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."

The 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.

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 life Coast, the snow had gradually given
way to slush, then to this biting grey damp.  By the time the
north-east 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 dishtowel.
"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.  Till 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.  "All 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 home-made 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 knew her. 
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."

Jock Gilbey's eyes widened in shock.  "They've not kept him at the
police station?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Alex said, wiping his eyes with the back
of his hand.  "We had journalists on the doorstep at life Park, wanting
pictures and interviews.  And we didn't want to talk to them.  So me
and Weird and Mondo climbed out the toilet window and went off the back
way.  We're all supposed to be working at Safeway tomorrow, see?  But
Ziggy's not got a job, so he said he'd stay behind and come home
tomorrow.  We didn't want to leave the window unlocked, you know?  So
I've got to phone his dad and explain."

Alex gently freed himself from his mother's hand and went through to
the hall.  He lifted the phone and dialled Ziggy's number from memory.
He heard the ringing tone, then the familiar Polish-accented Scots of
Karel Malkiewicz.  Here we go again, Alex thought.  He was going to
have to explain last night once more.  He had a feeling it wouldn't be
the last time either.

"This is what happens when you fritter the nights away drinking and God
knows what else," Frank Mackie said bitterly.  "You get yourself in
bother with the police.  I'm a respected man in this town, you know.
The police have never been at my door.  But all it takes is one useless
galloot like you, and we'll be the talk of the steamie."

"If we hadn't been out late, she'd have lain there till morning.  She'd
have died on her own," Weird protested.

"That's none of my concern," his father said, crossing the room and
pouring himself a whisky from the corner bar he'd had installed in the
front room to impress those of his clients deemed respectable enough to
be invited into his home.  It was fitting, he thought, that an
accountant should show the trappings of achievement.  All he'd wanted
was for his son to show some signs of aspiration, but instead, he had
spawned a useless waster of a boy who spent his nights in the pub. What
was worse was that Tom clearly had a gift for figures.  But instead of
harnessing that practically by going in for accountancy, he'd chosen
the airy-fairy world of pure mathematics.  As if that was the first
step on the road to prosperity and decency.  "Well, that's that. 
You're staying in every night, my lad.  No parties, no pubs for you
this holiday.  You're confined to barracks.  You go to your work, and
you come straight home."

"But Dad, it's Christmas," Weird protested.  "Everybody will be out.  I
want to catch up with my pals."

"You should have thought about that before you got yourself in trouble
with the police.  You've got exams this year.  You can use the time to
study.  You'll thank me for it, you know."

"But Dad .. ."

"That's my last word on the subject.  While you live under my roof,
while I'm paying for you to go to the university, you'll do as you're
told.  When you start earning a living wage of your own, then you can
make the rules.  Till then, you do as I say.  Now get out of my
sight."

Fuming, Weird stormed out of the room and ran up the stairs.  God, he
hated his family.  And he hated this house.  Raith Estate was supposed
to be the last word in modern living, but he thought this was yet
another con perpetrated by the grey men in suits.  You didn't have to
be smart to recognize that this wasn't a patch on the house they used
to live in.  Stone walls, solid wooden doors with panels and beading,
stained glass in the landing window.  That was a house.  OK, this box
had more rooms, but they were poky, the ceilings and doorways so low
that Weird felt he had to stoop constantly to accommodate his six feet
and three inches.  The walls were paper thin too.  You could hear
someone fart in the next room.  Which was pretty funny, when you
thought about it.  His parents were so repressed, they wouldn't know an
emotion if it bit them on the leg.  And yet they'd spent a fortune on a
house that stripped everyone of privacy.  Sharing a room with Alex felt
more privileged than living under his parents' roof.

Why had they never made any attempt to understand the first thing about
him?  He felt as if he'd spent his whole life in rebellion.  Nothing he
achieved had ever cut any ice here because it didn't fit the narrow
confines of his parents' aspirations.  When he'd been crowned school
chess champion, his father had harrumphed that he'd have been better
off joining the bridge team.  When he'd asked to take up a musical
instrument, his father had refused point blank, offering to buy him a
set of golf clubs instead.  When he'd won the mathematics prize every
single year in high school, his father had responded by buying him
books on accountancy, completely missing the point.  Maths to Weird
wasn't about totting up figures; it was the beauty of the graph of a
quadratic equation, the elegance of calculus, the mysterious language
of algebra.  If it hadn't been for his pals, he'd have felt like a
complete freak.  As it was, they'd given him a place to let off steam
safely, a chance to spread his wings without crashing and burning.

And all he'd done in return was to give them grief.  Guilt washed over
him as he remembered his latest madness.  This time, he'd gone too far.
It had started as a joke, nicking Henry Cavendish's motor.  He'd had no
idea then where it might lead.  None of the others could save him from
the consequences if this came out, he realized that.  He only hoped he
wouldn't bring them down with him.

Weird slotted his new Clash tape into the stereo and threw himself down
on the bed.  He'd listen to the first side, then he'd get ready for
bed.  He had to be up at five to meet Alex and Mondo for their early
shift at the supermarket.  Normally, the prospect of rising so early
would have depressed the hell out of him.  But the way things were
here, it would be a relief to be out of the house, a mercy to have
something to stop his mind spinning in circles.  Christ, he wished he
had a joint.

At least his father's emotional brutality had pushed the invasive
thoughts of Rosie Duff to one side.  By the time Joe Strummer sang
"Julie's in the Drug Squad', Weird was locked in deep, dreamless
sleep.

Karel Malkiewicz drove like an old man at the best of times.  Hesitant,
slow, entirely unpredictable at junctions.  He was also a fair-weather
driver.  Under normal circumstances, the first sign of fog or frost
would mean the car stayed put and he'd walk down the steep hill of
Massareene Road to Bennochy, where he could catch a bus that would take
him to Factory Road and his work as an electrician in the floor
covering works.  It had been a long time since the disappearance of the
pall of linseed oil that had given the town its reputation of 'the
queer-like smell', but although linoleum had plummeted out of fashion,
what came out of Nairn's factory still covered the floors of millions
of kitchens, bathrooms and hallways.  It had given Karel Malkiewicz a
decent living since he'd come out of the RAF after the war, and he was
grateful.

That didn't mean he'd forgotten the reasons why he'd left Krakow in the
first place.  Nobody could survive that toxic atmosphere of mistrust
and perfidy without scars, especially not a Polish Jew who had been
lucky enough to get out before the pogrom that had left him without a
family to call his own.

He'd had to rebuild his life, create a new family for himself.  His old
family had never been particularly observant, so he hadn't felt too
bereft by his abandonment of his religion.  There were no Jews in
Kirkcaldy, he remembered someone telling him a few days after he'd
arrived in the town.  The sentiment was clear: "That's the way we like
it."  And so he'd assimilated, even going so far as to marry his wife
in a Catholic church.  He'd learned how to belong in this strange,
insular land that had made him welcome.  He'd surprised himself at the
fierce possessive pride he'd felt when a Pole had become Pope so
recently.  He so seldom thought of himself as Polish these days.

He'd been almost forty when the son he'd always dreamed of had finally
arrived.  It was a cause for rejoicing, but also for a renewal of fear.
Now he had so much more to lose.  This was a civilized country.  The
fascists could never gain a hold here.  That was the received wisdom,
anyway.  But Germany too had been a civilized country.  No one could
predict what might happen in any country when the numbers of the
dispossessed reached a critical mass.  Anyone who promised salvation
would find a following.

And lately, there had been good grounds for fear.  The National Front
were creeping through the political undergrowth.  Strikes and
industrial unrest were making the government edgy.  The IRA's bombing
campaign gave the politicians all the excuses they needed for
introducing repressive measures.  And that cold bitch who ran the Tory
party talked of immigrants swamping the indigenous culture.  Oh yes,
the seeds were all there.

So when Alex Gilhey had rung and told him his son had spent the night
in a police station, Karel Malkiewicz had no choice.  He wanted his boy
under his roof, under his wing.  Nobody would come and take his son
away in the night.  He wrapped up warmly, instructing his wife to
prepare a flask of hot soup and a parcel of sandwiches.  Then he set
off across life to bring his son home.

It took him nearly two hours to negotiate the thirty miles in his
elderly Vauxhall.  But he was relieved to see lights on in the house
Sigmund shared with his friends.  He parked the car, picked up his
supplies and marched up the path.

There was no answer to his knocking at first.  He stepped gingerly on
to the snow and looked in through the brightly lit kitchen window.  The
room was empty.  He banged on the window and shouted, "Sigmund!  Open
up, it's your father."

He heard the sound of feet clattering down stairs, then the door opened
to reveal his handsome son, grinning from ear to ear, his arms spread
wide in welcome.  "Dad," he said, stepping barefoot into the slush to
embrace his father.  The didn't expect to see you."

"Alex called.  I didn't want you to be alone.  So I came to get you."
Karel clasped his son to him, the butterfly of fear beating its wings
inside his chest.  Love, he thought, was a terrible thing.

Mondo sat cross-legged on his bed, within easy reach of his turntable.
He was listening, over and over again, to his personal theme, "Shine
On, You Crazy Diamond'.  The swooping guitars, the heartfelt anguish of
Roger Waters' voice, the elegiac synths, the breathy saxophone provided
the perfect soundtrack for wallowing to.

And wallowing was exactly what Mondo wanted to do.  He'd escaped the
smother of his mother's concern that had swamped him as soon as he'd
explained what had happened.  It had been quite pleasant for a while,
the familiar cocoon

of concern spinning itself around him.  But gradually, it had started
to stifle him and he'd excused himself with the need to be alone.  The
Greta Garbo routine always worked with his mother, who thought he was
an intellectual because he read books in French.  It seemed to escape
her notice that that's what you had to do when you were studying the
subject at degree level.

Just as well, really.  He couldn't have begun to explain the turmoil of
emotion that threatened to swamp him.  Violence was alien to him, a
foreign language whose grammar and vocabulary he'd never assimilated.
His recent confrontation with it had left him feeling shaky and
strange.  He couldn't honestly say he was sorry Rosie Duff was dead;
she'd humiliated him in front of his friends more than once when he'd
tried on the chat-up lines that seemed to work with other lassies.  But
he was sorry that her death had plummeted him into this difficult place
where he didn't belong.

What he really needed was sex.  That would take his mind off the
horrors of the night before.  It would be a sort of therapy.  Like
getting back on the horse.  Unfortunately, he lacked the amenity of a
girlfriend in Kirkcaldy.  Maybe he should make a couple of phone calls.
One or two of his exes would be more than happy to renew their
relationship.  They'd be a willing ear for his woes and it would tide
him over the holidays at least.  Judith, maybe.  Or Liz.  Yeah,
probably Liz.  The chubby ones were always so pathetically grateful for
a date, they came across with no effort at all.  He could feel himself
growing hard at the thought.

Just as he was about to get off the bed and go downstairs to the phone,
there was a knock at his door.  "Come in," he sighed wearily, wondering
what his mother wanted now.  He shifted his position to hide his
budding erection.

But it wasn't his mother.  It was his fifteen-year-old sister Lynn.
"Mum thought you might like a Coke," she said, waving the glass at
him.

"I can think of things I'd rather have," he said.

"You must be really upset," Lynn said.  "I can't imagine what that must
have been like."

In the absence of a girlfriend, he'd have to make do with impressing
his sister.  "It was pretty tough," he said.  "I wouldn't want to go
through that again in a hurry.  And the police were Neanderthal
imbeciles.  Why they felt the need to interrogate us as if we were IRA
bombers, I'll never know.  It took real guts to stand up to them, I can
tell you."

For some reason, Lynn wasn't giving him the unthinking adoration and
support he deserved.  She leaned against the wall, her expression that
of someone waiting for a break in the flow so she could get to what was
really on her mind.  "It must have done," she said mechanically.

"We'll probably have to face more questioning," he added.

"It must have been awful for Alex.  How is he?"

"Gilly?  Well, he's hardly Mr.  Sensitive.  He'll get over it."

"Alex is a lot more sensitive than you give him credit for," Lynn said
fiercely.  "Just because he played rugby, you think he's all muscle and
no heart.  He must be really torn up about it, especially with him
knowing the girl."

Mondo cursed inwardly.  He'd momentarily forgotten the crush his sister
had on Alex.  She wasn't in here to give him Coke and sympathy, she was
here because it gave her an excuse to talk about Alex.  "It's probably
just as well for him that he didn't know her as well as he'd have liked
to."

"What do you mean?"

"He fancied her something rotten.  He even asked her out.  Now, if
she'd said yes, then you can bet your bottom dollar that Alex would be
the prime suspect."

Lynn flushed.  "You're making it up.  Alex wouldn't go around chasing
barmaids."

Mondo gave a cruel little smile.  "Wouldn't he?  I don't think you know
your precious Alex as well as you think."

"You're a creep, you know that?"  Lynn said.  "Why are you

being so horrible about Alex?  He's supposed to be one of your best
friends."

She slammed out, leaving him to ponder her question.  Why was he being
so horrible about Alex, when normally he'd never have heard a word
against him?

Slowly, it began to dawn on him that, deep down, he blamed Alex for
this whole mess.  If they'd just gone straight down the path, somebody
else would have found Rosie Duff's body.  Somebody else would have had
to stand there and listen to the last breaths dragging out of her.
Somebody else would feel tainted by the hours they'd spent in a police
cell.

That he was now apparently a suspect in a murder inquiry was Alex's
fault, there was no getting away from it.  Mondo squirmed uncomfortably
at the thought.  He tried to push it away, but he knew you couldn't
close Pandora's box.  Once the idea was planted, it couldn't be
uprooted and thrown aside to wither.  This wasn't the time to be coming
up with notions that would drive a wedge between them.  They needed
each other now as they had never done before.  But there was no getting
away from it.  He wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for Alex.

And what if there was worse to come?  There was no escaping the fact
that Weird had been driving around in that Land Rover half the night.
He'd been taking girls for a spin, trying to impress them.  He didn't
have an alibi worth a shit, and neither did Ziggy, who had sneaked off
and dumped the Land Rover somewhere Weird couldn't find it.  And
neither did Mondo himself.  What had possessed him, borrowing the Land
Rover to take that lassie back to Guardbridge?  A quick fuck in the
back seat wasn't worth the hassle he faced if somebody remembered she'd
been at the party.  If the police started asking questions of the other
partygoers, somebody would shop them.  No matter how much the students
professed contempt for authority, somebody would lose their bottle and
tell tales.  The finger would point then.

Suddenly, blaming Alex seemed like the least of his worries.  And as he
turned over the events of the past few days, Mondo remembered something
he'd seen late one night.  Something that might just ease him off the
hook.  Something he was going to keep to himself for now.  Never mind
all for one and one for all.  The first person Mondo owed any duty of
care to was himself.  Let the others look after their own interests.

Maclennan closed the door behind him.  With WPC Janice Hogg and him
both in the room, it felt claustrophobic, the low slant of the roof
hemming them in.  This was the most pitiful element of sudden death, he
thought.  Nobody has the chance to tidy up after themselves, to present
a picture they'd like the world to see.  They're stuck with what they
left behind the last time they closed the door.  He'd seen some sad
sights in his time, but few more poignant than this.

Someone had taken the trouble to make this room look bright and
cheerful, in spite of the limited amount of light that came in at the
narrow dormer window overlooking the village street.  He could see St.
Andrews in the distance, still looking white under yesterday's snow,
though he knew the truth was different.  Already, pavements were filthy
with slush, the roads a slippery morass of grit and melt.  Beyond the
town, the grey smudge of the sea melted imperceptibly into the sky.  It
must be a fine view on a sunny day, he thought, turning back to the
magnolia-painted wood chip and the white candlewick bedspread, still
rumpled from where Rosie had last sat on it.  There was a single poster
on the wall.  Some group called Blondie, their lead singer busty and
pouting, her skirt impossibly short.  Was that what Rosie aspired to,
he wondered.

"Where would you like me to start, sir?"  Janice asked, looking around
at the 1950s wardrobe and dressing table which had been painted white
in an effort to make them look more contemporary.  There was a small
table by the bed with a single drawer.  Other than that, the only place
where anything might be concealed was a small laundry hamper tucked
behind the door and a metal wastepaper bin under the dressing table.

"You do the dressing table," he said.  That way, he didn't have to deal
with the make-up that would never be used again, the second-best bra
and the old knickers thrust to the back of the drawer for laundry
emergencies that never happened.  Maclennan knew his tender places, and
he preferred to avoid probing them whenever he could.

Janice sat on the end of the bed, where Rosie must have perched to peer
into the mirror and apply her makeup.  Maclennan turned to the dressing
table and slid open the drawer.  It contained a fat book called The Far
Pavilions, which Maclennan thought was just the sort of thing his ex
wife had used to keep him at bay in bed.  T'm reading, Barney," she'd
say in a tone of patient suffering, brandishing some doorstop novel
under his nose.  What was it with women and books?  He lifted out the
book, trying not to notice Janice systematically exploring drawers.
Underneath was a diary.  Refusing to allow himself optimism, Maclennan
picked it up.

If he'd been hoping for some confessional, he'd have been sorely
disappointed.  Rosie Duff hadn't been a "Dear Diary' sort of girl.  The
pages listed her shifts at the Lammas Bar, birthdays of family and
friends, and social events such as "Bob's party', "Julie's spree'.
Dates were indicated with the time and place and the word, "Him',
followed by a number.  It looked like she'd gone through 14, 15 and 16
in the course of the past year; 16 was, obviously, the most recent.  He
first appeared in early November and soon became a regular feature two
or

three times a week.  Always after work, Maclennan thought.  He'd have
to go back to the Lammas and ask again if anyone had seen Rosie meeting
a man after closing time.  He wondered why they met then, instead of on
Rosie's night off, or during the day when she wasn't working.  One or
other of them seemed determined to keep his identity secret.

He glanced across at Janice.  "Anything?"

"Nothing you wouldn't expect.  It's all the kind of stuff women buy for
themselves.  None of the tacky things that guys buy."

"Guys buy tacky things?"

"I'm afraid you do, sir.  Scratchy lace.  Nylon that makes you sweat.
What men want women to wear, not what they'd choose for themselves."

"So that's where I've been going wrong all these years.  I should
really have been buying big knickers from Marks and Spencer."

Janice grinned.  "Gratitude goes a long way, sir."

"Any sign she was on the pill?"

"Nothing so far.  Maybe Brian was on the money when he said she was a
good girl."

"Not entirely.  She wasn't a virgin, according to the pathologist."

"There's more than one way of losing your virginity, sir," Janice
pointed out, not quite courageous enough to cast aspersions on a
pathologist who everyone knew was more focused on his next drink and
his retirement than on whoever ended up on his slab.

"Aye.  And the pills are probably in her handbag, which hasn't turned
up yet."  Maclennan sighed and shut the drawer on the novel and the
diary.  Till take a look at the wardrobe."  Half an hour later, he had
to concede that Rosie Duff had not been a hoarder.  Her wardrobe
contained clothes and shoes, all in current styles.  In one corner,
there was a pile of paperbacks, all thick bricks of paper that promised
glamour,

wealth and love in equal measure.  "We're wasting our time here," he
said.

"I've just got one drawer to go.  Why don't you have a look in her
jewellery box?"  Janice passed him a box in the shape of a treasure
chest covered in white leatherette.  He flipped open the thin brass
clasp and opened the lid.  The top tray contained a selection of
earrings in a range of colours.  They were mostly big and bold, but
inexpensive.  In the lower tray there was a child's Timex watch, a
couple of cheap silver chains and a few novelty brooches; one looked
like a piece of knitting, complete with miniature needles; one a
fishing fly, and the third a brightly enamelled creature that looked
like a cat from another planet.  It was hard to read anything
significant into any of it.  "She liked her earrings," he said, closing
the box.  "Whoever she was seeing wasn't the kind who gives expensive
jewellery."

Janice reached to the back of her drawer and pulled out a packet of
photographs.  It looked as if Rosie had raided the family albums and
made her own selection.  It was a typical mixture of family photos: her
parents' wedding picture, Rosie and her brothers growing up, assorted
family groups spanning the last three decades, a few baby pictures and
some snaps of Rosie with school friends mugging at the camera in their
Madras College uniforms.  No photo-booth shots of her with boyfriends.
No boyfriends at all, in fact.  Maclennan flicked through them then
shoved them back in the packet.  "Come on, Janice, let's see if we can
find something a bit more productive to occupy us."  He took a last
look round the room that had told him far less than he'd hoped about
Rosie Duff.  A girl with a craving for something more glamorous than
she had.  A girl who kept herself to herself.  A girl who had taken her
secrets to the grave, probably protecting her killer in the process.

As they drove back down to St.  Andrews, Maclennan's radio crackled. He
fiddled with the knobs, trying to get a clear

signal.  Seconds later, Burnside's voice came through loud and clear.
He sounded excited.  "Sir?  I think we've got something."

Alex, Mondo and Weird had finished their shift stacking shelves in
Safeway, keeping their heads down and hoping nobody would recognize
them from the front page of the Daily Record.  They'd bought a bundle
of papers and walked along the High Street to the cafe where they'd
spent their early evenings as teenagers.

"Did you know that one in two adults in Scotland reads the Record?"
Alex said gloomily.

The other one can't read," Weird said, looking at the snatched picture
of the four of them on the doorstep of their residence.  "Christ, look
at us.  They might as well have captioned it, "Shifty bastards
suspected of rape and murder".  Do you suppose anybody seeing that
wouldn't think we'd done it?"

"It's not the most flattering photo I've ever had taken," Alex said.

"It's all right for you.  You're right at the back.  You can hardly
make out your face.  And Ziggy's turning away.  It's me and Weird that
have got it full frontal," Mondo complained.  "Let's see what the
others have got."

A similar picture appeared in the Scotsman, the Glasgow Herald and the
Courier, but thankfully on inside pages.  The murder made it to the
front of all of them, however, with the exception of the Courier.
Nothing as insignificant as a murder could shift the fat stock prices
and small ads from their front page.

They sat sipping their frothy coffees, silently poring over the column
inches.  "I suppose it could be worse," Alex said.

Weird made an incredulous face.  "Worse how, exactly?"

"They spelled our names right.  Even Ziggy's."

"Big fat hairy deal.  OK, I'll grant you they've stopped short of
calling us suspects.  But that's about all you can say in our favour.
This makes us look bad, Alex.  You know it does."


"Everybody we know is going to have seen this," Mondo said. "Everybody
is going to be into our ribs about it.  If this is my fifteen minutes
of fame, you can stuff it."

"Everybody was going to know anyway," Alex pointed out.  "You know what
this town's like.  Village mentality.  People have got nothing else to
keep them occupied but gossiping about their neighbours.  It doesn't
take the papers to spread the news around here.  The plus side is that
half the university lives in England, so they're not going to know
anything about this.  And by the time we get back after the New Year,
it'll be history."

"You think so?"  Weird folded the Scotsman shut with an air of
finality.  "I tell you something.  We better be praying that Maclennan
finds out who did this and puts him away."

"Why?"  Mondo asked.

"Because if he doesn't, we're going to go through the rest of our lives
as the guys that got away with murder."

Mondo looked like a man who's just been told he has terminal cancer.
"You're kidding?"

"I've never been more serious in my puff," Weird said.  "If they don't
arrest anybody for Rosie's murder, all anybody's going to remember is
that we're the fojur who spent the night at the police station.  It's
obvious, man.  We're going to get a not proven verdict without a trial.
"We all know they did it, the police just couldn't prove it," he added,
mimicking a woman's voice.  "Face it, Mondo, you're never going to get
laid again."  He grinned wickedly, knowing he'd hit his friend where it
hurt most.

"Fuck off, Weird.  At least I'll have memories," Mondo snapped.

Before any of them could say more, they were interrupted by a new
arrival.  Ziggy came in, shaking rain from his hair.  "I thought I'd
find you here," he said.

"Ziggy, Weird says .. ."  Mondo began.

"Never mind that.  Maclennan's here.  He wants to talk to the four of
us again."

Alex raised his eyebrows.  "He wants to drag us back to St. 
Andrews?"

Ziggy shook his head.  "No.  He's here in Kirkcaldy.  He wants us to
come to the police station."

"Fuck," Weird said.  "My old man's going to go mental.  I'm supposed to
be grounded.  He'll think I'm giving him the V-sign.  It's not like I
can tell him I've been at the cop shop."

"Thank my dad for the fact that we're not having to go to St. Andrews,"
Ziggy said.  "He went spare when Maclennan turned up at the house. 
Read him the riot act, accusing him of treating us like criminals when
we'd done everything we could to save Rosie.  I thought at one point he
was going to start battering him with the Record."  He smiled.  "I tell
you, I was proud of him."

"Good for him," Alex said.  "So where's Maclennan?"

"Outside in his car.  With my dad's car parked right behind him."
Ziggy's shoulders started shaking with laughter.  "I don't think
Maclennan's ever come up against anything quite like my old man."

"So we've got to go to the police station now?"  Alex asked.

Ziggy nodded.  "Maclennan's waiting for us.  He said my dad could drive
us there, but he's not in the mood for hanging around."

Ten minutes later, Ziggy was sitting alone in an interview room.  When
they'd arrived at the police station, Alex, Weird and Mondo had been
taken to a separate interview room under the watchful eye of a
uniformed constable.  An anxious Karel Malkiewicz had been
unceremoniously abandoned in the reception area, told abruptly by
Maclennan that he'd have to wait there.  And Ziggy had been shepherded
off, sandwiched between Maclennan and Burnside, who had promptly left
him to kick his heels.

They knew what they were doing, he thought ruefully.  Leaving him
isolated like this was a sure-fire recipe for unsettling him.

And it was working.  Although he showed no outward signs of tension,
Ziggy felt taut as a piano wire, vibrating with apprehension.  The
longest five minutes of his life ended when the two detectives returned
and sat down opposite him.

Maclennan's eyes burned into his, his narrow face tight with some
suppressed emotion.  "Lying to the police is a serious business," he
said without preamble, his voice clipped and cold.  "Not only is it an
offence, it also makes us wonder what exactly it is you've got to hide.
You've had a night to sleep on things.  Would you care to revise your
earlier statement?"

A chilly shock of fear spasmed in Ziggy's chest.  They knew something.
That was clear.  But how much?  He said nothing, waiting for Maclennan
to make his move.

Maclennan opened his file and pulled out the fingerprint sheet that
Ziggy had signed the previous day.  "These are your fingerprints?"

Ziggy nodded.  He knew what was coming now.

"Can you explain how they came to be on the steering wheel and gear
stick of a Land Rover registered to a Mr.  Henry Cavendish, found
abandoned this morning in the parking area of an industrial unit on
Largo Road, t Andrews?"

Ziggy closed his eyes momentarily.  "Yes, I can."  He paused, trying to
gather his thoughts.  He'd rehearsed this conversation in bed that
morning, but all his lines had deserted him now he was faced with this
unnerving reality.

"I'm waiting, Mr.  Malkiewicz," Maclennan said.

"The Land Rover belongs to one of the other students who shares the
house with us.  We borrowed it last night to get to the party."

"You borrowed it?  You mean, Mr.  Cavendish gave you his permission to
ride around in his Land Rover?"  Maclennan pounced, refusing to give
Ziggy the chance to get into his stride.

"Not exactly, no."  Ziggy looked off to one side, unable to meet
Maclennan's stare.  "Look, I know we shouldn't have

taken it, but it was no big deal."  As soon as the words were out of
his mouth, Ziggy knew they were a mistake.

"It's a criminal offence.  Which I'm sure you knew.  So, you stole the
Land Rover and took it to the party.  That doesn't explain how it ended
up where it did."

Ziggy's breath was fluttering in his chest like a trapped moth.  "I
moved it there for safety.  We were drinking and I didn't want any of
us to be tempted to drive it when we were drunk."

"When exactly did you move it?"

"I don't know exactly.  Probably some time between one and two in the
morning."

"You must have had quite a lot to drink by then yourself."  Maclennan
was on a roll now, his shoulders hunched forward as he leaned into the
interrogation.

"I was probably over the limit, yes.  But .. ."

"Another criminal offence.  So you were lying when you said you never
left the party?"  Maclennan's eyes felt like surgical probes.

"I was gone for as long as it took to move the Land Rover and walk
back.  Maybe twenty minutes."

"We've only got your word for that.  We've been speaking to some of the
other people at the party, and we've not had many sightings of you.  I
think you were away for a lot longer than that.  I think you came
across Rosie Duff and you offered her a lift."

"No!"

Maclennan continued relentlessly.  "And something happened that made
you angry, and you raped her.  Then you realized that she could destroy
your life if she went to the police.  You panicked and you killed her.
You knew you had to dump the body, but you had the Land Rover, so that
wasn't a big deal.  And then you cleaned yourself up and went back to
the party.  Isn't that how it happened?"

Ziggy shook his head.  "No.  You've got it all wrong.  I never

saw her, never touched her.  I just got rid of the Land Rover before
somebody had an accident."

"What happened to Rosie Duff wasn't an accident.  And you were the one
who made it happen."

Flushed with fear, Ziggy ran his hands through his hair.  "No.  You've
got to believe me.  I had nothing to do with her death."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because I'm telling you the truth."

"No.  What you're telling me is a new version of events that covers
what you think I know.  I don't think it's anything like the whole
truth."

There was a long silence.  Ziggy clenched his jaw tight, feeling the
muscles bunching in his cheeks.

Maclennan spoke again.  This time, his tone was softer.  "We're going
to find out what happened.  You know that.  Right now, we've got a team
of forensic experts going over every inch of that Land Rover.  If we
find one spot of blood, one hair from Rosie Duff's head, one fibre from
her clothes, it'll be a very long time before you sleep in your own bed
again.  You could save yourself and your father a lot of grief if you
just tell us everything now."

Ziggy almost burst out laughing.  It was so transparent a move, so
revealing of the weakness of Maclennan's hand.  "I've got nothing more
to say."

"Have it your own way, son.  I'm arresting you for taking and driving
away a motor vehicle without the owner's consent.  You'll be bailed to
report to the police station in a week's time."  Maclennan pushed his
chair back.  "I suggest you get yourself a lawyer, Mr.  Malkiewicz."

Inevitably, Weird was next up.  It had to be the Land Rover, he'd
decided as they'd sat in silence in the interview room.  OK, he'd told
himself.  He'd hold his hand up, carry the can.  He wasn't going to let
the others take the blame for

his stupidity.  They wouldn't send him to jail, not for something so
trivial.  It would be a tine, and he could pay that off somehow.  He
could get a part-time job.  You could be a mathematician with a
criminal record.

He slouched in the chair opposite Maclennan and Burnside, a cigarette
dangling from one corner of his mouth, trying to look casual.  "How can
I help?"  he said.

"The truth would be a start," Maclennan said.  "Somehow, it slipped
your mind that you'd been joyriding in a Land Rover when you were
supposed to be partying."

Weird spread his hands.  "It's a fair cop.  Just youthful high spirits,
officer."

Maclennan slammed his hands down on the table.  "This isn't a game,
son.  This is murder.  So stop acting the goat."

"But that's all it was, really.  Look, the weather was shite.  The
others went on ahead to the Lammas while I finished doing the dishes. I
was standing in the kitchen looking out at the Land Rover, and I
thought, why not?  Henry's away back to England and nobody would be any
the wiser if I borrowed it for a few hours.  So I took it down the pub.
The other three were pretty pissed off with me, but when they saw the
way the snow was coming down, they decided it wasn't such a bad idea
after all.  So we took it to the party.  Ziggy moved it later, to save
me from making a complete arse of myself.  And that's all there is to
it."  He shrugged.  "Honest.  We didn't tell you before because we
didn't want to waste your time over something and nothing."

Maclennan glared at him.  "You're wasting my time now."  He opened his
file.  "We've got a statement from Helen Walker that you persuaded her
to go for a ride in the Land Rover.  According to her, you were trying
to grab her as you drove.  Your driving became so erratic that the Land
Rover went into a skid and stalled against a kerb.  She jumped out and
ran back to the party.  She said, and I'm quoting now, "He was out of
control."

Weird's face twitched, tipping the ash from his cigarette down his
jumper.  "Silly wee lassie," he said, his voice less confident than his
words.

"Just how out of control were you, son?"

Weird managed a shaky laugh.  "Another one of your trick questions.
Look, OK, I was a bit carried away with myself.  But there's a big
difference between having a bit of fun in a borrowed motor and killing
somebody."

Maclennan gave him a look of contempt.  "That's your idea of a bit of
fun, is it?  Molesting a woman and frightening her to the point where
running through a blizzard in the middle of the night is better than
sitting in a car with you?"  Weird looked away, sighing.  "You must
have been angry.  You get a woman into your stolen Land Rover, you
think you're going to impress her and get your way with her, but
instead she runs away.  So what happens next?  You see Rosie Duff in
the snow, and you think you'll work your magic on her?  Only she
doesn't want to know, she fights you off, but you overpower her.  And
then you lose it, because you know she can destroy your life."

Weird jumped to his feet.  "I don't have to sit here and listen to
this.  You're full of shite, you've got nothing on me and you know
it."

Burnside was on his feet, obstructing Weird's path to the door while
Maclennan leaned back in his chair.  "Not so fast, son," Maclennan
said.  "You're under arrest."

Mondo hunched his shoulders round his ears, a feeble defence against
what he knew was coming next.  Maclennan gave him a long, cool stare.
"Fingerprints," he said.  "Your fingerprints on the steering wheel of a
stolen Land Rover.  Care to comment?"

"It wasn't stolen.  Just borrowed.  Stolen is when you don't plan to
give it back, right?"  Mondo sounded petulant.

"I'm waiting," Maclennan said, ignoring the reply.

"I gave somebody a lift home, OK?"

Maclennan leaned forward, a hound with a sniff of prey.  "Who?"

"A girl that was at the party.  She needed to get home to Guardbridge,
so I said I'd take her."  Mondo reached inside his jacket and took out
a piece of paper.  He'd written down the girl's details while he'd been
waiting, anticipating just this moment.  Somehow, not saying her name
out loud made it less real, less significant.  Besides, he'd worked out
that if he pitched it right, he could make himself look even further in
the clear.  Never mind that he'd be dropping some girl in the shit with
her parents.  "There you go.  You can ask her, she'll tell you."

"What time was this?"

He shrugged.  "I don't know.  Two o'clock, maybe?"

Maclennan looked down at the name and address.  Neither was familiar to
him.  "What happened?"

Mondo gave a little smirk, a worldly moment of male complicity.  "I
drove her home.  We had sex.  We said goodnight.  So you see,
Inspector, I had no reason to be interested in Rosie Duff, even if I
had seen her. Which I didn't.  I'd just got laid.  I was feeling pretty
pleased with myself."

"You say you had sex.  Where, exactly?"

"In the back seat of the Land Rover."

"Did you use a condom?"

"I never believe women when they say they're on the pill.  Do you?  Of
course I used a condom."  Now Mondo was more relaxed.  This was
territory he understood, territory where males colluded with each other
in a conspiracy of comprehension.

"What did you do with it afterwards?"

"I chucked it out the window.  Leaving it in the Land Rover would have
been a bit of a giveaway with Henry, you know?"  He could see Maclennan
was struggling to know where to go next with his questions.  He'd been
right.  His admission

had defused their line of questioning.  He hadn't been driving round in
the snow, frustrated and desperate for sex.  So what possible motive
could he have had for raping Rosie Duff and killing her?

Maclennan gave a grim smile, not joining in Mondo's assumption of
camaraderie.  "We'll be checking out your story, Mr.  Kerr.  Let's see
if this young woman backs you up.  Because if she doesn't, that paints
a very different picture, doesn't it?"

It didn't feel like Christmas Eve.  Walking to the bakery for a pie at
lunchtime, Barney Maclennan had experienced the illusion of having been
dropped into a parallel universe.  Shop windows blossomed with garish
Christmas decorations, fairy lights twinkled in the gloaming and the
streets were thronged with shoppers staggering under the weight of
bulging carrier bags.  But it seemed alien to him.  Their concerns were
not his; they had something more to look forward to than a Christmas
dinner tainted with the sad taste of failure.  Eight days since Rosie
Duff's murder, and no prospect of an arrest.

He'd been so confident that the discovery of the Land Rover had been
the keystone that would support a case against one or more of the four
students.  Especially after the interviews in Kirkcaldy.  Their stories
had been plausible enough, but then they'd had a day and a half to
perfect them.  And he'd still had the sense that he wasn't getting the
whole truth, though it was hard to pinpoint where precisely the
falsehood lay.  He'd believed hardly a word that Tom Mackie said, but
Maclennan was honest enough to acknowledge that might have something to
do with the deep antipathy he'd felt towards the maths student.

Ziggy Malkiewicz was a deep one, that was for sure.  If he'd been the
killer, Maclennan knew he'd get nowhere until he had solid evidence;
the medical student wasn't going to cave in.  He thought he'd broken
Davey Kerr's story when the lassie in Guardbridge had denied they'd had
sex.  But Janice Hogg, whom he'd taken with him for the sake of
propriety, had been convinced that the girl had been lying, trying
misguidedly to protect her reputation.  Right enough, when he'd sent
Janice back to re-interview the girl alone, she'd broken down and
admitted that she had let Kerr have sex with her.  It didn't sound as
if it was an experience she was keen to repeat.  Which, thought
Maclennan, was interesting.  Maybe Davey Kerr hadn't been quite as
satisfied and cheerful afterwards as he'd made out.

Alex Gilbey was a likely prospect, if only because there was no
evidence that he'd driven the Land Rover.  His fingerprints were all
over the interior, but not around the driving seat.  That didn't let
him off the hook, however.  If Gilbey had killed Rosie, he would likely
have called for help from the others, and they would probably have
given it; Maclennan was under no misapprehension about the strength of
the bond that united them.  And if Gilbey had arranged a date with
Rosie Duff that had gone horribly wrong, Maclennan was pretty sure that
Malkiewicz wouldn't have hesitated to do everything he could to protect
his friend.  Whether Gilbey knew it or not, Malkiewicz was in love with
him, Maclennan had decided on nothing more than his gut reaction.

But there was more than Maclennan's instinct at play here.  After the
frustrating series of interviews, he'd been about to head back for St.
Andrews when a familiar voice had hailed him.  "Hey, Barney, I heard
you were in town," echoed across the bleak car park.

Maclennan swung round.  "Robin?  That you?"

A slim figure in a police constable's uniform emerged into a pool of
light.  Robin Maclennan was fifteen years younger

than his brother, but the resemblance was striking.  "Did you think you
could sneak off without saying hello?"

They told me you were out on patrol."

Robin reached his brother and shook his hand.  "Just came back for
refs.  I thought it was you I saw as we pulled up.  Come away and have
a coffee with me before you go."  He grinned and gave Maclennan a
friendly punch on the shoulder.  "I've got some information I think
you'll appreciate."

Maclennan frowned at his brother's retreating back.  Robin, ever sure
of his charm, hadn't waited for his brother's reaction, but had turned
towards the building and the canteen inside.  Maclennan caught up with
him by the door.  "What do you mean, information?"  he asked.

"Those students you've got in the frame for the Rosie Duff murder.  I
thought I'd do a wee bit of digging, see what the grapevine had to
say."

"You shouldn't be involving yourself in this, Robin.  It's not your
case," Maclennan protested as he followed his brother down the
corridor.

"A murder like this, it's everybody's case."

"All the same."  If he failed with this one, he didn't want his bright,
charismatic brother tarred with the same brush.  Robin was a pleaser;
he'd go far further in the force than Maclennan had, which was no less
than he deserved.  "None of them has a record anyway.  I've already
checked."

Robin turned as they entered the canteen and gave him the hundred-watt
smile again.  "Look, this is my patch.  I can get people to tell me
stuff that they're not going to give up to you."

Intrigued, Maclennan followed his brother to a quiet corner table and
waited patiently while Robin fetched the coffees.  "So, what do you
know?"

"Your boys are not exactly innocents abroad.  When they were thirteen
or so, they got caught shoplifting."

Maclennan shrugged.  "Who didn't shoplift when they were kids?"

"This wasn't just nicking a couple of bars of chocolate or packets of
fags.  This was what you might call Formula One Challenge Shoplifting.
It seems they'd dare each other to nick really difficult things.  Just
for the hell of it.  Mostly from small shops.  Nothing they
particularly wanted or needed.  Everything from secateurs to perfume.
It was Kerr who got caught red-handed with a Chinese ginger jar from a
licensed grocer.  The other three got nabbed standing outside waiting
for him.  They folded like a bad poker hand as soon as they were
brought in.  They took us to a shed in Gilbey's garden, where they'd
stashed the loot.  Everything still in its packaging."  Robin shook his
head wonderingly.  "The guy who arrested them said it was like
Aladdin's cave."

"What happened?"

"Strings got pulled.  Gilbey's old man's a headmaster, Mackie's dad
plays golf with the Chief Super.  They got off with a caution and the
fear of God."

"Interesting.  But it's hardly the Great Train Robbery."

Robin conceded with a nod.  "That's not all, though.  A couple of years
later, there were a series of pranks with parked cars.  The owners
would come back and find graffiti on the inside of their windscreens,
written in lipstick.  And the cars would all be locked up tight.  It
all ended as suddenly as it began, around the time that a stolen car
got burned out.  There was never anything concrete against them, but
our local intelligence officer reckons they were behind it.  They seem
to have a knack for taking the piss."

Maclennan nodded.  "I don't think I could argue with that."  He was
intrigued by the information about the cars.  Maybe the Land Rover
hadn't been the only vehicle on the road that night with one of his
suspects behind the wheel.

Robin had been eager to find out more details of the investigation, but
Maclennan sidestepped neatly.  The conversation slipped into familiar
channels family, football, what to get their parents for Christmas
before Maclennan had managed

to get away.  Robin's information wasn't much, it was true, but it made
Maclennan feel there was a pattern to the activities of the Laddies fi'
Kirkcaldy that smacked of a love of risk-taking.  It was the sort of
behaviour that could easily tip over into something much more
dangerous.

Feelings were all very well, but they were worthless without hard
evidence.  And hard evidence was what was sorely lacking.  The Land
Rover had turned into a forensic dead end They'd practically dismantled
the entire interior but nothing had turned up to prove that Rosie Duff
had ever been inside it.  Excitement had burned through the team like a
fuse when the scene of crime officers had discovered traces of blood,
but closer examination had revealed that not only did it not belong to
Rosie, it wasn't even human.

The one faint hope on the horizon had emerged only a day ago.  A
householder in Trinity Place had been doing some seasonal tidying in
his garden when he'd found a sodden bundle of material thrust into his
hedge.  Mrs.  Duff had identified it as belonging to Rosie.  Now it had
gone off to the lab for testing, but Maclennan knew that in spite of
his marking it urgent, nothing would happen now until after the New
Year.  Just another frustration to add to the list.

He couldn't even decide whether to charge Mackie, Kerr and Malkiewicz
with taking and driving away.  They'd answered their bail requirements
religiously and he'd been on the point of charging them when he'd
overheard a conversation in the police social club.  He'd been shielded
from the officers talking by the back of a banquette, but he'd
recognized the voices of Jimmy Lawson and Iain Shaw.  Shaw had
advocated throwing every charge they could come up with at the
students.  But to Maclennan's surprise, Lawson had disagreed.  "It just
makes us look bad," the uniformed constable had said.  "We look petty
and vindictive.  It's like putting up a billboard saying, Hey, we can't
get them for murder, but we're going to make their lives a misery
anyway."

"So what's wrong with that?"  Iain Shaw had replied.  "If they're
guilty, they should suffer."

"But maybe they're not guilty," Lawson said urgently.  "We're supposed
to care about justice, aren't we?  That's not just about nailing the
guilty, it's also about protecting the innocent.  OK, so they lied to
Maclennan about the Land Rover.  But that doesn't make them killers."

"If it wasn't one of them, who was it, then?"  Shaw challenged.

"I still think it's tied in to Hallow Hill.  Some pagan rite or other.
You know as well as me that we get reports every year from Tentsmuir
Forest about animals that look like they've been the victims of some
sort of ritual slaughter.  And we never pay any attention to it,
because it's no big deal in the great scheme of things.  But what if
some weirdo has been building up to this for years?  It was pretty near
to Saturnalia, after all."

"Saturnalia?"

"The Romans celebrated the winter solstice on December seventeenth. But
it was a pretty moveable feast."

Shaw snorted incredulity.  "Christ, Jimmy, you've been doing your
research."

"All I did was ask down at the library.  You know I want to join CID,
I'm just trying to show willing."

"So you think it was some satanic nutter that offed Rosie?"

The don't know.  It's a theory, that's all.  But we're going to look
very fucking stupid if we point the finger at these four students and
then there's another human sacrifice come Beltane."

"Beltane?"  Shaw said faintly.

"End of April, beginning of May.  Big pagan festival.  So I think we
should stand back from hitting these kids too hard until we've got a
better case against them.  After all, if they hadn't stumbled across
Rosie's body, the Land Rover would have been returned, nobody any the
wiser, no damage done.  They just got unlucky."

Then they'd finished their drinks and left.  But Lawson's words stuck
in Maclennan's mind.  He was a fair man, and he couldn't help
acknowledging that the PC had a point.  If they'd known from the start
the identity of the mystery man Rosie had been seeing, they'd barely
have looked twice at the quartet from Kirkcaldy.  Maybe he was going in
hard against the students simply because he had nothing else to focus
on.  Uncomfortable though it was to be reminded of his obligations by a
woolly suit, Lawson had persuaded Maclennan he should hold back on
charging Malkiewicz and Mackie.

For now, at least.

In the meanwhile, he'd put out one or two feelers.  See if anybody knew
anything about satanic rituals in the area.  The trouble was, he didn't
have a clue where to start.  Maybe he'd get Burnside to have a word
with some of the local ministers.  He smiled grimly.  That would take
their minds off the baby Jesus, that was for sure.

Weird waved goodbye to Alex and Mondo at the end of their shift and
headed down towards the prom.  He hunched his shoulders against the
chill wind, burying his chin in his scarf.  He was supposed to be
finishing off his Christmas shopping, but he needed some time on his
own before he could face the relentless festive cheer of the High
Street.

The tide was out, so he made his way down the slimy steps from the
esplanade to the beach.  The wet sand was the colour of old putty in
the low grey light of the afternoon and it sucked at his feet
unpleasantly as he walked.  It fitted his mood perfectly.  He couldn't
remember ever having felt so depressed about his life.

Things at home were even more confrontational than usual.  He'd had to
tell his father about his arrest, and his revelation had provoked a
constant barrage of criticism and digs about his failure to live up to
what a good son should be.  He had to account for every minute spent
outside the house,

years old all over again.  The worst of it was

V he was ten y [dn't even manage to take the moral high |V Weird
coulcJ^ he was in the wrong.  He almost felt as if ijtnd.  He knew)
empt was deserved, and that was the most

Mather's conte" of all.  He'd always been able to console him

<j t) | '

yes sing thing C WSiS the better way.  But this time, he'd placed \,
that his way he limits.

i self outside wf better.  Boring, repetitive and undignified.  ybrk
was no me) he'd have turned it into a big joke, an |\ve upon a
tin'>nayhem and mischief.  The person who would yortunity for " Binding
up his supervisors and enlisting the Ye relished wil and Mondo in a
series of pranks felt like a ^ort of Alex * to Weird now.  What had
happened to Rosie \ant stranger involvement in the case had forced him
to \ff and his inV he was indeed the waster that his father Vnowledge
that/ vcd him to be.  And it wasn't a comfortable

M always belie" \\.  uzation.  consolation for him in friendship
either.  For

^hiere was no * the others didn't feel like being absorbed ye, being
witHy stem  it felt \fc& a reminder of all his fail\$> a support s, 't
escape his guilt with them, because they ^V He couldn .g'j implicated
in his actions, even though \"-e the ones r/gd to blame him for it.

V never see mAw how he was going to face the new term.  ^He didn't
knojopped and slithered under his feet as he Vdderwrack r/of the beach
and started to climb the broad Belied the end ^e Port Brae.  Like the
seaweed, everything ^Vs towards med and unstable.

Wt him felt s -aded in the west, Weird turned towards the

l^A.s the light f/,retend to be part of the world again.  t t" Jf

^ps.  Time to j

New Year's Eve, 1978; Kirkcaldy, Scotland They'd made a pact, back when
they were fifteen, when their parents were first persuaded that they
could be allowed out first-footing.  At the year's midnight, the four
Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy would gather in the Town Square and bring in the
New Year together.  Every year so far, they'd kept their word, standing
around jostling each other as the hands of the town clock crept towards
twelve.  Ziggy would bring his transistor radio to make sure they heard
the bells, and they'd pass around whatever drink they'd managed to
acquire.  They'd celebrated the first year with a bottle of sweet
sherry and four cans of Carlsberg Special.  These days, they'd
graduated to a bottle of Famous Grouse.

There was no official celebration in the square, but over recent years
groups of young people had taken to congregating there.  It wasn't a
particularly attractive place, mostly because the Town House looked
like one of the less alluring products of Soviet architecture, its
clock tower greened with verdigris.  But it was the only open space in
the town centre apart from the bus station, which was even more
charmless.  The square also boasted a Christmas tree and fairy lights,
which made it marginally more festive than the bus station.

Ill

That year, Alex and Ziggy arrived together.  Ziggy had called round to
the house to collect him, charming Mary Gilbey into giving them both a
tot of Scotch to keep out the cold.  Pockets stuffed with home-made
shortbread, black bun which nobody would eat, and sultana cake, they'd
walked down past the station and the library, past the Adam Smith
Centre with its posters advertising Babes in the Wood starring Russell
Hunter and the Patton Brothers, past the Memorial Gardens.  Their
conversation kicked off with speculation as to whether Weird would
manage to persuade his father to let him off the leash for Hogmanay.

"He's been acting pretty strange lately," Alex said.

"Gilly, he's always strange.  That's why we call him Weird."

"I know, but he's been different.  I've noticed it, working beside him.
He's been kind of subdued.  He's not had much to say for himself."

"Probably something to do with his current lack of access to alcohol
and substances," Ziggy said wryly.

"He's not even been stroppy, though.  That's the clincher.  You know
Weird.  The minute he thinks anybody might be taking the piss, he
erupts.  But he's been keeping his head down, not arguing when the
supervisors have a go.  He just stands and takes it, then gets on with
whatever they want him to do.  You think it's the business with Rosie
that's got to him?"

Ziggy shrugged.  "Could be.  He took it pretty lightly at the time, but
then he was off his head.  To tell you the truth, I've hardly spoken to
him since the day Maclennan came over."

"I've only seen him at work.  Soon as we clock off, he's out of there.
He won't even come for a coffee with me and Mondo."

Ziggy pulled a face.  T'm surprised Mondo's got the time for coffee."

"Go easy on him.  It's his way of dealing with it.  When he's getting
his end away with some lassie, he can't be thinking

about the murder.  Which is why he's going for the all-comers' record,"
Alex added with a grin.

They crossed the road and walked down Wemyssfield, the short street
that led to the Town Square.  They had the confident stride of men on
their home turf, a place so familiar that it conferred a kind of
ownership.  It was ten to twelve when they trotted down the wide,
shallow steps that led to the paved area outside the Town House.  There
were already several groups of people passing bottles from hand to
hand.  Alex looked around to see if he could spot the others.

"Over there, up at the Post Office end," Ziggy said.  "Mondo's brought
the latest lay.  Oh, and Lynn's there with them too."  He pointed to
his left, and they set off to join the others.

After the exchange of greetings, and the general agreement that it
didn't look like Weird was going to make it, Alex found himself
standing next to Lynn.  She was growing up, he thought.  Not a kid any
more.  With her elfin features and dark curls, she was a feminine
version of Mondo.  But paradoxically, the elements that made his face
seem weak had the opposite effect with Lynn.  There was nothing
remotely fragile about her.  "So, how's it going?"  Alex said.  It
wasn't much of a line, but then, he didn't want to be thought to be
chatting up fifteen-year-olds.

"Great.  You have a good Christmas?"

"Not bad."  He screwed up his face.  "It was hard not to think about ..
. you know."

"I know.  I couldn't get her out of my mind either.  I kept wondering
what it must be like for her family.  They'd have probably bought her
Christmas presents by the time she died.  What a horrible reminder,
having them in the house."

The suppose practically everything must be a horrible reminder.  Come
on, let's talk about something different.  How are you getting on at
school?"

Her face fell.  She didn't want to be reminded of the age gap between
them, he realized.  "Fine.  I've got my O grades

this year.  Then my Highers.  I can't wait to get them out of the way
so I can start my life properly."

"Do you know what you're going to do?"  Alex asked.

"Edinburgh College of Art.  I want to do a Fine Art degree and then go
to the Courtauld in London and learn how to be a picture restorer."

Her confidence was beautiful to behold, he thought.  Had he ever been
so sure of himself?  He'd more or less drifted into History of Art,
because he'd never had the confidence in his talent as a practitioner.
He whistled softly.  "Seven years studying?  That's a big
commitment."

"It's what I want to do, and that's what it takes."

"What made you want to restore pictures?"  He was genuinely curious.

"It fascinates me.  First the research and then the science, and then
that leap in the dark where you have to get in tune with what the
artist really wanted to let us see.  It's exciting, Alex."

Before he could respond, a shout went up from the others.  "He made
it!"

Alex turned round to see Weird outlined against the grey Scottish
baronial Sheriff Court, his arms windmilling like a disarticulated
scarecrow.  As he ran, he let out a whooping cry.  Alex looked up at
the clock.  Only a minute to spare.

Then Weird was upon them, hugging them, grinning.  "I just thought,
this is stupid.  I'm a grown man and my father's trying to keep me from
my friends on Hogmanay.  What's that about?"  He shook his head.  "If
he throws me out, I can bunk up with you, right, Alex?"

Alex punched him on the shoulder.  "Why not?  I'm used to your
disgusting snoring."

"Quiet, everybody," Ziggy shouted over the hubbub.  "It's the bells."

A hush fell over them as they strained to hear the tinny translation of
Big Ben coming from Ziggy's transistor.  As the

chimes began, the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy looked at each other.  Their
arms rose as if drawn by a common thread and they clasped their hands
on the final stroke of twelve.  "Happy New Year," they chorused.  Alex
could see his friends were as choked with emotion as he was himself.

Then they broke away from each other and the moment was gone.  He
turned to Lynn and kissed her chastely on the lips.  "Happy New Year,"
he said.

"I think it might be," she said, a rosy blush on her cheeks.

Ziggy cracked open the bottle of Grouse and it passed from hand to
hand.  Already the groups in the square were breaking up, everyone
mingling and wishing strangers a guid New Year with whisky breath and
generous embraces.  A few people who knew them from school commiserated
with their hard luck at stumbling on a dying girl in the snow.  There
was no malice in their words, but Alex could see from the eyes of his
friends that they hated it as much as he did.  A bunch of girls were
dancing an impromptu eight some reel by the Christmas tree.  Alex
looked around, unable to articulate the emotions swelling in his
breast.

Lynn sneaked her hand into his.  "What are you thinking, Alex?"

He looked down at her and forced a tired smile.  "I was just thinking
how easy it would be if time froze now.  If I never had to see St.
Andrews again as long as I live."

"It won't be as bad as you think.  You've only got six months to go
anyway, and then you'll be free."

The could come back at weekends."  The words were out before Alex knew
he was going to say them.  They both knew what he meant.

"I'd like that," she said.  "We'll just not mention it to my horrible
brother, though."

Another New Year, another pact.

At the police social club in St.  Andrews, the drink had been

flowing for some time.  The bells were almost lost in the raucous
bonhomie of the Hogmanay dance.  The only curb on the boisterousness of
those who suffered restraint as a condition of their employment was the
presence of spouses, fiancees and anyone who could be inveigled into
coming along to save the faces of the unattached.

Flushed with exertion, Jimmy Lawson was flanked by the two middle-aged
women who operated the station switchboard in a Dashing White Sergeant
set.  The pretty dental receptionist he'd arrived with had escaped to
the toilets, worn out by his apparently boundless enthusiasm for
Scottish country dancing.  He didn't care; there were always plenty of
women up for a turn on the floor on Hogmanay, and Lawson liked to let
off steam.  It made up for the intensity he brought to his work.

Barney Maclennan leaned on the bar, flanked by Iain Shaw and Allan
Burnside, each holding a substantial whisky.  "Oh God, look at them,"
he groaned.  "If the Dashing White Sergeant comes, can Strip the Willow
be far behind?"

"Nights like this, it's good to be single," Burnside said.  "Nobody
dragging you away from your drink and on to the dance floor."

Maclennan said nothing.  He'd lost count of the number of times he'd
tried to convince himself he was better off without Elaine.  He'd never
managed it for more than a few hours at a time.  They'd still been
together last Hogmanay, though only just.  They were hanging on to each
other with rather less determination than the sets of dancers birling
in circles on the floor.  Only a few weeks into the year, she'd told
him she was off.  She was tired of his job coming before her.

With a flash of irony, Maclennan remembered one of her rants.  The
wouldn't mind so much if it was important crimes you were solving, like
rape or murder.  But you're out there all the hours God sends on
tuppenny-ha' penny burglaries and car thefts.  How do you think it
feels to play second fiddle to

some middle-aged old fart's Austin Maxi?"  Well, her wish had come
true.  Here he was, a year later, mired in the biggest case of his
career.  And all he was doing was spinning his wheels.

Every avenue they'd pursued had turned into a cul-de-sac.  Not a single
witness who could put Rosie with a man after the beginning of November.
Lucky for the mystery man that it had been a hard winter, when folk
were more interested in the square yard of pavement in front of them
than in who was hanging about with somebody they shouldn't.  Lucky for
him, but unlucky for the police.  They'd tracked down her two previous
boyfriends.  One had dumped her in favour of the girl he was still
going out with.  He'd had no axe to grind with the dead barmaid.  Rosie
had chucked the other in early November, and at first he'd seemed a
promising prospect.  He'd been reluctant to take no for an answer,
turning up a couple of times to make trouble at the bar.  But he had a
rock solid alibi for the night in question.  He'd been at his office
Christmas party till gone midnight, then he'd gone home with his boss's
secretary and spent the rest of the night with her.  He admitted he'd
been sore about Rosie ending their relationship at the time, but,
frankly, he was having a lot more fun with a woman who was a bit more
generous with her sexual favours.

When pressed by Maclennan as to what he meant by that, male pride had
kicked in and he'd clammed up.  But under pressure, he'd admitted
they'd never actually had intercourse.  They'd played around plenty; it
wasn't that Rosie was a prude.  Just that she wouldn't go all the way.
He'd mumbled about blow jobs and hand jobs, but said that was the
extent of it.

So Brian had been right, sort of, when he said his sister was a nice
girl.  Maclennan understood that, in the hierarchy of these things,
Rosie was a long way from a good-time girl.  But an intimate knowledge
of her sexual proclivities didn't take him any nearer finding her
killer.  In his heart, he knew

the chances were that the man she'd met that night had also been the
man who had taken what he wanted from her and then taken her life.  It
might have been Alex Gilbey or one of his friends.  But it might not.

His fellow detectives had argued that there could be a good reason why
her date hadn't come forward.  "Maybe he's married," Burnside had said.
"Maybe he's scared we're going to fit him up," Shaw had added
cynically.  They were valid explanations, Maclennan supposed.  They
didn't alter his personal conviction, however.  Never mind Jimmy
Lawson's theories about satanic rites.  None of the ministers Burnside
had spoken to had even heard a whisper of anything like that happening
locally.  And Maclennan believed they were the most likely vessels for
such information.  He was relieved in a way; he didn't need any red
herrings.  He was sure that Rosie had known her killer, and she'd
walked into the night confidently with him.

Just like thousands of other women all over the country would tonight.
Maclennan hoped fervently they'd all end up safe in their own beds.

Three miles away in Strathkinness, the New Year had arrived in a very
different atmosphere.  Here, there were no Christmas decorations. Cards
sat in an unheeded pile on a shelf.  The television, which normally
hansel led in the first of January, was blank and silent in the corner.
Eileen and Archie Duff sat huddled in their chairs, untouched glasses
of whisky at their sides.  The oppressive stillness carried the weight
of grief and depression.  The Duffs knew in their hearts they would
never have another happy New Year.  The festive season would forever be
tainted by their daughter's death.  Others might celebrate; they could
only mourn.

In the scullery, Brian and Colin sat slumped on a pair of
plastic-covered kitchen chairs.  Unlike their parents, they were having
no difficulty in drinking the New Year in.  Since Rosie's

death, they'd found it easy to pour alcohol down their throats till
they couldn't find their mouths any longer.  Their response to tragedy
had not been to retreat into themselves but to become more expansively
themselves.  The publicans of St.  Andrews had grown resigned to the
drunken antics of the Duff brothers.  They didn't have much
alternative, not unless they wanted to face the wrath of their volatile
clientele who reckoned Colin and Brian deserved all the sympathy that
was going.

Tonight, the bottle of Bells was already past the halfway mark.  Colin
looked at his watch.  "We missed it," he said.

Brian looked at him blearily.  "Why should I care?  Rosie's going to
miss it every year."

"Aye.  But somewhere out there, whoever killed her is probably raising
a glass to getting away with it."

"It was them.  I'm sure it was them.  You see that picture?  Did you
ever see anybody look more guilty?"

Colin drained his glass and reached for the bottle, nodding agreement.
"There was nobody else about.  And they said she was still breathing.
So if it wasn't them, where did the murderer disappear to?  He did nae
just vanish into thin air."

"We should make a New Year's resolution."

"Like what?  You're not going to give up smoking again, are you?"

"I'm serious.  We should make a solemn promise.  It's the least we can
do for Rosie."

"What do you mean?  What kind of a solemn promise?"

"It's simple enough, Col."  Brian topped up his glass.  He held it up
expectantly.  "If the cops can't get a confession, then we will."

Colin considered for a moment.  Then he raised his glass and chinked it
against his brother's.  "If the cops can't get a confession, then we
will."

The substantial remains of Ravenscraig Castle stand on a rocky
promontory between two sandy bays, commanding a magisterial view of the
Forth estuary and its approaches.  To the east, a long stone wall
provides a defence against the sea and against any marauders.  It runs
all the way to Dysart harbour, now largely silted up but once a
prosperous and thriving port.  At the tip of the bay that curves along
from the castle, past the dove cot that still houses pigeons and
seabirds, where the wall comes to a V-shaped point, there is a small
lookout with a steeply pitched roof and arrow slits in the walls.

Since their early teens, the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy had regarded this as
their personal fiefdom.  One of the best ways to escape adult
supervision was invariably to go for walks.  It was deemed to be
healthy and unlikely to lead to them falling into Bad Ways.  So when
they promised to be gone all day, exploring the coast and the woods,
they were always heartily supplied with picnics.

Sometimes, they headed in the opposite direction, along Invertiel and
out past the ugliness of Seafield pit towards Kinghorn.  But mostly,
they came to Ravenscraig, not least because it wasn't far to the
ice-cream van in the nearby park.  On hot days, they lay on the grass
and indulged in

wild fantasies of what their lives would be, both in the near and the
distant futures.  They retold stories of their term-time adventures,
embellishing and spinning off into might-havebeens.  They played cards,
endless games of pontoon for matches.  They smoked their first
cigarettes here, Ziggy turning green and throwing up ignominiously into
a gorse bush.

Sometimes they'd clamber up the high wall and watch the shipping in the
estuary, the wind cooling them down and making them feel they were
standing in the prow of some sailing ship, creaking and wallowing
beneath their feet.  And when it rained, they'd shelter inside the
lookout post.  Ziggy had a ground sheet they could spread over the mud.
Even now, when they considered themselves to be grown-ups, they still
liked to descend the stone stairs leading down from the castle to the
beach, meandering among the coal dirt and seashells to the lookout.

The day before they were due to return to St.  Andrews, they met up in
the Harbour Bar for a lunchtime pint.  Flush with their Christmas
earnings, Alex, Mondo and Weird would have been happy to make a session
of it.  But Ziggy talked them out into the day.  It was crisp and
clear, the sun watery in a pale blue sky.  They walked through the
harbour, cutting between the tall silos of the grain mill and out on to
the west beach.  Weird hung back a little behind the other three, his
eyes on the distant horizon as if seeking inspiration.

As they approached the castle, Alex peeled off and scrambled up the
rocky outcropping that would be almost submerged at high tide.  "Tell
me again, how much did he get?"

Mondo didn't even have to pause for thought.  "Magister David Boys,
master mason, was paid by the order of Queen Mary of Gueldres, widow of
James the Second of Scotland, the sum of six hundred pounds Scots for
the building of a castle at Ravenscraig.  Mind you, he had to pay for
materials out of that."

"Which wasn't cheap.  In 1461, fourteen timber joists were

felled from the hanks of the River Allan then transported to Stirling
at the cost of seven shillings.  And one Andrew Balfour was then paid
two pounds and ten shillings for cutting, planing and transporting
these joists to Ravenscraig," Ziggy recited.

"I'm glad I decided to take the job at Safeway," Alex joked.  The
money's so much better."  He leaned back and looked up the cliff to the
castle.  "I think the Sinclairs made it much prettier than it would
have been if old Queen Mary hadn't kicked the bucket before it was
finished."

"Pretty isn't what castles are for," Weird said, joining them.  They're
supposed to be a refuge and a strength."

"So utilitarian," Alex complained, jumping off into the sand.  The
others followed him, scuffing through the flotsam along the high-water
mark.

Halfway along the beach, Weird spoke as seriously as any of them had
ever heard.  "I've got something to tell you," he said.

Alex turned to face him, walking backwards.  The others turned in to
look at Weird.  That sounds ominous," Mondo said.

"I know you're not going to like it, but I hope you can respect it."

Alex could see the wariness in Ziggy's eyes.  But he didn't think his
friend had anything to worry about.  Whatever Weird was about to tell
them came out of self-absorption, not the need to expose another. "Come
on then, Weird.  Let's hear it," Alex said, trying to sound
encouraging.

Weird dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans.  "I've become a
Christian," he said gruffly.  Alex stared openmouthed.  He thought he
might have been marginally less surprised if Weird had announced he'd
killed Rosie Duff.

Ziggy roared with laughter.  "Jesus, Weird, I thought it was going to
be some terrible revelation.  A Christian?"

Weird's jaw took on a stubborn cast.  "It was a revelation.

And I've accepted Jesus into my life as my saviour.  And I'd appreciate
it if you wouldn't mock."

Ziggy was doubled up with mirth, clutching his stomach.  "This is the
funniest thing I've heard in years .. . Oh God, I think I'm going to
piss myself."  He leaned against Mondo, who was grinning from ear to
ear.

"And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't take the Lord's name in vain,"
Weird said.

Ziggy erupted in fresh snorts of laughter.  "Oh my.  What is it they
say?  There is more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents?  I
tell you, they'll be dancing in the streets of paradise, snagging a
sinner like you."

Weird looked offended.  T'm not trying to deny I've done bad things in
the past.  But that's behind me now.  I'm born again, and that means
the slate is wiped clean."

"That must have been some blackboard duster.  When did this happen?"
Mondo said.

"I went to the Watch Night service on Christmas Eve," Weird said.  "And
something just clicked.  I realized I wanted to be washed in the blood
of the lamb.  I wanted to be cleansed."

"Wild," Mondo said.

"You never said anything on Hogmanay," Alex said.

The wanted you to be sober when I told you.  It's a big step, giving
your life to Christ."

"I'm sorry," Ziggy said, composing himself.  "But you're the last
person on the planet I expected to say those words."

"I know," Weird said.  "But I mean them."

"We'll still be your pals," Ziggy said, trying to keep the smirk off
his lips.

"Just so long as you don't try and convert us," Mondo said.  "I mean, I
love you like a brother, Weird, but not enough to give up sex and
drink."

"That's not what loving Jesus is about, Mondo."

"Come on," Ziggy interrupted.  T'm freezing, standing here.

Let's go up to the lookout."  He set off, Mondo at his side.  Alex fell
into step beside Weird.  He felt curiously sorry for his friend.  It
must have been terrible to have experienced a sense of isolation so
profound that he'd had to turn to the happy clap pies for solace.  /
should have been there for him, Alex thought with a twinge of guilt.
Maybe it wasn't too late.

"It must have felt pretty strange," he said.

Weird shook his head.  "Just the opposite.  I felt at peace.  Like I'd
finally stopped being a square peg in a round hole and I'd found the
place I belonged all along.  I can't describe it any better than that.
I only went to the service to keep my mum company.  And I was sitting
there in Abbotshall Kirk, the candles flickering all around like they
do at the Watch Night service.  And Ruby Christie was singing "Silent
Night" solo, unaccompanied.  And all the hairs on my body stood on end
and suddenly it all made sense.  I understood that God gave his only
son for the sins of the world.  And that meant me.  It meant I could be
redeemed."

"Big stuff."  Alex was embarrassed by this emotional candour.  For all
their years of friendship, he'd never had a conversation like this with
Weird.  Weird^ of all people, whose only tenet of faith had apparently
been to consume as many mind-altering substances as he could reasonably
ingest before he died.  "So what did you do?"  He had a sudden vision
of Weird running down to the front of the church and demanding he be
forgiven his sins.  That would be truly mortifying, he thought.  The
kind of thing that would bring you out in a cold sweat to remember once
you'd come out of the other side of the God-bothering phase and resumed
normal life.

"Nothing.  I sat through the service and went home.  I thought it was
just a one-off, some kind of bizarre mystical experience.  Maybe to do
with all the stuff that Rosie's death churned up.  Maybe even some kind
of acid flashback.  But when I woke up in the morning, I felt the same.
So I looked

in the paper to see who had a Christmas Day service and I ended up at
an evangelical gig down the Links."

Uh-oh.  "I bet you had the place to yourself on Christmas morning."

Weird laughed.  "Are you kidding?  The place was full to the doors.  It
was brilliant.  The music was great, the people treated me like we'd
been friends for years.  And after the service, I went and spoke to the
minister."  Weird bowed his head.  "It was a pretty emotional
encounter.  Anyway, the upshot is he baptized me last week.  And he's
given me the name of a sister congregation in St.  Andrews."  He gave
Alex a beatific smile.  "That's why I needed to tell you guys today.
Because I'll be going to church just after we get back to life Park
tomorrow."

The first opportunity the others had to discuss Weird's damascene
conversion was the following evening after he'd packed his electric
acoustic guitar into its case and set off to walk across town to the
evangelical service down near the harbour.  They sat in the kitchen and
watched him stride off into the night.  "Well, that's the end of the
band," Mondo said decisively.  "I'm not playing fucking spirituals and
"Jesus Loves Me" for anybody."

"Elvis has now left the building," Ziggy said.  "I tell you, he's lost
any connection to reality he ever had."

"He means it, guys," Alex said.

"You think that makes it better?  We're in for a rough ride, boys,"
Ziggy said.  "He'll be bringing the bear die weir dies back here.
They'll be determined to save us whether we want to be saved or not.
Losing the band is going to be the least of our worries.  No more, "All
for one and one for all."

"I feel bad about this," Alex said.

"Why?"  Mondo said.  "You didn't drag him off and make him listen to
Ruby Christie."

"He wouldn't have gone off like this if he hadn't been feeling

really shit.  I know he seemed to be the most cool of all of us about
Rosie's murder, but I think deep down it must have affected him.  And
we were all so wrapped up in our own reactions, we didn't pick up on
it."

"Maybe there's more to it than that," Mondo said.

"How do you mean?"  Ziggy asked.

Mondo scuffed the toes of his boots against the floor.  "Come on, guys.
We don't know what the fuck Weird was doing running around in that Land
Rover the night Rosie died.  We've only got his word for it that he
never saw her."

Alex felt the ground shift beneath his feet.  Ever since he'd hinted at
suspicion with Ziggy, Alex had forced himself to suppress such
treacherous thoughts.  But now Mondo had given fresh shape to the
unthinkable.  "That's a terrible thing to say," Alex said.

"I bet you've thought it, though," Mondo said defiantly.

"You can't think Weird would rape somebody, never mind kill them," Alex
protested.

"He was off his face that night.  You can't say what he could or
couldn't do when he's in that state," Mondo said.

"Enough."  Ziggy's voice cut through, the atmosphere of mistrust and
discomfort like a blade.  "You start that and where do you stop?  I was
out there too that night.  Alex actually invited Rosie to the party.
And come to that, you took a hell of a long time taking that lassie
back to Guardbridge.  What kept you, Mondo?"  He glared at his friend.
"Is that the kind of shit you want to hear, Mondo?"

"I never said anything about you two.  There's no call for you to have
a go at me."

"But it's all right for you to have a go at Weird when he's not here to
defend himself?  Some friend you are."

"Aye well, now he's got a friend in Jesus," Mondo sneered.  "Which,
when you think about it, is a pretty extreme reaction.  Looks like
guilt to me."

"Stop it," Alex shouted.  "Listen to yourselves.  There's going

to be plenty of other people ready to spread the poison without us
turning on each other.  We need to stick together or we're sunk."

"Alex is right," Ziggy said wearily.  "No more accusing each other, OK?
Maclennan's just dying to drive a wedge between us.  He doesn't care
who he gets for this murder as long as he gets somebody.  We need to
make sure it's not one of us.  Mondo, you keep your poisonous notions
to yourself in future."  Ziggy got to his feet.  "I'm going down to the
late shop to buy some milk and bread so we can all have a cup of coffee
before those hairy-arsed Tories get back and clutter the place up with
their English accents."

"I'll come down with you.  I need to get some fags," Alex said.

When they returned half an hour later, the world had turned upside
down.  The police were back in force, and their two fellow residents
were on the doorstep with their luggage, their faces a study in
disbelief.  "Evening, Harry.  Evening, Eddie," Ziggy said affably,
peering over their shoulders into the hallway where Mondo was being
sulky with a WPC.  "Just as well I bought the two pints."

"What the hell is going on here?"  Henry Cavendish demanded.  "Don't
tell me that cretin Mackie's been done for drugs."

"Nothing so prosaic," Ziggy said.  "I don't suppose the murder made the
Taller or Horse and Hounds."

Cavendish groaned.  "Oh for God's sake, don't be so pathetic.  I
thought you'd grown out of the working-class hero rubbish."

"Watch your mouth, we've got a Christian among us now."

"What are you talking about?  Murder?  Christians?"  Edward Greenhalgh
said.

"Weird's got God," Alex said succinctly.  "Not your High Church
Anglican sort, but the tambourines and praise the Lord sort.  He'll be
holding prayer meetings in the kitchen."

Alex held there was no greater sport than baiting those who believed in
their privilege.  And St.  Andrews offered plenty of opportunity for
that.

"What has that to do with the fact that the house is full of
policemen?"  Cavendish asked.

"I think you'll find the one in the hall is a woman," Ziggy said.
"Unless of course life Police have started recruiting particularly
attractive transvestites."

Cavendish ground his teeth.  He hated the way the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy
persisted in treating him like a caricature.  It was the main reason
why he spent so little time in the house.  "Why the police?"  he
said.

Ziggy smiled sweetly at Cavendish.  "The police are here because we're
murder suspects."

"What he means to say," Alex added hastily, 'is that we're witnesses.
One of the barmaids from the Lammas Bar was murdered just before
Christmas.  And we happened to find the body."

"That's appalling," Cavendish said.  "I had no idea.  Her poor family.
Pretty grim for you too."

"It wasn't a lot of fun," Alex said.  The

Cavendish peered into the house again, looking discomfited.  "Look,
this is a bad time for you.  It's probably easier all round if we find
somewhere else to stay for now.  Come on, Ed.  We can crash with Tony
and Simon tonight.  We'll see if we can get transferred to another
residence in the morning."  He turned away, then looked back, frowning.
"Where's my Land Rover?"

"Ah," Ziggy said.  "It's a bit complicated.  See, we borrowed it and ..
."

"You borrowed it?"  Cavendish sounded outraged.

"I'm sorry.  But the weather was terrible.  We didn't think you'd
mind."

"So where is it now?"

Ziggy looked embarrassed.  "You'll need to ask the police

about that.  The night we borrowed it, that was the night of the
murder."

Cavendish's sympathy had evaporated now.  "I don't believe you people,"
he snarled.  "My Land Rover is part of a murder investigation?"

"Afraid so.  Sorry about that."

Cavendish looked furious.  "You'll be hearing from me about this."

Alex and Ziggy watched in grim silence as the other two staggered back
down the path with their suitcases.  Before they could say more, they
had to step aside to let the police leave.  There were four uniformed
officers and a couple of men in plain clothes.  They ignored Alex and
Ziggy and headed for their cars.

"What was all that about?"  Alex asked as they finally made it
indoors.

Mondo shrugged.  "They didn't say.  They were taking paint samples from
the walls and the ceilings and the woodwork," he said.  "I overheard
one of them say something about a cardigan, but they didn't seem to be
looking at our clothes.  They poked around everywhere, asked if we'd
decorated recently."

Ziggy snorted with laughter.  "As if that's going to happen.  And they
wonder why they get called plods."

"I don't like the sound of this," Alex said.  "I thought they'd given
up on us.  But here they are again, turning the place upside down. They
must have some new evidence."

"Well, whatever it is, it's nothing for us to worry about," Ziggy
said.

"If you say so," Mondo said sarcastically.  The, I'll stick with
worrying for now.  Like Alex says, they've left us alone, but now
they're back.  I don't think that's something we can just shrug off."

"Mondo, we're innocent, remember?  That means we've nothing to worry
about."

"Yeah, right.  So what's with Henry and Eddie?"  Mondo asked.

"They don't want to live with mad axe-murderers," Ziggy said over his
shoulder as he went through to the kitchen.

Alex followed.  "I wish you hadn't said that," he said.

"What?  Mad axe-murderers?"

"No.  I wish you hadn't told Harry and Eddie we're murder suspects."

Ziggy shrugged.  "It was a joke.  Harry's more interested in his
precious Land Rover than in anything we might have done.  Except that
it gives him the excuse he's always wanted to move out of here.
Besides, you're the one who benefits.  With an extra couple of rooms,
you're not going to have to share with Weird any more."

Alex reached for the kettle.  "All the same, I wish you hadn't planted
the seed.  I've got a horrible feeling we're all going to catch the
harvest."

Alex's prediction came true a lot sooner than he'd expected.  A couple
of days later, walking down North Street towards the History of Art
Department, he saw Henry Cavendish and a bunch of his cronies
approaching, swaggering along in their red flannel gowns as if they
owned the place.  He saw Cavendish nudge one of them and say something.
As they came face to face, Alex found himself surrounded by young men
in the standard uniform of tweed jackets and twill trousers, their
faces leering at him.

"I'm surprised you've got the nerve to show your face round here,
Gilbey," Cavendish sneered.

"I think I've got more right to walk these streets than you and your
pals," Alex said mildly.  "This is my country, not yours."

"Some country, where people get to steal cars with impunity.  I can't
believe you lot aren't up in court for what you did," Cavendish said.
"If you used my Land Rover to cover up a murder, you'll have more than
the police to worry about."

Alex tried to push past, but he was hemmed in on all sides, jostled by
their elbows and hands.  Tuck off, will you, Henry?  We had nothing to
do with Rosie Duff's murder.  We're the ones who went for help.  We're
the ones who tried to keep her alive."

"And the police believe that, do they?"  Cavendish said.  "They must be
more stupid than I thought."  A fist flashed out and caught Alex hard
under the ribs.  "Steal my wheels, would you?"

"I didn't know you could do thinking," Alex gasped, unable to keep
himself from goading his tormentor.

"It's a disgrace that you're still a member of this university,"
another shouted, prodding Alex in the chest with a bony finger.  "At
the very least, you're a shitty little thief."

"God, just listen to yourselves.  You sound like a bad comedy sketch,"
Alex said, suddenly angry.  He lowered his head and thrust forward, his
body remembering countless rucks on the rugby field.  "Now, get out of
my road," he yelled.  Panting, he emerged on the far side of the group
and turned back, his lip curled in a sneer.  "I've got a lecture to go
to."

Taken aback by his outburst, they let him go.  As he stalked off,
Cavendish called after him, "I'd have thought you'd have been going to
the funeral, not a lecture.  Isn't that what murderers are supposed to
do?"

Alex turned around.  "What?"

"Didn't they tell you?  They're burying Rosie Duff today."

Alex stormed up the street, shaking with anger.  He'd been scared, he
had to admit.  For a moment there, he'd been scared.  He couldn't
believe Cavendish had taunted him about Rosie's funeral.  Nor could he
credit the fact that nobody had told them it was today.  Not that he
would have wanted to go.  But it would have been nice to have been
warned.

He wondered how the others were faring and wished yet again that Ziggy
had kept his smart mouth shut.

Ziggy walked in to an anatomy class and was immediately greeted with
cries of, "Here comes the body snatcher."

He threw his hands up, acknowledging the good-natured ribbing from his
fellow medics.  If anybody was going to find

the black humour in Rosie's death, it would be them.  "What's wrong
with the cadavers they give us to practise on?"  one shouted across the
room.

"Too old and ugly for Ziggy," came the reply from another.  "He had to
go out and get some quality meat for himself."

"All right, leave it out," Ziggy said.  "You're just jealous that I got
to go into practice before any of the rest of you."

A handful of his colleagues gathered around him.  "What was it like,
Ziggy?  We hear she was still alive when you found her.  Were you
scared?"

"Yeah.  I was scared.  But I was more frustrated because I couldn't
keep her alive."

"Hey, man, you did your best," one reassured him.

"It was a pretty crap best.  We spend years cramming our heads with
knowledge, but, faced with the real thing, I didn't know where to
start.  Any ambulance driver would have had a better chance of saving
Rosie's life than I did."  Ziggy shrugged out of his coat and dropped
it over a chair.  "I felt useless.  It made me realize that you don't
start becoming a doctor till you get out there and start treating
living, breathing patients."

A voice behind them said, "That's a very valuable lesson to have
learned, Mr.  Malkiewicz."  Unnoticed, their tutor had walked in on the
conversation.  The know it's no consolation, but the police surgeon
told me that she was beyond saving by the time you found her.  She'd
lost far too much blood."  He clapped Ziggy on the shoulder.  "We can't
work miracles, I'm afraid.  Now, gentlemen and ladies, let's all settle
down.  We've got important work to get through this term."

Ziggy went to his place, his head somewhere else altogether.  He could
feel the blood slick on his hands, the feeble, irregular heartbeat, the
chill of her flesh.  He could hear her failing breath.  He could taste
the coppery taint on his tongue.  He wondered if he could ever get past
that.  He wondered if he could ever

become a doctor, knowing that failure would always be the ultimate
outcome of his actions.

A couple of miles away, Rosie's family were preparing to lay their
daughter to rest.  The police had released the body at last, and the
Duffs could take the first formal step on the long journey of grieving.
Eileen straightened her hat in the mirror, oblivious to the pinched,
raw look of her face.  She couldn't be bothered with make-up these
days.  What was the point?  Her eyes were dull and heavy.  The pills
the doctor had given her didn't take the pain away; they simply moved
it out of her immediate reach, turning it into something she
contemplated rather than experienced.

Archie stood at the window, waiting for the hearse.  Strathkinness
Parish Church was only a couple of hundred yards away.  They'd decided
the family would walk behind the coffin, keeping Rosie company on her
last journey.  His broad shoulders drooped.  He had become an old man
in the previous few weeks, an old man who had lost the will to engage
with the world.

Brian and Colin, spruced as nobody had ever seen them before, were in
the scullery, bracing themselves with a whisky.  "I hope the four of
them have the good sense to stay away," Colin said.

"Let them come.  I'm ready for them," Brian said, his handsome face set
in dourness.

"Not today.  For fuck's sake, Brian.  Have some dignity, will you?"
Colin drained his glass and slammed it down on the draining board.

"They're here," his father called through.

Colin and Brian exchanged a look, a promise to each other that they'd
make it through the day without doing anything to shame themselves or
their sister's memory.  They squared their shoulders and went
through.

The hearse was parked outside the house.  The Duffs walked

down the path, heads bowed, Eileen leaning heavily on her husband's
arm.  They took up their places behind the coffin.  Behind them,
friends and relatives gathered in sombre groupings.  Bringing up the
rear were the police.  Maclennan led the detachment, proud that several
of the team had turned up on their time off.  For once, the press were
discreet, agreeing among themselves on pool coverage.

Villagers lined the street to the church, many of them falling in
behind the cortege as it moved at a slow walk down to the grey stone
building that sat four square on the hill, brooding over St.  Andrews
below.  When everyone had filed in, the small church was packed.  Some
mourners had to stand in the side aisles and at the back.

It was a short and formal service.  Eileen had been beyond thinking of
details, and Archie had asked for it to be kept to the bare minimum.
"It's something we've to get through," he'd explained to the minister.
"It's not what we're going to be remembering Rosie by."

Maclennan found the simple words of the funeral service unbearably
poignant.  These were words that should be spoken over people who had
lived their lives to the full, not a young woman who'd barely begun to
scratch the surface of what her life could be.  He bowed his head for
the prayer, knowing this service would bring no resolution to anyone
who had known Rosie.  There would be no peace for any of them until he
did his job.

And it was looking less and less likely that he would be able to
satisfy their need.  The investigation had almost ground to a halt. The
only recent forensic evidence had come from the cardigan.  All that had
yielded were some paint fragments.  But none of the samples taken from
inside the student house in life Park had come anywhere near a match. 
Headquarters had sent a superintendent down to review the work he and
his team had done, the implication being that they'd somehow fallen
down on the job.  But the man had had to concede that

Maclennan had done a commendable job.  He hadn't been able to make a
single suggestion that might lead to fresh progress.

Maclennan found himself coming back again and again to the four
students.  Their alibis were so flimsy they hardly deserved the name.
Gilbey and Kerr had fancied her.  Dorothy, one of the other barmaids,
had mentioned it more than once when giving her statement.  "The big
one that looks a bit like a dark-haired Ryan O'Neal," she'd put it. Not
how he would have described Gilbey himself, but he knew what she meant.
"He fancied her something rotten," she'd said.  "And the wee one that
looks like him out of The Rex.  He was always mooning after Rosie. Not
that she gave him the time of day, mind you.  She said he fancied
himself too much for her liking.  The other one, though, the big one.
She said she wouldn't mind a night out with him if he was five years
older."

So there was the shadow of a motive.  And of course, they'd had access
to the perfect vehicle for transporting the dying body of a young
woman.  Just because there were no forensic traces didn't mean they
hadn't used the Land Rover.  A tarpaulin, a ground sheet even a thick
plastic sheet would have contained the blood and left the interior
clean.  There was no doubt that whoever had killed Rosie must have had
a car.

Either that or he was one of the respectable householders on Trinity
Place.  The trouble was, every male resident between fourteen and
seventy was accounted for.  They were either away from home, or asleep
in their beds, alibied to the hilt.  They'd looked closely at a couple
of teenage boys, but there was nothing to link them to Rosie or to the
crime.

The other thing that made Gilbey look less likely as a suspect was the
forensics.  The sperm they'd found on Rosie's clothes had been
deposited by a secretor, someone whose blood group was present in his
other bodily fluids.  Their rapist and presumably their killer had
blood group O. Alex Gilbey was AB, which meant he hadn't raped her

unless he'd used a condom.  But Malkiewicz, Kerr and Mackie were all
group O. So theoretically, it could have been one of them.

He really didn't think Kerr had it in him.  But Mackie was possible,
that was for sure.  Maclennan had heard about the young man's sudden
conversion to Christianity.  To him, it sounded like a desperate act
born of guilt.  And Malkiewicz was another story altogether.  Maclennan
had accidentally stumbled into the issue of the lad's sexuality, but if
he was in love with Gilbey, he might have wanted to get rid of what he
saw as the competition.  It had the ring of possibility.

Maclennan was so deep in thought, he was taken aback to find the
service over, the congregation shuffling to their feet.  The coffin was
being carried up the aisle, Colin and Brian Duff the lead pall-bearers.
Brian's face was streaked with tears, and Colin looked as if it was
taking every ounce of his strength not to weep.

Maclennan looked around at his team, nodding them outside as the coffin
disappeared.  The family would be driven down the hill to Western
Cemetery for a private interment.  He slipped outside, standing by the
door and watching the mourners disperse.  He had no conviction that his
killer was among the congregation; that was too glib a conclusion for
him to be comfortable with.  His officers gathered behind him, speaking
softly among themselves.

Hidden by a corner of the building, Janice Hogg lit a cigarette.  She
wasn't on duty, after all, and she needed a blast of nicotine after
that harrowing.  She'd only had a couple of drags when Jimmy Lawson
appeared.  The thought I smelled smoke," he said.  "Mind if I join
you?"

He lit up, leaning against the wall, his hair falling over his forehead
and shading his eyes.  She thought he'd lost weight recently, and it
suited him, hollowing his cheeks and defining his jawline.  "I wouldn't
want to go through that again in a hurry," he said.

The neither.  I felt like all those eyes were looking to us for an
answer we haven't got."

"And no sign of getting one either.  CID haven't got anything you could
call a decent suspect," Lawson said, his voice as bitter as the east
wind that whipped the smoke from their mouths.

"It's not like Starsky and Hutch, is it?"

"Thank God for that.  I mean, would you want to wear those car dies

Janice sniggered, in spite of herself.  "When you put it like that ..
."

Lawson inhaled deeply.  "Janice ... do you fancy going out for a drink
sometime?"

Janice looked at him in astonishment.  She'd never imagined for a
moment that Jimmy Lawson had noticed she was a woman except when it
came to making tea or breaking bad news.  "Are you asking me out?"

"Looks like it.  What do you say?"

"I don't know, Jimmy.  I'm not sure if it's a good idea to get involved
with somebody in the job."

"And when do we get the chance fo meet anybody else unless we're
arresting them?  Come on, Janice.  Just a wee drink.  See how we get
on?"  His smile gave him a charm she'd never noticed before.

She looked at him, considering.  He wasn't exactly a dream boat but he
wasn't bad looking.  He had a reputation for being a bit of a ladies'
man, somebody who usually got what he wanted without having to work too
hard for it.  But he'd always treated her with courtesy, unlike so many
of her colleagues whose contempt was seldom far from the surface.  And
she hadn't been out with anyone interesting for longer than she could
remember.  "OK," she said.

Till look at the rosters when we come on tonight.  See when we're both
off."  He dropped his cigarette end and ground it

out with his toe.  She watched him walk round the corner of the church
to join the others.  It seemed she had a date.  It was the last thing
she'd expected from Rosie Duff's funeral.  Maybe the minister had been
right.  This should be a time for looking forwards as well as
backwards.

None of his three friends would ever have described Weird as sensible,
even before he got God.  He'd always been an unstable mixture of
cynicism and naivete.  Unfortunately, his new-found spirituality had
stripped away the cynicism without providing any complementary access
of nous.  So when his new friends in Jesus announced that there was no
better occasion to evangelize than the evening of Rosie Duff's funeral,
Weird had gone along with 4:he suggestion.  People would be thinking
about their mortality, the reasoning went.  This was the best possible
time to remind them that Jesus offered the one direct route to the
kingdom of heaven.  The notion of offering his witness to strangers
would have had him rolling on the floor with laughter a few weeks
previously, but now it seemed the most natural thing in the world. 
They gathered in the home of their pastor, an eager young Welshman
whose enthusiasm was almost pathological.  Even in the first flush of
his conversion, Weird found him slightly overwhelming.  Lloyd genuinely
believed that the only reason the whole of St.  Andrews hadn't accepted
Christ into their lives was the inadequacy of the proselytizing of
himself and his flock.  Clearly, Weird thought, he'd never met Ziggy,
the atheist's atheist.  Nearly every meal he'd eaten in life Park

since they'd returned had included passionate discussion about faith
and religion.  Weird was weary of it.  He didn't know enough yet to
counter all the arguments, and he knew instinctively it wasn't enough
to respond with, "That's where your faith comes in."  Bible study would
solve that in time, he knew.  Till then, he was praying for patience
and the right lines.

Lloyd thrust leaflets into his hand.  "These give a brief introduction
to the Lord, along with a short selection of passages from the Bible,"
he explained.  "Try to engage people in conversation, then ask them if
they'd give five minutes of their time to save themselves from
disaster.  That's when you give them this and ask them to read it. Tell
them if they want to ask you any questions about it, they can meet you
at the service on Sunday."  Lloyd spread his hands as if to indicate
that was all there was to it.

"Right," Weird said.  He looked around at their little group.  There
were half a dozen of them.  Apart from Lloyd, there was only one other
man.  He carried a guitar and wore an expression of eagerness.  Sadly,
his zeal wasn't matched by his talent.  Weird knew he wasn't supposed
to judge, but he reckoned that, even on his worst day, he could play
this geek under the table.  But he didn't know the songs yet, so he
wasn't going to be bus king for Christ tonight.

"We'll set up the music on North Street.  There's plenty of people
around there.  The rest of you, go round the pubs.  You don't have to
go in.  Just catch people as they're entering or leaving.  Now, we'll
just have a quick prayer before we go about the Lord's business."  They
held hands and bowed their heads.  Weird felt the newly familiar sense
of peace wash over him as he entrusted himself to his saviour.

It was funny how different things were now, he thought later as he
ambled along from one pub to the next.  In the past, he'd never have
considered approaching complete strangers for anything other than
directions.  But he was actually

enjoying himself.  Most people brushed him off, but several had
accepted his leaflets and he was confident that he'd see some of them
again.  He was convinced they couldn't miss the tranquillity and joy
that must be emanating from him.

It was nearly ten o'clock when he walked through the massive stone
archway of the West Port towards the Lammas Bar.  It shocked him now to
think of how much time he'd wasted in there over the years.  He wasn't
ashamed of his past; Lloyd had taught him that that was the wrong way
to look at it.  His past was a comparison point that revealed just how
glorious his new life was.  But he regretted that he hadn't found this
peace and sanctuary sooner.

He crossed the road and stationed himself by the door of the Lammas. In
the first ten minutes, he handed out a single tract to one of the
regulars who gave him a curious stare as he pushed the door open.
Seconds later, the door swung back violently.  Brian and Colin Duff
hurtled into the street, followed by a couple of other young men.  They
were all red in the face and fuelled by drink.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"  Brian roared, grabbing
Weird by the front of his parka.  He pushed him back against the wall
hard.

"I just .. ."

"Shut your puss, you wee shite," Colin shouted.  "We buried my sister
today, thanks to you and your vicious wee pals.  And you've got the
nerve to turn up here preaching about Jesus?"

"Call yourself a fucking Christian?  You killed my sister, you cunt."
Brian was banging him rhythmically against the wall.  Weird tried to
force his hands away, but the other man was far stronger.

"I never touched her," Weird howled.  "It was nae us."

"Well, who the fuck was it?  Youse were the only ones there," Brian
raged.  He released Weird's parka and raised his fist.  "Let's see how
you like it, cunt."  He smashed a right hook

into Weird's jaw and followed it with a crushing left to his face.
Weird's knees gave way.  He thought the bottom half of his face was
going to come away in his hands.

It was only the beginning.  Suddenly feet and fists were flying,
thumping cruelly into his body.  Blood, tears and mucus streamed down
his face.  Time slowed to a trickle, distorting words and intensifying
every agonizing contact.  He'd never been in a grown-up fight before,
and the naked violence of it terrified him.  "Jesus, Jesus," he
sobbed.

"He's not going to help you now, you big streak of piss," somebody
shouted.

Then, blessedly, it stopped.  As suddenly as the blows ended, silence
fell.  "What's going on here?"  he heard a woman say.  He lifted his
head out of the foetal crouch he'd adopted.  A WPC was standing over
him.  Behind her, he could see the constable Alex had fetched through
the snow.  His assailants stood around, sullen, hands in their
pockets.

"Just a bit of fun," Brian Duff said.

"Doesn't look very funny to me, Brian.  Lucky for him the landlord had
the good sense to call this one in," the woman said, bending down to
peer at Weird's face.  He pushed himself into a sitting position and
coughed up a mouthful of snot and blood.  "You're Tom Mackie, aren't
you?"  she said, understanding dawning.

"Aye," he groaned.

"I'll radio for an ambulance," she said.

"No," Weird said, somehow getting his feet under him and tottering
upright.  "I'll be fine.  Just a bit of fun."  Speaking, he discovered,
took an effort.  It felt like he'd had a jaw transplant that he hadn't
learned how to work yet.

"I think your nose is broken, son," the male cop said.  What was his
name?  Morton?  Lawton?  Lawson, that was it.

"It's OK.  I live with a doctor."

"He was a medical student the last I heard," Lawson said.

"We'll give you a lift home in the patrol car," the woman

said.  "I'm Constable Hogg, and this is Constable Lawson.  Jimmy, keep
an eye on him, will you?  I need to have a word with these morons.
Colin, Brian?  Over here.  You others?  Make yourselves scarce."  She
led Colin and Brian to one side.  She was careful to stay close enough
to Lawson for him to dive in if things got out of hand.

"What the hell was that about?"  she demanded.  "Look at the state of
him."

Slack-jawed, glassy-eyed and sweating with exertion, Brian gave a
drunken sneer.  "Less than he deserves.  You know what that was about.
We're just doing your job for you because you're a bunch of useless
twats who couldn't detect your way out of a paper bag."

"Shut up, Brian," Colin urged.  He was only marginally more sober than
his brother, but he had always had more of an instinct for staying out
of trouble.  "Look, we're sorry, OK?  Things just got a bit out of
hand."

Till say.  You've half-killed him."

"Aye well, him and his pals did nae leave the job half-done when they
started it," Brian said pugnaciously.  Suddenly, his face crumpled and
hot tears trickled 4own his cheeks.  "My wee sister.  My Rosie.  You
would nae treat a dog the way they treated her."  "You've got it wrong,
Brian.  They're witnesses, not suspects," Janice said wearily.  "I told
you that the night it happened."

"You're the only ones round here that think that," Brian said.

"Will you shut up?"  Colin said.  He turned to Janice.  "You arresting
us, or what?"

Janice sighed.  "I know you buried Rosie today.  I was there.  I saw
how upset your parents were.  For their sake, I'm willing to turn a
blind eye.  I don't think Mr.  Mackie will want to press charges."  As
Colin went to speak, she held up a cautionary finger.  "This only works
provided you and

Cassius Clay here keep your hands to yourself.  Leave this to us,
Colin."

He nodded.  "OK, Janice."

Brian looked astonished.  "When did you start calling her Janice? She's
not on our side, you know."

"Shut the fuck up, Brian," Colin said, syllable by pointed syllable. "I
apologize for my brother.  He's had a wee bit too much to drink."

"Don't worry about it.  But you're not stupid, Colin.  You know I meant
what I said.  Mackie and his pals are off limits to you two.  Is that
clear?"

Brian sniggered.  "I think she fancies you, Colin."

The idea clearly tickled the drunk part of Colin Duff's brain.  "Is
that right?  Well, what do you say, Janice?  Why don't you keep me on
the straight and narrow?  You fancy a night out?  I'll show you a good
time."

Janice caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced round
in time to see Jimmy Lawson draw his truncheon and move towards Colin
Duff.  She raised a hand to ward him off, but the threat was enough to
leave Duff backing away, wide-eyed and apprehensive.  "Hey," he
protested.

"Wash your mouth out, you sad sack of shite," Lawson said.  His face
was set and angry.  "Don't you ever, ever speak to a police officer
like that.  Now get out of our sight before I get Constable Hogg to
change her mind about locking you two up for a very long time."  He
spoke savagely, his lips tight against his teeth.  Janice bridled.  She
hated it when male officers thought they had to demonstrate their
manhood by defending her honour.

Colin grabbed Brian's arm.  "Come on.  We've got a pint waiting for us
inside."  He led his leering brother away before he could cause any
more bother.

Janice turned to Lawson.  There was no call for that, Jimmy."

"No call for it?  He was making a pass at you.  He's not fit

to shine your shoes."  His voice was thick with contempt.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Jimmy.  I've dealt
with a lot worse than Colin Duff without you playing the knight in
shining armour.  Now, let's get this lad home."

Between them, they helped Weird to their car and eased him into the
back seat.  As Lawson walked round to the driver's door, Janice spoke.
"And Jimmy .. . About that drink?  I think I'll pass."

Lawson gave her a long, hard stare.  "Please yourself."

They drove back to life Park in stony silence.  They helped Weird to
the front door then headed back to the car.  "Look, Janice, I'm sorry
if you thought I came on too heavy back there.  But Duff was well out
of line.  You can't talk to a police officer like that," Lawson said.

Janice leaned on the roof of the car.  "He was out of line.  But you
didn't react like that because he was insulting the uniform.  You drew
your truncheon because somewhere in your head, you'd decided I was your
property just because I agreed to go out for a drink with you.  And he
was stepping on your territory.  I'm sorry, Jimmy, I don't need that in
my life just now."

"That's not how it was, Janice," Lawson protested.

"Let's leave it, Jimmy.  No hard feelings, eh?"

He shrugged, petulant.  "Your loss.  It's not like I'm stuck for female
company."  He got into the driver's seat.

Janice shook her head, unable to keep a smile from her face.  They were
so predictable, men.  The first sniff of feminism and they headed
straight for the hills.

Inside the house in life Park, Ziggy was examining Weird.  "I told you
it would end in tears," he said, his fingers gently probing the swollen
tissue around Weird's ribs and abdomen.  "You go out for a bit of light
evangelism and you come back looking like an extra from Oh!  What a
Lovely War.  Onward, Christian soldiers."

"It was nothing to do with giving, my witness," Weird said, wincing at
the effort.  "It was Rosie's brothers."

Ziggy stopped what he was doing.  "Rosie's brothers did this to you?"
he said, a worried frown on his face.

"I was outside the Lammas.  Somebody must have told them.  They came
out and set about me."

"Shit."  Ziggy went to the door.  "Gilly," he shouted upstairs.  Mondo
was out, as he had been most evenings since their return.  Sometimes he
was there for breakfast, but mostly he wasn't.

Alex came thundering downstairs, stopping short at the sight of Weird's
ravaged face.  "What the fuck happened to you?"

"Rosie's brothers," Ziggy said tersely.  He filled a bowl with warm
water and started gently cleaning Weird's face with balls of cotton
wool.

"They beat you up?"  Alex couldn't make sense of this.

"They think we did it," Weird said.  "Owl  Can you be a bit more
careful?"

"Your nose is broken.  You should go to the hospital," Ziggy said.

"I hate hospitals.  You fix it."

Ziggy raised his eyebrows.  The don't know what kind of a job I'll make
of it.  You could end up looking like a bad boxer."

"I'll take my chances."

"At least you've not got a broken jaw," he said, bending over Weird's
face.  He took his nose in both hands and twisted it, trying not to
feel nauseous at the grinding crepitation of cartilage.  Weird
screamed, but Ziggy carried on.  There was sweat on his lip.  "There
you go," he said.  "Best I can do."

"It was Rosie's funeral today," Alex said.

"Nobody told us," Ziggy complained.  That explains why feelings were
running so high."

"You don't think they're coming after us, then?"  Alex asked.

"Cops warned them off," Weird said.  It was getting harder and harder
to speak as his jaw stiffened.

Ziggy studied his patient.  "Well, Weird, looking at the state of you,
I hope to Christ they were listening."

Any hopes they'd had of Rosie's death being a nine-day wonder were
dashed by the newspaper coverage of the funeral.  It was all over the
front pages again, and anyone in the town who had missed the initial
coverage would have been hard pressed to avoid the reprise.

Again, it was Alex who was the first victim.  Walking home from the
supermarket a couple of days later, he was taking a short cut along the
bottom of the Botanic Gardens when Henry Cavendish and his chums ran up
in a ragged bunch, dressed for rugby training.  As soon as they spotted
Alex, they started catcalling, then surrounded him, pushing and
shoving.  They formed a loose ruck around him, dragging him to the
grass verge and throwing him to the slushy ground.  Alex rolled around,
trying to escape the prodding of their boots.  There was little danger
of real violence such as Weird had experienced, and he was more angry
than frightened.  A stray boot caught his nose and he felt the spurt of
blood.

Tuck off," he shouted, wiping mud, blood and slush from his face.  "Why
don't you all just fuck off?"

"You're the ones who should fuck off, killer boy," Cavendish shouted.
"You're not wanted here."

A quiet voice interjected.  "And what makes you think you are?"

Alex rubbed his eyes clear and saw Jimmy Lawson standing on the fringe
of the group.  It took him a moment to recognize him out of uniform,
but his heart lifted when he did.

"Push off," Edward Greenhalgh said.  "This is none of your business."

Lawson reached inside his anorak and pulled out his warrant card.  He
flipped it open negligently and said, "I believe you'll find it is,
sir.  Now, if I could just take your names?  I think this is a matter
for the university authorities."

At once, they were small boys again.  They shuffled their feet and
stared at the ground, muttering and mumbling their details for Lawson
to write down in his notebook.  Meanwhile, Alex got to his feet, sodden
and filthy, contemplating the wreckage of the shopping.  A bottle of
milk had erupted all over his trousers, a burst plastic jar of lemon
curd was smeared down one sleeve of his parka.  Lawson dismissed his
tormentors and stood looking at Alex, a smile on his face.  "You look
terrible," he said.  "Lucky for you I was passing."

"You're not working?"  Alex said.

"No.  I live round the corner.  I just popped out to catch the post.
Come on, come back to my place, we'll get you cleaned up."

"That's very kind of you, but there's no need."

Lawson grinned.  "You can't walk the streets of St.  Andrews looking
like that.  You'd probably get arrested for frightening the golfers.
Besides, you're shivering.  You need a cup of tea."

Alex wasn't going to argue.  The temperature was dropping back towards
freezing point and he didn't fancy walking home soaking wet.  "Thanks,"
he said.

They turned into a brand-new street, so new it still didn't have
pavements.  The first few plots were completed, but after that, they
petered into building sites.  Lawson carried on past

the finished homes and stopped by a caravan parked on what would one
day be a front garden.  Behind it, four walls and roof timbers covered
in tarpaulin offered a promise of something rather more palatial than
the four-berth caravan.  "I'm doing a self-build," he said, unlocking
the door of the caravan.  The whole street's doing it.  We all
contribute labour and skills to each other's houses.  That way, I get a
chief superintendent's house on a constable's salary."  He climbed up
into the caravan.  "But for now, I live here."

Alex followed.  The caravan was cosy, a portable gas heater blasting
out dry warmth into the confined space.  He was impressed by its
neatness.  Most single men he knew lived in pigsties, but Lawson's home
was spotless.  All the chrome gleamed.  The paintwork was clean and
fresh.  The curtains were bright and tied back neatly.  There was no
clutter.  Everything was neatly stowed; books on shelves, cups on
hooks, cassettes in a box, architect's drawings framed on the
bulkheads.  The only sign of habitation was a pan simmering on the
stove.  The smell of lentil soup went round Alex's heart.  "Very nice,"
he said, taking it all in.

"It's a bit cramped, but if you keep it tidy, it doesn't get too
claustrophobic.  Take your jacket off, we'll hang it over the heater.
You'll need to wash your face and hands that's the toilet, just past
the cooker."

Alex let himself into the tiny cubicle.  He looked in the mirror above
the doll's house sink.  God, but he was a mess.  Dried blood, mud.  And
lemon curd spiking his hair.  No wonder Lawson had made him come back
and clean up.  He ran a basin of water and scrubbed himself clean. When
he emerged, Lawson was leaning against the stove.

"That's better.  Sit near the heater, you'll soon dry off.  Now, a cup
of tea?  Or I've got home-made soup if you fancy that."

"Soup would be great."  Alex did as he was told while Lawson ladled out
a steaming bowl of golden yellow soup with chunks of ham hock floating
in it.  He put it in front of

Alex nnd handed him a spoon.  "I don't mean to sound rude, but why are
you being so nice to me?"  he asked.

Lawson sat down opposite him and lit a cigarette.  "Because I feel
sorry for you and your pals.  All you did was act like responsible
citizens, but you've been made to look like the bad guys.  And I
suppose I feel partly responsible.  If I'd been out on patrol instead
of sitting tucked up in my car, I'd maybe have caught the guy
red-handed."  He tilted his head back and sighed a stream of smoke into
the air.  "That's what makes me think it wasn't somebody local that did
this.  Anybody who knew that area at night would know that there's
often a patrol car sitting there."  Lawson grimaced.  "We don't get
enough petrol allowance to drive around all night, so we have to park
up somewhere."

"Does Maclennan still think it might have been us?"  Alex asked.

"I don't know what he thinks, son.  I'll be honest with you.  We're
stuck.  And so you four have ended up in the firing line.  You've got
the Duffs baying for your blood, and from the looks of what I've just
seen, your own pals have turned on you too."

Alex snorted.  "They're no pals of mine.  Are you really going to
report them?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Not really.  They'd just find a way to get their own back.  I don't
think they'll be bothering us any more.  Too frightened that Mummy and
Daddy might get to hear about it and stop their allowances.  I'm more
worried about the Duffs."

"I think they'll leave you alone too.  My colleague gave them the hard
word.  Your pal Mackie just caught them on the raw.  They were pretty
chewed up after the funeral."

"I don't blame them.  I just don't want a doing like Weird got."

"Weird?  You mean Mr.  Mackie?"  Lawson frowned.

"Aye.  It's a nickname from school.  From a David Bowie song."

Lawson grinned.  "Of course.  Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.
That makes you Gilly, right?  And Sigmund's Ziggy."

"Well done."

"I'm not that much older than you.  So where does Mr.  Kerr fit in?"

"He's not a big Bowie fan.  He's into Floyd.  So he's Mondo.  Crazy
diamond?  Get it?"

Lawson nodded.

"Great soup, by the way."

"My mother's recipe.  You go back a long way, then?"

"We met on our first day at high school.  We've been best mates ever
since."

"Everybody needs their pals.  It's like this job.  You work with the
same people over a period of time, they're like brothers.  You'd lay
down your life for them if you had to."

Alex smiled understanding.  "I know what you mean.  It's the same for
us."  Or it used to be, he thought with a pang.  This term, things were
different.  Weird was off with the God Squad more often than not.  And
God alone knew where Mondo was half the time.  The Duffs weren't the
only ones paying an emotional price for Rosie's death, he suddenly
realized.

"So you'd lie for each other if you thought you had to?"

The spoon stopped halfway to Alex's mouth.  So that was what this was
about.  He pushed the bowl away from him and stood up, reaching for his
jacket.  "Thanks for the soup," he said.  "I'm fine now."

Ziggy seldom felt lonely.  An only child, he was accustomed to his own
company and never lacked diversion.  His mother had always looked at
other parents as if they were mad when they complained about their
children being bored in the school

holidays.  Boredom had never been a problem she'd had to contend
with.

But tonight, loneliness had seeped into the little house on life Park.
He had plenty of work to keep him busy, but for once Ziggy craved
company.  Weird was off with his guitar, learning how to praise the
Lord in three chords.  Alex had come home in a foul mood after a rumble
with the Right and an encounter with that copper Lawson that had turned
very sour.  He'd got changed then gone off to some slide lecture on
Venetian painters.  And Mondo was out somewhere, probably getting
laid.

Now that was an idea.  The last time he'd had sex had been quite a
while before they'd stumbled over Rosie Duff.  He'd gone to Edinburgh
for the evening, to the one pub he'd ever been in that welcomed gays.
He'd stood at the bar, nursing a pint of lager, surreptitiously
glancing to either side, carefully not making eye contact.  After half
an hour or so, he'd been joined by a man in his late twenties.  Denim
jeans, shirt and jacket.  Good looking, in a tough guy sort of way.
He'd struck up a conversation, and they'd ended up having fast but
satisfying sex against the toilet wall.  It had been all over well
before the last train home.

Ziggy hankered after something more than the anonymous encounters with
strangers that were his only experience of sex.  He wanted what his
straight friends seemed to slip into with ease.  He wanted courtship
and romance.  He wanted someone with whom he could share an intimacy
that went beyond the exchange of body fluids.  He wanted a boyfriend, a
lover, a partner.  And he had no idea how to find one.

There was a Gay Soc at the university, he knew that much.  But as far
as he could gather, it consisted of half a dozen guys who seemed almost
to relish the controversy of being seen to be gay.  The politics of Gay
Liberation interested Ziggy, but from what he'd seen of these guys
posturing round the campus, they had no serious political engagement.
They just

liked being notorious.  Ziggy wasn't ashamed of being gay, but he
didn't want it to be the only thing people knew about him.  Besides, he
wanted to be a doctor, and he had a shrewd suspicion that a career as a
gay activist wouldn't help him achieve his ambition.

So for now, the only outlet for his feelings was the casual encounter.
As far as he knew, there were no pubs in St.  Andrews where he was
likely to find what he was looking for.  But there were a couple of
places where men hung out, ready for anonymous sex with a stranger. The
drawback was that they were in the open air, and in this weather, there
wouldn't be many braving the elements.  Still, he couldn't be the only
guy in St.  Andrews wanting sex tonight.

Ziggy pulled on his sheepskin jacket, laced up his boots and walked out
into the freezing cold night air.  A brisk fifteen minute walk brought
him to the back of the ruined cathedral.  He crossed over to The
Scores, making for what remained of St.  Mary's Church.  In the shadow
of the broken walls, men often lurked, trying to look as if they were
out for an evening stroll that encompassed a bit of architectural
heritage. Ziggy squared his shoulders and tried to look casual.

Down by the harbour, Brian Duff was drinking with his cronies.  They
were bored.  And they were just drunk enough to want to do something
about it.  "This is no fucking fun," his best pal Donny complained.
"And we're too skint to go somewhere you can get a decent night out."

The complaint ran back and forth across the group for a while.  Then
Kenny had his brain wave  "I ken what we can do.  Fun, and money.  And
no comebacks."

"What's that, then?"  Brian demanded.

"Let's go and mug a few nancy boys."

They looked at him as if he was speaking Swahili.  "What?"  Donny
said.

"It'll be a laugh.  And they'll have money on them.  They're

not going to put up much of a fight, are they?  They're a bunch of
Jessies."

"You're talking about going and robbing people?"  Donny said, doubt in
his voice.

Kenny shrugged.  "They're poofs.  They don't count.  And they're not
going to go running to the polis, are they?  Otherwise they'd have to
explain what they were doing hanging about St.  Mary's Church in the
dark."

"Could be a laugh," Brian slurred.  "Scare the shit out of the shirt
lifters  He giggled.  "Scare the shit out of them.  That could be bad
news for somebody."  He drained his pint and got to his feet. "Come on,
then.  What's keeping you?"

They lurched out into the night, nudging each other in the ribs and
guffawing.  It was a short walk up The Shore to the church ruins.  A
half-moon peeped out from fitful clouds, silvering the sea and lighting
their way.  As they approached they fell silent, prowling on the balls
of their feet.  They rounded the corner of the building.  Nothing. They
crept up the side and through the remains of a doorway.  And there, in
an alcove, they found what they were looking for.

A man leaned against the wall, head^ back small noises of pleasure
spilling from his lips.  In front of him, another knelt, head bobbing
back and forwards.

"Well, well, well," Donny slurred.  "What have we here?"

Startled, Ziggy pulled his head away and gazed in horror at his worst
nightmare.

Brian Duff stepped forward.  "I'm really going to enjoy this."

Ziggy had never been so scared.  He stumbled to his feet and backed
away.  But Brian was upon him, his hand grabbing at the lapel of the
sheepskin.  Brian threw him against the wall, knocking the breath from
him.  Donny and Kenny stood uncertain as the other man hastily zipped
himself up and took to his heels.  "Brian, you want us to go after the
other one?"  Kenny said.

"No, this is perfect.  You know who this creepy little fairy is?"

"Naw," Donny said.  "Who is he?"

"He's only one of those bastards that killed Rosie."  His hands bunched
into fists, his eyes daring Ziggy to make an attempt at escape.

"We didn't kill Rosie," Ziggy said, unable to keep the tremor of fear
out of his voice.  "I'm the one who tried to save her."

"Aye, after you'd raped and stabbed her first.  Were you trying to
prove to your mates that you were a real man and not a poof?"  Brian
shouted.  "Well, son, it's confession time.  You're going to tell me
the truth about what happened to my sister."

"I'm telling you the truth.  We never harmed a hair on her head."

"I don't believe you.  And I'm going to make you tell the truth.  I
know the very thing."  Without taking his eyes off Ziggy, he said,
"Kenny, away down the harbour and get me a rope.  A good long length,
mind."

Ziggy had no idea what lay ahead, but he knew it wasn't going to be
pleasant.  The only chance he had was to talk his way out.  "This isn't
a good idea," he said.  "I didn't kill your sister.  And I know the
cops have already warned you to leave us alone.  Don't think I'm not
going to report this."

Brian laughed.  "You think I'm stupid?  You're going to go to the
police and say, "Please, sir, I was sucking some cunt's cock and Brian
Duff came along and gave me a slap"?  You must think I came up the
Forth on a biscuit.  You're not going to tell anybody about this.
Because then they'd all know you're an arse bandit."

"I don't care," Ziggy said.  And at this point, it seemed a fate less
terrible than whatever an uncurbed Brian Duff might mete out.  "I'll
take my chances.  Do you really want another load of grief dumped on
your mother's doorstep?"

As soon as the words were out, Ziggy knew he'd miscalculated.  Brian's
face closed down.  Ha raised his hand and slapped Ziggy so hard he
heard the vertebrae in his neck crack.  "Don't you mention my mother,
cocksucker.  She never knew grief before you bastards killed my
sister."  He slapped him again.  "Admit it.  You know you're going to
have to pay sooner or later."

"I'm not admitting something I didn't do," Ziggy choked out.  He could
taste blood; the inside of his cheek had torn on the sharp edge of a
tooth.

Brian pulled his hand back and gut-punched him with all his
considerable strength.  Ziggy folded, staggering.  Hot vomit cascaded
to the ground, splashing his feet.  Gasping for breath, he felt the
rough stone at his back, the only thing that was holding him upright.

"Tell me," Brian hissed.

Ziggy closed his eyes.  "Nothing to tell," he squeezed out.

By the time Kenny returned, he'd taken a few more blows.  He didn't
know it was possible to feel this much pain without passing out.  Blood
covered his chin from a split lip, and his kidneys were sending sharp
stabs of agony through his body.

"What kept you?"  Brian demanded.  He yanked Ziggy's hands in front of
him.  "Tie one end round his wrists," he ordered Kenny.

"What are you going to do to me?"  Ziggy asked through swollen lips.

Brian grinned.  "Make you talk, cocksucker."

When Kenny had finished, Brian took the rope.  He wound a loop round
Ziggy's waist, tying it tightly.  Now his hands were held firm against
his body.  Brian yanked on the rope.  "Come on, we've got business to
attend to."  Ziggy dug his heels in, but Donny grabbed the rope with
Brian and yanked so hard they nearly pulled him off his feet.  "Kenny,
check it's all clear."

Kenny ran ahead to the archway.  He looked up The Scores.  There was no
sign of life.  It was too cold to be out walking for pleasure, and
still too early for the last-minute dog walkers.  "Nobody around, Bri,"
he called softly.

Hauling on the rope, Brian and Donny set off.  "Faster," Brian said to
Donny.  They trotted up The Scores, Ziggy desperately trying to keep
his balance while also tugging at his hands to see if he could free
himself.  What the hell were they going to do to him?  It was high
tide.  Surely they weren't going to lower him into the sea?  People
died in the North Sea in a matter of minutes.  Whatever they had
planned, he knew instinctively it was going to be worse than anything
he could imagine.

The ground fell away under his feet without warning and Ziggy tumbled
to the ground, rolling over and over, crashing into Brian and Donny's
legs.  A storm of swearing, then hands on his body, pulling him roughly
to his feet, shoving him face first into a wall.  Ziggy slowly
orientated himself.  They were

standing on the path that ran alongside the wall that surrounded the
castle.  This wasn't a medieval rampart, just a modern barrier to deter
vandals and lovers.  Were they going to take him inside and hang him
from the battlements?

"What are we doing here?"  Donny asked uneasily.  He wasn't sure he had
the stomach for whatever Brian had planned.

"Kenny, over the wall," Brian said.

Accustomed to Brian's leadership, Kenny did as he was told, scrambling
up the six feet and disappearing over the other side.  Tm throwing the
rope over, Kenny," Brian shouted.  "Grab a hold of it."

He turned to Donny.  "We're going to have to hoist him over.  Like
tossing the caber, only two-handed."

"You'll break my neck," Ziggy protested.

"Not if you're careful.  We'll give you a leg up.  You can turn
yourself around when you get to the top and drop down."

"I can't do that."

Brian shrugged.  "It's your choice.  You can go head first or feet
first, but you're going.  Unless, that is, you're ready to tell me the
truth?"

"I've told you the truth," Ziggy yelled.JYou've got to believe me."

Brian shook his head.  Till know the truth when I hear it.  You right,
Donny?"

Ziggy tried to make a break for it, but they were on him.  They whirled
him round to face the wall then, taking a leg each, they heaved Ziggy
precariously aloft.  He didn't dare struggle; he knew how fragile the
spinal cord's protection was at the base of the skull and he didn't
want to end up paraplegic.  He ended up bent over the wall like a sack
of potatoes.  Slowly, with infinite caution, he worked his way round
till he had one leg on either side of the wall.  Then, even more
slowly, he inched round till the other leg was on top of the wall.  His
scraped knuckles seared fresh pain up his arms.  "Come on, cocksucker,"
Brian shouted impatiently.

He launched himself at the wall and within seconds, he was alongside
Ziggy's foot.  He shoved it roughly to the side, throwing him off
balance.  Ziggy's bladder gave up its contents as he fell backwards
through the air, alarm pumping his adrenaline levels even higher.  He
landed heavily on his feet, knees and ankles collapsing under the
strain.  He lay huddled on the ground, tears of shame and pain stinging
his eyes.  Brian jumped down beside him.  "Nice one, Kenny," he said,
taking the rope back.

Donny's face appeared over the top of the wall.  "Are you going to tell
me what's going on?"  he demanded.

"And spoil the surprise?  No way."  Brian jerked on the rope.  "Come
on, cocksucker.  Let's go for a walk."

They clambered up the grassy slope towards the low stub of the ruined
castle's east wall.  Ziggy stumbled and fell a few times, but there
were always hands at the ready to haul him upright.  They crossed the
wall and they were in the courtyard.  The moon slid out from behind a
cloud, bathing them in an eerie radiance.  The and my brother used to
love coming here when we were kids," Brian said as he slowed to a
stroll.  "It was the church that built this castle.  Not a king.  Did
you know that, cocksucker?"  Ziggy shook his head.  "I've never been
here before."

"You should have.  It's great.  The mine and the count ermine Two of
the greatest siege works anywhere in the world."  They were heading
towards the north range, the Kitchen Tower to the right of them and the
Sea Tower to the left.  "It was some place, this.  It was a residence,
it was a fortress."  He turned to face Ziggy, walking backwards.  "And
it was a prison."

"Why are you telling me this?"  Ziggy said.

"Because it's interesting.  They murdered a cardinal here too.  They
killed him, then they hung his naked body from the castle walls.  I bet
you never thought of that, did you, cock sucker?"

"I didn't kill your sister," Ziggy repeated.

By now, they were at the entrance to the Sea Tower.  There are two
vaulted chambers in the lower storey here," Brian said
conversationally, leading the way inside.  "The eastern one contains
something almost as interesting as the mine and count ermine  Do you
know what that is?"

Ziggy stood mute.  But Kenny answered the question for him.  "You're
not going to put him down the Bottle Dungeon?"

Brian grinned.  "Well done, Kenny.  Go to the top of the class."  He
reached into his pocket and produced a cigarette lighter.  "Donny, give
me your paper."

Donny produced a copy of the Evening Telegraph from his inside pocket.
Brian rolled it tightly and lit one end of it as he walked into the
eastern chamber.  By the flare of the makeshift torch, Ziggy could see
a hole in the floor covered with a heavy iron grille.  "They cut a hole
in the rock.  It's in the shape of a bottle.  And it's a long way
down."

Donny and Kenny looked at each other.  This was growing a bit too
serious for their taste.  "Hang on, Brian," Donny protested.

"What?  You're the ones that said poofters don't count.  Come on, give
me a hand."  He tied the end of Ziggy's rope to the grille.  "It'll
take the three of us to get this off."

They gripped the grille, hunkering down to the task.  They grunted and
strained.  For a long, happy minute Ziggy thought they weren't going to
be able to raise it.  But eventually, with a harsh grating of metal on
stone, it shifted.  They moved it to one side and turned as one to
Ziggy.

"You got anything to say to me?"  Brian Duff demanded.

The didn't kill your sister," Ziggy said, desperate now.  "Do you
really think you can get away with dropping me down a fucking dungeon
and leaving me to die?"

"The castle's open at the weekends in the winter.  That's only a couple
of days away.  You will nae die.  Well, probably not, anyway."  He dug
Donny in the ribs and laughed.  "OK, boys, bombs away."

They rushed Ziggy in a group and manhandled him towards the narrow
opening.  He kicked out furiously, twisting in their grasp.  But three
to one, six hands to none, he never had a chance.  In seconds, he was
sitting on the edge of the circular hole, his legs dangling into space.
"Don't do this," he said.  "Please, don't do this.  They'll send you to
jail for a very long time for this.  Don't do it.  Please."  He
sniffed, trying not to give way to the panicked tears that choked his
throat.  "I'm begging you."

"Just tell me the truth," Brian said.  "It's your last chance."

The never," Ziggy sobbed.  "I never."

Brian kicked the small of his back, sending him hurtling down for a few
feet, his shoulders bouncing painfully against the stone walls of the
narrow funnel.  Then he jerked to a halt, the rope biting cruelly into
his stomach.  Brian's laughter echoed around him.  "Did you think we
were going to drop you all the way?"

"Please," Ziggy sobbed.  The never killed her.  I don't know who killed
her.  Please .. ."

Now he was moving again, the rope lowering him in short spurts.  He
thought it would cut him in half.  He could hear the heavy breathing of
the men above him, the occasional curse as the rope burned a careless
hand.  Every foot took him further into darkness, the faint flickers
from above fading in the dank, freezing air.

It seemed to go on forever.  Eventually, he felt a difference in the
quality of the air around him and he stopped bumping the sides.  The
bottle was widening from the neck.  They were really going to do it.
They were really going to abandon him here.  "No," he shouted at the
top of his lungs.  "No."

His toes scraped solid ground and blessedly took the strain off the
rope biting into his gut.  The rope above him slackened.  A dissonant,
disembodied voice echoed from above.  "Last chance, cocksucker. 
Confess and we'll pull you out."

It would have been so easy.  But it would have been a lie

that would lead him into impossible places.  Even to save himself,
Ziggy couldn't name himself a murderer.  "You're wrong," he shouted
from the bottom of his battered lungs,

The rope landed on his head, its whipping coils surprisingly heavy.  He
heard a last jeering laugh, then silence.  Total, overwhelming silence.
The glimmer of light from the top of the shaft died.  He was immured in
blackness.  No matter how hard he strained his eyes, he could see
nothing at all.  He had been cast into outer darkness.

Ziggy edged sideways.  There was no way of telling how far he was from
the walls, and he didn't want to walk his tender face into solid rock.
He remembered reading about blind white crabs that had evolved in an
underground cave.  Somewhere in the Canary Islands, he thought.
Generations of darkness had made eyes redundant.  That was what he had
become, a blind white crab side winding in impenetrability.

The wall came sooner than he expected.  He turned and let his
fingertips feel the grainy sandstone.  He was struggling to keep his
panic at bay, concentrating on his physical environment.  He couldn't
let himself speculate on how long he would be here.  He'd go mad, fall
to pieces, dash his brains out on the stone if he thought about the
possibilities.  Surely they wouldn't leave him to die?  Brian Duff
might, but he didn't think his friends would take that chance.

Ziggy turned his back to the wall and slowly slid down till he was
sitting on the chill floor.  He ached all over.  He didn't think
anything was broken, but he knew now that you didn't have to have
fractures to suffer the sort of pain that demanded serious analgesia.

He knew he couldn't afford just to sit there and do nothing.  His body
was going to stiffen, his joints cramp if he didn't keep moving.  He'd
die of exposure in these temperatures if he couldn't keep his
circulation going, and he wasn't about to give those barbaric bastards
the satisfaction.  He had to get his hands free.  Ziggy bent his head
as low as possible,

wincing at the pain from his bruised ribs and spine.  If he pulled his
hands up to the limit of the rope, he could just get his teeth on the
knotted end.

As silent tears of pain and self-pity dripped down his nose, Ziggy
began the most crucial battle of his life.

Alex was surprised to find the house empty when he arrived home.  Ziggy
hadn't said anything about going out and Alex presumed he'd planned an
evening working.  Maybe he'd gone round to see one of his fellow
medics.  Maybe Mondo had come back and they'd gone for a drink
together.  Not that he was worried.  Just because he'd been rousted by
Cavendish and his crew was no reason to believe anything bad had
happened to Ziggy.

Alex made himself a cup of coffee and a pile of toast.  He sat at the
kitchen table, his notes from the lecture in front of him.  He'd always
struggled to hold the Venetian painters distinct in his head, but
tonight's slide show had clarified certain elements he wanted to be
sure he'd grasped.  He was scribbling in the margin when Weird bounced
in, full of earnest bonhomie.  "Wow, what a night I've had," he
enthused. "Lloyd did an absolutely inspirational Bible study on the
Letter to the Ephesians.  It's awesome how much he draws out from the
text."

"I'm glad you had a good time," Alex said absently.  Weird's entrances
were as repetitive as they were dramatic ever since he'd started
hanging out with the Christians.  Alex had long since stopped paying
attention.

"Where's Zig?  He working?"

"He's out.  Don't know where.  If you're putting the kettle on, I'll
have another coffee."

The kettle had barely boiled when they heard the front door open.  To
their surprise, it was Mondo who walked in, not Ziggy.  "Hello,
stranger," Alex said.  "She throw you out?"

"She's got an essay crisis," Mondo said, reaching for a mug and tipping
coffee into it.  "If I hang around, she'll only keep me awake moaning
about it.  So I thought I'd grace you guys with my presence.  Where's
Ziggy?"

The don't know.  Am I my brother's keeper?"

"Genesis chapter four, verse nine," Weird said smugly.

"For fuck's sake, Weird," Mondo said.  "Are you not over it yet?"

"You don't get over Jesus, Mondo.  I don't expect someone as shallow as
you to understand that.  False gods, that's what you're worshipping."

Mondo grinned.  "Maybe.  But she gives great head."

Alex groaned.  The can't take any more.  I'm going to bed."  He left
them to their sparring, luxuriating in the peace of a room of his own
again.  Nobody had been sent to replace Cavendish and Greenhalgh, so
he'd moved into what had been Cavendish's bedroom.  He paused on the
threshold, glancing into the music room.  He couldn't remember the last
time they'd sat down and played together.  Until this term, hardly a
day had gone by when they hadn't jammed for half an hour or more.  But
that had disappeared too, along with the closeness.

Maybe that was what happened anyway when you grew up.  But Alex
suspected it had more to do with what Rosie Duff's death had taught
them about themselves and each other.  It hadn't been a very edifying
journey so far.  Mondo had retreated into selfishness and sex; Weird
had disappeared to a distant planet where even the language was
incomprehensible.  Only Ziggy had stayed his intimate.  And even he

seemed to have taken to disappearing without trace.  And underneath it
all, a dissonant counterpoint to everyday life, suspicion and
uncertainty gnawed away.  Mondo had been the one to utter the poisonous
words, but Alex had already been providing an ample feast for the worm
in the bud.

Part of him hoped that things would settle down and return to normal.
But the other part of him knew that some things, once broken, can never
be restored.  Thinking of restoration summoned Lynn to his mind, making
him smile.  He was going home at the weekend.  They were going to
Edinburgh to see a film.  Heaven Can Wait, with Julie Christie and
Warren Beatty.  Romantic comedy seemed like a good place to start.  It
was an unspoken understanding between them that they wouldn't go out in
Kirkcaldy.  Too many wagging tongues quick to judgement.

He thought he'd tell Ziggy, though.  He'd been going to tell him
tonight.  But, like heaven, that could wait.  It wasn't as if either of
them was going anywhere.

Ziggy would have given all he possessed to be anywhere else.  It seemed
like hours since he'd been dumped in the dungeon.  He was chilled to
the bone.  The damp patch where he'd pissed himself felt icy, his prick
and balls shrivelled to infant size.  And still he hadn't managed to
untie his hands.  Cramp had shot through his arms and legs in spasms,
making him cry out with the excruciating pain of it.  But at last, he
thought he could feel the knot starting to give.

He gripped his aching jaw over the nylon rope once more and jiggled his
head this way and that.  Yes, there was definitely more movement.
Either that or he was so desperate he was hallucinating progress.  A
tug to the left, then a jerk backwards.  He repeated the motion several
times.  When the rope end finally curled free and whipped against his
face, Ziggy burst into tears.

Once that first turn was undone, the rest came away easily.

All at once, his hands were free.  Numb, but free.  His fingers felt as
swollen and cold as supermarket sausages.  He thrust them inside his
jacket, into his armpits.  Axillae, he thought, remembering that cold
was an enemy of thought, slowing the brain down.  "Think anatomy," he
said out loud, recalling the giggles he'd shared with a fellow student
when reading how to rearticulate a dislocated shoulder.  "Place a
stockinged foot in the axilla," the text had said.  "Cross-dressing for
doctors," his friend had said.  "I must remember to put a black silk
stocking in my bag in case I come across a dislocation."

That was how to stay alive, he thought.  Memory and movement.  Now he
had his arms for balance, he could move around.  He could jog on the
spot.  A minute jogging, two minutes resting.  Which would be fine if
he could see his watch, he thought stupidly.  For once, he wished he
smoked.  Then he'd have matches, a lighter.  Something to breach this
appalling blank darkness.  "Sensory deprivation," he said.  "Break the
silence.  Talk to yourself.  Sing."

Pins and needles in his hands made him twitch.  He took his hands out
and shook them vigorously from the wrists.  He massaged them clumsily
against each other, and gradually the feeling came back.  He touched
the wall, glad of the sedimentary roughness of the sandstone.  He'd
begun to worry about permanent damage because of the circulatory
cutoff.  His fingers were still swollen and stiff, but at least he
could feel them again.

He pushed himself to his feet and began to lift his feet in a gentle
jog.  He'd let his pulse-rate rise, then stop till it returned to
normal.  He thought about all the afternoons he'd spent hating PE.
Sadistic gym teachers and endless circuit training, cross country and
rugby.  Movement and memory.

He was going to make it out alive.  Wasn't he?

Morning came, and there was no Ziggy in the kitchen.  Concerned now,
Alex stuck his head round Ziggy's door.  No

Ziggy.  It was hard to tell whether his bed had been slept in, since
Alex doubted he'd made it since the beginning of term.  He returned to
the kitchen, where Mondo was tucking into a vast bowl of Coco Pops.
"I'm worried about Ziggy.  I don't think he came back last night."

"You're such an old woman, Gilly.  Did you ever consider he might have
got laid?"

"I think he might have mentioned the possibility."

Mondo snorted.  "Not Ziggy.  If he didn't want you to know, you'd never
find out.  He's not transparent, like you and me."

"Mondo, how long have we been sharing a house?"

"Three and a half years," Mondo said, casting his eyes to the
ceiling.

"And how many nights has Ziggy stayed out?"

"I don't know, Gilly.  In case you hadn't noticed, I tend to be away
from base quite a lot myself.  Unlike you, I have a life outside these
four walls."

"I'm not exactly a monk, Mondo.  But as far as I'm aware, Ziggy has
never stayed out all night.  And it worries me because it's not that
long since Weird had the crap beaten out of him by the Duff brothers.
And Yesterday I got into a ruck with Cavendish and his Tory cronies.
What if he got into a fight?  What if he's in the hospital?"

"And what if he got laid?  Listen to yourself, Gilly, you sound like my
mother."

"Up yours, Mondo."  Alex grabbed his jacket from the hall and made for
the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to phone Maclennan.  If he tells me I sound like his mother,
then I'll shut up, OK?"  Alex slammed the door on the way out.  He had
another fear he hadn't mentioned to Mondo.  What if Ziggy had gone out
cruising for sex and been arrested?  That was the nightmare scenario.

He walked across to the phone booths in the admin building and dialled
the police station.  To his surprise, he

was put straight through to Maclennan.  "It's Alex Gilbey, Inspector,"
he said.  "I know this is probably going to sound like a right waste of
your time, but I'm worried about Ziggy Malkiewicz.  He didn't come home
last night, which he's never done before .. ."

"And after what happened to Mr.  Mackie, you felt a bit uneasy?"
Maclennan finished.

"That's right."

"Are you at life Park now?"

"Aye."

"Stay put.  I'm coming over."

Alex didn't know whether to be relieved or concerned that the detective
had taken him seriously.  He trudged back to the house and told Mondo
to expect a visit from the police.

"He'll really thank you for that when he walks in with that just-fucked
look on his face," Mondo said.

By the time Maclennan arrived, Weird had joined them.  He rubbed his
tender, half-healed nose and said, "I'm with Gilly on this one.  If
Ziggy's fallen foul of the Duff brothers, he could be in intensive care
by now."

Maclennan took Alex through the events of the previous evening.  "And
you've no idea where he might have gone?"

Alex shook his head.  "He didn't say he was going out."

Maclennan gave Alex a shrewd look.  "Does he go in for cottaging, do
you know?"

"What's cottaging?"  Weird asked.

Mondo ignored him and glared at Maclennan.  "What are you saying?  You
calling my pal a queer?"

Weird looked even more baffled.  "What's cottaging?  What do you mean,
queer?"

Furious, Mondo rounded on Weird.  "Cottaging is what poofs do.  Picking
up strangers in toilets and having sex with them."  He gestured with
his thumb at Maclennan.  "For some reason, the plod thinks Ziggy's a
poof."

"Mondo, shut up," Alex said.  "We'll talk about this later."

The other two were taken aback by Alex's sudden access of authority,
bewildered by the turn of events.  Alex turned back to Maclennan.  "He
sometimes goes to a bar in Edinburgh.  He's never said anything about
here in St.  Andrews.  You think he's been arrested?"

"I checked the cells before I came out.  He's not been through our
hands."  His radio crackled into life and he moved into the hall to
answer it.  His words drifted back into the kitchen.  The castle?
You're kidding .  Actually, I've got an idea who it might be.  Get the
Fire Brigade in.  I'll see you down there."

He came back in, looking worried.  "I think he might have turned up.
We've had a report from one of the guides at the castle.  He checks the
place over every morning.  He rang us to say there's somebody in the
Bottle Dungeon."

"The Bottle Dungeon?"  all three of them chorused.

"It's a chamber dug out of the rock under one of the towers.  Shaped
like a bottle.  Once you're in, you can't get out.  I need to go over
there and see what's what.  I'll have somebody let you know what's
going on."

"No.  We're coming too," Alex insisted.  "If he's been stuck in there
all night, he deserves to see a friendly face."

"Sorry, lads.  No can do.  If you want to make your own way over there,
I'll leave word that you're to be let in.  But I don't want you
cluttering up a rescue operation."  And he was gone.

The moment the door closed, Mondo laid into Alex.  "What the hell was
all that about?  Shutting us up like that?  Cottaging?"

Alex looked away.  "Ziggy's gay," he said.

Weird looked incredulous.  "No, he's not.  How can he be gay?  We're
his best friends, we'd know."

"I know," Alex said.  "He told me a couple of years ago."

"Great," Mondo said.  "Thanks for sharing that with us, Gilly.  So much
for, "All for one and one for all."  We weren't good enough to hear the
news, huh?  It's all right for you to

know, but we haven't got the right to be told our so-called best mate
is a poof."

Alex stared Mondo down.  "Well, judging by your tolerant and relaxed
reaction, I'd say Ziggy made the right judgement call."

"You must have got it wrong," Weird said stubbornly.  "Ziggy's not gay.
He's normal.  Gays are sick.  They're an abomination.  Ziggy's not like
that."

Suddenly, Alex had had enough.  His temper flared rarely, but when it
did, it was a breath-taking spectacle.  His face flushed dark red and
he slammed the flat of his hand against the wall.  "Shut up, the pair
of you.  You make me ashamed to be your friend.  I don't want to hear
another bigoted word from either of you.  Ziggy's taken care of the
three of us for the best part of ten years.  He's been our friend, he's
always been there for us and he's never let us down.  So what if he
fancies men instead of women?  I don't give a shit.  It doesn't mean he
fancies me, or you, any more than I fancy every woman with a pair of
tits.  It doesn't mean I've got to watch my back in the shower, for
fuck's sake.  He's still the same person.  I still love him like a
brother.  I'd still trust him with my life, and so should you.  And
you' he added, stabbing a finger into Weird's chest.  "You call
yourself a Christian?  How dare you sit in judgement on a man who's
worth a dozen of you and your happy-clappy nutters?  You don't deserve
a friend like Ziggy."  He snatched up his coat.  "I'm going to the
castle.  And I don't want to see you two there unless you've got your
fucking acts together."

This time when he slammed the door, even the windows rattled.

When Ziggy saw the faint glow of light, he thought at first he was
hallucinating again.  He'd been drifting in and out of a kind of
delirium, and he had enough insight in his lucid moments to realize he
was beginning to go into hypothermia.

In spite of his best efforts to keep moving, lethargy was a hard
adversary to combat.  From time to time, he'd slumped to the floor in a
dwam, his mind rambling in the strangest of directions.  Once, he'd
thought his father was with him, having a conversation about Raith
Rovers' chances of achieving promotion.  Now, that was surreal.  He had
no idea how long he'd been down there.  But when the glimmer of light
appeared, he knew what he had to do.  He jumped up and down, shouting
at the top of his lungs.  "Help!  Help!  I'm down here.  Help me!"

For a long moment, nothing happened.  Then the light became painful.
Ziggy shielded his eyes from its brightness.  "Hello?"  echoed down the
shaft and filled the chamber.

"Get me out of here," Ziggy screamed.  "Please, get me out."

"I'm going for help," the disembodied voice called.  "If I drop the
torch, can you catch it?"

"Wait," Ziggy shouted.  He didn't trust his hands.  Besides, a torch
would come down the shaft like a bullet.  He stripped off his jacket
and his sweater, folded them and placed them in the middle of the faint
pool of light.  "OK, do it now," he called up.

The light juddered and bounced on the walls of the pas sage, flashing
crazy patterns against his startled retinas.  It spiralled suddenly out
of the shaft and then a heavy rubber torch plopped neatly on to the
soft sheepskin.  Tears stung Ziggy's eyes, a physiological and
emotional reaction rolled into one.  He grabbed the torch, holding it
to his chest like a talisman.  "Thank you," he sobbed.  "Thank you,
thank you, thank you."

Till be as quick as I can," the voice said, tailing off as its owner
moved away.

He could bear it now, Ziggy thought.  He had light.  He played the
torch over the walls.  The rough red sandstone was worn smooth in
places, the roof and walls blackened in patches with soot and tallow.
It must have felt like the anteroom to hell for the prisoners kept down
here.  At least he

knew he was going to be freed, and soon.  But for them, light must only
have brought increase to their despair, a recognition of the futility
of any hope of escape.

When Alex arrived at the castle, two police cars, a fire engine and an
ambulance sat outside.  The sight of the ambulance made his heart
pound.  What had happened to Ziggy?  He had no difficulty gaining
access; Maclennan had been true to his word.  One of the firemen
pointed him across the grassy courtyard to the Sea Tower, where he
found a scene of calm efficiency.  The fire officers had set up a
portable generator to run powerful arc lights and a winch.  A rope led
down into the hole in the middle of the floor.  Alex shivered at the
sight.  "It's Ziggy, right enough.  The fireman's just gone down in a
sort of hoist.  Like a breeches buoy, if you know what that is?"
Maclennan said.

"I think so.  What happened?"  Maclennan shrugged.  "We don't know
yet." As he spoke, a voice trickled up from below.  "Bring her up."

The fireman on the winch pressed a button and the machinery howled into
action.  The rope coiled on a drum, inch by tantalizing inch.  It
seemed to go on forever.  Then Ziggy's familiar head rose into sight.
He looked a mess.  His face was streaked with blood and dirt.  One eye
was swollen and bruised, his lip split and crusted.  He was blinking at
the lights, but as soon as his sight cleared and he saw Alex, he
managed a smile.  "Hey, Gilly," he said.  "Nice of you to stop by."

As his torso cleared the funnel, willing hands pulled him clear,
helping him out of the canvas sling.  Ziggy staggered, disorientated
and exhausted.  Impulsively, Alex rushed forward and took his friend in
his arms.  The acrid smell of sweat and urine clung to him, overlaid by
the earthy smell of dirt.  "You're OK," Alex said, holding him close.
"You're OK now."

Ziggy hung on to him as if his life depended on it.  "I was afraid I
was going to die there," he whispered.  "I couldn't let myself think
like that, but I was so afraid I was going to die."

Maclennan stormed out of the hospital.  When he got to the car, he
slammed his hands against the roof.  This case was a nightmare. Nothing
had gone right since the night Rosie Duff had died.  And now he had the
victim of abduction, assault and false imprisonment refusing to give a
statement about his attackers.  According to Ziggy, he'd been set on by
three men.  It was dark, he didn't get a proper look at them. He didn't
recognize their voices, they didn't call each other by name. And for no
good reason, they'd dropped him down the Bottle Dungeon. Maclennan had
threatened him with arrest for police obstruction, but a pale and tired
Ziggy had looked him straight in the eye and said, "I'm not asking you
to carry out an investigation, so how can I be obstructing you?  It was
a just a prank that went too far, that's all."

He wrenched open the passenger door and threw himself into the car.
Janice Hogg, who was in the driver's seat, looked a question at him.

"He says it was a prank that went too far.  He doesn't want to make a
statement, he doesn't know who did it."

"Brian Duff," Janice said decisively.

"On what basis?"

"While you were inside, waiting for them to give Malkiewicz

the once-over, I made a few inquiries.  Duff and his two bosom buddies
were drinking down at the harbour last night.  Just down the road from
the castle.  They took off about half-past nine.  According to the
landlord, they looked like they were up to something."

"Well done, Janice.  But it's still a bit thin."

"Why do you think Malkiewicz won't give a statement?  You think he's
frightened of reprisals?"

Maclennan sighed.  "Not the kind you're thinking of.  I think he was
cottaging down by the church.  He's scared that if he gives us Duff and
his pals, they'll stand up in court and tell the world Ziggy Malkiewicz
is a poof.  The lad wants to be a doctor.  He's not going to take any
chances with that.  God, I hate this case.  Everywhere I turn, it ends
up going nowhere."

"You could always lean on Duff, sir."

"And say what?"

"I don't know, sir.  But it might make you feel better."

Maclennan looked at Janice in surprise.  Then he grinned.  "You're
right, Janice.  Malkiewicz might still be a suspect, but if anybody's
going to beat him up, it should be us.  Let's go to Guardbridge.  I've
not been to the paper mill in a very long time."

Brian Duff strode into the manager's office with the cocky strut of a
man who thinks he has the keys to the kingdom.  He leaned against the
wall and swept Maclennan with an arrogant stare.  "I don't like being
interrupted at my work," he said.

"Shut your puss, Brian," Maclennan said contemptuously.

"That's no way to speak to a member of the public, || Inspector."

"I'm not speaking to a member of the public, I'm speaking jl to a piece
of shite.  I know what you and your moronic pals Jj did last night,
Brian.  And I know you think you'll get away | with it because of what
you know about Ziggy Malkiewicz.

Well, I'm here to tell you different."  He moved closer to Duff, only
inches away from him now.  "From now on, Brian, you and your brother
are marked men.  You go one mile an hour over the speed limit on that
bike of yours and you're pulled.  You have one drink over the limit,
and you're breathalysed.  You so much as breathe on any of those four
lads and you're under arrest.  And with your record, that means you're
going away again.  And this time, it'll be for a damn sight more than
three months."  Maclennan paused for breath.

"That's police harassment," Brian said, his complacency only slightly
dented.

"No, it's not.  Police harassment is when you accidentally fall down
the stairs on the way to the cells.  When you trip over and break your
nose when you hit the wall."  In a sudden, lightning movement,
Maclennan's hand shot out and grabbed Duff's crotch.  He squeezed as
tightly as he could, then twisted his wrist sharply.

Duff screamed, the colour draining from his face.  Maclennan let him go
and stepped back smartly.  Duff doubled over, spitting curses.  "That's
police harassment, Brian.  Get fucking used to it."  Maclennan yanked
open the door.  "Oh dear.  Brian seems to have banged into the desk and
hurt himself," he said to the startled secretary in the ante-room.  He
smiled as he walked past her, out the door and into the cold sunlight.
He got into the car.

"You were right, Janice.  I feel a lot better now," he said, smiling
broadly.

No work was being done in the small house in life Park that day.  Mondo
and Weird mooched around the music room, but guitar and drums didn't
make for a great combo and Alex was clearly not about to join them.  He
lay on his bed, trying to work out his feelings about what had happened
to them all.  He'd always wondered why Ziggy had been so reluctant to
share his secret with the other two.  Deep down, Alex

believed they would accept it because they knew Ziggy too well not to.
But he'd underestimated the power of knee-jerk bigotry.  He didn't like
what their reaction said about his friends.  And that called into
question his own judgement.  What was he doing, investing so much time
and energy in people who were, at bottom, as narrow-minded as scum like
Brian Duff?  On their way to the ambulance, Ziggy had whispered in
Alex's ear what had happened.  What scared Alex was the thought that
his friends shared the same prejudices.

OK, Weird and Mondo weren't about to go out and beat up gay men for
want of something better to do of an evening.  But not everyone in
Berlin had been part of Kristallnacht.  And look where that had led. 
By sharing the same position of intolerance, you gave tacit support to
the extremists.  In order for evil to triumph, Alex remembered, it is
necessary only that good men do nothing.

He could almost understand Weird's position.  He'd dug himself in with
a bunch of fundamentalists who required that you had to swallow the
entire doctrine whole.  You couldn't opt out of the bits that didn't
suit you.

But there was no excuse for Mondo.  The way he felt right now, Alex
didn't even want to sit down at the same table with him.

It was all coming apart at the seams, and he didn't know how to stop
it.

He heard the sound of the front door opening, and he was out of bed and
down the stairs in seconds.  Ziggy leaned against the wall, a wobbly
smile on his face.  "Shouldn't you be in the hospital?"  Alex asked.

"They wanted to keep me in for observation.  But I can do my own obs.
There's no need for me to be cluttering up a bed."

Alex helped him through to the kitchen and put the kettle on.  "I
thought you had hypothermia?"

"Only very mildly.  It's not like I had frostbite or anything.

They got my core temperature back up, so that's OK.  I've not got any
broken bones, just bruises.  I'm not passing blood, so my kidneys are
fine.  I'd rather suffer in my own bed than have doctors and nurses
poking at me, making jokes about medics who can't heal themselves."

Footsteps on the stairs, then Mondo and Weird appeared in the doorway,
looking sheepish.  "Good to see you, man," Weird said.

"Aye," Mondo agreed.  "What the hell happened?"

"They know, Ziggy," Alex cut in.

"You told them?"  The accusation came out sounding tired rather than
angry.

"Maclennan told us," Mondo said sharply.  "He just confirmed it."

"Fine," Ziggy said.  The don't expect Duff and his Neanderthal buddies
were looking for me in particular.  I think they'd just gone out for a
bit of queer-bashing and they happened to come across me and this other
guy down by St.  Mary's Church."

"You were having sex in the church?"  Weird sounded appalled.

"It's a ruin," Alex said.  "It's not exactly consecrated ground." 
Weird looked as if he was going to say more, but the look on Alex's
face stopped him in his tracks.

"You were having sex with a total stranger out in the open on a
freezing winter night?"  Mondo spoke with a mixture of disgust and
contempt.

Ziggy gave him a long considering look.  "Would you rather I'd brought
him back here?"  Mondo said nothing.  "No, I thought not.  Unlike the
stream of strange women you inflict on us on a regular basis."

"That's different," Mondo said, shifting from one foot to the other.

"Why?"

"Well, it's not illegal, for a start," he said.

"Thanks for your support, Mondo."  Ziggy got to his feet, slowly and
precariously, like an old man.  Tm going to bed."

"You still haven't told us what happened," Weird said, sensitive to
atmosphere as ever.

"When they realized it was me, Duff wanted me to confess.  When I
wouldn't confess, they tied me up and lowered me down the Bottle
Dungeon.  It was not the best night of my life.  Now, if you'll excuse
me?"

Mondo and Weird stepped aside to let him pass.  The stairs were too
narrow for two, so Alex didn't offer to help.  He didn't think Ziggy
would accept help right now anyway, not even from him.  "Why don't you
two just move in with the people you're comfortable with?"  Alex said,
pushing past them.  He picked up his book bag and his coat.  "I'm going
to the library.  It would be really nice if you two were gone when I
got back."

A couple of weeks passed in what appeared to be an uneasy truce.  Weird
spent most of his time either working in the library or with his
evangelical friends.  Ziggy seemed to recover his sangfroid as his
physical injuries healed, but Alex noticed he didn't like being out
after dark alone.  Alex got his head down to work, but made sure he was
around when Ziggy needed company.  He went to Kirkcaldy for a weekend,
taking Lynn to Edinburgh.  They ate in a small Italian restaurant with
cheery decor and went to the pictures.  They walked all the way from
the station to her home three miles away at the back of the town.  As
they cut through the stand of trees that masked the Dunnikier Estate
from the main road, she pulled him into the shadows and kissed him as
if her life depended on it.  He'd walked home singing.

The person most affected by the recent events, paradoxically, seemed to
be Mondo.  The story of Ziggy's attack spread round the university like
wildfire.  The version that went public conveniently left out the first
part of the story, so his privacy >

182 }

remained intact.  But a sizeable majority were talking about the four
of them as if they were suspects, as if there was some sort of
justification for what had been done to Ziggy.  They had become
pariahs.

Mondo's girlfriend dumped him unceremoniously.  She was worried for her
reputation, she said.  He didn't find a new one easy to come by either.
Girls wouldn't meet his eye any more.  They sidled away when he went to
talk to them in pubs and discos.

His fellow students on his French course also made it clear they didn't
want him around.  He was isolated in a way that none of the others was.
Weird had the Christians; Ziggy's fellow medics were firmly on his
side; Alex didn't give a shit what anyone else thought, he had Ziggy
and, although Mondo didn't know it, he had Lynn.

Mondo had wondered if he still had an ace up his sleeve, but he was
nervous about exposing his hand in case it turned into a joker.  It
wasn't exactly easy to waylay the person he needed to talk to, and so
far he'd failed dismally to make contact.  He couldn't even manage to
set up an exercise in mutual self-interest.  Because that's what he'd
persuaded himself it was.  Not blackmail.  Just a little reciprocity.
But even that was beyond him right now.  He really was a total failure;
everything he touched turned to dross.

The world had been his oyster and now all Mondo could taste was the
grit.  He'd always been the most emotionally fragile of the quartet,
and without their support, he crumbled.  Depression set in like a heavy
blanket, muffling the world outside.  He even walked like a man with a
burden on his back.  He couldn't work, couldn't sleep.  He stopped
showering and shaving, only changing his clothes occasionally.  He
spent endless hours lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and
listening to Pink Floyd tapes.  He'd go off to pubs where he knew
nobody and drink morosely.  Then he'd stumble into the night and wander
through the town until the small hours.

Ziggy tried to talk to him, but Mondo would have none of it.  Somewhere
in his heart, he blamed Ziggy, Weird and Alex for what had happened to
him, and he didn't want what he saw as their pity.  That would be the
final indignity.  He wanted proper friends who would appreciate him,
not people who felt sorry for him.  He wanted friends he could trust,
not ones who made him worry about what knowing them might mean for
him.

One afternoon, his pub crawl took him to a small hotel on The Scores.
He trudged up to the bar and slurred an order for a pint.  The barman
looked at him with thinly disguised contempt and said, "Sorry, son. I'm
not serving you."

"What do you mean, you're not serving me?"

"This is a respectable establishment, and you look like a tramp.  I
have the right to refuse service to anyone I don't want drinking in
here."  He jerked a thumb towards a notice by the till which backed up
his words.  "On your bike."

Mondo stared at him in disbelief.  He looked around, seeking support
from other customers.  Everyone studiously avoided meeting his eye.
"Fuck you, pal," he said, sweeping an ashtray to the floor and storming
Tout.

In the short time he'd been inside, the heavy rain that had been
threatening all day had broken over the town, scouring the streets
under the impetus of a strong east wind.  In no time at all, he was
soaked to the skin.  Mondo wiped the rain from his face and realized he
was crying.  He'd had enough of this.  He couldn't take another day of
misery and pointlessness.  He had no friends, women despised him and he
just knew he was going to fail his finals because he hadn't done any
work.  Nobody cared because nobody understood.

Drunk and depressed, he staggered along The Scores' towards the castle.
He'd had enough.  He'd show them.  He'd ^ make them see his point of
view.  He climbed over the railing i by the footpath and stood swaying
at the edge of the cliff.:. Below, the sea pounded angrily against the
rocks, sending;;

fountains of spume high into the air.  Mondo breathed in the salt spray
and felt curiously at peace as he stared down at the raging water.  He
spread his arms wide, raised his face to the rain and screamed his pain
at the sky.

Maclennan was walking past the radio room when the call went out.  He
translated the numbers in the code.  Potential suicide on the cliffs
above the Castle Sands.  Not really a CID matter, and anyway, it was
his day off.  He'd only come in to clear up some paperwork.  He could
carry on out the door, be home in ten minutes, a can of lager in his
hand and the sports pages open on his lap.  Like almost every other day
off since Elaine walked out the door.

No contest.

He stuck his head in the radio-room door.  "Tell them I'm on my way,"
he said.  "And send for the lifeboat from Anstruther."

The operator looked at him in surprise, but gave him the thumbs up.
Maclennan carried on through to the car park.  God, but it was a rough
afternoon.  The bloody weather alone was enough to make you suicidal.
He drove to the scene, his; wipers barely slapping the windscreen clear
between gouts of ;1 rain.

The cliffs were a favourite spot for attempted suicides.  Mostly, they
succeeded if the tide was right.  There was a vicious undertow that
swept the unsuspecting out into the I sea in a matter of minutes.  And
nobody lasted long in the j

North Sea in winter.  There had been some spectacular failures too.  He
remembered a janitor from one of the local primary schools who had
completely mistimed the attempt.  He came crashing down into two feet
of water, missed the rocks altogether and ended up hitting the sand. He
broke both his ankles and was so mortified at this farcical fiasco that
he caught a bus to Leuchars the day he was released from hospital,
tottered on his crutches along the railway track and threw himself
under the Aberdeen express.

That wouldn't happen today, though.  Maclennan was pretty sure the tide
was in, and the east wind would whip the sea into a pounding maelstrom
beneath the cliffs.  He hoped they'd get there in time.

There was a panda car there already when he arrived.  Janice Hogg and
another uniformed officer were standing uncertainly by the low railing,
watching a young man lean into the wind, his arms spread like Christ on
the cross.  "Don't just stand there," Maclennan said, turning his
collar up against the rain.  "There's a life belt further along.  One
of those ones with a rope.  Get it, now."

The male constable sprinted off in the direction Maclennan was pointing
in.  The detective climbed over the railing and took a couple of steps
forward.  "All right, son," he said gently.

The young man turned and Maclennan realized that it was Davey Kerr.  A
wrecked and ruined Davey Kerr, to be sure.  But there was no mistaking
that elfin face, those terrified Bambi eyes.  "You're too late," he
slurred, his body wavering drunkenly.

"It's never too late," Maclennan said.  "Whatever's wrong, we can fix
it."

Mondo turned to face Maclennan.  He dropped his arms to his side.  "Fix
it?"  His eyes blazed.  "You're the ones that broke it in the first
place.  Thanks to you lot, everybody thinks I'm a killer.  I've got no
friends, I've got no future."

"Of course you've got friends.  Alex, Ziggy, Tom.  They're

your friends."  The wind howled and the rain battered his face, but
Maclennan was oblivious to everything except the frightened face before
him.

"Some friends.  They don't want me, because I tell the truth."  Mondo's
hand came up to his mouth and he chewed at a fingernail.  "They hate
me."

"I don't think so."  Maclennan took a small step nearer.  Another
couple of feet and he'd be within grabbing distance.

"No closer.  You stay back.  This is my business.  Not yours."

"Think about what you're doing here, Davey.  Think about the people who
love you.  This is going to tear up your family."

Mondo shook his head.  "They don't care about me.  They've always loved
my sister more than me."

"Tell me what's bothering you."  Keep him talking, keep him alive,
Maclennan willed himself.  Let this not be another nightmare fuck-up.

"Are you deaf, man?  I already told you," Mondo shouted, his face a
rictus of pain.  "You've ruined my life."

"That's not true.  You've got a great future."

"Not any more, I haven't."  He spread his arms like wings again.
"Nobody understands what I'm going through."

"Let me understand."  Maclennan edged forward.  Mondo tried to step
sideways but his drunken feet slithered on the thin wet grass.  His
face was a mask of shocked horror.  In a terrible pantomimic cartwheel,
he struggled against the pull of gravity.  For a few drawn-out seconds,
it looked as if he would succeed.  Then his feet went from under him
and he disappeared from sight in one shocking moment.

Maclennan lunged forward, but far too late.  He teetered on the edge,
but the wind was on his side and held him till he had his balance
again.  He looked down.  He thought he ' saw the splash.  Then he saw
Mondo's white face through a break in the white froth of water.  He
whirled round as Janice:!  and the other constable reached his side.
Another police car| drew up, disgorging Jimmy Lawson and two other
uniformed j

officers.  "The life belt Maclennan shouted.  "Hold on to the rope."

Already, he was tearing off his coat and jacket, slipping out of his
shoes.  Maclennan grabbed the life belt and looked down again.  This
time, he saw an arm black against the foam.  He took a deep breath and
launched himself into space.

The drop was heart-stopping in its suddenness.  Buffeted by the wind,
Maclennan felt weightless and insignificant.  It was over in seconds.
Hitting the water was like falling on to solid ground.  It knocked the
breath from him.  Gasping and swallowing great mouthfuls of freezing
salt water, Maclennan struggled to the surface.  All he could see was
water, spray and spume.  He kicked out with his legs, trying to
orientate himself.

Then, in a trough between the waves, he caught a glimpse of Mondo.  The
lad was a few yards further out, over to his left.  Maclennan struck
out towards him, hampered by the life belt round his arm.  The sea
lifted him and brought him crashing down again, carrying him right into
Mondo.  He grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

Mondo flailed in his grip.  At first, Maclennan thought he was
determined to break free and drown himself.  But then he understood
that Mondo was fighting him for the life belt Maclennan knew he
couldn't hang on indefinitely.  He let go of the life belt but managed
to cling on to Mondo.

Mondo grabbed at the belt.  He thrust one arm through it and tried to
get it over his head.  But Maclennan was still gripping his collar,
knowing his life depended on it.  There was only one thing for it.
Mondo thrust back as hard as he could with his free elbow.  Suddenly,
he was clear.

He pulled the life belt over his body, desperately gasping for breath
in the saturated air.  Behind him, Maclennan struggled closer, somehow
managing to get a hand on the rope attached to the life belt  It took a
superhuman effort, his waterlogged clothes fighting him every inch of
the way.  Cold was

eating into Maclennan now, making his fingers numb.  He clung to the
rope with one arm, waving the other above their heads to signal to the
team on the cliff to bring them up.

He could feel the pull on the rope.  Would five be enough to get them
both up the cliff?  Had somebody had the nous to get a boat round from
the harbour?  They'd be dead from cold long before the lifeboat arrived
from Anstruther.

They closed in on the cliffs.  One minute, Maclennan was aware of the
buoyancy of the water.  Then all he felt was drag as he rose out of the
water, holding on to the life belt and Mondo for dear life.  He stared
upwards, gratefully seeing the pale face of the front man on the rope,
his features a blur through the rain and spray.

They were six feet up the cliff when Mondo, terrified that Maclennan
was going to pull him back into the maelstrom, kicked backwards.
Maclennan's fingers gave up the fight.  He plunged back helpless into
the water.  Again he went under, again he struggled to the surface.  He
could see Mondo's body rising slowly up the cliff face.  He couldn't
believe it.  The bastard had kicked him free to save himself.  He
hadn't been trying to kill himself at all.  It had just been posturing,
attention seeking.

Maclennan spat out another mouthful of water.  He was determined now to
hang on, if only to make Davey Kerr wish | he had drowned after all.
All he had to do now was keep his head above water.  They'd get the
life belt back down to him.  | They'd send a boat round.  Wouldn't
they?

His strength was fading fast.  He couldn't fight the water, so he let
it carry him.  He'd concentrate on keeping his face | out of the sea.

Easier said than done.  The undertow sucked at him, the swell smashing
black walls of water into his mouth and nose.  He didn't feel cold any
more, which was nice.  Vaguely, he heard the pocka-pocka of a
helicopter.  He was drifting now, in a place where everything felt very
calm.  Air/ Sea Rescue,"

that would be the noise he could hear.  Swing low, sweet chariot.
Coming for to carry me home.  Funny the things that go through your
mind.  He giggled and swallowed another mouthful of water.

He felt very light now, the sea a bed rocking him gently to sleep.
Barney Maclennan, asleep on the ocean wave.

The helicopter spotlight swept the sea for an hour.  Nothing.  Rosie
Duff's killer had claimed a second victim.

PART TWO

November 2003; Glenrothes, Scotland ACC James Lawson eased his car into
the slot that bore his name in the police HQ car park.  Not a day went
by when he didn't congratulate himself on his achievement.  Not bad for
the illegitimate son of a miner who'd grown up in a poky council flat
in a dump of a village thrown up in the 1950s to house displaced
workers whose only possibility of a job was in the expanding life coal
field  What a joke that had been.  Within twenty-five years, the
industry had shrunk beyond recognition, stranding its former employees
in ugly oases of redundancy.  His pals had all laughed at him when he'd
turned his back on the pit to join what they perceived as the bosses'
side.  Who had the last laugh now?  Lawson thought with a grim little
smile as he pulled the key out of the ignition of his official Rover.
Thatcher had seen off the miners and turned the police into her
personal New Model Army.  The Left had died and the phoenix risen from
its ashes loved to wave the big stick almost as much as the Tories did.
It had been a good time to be a career copper.  His pension would bear
testament to that.

He picked up his briefcase from the passenger seat and walked briskly
towards the building, head down against a

bitter East Coast wind that promised stinging showers of rain before
the morning was out.  He punched his security code into the keypad by
the back door and headed for the lift.  Instead of going straight to
his office, he made instead for the fourth-floor room where the cold
cases squad was based.  There weren't many unsolved murders on life's
books, so any success would be seen as spectacular.  Lawson knew this
operation had the potential to enhance his reputation if it was handled
correctly.  What he was determined to avoid was a botched job.  None of
them could afford that.

The room he'd requisitioned for the squad was a decent size.  There was
space for the half-dozen computer work stations, and although there was
no natural light, that meant plenty of room for each of the ongoing
cases to be displayed on large cork boards that went all round the
walls.  Alongside each case was a printed list of actions to be carried
out.  As the officers worked their way through these tasks, new
handwritten actions were added to the lists.  Boxes of files were
stacked to waist level along two walls.  Lawson liked to keep a close
eye on progress; although this was a high-profile operation, that
didn't mean it wasn't tightly constrained by budgetary controls.  Most
of the new forensic tests were expensive to commission, and he was
determined not to allow his squad to be so seduced by the glamour of
technology that they squandered all of their resources on lab bills,
leaving nothing for the sheer slog of routine investigative tasks.

With one exception, Lawson had handpicked the team of.  half a dozen
detectives, choosing those with a reputation for meticulous attention
to detail and the intelligence to connect disparate pieces of
information.  That exception was an officer whose presence in the room
troubled Lawson.  Not because he was an inadequate copper, but because
he had far too : much at stake.  Detective Inspector Robin Maclennan's
brother Barney had died in the course of investigating one of these
cold cases, and if it had been up to Lawson, he'd have been'

allowed nowhere near the review.  But Maclennan had appealed over his
head to the Chief Constable, who had overruled Lawson.

The one thing he'd managed to achieve was to keep Maclennan away from
the Rosie Duff case itself.  After Barney's death, Robin had
transferred out of life down south.  He'd only returned after his
father's death the previous year, wanting to work out his last years
before his pension close to his mother.  By chance, Maclennan had a
loose operational link to one of the other cases, so Lawson had
persuaded his boss to let him assign the DI to the case of Lesley
Cameron, a student who had been raped and murdered in St.  Andrews
eighteen years ago.  Back then, Robin Maclennan had been based near her
parents' home and he'd been the designated liaison officer with
Lesley's family, probably because of his own connections in the life
force.  Lawson thought Maclennan was likely looking over the shoulder
of the detective assigned to the Rosie Duff case, but at least his
personal feelings couldn't interfere directly with that
investigation.

That November morning, only two officers were at their desks. Detective
Constable Phil Parhatka had what was probably the most sensitive case
in the review.  His victim was a young man found murdered in his home. 
His best friend had been charged and convicted of the crime, but a
series of embarrassing revelations about the police investigation had
led to the overturning of the conviction on appeal. The repercussions
had holed several careers below the waterline, and now the pressure was
on to find the real killer.  Lawson had partly chosen Parhatka because
of his reputation for sensitivity and discretion.  But what Lawson had
also seen in the young DC was the same hunger for success that had
driven him at that age.  Parhatka wanted a result so badly Lawson could
almost see the desire smoking off him.

As Lawson walked in, the other officer was getting to her feet.  DC
Karen Pirie yanked an unfashionable but functional

sheepskin coat off the hack of her chair and shrugged into it.  She
glanced up, sensing a new presence in the room, and gave Lawson a weary
smile.  "There's nothing else for it.  I'm going to have to talk to the
original witnesses."

"There's no point in that until you've dealt with the physical
evidence," Lawson said.

"But, sir .. ."

"You're going to have to go down there and do a manual search."

Karen looked appalled.  "That could take weeks."

"I know.  But that's all there is for it."

"But, sir ... what about the budget?"

Lawson sighed.  "Let me worry about the budget.  I don't see what
alternative you've got.  We need that evidence to apply pressure.  It
isn't in the box it's supposed to be in.  The only suggestion the
evidence custody team can come up with is that somehow it got "mislaid"
during the move to the new storage facility.  They haven't got the
bodies to do a search, so you'll have to."

Karen hefted her bag on to her shoulder.  "Right you are, sir."

"I've said right from the beginning that, if we're going to make any
progress with this one, the physical evidence is going to be the key.
If anyone can find it, you can.  Do your best, Karen."  He watched her
leave, her very walk a simulacrum of the doggedness that had instigated
his matching of Karen Pirie with the twenty-five-year-old murder of
Rosemary Duff.  With a few words of encouragement to Parhatka, f Lawson
set off for his own office on the third floor.  ",

He settled himself behind his expansive desk and felt a niggle of worry
that things might not work out as he had hoped in the cold case review.
It would never be enough merely to say they'd done their best.  They
needed at least one result.  He j sipped his sweet, strong tea and
reached for his in-tray.  He' scanned a couple of memos, ticking off
his initials at the top"; of the pages and consigning them to the
internal mail tray.  The'

next item was a letter from a member of the public, addressed to him
personally.  That was unusual in itself.  But its contents jerked James
Lawson to attention in his chair.

12 Carlton Way

St.  Monans life

Assistant Chief Constable James Lawson life Constabulary Headquarters
Detroit Road Glenrothes

KY6 2RJ

8 November 2003

Dear ACC Lawson,

I read with interest a newspaper report that life Police have
instigated a cold case review on unsolved murders.  I presume that,
among these cases, you will be looking again at the murder of Rosemary
Duff.  I would like to arrange a meeting with you to discuss this case.
I have information which, while perhaps not directly relevant, may
contribute to your understanding of the background.

Please do not dismiss this letter as the work of some crank.  I have
reason to believe that the police were not aware of this information at
the time of the original investigation.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

(frakam /tfucftadtfe,* Graham Macfadyen

Graham Macfadyen dressed carefully.  He wanted to make the right
impression on ACC Lawson.  He'd been afraid the 7( policeman would
write off his letter as the work of some attention-seeking nutter.  But
to his surprise, he'd had a reply by return of post.  What was even
more surprising was that Lawson himself had written, asking him to call
to arrange an appointment.  He'd expected the ACC would pass his letter
on to whichever of his minions was dealing with the case.  It impressed
him that the police were clearly taking the matter so seriously.  When
he'd rung, Lawson had suggested they meet at Macfadyen's home in St.
Monans.  "More informal than here at headquarters," he'd said.
Macfadyen suspected that Lawson wanted to see him on his home turf, the
better to make an assessment of his mental state.  But he had been
happy to accept the suggestion, not least because he always hated
negotiating the labyrinth of roundabouts which ;| Glenrothes seemed to
consist of.

Macfadyen had spent the previous evening cleaning his living room.  He
always thought of himself as a relatively tidy man, and it invariably
surprised him that there was so much to clear up on those occasions
involving the presence of another in his home.  Perhaps that was
because he so seldom took the opportunity to extend his hospitality.
He'd never seen the point of dating and, if he was honest, he didn't
feel the lack of a woman in his life.  Dealing with his colleagues
seemed to use up all the energy he had for social interaction, and he
seldom mixed with them out of working hours; just enough not to stand
out.  He'd learned as a child it was always better to be invisible than
to be noticed.  But no matter how , much time he spent in software
development, he never tired of working with the machines.  Whether it
was surfing the ,| net, exchanging information in newsgroups or playing
multiuser games online, Macfadyen was happiest when there was | a
barrier of silicon between him and the rest of the world.  The computer
never judged, never found him wanting.  People '

thought computers were complicated and hard to understand, but they
were wrong.  Computers were predictable and safe.  Computers did not
let you down.  You knew exactly where you were with a computer.

He studied himself in the mirror.  He'd learned that blending in was
the perfect way to avoid unwanted attention.  Today he wanted to look
relaxed, average, unthreatening.  Not weird.  He knew most people
thought anyone who worked in IT was automatically weird, and he didn't
want Lawson to jump to the same conclusion.  He wasn't weird.  Just
different.  But that was definitely something he didn't want Lawson to
pick up on.  Slip under their radar, that was the way to get what you
wanted.

He'd settled on a pair of Levis and a Guinness polo shirt.  Nothing
there to frighten the horses.  He ran a comb through his thick dark
hair, scowling slightly at his reflection.  A woman had once told him
he resembled James Dean, but he'd dismissed it as a pathetic attempt to
get him to take an interest in her.  He slipped on a pair of black
leather loafers and glanced at his watch.  Ten minutes to kill.
Macfadyen walked through to the spare bedroom and sat down at one of
the three computers.  He had one lie to tell, and if he was going to be
convincing, he needed to be calm.

James Lawson drove slowly up Carlton Way.  It was a crescent of small
detached homes, built in the 1990s to resemble the traditional East
Neuk style of houses.  The harled walls, steep tiled roofs and
crow-stepped gables were all trademarks of the local vernacular
architecture, and the houses were individual enough to blend
innocuously with their surroundings.  About half a mile inland from the
fishing village of St.  Monans, the houses were perfect for young
professionals who couldn't afford the more traditional homes that had
been snapped up by in comers who wanted something quaint either to
retire to or to let out to holiday makers.

Graham Macfadyen's house was one of the smaller ones.  Two recep, two
beds, Lawson thought.  No garage, but enough of a drive to accommodate
a couple of small cars.  An elderly silver VW Golf sat there presently.
Lawson parked on the street and walked up the path, the trousers of his
lounge suit flapping against his legs in the stiff breeze from the
Firth of Forth.  He rang the bell and waited impatiently.  He didn't
think he'd fancy living somewhere this bleak.  Pretty enough in the
summer, but grim and dreich on a cold November evening.

The door opened, revealing a man in his late twenties.  Medium height,
slim build, Lawson thought automatically.  A mop of dark hair, the kind
with a wave that's almost impossible to keep looking neat.  Blue eyes,
deep set, wide cheekbones and a full, almost feminine mouth.  No
criminal convictions, he knew from his background check.  But far too
young to have any personal knowledge of the Rosie Duff | case.  "Mr.
Macfadyen?"  Lawson said.

The man nodded.  "You must be Assistant Chief Constable Lawson.  Is
that what I call you?"

Lawson smiled reassuringly.  "No need for rank.  Mr.  Lawson | is
fine."

Macfadyen stepped back.  "Come in."

Lawson followed him down a narrow hallway into a neat living room.  A
three-piece suite in brown leather faced a TV | set next to a video and
a DVD player.  Shelves on either side held video tapes and DVD boxes.
The only other furniture in the room was a cabinet containing glasses
and several bottles of malt whisky.  But Lawson only took that in
later.  What hit him between the eyes was the only picture on the
walls.  || An atmospheric photograph blown up to 20" by 30", it was
instantly recognizable to anyone involved with the Rosie Duff;!  case.
Taken with the sun low in the sky, it showed the exposed | long cists
of the Pictish cemetery on Hallow Hill where her;!  dying body had been
discovered.  Lawson was transfixed.  | Macfadyen's voice dragged him
back to the present.

"Can I offer you a drink?"  he asked.  He stood just inside the
doorway, still as prey caught in the gaze of the hunter.

Lawson shook his head, as much to disperse the image as to refuse the
offer.  "No thanks."  He sat down, the assurance of years as a police
officer granting him permission.

Macfadyen came into the room and settled in the armchair opposite.
Lawson couldn't read him at all, which he found faintly unsettling.
"You said in your letter that you have some information on the Rosemary
Duff case?"  he began cautiously.

That's right."  Macfadyen leaned forward slightly.  "Rosie Duff was my
mother."

December 2003

The cannibalized timer from a video recorder; a paint tin; quarter of a
litre of petrol; odds and ends of fuse wire.  Nothing remarkable,
nothing that might not be found in any jumbled collection of domestic
flotsam in any cellar or garden shed.  Innocuous enough.

Except when combined in one particular configuration.  Then it becomes
something entirely undomesticated.

The timer reached the set date and time;'a spark crossed a gap of wire
and ignited the petrol vapour.  The lid of the tin exploded upwards,
spraying the surrounding waste paper and off cuts of wood with flaming
petrol.  A textbook operation, perfect and deadly.

Flames found fresh fodder in rolls of discarded carpet, half;| empty
paint pots, the varnished hull of a dinghy.  Fibreglass and outboard
fuel, garden furniture and aerosol cans turned into torches and
flame-throwers as the fire built in intensity.  ?| Cinders skyrocketed
upwards, like a cheapskate's firework; display.

Above it all, smoke gathered.  While the fire roared at the| darkness
below, the fumes drifted through the house, lazilyjl at first and then
growing in intensity.  The outriders were

invisible, thin vapours oozing through floorboards and wafting upwards
on draughts of hot air.  They were enough to make the sleeping man
cough uneasily but not sufficiently acrid to waken him.  As the smoke
followed, it became perceptible, wraiths of mist eerie in the patches
of moonlight cast by uncurtained windows.  The smell, too, became
palpable, an alert for anyone in a position to heed it.  However, the
smoke had already dulled the responses of the sleeping man.  If someone
had shaken his shoulder, he might have been able to rouse himself and
stagger to the window and its promise of safety.  But he was beyond
self-help.  Sleep was becoming unconsciousness.  And soon,
unconsciousness would give way to death.

The fire crackled and sparked, sending scarlet and golden comet trails
into the sky.  Timbers groaned and crashed to the ground.  It was about
as spectacular and painless as murder gets.

In spite of the climate-controlled warmth of his office, Alex Gilbey
shivered.  Grey sky, grey slates, grey stone.  The hoar frost that
coated the roofs on the other side of the street had scarcely
diminished all day.  Either they had terrific insulation across the
road, or the temperature hadn't climbed above freezing since the late
December dawn.  He looked down at Dundas Street below.  Exhaust fumes
billowed like the ghosts of Christmas past from the traffic that made
the routes into the city centre even more clogged than usual. Out-of
towners in to do their Christmas shopping, not realizing that finding a
parking space in the centre of Edinburgh in the weeks leading up to the
festive season was harder than finding the perfect gift for a fussy
teenage girl.

Alex looked back up at the sky.  Leaden and low, it was advertising
snow with all the subtlety of a furniture showroom January sales TV
commercial.  His spirits sank further.  He'd been doing pretty well so
far this year.  But if it snowed,

all his determination would unravel and he'd be back in his usual
seasonal gloom.  Today of all days, he could do without the snow.
Exactly twenty-five years ago, he'd stumbled across something that had
turned every Christmas since into a maelstrom of bad memories.  No
amount of goodwill from all men, or women for that matter, could erase
the anniversary of Rosie Duff's death from Alex's mental calendar.

He must, he thought, be the only manufacturer of greetings cards who
hated the most profitable season of the year.  In the offices down the
hall, the tele sales team would be taking last-minute orders from
wholesalers replenishing stock, and using the opportunity to bump up
the orders for Valentine's Day, Mother's Day and Easter.  At the
warehouse, staff would be starting to relax, knowing the worst of the
rush was well over now, taking the opportunity to review the successes
and failures of the past few weeks.  And in the accounts department,
they'd be smiling for once.  This year's figures were up almost eight
per cent on the previous year, thanks in part to a new range of cards
Alex had developed himself.  Even though it had been more than ten
years since he'd moved on from earning his living with his pens and
inks, Alex liked to make the occasional contribution to the product
range.  Nothing like it to keep the rest of the team on their toes.

But it had been back in April when he'd designed those cards, well
clear of the shadow of the past.  It was odd how seasonal this malaise
was.  As soon as twelfth night saw the Christmas decorations consigned
to storage once more, the shade of Rosie Duff would grow insubstantial
again, leaving his mind clear and unclouded by memory.  He'd be able to
take pleasure in his life again.  For now, he'd just have to endure.

He'd tried a variety of strategies over the years to make it all go
away.  On the second anniversary, he'd drunk himself into oblivion.  He
still had no idea who had delivered him

back to his bed sit in Glasgow, nor which bar he had ended up in.  But
all that achieved was to ensure that the night's sweaty paranoid dreams
featured Rosie's ironic smile and easy laugh in a constant mad
kaleidoscope he couldn't waken from.

The year after that, he'd visited her grave in the Western Cemetery in
St.  Andrews, right on the edge of the town.  He'd waited till dusk to
avoid anyone spotting his face.  He'd parked his anonymous clapped-out
Ford Escort as near to the gate as he could manage, pulled a tweed cap
low over his eyes, turned up his coat collar and skulked into the damp
gloom.  The problem was, he didn't know exactly where Rosie was buried.
He'd only ever seen the pictures of the funeral that the local paper
had splashed all over the front page, and all that told him was that it
was somewhere up towards the back of the graveyard.

He stole head down among the gravestones, feeling like a freak, wishing
he'd brought a torch and then realizing there was no better way to draw
attention to himself.  A little light leaked in from the streetlamps as
they came on, just enough to read most of the inscriptions.  Alex had
been on the point of giving up when he'd finally come upon it, in a
secluded corner right against the wall.

It was a simple black granite block.  The letters were incised in gold
and still looked as fresh as the day they'd been cut.  At first, Alex
took refuge in his role as an artist, dealing with what was before him
as a purely aesthetic object.  In those terms, it satisfied.  But he
couldn't hide for long from the import of the words he'd been trying to
see only as shapes in the stone.  "Rosemary Margaret Duff.  Born 25 May
1959.  Cruelly snatched from us 16 December 1978.  A loving daughter
and sister lost to us forever.  May she rest in peace."  Alex
remembered the police had set up a collection to pay for the headstone.
They must have done well, to afford so lengthy a message, he thought,
still trying to avoid engaging with what those words connected to.

The other element it was impossible to ignore was the assortment of
floral tributes carefully placed at the foot of the stone.  There must
have been a dozen bunches and sprays of flowers, several in the squat
urns that florists sold for the purpose.  The overflow lay on the
grass, a potent reminder of how many hearts Rosie Duff still
inhabited.

Alex unbuttoned his overcoat and took out the single white rose he'd
brought with him.  He'd crouched down to place it unobtrusively with
the others when he nearly pissed himself.  The hand on his shoulder
came out of nowhere.  The wet grass had absorbed the footsteps and he'd
been too engrossed in his own thoughts for his animal instincts to have
warned him.

Alex spun round and away from the hand, slipping on the grass and
sprawling on his back in a nauseating mimicry of that December night
three years before.  He cringed, expecting a kick or a blow as whoever
had disturbed him realized who he was.  He was completely unprepared
for a concerned enquiry from a familiar voice addressing him by a
nickname only ever used by his closest circle.

"Hey, Gilly, you OK?"  Sigmund Malkiewicz extended a hand to help Alex
to his feet.  "I didn't mean to give you a fright."

"Christ, Ziggy, what else did you think you were going to do, creeping
up on me in a dark graveyard?"  Alex protested, scrambling upright
under his own steam.

"Sorry."  He indicated the rose with a jerk of his head.  "Nice touch.
I could never think what might be appropriate."

"You've been here before?"  Alex brushed himself down and turned to
face his oldest friend.  Ziggy looked ghostly in the dim light, his
pale skin seeming to glow from within.

He nodded.  "Only on the anniversaries.  Never saw you before,
though."

Alex shrugged.  "My first time.  Anything to try and make it go away,
you know?"  :

"I don't think I'll ever manage that."

The neither."  Without another word, they turned and walked back
towards the entrance, each locked into his own bad memories.  By
unspoken agreement, once they'd left university, they'd avoided
speaking about the event that had changed their lives so profoundly.
The shadow was always there; but these days it remained unacknowledged
between them.  Perhaps it had been the avoidance of those conversations
without resolution that had allowed their friendship to survive as
strongly as it had.  They didn't manage to see each other so often now
Ziggy was living the hellish schedule of a junior doctor in Edinburgh,
but when they did arrange a night out together, the old intimacy was
still as strong.

At the gate, Ziggy paused and said, "Fancy a pint?"

Alex shook his head.  "If I start, I'll not want to stop.  And this
isn't a good part of the world for you and me to be pissed in.  There
are still too many people round here who think we got away with murder.
No, I'll get away back to Glasgow."

Ziggy pulled him into a tight hug.  "We'll see each other over the New
Year, right?  Town Square, midnight?"

"Aye.  Me and Lynn, we'll be there."

Ziggy nodded, understanding everything contained in those few words. He
raised a hand in a mock-salute and walked away into the gathering
dark.

Alex hadn't been back to the grave since.  It hadn't helped, nor was
that how he wanted to encounter Ziggy.  It was too raw, too loaded with
stuff they both wanted to avoid coming between them.

At least he didn't have to suffer in secret, the way he believed the
others did.  Lynn had known everything about the death of Rosie Duff
right from the word go.  They'd been together since that winter.  He
sometimes wondered if that was the single thing that had made it
possible for him to love her, that his biggest secret was already
common currency between them.

It was hard not to feel that the circumstances of that night

had somehow robbed him of a different future.  It was his personal
albatross, a stain on the memory that left him feeling permanently
tainted.  Nobody would want to be his friend if they knew what lay in
his past, what suspicions still hung over him in the minds of so many.
And yet Lynn knew, and she loved him in spite of it.

She'd demonstrated it in so many ways over the years.  And soon, the
ultimate proof would come.  In two short months, please God, she'd be
delivered of the child they'd both desired for so long.  They'd both
wanted to wait till they were settled before they started a family, and
then it had begun to look as if they'd left it too late.  Three years
of trying, the appointment already set up at the fertility clinic, then
out of the blue Lynn had become pregnant.  It felt like the first fresh
start he'd had in twenty-five years.

Alex turned away from the window.  His life was going to change.  And
maybe, if he made a determined effort, he could loosen the grip of the
past.  Starting tonight.  He'd book a table at the restaurant on the
roof of the Museum of Scotland.  Take Lynn out for a special meal,
instead of sitting at home and brooding.

As he reached out for the phone, it began to ring.  Startled, Alex
stared stupidly at it for a moment before he reached for it.  "Alex
Gilbey speaking."

It took him a while to connect the voice on the other end with its
owner.  Not a stranger, but not someone he expected to call any
afternoon, never mind this one in particular.  "Alex, it's Paul.  Paul
Martin."  The recognition was made all the more difficult by the
caller's obvious agitation.

Paul.  Ziggy's Paul.  A particle physicist, whatever that was,: with
the build of a quarterback.  The man who'd been bringing < a dazzle to
Ziggy's face for the past ten years.  "Hi, Paul.  This is a
surprise."

"Alex, I don't know how to say this .. ."  Paul's voice:!  cracked.  "I
got bad news."

"Ziggy?"

"He's dead, Alex.  Ziggy's dead."

Alex nearly shook the phone, as if something mechanical had caused him
to misapprehend Paul's words.  "No," he said.  "No, there must be some
mistake."

"I wish," Paul said.  "There's no mistake, Alex.  The house, it went on
fire in the night.  Burned to the ground.  My Ziggy .. . he's dead."

Alex stared at the wall, seeing nothing.  Ziggy played guitar, his
brain hummed pointlessly.

Not any more he didn't.

Although he'd spent half the day scribbling the date on assorted pieces
of paper alongside his initials, James Lawson had managed entirely to
avoid its significance.  Then he came ' across a request from DC
Parhatka for authorization of a DNA test on an emerging suspect in his
inquiry.  The combination of the date and the cold case review team
made the tumblers of his mind clatter into place.  There was no escape
from the knowledge.  Today was the twenty-fifth anniversary of Rosie
Duff's death.  I

He wondered how Graham Macfadyen was dealing with it, and the memory of
their uncomfortable interview made i Lawson shift in his seat.  At
first, he'd been incredulous.  No ?| mention of a child had ever been
made during the investigation into Rosie's death.  Neither friends nor
family had even hinted at such a secret.  But Macfadyen was adamant.

"You must have known she had a child," he'd insisted.  "Surely the
pathologist noted it at the post mortem?"  I

Lawson's mind instantly summoned up the shambling figure of Dr. Kenneth
Fraser.  He'd already been semiretired; by the time of the murder and
generally smelled more of;, whisky than of formalin.  Most of the work
he'd done in his \ long career had been straightforward; he had little
experience!

of murder, and he remembered Barney Maclennan wondering aloud whether
they should have brought in someone whose experience was more current.
"It never came out," he said, avoiding any further comment.

"That's incredible," Macfadyen said.

"Maybe the wound obscured the evidence."

"I suppose that's possible," Macfadyen said dubiously.  "I assumed you
knew about me but had never been able to trace me.  I always knew I was
adopted," he said.  "But I thought it was only fair to my adopted
parents to wait till they'd both died before I carried out any research
into my birth mother.  My dad died three years ago.  And my mother .. .
well, she's in a home.  She's got Alzheimer's.  She might as well be
dead for all the difference it'll make to her.  So a few months ago, I
started making enquiries."  He left the room and returned almost
immediately with a blue cardboard folder.  "There you go," he said,
handing it over to Lawson.

The policeman felt as if he'd been handed a jar of nitroglycerine.  He
didn't quite understand the faint feeling of disgust that crept through
him, but he didn't let that prevent him from opening the folder.  The
bundle of papers inside was arranged in chronological order.  First
came Macfadyen's letter of enquiry.  Lawson flicked on through,
absorbing the gist of the correspondence.  He arrived at a birth
certificate and paused.  There, in the space reserved for the mother's
name, familiar information leapt off the page.  Rosemary Margaret Duff.
Date of birth, 25 May 1959.  Mother's occupation: unemployed.  Where
the father's name should have been, the word 'unknown' sat like the
scarlet letter on a Puritan dress.  But the address was unfamiliar.

Lawson looked up.  Macfadyen was gripping the arms of his chair tight,
his knuckles like gravel chips under stretched latex.  "Livingstone
House, Saline?"  he asked.

"It's all in there.  A Church of Scotland home where young women in
trouble were sent to have their babies.  It's a

children's home now, but back then, it was where women were sent to
hide their shame from the neighbours.  I managed to track down the
woman who ran the place then.  Ina Dryburgh.  She's in her seventies
now, but she's in full possession of all her marbles.  I was surprised
how willing she was to talk to me.  I thought it would be harder.  But
she said it was too far in the past to hurt anybody now.  Let the dead
bury their dead, that seems to be her philosophy."

"What did she tell you?"  Lawson leaned forward in his seat, willing
Macfadyen to reveal the secret that had miraculously withstood a
full-scale murder inquiry.

The young man relaxed slightly, now it appeared he was being taken
seriously.  "Rosie got pregnant when she was fifteen.  She found the
courage to tell her mother when she was about three months gone, before
anybody had guessed.  Her mother acted fast.  She went to see the
minister and he put her in touch with Livingstone House.  Mrs.  Duff
got on the- bus the next morning and went to see Mrs.  Dryburgh.  She
agreed to take Rosie, and suggested that Mrs.  Duff put it about that
Rosie had gone off to stay with a relative who'd had an operation and
needed an extra pair of hands round the house to help with her
children.  Rosie left Strathkinness that weekend and went to Saline.
She spent the rest of the pregnancy under Mrs.  Dryburgh's wing."
Macfadyen swallowed hard.

"She never held me.  Never even saw me.  She had a photo, that was all.
They did things differently back then.  I was taken off and handed over
to my parents that same day.  And by the end of the week, Rosie was
back in Strathkinness as if nothing had happened.  Mrs.  Dryburgh said
the next time she heard Rosie's name was on the television news." He
gave a short, sharp exhalation.

"And that's when she told me that my mother had been dead for
twenty-five years.  Murdered.  With nobody ever brought to book.  I
didn't know what to do.  I wanted to

contact the rest of my family.  The managed to find out that my
grandparents were both dead.  But I've got two uncles, apparently."

"You haven't made contact with them?"

"I didn't know whether I should.  And then I saw the article in the
paper about the cold case review, and I thought I'd speak to you
first."

Lawson looked at the floor.  "Unless they've changed a lot since I knew
them, I'd say you might be well advised to let sleeping dogs lie."  He
felt Macfadyen's eyes on him and raised his head.  "Brian and Colin
were always very protective of Rosie.  They were always ready with
their hands too.  My guess is that they'd take what you have to say as
a slur on her character.  I don't think it would make for a happy
family reunion."

"I thought, you know .. . maybe they'd see me as some part of Rosie
that lived on?"

"I wouldn't bank on it," Lawson said firmly.

Macfadyen looked stubbornly unconvinced.  "But if this information
helped your new inquiry?  They might see it differently then, don't you
think?  Surely they want to see her killer caught at last?"

Lawson shrugged.  "To be honest, I don't see how this takes us any
further forward.  You were born nearly four years before your mother
died."

"But what if she was still seeing my father?  "What if that had
something to do with her murder?"

"There was no evidence of that sort of long-term relationship in
Rosie's past.  She'd had several boyfriends in the year before she
died, none of them very serious.  But that didn't leave room for
anybody else."

"Well, what if he'd gone away and come back?  I read the newspaper
reports of her murder, and there was some suggestion there that she was
seeing somebody, but nobody knew who it was.  Maybe my father came
back, and she didn't want

her parents to know she was seeing the boy who'd got her pregnant."
Macfadyen's voice was urgent.

"It's a theory, I suppose.  But if nobody knew who the father of her
child was, it still doesn't take us anywhere."

"But you didn't know then that she'd had a child.  I bet you never
asked who she was going out with four years before her murder.  Maybe
her brothers knew who my father was."

Lawson sighed.  "I'm not going to hold out false hope to you, Mr.
Macfadyen.  For one thing, Brian and Colin Duff were desperate for us
to find Rosie's killer."  He enumerated the points he was making on his
fingers.  "If the father of Rosie's child had still been around, or if
he'd reappeared, you can lay money that they'd have been knocking on
our door and screaming at us to arrest him.  And if we hadn't obliged,
they'd probably have broken his legs themselves.  At the very least."

Macfadyen compressed his lips into a thin line.  "So you're not going
to pursue this line of inquiry?"

"If I may, I'd like to take this folder away with me and have a copy
made to pass on to the detective who's dealing with your mother's case.
It can't hurt to include it in our inquiry and it might just be
helpful."

The light of triumph danced briefly in Macfadyen's eyes, as if he'd
scored a major victory.  "So you accept what I'm saying?  That Rosie
was my mother?"

"It looks that way.  Though of course we'll have to make \ further
inquiries ourselves."

"So you'll be wanting a blood sample from me?"

Lawson frowned.  "A blood sample?"

Macfadyen jumped to his feet in a sudden access of energy.  "Wait a
minute," he said, leaving the room again.  When he i returned, he was
grasping a thick paperback which fell openi in line with its cracked
spine.  "I've read everything I could1!  find about my mother's
murder," he said, thrusting the book at Lawson.

Lawson glanced at the cover.  Getting Away with Murder: The Greatest
Unsolved Cases of the Twentieth Century.  Rosie Duff merited five
pages.  Lawson skimmed it, impressed that the authors seemed to have
got so little wrong.  It brought back in uncomfortably sharp focus the
terrible moment when he'd stood looking down at Rosie's body in the
snow.  "I'm still not with you," he said.

"It says that there were traces of semen on her body and on her
clothing.  That in spite of the primitive levels of forensic analysis
back then, you were able to establish that three of the students who
found her were possible candidates for having deposited it.  But
surely, with what you can do now, you can compare the DNA in the semen
to my DNA?  If it belonged to my father, you'd be able to tell."

Lawson was beginning to feel as if he'd stumbled through the looking
glass.  That Macfadyen would be eager to find out anything he could
about his father was entirely understandable.  But to carry that
obsession to the point where finding him guilty of murder was better
than never finding him at all was unhealthy.  "If we were going to make
comparisons with anyone, it wouldn't be you, Graham," he said as kindly
as he could manage.  "It would be with the four lads referred to in
this book.  The ones who found her."

Macfadyen pounced.  "You said, "if"."

"If?"

"You said, "I/we were going to make comparisons".  Not when.  If."

Wrong book.  It was definitely Alice in Wonderland.  Lawson felt just
like someone who has tumbled headlong down a steep, dark burrow, no
safe ground beneath his feet.  His lower back pain throbbed into
action. Some people's aches and pains responded to the weather;
Lawson's sciatic nerve was an acute barometer of stress.  "This is very
embarrassing for us, Mr.  Macfadyen," he said, retreating behind the
phalanx of formality.  "At some point in the past twenty-five

years, the physical evidence relating to your mother's murder has been
mislaid."

Macfadyen's face screwed up in an expression of angry incredulity.
"What do you mean, mislaid?"

"Exactly what I say.  The evidence has been moved three times.  Once,
when the police station in St.  Andrews moved to a new site.  Then it
was sent to central storage at headquarters.  Recently, we moved to a
new storage facility.  And at some point the evidence bags that
contained your mother's clothes were mislaid.  When we went looking for
them, they weren't in the box where they should have been."

Macfadyen looked as if he wanted to hit someone.  "How could that
happen?"

"The only explanation I can offer is human error."  Lawson squirmed
under the young man's look of furious contempt.  "We're not
infallible."

Macfadyen shook his head.  "It's not the only explanation.  Someone
could have removed it deliberately."

"Why would anyone do that?"

"Well, it's obvious.  The killer wouldn't want it found now, would he?
Everybody knows about DNA.  As soon as you announced a cold case
review, he must have known he was living on borrowed time."

"The evidence was locked up in police storage.  And we've not had any
break-ins reported."

Macfadyen snorted.  "You wouldn't need to break in.  You'd just need to
wave enough money under the right nose.  Everybody has their price,
even police officers.  You can hardly open a paper or turn on the TV
without seeing evidence of police corruption.  Maybe you should be
checking out which one of your officers has had a sudden dose of
prosperity."

Lawson felt uneasy.  Macfadyen's reasonable persona had slipped to one
side, revealing an edge of paranoia that had been previously invisible.
"That's a very serious allegation," he said.  "And one for which there
is no foundation whatsoever.

Take it from me, whatever happened to the evidence in this case, it's
down to human error."

Macfadyen glared mutinously.  "Is that it, then?  You're just going to
stage a coverup?"

Lawson tried to arrange his face in a conciliatory expression. 
"There's nothing to cover up, Mr.  Macfadyen.  I can assure you that
the officer in charge of the case is conducting a search of the storage
facility. It's possible she may yet find the evidence."

"But not very likely," he said heavily.

"No," Lawson agreed.  "Not very likely."

A few days had passed before James Lawson had a chance to follow up his
trying interview with Rosie Duff's illegitimate son.  He'd had a quick
word with Karen Pirie, but she'd been gloomily pessimistic about
getting a result from the evidence warehouse.  "Needle in a haystack,
sir," she'd said.  "I've already found three misfiled bags of evidence.
If the public knew ..."

"Let's make sure they never do," Lawson had said grimly.

Karen had looked horrified.  "Oh God, aye."

Lawson had hoped the cock-up with the evidence in the Duff case could
be buried.  But that hope had died thanks to his own carelessness with
Macfadyen.  And now he was going to have to confess it all over again.
If it ever came out that he'd kept this particular piece of information
from the family, his name would be smeared across the headlines.  And
that would benefit nobody.

Strathkinness hadn't changed much in twenty-five years, Lawson realized
as he parked the car outside Caberfeidh Cottage.  There were a few new
houses, but mostly the village had resisted the blandishments of
developers.  Surprising really, he thought.  With those views, it was a
natural location for some boutique country house hotel catering to the
golf trade.  However much the residents might have changed, it still
felt like a working village.

He pushed open the gate, noticing the front garden was as

neat as it ever had been when Archie Duff had been alive.  Maybe Brian
was confounding the prophets of doom and turning into his father.
Lawson rang the bell and waited.

The man who opened the door was in good shape.  Lawson knew he was in
his mid-forties, but Brian Duff looked ten years younger.  His skin had
the healthy glow of a man who enjoys the outdoors, his short hair
showed little sign of receding, and his T-shirt revealed a wide chest
and the barest covering of fat over a taut abdomen.  He made Lawson
feel like an old man.  Brian looked him up and down and indulged in a
look of disdain.  "Oh, it's you," he said.

"Withholding evidence could be construed as police obstruction.  And
that's a crime."  Lawson wasn't going to be put on the back foot by
Brian Duff.

"I don't know what you're on about.  But I've kept my nose clean for
over twenty years.  You've no call to come knocking on my door,
slinging your accusations about."

"I'm going back more than twenty years, Brian.  I'm talking about your
sister's murder."

Brian Duff didn't flinch.  "I heard you were trying to go out in a
blaze of glory, getting your foot soldiers to try and solve your old
failures."

"Hardly my failure.  I was just a bobby on the beat back then.  Are you
going to invite me in, or are we going to do this here for the whole
world to see?"

Duff shrugged.  "I've got nothing to hide.  You might as well come
in."

The cottage had been transformed inside.  Uncluttered and pastel, the
living room showed the handiwork of someone with an eye for design.
"I've never met your wife," Lawson said as he followed Duff into a
modern kitchen, its size doubled by a conservatory-style extension.

"That's not likely to change.  She'll not be home for an hour ' yet."
Duff opened the fridge and took out a can of lager.  He i popped the
top and leaned against the cooker.  "So what are ;|

you on about?  Withholding evidence?"  His attention was ostensibly on
the can of beer, but Lawson sensed that Duff was alert as a cat in a
strange garden.

"None of you ever mentioned Rosie's son," he said.

The bald statement provoked no visible response.  "That would be
because it had nothing to do with her murder," Duff said, flexing his
shoulders restlessly.

"Don't you think that was for us to decide?"

"No.  It was private.  It happened years before.  The boy she was going
out with then didn't even live round here any more.  And nobody knew
about the baby outside the family.  How could it have had anything to
do with her death?  We didn't want her name dragged through the mud,
the way it would have been if your lot had got hold of it.  You'd have
made her look like some slag who got what was coming to her.  Anything
to take the heat off the fact that you couldn't do your job."

That's not true, Brian."

"Aye, it is.  You'd have leaked it to the papers.  And they'd have
turned Rosie into the village bike.  She wasn't like that, and you know
it."

Lawson conceded the point with a faint grimace.  "I know she wasn't.
But you should have told us.  It might have had some bearing on the
investigation."

"It would have been a wild-goose chase."  Duff took a long swig of his
lager.  "How come you found out about it after all this time?"

"Rosie's son has more of a social conscience than you.  He came to us
when he saw the story in the papers about the cold case review."

This time, there was a reaction.  Duff froze halfway through raising
the can to his mouth.  He put it down abruptly on a work top  "Christ,"
he swore.  "What's that about, then?"

"He tracked down the woman who ran the home where Rosie had the baby.
She told him about the murder.  He wants to find his mother's killer as
much as you do."

Duff shook his head.  "I doubt that very much.  Does he know where me
and Colin live?"

"He knows you live here.  He knows Colin's got a house in Kingsbarns,
though he's mostly out in the Gulf.  He says he traced you both via
public records.  Which is probably true.  There's no reason why he
should lie.  I told him I didn't think you'd be very pleased to meet
him."

"You're right about that at least.  Maybe it would have been different
if you'd managed to put her killer away.  But I for one don't want to
be reminded of that part of Rosie's life."  He rubbed the back of his
hand against his eye.  "So, are you finally going to nail those fucking
students?"

Lawson shifted his weight.  "We don't know it was them, Brian.  I
always thought it was an outsider."

"Don't give me that shite.  You know they were in the frame.  You've
got to be looking at them again."

"We're doing our best.  But it's not looking promising."

"You've got DNA now.  Surely that makes a difference?  You had semen on
her clothes."

Lawson looked away.  His eye was caught by a fridge magnet made from a
photograph.  Rosie Duff's smile beamed out at him across the years, a
needle of guilt that pierced deep.  "There's a problem," he said,
dreading what he knew would come next.

"What kind of a problem?"

The evidence has been mislaid."

Duff pushed himself upright, tense on the balls of his feet.  "You've
lost the evidence?"  His eyes blazed the rage Lawson remembered across
the gulf of years.

The didn't say lost.  I said mislaid.  It's not where it should be.
We're pulling out all the stops to track it down, and I'm hopeful it'll
turn up.  But right now, we're stymied."

Duff's fists clenched.  "So those four bastards are still safe?"

A month later, in spite of his supposedly relaxing fishing h ]' day,
the memory of Duff's fury still reverberated in Laws I chest.  He'd
heard nothing from Rosie's brother since th But her son had been a
regular caller.  And the knowledge of their righteous anger made Lawson
doubly conscious of the need for a result somewhere in the cold case
review The anniversary of Rosie's death somehow made that need more
pressing.  With a sigh, he pushed back his chair and headed for the
squad room

Alex stared at the entrance to his drive as if he'd never seen it
before.  He had no recollection of the drive out of Edinburgh, across
the Forth Bridge and down into North Queensferry.  Dazed, he eased the
car in and parked at the far edge of the cobbled area, leaving plenty
of space for Lynn's car nearer the house.

The square stone house sat on a bluff near the massive pilings of the
cantilevered rail bridge.  This close to the sea, the snow was fighting
a losing battle with the salt air.  The slush was treacherous
underfoot, and Alex almost lost his footing a couple of times between
the car and the front door.  The first thing he did after wiping his
feet and slamming the door closed against the elements was to call
Lynn's mobile and leave a message warning her to be careful when she
got home.

He glanced at the long case clock as he crossed the hall, snapping
lights on as he went.  It wasn't often that he was home on a weekday in
winter when it was still technically daylight, but the sky was so low
today, it felt later than it was.  It would be at least an hour before
Lynn returned.  He needed company, but he'd have to make do with the
sort that came out of a bottle till then.  In the dining room, Alex
poured himself a brandy.  Not too

much, he cautioned himself.  Getting pissed would make it worse, not
better.  He took his glass and continued through to the large
conservatory that commanded a panoramic view of the Firth of Forth and
sat in the grey gloom, oblivious to the shipping lights twinkling on
the water.  He didn't know how to begin to deal with the afternoon's
news.

Nobody makes it to forty-six without loss.  But Alex had been luckier
than most.  OK, he'd been to all four funerals of his grandparents in
his twenties.  But that was what you expected of people in their late
seventies and eighties, and one way or another all four deaths had been
what the living referred to as 'a welcome release'.  Both his parents
and his in-laws were still alive.  So, until today, had been all his
close friends.  The nearest he'd come to intimacy with the dead had
been a couple of years before, when his head printer had died in a car
crash.  Alex had been sad at the loss of a man he'd liked as well as
relied on professionally, but he couldn't pretend to a grief he hadn't
felt.

This was different.  Ziggy had been part of his life for over thirty
years.  They'd shared every rite of passage; they were the touchstones
for each other's memories.  Without Ziggy, he felt cast adrift from his
own history.  Alex cast his mind back to their last meeting.  He and
Lynn had spent two weeks in California in the late summer.  Ziggy and
Paul had joined them for three days hiking in Yosemite.  The sky had
blazed blue, the sunlight casting the astonishing mountains into sharp
relief, their every detail clear as the acid etching on a printing
plate.  On their final evening together, they'd driven cross country to
the coast, checking in to a hotel on a bluff overlooking the Pacific.
After dinner, Alex and Ziggy had retired to a hot tub with a six-pack
from the local microbrewery and congratulated themselves on having
their lives so well sorted.  They'd talked about Lynn's pregnancy and
Alex had been gratified by Ziggy's obvious delight.

"You going to let me he the godfather?"  he'd demanded, chinking his
amber ale bottle against Alex's.

"I don't think we'll be doing the christening thing," Alex said.  "But
if the parents push us into it, there's nobody I'd rather have."

"You won't regret it," Ziggy said.

And Alex knew he wouldn't have.  Not for a second.  But that was
something that would never happen now.

The following morning, Ziggy and Paul had left early for the long drive
back to Seattle.  They'd stood on the deck of their cabin in the pearly
dawn light, hugging farewell.  Another thing that would never happen
again.

What was the last thing Ziggy had called out of the window of their SUV
as they'd set off down the trail?  Something about making sure Alex
indulged Lynn's every whim because it would get him into practice for
parenthood.  He couldn't remember the exact words, nor what he'd
shouted in reply.  But it was typical of Ziggy that their last exchange
had been about taking care of someone else.  Because Ziggy had always
been the one who took care.

In any group, there's always one person who ends up as the rock, who
provides the shelter that allows the weaker members of the tribe to
grow into their own strengths.  For the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy, that had
always been Ziggy.  It wasn't that he was bossy, or a control freak. He
just had a natural aptitude for the role, and the other three had been
the constant beneficiaries of Ziggy's capacity for getting things
sorted.  Even in their adult lives, it had always been Ziggy that Alex
had turned to when he needed a sounding board.  When he'd been
considering the huge jump of shifting from gainful employment to taking
a chance on setting up his own company, they'd spent a weekend in New
York thrashing out the pros and cons, and Ziggy's confidence in his
abilities had, if Alex was honest, been more of a clincher than Lynn's
conviction he could make a go of it.

That was something else that would never happen again.

"Alex?"  His wife's voice cut into his numb reverie.  He'd been so
locked inside himself, he hadn't noticed her car arrive, nor the sound
of her footfalls.  He half turned towards the faint waft of her
perfume.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?  And why are you home so early?"
There was no accusation in her voice, just concern.

Alex shook his head.  He didn't want to share the news.

"Something's wrong," Lynn insisted, covering the distance between them
and dropping into the chair next to him.  She put a hand on his arm.
"Alex?  What is it?"

At the sound of her disquiet, the anaesthetic of shock vanished
abruptly.  A searing pain knifed through him, taking his breath away
momentarily.  He met Lynn's worried eyes and flinched.  Without words,
he put his hand out and laid it gently on the swell of her stomach.

Lynn covered his hand with hers.  "Alex .. . tell me what's
happened."

His voice sounded alien to him, a cracked and broken simulacrum of his
normal articulation.  "Ziggy," he managed.  "Ziggy's dead."

Lynn's mouth opened.  A frown of incredulity gathered.  "Ziggy?"

Alex cleared his throat.  "It's true," he said.  "There was a fire.  At
the house.  In the night."

Lynn shivered.  "No.  Not Ziggy.  There's been a mistake."

"No mistake.  Paul told me.  He phoned to tell me."

"How could that be?  Him and Ziggy, they shared a bed.  How can Paul be
all right and Ziggy dead?"  Lynn's voice was loud, her disbelief
echoing around the conservatory.

"Paul wasn't there.  He was giving a guest lecture at Stanford."  Alex
closed his eyes at the thought of it.  "He flew back in the morning.
Drove straight home from the airport.  And found the firemen and the
cops poking through what used to be their house."

Silent tears sparkled on Lynn's eyelashes.  That must have been .. .
oh, dear God.  I can't take it in."

Alex folded his arms across his chest.  "You don't think of the people
you love being so fragile.  One minute they're there, the next minute
they're not."

"Do they have any idea what happened?"

They told Paul it was too early to say.  But he said they were asking
him some pretty sharp questions.  He thinks it maybe looks suspicious,
and they're thinking him being away was a bit too convenient."

"Oh God, poor Paul."  Lynn's fingers worried at each other in her lap.
"Losing Ziggy, that's hellish enough.  But to have the police on his
back too .. . Poor, poor Paul."

"He asked me if I'd tell Weird and Mondo."  Alex shook his head.  "I
haven't been able to do it yet."

Till call Mondo," Lynn said.  "But later.  It's not as if anybody else
is going to tell him first."

"No, I should call him.  I told Paul .. ."

"He's my brother.  I know how he is.  But you'll have to deal with
Weird.  I don't think I could handle being told that Jesus loves me
right now."

"I know.  But somebody should tell him."  Alex managed a bitter smile.
"He'll probably want to preach a sermon at the funeral."

Lynn looked appalled.  "Oh, no.  You can't let that happen."

>'

is."

"I know."  Alex leaned forward and lifted his glass.  He swallowed the
last few drops of brandy.  "You know what day it

Lynn froze.  "Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty."

The Reverend Tom Mackie replaced the phone in its cradle and caressed
the silver gilt cross that lay on his purple silk cassock.  His
American congregation loved that they had a British minister and, since
they could never distinguish between Scots and English, he satisfied
their desire for display with the most lavish trappings of High
Anglicanism.  It was a vanity, he acknowledged, but essentially a
harmless one.

However, his secretary had left for the day and the solitude of his
empty office allowed him space to confront his confused emotional
reaction to the shock of Ziggy Malkiewicz's death without having to
assume a public face.  While there was no lack of cynical manipulation
in the way Weird dealt with the practice of ministry, the beliefs that
underpinned his evangelical regime were sincerely and deeply held.  And
he knew in his heart that Ziggy was a sinner, tainted irrevocably by
the stain of his homosexuality.  There was no room for doubt on that
point in Weird's fundamentalist universe.  The Bible was clear in its
prohibition and its abhorrence of the sin.  Salvation would have been
hard to come by even if Ziggy had earnestly repented, but, as far as
Weird was aware, Ziggy had died as he had lived, embracing his sin with
enthusiasm.  Doubtless the manner of his death would somehow connect
back to the transgression of his lifestyle.  The link would have been
more obvious if the Lord had visited the plague of AIDS upon him.  But
Weird had already mentally created a scenario that would lay the blame
at the door of Ziggy's own perilous choice.  Perhaps some casual pickup
had waited till Ziggy was asleep to rob him and then set a fire to
cover his crime.  Perhaps they had been smoking marijuana and a
smouldering joint had been the source of the burning.

However it had happened, Ziggy's death was nevertheless a powerful
reminder to Weird that it was possible to hate the sin and yet love the
sinner.  There was no denying the reality of the friendship that had
sustained him through his teenage years, when his own wild spirit had
blinded him to the light, when he truly had been Weird.  Without Ziggy,
he'd never have made it through his adolescence without ending up in
serious trouble.  Or worse.

Without prompting, his memory played a flashback sequence.  Winter,
1972.  The year of their O Grade exams.  Alex had acquired a talent for
breaking into cars without damaging the locks.  It involved a flexible
strip of metal and a lot of dexterity.  It gave them scope to be
anarchic without really being criminal.  The routine was simple.  A
couple of illicit Carlsberg Specials in the Harbour Bar, then they'd
sally forth into the night.  They'd pick half a dozen cars at random
between the pub and the bus station.  Alex would shoogle his metal band
inside the car door and pop the lock.  Then Ziggy or Weird would climb
into the car and scribble their message across the inside of the
windscreen.  In red lipstick, previously shoplifted from Boots the
Chemist and which was a bugger to clean off, they'd scribble the chorus
from Bowie's "Laughing Gnome'.  It always reduced the four of them to
helpless mirth.

Then they'd stagger off, giggling like fools, being careful to lock the
car door behind them.  It was a game that managed to be simultaneously
stupid and brilliant.

One night, Weird had climbed behind the wheel of a Ford Escort.  While
Ziggy was writing, he'd flipped open the ashtray and gazed with delight
at a spare key.  Knowing that larceny wasn't on the agenda and that
Ziggy would manage to stop him having his fun, Weird had waited till
his friend got out of the car, then he'd fumbled the key into the
ignition and started the engine.  He flicked the lights on, revealing
shock on the faces of the other three.  His first idea had simply been
to give his friends a surprise.  But confronted with the possibility of
mayhem, Weird had let himself be carried away.  He'd never driven
before, but knew the theory and he'd watched his dad often enough to be
convinced he could pull it off.  He crashed the car into gear, released
the hand brake and juddered forward.

He kangarooed out of the parking space and headed for the exit that
would bring him on to the Prom, the two-mile strip that ran alongside
the sea wall.  The streetlights were an

orange blur, the scarlet letters of the message turned black on the
windscreen as he careered along, crunching up through the gears as he
went.  He could hardly steer straight, he was laughing so hard.

The end of the Prom was upon him unbelievably quickly.  He wrenched the
wheel to the right, somehow managing to keep control as he rounded the
bend past the bus garage.  Thankfully there were few cars on the road,
most people having elected to stay at home on a cold and frosty
February night.  He jammed his foot on the accelerator, shooting up
Invertiel Road, under the railway bridge and past Jawbanes Road.

His speed was his undoing.  As the road climbed towards a left-hand
bend, Weird hit an ice-covered puddle and found himself spinning.  Time
decelerated and the car whirled in a slow waltz through three hundred
and sixty degrees.  He yanked on the wheel, but it only seemed to make
things worse.  The windscreen was filled with a steep grassy bank, then
suddenly the car was on its side and he was slammed against the door,
the window-winder smashing into his ribs.

He had no idea how long he lay there, dazed and in pain, listening to
the tick, tick of the stalled engine as it cooled in the night air. The
next thing he knew was the door above his head disappearing, to be
replaced by Alex and Ziggy staring down with frightened faces.  "You
fucking moron," Ziggy shouted, as soon as he realized Weird was more or
less OK.

Somehow, he managed to struggle upright as they hauled him out,
screaming in pain as his broken ribs protested.  He lay panting on the
frosted grass, each breath a knife of agony.  It took a minute or so to
realize that an Austin Allegro was parked on the road behind the
wrecked Escort, its lights cutting through the darkness and casting
strange shadows.

Ziggy had dragged him to his feet and down the verge.  "You fucking
moron," he kept repeating as he shoved him into

the back seat of the Allegro.  Through a daze of pain, Weird heard the
negotiation.

"What are we going to do now?"  Mondo asked.

"Alex is going to drive you all back to the Prom and you're going to
put this car back where you found it.  Then you're going home.  OK?"

"But Weird's hurt," Mondo protested.  "He needs to go to the
hospital."

"Yeah, right.  Let's advertise the fact that he's been in a car crash."
Ziggy leaned into the car and held his hand in front of Weird's face.
"How many fingers, moron?"

Woozily, Weird focused.  "Two," he groaned.  "See?  He's not even
concussed.  Amazing.  I always thought he had concrete between his
ears.  It's just his ribs, Mondo.  All the hospital will do is give him
some painkillers."

"But he's in agony.  What's he going to say when he gets home?"

"That's his problem.  He can say he fell down some stairs.  Anything."
He leaned in again.  "You're just going to have to grin and bear it,
moron."

Weird pushed himself upright, winging.  Till manage."

"And what are you going to be doing?"  Alex demanded as he slid behind
the wheel of the Allegro.

Till give you five minutes to get clear.  Then I'm going to set fire to
the car."

Thirty years on, Weird could still remember the look of shock on Alex's
face.  "What?"

Ziggy rubbed a hand over his face.  "It's covered in our fingerprints.
It's got our trademark all over the windscreen.  When we were just
scribbling on windscreens, the police weren't going to bother with us.
But here's a stolen, wrecked car.  You think they're going to treat
that like a joke?  We've got to burn it out.  It's totalled anyway."

There was no possible argument.  Alex started the engine and drove off
without a hitch, looking for a side road to turn

around in.  It was days later when Weird finally thought ask: "Where
did you learn to drive?"

"Last summer.  On the beach on Barra.  My cousin showed me how."

"And how did you get the Allegro started without keys?"

"Did you not recognize the car?"

Weird shook his head.

"It belongs to "Sammy" Scale."

"The metalwork teacher?"

"Exactly."

Weird grinned.  The first thing they'd made in metalwork was a
magnetized box to stick to a car chassis to hold a spare set of keys.
"Lucky break."

"Lucky for you, moron.  It was Ziggy that spotted it."

How different it all could have been, Weird mused.  Without Ziggy
coming to the rescue, he'd have ended up in custody, with a police
record, his life blown apart.  Instead of abandoning him to the
consequences of his own stupidity, Ziggy had found the means to save
him.  And he'd put himself on the line in the process.  Setting a car
ablaze was a big deal for an essentially law-abiding, ambitious lad.
But Ziggy hadn't hesitated.

So now Weird had to return that and many other favours.  He'd speak at
Ziggy's funeral.  He'd preach repentance and forgiveness.  It was too
late to save Ziggy, but with God's good grace he might just save
another benighted soul.

Waiting was one of the things Graham Macfadyen did best.  His adopted
father had been a passionate amateur ornithologist, and the boy had
been forced to spend long tracts of his youth killing time between
sightings of birds sufficiently interesting to warrant the raise of
binoculars to eyes.  He'd learned stillness at an early age; anything
to avoid the vicious edge of his father's sarcasm.  The wounds of blame
cut just as deep as physical blows and Macfadyen would do anything in
his limited power to dodge them.  The secret, he'd learned early on,
was to dress for the weather.  So although he'd spend most of the day
enduring snow flurries and cold gusts of northerly wind, he was still
comfortable in his down parka, his waterproof fleece-lined trousers and
his stout walking boots.  He was most grateful for the shooting stick
he'd brought with him, for his observation post offered nowhere to sit
except gravestones.  And that felt like bad manners.

He'd taken time off work.  It had meant lying, but that couldn't be
helped.  He knew he was letting people down, that his absence might
mean missing a crucial deadline.  But some things were more important
than hitting a contract payment date.  And nobody would suspect someone
as conscientious as him of faking it.  Lying, like blending in and
stillness,

was something he did well.  He didn't think Lav tai ned the slightest
flicker of doubt when have loved his adopted parents.  God knows " love
them.  But their emotional distance couple st ant attrition of their
disapproval and disarjj worn away his affections, leaving him numb,
would have been so different with his real sure.  But he'd been
deprived of the chance to ] him with nothing but a fantasy of someho^"|
mental in making someone pay for that.  He'd^J hopes of his interview
with Lawson, but the a the police had yanked the ground from under,!
just because the obvious route had been clc didn't mean he should give
up his quest.  He'to persistence from years of writing program

He wasn't sure whether his vigil would pay felt driven to come here. If
it didn't work, he'i way to get what he wanted.  He'd arrived just \
made his way to the grave.  He'd been there pointed that it didn't make
him feel any closer^ he'd never known.  This time, he laid the discr at
the foot of the headstone then made his vantage point he'd scouted on
his last visit.  He obscured by an ornate memorial to a former .< but
with a clear line of sight to Rosie's last

Someone would come.  He'd felt sure of it.  hands of his watch moved
towards seven o'c to wonder.  To hell with what Lawson had staying away
from his uncles.  He was going tact.  He'd reckoned that approaching
them Ut^

charged place might cut through their hostoi iii 1-1 i_ iJlHimt to them
to see him as someone who, like them" ^WHRBffr be considered part of
Rosie's family.  Now it r4***"(tm)**1'* look as if he'd miscalculated.
The thought Just then, he saw a darker shape against'

resolved itself to the outline of a man, walking briskly along the path
towards him.  Macfadyen drew his breath in sharply.

Head down against the weather, the man left the path and picked his way
confidently through the grave markers.  As he grew closer, Macfadyen
could see he carried a small posy of flowers.  The man slowed down and
came to a halt five feet from Rosie's gravestone.  He bowed his head
and stood for a long moment.  As he bent to place the flowers,
Macfadyen moved forward, the snow muffling his steps.

The man straightened and took a step backwards, cannoning into
Macfadyen.  "What the .. ."  he exclaimed, swinging round on his
heel.

Macfadyen held up his hands in a placatory gesture.  "Sorry.  I didn't
mean to startle you."  He pushed back the hood of his parka, to appear
less intimidating.

The man scowled at him, head to one side, staring intently at his face.
"Do I know you?"  he said, his voice as belligerent as his stance.

Macfadyen didn't hesitate.  "I think you're my uncle," he said.

Lynn left Alex to make his phone call.  Her sorrow felt like a solid
uncomfortable lump in her chest.  Distracted, she went through to the
kitchen and diced chicken on automatic pilot, tossing it into a
cast-iron casserole with some roughly chopped onions and peppers.  She
poured over a jar of ready made sauce, added a slug of white wine and
shoved it in the oven.  As usual, she'd forgotten to preheat it.  She
pricked a couple of baking potatoes with a fork and placed them on the
shelf above the casserole.  Alex should have finished his call to Weird
by now, she thought.  She couldn't postpone talking to her brother any
longer.

When she stopped to think about it, it seemed slightly odd to Lynn
that, despite the blood ties, despite her contempt for Weird's brand of
hellfire and damnation, Mondo had become

the most disengaged member of the original quartet.  She often thought
that if it weren't for the fact that they were brother.; and sister,
he'd have disappeared completely from Alex's, radar.  He was
geographically closest, over in Glasgow.  But by the end of their
university career, it seemed he wanted to shed all the ties that bound
him to his childhood and adolescence.

He'd been first to leave the country, heading off to France after
graduation to pursue his ambition for a career in' academe.  He'd
scarcely returned to Scotland in the following' three years, not even
showing up for their grandmother's funeral.  She doubted whether he'd
have bothered to attend her wedding to Alex if he hadn't been back in
the UK bjr then, lecturing at Manchester University.  Whenever Lynn had
tried to discover the reason for his absence, he'd always evaded the
issue.  He'd always been good at avoidance, het big brother.

Lynn, who had stayed firmly anchored to her roots, couldn understand
why anyone would want to sever himself frofljt his personal history. It
wasn't as if Mondo had had a shittj1 childhood and a horrible
adolescence.  Sure, he'd always betifa 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 friei^1 ship, the casual way they'd always created a good
time ffojr themselves.  Their terrible music, their subversive edge,
tWf complete disregard for the opinion of their peers.  It seenlfcd to
her entirely masochistic to turn his back on such a slip port system.
'.>"

He'd always been weak, she knew that.  When trouble walked in the door,
Mondo had always been straight 6ttt the window.  All the more reason,
in Lynn's world view, Wfey he should have wanted to cling to the
friendships that!hjld sustained him through so much difficulty.  She'd
asked 4<fex what he thought and he'd shrugged.  "That last year athS*

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 counselling 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 a 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
semi-serious relationships, Mondo had finally married Helene, 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 Helene.
"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, Helene 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."

The 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 over-sensitive
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 squad room
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 afterwards.  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 fibre-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 whisky 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
draught 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 whisky 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 whisky.  "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. The
can't help thinking that maybe if I'd been there .. ."

"You couldn't have saved him, Robin," Lawson said.

Robin threw his second whisky back.  The 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 whisky 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 whisky."  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."

The 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 defence 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 colour had drained from his face, leaving him
grey 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?

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 towards 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 towards 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?"

"Right."

They fell silent as Paul headed out on the highway towards Seattle.
They skirted the city and continued north.  Ziggy and Paul's home had
been outside the city limits, a two-storey 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 grey 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 towards 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.  Till see you in the bar in half an hour,

OK?"

Alex hung up his funeral suit and shirt, leaving the rest of his
clothes in the suitcase.  He'd spent most of the transcontinental
flight sketching, and he tore out the one sheet he was satisfied with
and propped it up against the mirror.  Ziggy stared out at him in
three-quarter profile, a crooked smile creasing his eyes.  Not a bad
likeness from memory, Alex thought sadly.  He checked his watch. Almost
midnight at home.  Lynn wouldn't mind the lateness of the hour. He
dialled the number.  Their short conversation eased the sharpness of
the grief that had threatened to overwhelm him momentarily.

Alex ran a basin of cold water and dashed it over his face.  Feeling
slightly more alert, he trudged across to the bar, its Christmas
decorations seeming incongruous in the face of his sadness.  Johnny
Mathis crooned saccharine in the background and Alex wanted to muffle
the speakers as horses' hooves had once been muffled in funeral
processions.  He found Paul in a booth nursing a bottle of Pyramid ale.
He signalled to the barman for another of the same and slid in
opposite Paul.  Now he had the chance to look at him properly, he could
see the signs of strain and grief.  Paul's light brown hair was rumpled
and unwashed, his blue eyes weary and red-rimmed.  A patch of stubble
under his left ear showed uncharacteristic carelessness in a man who
was always neat and tidy.

"I called Lynn," he said.  "She was asking after you."

"She's got a good heart," Paul said.  "I feel like I got to know her a
lot better this year.  It seemed like being pregnant made her open up
more."

"I know what you mean.  I thought she'd be paralysed with anxiety
throughout this pregnancy.  But she's been really relaxed."  Alex's
drink arrived.

Paul raised his glass.  "Let's drink to the future," he said.

"Right now, I don't feel like it has much to offer, hut The know Ziggy
would give me hell for dwelling in the past."

"To the future," Alex echoed.  He swallowed a mouthful of beer and
said, "How are you holding up?"

Paul shook his head.  "I don't think it's hit me yet.  There's been so
much to take care of.  Letting people know, making the funeral
arrangements and stuff.  Which reminds me.  Your friend Tom, the one
Ziggy called Weird?  He's coming in tomorrow."

The news provoked a mixed reaction from Alex.  Part of him longed for
the connection to his past that Weird would provide.  Part of him
acknowledged the unease that still wriggled inside him when he recalled
the night Rosie Duff died.  And part of him dreaded the aggravation
Weird would trail in his wake if he went off on his fundamentalist
homophobia.  "He's not going to preach at the funeral, is he?"

"No.  We're having a humanist service.  But Ziggy's friends will have
the opportunity to get up and talk about him.  If Tom wants to say
something then, he's welcome."

Alex groaned.  "You know he's a fundamentalist bigot who preaches
hellfire and damnation?"

Paul gave a wry smile.  "He should be careful.  It's not just the South
that does lynch mobs."

Till have a word with him beforehand."  Which would be about as
effective as a twig in the path of a runaway train, Alex thought.

They sipped their beers in silence for a few minutes.  Then Paul
cleared his throat and said, "There's something I need to tell you,
Alex.  It's about the fire."

Alex looked puzzled.  "The fire?"

Paul massaged the bridge of his nose.  "The fire wasn't an accident,
Alex.  It was set.  Deliberately."

"Are they sure?"

Paul sighed.  "They've had arson investigators crawling all over the
place ever since it cooled down enough."

"But that's terrible.  Who would do something like that to

Ziggy?"  1

"Alex, I'm the cops' first pick."  I

"But that's insane.  You loved Ziggy."  "

"Which is exactly why I'm the prime suspect.  They always |

look at the spouse first, right?"  Paul's tone was harsh.

Alex shook his head.  "Nobody who knew you two would entertain that
idea for a minute."

"But the cops didn't know us.  And however hard they try to pretend
different, most cops like gays about as much as your friend Tom does."
He swallowed a mouthful of beer, as if to take the taste of his
sentiment away.  "I spent most of yesterday at the police station,
answering questions."

"I don't get it.  You were hundreds of miles away.  How are you
supposed to have burned your house down when you were in California?"

"You remember the layout of the house?"  Alex nodded and Paul
continued.  "They're saying the fire started in the basement, by the
heating-oil tank.  According to the fire department guy, it looked like
someone had stacked up cans of paint and gasoline at one end of the
tank, then piled up paper and wood around them.  Which we certainly
didn't do.  But they also found what looks like the remains of a
firebomb.  A pretty simple device, they said."

"Wasn't it destroyed in the fire?"

"These guys are good at reconstructing what happens in a fire.  From
the bits and pieces they've found, they think it went like this.  They
found the fragments of a sealed paint can.  Fixed to the inside of the
lid, the remains of an electronic timer.  How they think it worked was
that the can had gasoline or some other accelerant in it.  Something
that would give off fumes.  Most of the space inside the can would have
been occupied by the fumes.  Then when the timer went off, the spark
would've ignited the vapour, the can would've exploded, cascading
burning accelerant on the other flammable materials.

And because the house is wooden, it would have gone up like a torch."
The blank recital wavered and Paul's mouth trembled.  "Ziggy didn't
stand a chance."

"And they think you did this?"  Alex was incredulous.  At the same
time, he felt profound pity for Paul.  He knew better than anyone the
consequences of baseless suspicions and the toll they exacted.

"They've got no other suspects.  Ziggy wasn't exactly a guy who made
enemies.  And I'm the main beneficiary of his will.  What's more, I'm a
physicist."

"And that means you know how to make a firebomb?"

"They seem to think so.  It's kinda hard to explain what I actually do,
but they seem to figure, "Hey, this guy's a scientist, he must know how
to blow people up."  If it wasn't so fucking tragic, I'd have to
laugh."

Alex signalled to the barman to bring them fresh drinks.  "So they
think you set a firebomb and went off to California to give a
lecture?"

That seems to be the way their minds are working.  I thought the fact
that I'd been away for three nights would put me in the clear, but
apparently not.  The arson investigator told my lawyer that the timer
the killer used could have been set anything up to a week in advance.
So I'm still on the hook."

"Wouldn't you have been taking a hell of a chance?  What if Ziggy had
gone down to the basement and seen it?"

"We almost never went down there in the winter.  It was full of summer
stuff the dinghies, the sailboards, the garden furniture.  We kept our
skis in the garage.  Which is another strike against me.  How would
anybody else know their setup was secure?"

Alex dismissed the point with a wave of his hand.  "How many people go
down into their basements regularly in the winter?  It's not as if your
washing machine was down there.  How hard would it have been to break
in?"

"Not too hard," Paul said.  "It wasn't wired into the security system
because the guy who does our yard work in the summer has to get in and
out.  That way, we didn't have to give him details of the alarm system
on the house.  I guess anyone who was determined to get in wouldn't
have found it too hard."

"And of course, any evidence of a break-in would have been destroyed by
the fire," Alex sighed.

"So you see, it looks pretty black against me."

"That's insane.  Like I said, anybody who knows you would realize you
could never have hurt Ziggy, far less killed him."

Paul's smile barely twitched his moustache.  "I appreciate your
confidence, Alex.  And I'm not even going to dignify their accusations
with a denial.  But I wanted you to know what's being said.  I know you
understand how terrible it is to be suspected of something you had
nothing to do with."

Alex shuddered in spite of the warmth of the cosy bar.  "I wouldn't
wish that on my worst enemy, never mind my friend.  It's horrible.
Christ, Paul, I hope they find out who did this, for your sake.  What
happened to us poisoned my life."

"Ziggy too.  He never forgot how fat the human race could turn hostile.
It made him real careful in the way he dealt with the world. Which is
why the whole thing is so insane.  He went out of his way not to make
enemies of people.  It's not that he was a pushover '

"Nobody could ever have accused him of that," Alex agreed.  "But you're
right.  A soft answer turns away wrath.  That was his motto.  But what
about his work?  I mean, things go wrong in hospitals.  Kids die or
they don't get better like they should.  Parents need somebody to
blame."

"This is America, Alex," Paul said ironically.  "Doctors don't take any
unnecessary risks.  They're too scared of being sued.  Sure, Ziggy lost
patients from time to time.  And sometimes things didn't work out as
well as he'd hoped.  But one of the reasons he was such a successful
paediatrician was that he

made his patients and their families his friends.  They ttust">H him,
and they were right to do that.  Because he was a en A doctor."

"I know that.  But sometimes when kids die, logic goes out the
window."

"There was nothing like that.  If there had been, I'd j^ave known about
it.  We talked to each other, Alex.  Even after ten years, we talked to
each other about everything."

"What about colleagues?  Had he pissed anybody off

Paul shook his head.  The don't think so.  He had high standards, and I
guess not everybody he worked with could keep up to the mark all the
time.  But he chose his staff pretty carefully.  There's a great
atmosphere at the clinic.  I don't think there's one single person
there who didn't respect him.  Hell, these people are our friends. They
come to the house f0 barbecues, we baby-sit their kids.  Without Ziggy
to run thodjnic, they've got to feel less secure about their
futures."

"You're making him sound like Mr.  Perfect," Alex said.  "And we both
know he wasn't that."

This time, Paul's smile made it to his eyes.  "No, he wasn't perfect.
Perfectionist, maybe.  That could drive you crazjft Last time we went
skiing, I thought I was going to have to drag him off the mountain.
There was one turn on the run he just couldn't get right.  Every time,
he screwed up.  And that meant we had to go back one more time.  But
you don't kill somebody because they have an ally retentive tendencies.
If I'd wanted Ziggy out of my life, I'd just have left him.  You know?
I wouldn't have had to kill him."

"But you didn't want him out of your life, that's the point."

Paul bit his lip and stared down at the rings of spilt beer on the
table top.  T'd give anything to have him back," he said softly.  Alex
gave him a moment to collect himself.

They'll find who did this," he said eventually.

"You think?  I wish I agreed with you.  What keeps going through my
head is what you guys went through all those

years ago.  They never found who killed that girl.  And everybody
looked at you with different eyes because of it."  He looked up at
Alex.  "I'm not strong like Ziggy was.  I don't know if I can live with
that."

Through a mist of tears, Alex tried to focus on the words printed on
the order of service.  If he'd been asked which of the music on the
list might have moved him to tears at Ziggy's funeral, he'd probably
have settled on Bowie's "Rock and Roll Suicide' with its final defiant
denial of isolation.  But he'd made it through that, sustained to the
point of elation by the vivid images of a youthful Ziggy projected on
the big screen at the end of the crematorium.  What had done for him
was the San Francisco Gay Male Choir singing Brahms' setting of the
passage from St.  Paul's letter to the Corinthians about faith, hope
and love.  Wir se hen jetzt durch einen Spiegel in einem dunkeln Worte;
for now we see through a glass, darkly.  The words seemed painfully
appropriate.  Nothing he'd heard about Ziggy's death made any kind of
sense, neither logically nor metaphysically.

Tears cascaded down his cheeks, and he didn't care.  He wasn't the only
one weeping in the crowded crematorium, and being far from home seemed
to liberate him from his usual emotional reticence.  Beside him, Weird
loomed in an immaculately tailored cassock that made him look far more
of a peacock than any of the gay men paying their last respects.  He
wasn't crying, of course.  His lips were moving constantly.

Alex presumed this was meant to be a sign of devoutness rather than of
mental illness, since Weird's hand regularly strayed to the
ridiculously ostentatious silver gilt cross on his chest.  When he'd
first seen it at Sea Tac airport, Alex had almost laughed out loud.
Weird had strode confidently towards him, dropping his suit carrier to
pull his old friend into a theatrical embrace.  Alex noticed how smooth
his skin appeared and speculated about plastic surgery.

"It was good of you to come," Alex said, leading the way to the hire
car he'd picked up that morning.

"Ziggy was my oldest friend.  Along with you and Mondo.  I know our
lives have moved in very different directions, but nothing could change
that.  The life I have now I owe in part to the friendship we shared.
I'd be a very poor Christian to turn my back on that."

Alex couldn't work out why it was that everything Weird said sounded as
if it was for public consumption.  Whenever he spoke, it was as if
there was an unseen congregation hanging on his every word.  They'd
only met a handful of times over the past twenty years, but on each
occasion it had been the same.  Creeping Jesus, Lynn had christened him
the first time they'd visited him in the small Georgia town where he'd
based his ministry.  The nickname felt as appropriate now as it had
then.

"And how is Lynn?"  Weird asked as he settled himself in the passenger
seat, smoothing down his perfectly cut clerical suit.

"Seven months pregnant and blooming," Alex said.

"Praise the Lord!  I know how much you two have longed for this."
Weird's face lit up in what appeared a genuine smile.  But then, he
spent enough time in front of the cameras for his television mission
via a local channel, it was hard to distinguish the assumed from the
real.  "I thank the Lord for the blessing of children.  The happiest
memories I hold are of my five.  The love a man feels for his children
is deeper and more

pure than anything else in this world.  Alex, I know you're going to
delight in this life change."

Thanks, Weird.1

The reverend winced.  "Gonnae no' do that," he said, reverting to a
teenage catch phrase  "I don't think it's an appropriate form of
address these days."

"Sorry.  Old habits die hard.  You'll always be Weird to me."

"And who exactly calls you Gilly these days?"

Alex shook his head.  "You're right.  I'll try to remember.  Tom."

"I appreciate that, Alex.  And if you want to have the child baptized,
I'd be happy to officiate."

"Somehow, I don't think we'll be going down that road.  The hairn can
make its own mind up when it's old enough."

Weird pursed his lips.  That's your choice, of course."  The subtext
was loud and clear.  Damn your child to eternal perdition if you must.
He gazed out of the window at the passing landscape.  "Where are we
headed?"

"Paul has booked you a cabin at the motel where we're staying."

"Is it near the scene of the fire?"

"About ten minutes away.  Why?"

"I'd like to go there first."

"Why?"

"I want to say a prayer."

Alex exhaled noisily.  "Fine.  Look, there's something you should know.
The police believe the fire was arson."

Weird bowed his head ponderously.  "I feared as much."

"You did?  How come?"

"Ziggy chose a perilous path.  Who knows what sort of person he brought
into his home?  Who knows what damaged soul he drove to desperate
measures?"

Alex thumped the steering wheel with his fist.  "For fuck's sake,
Weird.  I thought the Bible said "Judge not, that ye be not judged"?
Who the hell do you think you are, coming out

with rubbish like that?  Whatever preconceptions you have about Ziggy's
lifestyle, drop them right now.  Ziggy and Paul were monogamous.
Neither of them has had sex with anybody else for the past ten
years."

Weird gave a small, condescending smile that made Alex want to smack
him.  "You always believed everything Ziggy said."

Alex didn't want to fight.  He bit back a sharp retort and said, "What
I was trying to tell you is that the police have got some daft notion
in their heads that it was Paul who set the fire.  So try to be a tad
sensitive around him, eh?"

"Why do you think it's a daft notion?  I don't know much about the way
the police work, but I've been told that the majority of homicides that
aren't gang-related are committed by spouses.  And since you've asked
me to be sensitive, I suppose we should regard Paul as Ziggy's spouse.
If I were a police officer, I would consider myself derelict in my duty
not to consider the possibility."

Tine.  That's their job.  But we're Ziggy's friends.  Lynn and I spent
plenty of time with the pair of them over the years.  And take it from
me, that was never a relationship that was heading towards murder.  You
should remember what it feels like to be suspected of something you
haven't done.  Imagine how much worse it must be if the person who's
dead is the person you loved.  Well, that's what Paul's going through.
And it's him that deserves our support, not the police."

"OK, OK," Weird muttered uneasily, the facade slipping momentarily as
memory kicked in and he remembered the primal fear that had driven him
into the arms of the church in the first place.  He held his peace for
the remainder of the journey, turning his head to stare out at the
passing landscape to avoid Alex's occasional glances in his
direction.

Alex took the familiar exit off the freeway and headed west towards
Ziggy and Paul's former home.  His stomach tightened as he turned up
the narrow metalled road that wound

through the trees.  His imagination had already run riot with images of
the fire.  But when he rounded the final bend and saw what remained of
the house, he knew his powers of invention had been woefully
inadequate.  He'd expected a blackened and scarred shell.  But this was
almost total destruction.

Speechless, Alex let the car glide to a halt.  He climbed out and took
a few slow steps towards 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
burnt-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 on to 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 Saviour.  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.

Afterwards, 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."

Alex said nothing.  He bent down to read a card.  Dearest Ziggy, the
world's too big without you.  With love from all your friends at the
clinic.  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.  Rosemary
for remembrance.

"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.  The 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 "jBI

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 travelling 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 life 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 life Police hadn't decided after twenty-five years to call it
murder after all?

He shivered again, staring out into the njght The twinkling lights of
the Christmas trees in the houses along the street seemed a thousand
eyes, staring back at hiffl 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 wagj did he have
the nerve to take it?

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
tal^d about thieves falling out.  How much more That |

ural 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.  I

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 \vas 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 be 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 Viands 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?"

"Lawsoricame 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 defences 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 makeover 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?"

"I looked up the newspaper archives.  And there was a bit about the
case in a true-crime book I found.  But that just told me the bare
facts."

Duff took a long draught of his beer, never taking his eyes off
Macfadyen.  "Facts, maybe.  The truth?  No way.  Because you're not
allowed to call people murderers unless a jury said so first."

Macfadyen's pulse quickened.  It sounded as if what he'd suspected was
on the money.  "What do you mean?"  he said.

Duff took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  It was obvious that he
didn't want to have the conversation.  "Let me tell you the story.  The
night she died, Rosie was working here.  Behind that bar.  Sometimes
I'd give her a lift home, but not that night.  She said she was going
to a party, but the truth of it was she was meeting somebody after
work.  We all knew she'd been seeing someone, but she wouldn't let on
who it was.  She liked her secrets, did Rosie.  But me and Colin, we
reckoned she was keeping quiet about the boyfriend because she thought
we wouldn't approve of him."  Duff scratched his chin.  "We were maybe
a bit heavy-handed when it came to looking out for Rosie.  After she
got pregnant .. . well, let's just say we didn't want her getting mixed
up with another loser.

"Anyway, she left after closing time, and nobody saw who she met up
with.  It's like she just disappeared off the face of the earth for
four hours."  He gripped his glass tightly, his knuckles white.  "Round
about four o'clock in the morning, four students staggering home drunk
from a party found her lying in the snow on Hallow Hill.  The official
version was that they stumbled on her."  He shook his head.  "But where
she was, you wouldn't just find her by chance.  That's the first thing
you need to remember.

"She'd been stabbed once in the stomach.  But it was a hell of a wound.
Deep and long."  Duff's shoulders rose protectively.  "She bled to
death.  Whoever killed her carried her up there in the snow and dumped
her like she was a sack of

shite.  That's the second thing you need to remember."  His voice was
tight and clipped, the emotion still possessing him twenty-five years
on.

"They said she'd likely been raped.  They tried to say it might just
have been rough sex, but I never believed that.  Rosie had learned her
lesson.  She didn't sleep with the guys she went out with.  The cops
made out that she was spinning me and Colin a line about that.  But we
had a word with a couple of the guys she'd dated, and they swore they
never had sex with her.  And I believe them, because we weren't gentle
with them.  Sure, they messed about.  Blow jobs, hand jobs.  But she
wouldn't have sex.  So she had to have been raped.  There was semen on
her clothes."  He gave an angry snort of disbelief.  "I can't believe
those useless fuckers have lost the evidence.  That was all they
needed, DNA testing would have done the rest."  He swallowed more beer.
Macfadyen waited, tense as a hunting dog on point.  He didn't want to
say a word and break the spell.

"So that was what happened to my sister.  And we wanted to know who did
this to her.  The police didn't have a fucking clue.  They took a look
at the four students who found her, but they never really worked them
over.  See this town?  Nobody wants to upset the University.  And it
was worse back then.

"Remember these names.  Alex Gilbey, Sigmund Malkiewicz, Davey Kerr,
Tom Mackie.  That's the four who found her.  The four who ended up
covered in her blood, but with a so-called legitimate excuse.  And
where were they during the missing four hours?  They were at a party.
Some drunken student party, where nobody keeps tabs on anybody else.
They could have come and gone without anybody being any the wiser.
Who's to say they were ever there for more than half an hour at the
beginning and maybe half an hour at the end?  Plus, they had access to
a Land Rover."

Macfadyen looked startled.  "That wasn't in anything I read."

"No, it wouldn't have been.  They stole a Land Rover belonging to one
of their mates.  They were driving about in it that night."

"Why weren't they charged with it?"  Macfadyen demanded.

"Good question.  And one we never got an answer to.  Probably what I
was saying before.  Nobody wants to upset the University.  Maybe the
cops didn't want to bother with minor charges if they couldn't prove
the big one.  It would have made them look pretty pathetic."

He let go his glass and ticked off the points on his fingers.  "So,
they've got no real alibi.  They had the perfect vehicle for driving
around with a body in a blizzard.  They drank in here.  They knew
Rosie. Me and Colin thought students were a bunch of lowlifes who used
lassies like Rosie then chucked them when the proper wife material came
along, and she knew that, so she'd never have let on if she was going
out with a student.  One of them actually admitted that he'd invited
Rosie along to that party.  And according to what I was told, the sperm
on Rosie's clothes could have come from either Sigmund Malkiewicz,
Davey Kerr or Tom Mackie."  He leaned back, momentarily worn out by the
intensity of his monologue.

There were no other suspects?"

Duff shrugged.  "There was the mystery boyfriend.  But, like I said,
that could easily have been one of those four.  Jimmy Lawson had some
daft notion that she'd been picked up by some nutter for a satanic
ritual.  That's why she was left where she was.  But there was never
any evidence of that.  Besides, how would he find her?  She wouldn't
have been walking the streets in that weather."

"What do you think happened that night?"  Macfadyen couldn't help the
question.

"I think she was going out with one of them.  I think he was fed up
with not getting his way with her.  I think he raped her.  Christ,
maybe they all did, I don't know for sure.  When

they realized what they'd done, they knew they were fucked if they let
her go free to tell.  That would be the end of their degrees, the end
of their brilliant futures.  So they killed her."  There was a long
silence.

Macfadyen was the first to speak.  The never knew which three the sperm
pointed to."

"It was never public knowledge.  But it's kosher, all the same.  One of
my pals was going out with a lassie that worked for the police.  She
was a civilian, but she knew what was going on.  With what they had on
those four, it was criminal, how the police just let it slip away."

They were never arrested?"

Duff shook his head.  "They were questioned, but nothing ever came of
it.  No, they're still walking the streets.  Free as birds."  He
finished his pint.  "So, now you know what happened."  He pushed his
chair back, as if to leave.

"Wait," Macfadyen said urgently.

Duff paused, looking impatient.

"How come you never did anything about it?"

Duff reared back as if he'd been struck.  "Who says we didn't?"

"Well, you're the one who just said they're walking the streets, free
as birds."

Duff sighed so deeply the stale beer on his breath washed over
Macfadyen.  "There wasn't much we could do.  We had a pop at a couple
of them, but we got our cards marked.  The police more or less told us
that if anything happened to any of the four of them, we'd be the ones
who'd end up behind bars.  If it had just been me and Colin, we'd have
taken no notice.  But we couldn't put our mother through that.  Not
after what she'd already suffered.  So we backed off."  He bit his lip.
"Jimmy Lawson always said the case would never be closed.  One day, he
said, whoever killed Rosie would get what they deserved.  And I really
believed that the time had come, with this new inquiry."  He shook his
head.  "More fool

me."  This time, he stood up.  "I've kept my end of the bargain.  Now
you keep yours.  Stay away from me and mine."

"Just one more thing.  Please?"

Duff hesitated, his hand on the back of his chair, one step away from
escape.  "What?"

"My father.  Who was my father?"

"You're better off not knowing, son.  He was a useless waste of
space."

"Even so.  Half my genes came from him."  Macfadyen could see the
uncertainty in Duff's eyes.  He pushed the point.  "Give me my father
and you'll never see me again."

Duff shrugged.  "His name's John Stobie.  He moved to England three
years before Rosie died."  He turned on his heel and walked.

Macfadyen sat for a while staring into space, ignoring his beer.  A
name.  Something to start running a trace on.  At last, he had a name.
But more than that.  He had justification for the decision he'd made
after James Lawson's admission of incompetence.  The names of the
students hadn't been news to him.  They'd been there, in the newspaper
reports of the murder.  He'd known about them for months.  Everything
he'd read had reinforced his desperate need to find someone to blame
for what had happened to his mother.  When he'd started his search to
unearth the whereabouts of the four men he'd convinced himself had
destroyed his chance of ever knowing his real mother, he'd been
disappointed to discover that all four of them were leading successful,
respectable and respected existences.  That wasn't any kind of
justice.

He'd immediately set up an internet alert for any information about the
four of them.  And when Lawson had delivered his revelation, it had
only reinforced Macfadyen's decision that they shouldn't get away with
it.  If life Police couldn't bring them to book for what they'd done,
then another way had to be found to make them pay.

The morning after his meeting with his uncle, Macfadyen

woke early.  He hadn't been to work for over a week now.  Writing
program code was what he excelled at, and it had always been the one
thing that made him feel relaxed.  But these days the idea of sitting
in front of a screen and working through the complex structures of his
current project simply made him feel impatient.  Compared to all the
other stuff fizzing in his brain, everything else felt petty,
irrelevant and pointless.  Nothing in his life had prepared him for
this quest, and he'd realized it needed all of him, not what was left
after a day in the computer lab.  He'd gone to the doctor and claimed
he was suffering from stress.  It wasn't exactly a lie, and he'd been
convincing enough to be signed off until after the New Year.

He crawled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom, feeling as if
he'd been asleep for minutes instead of hours.  He barely glanced in
the mirror, not registering the shadows under his eyes or the hollows
in his cheeks.  He had things to do.  Getting to know his mother's
killers was more important than remembering to eat properly.

Without pausing to dress or even make coffee, he went straight through
to his computer room.  He clicked the mouse on one of the PCs.  A
flashing message in the corner of the screen said Mail waitings-.  He
called up his message screen.  Two items.  He opened the first.  David
Kerr had an article in the latest issue of an academic journal.  Some
tripe about a French writer Macfadyen had never heard of.  He couldn't
have been less interested.  Still, it showed that he had set up the
parameters of his internet alert properly.  David Kerr wasn't exactly
an uncommon name and, until he'd refined the search, he'd been getting
dozens of hits every day.  Which had been a pain in the arse.

The next message was far more interesting.  It directed him to the web
pages of the Seattle Post Intelligencer.  As he read the article, a
slow smile spread across his face.

PROMINENT PEDIATRICIAN DIES

IN SUSPICIOUS BLAZE

The founder of the prestigious life Clinic has perished in a suspected
arson at his King County home.

Dr.  Sigmund Malkiewicz, known as Doctor Ziggy to patients and
colleagues alike, died in the blaze which destroyed his isolated house
in the early hours of yesterday morning.

Three fire trucks attended the scene, but the flames had already
destroyed the main part of the wood-built house.  Fire Marshal Jonathan
Ardiles said, "The house was thoroughly ablaze by the time we were
alerted by Dr.  Malkiewicz's nearest neighbor.  There was very little
we could do other than try to prevent it spreading to the nearby
woodland."

Detective Aaron Bronstein revealed today that police are treating the
fire as suspicious.  He said, "Arson investigators are working the
site.  We can't say more at this stage."

Born and raised in Scotland, Dr.  Malkiewicz, 45, had worked in the
Seattle area for over 15 years.  He was a pediatrician in King County
General before leaving nine years ago to set up his own clinic.  He had
established a reputation in the field of pediatric oncology,
specializing in the treatment of leukemia.

Dr.  Angela Redmond, who worked alongside Dr.  Malkiewicz at the
clinic, said, "We are all in shock at this tragic news.  Doctor Ziggy
was a supportive and generous colleague who was devoted to his
patients. Everyone who knew him will be devastated by this."

The words danced before him, leaving him feeling a strange mixture of
exhilaration and frustration.  With what he knew now about the sperm,
it seemed appropriate that Malkiewicz should be the first to die.
Macfadyen was disappointed that

the journalist hadn't been smart enough to dig up the sordid details of
Malkiewicz's life.  The article read as if Malkiewicz had been some
kind of Mother Teresa, when Macfadyen knew the truth was very
different.  Maybe he should email the journalist, put him right on a
few points.

But that might not be such a bright idea.  It would be harder to keep
on watching the killers if they thought anyone was interested in what
had happened to Rosie Duff twenty-five years before.  No, better to
keep his own counsel for now.  Still, he could always find out about
the funeral arrangements and make a small point there, if they had eyes
to see.  It wouldn't hurt to plant the seed of unease in their hearts,
to make them start to suffer a little.  They'd caused enough suffering
over the years.

He checked the time on his computer.  If he left now, he'd make it to
North Queensferry in time to pick up Alex Gilbey on his way to work.  A
morning in Edinburgh, and then he'd drive on to Glasgow, to see what
David Kerr was up to.  But before that, it was time to start searching
for John Stobie.

Two days later, he'd followed Alex to the airport and watched him check
in for a flight to Seattle.  Twenty-five years on, and murder still
tied them to each other.  He'd half expected to see David Kerr meet up
with him.  But there had been no sign.  And when he'd hurried through
to Glasgow to check if he'd maybe missed his prey there, he'd found
Kerr in a lecture theatre, delivering as advertised.  That was cold,
right enough.

Alex had never been happier to see the landing lights at Edinburgh
airport.  Rain lashed against the windows of the plane, but he didn't
care.  He just wanted to be home again, to sit quietly with Lynn, his
hand on her belly, feeling the life within.  The future.  Like
everything else that crossed his mind, that thought brought him up
short against Ziggy's death.  A child his best friend would never see,
never hold.

Lynn was waiting for him in the arrivals area.  She looked tired, he
thought.  He wished she'd just give up work.  It wasn't as if they
needed the money.  But she was adamant that she would keep going until
the last month.  "I want to use my maternity leave to spend time with
the baby, not to sit around and wait for it to arrive," she'd said. She
was still determined to return to work after six months, but Alex
wondered whether that would change.

He waved as he hurried towards her.  Then they were in each other's
arms, clinging as if they'd been separated for weeks instead of days.
"I missed you," he mumbled into her hair.

"I missed you too."  They stepped apart and headed for the car park,
Lynn slipping her arm through his.  "Are you OK?"

Alex shook his head.  "Not really.  I feel gutted.  Literally.

It's like there's a hole inside of me.  Christ knows how HAM- getting
through the days."  - ,r l

"How's he doing?"

"It's like he's been cast adrift.  Arranging the funeral vave him
something to concentrate on, take his mind off what he's lost.  But
last night, after everybody had gone home, he was like a lost soul.  I
don't know how he's going to get through this."

"Has he got much support?"

They've got a lot of friends.  He's not going to be isolated.  But when
it comes down to it, you're on your own, Wen't you?"  He sighed.  "It
made me realize how lucky I am.  Having you, and the baby on the way. I
don't know what <If|{|lo if anything happened to you, Lynn."
<.i'*-*^'

She squeezed his arm.  "It's only natural you're thinking like that.  A
death like Ziggy's, it makes us all feel vulneftaj^ But nothing's going
to happen to me."  J, "

They reached the car and Alex got into the dd^ite'Seat.  "Home, then,"
he said.  "I can't believe tomorrow's Cffoffctaias Eve.  I'm dying for
a quiet night in, just the two of'tyi/,

"Ah," Lynn said, adjusting her seatbelt round U")Nj&BI'p.

"Oh no.  Not your mother.  Not tonight."  i :*,:

Lynn grinned.  "No, not my mother.  Nearly as badv though.  Mondo's
here."  Vf"."

Alex frowned.  "Mondo?  I thought he was supposed1 to be in France?"

"Change of plans.  They were supposed to spend a few days with Helene's
brother in Paris, but his wife's come down with flu.  So they changed
their flights."

"So what's he doing, coming to see us?"

"He says he had some business through in life, but I think he's feeling
guilty about not going to Seattle with you."

Alex snorted.  "Aye, he was always good at trotting out the guilt after
the event.  It never stopped him doing what he was guilty about in the
first place, though."

Lynn put a hand on his thigh.  There was nothing sexual in the gesture.
"You've never really forgiven him, have you?"

"I suppose not.  Mostly, it's forgotten.  But when things come together
like they have this past week .. . No, I don't suppose I have ever
forgiven him.  Partly for dropping me in the shite all those years ago
just to get himself off the hook with the cops.  If he hadn't told
Maclennan about me fancying Rosie, I don't think we'd have been
considered so seriously as suspects.  But mostly I can't forgive him
for that stupid stunt that cost Maclennan his life."

"You think Mondo doesn't blame himself for that?"

"So he should.  But if he hadn't made a major contribution to putting
us in the frame in the first place, he'd never have ended up feeling
like he needed to make such a ridiculous point.  And I wouldn't have
had to contend with other people pointing the finger everywhere I went
for the remains of my university career.  I can't help holding Mondo
responsible for that."

Lynn opened her bag and dug out change for the bridge toll.  "I think
he's always known that."

"Which might be why he's worked so hard at putting so much distance
between us."  Alex sighed.  "I'm sorry that meant you lost out."

"Don't be daft," she said, handing him the coins as they sped down the
approach road to the Forth Road Bridge, its majestic sweep offering the
best possible view of the three cantilevered diamonds of the railway
bridge spanning the estuary.  "His loss, Alex.  I knew when I married
you that Mondo was never going to be comfortable with the idea.  I
still think I got the best bargain.  I'd much rather have you at the
centre of my life than my neurotic big brother."

"I'm sorry about the way things worked out, Lynn.  I still care about
him, you know.  I've got a lot of good memories that he's part of."

"I know.  So try to remember that when you feel like strangling him
tonight."

Alex opened the window, shivering at the scatter of rain that hit the
side of his face.  He handed over the toll and accelerated off, feeling
the tug of home as he always did on the approach to life.  He glanced
at the clock on the dashboard.  "When's he getting here?"

"He's here already."

Alex grimaced.  No chance to decompress.  No hiding place.

Detective Constable Karen Pirie scuttled into the shelter of the pub
doorway and pushed the door open gratefully.  A blast of warm, sour air
flavoured with stale beer and smoke flowed over her.  It was the smell
of release.  In the background, she recognized St.  Germain's Tourist
playing.  Nice one.  She craned her neck, peering through the
early-evening drinkers to see who was in.  Over by the bar, she spotted
Phil Parhatka, his shoulders hunched over a pint and a packet of
crisps.  She pushed through the crowd and pulled up a stool next to
him.  "Mine's a Bacardi Breezer," she said, digging him in the ribs.

Phil roused himself and caught the eye of the harassed barman.  He
ordered, then lounged against the bar.  Phil was always happier in
company than on his own, Karen reminded herself.  Nobody could be
further from the TV cliche of the maverick lone cop, taking on the
world single-handed.  He wasn't what you'd call the life and soul of
the party; he just preferred to hang out with the gang.  And she didn't
mind in the least standing in for the crowd.  One to one, he might just
notice that she was a woman.  Karen seized her drink as soon as it
arrived and took a hearty swig.  "That's better," she gasped.  "I
needed that."

"Thirsty work, raking through the evidence boxes.  I didn't expect to
see you in here tonight, I thought you'd be straight home."

"No, I needed to come back and check out a couple of things on the
computer.  Pain in the arse, but there you go."

She drank some more and leaned conspiratorially towards her colleague.
"And you'll never guess who I caught poking about in my files."

"ACC Lawson," Phil said, without even a pretence at guessing.

Karen sat back, peeved.  "How did you know that?"

"Who else gives a shit about what we're up to?  Besides, he's been on
your back far more than anybody else's since this review began.  He
seems to be taking it personally."

"Well, he was the first officer on the scene."

"Yeah, but he was only a woolly suit at the time.  It's not like it was
his case or anything."  He pushed the crisps towards Karen and finished
his first pint.

"I know.  But I suppose he feels connected to it more than the other
cases in the review.  Still, it was funny to walk in on him poring over
my files.  He's usually long gone by this time of night.  I thought he
was going to jump out of his skin when I spoke to him.  He was that
engrossed he didn't hear me come in."

Phil picked up his fresh pint and took a sip.  "He went to see the
brother a while back, didn't he?  To tell him about the fuck-up with
the evidence?"

Karen shook her fingers, the gesture of someone ridding herself of
something unpleasantly clinging.  "Let me tell you, I was more than
happy to let him handle that.  Not an interview I'd have enjoyed.
"Hello, sir.  Sorry we lost the evidence that might have finally
convicted your sister's killer.  Oh well, that's how it goes."  She
pulled a face.  "So, how are you getting on?"

Phil shrugged.  "I don't know.  I thought I was on to something, but it
looks like another dead-end.  Plus I've got the local MSP blethering on
about human rights.  It's a balls-ac her this job."

"Got a suspect?"

"I've got three.  What I've not got is decent evidence.  I'm

still waiting for the lab to come back with the fjetMagi^ " the only
real chance I've got to take it any further.  HqwiMfk* you?  Who do you
think killed Rosie Duff?"  '"'

Karen spread her hands.  "Perm any one from foBj)?"  v

"You really think it was one of the students who found her?"  Vr^

Karen nodded.  "All the circumstantial points that way,.  And there's
something else besides."  She paused, waiting $f the prompt.  ,

"OK, Sherlock.  I'll buy it.  What's the something $]&$'

"The psychology of it.  Whether this was a ritual killing or a sexual
homicide, we're told by the shrinks that murders like this don't come
on their own.  You'd expect a couple of attempts first."

"Like with Peter Sutcliffe?"  , ,.

"Exactly.  He didn't get to be the Yorkshire Ripper overnight.  Which
leads me neatly on to the next point.  Sex killers are a bit like my
gran.  They repeat themselves."

Phil groaned.  "Oh, very good."

"Don't clap, just throw money.  They repeat themselves because they get
off on the killing like normal people get off on porn.  Anyway, my
point is that we never see another sign of this particular killer
anywhere in Scotland."

"Maybe he moved away."

"Maybe.  And maybe what we were presented with was a stage set.  Maybe
this wasn't that kind of killer at all.  Maybe one or all of our boys
raped Rosie and panicked.  They don't want a live witness.  And so they
kill her.  But they make it look like the work of a crazed sex beast.
They didn't get off on the murder at all, so there was never any
question of repetition."

"You think four half-cut lads could manage to be that cool with a dead
lassie on their hands?"

Karen crossed her legs and smoothed down her skirt.  She noticed him
notice and felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with white rum.
"That's the question, isn't it?"

"And what's the answer?"

"When you read the statements, there's one of them that sticks out. The
medical student, Malkiewicz.  He kept his head at the scene, and his
statement reads pretty clinical.  The placing of his prints indicated
he was the last one to drive the Land Rover.  And he was one of the
three Group O secretors among the four of them.  It could have been his
sperm."

"Well, it's a nice theory."

"Deserves another drink, I think."  This time, Karen got the round in.
"The trouble with theory," she continued once her glass was refreshed,
'is that it needs evidence to back it up.  Evidence which I don't
have."

"What about the illegitimate kid?  Doesn't he have a father somewhere?
What if it was him?"

"We don't know who he was.  Brian Duff is keeping his mouth zipped on
that one.  I've not been able to talk to Colin yet.  But Lawson tipped
me the wink that it was probably a lad called John Stobie.  He left
town round about the right time."

"He might have come back."

"That's what Lawson was looking for in the file.  To see if I'd got
anywhere with that angle."  Karen shrugged.  "But even if he did come
back, why kill Rosie?"

"Maybe he still carried a torch for her, only she didn't want to
know."

"I don't think so.  This is a kid who left town because Brian and Colin
gave him a doing.  He doesn't strike me as the hero who comes back to
reclaim his lost love.  But, no stone unturned.  I've got a request in
to our brothers in arms down where he lives now.  They're going to go
and have a wee chat with him."

"Aye, right.  He's going to remember where he was on a December night
twenty-five years ago."

Karen sighed.  "I know.  But at least the guys that interview him will
get a sense of whether he's a likely lad.  My money's

still on Malkiewicz working alone or with his pals.  Anyway.  Enough
shop.  D'you fancy a last curry before the turkey and sprouts get a
grip?"

Mondo jumped to his feet as soon as Alex walked into the conservatory,
almost knocking over his glass of red wine.  "Alex," he said, a tinge
of nervousness in his voice.

How abruptly we shift back in time when we're knocked out of our daily
lives and into the company of those who make up our past, Alex thought,
surprised by the insight.  Mondo, he was sure, was assured and
competent in his professional life.  He had a cultured and
sophisticated wife with whom he did cultured and sophisticated things
that Alex could only guess at.  But confronted by the confidant of his
adolescence, Mondo was that nervy teenager again, exuding vulnerability
and need.  "Hi, Mondo," Alex said wearily, slumping into the opposite
chair and reaching over to pour himself some wine.

"Good flight?"  The smile was just on the edge of beseeching.

"No such thing.  I made it home in one piece, which is the best you can
say about any flight.  Lynn's sorting out the dinner, she'll be through
in a minute."

"I'm sorry to descend on you this evening, but I had to come through to
life to see somebody, and then we're off to France tomorrow and this
was the only chance .. ."

You're not a bit sorry, Alex thought.  You just want to assuage your
conscience at my expense.  "Pity you didn't find out about your
sister-in-law's flu a bit sooner.  Then you could have come to Seattle
with me.  Weird was there."  Alex's voice was matter-of-fact, but he
meant his words to sting.

Mondo straightened up in his seat, refusing to meet Alex's gaze.  "I
know you think I should have been there too."

"I do, actually.  Ziggy was one of your best friends for nearly ten
years.  He put himself out for you.  Actually, he put himself out for
all of us.  I wanted to acknowledge that and I think you should have
too."

Mondo ran a hand through his hair.  It was still luxuriant and curly,
though shot with silver now.  It gave him the look of an exotic among
everyday Scottish manhood.  "Whatever.  I'm just not good at that sort
of thing."

"You always were the sensitive one."

Mondo shot him a look of annoyance.  "I happen to think that
sensitivity is a virtue, not a vice.  And I won't apologize for
possessing it."

"Then you should be sensitive to all the reasons why I'm pissed off
with you.  OK, I can just about grasp why you avoid us all like we've
got some contagious disease.  You wanted to get as far away as possible
from anything and anyone that would remind you of Rosie Duff's murder
and Barney Maclennan's death.  But you should have been there, Mondo.
You really should."

Mondo reached for his glass and clutched it as if it would save him
from this awkwardness.  "You're probably right, Alex."

"So what brings you here now?"

Mondo looked away.  "I suppose this review that life Police are doing
into Rosie Duff's murder brought a lot of stuff to the surface.  I
realized I couldn't just ignore this.  I needed to talk to somebody who
understood that time.  And what Ziggy meant to all of us."  To Alex's
astonishment, Mondo's eyes were suddenly wet.  He blinked furiously,
but tears spilled over.  He put down his glass and covered his face
with his hands.

Then Alex realized that he too wasn't immune from time travel.  He
wanted to jump to his feet and pull Mondo into his arms.  His friend
was shaking with the effort of containing his grief.  But he held back,
the twinge of old suspicion kicking in.  "I'm sorry, Alex," Mondo
sobbed.  "I'm so, so sorry."

"Sorry for what?"  Alex said softly.

Mondo looked up, his eyes blurred with tears.  "Everything.  Everything
I did that was wrong or stupid."

"That doesn't really narrow it down," Alex said, his voice gentler than
the ironic words.

Mondo flinched, his expression wounded.  He had grown accustomed to his
imperfections being accepted without comment or criticism.  "Mostly,
I'm sorry about Barney Maclennan.  Did you know his brother is working
on the cold case review?"

Alex shook his head.  "How would I know that?  Come to that, how do you
know?"

"He called me up.  Wanted to talk about Barney.  I hung up on him."
Mondo heaved a huge sigh.  "It's history, you know?  OK, I did a stupid
thing, but I was only a kid.  Christ, if I'd been done for murder, I'd
be walking the streets again by now.  Why can't we just be left
alone?"

"What do you mean, if you'd been done for murder?"  Alex demanded.

Mondo shifted in his chair.  "Figure of speech.  That's all."  He
drained his glass.  "Look, I'd better be off," he said, getting to his
feet.  Till say cheerio to Lynn on the way out."  He pushed past Alex,
who stared after him, bemused.  Whatever Mondo had come for, it didn't
look like he'd found it.

It hadn't been easy, finding a vantage point that afforded a good view
of Alex Gilbey's house.  But Macfadyen had persevered, clambering over
rocks and scrambling across tussocks of rough grass beneath the massive
iron cantilevers of the rail bridge.  At last, he'd found the perfect
spot, at least for night watching.  During the day, it would have been
horribly exposed, but Gilbey was never around during daylight hours.
But once darkness fell, Macfadyen was lost in the black depths of the
bridge's shadow, looking straight down on the conservatory where Gilbey
and his wife always sat in the evening, taking advantage of their
magnificent panorama.

It wasn't right.  If Gilbey had paid the price for his actions, he'd
either still be languishing behind bars or living the sort of shitty
life most long-term prisoners came out to.  A scummy council flat
surrounded by junkies and small-time hoods, with a stairwell that
smelled of piss and vomit, that's the best he deserved.  Not this
valuable piece of real estate with its spectacular vista and its triple
glazing to keep out the sound of the trains that rattled over the
bridge all day and most of the night.  Macfadyen wanted to take it all
away from him, to make him understand what he'd stolen when he'd taken
part in the murder of Rosie Duff.

But that was for another day.  Tonight, he was keeping vigil.  He'd
been in Glasgow earlier, waiting patiently for a shopper to vacate the
parking space that experience had taught him gave the perfect
perspective on Kerr's slot in the university car park.  When his quarry
had emerged just after four, Macfadyen had been surprised that he
hadn't headed for Bearsden.  Instead, their destination had been the
motorway that snaked through the middle of Glasgow before striking out
across country to Edinburgh.  When Kerr had turned off for the Forth
Bridge, Macfadyen had smiled in anticipation.  It looked like the
conspirators were getting together after all.

His prediction turned out to be spot on.  But not quite immediately.
Kerr left the motorway on the north side of the estuary and, instead of
heading down into North Queensferry, he turned off towards the modern
hotel that commanded prime views from the sandstone bluff above the
estuary.  He parked his car and hurried inside.  By the time Macfadyen
entered the hotel less than a minute behind him, there was no trace of
his quarry.  He wasn't in the bar or the restaurant area.  Macfadyen
hurried to and fro through the public areas, his anxious flurry of
movement attracting curious glances from staff and customers alike. But
Kerr was nowhere to be seen.  Furious that he'd lost his man, Macfadyen
stormed back outside, slamming the flat of his hand on his car roof. 
Christ, this wasn't how it was supposed to be.  What was Kerr playing
at?  Had he realized he was being followed and deliberately shaken off
his pursuer?  Macfadyen hastily whirled round.  No, Kerr's car was
still where it should be.

What was going on?  Obviously, Kerr was meeting someone and they didn't
want their meeting to be observed.  But who could it be?  Could Alex
Gilbey have returned from the States and decided to meet his
co-conspirator on neutral ground to keep their meeting from his wife?
There was no obvious way to find out.  Cursing softly, he climbed back
into his car and fixed his gaze on the hotel entrance.

He didn't have long to wait.  About twenty minutes after Kerr had
entered the hotel, he returned to his car.  This time, he drove down
into North Queensferry.  That answered one question.  Whoever he'd met,
it hadn't been Gilbey.  Macfadyen hung back by the corner of the street
until Kerr's car turned into Gilbey's drive.  Within ten minutes, he
was taking up his station under the bridge, grateful that the rain had
eased off.  He raised his powerful binoculars to his eyes and focused
on the house below.  A dim glow from inside trickled into the
conservatory, but he couldn't see anything else.  He moved his field of
vision along the wall, finding the oblong of light from the kitchen.

He saw Lynn Gilbey pass, a bottle of red wine in her hand.  Nothing for
a long couple of minutes, then the lamps in the conservatory flickered
into brightness.  David Kerr followed the woman in and sat down while
she opened the wine and poured two glasses.  They were, he knew,
brother and sister.  Gilbey had married her six years after Rosie's
death, when he'd been twenty-seven and she twenty-one.  He wondered if
she knew the truth about what her brother and her husband had been
involved with.  Somehow, he dlmbted it.  She would have been spun a web
of lies, and it had suited her to believe it.  Just like it had suited
the police.  They'd all been happy to take the easy way out back then.
Well, he wasn't going to let that happen a second time.

And now she was pregnant.  Gilbey was going to be a father.  It
infuriated him that their child would have the privilege of knowing its
parents, of being wanted and loved instead of blamed and reproached.
Kerr and his friends had taken that chance from him all those years
before.

There wasn't much conversation going on down there, he noted.  Which
meant one of two things.  Either they were so close they didn't need
chatter to fill the space.  Or else there was a distance between them
that small talk couldn't bridge.  He wondered which it was; impossible
to gauge from this

distance.  After ten minutes or so, the woman glanced at her watch and
stood up, one hand in the small of her back, the other on her belly.
She walked back into the house.

When she hadn't reappeared after ten minutes, he began to wonder if
she'd left the house.  Of course, it made sense.  Gilbey would be
returning from the funeral.  Meeting up with Kerr for a debriefing.
Talking through the questions raised by Malkiewicz's mysterious death.
The murderers reunited.

He hunkered down and took a thermos from his backpack.  Strong, sweet
coffee to keep him awake and energized.  Not that he needed it.  Since
he'd begun stalking the men he believed responsible for his mother's
death, he seemed fired with vigour.  And when he fell into bed at
night, he slept more deeply than he had since childhood.  It was
further justification, if any were needed, that the path he had chosen
was the right one.

More than an hour passed.  Kerr kept jumping up and pacing back and
forth, occasionally going back into the house then coming back almost
immediately.  He wasn't comfortable, that was for sure.  Then suddenly,
Gilbey walked in.  There was no handshake, and it was soon clear to
Macfadyen that this was no easy, relaxed encounter.  Even through the
binoculars, he could tell the conversation wasn't one either man
relished.

Nevertheless, he wasn't expecting Kerr to go to pieces as he did.  One
minute, he was fine, then he was in tears.  The dialogue that followed
seemed intense, but it didn't last long.  Kerr got to his feet abruptly
and pushed past Gilbey.  Whatever had passed between them, it hadn't
made either of them happy.

Macfadyen hesitated for a moment.  Should he keep watch here?  Or
should he follow Kerr?  His feet started moving before he was aware of
having decided.  Gilbey wasn't going anywhere.  But David Kerr had
broken his pattern once.  He might just do it again.

He ran back to his car, reaching the corner just as Kerr pulled out of
the quiet side street.  Cursing, Macfadyen dived behind the wheel and
gunned the engine, taking off with a screech of rubber.  But he needn't
have worried.  Kerr's silver Audi was still at the intersection with
the main road, waiting to turn right.  Instead of heading for the
bridge and home, he chose the M90 going north.  There wasn't much
traffic, and Macfadyen had no trouble keeping him in sight.  Within
twenty minutes, he had a pretty good idea where his quarry was making
for.  He'd bypassed Kirkcaldy and his parents' home and taken the
Standing Stone road east.  It had to be St.  Andrews.

As they reached the outskirts of the town, Macfadyen crept closer.  He
didn't want to lose Kerr now.  The Audi signalled a left turn, heading
up towards the Botanic Gardens.  "You just couldn't stay away, could
you?"  Macfadyen muttered.  "Couldn't leave her alone."

As he expected, the Audi turned into Trinity Place.  Macfadyen parked
on the main road and hurried down the quiet suburban street.  Lights
were on behind curtained windows, but there was no other sign of, life.
The Audi was parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, sidelights still
glowing. Macfadyen walked past, noting the empty driver's seat.  He
took the path that skirted the bottom of the hill, wondering how many
times that same mud had been trampled by those four students before the
night they took their fatal decision.  Looking up to his left, he saw
what he expected.  On the brow of the hill, silhouetted against the
night, Kerr stood, head bowed.  Macfadyen slowed down.  It was strange
how everything kept coming together to confirm his conviction that the
four men who had found his mother's body knew far more about her death
than they'd ever been forced to admit.  It was hard to understand how
the police had failed all those years ago.  To have bungled something
so straightforward defied belief.  He'd done more for the cause of
justice in a few months

than they'd achieved in twenty-five years with all their resources and
manpower.  Just as well he wasn't relying on Lawson and his trained
monkeys to avenge his mother.

Maybe his uncle had been right and they'd been in thrall to the
University.  Or maybe he'd been closer to the mark when he'd accused
the police of corruption.  Wherever the truth lay, it was a different
world now.  The old servility was dead.  Nobody was afraid of the
University any more.  And people understood now that the police were
just as likely to be crooked as anybody else.  So it still fell to
individuals like him to make sure justice was done.

As he watched, Kerr straightened up and headed back towards his car.
Another entry in the ledger of guilt, Macfadyen thought.  Just another
brick in the wall.

Alex shifted on to his side and checked the time.  Ten to three.  Five
minutes since he'd last looked at it.  It was no use.  His body was
disorientated by flight and the shift of time zones.  All he would
achieve if he kept trying to sleep would be to wake Lynn.  And given
how disturbed her sleep pattern had been by the pregnancy, he didn't
want to risk that.  Alex slipped out from under the duvet, shivering a
little as the chill air hit his skin.  He grabbed his dressing gown on
his way out of the room and closed the door softly behind him.

It had been a hell of a day.  Taking his farewell of Paul at the
airport had felt like an abandonment, his natural desire to be home
with Lynn a selfishness.  On his first flight, he'd been crammed in a
bulkhead seat with no window, next to a woman so large he felt certain
the whole bank of seats would leave with her when she attempted to
rise.  He'd fared a little better on the second leg, but he'd been too
tired to sleep by then.  Thoughts of Ziggy had plagued him, infusing
his heart with regrets at all the opportunities missed over the past
twenty years.  And instead of a restful evening with Lynn, he'd had to
deal with Mondo's emotional outburst.  He'd have

to go to the office in the morning, but already he knew he'd be good
for nothing.  Sighing, he made for the kitchen and put the kettle on.
Maybe a cup of tea would soothe him back to sleepiness.

Carrying his mug, he wandered through the house, touching familiar
objects as if they were talismans that would ground him safely.  He
found himself standing in the nursery, leaning on the cot.  This was
the future, he told himself.  A future worth having, a future that
offered him the opportunity to make something of his life that was more
than getting and spending.

The door opened and Lynn stood silhouetted against the warm light of
the hall.  "I didn't wake you, did I?"  he asked.

"No, I managed that all by myself.  Jet lag?"  She came in and put an
arm round his waist.

"Probably."

"And Mondo didn't help, right?"

Alex nodded.  "I could have done without that."

"I don't suppose he considered that for a moment.  My selfish brother
thinks we're all on the planet for his convenience.  I did try to put
him off, you know."

"I don't doubt it.  He's always had the knack of not hearing what he
doesn't want to hear.  But he's not a bad man, Lynn.  Weak and
self-centred, sure.  But not malicious."

She rubbed her head against his shoulder.  "It comes from being so
handsome.  He was such a beautiful child, he was indulged by everybody,
wherever he went.  I used to hate him for it when we were wee.  He was
the object of adoration, a little Donatello angel.  People were dazzled
by him.  And then they'd look at me and you could see the bafflement.
How could a stunner like him have such a plain sister?"

Alex chuckled.  "And then the ugly duckling turned into a stunner
herself."

Lynn dug him in the ribs.  "One of the things I've always loved about
you is your ability to lie convincingly about the really unimportant
things."

"I'm not lying.  Somewhere around fourteen, you stopped being plain and
got gorgeous.  Trust me, I'm an artist."

"Flannel merchant, more like.  No, I was always in Mondo's shadow in
the looks department.  I've been thinking about that lately.  The
things my parents did that I don't want to repeat.  If our baby turns
out to be a beauty, I don't ever want to make a big issue out of it.  I
want our child to have confidence, but not that sense of entitlement
that's poisoned Mondo."

"You'll get no argument from me on that."  He put a hand on the swell
of her stomach.  "You hear, Junior?  No getting big-headed, right?"  He
leaned down and kissed the top of Lynn's head.  "Ziggy dying like that,
it's made me scared.  All I want is to see my kid grow up, with you by
my side.  But it's all so fragile.  One minute you're here, the next
you're gone.  All the things Ziggy must have left undone, and now
they'll never be done.  I don't want that to happen to me."

Lynn gently took his tea from him and put it on the changing table. She
drew him into her arms.  "Don't be scared," she said. "Everything's
going to be all right."

He wanted to believe her.  But he was still too close to his own
mortality to be entirely convinced.

A huge yawn cracked Karen Pirie's jaw as she waited for the buzzer that
signalled the door release.  When it came, she pushed the door open and
trudged across the hall, nodding to the security guard as she passed
his office.  God, how she hated the evidence storage centre.  Christmas
Eve, and the rest of the world was girding its loins for the
festivities, and where was she?  It felt as if her whole life had
narrowed to these aisles of archive boxes with their bagged contents
telling pathetic stories of crimes perpetrated by the stupid, the
inadequate and the envious.  But somewhere in here, she was sure there
was the evidence that would open her cold case for her.  It wasn't the
only route her investigation could take.  She

knew she'd have to go back and re-interview witnesses at some point.
But she knew that in old cases like this, physical evidence was the
key.  With modern forensic techniques, f it was possible that the case
exhibits would provide solid proof that would make witness statements
largely redundant.  i

That was all well and good, she thought.  But there were |

hundreds of boxes in the storage facility.  And she had to go through
every single one.  So far, she reckoned she'd covered about a quarter
of the containers.  The only positive result was that her arm muscles
were getting stronger from toting boxes up and down stepladders.  At
least she had ten glorious days of leave starting tomorrow, when the
only boxes she'd be opening would contain something more appealing than
the detritus of crime.

She exchanged greetings with the officer on duty and waited while he
unlocked the door in the wire cage that enclosed the shelves of boxes.
The security protocol was the worst thing about this task.  With every
box, the routine was the same.  She had to get the box off the shelf,
and bring it down to the table where the duty officer could see her.
She had to write down the case number in the master log, then fill in
her name, number and the date on the sheet of paper affixed to the lid.
Only then could she open the box and rummage through its contents. Once
she'd satisfied herself that it didn't contain what she was looking
for, she had to replace it and go through the whole mind-numbing
routine again.  The only break in the monotony was when another officer
turned up to check through one of the boxes.  But this was usually a
short-lived respite since they were invariably lucky enough to know the
whereabouts of what they were looking for.

There was no simple way to narrow it down.  At first, Karen had thought
the easiest way to conduct the search would be to go through everything
that had originally come from St.  Andrews.  Boxes were filed according
to case numbers, which were chronological.  But the process of
amalgamating all the

evidence lockers of all the individual police stations throughout the
region had dispersed the St.  Andrews boxes through the entire
collection.  So that possibility was ruled out.

She had started by going through everything from 1978.  But that had
turned up nothing of interest, apart from a craft knife that belonged
to a 1987 case.  Then she'd attacked the years on either side.  This
time, the misfiled item had been a child's gym shoe, a relic of the
unsolved disappearance of a ten-year-old boy in 1969.  She was fast
reaching the point where she feared that she could easily miss the very
thing she was looking for because her brain was so dulled by the
process.

She popped the top on a can of Diet Irn-Bru, took a swig that set her
taste-buds jangling and got started: 1980.  Third shelf.  She dragged
her jaded body to the bottom of the stepladder, still sitting where
she'd finished with it the day before.  She climbed up, pulled out the
box she needed and cautiously descended the aluminium steps.

Back at the table, she did the paperwork then lifted the lid.  Great.
It looked like a charity-shop reject pile in there.  Laboriously, she
took out the bags one by one, checking that none had Rosie Duff's case
number on its adhesive label.  A pair of jeans.  A filthy T-shirt.  A
pair of women's knickers.  Tights.  A bra.  A checked shirt.  None of
them anything to do with her.  The last item looked like a woman's
cardigan.  Karen lifted out the final bag, expecting nothing.

She gave the label a cursory glance.  Then she blinked, unable to
believe her eyes.  She checked the number again.  Not trusting herself,
she dug her notebook out of her bag and compared the case number on the
cover with the bag she was gripping tightly in her hand.

There was no mistake.  Karen had found her early Christmas present.

January 2004; Scotland

He'd been right.  There was a pattern.  It had been disrupted by the
festive season, and that had made him fretful.  But now the New Year
was past, the old routine had reasserted itself.  The wife went out
every Thursday evening.  He watched her framed against the light as the
front door of the Bearsden villa opened.  Moments later, her car
headlights came on.  He didn't know where she was going and he didn't
care.  All that mattered was that she had behaved predictably, leaving
her man alone in the house.

He reckoned he had a good four hours to carry out his plan.  But he
forced himself to be patient.  Senseless to take risks now.  Best to
wait till people had settled down for the evening, slumped in front of
the TV.  But not for too long.  He didn't want someone taking their
designer dog for a last pee bumping into him as he made his getaway.
Suburbia, predictable as the speaking clock.  He hugged the reassurance
to himself, trying to stifle the ticking of anxiety.

He turned up the collar of his jacket against the cold and prepared to
wait, his heart fluttering in his chest with anticipation.  There was
no pleasure in what lay ahead, just

necessity.  He wasn't some sick thrill killer, after all.  Just a man
doing what he had to do.

David Kerr swapped DVDs and returned to his armchair.  Thursday nights
were when he indulged his semi-secret vice.  When Helene was out with
the girls, he was slumped in a chair glued to the US series that she
dismissed as 'trash TV.  So far that evening, he'd watched two episodes
of Six Feet Under and now he was thumbing the remote to cue up one of
his favourite episodes from the first series of The West Wing.  He'd
just stopped humming along with the grandiose swell of the theme tune
when he thought he heard the sound of breaking glass from downstairs.
Without conscious thought, his brain calibrated its co-ordinates and
signalled that it came from the back of the house.  Probably the
kitchen.

He jerked upright and hit the mute button on the remote.  More glass
tinkled and he jumped to his feet.  What the hell was that?  Had the
cat knocked something over in the kitchen?  Or was there a more
sinister explanation?

David rose cautiously, looking around him for a potential weapon. There
wasn't much to choose from, Helene being something of a minimalist when
it came to interior design.  He snatched up a heavy crystal vase,
slender enough at the neck to fit neatly into his hand. He crossed the
room on tiptoe, ears straining for a sound, heart racing.  He thought
he heard a crunching noise, as if glass were being crushed underfoot. 
Anger rose alongside fear.  Some jakie or junkie was invading his home
looking for the price of a bottle of Buckie or a wrap of smack.  His
natural instinct was to call the police then sit tight.  But he was
afraid they'd take too long to get there.  No self-respecting burglar
would settle for what they could find in the kitchen; they'd be bound
to look for better pickings and he'd be forced to confront whoever had
invaded his home.  Besides, he knew from experience that if he picked
up the phone in here, the extension in the kitchen

would click, revealing what he was up to.  And that might really piss
off whoever was raiding his house.  Better to try a direct approach.
He'd read somewhere that most burglars are cowards.  Well, maybe one
coward could scare off another one.

Taking a deep breath to still his alarm, David inched open the
living-room door.  He peered down the hall, but the kitchen door was
closed and offered no indication of what might be going on on the other
side of it.  But now he could hear the unmistakable sounds of someone
moving around.  The rattle of cutlery as a drawer was pulled open.  The
slap of a cupboard door closing.

To hell with it.  He wasn't going to stand idle while someone trashed
the place.  He walked boldly down the hall and threw the kitchen door
open.  "What the hell's going on here?"  he shouted into the darkness.
He reached for the light switch, but when he flicked it on, nothing
happened.  In the faint light from outside, he could see glass
sparkling on the floor by the open back door.  But there was nobody in
sight.  Had they gone already?  Fear made the hair on his neck and
naked arms stand on end.  Uncertainly, he took a step forward into the
gloom.

From behind the door, a blur of movement.  David swung round as his
assailant cannoned into him.  He had an impression of medium height,
medium build, features obscured by a ski mask.  He felt a blow to the
stomach; not enough to make him double over, more like a jab than a
punch.  The burglar took a step backwards, breathing heavily.  At the
same moment David realized the man was holding a long-bladed knife, he
felt a hot line of pain inside his guts.  He put a hand to his stomach
and wondered stupidly why it felt warm and wet.  He looked down and saw
a dark spreading stain swallowing the white of his T-shirt.  "You
stabbed me," he said, incredulity his first reaction.

The burglar said nothing.  He drew his arm back and thrust

again with the knife.  This time, David felt it slice deep into his
flesh.  His legs gave way beneath him and he coughed, slumping forward.
The last thing he saw was a pair of well worn walking boots.  From a
distance, he could hear a voice.  But the sounds it was making refused
to cohere in his head.  A jumble of syllables that made no sense.  As
he drifted away from consciousness, he couldn't help thinking it was a
pity.

When the phone rang at twenty to midnight, Lynn expected Alex's voice,
apologizing for the lateness of the hour, telling her he was just
leaving the restaurant where he'd been entertaining a potential client
from Gothenburg.  She wasn't prepared for the banshee wail that
assaulted her as soon as she lifted the bedside receiver.  A woman's
voice, incoherent, but clearly anguished.  That was all she could make
out to begin with.

At the first gulp for breath, Lynn jumped in.  "Who is this?"  she
demanded, anxious and afraid.

More panicked sobs.  Then, finally, something that sounded familiar.
"It's me Helene.  God help me, Lynn, this is terrible, terrible."  Her
voice caught and Lynn heard an incoherent gabble of French.

"Helene?  What's the matter?  What's happened?"  Lynn was shouting now,
trying to cut through the scrambled syllables.  She heard a deep intake
of breath.

"It's David.  I think he's dead."

Lynn understood the words, but she couldn't grasp the sense.  "What are
you talking about?  What's happened?"

"I came home, he's on the kitchen floor, there's blood everywhere and
he's not breathing.  Lynn, what am I to do?  I think he's dead."

"Have you phoned an ambulance?  The police?"  Surreal.  This was
surreal.  That she was capable of such a thought at a moment like this
bemused Lynn.

"I called them.  They are on their way.  But I had to talk to

somebody.  I'm afraid, Lynn, I am so afraid.  I don't understand.  This
is terrible, I think I'm going mad.  He is dead, my David is dead."

This time, the words penetrated.  Lynn felt as if a cold hand was
pressing in on her chest, constricting her breathing.  This wasn't how
things were supposed to happen.  You weren't supposed to pick up the
phone, expecting your husband, only to hear your brother was dead. "You
don't know that," she said helplessly.

"He's not breathing, I can't feel a pulse.  And there is so much blood.
He's dead, Lynn.  I know it.  What am I going to do without him?"

"All this blood has somebody attacked him?"

"What else could have happened?"

Fear hit Lynn like a cold shower.  "Get out of the house, Helene.  Wait
outside for the police.  He could still be in the house."

Helene screamed.  "Oh my God.  You think this is possible?"

"Just get out.  Call me later, when the police are there."  The line
went dead.  Lynn lay frozen, unable to process what she'd just gone
through.  Alex.  She needed Alex.  But Helene needed him more.  In a
daze, she speed-dialled his mobile.  When he answered, the sounds of a
boisterous restaurant in the background seemed incongruous and bizarre
to Lynn.  "Alex," she said.  For a moment nothing else would come.

"Lynn?  Is that you?  Is everything OK?  You're all right?"  His
anxiety was palpable.

"I'm fine.  But I've just had the most awful conversation with Helene.
Alex, she said Mondo's dead."

"Hang on a minute, I can't hear you."

She heard the sound of a chair being pushed back, then a few seconds
later the noise subsided.  "That's better," Alex said.  "I couldn't
make out what you were saying.  What's the problem?"

Lynn could feel her self-control slip.  "Alex, you need to go

to Mondo's right away.  Helene's just phoned.  Something terrible's
happened.  She says Mondo's dead."

"What?"

"I know, it's incredible.  She says he's lying on the kitchen floor,
blood everywhere.  Please, I need you to go there, find out what's
going on."  Tears were on her cheeks now.

"Helene's there?  At the house?  And she says Mondo's dead?  Jesus
Christ."

Lynn choked on a sob.  "I can't take it in either.  Please, Alex, just
go and see what's happened."

"OK, OK.  I'm on my way.  Look, maybe he's just hurt.  Maybe she got it
wrong."

"She didn't sound like there was any doubt in her mind."

"Aye, well, Helene's not a doctor, is she?  Look, hang in there.  I'll
call you as soon as I get there."

"I can't believe this."  Now the tears were choking her, turning her
words into gulps.

"Lynn, you've got to try and stay calm.  Please."

"Calm?  How can I be calm?  My brother's dead."

"We don't know that.  Lynn, the baby.  You've got to take care of
yourself.  Getting into a state can't help Mondo, what ever's
happened."

"Just get there, Alex," Lynn shouted.

"I'm on my way."  She heard Alex's footsteps as the call ended.  She'd
never wanted him more.  And she wanted to be in Glasgow, to be by her
brother's side.  No matter what had passed between them, he was still
bound to her by blood.  She hadn't needed Alex's reminder that she was
nearly eight months pregnant.  She wasn't about to do anything that
would put her baby at risk.  Groaning softly as she wiped her tears,
Lynn tried to make herself physically comfortable.  Please God, let
Helene be wrong.

Alex couldn't remember ever having driven faster.  It was a miracle
that he reached Bearsden without once seeing flashing

blue lights in his rear-view mirror.  All the way there, he kept
telling himself there must be a mistake.  The possibility of Mondo's
death was one he couldn't entertain.  Not so close on the heels of
Ziggy's.  Sure, terrible coincidences happened.  They were the stuff of
tabloid ghoulish ness and daytime TV shows.  But they happened to other
people.  At least, they always had until now.

His fervent hopes began to disintegrate as soon as he turned into the
quiet road where Mondo and Helene lived.  Outside the house, three
police cars straggled along the pavement.  An ambulance sat in the
drive.  Not a good sign.  If Mondo was alive, he'd be long gone, the
ambulance hurtling blues and twos to the nearest hospital.

Alex abandoned his car behind the first police car and ran towards the
house.  A burly uniformed constable in a fluorescent yellow jacket
stepped into his path at the end of the drive.  "Can I help you, sir?"
he said.

"It's my brother-in-law," Alex said, trying to push past him.  The
constable grabbed his arms, firmly preventing his passage.  "Please,
let me through.  David Kerr I'm married to his sister."

"I'm sorry, sir.  Nobody can go in just now.  This is a crime scene."

"What about Helene?  His wife?  Where's she?  She called my wife."

"Mrs.  Kerr is inside.  She's perfectly safe, sir."

Alex let himself go limp.  The constable loosened his grip.  "Look, I
don't really know what's gone on here, but I do know that Helene needs
support.  Can't you radio your boss, get me in?"

The constable looked doubtful.  "Like I said, sir, this is a crime
scene."

Frustration fizzed in Alex's head.  "And this is how you treat the
victims of crime?  Keep them isolated from their families?"

The policeman put his radio to his mouth with a resigned

air.  He half turned away, making sure he still blocked access to the
house, and muttered something into the radio.  It crackled in response.
After a brief, muffled exchange, he swung back to face Alex.  "Can I
see some ID, sir?"  he asked.

Impatient, Alex pulled out his wallet and withdrew his driver's
licence.  Thankful that he'd gone for one of the new ones with a
photograph, he handed it over.  The policeman looked it over and handed
it back with a polite nod.  "If you'd like to go up to the house, sir,
one of my colleagues from CID will meet you at the door."

Alex brushed past him.  His legs felt strange, as if his knees belonged
to someone else who didn't know how to work them properly.  As he
reached the door, it swung open and a woman in her thirties swept
tired, cynical eyes over him, as if committing his details to memory.
"Mr.  Gilbey?"  she said, stepping back to allow him to enter the
vestibule.

"That's right.  What's happened?  Helene phoned my wife, she seemed to
think Mondo was dead?"

"Mondo?"

Alex sighed, impatient with his own obtuseness.  "Nickname.  We've been
friends since school.  David.  David Kerr.  His wife said he was
dead."

The woman nodded.  "I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mr.  Kerr has
been pronounced dead."

Christ, he thought.  What a way to lay it out.  "I don't understand.
What happened?"

"It's too early to be sure," she said.  "It appears he was stabbed.
There are signs of a break-in at the back of the house.  But you'll
appreciate, we can't say much at this stage."

Alex rubbed his hands over his face.  "This is terrible.  Christ, poor
Mondo.  What a thing to happen."  He shook his head, numb and
bewildered.  "It feels completely unreal.  Jesus."  He took a deep
breath.  He'd have time to deal with his reactions later.  This wasn't
why Lynn had asked him to come.  "Where's Helene?"

The woman opened the inside door.  "She's in the living room.  If you'd
like to come through?"  She stood aside and watched as Alex passed her
and made straight for the room that overlooked the front garden. Helene
had always referred to it as the drawing room, and he felt a pang of
guilt for the times he and Lynn had ridiculed her for that
pretentiousness.  He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Helene was sitting on the edge of one of the vast cream sofas, hunched
into herself like an old woman.  As he entered, she looked up, her eyes
swollen pools of misery.  Her long dark hair was tangled around her
face, stray strands caught in the corner of her mouth.  Her clothes
were rumpled, a mocking parody of her normal Parisian chic.  She held
her hands out to him, beseeching.  "Alex," she said, her voice cracked
and strained.

He crossed to her side, sitting down and putting his arms around her.
He couldn't remember ever holding Helene this close.  Normally, their
greetings consisted of a hand lightly placed on an arm, air kisses to
either cheek.  He was surprised by how muscular her body felt, and even
more surprised that he noticed.  Shock turned him into a stranger to
himself, he was slowly beginning to realize.  "I'm so sorry," he said,
knowing how pointless words were but unable to avoid them.

Helene leaned into him, exhausted by grief.  Alex was suddenly aware
that a uniformed woman constable was sitting discreetly in the corner.
She must have brought a chair through from the dining room, he thought
irrelevantly.  So, no privacy for Helene in spite of her appalling
loss.  It didn't take much to work out that she was going to face the
same suspicious eyes that had fixed on Paul after Ziggy's death, even
though this sounded like a burglary gone horribly wrong.

"I feel as if I'm in some terrible dream.  And I just want to wake up,"
Helene said wearily.

"You're still in shock."

"I don't know what I am.  Or where I am.  Nothing feels real."

"I can't believe it either."

"He was just lying there," Helene said softly.  "Blood all over him.  I
touched his neck, to see if there was a pulse.  But you know, I was so
careful not to get his blood on me.  Isn't that terrible?  He was lying
there dead and all I could think about was how they turned you four
into suspects just because you tried to help a dying girl.  So I didn't
want to get my David's blood on me."  Her fingers convulsively shredded
a tissue.  "That's terrible.  I couldn't bring myself to hold him
because I was thinking about myself."

Alex squeezed her shoulder.  "It's understandable.  Knowing what we
know.  But nobody could think this had anything to do with you."

Helene made a harsh sound in the back of her throat and glanced up at
the policewoman.  "On parle fran^ais, oui?"

What the hell was this?  # va," Alex replied, wondering if his holiday
French was up to whatever Helene wanted to tell him.  "Mais
lentement."

Till keep it simple," she said in French.  "I need your advice.  You
understand?"

Alex nodded.  "Yes, I understand."

Helene shivered.  "I can't believe I'm even thinking this now.  But I
don't want to be blamed for this."  She clutched his hand.  "I'm
scared, Alex.  I am the foreign wife, I am the suspect."

"I don't think so."  He tried to sound reassuring, but his words seemed
to flow over Helene without leaving a trace.

She nodded.  "Alex, there is something that will make me look bad. Very
bad.  Once a week, I went out alone.  David thought I met some French
friends."  Helene squeezed the tissue into a tight ball.  "I lied to
him, Alex.  I have a lover."

"Ah," Alex said.  It felt too much, on top of the news the night had
already brought.  He didn't want to be Helene's

The confidant.  He'd never liked her, and he didn't think he was p
necessarily to be trusted with her secrets.  m

"David had no idea.  God help me, I wish now I had never (tm) done
this.  I loved him, you know?  But he was very needy.  I And it was
hard.  So, a while back, I met this woman, completely different from
David in every way.  I didn't mean for || it to turn out the way it
did, but we became lovers."

"Ah," Alex said again.  His French wasn't up to demanding how the hell
she could do that to Mondo, how she could claim to love a man she'd
consistently betrayed.  Besides, it wasn't the best move to start a row
in front of a cop.  You didn't have to speak a foreign tongue to
understand tones of voice and body language.  Helene wasn't the only
one who felt like she was in the middle of a bad dream.  One of his
oldest friends had been murdered, and his widow was confessing to a
lesbian love affair?  He couldn't take it on board right now.  Stuff
like this didn't happen to people like him.

"I was with her this evening.  If the police find out, they will think,
ah, she has a lover, they must be in it together.  But that's wrong.
Jackie was no threat to my marriage.  I didn't stop loving David just
because I was sleeping with someone else.  So should I tell the truth?
Or should I keep quiet and hope they don't find out?"  She drew away
slightly, so she could direct her anxious gaze into Alex's eyes.  "I
don't know what to do, and I'm really scared."

Alex felt his grip on reality slipping.  What the hell was she playing
at?  Was she playing some grotesque double bluff and trying to get him
on her side?  Was she really as innocent as he'd assumed?  He struggled
to find the French to express what he needed to say.  "I don't know,
Helene.  I don't think I'm the right person to ask."

"I need your advice.  You've been here yourself, you know what it can
be like."

Alex took a deep breath, wishing he was anywhere but

here.  "What about your friend, this Jackie?  Will she lie for you?"

"She won't want to be a suspect any more than I do.  Yes, she will
lie."

"Who knows?"

"About us?"  She shrugged.  "Nobody, I think."

"But you can't be sure?"

"You can never be sure."

"In that case, I think you have to tell the truth.  Because if they
find it out later, it will look much worse."  Alex rubbed his face
again and looked away.  "I can't believe we're talking like this, and
Mondo hardly dead."

Helene pulled away.  "I know you probably think I'm cold, Alex.  But
I've got the rest of my life to cry for the man I loved.  And I did
love him, make no mistake about that.  But right now, I want to make
sure I don't take the blame for something that was nothing to do with
me.  You of all people should understand that."

"Fine," Alex said, reverting to English.  "Have you told Sheila and
Adam yet?"

She shook her head.  "The only person I spoke to was Lynn.  I didn't
know what to say to his parents."

"Do you want me to do it for you?"  But before Helene could reply,
Alex's mobile chirped cheerfully in his pocket.  "That'll be Lynn," he
said, taking it out and checking the number on the display.  "Hello?"

"Alex?"  Lynn sounded terrified.

"I'm here at the house," he said.  "I don't know how to tell you this.
I'm so, so sorry.  Helene was right.  Mondo's dead.  It looks like
somebody broke in .. ."

"Alex," Lynn interrupted him.  "I'm in labour.  The contractions
started just after I spoke to you before.  I thought it was a false
alarm, but they're coming every three minutes."

"Oh Jesus."  He jumped to his feet, looking around in panic.

"Don't freak out.  It's natural."  Lynn yelped in pain.  There

goes another one.  I've called a taxi, it should be here any minute."

"What .. . what .. ."

"Just get yourself to the Simpson.  I'll meet you in the labour
suite."

"But Lynn, it's too soon."  Alex finally managed sense.

"It's the shock, Alex.  It happens.  I'm fine.  Please, don't be
scared.  I need you not to be scared.  I need you to get in your car
and drive very carefully to Edinburgh.  Please?"

Alex gulped.  "I love you, Lynn.  Both of you."

"I know you do.  I'll see you soon."

The connection broke off and Alex looked helplessly at Helene.  "She's
in labour," she said flatly.

"She's in labour," Alex echoed.

"So go."

"You shouldn't be alone."

"I have a friend I can call.  You need to be with Lynn."

"Shite timing," Alex said.  He thrust his phone back in his pocket.
"I'll phone.  I'll come back when I can."

Helene stood up and patted him on the arm.  "Just go, Alex.  Let me
know what happens.  Thank you for coming."

He ran from the room.

Dirty streaks of grey began to materialize in the sodium smudged city
darkness.  Alex slumped on a chilly bench by the Simpson Memorial
Pavilion, tears chapping his cheeks.  Nothing in his life had prepared
him for a night like this.  He'd gone beyond tiredness into an altered
state where he felt he'd never sleep again.  The emotional overload was
such that he no longer knew what he felt.

He had no recollection of the drive back from Glasgow to Edinburgh.  He
knew he'd called his parents at some point, had a vague memory of an
agitated conversation with his father.  Fears tumbled headlong through
his head.  All the things he knew could go wrong.  All the things he
didn't know about that he was sure could go wrong with a baby at thirty
four weeks' gestation.  He wished he was Weird, so he could place his
trust in something less fallible than the medical profession.  What the
hell would he do without Lynn?  What the hell would he do with a baby
without Lynn?  What the hell would he do with Lynn without a baby?  The
portents couldn't be worse: Mondo lying dead in some hospital mortuary;
Alex not where he should be on the most important night of his life.

He'd abandoned the car somewhere in the Royal Infirmary

car park and managed to find the entrance to the maternity 9 wing at
the third attempt.  He'd been sweating and panting j by the time he
arrived at the reception desk, grateful that 'm maternity nurses had
seen so much that a wild-eyed unshaven II man gibbering like a fool
didn't even register on their Richter jB scale.  "

"Mrs.  Gilbey?  Ah yes, we've taken her straight up to the delivery
suite."

Alex tried to concentrate on the directions, repeating them under his
breath as he navigated the corridors of the unit.  He pressed the
security intercom and looked anxiously into the lens of the video
camera, hoping he looked more like an expectant father than an escaped
lunatic.  After what seemed an eternity, the door buzzed open and he
blundered into the delivery suite.  He didn't know quite what he'd
expected, but it wasn't this deserted foyer and eerie silence.  He
stood uncertain in the foyer.  Just then, a nurse entered from one of
the corridors radiating off in all directions.  "Mr.  Gilbey?"  she
said.

Alex nodded frantically.  "Where's Lynn?"  he demanded.

"Come with me."

He followed her back down the corridor.  "How is she?"

"She's doing fine."  She paused, her hand on the door handle.  "We need
you to help keep her calm.  She's a bit distressed.  There have been
one or two dips in the foetal heartbeat."

"What does that mean?  Is the baby OK?"

"It's nothing to worry about."

He hated it when medical professionals said that.  It always felt like
a blatant lie.  "But it's far too early.  She's only thirty four
weeks."

"Try not to worry.  They're in good hands here."

The door opened and Alex was confronted with a scene that bore no
relationship to the routines they'd practised at the antenatal classes.
It was hard to imagine anything that could be further from his and
Lynn's dream of natural childbirth.  Three women in surgical scrubs
bustled around.  A

monitor with an electronic display sat next to the bed, a fourth woman
in a white coat studying it.  Lynn lay on her back, legs apart, her
hair plastered to her head with sweat.  Her face was scarlet and damp,
her eyes wide and anguished.  The thin hospital gown stuck to her body.
The tube from a drip stand next to the bed disappeared under her. Thank
fuck you're here," she gasped.  "Alex, I'm scared."

He rushed to her side, reaching for her hand.  She gripped him tightly.
"I love you," he said.  "You're doing just fine."

The woman in the white coat glanced across.  "Hi, I'm Dr.  Singh," she
said, acknowledging Alex's arrival.  She joined the midwife at the
bottom of the bed.  "Lynn, we're a wee bit concerned about the baby's
heart rate.  We're not progressing as fast as I'd like.  We might have
to consider a section."

"Just get the baby out," Lynn moaned.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity.  "Baby's stuck," one midwife
said.  Dr.  Singh studied the monitor briefly.

"Heart rate's down," she said.  Everything began to happen more quickly
than Alex could comprehend as he clung to Lynn's clammy hand.  Odd
phrases penetrated.  "Get her to theatre now."  "Catheterize her."
"Consent form."  Then the bed was on the move, the door open, everyone
bustling down the corridor towards the theatre.

The world turned into a blur of activity.  Time seemed alternately to
race and to crawl.  Then, when Alex had almost stopped hoping, the
magic words, "It's a girl.  You've got a daughter."

Tears welled up in his eyes and he swung round to see his child.
Blood-streaked and purple, frighteningly still and silent.  "Oh God,"
he said.  "Lynn, it's a girl."  But Lynn was past noticing.

A midwife hastily wrapped the baby in a blanket and hurried off.  Alex
stood up.  "Is she OK?"  He was led out of the theatre in a daze.  What
was happening to his child?  Was she even alive?  "What's going on?" he
demanded.

The midwife smiled.  "Your daughter's doing great.  She's breathing on
her own, which is always the big concern with fi premature babies." z

Alex slumped into a chair, his hands over his face.  "I just $ want her
to be OK," he said through the tears.  m

"She's holding her own.  She weighs four pounds eight (tm) ounces,
which is good.  Mr.  Gilbey, I've delivered quite a few ':$t premature
babies, and I'd say your wee girl's one of the * strongest I've seen.
It's early days, but I think she's going to be just fine."

"When can I see her?"

"You should be able to go down to the neonatal unit and see her in a
wee while.  You won't be able to pick her up yet, but since she's
breathing on her own, you'll likely be able to hold her in a day or
so."

"What about Lynn?"  he said, suddenly guilty that he hadn't asked
sooner.

"They're just stitching her up now.  She's had a rough time.  When they
bring her through, she'll be tired and disorientated.  She'll be upset
because she won't have her baby with her.  So you'll need to be strong
for her."

He could remember nothing more except for the single defining moment
when he'd looked into the transparent cot and met his daughter for the
first time.  "Can I touch her?"  he'd said, awestruck.  Her tiny head
looked utterly vulnerable, eyes scrunched shut, threads of dark hair
plastered to her scalp.

"Give her your finger to hold," the midwife instructed him.

He'd reached out tentatively, stroking the wrinkled skin on the back of
her hand.  Her tiny fingers opened and gripped tight.  And Alex was a
captive.

He had sat with Lynn until she woke, then told her about their
miraculous daughter.  Pale and exhausted, Lynn had wept then.  "I know
we agreed we were going to call her Ella, but I want to call her
Davina.  After Mondo," she said.

It hit him like a train.  He hadn't given Mondo a thought since he'd
arrived at the hospital.  "Oh Jesus," he said, guilt eating into his
joy.  "That's a good thought.  Oh, Lynn, I don't know what to say.  My
head's all over the place."  "You should go home.  Get some sleep."  "I
need to make some phone calls.  Let people know."  Lynn patted his
hand. That can wait.  You need to sleep.  You look exhausted."

And so he had left, promising to return later.  He'd got no further
than the hospital entrance before realizing he didn't have the strength
to make it home.  Not just yet.  He'd found the bench and collapsed on
it, wondering how he was going to get through the next few days.  He
had a daughter, but his arms were still empty.  He had lost another
friend, and he couldn't begin to think about the implications of that.
And somehow he had to find the resources to support Lynn.  Until now,
he'd always coasted, safe in the knowledge that Ziggy or Lynn would be
there in his corner when push came to shove.

For the first time in his adult life, Alex felt horribly alone.

James Lawson heard the news of David Kerr's death as he drove to work
the following morning.  He couldn't resist a grim smile of satisfaction
as it sank in.  It had been a long time coming, but finally Barney
Maclennan's killer had got what he deserved.  Then his thoughts turned
uneasily to Robin and the motive he'd handed him.  He reached for the
car phone.  As soon as he arrived at headquarters, he made for the cold
cases squad room  Luckily Robin Maclennan was the only one in yet.  He
stood by the coffee maker, waiting for the hot water to filter through
the grounds into the jug below.  The machine covered Lawson's approach,
and Robin jumped when his boss said abruptly, "Did you hear the
news?"

"What news?"

"Davey Kerr's been murdered."  Lawson narrowed his eyes

as he scrutinized the detective inspector.  "Last night.  In his
home."

Robin's eyebrows rose.  "You're kidding."

"I heard it on the radio.  I phoned Glasgow to double check it was our
David Kerr, and lo and behold, it was."

"What happened?"  Robin turned away and spooned sugar into a mug.

"At first glance, it looked like a burglary gone sour.  But then they
realized he had two stab wounds.  Now, your average panicking burglar
might strike once with a knife, but then he's going to leg it.  This
one made sure Davey Kerr wasn't going to stick around to tell tales."

"So what are you saying?"  Robin asked, reaching for the jug of
coffee.

"It's not what I'm saying, it's what Strathclyde Police are saying.
They're looking at other possibilities.  As they put it."  Lawson
waited, but Robin said nothing.  "Where were you last night, Robin?"

Robin glared angrily at Lawson.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Calm down, man.  I'm not accusing you of anything.  But let's face it,
if anybody has a motive for killing Davey Kerr, it's you.  Now, I know
you wouldn't do something like that.  I'm on your side.  I'm just
making sure you're covered, that's all."  He put a reassuring hand on
Robin's arm.  "Are you covered?"

Robin ran a hand through his hair.  "Christ, no.  It was Diane's
mother's birthday and she took the kids across to Grangemouth.  They
didn't get back till gone eleven.  So I was home alone."  Worry creased
his forehead.

Lawson shook his head.  "Doesn't look good, Robin.  First thing they're
going to ask is why you weren't in Grangemouth too."

"I don't get on with my mother-in-law.  Never have.  So Diane uses my
work as an excuse when I don't show up.  But

it's not like it was the first time.  It's not like I was trying to get
out of it so I could drive across to Glasgow and kill Davey Kerr, for
Christ's sake."  He pursed his lips.  "Any other night, I'd be home and
dry.  But last night .. . Shit.  I'm screwed if they get a whisper
about what Kerr did to Barney."

Lawson reached out for a mug and poured himself a coffee.  "They won't
hear it from me."

"You know what this business is like.  Bloody gossip central.  It's
bound to get out.  They'll start unravelling Davey Kerr's past, and
somebody will remember that my brother died saving him after a stupid
suicide attempt.  If it was your case, wouldn't you want to talk to
Barney's brother?  Just in case he'd decided the time was right to
settle the score?  Like I said, I'm screwed."  Robin turned away,
biting his lip.

Lawson put a sympathetic hand on his arm.  "Tell you what.  Anybody
from Strathclyde asks, you were with me."

Robin looked shocked.  "You're going to lie for me?"

"We're both going to lie.  Because we both know you had nothing to do
with Davey Kerr's death.  Look at it this way.  We're saving police
time.  This way, they're not going to expend time and energy looking at
you when they should be looking for the killer."

Reluctantly, Robin nodded.  "I suppose so.  But .. ."

"Robin, you're a good cop.  You're a good man.  I wouldn't have you on
my team otherwise.  I believe in you and I don't want your good name
dragged through the mud."

Thanks, sir.  I appreciate your confidence."

"Think nothing of it.  Let's just agree that I came round to your house
and we had a couple of beers and a few hands of poker.  You won about
twenty quid off me and I left around eleven.  How's that?"

"Fine."

Lawson smiled, chinked his mug against Robin's and walked away.  That
was the mark of leadership, he believed.

Figure out what your team needs and deliver it before they even knew
they needed it.  W

That evening, Alex was on the road again, heading back to .| Glasgow.
He'd eventually made it home, where the phone was ringing off the hook.
He'd spoken to both sets of grand3p parents.  His parents had almost
seemed embarrassed to be so thrilled, in the light of what had happened
in Glasgow.  Lynn's mother and father had been incoherent, devastated
by the horror of their only son's death.  It was still far too soon for
them to take any consolation from the birth of their first grandchild. 
The news that she was in the neonatal unit only seemed another cause
for grief and fear.  The two phone calls left Alex in a zombie state
beyond tiredness.  He'd emailed their friends and work mates a simple
announcement of Davina's birth, then he'd unplugged the phone and
crashed out.

When he woke, he couldn't believe he'd only been asleep for three
hours.  He felt as refreshed as if he'd been out cold round the clock.
Showered and shaved, he'd grabbed a quick sandwich and the digital
camera before heading back to Edinburgh.  He'd found Lynn down in the
neonatal unit in a wheelchair, gazing happily at their child.  "Isn't
she beautiful?"  she'd demanded at once.

"Of course she is.  Have you had a hold of her yet?"

"The best moment of my life.  But she's so tiny, Alex.  It's like
holding air."  She flashed a look of anxiety at him.  "She's going to
be OK, isn't she?"

"Of course she is.  Gilbeys are all fighters."  They held hands,
willing him to be right.

Lynn gave him a troubled look.  "I feel so ashamed, Alex.  My brother's
dead, but all I can think of is how much I love Davina, how precious
she is."

The know exactly what you mean.  I'm elated, and then something reminds
me of what's happened to Mondo, and I come

crashing down to earth.  I don't know how we're going to get through
this."

By the end of the afternoon, Alex too had held his daughter in his
arms.  He'd taken dozens of photographs, and he'd showed her off to his
parents.  Adam and Sheila Kerr hadn't been up to the journey, and the
fact of their absence reminded Alex that he couldn't stay cocooned in
the delights of new parenthood forever.  When the auxiliary brought
Lynn her evening meal, he'd got to his feet.  "I should go back to
Glasgow," he said.  "I need to make sure Helene's OK."

"You don't have to take responsibility," Lynn protested.

"I know.  But it was us she called," he reminded her.  "Her own
family's a long way away.  She might need some help making the
arrangements.  Besides, I owe it to Mondo.  I wasn't a very good friend
to him in recent years, and I can't make up for that.  But he was part
of my life."

Lynn looked up at him with a sad smile, tears glistening in her eyes.
"Poor Mondo.  I keep thinking how frightened he must have been at the
end.  And to die without having any chance to make your peace with the
people you love ... As for Helene, I can't imagine what it must be
like.  When I think how I'd feel if anything happened to you or Davina
'

"Nothing's going to happen to me.  Or to Davina," Alex said.  "I
promise you."

He thought of that promise now as he covered the miles between joy and
sorrow.  It was hard not to feel overwhelmed by the turn his life had
taken recently.  But he couldn't afford to succumb.  There was too much
depending on him now.

As he approached Glasgow, he rang Helene.  The answering machine
redirected him to her mobile.  Cursing, he pulled over and listened to
the message again, noting down the number.  She answered on the second
ring.  "Alex?  How is Lynn?  What's happened?"

He was surprised.  He'd always considered Helene to be too obsessed by
her own concerns to care about anyone other

than herself and Mondo.  That concern for Lynn and the baby had
penetrated her grief to the point where it was the first thing she
referred to astonished him.  "We've got a daughter."  They were the
biggest words he'd ever uttered.  He felt a lump in his throat.  "With
her being premature, they've got her in an incubator.  But she's doing
great.  And she's beautiful."

"How is Lynn?"

"Hurting.  In every sense.  But she's OK.  And you?  How are you?"

"Not good.  But I'm coping, I guess."

"Listen, I'm on my way to see you.  Where are you?"

"The house is still a crime scene, apparently.  I can't go back till
tomorrow.  I'm staying with my friend, Jackie.  She lives in the
Merchant City.  Do you want to come here?"

Alex really didn't want to face the woman Helene had betrayed Mondo
with.  He thought about suggesting neutral ground, but it felt pretty
heartless in the circumstances.  "Give me directions," he said.

The flat was easy to find.  It occupied half of the second floor of one
of the converted warehouses that had become the residential badge of
success for the city's singles.  The woman who opened the door couldn't
have looked less like Helene.  Her jeans were old and faded with rips
at the knees, her sleeveless T-shirt proclaimed she was 100% Grrrrl and
revealed muscles that Alex reckoned could bench press her own
bodyweight without breaking sweat.  Just below each bicep was an
intricate tattoo of a Celtic bracelet.  Her short dark hair was spiked
with gel and the look she gave him was every bit as barbed.  Dark
eyebrows were drawn down over pale blue-grey eyes and there was no
welcoming smile on her wide mouth.  "You must be Alex," she said, her
Glasgow roots instantly obvious.  "You'd better come in."

Alex followed her into exactly the kind of loft apartment that never
graced the pages of interiors magazines.  Forget sterile modernism,
this was the den of someone who knew

exactly what she liked and how she liked it.  The end wall was
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crammed untidily with books, videos, CDs
and magazines.  In front of it was a multi gym dumbbells lying
carelessly to one side.  The kitchen area had the kind of untidiness
that comes with regular use, and the sitting area was furnished with
sofas that owed more to comfort than elegance.  A coffee table was
invisible under stacks of newspapers and magazines.  The walls were
decorated with big framed photographs of sportswomen, from Martina
Navratilova to Ellen MacArthur.

Helene was curled in the corner of a tapestry sofa whose arms testified
to the presence of a cat.  Alex crossed the polished wood floor to his
sister-in-law, who raised her face for their customary exchange of air
kisses.  Her eyes were puffy and shadowed, but other than that, Helene
seemed back in command of herself.  "I appreciate you coming," she
said.  Thanks for coming when you should be enjoying your new baby."

"Like I said, she's still in neonatal care.  And Lynn's exhausted.  I
thought I might be more use over here.  But .. ."  he gave Jackie a
smile.  "I see you're being well looked after."

Jackie shrugged, the hostile expression never wavering.  "I'm a
freelance journalist, so I can be a bit flexible about my hours.  You
want a drink?  There's beer, whisky or wine."

"Coffee would be great."

"We're out of coffee.  Tea do you?"

Nothing like being made to feel welcome, he thought.  "Tea's fine.
Milk, no sugar, please."  He perched on the far end of the sofa from
Helene.  Her eyes looked as if they'd seen far too much.  "How are you
doing?"

Her eyelids fluttered.  "I try not to feel anything.  I don't want to
think about David, because when I do my heart feels like it's breaking.
I can't believe the world can go on and him not be in it.  But I need
to get through this without cracking

up.  The police are being horrible, Alex.  That dull-looking girl in
the corner last night?  You remember?"

"The policewoman?"

"Yes."  Helene gave a snort of derision.  "It turns out she did French
at school.  She understood our little conversation last night."

"Oh shit."

"Oh shit, is right.  The detective in charge, he was here this morning.
He spoke to me first, asking about Jackie and me.  He told me there was
no point in lying, his officer had heard all about it last night.  So I
told him the truth.  He was very polite, but I could see he is
suspicious."

"Did you ask what had happened to Mondo?"

"Of course."  Her face tightened in pain.  "He said there was very
little they could tell me.  The glass in the kitchen door was broken,
maybe from a burglar.  But they haven't found any fingerprints.  The
knife that was used to stab David was one of a set.  From the knife
block in the kitchen.  He said that, on the surface, it looks as if
David heard a noise and came down to investigate.  But he stressed
those words, Alex.  On the surface."

Jackie returned, carrying a mug whose transfer of Marilyn Monroe had
suffered some attrition from a dishwasher.  The tea it contained was an
intense dark tan.  "Thanks," Alex said.

Jackie settled on the arm of the sofa, one hand on Helene's shoulder.
"Neanderthals.  The wife has a lover, therefore the wife or the lover
must want rid of the husband.  They can't imagine a world where adults
can make more complex choices than that.  I tried to explain to this
cop that you could have sex with someone without wanting to murder
their other lovers.  Arsehole looked at me as if I was from another
planet."

Alex was with the cop on this one.  Being married to Lynn didn't make
him immune to the charms of other women.  But it made him repudiate the
notion of doing anything about it.  In his book, lovers were for people
who were with the wrong

partner.  He could only imagine how distraught he'd feel if Lynn came
home and told him she was sleeping with someone else.  He felt a stab
of pity for Mondo.  "I suppose they've got nothing else to go on so
they're focusing on you," he said.

"But I am the victim here, not the criminal," Helene said bitterly.  "I
didn't do anything to harm David.  But it's impossible to prove a
negative.  You know yourself how difficult it is to dispel suspicion
once the finger points.  It drove David so crazy he tried to kill
himself."

Alex shivered involuntarily at the memory.  "It's not going to come to
that."

"Damn right, it's not," Jackie said.  "I'm going to talk to a lawyer in
the morning.  I'm not standing for this."

Helene looked worried.  "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Why not?"  Jackie demanded.

"Aren't you supposed to tell your lawyer everything?"  Helene gave Alex
a strange sideways look.

"It's protected by lawyer-client privilege," Jackie said.

"What's the problem?"  Alex demanded.  "Is there something you're not
telling me, Helene?"

Jackie sighed and rolled her eyes upwards.  "Christ, Helene."

"It's OK, Jackie.  Alex is on our side."

Jackie gave him a look that said she read him better than her lover.

"What have you not told me?"  he asked.

"It's none of your business, OK?"  Jackie said.

"Jackie," Helene protested.

"Forget it, Helene."  Alex got to his feet.  "I don't have to be here,
you know," he said to Jackie.  "But I'd have thought you needed all the
friends you can get right now.  Especially among Mondo's family."

"Jackie, tell him," Helene said.  "Otherwise he'll go away thinking
we've really got something to hide."

Jackie glared at Alex.  "I had to go out for about an hour last night.
I was out of dope and we wanted a joint.  My

dealer's not the sort of guy to give alibis.  And even if he did, the
police wouldn't believe him.  So, technically, either one of us could
have killed David."

Alex felt the hair on the back of his neck rising.  He remembered the
moment the night before when he'd wondered if Helene was manipulating
him.  "You should tell the police," he said abruptly.  "If they find
out you've lied, then they're never going to believe you're
innocent."

"Unlike you, you mean?"  Jackie challenged him contemptuously.

Alex didn't like the undercurrent of hostility swirling around him.  "I
came to help, not to be a whipping boy," he said sharply.  "Have they
said anything about releasing the body?"

"They're doing the post mortem this afternoon.  After that, they said
we can make the funeral arrangements."  Helene spread her hands.  "I
don't know who to call.  What should I do, Alex?"

"I suppose you'll find an undertaker in the Yellow Pages.  Put a notice
in the papers, then contact his close friends and relatives.  If you
like, I can deal with the family end of things?"

She nodded.  "That would be a big help."

Jackie sneered.  "I don't suppose they'll be very keen to hear from
Helene when they find out about me."

"Better if we can avoid that.  Mondo's parents have got enough to cope
with," Alex said frostily.  "Helene, you'll need to arrange somewhere
for the purvey."

"The purvey?"  Helene said.

"The funeral meal," Jackie translated.

Helene closed her eyes.  "I can't believe we're sitting here talking
about catering when my David is lying on some mortuary slab."

"Aye, well," Alex said.  He didn't have to say what he thought; the
blame hung in the air between the three of them.  "I'd better be
getting back."

"Does she have a name yet, your daughter?"  Helene asked, clearly
casting around for something uncontroversial to say.

Alex gave her an apprehensive glance.  "We were going to call her Ella.
But we thought .. . well, Lynn thought she'd like to call her Davina.
For Mondo.  If you don't mind, that is?"

Helene's lips trembled and tears trickled from the corners of her eyes.
"Oh, Alex.  I'm so sorry we never took the time to be better friends
with you and Lynn."

He shook his head.  "What?  So we could feel betrayed as well?"

Helene recoiled as if from a blow.  Jackie moved towards Alex, hands
bunching into fists at her side.  "I think it's time you left."

The too," Alex said.  "See you at the funeral."

ACC Lawson pulled the folder across the desk towards him.  "I had high
hopes of this," he sighed.

The too, sir," Karen Pirie admitted.  "I know they didn't pick up any
biological samples from the cardigan at the time, but I thought with
the sophisticated equipment they've got now there might be a trace of
something we could use.  Semen or blood.  But there's nothing, except
those funny drops of paint."

"Which we knew about at the time.  And it didn't take us any further
forward then."  Lawson flipped open the folder dismissively and skimmed
the short report.  "The problem was that the cardigan wasn't found with
the body.  If my memory serves me, it was thrown over the hedge into
somebody's garden?"

Karen nodded.  "Number fifteen.  They didn't find it till more than a
week had gone past.  By which time it had snowed, thawed and rained,
which didn't exactly help.  Identified by Rosie Duff's mother as the
one she was wearing when she went out that night.  We never did find
her handbag or her coat."  She consulted the bulging folder on her lap,
flipping through the pages.  "A brown below-the-knee swagger coat from
CA with a cream and brown hounds tooth-check lining."

"We never found them because we didn't know where to look.  Because we
didn't know where she was killed.  After she left the Lammas Bar, she
could have been taken anywhere within, say, an hour's drive.  Over the
bridge to Dundee, down through life.  Anywhere from Kirriemuir to
Kirkcaldy.  She could have been killed on a boat, in a byre, anywhere.
About the only thing we could be reasonably sure of was that she wasn't
killed in the house in life Park where Gilbey, Malkiewicz, Kerr and
Mackie lived."  Lawson tossed the forensic report back to Karen.

"Just as a matter of interest, sir ... were any of the other houses in
life Park searched?"

Lawson frowned.  "I don't think so.  Why?"

"It occurred to me that it happened during the university holidays.  A
lot of people would have already left for Christmas.  There might well
have been adjacent houses that were standing empty."

"They'd have been locked up.  We'd have heard about it if anyone on
life Park had reported a break-in."

"You know what students are like, sir.  In and out of each other's
places.  It wouldn't be hard to come by a key.  Besides, the four of
them were in their final year.  They could easily have kept a key from
another house if they'd lived there previously."

Lawson gave Karen a shrewdly appreciative look.  "It's a pity you
weren't around for the original investigation.  I don't think that line
of inquiry was ever pursued.  Too late now, of course.  So, where are
we up to on the exhibits search?  Have you not finished it yet?"

"I had some time off over Christmas and New Year," she said
defensively.  "But I stayed late and finished it last night."

"So that's that, then?  The physical evidence relating to Rosie Duff's
murder has disappeared without trace?"

"So it would seem.  The last person to access the box was DI Maclennan,
a week before he died."

Lawson bridled.  "You're not suggesting Barney Maclennan removed
evidence from a live murder case?"

Karen backtracked hastily.  She knew better than to cast aspersions on
a fellow officer who had died a hero.  "No, that's not what I meant at
all, sir.  I just meant that, whatever had happened to Rosie Duff's
clothes, there's no official paper trail to follow."

He sighed again.  "It likely happened years ago.  They'll have ended up
in the bucket.  Honest to God, you have to wonder sometimes.  Some of
the people we get working for us .. ."

"I suppose the other option is that the DI sent them off for further
testing and either they never came back because he wasn't there to
chase it up, or the package disappeared into a black hole because DI
Maclennan wasn't there to take delivery," Karen suggested cautiously.

"I suppose it's an outside possibility.  But, either way, you're not
going to find them now."  Lawson drummed his fingers on the desk.
"Well, that's that, then.  One cold case that's going to stay in the
deep freeze.  I'm not looking forward to telling the son, either.  He's
been on the phone every other day, asking how we're doing."

"I still can't believe the pathologist missed that she'd given birth,"
Karen said.

"At your age, I'd have said the same," Lawson admitted.  "But he was an
old man, and old men make stupid mistakes.  I know that now, because I
feel like I'm heading in that direction myself.  You know, I sometimes
wonder if this case has been jinxed from the start."

Karen could sense his disappointment.  And she knew how that stung,
because it matched her own feelings.  "You don't think it's worth me
having another crack at the witnesses?  The four students?"

Lawson grimaced.  "You'll have a job."

"How do you mean, sir?"

Lawson opened his desk drawer and produced a three-day

old copy of the Scotsman.  It was folded open at the death notices.  He
pushed it towards her, his finger stabbing the newsprint.

kerr, david mcknight.  The death is announced of Dr.  David Kerr, of
Garden Grove, Bearsden, Glasgow, dearly beloved husband of Helene,
brother of Lynn and son of Adam and Sheila Kerr of Duddingston Drive,
Kirkcaldy.  The funeral will take place on Thursday at 2 p.m. at
Glasgow Crematorium, Western Necropolis, Tresta Road.  Family flowers
only.

Karen looked up, surprised.  "He couldn't have been more than
forty-six, forty-seven?  That's pretty young to be dying."

"You should pay more attention to the news, Karen.  The Glasgow
University lecturer stabbed to death in his kitchen by a burglar last
Thursday night?"

"That was our David Kerr?  The one they called Mondo?"

Lawson nodded.  "The crazy diamond himself.  I spoke to the DIon the
case on Monday.  Just to make sure I was right.  Apparently, they're
far from convinced by the burglary theory.  The wife was playing
away."

Karen pulled a face.  "Nasty."

"Very.  So, do you fancy a wee run out to Glasgow this afternoon?  I
thought we could pay our last respects to one of our suspects."

"You think the other three will turn up?"

Lawson shrugged.  "They were best pals, but that was twenty five years
ago.  We'll just have to see, won't we?  But I don't think we'll be
conducting any interviews today.  Let it lie for a wee while.  We don't
want to be accused of insensitivity, do we?"

It was standing-room only at the crematorium.  Mondo might have cut
himself off from family and old friends, but it looked as if he hadn't
had any problem finding replacements.  Alex

sat in the front pew, Lynn huddled beside him.  Two days out of
hospital, she was still moving like an old woman.  He had tried to
persuade her to stay at home and rest, but she'd been adamant that she
couldn't miss her only brother's funeral.  Besides, she'd argued, with
no baby at home to care for, she would only sit around and brood.
Better to be among her family.  He didn't have a line of reasoning to
counter that.  So she sat, holding her shell-shocked father's hand to
give comfort, the familiar roles of parent and child reversed.  Her
mother sat beyond them, her face almost invisible behind the folds of a
white handkerchief.

Helene sat further along the pew, head bowed, shoulders hunched.  She
looked as if she'd closed in on herself, placing an impenetrable
barrier between herself and the rest of the world.  At least she'd had
the good sense not to arrive at the funeral on Jackie's arm.  She
shuffled to her feet as the minister announced the final hymn.

The sonorous opening of the Crimond setting of the Twenty-third Psalm
brought a lump to Alex's throat.  The singing faltered a little as
people found the key, then swelled around him.  What a cliche, he
thought, hating himself for being moved by the traditional funeral
hymn.  Ziggy's service had been so much more honest, so much more a
celebration of the man than this cobbling together of superficialities.
As far as he knew, Mondo had never been in a church apart from
attending the traditional rites of passage.  The heavy curtains slid
open and the coffin began its final journey.

The strains of the last verse died away as the curtains closed behind
the departing coffin.  The minister intoned the blessing, then led the
way down the central aisle.  The family followed, Alex bringing up the
rear with Lynn heavy on his arm.  Most of the faces were a blur, but,
halfway down, Weird's lanky frame leapt out at him.  They acknowledged
each other with a brief nod, then Alex was past, heading for the doors.
He had his second surprise just as he was leaving.  Although he

hadn't seen James Lawson in the flesh since everybody called him Jimmy,
his face was familiar from the media.  Bad taste, Alex thought, taking
up his station at the end of the meeting and-greeting line.  Weddings
and funerals; both required the same etiquette of thanking people for
coming.

It seemed to go on forever.  Sheila and Adam Kerr appeared utterly
bewildered.  It was bad enough having to bury a child so savagely
despatched without having to try to take in all these condolences from
people they'd never seen before and would never see again.  Alex
wondered if it comforted them to see how many people had turned up to
say their last goodbyes.  All it did for him was to bring home how much
distance had separated him and Mondo in recent years.  He knew almost
nobody.

Weird had hung back almost to the end.  He embraced Lynn gently.  "I'm
so sorry for your loss," he said.  He shook Alex's hand, placing his
other hand on Alex's elbow.  "I'll wait outside."  Alex nodded.

At last, the final mourners trickled out.  Funny, thought Alex.  No
Lawson.  He must have left by another door.  Just as well.  He doubted
whether he'd have managed to be polite.  Alex ushered his in-laws
through the subdued crowd to the funeral car.  He handed Lynn into her
seat, checked everyone else was settled, then said, Till see you back
at the hotel.  I just need to make sure everything's sorted here."

He was ashamed to feel a moment of relief as the car swept off down the
drive.  He'd left his car here earlier, wanting to make sure he had his
own wheels in case anything needed his attention in the immediate
aftermath of the service.  Deep down, he knew it was because he would
want some respite from the suffocating grief of his family.

A hand on his shoulder made him spin round.  "Oh, it's you," he said,
almost laughing with relief as he saw it was Weird.

"Who else were you expecting?"

The "Well, Jimmy Lawson was lurking at the back of the crem," Alex
said.

"Jimmy Lawson the cop?"

"Assistant Chief Constable James Lawson, to you," Alex 9 said, moving
away from the main entrance towards the area where flowers were
displayed.

"So what was he doing here?"

"Gloating?  I don't know.  He's in charge of the cold case review.
Maybe he wanted to check out his prime suspects, see if we were going
to get overcome with emotion and fall to our knees and confess."

Weird pulled a face.  "I never liked all that Catholic stuff.  We
should be adult enough to come to terms with our own guilt.  It's not
God's job to wipe the slate clean so we can go and sin again."  He
stopped and turned to face Alex.  "I wanted to tell you how pleased I
am that Lynn was safely delivered of your baby daughter."

"Thanks, Tom."  Alex grinned.  "See?  I remembered."

"Is the baby still in hospital?"

Alex sighed.  "She's a wee bit jaundiced, so they're keeping her in for
a few days.  It's hard.  Especially for Lynn.  You go through all that,
and you come home empty-handed.  And then having to deal with what
happened to Mondo .. ."

"You'll forget this heartache once you have her home, I promise you.
I'll remember you all in my prayers."

"Oh well, that'll make all the difference," Alex said.

"You'd be surprised," Weird said, refusing to take offence where none
was intended.  They walked on, glancing at the floral tributes.  One of
the mourners came over, asking Alex for directions to the hotel where
the buffet was taking place.  When he veered back towards Weird, Alex
saw his friend crouching over one of the wreaths.  Once he was close
enough to see what had attracted Weird's attention, his heart jumped in
his chest.  It was indistinguishable from the wreath they'd seen in
Seattle: a neat, tight circlet of white roses and narrow332

leaved rosemary.  Weird detached the card and stood up.  "The same
message," he said, handing it to Alex.  "Rosemary for remembrance."

Alex felt his skin turn clammy.  "I don't like this."

"You and me both.  This is too much of a coincidence, Alex.  Ziggy and
Mondo both die in suspicious circumstances .. . Hell, no, let's call it
what it is.  Ziggy and Mondo both get murdered.  And the identical
wreath turns up at both funerals.  With a message that ties all four of
us together to the unsolved murder of a girl called Rosemary."

"That was twenty-five years ago.  If anybody was going to take revenge,
surely they'd have done it a long time ago?"  Alex said, trying to
convince himself as much as Weird.  "It's just somebody trying to scare
us."

Weird shook his head.  "You've had other things on your mind the past
few days, but I've been thinking about this.  Twenty-five years ago,
everybody was watching.  I haven't forgotten the time I got done over.
I haven't forgotten the night they dropped Ziggy down the Bottle
Dungeon.  I haven't forgotten how Mondo got so wound up he tried to
kill himself.  The only reason it all stopped was because the cops gave
Colin and Brian Duff the hard word.  They were put on notice to leave
us alone.  You're the one who told me way back then that Jimmy Lawson
said they'd only backed off because they didn't want to give their
mother any more grief.  So maybe they decided to wait."

Alex shook his head.  "But twenty-five years?  Could you nurse a grudge
for twenty-five years?"

"I'm the wrong person to ask that question.  But there are plenty of
people out there who have not taken Jesus Christ as their saviour, and
you know as well as I do, Alex, that there is nothing these people are
not capable of.  We don't know what's happened in their lives.  Maybe
something came up that set all this off again.  Maybe their mother
died.  Maybe the cold case review reminded them they had a score to
settle

and it was probably safe to do it now.  I don't know.  All I do know is
that this looks very like somebody's out to get us.  And whoever it is,
they've got time and resources on their side."  Weird looked around
nervously, as if his nemesis might be among the mourners moving towards
their cars.

"Now you're being paranoid."  This was not the aspect of Weird's youth
that Alex wanted to be reminded of right then.

"I don't think so.  I think I'm the one making sense here."

"So what do you suggest we do about it?"

Weird pulled his coat closely around him.  "I plan to get on a plane
tomorrow morning and head back to the States.  Then I plan to send my
wife and kids somewhere safe.  There's plenty of good Christians who
live out in the wilds.  Nobody's going to get near them."

"What about you?"  Alex could feel himself becoming infected with
Weird's suspicions.

Weird gave the old, familiar wolfish grin.  "I'm going on retreat.
Congregations understand that those who minister to them have to go
into the wilderness from time to time to reestablish contact with their
spirituality.  So that's what I'll be doing.  The great thing about a
TV ministry is that you can make a video wherever you happen to &e.  So
my flock won't forget me while I'm gone."

"You can't hide forever, though.  Sooner or later, you're going to have
to go home."

Weird nodded.  The know that.  But I'm not going to sit on my hands,
Alex.  As soon as I get myself and my family out of the firing line,
I'm going to hire a private detective and find out just who sent that
wreath to Ziggy's funeral.  Because when I know that, I'll know who I
have to look out for."

Alex exhaled sharply.  "You've got this all worked out, haven't you?"

"The more I thought about that first wreath, the more I wondered.  And
God helps those who help themselves, so I made a plan.  Just in case."
Weird put a hand on Alex's arm.

"Alex, I suggest you do the same.  You have more than yourself to
consider now."  Weird pulled Alex into a hug.  "Take care of
yourself."

"Very bloody touching," a voice said harshly.

Weird pulled away and swung around.  At first he couldn't place the
grim-faced man glowering at him and Alex.  Then memory erased the years
and he was back outside the Lammas Bar, terrified and hurting.  "Brian
Duff," Weird breathed.

Alex glanced from one to the other.  "This is Rosie's brother?"

"Aye, that's right."

The confused emotions that had been tormenting Alex for days suddenly
fused into anger.  "Come to gloat, have you?"

"Poetic justice, isn't that what they call it?  One murderous wee shite
sees off another one.  Aye, I came to gloat."

Alex lunged forward, stopped short by Weird's firm grip on his arm.
"Leave it, Alex.  Brian, none of us harmed a hair on Rosie's head.  I
know you need somebody to blame, but it wasn't one of us.  You have to
believe that."

"I don't have to believe anything of the kind."  He spat on the ground.
"I really hoped that the cops were going to nail one of you this time
around.  Since that's not going to happen, this is the next best
thing."

"Of course it's not going to happen.  We never touched your sister, and
the DNA evidence will prove that," Alex shouted.

Duff snorted.  "What DNA evidence?  Those fucking idiots have lost the
DNA evidence."

Alex's mouth fell open.  "What?"  he whispered.

"You heard.  So you're still safe from the long arm of the law."  His
lip curled in a sneer.  "Didnae save your pal, though, did it?"  He
turned on his heel and strode off without a backward glance.

Weird shook his head slowly.  "You believe him?"

"Why would he lie?"  Alex sighed.  "I really thought we might finally
be in the clear, you know?  How could they be so incompetent?  How
could they lose the one bit of evidence

that might have put an end to all this shit?"  He waved an arm towards
the wreath.

"You're surprised?  They hardly covered themselves with glory first
time around.  Why should this be any different?"  Weird tugged at the
collar of his coat.  "Alex, I'm sorry but I need to head off."  They
shook hands.  Till be in touch."

Alex stood rooted to the spot, stunned by the speed at which his world
had turned upside down.  If Brian Duff was right, was that the reason
for those ominous wreaths?  And if so, would the nightmare ever end
while he and Weird were still alive?

Graham Macfadyen sat in his car and watched.  The wreaths had been a
master stroke.  It pad to make the most of every opportunity.  He
hadn't beenjn Seattle to see the effect of the first one, but there was
no question that Mackie and Gilbey had got the message this time.  And
that meant that there was a message to get.  Innocent men wouldn't have
turned a hair at such a reminder.

Seeing their reaction almost made up for the nauseating parade of
hypocrisy he'd had to sit through inside the crematorium.  It had been
obvious that the minister hadn't known David Kerr in life, so it wasn't
surprising that he had done such a good job of whitewashing him in
death.  But it made him sick, the way everyone had nodded sagely,
accepting the bullshit, their pious expressions acceding to this
hypocritical fiction.

He wondered how they'd have looked if he'd walked up to the front of
the crematorium and told the truth.  "Ladies and gentlemen, we are here
today to burn a murderer.  This man you thought you knew spent all his
adult life lying to you.  David Kerr pretended to be an upstanding
member of the community.  But the reality -is that many years ago he
took part in the brutal rape and murder of my mother, for which he was
never punished.  So When you thumb through your

memories of him, remember that."  Oh yes, that would have wiped the
looks of reverent sorrow from their faces.  He almost wished he'd done
it.

But that would have been self-indulgence.  It wasn't fitting to gloat.
Better to stay in the shadows.  Especially since his uncle had turned
up out of the blue to make his point for him.  He had no idea what
Uncle Brian had said to Gilbey and Mackie.  But it had rocked the pair
of them back on their heels.  No chance now of them forgetting what
they'd once been part of.  They'd be lying awake tonight, wondering
when their past was finally going to catch up with them.  It was a
pleasant thought.

Macfadyen watched Alex Gilbey walk to his car, apparently oblivious to
everything around him.  "He doesn't even know I'm on the planet," he
muttered.  "But I am, Gilbey.  I am."  He started his engine and set
off to haunt the fringes of the funeral buffet.  It was amazing how
easy it was to infiltrate people's lives.

Davina was making progress, the nurse told them.  She was breathing
well without oxygen, her jaundice was responding to the fluorescent
lights that shone night and day around her cot.  While he held her in
his arms, Alex could forget the depression Mondo's funeral had trailed
in its wake, and the anxieties Weird's reaction to the wreath had
generated.  The only thing that could be better than sitting with his
wife and daughter in the neonatal unit would be doing exactly the same
thing in their own living room.  Or so he'd thought until his
conversation at the crematorium.

As if she read his mind, Lynn looked up from feeding.  "Just a couple
of days now, and we'll be bringing her home."

Alex smiled, hiding the uneasiness her words created.  "I can't wait,"
he said.

Driving home afterwards, he thought about broaching the subject of the
wreath and Brian Duff's revelation.  But he didn't want to unsettle
Lynn, so he kept quiet.  Lynn went straight to bed, exhausted by the
day, while Alex opened a particularly good bottle of Shiraz he'd been
saving for a night when they deserved indulgence.  He brought the wine
through to the bedroom and poured them each a glass.  "Are you going to
tell me what's eating away at you?"  Lynn

asked as he climbed on top of the duvet next to her.

"Oh, I was just thinking about Helene and Jackie.  I can't help
wondering if Jackie had a hand in Mondo's murder.  I'm not saying she
killed him.  But it sounds like she knows people who might, if the
money was right."

Lynn scowled.  "I almost wish it was her.  That bitch Helene deserves
to suffer.  How could she creep around cheating on Mondo and pretend to
be the perfect wife?"

"I think Helene's genuinely suffering, Lynn.  I believe her when she
says she loved him."

"Don't you start defending her."

"I'm not defending her.  But whatever the score is between her and
Jackie, she cared about him.  It's obvious."

Lynn pursed her lips.  Till have to take your word for it.  But that's
not what's bugging you.  Something happened after we left the
crematorium and before you arrived at the hotel.  Was it Weird?  Did he
say something to wind you up?"

"I swear to God you're a witch," Alex complained.  "Look, it was
nothing.  Just some bee Weird got in his bonnet."

"Must have been the killer bee from Alpha Centauri to have this much
effect when you've got so many other important things going on.  Why
don't you want to tell me?  Is it boys' own stuff?"

Alex sighed.  He didn't like keeping things from Lynn.  He'd never
believed that ignorance was bliss, not in a marriage that was supposed
to be equal.  "In a way.  I really don't want to bother you with it,
you've got enough on your plate right now."

"Alex, with what I've got on my plate, don't you think anything would
be a welcome diversion?"

"Not this, love."  He sipped his drink, savouring its warm spice.  He
wished he could channel all his consciousness into appreciating the
wine and lose touch with everything that ailed him.  "Some things are
better left."

"Why am I having trouble believing you?"  Lynn leaned her

head against his shoulder.  "Come on, spill.  You know you'll feel
better."

"Actually, I'm not at all sure that I would."  He sighed again.  "I
don't know, maybe I should tell you.  You're the sensible one, after
all."

"Which is not something any of us could ever have said about Weird,"
Lynn said drily.

And so he told her about the funeral wreaths, making as light of it as
he could.  To his surprise, Lynn made no attempt to dismiss the story
as Weird's paranoia.  "That's why you're trying to convince yourself
Jackie hired a hit man," she said.  "I don't like this one little bit.
Weird's right to take this seriously."

"Look, it could have a simple explanation," Alex protested.  "Maybe
somebody that knew them both."

"The way Mondo cut himself off from his past?  The only people who
could reasonably have known them both must come from Kirkcaldy or St.
Andrews.  And everybody there knew about the Rosie Duff case.  You
couldn't forget something like that.  Not if you knew them well enough
to be sending a wreath to funerals where the ^announcements said
"family flowers only"," Lynn pointed out.

"Even so, it doesn't mean somebody's out to get us," Alex said.  "OK,
someone wanted to get a dig in.  That's no reason to suppose that the
same person has committed cold-blooded murder twice."

Lynn shook her head in disbelief.  "Alex, what planet are you on?  I
can just about credit that somebody who wanted to get a dig in might
have seen the reports of Mondo's death.  At least that happened in the
same country as Rosie Duff's murder.  But how would they have heard
about Ziggy's death in time to get flowers to his funeral unless they
were involved somehow?"

"I don't know.  But it's a small world these days.  Maybe whoever sent
the wreath had a contact in Seattle.  Maybe somebody

from St.  Andrews moved there and ran across Ziggy through the clinic.
It's not exactly a common name, and it's not like Ziggy was Mr. Nobody.
You know yourself whenever we ate out with Ziggy and Paul in Seattle,
somebody always came over to say hello.  People don't forget the doctor
who treated their kid.  And if that's how it happened, what would be
more natural than to email somebody back home when Ziggy died? A place
like St.  Andrews, news like that would spread like wildfire. It's not
so far-fetched, is it?"  Alex's voice grew agitated as he struggled to
find something that would mean he didn't have to believe what Weird had
suggested.

"It's stretching it a bit, but I suppose you could be right.  But you
can't just leave it at that.  You can't rely on a faint possibility.
You've got to do something, Alex."  Lynn put down her glass and hugged
him.  "You can't take risks, not with Davina coming home any day
now."

Alex drained his glass, paying no attention to the quality of the wine.
"What am I supposed to do?  Go into hiding with you and Davina?  Where
would we go?  And what about the business?  I can't just walk away from
my livelihood, not with a child to support."

Lynn stroked his head.  "Alex, take it easy.  I'm not suggesting we
jump off the deep end like Weird.  You told me earlier that Lawson was
at the funeral today.  Why don't you go and talk to him?"

Alex snorted.  "Lawson?  The man who tried to con me with lentil soup
and sympathy?  The man who's carried the torch so long that he came
along to see one of us cremated?  You think he's going to give me a
sympathetic hearing?"

"Lawson might have had his suspicions, but at least he stopped you
getting a kicking."  Alex slid down the bed, nestling his head against
Lynn's stomach.  She winced and pulled away.  "Mind my wound," she
said.  He shifted back, settling against her arm.

"He'd laugh in my face."

"Alternatively, he might take you seriously enough to make some
inquiries.  It's not in his interest to turn a blind eye to vigilante
justice, if that's what this is.  Apart from anything else, it makes
the police look even more crap than they already do."

"You don't know the half of it," Alex said.

"What do you mean?"

"Something else happened after the funeral.  Rosie Duff's brother
turned up.  He made sure Weird and I knew he'd come to gloat."

Lynn looked shocked.  "Oh, Alex.  That's awful.  For all of you.  That
poor man.  Not to be able to let it rest after all this time."

"That's not all.  He told us that life Police have lost the evidence in
Rosie's case.  The evidence that we were relying on to produce the DNA
that would clear us."

"You're kidding."

"I wish I was."

Lynn shook her head.  "All the more reason why you need to talk to
Lawson."

"You think he wants me rubbing his nose in it?"

"I don't care what Lawson wants.  You need to know for sure what's
going on.  If there really is someone after you, it might be the
realization that they're not going to get justice after all that has
set them off.  Call Lawson in the morning.  Set up an appointment.  It
would put my mind at rest."

Alex rolled off the bed and started to undress.  "If that's what it
takes, consider it done.  But don't blame me if he decides the
vigilante's right and decides to arrest me."

To Alex's surprise, when he called to arrange a meeting with ACC
Lawson, the secretary gave him a slot that afternoon.  It left him
enough time to go to the office for a couple of hours, which left him
feeling more out of control than he had

previously.  He liked to keep a close eye on the day-to-day business,
not because he didn't have confidence in his staff but because not
knowing what was going on made him feel uneasy.  But he'd had his eye
off the ball too much lately, and he needed to get up to speed.  He
copied a stack of memos and reports on to a CD, hoping he'd squeeze
some time at home later to get on top of things.  Grabbing a sandwich
to eat in the car, he headed back to life.

The empty office he was shown into was about twice the size of his own.
The privileges of rank were always more visible in the public sector,
he thought, taking in the big desk, the elaborately framed map of the
county and James Lawson's prominently displayed commendations.  He sat
down in the visitor's chair, noting with amusement that it was much
lower than the one behind the desk opposite.

He wasn't kept waiting long.  The door behind him opened and Alex
jumped up.  The years hadn't been kind to Lawson, he thought.  His skin
was lined and weathered, with two patches of high colour on his cheeks,
the broken veins the badge of a man who either drank too much or spent
too much time exposed to the harsh east winds of life.  His eyes were
still shrewd, however, Alex noted as Lawson took him in from top to
toe.  "Mr.  Gilbey," he said.  "Sorry to keep you."

"No problem.  I know you must be busy.  I appreciate you fitting me in
so quickly."

Lawson swept past without offering his hand.  "I'm always interested
when someone connected with an investigation wants to see me."  He
settled into his leather chair, tugging at his uniform jacket to
straighten it.

"I saw you at David Kerr's funeral," Alex said.

The had business over in Glasgow.  I took the opportunity to pay my
last respects."

"I didn't think life Police had much respect for Mondo," Alex said.

Lawson made an impatient gesture with one hand.  "I

presume your visit is connected to our reopening of the Rosemary Duff
murder?1

"Indirectly, yes.  How is the inquiry going?  Have you made any
progress?"

Lawson looked irritated by the questions.  "I can't discuss operational
matters relating to an ongoing case with someone in your position."

"What position is that, exactly?  You surely don't still regard me as a
suspect?"  Alex was more courageous than his twenty year-old self; he
wasn't about to let a remark like that pass without challenge.

Lawson shuffled some papers on his desk.  "You were a witness."

"And witnesses can't be told what's happening?  You're quick enough to
talk to the press when you make progress.  Why do I have less rights
than a journalist?"

"I'm not talking to the press about the Rosie Duff case either," Lawson
said stiffly.

"Would that be because you've lost the evidence?"

Lawson gave him a long, hard stare.  "No comment," he said.

Alex shook his head.  "That's not good enough.  After what we went
through twenty-five years ago, I think I deserve better than that.
Rosie Duff wasn't the only victim back then, and you know it.  Maybe
it's time I went to the press and told them how I'm still being treated
like a criminal by the police after all these years.  And while I'm at
it, I could tell them how life Police have screwed up their review of
Rosie Duff's murder by losing the crucial evidence that would have
exonerated me and might just have led to the arrest of the real
killer."

The threat clearly made Lawson uncomfortable.  "I don't respond well to
intimidation, Mr.  Gilbey."

"Neither do I. Not any more.  You really want to see yourself all over
the pages of the papers as the copper who invaded

a grieving family's last farewell to their murdered son?  The same son
whose innocence was still in doubt, thanks to the incompetence of you
and your team?"

"There's no need for you to take this attitude," Lawson said.

"Oh no?  I think there's every need.  You're supposed to be conducting
a cold case review here.  I'm a key witness.  I'm the person who found
the body.  And yet there's not been a single officer from life Police
in touch with me.  That doesn't exactly smack of zeal, does it?  And
now I discover you can't even keep a bag of evidence safe.  Maybe I
should be talking about this with the investigating officer, not some
bureaucrat who's hidebound by the past."

Lawson's face tightened.  "Mr.  Gilbey, it's true there's a problem
with the evidence in this case.  At some point in the past twenty-five
years, Rosie Duff's clothes have gone missing.  We're still trying to
track them down, but so far, all we've been able to find is the
cardigan that was found some distance away from the crime scene.  And
that had no biological material on it.  None of the clothes that might
have been susceptible to modern forensics are available to us.  So at
the moment, we're stymied.  Actually, the officer in charge of the case
wanted to have a chat with you, just to go over your original
statement.  Perhaps we can arrange that soon?"

"Jesus Christ," Alex said.  "Now you finally want to interview me?  You
really don't get it, do you?  We're still twisting in the breeze.  Do
you realize two of the four of us have been murdered in the past
month?"

Lawson raised his eyebrows.  "Two of you?"

"Ziggy Malkiewicz also died in suspicious circumstances.  Just before
Christmas."

Lawson pulled a pad towards him and unscrewed a fountain pen.  "This is
news to me.  Where did this happen?"

"In Seattle, where he'd been living for the past dozen years.  An
arsonist set a firebomb in his house.  Ziggy died in his sleep.  You
can check it out with the police over there.  The

only suspect they've got is Ziggy's partner, which I have to tell you
is about as dumb as it gets."

"I'm sorry to hear about Mr.  Malkiewicz '

"Dr.  Malkiewicz," Alex interrupted.

"Dr.  Malkiewicz," Lawson corrected himself.  "But I still don't see
why you should think these two deaths are connected to Rosie Duff's
murder."

"That's why I wanted to see you today.  To explain why I believe
there's a connection."

Lawson leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.  "You have my
full attention, Mr.  Gilbey.  I'm interested in anything that might
shine a light in this particular dark corner."

Alex explained about the wreaths once more.  Sitting here at the heart
of police headquarters, it sounded feeble to his ears.  He could feel
Lawson's scepticism across the desk as he tried to give weight to so
slight an occurrence.  "I know it sounds paranoid," he concluded.  "But
Tom Mackie is convinced enough that he's putting his family into hiding
and going underground himself.  That's not something you do lightly."

Lawson gave a sour smile.  "Ah yes.  Mr.  Mackie.  Maybe a wee touch of
"too many drugs in the seventies"?  I believe hallucinogens can lead to
long-term paranoia."

"You don't think we should take this seriously?  Two of our friends die
in suspicious circumstances?  Two men who lived respectable lives, with
no criminal connections?  Two men who apparently had no enemies?  And
at both funerals, a wreath turns up that refers directly to a murder
investigation where they were both regarded as suspects?"

"None of you was ever publicly named as a suspect.  And we did our best
to protect you."

"Aye.  But even after that, one of your officers died as a result of
the pressure that was put on us."

Lawson jerked bolt upright.  Tm glad you remember that.  Because nobody
in this building has forgotten it either."

Tm sure you haven't.  Barney Maclennan was the killer's second victim.
And I believe that Ziggy and Mondo were his victims too.  Indirectly,
obviously.  But I think somebody killed them because they wanted
vengeance.  And if that's what happened, then my name's on that list
too."

Lawson sighed.  "I understand why you're reacting like this.  But I
don't believe that someone has embarked on a deliberate programme of
revenge against the four of you.  I can tell you that the police in
Glasgow are pursuing promising lines of inquiry that have nothing to do
with Rosie Duff's murder.  Coincidences do happen, and that's what
these two deaths are.  Coincidence, nothing more.  People don't do that
kind of thing, Mr.  Gilbey.  They certainly don't wait twenty five
years to do it."

"What about Rosie's brothers?  They were pretty keen to take a pop at
us back then.  You told me you'd warned them off.  That you'd persuaded
them not to bring any more trouble to their mother's door.  Is their
mother still alive?  Are they free from that worry now?  Is that why
Brian Duff turned up at Mondo's funeral to taunt us?"

"It's true that Mr.  and Mrs.  Duff are both dead now.  But I don't
think you've anything to fear from the Duffs.  I saw Brian myself a few
weeks ago.  I don't think vengeance was on his mind.  And Colin works
out in the Gulf.  He was home over Christmas, but he wasn't in the
country when David Kerr died."  Lawson breathed deeply.  "He married
one of my fellow officers Janice Hogg.  Ironically, she came to Mr.
Mackie's rescue when he was set on by the Duffs.  She left the force at
the time of the marriage, but I'm pretty sure she wouldn't encourage
her husband in lawbreaking on this scale.  I think you can rest easy on
that score."

Alex heard the conviction in Lawson's voice, but it brought him small
relief.  "Brian wasn't exactly amiable yesterday," he said.

"No, I can see he might not have been.  But let's face it,

neither Brian nor Colin was what you would call a sophisticated
criminal.  If they'd decided to kill you and your friends, they'd
probably have walked up to you in a crowded bar and blown your heads
off with a shotgun.  Elaborate planning was never their style," Lawson
said drily.

"So that kind of disposes of the suspects."  Alex shifted in his seat,
preparing to stand up.

"Not quite," Lawson said softly.

"What do you mean?"  Alex asked, apprehension gripping him again.

Lawson looked guilty, as if he'd said too much.  "Ignore me, I was just
thinking aloud."

"Wait a minute.  You can't brush me off like that.  What did you mean,
"not quite"?"  Alex leaned forward, looking as if he was about to jump
across the desk and grab Lawson's immaculate lapels.

"I shouldn't have said that.  I'm sorry, I was just thinking like a
policeman."

"Isn't that what you're paid to do?  Come on, tell me what you
meant."

Lawson's eyes flickered from side to side, as if he was looking for a
way out that didn't involve passing Alex.  He ran a hand over his upper
lip then took a deep breath.  "Rosie's son," he said.

Lynn stared at Alex, never pausing in her gentle rocking of her
daughter.  "Say again," she commanded.

"Rosie had a son.  It never came out at the time.  For some reason, the
pathologist didn't pick it up at the post mortem.  Lawson admitted he
was a doddery old sod who liked a drink.  But in his defence, he said
it was possible the wound itself obscured any traces.  Naturally, the
family weren't going to tell because they knew that if people found out
she'd had an illegitimate kid, she'd instantly be portrayed as a gym
slip mum, no better than she should be.  She'd be demoted from innocent
victim to a lassie who asked for it.  They were desperate to protect
her good name.  You can't blame them for that."

"I don't blame them at all.  One look at how viciously the press
treated you, and anybody would have done the same.  But how come he's
surfaced now?"

"According to Lawson, he was adopted.  He decided last year to track
down his birth mother.  He found the woman who ran the home where Rosie
had stayed when she was pregnant, and that's when he discovered he
wasn't going to have a happy family reunion after all."

Davina gave a small cry and Lynn put her little finger in

the baby's mouth, smiling down at her.  That must have been terrible
for him.  It must take so much courage to go looking for your birth
mother.  She's rejected you once who knows why and you're setting
yourself up for a second slap in the face.  But you must be clinging to
the hope that she's going to welcome you with open arms."

"I know.  And then to find out that somebody snatched that chance away
from you twenty-five years before."  Alex leaned forward.  "Can I take
her for a while?"

"Sure.  She's not long had a feed, so she should sleep for a bit." Lynn
gently eased her hands under her daughter, passing her to Alex as if
she was the most valuable and fragile object in the world.  He slid his
hand beneath her frail neck and held her to his chest.  Davina mumbled
softly, then settled.  "So, does Lawson think the son is coming after
you?"

"Lawson doesn't think anybody's coming after me.  He thinks I'm a
paranoid nutter making a mountain out of a molehill.  He got very
embarrassed about having let it slip about Rosie's son, and kept
reassuring me that he wouldn't harm a fly.  He's called Graham, by the
way.  Lawson wouldn't give me his surname.  Apparently he works in the
IT industry.  Quiet, stable, very normal," Alex said.

Lynn shook her head.  "I can't believe Lawson's taking it all so
lightly.  Who does he think sent the wreaths?"

"He doesn't know and he doesn't care.  All he's bothered about is that
his precious cold case review is going down the drain."

"They couldn't run a menage, far less a murder inquiry.  Did he have
any explanation as to how they lost a whole box of forensic
evidence?"

"They didn't lose the whole box.  They've still got the cardigan.
Apparently it was found separately.  Thrown over the wall into
somebody's garden.  They tested it after all the other stuff, which is
probably why it ended up separated from the rest of the material."

Lynn frowned.  "It turned up later?  Wasn't there something about a
second search they did later at your house?  I vaguely remember Mondo
complaining about them being all over the place weeks after the
murder."

Alex struggled with memory.  "After they'd done the initial search .. .
They came back after the New Year.  They scraped paint off the walls
and ceilings.  And they wanted to know whether we'd done any
redecorating."  He snorted.  "As if.  And Mondo said he'd overheard one
of them talking about a cardigan.  He assumed they were looking for
something one of us had been wearing.  But they weren't, of course.
They were referring to Rosie's cardigan," he finished triumphantly.

"So there must have been paint on her cardigan," Lynn said
thoughtfully.  "That's why they were taking samples."

"Yeah, but they obviously didn't get a match from our house.  Or else
we'd have been in even deeper shit."

"I wonder if they've done a fresh analysis.  Did Lawson say anything
about it?"

"Not specifically.  He said they didn't have any of the clothes that
would be susceptible to modern forensic analysis."

"That's nonsense.  They can do so much with paint these days.  I get
far more information from the labs now than I did even three or four
years ago.  They should be testing that.  You need to get back to
Lawson and insist that they look again at it."

"An analysis isn't any use without something to compare it with.
Lawson's not going to jump just because I say so."

"I thought you said he wanted to solve this case?"

"Lynn, if there was anything to be gained, they'd have done it."

Lynn flushed with sudden anger.  "Christ, Alex, listen to yourself. Are
you just going to sit back and wait for something else to blow up in
the middle of our lives?  My brother's dead.  Somebody walked into his
house bold as brass and murdered him.  The only person who might have
been any

use to you thinks you're paranoid.  I don't want you to die, Alex.  1
don't want your daughter to grow up without a single memory of you."

"You think I want that?"  Alex hugged his daughter to his chest.

"Stop being so bloody spineless, then.  If you and Weird are right, the
person who killed Ziggy and Mondo is going to come after you.  The only
way you're going to get off the hook is if Rosie's killer is finally
exposed.  If Lawson won't do it, maybe you should give it a try. You've
got the best motivation in the world there in your arms."

He couldn't deny it.  He'd been awash with emotion since Davina's
birth, perpetually astonished at the depth of his feelings.  "I'm a
greetings card manufacturer, Lynn, not a detective," he protested
weakly.

Lynn glared at him.  "And how often have miscarriages of justice been
overturned because some punter wouldn't stop digging?"

"I haven't got a clue where to start."

"Do you remember that series about forensic science on the telly a
couple of years back?"

Alex groaned.  His wife's fascination with thrillers on TV and film had
never infected him.  His usual response to a two hour special featuring
Frost, Morse or Wexford was to pick up a pad and start working on ideas
for greetings cards.  "Vaguely," he said.

The remember one of the forensic scientists saying how they often leave
stuff out of their reports.  Trace evidence that can't be analysed,
that sort of thing.  If it's not going to be of any use to the
detectives, they don't bother including it.  Apparently, the defence
might use it to create confusion in the minds of the jury."

"I don't see where that gets us.  Even if we could get our hands on the
original reports, we wouldn't know what was left out, would we?"

"No.  But maybe if we tracked down the scientist who put it together in
the first place, he might remember something that meant nothing at the
time but might mean something now.  He might even have kept his own
notes."  Her anger had been swallowed by her enthusiasm now.  "What do
you think?"

"I think your hormones have addled your brain," Alex said.  "You think
if I ring up Lawson and ask him who did the forensic report, he's going
to tell me?"

"Of course he's not."  Her lip curled in distaste.  "But he'd tell a
journalist, wouldn't he?"

"The only journalists I know are the ones who write lifestyle features
for the Sunday supplements," Alex protested.

"Well, ring round and ask them to find one of their colleagues who can
help."  Lynn spoke with an air of finality.  When she was in this kind
of mood, there was no point in trying to argue with her, he knew.  But
as he resigned himself to creeping round his contacts, the glimmer of
an idea came into his mind.  It might, he thought, kill two birds with
one stone.  Of course, it might also rebound painfully.  There was only
one way to find out.

Hospital car parks were good places for surveillance, Macfadyen
thought.  Plenty of comings and goings, always people sitting in their
cars waiting.  Good lighting, so you were sure of seeing your quarry
arriving and leaving.  No one gave you a second look; you could hang
around for hours without anybody thinking you were dodgy.  Not like
your average suburban street where everybody wanted to know your
business.

He wondered when Gilbey would get to take his daughter home.  He'd
tried ringing the hospital for information, but they'd been cagey,
refusing to say much other than that the baby was doing well. Everybody
with responsibility for kids was so security-conscious these days.

The resentment he felt towards Gilbey's child was over353

whelming.  Nobody was going to turn their back on this child.  Nobody
was going to hand it over and let it take its chances with strangers.
Strangers who would bring up a child in a state of permanent anxiety
that he'd do something that would bring arbitrary wrath down on his
head.  His parents hadn't abused him, not in the sense of beating him.
But they'd made him feel constantly wanting, constantly at fault.  And
they hadn't hesitated to lay the blame for his inadequacies at the door
of his bad blood.  But he'd missed out on so much more than tenderness
and love.  The family stories that had been fed to him as a child were
other people's stories, not his.  He was a stranger to his own history.
f

He would never be able to look in the mirror and see an jj echo of his
mother's features.  He would never be aware of those strange
congruences that happen in families, when a child's reactions replicate
those of its parents.  He was adrift in a world without connections.
The only real family he had still didn't want him.

And now this child of Gilbey would have everything that had been denied
him, even though its father was one of those responsible for what he'd
lost.  It rankled with Macfadyen, biting deep to the core of his
shrivelled soul.  It wasn't fair.  It didn't deserve the secure, loving
home he knew it was going to.

It was time to make plans.

Weird kissed each of his children as they got into the family van.  He
didn't know when he'd see them again and saying goodbye in these
circumstances felt like ripping a hole in his heart.  But he knew this
hurt was infinitesimal compared to how he'd feel if he did nothing and,
by his inaction, left any of them in harm's way.  A few hours' driving
would see them safe in the mountains, behind the stockade of an
evangelical survivalist group whose leader had once been a deacon in
Weird's church.  He doubted the federal government could get

to his kids there, far less a vengeful killer mr^ , .

own.

Part of him thought he was overreacting \"t to .  i- ^ 8"Su "lat wasn't
the part he was prepared to listen to.  Years ofralkin r A

had left him with little self-doubt when it c^e to .. making.  Weird
folded his wife into his ^mis ancj i , , , close.  "Thanks for taking
this seriously," he said

"I've always taken you seriously, Tom," she murmured stroking the silk
of his shirt.  "I want you to p^ise >ij take as good care of yourself
as you're takk Of " >

"I've got one phone call to make, then I'm out of here Where I'm going,
I won't be easy to follow or to find Wg lay low for a while, trust to
God, and I know" "'ll wwe u overcome this threat."  He leaned down and
kissed her Una j > i

"~ VU /- A > g 9nd hard Go with God.

He stood back and waited while she climu ab H rl started the engine.
The kids waved goodlve th f excited at the thought of an adventure
tl]lt We i j , them out of school.  He didn't envy them thcbrsh k up in
the mountains, but they'd do OK.  J^ wat i , ,

van to the end of the street, then hurried LrU ; -j i wk inside the
house.

A colleague in Seattle had put him on toa reli hi A' eet private
investigator.  Weird dialled the cellphone number and waited.  "Pete
Makin here," the voice Oft^e , ,

said in a slow Western drawl.

"Mr.  Makin?  My name is Tom Mackjp t.Vpf < ^

u n "Reverend Tom

Mackie.  I was given your name by Reverend polk '

The do like a minister who puts work in the m(tm) of h' f) l-' Makin
said.  "How can I be of service to you Reve H?"  The need to find out
who was responsible fotsendin ticular wreath to a funeral I attended
recent!  ;n \,

i|iin our area Would that be possible?"

"I guess.  Do you have any details?"

"I don't know the name of the florist who naje it k

creet it was a very distinctive arrangement.  A circlet of white roses
and rosemary.  The card said, "Rosemary for remembrance.""

"Rosemary for remembrance," Makin repeated.  "You're right, it is
unusual.  I don't think I've ever come across anything quite like that.
Whoever made it should remember it.  Now, can you tell me when and
where this funeral took place?"

Weird passed on the information, carefully spelling Ziggy's name.  "How
long will it take you to come up with an answer?"

"That depends.  The funeral home may be able to give me a list of the
florists who usually supply them.  But if that doesn't pan out, I'm
going to have to canvass a pretty wide area.  So it could be a few
hours, could be a few days.  If you give me your contact details, I'll
keep you posted."

"I'm not going to be very easy to reach.  I'll call in daily, if that's
all right with you?"

"That's fine by me.  But I'll need a retainer from you before I can
begin work, I'm afraid."

Weird gave an ironic smile.  These days, not even a man of the cloth
could be trusted.  "I'll wire it to you.  How much do you need?"

"Five hundred dollars will be sufficient."  Makin gave Weird his
payment details.  "Soon as the money is with me, I'll be on the case.
Thank you for your business, Reverend."

Weird replaced the phone, strangely reassured by the conversation. 
Pete Makin hadn't wasted time asking why he wanted the information, nor
had he made the job sound tougher than it was.  He was, Weird thought,
a man who could be trusted.  He went upstairs and changed out of his
clerical clothes into a comfortable pair of jeans, a cream Oxford cloth
shirt and a soft leather jacket.  His bag was already packed; all it
lacked was the Bible that sat on his bedside table.  He tucked it into
a flap pocket, looked around the familiar room, then closed his eyes in
prayer for a brief moment.

An hour later, he was walking out of the long-stay car park

at Atlanta airport.  He was in good time for his flight to San Diego.
By nightfall, he'd be across the border, anonymous in some cheap motel
in Tijuana.  It wasn't an ambience he'd normally choose, which made it
even safer.

Whoever was out to get him, they weren't going to find him there.

Jackie glowered at Alex.  "She's not here."

"I know.  It's you I wanted to see."

She snorted, arms folded across her chest.  Today, she was dressed in
leather jeans and a tight black T-shirt.  A diamond twinkled in her
eyebrow.  "Warning me off, eh?"

"What makes you think that's any of my business?"  Alex said coolly.

She raised her eyebrows.  "You're Scottish, you're male, she belongs to
your family."

"That chip on your shoulder's going to leave one hell of a grease stain
on your T-shirt.  Look, I'm here because I think you and I can do each
other a favour."

Jackie tilted her head at an insolent angle.  "I don't do boys.  Hadn't
you worked that one out by now?"

Exasperated, Alex turned to go.  He wondered why he'd risked Lynn's
anger for this.  "I'm wasting my time here.  I just thought you might
appreciate a suggestion that could get you off the hook with the
police."

"Wait a minute.  Why are you offering me a way out?"

He paused, one foot on the stairs.  "It's not because of your natural
charm, Jackie.  It's because it also offers me peace of mind."

"Even if you do think I might have killed your brother-in law."

Alex grunted.  "Believe me, I'd sleep a lot easier in my bed at night
if I believed that."

Jackie bristled.  "Because then the dyke would have got what she
deserved?"

Irritated, Alex snapped, "Could you put your prejudices | away for five
minutes?  The only reason I'd be glad if you'd ~ killed Mondo is that
it would mean I was safe."  '*

Jackie tilted her head to one side, intrigued in spite of her| self.
"That's a very strange thing to say."

"You want to talk about it on the landing?"

She gestured to the door and stepped back.  "You'd better come in. What
do you mean, "safe"?"  she asked as he walked to the nearest chair and
sat down.

"I've got a theory about Mondo's death.  I don't know if you know, but
another friend of mine was killed in suspicious circumstances a few
weeks ago."

Jackie nodded.  "Helene mentioned it.  This was someone you and David
were at university with, right?"

"We grew up together.  Four of us.  We were best friends at school and
we all went on to university together.  One night, coming home drunk
from a party, we stumbled over a young , woman '

The know about that, too," Jackie interrupted.

Alex was surprised at how relieved he felt at not having to go over all
the details of the aftermath of Rosie's murder.  "Right.  So you know
the background.  Now, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think
the reason Mondo and Ziggy are dead is that someone is taking revenge
for Rosie Duff.  That's the girl that died," he added.

"Why?"  In spite of herself, Jackie was all attention now, head
forward, elbows on her knees.  The whiff of a good story was powerful
enough to put her hostility on hold.

"It sounds so insignificant," Alex said, then told her about the
wreaths.  "Her full name was Rosemary," he finished off.

She raised her eyebrows.  "That's creepy shit," she said.  "I've never
come across a wreath like that.  It's hard to interpret it except as a
reference to this woman.  I can see why it would do your head in."

"The police couldn't.  They acted like I was a little old lady afraid
of the dark."

Jackie made a scornful noise in the back of her throat.  "Well, we both
know how smart the police are.  So what is it you think I can do?"

Alex looked embarrassed.  "Lynn had this notion that, if we could find
out who really killed Rosie all those years ago, then whoever is taking
it out on us will see they have to stop.  Before it's too late for the
two of us that are left."

"It makes sense.  Can't you persuade the police to reopen the case?
With the techniques they have nowadays .. ."

"It's already been reopened.  life Police are doing a review of cold
cases, and this is one of them.  But they seem to have hit a brick
wall, mostly because they've lost the physical evidence.  Lynn has this
idea that if we can track down the forensic scientist who did the
original report, he might be able to tell us more than he put in it."

Jackie nodded, understanding.  "Sometimes they leave things' but to
avoid giving the defence any leverage.  So you want me to track this
guy down and interview him?"

"Something like that.  I thought you might be able to pretend you were
going to do an in-depth feature on the case, focusing on the original
investigation.  Maybe you could persuade the police to give you access
to material they wouldn't readily show me?"

She shrugged.  "It's worth a try."

Then you'll do it?"

Till be honest with you, Alex.  I can't say I've got any great interest
in saving your skin.  But you're right.  I've got something at stake
here too.  Helping you find who killed David gets me off the hook.  So,
who should I speak to?"

The message on James Lawson's desk simply said, The cold case team
would like to see you asap."  It didn't sound like news of disaster. He
walked into the squad room with an air of cautious optimism which was
immediately vindicated by the sight of a bottle of Famous Grouse and
half a dozen plastic cups in the hands of his detectives.  He grinned.
This looks very like a celebration to me," he said.

DI Robin Maclennan stepped forward, offering the ACC a whisky.  "I've
just had a message from Greater Manchester Police.  They arrested a guy
on suspicion of rape a couple of weeks ago in Rochdale.  When they ran
the DNA results through the computer, they got a hit."

Lawson stopped in his tracks.  "Lesley Cameron?"  Robin nodded.

Lawson took the whisky and raised his cup in a silent toast.  As with
the Rosie Duff case, Lawson would never forget Lesley Cameron's murder.
A student at the university, she'd been raped and strangled on her way
back to her halls of residence.  As with Rosie, they'd never found her
killer.  For a while, the detectives had tried to link the two cases,
but there weren't sufficient similarities to justify the connection. 
It wasn't enough simply to say that there were no other

rape-murders in St.  Andrews during the period in question.  He'd been
a junior CID detective then and he remembered the debate.  Personally,
he'd never gone for the linkage theory.  "I remember it well," he
said.

"We ran DNA tests on her clothes, but there was no match in the system
then," Robin continued, his lean face revealing previously unseen
laughter lines.  "So I put it on the back burner and carried on
checking out subsequent sex offenders.  Got nowhere.  But then we got
this call from GMP.  Looks like we might have got a result."

Lawson clapped him on the shoulder.  "Well done, Robin.  You'll be
going down to do the interview?"  he asked.

"You bet.  I can't wait to see the look on this scumbag's face when he
hears what I want to question him about."

"That's great news."  Lawson beamed at the rest of the team.  "You see?
All it takes is that one lucky break and you've got a success on your
hands.  How are the rest of you doing?  Karen, did you get anywhere
tracking down Rosie Duff's ex boyfriend?  The one we think is
Macfadyen's father?"

Karen nodded.  "John Stobie.  The local lads had a word with him.  And
they got a result of sorts too.  Turns out Stobie has the perfect
alibi.  He broke his leg in a motorbike accident at the end of
November, 1978.  The night Rosie was murdered, he had a stookie from
thigh to toe.  There's no way he was running around St.  Andrews in the
middle of a blizzard."

Lawson raised his eyebrows.  "Christ, anybody would think Stobie had
brittle bones.  Presumably they checked his medical records?"

"Stobie gave them permission.  And it looks like he was telling the
truth.  So that's the end of that."

Lawson turned slightly, cutting himself and Karen off from the others.
"As you say, Karen."  He sighed.  "Maybe I should put Macfadyen on to
Stobie.  It might get him off my case."

"He still hassling you?"

"A couple of times a week.  I'm beginning to wish he'd never come out
of the woodwork."

"I've still got to interview the other three witnesses," Karen said.

Lawson pulled a face.  "Actually, there's only two.  Apparently,
Malkiewicz died in a suspected arson just before Christmas.  And Alex
Gilbey has got it into his head that now David Kerr's been murdered
too, there's some mad vigilante out there picking them off one by
one."

"What?"

"He came in to see me a couple of days ago.  It's paranoia run mad, but
I don't want to encourage him.  So maybe it's best if you just leave
the witness interviews.  I can't see that they'd be any use after all
this time."

Karen thought about objecting.  Not that she expected anything
significant to turn up by talking to her witnesses, but she was too
dogged a detective to be comfortable leaving any avenue unexplored.
"You don't think he could be right?  I mean, it's a bit of a
coincidence.  Macfadyen appears on the scene, finds out we've no hope
of catching his mother's killer, then two of the original suspects wind
up murdered."

Lawson rolled his eyes.  "You've been stuck in this investigation room
for too long, Karen.  You're starting to hallucinate.  Of course
Macfadyen isn't going around doing a Charles Bronson.  He's a
respectable professional man, for heaven's sake, not some demented
vigilante.  And we're not going to insult him by interrogating him
about two murders that didn't even happen on our patch."

"No, sir," Karen sighed.

Lawson put a paternal hand on her arm.  "So let's forget about Rosie
Duff for the time being.  It's going nowhere."  He moved back into the
main group.  "Robin, isn't Lesley Cameron's sister an offender
profiler?"

"That's right.  Dr.  Fiona Cameron.  She was involved in the Drew Shand
case in Edinburgh a few years back."

"I remember now.  Well, maybe you should give Dr.  Cameron a courtesy
call.  Let her know we're questioning a suspect.  And make sure the
press office knows too.  But only after you've spoken to Dr.  Cameron.
I don't want her reading it in the papers before she hears it from the
horse's mouth."  It was clearly the end of the conversation.  Lawson
knocked back his whisky and headed for the door.  He paused on the
threshold and turned back.  "Great result, Robin.  This makes us all
look good.  Thank you."

Weird pushed his plate away from him.  Greasy tourist food, and in
helpings large enough to feed an entire family of poor Mexicans for a
day or two, he thought miserably.  He hated being wrenched from his
daily round like this.  All the things that made his life enjoyable
felt like a distant dream.  There were limits to the comfort that could
be extorted from faith alone.  Proof, if ever he needed it, that he
fell far short of his own ideals.

As the waiter cleared away the debris of his burrito special, Weird
pulled out his phone and called Pete Makin.  Greetings over, he cut
straight to the chase.  "Have you made any progress?"  he asked.

"Only of the negative kind.  The funeral home gave me the names of
three stores who normally supply their floral tributes.  But none of
them ever created a wreath like the one you described to me.  They all
agreed it sounded unusual, distinctive.  Something they'd recall if it
had been one of theirs."

"What now, then?"

"Well," Makin drawled.  "There are maybe five or six florists in the
immediate area.  I'm going to do the rounds of them, see what I come up
with.  But it may take a day or two.  I'm in court tomorrow, testifying
in a fraud case.  It could run over to the next day.  But, rest
assured, Reverend.  I'll get back to this just as soon as I can."

"I appreciate you being so straightforward with me, Mr.

Makin.  I'll give you a ring in a couple of days and see how I

you're getting on."  Weird put his phone back in his pocket.  if

It wasn't over yet.  Not by a long chalk.  ,.,"

Jackie put fresh batteries in her tape recorder, checked she had a
couple of pens in her bag, then left her car.  She'd been 9 pleasantly
surprised by the helpfulness of the police press officer she'd called
after Alex's visit.

She'd had her pitch ready.  She was writing a major magazine article
comparing the methods the police used in a murder inquiry twenty-five
years ago with how they ran an investigation now.  It had struck her
that the easiest way to get a handle on an old investigation would be
to piggyback a cold case review such as life were running.  That way,
she'd be dealing with an officer who was completely current with the
details of the case.  She'd emphasized that there was no question of
criticizing the police; this was to be purely about the changes in
procedure and practice that had been brought about by scientific
developments and legal changes.

The press officer had called her back the following day.  "You're in
luck.  We've got a case from almost exactly twenty five years ago.  And
it so happens that our Assistant Chief Constable was the first police
officer at the scene.  And he's agreed to give you an interview about
that.  I've also arranged for you to meet DC Karen Pirie, who's been
working on the case review.  She's got all the details at her
fingertips."

So here she was, breaching the bastion of life Police.  Jackie didn't
normally feel nervous before an interview.  She'd been in the game long
enough for it to hold no terrors for her.  She'd dealt with every kind
of interviewee: the shy, the brash, the excited, the frightened, the
self-publicizing and the blase, the hardened criminal and the raw
victim.  But today, there was definitely a buzz of adrenaline in her
blood.  She hadn't been lying when she'd told Alex that she had
something at stake here too.  She'd lain awake for hours after they'd
talked,

keenly aware of how much damage suspicion over David Kerr's death could
do to her life.  So she'd prepared herself for today, dressing
conservatively and deliberately trying to look as unthreatening as
possible.  For once, there were more holes in her ears than rings.

It was hard to see the young police constable in ACC Lawson, she
thought as she settled herself opposite him.  He looked like one of
those people who have been born with the cares of the world on their
shoulders, and today they seemed to weigh particularly heavy on him. He
couldn't have been much over fifty, but he looked as if he'd be more at
home on a bowling green than running criminal investigations throughout
life.  "Funny idea, this story of yours," he said, once the
introductions were done with.

"Not really.  People take so much for granted now in police
investigations.  It's good to remind them how far we've travelled in a
relatively short period of time.  Of course, I need to learn much more
than I'll ever be able to use in my final article.  You always end up
throwing away about ninety per cent of the research."

"And who's this article for?"  he asked conversationally.

"Vanity Fair," Jackie said definitely.  It was always better to lie
about commissions.  It reassured people that you weren't wasting their
time.

"Well, here I am at your disposal," he said with forced cheerfulness,
spreading his hands wide.

"I appreciate it.  I know how busy you must be.  Now, can we go back to
that December night in 1978?  What brought you into the case?"

Lawson breathed heavily through his nose.  "I was working the night
shift in the patrol car.  That meant I was out on the road all night,
except for refreshment breaks.  I didn't drive around all night, you
understand."  One corner of his mouth rose in a half-smile.  "We had
budgetary restraints even then.  I wasn't supposed to drive more than
forty miles on a shift.

So I'd cruise around the town centre when the pubs were closing, then
Td find a quiet spot and park there until I got called out on a shout.
Which didn't happen that often.  St.  Andrews was a fairly quiet town,
especially during the university holidays."

"It must have been pretty boring," she sympathized.

"You're not kidding.  I used to take a transistor radio with me, but
there was never much worth listening to.  Most nights I'd park up by
the entrance to the Botanic Gardens.  I liked it up there.  It was nice
and quiet, but you could be anywhere in the town in minutes.  That
night, the weather was hellish.  It had been snowing on and off all
day, and by the middle of the night it was lying pretty thick.  I'd had
a quiet night as a result.  The weather was keeping most folk in their
own homes.  Then, around four o'clock, I saw this figure looming up
through the snow.  I got out of the car and, I'll be honest with you, I
wondered for a moment if I was going to be attacked by a drunken
maniac.  This young lad was heaving for breath, blood all over him,
sweat running down his face.  He blurted out that there was a lassie on
Hallow Hill that had been attacked."

"You must have been shocked," Jackie prompted him.

"I thought at first it was some drunken student windup.  But he was
very insistent.  He told me he'd stumbled over her in the snow and that
she was bleeding badly.  I realized pretty quickly that he was
genuinely in a state, not putting it on.  So I radioed back to base and
told them I was investigating a report of an injured woman on Hallow
Hill.  I got the lad into the car .. ."

"This was Alex Gilbey, right?"

Lawson raised his eyebrows.  "You've done your homework."

She shrugged.  The read the newspaper cuttings, that's all.  So, you
took Gilbey back to Hallow Hill?  What did you find there?"

Lawson nodded.  "By the time we got there, Rosie Duff was dead.  There
were three other young men around the body.  It then became my job to
secure the scene and radio for backup.  I called for uniform and CID
back-up and moved the four witnesses away from the scene, back down the
hill.  I freely admit, I was all at sea.  I'd never seen anything like
this, and I didn't know at that point if I was standing in the middle
of a blizzard with four killers."

"Surely, if they'd killed her, the last thing they would have done was
run for help?"

"Not necessarily.  They were intelligent young men, perfectly capable
of coming up with the double bluff.  I saw it as my job to say nothing
that would indicate I had any suspicions, for fear that they'd run off
into the night and leave us with an even bigger problem.  After all, I
had no idea who they were."

"Presumably you succeeded, since they waited for your colleagues to
arrive.  What happened then?  Procedurally, I mean?"  Jackie dutifully
listened while Lawson ran through everything that had happened at the
crime scene, up to the point where he had taken the four young men back
to the police station.

"That was really the extent of my direct involvement with the case,"
Lawson concluded.  "All the subsequent inquiries were dealt with by CID
officers.  We had to draft in men from other divisions, we didn't have
the staffing levels to cover a case like this ourselves."  Lawson
pushed back his chair.  "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll have DC Pirie
come up and get you.  She's better placed than me to run through the
case with you."

Jackie picked up her tape recorder but didn't turn it off.  "You've got
very good recall of that night," she said, letting admiration seep into
her voice.

Lawson pressed the button on his intercom.  "Ask Karen to come up,
would you, Margaret?"  He gave Jackie the sort of smile that reveals
vanity satisfied.  "You've got to be meticulous in this job," he said.
The always kept careful notes.  But

you have to remember, murder is a pretty rare occurrence in St.
Andrews.  We only had a handful of instances in my ten years stationed
there.  So naturally it sticks in my mind."

"And you never came near to arresting anyone?"

Lawson pursed his lips.  "No.  And that's a very hard thing for police
officers to live with.  The finger pointed at the four lads who found
the body, but there was never anything more than circumstantial
evidence against any of them.  Because of where the body was found, I
had a hunch it might have been some sort of pagan ritual killing.  But
nothing ever came of that idea, and nothing like it ever happened again
on our patch.  I'm sorry to say that Rosie Duff's killer went free.  Of
course, men who commit this kind of crime often go on to repeat it.  So
for all we know he may be behind bars for another murder."

There was a knock at the door and Lawson called, "Come in."  The woman
who walked in was the diametric opposite to Jackie.  Where the
journalist was fluid and lithe, Karen Pirie was solid and graceless.
What united them was the obvious spark of intelligence each recognized
in the other.  Lawson performed the introductions then skilfully
steered them towards the door.  "Good luck with your article," he said
as he closed the door firmly behind them.

Karen led the way up one flight of stairs to the cold cases review
room.  "You're based in Glasgow?"  she asked as they climbed.

"Born and bred.  It's a great city.  All human life is here, as they
say."

"Handy for a journalist.  So what got you interested in this case?"

Jackie swiftly ran through her cover story again.  It seemed to make
sense to Karen.  She pushed open the door of the squad room and led the
way inside.  Jackie looked around, noting the pin boards covered with
photographs, maps and memos.  A couple of people sitting behind
computers glanced

up as they walked in, then returned to their work.  "It goes without
saying, by the way, that anything you see or hear in this room relating
to current investigations or to any other case should be treated as
confidential.  Are you clear about that?"

"I'm not a crime reporter.  I have no interest in anything other than
what we are here to discuss.  So no sneaky stuff,

OK?"

Karen smiled.  She'd encountered a fair few journalists in her time,
and most of them she wouldn't trust not to steal an ice-cream from a
toddler.  But this woman seemed different.  Whatever she was hungry
for, it wasn't a quick, devious hit and run.  Karen showed Jackie to a
long trestle table set against one wall where she'd arranged the
material from the original investigation.  "I don't know how much
detail you want," she said dubiously, eyeing the stack of files in
front of them.

"I need to have a sense of how the investigation progressed.  What
avenues were explored.  And of course' Jackie pulled a self-deprecating
expression out of her bag of tricks 'because this is journalism and not
history, I need the names of the people concerned, and any background
you have on them.  Police officers, pathologist, forensic scientists.
That sort of thing."  She was so smooth, water would have slithered off
her like rain on a duck's feathers.

"Sure, I can give you names.  Background I'm a bit sketchy on.  I was
only three when this case hit the bricks running.  And of course, the
senior investigating officer, Barney Maclennan, died during the
investigation.  You knew that, right?"  Jackie nodded.  Karen
continued.  "The only one of the players I've ever met is David Soanes,
the forensics guy.  He did the work, though it was actually his boss
that signed off on the report."

"Why was that?"  Jackie asked nonchalantly, trying not to show her
elation at getting what she wanted so easily and quickly.

"Standard practice.  The person who actually signs off on the reports
is always the head of the lab, even though he might never have touched
any of the exhibits.  It impresses the jury."

"So much for expert testimony," Jackie said sardonically.

"You do what it takes to put the bad guys away," Karen said.  It was
clear from her weary tone that she couldn't be bothered going on the
defensive over such a self-evident point.  "Anyway, in this instance,
we couldn't have been better served.  David Soanes is one of the most
painstaking guys I've ever come across."  She smiled.  "And these days,
he's the guy who signs off on other people's reports.  David's the
Professor of Forensic Science at Dundee University now.  They supply
all our forensic services."

"Maybe I could talk to him."

Karen shrugged.  "He's a pretty approachable guy.  So, where should we
start?"

Two mostly tedious hours later, Jackie managed to make her escape.  She
knew more than she could possibly want to about police procedure in
life in the late 1970s.  There was nothing more frustrating than
getting the information you needed at the start of an interview and
then having to carry on regardless, for fear of revealing a hidden
agenda.  Of course, Karen hadn't let her see the original forensic
report.  But Jackie hadn't expected that.  She'd got what she came for.
Now it was up to Alex.

Alex stared down into the moses basket.  She was here, where she
belonged.  Their daughter, in their house.  Loosely swaddled in a white
blanket, her face scrunched up in sleep, Davina made his heart sing.
She'd lost that pinched look that had frightened him so much in the
first few days of her life.  Now, she looked like other babies, her
face growing more individual.  He wanted to draw her every day of her
life, so he'd never miss a single nuance of the changes she'd go
through.

She filled his senses.  If he leaned down close and held his breath, he
could hear the faint susurration of her breathing.  His nostrils
trembled at the unmistakable smell of baby.  Alex knew he loved Lynn;
but he'd never felt this overwhelming protective passion in his heart
before.  Lynn was right; he had to do whatever he could to make sure
he'd be there to see his daughter grow up.  He decided to call Paul
later, to share this momentous evening.  He'd have done it if Ziggy had
still been alive, and Paul deserved to know he was still part of their
lives.

The distant sound of the doorbell interrupted his devotions.  Alex gave
his sleeping daughter the lightest of touches, then walked backwards
out of the room.  He reached the front door seconds behind Lynn, who
looked thunderstruck to see

Jackie standing on the doorstep.  "What are you doing here?"  she
demanded.

"Didn't Alex tell you?"  Jackie drawled.

"Tell me what?"  Lynn rounded on Alex.

"I asked Jackie to help me," Alex said.

"That's right."  Jackie seemed more amused than offended.

"You asked her?"  Lynn made no attempt to disguise her contempt.  "A
woman who had a motive for murdering my brother and the kind of
contacts to get it done?  Alex, how could you?"

"Because she's got something to gain, too.  Which means I could trust
her not to rat us out for the sake of a page lead," he said, trying to
calm Lynn down before Jackie took the huff and marched off into the
night without revealing what she'd learned.

"I'm not having her in my house," Lynn said categorically.

Alex held his hands up.  "Fine.  Just let me get my coat.  We'll go to
the pub, if that's all right with you, Jackie?"

She shrugged.  "Whatever.  But you're buying."

They walked down the gentle slope to the pub in silence.  Alex didn't
feel inclined to apologize for Lynn's hostility and Jackie couldn't be
bothered to make an issue of it.  When they were settled with a couple
of glasses of red wine, Alex raised his eyebrows interrogatively.
"Well?  Any joy?"

Jackie looked smug.  "I have the name of the forensic scientist who
carried out the work on the Rosie Duff case.  And the beauty of it is
that he's still in the game.  He's a professor at Dundee.  His name is
David Soanes, and apparently he's shit hot."

"So when can you go and see him?"  Alex asked.

"I'm not going to go and see him, Alex.  That's your job."

"My job?  I'm not a journalist.  Why would he talk to me?"

"You're the one with something at stake here.  You throw yourself on
his mercy and ask for any information he can give you that might help
move the case forward."

"I don't know how to conduct an interview," Alex protested.  "And why
would Soanes tell me anything?  He's not going to want it to look as if
there were things he overlooked before."

"Alex, you talked me into going out on a limb for you, and frankly I
don't like you or your offensive, small-minded wife.  So I think you
can probably talk David Soanes into telling you what you want to know.
Especially since you're not asking about things he overlooked.  You'll
be asking about things that might not have been susceptible to
analysis, things he justifiably didn't include in his report.  If he
cares about his work, then he should want to help.  He's also a lot
less likely to talk to a journalist who could make him look
incompetent."  Jackie swallowed some wine, made a face and got to her
feet.  "Let me know when you've got something that gets me off the
hook."

Lynn sat in the conservatory, watching the lights on the estuary.  They
were faintly hal oed with damp air, investing them with more
mysteriousness than they merited.  She heard the front door close and
Alex's cry of, "I'm back."  But before he could join her, the doorbell
pealed out again.  Whoever it was, she wasn't in the mood.

Mumbled voices grew more distinct as they approached, but still she
couldn't tell who their latest visitor was.  Then the door opened and
Weird strode in.  "Lynn," he cried.  "I hear you have a beautiful
daughter to show me."

"Weird," Lynn exclaimed, astonishment on her face.  "You're the last
person I expected to see."

"Good," he said.  "Let's hope that's how everybody else is thinking."
He looked down at her with concern.  "How are you holding up?"

Lynn leaned into his hug.  "I know it sounds stupid, given how little
we saw of Mondo, but I miss him."

"Of course you do.  We all do.  And we always will.  He was part of us,
and now he isn't any more.  Knowing he's with

the Lord is a small consolation for what we've lost."  They were quiet
for a moment, then Lynn moved away.

"But what are you doing here?"  she asked.  "I thought you went
straight back to America after the funeral?"

"I did.  I packed my wife and kids off to the mountains, somewhere
they'll be safe from anybody who has an issue with me.  And then I made
myself disappear.  I crossed the border into Mexico.  Lynn, never go to
Tijuana unless you have a cast-iron stomach.  The food is the worst in
the world, but what really gives the soul indigestion is the collision
between the extravagant riches of America and the grinding poverty of
those Mexicans.  I was ashamed of my adopted countrymen and women.  Do
you know, the Mexicans even paint their donkeys in stripes, like
zebras, so the tourists can have their pictures taken with them? That's
how far we've driven them."  "Spare us the sermon, Weird.  Cut to the
chase," Lynn complained.

Weird grinned.  Td forgotten quite how forthright you can be, Lynn.
Well, I felt pretty uneasy after Mondo's funeral.  So I hired a private
eye in Seattle.  I wanted to find out who sent that wreath to Ziggy's
funeral.  And he came back with an answer.  An answer that gave me good
reason to come back here.  Plus, I figured this was the last place that
anybody looking for me would expect to find me.  Way too near to
home."

Alex rolled his eyes.  "You really have learned a few theatrical tricks
over the years, haven't you?  Are you going to tell us what you found
out?"

The man who sent the wreath lives right here in life.  St.  " Monans,
to be precise.  I don't know who he is, or how he's connected to Rosie
Duff.  But his name is Graham Macfadyen."  |

Alex and Lynn exchanged a look of anxiety.  "We know who he is," Alex
said.  "Or we can at least make an educated guess."

Now it was Weird's turn to look puzzled and frustrated.  "You do?
How?"

"He's Rosie Duff's son," Lynn said.

Weird's eyes widened.  "She had a son?"

"Nobody knew about him at the time.  He was adopted at birth.  He must
have been three or four when she died," Alex said.

"Oh my," Weird said.  "Well, that makes sense, doesn't it?  I take it
he only found out about his mother's murder recently?"

"He went to see Lawson when the cold case review was launched.  He'd
only started trying to trace his birth mother a few months before
that."

"There's your motive, if he thought you four were responsible for her
murder," Lynn said.  "We need to find out more about this Macfadyen."

"We need to find out if he was in the States the week Ziggy died," Alex
said.

"How do we do that?"  Lynn said.

Weird raised a hand.  "Atlanta is Delta's hub.  One of my flock has a
pretty senior position there.  I'd guess he can maybe get hold of
passenger manifests.  The airlines swap information like that all the
time, apparently.  And I have Macfadyen's credit-card details, which
might speed things up.  I'll call him later, if I may?"

"Of course," Alex said.  Then he cocked his head.  "Is that Davina I
can hear?"  He headed for the door.  Till bring her through."

"Well done, Weird," Lynn said.  "I'd never have put you down for the
methodical researcher."

"You forget, I was a mathematician and a damn good one.  All the other
stuff, that was just a desperate bid not to be my father.  Which, thank
the Lord, I managed to avoid."

Alex returned, Davina whimpering in his arms.  "I think she needs
fed."

Weird stood up and peered down at the tiny bundle.  "Oh my," he said,
his voice soft as milk.  "She is a beauty."  He looked up at Alex. "Now
you understand why I'm so determined to come out of this alive."

Out under the bridge, Macfadyen stared down at the scene below.  It had
been an eventful evening.  First, the woman had turned up.  He'd seen
her at the funeral, watched the widow Kerr leave in her car.  He'd
followed them to a flat in the Merchant City, then, a couple of days
later, he'd followed Gilbey to the same flat.  He wondered what her
connection was, where she fitted in to the complex pattern.  Was she
just a friend of the family?  Or was she more than that?

Whatever she was, she hadn't been made welcome.  She and Gilbey had
gone to the pub, but they'd barely been there long enough to have a
single drink.  Then, when Gilbey had gone back to the house, the real
surprise had walked in.  Mackie was back.  He should have been safely
ensconced in Georgia, ministering to his flock.  But here he was, in
life again, and in the company of his co-conspirator.  You didn't walk
away from your life unless you had good reason.

It was proof.  You could tell from the expressions on their faces. This
was no cheerful reunion of friends.  This was no blithe gathering to
celebrate the return from the hospital of Gilbey's daughter.  These two
had something to hide, something that drew them together in this time
of crisis.  Fear had brought them into each other's orbit.  They were
terrified that ' whatever nemesis had caught up with their fellow
killers was about to visit them.  And they were huddling together for
safety.

Macfadyen smiled grimly.  The cold hand of the past was reaching
inexorably for Gilbey and Mackie.  They wouldn't sleep easy in their
beds tonight.  And that was how it should be.  He had plans for them.
And the more afraid they were

now, the better it would be when those plans came to fruition.

They'd had twenty-five years of peace, which was more, far more than
his mother had enjoyed.  Now, it was over.

Morning dawned dreich and grey, the view from North Queensferry
obscured by a dismal haar.  Somewhere in the distance a foghorn boomed
its miserable warning like a cow mourning a dead calf.  Unshaven and
dazed with broken sleep, Alex leaned his elbows on the breakfast table
and watched Lynn feeding Davina.  "Was that a good night or a bad one?"
he asked.

"I think it was about average," Lynn said through a yawn.  "They need
to feed every few hours at this age."

"One o'clock, half-past three, half-past six.  Are you sure that's a
baby and not a gannet?"

Lynn grinned.  "How quickly the first bloom of love fades," she
teased.

"If that was true, I'd have pulled the pillow over my head and gone
back to sleep instead of getting up to make you tea and change her
nappy," Alex said defensively.

"If Weird wasn't here, you could sleep in the spare room."

Alex shook his head.  "I don't want to do that.  We'll see how we
go."

"You need your sleep.  You've got a business to run."

Alex snorted.  "That would be when I'm not running about the country
talking to forensic scientists, right?"

"Right.  Are you OK about Weird being here?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I just wondered.  I've got a naturally suspicious nature.  You know I
always thought he was the only one of the four of you who could
possibly have killed Rosie.  So I suppose I'm a bit uneasy about him
turning up like this."

Alex looked uncomfortable.  "Surely that's the very thing that
absolutely lets him off the hook over Rosie?  What possible motive
could he have for killing the rest of us after twenty-five years?"

"Maybe he heard about the cold case review and was afraid that, after
all this time, one of the four of you might point the finger."

"You always push things to the limit, don't you?  He didn't kill her,
Lynn.  He's not got it in him."

"People do terrible things when they're on drugs.  As I recall, Weird
was always up for anything in that department.  He had the Land Rover;
she probably knew him well enough to take a lift off him.  And then
there was that sudden dramatic conversion.  Could have been about
guilt, Alex."

He shook his head.  "He's my friend.  I'd have known."

Lynn sighed.  "You're probably right.  I do get carried away with
myself.  I'm really edgy just now.  Sorry."

As she spoke, Weird walked in.  Showered and shaved, he looked the
picture of health and strength.  Alex took one look and groaned.  "Oh
God, it's Tigger."

That's a great bed," Weird said, looking round the room and clocking
the coffee maker.  He crossed the kitchen and started opening cupboards
until he found the mugs.  "I slept like a baby."

"I don't think so," Lynn said.  "Not unless you woke up crying every
three hours.  Aren't you supposed to have jet lag?"

"Never suffered from it in my life," Weird said cheerfully, pouring out
his coffee.  "So, Alex, when are we leaving for Dundee?"

Alex stirred himself.  Till have to ring up and make an appointment."

"Are you crazy?  Give the guy the chance to say no?"  Weird said,
rooting around in the bread bing  He took out a triangular farl and
smacked his lips.  "Mmm.  I've not had one of these for years."

"Make yourself at home," Alex said.

"I am doing," Weird said, raiding the fridge for butter and cheese.
"No, Alex.  No phone calls.  We just turn up and make it clear we're
not going anywhere until Professor Soanes finds a window."

"What?  So he can jump?"  Alex couldn't resist the chance to poke fun
at Weird's adoption of American idiom.  It sounded so bizarre delivered
in an accent that had become markedly more Scottish overnight.

"Ha ha."  Weird found plate and knife and settled at the table.

"You don't think that might piss him off just a smidge?"  Lynn asked.

"I think it tells him we're serious," Weird said.  "I think it's what
two guys in fear of their lives would do.  This isn't the time for
being polite, douce and obedient.  It's time to say, "We're truly
scared and you can help us."

Alex winced.  "Are you sure you really want to come with me?"  The
repressive look Weird gave him would have stopped even a teenager in
his tracks.  Alex held his hands up in submission.  "OK.  Give me half
an hour."

Lynn watched him go, her eyes concerned.

"Don't worry, Lynn.  I'll look after him."

Lynn snorted with laughter.  "Oh please, Weird.  Let that not be my
only hope."

He swallowed a mouthful of his farl and considered her.  "I'm really
not the person you remember, Lynn," he said seriously.  "Forget the
teenage rebellion.  Forget the excessive drinking and the drugs.  Think
about the fact that I always

did my homework and got my essays in on time.  It only ever looked like
I was going off the rails.  Underneath it all, I was as much a solid
citizen as Alex.  I know you all laugh up your sleeve at having a TV
evangelist on your Christmas card list and very nice cards they are
too.  But underneath the pizzazz, I'm very serious about what I believe
and what I do.  When I say I'll look after Alex, you can trust that
he'll be as safe with me as he could be with anyone."

Chastened but without her residual suspicion entirely stilled, Lynn
swapped her daughter from one breast to the other.  "There you go,
darling."  She winced at the still unfamiliar sensation as the hard
gums clamped down on her nipple.  "I'm sorry, Weird.  It's just hard to
move past the time when I knew you best."

He finished his coffee and stood up.  "I know.  I still think of you as
a silly wee lassie dreaming of David Cassidy."

"Bastard," she said.

"I'm going to spend some time in prayer now," he said, heading for the
door.  "Alex and I need all the help we can get."

The exterior of the Old Fleming Gymnasium was about as far from Alex's
image of a forensic laboratory as it was possible to get.  Tucked away
down a narrow wynd, its Victorian sandstone was heavily stained with a
century of pollution.  It wasn't an unattractive building, its single
storey well proportioned with tall, Italian ate arched windows.  It
just didn't look like somewhere that housed the cutting edge of
forensic science.

Weird clearly shared his impression.  "You sure this is the place?"  he
asked, hesitating at the mouth of the lane.

Alex gestured across the street.  There's the OTI cafe.  According to
the university website, that's where we turn off."

"Looks more like a bank than a gymnasium or a laboratory."
Nevertheless, he followed Alex down the wynd.

The reception area didn't give much away.  A young man with a bad case
of psoriasis and a dress code modelled on a 1950s beatnik sat behind a
desk, tapping at a computer keyboard.  He peered at them over the heavy
black rims of his glasses.  "Can I help you?"  he said.

"We were wondering if it would be possible to have a word with
Professor Soanes," Alex said.

"Have you got an appointment?"

Alex shook his head.  "No.  But we'd really appreciate it if he could
see us.  It's about an old case he worked on."

The young man moved his head sinuously from side to side like an Indian
dancer.  "I don't think that will be possible.  He's a very busy man,"
he said.

"So are we," Weird cut in, leaning forward.  "And what we want to talk
about is a matter of life and death."

"My," said the young man.  "The Tommy Lee Jones of Tayside."  It should
have sounded rude, but he invested it with an amused air of admiration
that undercut any malice.

Weird gave him a hard stare.  "We can wait," Alex interjected before
hostilities could break out.

"You'll have to.  He's giving a seminar^ right now.  Let me take a look
at his schedule for today."  He rattled over the keyboard.  "Can you
come back at three?"  he asked after a few seconds.

Weird scowled.  "Spend five hours in Dundee?"

"That's great," Alex said, glaring at Weird.  "Come on, Tom."  They
left their names, the details of the case and Alex's mobile number and
retreated.

"Mr.  Charm," Alex said as they walked back towards the car.

"We got a result, though.  If it had been down to Mr.  Supplicant here,
we'd have been lucky to get slotted in before the end of term.  So what
are we going to do for the next five hours?"

"We could go to St.  Andrews," Alex said.  "It's only across the
bridge."

Weird stopped in his tracks.  "Are you kidding?"  "No.  Never been more
serious.  I don't think it would hurt to remind ourselves of the
terrain.  It's not as if anybody's going to recognize us after all
these years."

Weird's hand went to the place on his chest where his cross would
normally hang.  He tutted at himself as his fingers brushed empty
cloth.  "OK," he said.  "But I'm not going anywhere near the Bottle
Dungeon."

Driving into St.  Andrews was a strange, dislocating experience.  For
one thing, they'd never had access to a car as undergraduates, so
they'd never experienced the town from the perspective of a motorist.
For another, the road into town led past buildings that hadn't been
there when they were students.  The concrete sprawl of the Old Course
Hotel; the neoclassical cylinder of the St.  Andrews University Museum;
the Sea Life Centre behind the eternally unbending Royal and Ancient
clubhouse, the temple of golf itself.  Weird stared out of the window,
uneasy.  "It's changed."

"Of course it's changed.  It's been nearly a quarter of a century."

"I suppose you've been back often enough?"

Alex shook his head.  "Haven't been near the place in twenty years." He
drove slowly along The Scores, finally squeezing his BMW into a slot
vacated by a woman in a Renault.

They got out in silence and started tracking the once familiar streets
on foot.  It was, Alex thought, very like seeing Weird again after all
these years.  The basic bone structure was the same.  There was no
question of mistaking him for someone else, or someone else for him.
But the surface was different.  Some changes were subtle, others gross.
So it was walking around St.  Andrews.  Some of the shops were still in
the same place, their facades identical.  Paradoxically, they were the
ones that looked out of kilter, as if they'd somehow avoided slipping
through a time warp that had engulfed the

rest of the town.  The sweetie shop was still there, a monument to the
national appetite for sugar.  Alex recognized the restaurant where
they'd eaten their first Chinese meal, the tastes alien and confusing
to palates blunted by good plain J cooking.  They'd been a foursome
then, light-hearted and confident, without the slightest sense of
foreboding.  And then there were two.

There was no escaping the university.  In this town of sixteen thousand
souls, a third of the inhabitants earned their living from it, and if
its buildings had mysteriously turned to dust overnight, it would have
left a gap-toothed village in its wake.  Students hurried the streets,
the occasional distinctive red flannel gown wrapped round its owner
against the chill.  It was hard to believe they'd once done the same
thing.  Alex had a momentary flash of memory: Ziggy and Mondo in the
smart men's outfitters, trying on their new gowns.  Alex and Weird had
had to settle for second-hand, but they'd made the most of the
opportunity to misbehave in a good cause, pushing the patience of the
shop staff to its limits.  It all felt strange and distant now, as if
it were a movie, not a memory.

As they neared the West Port, they glimpsed the familiar frontage of
the Lammas Bar through the stone arches of the massive gateway.  Weird
stopped abruptly.  "This is doing my head in.  I can't handle this,
Alex.  Let's get out of here."

Alex wasn't exactly unhappy at the suggestion.  "Back to Dundee,
then?"

"No, I don't think so.  Part of the reason I came back was to front up
this Graham Macfadyen about the wreaths.  St.  Monans isn't that far,
is it?  Let's go and see what he has to say for himself."

"It's the middle of the day.  He'll be at his work," Alex said,
speeding up to keep pace with Weird as he strode back towards the
car.

"At least we can take a look at his house.  And maybe we can go back
after we've seen Professor Soanes."  There was

no arguing with Weird in this mood, Alex realized with resignation.

Macfadyen couldn't figure out what the point was.  He'd been stationed
outside Gilbey's house from seven that morning and had felt a warm glow
of gratification when the car had left with the pair of them.  The
partners in crime were clearly up to something.  He'd trailed them
across life and into Dundee and followed them up Small's Wynd.  As soon
as they were inside the old sandstone building, he'd hurried in their
wake.  The sign by the door said department of forensic science, which
gave him pause.  What were they looking for?  Why were they here?

Whatever it was, it didn't take them long.  They were out on the street
inside ten minutes.  He almost lost them on the approach to the Tay
Bridge, but managed to stay in touch as they slowed to turn on to the
St.  Andrews road.  Parking had been a slight problem, and he'd ended
up leaving the car blocking someone's drive.

He'd kept them in sight as they walked up through the town.  There
seemed to be no particular objective to their progress.  They doubled
back on themselves a couple of times, crisscrossing North Street,
Market Street and South Street.  Luckily, Mackie was tall enough to
stand out on the street, so it wasn't too hard to trail them.  Then,
suddenly, he realized this apparently aimless wander was taking them
closer and closer to the West Port.  They were going to the Lammas Bar.
They actually had the brass neck to walk through the door and revisit
the place where they'd first targeted his mother.

Sweat broke out on Macfadyen's upper lip in spite of the damp cold of
the day.  The pointers to their guilt were multiplying by the hour.
Innocence would have kept them well away from the Lammas Bar, innocence
and respect.  But guilt would draw them like a magnet, he was sure of
it.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost walked straight into
them.  They'd stopped unexpectedly in the middle of the pavement, and
he'd kept walking.  His heart banging in his chest, Macfadyen
sidestepped them, head turned away.  He dodged into a shop doorway and
looked back, clenching his clammy hands in his pockets.  He couldn't
believe his eyes.  They'd bottled it.  They'd turned their backs on the
West Port and were striding back down South Street in the direction
they'd come from.

He almost had to break into a trot to keep them in sight as they cut
down a series of venn els and wynds.  Their choice of narrow
thoroughfares instead of the wider streets seemed to shriek guilty
conscience at Macfadyen.  Gilbey and Mackie were hiding from the world,
taking cover from the accusing eyes they must imagine on every
street.

By the time he made it back to his own car, they were already driving
towards the cathedral.  Cursing, Macfadyen got behind the wheel and
gunned the engine.  He'd almost caught up with them when the fates
dealt him a cruel blow.  At the bottom of Kinkell Braes there were
roadworks, the single carriage way controlled by traffic lights. 
Gilbey shot through just as the light turned from amber to red, as if
he knew he needed to make his getaway.  If there had been no vehicle
between them, Macfadyen would have taken the risk and gone through on
red.  But his way was blocked by an auto-spares van.  He brought his
fist down savagely on the steering wheel, fuming as the minutes ticked
by before the green light glared out again.  The van crawled up the
hill, Macfadyen tailgating it.  But it was a good couple of miles
before he was able to pass it, and he knew in his heart there was no
chance of catching Gilbey's BMW.

He could have wept.  He had no idea where they were headed.  Nothing in
their perplexing morning offered any clues.  He thought about going
home, checking his computers to see if there was any fresh news.  But
he couldn't see the

point.  The internet wasn't going to tell him where Gilbey and Mackie
were.

The only thing he could be sure of was that sooner or later they'd
return to North Queensferry.  Cursing himself for his inadequacy,
Macfadyen decided he might as well make his way back there.

At the moment Graham Macfadyen was passing the turnoff that would have
taken him home, Weird and Alex were sitting outside his house. "Happy?"
Alex said.  Weird had already stalked up the path and hammered on the
door to no avail.  Then he'd walked round the house, peering in at the
windows.  Alex was convinced that the police would turn up at any
moment, alerted by some nosy neighbour.  But this wasn't the sort of
development where people were at home all day.

"At least we know where to find him," Weird said.  "It looks like he
lives alone."

"What makes you think that?"

Weird gave him a look that said, Duh.

"No feminine touches, eh?"

"Not a one," Weird said.  "OK, you were right.  It was a waste of
time."  He glanced at his watch.  "Let's go and find a decent pub, grab
a bite of lunch.  And then we can go back to bonnie Dundee."

Professor David Soanes was a chubby butterball of a man.  Rosy cheeked,
with a fringe of curling white hair round a gleaming bald pate and blue
eyes that actually twinkled, he bore a disconcerting resemblance to a
clean-shaven Father Christmas.  He ushered Alex and Weird into a tiny
cubicle that barely had room enough for his desk and a couple of
visitors' chairs.  The room was spartan, its only decoration a
certificate that proclaimed Soanes a freeman of the city of Srebrenica.
Alex didn't want to think about what he might have had to do to earn
that honour.

Soanes waved them to the chairs and settled in behind his desk, his
round belly butting up against the edge.  He pursed his lips and
considered them.  "Fraser tells me you gentlemen wanted to discuss the
Rosemary Duff case," he said after a long moment.  His voice was as
rich and plummy as a Dickensian Christmas pudding.  "I have one or two
questions for you first."  He glanced down at a piece of paper.  "Alex
Gilbey and Tom Mackie.  Is that right?"

"That's right," Alex said.

"And you're not journalists?"

Alex fished out his business card and passed it over.  "I run a company
that makes greetings cards.  Tom is a minister.  We're not
journalists."

Soanes scrutinized the card, tilting it to check the embossing was
real.  He raised one bushy white eyebrow.  "What is your interest in
the Rosemary Duff case?"  he asked abruptly.

Weird leaned forward.  "We are two of the four guys who discovered her
dying body in the snow twenty-five years ago.  You probably had our
clothes under your microscope."

Soanes inclined his head slightly to one side.  The wrinkles at the
corners of his eyes tightened almost imperceptibly.  "That was a long
time ago.  Why are you here now?"

"We think we're on somebody's hit list," Weird said.

This time, both of Soanes' eyebrows rose.  "You've lost me.  What has
that to do with me or Rosemary Duff?"

Alex put a hand on Weird's arm.  "Of the four of us who were there that
night, two are dead.  They died within the past six weeks.  They were
both murdered.  I know that could just be coincidence.  But at both
funerals, there was an identical wreath saying, "Rosemary for
remembrance."  And we believe those wreaths were sent by Rosie Duff's
son."

Soanes frowned.  "I think you're in the wrong place, gentlemen.  You
should be talking to life Police, who are currently conducting a review
which includes this very case."

Alex shook his head.  "I've already tried that.  ACC Lawson as good as
told me that I'm paranoid.  That coincidences happen and I should go
away and stop worrying.  But I think he's wrong.  I think someone is
killing us because they're convinced we murdered Rosie.  And the only
way I can see to get myself off the hook is to find out who really
did."

An impenetrable expression flickered across Soanes' face at the mention
of Lawson's name.  "All the same, I still don't quite understand what
has brought you here.  My personal involvement with the case ended
twenty-five years ago."

"That would be because they've lost the evidence," Weird interrupted,
unable to do without the sound of his own voice for long.

"I think you must be mistaken.  We recently carried out some tests on
an item.  But our tests for DNA were negative."

"You got the cardigan," Alex said.  "But the important things, the
clothes with the blood and semen on, they've gone missing."

There was no mistaking the upsurge in Soanes' interest.  "They've lost
the original exhibits?"

"That's what ACC Lawson told me," Alex said.

Soanes shook his head in disbelief.  "Terrifying," he said.  "Though
not entirely astonishing under this command."  His forehead wrinkled in
a disapproving frown.  Alex wondered what else life Police had done
that had failed to impress Soanes.  "Well, without the principal
physical evidence, I'm really not sure what you think I can do to
help."

Alex took a deep breath.  "I know you did the original work on the
case.  And I understand that forensic experts don't always include
every detail in their reports.  I wondered if there was anything that
maybe you hadn't written up at the time.  I'm thinking particularly
about paint.  Because the one thing they haven't lost is the cardigan.
And after they found that, they came and took paint samples from our
house."

"And why would I tell you about anything like that, always supposing
there were anything like that?  It's scarcely normal practice.  After
all, one could say you were suspects."

"We were witnesses, not suspects," Weird said angrily.  "And you should
do it because if you don't and we are murdered, you'll have a difficult
time squaring matters with God and your conscience."

"And because scientists are supposed to care about the truth," Alex
added.  Time to go out on a limb, he thought.  "And I get the feeling
that you're a man who sees truth as his province.  As opposed to the
police, who generally just seem to want a result."

Soanes leaned an elbow on the desk and fingered his lower lip,
revealing its inner moist fleshiness.  He looked at them as

if he was considering long and hard.  Then he sat up decisively and
flipped open the cardboard folder that was the only other item on his
desk.  He glanced at the contents then looked up and met their
expectant eyes.  "My report dealt principally with blood and semen. The
blood was all Rosie Duff's, the semen was assumed to belong to her
killer.  Because whoever deposited the semen was a secretor, we were
able to establish his blood group."  He flipped over a couple of pages.
"There was some fibre evidence.  Cheap brown industrial carpet and a
couple of fibres from a charcoal-grey carpet used by several vehicle
manufacturers in their mid-range cars.  Some dog hairs that were
compatible with the springer spaniel belonging to the landlord of the
pub where she worked.  All of that was covered fully in my report."

He caught Alex's look of disappointment and gave a small smile.  "And
then there are my notes."

He pulled out a sheaf of handwritten notes.  He squinted at them for a
moment, then took a pair of gold-rimmed half moon glasses from his
waistcoat pocket and perched them on his nose.  "My writing has always
been something of a trial," he said drily.  "I've not looked at this
for years.  Now, where are we .. . ?  Blood .. . semen .. . mud."  He
turned a couple of pages covered in a tiny, dense script.  "Hairs .. .
Here we go paint."  He stabbed the page with a finger.  He looked up.
"What do you know about paint?"

"Emulsion for walls, gloss for woodwork," Weird said.  That's what I
know about paint."

Soanes smiled for the first time.  "Paint consists of three principal
components.  There's the carrier, which is normally some sort of
polymer.  That's the solid stuff that ends up on your overalls if you
don't clean it off straight away.  Then there's the solvent, which is
usually an organic liquid.  The carrier is dissolved in the solvent to
create a coating with a consistency suitable for a brush or roller. The
solvent seldom has any forensic significance because it will usually
have

evaporated long since.  Finally, there's the pigment, which is what
gives the colour.  Among the most commonly used pigments are titanium
dioxide and zinc oxide for white, phthalocyanines for blue, zinc
chromate for yellow and copper oxide for red.  But every batch of paint
has its own microscopic signature.  So it's possible to analyse a paint
stain and say what kind of paint it is.  There are whole libraries of
paint samples that we can compare individual examples to.

"And of course, as well as the paint itself, we look at the physical
stain.  Is it a spatter?  Is it a drop?  Is it a scraping?"  He held up
his finger.  "Before you ask any more, I'm no expert here.  This is not
my area of specialism."

"You could have fooled me," Weird said.  "So what do your notes say
about the paint on Rosie's car die

"Your friend does like to get to the point, does he not?"  Soanes said
to Alex, thankfully more amused than irritated.

"We know how valuable your time is, that's all," Alex said, wincing
inside at his sycophancy.

Soanes returned to his notes.  True," he said.  The paint in question
was a pale blue aliphatic polyurethane enamel.  Not a common house
paint.  More the sort of thing you'd find on a boat, or something made
of fibreglass.  We didn't get any direct matches, though it did
resemble a couple of marine paints in our reference library.  What was
most interesting about it was the profile of the droplets.  They were
shaped like minuscule teardrops."

Alex frowned.  "What does that mean?"

"It means that the paint wasn't wet when it made its way on to the
clothing.  These were tiny, tiny drops of dried paint that were
undoubtedly transferred to her clothes from a surface on which she was
lying.  Probably a carpet."

"So somebody had been painting something in the place where she was
lying?  And they'd got paint on the carpet?"  Weird asked.

"Almost certainly.  But I have to come back to the odd shape.

If paint drips from a brush, or spatters on a carpet, the droplets
would not look like this.  And all of the droplets we looked at in this
case shared the same profile."

"Why didn't you put all that in your report?"  Alex asked.

"Because we couldn't explain it.  It's very dangerous to the
prosecution case to have an expert witness in the box answering, "I
don't know."  A good defence advocate would leave the questions about
the paint to last, so what the jury would remember most clearly would
have been my boss shaking his head and admitting he didn't know the
answers."  Soanes pushed his papers back into the folder.  "So we left
it out."

Now for the only question that mattered, thought Alex.  "If you looked
at that evidence again, would you be able to come up with a different
answer?"

Soanes gazed at him over his glasses.  The personally?  No.  But a
forensic paint expert might well be able to provide a more useful
analysis.  Of course, your chances of finding a match twenty-five years
on is negligible."

That's our problem," Weird said.  "Can you do it?  Will you do it?"

Soanes shook his head.  "As I said, I'm very far from being an expert
in the area.  But even if I were, I couldn't authorize tests without a
request from life Police.  And they didn't ask for tests on the paint."
He closed his folder with an air of finality.

"Why not?"  Weird asked.

"I would presume because they thought it was a waste of money.  As I
said, the chances of finding a match at this late stage are
infinitesimal."

Alex slumped down in his chair, deflated.  "And I'm not going to be
able to change Lawson's mind.  Great.  I think you just signed my death
warrant."

"I didn't say it was impossible to have some tests conducted," Soanes
said gently.  "What I said was that they couldn't be conducted here."

"How can they be conducted anywhere else?"  Weird said belligerently.
"Nobody's got any samples."

Soanes pulled at his lip again.  Then he sighed.  "We don't have any of
the biological samples.  But we do still have the paint.  I checked
before you came."  He opened the folder again and took out a plastic
sheet divided into pockets.  Tucked inside were a dozen microscope
slides.  Soanes removed three of them and lined them up on the desk.
Alex stared down at them hungrily.  He couldn't quite believe his eyes.
The specks of paint were like tiny flakes of blue cigarette ash.

"Somebody could analyse these?"  he said, barely daring to hope.

"Of course," Soanes said.  He took a paper bag from his drawer and
placed it on top of the slides, pushing them a little closer to Alex
and Weird.  "Take them.  We have others we can analyse independently,
should anything come of it.  You'll need to sign for them, of
course."

Weird's hand snaked out and enveloped the slides.  He gently put them
in the bag and slid it into his pocket.  "Thanks," he said.  "Where do
I sign?"

As Weird scribbled his name on the bottom of a log sheet, Alex looked
curiously at Soanes.  "Why are you doing this?"  he said.

Soanes took off his glasses and put them away carefully.  "Because I
hate unsolved puzzles," he said, getting to his feet.  "Almost as much
as I hate sloppy police work.  And besides, I should hate to have your
deaths on my conscience should your theory prove correct."

"Why are we turning off?"  Weird asked as they hit the outskirts of
Glenrothes and Alex signalled a right turn.

"I want to tell Lawson about Macfadyen sending the wreaths.  And I want
to try and persuade him to get Soanes to test the samples he's got."

"Waste of time," Weird grunted.

"No more than going back to St.  Monans to knock on the door of an
empty house."

Weird said nothing more, letting Alex drive to police headquarters.  At
the front desk, Alex asked to see Lawson.  "It's in connection with the
Rosemary Duff case," he said.  They were directed to a waiting area,
where they sat reading the posters about Colorado Beetle, missing
persons and domestic violence.  "Amazing how it makes you feel guilty,
just being here," Alex muttered.

"Not me," Weird said.  "But then, I answer to a higher authority."

After a few minutes, a stocky woman came across to them.  "I'm DC
Pirie," she said.  "I'm afraid ACC Lawson is unavailable.  But I'm the
officer in charge of the Rosemary Duff case."

Alex shook his head.  "I want to see Lawson.  I'll wait."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible.  He's actually on a couple of days'
leave."

"Gone fishing," Weird said ironically.

Karen Pirie, caught by surprise, said, "Yes, as it happens.  Loch'
before she could stop herself.

Weird looked even more surprised.  "Really?  I was just using a figure
of speech."

Karen tried to cover her confusion.  "It's Mr.  Gilbey, isn't it?"  she
said, looking intently at Alex.

"That's right.  How did you .. . ?"

"I saw you at Dr.  Kerr's funeral.  I'm sorry for your loss."

That's why we're here," Weird said.  "We believe the same person who
killed David Kerr is planning to kill us."

Karen took a deep breath.  "ACC Lawson briefed me on his meeting with
Mr.  Gilbey.  And as he told you then," she continued, looking at Alex,
'there really is no basis for your fears."

Weird gave a snort of exasperation.  "What if we told you that Graham
Macfadyen sent those wreaths?"

"Wreaths?"  Karen seemed puzzled.

"I thought you said you'd been briefed?"  Weird challenged her.

Alex intervened, wondering momentarily how the sinners coped with
Weird.  He told Karen about the curious floral tributes and was
gratified when she appeared to take them seriously.

That is strange, I'll grant you.  But it's not an indication that Mr.
Macfadyen is going around killing people."

"How else would he know about the murders?"  Alex asked, genuinely
seeking an answer.

"That's the question, isn't it?"  Weird demanded.

"He'd have seen Dr.  Kerr's death in the papers.  It was widely
reported.  And I imagine it wouldn't be hard to find out about Mr.
Malkiewicz.  The internet has made it a very small world," Karen
said.

Alex felt that sinking feeling all over again.  Why was everyone so
resistant to what seemed obvious to him?  "But why would he send the
wreaths unless he thought we were responsible for his mother's
death?"

"Believing you to be responsible is a long way from murder," Karen
said.  "I realize you feel under pressure, Mr.  Gilbey.  But there's
nothing in what you've told me that leads me to think you're at
risk."

Weird looked apoplectic.  "How many of us have to die before you start
to take this seriously?"

"Has anyone threatened you?"

Weird scowled.  "No."

"Have you had any unexplained telephone hang-ups?"

"No."

"And have you noticed anyone hanging round your home?"

Weird looked at Alex, who shook his head.

"Then I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do."

"Yes, there is," Alex said.  "You can ask for a new analysis of the
paint that was found on Rosie Duff's cardigan."

Karen's eyes widened in astonishment.  "How do you know about the
paint?"

Frustration lent an edge to Alex's voice.  "We were witnesses.
Suspects, in all but name.  You think we didn't notice when your
colleagues scraped our walls and stuck sellotape all over our carpets?
So how about it, DC Pirie?  How about actually trying to find out who
killed Rosie Duff?"

Needled by his words, Karen drew herself up straight.  "That's exactly
what I've been doing for the past couple of months, sir.  And the
official view is that a paint analysis would not be cost effective,
given the remoteness of the possibility of finding any sort of match
after all this time."

The anger Alex had been buttoning down for days suddenly welled up in
him.  "Not cost effective?  If there's any possibility, you should
pursue it," he shouted.  "It's not as if you've got any other expensive
forensic testing to do, is it?  Not now you've lost the only evidence
that might finally have cleared our names.  Do you have any idea what
you people did to us back then because of your incompetence?  You
tainted our lives.  He got beaten up' He pointed at Weird.  "Ziggy got
dumped down the Bottle Dungeon.  He could have died.  Mondo tried to
kill himself, and Barney Maclennan died because of it.  And if Jimmy
Lawson hadn't come along at the right moment, I would have had the crap
beaten out of me, too.  So don't stand here and talk to me about cost
effectiveness.  Just do your bloody job."  Alex turned on his heel and
marched out.

Weird stood his ground, not taking his eyes off Karen Pirie.  "You
heard the man," he said.  "Tell Jimmy Lawson to reel in his line and
keep us alive."

James Lawson slit open the belly and plunged his hand into the cavity,
his fingers closing on the slippery guts.  His lips twisted into a moue
of distaste, the slithering of vital organs against his skin an offence
against his basic fastidiousness.  He drew the entrails out, making
sure the blood and mucus stayed within the confines of the newspaper
he'd spread out in preparation.  Then he added the trout to the other
three he'd caught that afternoon.

Not a bad result for the time of year, he thought.  He'd fry a couple
for his tea and put the others in the caravan's tiny fridge.  They'd
make a good breakfast before he set out for work in the morning.  He
got up and switched on the pump that supplied the little sink with a
stream of cold water.  He reminded himself to bring a couple of
replacement five-gallon bottles the next time he came out to his bolt
hole on the shores of Loch Leven.  He'd emptied the spare into the tank
that morning, and although he could always rely on the local farmer who
rented him the pitch in an emergency, Lawson didn't like to impose on
his goodwill.  He'd always kept to himself in the twenty years since
he'd moved the caravan up here.  That was the way he liked it.  Just
him and the radio and a pile of thrillers.  A private place where he
could escape

the pressures of work and family life, a place to renew his energies.

He opened a tin of new potatoes, drained them and diced them.  While he
waited for the big frying pan to heat up for the fish and potatoes, he
folded the newspaper fussily around the fish guts and thrust it into a
plastic bag.  He'd add the skin and bones after his meal, then tie the
handles tightly and leave it on the caravan steps for removal in the
morning.  There was nothing worse than sleeping in the stink of the
detritus of his catch.

Lawson dumped a chunk of lard in the pan, watched it sizzle into
translucency then added the potatoes.  He stirred them around, then, as
they started to brown, he carefully placed the two trout in the pan,
adding a squeeze of juice from a Jif lemon.  The familiar sizzle and
crackle cheered him up, the smell a promise of the delight to come.
When it was done, he tipped his meal on to a plate and settled in at
the table to enjoy his dinner.  Perfect timing.  The familiar theme
tune of The Archers bounded out of the radio as his knife slid under
the crispy skin of the first trout.

He was halfway through his meal when he heard something he shouldn't
have.  A car door slammed.  The radio had covered the sound of the
approaching engine, but the closing of the door was loud enough to be
heard over the everyday story of country folk.  Lawson froze
momentarily then reached for the radio and turned it off, straining his
ears to catch any sound from outside.  Stealthily, he eased the curtain
back a fraction.  Just beyond the gate into the field, he could make
out the shape of a car.  Small- to medium-sized hatchback, he thought.
A Golf, an Astra, a Focus.  Something like that.  It was hard to be
more accurate in the dark.  He scanned the gap between the gate and his
caravan.  No movement.

The rap at the door made his heart leap in his chest.  Who the hell was
this?  As far as he was aware, the only people who knew exactly where
his fishing lair was were the farmer

and his wife.  He'd never brought colleagues or friends here.  When
they'd gone fishing, he'd met them further along the shore in his boat,
determined to maintain his privacy.

"Just a minute," he shouted, rising to his feet and moving towards the
door, pausing only to palm his razor-sharp gutting knife.  There were
plenty of criminals who might feel they had a score to settle, and he
wasn't going to be caught unprotected.  Keeping one foot behind the
door, he opened it a crack.

In the sliver of light that spilled out on to the steps stood Graham
Macfadyen.  It took Lawson a moment to recognize him.  Since their last
meeting, he'd lost weight.  His eyes burned feverish above hollow
cheeks and his hair was lank and greasy.  "What the hell are you doing
here?"  Lawson demanded.

"I need to talk to you.  They said you were having a couple of days
off, so I thought you must be here."  Macfadyen's tone was
matter-of-fact, as if there were nothing unusual about a member of the
public turning up on the doorstep of the Assistant Chief Constable's
fishing caravan.

"How the hell did you find me here?"  Lawson demanded, anxiety making
him belligerent.

Macfadyen shrugged.  "You can find out anything these days.  You gave
an interview to the life Record last time you were promoted.  It's on
their website.  You said you liked fishing, that you had a place up at
Loch Leven.  There's not many roads that go close to the waterside.  I
just drove around till I spotted your car."

There was something in his manner that chilled Lawson to the bone.
"This isn't appropriate," he said.  "Come and see me at the office if
you want to discuss police business."

Macfadyen looked annoyed.  "This is important.  It won't wait.  And I'm
not talking to anybody else.  You understand my position.  You're the
one I need to talk to.  I'm here now.  So why not listen to me?  You
need to listen to me, I'm the man who can help you."

Lawson started to close the door, but Macfadyen raised a hand and
pressed against it.  Till stand outside and shout if you won't let me
in," he said.  The nonchalance of his tone was at odds with the
determination in his face.

Lawson weighed up the odds.  Macfadyen didn't strike him as potentially
violent.  But you never knew.  However, he did have the knife if it
came to it.  Better to hear the man out and get rid of him.  He let the
door swing open and stepped back, never turning his back on his
unwelcome visitor.

Macfadyen followed him inside.  In a dislocating perversion of normal
discourse, he grinned and said, "You've made it very cosy in here."
Then his glance fell on the table and he looked apologetic.  Tve
disturbed you at your tea.  I'm really sorry."

"It's OK," Lawson lied.  "What was it you wanted to talk to me
about?"

"They're gathering.  They're huddling together to try to avoid their
fate," Macfadyen said, as if it were an explanation.

"Who's gathering?"  Lawson asked.

Macfadyen sighed, as if frustrated at dealing with a particularly slow
trainee.  "My mother's killers," he said.  "Mackie's back.  He's moved
in with Gilbey.  It's the only way they feel safe.  But they're wrong,
of course.  That won't protect them.  I never believed in fate before,
but there's no other way to describe what's happened to that foursome
lately.  Gilbey and Mackie must feel it too.  They must be afraid time
is running out for them like it has for their friends.  And of course,
it is.  Unless they pay the proper price.  Them coming together like
this it's a confession.  You must see that."

"You might well be right," Lawson said, going for conciliation.  "But
it's not the sort of confession that works in a court of law."

The know that," Macfadyen said impatiently.  "But they're at their most
vulnerable.  They're afraid.  It's time to use that

weakness to drive a wedge between them.  You have to arrest them now,
make them tell you the truth.  I've been watching them.  They could
crack at any time."

"We've no evidence," Lawson said.

"They'll confess.  What more evidence do you need?"  Macfadyen never
took his eyes from the policeman.

"People often think that.  But in Scots law, a confession on its own
isn't enough to convict someone.  There needs to be corroborative
evidence."

"That can't be right," Macfadyen protested.

"It's the law."

"You've got to do something.  Get them to confess, then find the
evidence that will make it stand up in court.  That's your job,"
Macfadyen said, his voice rising.

Lawson shook his head.  "That's not how it works.  Look, I promise I'll
go and talk to Mackie and Gilbey.  But that's all I can do."

Macfadyen clenched his right hand into a fist.  "You don't care, do
you?  Not any of you."

"Yes, I do care," Lawson said.  "But I have to operate inside the law.
And so do you, sir."

Macfadyen made a strange noise in the back" of his throat, like a dog
choking on a chicken bone.  "You were supposed to understand," he said
coldly, grabbing the door handle and pulling it open.  The door swung
right back and banged against the wall.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness outside.  The damp chill of
the night invaded the cosy fug of the caravan, smothering the smell of
stale cooking and replacing it with the tang of marshes.  Lawson stood
in the doorway long after Graham Macfadyen's car had reversed
erratically up the track, his eyes dark pools of worry.

Lynn was their ticket into Jason McAllister.  And she wasn't leaving
Davina with anyone, not even Alex.  And that was

why what should have been an easy forenoon run out to Bridge of Allan
had turned into a major operation.  It was amazing what had to travel
with a baby, Alex thought as he made his third and final trip to the
car, listing under the combined weight of the baby seat and Davina.
Buggy.  Backpack containing nappies, wipes, muslin squares, two changes
of clothes just in case.  Spare blankets, also just in case.  A clean
jumper for Lynn, because projectile vomit didn't always land on the
muslin square.  The baby sling.  He was mildly amazed he'd got away
with leaving the kitchen sink plumbed in.

He threaded the rear seatbelt through the restraints on the portable
seat and tested its security.  He'd never worried about the strength of
seatbelts before, but now he found himself wondering just how reliable
they might be under impact.  He leaned into the car, straightened
Davina's fleece hat and kissed his sleeping daughter, then held his
breath in apprehension as she stirred.  Please let her not scream all
the way to Bridge of Allan, he prayed.  He didn't think he could cope
with the guilt.

Lynn and Weird joined him and they all piled into the car.  A few
minutes later they were on the motorway.  Weird tapped him on the
shoulder.  "You're supposed to go faster than forty miles an hour on a
motorway," he said.  "We're going to be late."

Stifling his concerns for his valuable cargo, Alex obediently put his
foot down.  He was every bit as keen as Weird to drive their
investigation forward.  Jason McAllister sounded just the man to take
them the next part of the journey.  Lynn's work as a restorer of
paintings for the national galleries of Scotland meant she'd become an
expert in the sort of paint that artists used at different periods.  It
also meant she'd had to find her own expert who could analyse the
samples from the original so she could make her match as accurate as
possible.  And of course there were times when there were question
marks over the authenticity of a particular work of art.

Then the paint samples had to be evaluated to check whether they were
from the right time frame and whether they were consistent with the
materials used by the same painter in other works whose provenance was
not in doubt.  The man she'd found to do the scientific end of the
investigations was Jason McAllister.

He worked in a private forensic lab near Stirling University.  Most of
his working life was spent analysing paint fragments from road-traffic
accidents, either for the police or for insurance companies.
Occasionally he'd have an interesting diversion into murder, rape or
serious assault, but that happened too seldom to provide enough
variation for Jason's talents.

At a private preview of a Poussin exhibition, he'd tracked | Lynn down
and told her he was passionate about paint.  At first, she'd thought
this slightly gee ky young man was being pretentious, claiming kinship
with great art.  Then she'd realized he meant precisely what he'd said.
No more, no less.  What infused him with enthusiasm was not what was
depicted on the canvas; it was the structure of the stuff used to make
the painting.  He gave her his card and made her promise she'd call him
the next time she had a problem.  He assured her several times that
he'd be better than whoever she was using.

As it happened, Jason had struck lucky that night.  Lynn was fed up
with the pompous prat she'd previously been forced to rely on.  He was
one of the Edinburgh old school who couldn't stop themselves
condescending to women.  Even though his status was effectively that of
a lab technician, he treated Lynn as if she was a menial whose opinion
was of no importance.  With a major restoration on the horizon, Lynn
had been dreading working with him again.  Jason felt like a gift from
the gods.  Right from the start, there had never been any question of
him talking down to her.  If anything, the problem was the opposite. He
tended to assume she was his equal, and she'd lost count of the times
she'd had to tell him

to slow down and speak in something approaching English.  But that was
infinitely preferable to the alternative.

When Alex and Weird had come home with a bag of paint samples, Lynn had
been on the phone to Jason within ten minutes.  As she'd expected, he'd
reacted like a child who's just been told he's spending the summer at
Disneyland.  "I've got a meeting first thing, but I'll be clear of that
by ten."

As Alex had suggested, she'd tried to tell him they'd pay his fee
privately.  But he'd waved away her offer.  "What are pals for?"  he'd
demanded.  "Besides, I'm up to my back teeth with car paint.  You'll be
saving me from dying of boredom.  Bring it on, woman."

The lab was a surprisingly attractive modern single-storey building set
off the main road in its own grounds.  The windows were set high up in
the brown brick walls, and CCTV cameras covered every angle of
approach.  They had to be buzzed through two sets of security doors
before they reached the reception.  "I've been in prisons with less
security," Weird commented.  "What do they do here?  Manufacture
weapons of mass destruction?"

"They do freelance forensic work for the Crown Office.  And for the
defence," Lynn explained as they waited for Jason to join them.  "So
they've got to be able to demonstrate that any evidence they take
custody of will be held securely."

"So they do DNA and all that?"  Alex asked.

"Why?  Are you having doubts about your paternity?"  Lynn teased him.

"I'll wait till she turns into the teenager from hell for that," Alex
said.  "No, I'm just curious."

"They do DNA and they do hair and fibre evidence as well as paint,"
Lynn told him.  As she spoke, a burly man approached and clapped an arm
round her shoulder.

"You brought the baby," he said, leaning over to peer into the carrier.
"Hey, she's gorgeous."  He grinned up at Lynn.  "Most babies look like
the dog sat on their faces.  But she

looks like a proper wee person."  He straightened up.  "I'm Jason," he
said, looking uncertainly from Weird to Alex.

They introduced themselves.  Alex took in the Stirling Albion shirt,
the cargo pants with bulging pockets and the spiked hair, its tips
bleached a blond never found in nature.  On the surface, Jason looked
as if he'd be at home in any Friday-night pub, bottle of designer lager
in his hand.  But his eyes were sharp and watchful, his body still and
controlled.  "Come away through," Jason instructed them.  "Here, let me
carry the baby," he added, reaching for the carrier.  "She is a
beauty."

"You might not say that at three in the morning," Lynn said, her
maternal pride obvious.

"Maybe not.  By the way, I was sorry to hear about your brother," he
said, glancing awkwardly over his shoulder at Lynn.  "That must have
been hellish."

"It's not been easy," Lynn said as they followed Jason down a narrow
corridor, the walls painted eggshell blue.  At the end, Jason led them
into a daunting laboratory.  Mysterious equipment gleamed in every
corner.  Worktops were neat and tidy, and the technician peering down
the barrel of something Alex thought might be a futuristic microscope
didn't move a muscle as they bustled in.  "I feel like I'm
contaminating the place just by breathing," he said.

"It's less of an issue with paint," Jason said.  "If I was in DNA,
you'd be getting nowhere near the sharp end.  So, tell me again exactly
what it is you've got for me."

Alex ran through what Soanes had revealed the previous afternoon.
"Soanes thinks there's not much chance of finding a match for the
paint, but maybe you can tell something new from the shape of the
drops," he added.

Jason peered at the slides.  "Looks like they've kept them in good
condition, which is a plus."

"What is it you'll do with them?"  Weird asked.

Lynn groaned.  "I wish you hadn't said that."

Jason laughed.  "Ignore her, she just likes to pretend she's ignorant.
We've got a range of techniques that analyse the carrier and pigment.
As well as using microspectrophotometry to establish the colour, we can
go more in-depth to nail down the composition of the paint samples.
Fourier Transform Infrared Spectrometry, Pyrolysis Gas Chromatography
and Scanning Electron Microscopy.  Stuff like that."

Weird looked dazed.  "Which tells you what?"  Alex asked.

"Lots of things.  If it's a chip, what type of surface it came from.
With car paint, we analyse the different layers and we've got a
database we can refer to and discover the make, model and year of
manufacture.  With droplets, we can do pretty much the same, though of
course we don't get the surface details because the paint was never
stuck to a surface."

"How long is all of this going to take?"  Weird asked.  "Only, we're
kind of up against it, time-wise."

"I'll be doing it in my own time.  A couple of days?  I'll be as quick
as I can.  But I don't want to do anything less than the best possible
job.  If you're right about this, we could all end up in court
testifying about it, and I'm not taking any short cuts.  I'm also going
to give you a receipt to say I got these samples from you, just in case
anybody tries to say otherwise somewhere down the line."

"Thanks, Jason," Lynn said.  "I owe you."

He grinned.  "I do like that in a woman."

Jackie Donaldson had written on occasion about the knock on the door in
the early hours, the hustle to the waiting police car, the fast drive
through empty streets and the utterly unnerving wait in a cramped room
that tasted of other people.  It had never crossed her mind that one
day she'd be experiencing it rather than chronicling it.

She'd been woken from sleep by the intercom's buzzing.  She'd
registered the time 03.47 then stumbled to the door, dragging her
dressing gown on.  When Detective Inspector Darren Heggie had announced
himself, her first thought was that something terrible had happened to
Helene.  She couldn't understand why he was demanding to be let in at
this hour. But she didn't argue.  She knew that would be a waste of
time.

Heggie had clattered into her flat with a woman in plain clothes and
two uniformed officers, who shuffled in at the rear looking faintly
uncomfortable.  Heggie wasted no time on small talk.  "Jacqueline
Donaldson, I am detaining you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder. You
can be detained for up to six hours without arrest, and you have the
right to communicate with a solicitor.  You do not have to say anything
other than your name and address.  Do you understand the reason for
your detention?"

She gave a small, scornful snort.  "I understand you've got the right.
But I don't understand why you're doing this."

Jackie had disliked Heggie on sight.  His pointed chin, his small eyes,
his bad haircut, his cheap suit and his swagger.  But he had been
polite, even somewhat apologetic at their previous encounters.  Now, he
was all brusque efficiency.  "Please get dressed.  The female officer
will remain with you.  We will wait outside."  Heggie turned away and
shooed the uniformed men on to the landing.

Discomfited but determined not to show it, Jackie returned to the
sleeping area of the apartment.  She grabbed the first T-shirt and
jumper in the drawer and snatched up a pair of jeans from the chair.
Then she dropped them.  If this all went wrong, she could be appearing
in front of a sheriff before she got the chance to change.  She
rummaged in the back of her wardrobe for her one decent suit.  Jackie
turned her back to the woman officer, who refused to take her eyes off
her, and dressed.  "I need to go to the bathroom," she said.

"You'll have to leave the door open," the woman said stolidly.

"You think I'm going to shoot up or something?"

"It's for your own protection," she replied, sounding bored.

Jackie did what she had to, then slicked her hair back with a handful
of cold water.  She looked into the mirror, wondering when she'd be
able to do that again.  Now she knew what those she'd written about had
felt.  And it was horrible.  Her stomach jittered as if she hadn't
slept for days and her breath seemed to catch in her throat.  "When do
I get to call my lawyer?"  she asked.

"When we get to the police station," came the reply.

Half an hour later, she was shut in a small room with Tony Donatello, a
third-generation criminal solicitor she'd known since her first months
as a reporter in Glasgow.  They were more accustomed to meeting in bars
than in cells, but Tony had the grace not to say so.  He was also
sensitive enough

not to remind her that the last time he'd represented her at a police
station, she'd ended up with a record.  "They want to question you
about David's death," he said.  "But I suppose you'd worked that out
for yourself?"

"It's the only murder I've been remotely connected to.  Did you call
Helene?"

Tony gave a small, dry cough.  "Turns out they've lifted her too."

"I should have figured that out for myself.  So, what's our
strategy?"

"Is there anything that you've done in the recent past that could be
misconstrued as connecting to David's death?"  Tony asked.

Jackie shook her head.  "Nothing.  This is not some sleazy conspiracy,
Tony.  Helene and I had nothing to do with David's murder."

"Jackie, you don't speak for Helene here.  You're my client and it's
your actions I'm concerned with.  If there's anything at all a chance
remark, a flippant email, whatever that might make you look bad, then
we won't answer any questions.  Just stonewall.  But if you're certain
there's nothing you have to worry about, we'll answer.  What's it to
be?"

Jackie fiddled with her eyebrow ring.  "Look, there's something you
should know.  I wasn't with Helene the whole time.  I nipped out for an
hour or so.  I had to go out and see somebody.  I can't say who it was,
but take it from me, he's not alibi material."

Tony looked worried.  "That's not good," he said.  "Maybe you should go
"no comment"."

"I don't want to.  You know how bad it'll make me look."

"It's your decision.  But, in the circumstances, I think silence would
be the better option."

Jackie thought long and hard.  She didn't see how the police could know
about her absence.  Till talk to them," she said finally.

The interview room held no surprises for anyone versed in the grammar
of TV cop drama.  Jackie and Tony sat opposite Heggie and the female
detective who had accompanied him to the flat.  At this proximity,
Reggie's aftershave smelled rancid.  Two cassettes spooled in tandem in
the machine at the end of the table.  After the formalities were over,
Heggie dived straight in.  "How long have you known Helene Kerr?"

"About four years.  I met her and her husband at a party given by a
mutual friend."

"What is the nature of your relationship?"

"First and foremost, we are friends.  We are also occasional lovers."

"How long have you been lovers?"  Heggie's eyes looked hungry, as if
the thought of Jackie and Helene together was potentially as satisfying
as any criminal confession.

"For about two years."

"And how often did this take place?"

"We spent an evening together most weeks.  We had sex on most of those
occasions.  Though not always.  As I said, friendship is the most
important component of our relationship."  Jackie found it harder than
she'd expected to stay cool and clinical under the assessing gaze of
her interrogators.  But she knew she had to stay calm; any outburst
would be interpreted as evidence of something more than nerves.

"Did David Kerr know you were sleeping with his wife?"

"I don't believe so."

"It must have been galling for you that she stayed with him," Heggie
offered.

A shrewd observation, she thought.  And one that was uncomfortably
close to the truth.  Scratch the surface, and Jackie knew she wasn't
sorry David Kerr was dead.  She loved Helene and she was bitterly tired
of the scraps her lover granted her.  She'd wanted a lot more for a
long time.  "I knew from the word go she wasn't going to leave her
husband.  That was fine by me."

"I find that hard to believe," he said.  "You were being rejected in
favour of her husband and it didn't bother you?"

"It wasn't a rejection.  The arrangement suited both of us."  Jackie
leaned forward, aiming for open body language to fake candour.  "Just a
bit of fun.  I like my freedom.  I don't want to be tied down."

"Really?"  He looked at his notes.  "So the neighbour that heard the
pair of you screaming and fighting because she wouldn't leave her
husband is lying?"

Jackie remembered the row.  There had been few enough in their time
together for it to be memorable.  A couple of months before, she'd
asked Helene to come to a friend's fortieth birthday party.  Helene had
looked at her in disbelief.  It was outside the ground rules, not a
subject they should even be discussing.  All Jackie's frustrations had
overflowed and a blazing argument had erupted.  It had changed tack
abruptly when Helene had threatened to walk out and never come back.
That was a prospect Jackie couldn't endure, and she'd surrendered.  But
she wasn't about to share any of that with Heggie and his sidekick.
"They must be," she said.  "You can't hear a bloody thing through the
walls of those lofts."

"Apparently you can if the windows are open," Heggie said.

"When is this alleged conversation supposed to have taken place?"  Tony
interrupted.

Another glance at the notes.  "Towards the end of November."

"Are you seriously suggesting that my client had her windows open at
the end of November in Glasgow?"  he said scornfully.  "Is that all
you've got?  Gossip and little-tattle from nosy and over-imaginative
neighbours?"

Heggie stared at him for a long moment before he spoke.  "Your client
has a history of violence."

"No, she doesn't.  She has one conviction for assaulting a police
officer while she was reporting an anti-poll tax

demonstration where one of your colleagues enthusiastically mistook her
for one of the demonstrators.  That's hardly a history of violence."

"She punched a policeman in the face."

"After he'd dragged her along the ground by the hair.  If it had been
that violent an assault on a police officer, do you not think the
sheriff would have given her more than six months' probation?  If
you've nothing more than this, I don't see you have any reason to hold
my client."

Heggie glared at them both.  "You were with Mrs.  Kerr on the night her
husband died?"

"That's right," Jackie said cautiously.  This was where the thin ice
started.  "It was our usual night for seeing each other.  She arrived
about half-past six.  We ate a fish supper I went out for, we drank
some wine and we went to bed.  She left around eleven.  Exactly as
usual."

"Can anyone verify that?"

Jackie raised her eyebrows.  The don't know about you, Inspector, but
when I make love with someone, I don't invite the neighbours round. The
phone rang a couple of times, but I didn't answer it."

"We have a witness who claims to have seen you walking to your car at
approximately nine p.m. that evening," Heggie said triumphantly.

"They must have got the wrong night," Jackie said.  "I was with Helene
all evening.  Is this another one of my homophobic neighbours you've
been coaching in incriminating testimony?"

Tony shifted in his chair.  "You've heard my client's answer.  If
you've got nothing new to bring to the table, I really do suggest we
end this now."

Heggie breathed heavily.  "If you'll bear with me, Mr.  Donatello, I'd
like to introduce a witness statement we took yesterday."

"Can I see that?"  Tony asked.

"All in good time.  Denise?"

The other detective opened a folder she'd held on her lap and placed a
sheet of paper in front of him.  Heggie licked his lips and spoke.  "We
arrested a small-time drug dealer yesterday.  He was eager to offer up
anything that might lead us to view his case in a more favourable
light.  Ms Donaldson, do you know Gary Hardie?"

Jackie's heart jolted in her chest.  What did this have to do with
anything?  It hadn't been Gary Hardie she'd met that night, nor any of
his buddies.  "I know who he is," she stalled.  Hardly an admission;
anyone who read a newspaper or watched TV in Scotland would have
recognized the name.  A few weeks previously, Gary Hardie had
sensationally walked free from the High Court in Glasgow after one of
the highest-profile murder cases the city had seen for some years.  In
the course of the trial, he'd been variously called a drug lord, a man
with no regard for human life, and an utterly ruthless criminal
mastermind.  Among the allegations the jury had heard was the claim
that he had paid a hit man to have a business rival eliminated.

"Have you ever met Gary Hardie?"

Jackie felt sweat in the small of her back.  Tn a purely professional
context, yes."

"Would that be your profession or his?"  Heggie demanded, shifting his
chair closer to the table.

Jackie rolled her eyes in derision.  "Oh, please, Inspector.  I am a
journalist.  It's my job to talk to people in the news."

"How many times have you met Gary Hardie?"  Heggie pressed her.

Jackie breathed out through her nose.  "Three times.  I interviewed him
a year ago for a feature I wrote for a magazine about contemporary
Glasgow gangland.  I interviewed him while he was awaiting trial for an
article I planned to write after the trial was over.  And I had a drink
with him a couple

of weeks ago.  It's important to me to maintain contacts.  That's how I
get stories that nobody else gets."

Heggie looked sceptical.  He glanced down at the statement.  ,

"Where did that meeting take place?"  |

"In Ramblas.  It's a cafe bar in '

"I know where Ramblas is," Heggie interrupted.  He glanced again at the
paper in front of him.  "At that meeting, an envelope changed hands.
From you to Hardie.  A bulky envelope, Ms Donaldson.  Would you care to
tell us what was in that envelope?"

Jackie tried not to show her shock.  Tony stirred at her side.  Td like
to speak to my client in private," he said hastily.

"No, it's OK, Tony," Jackie said.  "I have nothing to hide.  When I
spoke to Gary to arrange the meeting, he told me someone had shown him
the magazine article, and he'd liked the photograph they'd used.  He
wanted some copies for himself.  So I had prints made and I took them
to Ramblas with me.  If you don't believe me, you can check with the
photo lab.  They don't process much black and white.  They might
remember.  I also have the receipt in my accounts file."

Tony leaned in.  "You see, Inspector?  Nothing sinister.  Just a
journalist trying to keep a good contact happy.  If that's the extent
of your new material, then there is no reason for my client to be held
here a moment longer."

Heggie looked mildly put out.  "Did you ask Gary Hardie to have David
Kerr killed?"  he asked.

Jackie shook her head.  "No."

"Did you ask Gary Hardie if he could put you in touch with someone who
would murder David Kerr?"

"No.  It never crossed my mind."  Jackie's head was up now, chin out,
fear battened down.

"You never once thought how much more pleasant life would be without
David Kerr?  And how easily you could arrange, that?"

"This is bullshit."  She slammed her hands palm down on the table. "Why
are you wasting your time with me when you should be doing your job?"

"I am doing my job," Heggie said calmly.  "That's why you're here."

Tony glanced at his watch.  "Not for much longer, Inspector.  Either
arrest my client or let her go.  This interview is over."  He placed a
hand over Jackie's.

A minute feels like a very long time in a police interview room. Heggie
held the pause, his eyes never leaving Jackie.  Then he pushed his
chair back.  "Interview terminated at six twenty-five.  You're free to
go," he said, his voice grudging.  He hit the button that switched off
the tape recorders.  "I don't believe you, Ms Donaldson," he said as he
got to his feet.  "I think you and Helene Kerr conspired to have David
Kerr killed.  I think you wanted her for yourself.  I think you went
out that night to pay off your hit man.  And that's what I intend to
prove."  At the door, he turned back.  "This is just the beginning."

As the door closed behind the detectives, Jackie covered her face with
her hands.  "Jesus Christ," she said.

Tony gathered his things together, then put an arm round her shoulders.
"You handled that well.  They've got nothing."

"I've seen people tried on thinner evidence.  They've got their teeth
into this.  They're not going to stop till they've got somebody who can
put me outside my flat that night.  Jesus.  I can't believe Gary Hardie
came out of the woodwork just now."

"I wish you'd mentioned that to me before," Tony said, loosening his
tie and stretching.

"I'm sorry.  I'd no idea it was going to come up.  It's not like I
think about Gary Hardie every day.  And it's not like he had anything
to do with this.  You do believe me, don't you, Tony?"  She looked
anxious.  If she couldn't convince her lawyer, she stood no chance
against the police.

"What I believe doesn't matter.  It's what they can prove.  And right
now, they've got nothing that a good advocate wouldn't demolish in
minutes."  He yawned.  "Great way to spend the night, eh?"

Jackie stood up.  "Let's get out of this shithole.  Even the air feels
contaminated."

Tony grinned.  "Somebody should give Heggie a decent bottle of
aftershave for his next birthday.  Whatever he was wearing smelled like
a polecat on heat."

"It would take more than Paco Rabane to grant him membership of the
human race," Jackie snarled.  "Are they holding Helene here too?"

"No."  Tony took a deep breath.  "It's probably a good idea if you two
don't see much of each other just now."

Jackie gave him a look that mingled hurt and disappointment.  "Why
not?"

"Because if you stay away from each other, it's harder to demonstrate
that you're in cahoots.  Being together might look as if you're
discussing strategies to keep your stories straight."

"That's stupid," she said firmly.  "We're friends, for fuck's sake.
Lovers.  Where else do you go for support and comfort?  If we avoid
each other, it looks as if we've got something to be uncomfortable
about. If Helene wants me, she's got me.  No question."

He shrugged.  "Your choice.  You pay for the advice whether you take it
or not."  He opened the door and ushered her out into the corridor.
Jackie signed for the return of her belongings, and they made for the
exit together.

Tony pushed open the doors that led to the street then stopped short.
In spite of the earliness of the hour, three cameramen and a handful of
journalists were huddled on the pavement.  As soon as they saw Jackie,
the cries went up.  "Hey, Jackie, have they arrested you?"  "Did you
and your girlfriend hire a hit man, Jackie?"  "What's it feel like to
be a murder suspect, Jackie?"

It was the kind of scene she'd participated in countless f times,
though never from this perspective.  Jackie had thought ~, nothing
could feel worse than being rousted from her bed in the middle of the
night and treated like a criminal by the :|

police.  Now she knew she was wrong.  Betrayal, she had just t
discovered, tasted infinitely more bitter.  1

,*

The darkness of Graham Macfadyen's study was kept at bay by the ghostly
light of monitors.  On the two screens he wasn't using at that moment,
screensavers showed a slide show of images he'd scanned into his
computer.  Grainy newspaper photographs of his mother; moody shots of
Hallow Hill; the gravestone in Western Cemetery; and the photographs
he'd snatched of Alex and Weird in recent days.

Macfadyen sat at his PC, composing a document.  He'd originally planned
simply to make a formal complaint about the inaction of Lawson and his
officers.  But a trip to the website of the Scottish Executive had
demonstrated the futility of that.  Any complaint he made would be
investigated by life Police themselves, and they were hardly going to
criticize the actions of their Assistant Chief Constable.  He wanted
satisfaction, not to be fobbed off.

So he'd decided to lay out the whole story and send copies to his
Westminster MP, his MSP and to every major news medium in Scotland. But
the more he wrote, the more he began to worry that he'd just be
dismissed as another conspiracy theorist.  Or worse.

Macfadyen chewed the skin round his fingernails and considered what he
should do.  He'd finish writing his devastating

critique of the incompetence of life Police and their refusal to take
seriously the presence of a pair of murderers on their patch.  But he
needed something else that would make people sit up and take notice.
Something that would make it impossible to ignore his complaints or to
disregard the way that fate had pointed an undeniable finger at the
culprits in his mother's murder.

Two deaths should have been enough to produce the result he craved. But
people were so blind.  They couldn't see what was staring them in the
face.  After all this, justice still had not been served.

And he remained the only person in a position to see that it was.

The house was beginning to feel like a refugee camp.  Alex was
accustomed to the flow of life that he and Lynn had developed over the
years: companionable meals, walks along the shore, visits to
exhibitions and movies, socializing occasionally with friends.  He
acknowledged a lot of people would think them dull, but he knew better.
He liked his life.  He'd understood that things would change with the
arrival of a baby, and he welcomed that change wholeheartedly, in spite
of not knowing all it might mean.  What he hadn't bargained for was
Weird in the spare room.  Nor the arrival of Helene and Jackie, the one
distraught and the other incandescent with rage.  He felt invaded, so
buffeted by everyone else's pain and anger that he no longer knew what
he himself felt.

He'd been stunned to find the two women on the doorstep looking for
sanctuary from the press camped outside their homes.  How could they
have imagined they'd be welcome here?  Lynn's first instinct had been
to tell them to check into an hotel, but Jackie had been adamant that
this was the one place nobody would be looking for them.  Just like
Weird, he'd thought wearily.

Helene had burst into tears and apologized for betraying

Mondo.  Jackie had reminded Lynn forcefully that she'd been willing to
take a chance and help Alex.  And still Lynn had been insistent that
there was no place for them there.  Then Davina had started wailing.
And Lynn had shut the door in their faces and stormed off to her child,
giving Alex a look that dared him to let the two women in.  Weird
slipped past him and caught up with them as they were getting into
their car.  When he returned an hour later, he revealed he'd booked
them into a nearby motel under his name.  "They've got a wee chalet in
among the trees," he'd reported.  "Nobody knows they're there.  They'll
be fine."

Weird's apparent chivalry had got the evening off to an awkward start,
but their common purpose gradually overcame their discomfort, assisted
by liberal quantities of wine.  The three adults sat round the kitchen
table, blinds closed against the evening dark, the wine bottles
emptying as they talked round in circles.  But it wasn't enough to talk
about what ailed them; they needed action.

Weird was all for confronting Graham Macfadyen, demanding an
explanation of the wreaths at the funerals of Ziggy and Mondo.  He'd
been shouted down by the other two; without evidence of his involvement
in the murders, they would only alert Macfadyen to their suspicions
rather than provoke a confession.

"I don't mind if he's alerted," Weird had said.  "That way he might
just quit while he's ahead and leave us two in peace."

"Either that or he'll go away and come up with even more subtle
approaches next time.  He's not in any hurry, Weird.  He's got his
whole life to avenge his mother," Alex pointed out.

"Always supposing it is him and not Jackie's hit man that killed
Mondo," said Lynn.

"Which is why we need Macfadyen to confess," Alex said.  "It doesn't
help clear anybody's name if he just retreats into the shadows."

They chased their conversational tails, the dead-ends enlivened only by
Davina's occasional wailing as she woke up ready for yet another feed.
Now they were reliving the past again, Alex and Weird running over the
damage done to their lives by the toxic rumours that had enveloped
their final year at St.  Andrews.

It was Weird who first lost patience with the past.  He drained his
glass and stood up.  "I need some fresh air," he announced.  "I'm not
going to be intimidated into hiding behind locked doors for the rest of
my life.  I'm going for a walk.  Anybody want to keep me company?"

There were no takers.  Alex was about to cook dinner and Lynn was
feeding Davina.  Weird borrowed Alex's waxed jacket and set off towards
the shore.  Against all odds, the clouds that had shrouded the sky all
day had cleared.  The sky was clear, a gibbous moon hanging low in the
sky between the bridges.  The temperature had dropped several degrees
and Weird hunched into the collar of the jacket as a squall of chill
wind gusted up from the Firth.  He veered off towards the shadows under
the railway bridge, knowing that if he climbed up on the headland, he'd
earn himself a great view down the estuary towards Inchcolm and the
North Sea beyond.

Already, he felt the benefit of being outside.  A man was always closer
to God in the open air, without the clutter of other people.  He
thought he'd made his peace with his past, but the events of the past
few days had left him uneasily aware of his connection to the young man
he had once been.  Weird needed to be alone, to restore his belief in
the changes he'd made.  As he walked, he considered how far he had
come, how much cumbersome baggage he'd shed on the way thanks to his
belief in the redemption offered by his religion.  His thoughts grew
brighter, his heart lighter.  He'd call the family later tonight.  He
wanted the reassurance of their voices.  A few words with his wife and
kids and he'd feel like a man

waking from a nightmare.  Nothing practical would change.  He knew
that. But he'd be better able to cope with whatever the world threw at
him.

The wind was picking up now, blustering and whooping around his head.
He paused for breath, aware of the distant hum of traffic crossing the
road bridge.  He heard the clatter of a train on the approach to the
rail bridge and he leaned back, craning his neck to watch it make its
toytown progress a hundred and fifty feet above his head.

Weird neither saw nor heard the blow that brought him to his knees in a
terrible parody of prayer.  The second blow caught him in the ribs and
propelled him crashing to the ground.  He had a vague impression of a
dark figure toting what looked like a baseball bat before a third blow
across his shoulders sent his scattered thoughts reeling with pain. 
His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the rough grass as he tried to
crawl out of range.  A fourth blow struck him across the back of the
thighs, making him collapse on his stomach, beyond escape.

Then, as suddenly as the attack had begun, it was over.  It felt like a
flashback to twenty-five years before.  Through a miasma of pain and
dizziness, Weird was vaguely aware of shouting and the incongruous
sound of a small dog yapping.  He smelt warm, stale breath, then felt a
rough wet tongue slobbering over his face.  That he could feel anything
at all was such a blessing, he let the tears flow.  "You have preserved
me from mine enemies," he tried to say.  Then everything went dark.

T'm not going to the hospital," Weird insisted.  He'd said it so many
times, Alex was beginning to think it was incontrovertible evidence of
concussion.  Weird sat at the kitchen table, rigid with pain, and
equally inflexible on the subject of medical care.  His face was
drained of colour and a long welt stretched from his right temple to
the back of his skull.

"I think you've got broken ribs," Alex said.  Not for the first time
either.

"Which they won't even strap up," Weird said.  "I've had broken ribs
before.  They'll just give me some painkillers and tell me to keep
taking them till I'm better."

"I'm more worried about concussion," Lynn said, bustling in with a mug
of strong, sweet tea.  "Drink it.  It's good for shock.  And if you
throw up again, you're probably concussed and we're going to take you
to the hospital in Dunfermline."

Weird shuddered.  "No, not Dunfermline."

"He's not that bad if he can still crack wise about Dunfermline," Alex
said.  "Is anything coming back about the attack?"

"I didn't see a thing before the first blow.  And after that, my head
was reeling.  I saw a dark shape.  Probably a man.  Maybe a tall woman.
And a baseball bat.  How stupid is that?  I had to come all the way
back to Scotland to get beaten up with a baseball bat."

"You didn't see his face?"

"I think he must have been wearing some kind of mask.  I didn't even
see the pale shape of a face.  The next thing I knew, I'd fainted. When
I came round, your neighbour was kneeling beside me, looking absolutely
terrified.  Then I threw up over his dog."

In spite of the affront to his Jack Russell, Eric Hamilton had helped
Weird to his feet and supported him the quarter of a mile back to the
Gilbeys' house.  He'd muttered something about disturbing a mugger then
brushed off their effusive thanks and melted back into the night
without so much as an appreciative whisky.

"He already disapproves of us," Lynn said.  "He's a retired accountant
and thinks we're bohemian artists.  So don't worry, you've not ruined a
beautiful friendship.  However, we do need to call the cops."

"Let's wait till morning.  Then we can speak directly to Lawson.  Maybe
now he'll take us seriously," Alex said.

"You think this was Macfadyen?"  Weird asked.

"This isn't Atlanta," Lynn said.  "It's a quiet wee village in life.  I
don't think anybody's ever been mugged in North Queensferry.  And if
you were going to mug someone, would you pick on a giant in his forties
when there's pensioners walking their dogs on the foreshore every
night?  This wasn't random, this was meant."

"I agree," Alex said.  "It follows the pattern of the other murders.
Dress it up to look like something else.  Arson, burglary, mugging.  If
Eric hadn't come along when he did, you'd be dead now."

Before anyone could respond, the doorbell rang.  Till get it," Alex
said.

When he returned, he was trailed by a police constable.  "Mr.  Hamilton
reported the attack," Alex said in explanation.  "PC Henderson has come
along to take a statement.  This is Mr.  Mackie," he added.

Weird managed a tight smile.  "Thanks for coming over," he said.  "Why
don't you sit down?"

"If I can just take some details," PC Henderson said, taking out a
notebook and settling down at the table.  He unfastened his bulky
uniform waterproof, but made no move to take it off.  They were
probably specially trained to withstand the heat rather than lose the
impression of size the jacket provided, Alex thought irrelevantly.

Weird gave his full name, and address, explaining he was visiting his
old friends Alex and Lynn.  When he revealed he was a minister,
Henderson looked uncomfortable, as if embarrassed that a mugger on his
patch had walloped a man of the cloth.  "What exactly happened?"  the
constable asked.

Weird recounted the scant details he could remember of the attack.
"Sorry I can't tell you more.  It was dark.  And I was caught
unawares," he said.

"He didn't say anything?"

"No."

nW

"No demand for money or your wallet?"

"Nothing."

Henderson shook his head.  "A bad business.  It's not the sort of thing
we expect in the village."  He looked up at Alex.  "I'm surprised you
didn't call us yourself, sir."

"We were more concerned with making sure Tom was all right," Lynn
butted in.  "We were trying to persuade him to go to the hospital, but
he seems determined to be stoic about it."

Henderson nodded.  "I think Mrs.  Gilbey's right, sir.  It wouldn't do
any harm to have a doctor take a look at your injuries.  Apart from
anything else, it means there's an official record of the extent of the
damage if we catch whoever did it."

"Maybe in the morning," Weird said.  "I'm too tired to face it now."

Henderson closed his notebook and pushed the chair back.  "We'll keep
you informed of any developments, sir," he said.

"There is something else you can do for us, officer," Alex said.

Henderson gave him an interrogative look.

"I know this is going to sound totally off the.  wall, but can you
arrange for a copy of your report to be sent to ACC Lawson?"

Henderson seemed bemused by the request.  "I'm sorry, sir, I don't
quite see .. ."

"I don't mean to patronize you, but it's a very long and complicated
story and we're all too tired to go into it now.  Mr.  Mackie and I
have been dealing with ACC Lawson on a very sensitive matter, and
there's a chance this isn't just a casual mugging.  I'd like him to see
the report, just so he's aware of what's happened here tonight.  I'll
be speaking to him about it in the morning anyway, and it would be
helpful if he was up to speed."  No one who had ever seen Alex
persuading his staff the extra mile would have been surprised by his
quiet assertiveness.

Henderson weighed up his words, uncertainty in his eyes.  "It's not
normal procedure," he said hesitantly.

"I realize that.  But this isn't a normal situation.  I promise you,
it's not going to rebound on you.  If you'd rather wait for the
Assistant Chief Constable to contact you .. ."  Alex let the sentence
trail off.

Henderson made his decision.  Till send a copy to headquarters," he
said.  Till mention you requested it."

Alex saw him out.  He stood on the doorstep and watched the police car
nose out of the drive and into the street.  He wondered who was out
there in the dark, watching for his moment.  A shiver ran through him.
But not from the cold night air.

The phone rang just after seven.  It wakened Davina and gave Alex a
jolt.  After the attack on Weird, the slightest sound had penetrated
his consciousness, requiring analysis and risk assessment.  There was
someone out there stalking him and Weird, and his every sense was on
the alert.  As a result, he'd hardly slept.  He'd been aware of Weird
moving around in the night, probably searching for more painkillers. It
wasn't a normal night noise, and it had made his heart hammer before
he'd worked it out.

He grabbed the phone, wondering if Lawson was at his desk already,
Henderson's report in his in-tray.  He wasn't prepared for the jollity
of Jason McAllister.  "Hi, Alex," the forensic paint expert greeted him
cheerfully.  "I know new parents are always up with the lark so I
figured you wouldn't mind me calling so early.  Listen, I've got some
information for you.  I can come over now, and run it past you before I
go into work.  How would that be?"

"Great," Alex said heavily.  Lynn pushed the duvet back and blearily
crossed to the moses basket, lifting her daughter with a grunt.

"Smashing.  I'll be with you in half an hour."

"You know the address?"

"Sure.  I've had meetings with Lynn there a couple of times.  See you."
The phone went dead and Alex pushed himself up the bed as Lynn returned
with the baby.

"That was Jason," Alex said.  "He's on his way.  I'd better get in the
shower.  You didn't tell me he was second cousin to the Jolly Green
Giant."  He leaned over and kissed his daughter's head as Lynn put her
to the breast.

"He can be a bit much," Lynn agreed.  Till feed Davina, then I'll throw
on a dressing gown and join you."

The can't believe he's got a result so quickly."

"He's like you were when you first started the business.  He adores
what he does so he doesn't mind how much time he spends on it.  And he
wants to share his delight with everybody else."

Alex paused, hand reaching for his dressing gown.  "I was like that?
It's a miracle you didn't file for divorce."

Alex found Weird in the kitchen looking terrible.  The only colour in
his face came from the bruising that spread like greasepaint round both
eyes.  He sat awkwardly, hands wrapped round a mug.  "You look like
shit," Alex said.

The feel like it too."  He sipped coffee and winced.  "Why don't you
have decent painkillers?"

"Because we don't make a habit of getting hammered," Alex said over his
shoulder as he left to answer the door.  Jason bounced into the room on
the balls of his feet, jazzed with excitement, then did a double-take
that was almost comic as he took in Weird's appearance.  "Shit, man.
What the hell happened to you?"

"A man with a baseball bat," Alex said succinctly.  "We weren't joking
when we said this might be a matter of life and death."  He poured a
coffee for Jason.  "I'm impressed that you've got something for us so
soon," he said.

Jason shrugged.  "When I got to it, it wasn't such a big deal.  I did
the microspectrophotometry to establish the colour, then I ran it
through the gas chromatograph for the

composition.  It didn't match anything in my database, though."

Alex sighed.  "Well, we were expecting that," he said.

Jason held up a finger.  "Now, Alex.  I am not a man without resources.
A couple of years ago, I met this guy at a conference.  He is the
world's biggest paint head.  He works for the FBI, and he reckons that
he's got the most extensive paint database in the known universe.  So I
got him to run my results against his records, and bingo!  We got it."
He held his arms out wide, as if expecting applause.

Lynn walked in just in time to hear his conclusion.  "So what was it?"
she asked.

"I won't bore you with the technical spec.  It was made by a small
manufacturer in New Jersey in the mid-seventies for use on fibreglass
and certain types of moulded plastic.  The target market was boat
builders and boat owners.  It gave a particularly tough finish that was
hard to scratch and wouldn't flake even in extreme weather conditions."
He opened his backpack and rummaged around, eventually producing a
computer-generated colour chart.  A swatch of pale blue was outlined in
black marker.  "That's what it looked like," he said, passing the sheet
around.  "The good news about the quality of the finish is that if by
some miracle your crime scene has survived, the chances are that you
could still make a match.  The paint was mostly sold on the Eastern
Seaboard of the US, but they did export into the UK and the Caribbean.
The company went belly-up in the late eighties, so there's no way of
telling where it ended up over here."

"So the chances are that Rosie was killed on a boat?"  Alex asked.

Jason made a dubious smacking noise with his lips.  "If she was, it
must have been a fair-sized boat."

"Why do you say that?"

He pulled some papers out of his backpack with a flourish.  "This is
where the shape of the paint drops comes into play.

Tiny tears, that's what we've got here.  And one or two very small
fibre fragments, which look a lot like carpet tile to me.  And this
tells me a story.  These drops came off a brush while something was
being painted.  This is a very motile paint, which means that it came
off in minute droplets.  The person doing the painting probably didn't
even notice.  Typically, it's the kind of fine spray that you'd get if
you were working over your head, especially at full stretch.  And
because there's almost no variation in the shape of the droplets, that
suggests all the paint was applied overhead and at an equal distance.
None of this fits with painting a hull.  Even if you had the hull
upside down to paint the inside, you wouldn't be doing it somewhere
carpeted, would you?  And the droplets would vary in size because some
of the surface would be nearer to you, wouldn't it?"  He paused,
looking round the room.  Everyone was shaking their heads, spellbound
by his enthusiasm.

"So what are we left with?  If it was a boat, then your man was
probably painting the cabin roof.  The inside of the cabin roof.  Now,
I did some experiments with a very similar paint and, to get this
effect, I needed to be reaching quite high.  And small boats don't have
much headroom.  So I guess your man had a pretty big boat."

"If it was a boat," Lynn said.  "Couldn't it have been something else?
The inside of a trailer?  Or a caravan?"

"Could be.  You probably wouldn't get carpet in a trailer, though,
would you?  It could have been a shed, or a garage too.  Because paints
that are designed for fibreglass are pretty good on asbestos as well,
and there was a lot more of that around back in the seventies."

"The bottom line is that it doesn't take us any further forward," Weird
said, disappointment in his voice.

The conversation veered off in several directions.  But Alex had
stopped listening.  His brain was ticking, a train of thought triggered
by what he'd just heard.  Connections were forming

in his mind, links between apparently unconnected pieces of information
forging into a chain.  Once you gave space to the first unthinkable
thought, so many things made sense.  The question now was what to do
about it.

He suddenly realized he'd been out of it.  Everyone was looking at him
expectantly, waiting for an answer to some unheard question.  "What?"
he said.  "Sorry, I was miles away."

"Jason asked if you wanted him to write a formal report," Lynn said.
"So you can show it to Lawson."

"Yeah, great idea," Alex said.  "That's brilliant, Jason, really
impressive."

As Lynn showed Jason to the door, Weird gave Alex a penetrating look.
"You've got an idea, Gilly," he said.  "I know that look."

"No.  I was just racking my brains, trying to think of anybody from the
Lammas that had a boat.  There were a couple of fishermen, weren't
there?"  Alex turned away and busied himself, popping a couple of
slices of bread in the toaster.

"Now you come to mention it ... We should remind Lawson about that,"
Weird said.

"Yeah.  When he calls, you can tell him."

"Why?  Where are you going to be?"

"I need to go into the office for a few hours.  I've been neglecting
the business.  It doesn't run itself.  There's a couple of meetings
this morning I really need to go to."

"Should you be driving around alone?"

"I've no choice," Alex said.  "But I think I'm pretty safe in broad
daylight on the road into Edinburgh.  And I'll be back long before it's
dark."

"You'd better be."  Lynn walked through the door carrying the morning
papers.  "Looks as if Jackie was right.  They're plastered all over the
front pages."

Alex munched his toast, lost in thought, as the others went through the
papers.  While they were occupied, he picked up the colour chart Jason
had left behind and tucked it into his

trouser pocket.  He seized a lull in the conversation to announce his
departure, kissed his wife and sleeping baby and left the house.

He eased the BMW out of the garage and on to the street, heading for
the motorway that would take him over the bridge to Edinburgh.  But
when he reached the roundabout, instead of turning south on the M90, he
took the northbound slip road.  Whoever was after them was on his turf
now.  He had no time to waste sitting in meetings.

Lynn got behind the wheel of her car with a sense of relief she wasn't
proud of.  She was starting to feel claustrophobic in her own home. She
couldn't even retreat to her studio and regain her calm by working on
her latest painting.  She knew she shouldn't be driving, not so soon
after a section, but she had to get away.  The need to shop had
provided the perfect excuse.  She promised Weird she'd get one of the
supermarket staff to do all the heavy lifting.  Then she'd wrapped
Davina up warmly, tucked her into her carrier and escaped.

She decided to make the most of her freedom and drive up to the big
Sainsburys at Kirkcaldy.  If she had enough energy after shopping, she
could always pop in to see her parents.  They'd not seen Davina since
she'd come home from hospital.  Maybe a visit from their new
granddaughter would help lift their gloom.  They needed something to
give them a bigger stake in the future than in the past.

As she left the motorway at Halbeath, the fuel warning light appeared
on her dashboard.  Rationally, she knew she had more than enough petrol
to get her to Kirkcaldy and back again, but she wasn't taking any
chances with the baby on board.  She flicked the indicator at the
turn-off for the services and cruised down to the pumps, entirely
oblivious to the car that had been on her tail since she'd left North
Queensferry.

Lynn fuelled up the car, then hurried inside to pay.  As she

waited for her credit card to be accepted, she glanced out to the
forecourt.

At first, she couldn't take it in.  The scene outside was wrong, all
wrong.  Then it sank in.  Lynn screamed at the top of her lungs and
stumbled towards the door, her bag hitting the floor and scattering its
contents as she ran.

A silver VW Golf was parked behind her car, engine running, driver's
door wide open.  The passenger door of her car was also ajar, shielding
whoever was leaning in from sight.  As she hauled open the heavy door
of the service area, a man straightened up, thick black hair falling
over his eyes.  He was clutching Davina's carrier.  He cast a glance in
her direction then ran for the other car.  Davina's shrieks pierced the
air like a blade.

He half-threw, half-pushed the baby carrier into his passenger seat,
then jumped in.  Lynn was almost upon him.  He slammed the car into
gear and took off, his tyres screaming on the tarmac.

Indifferent to the pain from her half-healed scar, Lynn threw herself
at the wildly swerving Golf as it careered past her.  But her desperate
fingers connected with nothing they could cling to, and her momentum
carried her forward on to her knees.  "No," she screamed, banging her
fists on the ground.  "No."  She tried to stand up, to get to her car,
to give chase.  But her legs wouldn't hold her and she collapsed on the
ground, anguish wracking her.

Exultation swelled inside Graham Macfadyen as he hammered along the A92
away from the Halbeath services.  He'd done it.  He had the baby.  He
snatched a quick look, making sure it was OK.  It had stopped that
banshee screaming as soon as they'd hit the dual carriage way  He'd
heard babies liked the sensation of being driven in a car, and this one
certainly seemed to.  Its blue eyes looked up at him, incurious and
calm.  At the end of the dual carriage way he'd cut off on to back

roads, to avoid the police.  He'd stop then and strap it in properly.
He didn't want anything bad to happen to it yet.  It was Alex Gilbey he
wanted to punish, and the longer the baby was alive and apparently
well, the worse his suffering would be.  He'd keep the baby hostage for
just as long as it was of use to him.

It had been laughably easy.  People really should take better care of
their children.  It was astonishing that more of them didn't fall into
the hands of strangers.

This would make people listen to him, he thought.  He'd take the baby
home and lock the doors.  A siege, that's what it would be.  The media
would turn up mob-handed and he'd have the chance to explain why he'd
been forced to take such extreme action.  When they heard how life
Police were shielding his mother's killers, they'd understand why he'd
been driven to something so out of character.  And if that still didn't
work, well, he had one final card to play.  He glanced down at the
drowsy baby.

Lawson was going to regret not listening to him.

Alex had left the motorway at Kinross.  He'd driven through the quiet
market town and out the far side, heading towards Loch Leven.  When
she'd let slip that Lawson was off fishing, Karen Pirie had said "Loch'
before she stopped herself.  And there was only one loch in life where
a serious fisherman would ply his rod.  Alex couldn't stop thinking
about his recent revelation.  Because he knew deep down none of them
had done it, and because he couldn't imagine Rosie wandering around in
a blizzard alone, easy prey for a stranger, he'd always tended to
believe she'd been killed by her mystery boyfriend.  And if you were
planning to seduce a lassie, you didn't take her to a shed or a garage.
You took her to the place where you lived.  And then he'd remembered a
throwaway line in one of the previous day's conversations.  The
unthinkable had suddenly been the only thing that made sense.

The looming bulk of the Bishop reared up on his right hand side like a
sleeping dinosaur, cutting him off from a signal on his mobile phone.
Oblivious to what was happening elsewhere, Alex was on a mission.  He
knew exactly what he was looking for.  He just didn't know where he
might find it.

He drove slowly, turning off on every farm track and side

road that led down towards the shores of the loch.  A light mist clung
to the surface of the steel-grey water, blanketing sound and adding an
unwelcome eeriness to his quest.  Alex pulled up in every gateway he
came to, getting out of the car and leaning into fields lest he miss
his quarry.  As the long grass soaked his ankles, he wished he'd
dressed more sensibly.  But he hadn't wanted to alert Lynn to the fact
that he was going anywhere other than the office.

He took his time, moving methodically along the loch side  He spent the
best part of an hour prowling round a small caravan site, but what he
was looking for wasn't there.  That didn't really surprise him.  He
didn't expect to find the object of his hunt anywhere that ordinary
punters had access to.

Around the time his distraught wife was giving her initial statement to
detectives, Alex was drinking coffee in a roadside tearoom, spreading
butter on a home-made scone, trying to get some warmth back in his
bones after the caravan site.  He had not the slightest inkling that
anything was wrong.

The first officer at the scene had found an incoherent woman with dirt
on her hands and the knees of her jeans wailing on the forecourt.  The
distraught attendant was standing helpless at her side while frustrated
motorists arrived and then left when they found they couldn't get
served.

"You get Jimmy Lawson here, now," she'd kept screaming at him while the
attendant explained what had happened.

The policeman had tried to ignore her demands, radioing in for urgent
assistance.  Then she'd grabbed his jacket and sprayed him with saliva,
all the while demanding the presence of the ACC Crime.  He tried to
fend her off, suggesting she might want to call her husband, a friend,
anyone.

Lynn pushed him away contemptuously and stormed back inside the garage.
From the scattered pile of her possessions,

she grabbed her mobile.  She tried Alex's number, but the irritating
voice of the service told her the number was unavailable.  Tuck," Lynn
yelled.  Her fingers fumbling over the keys, she managed to ring
home.

When Weird answered, she wailed, "Tom, he's taken Davina," Lynn wailed.
"The bastard's taken my daughter."

"What?  Who's taken her?"  "I don't know.  Macfadyen, I suppose.  He's
stolen my baby."  Now the tears came, cascading down her cheeks and
choking her.

"Where are you?"

"The services at Halbeath.  I only stopped for petrol.  I was only away
a minute .. ."  Lynn gagged on her words and dropped the phone at her
feet.  She crouched down, leaning against a confectionery display.  She
wrapped her arms over her head and sobbed.  She had no idea how much
time passed before she heard the soft, reassuring tones of a woman's
voice.  She looked up into a stranger's face.

"I'm Detective Inspector Cathy Mcintyre," the woman said.  "Can you
tell me what happened?"

"His name's Graham Macfadyen.  He lives iq St.  Monans," Lynn said. "He
stole my baby."

"Do you know this man?"  DI Mcintyre asked.

"No.  I don't.  But he's got it in for my husband.  He thinks Alex
killed his mother.  But of course, he's wrong.  He's deranged.  He's
already killed two people.  Don't let him kill my baby."  Lynn's words
tumbled over themselves, making her sound unhinged.  She tried to take
a deep breath and hiccupped.  "I know I sound crazy, but I'm not.  You
need to contact the Assistant Chief Constable.  James Lawson.  He knows
all about it."

DI Mcintyre looked dubious.  This was way outside her league and she
knew it.  All she'd managed to arrange so far was to radio all cars and
foot patrols to tell them to be on the lookout for a silver Golf driven
by a dark-haired man.

Maybe calling the ACC in would be her ticket out of humiliation. 
"Leave it with me," she said, heading back out to the forecourt to
consider her options.

Weird sat in the kitchen, fuming at his incapacity.  Prayer was all
very well, but a man needed a far higher level of internal calm to
achieve anything useful with prayer.  His imagination was galloping,
running movies of his own children in the hands of an abductor.  He
knew he'd be beyond the reach of any rational response in Lynn's shoes.
What he needed to do was come up with something concrete that might
help.

He'd tried to get hold of Alex.  But his mobile wasn't responding, and
Alex's office denied having seen him or heard from him at all that
morning.  So Alex was on the missing list too.  Weird wasn't entirely
surprised; he'd been convinced Alex had something on his mind he
intended to deal with.

He reached for the phone, wincing at even such a small movement, and
asked directory inquiries for the number of life Police.  It took him
all his powers of persuasion to get as far as Lawson's secretary.  "I
really need to speak to the Assistant Chief Constable," he said.  "It's
urgent.  You have a child abduction going on, and I have vital
information," he told the woman, who was clearly as adept at
stonewalling as he was at sweet-talking.

"Mr.  Lawson is in a meeting," she said.  "If you'll leave me your name
and number, I'll ask him to contact you when he has the chance."

"You're not hearing me, are you?  There's a baby out there whose life
is in the balance.  If anything happens to that baby, you can bet your
pension that I'm going to be talking to the press and TV within the
hour, letting them know how you guys fell down on the job.  If you
don't get Lawson on the line now, you're going to be the scapegoat."

There's no need for that attitude, sir," the woman said coldly.  "What
was your name again?"

"The Reverend Tom Mackie.  He'll talk to me, I promise "

you."  *

"Hold the line, please."  J

Weird raged inwardly to the soundtrack of a frenetic concerto gros so
After what felt an interminable wait, a voice he recognized down the
years sounded in his ears.  "This better be good, Mr.  Mackie.  I've
been dragged out of a meeting with the Chief Constable to talk to
you."

"Graham Macfadyen has snatched Alex Gilbey's baby.  I can't believe you
were sitting in a meeting while this is going on," Weird snapped.

"What did you say?"  Lawson said.

"You've got a child abduction on your hands.  About quarter of an hour
ago, Macfadyen kidnapped Davina Gilbey.  She's only a couple of weeks
old, for crying out loud."

"I know nothing about this, Mr.  Mackie.  Can you tell me what you
know?"

"Lynn Gilbey stopped for petrol at Halbeath services.  While she was
paying, Macfadyen stole the baby from Lynn's car.  Your guys are there
now, why has nobody told you?"

"Did Mrs.  Gilbey recognize Macfadyen?  Has she met him?"  Lawson
demanded.

"No.  But who else would want to hurt Alex like this?"

"Children are kidnapped for all sorts of reasons, Mr.  Mackie.  It may
not be personal."  The voice was soothing, but it had no effect.

"Of course it's personal," Weird shouted.  "Last night, somebody tried
to beat me to death.  You should have a report about that on your desk.
And this morning, Alex's kid is abducted.  You going to play the
coincidence card again?  Because we're not buying it.  You need to get
off your arse and find Macfadyen before anything happens to that
baby."

"Halbeath services, you say?"

"Yes.  You get down there right now.  You've got the authority to get
things moving."

"Let me speak to my officers ou the ground.  Meanwhile, Mr.  Mackie,
try to stay calm."

"Yeah, right.  That'll be easy."

"Where is Mr.  Gilbey?"  Lawson asked.

"I don't know.  He was supposed to be going to his office, but he's not
turned up there.  And his mobile's not responding."

"Leave this with me.  Whoever has the baby, we'll find them.  And we'll
bring her home."

"You sound like the worst kind of TV cop, you know that, Lawson?  Just
get things moving.  Find Macfadyen."  Weird slammed down the phone.  He
tried to tell himself he'd achieved something, but it didn't feel like
it.

It was no use.  He couldn't sit here doing nothing.  He reached for the
phone again and asked directory inquiries for a taxi number.

Lawson stared at the phone.  Macfadyen had crossed the line.  He should
have seen it coming but he had failed.  Now it was too late to put him
out of circulation.  This had all the potential to spiral out of
control.  And who knew what might happen then?  Struggling to maintain
the semblance of calm, he called the force control room and asked for a
report on what was going on at Halbeath.

As soon as he heard the words, "Silver Volkswagen Golf," his brain
replayed the walk up Macfadyen's path, the car parked in the drive.  No
question about it.  Macfadyen had lost it.

"Patch me through to the officer in charge at the scene," he ordered.
He drummed his fingers on the desk till the connection was made.  This
was the scenario from hell.  What the hell was Macfadyen playing at?
Was he taking revenge on Gilbey for the supposed wrong against his
mother?  Or was he playing a deeper game?  Whatever the agenda, the
child was at risk.  Normally, when babies were snatched, the abductor's
motivation was simple.  They wanted a child of

their own.  They would take care of the child, smothering it with love
and attention.  But this was different.  This child was a pawn in
whatever sick game Macfadyen was playing, and if murder was what he
thought he was avenging, then murder might be his end game  The
consequences of this scenario didn't bear thinking about.  Lawson's
stomach contracted at what it could mean.  "Come on," he muttered.

Eventually, a voice crackled on the line.  "This is DI Mcintyre," he
heard.  At least it was a woman DI who was on the ground, Lawson
thought with relief.  He remembered Cathy Mcintyre.  She'd been a
sergeant in CID when he'd been a uniformed superintendent at
Dunfermline.  She was a good officer, always did things by the
numbers.

"Cathy, it's ACC Lawson here."

"Yes, sir.  I was just about to call you.  The mother of the kidnapped
baby, a Mrs.  Lynn Gilbey?  She's been asking for you.  She seems to
think you will know what this is all about."

"It was a silver VW Golf that the abductor drove off in, is that
right?"

"Yes, sir.  We're trying to get an index number from the CCTV footage,
but we've only got footage of the car in motion.  He parked right up
behind Mrs.  Gilbey, you can't see his number plates when the car was
stationary."

"Keep someone on it for now.  But I think I know who's responsible for
this.  Graham Macfadyen is his name.  He lives at 12 Carlton Way, St.
Monans.  And I suspect that's where he's taken the child.  I think a
hostage situation is what he's aiming for.  So I want you to meet me
there, at the end of the road.  Don't come mob-handed but have someone
bring Mrs.  Gilbey in a separate car.  Radio silence with her.  I'll
organize the hostage negotiation team at this end, and brief you fully
when I get there.  Don't hang around, Cathy.  I'll see you in St.
Monans."

Lawson ended the call, then clenched his eyes tight in

concentration.  The freeing of hostages was the hardest task police
officers faced.  Dealing with the bereaved was a cakewalk by
comparison.  He called the control room again and ordered the
mobilization of the hostage negotiation team and an armed-response
unit.  "Oh, and get a Telecom engineer there too.  I want his access to
the outside world terminated."  Finally, he rang Karen Pirie.  "Meet me
in the car park in five minutes," he barked.  Till explain on the
way."

He was halfway to the door when his phone rang.  He debated whether to
answer it, then turned back.  "Lawson," he said.

"Hallo, Mr.  Lawson.  It's Andy down in the press office here.  I've
just had the Scotsman on with a very peculiar tale.  They say they've
just had an email from a guy who claims he's abducted a baby because
life Police are shielding the murderers of his mother.  It specifically
blames you for the situation.  It's apparently a very long and detailed
email.  They're going to forward it on to me.  They're asking if it's
true, basically.  Do we have a child abduction in progress?"

"Oh Christ," Lawson groaned.  "I had a horrible feeling something like
this was going to happen.  Look, we've got a very sensitive situation
going on here.  Yes, a baby has been abducted.  I don't have the full
story myself yet.  You need to talk to the control room, they can give
you chapter and verse.  I suspect you're going to get a lot of calls on
this, Andy.  Give them as much of the operational detail as you can.
Call a press conference for as late in the afternoon as you can get
away with.  But go strong on the line that this guy is mentally
disturbed and they shouldn't give credence to his ramblings."

"So the official line is that he's a nutter," Andy said.

"Pretty much.  But we're treating it very seriously.  A child's life is
at stake here, I don't want irresponsible reporting sending this guy
over the edge.  Is that clear?"

"I'm on it.  Talk to you later."

Lawson cursed under his breath then hurried towards the door.  This was
going to be the day from hell.

Weird asked the taxi driver to make a diversion to the retail park in
Kirkcaldy.  When they got there, he handed the driver a wad of notes.
"Do me a favour, pal.  You can see the state I'm in.  Go and buy me a
mobile phone.  One of those pay as-you-go jobs.  And a couple of top-up
cards.  I need to be connected to the world."

Quarter of an hour later, they were back on the road.  He fished out
the sheet of paper on which he'd scribbled the mobile numbers for Alex
and Lynn.  He tried Alex again.  Still no response.  Where in the name
of heaven was he?

Macfadyen stared at the baby in perplexity.  It had started crying
almost as soon as he'd brought it indoors, but he hadn't had time to
deal with it then.  He had emails to fire off, to tell the world what
was going on.  Everything was prepared.  He only had to get online and,
with a few mouse clicks, his message would go out to every news
organization in the country and most of the internet news sites.  Now
they'd have to pay attention.

He left the computers and returned to the living room, where he'd left
the baby carrier on the floor.  He knew he should stay with it to
prevent the police separating them in an assault on the house, but its
cries had driven him to distraction and he'd moved it so that he could
concentrate.  He'd drawn the curtains there, as he had in every other
room in the house.  He'd even nailed a blanket over the bathroom
window, whose frosted glass was normally uncurtained.  He knew how
sieges worked; the less the cops knew about what was going on inside
the house, the better for him.

The baby was still crying.  Its wails had died away to a low grizzle,
but as soon as he'd walked in, it had started screaming again.  The
sound went through his head like a drill, making

it impossible to think.  He had to shut it up.  He lifted it up
gingerly and held it to his chest.  The cries intensified, to the point
where he could feel them resonating in his chest.  Maybe it had a dirty
nappy, he thought.  He laid it on the floor and unwrapped the blanket
that swaddled it.  Underneath was a fleece jacket.  He undid that then
opened the poppers that ran up the insides of its legs, then unfastened
the vest underneath.  How many layers did the fucking kid need?  Maybe
it was just too hot.

He fetched a roll of kitchen towel and kneeled down.  He unpeeled the
tapes that held the nappy secure around the child's belly and recoiled.
God, that was revolting.  It was green, for Christ's sake.  Wrinkling
his nose in disgust, he removed the dirty nappy and scrubbed away the
remains from its bottom.  Hastily, before anything fresh could erupt,
he dumped the baby on a thick wad of kitchen towel.

All that, and it was still crying.  Jesus Christ, what did it take to
shut the little bastard up?  He needed it alive, at least for a while
yet, but this noise was driving him crazy.  He slapped the scarlet face
and earned a brief moment's respite.  But as soon as the shocked child
had filled its lungs again, the screams intensified.

Maybe he should feed it?  He went back to the kitchen and tipped some
milk into a cup.  He sat down, cradling the baby awkwardly in the crook
of his arm as he'd seen people do on TV.  He poked a finger between its
lips and tried to dribble some liquid in.  Milk trickled down its chin
and on to his sleeve.  He tried again, and this time it struggled
against him, the tiny hands fists, the legs kicking.  How could the
little bastard not know how to swallow?  How come it acted like he was
trying to poison it?  "What the fuck is wrong with you?"  he shouted.
It went rigid in his arms, wailing even more.

He struggled for a while longer, without success.  But all of a sudden,
the crying stopped.  The baby fell asleep instantly, as if someone had
turned off a switch.  One minute, it was

whingeing, the next its eyes were shut and it was spark out.  Macfadyen
inched off the sofa and placed it back in the carrier, forcing himself
to be gentle.  The last thing he could stand right now was a reprise of
that hellish noise.

He went back to his computers, planning to log on to a couple of
websites to see if they were running the story yet.  He wasn't entirely
surprised to see his screens displaying the message, "Connection lost'.
He'd expected them to cut off his phone lines.  As if that would stop
him.  He took a mobile off its charger and connected it to his laptop
with a short cable, then dialled up.  OK, it was like going back to
travelling on a mule after you'd driven a Ferrari.  But even though it
took a criminally long time to download anything, he was still
online.

If they thought they could shut him up that easily, they had another
think coming.  He was in this for the long haul, and he was in it for
victory.

Alex's enthusiasm was growing thin.  All that kept him going was a
dogged conviction that the answer he so desperately sought was out
there somewhere.  It had to be.  He'd covered the south side of the
loch and now he was working his way round to the north shore.  He'd
lost count of the number of fields he'd looked into.  He'd been stared
at by geese, by horses, by sheep and even, once, by a llama.  He
vaguely remembered reading somewhere that shepherds put them in with
their flocks to act as a defence against foxes, but he couldn't for the
life of him figure out how a big lazy lump with eyelashes a model would
die for was going to deter anything as fearless as the average fox.
He'd bring Davina out here and show her the llama one day.  She'd like
that when she was bigger.

The track he was driving down passed a pathetic-looking farm.  The
buildings were down at heel, guttering sagging and window frames
peeling.  The farmyard resembled a graveyard for machinery that had
been mouldering quietly into rust for generations.  A skinny collie
with a mad look strained against a chain, barking furiously and
fruitlessly at his passage.  A hundred yards past the farm gate, the
ruts deepened and grass straggled feebly up the middle.  Alex splashed
through the puddles, wincing as a rock crunched against his chassis.

A gateway loomed up in the high hedge to his left, and Alex pulled in
wearily.  He walked round the front of his car and leaned over the
metal bars.  He looked to his left and saw a handful of dirty brown
cows mournfully chewing the cud.  He gave a cursory glance to his right
and gasped.  He couldn't believe his eyes.  Was this really it?

Alex fumbled with the rusty chain that held the gate shut.  He let
himself into the field, and looped the links back around the post.  He
picked his way down the field, not caring about the mud or the dung
that clung to his expensive American loafers.  The closer he got to his
goal, the more certain he was that he'd found what he was looking
for.

He hadn't seen the caravan for twenty-five years, but his memory told
him this was the one.  Two-tone, like he remembered.  Cream on top,
sage green below.  The colours had faded, but it was still possible to
match them to his recollection.  As he grew closer, he could see it was
still in decent repair.  Breeze blocks piled at either end kept the
tyres above the ground, and there was no moss clinging to the roof or
the sills.  The brittle rubber round the windows had been treated with
some sort of sealant to keep it watertight, he saw as he circled it
cautiously.  There was no sign of life.  Light-coloured curtains were
drawn across the windows.  About twenty yards beyond the caravan, a
wicket gate in the fence led to the loch side  Alex could see a rowing
boat drawn up on the shore.

He turned back and stared.  He could hardly believe his eyes.  What
were the chances of this, he wondered.  Probably not as remote as it
might at first seem.  People got rid of furniture, carpets, cars.  But
caravans lived on, assuming an existence of their own.  He thought of
the elderly couple who lived opposite his parents.  They'd had the same
tiny two berth caravan since he'd been a teenager.  Every summer Friday
evening, they hitched it to their car and headed off.  Nowhere far,
just up the coast to Leven or Elie.  Sometimes they'd really

go for it and cross the Forth to Dunbar or North Berwick.  And on
Sunday evening, they'd return, as thrilled with themselves as if they'd
crossed the North Pole.  So really, it wasn't such a surprise that PC
Jimmy Lawson had hung on to the caravan he'd lived in while he'd built
his house.  Especially since every angler needs a retreat.  Most people
would likely have done the same.

Except, of course, that most people wouldn't have been hanging on to a
crime scene.

"Now do you believe Alex?"  Weird demanded of Lawson.  The effect of
his words was tempered by the fact that he was huddled into himself,
his arm across his ribs trying to stop them grating against each other
in spasms of agony.

The police hadn't been far ahead of Weird, and he'd arrived to find
apparent chaos.  Men in bulletproof vests with field caps and rifles
milled around, while other officers bustled hither and thither on
obscure tasks of their own.  Curiously, nobody seemed to be paying him
much attention.  He limped out of the taxi and surveyed the scene.  It
didn't take him long to spot Lawson, leaning over a map spread on a car
bonnet.  The woman cop he and Alex had talked to at police headquarters
was at his side, a mobile to her ear.

Weird approached, anger and apprehension acting as painkillers.  "Hey,
Lawson," he called from a few feet away.  "You happy now?"

Lawson spun round, a guilty thing surprised.  His jaw dropped as
recognition filtered through the damage to Weird's face.  "Tom Mackie?"
he said uncertainly.

"The same.  Now do you believe Alex?  That maniac has his kid in there.
He's already killed two people and you're just standing by in the hope
he'll make it easy for you by making it three."

Lawson shook his head.  Weird could see the anxiety in his eyes.
"That's not true.  We're doing everything we can to get

the Gilbeys' bahy back safely.  And you don't know that Graham
Macfadyen is guilty of anything else except this offence."

"No?  Who the hell else do you think killed Ziggy and Mondo?  Who the
hell else do you think did this to me?"  He raised a single finger
towards his face.  "He could have killed me last night."

"You saw him?"

"No, I was too busy trying to stay alive."

"In that case, we're exactly where we were before.  No evidence, Mr.
Mackie.  No evidence."

"Listen to me, Lawson.  We've lived with Rosie Duff's death for
twenty-five years.  Suddenly, her son turns up out of the blue.  And
the next thing that happens is that two of us are murdered.  For pity's
sake, man, why are you the only one who can't see that's cause and
effect?"  Weird was shouting now, oblivious to the fact that several
cops were now staring at him with watchful, impassive eyes.

"Mr.  Mackie, I'm trying to mount a complex operation here.  You
standing here throwing out unfounded allegations really doesn't help.
Theories are all very well, but" we operate on evidence."  Lawson's
anger was obvious now.  At his side, Karen Pirie had ended her call and
was moving unobtrusively closer to Weird.

"You don't find evidence unless you start looking for it."

"It's not my job to investigate murders that are outside my
jurisdiction," Lawson snapped.  "You're wasting my time, Mr.  Mackie.
And, as you point out, a child's life may be at stake."

"You are going to pay for this," Weird said.  "Both of you," he added,
turning to include Karen in his condemnation.  "You were warned and you
did nothing.  If he harms a hair on that child's head, I swear, Lawson,
you are going to wish you had never been born.  Now, where's Lynn?"

Lawson shuddered inwardly, remembering Lynn Gilbey's arrival at the
scene.  She'd hurtled out of the police car and

thrown herself at him, raining blows on his chest and screaming
incoherently.  Karen Pirie had stepped in smartly, wrapping her arms
round the frantic woman.

"She's in that white van over there.  Karen, take Mr.  Mackie over to
the armed-response unit vehicle.  And stay with him and Mrs.  Gilbey. I
don't want them running around like loose cannons when we've got
marksmen all over the place."

"See, when this is all over?"  Weird said as Karen steered him away.
"You and me are going to have a reckoning."

"I wouldn't bank on it, Mr.  Mackie," Lawson said.  "I'm a senior
police officer and threatening me is a serious offence.  Away you go
and lead a prayer meeting.  You do your job and I'll do mine."

Carlton Way looked like a back street in a ghost town.  Nothing
stirred. It was always quiet during the day, but today it was
preternaturally hushed.  The night-shift worker at number seven had
been rousted from his bed by a hammering at the back door.  Befuddled,
he'd been persuaded to get dressed and to accompany the two police
officers on his doorstep over the fence at the bottom of his garden and
through the playing fields to the main road, where he'd been told of
events so unlikely that he'd have thought it was a wind-up if not for
the overwhelming presence of the police and the roadblock that cut off
Carlton Way from the rest of the world,

"Is that all the houses empty now?"  Lawson asked DI Mcintyre.

"Yes, sir.  And the sole communication into Macfadyen's house is a
dedicated phone line for our use only.  All the armed response team
officers are deployed round the house now."

"Right.  Let's do it."

Two marked police cars and a van drove single-file into Carlton Way.
They parked in a line outside Macfadyen's house.  Lawson got out of the
lead vehicle and joined the

hostage negotiator, John Duncan, behind the van, out of sight of the
house.  "We're sure he's in there?"  Duncan said.

"So the techies say.  Thermal-imaging, or something.  He's in there
with the baby.  They're both still alive."

Duncan handed Lawson a set of headphones and picked up the phone
handset that would give him a line into the house.  The phone was
answered on the third ring.  Silence.  "Graham?  Is that you?"  Duncan
said, his voice firm but warm.

"Who's that?"  Macfadyen sounded surprisingly relaxed.

"My name's John Duncan.  I'm here to see what we can do to resolve this
situation without anyone getting hurt."

"I've nothing to say to you.  I want to speak to Lawson."

"He's not here right now.  But anything you say to me, I'll pass on to
him."

"It's Lawson or nobody."  Macfadyen's tone was pleasant and casual, as
if they were talking about the weather or the football.

"Like I said, Mr.  Lawson isn't here right now."

"I don't believe you, Mr.  Duncan.  But let's pretend you're telling me
the truth.  I'm in no hurry..1 can wrait till you find him."  The line
went dead.  Duncan looked at Lawson.  "End of round one," he said.
"We'll give him five minutes then I'll try him again.  He'll start
talking eventually."

"You think so?  He sounded pretty cool to me.  Don't you think I should
maybe talk to him?  That way, he might feel that he's going to get what
he's asking for."

"It's too early for concessions, sir.  He has to give us something
before we give him anything in return."

Lawson sighed deeply and turned away.  He hated the feeling of being
out of control.  This was going to be a media circus and the potential
for an atrocious outcome was far, far greater than the alternative.  He
knew about sieges.  They almost always ended badly for someone.

Alex contemplated his options.  In any other set of circumstances, the
sensible course of action would be to walk away now and go to the
police.  They could send in their forensic team and take the place
apart in search of the single drop of blood or the teardrop of paint
that would make the inevitable connection between this caravan and
Rosie Duff's death.

But how could he do that when the caravan in question belonged to the
Assistant Chief Constable?  Lawson would stop any investigation in its
tracks, kill it dead before it even got started.  The caravan would
doubtless go up in flames, laid at the door of vandals.  And then what
would there be?  Nothing more than coincidence.  Lawson's presence so
close to the place where Alex had stumbled over her body.  At the time,
nobody had thought twice about it.  Back in the late seventies in life,
the police were still above suspicion, the good guys keeping the bad
things at bay.  Nobody had even questioned why Lawson hadn't seen the
killer driving Rosie's body to Hallow Hill, even though he was parked
facing the most obvious route.  But this was a new world, a world where
it was possible to question the integrity of men like James Lawson.

If Lawson had been the mystery man in Rosie's life, it made sense that
she would keep his identity secret.  Her trouble making brothers would
have hated her seeing a copper.  Then there was the way that Lawson
always seemed to turn up when he or his friends were under threat, as
if he had appointed himself their guardian angel.  Guilt, Alex thought
now.  Guilt would do that to a man.  In spite of having killed Rosie,
Lawson still retained enough decency not to want someone else to pay
the price for his crime.

But none of those circumstances was any kind of proof.  The chance of
going back to witnesses after twenty-five years and finding someone who
had seen Rosie with Jimmy Lawson was nil.  The only solid evidence was
inside that caravan, and if Alex didn't do something about it now, it
would be too late.

But what could he do?  He wasn't versed in the techniques of burglary.
Breaking into cars as a teenager was light years away from picking a
lock, and if he forced the door, Lawson would be alerted.  At any other
time, he might put it down to kids or some homeless wanderer.  But not
now.  Not with so much interest in the Rosie Duff case.  He couldn't
afford to treat it as anything other than significant.  He might just
torch the place.

Alex stepped back and considered.  There was, he noticed, a skylight on
the roof.  Maybe he could squeeze in there?  But how to get up to the
roof?  There was only one possibility.  Alex trudged back to the gate,
wedged it open and drove into the boggy field.  For the first time in
his life, he wished he was the kind of moron who drove a big fuck-off
four-wheel drive around the city.  But no, he had to be Mr.  Flash with
his BMW 535.  What would he do if he got stuck in the mud?

He cruised slowly down to the caravan and stopped parallel with one
end.  He opened the boot and unfastened the car's standard-issue
toolkit.  Pliers, a screwdriver, a spanner.  He pocketed everything
that looked as if it might be useful, took off his suit jacket and his
tie then closed the boot.  He clambered over the bonnet and on to the
car roof.  From there, it wasn't far to the top of the caravan. 
Scrabbling for purchase, Alex somehow managed to launch himself on to
the roof.

It was disgusting up there.  The roof was slippery and slimy. 
Particles of dirt clung to his clothes and his hands.  The skylight was
a raised plastic dome about thirty inches by twelve.  It was going to
be a very tight squeeze.  He jammed the screwdriver under the edge and
tried to lever it up.

At first, it wouldn't budge.  But after repeated attempts at various
points along the rim, it slowly shifted, creaking upwards.  Sweating,
Alex wiped the back of his hand over his face and peered in.  There was
a pivoting metal arm with a screw adjustment that kept the skylight in
place, so it could

be raised and lowered from within.  It also prevented the skylight from
opening more than a few inches at one end.  Alex groaned.  He was going
to have to unscrew the metal arm and then replace it.

He fumbled to get the right angle.  It was hard to get any purchase on
the screws, which hadn't been moved since they were first put in more
than a quarter of a century before.  He strained and struggled until,
eventually, first one screw and then the other shifted in their
moorings.  At last, the skylight swung free.

Alex looked down.  It wasn't as bad as it might have been.  If he
lowered himself carefully, he reckoned he could reach the bench seat
that ran along one side of the living area.  He took a deep breath,
gripped the edge and let go.

He thought his arms would fly free from their sockets as the jolt of
his full weight travelled upwards.  His feet bicycled madly, trying for
purchase, but after a few seconds, he just let himself drop.

In the dim light, it looked as if little had changed since he'd sat
here all those years ago.  He'd had no intuition then that he was
sitting in the very place where Rosie had met her violent end.  There
was no tell-tale smell, no giveaway blood smears, no psychic stain to
set his nerves jangling.

He was so close to an answer now.  Alex could hardly bear to look up at
the ceiling.  What if Lawson had repainted it a dozen times since?
Would there still be evidence?  He let his heart rate subside to
something approaching normal, then, muttering a prayer to Weird's God,
he tilted his head back and looked up.

Shit.  The ceiling wasn't blue.  It was cream.  All this, and for
nothing.  Well, he wasn't going away empty-handed.  He climbed up on
the bench seat and chose a spot right in the corner, where it wouldn't
be noticed.  With the sharp blade of the screwdriver, he chipped away
at the paint, catching the flakes in an envelope he'd taken from his
briefcase.

When he had gathered a decent amount, he climbed back down and picked
out a fair-sized chip.  It was cream on one side, and blue on the
other.  Alex's legs trembled and he sat down heavily, overcome with a
turmoil of emotion.  From his pocket, he pulled the colour chart Jason
had left behind and looked at the blue oblong that had jogged his
visual memory of twenty-five years ago.  He lifted the edge of the
curtain to let daylight in and placed the flake of paint on the swatch
of pale blue.  It almost disappeared.

Tears pricked at Alex's eyes.  Was this the final answer?

Duncan had made three further attempts to talk to Graham Macfadyen, but
he had steadfastly refused to budge on his demand to speak to Lawson,
and Lawson only.  He'd allowed Duncan to hear Davina's cries, but that
had been the single concession he'd made.  Exasperated, Lawson decided
he'd had enough.

"Time's rolling on.  The baby's distressed, we've got the media
breathing down our necks.  Give me the phone.  I'm doing the talking
now," he said.

Duncan took one look at his boss's flushed face and handed over the
receiver.  "I'll help you keep it on track," he said.

Lawson made the connection.  "Graham?  It's me.  James Lawson.  I'm
sorry it's taken me so long to get here.  I understand you want to talk
to me?"

"Damn right I want to talk to you.  But before we get into it, I should
tell you that I'm recording this.  As we speak, it's going out live via
a web cast  The media have all got the url, so they're probably hanging
on our every word as we speak.  There's no point in trying to close
down the site, by the way.  I've got it set up to jump from server to
server. Before you can even find where it's coming from, it'll be
somewhere else."

"There's no need for this, Graham."

"There's every need.  You thought you could close me down by cutting
the phone lines, but you think like last century's man.  I'm the
future, Lawson, and you're history."

"How's the baby?"

"Pain in the arse, actually.  It just cries all the time.  It's doing
my head in.  But it's fine.  So far, anyway.  It's come to no harm
yet."

"You're harming her just by keeping her from her mother."

"It's not my fault.  It's Alex Gilbey's fault.  Him and his friends,
they kept me from my mother.  They murdered her.  Alex Gilbey, Tom
Mackie, David Kerr and Sigmund Malkiewicz murdered my mother, Rosie
Duff, on 16th December 1978.  First they raped her and then they
murdered her.  And life Police never charged them with the crime."

"Graham," Lawson interrupted, 'that's in the past.  What we're
concerned about now is the future.  Your future.  And the sooner we end
this, the better your future will be."

"Don't talk to me as if I'm stupid, Lawson.  I know I'm going to be
sent to prison for this.  It doesn't make any odds whether I give up my
hostage or not.  Nothing's going to change that, so don't insult my
intelligence.  I've got nothing left to lose, but I can make damn sure
that other people take a hit too.  Now, where was I?  Oh yes.  My
mother's murderers.  You never charged them.  And when you reopened the
case recently, with a big fanfare of trumpets about how DNA would solve
old crimes, you found you'd lost the evidence.  How could you do that?
How could you lose something so important?"

"We're losing control," Duncan whispered.  "He's calling the baby "it".
That's not good.  Get back to the baby."

"Kidnapping Davina isn't going to change that, Graham."

"It's stopped you sweeping my mother's murder under the carpet.  Now
the whole world's going to know what you've done."

"Graham, I'm as committed as I could be to dealing with whoever killed
your mother."

A hysterical laugh crackled down the line.  "Oh, I know that.  I just
don't believe in your way of dealing with them.  I want them to suffer
in this world, not the next.  They're dying like heroes.  What they
really were is being swept under the carpet.  That's what comes of
doing it your way."

"Graham, we need to talk about your situation as it is now.  Davina
needs her mother.  Why don't you bring her out now and we'll talk about
your complaints?  I promise we'll listen."

"Are you crazy?  This is the only way to get your attention, Lawson.
And I plan to make the most of it before this is over."  The call ended
abruptly with the crashing down of the phone at the other end.

Duncan tried to hide his frustration.  "Well, at least we know now
what's eating him."

"He's off his head.  We can't negotiate with him if he's broadcasting
it to the world.  Who knows what crazy allegations he's going to come
up with next?  The man should be sectioned, not humoured."  Lawson
slammed his hand against the side of the van.

"Before we can do that, we need to get him and the baby out of
there."

"Fuck that," Lawson said.  "It'll be dark in an hour.  We'll storm the
place."

Duncan looked stunned.  "Sir, that's way outside the rules of
engagement."

"So is kidnapping a baby," Lawson called over his shoulder as he
stalked back to his car.  "I'm not standing by while a child's life is
at risk."

Alex hit the track with an overwhelming sense of relief.  There had
been a couple of moments when he'd seriously doubted he'd ever get out
of the field without a tractor.  But he'd made it.  He picked up his
phone, planning to call Jason and tell

him he was on his way with something very interesting.  No signal. Alex
tutted and drove carefully up the rutted lane towards the main road.

As he neared Kinross, his phone rang.  He grabbed it.  Four messages.
He thumbed the keys and summoned them.  The first was from Weird, a
terse message telling him to call home as soon as he picked it up.  The
second was also from Weird, passing on a mobile number.  The third and
fourth were from journalists asking him to return their calls.

What the hell was going on?  Alex pulled into a pub car park on the
outskirts of the town and called Weird's number.  "Alex?  Thank the
Lord," Weird gasped.  "You're not driving, are you?"

"No, I'm parked up.  What's going on?  I've got these messages ."

"Alex, you have to be calm."

"What is it?  Davina?  Lynn?  What's happened?"

"Alex, something bad has happened.  But everybody's OK."

"Weird, just fucking tell me," Alex roared, panic thudding in his
chest.

"Macfadyen has taken Davina," he said, speaking slowly and clearly.
"He's holding her hostage.  But she's OK.  He hasn't hurt her."

Alex felt as if someone had reached inside his body and ripped his
heart out.  All the love he'd discovered in himself seemed to transmute
into a mixture of fear and rage.  "What about Lynn?  Where is she?"  he
choked out.

"She's here with us, outside Macfadyen's house in St.  Monans.  Hang
on, I'll let you speak to her."  A moment passed, then he heard a
forlorn shadow of Lynn's voice.

"Where have you been, Alex?  He stole Davina.  He took our baby, Alex."
He could hear the tears hovering beneath the hoarseness.

The was in a black spot.  No reception.  Lynn, I'm coming.  Hold on.
Don't let them do anything.  I'm coming, and I know

something that'll change everything.  Don't let them do anything, you
hear?  It's going to be all right.  You hear?  It's going to be OK. Put
Weird back on, please?"  As he spoke, he was starting the engine and
pulling out of the car park.

"Alex?"  He could hear the strain in Weird's voice.  "How soon can you
be here?"

"I'm in Kinross.  Forty minutes?  Weird, I know the truth.  I know what
happened to Rosie and I can prove it.  When Macfadyen hears this, he'll
understand he doesn't need to take any more revenge.  You've got to
stop them doing anything that puts Davina at risk until I can tell him
what I know.  This is dynamite."

"I'll do my best.  But they've got us shut away from the action."

"Whatever it takes, Weird, do it.  And look after Lynn for me,
please?"

"Of course.  Get here fast as you can, eh?  God bless you."

Alex jammed his foot to the floor and drove as he'd never driven.  He
almost wished to be stopped for speeding.  That way he'd get a police
escort.  Blues and twos all the way to the East Neuk.  That was what he
needed right now.

Lawson looked around the church hall they'd commandeered.  "The
technical support team can identify which rooms Macfadyen and the baby
are in.  So far, he's spent most of his time in a room at the back of
the house.  The baby is sometimes with him and sometimes in the front
room.  So it should be straightforward.  We wait till they're
separated, then one team goes in the front and gets the baby.  The
other team goes in the back and closes down Macfadyen.

"We wait till it's dark.  The streetlights will be off.  He won't be
able to see a damn thing.  I want this to go like clockwork.  I want
that baby out of there alive and unharmed.

"Macfadyen is another matter.  He's mentally unstable.  We have no idea
whether he is armed or not.  We have reason to

believe he has already killed twice.  Only last night, he is believed
to have committed a serious assault.  If he hadn't been disturbed then,
it's my belief he would have killed again.  He said himself he has
nothing left to lose.  If he shows any sign of reaching for a weapon, I
am authorizing you to open fire.  Does anyone have any questions?"

The room was silent.  The officers in the armed-response group had
honed their skills for an operation like this.  The room had become a
vessel for testosterone and adrenaline.  This was the moment when fear
was given another name.

Macfadyen tapped the keys and clicked his mouse.  The connection over
the mobile phone was abominably slow, but he'd managed to upload his
conversation with Lawson to the website now.  He sent out a follow-up
email to the news outlets he'd contacted earlier, telling them they
could get a front-row seat at the siege by linking to his site, where
they could hear for themselves what was going on.

He was under no illusion that he could control the outcome.  But he was
determined to stage-manage what he could, and to do whatever was
necessary to make this front-page news.  If that cost the baby's life,
so be it.  He was ready.  He could do it, he knew he could.  No matter
whether it meant his name would be synonymous with evil in the
tabloids.  He wasn't going to come out of this as the only bad guy.
Even if Lawson had called for a news blackout, the information was out
there now, in the wild.  He couldn't gag the internet, couldn't stop
those facts spawning.  And Lawson must know by now that Macfadyen had
an ace in the hole.

Next time they called, he'd lay it out.  He'd reveal the full extent of
the police duplicity.  He'd tell the world how low justice had stooped
in Scotland.

It was judgement day.

Alex was halted at a police roadblock.  He could see the

massed emergency vehicles ahead, could just make out the red-and-white
barriers at the mouth of Carlton Way.  He rolled down the window, aware
that he looked filthy and dishevelled.  "I'm the father," he told the
police officer who leaned down to speak to him.  "It's my baby in
there.  My wife's here somewhere, I need to be with her."

"Have you got some ID, sir?"  the constable asked.

Alex produced his driving licence.  "I'm Alex Gilbey.  Please, let me
through."

The constable compared his face to the picture on the licence, then
turned away to speak into his radio.  He came back a moment later. "I'm
sorry, Mr.  Gilbey.  We have to be careful.  If you'd just park on the
verge there, one of the officers will take you to your wife."

Alex followed another yellow-jacketed officer to a white minibus.  He
opened the door and Lynn leaped out of her seat, falling into his arms
on the steps.  Her body was trembling and he could feel her heart
thudding against him.  There were no words for what ailed them.  They
simply clung to each other, their anguish and fear palpable.

For a long time, no one spoke.  Then Alex said, "It's going to be OK. I
can end this now."

Lynn looked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and swollen.  "How, Alex?  You
can't fix this."

The can, Lynn.  I know the truth now."  He looked over her shoulder and
saw Karen Pirie sitting by the door, next to Weird.  "Where's
Lawson?"

"He's at a briefing," Lynn said.  "He'll be back soon.  You can talk to
him then."

Alex shook his head.  "I don't want to talk to him.  I want to talk to
Macfadyen."

"That won't be possible, Mr.  Gilbey.  It's being dealt with by trained
negotiators.  They know what they're doing."

"You don't understand.  There are things he needs to hear that only I
can tell him.  I don't want to threaten him.  I don't

even want to plead with him.  I just need to tell him something."

Karen sighed.  "I know you're very upset, Mr.  Gilbey.  But you could
do a lot of harm thinking you're doing good."

Alex gently disengaged himself from Lynn's arms.  "This is about Rosie
Duff, right?  This is happening because he thinks I had something to do
with Rosie Duff's murder, isn't it?"

"That would appear to be the case, sir."  Karen spoke cautiously.

"What if I told you that I can answer his questions?"

"If you have information pertaining to the case, I'm the one you should
be talking to."

"All in good time, I promise.  But Graham Macfadyen deserves to be the
first to hear the truth.  Please.  Trust me.  I've got my reasons. 
It's my daughter's life that's at stake here.  If you won't let me talk
to Macfadyen, I'm walking away from here and telling the press what I
know.  And believe me, you don't want me to do it that way."

Karen weighed up the situation.  Gilbey seemed calm.  Almost too calm.
She wasn't trained in dealing with situations like this.  Normally,
she'd pass it up the line.  But Lawson was busy elsewhere.  Maybe the
person to deal with this was the hostage negotiator.  "Let's go and
talk to Inspector Duncan.  He's been speaking to Macfadyen."

She climbed out of the van and called one of the uniformed officers
over.  "Please stay with Mrs.  Gilbey and Mr.  Mackie."

"I'm going with Alex," Lynn said mutinously.  "I'm not leaving his
side."

Alex took her hand.  "We go together," he said to Karen.

She knew when she was beaten.  "OK, let's go," she said, leading the
way towards the cordon that blocked the entrance to Macfadyen's
street.

Alex had never felt so alive.  He was conscious of the movements of his
muscles with every step he took.  His senses seemed heightened, every
sound and smell amplified almost beyond

bearing.  He would never forget this short walk.  This was the most
important moment of his life and he was determined to do the right
thing, the right way.  He'd rehearsed the conversation on his
helter-skelter drive to St.  Monans and he was sure he'd found the
words to win his daughter's freedom.

Karen brought them to a white van parked outside the familiar house. In
the gathering dusk, everything seemed overlaid with gloom, reflecting
the spirits of those involved in the siege.  Karen banged on the side
of the van and the door slid open.  John Duncan's head appeared in the
gap.  "DC Pirie, isn't it?  What can I do for you?"

"This is Mr.  and Mrs.  Gilbey.  He wants to speak to Macfadyen,
sir."

Duncan's eyebrows rose in alarm.  "I don't think that's a good idea.
The only person Macfadyen wants to speak to is ACC Lawson.  And he's
given orders for no more calls till he gets back."

"He needs to hear what I have to say," Alex said heavily.  "He's doing
this because he wants the world to know who killed his mother.  He
thinks it was me and my friends.  But he's wrong.  I found out the
truth today and he should be the first person to hear it."

Duncan failed to hide his astonishment.  "You're saying you know who
killed Rosie Duff?"

"I do."

"Then you should be making a statement to one of our officers," he said
firmly.

A tremor of emotion flickered across Alex's face, betraying how tightly
he was holding himself in.  "That's my daughter in there.  I can end
this now.  Every minute you delay letting me talk to him is a minute
when she's at risk.  I'm not talking to anybody but Macfadyen.  And if
you won't let me talk to him, I'm going to the press.  I'm going to
tell them I have the means to finish this siege and you won't let me
use them.  Do you really want that to be your professional epitaph?"

it

"You don't know what you're doing here.  You're not a trained
negotiator."  Alex could tell it was Duncan's last throw of the dice.

"All your training doesn't seem to have done you much good, does it?"
Lynn interjected.  "Alex spends all his working life negotiating with
people.  He's very good at it.  Let him try.  We'll take full
responsibility for the outcome."

Duncan looked at Karen.  She shrugged.  He took a deep breath and
sighed.  "I'll be listening in," he said.  "If I think the situation is
getting out of control, I'll end the call."

Relief made Alex dizzy.  "Fine.  Let's do it," he said.

Duncan brought out the phone and clamped headphones over his ears.  He
handed a pair to Karen and the receiver to Alex.  "It's all yours."

The phone rang.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.  Halfway through the
fourth ring, it was picked up.  "Back for more, Lawson?"  the voice on
the other end said.

He sounded so ordinary, Alex thought.  Not like a man who would kidnap
a baby and dangle its life in the balance.  "This isn't Lawson.  This
is Alex Gilbey."

"I've got nothing to say to you, you murdering bastard."

"Give me a minute of your time.  I've got something to tell you."

"If you're going to deny you killed my mother, save your breath.  I
won't believe you."

The know who killed your mother, Graham.  And I have proof.  It's here
in my pocket.  I've got paint flakes that match the paint on your
mother's clothes.  I took them this afternoon from a caravan by Loch
Leven."  No response other than a sharp intake of breath.  Alex
soldiered on.  "There was someone else there that night.  Someone
nobody paid any attention to because he had a reason to be there.
Someone who met your mother after work and took her back to his
caravan.  I don't know what happened, but I suspect she probably
refused to have sex with him and he raped her.  When he came to his

senses, he realized he couldn't let her go to tell her tale.  It would
be the end of everything for him.  So he stabbed her.  And he took her
up to Hallow Hill and left her there to die.  And nobody ever suspected
him because he was on the side of the law."  Karen Pirie was staring at
him now, openmouthed and horror-struck as she grasped the implications
of what he was saying.

"Say his name," Macfadyen whispered.

"Jimmy Lawson.  It was Jimmy Lawson who murdered your mother, Graham.
Not me."

"Lawson?"  It was almost a sob.  This is a trick, Gilbey."

"No trick, Graham.  Like I said, I've got proof.  What have you got to
lose by believing me?  End this now, you get the chance to see justice
done at last."

There was a long silence.  Duncan edged forward, poised to take the
phone from Alex.  Alex deliberately turned away, gripping the handset
tighter.  Then Macfadyen spoke.

"I thought he was doing it because it was the only way of getting some
kind of justice.  And I didn't want it his way because I wanted you to
suffer.  But he was doing it to cover his back," Macfadyen said, his
words meaning nothing to a bewildered Alex.

"Doing what?"  Alex said.

"Killing you guys."

A pall of darkness hung over Carlton Way.  Within the gloom, darker
shapes moved, semi-automatic weapons held close to their bulletproof
vests.  They covered the terrain with the silent delicacy of a lion
stalking an antelope.  As they approached the house, they fanned out,
crouching to stay below window sills, then regrouping on either side of
front and back doors.  Each man fought to keep his breathing soft and
steady, heart pounding like a drum calling him to battle.  Fingers
checked that earpieces were in place.  None wanted to miss the clarion
call to action when it came.  If it came.  This was no time for
ambivalence.  When the word sounded, they'd demonstrate their
commitment.

Above their heads, the helicopter hovered, the technicians glued to
their thermal-imaging screens.  Theirs was the responsibility for
making sure the moment was right.  Sweat prickled their eyes and
dampened their palms as they focused on the two bright shapes.  As long
as they stayed apart, they could give the go-ahead.  But if they merged
into one, everyone stayed on pause.  There was no room for error here.
Not with a life at stake.

Now it was all in the hands of one man.  Assistant Chief Constable
James Lawson walked down Carlton Way, knowing this was the last throw
of the dice.

Alex struggled to make sense of Macfadyen's words.  "What do you mean?"
he asked.

"I saw him last night.  With the baseball bat.  Under the bridge.
Hitting your pal.  I thought he wanted justice.  I thought that's why
he was doing it.  But if Lawson killed my mother .. ."

Alex clung to the one thing he knew to be true.  "He killed her,
Graham.  I've got the evidence."  Suddenly the line went dead. Baffled,
Alex rounded on Duncan.  "What the fuck?"  he said.

"Enough," Duncan said, wrenching the headphones from his head.  "I'm
not having this broadcast to the world.  What the hell is this, Gilbey?
Some kind of pact between you and Macfadyen to fit up Lawson?"

"What are you talking about?"  Lynn demanded.

"It was Lawson," Alex said.

"I heard you, Lawson killed Rosie," Lynn said, gripping his arm.

"Not just Rosie.  He killed Ziggy and Mondo too.  And he tried to kill
Weird.  Macfadyen saw him," Alex said wonderingly.  "I don't know what
you think you're playing at..  ."  Duncan began.  He was stopped in his
tracks by the arrival of Lawson.  Pale and sweating, the ACC looked
around the group, puzzled and clearly angry.

"What the hell are you two doing here?"  he demanded, pointing at Alex
and Lynn.  He rounded on Karen.  "I told you to keep her in the ARU
van.  Christ, this is a fucking circus.  Get them out of here."

There was a moment of silence, then Karen Pirie said, "Sir, some very
serious allegations have been made that we need to talk about .. ."

"Karen, this is not a fucking debating society.  We're in the middle of
a life-and-death operation," Lawson shouted.  He raised his radio to
his lips.  "Is everyone in position?"

Alex dashed the radio from Lawson's hand.  "Listen to me, you bastard."
Before he could say more, Duncan was grappling him to the ground. Alex
wrestled the policeman, dragging his head free to shout, "We know the
truth, Lawson.  You killed Rosie.  And you killed my friends.  It's
over.  You can't hide any longer."

Lawson's eyes blazed fury.  "You're as mad as he is."  He bent down and
retrieved his radio as a couple of uniformed officers dived on top of
Alex.

"Sir," Karen said urgently.

"Not now, Karen," Lawson exploded.  He turned away, his radio to his
face again.  "Is everyone in position?"

The replies crackled back through his earpiece.  Before Lawson could
respond, he heard the voice of the technical support commander in the
helicopter.  "Hold fire.  Target with hostage."

He hesitated for only a second.  "Go," he said.  "Go, go, go."

Macfadyen was ready to face the world.  Alex Gilbey's words had
restored his faith in the possibility of justice.  He would give the
man his daughter back.  To ensure s^afc passage, he'd take a knife with
him.  One final insurance policy to get him safely out the door and
into the arms of the waiting police.

He was halfway to the front door, Davina tucked under his arm like a
parcel, a kitchen knife in his free hand, when his world exploded.
Doors caved in front and back.  Men shouted, a deafening cacophony.
Brilliant white flares exploded, blinding him.  Instinctively, he
pulled the child round to his chest.  The hand holding the knife came
up towards her.  Through the chaos, he thought he heard someone shout,
"Drop her."

He felt paralysed.  He couldn't let go.

The lead marksman saw a child's life at risk.  He spread his feet,
steadied his gun hand and aimed for the head.

April 2004; Blue Mountains, Georgia The spring sunshine shimmered over
the trees as Alex and Weird emerged on to the ridge.  Weird led the way
to an outcropping of rock that jutted over the slope and clambered up,
settling down with his long legs dangling over the edge.  He reached
into his backpack and came out with a small pair of binoculars.  He
trained them down the hillside then passed them over to Alex.

"Straight down, then slightly to your left."

Alex adjusted the focus and ranged over the territory below.  All of a
sudden, he realized he was looking at the roof of their cabin.  The
figures running around outside were Weird's kids.  The adults sitting
by the picnic table were Lynn and Paul.  And the baby kicking on the
rug at her feet was Davina.  He watched as his daughter spread her arms
wide and chuckled up at the trees.  His love for her pierced him like
stigmata.

He'd come so close to losing her.  When he'd heard the gunshot, he
thought his heart would explode.  Lynn's scream had echoed in his head
like the end of the world.  An eternity had passed before one of the
armed cops had emerged with Davina in his arms, and even that had been
no relief.  As they approached, all he could see was blood.

But the blood had all been Macfadyen's.  The marksman had hit his
target unflinchingly.  Lawson's face could have been carved from
granite for all the expression he showed.

In the mayhem that had followed, Alex had torn himself away from his
wife and daughter long enough to grab Karen Pirie.  "You need to secure
that caravan."

"What caravan?"

"Lawson's fishing caravan.  Up at Loch Leven.  That's where he killed
Rosie Duff.  The paint on his ceiling matches the paint on Rosie's
cardigan.  You never know, there might even be blood traces still."

She'd looked at him with distaste.  "You expect me to take that shit
seriously?"

"It's the truth."  He pulled the envelope out of his pocket.  "I've got
the paint that will prove I'm right.  If you let Lawson get back to the
caravan, he'll destroy it.  The evidence will go up in smoke.  You've
got to stop him doing that.  I'm not making this up," he said,
desperate to make her believe him.  "Duncan heard Macfadyen too.  He
saw Lawson attacking Tom Mackie last night.  Your boss will stop at
nothing to cover his tracks.  Take him into custody and secure that
caravan."

Karen's face had remained expressionless.  "You're suggesting I arrest
my Assistant Chief Constable?"

"Strathclyde Police took Helene Kerr and Jackie Donaldson into custody
on a lot less evidence than you've heard here this afternoon."  Alex
struggled to stay calm.  He couldn't believe this was all slipping away
from him now.  "If Lawson wasn't who he is, you wouldn't be
hesitating."

"But he is who he is.  He's a highly respected senior police
officer."

"Caesar's wife, officer.  All the more reason why you should take this
seriously.  You think this isn't going to be all over the papers
tomorrow morning?  If you think Lawson's clean, then show him to be
clean."

"Your wife's calling you, sir," Karen had said icily.  She'd walked
away, leaving him stranded.

But she'd taken his words on board.  She hadn't arrested Lawson, but
she had gathered a couple of uniformed officers and unobtrusively left
the scene.  Next morning, Alex had had a call from Jason, exultantly
informing him that he'd heard on the forensic grapevine that his
colleagues in Dundee had taken possession of a caravan late the
previous night.  Game on.

Alex lowered the glasses.  "They know you spy on them?"

Weird grinned.  "I tell them God sees everything, and I have a direct
line to him."

"I bet you do."  Alex lay back, letting the sun dry the sweat from his
face.  It had been a steep and breathless climb up here.  No time for
talking.  This was the first chance he'd had alone with Weird since
they'd arrived the previous day.  "Karen Pirie came to see us last
week," he said.

"How was she?"

It was, Alex had come to understand, a typical Weird question.  Not,
"What did she have to say for herself?"  but rather, "How was she?"
He'd underestimated his friend too often in the past.  Now perhaps he'd
have the chance to make up for that.  "I think she's still pretty
shaken up.  Her and most of the cops in life.  It's a bit of a stunner
when you find out that your Assistant Chief Constable's a rapist and a
multiple murderer.  The reverberations are pretty serious.  I think
half the force still believes that Graham Macfadyen and I made the
whole thing up between us."

"So Karen came to debrief you?"

"Sort of.  It's not her case any more, of course.  She had to hand over
the Rosie Duff investigation to officers from an outside force, but
she's made pals with one of their team.  Which means she's still got an
inside track.  Credit to her, she wanted to come and fill us in on the
latest."

"Which is what?"

"All the forensics have been completed on the caravan.  As well as the
paint matches, they found some tiny spots of blood where the bench seat
meets the floor.  They took blood samples from Rosie's brothers and
from Macfadyen's body, because of course there's nothing left of
Rosie's DNA for comparison so they have to go with close relatives. And
the overwhelming odds are that the blood in Lawson's caravan came from
Rosie Duff."

"That's incredible," Weird said.  "After all this time, he gets caught
by a flake of paint and a drop of blood."

"One of his former colleagues has come forward with a statement that
Lawson used to boast about passing the time on the night shift by
taking lassies back to his caravan and having sex with them.  And our
evidence puts him very close to where the body was found.  Karen says
the fiscal's office were a bit wobbly at first, but they decided to go
ahead with a prosecution.  When he heard that, Lawson just crumbled.
She said it was as if he just couldn't carry the load any longer.
Apparently, it's not an uncommon phenomenon.  Karen told me that, when
they're cornered, it's not unusual for murderers to feel the need to
unburden themselves of every single bad thing they've ever done."

"So why did he do it?"

Alex sighed.  "He'd been going out with her for a few weeks.  And she
wouldn't go the whole way.  He says she would only ever go so far, then
no further.  And she drove him beyond control.  He raped her. According
to him, she said she was going straight to the police.  And he couldn't
handle that, so he picked up his filleting knife and stabbed her.  It
was already snowing, he thought there would be nobody around, so he
dumped her on Hallow Hill.  He meant it to look like it had been a
ritual killing.  He's saying he was horrified when he realized we were
being suspected.  Obviously, he didn't want to be caught himself, but
he claims he didn't want anybody else fitted up for the crime."

"Very high-minded of him."  Weird said cynically.

"I think that's the truth.  I mean, with one little lie, he could have
dumped one of us right in the shit.  Once Maclennan knew about the Land
Rover, all Lawson had to do was to say it had slipped his mind that
he'd seen it earlier.  Either on the way to Hallow Hill or outside the
Lammas at closing time."

"The Lord alone knows the truth, but we can give him the benefit of the
doubt, I suppose.  You know, he must have thought he was home and dry
after all this time.  Never so much as a whisper of suspicion."

"No.  We were the ones who carried that can.  Lawson had twenty-five
years of living an apparently blameless life.  And then the Chief
Constable announces a cold case review.  According to Karen, Lawson had
ditched the physical evidence the first time DNA was used successfully
in court.  It was still held at St.  Andrews then, so he'd have had no
trouble accessing it.  The cardigan was genuinely misfiled at some
point when the evidence was moved from one location to another, but the
rest of the clothes, the stuff with the biological samples, he got rid
of himself."

Weird frowned.  "How come the cardigan ended up in a completely
different place from the body?"

"When he was going back to his panda car, Lawson found the car die
lying in the snow.  He'd dropped it carrying the body up the hill.  He
just stuffed it into the nearest hedge.  It was the last thing he
wanted sitting around in his police car.  So with all the relevant
evidence missing, he must have thought he could still ride out the
review safely."

"And then Graham turns up out of the woodwork.  The one factor he'd
never been able to take account of because of her family's craving for
respectability.  Here was somebody who really had a stake in Rosie's
death, demanding answers.  But what I still don't see is why he decided
to start killing us off," Weird said.

"According to Karen, Macfadyen was on Lawson's back constantly.
Demanding he re-interview witnesses.  Particularly us.  He was
convinced we were the guilty men.  Among the stuff on his computer,
there was an account of his conversations with Lawson.  At one point,
he comments that it surprised him that Lawson hadn't seen anything
suspicious, sitting in his patrol car.  When he put that to Lawson, he
seemed very edgy about it, which Macfadyen assumed was because it
sounded like he was being critical.  But of course, what was really
behind it was that Lawson didn't want anyone focusing on what he'd been
doing that night.  Everyone had taken his presence at the scene for
granted, but once you took us out of the equation, the only person we
know for sure was in the area that night was Lawson himself.  If he
hadn't been a cop, he'd have been the prime suspect."

"Even so.  Why decide to go for us after all this time?"

Alex shifted uncomfortably on the rock.  "This is the bit that's hard
to take.  According to Lawson, he was being blackmailed."

"Blackmailed?  Who by?"

"Mondo."

Weird looked thunderstruck.  "Mondo?  You're kidding.  What kind of
sick line is Lawson shooting now?"

"I don't think it's a line.  You remember the day Barney Maclennan
died?"

Weird shuddered.  "How could I forget?"

"Lawson was the front man on the rope.  He saw what happened. 
According to him, Maclennan was hanging on to Mondo, but Mondo panicked
and kicked him off the rope."

Weird closed his eyes momentarily.  "I wish I could say I don't believe
it, but it's exactly how Mondo would react.  Still, I don't understand
what that has to do with Lawson being blackmailed."

"After they pulled Mondo up, it was chaos.  Lawson took charge of
Mondo.  He went in the ambulance with him.  He

told Mondo he'd seen what had happened and promised that he would make
sure Mondo paid the full legal price for what he'd done.  And that's
when Mondo dropped his wee bombshell.  Mondo claimed that he'd seen
Rosie getting into Lawson's patrol car one night outside the Lammas.
Well, Lawson knew that he'd be in deep shit if that came out.  So he
did a deal.  If Mondo kept quiet about what he'd seen, Lawson would do
the same."

"Not so much blackmail as mutually assured destruction," Weird said
harshly.  "What went wrong?"

"As soon as the cold case review was announced, Mondo went to see
Lawson and told him that the price of his continued silence was to be
left alone.  He didn't want his life blown apart a second time.  And he
told Lawson he had insurance.  That he wasn't the only one who knew
what he'd seen.  Only, of course, he didn't specify which one of us
he'd allegedly told.  That's why Lawson was so insistent that Karen
concentrate on the physical evidence rather than interviewing us again.
It bought him time while he killed off anyone who might know the truth.
But then he got too clever by half.  He wanted to create a suspect for
Mondo's murder.  So he provided Robin Maclennan with a motive by
telling him how Barney really died.  But before Lawson could kill
Mondo, Robin Maclennan got in touch with Mondo, who panicked and went
to see Lawson again."  Alex gave a wry smile.  "That was the bit of
business he had over in life the night he came to see me.  Anyway,
Mondo accused Lawson of breaking his end of the bargain.  Older and
wiser, or so he thought.  He said he'd get his side of the story in
first so that Lawson's claim that he killed Barney Maclennan would look
like the desperate mudslinging of a cornered man."  Alex rubbed a hand
over his face.

Weird groaned.  "Poor, silly Mondo."

"The irony is that, if it hadn't been for Graham Macfadyen's obsession
with the case, Lawson might well have succeeded in killing all four of
us."

"What do you mean?"

"If Graham hadn't been tracking us all via the internet, he'd never
have found out about Ziggy's death and he wouldn't have sent that
wreath.  Then we'd never have made a connection between the two murders
and Lawson would have been able to pick us off at his leisure.  Even
then, he muddied the waters as much as he could.  He carefully made
sure I knew all about Graham, even though he pretended he'd
accidentally let it slip.  And of course, he told Robin Maclennan how
Mondo had killed his brother.  That way, he could give himself a bit of
insurance.  After Mondo was killed, the sly bastard went to Robin and
offered him an alibi.  Which Robin agreed to, not thinking for a minute
that it worked the other way too that he was giving an alibi to the
real killer."

Weird shivered and pulled his legs up, hugging his knees to his chest.
He felt a twinge in his ribs, the shadow of a former pain.  "But why
did he come after me?  He must have realized that neither of us knew
what Mondo had seen or else we'd have confronted him with it after
Mondo's death."

Alex sighed.  "By that time, he'd dug himself in too deep.  Because of
Macfadyen's wreaths, we'd made the connection between two killings that
were supposed to look completely unrelated.  His only hope was to make
Macfadyen look like the killer.  And Macfadyen wouldn't have stopped at
two, would he?  He'd have gone on until he'd taken us all out."

Weird shook his head sadly.  "What a terrible mess.  But why did he
kill Ziggy first?"

Alex groaned.  "It's so banal it would make you weep.  Apparently he'd
already booked his holiday in the States before the cold case review
was announced."

Weird licked his lips.  "So it could just as easily have been me?"

"If he'd decided to go fishing on your side of the country, yes."

Weird closed his eyes, steepling his fingers in his lap.  "What about
Ziggy and Mondo?  What's happening about that?"

"Not so good, I'm afraid.  In spite of the fact that Lawson's singing
like the proverbial bird, they've got no corroborative evidence that
ties Lawson into Mondo's murder.  He was very, very careful.  He's got
no alibi, but he claims he was up at his caravan that night, so even if
they can find a neighbour to confirm his car wasn't at his house, he's
covered."

"He's going to get away with it, isn't he?"

"It looks that way.  Under Scots law, a confession has to be
corroborated before a prosecution can succeed.  But the cops in Glasgow
are giving Helene and Jackie a wide berth, which is a result of
sorts."

Weird slammed the flat of his hand against the rock in frustration.
"What about Ziggy?  Have the Seattle police done any better?"

"A little.  But not much.  We know Lawson was in the US the week before
Ziggy died.  He was supposedly on a game fishing trip in Southern
California.  But here's the thing.  When he took his rental car back,
it had about two and a half thousand miles more on the clock than you'd
get from local driving."

Weird kicked out at the rock beneath his feet.  "And that's a round
trip from Southern California to Seattle, right?"

"Right.  But again, there's no direct evidence.  Lawson's too smart to
have used his credit card anywhere other than where he was supposed to
be.  Karen says the Seattle police have been showing his photo around
hardware stores and motels, but no luck so far."

"I can't believe he's going to get away with murder again," Weird
said.

"I thought you believed in a judgement more powerful than humans can
provide?"

"God's judgement doesn't absolve us from the duty to operate in a moral
universe," Weird said seriously.  "One of

the ways we show love for our fellow human beings is to protect them
from their own worst impulses.  Sending criminals to jail is just an
extreme example of that."

Tm sure they feel loved," Alex said sardonically.  "Karen did have one
other piece of news.  They've finally decided not to charge Lawson with
attempted murder for his attack on you."

"Why the heck not?  I told them back then that I was willing to come
back and testify."

Alex sat up.  "Without Macfadyen, there's no direct evidence that it
was Lawson who did you over."

Weird sighed.  "Oh well.  At least he's not going to be able to wriggle
off the hook over Rosie.  I guess it doesn't much matter whether he
faces charges over what he tried to do to me.  You know, I've always
prided myself on being streetwise," he mused.  "But I walked out of
your house that night full of bravado.  I wonder if I'd have been so
brave or stupid if I'd known there was not just one person but two on
my tail."

"Be grateful for that.  If Macfadyen hadn't been spying on us, we'd
never have been able to place Lawson and his car at the scene."

"I still can't believe he didn't intervene when Lawson started beating
me to a pulp," Weird said bitterly.

"Maybe he was forestalled by Eric Hamilton appearing on the scene."
Alex sighed.  "I suppose we'll never know."

"I guess what matters most is that we finally got the answer to who
took Rosie's life," Weird said.  "It's been a thorn in our flesh for
twenty-five years, and now we can put it to rest.  Thanks to you, we
managed to neutralize the poison that infected the four of us."

Alex gave him a curious look.  "Did you ever wonder .. . ?"

"If it really was one of us?"

Alex nodded.

Weird considered.  "I knew it couldn't have been Ziggy.  He had no
interest in women, and even back then, he didn't want

to be cured.  Mondo wouldn't have had the nerve to keep his mouth shut
if it had been him.  And you, Alex .. . Well, let's just say I couldn't
figure out how you would have got her up to Hallow Hill.  You never had
the Land Rover keys."

Alex was shocked.  "That's the only reason you decided it couldn't have
been me?"

Weird smiled.  "You were strong enough to have kept your own counsel.
You've got the capacity for tremendous coolness under pressure, but
when you blow, you blow like a volcano.  You were taken with the lassie
.. . I'll be honest.  It did cross my mind.  But as soon as they told
us she'd been attacked somewhere else and dumped on the hill, I knew it
couldn't be you.  You were saved by the logistics."

"Thanks for your confidence," Alex said, wounded.

"You did ask.  And you?  Who did you suspect?"

Alex had the grace to look embarrassed.  "You did cross my mind.
Especially when you got God.  It seemed like the sort of thing a guilty
man might have done."  He gazed out over the treetops to the distant
horizon where mountains folded into each other in a blue haze.  "I
often wonder how different my life would have been if Rosie had
accepted my invitation and come to the party that night.  She'd still
be alive.  So would Mondo and Ziggy.  Our friendship would have
survived in much better nick.  And we'd have lived without guilt."

"You might have ended up marrying Rosie instead of Lynn," Weird
commented wryly.

"No."  Alex frowned.  That would never have happened."

"How not?  Don't underestimate how slender are the threads that bind us
to the life we have.  You fancied her."

"It would have worn off.  And she would never have settled for a boy
like me.  She was far too grown up.  Besides, I think I knew even then
that Lynn was the one who would save me."

"Save you from what?"

Alex smiled, a small, private smile.  "From anything and everything."
He stared down towards the cabin and the clearing where his heart was
held hostage.  For the first time in twenty-five years, he had a
future, not just the millstone of a past.  And it felt like a gift that
he'd finally earned.