The Distant Echo

by Val McDermid

  "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 color that was hard to identify in the weak light shed by the streetlamps. 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 graying 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 woolen dressing gown round his waist. The legs of his pajamas 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 multicolored 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 cannae 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 pajama 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 onto 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 bairn that needs to be kept from the truth," she gulped.

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

  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 wouldnae 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 whiskey 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 whiskey. "I don't know. Mum? Did she say anything to you?"

  Eileen looked up at him, her expre
ssion dazed and lost. "She said she was meeting some friends. She didnae say who, and I didnae 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 shouldnae 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 whiskey. "She's been going out with somebody lately. But she wouldnae 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 heid 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 didnae 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 wasnae 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 doesnae even live here anymore. 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 wouldnae dare go near Rosie."

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

  Colin shook his head and turned away, nursing his whiskey. "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.

  4

  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 smartarsed 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 cooperating. 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 small-time 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 fra
nkly, 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 be a sinus headache, Maclennan still couldn't resist. Just on the off chance. "Tell me about the party," he said.

  Weird cast his eyes upward. "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 bevvies, 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?"