by Val McDermid
"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 gray 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 cannae 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 onto 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 hairdrier. 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 toward 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 heavenward. "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 cooperated 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.
6
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 onto 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 lightheaded 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 Fife 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 toward the main road. Today, it resembled a track in the Cairn-gorms, 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 toward the hockey pitches. In the middle of an expanse of white, he brushed a goalmouth 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. "I 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 favorite 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."
