by Val McDermid
"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. "I 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 makeup 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 whiskey. "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 somber 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 gray 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 Fife 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 T 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 groundsheet, 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 internment. 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. "I 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.
"Me 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 cardies?"
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 to 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 dreamboat, 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.
"I'll 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 forward as well as backward.
13
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 naïveté. 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 the 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 Fife 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 busking 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 savior.
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 toward 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 fueled 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 wasnae 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 fetal 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."
