by Val McDermid
"I looked up the newspaper archives. And there was a bit about the case in a truecrime book I found. But that just told me the bare facts."
Duff took a long draft 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. "I 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 Fife 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 waiting›. 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 Fife 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 Marshall 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 e-mail 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 theater, delivering as advertised.
That was cold, right enough.
27
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 toward 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 Paul's getting through the days."
"How's he doing?"
"It's like he's been cast adrift. Arranging the funeral gave 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, aren'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 I'd do if anything happened to you, Lynn."
She squeezed his arm. "It's only natural you're thinking like that. A death like Ziggy's, it makes us all feel vulnerable. But nothing's going to happen to me." They reached the car and Alex got into the driving seat. "Home, then," he said. "I can't believe tomorrow's Christmas Eve. I'm dying for a quiet night in, just the two of us."
"Ah," Lynn said, adjusting her seatbelt round the bump.
"Oh no. Not your mother. Not tonight."
Lynn grinned. "No, not my mother. Nearly as bad, though. Mond
o's here."
Alex frowned. "Mondo? I thought he was supposed to be in France?"
"Change of plans. They were supposed to spend a few days with Hélène'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 Fife, 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."
