by Val McDermid
"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 center 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 away, feeling the tug of home as he always did on the approach to Fife. 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 flavored with stale beer and smoke flowed over her. It was the smell of release. In the background, she recognized St. Germain's Touristplaying. 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 cliché 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 toward her colleague. "And you'll never guess who I caught poking about in my files."
"ACC Lawson," Phil said, without even a pretense 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 toward 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-acher, 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 DNA. That's the only real chance I've got to take it any further. How about you? Who do you think killed Rosie Duff?"
Karen spread her hands. "Perm any one from four."
"You really think it was one of the students who found her?"
Karen nodded. "All the circumstantial points that way. And there's something else besides." She paused, waiting for the prompt.
"OK, Sherlock. I'll buy it. What's the something else?"
"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 t
he 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 Fife to see somebody, and then we're off to France tomorrow and this was the only chance…"
You'renotabitsorry , Alex thought. Youjustwantto assuageyourconscienceatmy 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-offact, 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 Fife 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. "I'll 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.
28
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 toward 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 conservato
ry, 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 doubted 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.
