The Distant Echo

by Val McDermid

  He hunkered down and took a thermos from his backpack. Strong, sweet coffee to keep him awake and energized. Not that he needed it. Since he'd begun stalking the men he believed responsible for his mother's death, he seemed fired with vigor. And when he fell into bed at night, he slept more deeply than he had since childhood. It was further justification, if any were needed, that the path he had chosen was the right one.

  More than an hour passed. Kerr kept jumping up and pacing back and forth, occasionally going back into the house then coming back almost immediately. He wasn't comfortable, that was for sure. Then suddenly, Gilbey walked in. There was no handshake, and it was soon clear to Macfadyen that this was no easy, relaxed encounter. Even through the binoculars, he could tell the conversation wasn't one either man relished.

  Nevertheless, he wasn't expecting Kerr to go to pieces as he did. One minute, he was fine, then he was in tears. The dialogue that followed seemed intense, but it didn't last long. Kerr got to his feet abruptly and pushed past Gilbey. Whatever had passed between them, it hadn't made either of them happy.

  Macfadyen hesitated for a moment. Should he keep watch here? Or should he follow Kerr? His feet started moving before he was aware of having decided. Gilbey wasn't going anywhere. But David Kerr had broken his pattern once. He might just do it again.

  He ran back to his car, reaching the corner just as Kerr pulled out of the quiet side street. Cursing, Macfadyen dived behind the wheel and gunned the engine, taking off with a screech of rubber. But he needn't have worried. Kerr's silver Audi was still at the intersection with the main road, waiting to turn right. Instead of heading for the bridge and home, he chose the M90 going north. There wasn't much traffic, and Macfadyen had no trouble keeping him in sight. Within twenty minutes, he had a pretty good idea where his quarry was making for. He'd bypassed Kirkcaldy and his parents' home and taken the Standing Stone road east. It had to be St. Andrews.

  As they reached the outskirts of the town, Macfadyen crept closer. He didn't want to lose Kerr now. The Audi signaled a left turn, heading up toward the Botanic Gardens. "You just couldn't stay away, could you?" Macfadyen muttered. "Couldn't leave her alone."

  As he expected, the Audi turned into Trinity Place. Macfadyen parked on the main road and hurried down the quiet suburban street. Lights were on behind curtained windows, but there was no other sign of life. The Audi was parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, sidelights still glowing. Macfadyen walked past, noting the empty driver's seat. He took the path that skirted the bottom of the hill, wondering how many times that same mud had been trampled by those four students before the night they took their fatal decision. Looking up to his left, he saw what he expected. On the brow of the hill, silhouetted against the night, Kerr stood, head bowed. Macfadyen slowed down. It was strange how everything kept coming together to confirm his conviction that the four men who had found his mother's body knew far more about her death than they'd ever been forced to admit. It was hard to understand how the police had failed all those years ago. To have bungled something so straightforward defied belief. He'd done more for the cause of justice in a few months than they'd achieved in twenty-five years with all their resources and manpower. Just as well he wasn't relying on Lawson and his trained monkeys to avenge his mother.

  Maybe his uncle had been right and they'd been in thrall to the University. Or maybe he'd been closer to the mark when he'd accused the police of corruption. Wherever the truth lay, it was a different world now. The old servility was dead. Nobody was afraid of the University anymore. And people understood now that the police were just as likely to be crooked as anybody else. So it still fell to individuals like him to make sure justice was done.

  As he watched, Kerr straightened up and headed back toward his car. Another entry in the ledger of guilt, Macfadyen thought. Just another brick in the wall.

  * * *

  Alex shifted onto his side and checked the time. Ten to three. Five minutes since he'd last looked at it. It was no use. His body was disorientated by flight and the shift of time zones. All he would achieve if he kept trying to sleep would be to wake Lynn. And given how disturbed her sleep pattern had been by the pregnancy, he didn't want to risk that. Alex slipped out from under the duvet, shivering a little as the chill air hit his skin. He grabbed his dressing gown on his way out of the room and closed the door softly behind him.

  It had been a hell of a day. Taking his farewell of Paul at the airport had felt like an abandonment, his natural desire to be home with Lynn a selfishness. On his first flight, he'd been crammed in a bulkhead seat with no window, next to a woman so large he felt certain the whole bank of seats would leave with her when she attempted to rise. He'd fared a little better on the second leg, but he'd been too tired to sleep by then. Thoughts of Ziggy had plagued him, infusing his heart with regrets at all the opportunities missed over the past twenty years. And instead of a restful evening with Lynn, he'd had to deal with Mondo's emotional outburst. He'd have to go to the office in the morning, but already he knew he'd be good for nothing. Sighing, he made for the kitchen and put the kettle on. Maybe a cup of tea would soothe him back to sleepiness.

  Carrying his mug, he wandered through the house, touching familiar objects as if they were talismans that would ground him safely. He found himself standing in the nursery, leaning on the cot. This was the future, he told himself. A future worth having, a future that offered him the opportunity to make something of his life that was more than getting and spending.

  The door opened and Lynn stood silhouetted against the warm light of the hall.

  "I didn't wake you, did I?" he asked.

  "No, I managed that all by myself. Jet lag?" She came in and put an arm round his waist.

  "Probably."

  "And Mondo didn't help, right?"

  Alex nodded. "I could have done without that."

  "I don't suppose he considered that for a moment. My selfish brother thinks we're all on the planet for his convenience. I did try to put him off, you know."

  "I don't doubt it. He's always had the knack of not hearing what he doesn't want to hear. But he's not a bad man, Lynn. Weak and self-centered, sure. But not malicious."

  She rubbed her head against his shoulder. "It comes from being so handsome. He was such a beautiful child, he was indulged by everybody, wherever he went. I used to hate him for it when we were wee. He was the object of adoration, a little Donatello angel. People were dazzled by him. And then they'd look at me and you could see the bafflement. How could a stunner like him have such a plain sister?"

  Alex chuckled. "And then the ugly duckling turned into a stunner herself."

  Lynn dug him in the ribs. "One of the things I've always loved about you is your ability to lie convincingly about the really unimportant things."

  "I'm not lying. Somewhere around fourteen, you stopped being plain and got gorgeous. Trust me, I'm an artist."

  "Flannel merchant, more like. No, I was always in Mondo's shadow in the looks department. I've been thinking about that lately. The things my parents did that I don't want to repeat. If our baby turns out to be a beauty, I don't ever want to make a big issue out of it. I want our child to have confidence, but not that sense of entitlement that's poisoned Mondo."

  "You'll get no argument from me on that." He put a hand on the swell of her stomach. "You hear, Junior? No getting big-headed, right?" He leaned down and kissed the top of Lynn's head. "Ziggy dying like that, it's made me scared. All I want is to see my kid grow up, with you by my side. But it's all so fragile. One minute you're here, the next you're gone. All the things Ziggy must have left undone, and now they'll never be done. I don't want that to happen to me."

  Lynn gently took his tea from him and put it on the changing table. She drew him into her arms. "Don't be scared," she said. "Everything's going to be all right."

  He wanted to believe her. But he was still too close to his own mortality to be entirely convinced.

  * * *

  A huge yawn cracke
d Karen Pirie's jaw as she waited for the buzzer that signaled the door release. When it came, she pushed the door open and trudged across the hall, nodding to the security guard as she passed his office. God, how she hated the evidence storage center. Christmas Eve, and the rest of the world was girding its loins for the festivities, and where was she? It felt as if her whole life had narrowed to these aisles of archive boxes with their bagged contents telling pathetic stories of crimes perpetrated by the stupid, the inadequate and the envious. But somewhere in here, she was sure there was the evidence that would open her cold case for her.

  It wasn't the only route her investigation could take. She knew she'd have to go back and reinterview witnesses at some point. But she knew that in old cases like this, physical evidence was the key. With modern forensic techniques, it was possible that the case exhibits would provide solid proof that would make witness statements largely redundant.

  That was all well and good, she thought. But there were hundreds of boxes in the storage facility. And she had to go through every single one. So far, she reckoned she'd covered about a quarter of the containers. The only positive result was that her arm muscles were getting stronger from toting boxes up and down stepladders. At least she had ten glorious days of leave starting tomorrow, when the only boxes she'd be opening would contain something more appealing than the detritus of crime.

  She exchanged greetings with the officer on duty and waited while he unlocked the door in the wire cage that enclosed the shelves of boxes. The security protocol was the worst thing about this task. With every box, the routine was the same. She had to get the box off the shelf, and bring it down to the table where the duty officer could see her. She had to write down the case number in the master log, then fill in her name, number and the date on the sheet of paper affixed to the lid. Only then could she open the box and rummage through its contents. Once she'd satisfied herself that it didn't contain what she was looking for, she had to replace it and go through the whole mind-numbing routine again. The only break in the monotony was when another officer turned up to check through one of the boxes. But this was usually a short-lived respite since they were invariably lucky enough to know the whereabouts of what they were looking for.

  There was no simple way to narrow it down. At first, Karen had thought the easiest way to conduct the search would be to go through everything that had originally come from St. Andrews. Boxes were filed according to case numbers, which were chronological. But the process of amalgamating all the evidence lockers of all the individual police stations throughout the region had dispersed the St. Andrews boxes through the entire collection. So that possibility was ruled out.

  She had started by going through everything from 1978. But that had turned up nothing of interest, apart from a craft knife that belonged to a 1987 case. Then she'd attacked the years on either side. This time, the misfiled item had been a child's gym shoe, a relic of the unsolved disappearance of a ten-year-old boy in 1969. She was fast reaching the point where she feared that she could easily miss the very thing she was looking for because her brain was so dulled by the process.

  She popped the top on a can of Diet Irn-Bru, took a swig that set her taste-buds jangling and got started: 1980. Third shelf. She dragged her jaded body to the bottom of the stepladder, still sitting where she'd finished with it the day before. She climbed up, pulled out the box she needed and cautiously descended the aluminium steps.

  Back at the table, she did the paperwork then lifted the lid. Great. It looked like a charity-shop reject pile in there. Laboriously, she took out the bags one by one, checking that none had Rosie Duff's case number on its adhesive label. A pair of jeans. A filthy T-shirt. A pair of women's knickers. Tights. A bra. A checked shirt. None of them anything to do with her. The last item looked like a woman's cardigan. Karen lifted out the final bag, expecting nothing.

  She gave the label a cursory glance. Then she blinked, unable to believe her eyes. She checked the number again. Not trusting herself, she dug her notebook out of her bag and compared the case number on the cover with the bag she was gripping tightly in her hand.

  There was no mistake. Karen had found her early Christmas present.

  29

  January 2004; Scotland

  He'd been right. There was a pattern. It had been disrupted by the festive season, and that had made him fretful. But now the New Year was past, the old routine had reasserted itself. The wife went out every Thursday evening. He watched her framed against the light as the front door of the Bearsden villa opened. Moments later, her car headlights came on. He didn't know where she was going and he didn't care. All that mattered was that she had behaved predictably, leaving her man alone in the house.

  He reckoned he had a good four hours to carry out his plan. But he forced himself to be patient. Senseless to take risks now. Best to wait till people had settled down for the evening, slumped in front of the TV. But not for too long. He didn't want someone taking their designer dog for a last pee bumping into him as he made his getaway. Suburbia, predictable as the speaking clock. He hugged the reassurance to himself, trying to stifle the ticking of anxiety.

  He turned up the collar of his jacket against the cold and prepared to wait, his heart fluttering in his chest with anticipation. There was no pleasure in what lay ahead, just necessity. He wasn't some sick thrill killer, after all. Just a man doing what he had to do.

  * * *

  David Kerr swapped DVDs and returned to his armchair. Thursday nights were when he indulged his semisecret vice. When Hélène was out with the girls, he was slumped in a chair glued to the U.S. series that she dismissed as "trash TV." So far that evening, he'd watched two episodes of SixFeetUnderand now he was thumbing the remote to cue up one of his favorite episodes from the first series of The West Wing. He'd just stopped humming along with the grandiose swell of the theme tune when he thought he heard the sound of breaking glass from downstairs. Without conscious thought, his brain calibrated its coordinates and signaled that it came from the back of the house. Probably the kitchen.

  He jerked upright and hit the mute button on the remote. More glass tinkled and he jumped to his feet. What the hell was that? Had the cat knocked something over in the kitchen? Or was there a more sinister explanation?

  David rose cautiously, looking around him for a potential weapon. There wasn't much to choose from, Hélène being something of a minimalist when it came to interior design. He snatched up a heavy crystal vase, slender enough at the neck to fit neatly into his hand. He crossed the room on tiptoe, ears straining for a sound, heart racing. He thought he heard a crunching noise, as if glass were being crushed underfoot. Anger rose alongside fear. Some jakie or junkie was invading his home looking for the price of a bottle of Buckie or a wrap of smack. His natural instinct was to call the police then sit tight. But he was afraid they'd take too long to get there. No selfrespecting burglar would settle for what they could find in the kitchen; they'd be bound to look for better pickings and he'd be forced to confront whoever had invaded his home. Besides, he knew from experience that if he picked up the phone in here, the extension in the kitchen would click, revealing what he was up to. And that might really piss off whoever was raiding his house. Better to try a direct approach. He'd read somewhere that most burglars are cowards. Well, maybe one coward could scare off another one.

  Taking a deep breath to still his alarm, David inched open the living room door. He peered down the hall, but the kitchen door was closed and offered no indication of what might be going on on the other side of it. But now he could hear the unmistakable sounds of someone moving around. The rattle of cutlery as a drawer was pulled open. The slap of a cupboard door closing.

  To hell with it. He wasn't going to stand idle while someone trashed the place. He walked boldly down the hall and threw the kitchen door open. "What the hell's going on here?" he shouted into the darkness. He reached for the light switch, but when he flicked it on, nothing happened. In the faint light from outside, h
e could see glass sparkling on the floor by the open back door. But there was nobody in sight. Had they gone already? Fear made the hair on his neck and naked arms stand on end. Uncertainly, he took a step forward into the gloom.

  From behind the door, a blur of movement. David swung round as his assailant cannoned into him. He had an impression of medium height, medium build, features obscured by a ski mask. He felt a blow to the stomach; not enough to make him double over, more like a jab than a punch. The burglar took a step backward, breathing heavily. At the same moment David realized the man was holding a long-bladed knife, he felt a hot line of pain inside his guts. He put a hand to his stomach and wondered stupidly why it felt warm and wet. He looked down and saw a dark spreading stain swallowing the white of his T-shirt. "You stabbed me," he said, incredulity his first reaction.

  The burglar said nothing. He drew his arm back and thrust again with the knife. This time, David felt it slice deep into his flesh. His legs gave way beneath him and he coughed, slumping forward. The last thing he saw was a pair of well-worn walking boots. From a distance, he could hear a voice. But the sounds it was making refused to cohere in his head. A jumble of syllables that made no sense. As he drifted away from consciousness, he couldn't help thinking it was a pity.

  * * *

  When the phone rang at twenty to midnight, Lynn expected Alex's voice, apologizing for the lateness of the hour, telling her he was just leaving the restaurant where he'd been entertaining a potential client from Gothenburg. She wasn't prepared for the banshee wail that assaulted her as soon as she lifted the bedside receiver. A woman's voice, incoherent, but clearly anguished. That was all she could make out to begin with.

  At the first gulp for breath, Lynn jumped in. "Who is this?" she demanded, anxious and afraid.