by Val McDermid
"I saw you at David Kerr's funeral," Alex said.
"I had business over in Glasgow. I took the opportunity to pay my last respects." "I didn't think Fife Police had much respect for Mondo," Alex said.
Lawson made an impatient gesture with one hand. "I presume your visit is connected to our reopening of the Rosemary Duff murder?"
"Indirectly, yes. How is the inquiry going? Have you made any progress?"
Lawson looked irritated by the questions. "I can't discuss operational matters relating to an ongoing case with someone in your position."
"What position is that, exactly? You surely don't still regard me as a suspect?" Alex was more courageous than his twenty-year old self; he wasn't about to let a remark like that pass without challenge.
Lawson shuffled some papers on his desk. "You were a witness."
"And witnesses can't be told what's happening? You're quick enough to talk to the press when you make progress. Why do I have less rights than a journalist?"
"I'm not talking to the press about the Rosie Duff case either," Lawson said stiffly.
"Would that be because you've lost the evidence?"
Lawson gave him a long, hard stare. "No comment," he said.
Alex shook his head. "That's not good enough. After what we went through twentyfive years ago, I think I deserve better than that. Rosie Duff wasn't the only victim back then, and you know it. Maybe it's time I went to the press and told them how I'm still being treated like a criminal by the police after all these years. And while I'm at it, I could tell them how Fife Police have screwed up their review of Rosie Duff's murder by losing the crucial evidence that would have exonerated me and might just have led to the arrest of the real killer."
The threat clearly made Lawson uncomfortable. "I don't respond well to intimidation, Mr. Gilbey."
"Neither do I. Not anymore. You really want to see yourself all over the pages of the papers as the copper who invaded a grieving family's last farewell to their murdered son? The same son whose innocence was still in doubt, thanks to the incompetence of you and your team?"
"There's no need for you to take this attitude," Lawson said. "Oh no? I think there's every need. You're supposed to be conducting a cold case review here. I'm a key witness. I'm the person who found the body. And yet there's not been a single officer from Fife Police in touch with me. That doesn't exactly smack of zeal, does it? And now I discover you can't even keep a bag of evidence safe. Maybe I should be talking about this with the investigating officer, not some bureaucrat who's hidebound by the past."
Lawson's face tightened. "Mr. Gilbey, it's true there's a problem with the evidence in this case. At some point in the past twenty-five years, Rosie Duff's clothes have gone missing. We're still trying to track them down, but so far, all we've been able to find is the cardigan that was found some distance away from the crime scene. And that had no biological material on it. None of the clothes that might have been susceptible to modern forensics are available to us. So at the moment, we're stymied. Actually, the officer in charge of the case wanted to have a chat with you, just to go over your original statement. Perhaps we can arrange that soon?"
"Jesus Christ," Alex said. "Now you finally want to interview me? You really don't get it, do you? We're still twisting in the breeze. Do you realize two of the four of us have been murdered in the past month?"
Lawson raised his eyebrows. "Two of you?"
"Ziggy Malkiewicz also died in suspicious circumstances. Just before Christmas."
Lawson pulled a pad toward him and unscrewed a fountain pen. "This is news to me. Where did this happen?"
"In Seattle, where he'd been living for the past dozen years. An arsonist set a firebomb in his house. Ziggy died in his sleep. You can check it out with the police over there. The only suspect they've got is Ziggy's partner, which I have to tell you is about as dumb as it gets."
"I'm sorry to hear about Mr. Malkiewicz…"
"Dr. Malkiewicz," Alex interrupted.
"Dr. Malkiewicz," Lawson corrected himself. "But I still don't see why you should think these two deaths are connected to Rosie Duff's murder."
"That's why I wanted to see you today. To explain why I believe there's a connection."
Lawson leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "You have my full attention, Mr. Gilbey. I'm interested in anything that might shine a light in this particular dark corner."
Alex explained about the wreaths once more. Sitting here at the heart of police headquarters, it sounded feeble to his ears. He could feel Lawson's skepticism across the desk as he tried to give weight to so slight an occurrence. "I know it sounds paranoid," he concluded. "But Tom Mackie is convinced enough that he's putting his family into hiding and going underground himself. That's not something you do lightly."
Lawson gave a sour smile. "Ah yes. Mr. Mackie. Maybe a wee touch of 'too many drugs in the seventies?' I believe hallucinogens can lead to long-term paranoia."
"You don't think we should take this seriously? Two of our friends die in suspicious circumstances? Two men who lived respectable lives, with no criminal connections? Two men who had apparently no enemies? And at both funerals, a wreath turns up that refers directly to a murder investigation where they were both regarded as suspects?"
"None of you was ever publicly named as suspects. And we did our best to protect you."
"Aye. But even after that, one of your officers died as a result of the pressure that was put on us."
Lawson jerked bolt upright. "I'm glad you remember that. Because nobody in this building has forgotten it either."
"I'm sure you haven't. Barney Maclennan was the killer's second victim. And I believe that Ziggy and Mondo were his victims too. Indirectly, obviously. But I think somebody killed them because they wanted vengeance. And if that's what happened, then my name's on that list too."
Lawson sighed. "I understand why you're reacting like this. But I don't believe that someone has embarked on a deliberate program of revenge against the four of you. I can tell you that the police in Glasgow are pursuing promising lines of inquiry that have nothing to do with Rosie Duff's murder. Coincidences do happen, and that's what these two deaths are. Coincidence, nothing more. People don't do that kind of thing, Mr. Gilbey. They certainly don't wait twenty-five years to do it."
"What about Rosie's brothers? They were pretty keen to take a pop at us back then. You told me you'd warned them off. That you'd persuaded them not to bring anymore trouble to their mother's door. Is their mother still alive? Are they free from that worry now? Is that why Brian Duff turned up at Mondo's funeral to taunt us?"
"It's true that Mr. and Mrs. Duff are both dead now. But I don't think you've anything to fear from the Duffs. I saw Brian myself a few weeks ago. I don't think vengeance was on his mind. And Colin works out in the Gulf. He was home over Christmas, but he wasn't in the country when David Kerr died." Lawson breathed deeply. "He married one of my fellow officers— Janice Hogg. Ironically, she came to Mr. Mackie's rescue when he was set on by the Duffs. She left the force at the time of the marriage, but I'm pretty sure she wouldn't encourage her husband in lawbreaking on this scale. I think you can rest easy on that score."
Alex heard the conviction in Lawson's voice, but it brought him small relief. "Brian wasn't exactly amiable yesterday," he said.
"No, I can see he might not have been. But let's face it, neither Brian nor Colin was what you would call a sophisticated criminal. If they'd decided to kill you and your friends, they'd probably have walked up to you in a crowded bar and blown your heads off with a shotgun. Elaborate planning was never their style," Lawson said dryly.
"So that kind of disposes of the suspects." Alex shifted in his seat, preparing to stand up.
"Not quite," Lawson said softly.
"What do you mean?" Alex asked, apprehension gripping him again.
Lawson looked guilty, as if he'd said too much. "Ignore me, I was just thinking aloud."
"Wait a minute. You ca
n't brush me off like that. What did you mean, 'not quite?' " Alex leaned forward, looking as if he was about to jump across the desk and grab Lawson's immaculate lapels.
"I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry, I was just thinking like a policeman."
"Isn't that what you're paid to do? Come on, tell me what you meant."
Lawson's eyes flickered from side to side, as if he was looking for a way out that didn't involve passing Alex. He ran a hand over his upper lip then took a deep breath. "Rosie's son," he said.
33
Lynn stared at Alex, never pausing in her gentle rocking of her daughter. "Say again," she commanded.
"Rosie had a son. It never came out at the time. For some reason, the pathologist didn't pick it up at the post mortem. Lawson admitted he was a doddery old sod who liked a drink. But in his defense, he said it was possible the wound itself obscured any traces. Naturally, the family weren't going to tell because they knew that if people found out she'd had an illegitimate kid, she'd instantly be portrayed as a gymslip mum, no better than she should be. She'd be demoted from innocent victim to a lassie who asked for it. They were desperate to protect her good name. You can't blame them for that."
"I don't blame them at all. One look at how viciously the press treated you, and anybody would have done the same. But how come he's surfaced now?"
"According to Lawson, he was adopted. He decided last year to track down his birth mother. He found the woman who ran the home where Rosie had stayed when she was pregnant, and that's when he discovered he wasn't going to have a happy family reunion after all."
Davina gave a small cry and Lynn put her little finger in the baby's mouth, smiling down at her. "That must have been terrible for him. It must take so much courage to go looking for your birth mother. She's rejected you once— who knows why— and you're setting yourself up for a second slap in the face. But you must be clinging to the hope that she's going to welcome you with open arms."
"I know. And then to find out that somebody snatched that chance away from you twenty-five years before." Alex leaned forward. "Can I take her for a while?"
"Sure. She's not long had a feed, so she should sleep for a bit." Lynn gently eased her hands under her daughter, passing her to Alex as if she was the most valuable and fragile object in the world. He slid his hand beneath her frail neck and held her to his chest. Davina mumbled softly, then settled. "So, does Lawson think the son is coming after you?"
"Lawson doesn't think anybody's coming after me. He thinks I'm a paranoid nutter making a mountain out of a molehill. He got very embarrassed about having let it slip about Rosie's son, and kept reassuring me that he wouldn't harm a fly. He's called Graham, by the way. Lawson wouldn't give me his surname. Apparently he works in the IT industry. Quiet, stable, very normal," Alex said.
Lynn shook her head. "I can't believe Lawson's taking it all so lightly. Who does he think sent the wreaths?"
"He doesn't know and he doesn't care. All he's bothered about is that his precious cold case review is going down the drain."
"They couldn't run a ménage, far less a murder inquiry. Did he have any explanation as to how they lost a whole box of forensic evidence?"
"They didn't lose the whole box. They've still got the cardigan. Apparently it was found separately. Thrown over the wall into somebody's garden. They tested it after all the other stuff, which is probably why it ended up separated from the rest of the material."
Lynn frowned. "It turned up later? Wasn't there something about a second search they did later at your house? I vaguely remember Mondo complaining about them being all over the place weeks after the murder."
Alex struggled with memory. "After they'd done the initial search… They came back after the New Year. They scraped paint off the walls and ceilings. And they wanted to know whether we'd done any redecorating." He snorted. "As if. And Mondo said he'd overheard one of them talking about a cardigan. He assumed they were looking for something one of us had been wearing. But they weren't, of course. They were referring to Rosie's cardigan," he finished triumphantly.
"So there must have been paint on her cardigan," Lynn said thoughtfully. "That's why they were taking samples."
"Yeah, but they obviously didn't get a match from our house. Or else we'd have been in even deeper shit."
"I wonder if they've done a fresh analysis. Did Lawson say anything about it?"
"Not specifically. He said they didn't have any of the clothes that would be susceptible to modern forensic analysis."
"That's nonsense. They can do so much with paint these days. I get far more information from the labs now than I did even three or four years ago. They should be testing that. You need to get back to Lawson and insist that they look again at it."
"An analysis isn't any use without something to compare it with. Lawson's not going to jump just because I say so."
"I thought you said he wanted to solve this case?" "Lynn, if there was anything to be gained, they'd have done it."
Lynn flushed with sudden anger. "Christ, Alex, listen to yourself. Are you just going to sit back and wait for something else to blow up in the middle of our lives? My brother's dead. Somebody walked into his house bold as brass and murdered him. The only person who might have been any use to you thinks you're paranoid. I don't want you to die, Alex. I don't want your daughter to grow up without a single memory of you."
"You think I want that?" Alex hugged his daughter to his chest.
"Stop being so bloody spineless, then. If you and Weird are right, the person who killed Ziggy and Mondo is going to come after you. The only way you're going to get off the hook is if Rosie's killer is finally exposed. If Lawson won't do it, maybe you should give it a try. You've got the best motivation in the world there in your arms."
He couldn't deny it. He'd been awash with emotion since Davina's birth, perpetually astonished at the depth of his feelings. "I'm a greetings card manufacturer, Lynn, not a detective," he protested weakly.
Lynn glared at him. "And how often have miscarriages of justice been overturned because some punter wouldn't stop digging?"
"I haven't got a clue where to start."
"Do you remember that series about forensic science on the telly a couple of years back?"
Alex groaned. His wife's fascination with thrillers on TV and film had never infected him. His usual response to a two-hour special featuring Frost, Morse or Wexford was to pick up a pad and start working on ideas for greetings cards.
"Vaguely," he said.
"I remember one of the forensic scientists saying how they often leave stuff out of their reports. Trace evidence that can't be analyzed, that sort of thing. If it's not going to be of any use to the detectives, they don't bother including it. Apparently, the defense might use it to create confusion in the minds of the jury."
"I don't see where that gets us. Even if we could get our hands on the original reports, we wouldn't know what was left out, would we?"
"No. But maybe if we tracked down the scientist who put it together in the first place, he might remember something that meant nothing at the time but might mean something now. He might even have kept his own notes." Her anger had been swallowed by her enthusiasm now. "What do you think?"
"I think your hormones have addled your brain," Alex said. "You think if I ring up Lawson and ask him who did the forensic report, he's going to tell me?"
"Of course he's not." Her lip curled in distaste. "But he'd tell a journalist, wouldn't he?"
"The only journalists I know are the ones who write lifestyle features for the Sunday supplements," Alex protested.
"Well, ring round and ask them to find one of their colleagues who can help." Lynn spoke with an air of finality. When she was in this kind of mood, there was no point in trying to argue with her, he knew. But as he resigned himself to creeping round his contacts, the glimmer of an idea came into his mind. It might, he thought, kill two birds with one stone. Of course, it might also rebound painfully. There was only one
way to find out.
* * *
Hospital car parks were good places for surveillance, Macfadyen thought. Plenty of comings and goings, always people sitting in their cars waiting. Good lighting, so you were sure of seeing your quarry arriving and leaving. No one gave you a second look; you could hang around for hours without anybody thinking you were dodgy. Not like your average suburban street where everybody wanted to know your business.
He wondered when Gilbey would get to take his daughter home. He'd tried ringing the hospital for information, but they'd been cagey, refusing to say much other than that the baby was doing well. Everybody with responsibility for kids was so securityconscious these days.
The resentment he felt toward Gilbey's child was overwhelming. Nobody was going to turn their back on this child. Nobody was going to hand it over and let it take its chances with strangers. Strangers who would bring up a child in a state of permanent anxiety that he'd do something that would bring arbitrary wrath down on his head. His parents hadn't abused him, not in the sense of beating him. But they'd made him feel constantly wanting, constantly at fault. And they hadn't hesitated to lay the blame for his inadequacies at the door of his bad blood. But he'd missed out on so much more than tenderness and love. The family stories that had been fed to him as a child were other people's stories, not his. He was a stranger to his own history.
He would never be able to look in the mirror and see an echo of his mother's features. He would never be aware of those strange congruences that happen in families, when a child's reactions replicate those of their parents. He was adrift in a world without connections. The only real family he had still didn't want him.
