by Val McDermid
"Of course," Alex said. Then he cocked his head. "Is that Davina I can hear?" He headed for the door. "I'll bring her through."
"Well done, Weird," Lynn said. "I'd never have put you down for the methodical researcher."
"You forget, I was a mathematician and a damn good one. All the other stuff, that was just a desperate bid not to be my father. Which, thank the Lord, I managed to avoid."
Alex returned, Davina whimpering in his arms. "I think she needs to be fed."
Weird stood up and peered down at the tiny bundle. "Oh my," he said, his voice soft as milk. "She is a beauty." He looked up at Alex. "Now you understand why I'm so determined to come out of this alive."
* * *
Out under the bridge, Macfadyen stared down at the scene below. It had been an eventful evening. First, the woman had turned up. He'd seen her at the funeral, watched the widow Kerr leave in her car. He'd followed them to a flat in the Merchant City, then, a couple of days later, he'd followed Gilbey to the same flat. He wondered what her connection was, where she fit into the complex pattern. Was she just a friend of the family? Or was she more than that?
Whatever she was, she hadn't been made welcome. She and Gilbey had gone to the pub, but they'd barely been there long enough to have a single drink. Then, when Gilbey had gone back to the house, the real surprise had walked in. Mackie was back. He should have been safely ensconced in Georgia, ministering to his flock. But here he was, in Fife again, and in the company of his co-conspirator. You didn't walk away from your life unless you had good reason.
It was proof. You could tell from the expressions on their faces. This was no cheerful reunion of friends. This was no blithe gathering to celebrate the return from the hospital of Gilbey's daughter. These two had something to hide, something that drew them together in this time of crisis. Fear had brought them into each other's orbit. They were terrified that whatever nemesis had caught up with their fellow killers was about to visit them. And they were huddling together for safety.
Macfadyen smiled grimly. The cold hand of the past was reaching inexorably for Gilbey and Mackie. They wouldn't sleep easy in their beds tonight. And that was how it should be. He had plans for them. And the more afraid they were now, the better it would be when those plans came to fruition.
They'd had twenty-five years of peace, which was more, far more than his mother had enjoyed. Now, it was over.
36
Morning dawned dreich and gray, the view from North Queensferry obscured by a dismal haar. Somewhere in the distance a foghorn boomed its miserable warning like a cow mourning a dead calf. Unshaven and dazed with broken sleep, Alex leaned his elbows on the breakfast table and watched Lynn feeding Davina. "Was that a good night or a bad one?" he asked.
"I think it was about average," Lynn said through a yawn. "They need to feed every few hours at this age."
"One o'clock, half-past three, half-past six. Are you sure that's a baby and not a gannet?"
Lynn grinned. "How quickly the first bloom of love fades," she teased.
"If that was true, I'd have pulled the pillow over my head and gone back to sleep instead of getting up to make you tea and change her nappy," Alex said defensively.
"If Weird wasn't here, you could sleep in the spare room."
Alex shook his head. "I don't want to do that. We'll see how we go." "You need your sleep. You've got a business to run."
Alex snorted. "That would be when I'm not running about the country talking to forensic scientists, right?"
"Right. Are you OK about Weird being here?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"I just wondered. I've got a naturally suspicious nature. You know I always thought he was the only one of the four of you who could possibly have killed Rosie. So I suppose I'm a bit uneasy about him turning up like this."
Alex looked uncomfortable. "Surely that's the very thing that absolutely lets him off the hook over Rosie? What possible motive could he have for killing the rest of us after twenty-five years?"
"Maybe he heard about the cold case review and was afraid that, after all this time, one of the four of you might point the finger."
"You always push things to the limit, don't you? He didn't kill her, Lynn. He's not got it in him."
"People do terrible things when they're on drugs. As I recall, Weird was always up for anything in that department. He had the Land Rover; she probably knew him well enough to take a lift off him. And then there was that sudden dramatic conversion. Could have been about guilt, Alex."
He shook his head. "He's my friend. I'd have known."
Lynn sighed. "You're probably right. I do get carried away with myself. I'm really edgy just now. Sorry."
As she spoke, Weird walked in. Showered and shaved, he looked the picture of health and strength. Alex took one look and groaned. "Oh God, it's Tigger."
"That's a great bed," Weird said, looking round the room and clocking the coffeemaker. He crossed the kitchen and started opening cupboards until he found the mugs. "I slept like a baby."
"I don't think so," Lynn said. "Not unless you woke up crying every three hours.
Aren't you supposed to have jet lag?"
"Never suffered from it in my life," Weird said cheerfully, pouring out his coffee. "So, Alex, when are we leaving for Dundee?"
Alex stirred himself. "I'll have to ring up and make an appointment."
"Are you crazy? Give the guy the chance to say no?" Weird said, rooting around in the breadbin. He took out a triangular farl and smacked his lips. "Mmm. I've not had one of these for years."
"Make yourself at home," Alex said.
"I am," Weird said, raiding the fridge for butter and cheese. "No, Alex. No phone calls. We just turn up and make it clear we're not going anywhere until Professor Soanes finds a window."
"What? So he can jump?" Alex couldn't resist the chance to poke fun at Weird's adoption of American idiom. It sounded so bizarre delivered in an accent that had become markedly more Scottish overnight.
"Ha ha." Weird found plate and knife and settled at the table.
"You don't think that might piss him off just a smidge?" Lynn asked.
"I think it tells him we're serious," Weird said. "I think it's what two guys in fear of their lives would do. This isn't the time for being polite, douce and obedient. It's time to say, 'We're truly scared and you can help us.' "
Alex winced. "Are you sure you really want to come with me?" The repressive look Weird gave him would have stopped even a teenager in his tracks. Alex held his hands up in submission. "OK. Give me half an hour."
Lynn watched him go, her eyes concerned.
"Don't worry, Lynn. I'll look after him."
Lynn snorted with laughter. "Oh please, Weird. Let that not be my only hope."
He swallowed a mouthful of his farl and considered her. "I'm really not the person you remember, Lynn," he said seriously. "Forget the teenage rebellion. Forget the excessive drinking and the drugs. Think about the fact that I always did my homework and got my essays in on time. It only ever looked like I was going off the rails. Underneath it all, I was as much a solid citizen as Alex. I know you all laugh up your sleeve at having a TV evangelist on your Christmas card list— and very nice cards they are too. But underneath the pizzazz, I'm very serious about what I believe and what I do. When I say I'll look after Alex, you can trust that he'll be as safe with me as he could be with anyone."
Chastened but without her residual suspicion entirely stilled, Lynn swapped her daughter from one breast to the other. "There you go, darling." She winced at the still unfamiliar sensation as the hard gums clamped down on her nipple. "I'm sorry, Weird. It's just hard to move past the time when I knew you best."
He finished his coffee and stood up. "I know. I still think of you as a silly wee lassie dreaming of David Cassidy."
"Bastard," she said.
"I'm going to spend some time in prayer now," he said, heading for the door. "Alex and I need all the help we can get."
/> * * *
The exterior of the Old Fleming Gymnasium was about as far from Alex's image of a forensic laboratory as it was possible to get. Tucked away down a narrow wynd, its Victorian sandstone was heavily stained with a century of pollution. It wasn't an unattractive building, its single story well proportioned with tall, Italianate arched windows. It just didn't look like somewhere that housed the cutting edge of forensic science.
Weird clearly shared his impression. "You sure this is the place?" he asked, hesitating at the mouth of the lane.
Alex gestured across the street. "There's the OTI café. According to the university Web site, that's where we turn off."
"Looks more like a bank than a gymnasium or a laboratory." Nevertheless, he followed Alex down the wynd.
The reception area didn't give much away. A young man with a bad case of psoriasis and a dress code modeled on a 1950s beatnik sat behind a desk, tapping at a computer keyboard. He peered at them over the heavy black rims of his glasses. "Can I help you?" he said.
"We were wondering if it would be possible to have a word with Professor Soanes," Alex said.
"Have you got an appointment?"
Alex shook his head. "No. But we'd really appreciate it if he could see us. It's about an old case he worked on."
The young man moved his head sinuously from side to side like an Indian dancer. "I don't think that will be possible. He's a very busy man," he said.
"So are we," Weird cut in, leaning forward. "And what we want to talk about is a matter of life and death."
"My," said the young man. "The Tommy Lee Jones of Tayside." It should have sounded rude, but he invested it with an amused air of admiration that undercut any malice.
Weird gave him a hard stare. "We can wait," Alex interjected before hostilities could break out.
"You'll have to. He's giving a seminar right now. Let me take a look at his schedule for today." He rattled over the keyboard. "Can you come back at three?" he asked after a few seconds.
Weird scowled. "Spend five hours in Dundee?"
"That's great," Alex said, glaring at Weird. "Come on, Tom." They left their names, the details of the case and Alex's mobile number and retreated.
"Mr. Charm," Alex said as they walked back toward the car.
"We got a result, though. If it had been down to Mr. Supplicant here, we'd have been lucky to get slotted in before the end of term. So what are we going to do for the next five hours?"
"We could go to St. Andrews," Alex said. "It's only across the bridge."
Weird stopped in his tracks. "Are you kidding?"
"No. Never been more serious. I don't think it would hurt to remind ourselves of the terrain. It's not as if anybody's going to recognize us after all these years."
Weird's hand went to the place on his chest where his cross would normally hang. He tutted at himself as his fingers brushed empty cloth. "OK," he said. "But I'm not going anywhere near the Bottle Dungeon."
* * *
Driving into St. Andrews was a strange, dislocating experience. For one thing, they'd never had access to a car as undergraduates, so they'd never experienced the town from the perspective of a motorist. For another, the road into town led past buildings that hadn't been there when they were students. The concrete sprawl of the Old Course Hotel; the neoclassical cylinder of the St. Andrews University Museum; the Sea Life Center behind the eternally unbending Royal and Ancient clubhouse, the temple of golf itself. Weird stared out of the window, uneasy. "It's changed."
"Of course it's changed. It's been nearly a quarter of a century."
"I suppose you've been back often enough?"
Alex shook his head. "Haven't been near the place in twenty years." He drove slowly along The Scores, finally squeezing his BMW into a slot vacated by a woman in a Renault.
They got out in silence and started tracking the once familiar streets on foot. It was, Alex thought, very like seeing Weird again after all these years. The basic bone structure was the same. There was no question of mistaking him for someone else, or someone else for him. But the surface was different. Some changes were subtle, others gross. So it was walking around St. Andrews. Some of the shops were still in the same place, their façades identical. Paradoxically, they were the ones that looked out of kilter, as if they'd somehow avoided slipping through a time warp that had engulfed the rest of the town. The sweetie shop was still there, a monument to the national appetite for sugar. Alex recognized the restaurant where they'd eaten their first Chinese meal, the tastes alien and confusing to palates blunted by good plain cooking. They'd been a foursome then, light-hearted and confident, without the slightest sense of foreboding. Andthenthereweretwo
There was no escaping the university. In this town of sixteen thousand souls, a third of the inhabitants earned their living from it, and if its buildings had mysteriously turned to dust overnight, it would have left a gap-toothed village in its wake. Students hurried the streets, the occasional distinctive red flannel gown wrapped round its owner against the chill. It was hard to believe they'd once done the same thing. Alex had a momentary flash of memory; Ziggy and Mondo in the smart men's outfitters, trying on their new gowns. Alex and Weird had had to settle for secondhand, but they'd made the most of the opportunity to misbehave in a good cause, pushing the patience of the shop staff to its limits. It all felt strange and distant now, as if it were a movie, not a memory.
As they neared the West Port, they glimpsed the familiar frontage of the Lammas Bar through the stone arches of the massive gateway. Weird stopped abruptly. "This is doing my head in. I can't handle this, Alex. Let's get out of here." Alex wasn't exactly unhappy at the suggestion. "Back to Dundee, then?"
"No, I don't think so. Part of the reason I came back was to front up this Graham Macfadyen about the wreaths. St. Monans isn't that far, is it? Let's go and see what he has to say for himself."
"It's the middle of the day. He'll be at his work," Alex said, speeding up to keep pace with Weird as he strode back toward the car.
"At least we can take a look at his house. And maybe we can go back after we've seen Professor Soanes." There was no arguing with Weird in this mood, Alex realized with resignation.
* * *
Macfadyen couldn't figure out what the point was. He'd been stationed outside Gilbey's house from seven that morning and had felt a warm glow of gratification when the car had left with the pair of them. The partners in crime were clearly up to something. He'd trailed them across Fife and into Dundee and followed them up Small's Wynd. As soon as they were inside the old sandstone building, he'd hurried in their wake. The sign by the door said DEPARTMENT OF FORENSIC SCIENCE, which gave him pause. What were they looking for? Why were they here?
Whatever it was, it didn't take them long. They were out on the street inside ten minutes. He almost lost them on the approach to the Tay Bridge, but managed to stay in touch as they slowed to turn on to the St. Andrews road. Parking had been a slight problem, and he'd ended up leaving the car blocking someone's drive.
He'd kept them in sight as they walked up through the town. There seemed to be no particular objective to their progress. They doubled back on themselves a couple of times, criss-crossing North Street, Market Street and South Street. Luckily, Mackie was tall enough to stand out on the street, so it wasn't too hard to trail them. Then, suddenly, he realized this apparently aimless wander was taking them closer and closer to the West Port. They were going to the Lammas Bar. They actually had the brass neck to walk through the door and revisit the place where they'd first targeted his mother.
Sweat broke out on Macfadyen's upper lip in spite of the damp cold of the day. The pointers to their guilt were multiplying by the hour. Innocence would have kept them well away from the Lammas Bar, innocence and respect. But guilt would draw them like a magnet, he was sure of it.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost walked straight into them. They'd stopped unexpectedly in the middle of the pavement, and he'd kept walking. His h
eart banging in his chest, Macfadyen sidestepped them, head turned away. He dodged into a shop doorway and looked back, clenching his clammy hands in his pocket. He couldn't believe his eyes. They'd bottled it. They'd turned their backs on the West Port and were striding back down South Street in the direction they'd come from.
He almost had to break into a trot to keep them in sight as they cut down a series of vennels and wynds. Their choice of narrow thoroughfares instead of the wider streets seemed to shriek guilty conscience at Macfadyen. Gilbey and Mackie were hiding from the world, taking cover from the accusing eyes they must imagine on every street.
By the time he made it back to his own car, they were already driving toward the cathedral. Cursing, Macfadyen got behind the wheel and gunned the engine. He'd almost caught up with them when the fates dealt him a cruel blow. At the bottom of Kinkell Braes there were road-works, the single carriageway controlled by traffic lights. Gilbey shot through just as the light turned from amber to red, as if he knew he needed to make his getaway. If there had been no vehicle between them, Macfadyen would have taken the risk and gone through on red. But his way was blocked by an auto-spares van. He brought his fist down savagely on the steering wheel, fuming as the minutes ticked by before the green light glared out again. The van crawled up the hill, Macfadyen tail-gating it. But it was a good couple of miles before he was able to pass it, and he knew in his heart there was no chance of catching Gilbey's BMW.
