The Distant Echo

by Val McDermid

  Macfadyen sat at his PC, composing a document. He'd originally planned simply to make a formal complaint about the inaction of Lawson and his officers. But a trip to the Web site of the Scottish Executive had demonstrated the futility of that. Any complaint he made would be investigated by Fife Police themselves, and they were hardly going to criticize the actions of their Assistant Chief Constable. He wanted satisfaction, not to be fobbed off.

  So he'd decided to lay out the whole story and send copies to his Westminster MP, his MSP and to every major news medium in Scotland. But the more he wrote, the more he began to worry that he'd just be dismissed as another conspiracy theorist. Or worse.

  Macfadyen chewed the skin round his fingernails and considered what he should do. He'd finish writing his devastating critique of the incompetence of Fife Police and their refusal to take seriously the presence of a pair of murderers on their patch. But he needed something else that would make people sit up and take notice. Something that would make it impossible to ignore his complaints or to disregard the way that fate had pointed an undeniable finger at the culprits in his mother's murder.

  Two deaths should have been enough to produce the result he craved. But people were so blind. They couldn't see what was staring them in the face. After all this, justice still had not been served.

  And he remained the only person in a position to see that it was.

  * * *

  The house was beginning to feel like a refugee camp. Alex was accustomed to the flow of life that he and Lynn had developed over the years: companionable meals, walks along the shore, visits to exhibitions and movies, socializing occasionally with friends. He acknowledged a lot of people would think them dull, but he knew better. He liked his life. He'd understood that things would change with the arrival of a baby, and he welcomed that change wholeheartedly, in spite of not knowing all it might mean. What he hadn't bargained for was Weird in the spare room. Nor the arrival of Hélène and Jackie, the one distraught and the other incandescent with rage. He felt invaded, so buffeted by everyone else's pain and anger that he no longer knew what he himself felt.

  He'd been stunned to find the two women on the doorstep looking for sanctuary from the press camped outside their homes. How could they have imagined they'd be welcome here? Lynn's first instinct had been to tell them to check into an hotel, but Jackie had been adamant that this was the one place nobody would be looking for them. Just like Weird, he'd thought wearily.

  Hélène had burst into tears and apologized for betraying Mondo. Jackie had reminded Lynn forcefully that she'd been willing to take a chance and help Alex. And still Lynn had been insistent that there was no place for them there. Then Davina had started wailing. And Lynn had shut the door in their faces and stormed off to her child, giving Alex a look that dared him to let the two women in. Weird slipped past him and caught up with them as they were getting into their car. When he returned an hour later, he revealed he'd booked them into a nearby motel under his name. "They've got a wee chalet in among the trees," he'd reported. "Nobody knows they're there. They'll be fine."

  Weird's apparent chivalry had got the evening off to an awkward start, but their common purpose gradually overcame their discomfort, assisted by liberal quantities of wine. The three adults sat round the kitchen table, blinds closed against the evening dark, the wine bottles emptying as they talked round in circles. But it wasn't enough to talk about what ailed them; they needed action.

  Weird was all for confronting Graham Macfadyen, demanding an explanation of the wreaths at the funerals of Ziggy and Mondo. He'd been shouted down by the other two; without evidence of his involvement in the murders, they would only alert Macfadyen to their suspicions rather than provoke a confession.

  "I don't mind if he's alerted," Weird had said. "That way he might just quit while he's ahead and leave us two in peace."

  "Either that or he'll go away and come up with even more subtle approaches next time. He's not in any hurry, Weird. He's got his whole life to avenge his mother," Alex pointed out.

  "Always supposing it is him and not Jackie's hitman that killed Mondo," said Lynn.

  "Which is why we need Macfadyen to confess," Alex said. "It doesn't help clear anybody's name if he just retreats into the shadows."

  They chased their conversational tails, the dead-ends enlivened only by Davina's occasional wailing as she woke up ready for yet another feeding. Now they were reliving the past again, Alex and Weird running over the damage done to their lives by the toxic rumors that had enveloped their final year at St. Andrews.

  It was Weird who first lost patience with the past. He drained his glass and stood up. "I need some fresh air," he announced. "I'm not going to be intimidated into hiding behind locked doors for the rest of my life. I'm going for a walk. Anybody want to keep me company?"

  There were no takers. Alex was about to cook dinner and Lynn was feeding Davina. Weird borrowed Alex's waxed jacket and set off toward the shore. Against all odds, the clouds that had shrouded the sky all day had cleared. The sky was clear, a gibbous moon hanging low in the sky between the bridges. The temperature had dropped several degrees and Weird hunched into the collar of the jacket as a squall of chill wind gusted up from the Firth. He veered off toward the shadows under the railway bridge, knowing that if he climbed up on the headland, he'd earn himself a great view down the estuary toward the Bass Rock and the North Sea beyond.

  Already, he felt the benefit of being outside. A man was always closer to God in the open air, without the clutter of other people. He thought he'd made his peace with his past, but the events of the past few days had left him uneasily aware of his connection to the young man he had once been. Weird needed to be alone, to restore his belief in the changes he'd made. As he walked, he considered how far he had come, how much cumbersome baggage he'd shed on the way thanks to his belief in the redemption offered by his religion. His thoughts grew brighter, his heart lighter. He'd call the family later tonight. He wanted the reassurance of their voices. A few words with his wife and kids and he'd feel like a man waking from a nightmare. Nothing practical would change. He knew that. But he'd be better able to cope with whatever the world threw at him.

  The wind was picking up now, blustering and whooping around his head. He paused for breath, aware of the distant hum of traffic crossing the road bridge. He heard the clatter of a train on the approach to the rail bridge and he leaned back, craning his neck to watch it make its toy-town progress a hundred and fifty feet above his head.

  Weird neither saw nor heard the blow that brought him to his knees in a terrible parody of prayer. The second blow caught him in the ribs and propelled him crashing to the ground. He had a vague impression of a dark figure toting what looked like a baseball bat before a third blow across his shoulders sent his scattered thoughts reeling with pain. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the rough grass as he tried to crawl out of range. A fourth blow struck him across the back of the thighs, making him collapse on his stomach, beyond escape.

  Then, as suddenly as the attack had begun, it was over. It felt like a flashback to twenty-five years before. Through a miasma of pain and dizziness, Weird was vaguely aware of shouting and the incongruous sound of a small dog yapping. He smelt warm, stale breath, then felt a rough wet tongue slobbering over his face. That he could feel anything at all was such a blessing, he let the tears flow. "You have preserved me from mine enemies," he tried to say. Then everything went dark.

  * * *

  "I'm not going to the hospital," Weird insisted. He'd said it so many times, Alex was beginning to think it was incontrovertible evidence of concussion. Weird sat at the kitchen table, rigid with pain, and equally inflexible on the subject of medical care. His face was drained of color and a long welt stretched from his right temple to the back of his skull.

  "I think you've got broken ribs," Alex said. Not for the first time either.

  "Which they won't even strap up," Weird said. "I've had broken ribs before. They'll just gi
ve me some painkillers and tell me to keep taking them till I'm better."

  "I'm more worried about concussion," Lynn said, bustling in with a mug of strong, sweet tea. "Drink it. It's good for shock. And if you throw up again, you're probably concussed and we're going to take you to the hospital in Dunfermline."

  Weird shuddered. "No, not Dunfermline."

  "He's not that bad if he can still crack wise about Dunfermline," Alex said. "Is anything coming back about the attack?"

  "I didn't see a thing before the first blow. And after that, my head was reeling. I saw a dark shape. Probably a man. Maybe a tall woman. And a baseball bat. How stupid is that? I had to come all the way back to Scotland to get beaten up with a baseball bat."

  "You didn't see his face?"

  "I think he must have been wearing some kind of mask. I didn't even see the pale shape of a face. The next thing I knew, I'd fainted. When I came round, your neighbor was kneeling beside me, looking absolutely terrified. Then I threw up over his dog."

  In spite of the affront to his Jack Russell, Eric Hamilton had helped Weird to his feet and supported him the quarter of a mile back to the Gilbeys' house. He'd muttered something about disturbing a mugger then brushed off their effusive thanks and melted back into the night without so much as an appreciative whiskey.

  "He already disapproves of us," Lynn said. "He's a retired accountant and thinks we're bohemian artists. So don't worry, you've not ruined a beautiful friendship. However, we do need to call the cops."

  "Let's wait till morning. Then we can speak directly to Lawson. Maybe now he'll take us seriously," Alex said.

  "You think this was Macfadyen?" Weird asked.

  "This isn't Atlanta," Lynn said. "It's a quiet wee village in Fife. I don't think anybody's ever been mugged in North Queensferry. And if you were going to mug someone, would you pick on a giant in his forties when there's pensioners walking their dogs on the foreshore every night? This wasn't random, this was meant."

  "I agree," Alex said. "It follows the pattern of the other murders. Dress it up to look like something else. Arson, burglary, mugging. If Eric hadn't come along when he did, you'd be dead now."

  Before anyone could respond, the doorbell rang. "I'll get it," Alex said.

  When he returned, he was trailed by a police constable. "Mr. Hamilton reported the attack," Alex said in explanation. "PC Henderson has come along to take a statement. This is Mr. Mackie," he added.

  Weird managed a tight smile. "Thanks for coming over," he said. "Why don't you sit down?"

  "If I can just take some details," PC Henderson said, taking out a notebook and settling down at the table. He unfastened his bulky uniform waterproof, but made no move to take it off. They were probably specially trained to withstand the heat rather than lose the impression of size the jacket provided, Alex thought irrelevantly.

  Weird gave his full name, and address, explaining he was visiting his old friends Alex and Lynn. When he revealed he was a minister, Henderson looked uncomfortable, as if embarrassed that a mugger on his patch had walloped a man of the cloth. "What exactly happened?" the constable asked.

  Weird recounted the scant details he could remember of the attack. "Sorry I can't tell you more. It was dark. And I was caught unawares," he said.

  "He didn't say anything?"

  "No."

  "No demand for money or your wallet?"

  "Nothing."

  Henderson shook his head. "A bad business. It's not the sort of thing we expect in the village." He looked up at Alex. "I'm surprised you didn't call us yourself, sir."

  "We were more concerned with making sure Tom was all right," Lynn butted in. "We were trying to persuade him to go to the hospital, but he seems determined to be stoic about it."

  Henderson nodded. "I think Mrs. Gilbey's right, sir. It wouldn't do any harm to have a doctor take a look at your injuries. Apart from anything else, it means there's an official record of the extent of the damage if we catch whoever did it."

  "Maybe in the morning," Weird said. "I'm too tired to face it now."

  Henderson closed his notebook and pushed the chair back. "We'll keep you informed of any developments, sir," he said.

  "There is something else you can do for us, officer," Alex said.

  Henderson gave him an interrogative look.

  "I know this is going to sound totally off the wall, but can you arrange for a copy of your report to be sent to ACC Lawson?"

  Henderson seemed bemused by the request. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't quite see…"

  "I don't mean to patronize you, but it's a very long and complicated story and we're all too tired to go into it now. Mr. Mackie and I have been dealing with ACC Lawson on a very sensitive matter, and there's a chance this isn't just a casual mugging. I'd like him to see the report, just so he's aware of what's happened here tonight. I'll be speaking to him about it in the morning anyway, and it would be helpful if he was up to speed." No one who had ever seen Alex persuading his staff the extra mile would have been surprised by his quiet assertiveness.

  Henderson weighed his words, uncertainty in his eyes. "It's not normal procedure," he said hesitantly.

  "I realize that. But this isn't a normal situation. I promise you, it's not going to rebound on you. If you'd rather wait for the Assistant Chief Constable to contact you…" Alex let the sentence trail off.

  Henderson made his decision. "I'll send a copy to headquarters," he said. "I'll mention you requested it."

  Alex saw him out. He stood on the doorstep and watched the police car nose out of the drive and into the street. He wondered who was out there in the dark, watching for his moment. A shiver ran through him. But not from the cold night air.

  41

  The phone rang just after seven. It wakened Davina and gave Alex a jolt. After the attack on Weird, the slightest sound had penetrated his consciousness, requiring analysis and risk assessment. There was someone out there stalking him and Weird, and his every sense was on the alert. As a result, he'd hardly slept. He'd been aware of Weird moving around in the night, probably searching for more painkillers. It wasn't a normal night noise, and it had made his heart hammer before he'd worked it out.

  He grabbed the phone, wondering if Lawson was at his desk already, Henderson's report in his in-tray. He wasn't prepared for the jollity of Jason McAllister. "Hi, Alex," the forensic paint expert greeted him cheerfully. "I know new parents are always up with the lark so I figured you wouldn't mind me calling so early. Listen, I've got some information for you. I can come over now, and run it past you before I go into work. How would that be?"

  "Great," Alex said heavily. Lynn pushed the duvet back and blearily crossed to the moses basket, lifting her daughter with a grunt.

  "Smashing. I'll be with you in half an hour."

  "You know the address?"

  "Sure. I've had meetings with Lynn there a couple of times. See you." The phone went dead and Alex pushed himself up the bed as Lynn returned with the baby. "That was Jason," Alex said. "He's on his way. I'd better get in the shower. You didn't tell me he was second cousin to the Jolly Green Giant." He leaned over and kissed his daughter's head as Lynn put her to the breast.

  "He can be a bit much," Lynn agreed. "I'll feed Davina, then I'll throw on a dressing gown and join you."

  "I can't believe he's got a result so quickly."

  "He's like you were when you first started the business. He adores what he does so he doesn't mind how much time he spends on it. And he wants to share his delight with everybody else."

  Alex paused, hand reaching for his dressing gown. "I was like that? It's a miracle you didn't file for divorce."

  Alex found Weird in the kitchen looking terrible. The only color in his face came from the bruising that spread like greasepaint round both eyes. He sat awkwardly, hands wrapped round a mug. "You look like shit," Alex said.

  "I feel like it too." He sipped coffee and winced. "Why don't you have decent painkillers?"

  "Because we don't make a
habit of getting hammered," Alex said over his shoulder as he left to answer the door. Jason bounced into the room on the balls of his feet, jazzed with excitement, then did a double-take that was almost comic as he took in Weird's appearance. "Shit, man. What the hell happened to you?"

  "A man with a baseball bat," Alex said succinctly. "We weren't joking when we said this might be a matter of life and death." He poured a coffee for Jason. "I'm impressed that you've got something for us so soon," he said.

  Jason shrugged. "When I got to it, it wasn't such a big deal. I did the microspectrophotometry to establish the color, then I ran it through the gas chromatograph for the composition. It didn't match anything in my database, though."

  Alex sighed. "Well, we were expecting that," he said.

  Jason held up a finger. "Now, Alex. I am not a man without resources. A couple of years ago, I met this guy at a conference. He is the world's biggest paint head. He works for the FBI, and he reckons that he's got most extensive paint database in the known universe. So I got him to run my results against his records, and bingo! We got it." He held his arms out wide, as if expecting applause.

  Lynn walked in just in time to hear his conclusion. "So what was it?" she asked.

  "I won't bore you with the technical spec. It was made by a small manufacturer in New Jersey in the mid-seventies for use on fiberglass and certain types of molded plastic. The target market was boat builders and boat owners. It gave a particularly tough finish that was hard to scratch and wouldn't flake even in extreme weather conditions." He opened his backpack and rummaged around, eventually producing a computer-generated color chart. A swatch of pale blue was outlined in black marker. "That's what it looked like, he said, passing the sheet around. "The good news about the quality of the finish is that if by some miracle your crime scene has survived, the chances are that you could still make a match. The paint was mostly sold on the Eastern Seaboard of the U.S., but they did export into the U.K. and the Caribbean. The company went belly-up in the late eighties, so there's no way of telling where it ended up over here."