The Distant Echo

by Val McDermid

  "My name's John Duncan. I'm here to see what we can do to resolve this situation without anyone getting hurt."

  "I've nothing to say to you. I want to speak to Lawson."

  "He's not here right now. But anything you say to me, I'll pass on to him." "It's Lawson or nobody." Macfadyen's tone was pleasant and casual, as if they were talking about the weather or the football.

  "Like I said, Mr. Lawson isn't here right now."

  "I don't believe you, Mr. Duncan. But let's pretend you're telling me the truth. I'm in no hurry. I can wait till you find him." The line went dead. Duncan looked at Lawson. "End of round one," he said. "We'll give him five minutes then I'll try him again. He'll start talking eventually."

  "You think so? He sounded pretty cool to me. Don't you think I should maybe talk to him? That way, he might feel that he's going to get what he's asking for."

  "It's too early for concessions, sir. He has to give us something before we give him anything in return."

  Lawson sighed deeply and turned away. He hated the feeling of being out of control. This was going to be a media circus and the potential for an atrocious outcome was far, far greater than the alternative. He knew about sieges. They almost always ended badly for someone.

  * * *

  Alex contemplated his options. In any other set of circumstances, the sensible course of action would be to walk away now and go to the police. They could send in their forensic team and take the place apart in search of the single drop of blood or the teardrop of paint that would make the inevitable connection between this caravan and Rosie Duff's death.

  But how could he do that when the caravan in question belonged to the Assistant Chief Constable? Lawson would stop any investigation in its tracks, kill it dead before it even got started. The caravan would doubtless go up in flames, laid at the door of vandals. And then what would there be? Nothing more than coincidence. Lawson's presence so close to the place where Alex had stumbled over her body. At the time, nobody had thought twice about it. Back in the late seventies in Fife, the police were still above suspicion, the good guys keeping the bad things at bay. Nobody had even questioned why Lawson hadn't seen the killer driving Rosie's body to Hallow Hill, even though he was parked facing the most obvious route. But this was a new world, a world where it was possible to question the integrity of men like James Lawson.

  If Lawson had been the mystery man in Rosie's life, it made sense that she would keep his identity secret. Her troublemaking brothers would have hated her seeing a copper. Then there was the way that Lawson always seemed to turn up when he or his friends were under threat, as if he had appointed himself their guardian angel. Guilt, Alex thought now. Guilt would do that to a man. In spite of having killed Rosie, Lawson still retained enough decency not to want someone else to pay the price for his crime.

  But none of those circumstances was any kind of proof. The chance of going back to witnesses after twenty-five years and finding someone who had seen Rosie with Jimmy Lawson was nil. The only solid evidence was inside that caravan, and if Alex didn't do something about it now, it would be too late.

  But what could he do? He wasn't versed in the techniques of burglary. Breaking into cars as a teenager was light years away from picking a lock, and if he forced the door, Lawson would be alerted. At any other time, he might put it down to kids or some homeless wanderer. But not now. Not with so much interest in the Rosie Duff case. He couldn't afford to treat it as anything other than significant. He might just torch the place.

  Alex stepped back and considered. There was, he noticed, a skylight on the roof. Maybe he could squeeze in there? But how to get up to the roof? There was only one possibility. Alex trudged back to the gate, wedged it open and drove into the boggy field. For the first time in his life, he wished he was the kind of moron who drove a big fuck-off four-wheel drive around the city. But no, he had to be Mr. Flash with his BMW 535. What would he do if he got stuck in the mud?

  He cruised slowly down to the caravan and stopped parallel with one end. He opened the boot and unfastened the car's standard-issue toolkit. Pliers, a screwdriver, a spanner. He pocketed everything that looked as if it might be useful, took off his suit jacket and his tie then closed the boot. He clambered over the bonnet and onto the car roof. From there, it wasn't far to the top of the caravan. Scrabbling for purchase, Alex somehow managed to launch himself onto the roof.

  It was disgusting up there. The roof was slippery and slimy. Particles of dirt clung to his clothes and his hands. The skylight was a raised plastic dome about thirty inches by twelve. It was going to be a very tight squeeze. He jammed the screwdriver under the edge and tried to lever it up.

  At first, it wouldn't budge. But after repeated attempts at various points along the rim, it slowly shifted, creaking upward. Sweating, Alex wiped the back of his hand over his face and peered in. There was a pivoting metal arm with a screw adjustment that kept the skylight in place, so it could be raised and lowered from within. It also prevented the skylight from opening more than a few inches at one end. Alex groaned. He was going to have to unscrew the metal arm and then replace it.

  He fumbled to get the right angle. It was hard to get any purchase on the screws, which hadn't been moved since they were first put in more than a quarter of a century before. He strained and struggled until, eventually, first one screw and then the other shifted in their moorings. At last, the skylight swung free.

  Alex looked down. It wasn't as bad as it might have been. If he lowered himself carefully, he reckoned he could reach the bench seat that ran along one side of the living area. He took a deep breath, gripped the edge and let go.

  He thought his arms would fly free from their sockets as the jolt of his full weight traveled upward. His feet bicycled madly, trying for purchase, but after a few seconds, he just let himself drop.

  In the dim light, it looked as if little had changed since he'd sat here all those years ago. He'd had no intuition then that he was sitting in the very place where Rosie had met her violent end. There was no tell-tale smell, no giveaway blood smears, no psychic stain to set his nerves jangling.

  He was so close to an answer now. Alex could hardly bear to look up at the ceiling. What if Lawson had repainted it a dozen times since? Would there still be evidence? He let his heart rate subside to something approaching normal, then, muttering a prayer to Weird's God, he tilted his head back and looked up.

  Shit. The ceiling wasn't blue. It was cream. All this, and for nothing. Well, he wasn't going away empty-handed. He climbed up on the bench seat and chose a spot right in the corner, where it wouldn't be noticed. With the sharp blade of the screwdriver, he chipped away at the paint, catching the flakes in an envelope he'd taken from his briefcase.

  When he had gathered a decent amount, he climbed back down and picked out a decent-sized chip. It was cream on one side, and blue on the other. Alex's legs trembled and he sat down heavily, overcome with a turmoil of emotion. From his pocket, he pulled the color chart Jason had left behind and looked at the blue oblong that had jogged his visual memory of twenty-five years ago. He lifted the edge of the curtain to let daylight in and placed the flake of paint on the swatch of pale blue. It almost disappeared.

  Tears pricked at Alex's eyes. Was this the final answer?

  44

  Duncan had made three further attempts to talk to Graham Macfadyen, but he had steadfastly refused to budge on his demand to speak to Lawson, and Lawson only. He'd allowed Duncan to hear Davina's cries, but that had been the single concession he'd made. Exasperated, Lawson decided he'd had enough.

  "Time's rolling on. The baby's distressed, we've got the media breathing down our necks. Give me the phone. I'm doing the talking now," he said.

  Duncan took one look at his boss's flushed face and handed over the receiver. "I'll help you keep it on track," he said.

  Lawson made the connection. "Graham? It's me. James Lawson. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get here. I understand you want to talk to me?"<
br />
  "Damn right I want to talk to you. But before we get into it, I should tell you that I'm recording this. As we speak, it's going out live via a web-cast. The media have all got the URL, so they're probably hanging on our every word as we speak. There's no point in trying to close down the site, by the way. I've got it set up to jump from server to server. Before you can even find where it's coming from, it'll be somewhere else."

  "There's no need for this, Graham."

  "There's every need. You thought you could close me down by cutting the phone lines, but you think like last century's man. I'm the future, Lawson, and you're history."

  "How's the baby?"

  "Pain in the arse, actually. It just cries all the time. It's doing my head in. But it's fine. So far, anyway. It's come to no harm yet."

  "You're harming her just by keeping her from her mother."

  "It's not my fault. It's Alex Gilbey's fault. Him and his friends, they kept me from my mother. They murdered her. Alex Gilbey, Tom Mackie, David Kerr and Sigmund Malkiewicz murdered my mother, Rosie Duff, on 16 December 1978. First they raped her and then they murdered her. And Fife Police never charged them with the crime."

  "Graham," Lawson interrupted, "that's in the past. What we're concerned about now is the future. Your future. And the sooner we end this, the better your future will be."

  "Don't talk to me as if I'm stupid, Lawson. I know I'm going to be sent to prison for this. It doesn't make any odds whether I give up my hostage or not. Nothing's going to change that, so don't insult my intelligence. I've got nothing left to lose, but I can make damn sure that other people take a hit too. Now, where was I? Oh yes. My mother's murderers. You never charged them. And when you reopened the case recently, with a big fanfare of trumpets about how DNA would solve old crimes, you found you'd lost the evidence. How could you do that? How could you lose something so important?"

  "We're losing control," Duncan whispered. "He's calling the baby, 'it.' That's not good. Get back to the baby."

  "Kidnapping Davina isn't going to change that, Graham."

  "It's stopped you sweeping my mother's murder under the carpet. Now the whole world's going to know what you've done."

  "Graham, I'm as committed as I could be to dealing with whoever killed your mother."

  A hysterical laugh crackled down the line. "Oh, I know that. I just don't believe in your way of dealing with them. I want them to suffer in this world, not the next. They're dying like heroes. What they really were is being swept under the carpet. That's what comes of doing it your way."

  "Graham, we need to talk about your situation as it is now. Davina needs her mother. Why don't you bring her out now and we'll talk about your complaints. I promise we'll listen."

  "Are you crazy? This is the only way to get your attention, Lawson. And I plan to make the most of it before this is over." The call ended abruptly with the crashing down of the phone at the other end.

  Duncan tried to hide his frustration. "Well, at least we know now what's eating him."

  "He's off his head. We can't negotiate with him if he's broadcasting it to the world. Who knows what crazy allegations he's going to come up with next? The man should be sectioned, not humored." Lawson slammed his hand against the side of the van.

  "Before we can do that, we need to get him and the baby out of there."

  "Fuck that," Lawson said. "It'll be dark in an hour. We'll storm the place."

  Duncan looked stunned. "Sir, that's way outside the rules of engagement."

  "So is kidnapping a baby," Lawson called over his shoulder as he stalked back to his car. "I'm not standing by while a child's life is at risk."

  * * *

  Alex hit the track with an overwhelming sense of relief. There had been a couple of moments when he'd seriously doubted he'd ever get out of the field without a tractor. But he'd made it. He picked up his phone, planning to call Jason and tell him he was on his way with something very interesting. No signal. Alex tutted and drove carefully up the rutted lane toward the main road.

  As he neared Kinross, his phone rang. He grabbed it. Four messages. He thumbed the keys and summoned them. The first was from Weird, a terse message telling him to call home as soon as he picked it up. The second was also from Weird, passing on a mobile number. The fourth and fifth were from journalists asking him to return their calls.

  What the hell was going on? Alex pulled into a pub car park on the outskirts of the town and called Weird's number. "Alex? Thank the Lord," Weird gasped. "You're not driving, are you?"

  "No, I'm parked up. What's going on? I've got these messages…"

  "Alex, you have to be calm."

  "What is it? Davina? Lynn? What's happened?"

  "Alex, something bad has happened. But everybody's OK."

  "Weird, just fucking tell me," Alex roared, panic thudding in his chest.

  "Macfadyen has taken Davina," he said, speaking slowly and clearly. "He's holding her hostage. But she's OK. He hasn't hurt her."

  Alex felt as if someone had reached inside his body and ripped his heart out. All the love he'd discovered in himself seemed to transmute into a mixture of fear and rage. "What about Lynn? Where is she?" he choked out

  "She's here with us, outside Macfadyen's house in St. Monans. Hang on, I'll let you speak to her." A moment passed, then he heard a forlorn shadow of Lynn's voice.

  "Where have you been, Alex? He stole Davina. He took our baby, Alex." He could hear the tears hovering beneath the hoarseness.

  "I was in a black spot. No reception. Lynn, I'm coming. Hold on. Don't let them do anything. I'm coming, and I know something that'll change everything. Don't let them do anything, you hear? It's going to be all right. You hear? It's going to be OK. Put Weird back on, please?" As he spoke, he was starting the engine and pulling out of the car park.

  "Alex?" He could hear the strain in Weird's voice. "How soon can you be here?"

  "I'm in Kinross. Forty minutes? Weird, I know the truth. I know what happened to Rosie and I can prove it. When Macfadyen hears this, he'll understand he doesn't need to take any more revenge. You've got to stop them doing anything that puts Davina at risk until I can tell him what I know. This is dynamite."

  "I'll do my best. But they've got us shut away from the action."

  "Whatever it takes, Weird, do it. And look after Lynn for me, please?"

  "Of course. Get here fast as you can, eh? God bless you."

  Alex jammed his foot to the floor and drove as he'd never driven. He almost wished to be stopped for speeding. That way he'd get a police escort. Blues and twos all the way to the East Neuk. That was what he needed right now.

  * * *

  Lawson looked around the church hall they'd commandeered. "The technical support team can identify which rooms Macfadyen and the baby are in. So far, he's spent most of his time in a room at the back of the house. The baby is sometimes with him and sometimes in the front room. So it should be straightforward. We wait till they're separated, then one team goes in the front and gets the baby. The other team goes in the back and closes down Macfadyen.

  "We wait till it's dark. The streetlights will be off. He won't be able to see a damn thing. I want this to go like clockwork. I want that baby out of there alive and unharmed.

  "Macfadyen is another matter. He's mentally unstable. We have no idea whether he is armed or not. We have reason to believe he has already killed twice. Only last night, he is believed to have committed a serious assault. If he hadn't been disturbed then, it's my belief he would have killed again. He said himself he has nothing left to lose. If he shows any sign of reaching for a weapon, I am authorizing you to open fire. Does anyone have any questions?"

  The room was silent. The officers in the armed-response group had honed their skills for an operation like this. The room had become a vessel for testosterone and adrenaline. This was the moment when fear was given another name.

  * * *

  Macfadyen tapped the keys and clicked his mouse. The connection over
the mobile phone was abominably slow, but he'd managed to upload his conversation with Lawson to the Web site now. He sent out a follow-up e-mail to the news outlets he'd contacted earlier, telling them they could get a front-row seat at the siege by linking to his site, where they could hear for themselves what was going on.

  He was under no illusion that he could control the outcome. But he was determined to stage-manage what he could, and to do whatever was necessary to make this frontpage news. If that cost the baby's life, so be it. He was ready. He could do it, he knew he could. No matter whether it meant his name would be synonymous with evil in the tabloids. He wasn't going to come out of this as the only bad guy. Even if Lawson had called for a news blackout, the information was out there now, in the wild. He couldn't gag the Internet, couldn't stop those facts spawning. And Lawson must know by now that Macfadyen had an ace in the hole.

  Next time they called, he'd lay it out. He'd reveal the full extent of the police duplicity. He'd tell the world how low justice had stooped in Scotland.

  It was judgment day.

  * * *

  Alex was halted at a police roadblock. He could see the massed emergency vehicles ahead, could just make out the red-and-white barriers at the mouth of Carlton Way. He rolled down the window, aware that he looked filthy and disheveled. "I'm the father," he told the police officer who leaned down to speak to him. "It's my baby in there. My wife's here somewhere, I need to be with her."

  "Have you got some ID, sir?" the constable asked.

  Alex produced his driving license. "I'm Alex Gilbey. Please, let me through."

  The constable compared his face to the picture on the license, then turned away to speak into his radio. He came back a moment later. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gilbey. We have to be careful. If you'd just park on the verge there, one of the officers will take you to your wife."