hapter 9

It didn't feel like Christmas Eve. Walking to the bakery for a pie at lunchtime, Barney Maclennan had experienced the illusion of having been dropped into a parallel universe. Shop windows blossomed with garish Christmas decorations, fairy lights twinkled in the gloaming and the streets were thronged with shoppers staggering under the weight of bulging carrier bags. But it seemed alien to him. Their concerns were not his; they had something more to look forward to than a Christmas dinner tainted with the sad taste of failure. Eight days since Rosie Duff's murder, and no prospect of an arrest.

He'd been so confident that the discovery of the Land Rover had been the keystone that would support a case against one or more of the four students. Especially after the interviews in Kirkcaldy. Their stories had been plausible enough, but then they'd had a day and a half to perfect them. And he'd still had the sense that he wasn't getting the whole truth, though it was hard to pinpoint where precisely the falsehood lay. He'd believed hardly a word that Tom Mackie said, but Maclennan was honest enough to acknowledge that might have something to do with the deep antipathy he'd felt toward the math student.

Ziggy Malkiewicz was a deep one, that was for sure. If he'd been the killer, Maclennan knew he'd get nowhere until he had solid evidence; the medical student wasn't going to cave in. He thought he'd broken Davey Kerr's story when the lassie in Guardbridge had denied they'd had sex. But Janice Hogg, whom he'd taken with him for the sake of propriety, had been convinced that the girl had been lying, trying misguidedly to protect her reputation. Right enough, when he'd sent Janice back to reinterview the girl alone, she'd broken down and admitted that she had let Kerr have sex with her. It didn't sound as if it was an experience she was keen to repeat. Which, thought Maclennan, was interesting. Maybe Davey Kerr hadn't been quite as satisfied and cheerful afterward as he'd made out.

Alex Gilbey was a likely prospect, if only because there was no evidence that he'd driven the Land Rover. His fingerprints were all over the interior, but not around the driving seat. That didn't let him off the hook, however. If Gilbey had killed Rosie, he would likely have called for help from the others, and they would probably have given it; Maclennan was under no misapprehension about the strength of the bond that united them. And if Gilbey had arranged a date with Rosie Duff that had gone horribly wrong, Maclennan was pretty sure that Malkiewicz wouldn't have hesitated to do everything he could to protect his friend. Whether Gilbey knew it or not, Malkiewicz was in love with him, Maclennan had decided on nothing more than his gut reaction.

But there was more than Maclennan's instinct at play here. After the frustrating series of interviews, he'd been about to head back for St. Andrews when a familiar voice had hailed him. "Hey, Barney, I heard you were in town," echoed across the bleak car park.

Maclennan swung round. "Robin? That you?"

A slim figure in a police constable's uniform emerged into a pool of light. Robin Maclennan was fifteen years younger than his brother, but the resemblance was striking. "Did you think you could sneak off without saying hello?"

"They told me you were out on patrol."

Robin reached his brother and shook his hand. "Just came back for refs. I thought it was you I saw as we pulled up. Come away and have a coffee with me before you go." He grinned and gave Maclennan a friendly punch on the shoulder. "I've got some information I think you'll appreciate."

Maclennan frowned at his brother's retreating back. Robin, ever sure of his charm, hadn't waited for his brother's reaction, but had turned toward the building and the canteen inside. Maclennan caught up with him by the door. "What do you mean, information?" he asked.

"Those students you've got in the frame for the Rosie Duff murder. I thought I'd do a wee bit of digging, see what the grapevine had to say."

"You shouldn't be involving yourself in this, Robin. It's not your case," Maclennan protested as he followed his brother down the corridor.

"A murder like this, it's everybody's case."

"All the same." If he failed with this one, he didn't want his bright, charismatic brother tarred with the same brush. Robin was a pleaser; he'd go far farther in the force than Maclennan had, which was no less than he deserved. "None of them has a record anyway. I've already checked."

Robin turned as they entered the canteen and gave him the hundred-watt smile again. "Look, this is my patch. I can get people to tell me stuff that they're not going to give up to you."

Intrigued, Maclennan followed his brother to a quiet corner table and waited patiently while Robin fetched the coffees. "So, what do you know?"

"Your boys are not exactly innocents abroad. When they were thirteen or so, they got caught shoplifting."

Maclennan shrugged. "Who didn't shoplift when they were kids?"

"This wasn't just nicking a couple of bars of chocolate or packets of fags. This was what you might call Formula One Challenge Shoplifting. It seems they'd dare each other to nick really difficult things. Just for the hell of it. Mostly from small shops. Nothing they particularly wanted or needed. Everything from secateurs to perfume. It was Kerr who got caught red-handed with a Chinese ginger jar from a licensed grocer. The other three got nabbed standing outside waiting for him. They folded like a bad poker hand as soon as they were brought in. They took us to a shed in Gilbey's garden, where they'd stashed the loot. Everything still in its packaging." Robin shook his head wonderingly. "The guy who arrested them said it was like Aladdin's cave."

"What happened?"

"Strings got pulled. Gilbey's old man's a headmaster, Mackie's dad plays golf with the Chief Super. They got off with a caution and the fear of God."

"Interesting. But it's hardly the Great Train Robbery."

Robin conceded with a nod. "That's not all, though. A couple of years later, there were a series of pranks with parked cars. The owners would come back and find graffiti on the inside of their windscreens, written in lipstick. And the cars would all be locked up tight. It all ended as suddenly as it began, around the time that a stolen car got burned out. There was never anything concrete against them, but our local intelligence officer reckons they were behind it. They seem to have a knack for taking the piss."

Maclennan nodded. "I don't think I could argue with that." He was intrigued by the information about the cars. Maybe the Land Rover hadn't been the only vehicle on the road that night with one of his suspects behind the wheel.

Robin had been eager to find out more details of the investigation, but Maclennan sidestepped neatly. The conversation slipped into familiar channels?family, football, what to get their parents for Christmas?before Maclennan had managed to get away. Robin's information wasn't much, it was true, but it made Maclennan feel there was a pattern to the activities of the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy that smacked of a love of risk-taking. It was the sort of behavior that could easily tip over into something much more dangerous.

Feelings were all very well, but they were worthless without hard evidence. And hard evidence was what was sorely lacking. The Land Rover had turned into a forensic dead-end. They'd practically dismantled the entire interior but nothing had turned up to prove that Rosie Duff had ever been inside it. Excitement had burned through the team like a fuse when the scene of crime officers had discovered traces of blood, but closer examination had revealed that not only did it not belong to Rosie, it wasn't even human.

The one faint hope on the horizon had emerged only a day ago. A householder in Trinity Place had been doing some seasonal tidying in his garden when he'd found a sodden bundle of material thrust into his hedge. Mrs. Duff had identified it as belonging to Rosie. Now it had gone off to the lab for testing, but Maclennan knew that in spite of his marking it urgent, nothing would happen now until after the New Year. Just another frustration to add to the list.

He couldn't even decide whether to charge Mackie, Kerr and Malkiewicz with taking and driving away. They'd answered their bail requirements religiously and he'd been on the point of charging them when he'd overheard a conversation in the police social club. He'd been shielded from the officers talking by the back of a banquette, but he'd recognized the voices of Jimmy Lawson and Iain Shaw. Shaw had advocated throwing every charge they could come up with at the students. But to Maclennan's surprise, Lawson had disagreed. "It just makes us look bad," the uniformed constable had said. "We look petty and vindictive. It's like putting up a billboard saying, Hey, we can't get them for murder, but we're going to make their lives a misery anyway."

"So what's wrong with that?" Iain Shaw had replied. "If they're guilty, they should suffer."

"But maybe they're not guilty," Lawson said urgently. "We're supposed to care about justice, aren't we? That's not just about nailing the guilty, it's also about protecting the innocent. OK, so they lied to Maclennan about the Land Rover. But that doesn't make them killers."

"If it wasn't one of them, who was it, then?" Shaw challenged.

"I still think it's tied in to Hallow Hill. Some pagan rite or other. You know as well as me that we get reports every year from Tentsmuir Forest about animals that look like they've been the victims of some sort of ritual slaughter. And we never pay any attention to it, because it's no big deal in the great scheme of things. But what if some weirdo has been building up to this for years? It was pretty near to Saturnalia, after all."

"Saturnalia?"

"The Romans celebrated the winter solstice on December seventeenth. But it was a pretty moveable feast."

Shaw snorted incredulity. "Christ, Jimmy, you've been doing your research."

"All I did was ask down at the library. You know I want to join CID, I'm just trying to show willing."

"So you think it was some satanic nutter that offed Rosie?"

"I don't know. It's a theory, that's all. But we're going to look very fucking stupid if we point the finger at these four students and then there's another human sacrifice come Beltane."

"Beltane?" Shaw said faintly.

"End of April, beginning of May. Big pagan festival. So I think we should stand back from hitting these kids too hard until we've got a better case against them. After all, if they hadn't stumbled across Rosie's body, the Land Rover would have been returned, nobody any the wiser, no damage done. They just got unlucky."

Then they'd finished their drinks and left. But Lawson's words stuck in Maclennan's mind. He was a fair man, and he couldn't help acknowledging that the PC had a point. If they'd known from the start the identity of the mystery man Rosie had been seeing, they'd barely have looked twice at the quartet from Kirkcaldy. Maybe he was going in hard against the students simply because he had nothing else to focus on. Uncomfortable though it was to be reminded of his obligations by a woolly suit, Lawson had persuaded Maclennan he should hold back on charging Malkiewicz and Mackie.

For now, at least.

In the meanwhile, he'd put out one or two feelers. See if anybody knew anything about satanic rituals in the area. The trouble was, he didn't have a clue where to start. Maybe he'd get Burnside to have a word with some of the local ministers. He smiled grimly. That would take their minds off the baby Jesus, that was for sure.

Weird waved good-bye to Alex and Mondo at the end of their shift and headed down toward the prom. He hunched his shoulders against the chill wind, burying his chin in his scarf. He was supposed to be finishing off his Christmas shopping, but he needed some time on his own before he could face the relentless festive cheer of the High Street.

The tide was out, so he made his way down the slimy steps from the esplanade to the beach. The wet sand was the color of old putty in the low gray light of the afternoon and it sucked at his feet unpleasantly as he walked. It fit his mood perfectly. He couldn't remember ever having felt so depressed about his life.

Things at home were even more confrontational than usual. He'd had to tell his father about his arrest, and his revelation had provoked a constant barrage of criticism and digs about his failure to live up to what a good son should be. He had to account for every minute spent outside the house, as if he was ten years old all over again. The worst of it was that Weird couldn't even manage to take the moral high ground. He knew he was in the wrong. He almost felt as if his father's contempt was deserved, and that was the most depressing thing of all. He'd always been able to console himself that his way was the better way. But this time, he'd placed himself outside the limits.

Work was no better. Boring, repetitive and undignified. Once upon a time, he'd have turned it into a big joke, an opportunity for mayhem and mischief. The person who would have relished winding up his supervisors and enlisting the support of Alex and Mondo in a series of pranks felt like a distant stranger to Weird now. What had happened to Rosie Duff and his involvement in the case had forced him to acknowledge that he was indeed the waster that his father had always believed him to be. And it wasn't a comfortable realization.

There was no consolation for him in friendship either. For once, being with the others didn't feel like being absorbed into a support system. It felt like a reminder of all his failings. He couldn't escape his guilt with them, because they were the ones he'd implicated in his actions, even though they never seemed to blame him for it.

He didn't know how he was going to face the new term. Bladder-wrack popped and slithered under his feet as he reached the end of the beach and started to climb the broad steps toward the Port Brae. Like the seaweed, everything about him felt slimed and unstable.

As the light faded in the west, Weird turned toward the shops. Time to pretend to be part of the world again.

Chapter 10

New Year's Eve, 1978; Kirkcaldy, Scotland

They'd made a pact, back when they were fifteen, when their parents were first persuaded that they could be allowed out first-footing. At the year's midnight, the four Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy would gather in the Town Square and bring in the New Year together. Every year so far, they'd kept their word, standing around jostling each other as the hands of the town clock crept toward twelve. Ziggy would bring his transistor radio to make sure they heard the bells, and they'd pass around whatever drink they'd managed to acquire. They'd celebrated the first year with a bottle of sweet sherry and four cans of Carlsberg Special. These days, they'd graduated to a bottle of Famous Grouse.

There was no official celebration in the square, but over recent years groups of young people had taken to congregating there. It wasn't a particularly attractive place, mostly because the Town House looked like one of the less alluring products of Soviet architecture, its clock tower greened with verdigris. But it was the only open space in the town center apart from the bus station, which was even more charmless. The square also boasted a Christmas tree and fairy lights, which made it marginally more festive than the bus station.

That year, Alex and Ziggy arrived together. Ziggy had called round to the house to collect him, charming Mary Gilbey into giving them both a tot of Scotch to keep out the cold. Pockets stuffed with homemade shortbread, black bun which nobody would eat, and sultana cake, they'd walked down past the station and the library, past the Adam Smith Center with its posters advertising Babes in the Wood starring Russell Hunter and the Patton Brothers, past the Memorial Gardens. Their conversation kicked off with speculation as to whether Weird would manage to persuade his father to let him off the leash for Hogmanay.

"He's been acting pretty strange lately," Alex said.

"Gilly, he's always strange. That's why we call him Weird."

"I know, but he's been different. I've noticed it, working beside him. He's been kind of subdued. He's not had much to say for himself."

"Probably something to do with his current lack of access to alcohol and substances," Ziggy said wryly.

"He's not even been stroppy, though. That's the clincher. You know Weird. The minute he thinks anybody might be taking the piss, he erupts. But he's been keeping his head down, not arguing when the supervisors have a go. He just stands and takes it, then gets on with whatever they want him to do. You think it's the business with Rosie that's got to him?"

Ziggy shrugged. "Could be. He took it pretty lightly at the time, but then he was off his head. To tell you the truth, I've hardly spoken to him since the day Maclennan came over."

"I've only seen him at work. Soon as we clock off, he's out of there. He won't even come for a coffee with me and Mondo."

Ziggy pulled a face. "I'm surprised Mondo's got the time for coffee."

"Go easy on him. It's his way of dealing with it. When he's getting his end away with some lassie, he can't be thinking about the murder. Which is why he's going for the all-comer's record," Alex added with a grin.

They crossed the road and walked down Wemyssfield, the short street that led to the town square. They had the confident stride of men on their home turf, a place so familiar that it conferred a kind of ownership. It was ten to twelve when they trotted down the wide, shallow steps that led to the paved area outside the Town House. There were already several groups of people passing bottles from hand to hand. Alex looked around to see if he could spot the others.

"Over there, up at the Post Office end," Ziggy said. "Mondo's brought the latest lay. Oh, and Lynn's there with them too." He pointed to his left, and they set off to join the others.

After the exchange of greetings, and the general agreement that it didn't look like Weird was going to make it, Alex found himself standing next to Lynn. She was growing up, he thought. Not a kid anymore. With her elfin features and dark curls, she was a feminine version of Mondo. But paradoxically, the elements that made his face seem weak had the opposite effect with Lynn. There was nothing remotely fragile about her. "So, how's it going?" Alex said. It wasn't much of a line, but then, he didn't want to be thought to be chatting up fifteen-year-olds.

"Great. You have a good Christmas?"

"Not bad." He screwed up his face. "It was hard not to think about?you know."

"I know. I couldn't get her out of my mind either. I kept wondering what it must be like for her family. They'd have probably bought her Christmas presents by the time she died. What a horrible reminder, having them in the house."

"I suppose practically everything must be a horrible reminder. Come on, let's talk about something different. How are you getting on at school?"

Her face fell. She didn't want to be reminded of the age gap between them, he realized. "Fine. I've got my O grades this year. Then my Highers. I can't wait to get them out of the way so I can start my life properly."

"Do you know what you're going to do?" Alex asked.

"Edinburgh College of Art. I want to do a Fine Art degree and then go to the Courtauld in London and learn how to be a picture restorer."

Her confidence was beautiful to behold, he thought. Had he ever been so sure of himself? He'd more or less drifted into History of Art, because he'd never had the confidence in his talent as a practitioner. He whistled softly. "Seven years studying? That's a big commitment."

"It's what I want to do, and that's what it takes."

"What made you want to restore pictures?" He was genuinely curious.

"It fascinates me. First the research and then the science, and then that leap in the dark where you have to get in tune with what the artist really wanted to let us see. It's exciting, Alex."

Before he could respond, a shout went up from the others. "He made it!"

Alex turned round to see Weird outlined against the gray Scottish baronial Sheriff Court, his arms windmilling like a disarticulated scarecrow. As he ran, he let out a whooping cry. Alex looked up at the clock. Only a minute to spare.

Then Weird was upon them, hugging them, grinning. "I just thought, this is stupid. I'm a grown man and my father's trying to keep me from my friends on Hogmanay. What's that about?" He shook his head. "If he throws me out, I can bunk up with you, right, Alex?"

Alex punched him on the shoulder. "Why not? I'm used to your disgusting snoring."

"Quiet, everybody," Ziggy shouted over the hubbub. "It's the bells."

A hush fell over them as they strained to hear the tinny translation of Big Ben coming from Ziggy's transistor. As the chimes began, the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy looked at each other. Their arms rose as if drawn by a common thread and they clasped their hands on the final stroke of twelve. "Happy New Year," they chorused. Alex could see his friends were as choked with emotion as he was himself.

Then they broke away from each other and the moment was gone. He turned to Lynn and kissed her chastely on the lips. "Happy New Year," he said.

"I think it might be," she said, a rosy blush on her cheeks.

Ziggy cracked open the bottle of Grouse and it passed from hand to hand. Already the groups in the square were breaking up, everyone mingling and wishing strangers a guid New Year with whiskey breath and generous embraces. A few people who knew them from school commiserated with their hard luck at stumbling on a dying girl in the snow. There was no malice in their words, but Alex could see from the eyes of his friends that they hated it as much as he did. A bunch of girls were dancing an impromptu eightsome reel by the Christmas tree. Alex looked around, unable to articulate the emotions swelling in his breast.

Lynn sneaked her hand into his. "What are you thinking, Alex?"

He looked down at her and forced a tired smile. "I was just thinking how easy it would be if time froze now. If I never had to see St. Andrews again as long as I live."

"It won't be as bad as you think. You've only got six months to go anyway, and then you'll be free."

"I could come back at weekends." The words were out before Alex knew he was going to say them. They both knew what he meant.

"I'd like that," she said. "We'll just not mention it to my horrible brother, though."

Another New Year, another pact.

At the police social club in St. Andrews, the drink had been flowing for some time. The bells were almost lost in the raucous bonhomie of the Hogmanay dance. The only curb on the boisterousness of those who suffered restraint as a condition of their employment was the presence of spouses, fianc褳 and anyone who could be inveigled into coming along to save the faces of the unattached.

Flushed with exertion, Jimmy Lawson was flanked by the two middle-aged women who operated the station switchboard in a Dashing White Sergeant set. The pretty dental receptionist he'd arrived with had escaped to the toilets, worn out by his apparently boundless enthusiasm for Scottish country dancing. He didn't care; there were always plenty of women up for a turn on the floor on Hogmanay, and Lawson liked to let off steam. It made up for the intensity he brought to his work.

Barney Maclennan leaned on the bar, flanked by lain Shaw and Allan Burnside, each holding a substantial whiskey. "Oh God, look at them," he groaned. "If the Dashing White Sergeant comes, can Strip the Willow be far behind?"

"Nights like this, it's good to be single," Burnside said. "Nobody dragging you away from your drink and on to the dance floor."

Maclennan said nothing. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd tried to convince himself he was better off without Elaine. He'd never managed it for more than a few hours at a time. They'd still been together last Hogmanay, though only just. They were hanging on to each other with rather less determination than the sets of dancers birling in circles on the floor. Only a few weeks into the year, she'd told him she was off. She was tired of his job coming before her.

With a flash of irony, Maclennan remembered one of her rants. "I wouldn't mind so much if it was important crimes you were solving, like rape or murder. But you're out there all the hours God sends on tuppeny-ha'penny burglaries and car thefts. How do you think it feels to play second fiddle to some middle-aged old fart's Austin Maxi?" Well, her wish had come true. Here he was, a year later, mired in the biggest case of his career. And all he was doing was spinning his wheels.

Every avenue they'd pursued had turned into a cul-de-sac. Not a single witness who could put Rosie with a man after the beginning of November. Lucky for the mystery man that it had been a hard winter, when folk were more interested in the square yard of pavement in front of them than in who was hanging about with somebody they shouldn't. Lucky for him, but unlucky for the police. They'd tracked down her two previous boyfriends. One had dumped her in favor of the girl he was still going out with. He'd had no axe to grind with the dead barmaid. Rosie had chucked the other in early November, and at first he'd seemed a promising prospect. He'd been reluctant to take no for an answer, turning up a couple of times to make trouble at the bar. But he had a rock-solid alibi for the night in question. He'd been at his office Christmas party till gone midnight, then he'd gone home with his boss's secretary and spent the rest of the night with her. He admitted he'd been sore about Rosie ending their relationship at the time, but, frankly, he was having a lot more fun with a woman who was a bit more generous with her sexual favors.

When pressed by Maclennan as to what he meant by that, male pride had kicked in and he'd clammed up. But under pressure, he'd admitted they'd never actually had intercourse. They'd played around plenty; it wasn't that Rosie was a prude. Just that she wouldn't go all the way. He'd mumbled about blow jobs and hand jobs, but said that was the extent of it.

So Brian had been right, sort of, when he said his sister was a nice girl. Maclennan understood that, in the hierarchy of these things, Rosie was a long way from a good-time girl. But an intimate knowledge of her sexual proclivities didn't take him any nearer finding her killer. In his heart, he knew the chances were that the man she'd met that night had also been the man who had taken what he wanted from her and then taken her life. It might have been Alex Gilbey or one of his friends. But it might not.

His fellow detectives had argued that there could be a good reason why her date hadn't come forward. "Maybe he's married," Burnside had said. "Maybe he's scared we're going to fit him up," Shaw had added cynically. They were valid explanations, Maclennan supposed. They didn't alter his personal conviction, however. Never mind Jimmy Lawson's theories about satanic rites. None of the ministers Burnside had spoken to had even heard a whisper of anything like that happening locally. And Maclennan believed they were the most likely vessels for such information. He was relieved in a way; he didn't need any red herrings. He was sure that Rosie had known her killer, and she'd walked into the night confidently with him.

Just like thousands of other women all over the country would tonight. Maclennan hoped fervently they'd all end up safe in their own beds.

Three miles away in Strathkinness, the New Year had arrived in a very different atmosphere. Here, there were no Christmas decorations. Cards sat in an unheeded pile on a shelf. The television, which normally hanselled in the first of January, was blank and silent in the corner. Eileen and Archie Duff sat huddled in their chairs, untouched glasses of whiskey at their sides. The oppressive stillness carried the weight of grief and depression. The Duffs knew in their hearts they would never have another happy New Year. The festive season would forever be tainted by their daughter's death. Others might celebrate; they could only mourn.

In the scullery, Brian and Colin sat slumped on a pair of plastic-covered kitchen chairs. Unlike their parents, they were having no difficulty in drinking the New Year in. Since Rosie's death, they'd found it easy to pour alcohol down their throats till they couldn't find their mouths any longer. Their response to tragedy had not been to retreat into themselves but to become more expansively themselves. The publicans of St. Andrews had grown resigned to the drunken antics of the Duff brothers. They didn't have much alternative, not unless they wanted to face the wrath of their volatile clientele who reckoned Colin and Brian deserved all the sympathy that was going.

Tonight, the bottle of Bells was already past the halfway mark. Colin looked at his watch. "We missed it," he said.

Brian looked at him blearily. "Why should I care? Rosie's going to miss it every year."

"Aye. But somewhere out there, whoever killed her is probably raising a glass to getting away with it."

"It was them. I'm sure it was them. You see that picture? Did you ever see anybody look more guilty?"

Colin drained his glass and reached for the bottle, nodding agreement. "There was nobody else about. And they said she was still breathing. So if it wasn't them, where did the murderer disappear to? He didnae just vanish into thin air."

"We should make a New Year's resolution."

"Like what? You're not going to give up smoking again, are you?"

"I'm serious. We should make a solemn promise. It's the least we can do for Rosie."

"What do you mean? What kind of a solemn promise?"

"It's simple enough, Col." Brian topped up his glass. He held it up expectantly. "If the cops can't get a confession, then we will."

Colin considered for a moment. Then he raised his glass and chinked it against his brother's. "If the cops can't get a confession, then we will."