hapter 28

It hadn't been easy, finding a vantage point that afforded a good view of Alex Gilbey's house. But Macfadyen had persevered, clambering over rocks and scrambling across tussocks of rough grass beneath the massive iron cantilevers of the rail bridge. At last, he'd found the perfect spot, at least for night watching. During the day, it would have been horribly exposed, but Gilbey was never around during daylight hours. But once darkness fell, Macfadyen was lost in the black depths of the bridge's shadow, looking straight down on the conservatory where Gilbey and his wife always sat in the evening, taking advantage of their magnificent panorama.

It wasn't right. If Gilbey had paid the price for his actions, he'd either still be languishing behind bars or living the sort of shitty life most long-term prisoners came out to. A scummy council flat surrounded by junkies and small-time hoods, with a stairwell that smelled of piss and vomit, that's the best he deserved. Not this valuable piece of real estate with its spectacular vista and its triple glazing to keep out the sound of the trains that rattled over the bridge all day and most of the night. Macfadyen wanted to take it all away from him, to make him understand what he'd stolen when he'd taken part in the murder of Rosie Duff.

But that was for another day. Tonight, he was keeping vigil. He'd been in Glasgow earlier, waiting patiently for a shopper to vacate the parking space that experience had taught him gave the perfect perspective on Kerr's slot in the university car park. When his quarry had emerged just after four, Macfadyen had been surprised that he hadn't headed for Bearsden. Instead, their destination had been the motorway that snaked through the middle of Glasgow before striking out across country to Edinburgh. When Kerr had turned off for the Forth Bridge, Macfadyen had smiled in anticipation. It looked like the conspirators were getting together after all.

His prediction turned out to be spot on. But not quite immediately. Kerr left the motorway on the north side of the estuary and, instead of heading down into North Queensferry, he turned off toward the modern hotel that commanded prime views from the sandstone bluff above the estuary. He parked his car and hurried inside. By the time Macfadyen entered the hotel less than a minute behind him, there was no trace of his quarry. He wasn't in the bar or the restaurant area. Macfadyen hurried to and fro through the public areas, his anxious flurry of movement attracting curious glances from staff and customers alike. But Kerr was nowhere to be seen. Furious that he'd lost his man, Macfadyen stormed back outside, slamming the flat of his hand on his car roof. Christ, this wasn't how it was supposed to be. What was Kerr playing at? Had he realized he was being followed and deliberately shaken off his pursuer? Macfadyen hastily whirled round. No, Kerr's car was still where it should be.

What was going on? Obviously, Kerr was meeting someone and they didn't want their meeting to be observed. But who could it be? Could Alex Gilbey have returned from the States and decided to meet his co-conspirator on neutral ground to keep their meeting from his wife? There was no obvious way to find out. Cursing softly, he climbed back into his car and fixed his gaze on the hotel entrance.

He didn't have long to wait. About twenty minutes after Kerr had entered the hotel, he returned to his car. This time, he drove down into North Queensferry. That answered one question. Whoever he'd met, it hadn't been Gilbey. Macfadyen hung back by the corner of the street until Kerr's car turned into Gilbey's drive. Within ten minutes, he was taking up his station under the bridge, grateful that the rain had eased off. He raised his powerful binoculars to his eyes and focused on the house below. A dim glow from inside trickled into the conservatory, but he couldn't see anything else. He moved his field of vision along the wall, finding the oblong of light from the kitchen.

He saw Lynn Gilbey pass, a bottle of red wine in her hand. Nothing for a long couple of minutes, then the lamps in the conservatory flickered into brightness. David Kerr followed the woman in and sat down while she opened the wine and poured two glasses. They were, he knew, brother and sister. Gilbey had married her six years after Rosie's death, when he'd been twenty-seven and she twenty-one. He wondered if she knew the truth about what her brother and her husband had been involved with. Somehow, he doubted it. She would have been spun a web of lies, and it had suited her to believe it. Just like it had suited the police. They'd all been happy to take the easy way out back then. Well, he wasn't going to let that happen a second time.

And now she was pregnant. Gilbey was going to be a father. It infuriated him that their child would have the privilege of knowing its parents, of being wanted and loved instead of blamed and reproached. Kerr and his friends had taken that chance from him all those years before.

There wasn't much conversation going on down there, he noted. Which meant one of two things. Either they were so close they didn't need chatter to fill the space. Or else there was a distance between them that small talk couldn't bridge. He wondered which it was; impossible to gauge from this distance. After ten minutes or so, the woman glanced at her watch and stood up, one hand in the small of her back, the other on her belly. She walked back into the house.

When she hadn't reappeared after ten minutes, he began to wonder if she'd left the house. Of course, it made sense. Gilbey would be returning from the funeral. Meeting up with Kerr for a debriefing. Talking through the questions raised by Malkiewicz's mysterious death. The murderers reunited.

He hunkered down and took a thermos from his backpack. Strong, sweet coffee to keep him awake and energized. Not that he needed it. Since he'd begun stalking the men he believed responsible for his mother's death, he seemed fired with vigor. And when he fell into bed at night, he slept more deeply than he had since childhood. It was further justification, if any were needed, that the path he had chosen was the right one.

More than an hour passed. Kerr kept jumping up and pacing back and forth, occasionally going back into the house then coming back almost immediately. He wasn't comfortable, that was for sure. Then suddenly, Gilbey walked in. There was no handshake, and it was soon clear to Macfadyen that this was no easy, relaxed encounter. Even through the binoculars, he could tell the conversation wasn't one either man relished.

Nevertheless, he wasn't expecting Kerr to go to pieces as he did. One minute, he was fine, then he was in tears. The dialogue that followed seemed intense, but it didn't last long. Kerr got to his feet abruptly and pushed past Gilbey. Whatever had passed between them, it hadn't made either of them happy.

Macfadyen hesitated for a moment. Should he keep watch here? Or should he follow Kerr? His feet started moving before he was aware of having decided. Gilbey wasn't going anywhere. But David Kerr had broken his pattern once. He might just do it again.

He ran back to his car, reaching the corner just as Kerr pulled out of the quiet side street. Cursing, Macfadyen dived behind the wheel and gunned the engine, taking off with a screech of rubber. But he needn't have worried. Kerr's silver Audi was still at the intersection with the main road, waiting to turn right. Instead of heading for the bridge and home, he chose the M90 going north. There wasn't much traffic, and Macfadyen had no trouble keeping him in sight. Within twenty minutes, he had a pretty good idea where his quarry was making for. He'd bypassed Kirkcaldy and his parents' home and taken the Standing Stone road east. It had to be St. Andrews.

As they reached the outskirts of the town, Macfadyen crept closer. He didn't want to lose Kerr now. The Audi signaled a left turn, heading up toward the Botanic Gardens. "You just couldn't stay away, could you?" Macfadyen muttered. "Couldn't leave her alone."

As he expected, the Audi turned into Trinity Place. Macfadyen parked on the main road and hurried down the quiet suburban street. Lights were on behind curtained windows, but there was no other sign of life. The Audi was parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, sidelights still glowing. Macfadyen walked past, noting the empty driver's seat. He took the path that skirted the bottom of the hill, wondering how many times that same mud had been trampled by those four students before the night they took their fatal decision. Looking up to his left, he saw what he expected. On the brow of the hill, silhouetted against the night, Kerr stood, head bowed. Macfadyen slowed down. It was strange how everything kept coming together to confirm his conviction that the four men who had found his mother's body knew far more about her death than they'd ever been forced to admit. It was hard to understand how the police had failed all those years ago. To have bungled something so straightforward defied belief. He'd done more for the cause of justice in a few months than they'd achieved in twenty-five years with all their resources and manpower. Just as well he wasn't relying on Lawson and his trained monkeys to avenge his mother.

Maybe his uncle had been right and they'd been in thrall to the University. Or maybe he'd been closer to the mark when he'd accused the police of corruption. Wherever the truth lay, it was a different world now. The old servility was dead. Nobody was afraid of the University anymore. And people understood now that the police were just as likely to be crooked as anybody else. So it still fell to individuals like him to make sure justice was done.

As he watched, Kerr straightened up and headed back toward his car. Another entry in the ledger of guilt, Macfadyen thought. Just another brick in the wall.

Alex shifted onto his side and checked the time. Ten to three. Five minutes since he'd last looked at it. It was no use. His body was disorientated by flight and the shift of time zones. All he would achieve if he kept trying to sleep would be to wake Lynn. And given how disturbed her sleep pattern had been by the pregnancy, he didn't want to risk that. Alex slipped out from under the duvet, shivering a little as the chill air hit his skin. He grabbed his dressing gown on his way out of the room and closed the door softly behind him.

It had been a hell of a day. Taking his farewell of Paul at the airport had felt like an abandonment, his natural desire to be home with Lynn a selfishness. On his first flight, he'd been crammed in a bulkhead seat with no window, next to a woman so large he felt certain the whole bank of seats would leave with her when she attempted to rise. He'd fared a little better on the second leg, but he'd been too tired to sleep by then. Thoughts of Ziggy had plagued him, infusing his heart with regrets at all the opportunities missed over the past twenty years. And instead of a restful evening with Lynn, he'd had to deal with Mondo's emotional outburst. He'd have to go to the office in the morning, but already he knew he'd be good for nothing. Sighing, he made for the kitchen and put the kettle on. Maybe a cup of tea would soothe him back to sleepiness.

Carrying his mug, he wandered through the house, touching familiar objects as if they were talismans that would ground him safely. He found himself standing in the nursery, leaning on the cot. This was the future, he told himself. A future worth having, a future that offered him the opportunity to make something of his life that was more than getting and spending.

The door opened and Lynn stood silhouetted against the warm light of the hall.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" he asked.

"No, I managed that all by myself. Jet lag?" She came in and put an arm round his waist.

"Probably."

"And Mondo didn't help, right?"

Alex nodded. "I could have done without that."

"I don't suppose he considered that for a moment. My selfish brother thinks we're all on the planet for his convenience. I did try to put him off, you know."

"I don't doubt it. He's always had the knack of not hearing what he doesn't want to hear. But he's not a bad man, Lynn. Weak and self-centered, sure. But not malicious."

She rubbed her head against his shoulder. "It comes from being so handsome. He was such a beautiful child, he was indulged by everybody, wherever he went. I used to hate him for it when we were wee. He was the object of adoration, a little Donatello angel. People were dazzled by him. And then they'd look at me and you could see the bafflement. How could a stunner like him have such a plain sister?"

Alex chuckled. "And then the ugly duckling turned into a stunner herself."

Lynn dug him in the ribs. "One of the things I've always loved about you is your ability to lie convincingly about the really unimportant things."

"I'm not lying. Somewhere around fourteen, you stopped being plain and got gorgeous. Trust me, I'm an artist."

"Flannel merchant, more like. No, I was always in Mondo's shadow in the looks department. I've been thinking about that lately. The things my parents did that I don't want to repeat. If our baby turns out to be a beauty, I don't ever want to make a big issue out of it. I want our child to have confidence, but not that sense of entitlement that's poisoned Mondo."

"You'll get no argument from me on that." He put a hand on the swell of her stomach. "You hear, Junior? No getting big-headed, right?" He leaned down and kissed the top of Lynn's head. "Ziggy dying like that, it's made me scared. All I want is to see my kid grow up, with you by my side. But it's all so fragile. One minute you're here, the next you're gone. All the things Ziggy must have left undone, and now they'll never be done. I don't want that to happen to me."

Lynn gently took his tea from him and put it on the changing table. She drew him into her arms. "Don't be scared," she said. "Everything's going to be all right."

He wanted to believe her. But he was still too close to his own mortality to be entirely convinced.

A huge yawn cracked Karen Pirie's jaw as she waited for the buzzer that signaled the door release. When it came, she pushed the door open and trudged across the hall, nodding to the security guard as she passed his office. God, how she hated the evidence storage center. Christmas Eve, and the rest of the world was girding its loins for the festivities, and where was she? It felt as if her whole life had narrowed to these aisles of archive boxes with their bagged contents telling pathetic stories of crimes perpetrated by the stupid, the inadequate and the envious. But somewhere in here, she was sure there was the evidence that would open her cold case for her.

It wasn't the only route her investigation could take. She knew she'd have to go back and reinterview witnesses at some point. But she knew that in old cases like this, physical evidence was the key. With modern forensic techniques, it was possible that the case exhibits would provide solid proof that would make witness statements largely redundant.

That was all well and good, she thought. But there were hundreds of boxes in the storage facility. And she had to go through every single one. So far, she reckoned she'd covered about a quarter of the containers. The only positive result was that her arm muscles were getting stronger from toting boxes up and down stepladders. At least she had ten glorious days of leave starting tomorrow, when the only boxes she'd be opening would contain something more appealing than the detritus of crime.

She exchanged greetings with the officer on duty and waited while he unlocked the door in the wire cage that enclosed the shelves of boxes. The security protocol was the worst thing about this task. With every box, the routine was the same. She had to get the box off the shelf, and bring it down to the table where the duty officer could see her. She had to write down the case number in the master log, then fill in her name, number and the date on the sheet of paper affixed to the lid. Only then could she open the box and rummage through its contents. Once she'd satisfied herself that it didn't contain what she was looking for, she had to replace it and go through the whole mind-numbing routine again. The only break in the monotony was when another officer turned up to check through one of the boxes. But this was usually a short-lived respite since they were invariably lucky enough to know the whereabouts of what they were looking for.

There was no simple way to narrow it down. At first, Karen had thought the easiest way to conduct the search would be to go through everything that had originally come from St. Andrews. Boxes were filed according to case numbers, which were chronological. But the process of amalgamating all the evidence lockers of all the individual police stations throughout the region had dispersed the St. Andrews boxes through the entire collection. So that possibility was ruled out.

She had started by going through everything from 1978. But that had turned up nothing of interest, apart from a craft knife that belonged to a 1987 case. Then she'd attacked the years on either side. This time, the misfiled item had been a child's gym shoe, a relic of the unsolved disappearance of a ten-year-old boy in 1969. She was fast reaching the point where she feared that she could easily miss the very thing she was looking for because her brain was so dulled by the process.

She popped the top on a can of Diet Irn-Bru, took a swig that set her taste-buds jangling and got started: 1980. Third shelf. She dragged her jaded body to the bottom of the stepladder, still sitting where she'd finished with it the day before. She climbed up, pulled out the box she needed and cautiously descended the aluminium steps.

Back at the table, she did the paperwork then lifted the lid. Great. It looked like a charity-shop reject pile in there. Laboriously, she took out the bags one by one, checking that none had Rosie Duff's case number on its adhesive label. A pair of jeans. A filthy T-shirt. A pair of women's knickers. Tights. A bra. A checked shirt. None of them anything to do with her. The last item looked like a woman's cardigan. Karen lifted out the final bag, expecting nothing.

She gave the label a cursory glance. Then she blinked, unable to believe her eyes. She checked the number again. Not trusting herself, she dug her notebook out of her bag and compared the case number on the cover with the bag she was gripping tightly in her hand.

There was no mistake. Karen had found her early Christmas present.

Chapter 29

January 2004; Scotland

He'd been right. There was a pattern. It had been disrupted by the festive season, and that had made him fretful. But now the New Year was past, the old routine had reasserted itself. The wife went out every Thursday evening. He watched her framed against the light as the front door of the Bearsden villa opened. Moments later, her car headlights came on. He didn't know where she was going and he didn't care. All that mattered was that she had behaved predictably, leaving her man alone in the house.

He reckoned he had a good four hours to carry out his plan. But he forced himself to be patient. Senseless to take risks now. Best to wait till people had settled down for the evening, slumped in front of the TV. But not for too long. He didn't want someone taking their designer dog for a last pee bumping into him as he made his getaway. Suburbia, predictable as the speaking clock. He hugged the reassurance to himself, trying to stifle the ticking of anxiety.

He turned up the collar of his jacket against the cold and prepared to wait, his heart fluttering in his chest with anticipation. There was no pleasure in what lay ahead, just necessity. He wasn't some sick thrill killer, after all. Just a man doing what he had to do.

David Kerr swapped DVDs and returned to his armchair. Thursday nights were when he indulged his semisecret vice. When He was out with the girls, he was slumped in a chair glued to the U.S. series that she dismissed as "trash TV." So far that evening, he'd watched two episodes of Six Feet Under and now he was thumbing the remote to cue up one of his favorite episodes from the first series of The West Wing. He'd just stopped humming along with the grandiose swell of the theme tune when he thought he heard the sound of breaking glass from downstairs. Without conscious thought, his brain calibrated its coordinates and signaled that it came from the back of the house. Probably the kitchen.

He jerked upright and hit the mute button on the remote. More glass tinkled and he jumped to his feet. What the hell was that? Had the cat knocked something over in the kitchen? Or was there a more sinister explanation?

David rose cautiously, looking around him for a potential weapon. There wasn't much to choose from, He being something of a minimalist when it came to interior design. He snatched up a heavy crystal vase, slender enough at the neck to fit neatly into his hand. He crossed the room on tiptoe, ears straining for a sound, heart racing. He thought he heard a crunching noise, as if glass were being crushed underfoot. Anger rose alongside fear. Some jakie or junkie was invading his home looking for the price of a bottle of Buckie or a wrap of smack. His natural instinct was to call the police then sit tight. But he was afraid they'd take too long to get there. No self-respecting burglar would settle for what they could find in the kitchen; they'd be bound to look for better pickings and he'd be forced to confront whoever had invaded his home. Besides, he knew from experience that if he picked up the phone in here, the extension in the kitchen would click, revealing what he was up to. And that might really piss off whoever was raiding his house. Better to try a direct approach. He'd read somewhere that most burglars are cowards. Well, maybe one coward could scare off another one.

Taking a deep breath to still his alarm, David inched open the living room door. He peered down the hall, but the kitchen door was closed and offered no indication of what might be going on on the other side of it. But now he could hear the unmistakable sounds of someone moving around. The rattle of cutlery as a drawer was pulled open. The slap of a cupboard door closing.

To hell with it. He wasn't going to stand idle while someone trashed the place. He walked boldly down the hall and threw the kitchen door open. "What the hell's going on here?" he shouted into the darkness. He reached for the light switch, but when he flicked it on, nothing happened. In the faint light from outside, he could see glass sparkling on the floor by the open back door. But there was nobody in sight. Had they gone already? Fear made the hair on his neck and naked arms stand on end. Uncertainly, he took a step forward into the gloom.

From behind the door, a blur of movement. David swung round as his assailant cannoned into him. He had an impression of medium height, medium build, features obscured by a ski mask. He felt a blow to the stomach; not enough to make him double over, more like a jab than a punch. The burglar took a step backward, breathing heavily. At the same moment David realized the man was holding a long-bladed knife, he felt a hot line of pain inside his guts. He put a hand to his stomach and wondered stupidly why it felt warm and wet. He looked down and saw a dark spreading stain swallowing the white of his T-shirt. "You stabbed me," he said, incredulity his first reaction.

The burglar said nothing. He drew his arm back and thrust again with the knife. This time, David felt it slice deep into his flesh. His legs gave way beneath him and he coughed, slumping forward. The last thing he saw was a pair of well-worn walking boots. From a distance, he could hear a voice. But the sounds it was making refused to cohere in his head. A jumble of syllables that made no sense. As he drifted away from consciousness, he couldn't help thinking it was a pity.

When the phone rang at twenty to midnight, Lynn expected Alex's voice, apologizing for the lateness of the hour, telling her he was just leaving the restaurant where he'd been entertaining a potential client from Gothenburg. She wasn't prepared for the banshee wail that assaulted her as soon as she lifted the bedside receiver. A woman's voice, incoherent, but clearly anguished. That was all she could make out to begin with.

At the first gulp for breath, Lynn jumped in. "Who is this?" she demanded, anxious and afraid.

More panicked sobs. Then, finally, something that sounded familiar. "It's me?He'd. God help me, Lynn, this is terrible, terrible." Her voice caught and Lynn heard an incoherent gabble of French.

"He'd? What's the matter? What's happened?" Lynn was shouting now, trying to cut through the scrambled syllables. She heard a deep intake of breath.

"It's David. I think he's dead."

Lynn understood the words, but she couldn't grasp the sense. "What are you talking about? What's happened?"

"I came home, he's on the kitchen floor, there's blood everywhere and he's not breathing. Lynn, what am I to do? I think he's dead."

"Have you phoned an ambulance? The police?" Surreal. This was surreal. That she was capable of such a thought at a moment like this bemused Lynn.

"I called them. They are on their way. But I had to talk to somebody. I'm afraid, Lynn, I am so afraid. I don't understand. This is terrible, I think I'm going mad. He is dead, my David is dead."

This time, the words penetrated. Lynn felt as if a cold hand was pressing in on her chest, constricting her breathing. This wasn't how things were supposed to happen. You weren't supposed to pick up the phone, expecting your husband, only to hear your brother was dead. "You don't know that," she said helplessly.

"He's not breathing, I can't feel a pulse. And there is so much blood. He's dead, Lynn. I know it. What am I going to do without him?"

"All this blood?has somebody attacked him?"

"What else could have happened?"

Fear hit Lynn like a cold shower. "Get out of the house, He'd. Wait outside for the police. He could still be in the house."

He'd screamed. "Oh my God. You think this is possible?"

"Just get out. Call me later, when the police are there." The line went dead. Lynn lay frozen, unable to process what she'd just gone through. Alex. She needed Alex. But He'd needed him more. In a daze, she speed-dialed his mobile. When he answered, the sounds of a boisterous restaurant in the background seemed incongruous and bizarre to Lynn. "Alex," she said. For a moment nothing else would come.

"Lynn? Is that you? Is everything OK? You're all right?" His anxiety was palpable.

"I'm fine. But I've just had the most awful conversation with He'd. Alex, she said Mondo's dead."

"Hang on a minute, I can't hear you."

She heard the sound of a chair being pushed back, then a few seconds later the noise subsided. "That's better," Alex said. "I couldn't make out what you were saying. What's the problem?"

Lynn could feel her self-control slip. "Alex, you need to go to Mondo's right away. He'd's just phoned. Something terrible's happened. She says Mondo's dead."

"What?"

"I know, it's incredible. She says he's lying on the kitchen floor, blood everywhere. Please, I need you to go there, find out what's going on." Tears were on her cheeks now.

"He'd's there? At the house? And she says Mondo's dead? Jesus Christ."

Lynn choked on a sob. "I can't take it in either. Please, Alex, just go and see what's happened."

"OK, OK. I'm on my way. Look, maybe he's just hurt. Maybe she got it wrong."

"She didn't sound like there was any doubt in her mind."

Aye, well, He'd's not a doctor, is she? Look, hang in there. I'll call you as soon as I get there."

"I can't believe this." Now the tears were choking her, turning her words into gulps.

"Lynn, you've got to try and stay calm. Please."

"Calm? How can I be calm? My brother's dead."

"We don't know that. Lynn, the baby. You've got to take care of yourself. Getting into a state can't help Mondo, whatever's happened."

"Just get there, Alex," Lynn shouted.

"I'm on my way." She heard Alex's footsteps as the call ended. She'd never wanted him more. And she wanted to be in Glasgow, to be by her brother's side. No matter what had passed between them, he was still bound to her by blood. She hadn't needed Alex's reminder that she was nearly eight months pregnant. She wasn't about to do anything that would put her baby at risk. Groaning softly as she wiped her tears, Lynn tried to make herself physically comfortable. Please God, let He'd be wrong.

Alex couldn't remember ever having driven faster. It was a miracle that he reached Bearsden without once seeing flashing blue lights in his rear-view mirror. All the way there, he kept telling himself there must be a mistake. The possibility of Mondo's death was one he couldn't entertain. Not so close on the heels of Ziggy's. Sure, terrible coincidences happened. They were the stuff of tabloid ghoulishness and daytime TV shows. But they happened to other people. At least, they always had until now.

His fervent hopes began to disintegrate as soon as he turned into the quiet road where Mondo and He'd lived. Outside the house, three police cars straggled along the pavement. An ambulance sat in the drive. Not a good sign. If Mondo was alive, he'd be long gone, the ambulance hurtling blues and twos to the nearest hospital.

Alex abandoned his car behind the first police car and ran toward the house. A burly uniformed constable in a fluorescent yellow jacket stepped into his path at the end of the drive. "Can I help you, sir?" he said.

"It's my brother-in-law," Alex said, trying to push past him. The constable grabbed his arms, firmly preventing his passage. "Please, let me through. David Kerr?I'm married to his sister."

"I'm sorry, sir. Nobody can go in just now. This is a crime scene."

"What about He'd? His wife? Where's she? She called my wife."

"Mrs. Kerr is inside. She's perfectly safe, sir."

Alex let himself go limp. The constable loosened his grip. "Look, I don't really know what's gone on here, but I do know that He'd needs support. Can't you radio your boss, get me in?"

The constable looked doubtful. "Like I said, sir, this is a crime scene."

Frustration fizzed in Alex's head. "And this is how you treat the victims of crime? Keep them isolated from their families?"

The policeman put his radio to his mouth with a resigned air. He half turned away, making sure he still blocked access to the house, and muttered something into the radio. It crackled in response. After a brief, muffled exchange, he swung back to face Alex. "Can I see some ID, sir?" he asked.

Impatient, Alex pulled out his wallet and withdrew his driver's license. Thankful that he'd gone for one of the new ones with a photograph, he handed it over. The policeman looked it over and handed it back with a polite nod. "If you'd like to go up to the house, sir, one of my colleagues from CID will meet you at the door."

Alex brushed past him. His legs felt strange, as if his knees belonged to someone else who didn't know how to work them properly. As he reached the door, it swung open and a woman in her thirties swept tired, cynical eyes over him, as if committing his details to memory. "Mr. Gilbey?" she said, stepping back to allow him to enter the vestibule.

"That's right. What's happened? He'd phoned my wife, she seemed to think Mondo was dead?"

"Mondo?"

Alex sighed, impatient with his own obtuseness. "Nickname. We've been friends since school. David. David Kerr. His wife said he was dead."

The woman nodded. "I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Kerr has been pronounced dead."

Christ, he thought. What a way to lay it out. "I don't understand. What happened?"

"It's too early to be sure," she said. "It appears he was stabbed. There are signs of a break-in at the back of the house. But you'll appreciate, we can't say much at this stage."

Alex rubbed his hands over his face. "This is terrible. Christ, poor Mondo. What a thing to happen." He shook his head, numb and bewildered. "It feels completely unreal. Jesus." He took a deep breath. He'd have time to deal with his reactions later. This wasn't why Lynn had asked him to come. "Where's He'd?"

The woman opened the inside door. "She's in the living room. If you'd like to come through?" She stood aside and watched as Alex passed her and made straight for the room that overlooked the front garden. He'd had always referred to it as the drawing room, and he felt a pang of guilt for the times he and Lynn had ridiculed her for that pretentiousness. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He'd was sitting on the edge of one of the vast cream sofas, hunched into herself like an old woman. As he entered, she looked up, her eyes swollen pools of misery. Her long dark hair was tangled around her face, stray strands caught in the corner of her mouth. Her clothes were rumpled, a mocking parody of her normal Parisian chic. She held her hands out to him, beseeching. "Alex," she said, her voice cracked and strained.

He crossed to her side, sitting down and putting his arms around her. He couldn't remember ever holding He'd this close. Normally, their greetings consisted of a hand lightly placed on an arm, air kisses to either cheek. He was surprised by how muscular her body felt, and even more surprised that he noticed. Shock turned him into a stranger to himself, he was slowly beginning to realize. "I'm so sorry," he said, knowing how pointless words were but unable to avoid them.

He'd leaned into him, exhausted by grief. Alex was suddenly aware that a uniformed woman constable was sitting discreetly in the corner. She must have brought a chair through from the dining room, he thought irrelevantly. So, no privacy for He'd in spite of her appalling loss. It didn't take much to work out that she was going to face the same suspicious eyes that had fixed on Paul after Ziggy's death, even though this sounded like a burglary gone horribly wrong.

"I feel as if I'm in some terrible dream. And I just want to wake up," He'd said wearily.

"You're still in shock."

"I don't know what I am. Or where I am. Nothing feels real."

"I can't believe it either."

"He was just lying there," He'd said softly. "Blood all over him. I touched his neck, to see if there was a pulse. But you know, I was so careful not to get his blood on me. Isn't that terrible? He was lying there dead and all I could think about was how they turned you four into suspects just because you tried to help a dying girl. So I didn't want to get my David's blood on me." Her fingers convulsively shredded a tissue. "That's terrible. I couldn't bring myself to hold him because I was thinking about myself."

Alex squeezed her shoulder. "It's understandable. Knowing what we know. But nobody could think this had anything to do with you."

He'd made a harsh sound in the back of her throat and glanced up at the policewoman. "On parle fran-is, oui?"

What the hell was this? "ơ va," Alex replied, wondering if his holiday French was up to whatever He'd wanted to tell him. "Mais lentement."

"I'll keep it simple," she said in French. "I need your advice. You understand?"

Alex nodded. "Yes, I understand."

He'd shivered. "I can't believe I'm even thinking this now. But I don't want to be blamed for this." She clutched his hand. "I'm scared, Alex. I am the foreign wife, I am the suspect."

"I don't think so." He tried to sound reassuring, but his words seemed to flow over He'd without leaving a trace.

She nodded. "Alex, there is something that will make me look bad. Very bad. Once a week, I went out alone. David thought I met some French friends." He'd squeezed the tissue into a tight ball. "I lied to him, Alex. I have a lover."

"Ah," Alex said. It felt too much, on top of the news the night had already brought. He didn't want to be He'd's confidant. He'd never liked her, and he didn't think he was necessarily to be trusted with her secrets.

"David had no idea. God help me, I wish now I had never done this. I loved him, you know? But he was very needy. And it was hard. So, a while back, I met this woman, completely different from David in every way. I didn't mean for it to turn out the way it did, but we became lovers."

"Ah," Alex said again. His French wasn't up to demanding how the hell she could do that to Mondo, how she could claim to love a man she'd consistently betrayed. Besides, it wasn't the best move to start a row in front of a cop. You didn't have to speak a foreign tongue to understand tones of voice and body language. He'd wasn't the only one who felt like she was in the middle of a bad dream. One of his oldest friends had been murdered, and his widow was confessing to a lesbian love affair? He couldn't take it on board right now. Stuff like this didn't happen to people like him.

"I was with her this evening. If the police find out, they will think, ah, she has a lover, they must be in it together. But that's wrong. Jackie was no threat to my marriage. I didn't stop loving David just because I was sleeping with someone else. So should I tell the truth? Or should I keep quiet and hope they don't find out?" She drew away slightly, so she could direct her anxious gaze into Alex's eyes. "I don't know what to do, and I'm really scared."

Alex felt his grip on reality slipping. What the hell was she playing at? Was she playing some grotesque double bluff and trying to get him on her side? Was she really as innocent as he'd assumed? He struggled to find the French to express what he needed to say. "I don't know, He'd. I don't think I'm the right person to ask."

"I need your advice. You've been here yourself, you know what it can be like."

Alex took a deep breath, wishing he was anywhere but here. "What about your friend, this Jackie? Will she lie for you?"

"She won't want to be a suspect anymore than I do. Yes, she will lie."

"Who knows?"

"About us?" She shrugged. "Nobody, I think."

"But you can't be sure?"

"You can never be sure."

"In that case, I think you have to tell the truth. Because if they find it out later, it will look much worse." Alex rubbed his face again and looked away. "I can't believe we're talking like this, and Mondo hardly dead."

He'd pulled away. "I know you probably think I'm cold, Alex. But I've got the rest of my life to cry for the man I loved. And I did love him, make no mistake about that. But right now, I want to make sure I don't take the blame for something that was nothing to do with me. You of all people should understand that."

"Fine," Alex said, reverting to English. "Have you told Sheila and Adam yet?"

She shook her head. "The only person I spoke to was Lynn. I didn't know what to say to his parents."

"Do you want me to do it for you?" But before He'd could reply, Alex's mobile chirped cheerfully in his pocket. "That'll be Lynn," he said, taking it out and checking the number on the display. "Hello?"

"Alex?" Lynn sounded terrified.

"I'm here at the house," he said. "I don't know how to tell you this. I'm so, so sorry. He'd was right. Mondo's dead. It looks like somebody broke in?

"Alex," Lynn interrupted him. "I'm in labor. The contractions started just after I spoke to you before. I thought it was a false alarm, but they're coming every three minutes."

"Oh Jesus." He jumped to his feet, looking around in panic.

"Don't freak out. It's natural." Lynn yelped in pain. "There goes another one. I've called a taxi, it should be here any minute."

"What?what?

"Just get yourself to the Simpson. I'll meet you in the labor suite."

"But Lynn, it's too soon." Alex finally managed sense.

"It's the shock, Alex. It happens. I'm fine. Please, don't be scared. I need you not to be scared. I need you to get in your car and drive very carefully to Edinburgh. Please?"

Alex gulped. "I love you, Lynn. Both of you."

"I know you do. I'll see you soon."

The connection broke off and Alex looked helplessly at He'd. "She's in labor," she said flatly.

"She's in labor," Alex echoed.

"So go."

"You shouldn't be alone."

"I have a friend I can call. You need to be with Lynn."

"Shite timing," Alex said. He thrust his phone back in his pocket. "I'll phone. I'll come back when I can."

He'd stood up and patted him on the arm. "Just go, Alex. Let me know what happens. Thank you for coming."

He ran from the room.