hapter 39

Jackie Donaldson had written on occasion about the knock on the door in the early hours, the hustle to the waiting police car, the fast drive through empty streets and the utterly unnerving wait in a cramped room that tasted of other people. It had never crossed her mind that one day she'd be experiencing it rather than chronicling it.

She'd been woken from sleep by the intercom's buzzing. She'd registered the time?03:47?then stumbled to the door, dragging her dressing gown on. When Detective Sergeant Darren Heggie had announced himself, her first thought was that something terrible had happened to He'd. She couldn't understand why he was demanding to be let in at this hour. But she didn't argue. She knew that would be a waste of time.

Heggie had clattered into her flat with a woman in plainclothes and two uniformed officers, who shuffled in at the rear looking faintly uncomfortable. Heggie wasted no time on small talk. "Jacqueline Donaldson, I am detaining you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder. You can be detained for up to six hours without arrest, and you have the right to communicate with a solicitor. You do not have to say anything other than your name and address. Do you understand the reason for your detention?"

She gave a small, scornful snort. "I understand you've got the right. But I don't understand why you're doing this."

Jackie had disliked Heggie on sight. His pointed chin, his small eyes, his bad haircut, his cheap suit and his swagger. But he had been polite, even somewhat apologetic at their previous encounters. Now, he was all brusque efficiency. "Please get dressed. The female officer will remain with you. We will wait outside." Heggie turned away and shooed the uniformed men on to the landing.

Discomfited but determined not to show it, Jackie returned to the sleeping area of the apartment. She grabbed the first T-shirt and jumper in the drawer and snatched up a pair of jeans from the chair. Then she dropped them. If this all went wrong, she could be appearing in front of a sheriff before she got the chance to change. She rummaged in the back of her wardrobe for her one decent suit. Jackie turned her back to the woman officer, who refused to take her eyes off her, and dressed. "I need to go to the bathroom," she said.

"You'll have to leave the door open," the woman said stolidly.

"You think I'm going to shoot up or something?"

"It's for your own protection," she replied, sounding bored.

Jackie did what she had to, then slicked her hair back with a handful of cold water. She looked into the mirror, wondering when she'd be able to do that again. Now she knew what those she'd written about had felt. And it was horrible. Her stomach jittered as if she hadn't slept for days and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. "When do I get to call my lawyer?" she asked.

"When we get to the police station," came the reply.

Half an hour later, she was shut in a small room with Tony Donatello, a third-generation criminal solicitor she'd known since her first months as a reporter in Glasgow. They were more accustomed to meeting in bars than in cells, but Tony had the grace not to say so. He was also sensitive enough not to remind her that the last time he'd represented her at a police station, she'd ended up with a record. "They want to question you about David's death," he said. "But I suppose you'd worked that out for yourself?"

"It's the only murder I've been remotely connected to. Did you call He'd?"

Tony gave a small, dry cough. "Turns out they've lifted her too."

"I should have figured that out for myself. So, what's our strategy?"

"Is there anything that you've done in the recent past that could be misconstrued as connecting to David's death?" Tony asked.

Jackie shook her head. "Nothing. This is not some sleazy conspiracy, Tony. He'd and I had nothing to do with David's murder."

"Jackie, you don't speak for He'd here. You're my client and it's your actions I'm concerned with. If there's anything at all?a chance remark, a flippant e-mail, whatever?that might make you look bad, then we won't answer any questions. Just stonewall. But if you're certain there's nothing you have to worry about, we'll answer. What's it to be?"

Jackie fiddled with her eyebrow ring. "Look, there's something you should know. I wasn't with He'd the whole time. I nipped out for an hour or so. I had to go out and see somebody. I can't say who it was, but take it from me, he's not alibi material."

Tony looked worried. "That's not good," he said. "Maybe you should go 'no comment.' "

"I don't want to. You know how bad it'll make me look."

"It's your decision. But, in the circumstances, I think silence would be the better option."

Jackie thought long and hard. She didn't see how the police could know about her absence. "I'll talk to them," she said finally.

The interview room held no surprises for anyone versed in the grammar of TV cop drama. Jackie and Tony sat opposite Heggie and the female detective who had accompanied him to the flat. At this proximity, Heggie's aftershave smelled rancid. Two cassettes spooled in tandem in the machine at the end of the table. After the formalities were over, Heggie dived straight in. "How long have you known He'd Kerr?"

"About four years. I met her and her husband at a party given by a mutual friend."

"What is the nature of your relationship?"

"First and foremost, we are friends. We are also occasional lovers."

"How long have you been lovers?" Heggie's eyes looked hungry, as if the thought of Jackie and He'd together was potentially as satisfying as any criminal confession.

"For about two years."

"And how often did this take place?"

"We spent an evening together most weeks. We had sex on most of those occasions. Though not always. As I said, friendship is the most important component of our relationship." Jackie found it harder than she'd expected to stay cool and clinical under the assessing gaze of her interrogators. But she knew she had to stay calm; any outburst would be interpreted as evidence of something more than nerves.

"Did David Kerr know you were sleeping with his wife?"

"I don't believe so."

"It must have been galling for you that she stayed with him," Heggie offered.

A shrewd observation, she thought. And one that was uncomfortably close to the truth. Scratch the surface, and Jackie knew she wasn't sorry David Kerr was dead. She loved He'd and she was bitterly tired of the scraps her lover granted her. She'd wanted a lot more for a long time. "I knew from the word go she wasn't going to leave her husband. That was fine by me."

"I find that hard to believe," he said. "You were being rejected in favor of her husband and it didn't bother you?"

"It wasn't a rejection. The arrangement suited both of us." Jackie leaned forward, aiming for open body language to fake candor. "Just a bit of fun. I like my freedom. I don't want to be tied down."

"Really?" He looked at his notes. "So the neighbor that heard the pair of you screaming and fighting because she wouldn't leave her husband is lying?"

Jackie remembered the row. There had been few enough in their time together for it to be memorable. A couple of months before, she'd asked He'd to come to a friend's fortieth birthday party. He'd had looked at her in disbelief. It was outside the ground rules, not a subject they should even be discussing. All Jackie's frustrations had overflowed and a blazing argument had erupted. It had changed tack abruptly when He'd had threatened to walk out and never come back. That was a prospect Jackie couldn't endure, and she'd surrendered. But she wasn't about to share any of that with Heggie and his sidekick. "They must be," she said. "You can't hear a bloody thing through the walls of those lofts."

"Apparently you can if the windows are open," Heggie said.

"When is this alleged conversation supposed to have taken place?" Tony interrupted.

Another glance at the notes. "Toward the end of November."

"Are you seriously suggesting that my client had her windows open at the end of November in Glasgow?" he said scornfully. "Is that all you've got? Gossip and tittle-tattle from nosy and overimaginative neighbors?"

Heggie stared at him for a long moment before he spoke. "Your client has a history of violence."

"No, she doesn't. She has one conviction for assaulting a police officer while she was reporting an anti–poll tax demonstration where one of your colleagues enthusiastically mistook her for one of the demonstrators. That's hardly a history of violence."

"She punched a policeman in the face."

"After he'd dragged her along the ground by the hair. If it had been that violent an assault on a police officer, do you not think the sheriff would have given her more than six months probation? If you've nothing more than this, I don't see you have any reason to hold my client."

Heggie glared at them both. "You were with Mrs. Kerr on the night her husband died?"

"That's right," Jackie said cautiously. This was where the thin ice started. "It was our usual night for seeing each other. She arrived about half-past six. We ate a fish supper I went out for, we drank some wine and we went to bed. She left around eleven. Exactly as usual."

"Can anyone verify that?"

Jackie raised her eyebrows. "I don't know about you, Inspector, but when I make love with someone, I don't invite the neighbors round. The phone rang a couple of times, but I didn't answer it."

"We have a witness who claims to have seen you walking to your car at approximately nine P.M. that evening," Heggie said triumphantly.

"They must have got the wrong night," Jackie said. "I was with He'd all evening. Is this another one of my homophobic neighbors you've been coaching in incriminating testimony?"

Tony shifted in his chair. "You've heard my client's answer. If you've got nothing new to bring to the table, I really do suggest we end this now."

Heggie breathed heavily. "If you'll bear with me, Mr. Donatello, I'd like to introduce a witness statement we took yesterday."

"Can I see that?" Tony asked.

"All in good time. Denise?"

The other detective opened a folder she'd held on her lap and placed a sheet of paper in front of him. Heggie licked his lips and spoke. "We arrested a small-time drug dealer yesterday. He was eager to offer up anything that might lead us to view his case in a more favorable light. Ms. Donaldson, do you know Gary Hardie?"

Jackie's heart jolted in her chest. What did this have to do with anything? It hadn't been Gary Hardie she'd met that night, nor any of his buddies. "I know who he is," she stalled. Hardly an admission; anyone who read a newspaper or watched TV in Scotland would have recognized the name. A few weeks previously, Gary Hardie had sensationally walked free from the High Court in Glasgow after one of the highest-profile murder cases the city had seen for some years. In the course of the trial, he'd been variously called a drug lord, a man with no regard for human life, and an utterly ruthless criminal mastermind. Among the allegations the jury had heard was the claim that he had paid a hitman to have a business rival eliminated.

"Have you ever met Gary Hardie?"

Jackie felt sweat in the small of her back. "In a purely professional context, yes."

"Would that be your profession or his?" Heggie demanded, shifting his chair closer to the table.

Jackie rolled her eyes in derision. "Oh, please, Inspector. I am a journalist. It's my job to talk to people in the news."

"How many times have you met Gary Hardie?" Heggie pressed her.

Jackie breathed out through her nose. "Three times. I interviewed him a year ago for a feature I wrote for a magazine about contemporary Glasgow gangland. I interviewed him while he was awaiting trial for an article I planned to write after the trial was over. And I had a drink with him a couple of weeks ago. It's important to me to maintain contacts. That's how I get stories that nobody else gets."

Heggie looked skeptical. He glanced down at the statement. "Where did that meeting take place?"

"In Ramblas. It's a caf?bar in?

"I know where Ramblas is," Heggie interrupted. He glanced again at the paper in front of him. "At that meeting, an envelope changed hands. From you to Hardie. A bulky envelope, Ms. Donaldson. Would you care to tell us what was in that envelope?"

Jackie tried not to show her shock. Tony stirred at her side. "I'd like to speak to my client in private," he said hastily.

"No, it's OK, Tony," Jackie said. "I have nothing to hide. When I spoke to Gary to arrange the meeting, he told me someone had shown him the magazine article, and he'd liked the photograph they'd used. He wanted some copies for himself. So I had prints made and I took them to Ramblas with me. If you don't believe me, you can check with the photo lab. They don't process much black and white. They might remember. I also have the receipt in my accounts file."

Tony leaned in. "You see, Inspector? Nothing sinister. Just a journalist trying to keep a good contact happy. If that's the extent of your new material, then there is no reason for my client to be held here a moment longer."

Heggie looked mildly put out. "Did you ask Gary Hardie to have David Kerr killed?" he asked.

Jackie shook her head. "No."

"Did you ask Gary Hardie if he could put you in touch with someone who would murder David Kerr?"

"No. It never crossed my mind." Jackie's head was up now, chin out, fear battened down.

"You never once thought how much more pleasant life would be without David Kerr? And how easily you could arrange that?"

"This is bullshit." She slammed her hands palm down on the table. "Why are you wasting your time with me when you should be doing your job?"

"I am doing my job," Heggie said calmly. "That's why you're here."

Tony glanced at his watch. "Not for much longer, Inspector. Either arrest my client or let her go. This interview is over." He placed a hand over Jackie's.

A minute feels like a very long time in a police interview room. Heggie held the pause, his eyes never leaving Jackie. Then he pushed his chair back. "Interview terminated at six twenty-five. You're free to go," he said, his voice grudging. He hit the button that switched off the tape recorders. "I don't believe you, Ms. Donaldson," he said as he got to his feet. "I think you and He'd Kerr conspired to have David Kerr killed. I think you wanted her for yourself. I think you went out that night to pay off your hitman. And that's what I intend to prove." At the door, he turned back. "This is just the beginning."

As the door closed behind the detectives, Jackie covered her face with her hands. "Jesus Christ," she said.

Tony gathered his things together, then put an arm round her shoulders. "You handled that well. They've got nothing."

"I've seen people tried on thinner evidence. They've got their teeth into this. They're not going to stop till they've got somebody who can put me outside my flat that night. Jesus. I can't believe Gary Hardie came out of the woodwork just now."

"I wish you'd mentioned that to me before," Tony said, loosening his tie and stretching.

"I'm sorry. I'd no idea it was going to come up. It's not like I think about Gary Hardie every day. And it's not like he had anything to do with this. You do believe me, don't you, Tony?" She looked anxious. If she couldn't convince her lawyer, she stood no chance against the police.

"What I believe doesn't matter. It's what they can prove. And right now, they've got nothing that a good advocate wouldn't demolish in minutes." He yawned. "Great way to spend the night, eh?"

Jackie stood up. "Let's get out of this shithole. Even the air feels contaminated."

Tony grinned. "Somebody should give Heggie a decent bottle of aftershave for his next birthday. Whatever he was wearing smelled like a polecat in heat."

"It would take more than Paco Rabane to grant him membership to the human race," Jackie snarled. "Are they holding He'd here too?"

"No." Tony took a deep breath. "It's probably a good idea if you two don't see much of each other just now."

Jackie gave him a look that mingled hurt and disappointment. "Why not?"

"Because if you stay away from each other, it's harder to demonstrate that you're in cahoots. Being together might look as if you're discussing strategies to keep your stories straight."

"That's stupid," she said firmly. "We're friends, for fuck's sake. Lovers. Where else do you go for support and comfort? If we avoid each other, it looks as if we've got something to be uncomfortable about. If He'd wants me, she's got me. No question."

He shrugged. "Your choice. You pay for the advice whether you take it or not." He opened the door and ushered her out into the corridor. Jackie signed for the return of her belongings, and they made for the exit together.

Tony pushed open the doors that led to the street then stopped short. In spite of the earliness of the hour, three cameramen and a handful of journalists were huddled on the pavement. As soon as they saw Jackie, the cries went up. "Hey, Jackie, have they arrested you?" "Did you and your girlfriend hire a hitman, Jackie?" "What's it feel like to be a murder suspect, Jackie?"

It was the kind of scene she'd participated in countless times, though never from this perspective. Jackie had thought nothing could feel worse than being rousted from her bed in the middle of the night and treated like a criminal by the police. Now she knew she was wrong. Betrayal, she had just discovered, tasted infinitely more bitter.

Chapter 40

The darkness of Graham Macfadyen's study was kept at bay by the ghostly light of monitors. On the two screens he wasn't using at that moment, screensavers showed a slideshow of images he'd scanned into his computer. Grainy newspaper photographs of his mother; moody shots of Hallow Hill; the gravestone in Western Cemetery; and the photographs he'd snatched of Alex and Weird in recent days.

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 He'd 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.

He'd 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 give 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.