hapter 4

Weird glared at Maclennan, skinny arms folded across his narrow chest. "I want a smoke," he said. The acid he'd taken earlier had worn off, leaving him jittery and fractious. He didn't want to be here, and he was determined to get out as quickly as he could. But that didn't mean he was going to give an inch.

Maclennan shook his head. "Sorry, son. I don't use them."

Weird turned his head and stared at the door. "You're not supposed to use torture, you know."

Maclennan refused to rise to the bait. "We need to ask you some questions about what happened tonight."

"Not without a lawyer, you don't." Weird gave a small, inward smile.

"Why would you need a lawyer if you've got nothing to hide?"

"Because you're the Man. And you've got a dead lassie on your hands that you need to blame somebody for. And I'm not signing any false confessions, no matter how long you keep me here."

Maclennan sighed. It depressed him that the dubious antics of a few gave smart-arsed boys like this a stick to beat all cops with. He'd bet a week's wages that this self-righteous adolescent had a poster of Che Guevara on his bedroom wall. And that he thought he had first dibs on the role of working-class hero. None of which meant he couldn't have killed Rosie Duff. "You've got a very funny notion of the way we do things round here."

"Tell that to the Birmingham Six and the Guildford Four," Weird said, as if it were a trump card.

"If you don't want to end up where they are, son, I suggest you start cooperating. Now, we can do this the easy way, where I ask a few questions and you answer them, or we can lock you away for a few hours till we can find a lawyer who's that desperate for work."

"Are you denying me the right to legal representation?" There was a note of pomposity in Weird's voice that would have made the hearts of his friends sink if they'd heard it.

But Maclennan reckoned he was more than a match for some student on his high horse. "Please yourself." He pushed back from the table.

"I will," Weird said stubbornly. "I've got nothing to say to you without a lawyer present." Maclennan made for the door, Burnside on his tail. "So you get someone here, right?"

Maclennan turned at the open doorway. "That's not my job, son. You want a lawyer, you make the phone call."

Weird calculated. He didn't know any lawyers. Hell, he couldn't afford a lawyer, even if he'd known one. He could imagine what his dad would say if he phoned home and asked for help with the situation. And it wasn't an appealing thought. Besides, he'd have to tell a lawyer the whole story, and any lawyer paid for by his father would be bound to make a full report back. There were, he thought, far worse things than being nicked for stealing a Land Rover. "I tell you what," he said grudgingly. "You ask your questions. If they're as harmless as you seem to think, I'll answer them. But any hint you're trying to stitch me up, and I'm saying nothing."

Maclennan closed the door and sat down again. He gave Weird a long, hard stare, taking in the intelligent eyes, the sharp beaky nose and the incongruously full lips. He didn't think Rosie Duff would have seen him as a desirable catch. She'd probably have laughed at him if he'd ever propositioned her. That sort of reaction could breed festering resentment. Resentment that might have spilled over into murder. "How well did you know Rosie Duff?" he asked.

Weird cocked his head to one side. "Not well enough to know what her second name was."

"Did you ever ask her out?"

Weird snorted. "You've got to be joking. I'm a wee bit more ambitious than that. Small-town lassies with small-time dreams; that's not my scene."

"What about your friends?"

"Shouldnae think so. We're here precisely because we've got bigger ideas than that."

Maclennan raised his eyebrows. "What? You've come all the way from Kirkcaldy to St. Andrews to broaden your horizons? My, the world must be holding its breath. Listen, son, Rosie Duff has been murdered. Whatever dreams she had have died with her. So think twice before you sit here and patronize her."

Weird held Maclennan's stare. "All I meant was that our lives had nothing in common with hers. If it hadn't been for the fact that we stumbled across her body, you wouldn't even have heard our names in connection with this investigation. And frankly, if we're the best you can do in the way of suspects, you don't deserve to be called detectives."

The air between the two of them was electric with tension. Normally, Maclennan welcomed the raising of the stakes in an interrogation. It was a useful lever to get people to say more than they meant to. And he had a gut feeling that this young man was covering something with his apparent arrogance. It might be nothing of significance, but it might be everything that mattered. Even if all he'd gain by pushing him would be a sinus headache, Maclennan still couldn't resist. Just on the off chance. "Tell me about the party," he said.

Weird cast his eyes upward. "Right enough, I don't suppose you get invited to many. Here's how it goes. Males and females congregate in a house or a flat, they have a few bevvies, they dance to the music. Sometimes they get off with each other. Sometimes they even get laid. And then everybody goes home. That's how it was tonight."

"And sometimes they get stoned," Maclennan said mildly, refusing to let the boy's sarcasm rile him further.

"Not when you're there, I bet." Weird's smile was scornful.

"Did you get stoned tonight?"

"See? There you go. Trying to fit me up."

"Who were you with?"

Weird considered. "You know, I don't really remember. I arrived with the boys, I left with the boys. In between? I can't say I recall. But if you're trying to suggest I slipped away to commit murder, you're barking up the wrong tree. Ask me where I was and I can give you an answer. I was in the living room all night except for when I went upstairs for a piss."

"What about the rest of your friends? Where were they?"

"I haven't a clue. I am not my brothers' keeper."

Maclennan immediately noticed the echo of Sigmund Malkiewicz's words. "But you look out for each other, don't you?"

"No reason why you'd know that that's what friends do," Weird sneered.

"So you'd lie for each other?"

"Ah, the trick question. 'When did you stop beating your wife?' There's no call for us to lie for each other where Rosie Duff is concerned. Because we didn't do anything that needs lying about." Weird rubbed his temples. He wanted his bed so badly it was like a deep itch in his bones. "We just got unlucky, that's all."

"Tell me how it happened."

"Alex and me, we were mucking about. Pushing each other in the snow. He kind of lost his balance and carried on up the hill. Like the snow was making him excited. Then he tripped and fell and the next thing was, he was shouting at us to come up quick." For a moment, Weird's cockiness slipped and he looked younger than he was. "And we found her. Ziggy tried?but there was nothing he could do to save her." He flicked a smudge of dirt off his trouser leg. "Can I go now?"

"You didn't see anybody else up there? Or on the way there?"

Weird shook his head. "No. The crazed axe-murderer must have gone another way." His defenses were back in place, and Maclennan could see that any further attempts to extract information would likely be fruitless. But there would be another day. And he suspected there would be another way under Tom Mackie's defenses. He just had to figure out what that might be.

Janice Hogg slithered across the car park in Iain Shaw's wake. They'd been more or less silent on the drive back to the police station, each relating the encounter with the Duffs to their own lives with varying levels of relief. As Shaw pushed open the door leading into the welcome warmth of the station, Janice caught up with him. "I'm wondering why she wouldn't let on to her mum about who she was seeing," she said.

Shaw shrugged. "Maybe the brother was right. Maybe he was a married man."

"But what if she was telling the truth? What if it wasn't? Who else would she be secretive about?"

"You're the female here, Janice. What do you think?" Shaw carried on through to the cubbyhole occupied by the officer charged with keeping local intelligence up to date. The office was empty in the middle of the night, but the cabinets with their alphabetically arranged filing cards were unlocked and available.

"Well, if her brothers had a track record of warning off unsuitable men, I suppose I'd have to think about what sort of man Colin and Brian would consider unsuitable," she mused.

"And that would be what?" Shaw asked, pulling open the drawer marked "D." His fingers, surprisingly long and slender, began to riffle through the cards.

"Well, thinking aloud?Looking at the family, that buttoned-up, Fife respectability?I'd say anybody they considered beneath her or above her."

Shaw glanced round at her. "That really narrows it down."

"I said I was thinking aloud," she muttered. "If it was some toerag, she'd probably think he could hold his own against her brothers. But if it was somebody a bit more rarefied?

"Rarefied? Posh word for a woolly suit, Janice."

"Woolly suit doesn't mean woolly brain, DC Shaw. Don't forget you were in uniform yourself not so long ago."

"OK, OK. Let's stick to rarefied. You mean, like a student?" Shaw asked.

"Exactly."

"Like one of the ones that found her?" He turned back to his search.

"I wouldn't rule it out." Janice leaned against the door-frame. "She had plenty of opportunity to meet students at her work."

"Here we are," Shaw said, pulling a couple of cards out of the drawer. "I thought Colin Duff rang a bell with me." He read the first card, then passed it over to Janice. In neat handwriting, it read, Colin James Duff. DoB: 5/3/55 LKA: Caberfeidh Cottage, Strathkinness. Employed at Guardbridge paper mill as forklift truck driver. 9/74 Drunk and disorderly, fined ?5. 5/76 Breach of the peace, bound over. 6/78 Speeding, fined ?7. Known associates: Brian Stuart Duff, brother. Donald Angus Thomson. Janice turned the card over. In the same handwriting, but in pencil this time so it could be erased if ever called into evidence, she read, Duff likes a fight when he's had a drink. Handy with his fists, handy at keeping out of the frame. Bit of a bully. Not dishonest, just a handful.

"Not the sort of guy you'd want mixing it with your sensitive student boyfriend," Janice commented as she took the second file card from Shaw. Brian Stuart Duff. DoB 27/5/57 LKA Caberfeidh Cottage, Strathkinness. Employed at Guardbridge paper mill as warehouseman. 6/75 Assault, fined ?0. 5/76 Assault, three months, served at Perth. 3/78 Breach of the peace, bound over. Known associates: Colin James Duff, brother. Donald Angus Thomson. When she flipped it over, she read, Duff junior is a lout who thinks he's a hard man. Record would be a lot longer if big brother didn't drag him away before the trouble really gets going. He started early?John Stobie's broken ribs and arm in 1975 likely down to him, Stobie refused to give a statement, said he'd had an accident on his bike. Duff suspected of involvement in unsolved break-in at the off-license at West Port 8/78. One day he's going to go away for a long time. Janice always appreciated the personal notes their local record-keeper appended to the official record. It helped when you were going out on an arrest to know if things were likely to turn ugly. And by the looks of it, the Duff boys could turn very ugly indeed. A pity really, she thought. Now she looked back, Colin Duff was rather hunky.

"What do you think?" Shaw asked, surprising her both because of her train of thought but also because she wasn't used to CID expecting her to be capable of joined-up thinking.

"I think Rosie was keeping quiet about who she was seeing because she knew it would provoke her brothers. They seem like a close family. So maybe she was protecting them as much as her boyfriend."

Shaw frowned. "How do you mean?"

"She didn't want them getting into more trouble. With Brian's record especially, another serious assault would get them both jail time. So she kept her mouth shut." Janice put the cards back in the file.

"Good thinking. Look, I'm going up to the CID room to write up the report. You go down to the mortuary and see about arranging a viewing for the family. The day shift can take the Duffs down, but it would be helpful if they know when that's likely to happen."

Janice pulled a face. "How come I get all the good jobs?"

Shaw raised his eyebrows. "You need to ask?"

Janice said nothing. She left Shaw in the intelligence office and headed for the women's locker room, yawning as she went. They had a kettle in there that the guys knew nothing about. Her body craved a hit of caffeine and if she was going to the mortuary, she deserved a treat. After all, Rosie Duff wasn't going anywhere.

Alex was on his fifth cigarette and wondering if the packet was going to last him when the door to his interview room finally opened. He recognized the thin-faced detective he'd seen up on Hallow Hill. The man looked a lot fresher than Alex felt. Hardly surprising, since it was getting on for breakfast time for most people. And Alex doubted very much if the detective was experiencing the dull ache of a fledgling hangover at the base of his skull. He crossed to the chair opposite, never taking his eyes off Alex's face. Alex forced himself to hold the policeman's gaze, determined not to let exhaustion make him look shifty.

"I'm Detective Inspector Maclennan," the man said, his voice clipped and brisk.

Alex wondered what the etiquette was here. "I'm Alex Gilbey," he tried.

"I know that, son. I also know you're the one that fancied Rosie Duff."

Alex felt a blush rising across his cheeks. "That's not a crime," he said. Pointless to deny what Maclennan seemed so certain of. He speculated which of his friends had betrayed his interest in the dead barmaid. Mondo, almost certainly. He'd sell his granny under pressure, then convince himself it was the best possible outcome for the old woman.

"No, it's not. But what happened to her tonight was the worst kind of crime. And it's my job to find out who did it. So far, the only person connected to the dead girl and also connected to the discovery of her body is you, Mr. Gilbey. Now, you're obviously a smart boy. So I don't have to spell it out for you, do I?"

Alex tapped nervously on his cigarette although there was no ash to dislodge. "Coincidences happen."

"Less often than you might think."

"Well, this is one." Maclennan's gaze felt like insects crawling under Alex's skin. "I just got unlucky, finding Rosie like that."

"So you say. But if I'd left Rosie Duff for dead on a freezing cold hillside and I was worried I'd maybe got some blood on me, and I was a smart boy, I'd engineer it so that I was the one who found her. That way, I've got the perfect excuse for being covered in her blood." Maclennan gestured at Alex's shirt, smeared with the dirty rust of dried blood.

"I'm sure you would. But I didn't. I never left the party." Alex was starting to feel genuinely scared. He'd been half expecting some awkward moments in the conversation with the police, but he hadn't expected Maclennan to go in so hard so soon. Clammy sweat coated his palms and he had to struggle against the impulse to wipe them on his jeans.

"Can you provide witnesses to that?"

Alex squeezed his eyes shut, trying to quiet the pounding in his head enough to remember his movements at the party. "When we got there, I was talking to a woman on my course for a while. Penny Jamieson, her name is. She went off for a dance, and I hung around in the dining room, just picking at the food. Various people were in and out, I didn't pay much attention. I was feeling a bit drunk. Later, I went into the back garden to clear my head."

"All by yourself?" Maclennan leaned forward slightly.

Alex had a sudden flash of memory that brought a flicker of relief in its wake. "Yes. But you'll probably be able to find the rose bush I was sick next to."

"You could have been sick any time," Maclennan pointed out. "If you'd just raped and stabbed someone and left her for dead, for example. That might make you sick."

Alex's moment of hope crashed and burned. "Maybe, but that's not what I did," he said defiantly. "If I had blood all over me, don't you think someone would have noticed when I went back into the party? I was feeling better after I'd thrown up. I went back inside and joined in the dancing in the living room. Any number of people must have seen me then."

"And we'll be asking them. We're going to need a list of everyone who was at that party. We'll be speaking to the host. And to everybody else we can trace. And if Rosie Duff showed her face, even for a minute, you and me will be having a much less friendly conversation, Mr. Gilbey."

Alex felt his face betray him again and hurriedly looked away. Not soon enough, however. Maclennan pounced. "Was she there?"

Alex shook his head. "I never saw her after we left the Lammas Bar." He could see something dawning behind Maclennan's steady gaze.

"But you invited her to the party." The detective's hands gripped the edge of the table as he leaned forward, so close Alex could smell the incongruous drift of shampoo from his hair.

Alex nodded, too riven with anxiety to deny it. "I gave her the address. When we were in the pub. But she never turned up. And I never expected her to." There was a sob in his voice now, his tenuous control slipping as he remembered Rosie behind the bar, animated, teasing, friendly. Tears welled up as he stared at the detective.

"Did that make you angry? That she hadn't turned up?"

Alex shook his head. "No. I never really expected she would. Look, I wish she wasn't dead. I wish I hadn't found her. But you've got to believe me. I had nothing to do with it."

"So you say, son. So you say." Maclennan held his position, inches from Alex's face. All his instincts told him there was something lurking under the surface of these interviews. And one way or another, he was going to find out what it was.

Chapter 5

WPC Janice Hogg glanced at her watch as she made for the front counter. Another hour and she'd be off duty, at least in theory. With a murder inquiry in full swing, the chances were she'd be stuck on overtime, particularly since women officers were thin on the ground in St. Andrews. She pushed through the swing doors into the reception area just as the street door was barged open so hard it bounced against the wall.

The force behind the door was a young man with shoulders almost as wide as the doorframe. Snow clung to his dark wavy hair and his face was wet either with tears, sweat or melted flakes. He hurtled toward the front counter, rage a deep growl in his throat. The duty constable reared back in shock, almost toppling off his high stool. "Where are they bastards?" the man roared.

To his credit, the PC managed to find some sang froid from the deepest recesses of his training. "Can I help you, sir?" he asked, moving out of reach of the fists that were pounding on the counter top. Janice hung back unnoticed. If this turned as nasty as it promised, she'd be best served by the element of surprise.

"I want those fucking bastards that killed my sister," the man howled.

So, Janice thought. The news had reached Brian Duff.

"Sir, I don't know what you're talking about," the PC said gently.

"My sister. Rosie. She's been murdered. And you've got them here. The bastards that did it." Duff looked as if he was about to clamber over the counter in his desperate desire for vengeance.

"Sir, I think you've been misinformed."

"Don't come it with me, you cunt," Duff screamed. "My sister's lying dead, somebody's going to pay."

Janice chose her moment. "Mr. Duff?" she said quietly, stepping forward.

He whirled round and glared at her, wide-eyed, white spittle at the corners of his mouth. "Where are they?" he snarled.

"I'm very sorry about your sister. But nobody's been arrested in connection with her death. We're still in the early stages of our investigation, and we're questioning witnesses. Not suspects. Witnesses." She put a cautious hand on his forearm. "You'd be better at home. Your mother needs her sons about her."

Duff shook off her hand. "I was told you'd got them locked up. The bastards that did this."

"Whoever told you made a mistake. We're all desperate to catch the person who did this terrible thing, and sometimes that makes people jump to the wrong conclusions. Trust me, Mr. Duff. If we had a suspect in custody, I would tell you." Janice kept her eyes on his, praying that her calm, unemotional approach would work. Otherwise he could break her jaw with a single blow. "Your family will be the first to know when we make an arrest. I promise you that."

Duff looked baffled and angry. Then suddenly, his eyes filled with tears and he slumped into one of the chairs in the waiting area. He wrapped his arms round his head and shook in a paroxysm of violent sobbing. Janice exchanged a helpless look with the PC behind the counter. He mimed the application of handcuffs but she shook her head and sat down next to him.

Gradually, Brian Duff regained his composure. His hands dropped like stones into his lap and he turned his tear-stained face to Janice. "You'll get him, though? The bastard that's done this?"

"We'll do our best, Mr. Duff. Now, why don't you let me drive you home? Your mum was worried about you earlier. She needs to be reassured that you're all right." She got to her feet and looked down at him expectantly.

The rage had subsided for the moment. Meekly, Duff stood up and nodded. "Aye."

Janice turned to the duty constable and said, "Tell DC Shaw I'm taking Mr. Duff home. I'll catch up with what I'm supposed to be doing when I get back." Nobody was going to give her a hard time for acting on her own initiative for once. Anything that could be discovered about Rosie Duff and her family was grist to the mill right now, and she was perfectly placed to catch Brian Duff with his defenses down. "She was a lovely girl, Rosie," she said conversationally as she led Duff out of the front entrance and round the side to the car park.

"You knew her?"

"I drink in the Lammas sometimes." It was a small lie, expedient in the circumstances. Janice considered the Lammas Bar about as enticing as a bowl of cold porridge. A smoke-flavored one at that.

"I cannae take it in," Duff said. "This is the kind of thing you see on the telly. Not the kind of thing that happens to people like us."

"How did you hear about it?" Janice was genuinely curious. News generally traveled through a small town like St. Andrews at the speed of sound, but not usually in the middle of the night.

"I crashed at one of my pals last night. His girlfriend works the breakfast shift at the greasy spoon on South Street. She heard about it when she turned in for work at six and she got straight on the phone. Fuck," he exploded. "I thought it was some kind of stupid bad-taste joke at first. I mean, you would, wouldn't you?"

Janice unlocked the car, thinking, No, actually, I don't have the sort of friends who would find that amusing. She said, "You don't want to think even for a second that it could be the truth."

"Exactly," Duff said, climbing into the passenger seat. "Who would do a thing like that to Rosie, though? I mean, she was a good person, you know? A nice lassie. Not some slut."

"You and your brother kept an eye on her. Did you see anybody hanging around her that you didn't like the look of?" Janice started the engine, shivering as a blast of cold air gusted out of the vents. Christ, but it was a bitter morning.

"There were always lowlifes sniffing around. But everybody knew they'd have me and Colin to answer to if they bothered Rosie. So they kept their distance. We always looked out for her." He suddenly slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand. "So where were we last night when she really needed us?"

"You can't blame yourself, Brian." Janice edged the panda out of the car park on to the glassy compressed snow of the main drag. The Christmas lights looked sickly against the yellowish gray of the sky, the glamorous laser laid on by the university physics department an unremarkable pale scribble against the low clouds.

"I don't blame myself. I blame the bastard that did this. But I just wish I'd been there to stop it happening. Too fucking late, always too fucking late," he muttered obscurely.

"So you didn't know who she was meeting?"

He shook his head. "She lied to me. She said she was going to a Christmas party with Dorothy that she works with. But Dorothy turned up at the party I was at. She said Rosie had gone off to meet some bloke. I was going to give her what for when I saw her. I mean, it's one thing keeping Mum and Dad out of the picture. But me and Colin, we were always on her side." He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. "I cannae bear it. Last thing she said to me was a lie."

"When did you see her last?" Janice slewed to a halt at the West Port and edged forward onto the Strathkinness road.

"Yesterday, after I'd finished my work. I met her in the town, we went shopping for Mum's Christmas present. The three of us clubbed together to get her a new hairdrier. Then we went to Boots to get her some nice soap. I walked Rosie to the Lammas and that's when she told me she was going out with Dorothy." He shook his head. "She lied. And now she's dead."

"Maybe she didn't lie, Brian," Janice said. "Maybe she was planning to go to the party but something came up later in the evening." That was probably as truthful as the story Rosie had offered up, but Janice knew from experience that the bereaved would grasp at any straw that kept intact their image of the person they'd lost.

Duff acted true to form. Hope lit his face. "You know, that's probably it. Because Rosie wasn't a liar."

"She had her secrets, though. Like any girl."

He scowled again. "Secrets are trouble. She should have known that." Something struck him suddenly and his body tensed. "Was she?you know? Interfered with?"

Nothing Janice could say would offer him any comfort. If the rapport she appeared to have established with Duff was going to survive, she couldn't afford to let him think she too was a liar. "We won't know for sure until after the post mortem, but yes, it looks that way."

Duff smashed his fist into the dashboard. "Bastard," he roared. As the car fishtailed up the hill toward Strathkinness he turned in his seat. "Whoever did this, he better fucking hope you catch him before I do. I swear to God, I'll kill him."

The house felt violated, Alex thought as he opened the door into the self-contained unit the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy had turned into their personal fiefdom. Cavendish and Greenhalgh, the two English former public schoolboys they shared the house with, spent as little time there as possible, an arrangement that suited everyone perfectly. They'd already gone home for the holidays, but today the braying accents that sounded so stridently posh to Alex would have been far more welcome than the police presence that seemed to dominate the very air he breathed.

Maclennan at his heels, Alex ran upstairs to the room where he slept. "Don't forget, we want everything you're wearing. That includes underwear," Maclennan reminded him as Alex pushed the door open. The detective stood on the threshold, looking mildly puzzled at the sight of two beds in the tiny room that had clearly been designed for only one. "Who do you share with?" he demanded.

Before Alex could reply, Ziggy's cool tones cut through the atmosphere. "He thinks we're all queer for each other," he said sarcastically. "And that of course is why we murdered Rosie. Never mind the complete absence of logic, that's what's going on in his mind. Actually, Mr. Maclennan, the explanation is far more mundane." Ziggy gestured over his shoulder at the closed door across the landing. "Take a look," he said.

Curious, Maclennan seized Ziggy's invitation. Alex took the opportunity of his turned back to strip himself hastily, grabbing at his dressing gown to cover his embarrassment. He followed the other two across the landing and couldn't help a smug smile when he saw Maclennan's bemused expression.

"You see?" Ziggy said. "There's simply no room for a full drum kit, a Farfisa organ, two guitars and a bed in one of these rabbit hutches. So Weird and Gilly drew the short straws and ended up sharing."

"You boys are in a group, then?" Maclennan sounded like his father, Alex thought with a pang of affection that surprised him.

"We've been making music together for about five years," Ziggy said.

"What? You're going to be the next Beatles?" Maclennan couldn't let it go.

Ziggy cast his eyes heavenward. "There are two reasons why we're not going to be the next Beatles. For one thing, we play purely for our own pleasure. Unlike the Rezillos, we have no desire to be on Top of the Pops. The second reason is talent. We're perfectly competent musicians, but we haven't got an original musical thought between us. We used to call ourselves Muse until we realized we didn't have one to call our own. Now we call ourselves the Combine."

"The Combine?" Maclennan echoed faintly, taken aback by Ziggy's sudden access of confidentiality.

"Again, two reasons. Combine harvesters gather in everybody else's crop. Like us. And because of the Jam track of the same name. We just don't stand out from the crowd."

Maclennan turned away, shaking his head. "We'll have to search in there as well, you know."

Ziggy snorted. "The only lawbreaking you'll find evidence of in there is breach of copyright," he said. "Look, we've all cooperated with you and your officers. When are you going to leave us in peace?"

"Just as soon as we've bagged all your clothes. We'd also like any diaries, appointment books, address books."

"Alex, give the man what he wants. We've all handed our stuff over. The sooner we get our space back, the sooner we can get our heads straight." Ziggy turned back to Maclennan. "You see, what you and your minions seem to have taken no notice of is the fact that we have had a terrible experience. We stumbled on the bleeding, dying body of a young woman that we actually knew, however slightly." His voice cracked, revealing the fragility of his cool surface. "If we seem odd to you, Mr. Maclennan, you should bear in mind that it might have something to do with the fact that we've had our heads royally fucked up tonight."

Ziggy pushed past the policeman and took the stairs at a run, wheeling into the kitchen and slamming the door behind him. Maclennan's narrow face took on a pinched look around the mouth.

"He's right," Alex said mildly.

"There's a family up in Strathkinness who've had a far worse night than you, son. And it's my job to find some answers for them. If that means treading on your tender corns, that's just tough. Now, let's have your clothes. And the other stuff."

He stood on the threshold while Alex piled his filthy clothes into a bin liner. "You need my shoes as well?" Alex said, holding them up, his face worried.

"Everything," Maclennan said, making a mental note to tell forensics to take special care with Gilbey's footwear.

"Only, I've not got another decent pair. Just baseball boots, and they're neither use nor ornament in weather like this."

"My heart bleeds. In the bag, son."

Alex threw his shoes on top of the clothes. "You're wasting your time here, you know. Every minute you spend concentrating on us is a minute lost. We've got nothing to hide. We didn't kill Rosie."

"As far as I'm aware, nobody has said you did. But the way you guys keep going on about it is starting to make me wonder." Maclennan grabbed the bag from Alex and took the battered university diary he proffered. "We'll be back, Mr. Gilbey. Don't go anywhere."

"We're supposed to be going home today," Alex protested.

Maclennan stopped two steps down the stairs. "That's the first I've heard of it," he said suspiciously.

"I don't suppose you asked. We're due to get the bus this afternoon. We've all got holiday jobs starting tomorrow. Well, all except Ziggy." His mouth twitched in a sardonic smile. "His dad believes students need to work on their books in the school holidays, not stacking shelves in Safeway."

Maclennan considered. Suspicions based mostly on his gut didn't justify demanding that they remained in St. Andrews. It wasn't as if they were about to flee the jurisdiction. Kirkcaldy was only a short drive away, after all. "You can go home," he said finally. "Just as long as you don't mind me and my team turning up on your parents' doorsteps."

Alex watched him leave, dismay dragging him further into depression. Just what he needed to make the festive season go with a swing.