hapter 7

Alex trudged over the railway bridge, turning right into Balsusney Road. Kirkcaldy was like a different country. As the bus had meandered its way along the Fife Coast, the snow had gradually given way to slush, then to this biting gray damp. By the time the northeast wind made it this far, it had dumped its load of snow and had nothing to offer the more sheltered towns further up the estuary but chilly gusts of rain. He felt like one of Breughel's more miserable peasants plodding wearily home.

Alex lifted the latch on the familiar wrought-iron gate and walked up the short path to the little stone villa where he'd grown up. He fumbled his keys out of his trouser pocket and let himself in. A blast of warmth enveloped him. They'd had central heating installed over the summer, and this was the first time he'd experienced the difference it made. He dumped his bag by the door and shouted, "I'm home."

His mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish-towel. "Alex, it's lovely to have you back. Come away through, there's soup and there's stew. We've had our tea, I was expecting you earlier. I suppose it was the weather? I saw on the local news you'd had it bad up there."

He let her words wash over him, their familiar tone and content a security blanket. He hauled off his kagoule and walked down the hall to give her a hug. "You look tired, son," she said, concern in her voice.

"I've had a pretty terrible night, Mum," he said, following her back into the tiny kitchen.

From the living room, his father's voice. "Is that you, Alex?"

"Aye, Dad," he called back. "I'll be through in a minute."

His mother was already dishing up a plate of soup, handing him the bowl and a spoon. While there was food to be served, Mary Gilbey had no attention to be spared for minor details like personal grief. "Away and sit with your dad. I'll heat up the stew. There's a baked potato in the oven."

Alex went through to the living room where his father sat in his armchair, the TV facing him. There was a place set at the dining table in the corner and Alex sat down to his soup. "All right, son?" his father asked, not taking his eyes off the game show on the screen.

"No, not really."

That got his father's attention. Jock Gilbey turned and gave his son the sort of scrutiny that schoolteachers are adept at. "You don't look good," he said. "What's bothering you?"

Alex swallowed a spoonful of soup. He hadn't felt hungry, but at the first taste of homemade Scotch broth, he'd realized he was ravenous. The last he'd eaten had been at the party and he'd lost that twice over. All he wanted now was to fill his belly, but he was going to have to sing for his supper. "A terrible thing happened last night," he said between mouthfuls. "There was a girl murdered. And it was us that found her. Well, me, actually, but Ziggy and Weird and Mondo were with me."

His father stared, mouth agape. His mother had walked in on the tail end of Alex's revelation and her hands flew to her face, her eyes wide and horrified. "Oh, Alex, that's?Oh, you poor wee soul," she said, rushing to him and taking his hand.

"It was really bad," Alex said. "She'd been stabbed. And she was still alive when we found her." He blinked hard. "We ended up spending the rest of the night at the police station. They took all our clothes and everything, like they thought we had something to do with it. Because we knew her, you see. Well, not really knew her. But she was a barmaid in one of the pubs we sometimes go to." Appetite deserted him at the memory, and he put his spoon down, his head bowed. A tear formed at the corner of his eye and trickled down his cheek.

"I'm awful sorry, son," his father said inadequately. "That must have been a hell of a shock."

Alex tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "Before I forget," he said, pushing his chair back. "I need to phone Mr. Malkiewicz and tell him Ziggy won't be home tonight."

Jock Gilbey's eyes widened in shock. "They've not kept him at the police station?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Alex said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "We had journalists on the doorstep at Fife Park, wanting pictures and interviews. And we didn't want to talk to them. So me and Weird and Mondo climbed out the toilet window and went off the back way. We're all supposed to be working at Safeway tomorrow, see? But Ziggy's not got a job, so he said he'd stay behind and come home tomorrow. We didn't want to leave the window unlocked, you know? So I've got to phone his dad and explain."

Alex gently freed himself from his mother's hand and went through to the hall. He lifted the phone and dialed Ziggy's number from memory. He heard the ringing tone, then the familiar Polish-accented Scots of Karel Malkiewicz. Here we go again, Alex thought. He was going to have to explain last night once more. He had a feeling it wouldn't be the last time either.

"This is what happens when you fritter the nights away drinking and God knows what else," Frank Mackie said bitterly. "You get yourself in bother with the police. I'm a respected man in this town, you know. The police have never been at my door. But all it takes is one useless galloot like you, and we'll be the talk of the steamie."

"If we hadn't been out late, she'd have lain there till morning. She'd have died on her own," Weird protested.

"That's none of my concern," his father said, crossing the room and pouring himself a whiskey from the corner bar he'd had installed in the front room to impress those of his clients deemed respectable enough to be invited into his home. It was fitting, he thought, that an accountant should show the trappings of achievement. All he'd wanted was for his son to show some signs of aspiration, but instead, he had spawned a useless waster of a boy who spent his nights in the pub. What was worse was that Tom clearly had a gift for figures. But instead of harnessing that practically by going in for accountancy, he'd chosen the airy-fairy world of pure mathematics. As if that was the first step on the road to prosperity and decency. "Well, that's that. You're staying in every night, my lad. No parties, no pubs for you this holiday. You're confined to barracks. You go to your work, and you come straight home."

"But Dad, it's Christmas," Weird protested. "Everybody will be out. I want to catch up with my pals."

"You should have thought about that before you got yourself in trouble with the police. You've got exams this year. You can use the time to study. You'll thank me for it, you know."

"But Dad?

"That's my last word on the subject. While you live under my roof, while I'm paying for you to go to the university, you'll do as you're told. When you start earning a living wage of your own, then you can make the rules. Till then, you do as I say. Now get out of my sight."

Fuming, Weird stormed out of the room and ran up the stairs. God, he hated his family. And he hated this house. Raith Estate was supposed to be the last word in modern living, but he thought this was yet another con perpetrated by the gray men in suits. You didn't have to be smart to recognize that this wasn't a patch on the house they used to live in. Stone walls, solid wooden doors with panels and beading, stained glass in the landing window. That was a house. OK, this box had more rooms, but they were poky, the ceilings and doorways so low that Weird felt he had to stoop constantly to accommodate his six feet and three inches. The walls were paper thin too. You could hear someone fart in the next room. Which was pretty funny, when you thought about it. His parents were so repressed, they wouldn't know an emotion if it bit them on the leg. And yet they'd spent a fortune on a house that stripped everyone of privacy. Sharing a room with Alex felt more privileged than living under his parents' roof.

Why had they never made any attempt to understand the first thing about him? He felt as if he'd spent his whole life in rebellion. Nothing he achieved had ever cut any ice here because it didn't fit the narrow confines of his parents' aspirations. When he'd been crowned school chess champion, his father had harrumphed that he'd have been better off joining the bridge team. When he'd asked to take up a musical instrument, his father had refused point blank, offering to buy him a set of golf clubs instead. When he'd won the mathematics prize every single year in high school, his father had responded by buying him books on accountancy, completely missing the point. Maths to Weird wasn't about totting up figures; it was the beauty of the graph of a quadratic equation, the elegance of calculus, the mysterious language of algebra. If it hadn't been for his pals, he'd have felt like a complete freak. As it was, they'd given him a place to let off steam safely, a chance to spread his wings without crashing and burning.

And all he'd done in return was to give them grief. Guilt washed over him as he remembered his latest madness. This time, he'd gone too far. It had started as a joke, nicking Henry Cavendish's motor. He'd had no idea then where it might lead. None of the others could save him from the consequences if this came out, he realized that. He only hoped he wouldn't bring them down with him.

Weird slotted his new Clash tape into the stereo and threw himself down on the bed. He'd listen to the first side, then he'd get ready for bed. He had to be up at five to meet Alex and Mondo for their early shift at the supermarket. Normally, the prospect of rising so early would have depressed the hell out of him. But the way things were here, it would be a relief to be out of the house, a mercy to have something to stop his mind spinning in circles. Christ, he wished he had a joint.

At least his father's emotional brutality had pushed the invasive thoughts of Rosie Duff to one side. By the time Joe Strummer sang "Julie's in the Drug Squad," Weird was locked in deep, dreamless sleep.

Karel Malkiewicz drove like an old man at the best of times. Hesitant, slow, entirely unpredictable at junctions. He was also a fair-weather driver. Under normal circumstances, the first sign of fog or frost would mean the car stayed put and he'd walk down the steep hill of Massareene Road to Bennochy, where he could catch a bus that would take him to Factory Road and his work as an electrician in the floor-covering works. It had been a long time since the disappearance of the pall of linseed oil that had given the town its reputation of "the queer-like smell," but although linoleum had plummeted out of fashion, what came out of Nairn's factory still covered the floors of millions of kitchens, bathrooms and hallways. It had given Karel Malkiewicz a decent living since he'd come out of the RAF after the war, and he was grateful.

That didn't mean he'd forgotten the reasons why he'd left Krakow in the first place. Nobody could survive that toxic atmosphere of mistrust and perfidy without scars, especially not a Polish Jew who had been lucky enough to get out before the pogrom that had left him without a family to call his own.

He'd had to rebuild his life, create a new family for himself. His old family had never been particularly observant, so he hadn't felt too bereft by his abandonment of his religion. There were no Jews in Kirkcaldy, he remembered someone telling him a few days after he'd arrived in the town. The sentiment was clear: "That's the way we like it." And so he'd assimilated, even going so far as to marry his wife in a Catholic church. He'd learned how to belong in this strange, insular land that had made him welcome. He'd surprised himself at the fierce possessive pride he'd felt when a Pole had become Pope so recently. He so seldom thought of himself as Polish these days.

He'd been almost forty when the son he'd always dreamed of had finally arrived. It was a cause for rejoicing, but also for a renewal of fear. Now he had so much more to lose. This was a civilized country. The fascists could never gain a hold here. That was the received wisdom, anyway. But Germany too had been a civilized country. No one could predict what might happen in any country when the numbers of the dispossessed reached a critical mass. Anyone who promised salvation would find a following.

And lately, there had been good grounds for fear. The National Front were creeping through the political undergrowth. Strikes and industrial unrest were making the government edgy. The IRA's bombing campaign gave the politicians all the excuses they needed for introducing repressive measures. And that cold bitch who ran the Tory party talked of immigrants swamping the indigenous culture. Oh yes, the seeds were all there.

So when Alex Gilbey had rung and told him his son had spent the night in a police station, Karel Malkiewicz had no choice. He wanted his boy under his roof, under his wing. Nobody would come and take his son away in the night. He wrapped up warmly, instructing his wife to prepare a flask of hot soup and a parcel of sandwiches. Then he set off across Fife to bring his son home.

It took him nearly two hours to negotiate the thirty miles in his elderly Vauxhall. But he was relieved to see lights on in the house Sigmund shared with his friends. He parked the car, picked up his supplies and marched up the path.

There was no answer to his knocking at first. He stepped gingerly on to the snow and looked in through the brightly lit kitchen window. The room was empty. He banged on the window and shouted, "Sigmund! Open up, it's your father."

He heard the sound of feet clattering down stairs, then the door opened to reveal his handsome son, grinning from ear to ear, his arms spread wide in welcome. "Dad," he said, stepping barefoot into the slush to embrace his father. "I didn't expect to see you."

"Alex called. I didn't want you to be alone. So I came to get you." Karel clasped his son to his chest, the butterfly of fear beating its wings inside his chest. Love, he thought, was a terrible thing.

Mondo sat cross-legged on his bed, within easy reach of his turntable. He was listening, over and over again, to his personal theme, "Shine On, You Crazy Diamond." The swooping guitars, the heartfelt anguish of Roger Waters's voice, the elegiac synths, the breathy saxophone provided the perfect soundtrack for wallowing to.

And wallowing was exactly what Mondo wanted to do. He'd escaped the smother of his mother's concern that had swamped him as soon as he'd explained what had happened. It had been quite pleasant for a while, the familiar cocoon of concern spinning itself around him. But gradually, it had started to stifle him and he'd excused himself with the need to be alone. The Greta Garbo routine always worked with his mother, who thought he was an intellectual because he read books in French. It seemed to escape her notice that that's what you had to do when you were studying the subject at degree level.

Just as well, really. He couldn't have begun to explain the turmoil of emotion that threatened to swamp him. Violence was alien to him, a foreign language whose grammar and vocabulary he'd never assimilated. His recent confrontation with it had left him feeling shaky and strange. He couldn't honestly say he was sorry Rosie Duff was dead; she'd humiliated him in front of his friends more than once when he'd tried on the chat-up lines that seemed to work with other lassies. But he was sorry that her death had plummeted him into this difficult place where he didn't belong.

What he really needed was sex. That would take his mind off the horrors of the night before. It would be a sort of therapy. Like getting back on the horse. Unfortunately, he lacked the amenity of a girlfriend in Kirkcaldy. Maybe he should make a couple of phone calls. One or two of his exes would be more than happy to renew their relationship. They'd be a willing ear for his woes and it would tide him over the holidays at least. Judith, maybe. Or Liz. Yeah, probably Liz. The chubby ones were always so pathetically grateful for a date, they came across with no effort at all. He could feel himself growing hard at the thought.

Just as he was about to get off the bed and go downstairs to the phone, there was a knock at his door. "Come in," he sighed wearily, wondering what his mother wanted now. He shifted his position to hide his budding erection.

But it wasn't his mother. It was his fifteen-year-old sister Lynn. "Mum thought you might like a Coke," she said, waving the glass at him.

"I can think of things I'd rather have," he said.

"You must be really upset," Lynn said. "I can't imagine what that must have been like."

In the absence of a girlfriend, he'd have to make do with impressing his sister. "It was pretty tough," he said. "I wouldn't want to go through that again in a hurry. And the police were Neanderthal imbeciles. Why they felt the need to interrogate us as if we were IRA bombers, I'll never know. It took real guts to stand up to them, I can tell you."

For some reason, Lynn wasn't giving him the unthinking adoration and support he deserved. She leaned against the wall, her expression that of someone waiting for a break in the flow so she could get to what's really on her mind. "It must have," she said mechanically.

"We'll probably have to face more questioning," he added.

"It must have been awful for Alex. How is he?"

"Gilly? Well, he's hardly Mr. Sensitive. He'll get over it."

"Alex is a lot more sensitive than you give him credit for," Lynn said fiercely. "Just because he played rugby, you think he's all muscle and no heart. He must be really torn up about it, especially with him knowing the girl."

Mondo cursed inwardly. He'd momentarily forgotten the crush his sister had on Alex. She wasn't in here to give him Coke and sympathy, she was here because it gave her an excuse to talk about Alex. "It's probably just as well for him that he didn't know her as well as he'd have liked to."

"What do you mean?"

"He fancied her something rotten. He even asked her out. Now, if she'd said yes, then you can bet your bottom dollar that Alex would be the prime suspect."

Lynn flushed. "You're making it up. Alex wouldn't go around chasing barmaids."

Mondo gave a cruel little smile. "Wouldn't he? I don't think you know your precious Alex as well as you think."

"You're a creep, you know that?" Lynn said. "Why are you being so horrible about Alex? He's supposed to be one of your best friends."

She slammed out, leaving him to ponder her question. Why was he being so horrible about Alex, when normally he'd never have heard a word against him?

Slowly, it began to dawn on him that, deep down, he blamed Alex for this whole mess. If they'd just gone straight down the path, somebody else would have found Rosie Duff's body. Somebody else would have had to stand there and listen to her last breaths dragging out of her. Somebody else would feel tainted by the hours they'd spent in a police cell.

That he was now apparently a suspect in a murder inquiry was Alex's fault, there was no getting away from it. Mondo squirmed uncomfortably at the thought. He tried to push it away, but he knew you couldn't close Pandora's box. Once the idea was planted, it couldn't be uprooted and thrown aside to wither. This wasn't the time to be coming up with notions that would drive a wedge between them. They needed each other now as they had never done before. But there was no getting away from it. He wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for Alex.

And what if there was worse to come? There was no escaping the fact that Weird had been driving around in that Land Rover half the night. He'd been taking girls for a spin, trying to impress them. He didn't have an alibi worth a shit, and neither did Ziggy, who had sneaked off and dumped the Land Rover somewhere Weird couldn't find it. And neither did Mondo himself. What had possessed him, borrowing the Land Rover to take that lassie back to Guardbridge? A quick fuck in the back seat wasn't worth the hassle he faced if somebody remembered she'd been at the party. If the police started asking questions of the other partygoers, somebody would shop them. No matter how much the students professed contempt for authority, somebody would lose their bottle and tell tales. The finger would point then.

Suddenly, blaming Alex seemed like the least of his worries. And as he turned over the events of the past few days, Mondo remembered something he'd seen late one night. Something that might just ease him off the hook. Something he was going to keep to himself for now. Never mind all for one and one for all. The first person Mondo owed any duty of care to was himself. Let the others look after their own interests.

Chapter 8

Maclennan closed the door behind him. With WPC Janice Hogg and him both in the room, it felt claustrophobic, the low slant of the roof hemming them in. This was the most pitiful element of sudden death, he thought. Nobody has the chance to tidy up after themselves, to present a picture they'd like the world to see. They're stuck with what they left behind the last time they closed the door. He'd seen some sad sights in his time, but few more poignant than this.

Someone had taken the trouble to make this room look bright and cheerful, in spite of the limited amount of light that came in at the narrow dormer window overlooking the village street. He could see St. Andrews in the distance, still looking white under yesterday's snow, though he knew the truth was different. Already, pavements were filthy with slush, the roads a slippery morass of grit and melt. Beyond the town, the gray smudge of the sea melted imperceptibly into the sky. It must be a fine view on a sunny day, he thought, turning back to the magnolia-painted woodchip and the white candlewick bedspread, still rumpled from where Rosie had last sat on it. There was a single poster on the wall. Some group called Blondie, their lead singer busty and pouting, her skirt impossibly short. Was that what Rosie aspired to, he wondered.

"Where would you like me to start, sir?" Janice asked, looking around at the 1950s wardrobe and dressing table which had been painted white in an effort to make them look more contemporary. There was a small table by the bed with a single drawer. Other than that, the only place where anything might be concealed was a small laundry hamper tucked behind the door and a metal wastepaper bin under the dressing table.

"You do the dressing table," he said. That way, he didn't have to deal with the makeup that would never be used again, the second-best bra and the old knickers thrust to the back of the drawer for laundry emergencies that never happened. Maclennan knew his tender places, and he preferred to avoid probing them whenever he could.

Janice sat on the end of the bed, where Rosie must have perched to peer into the mirror and apply her makeup. Maclennan turned to the dressing table and slid open the drawer. It contained a fat book called The Far Pavilions, which Maclennan thought was just the sort of thing his ex-wife had used to keep him at bay in bed. "I'm reading, Barney," she'd say in a tone of patient suffering, brandishing some doorstop novel under his nose. What was it with women and books? He lifted out the book, trying not to notice Janice systematically exploring drawers. Underneath was a diary. Refusing to allow himself optimism, Maclennan picked it up.

If he'd been hoping for some confessional, he'd have been sorely disappointed. Rosie Duff hadn't been a "Dear Diary" sort of girl. The pages listed her shifts at the Lammas Bar, birthdays of family and friends, and social events such as, "Bob's party" "Julie's spree." Dates were indicated with the time and place and the word, "Him," followed by a number. It looked like she'd gone through 14, 15 and 16 in the course of the past year; 16 was, obviously, the most recent. He first appeared in early November and soon became a regular feature two or three times a week. Always after work, Maclennan thought. He'd have to go back to the Lammas and ask again if anyone had seen Rosie meeting a man after closing time. He wondered why they met then, instead of on Rosie's night off, or during the day when she wasn't working. One or other of them seemed determined to keep his identity secret.

He glanced across at Janice. "Anything?"

"Nothing you wouldn't expect. It's all the kind of stuff women buy for themselves. None of the tacky things that guys buy."

"Guys buy tacky things?"

"I'm afraid you do, sir. Scratchy lace. Nylon that makes you sweat. What men want women to wear, not what they'd choose for themselves."

"So that's where I've been going wrong all these years. I should really have been buying big knickers from Marks and Spencer."

Janice grinned. "Gratitude goes a long way, sir."

"Any sign she was on the pill?"

"Nothing so far. Maybe Brian was on the money when he said she was a good girl."

"Not entirely. She wasn't a virgin, according to the pathologist."

"There's more than one way of losing your virginity, sir," Janice pointed out, not quite courageous enough to cast aspersions on a pathologist that everyone knew was more focused on his next drink and his retirement than on whoever ended up on his slab.

"Aye. And the pills are probably in her handbag, which hasn't turned up yet." Maclennan sighed and shut the drawer on the novel and the diary. "I'll take a look at the wardrobe." Half an hour later, he had to concede that Rosie Duff had not been a hoarder. Her wardrobe contained clothes and shoes, all in current styles. In one corner, there was a pile of paperbacks, all thick bricks of paper that promised glamour, wealth and love in equal measure. "We're wasting our time here," he said.

"I've just got one drawer to go. Why don't you have a look in her jewelry box?" Janice passed him a box in the shape of a treasure chest covered in white leatherette. He flipped open the thin brass clasp and opened the lid. The top tray contained a selection of earrings in a range of colors. They were mostly big and bold, but inexpensive. In the lower tray there was a child's Timex watch, a couple of cheap silver chains and a few novelty brooches; one looked like a piece of knitting, complete with miniature needles; one a fishing fly, and the third a brightly enameled creature that looked like a cat from another planet. It was hard to read anything significant into any of it. "She liked her earrings," he said, closing the box. "Whoever she was seeing wasn't the kind who gives expensive jewelry."

Janice reached to the back of her drawer and pulled out a packet of photographs. It looked as if Rosie had raided the family albums and made her own selection. It was a typical mixture of family photos: her parents' wedding picture, Rosie and her brothers growing up, assorted family groups spanning the last three decades, a few baby pictures and some snaps of Rosie with schoolfriends, mugging at the camera in their Madras College uniforms. No photo-booth shots of her with boyfriends. No boyfriends at all, in fact. Maclennan flicked through them then shoved them back in the packet. "Come on, Janice, let's see if we can find something a bit more productive to occupy us." He took a last look round the room that had told him far less than he'd hoped about Rosie Duff. A girl with a craving for something more glamorous than she had. A girl who kept herself to herself. A girl who had taken her secrets to the grave, probably protecting her killer in the process.

As they drove back down to St. Andrews, Maclennan's radio crackled. He fiddled with the knobs, trying to get a clear signal. Seconds later, Burnside's voice came through loud and clear. He sounded excited. "Sir? I think we've got something."

Alex, Mondo and Weird had finished their shift stacking shelves in Safeway, keeping their heads down and hoping nobody would recognize them from the front page of the Daily Record. They'd bought a bundle of papers and walked along the High Street to the caf?where they'd spent their early evenings as teenagers.

"Did you know that one in two adults in Scotland reads the Record?" Alex said gloomily.

"The other one can't read," Weird said, looking at the snatched picture of the four of them on the doorstep of their residence. "Christ, look at us. They might as well have captioned it, 'Shifty bastards suspected of rape and murder.' Do you suppose anybody seeing that wouldn't think we'd done it?"

"It's not the most flattering photo I've ever had taken," Alex said.

"It's all right for you. You're right at the back. You can hardly make out your face. And Ziggy's turning away. It's me and Weird that have got it full frontal," Mondo complained. "Let's see what the others have got."

A similar picture appeared in the Scotsman, the Glasgow Herald and the Courier, but thankfully on inside pages. The murder made it to the front page of all of them, however, with the exception of the Courier. Nothing as insignificant as a murder could shift the fatstock prices and small ads from their front page.

They sat sipping their frothy coffees, silently poring over the column inches. "I suppose it could be worse," Alex said.

Weird made an incredulous face. "Worse how, exactly?"

"They spelled our names right. Even Ziggy's."

"Big fat hairy deal. OK, I'll grant you they've stopped short of calling us suspects. But that's about all you can say in our favor. This makes us look bad, Alex. You know it does."

"Everybody we know is going to have seen this," Mondo said. "Everybody is going to be into our ribs about it. If this is my fifteen minutes of fame, you can stuff it."

"Everybody was going to know anyway," Alex pointed out. "You know what this town's like. Village mentality. People have got nothing else to keep them occupied but gossiping about their neighbors. It doesn't take the papers to spread the news around here. The plus side is that half the university lives in England, so they're not going to know anything about this. And by the time we get back after the New Year, it'll be history."

"You think so?" Weird folded the Scotsman shut with an air of finality. "I tell you something. We better be praying that Maclennan finds out who did this and puts him away."

"Why?" Mondo asked.

"Because if he doesn't, we're going to go through the rest of our lives as the guys that got away with murder."

Mondo looked like a man who's just been told he has terminal cancer. "You're kidding?"

"I've never been more serious in my puff," Weird said. "If they don't arrest anybody for Rosie's murder, all anybody's going to remember is that we're the four who spent the night at the police station. It's obvious, man. We're going to get a not proven verdict without a trial. 'We all know they did it, the police just couldn't prove it,' " he added, mimicking a woman's voice. "Face it, Mondo, you're never going to get laid again." He grinned wickedly, knowing he'd hit his friend where it hurt most.

"Fuck off, Weird. At least I'll have memories," Mondo snapped.

Before any of them could say more, they were interrupted by a new arrival. Ziggy came in, shaking rain from his hair. "I thought I'd find you here," he said.

"Ziggy, Weird says? Mondo began.

"Never mind that. Maclennan's here. He wants to talk to the four of us again."

Alex raised his eyebrows. "He wants to drag us back to St. Andrews?"

Ziggy shook his head. "No. He's here in Kirkcaldy. He wants us to come to the police station."

"Fuck," Weird said. "My old man's going to go mental. I'm supposed to be grounded. He'll think I'm giving him the V-sign. It's not like I can tell him I've been at the cop shop."

"Thank my dad for the fact that we're not having to go to St. Andrews," Ziggy said. "He went spare when Maclennan turned up at the house. Read him the riot act, accusing him of treating us like criminals when we'd done everything we could to save Rosie. I thought at one point he was going to start battering him with the Record." He smiled. "I tell you, I was proud of him."

"Good for him," Alex said. "So where's Maclennan?"

"Outside in his car. With my dad's car parked right behind him." Ziggy's shoulders started shaking with laughter. "I don't think Maclennan's ever come up against anything quite like my old man."

"So we've got to go to the police station now?" Alex asked.

Ziggy nodded. "Maclennan's waiting for us. He said my dad could drive us there, but he's not in the mood for hanging around."

Ten minutes later, Ziggy was sitting alone in an interview room. When they'd arrived at the police station, Alex, Weird and Mondo had been taken to a separate interview room under the watchful eye of a uniformed constable. An anxious Karel Malkiewicz had been unceremoniously abandoned in the reception area, told abruptly by Maclennan that he'd have to wait there. And Ziggy had been shepherded off, sandwiched between Maclennan and Burnside, who had promptly left him to kick his heels.

They knew what they were doing, he thought ruefully. Leaving him isolated like this was a sure-fire recipe for unsettling him. And it was working. Although he showed no outward signs of tension, Ziggy felt taut as a piano wire, vibrating with apprehension. The longest five minutes of his life ended when the two detectives returned and sat down opposite him.

Maclennan's eyes burned into his, his narrow face tight with some suppressed emotion. "Lying to the police is a serious business," he said without preamble, his voice clipped and cold. "Not only is it an offense, it also makes us wonder what exactly it is you've got to hide. You've had a night to sleep on things. Would you care to revise your earlier statement?"

A chilly shock of fear spasmed in Ziggy's chest. They knew something. That was clear. But how much? He said nothing, waiting for Maclennan to make his move.

Maclennan opened his file and pulled out the fingerprint sheet that Ziggy had signed the previous day. "These are your fingerprints?"

Ziggy nodded. He knew what was coming now.

"Can you explain how they came to be on the steering wheel and gearstick of a Land Rover registered to a Mr. Henry Cavendish, found abandoned this morning in the parking area of an industrial unit on Largo Road, St. Andrews?"

Ziggy closed his eyes momentarily. "Yes, I can." He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. He'd rehearsed this conversation in bed that morning, but all his lines had deserted him now he was faced with this unnerving reality.

"I'm waiting, Mr. Malkiewicz," Maclennan said.

"The Land Rover belongs to one of the other students who shares the house with us. We borrowed it last night to get to the party."

"You borrowed it? You mean, Mr. Cavendish gave you his permission to ride around in his Land Rover?" Maclennan pounced, refusing to give Ziggy the chance to get into his stride.

"Not exactly, no." Ziggy looked off to one side, unable to meet Maclennan's stare. "Look, I know we shouldn't have taken it, but it was no big deal." As soon as the words were out of his mouth. Ziggy knew they were a mistake.

"It's a criminal offense. Which I'm sure you knew. So, you stole the Land Rover and took it to the party. That doesn't explain how it ended up where it did."

Ziggy's breath was fluttering in his chest like a trapped moth. "I moved it there for safety. We were drinking and I didn't want any of us to be tempted to drive it when we were drunk."

"When exactly did you move it?"

"I don't know exactly. Probably some time between one and two in the morning."

"You must have had quite a lot to drink by then yourself." Maclennan was on a roll now, his shoulders hunched forward as he leaned into the interrogation.

"I was probably over the limit, yes. But?

"Another criminal offense. So you were lying when you said you never left the party?" Maclennan's eyes felt like surgical probes.

"I was gone for as long as it took to move the Land Rover and walk back. Maybe twenty minutes."

"We've only got your word for that. We've been speaking to some of the other people at the party, and we've not had many sightings of you. I think you were away for a lot longer than that. I think you came across Rosie Duff and you offered her a lift."

"No!"

Maclennan continued relentlessly. "And something happened that made you angry, and you raped her. Then you realized that she could destroy your life if she went to the police. You panicked and you killed her. You knew you had to dump the body, but you had the Land Rover, so that wasn't a big deal. And then you cleaned yourself up and went back to the party. Isn't that how it happened?"

Ziggy shook his head. "No. You've got it all wrong. I never saw her, never touched her. I just got rid of the Land Rover before somebody had an accident."

"What happened to Rosie Duff wasn't an accident. And you were the one who made it happen."

Flushed with fear, Ziggy ran his hands through his hair. "No. You've got to believe me. I had nothing to do with her death."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because I'm telling you the truth."

"No. What you're telling me is a new version of events that covers what you think I know. I don't think it's anything like the whole truth."

There was a long silence. Ziggy clenched his jaw tight, feeling the muscles bunching in his cheeks.

Maclennan spoke again. This time, his tone was softer. "We're going to find out what happened. You know that. Right now, we've got a team of forensic experts going over every inch of that Land Rover. If we find one spot of blood, one hair from Rosie Duff's head, one fiber from her clothes, it'll be a very long time before you sleep in your own bed again. You could save yourself and your father a lot of grief if you just tell us everything now."

Ziggy almost burst out laughing. It was so transparent a move, so revealing of the weakness of Maclennan's hand. "I've got nothing more to say."

"Have it your own way, son. I'm arresting you for taking and driving away a motor vehicle without the owner's consent. You'll be bailed to report to the police station in a week's time." Maclennan pushed his chair back. "I suggest you get yourself a lawyer, Mr. Malkiewicz."

Inevitably, Weird was next up. It had to be the Land Rover, he'd decided as they'd sat in silence in the interview room. OK, he'd told himself. He'd hold his hand up, carry the can. He wasn't going to let the others take the blame for his stupidity. They wouldn't send him to jail, not for something so trivial. It would be a fine, and he could pay that off somehow. He could get a part-time job. You could be a mathematician with a criminal record.

He slouched in the chair opposite Maclennan and Burnside, a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth, trying to look casual. "How can I help?" he said.

"The truth would be a start," Maclennan said. "Somehow, it slipped your mind that you'd been joyriding in a Land Rover when you were supposed to be partying."

Weird spread his hands. "It's a fair cop. Just youthful high spirits, officer."

Maclennan slammed his hands down on the table. "This isn't a game, son. This is murder. So stop acting the goat."

"But that's all it was, really. Look, the weather was shite. The others went on ahead to the Lammas while I finished doing the dishes. I was standing in the kitchen looking out at the Land Rover, and I thought, why not? Henry's away back to England and nobody would be any the wiser if I borrowed it for a few hours. So I took it down to the pub. The other three were pretty pissed off with me, but when they saw the way the snow was coming down, they decided it wasn't such a bad idea after all. So we took it to the party. Ziggy moved it later, to save me from making a complete arse of myself. And that's all there is to it." He shrugged. "Honest. We didn't tell you before because we didn't want to waste your time over something and nothing."

Maclennan glared at him. "You're wasting my time now." He opened his file. "We've got a statement from Helen Walker that you persuaded her to go for a ride in the Land Rover. According to her, you were trying to grab her as you drove. Your driving became so erratic that the Land Rover went into a skid and stalled against a kerb. She jumped out and ran back to the party. She said, and I'm quoting now, 'He was out of control.' "

Weird's face twitched, tipping the ash from his cigarette down his jumper. "Silly wee lassie," he said, his voice less confident than his words.

"Just how out of control were you, son?"

Weird managed a shaky laugh. "Another one of your trick questions. Look, OK, I was a bit carried away with myself. But there's a big difference between having a bit of fun in a borrowed motor and killing somebody."

Maclennan gave him a look of contempt. "That's your idea of a bit of fun, is it? Molesting a woman and frightening her to the point where running through a blizzard in the middle of the night is better than sitting in a car with you?" Weird looked away, sighing. "You must have been angry. You get a woman into your stolen Land Rover, you think you're going to impress her and get your way with her, but instead she runs away. So what happens next? You see Rosie Duff in the snow, and you think you'll work your magic on her? Only she doesn't want to know, she fights you off, but you overpower her. And then you lose it, because you know she can destroy your life."

Weird jumped to his feet. "I don't have to sit here and listen to this. You're full of shite, you've got nothing on me and you know it."

Burnside was on his feet, obstructing Weird's path to the door while Maclennan leaned back in his chair. "Not so fast, son," Maclennan said. "You're under arrest."

Mondo hunched his shoulders round his ears, a feeble defense against what he knew was coming next. Maclennan gave him a long, cool stare. "Fingerprints," he said. "Your fingerprints on the steering wheel of a stolen Land Rover. Care to comment?"

"It wasn't stolen. Just borrowed. Stolen is when you don't plan to give it back, right?" Mondo sounded petulant.

"I'm waiting," Maclennan said, ignoring the reply.

"I gave somebody a lift home, OK?"

Maclennan leaned forward, a hound with a sniff of prey. "Who?"

"A girl that was at the party. She needed to get home to Guardbridge, so I said I'd take her." Mondo reached inside his jacket and took out a piece of paper. He'd written down the girl's details while he'd been waiting, anticipating just this moment. Somehow, not saying her name out loud made it less real, less significant. Besides, he'd worked out that if he pitched it right, he could make himself look even further in the clear. Never mind that he'd be dropping some girl in the shit with her parents. "There you go. You can ask her, she'll tell you."

"What time was this?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Two o'clock, maybe?"

Maclennan looked down at the name and address. Neither was familiar to him. "What happened?"

Mondo gave a little smirk, a worldly moment of male complicity. "I drove her home. We had sex. We said goodnight. So you see, Inspector, I had no reason to be interested in Rosie Duff, even if I had seen her. Which I didn't. I'd just got laid. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself."

"You say you had sex. Where, exactly?"

"In the back seat of the Land Rover."

"Did you use a condom?"

"I never believe women when they say they're on the pill. Do you? Of course I used a condom." Now Mondo was more relaxed. This was territory he understood, territory where males colluded with each other in a conspiracy of comprehension.

"What did you do with it afterward?"

"I chucked it out the window. Leaving it in the Land Rover would have been a bit of a giveaway with Henry, you know?" He could see Maclennan was struggling to know where to go next with his questions. He'd been right. His admission had defused their line of questioning. He hadn't been driving round in the snow, frustrated and desperate for sex. So what possible motive could he have had for raping Rosie Duff and killing her?

Maclennan gave a grim smile, not joining in Mondo's assumption of camaraderie. "We'll be checking out your story, Mr. Kerr. Let's see if this young woman backs you up. Because if she doesn't, that paints a very different picture, doesn't it?"