hapter 11

The substantial remains of Ravenscraig Castle stand on a rocky promontory between two sandy bays, commanding a magisterial view of the Forth estuary and its approaches. To the east, a long stone wall provides a defense against the sea and against any marauders. It runs all the way to Dysart harbor, now largely silted up but once a prosperous and thriving port. At the tip of the bay that curves along from the castle, past the dovecot that still houses pigeons and seabirds, where the wall comes to a V-shaped point, there is a small lookout with a steeply pitched roof and arrow slits in the walls.

Since their early teens, the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy had regarded this as their personal fiefdom. One of the best ways to escape adult supervision was invariably to go for walks. It was deemed to be healthy and unlikely to lead to them falling into Bad Ways. So when they promised to be gone all day, exploring the coast and the woods, they were always heartily supplied with picnics.

Sometimes, they headed in the opposite direction, along Invertiel and out past the ugliness of Seafield pit toward Kinghorn. But mostly, they came to Ravenscraig, not least because it wasn't far to the ice cream van in the nearby park. On hot days, they lay on the grass and indulged in wild fantasies of what their lives would be, both in the near and the distant futures. They retold stories of their term-time adventures, embellishing and spinning off into might-have-beens. They played cards, endless games of pontoon for matches. They smoked their first cigarettes here, Ziggy turning green and throwing up ignominiously into a gorse bush.

Sometimes they'd clamber up the high wall and watch the shipping in the estuary, the wind cooling them down and making them feel they were standing in the prow of some sailing ship, creaking and wallowing beneath their feet. And when it rained, they'd shelter inside the lookout post. Ziggy had a groundsheet they could spread over the mud. Even now, when they considered themselves to be grown-ups, they still liked to descend the stone stairs leading down from the castle to the beach, meandering among the coal dirt and seashells to the lookout.

The day before they were due to return to St. Andrews, they met up in the Harbor Bar for a lunchtime pint. Flush with their Christmas earnings, Alex, Mondo and Weird would have been happy to make a session of it. But Ziggy talked them out into the day. It was crisp and clear, the sun watery in a pale blue sky. They walked through the harbor, cutting between the tall silos of the grain mill and out on to the west beach. Weird hung back a little behind the other three, his eyes on the distant horizon as if seeking inspiration.

As they approached the castle, Alex peeled off and scrambled up the rocky outcropping that would be almost submerged at high tide. "Tell me again, how much did he get?"

Mondo didn't even have to pause for thought. "Magister David Boys, master mason, was paid by the order of Queen Mary of Gueldres, widow of James the Second of Scotland, the sum of six hundred pounds Scots for the building of a castle at Ravenscraig. Mind you, he had to pay for materials out of that."

"Which wasn't cheap. In 1461, fourteen timber joists were felled from the banks of the River Allan then transported to Stirling at the cost of seven shillings. And one Andrew Balfour was then paid two pounds and ten shillings for cutting, planing and transporting these joists to Ravenscraig," Ziggy recited.

"I'm glad I decided to take the job at Safeway," Alex joked. "The money's so much better." He leaned back and looked up the cliff to the castle. "I think the Sinclairs made it much prettier than it would have been if old Queen Mary hadn't kicked the bucket before it was finished."

"Pretty isn't what castles are for," Weird said, joining them. "They're supposed to be a refuge and a strength."

"So utilitarian," Alex complained, jumping off into the sand. The others followed him, scuffing through the flotsam along the high-water mark.

Halfway along the beach, Weird spoke as seriously as any of them had ever heard. "I've got something to tell you," he said.

Alex turned to face him, walking backward. The others turned in to look at Weird. "That sounds ominous," Mondo said.

"I know you're not going to like it, but I hope you can respect it."

Alex could see the wariness in Ziggy's eyes. But he didn't think his friend had anything to worry about. Whatever Weird was about to tell them came out of self-absorption, not the need to expose another. "Come on then, Weird. Let's hear it," Alex said, trying to sound encouraging.

Weird dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I've become a Christian," he said gruffly. Alex stared open-mouthed. He thought he might have been marginally less surprised if Weird had announced he'd killed Rosie Duff.

Ziggy roared with laughter. "Jesus, Weird, I thought it was going to be some terrible revelation. A Christian?"

Weird's jaw took on a stubborn cast. "It was a revelation. And I've accepted Jesus into my life as my savior. And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mock."

Ziggy was doubled up with mirth, clutching his stomach. "This is the funniest thing I've heard in years?Oh God, I think I'm going to piss myself." He leaned against Mondo, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't take the Lord's name in vain," Weird said.

Ziggy erupted in fresh snorts of laughter. "Oh my. What is it they say? There is more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents? I tell you, they'll be dancing in the streets of paradise, snagging a sinner like you."

Weird looked offended. "I'm not trying to deny I've done bad things in the past. But that's behind me now. I'm born again, and that means the slate is wiped clean."

"That must have been some blackboard duster. When did this happen?" Mondo said.

"I went to the Watch Night service on Christmas Eve," Weird said. "And something just clicked. I realized I wanted to be washed in the blood of the lamb. I wanted to be cleansed."

"Wild," Mondo said.

"You never said anything on Hogmanay," Alex said.

"I wanted you to be sober when I told you. It's a big step, giving your life to Christ."

"I'm sorry," Ziggy said, composing himself. "But you're the last person on the planet I expected to say those words."

"I know," Weird said. "But I mean them."

"We'll still be your pals," Ziggy said, trying to keep the smirk off his lips.

"Just so long as you don't try and convert us," Mondo said. "I mean, I love you like a brother, Weird, but not enough to give up sex and drink."

"That's not what loving Jesus is about, Mondo."

"Come on," Ziggy interrupted. "I'm freezing, standing here. Let's go up to the lookout." He set off, Mondo at his side. Alex fell into step beside Weird. He felt curiously sorry for his friend. It must have been terrible to have experienced a sense of isolation so profound that he'd had to turn to the happy clappies for solace. I should have been there for him, Alex thought with a twinge of guilt. Maybe it wasn't too late.

"It must have felt pretty strange," he said.

Weird shook his head. "Just the opposite. I felt at peace. Like I'd finally stopped being a square peg in a round hole and I'd found the place I belonged all along. I can't describe it any better than that. I only went to the service to keep my mum company. And I was sitting there in Abbot-shall Kirk, the candles flickering all around like they do at the Watch Night service. And Ruby Christie was singing "Silent Night" solo, unaccompanied. And all the hairs on my body stood on end and suddenly it all made sense. I understood that God gave his only son for the sins of the world. And that meant me. It meant I could be redeemed."

"Big stuff." Alex was embarrassed by this emotional candour. For all their years of friendship, he'd never had a conversation like this with Weird. Weird, of all people, whose only tenet of faith had apparently been to consume as many mind-altering substances as he could reasonably ingest before he died. "So what did you do?" He had a sudden vision of Weird running down to the front of the church and demanding he be forgiven his sins. That would be truly mortifying, he thought. The kind of thing that would bring you out in a cold sweat to remember once you'd come out of the other side of the God-bothering phase and resumed normal life.

"Nothing. I sat through the service and went home. I thought it was just a one-off, some kind of bizarre mystical experience. Maybe to do with all the stuff that Rosie's death churned up. Maybe even some kind of acid flashback. But when I woke up in the morning, I felt the same. So I looked in the paper to see who had a Christmas Day service and I ended up at an evangelical gig down the Links."

Uh-oh. "I bet you had the place to yourself on Christmas morning."

Weird laughed. "Are you kidding? The place was full to the doors. It was brilliant. The music was great, the people treated me like we'd been friends for years. And after the service, I went and spoke to the minister." Weird bowed his head. "It was a pretty emotional encounter. Anyway, the upshot is he baptised me last week. And he's given me the name of a sister congregation in St. Andrews." He gave Alex a beatific smile. "That's why I needed to tell you guys today. Because I'll be going to church just after we get back to Fife Park tomorrow."

The first opportunity the others had to discuss Weird's dama-scene conversion was the following evening after he'd packed his electric acoustic guitar into its case and set off to walk across town to the evangelical service down near the harbor. They sat in the kitchen and watched him stride off into the night. "Well, that's the end of the band," Mondo said decisively. "I'm not playing fucking spirituals and 'Jesus Loves Me' for anybody."

"Elvis has now left the building," Ziggy said. "I tell you, he's lost any connection to reality he ever had."

"He means it, guys." Alex said.

"You think that makes it better? We're in for a rough ride, boys," Ziggy said. "He'll be bringing the beardie weirdies back here. They'll be determined to save us whether we want to be saved or not. Losing the band is going to be the least of our worries. No more, 'All for one and one for all.' "

"I feel bad about this," Alex said.

"Why?" Mondo said. "You didn't drag him off and make him listen to Ruby Christie."

"He wouldn't have gone off like this if he hadn't been feeling really shit. I know he seemed to be the most cool of all of us about Rosie's murder, but I think deep down it must have affected him. And we were all so wrapped up in our own reactions, we didn't pick up on it."

"Maybe there's more to it than that," Mondo said.

"How do you mean?" Ziggy asked.

Mondo scuffed the toes of his boots against the floor. "Come on, guys. We don't know what the fuck Weird was doing running around in that Land Rover the night Rosie died. We've only got his word for it that he never saw her."

Alex felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Ever since he'd hinted at suspicion with Ziggy, Alex had forced himself to suppress such treacherous thoughts. But now Mondo had given fresh shape to the unthinkable. "That's a terrible thing to say," Alex said.

"I bet you've thought it, though," Mondo said defiantly.

"You can't think Weird would rape somebody, never mind kill them," Alex protested.

"He was off his face that night. You can't say what he could or couldn't do when he's in that state," Mondo said.

"Enough." Ziggy's voice cut through the atmosphere of mistrust and discomfort like a blade. "You start that and where do you stop? I was out there too that night. Alex actually invited Rosie to the party. And come to that, you took a hell of a long time taking that lassie back to Guardbridge. What kept you, Mondo?" He glared at his friend. "Is that the kind of shit you want to hear, Mondo?"

"I never said anything about you two. There's no call for you to have a go at me."

"But it's all right for you to have a go at Weird when he's not here to defend himself? Some friend you are."

"Aye well, now he's got a friend in Jesus," Mondo sneered. "Which, when you think about it, is a pretty extreme reaction. Looks like guilt to me."

"Stop it," Alex shouted. "Listen to yourselves. There's going to be plenty of other people ready to spread the poison without us turning on each other. We need to stick together or we're sunk."

"Alex is right," Ziggy said wearily. "No more accusing each other, OK? Maclennan's just dying to drive a wedge between us. He doesn't care who he gets for this murder as long as he gets somebody. We need to make sure it's not one of us. Mondo, you keep your poisonous notions to yourself in future." Ziggy got to his feet. "I'm going down to the late shop to buy some milk and bread so we can all have a cup of coffee before those hairy-arsed Tories get back and clutter the place up with their English accents."

"I'll come down with you. I need to get some fags," Alex said.

When they returned half an hour later, the world had turned upside down. The police were back in force, and their two fellow residents were on the doorstep with their luggage, their faces a study in disbelief. "Evening, Harry. Evening, Eddie," Ziggy said affably, peering over their shoulders into the hallway where Mondo was being sulky with a WPC. "Just as well I bought the two pints."

"What the hell is going on here?" Henry Cavendish demanded. "Don't tell me that cretin Mackie's been done for drugs."

"Nothing so prosaic," Ziggy said. "I don't suppose the murder made the Tatler or Horse and Hounds."

Cavendish groaned. "Oh for God's sake, don't be so pathetic. I thought you'd grown out of the working-class hero rubbish."

"Watch your mouth, we've got a Christian among us now."

"What are you talking about? Murder? Christians?" Edward Greenhalgh said.

"Weird's got God," Alex said succinctly. "Not your High Church Anglican sort, but the tambourines and praise the Lord sort. He'll be holding prayer meetings in the kitchen." Alex believed there was no greater sport than baiting those who believed in their privilege. And St. Andrews offered plenty of opportunity for that.

"What has that to do with the fact that the house is full of policemen?" Cavendish asked.

"I think you'll find the one in the hall is a woman," Ziggy said. "Unless of course Fife Police have started recruiting particularly attractive transvestites."

Cavendish ground his teeth. He hated the way the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy persisted in treating him like a caricature. It was the main reason why he spent so little time in the house. "Why the police?" he said.

Ziggy smiled sweetly at Cavendish. "The police are here because we're murder suspects."

"What he means to say," Alex added hastily, "is that we're witnesses. One of the barmaids from the Lammas Bar was murdered just before Christmas. And we happened to find the body."

"That's appalling," Cavendish said. "I had no idea. Her poor family. Pretty grim for you too."

"It wasn't a lot of fun," Alex said.

Cavendish peered into the house again, looking discomfited. "Look, this is a bad time for you. It's probably easier all round if we find somewhere else to stay for now. Come on, Ed. We can crash with Tony and Simon tonight. We'll see if we can get transferred to another residence in the morning." He turned away, then looked back, frowning. "Where's my Land Rover?"

"Ah," Ziggy said. "It's a bit complicated. See, we borrowed it and?

"You borrowed it?" Cavendish sounded outraged.

"I'm sorry. But the weather was terrible. We didn't think you'd mind."

"So where is it now?"

Ziggy looked embarrassed. "You'll need to ask the police about that. The night we borrowed it, that was the night of the murder."

Cavendish's sympathy had evaporated now. "I don't believe you people," he snarled. "My Land Rover is part of a murder investigation?"

"Afraid so. Sorry about that."

Cavendish looked furious. "You'll be hearing from me about this."

Alex and Ziggy watched in grim silence as the other two staggered back down the path with their suitcases. Before they could say more, they had to step aside to let the police leave. There were four uniformed officers and a couple of men in plain clothes. They ignored Alex and Ziggy and headed for their cars.

"What was all that about?" Alex asked as they finally made it indoors.

Mondo shrugged. "They didn't say. They were taking paint samples from the walls and the ceilings and the woodwork," he said. "I overheard one of them say something about a cardigan, but they didn't seem to be looking at our clothes. They poked around everywhere, asked if we'd decorated recently."

Ziggy snorted with laughter. "As if that's going to happen. And they wonder why they get called plods."

"I don't like the sound of this," Alex said. "I thought they'd given up on us. But here they are again, turning the place upside down. They must have some new evidence."

"Well, whatever it is, it's nothing for us to worry about," Ziggy said.

"If you say so," Mondo said sarcastically. "Me, I'll stick with worrying for now. Like Alex says, they've left us alone, but now they're back. I don't think that's something we can just shrug off."

"Mondo, we're innocent, remember? That means we've nothing to worry about."

"Yeah, right. So what's with Henry and Eddie?" Mondo asked.

"They don't want to live with mad axe-murderers," Ziggy said over his shoulder as he went through to the kitchen.

Alex followed. "I wish you hadn't said that," he said.

"What? Mad axe-murderers?"

"No. I wish you hadn't told Harry and Eddie we're murder suspects."

Ziggy shrugged. "It was a joke. Harry's more interested in his precious Land Rover than in anything we might have done. Except that it gives him the excuse he's always wanted to move out of here. Besides, you're the one who benefits. With an extra couple of rooms, you're not going to have to share with Weird anymore."

Alex reached for the kettle. "All the same, I wish you hadn't planted the seed. I've got a horrible feeling we're all going to catch the harvest."

Chapter 12

Alex's prediction came true a lot sooner than he'd expected. A couple of days later, walking down North Street toward the History of Art Department, he saw Henry Cavendish and a bunch of his cronies approaching, swaggering along in their red flannel gowns as if they owned the place. He saw Henry nudge one of them and say something. As they came face to face, Alex found himself surrounded by young men in the standard uniform of tweed jackets and twill trousers, their faces leering at him.

"I'm surprised you've got the nerve to show your face round here, Gilbey," Cavendish sneered.

"I think I've got more right to walk these streets than you and your pals," Alex said mildly. "This is my country, not yours."

"Some country, where people get to steal cars with impunity. I can't believe you lot aren't up in court for what you did," Cavendish said. "If you used my Land Rover to cover up a murder, you'll have more than the police to worry about."

Alex tried to push past, but he was hemmed in on all sides, jostled by their elbows and hands. "Fuck off, will you, Henry? We had nothing to do with Rosie Duff's murder. We're the ones who went for help. We're the ones who tried to keep her alive."

"And the police believe that, do they?" Cavendish said. "They must be more stupid than I thought." A fist flashed out and caught Alex hard under the ribs. "Steal my wheels, would you?"

"I didn't know you could do thinking," Alex gasped, unable to keep himself from goading his tormentor.

"It's a disgrace that you're still a member of this university," another shouted, prodding Alex in the chest with a bony finger. "At the very least, you're a shitty little thief."

"God, just listen to yourselves. You sound like a bad comedy sketch." Alex said, suddenly angry. He lowered his head and thrust forward, his body remembering countless rucks on the rugby field. "Now, get out of my road," he yelled. Panting, he emerged on the far side of the group and turned back, his lip curled in a sneer. "I've got a lecture to go to."

Taken aback by his outburst, they let him go. As he stalked off, Cavendish called after him, "I'd have thought you'd have been going to the funeral, not a lecture. Isn't that what murderers are supposed to do?"

Alex turned around. "What?"

"Didn't they tell you? They're burying Rosie Duff today."

Alex stormed up the street, shaking with anger. He'd been scared, he had to admit. For a moment there, he'd been scared. He couldn't believe Cavendish had taunted him about Rosie's funeral. Nor could he credit the fact that nobody had told them it was today. Not that he would have wanted to go. But it would have been nice to have been warned.

He wondered how the others were faring and wished yet again that Ziggy had kept his smart mouth shut.

Ziggy walked in to an anatomy class and was immediately greeted with cries of, "Here comes the body snatcher."

He threw his hands up, acknowledging the good-natured ribbing from his fellow medics. If anybody was going to find the black humor in Rosie's death, it would be them. "What's wrong with the cadavers they give us to practice on?" one shouted across the room.

"Too old and ugly for Ziggy," came the reply from another. "He had to go out and get some quality meat for himself."

"All right, leave it out," Ziggy said. "You're just jealous that I got to go into practice before any of the rest of you."

A handful of his colleagues gathered around him. "What was it like, Ziggy? We hear she was still alive when you found her. Were you scared?"

"Yeah. I was scared. But I was more frustrated because I couldn't keep her alive."

"Hey, man, you did your best," one reassured him.

"It was a pretty crap best. We spend years cramming our heads with knowledge, but, faced with the real thing, I didn't know where to start. Any ambulance driver would have had a better chance of saving Rosie's life than I did." Ziggy shrugged out of his coat and dropped it over a chair. "I felt useless. It made me realize that you don't start becoming a doctor till you get out there and start treating living, breathing patients."

A voice behind them said, "That's a very valuable lesson to have learned, Mr. Malkiewicz." Unnoticed, their tutor had walked in on the conversation. "I know it's no consolation, but the police surgeon told me that she was beyond saving by the time you found her. She'd lost far too much blood." He clapped Ziggy on the shoulder. "We can't work miracles, I'm afraid. Now, gentlemen and ladies, let's all settle down. We've got important work to get through this term."

Ziggy went to his place, his head somewhere else altogether. He could feel the blood slick on his hands, the feeble, irregular heartbeat, the chill of her flesh. He could hear her failing breath. He could taste the coppery taint on his tongue. He wondered if he could ever get past that. He wondered if he could ever become a doctor, knowing that failure would always be the ultimate outcome of his actions.

A couple of miles away, Rosie's family were preparing to lay their daughter to rest. The police had released the body at last, and the Duffs could take the first formal step on the long journey of grieving. Eileen straightened her hat in the mirror, oblivious to the pinched, raw look of her face. She couldn't be bothered with makeup these days. What was the point? Her eyes were dull and heavy. The pills the doctor had given her didn't take the pain away; they simply moved it out of her immediate reach, turning it into something she contemplated rather than experienced.

Archie stood at the window, waiting for the hearse. Strathkinness Parish Church was only a couple of hundred yards away. They'd decided the family would walk behind the coffin, keeping Rosie company on her last journey. His broad shoulders drooped. He had become an old man in the previous few weeks, an old man who had lost the will to engage with the world.

Brian and Colin, spruced as nobody had ever seen them before, were in the scullery, bracing themselves with a whiskey. "I hope the four of them have the good sense to stay away," Colin said.

"Let them come. I'm ready for them," Brian said, his handsome face set in dourness.

"Not today. For fuck's sake, Brian. Have some dignity, will you?" Colin drained his glass and slammed it down on the draining board.

"They're here," his father called through.

Colin and Brian exchanged a look, a promise to each other that they'd make it through the day without doing anything to shame themselves or their sister's memory. They squared their shoulders and went through.

The hearse was parked outside the house. The Duffs walked down the path, heads bowed, Eileen leaning heavily on her husband's arm. They took up their places behind the coffin. Behind them, friends and relatives gathered in somber groupings. Bringing up the rear were the police. Maclennan led the detachment, proud that several of the team had turned up on their time off. For once, the press were discreet, agreeing among themselves on pool coverage.

Villagers lined the street to the church, many of them falling in behind the cortege as it moved at a slow walk down to the gray stone building that sat four square on the hill, brooding over St. Andrews below. When everyone had filed in, the small church was packed. Some mourners had to stand in the side aisles and at the back.

It was a short and formal service. Eileen had been beyond thinking of details, and Archie had asked for it to be kept to the bare minimum. "It's something we've to get through," he'd explained to the minister. "It's not what we're going to be remembering Rosie by."

Maclennan found the simple words of the funeral service unbearably poignant. These were words that should be spoken over people who had lived their lives to the full, not a young woman who'd barely begun to scratch the surface of what her life could be. He bowed his head for the prayer, knowing this service would bring no resolution to anyone who had known Rosie. There would be no peace for any of them until he did his job.

And it was looking less and less likely that he would be able to satisfy their need. The investigation had almost ground to a halt. The only recent forensic evidence had come from the cardigan. All that had yielded were some paint fragments. But none of the samples taken from inside the student house in Fife Park had come anywhere near a match. Headquarters had sent a superintendent down to review the work he and his team had done, the implication being that they'd somehow fallen down on the job. But the man had had to concede that Maclennan had done a commendable job. He hadn't been able to make a single suggestion that might lead to fresh progress.

Maclennan found himself coming back again and again to the four students. Their alibis were so flimsy they hardly deserved the name. Gilbey and Kerr had fancied her. Dorothy, one of the other barmaids, had mentioned it more than once when giving her statement. "The big one that looks a bit like a dark-haired Ryan O'Neal," she'd put it. Not how he would have described Gilbey himself, but he knew what she meant. "He fancied her something rotten," she'd said. "And the wee one that looks like him out of T Rex. He was always mooning after Rosie. Not that she gave him the time of day, mind you. She said he fancied himself too much for her liking. The other one, though, the big one. She said she wouldn't mind a night out with him if he was five years older."

So there was the shadow of a motive. And of course, they'd had access to the perfect vehicle for transporting the dying body of a young woman. Just because there were no forensic traces didn't mean they hadn't used the Land Rover. A tarpaulin, a groundsheet, even a thick plastic sheet would have contained the blood and left the interior clean. There was no doubt that whoever had killed Rosie must have had a car.

Either that or he was one of the respectable householders on Trinity Place. The trouble was, every male resident between fourteen and seventy was accounted for. They were either away from home, or asleep in their beds, alibied to the hilt. They'd looked closely at a couple of teenage boys, but there was nothing to link them to Rosie or to the crime.

The other thing that made Gilbey look less likely as a suspect was the forensics. The sperm they'd found on Rosie's clothes had been deposited by a secretor, someone whose blood group was present in his other bodily fluids. Their rapist and presumably their killer had blood group O. Alex Gilbey was AB, which meant he hadn't raped her unless he'd used a condom. But Malkiewicz, Kerr and Mackie were all group O. So theoretically, it could have been one of them.

He really didn't think Kerr had it in him. But Mackie was possible, that was for sure. Maclennan had heard about the young man's sudden conversion to Christianity. To him, it sounded like a desperate act born of guilt. And Malkiewicz was another story altogether. Maclennan had accidentally stumbled into the issue of the lad's sexuality, but if he was in love with Gilbey, he might have wanted to get rid of what he saw as the competition. It had the ring of possibility.

Maclennan was so deep in thought, he was taken aback to find the service over, the congregation shuffling to their feet. The coffin was being carried up the aisle, Colin and Brian Duff the lead pall-bearers. Brian's face was streaked with tears, and Colin looked as if it was taking every ounce of his strength not to weep.

Maclennan looked around at his team, nodding them outside as the coffin disappeared. The family would be driven down the hill to Western Cemetery for a private internment. He slipped outside, standing by the door and watching the mourners disperse. He had no conviction that his killer was among the congregation; that was too glib a conclusion for him to be comfortable with. His officers gathered behind him, speaking softly among themselves.

Hidden by a corner of the building, Janice Hogg lit a cigarette. She wasn't on duty, after all, and she needed a blast of nicotine after that harrowing. She'd only had a couple of drags when Jimmy Lawson appeared. "I thought I smelled smoke," he said. "Mind if I join you?"

He lit up, leaning against the wall, his hair falling over his forehead and shading his eyes. She thought he'd lost weight recently, and it suited him, hollowing his cheeks and defining his jawline. "I wouldn't want to go through that again in a hurry," he said.

"Me neither. I felt like all those eyes were looking to us for an answer we haven't got."

"And no sign of getting one either. CID haven't got anything you could call a decent suspect," Lawson said, his voice as bitter as the east wind that whipped the smoke from their mouths.

"It's not like Starsky and Hutch, is it?"

"Thank God for that. I mean, would you want to wear those cardies?"

Janice sniggered, in spite of herself. "When you put it like that?

Lawson inhaled deeply. "Janice?do you fancy going out for a drink sometime?"

Janice looked at him in astonishment. She'd never imagined for a moment that Jimmy Lawson had noticed she was a woman except when it came to making tea or breaking bad news. "Are you asking me out?"

"Looks like it. What do you say?"

"I don't know, Jimmy. I'm not sure if it's a good idea to get involved with somebody in the job."

"And when do we get the chance to meet anybody else unless we're arresting them? Come on, Janice. Just a wee drink. See how we get on?" His smile gave him a charm she'd never noticed before.

She looked at him, considering. He wasn't exactly a dreamboat, but he wasn't bad looking. He had a reputation for being a bit of a ladies' man, somebody who usually got what he wanted without having to work too hard for it. But he'd always treated her with courtesy, unlike so many of her colleagues whose contempt was seldom far from the surface. And she hadn't been out with anyone interesting for longer than she could remember. "OK," she said.

"I'll look at the rosters when we come on tonight. See when we're both off." He dropped his cigarette end and ground it out with his toe. She watched him walk round the corner of the church to join the others. It seemed she had a date. It was the last thing she'd expected from Rosie Duff's funeral. Maybe the minister had been right. This should be a time for looking forward as well as backward.