hapter 26

The light from the study was suddenly obscured by heavy curtains. The watcher frowned. That was a break in the routine. He didn't like that. He worried over what might have provoked the change. But eventually, things went back to normal. The lights went off downstairs. He knew the pattern by now. A lamp would come on in the big bedroom at the front of the Bearsden villa, then David Kerr's wife would appear in silhouette at the window. She'd draw the heavy drapes that shut out all but the barest glimmer of light from within. Almost simultaneously, an oblong of light would shine down on the garage roof. The bathroom, he presumed. David Kerr going about his bedtime ablutions. Like Lady Macbeth, he'd never get his hands clean. About twenty minutes later, the bedroom lights would go out. Nothing else would happen tonight.

Graham Macfadyen turned the key in the ignition and drove off into the night. He was beginning to get a feel for David Kerr's life, but he wanted to know so much more. Why, for example, he hadn't done what Alex Gilbey had, and caught a plane for Seattle. That was cold. How could you not pay your respects to someone who was not only one of your oldest friends but also your partner in crime?

Unless of course there had been some sort of estrangement. People talked about thieves falling out. How much more natural it would be for murderers to do the same. It must have taken time and distance to create such a rift. There had been nothing obvious in the immediate aftermath of their crime. He knew that now, thanks to his Uncle Brian.

The memory of that conversation ticked over in the back of his mind during most of his waking hours, a mental string of worry beads whose movement reinforced his determination. All he'd wanted was to find his parents; he'd never expected to be consumed by this search for a higher truth. But consumed he was. Others might dismiss it as obsession but that was typical of people who didn't understand the nature of commitment and the need for justice. He was convinced that his mother's unquiet shade was watching him, spurring him on to do whatever was necessary. It was the last thing he thought about before sleep consumed him and his first conscious thought on waking. Somebody had to pay.

His uncle had been less than thrilled by their encounter in the graveyard. At first, Macfadyen had thought the older man was going to attack him physically. His hands had bunched into fists and his head had gone down like a bull about to charge.

Macfadyen had stood his ground. "I only want to talk about my mother," he said.

"I've got nothing to say to you," Brian Duff snarled.

"I just want to know what she was like."

"I thought Jimmy Lawson told you to stay away?"

"Lawson came to see you about me?"

"Don't flatter yourself, son. He came to see me to talk about the new investigation into my sister's murder."

Macfadyen nodded, understanding. "So he told you about the missing evidence?"

Duff nodded. "Aye." His hands dropped and he looked away. "Useless twats."

"If you won't talk about my mother, will you at least tell me what went on when she was killed? I need to know what happened. And you were there."

Duff recognized persistence when he saw it. It was, after all, a trait this stranger shared with him and his brother. "You're not going to go away, are you?" he said sourly.

"No. I'm not. Look, I never expected to be welcomed into my biological family with open arms. I know you probably feel I don't belong. But I've got a right to know where I came from and what happened to my mother."

"If I talk to you, will you go away and leave us alone?"

Macfadyen considered for a moment. It was better than nothing. And maybe he could find a way under Brian Duff's defenses that would leave the door ajar for the future. "OK," he said.

"Do you know the Lammas Bar?"

"I've been in a few times."

Duff's eyebrows rose. "I'll meet you there in half an hour." He turned on his heel and stalked off. As the darkness swallowed his uncle, Macfadyen felt excitement rise like bile in his throat. He'd been looking for answers for so long, and the prospect of finally finding some was almost too much.

He hurried back to his car and drove straight to the Lammas Bar, finding a quiet corner table where they could talk in peace. His eyes drifted around, wondering how much had changed since Rosie had worked behind the bar. It looked as if the place had had a major make-over in the early nineties, but judging by the scuffed paintwork and the general air of depression, it had never made the grade as a fun pub.

Macfadyen was halfway down his pint when Brian Duff pushed the door open and strode straight to the bar. He was clearly a familiar face, the barmaid reaching for the glass before he even ordered. Armed with a pint of Eighty Shilling, he joined Macfadyen at the table. "Right then," he said. "How much do you know?"

"I looked up the newspaper archives. And there was a bit about the case in a true-crime book I found. But that just told me the bare facts."

Duff took a long draft of his beer, never taking his eyes off Macfadyen. "Facts, maybe. The truth? No way. Because you're not allowed to call people murderers unless a jury said so first."

Macfadyen's pulse quickened. It sounded as if what he'd suspected was on the money. "What do you mean?" he said.

Duff took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It was obvious that he didn't want to have the conversation. "Let me tell you the story. The night she died, Rosie was working here. Behind that bar. Sometimes I'd give her a lift home, but not that night. She said she was going to a party, but the truth of it was she was meeting somebody after work. We all knew she'd been seeing someone, but she wouldn't let on who it was. She liked her secrets, did Rosie. But me and Colin, we reckoned she was keeping quiet about the boyfriend because she thought we wouldn't approve of him." Duff scratched his chin. "We were maybe a bit heavy-handed when it came to looking out for Rosie. After she got pregnant?well, let's just say we didn't want her getting mixed up with another loser.

"Anyway, she left after closing time, and nobody saw who she met up with. It's like she just disappeared off the face of the earth for four hours." He gripped his glass tightly, his knuckles white. "Round about four o'clock in the morning, four students staggering home drunk from a party found her lying in the snow on Hallow Hill. The official version was that they stumbled on her." He shook his head. "But where she was, you wouldn't just find her by chance. That's the first thing you need to remember.

"She'd been stabbed once in the stomach. But it was a hell of a wound. Deep and long." Duff's shoulders rose protectively. "She bled to death. Whoever killed her carried her up there in the snow and dumped her like she was a sack of shite. That's the second thing you need to remember." His voice was tight and clipped, the emotion still possessing him twenty-five years on.

"They said she'd likely been raped. They tried to say it might just have been rough sex, but I never believed that. Rosie had learned her lesson. She didn't sleep with the guys she went out with. The cops made out that she was spinning me and Colin a line about that. But we had a word with a couple of the guys she'd dated, and they swore they never had sex with her. And I believe them, because we weren't gentle with them. Sure, they messed about. Blow jobs, hand jobs. But she wouldn't have sex. So she had to have been raped. There was semen on her clothes." He gave an angry snort of disbelief. "I can't believe those useless fuckers have lost the evidence. That was all they needed, DNA testing would have done the rest." He swallowed more beer. Macfadyen waited, tense as a hunting dog on point. He didn't want to say a word and break the spell.

"So that was what happened to my sister. And we wanted to know who did this to her. The police didn't have a fucking clue. They took a look at the four students who found her, but they never really worked them over. See this town? Nobody wants to upset the University. And it was worse back then.

"Remember these names. Alex Gilbey, Sigmund Malkiewicz, Davey Kerr, Tom Mackie. That's the four who found her. The four who ended up covered in her blood, but with a so-called legitimate excuse. And where were they during the missing four hours? They were at a party. Some drunken student party, where nobody keeps tabs on anybody else. They could have come and gone without anybody being any the wiser. Who's to say they were ever there for more than half an hour at the beginning and maybe half an hour at the end? Plus, they had access to a Land Rover."

Macfadyen looked startled. "That wasn't in anything I read."

"No, it wouldn't have been. They stole a Land Rover belonging to one of their mates. They were driving about in it that night."

"Why weren't they charged with it?" Macfadyen demanded.

"Good question. And one we never got an answer to. Probably what I was saying before. Nobody wants to upset the University. Maybe the cops didn't want to bother with minor charges if they couldn't prove the big one. It would have made them look pretty pathetic."

He let go his glass and ticked off the points on his fingers. "So, they've got no real alibi. They had the perfect vehicle for driving around with a body in a blizzard. They drank in here. They knew Rosie. Me and Colin thought students were a bunch of lowlifes who used lassies like Rosie then chucked them when the proper wife material came along, and she knew that, so she'd never have let on if she was going out with a student. One of them actually admitted that he'd invited Rosie along to that party. And according to what I was told, the sperm on Rosie's clothes could have come from either Sigmund Malkiewicz, Davey Kerr or Tom Mackie." He leaned back, momentarily worn out by the intensity of his monologue.

"There were no other suspects?"

Duff shrugged. "There was the mystery boyfriend. But, like I said, that could easily have been one of those four. Jimmy Lawson had some daft notion that she'd been picked up by some nutter for a satanic ritual. That's why she was left where she was. But there was never any evidence of that. Besides, how would he find her? She wouldn't have been walking the streets in that weather."

"What do you think happened that night?" Macfadyen couldn't help the question.

"I think she was going out with one of them. I think he was fed up with not getting his way with her. I think he raped her. Christ, maybe they all did, I don't know for sure. When they realized what they'd done, they knew they were fucked if they let her go free to tell. That would be the end of their degrees, the end of their brilliant futures. So they killed her." There was a long silence.

Macfadyen was the first to speak. "I never knew which three the sperm pointed to."

"It was never public knowledge. But it's kosher, all the same. One of my pals was going out with a lassie that worked for the police. She was a civilian, but she knew what was going on. With what they had on those four, it was criminal, how the police just let it slip away."

"They were never arrested?"

Duff shook his head. "They were questioned, but nothing ever came of it. No, they're still walking the streets. Free as birds." He finished his pint. "So, now you know what happened." He pushed his chair back, as if to leave.

"Wait," Macfadyen said urgently.

Duff paused, looking impatient.

"How come you never did anything about it?"

Duff reared back as if he'd been struck. "Who says we didn't?"

"Well, you're the one who just said they're walking the streets, free as birds."

Duff sighed so deeply the stale beer on his breath washed over Macfadyen. "There wasn't much we could do. We had a pop at a couple of them, but we got our cards marked. The police more or less told us that if anything happened to any of the four of them, we'd be the ones who'd end up behind bars. If it had just been me and Colin, we'd have taken no notice. But we couldn't put our mother through that. Not after what she'd already suffered. So we backed off." He bit his lip. "Jimmy Lawson always said the case would never be closed. One day, he said, whoever killed Rosie would get what they deserved. And I really believed that the time had come, with this new inquiry." He shook his head. "More fool me." This time, he stood up. "I've kept my end of the bargain. Now you keep yours. Stay away from me and mine."

"Just one more thing. Please?"

Duff hesitated, his hand on the back of his chair, one step away from escape. "What?"

"My father. Who was my father?"

"You're better off not knowing, son. He was a useless waste of space."

"Even so. Half my genes came from him." Macfadyen could see the uncertainty in Duff's eyes. He pushed the point. "Give me my father and you'll never see me again."

Duff shrugged. "His name's John Stobie. He moved to England three years before Rosie died." He turned on his heel and walked.

Macfadyen sat for a while staring into space, ignoring his beer. A name. Something to start running a trace on. At last, he had a name. But more than that. He had justification for the decision he'd made after James Lawson's admission of incompetence. The names of the students hadn't been news to him. They'd been there, in the newspaper reports of the murder. He'd known about them for months. Everything he'd read had reinforced his desperate need to find someone to blame for what had happened to his mother. When he'd started his search to unearth the whereabouts of the four men he'd convinced himself had destroyed his chance of ever knowing his real mother, he'd been disappointed to discover that all four of them were leading successful, respectable and respected existences. That wasn't any kind of justice.

He'd immediately set up an Internet alert for any information about the four of them. And when Lawson had delivered his revelation, it had only reinforced Macfadyen's decision that they shouldn't get away with it. If Fife Police couldn't bring them to book for what they'd done, then another way had to be found to make them pay.

The morning after his meeting with his uncle, Macfadyen woke early. He hadn't been to work for over a week now. Writing program code was what he excelled at, and it had always been the one thing that made him feel relaxed. But these days the idea of sitting in front of a screen and working through the complex structures of his current project simply made him feel impatient. Compared to all the other stuff fizzing in his brain, everything else felt petty, irrelevant and pointless. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this quest, and he'd realized it needed all of him, not what was left after a day in the computer lab. He'd gone to the doctor and claimed he was suffering from stress. It wasn't exactly a lie, and he'd been convincing enough to be signed off until after the New Year.

He crawled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom, feeling as if he'd been asleep for minutes instead of hours. He barely glanced in the mirror, not registering the shadows under his eyes or the hollows in his cheeks. He had things to do. Getting to know his mother's killers was more important than remembering to eat properly.

Without pausing to dress or even make coffee, he went straight through to his computer room. He clicked the mouse on one of the PCs. A flashing message in the corner of the screen said ‹Mail waiting? He called up his message screen. Two items. He opened the first. David Kerr had an article in the latest issue of an academic journal. Some tripe about a French writer Macfadyen had never heard of. He couldn't have been less interested. Still, it showed that he had set up the parameters of his Internet alert properly. David Kerr wasn't exactly an uncommon name and, until he'd refined the search, he'd been getting dozens of hits every day. Which had been a pain in the arse.

The next message was far more interesting. It directed him to the Web pages of the Seattle Post Intelligencer. As he read the article, a slow smile spread across his face.

PROMINENT PEDIATRICIAN DIES IN SUSPICIOUS BLAZE

The founder of the prestigious Fife Clinic has perished in a suspected arson at his King County home.

Dr. Sigmund Malkiewicz, known as Doctor Ziggy to patients and colleagues alike, died in the blaze which destroyed his isolated house in the early hours of yesterday morning.

Three fire trucks attended the scene, but the flames had already destroyed the main part of the wood-built house. Fire Marshall Jonathan Ardiles said, "The house was thoroughly ablaze by the time we were alerted by Dr. Malkiewicz's nearest neighbor. There was very little we could do other than try to prevent it spreading to the nearby woodland."

Detective Aaron Bronstein revealed today that police are treating the fire as suspicious. He said, "Arson investigators are working the site. We can't say more at this stage."

Born and raised in Scotland, Dr. Malkiewicz, 45, had worked in the Seattle area for over 15 years. He was a pediatrician in King County General before leaving nine years ago to set up his own clinic. He had established a reputation in the field of pediatric oncology, specializing in the treatment of leukemia.

Dr. Angela Redmond, who worked alongside Dr. Malkiewicz at the clinic, said, "We are all in shock at this tragic news. Doctor Ziggy was a supportive and generous colleague who was devoted to his patients. Everyone who knew him will be devastated by this."

The words danced before him, leaving him feeling a strange mixture of exhilaration and frustration. With what he knew now about the sperm, it seemed appropriate that Malkiewicz should be the first to die. Macfadyen was disappointed that the journalist hadn't been smart enough to dig up the sordid details of Malkiewicz's life. The article read as if Malkiewicz had been some kind of Mother Teresa, when Macfadyen knew the truth was very different. Maybe he should e-mail the journalist, put him right on a few points.

But that might not be such a bright idea. It would be harder to keep on watching the killers if they thought anyone was interested in what had happened to Rosie Duff twenty-five years before. No, better to keep his own counsel for now. Still, he could always find out about the funeral arrangements and make a small point there, if they had eyes to see. It wouldn't hurt to plant the seed of unease in their hearts, to make them start to suffer a little. They'd caused enough suffering over the years.

He checked the time on his computer. If he left now, he'd make it to North Queensferry in time to pick up Alex Gilbey on his way to work. A morning in Edinburgh, and then he'd drive on to Glasgow, to see what David Kerr was up to. But before that, it was time to start searching for John Stobie.

Two days later, he'd followed Alex to the airport and watched him check in for a flight to Seattle. Twenty-five years on, and murder still tied them to each other. He'd half expected to see David Kerr meet up with him. But there had been no sign. And when he'd hurried through to Glasgow to check if he'd maybe missed his prey there, he'd found Kerr in a lecture theater, delivering as advertised.

That was cold, right enough.

Chapter 27

Alex had never been happier to see the landing lights at Edinburgh airport. Rain lashed against the windows of the plane, but he didn't care. He just wanted to be home again, to sit quietly with Lynn, his hand on her belly, feeling the life within. The future. Like everything else that crossed his mind, that thought brought him up short against Ziggy's death. A child his best friend would never see, never hold.

Lynn was waiting for him in the arrivals area. She looked tired, he thought. He wished she'd just give up work. It wasn't as if they needed the money. But she was adamant that she would keep going until the last month. "I want to use my maternity leave to spend time with the baby, not to sit around and wait for it to arrive," she'd said. She was still determined to return to work after six months, but Alex wondered whether that would change.

He waved as he hurried toward her. Then they were in each other's arms, clinging as if they'd been separated for weeks instead of days. "I missed you," he mumbled into her hair.

"I missed you too." They stepped apart and headed for the car park, Lynn slipping her arm through his. "Are you OK?"

Alex shook his head. "Not really. I feel gutted. Literally. It's like there's a hole inside of me. Christ knows how Paul's getting through the days."

"How's he doing?"

"It's like he's been cast adrift. Arranging the funeral gave him something to concentrate on, take his mind off what he's lost. But last night, after everybody had gone home, he was like a lost soul. I don't know how he's going to get through this."

"Has he got much support?"

"They've got a lot of friends. He's not going to be isolated. But when it comes down to it, you're on your own, aren't you?" He sighed. "It made me realize how lucky I am. Having you, and the baby on the way. I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to you, Lynn."

She squeezed his arm. "It's only natural you're thinking like that. A death like Ziggy's, it makes us all feel vulnerable. But nothing's going to happen to me."

They reached the car and Alex got into the driving seat. "Home, then," he said. "I can't believe tomorrow's Christmas Eve. I'm dying for a quiet night in, just the two of us."

"Ah," Lynn said, adjusting her seatbelt round the bump.

"Oh no. Not your mother. Not tonight."

Lynn grinned. "No, not my mother. Nearly as bad, though. Mondo's here."

Alex frowned. "Mondo? I thought he was supposed to be in France?"

"Change of plans. They were supposed to spend a few days with He's brother in Paris, but his wife's come down with flu. So they changed their flights."

"So what's he doing, coming to see us?"

"He says he had some business through in Fife, but I think he's feeling guilty about not going to Seattle with you."

Alex snorted. "Aye, he was always good at trotting out the guilt after the event. It never stopped him doing what he was guilty about in the first place, though."

Lynn put a hand on his thigh. There was nothing sexual in the gesture. "You've never really forgiven him, have you?"

"I suppose not. Mostly, it's forgotten. But when things come together like they have this past week?No, I don't suppose I have ever forgiven him. Partly for dropping me in the shite all those years ago just to get himself off the hook with the cops. If he hadn't told Maclennan about me fancying Rosie, I don't think we'd have been considered so seriously as suspects. But mostly I can't forgive him for that stupid stunt that cost Maclennan his life."

"You think Mondo doesn't blame himself for that?"

"So he should. But if he hadn't made a major contribution to putting us in the frame in the first place, he'd never have ended up feeling like he needed to make such a ridiculous point. And I wouldn't have had to contend with other people pointing the finger everywhere I went for the remains of my university career. I can't help holding Mondo responsible for that."

Lynn opened her bag and dug out change for the bridge toll. "I think he's always known that."

"Which might be why he's worked so hard at putting so much distance between us." Alex sighed. "I'm sorry that meant you lost out."

"Don't be daft," she said, handing him the coins as they sped down the approach road to the Forth Road Bridge, its majestic sweep offering the best possible view of the three cantilevered diamonds of the railway bridge spanning the estuary. "His loss, Alex. I knew when I married you that Mondo was never going to be comfortable with the idea. I still think I got the best bargain. I'd much rather have you at the center of my life than my neurotic big brother."

"I'm sorry about the way things worked out, Lynn. I still care about him, you know. I've got a lot of good memories that he's part of."

"I know. So try to remember that when you feel like strangling him tonight."

Alex opened the window, shivering at the scatter of rain that hit the side of his face. He handed over the toll and accelerated away, feeling the tug of home as he always did on the approach to Fife. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. "When's he getting here?"

"He's here already."

Alex grimaced. No chance to decompress. No hiding place.

Detective Constable Karen Pirie scuttled into the shelter of the pub doorway and pushed the door open gratefully. A blast of warm, sour air flavored with stale beer and smoke flowed over her. It was the smell of release. In the background, she recognized St. Germain's Tourist playing. Nice one. She craned her neck, peering through the early-evening drinkers to see who was in. Over by the bar, she spotted Phil Parhatka, his shoulders hunched over a pint and a packet of crisps. She pushed through the crowd and pulled up a stool next to him. "Mine's a Bacardi Breezer," she said, digging him in the ribs.

Phil roused himself and caught the eye of the harassed barman. He ordered, then lounged against the bar. Phil was always happier in company than on his own, Karen reminded herself. Nobody could be further from the TV clich?of the maverick lone cop, taking on the world single-handed. He wasn't what you'd call the life and soul of the party; he just preferred to hang out with the gang. And she didn't mind in the least standing in for the crowd. One to one, he might just notice that she was a woman. Karen seized her drink as soon as it arrived and took a hearty swig. "That's better," she gasped. "I needed that."

"Thirsty work, raking through the evidence boxes. I didn't expect to see you in here tonight, I thought you'd be straight home."

"No, I needed to come back and check out a couple of things on the computer. Pain in the arse, but there you go." She drank some more and leaned conspiratorially toward her colleague. "And you'll never guess who I caught poking about in my files."

"ACC Lawson," Phil said, without even a pretense at guessing.

Karen sat back, peeved. "How did you know that?"

"Who else gives a shit about what we're up to? Besides, he's been on your back far more than anybody else's since this review began. He seems to be taking it personally."

"Well, he was the first officer on the scene."

"Yeah, but he was only a woolly suit at the time. It's not like it was his case or anything." He pushed the crisps toward Karen and finished his first pint.

"I know. But I suppose he feels connected to it more than the other cases in the review. Still, it was funny to walk in on him poring over my files. He's usually long gone by this time of night. I thought he was going to jump out of his skin when I spoke to him. He was that engrossed he didn't hear me come in."

Phil picked up his fresh pint and took a sip. "He went to see the brother a while back, didn't he? To tell him about the fuck-up with the evidence?"

Karen shook her fingers, the gesture of someone ridding herself of something unpleasantly clinging. "Let me tell you, I was more than happy to let him handle that. Not an interview I'd have enjoyed. 'Hello, sir. Sorry we lost the evidence that might have finally convicted your sister's killer. Oh well, that's how it goes.' " She pulled a face. "So, how are you getting on?"

Phil shrugged. "I don't know. I thought I was on to something, but it looks like another dead-end. Plus I've got the local MSP blethering on about human rights. It's a balls-acher, this job."

"Got a suspect?"

"I've got three. What I've not got is decent evidence. I'm still waiting for the lab to come back with the DNA. That's the only real chance I've got to take it any further. How about you? Who do you think killed Rosie Duff?"

Karen spread her hands. "Perm any one from four."

"You really think it was one of the students who found her?"

Karen nodded. "All the circumstantial points that way. And there's something else besides." She paused, waiting for the prompt.

"OK, Sherlock. I'll buy it. What's the something else?"

"The psychology of it. Whether this was a ritual killing or a sexual homicide, we're told by the shrinks that murders like this don't come on their own. You'd expect a couple of attempts first."

"Like with Peter Sutcliffe?"

"Exactly. He didn't get to be the Yorkshire Ripper overnight. Which leads me neatly on to the next point. Sex killers are a bit like my gran. They repeat themselves."

Phil groaned. "Oh, very good."

"Don't clap, just throw money. They repeat themselves because they get off on the killing like normal people get off on porn. Anyway, my point is that we never see another sign of this particular killer anywhere in Scotland."

"Maybe he moved away."

"Maybe. And maybe what we were presented with was a stage set. Maybe this wasn't that kind of killer at all. Maybe one or all of our boys raped Rosie and panicked. They don't want a live witness. And so they kill her. But they make it look like the work of a crazed sex beast. They didn't get off on the murder at all, so there was never any question of repetition."

"You think four half-cut lads could manage to be that cool with a dead lassie on their hands?"

Karen crossed her legs and smoothed down her skirt. She noticed him notice and felt a warm glow that had nothing to do with white rum. "That's the question, isn't it?"

"And what's the answer?"

"When you read the statements, there's one of them that sticks out. The medical student, Malkiewicz. He kept his head at the scene, and his statement reads pretty clinical. The placing of his prints indicated he was the last one to drive the Land Rover. And he was one of the three Group O secretors among the four of them. It could have been his sperm."

"Well, it's a nice theory."

"Deserves another drink, I think." This time, Karen got the round in. "The trouble with theory," she continued once her glass was refreshed, "is that it needs evidence to back it up. Evidence which I don't have."

"What about the illegitimate kid? Doesn't he have a father somewhere? What if it was him?"

"We don't know who he was. Brian Duff is keeping his mouth zipped on that one. I've not been able to talk to Colin yet. But Lawson tipped me the wink that it was probably a lad called John Stobie. He left town round about the right time."

"He might have come back."

"That's what Lawson was looking for in the file. To see if I'd got anywhere with that angle." Karen shrugged. "But even if he did come back, why kill Rosie?"

"Maybe he still carried a torch for her, only she didn't want to know."

"I don't think so. This is a kid who left town because Brian and Colin gave him a doing. He doesn't strike me as the hero who comes back to reclaim his lost love. But, no stone unturned. I've got a request in to our brothers in arms down where he lives now. They're going to go and have a wee chat with him."

"Aye, right. He's going to remember where he was on a December night twenty-five years ago."

Karen sighed. "I know. But at least the guys that interview him will get a sense of whether he's a likely lad. My money's still on Malkiewicz working alone or with his pals. Anyway. Enough shop. D'you fancy a last curry before the turkey and sprouts get a grip?"

Mondo jumped to his feet as soon as Alex walked into the conservatory, almost knocking over his glass of red wine. "Alex," he said, a tinge of nervousness in his voice.

How abruptly we shift back in time when we're knocked out of our daily lives and into the company of those who make up our past, Alex thought, surprised by the insight. Mondo, he was sure, was assured and competent in his professional life. He had a cultured and sophisticated wife with whom he did cultured and sophisticated things that Alex could only guess at. But confronted by the confidant of his adolescence, Mondo was that nervy teenager again, exuding vulnerability and need. "Hi, Mondo," Alex said wearily, slumping into the opposite chair and reaching over to pour himself some wine.

"Good flight?" The smile was just on the edge of beseeching.

"No such thing. I made it home in one piece, which is the best you can say about any flight. Lynn's sorting out the dinner, she'll be through in a minute."

"I'm sorry to descend on you this evening, but I had to come through to Fife to see somebody, and then we're off to France tomorrow and this was the only chance?

You're not a bit sorry, Alex thought. You just want to assuage your conscience at my expense. "Pity you didn't find out about your sister-in-law's flu a bit sooner. Then you could have come to Seattle with me. Weird was there." Alex's voice was matter-of-fact, but he meant his words to sting.

Mondo straightened up in his seat, refusing to meet Alex's gaze. "I know you think I should have been there too."

"I do, actually. Ziggy was one of your best friends for nearly ten years. He put himself out for you. Actually, he put himself out for all of us. I wanted to acknowledge that and I think you should have too."

Mondo ran a hand through his hair. It was still luxuriant and curly, though shot with silver now. It gave him the look of an exotic among everyday Scottish manhood. "Whatever. I'm just not good at that sort of thing."

"You always were the sensitive one."

Mondo shot him a look of annoyance. "I happen to think that sensitivity is a virtue, not a vice. And I won't apologize for possessing it."

"Then you should be sensitive to all the reasons why I'm pissed off with you. OK, I can just about grasp why you avoid us all like we've got some contagious disease. You wanted to get as far away as possible from anything and anyone that would remind you of Rosie Duff's murder and Barney Maclennan's death. But you should have been there, Mondo. You really should."

Mondo reached for his glass and clutched it as if it would save him from this awkwardness. "You're probably right, Alex."

"So what brings you here now?"

Mondo looked away. "I suppose this review that Fife Police are doing into Rosie Duff's murder brought a lot of stuff to the surface. I realized I couldn't just ignore this. I needed to talk to somebody who understood that time. And what Ziggy meant to all of us." To Alex's astonishment, Mondo's eyes were suddenly wet. He blinked furiously, but tears spilled over. He put down his glass and covered his face with his hands.

Then Alex realized that he too wasn't immune from time travel. He wanted to jump to his feet and pull Mondo into his arms. His friend was shaking with the effort of containing his grief. But he held back, the twinge of old suspicion kicking in.

"I'm sorry, Alex," Mondo sobbed. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Alex said softly.

Mondo looked up, his eyes blurred with tears. "Everything. Everything I did that was wrong or stupid."

"That doesn't really narrow it down," Alex said, his voice gentler than the ironic words.

Mondo flinched, his expression wounded. He had grown accustomed to his imperfections being accepted without comment or criticism. "Mostly, I'm sorry about Barney Maclennan. Did you know his brother is working on the cold case review?"

Alex shook his head. "How would I know that? Come to that, how do you know?"

"He called me up. Wanted to talk about Barney. I hung up on him." Mondo heaved a huge sigh. "It's history, you know? OK, I did a stupid thing, but I was only a kid. Christ, if I'd been done for murder, I'd be walking the streets again by now. Why can't we just be left alone?"

"What do you mean, if you'd been done for murder?" Alex demanded.

Mondo shifted in his chair. "Figure of speech. That's all." He drained his glass. "Look, I'd better be off," he said, getting to his feet. "I'll say cheerio to Lynn on the way out." He pushed past Alex, who stared after him, bemused. Whatever Mondo had come for, it didn't look like he'd found it.