It hadn’t been easy, finding a vantage point that afforded a good view of Alex Gilbey’s house. But Macfadyen had persevered, clambering over rocks and scrambling across tussocks of rough grass beneath the massive iron cantilevers of the rail bridge. At last, he’d found the perfect spot, at least for night watching. During the day, it would have been horribly exposed, but Gilbey was never around during daylight hours. But once darkness fell, Macfadyen was lost in the black depths of the bridge’s shadow, looking straight down on the conservatory where Gilbey and his wife always sat in the evening, taking advantage of their magnificent panorama.
It wasn’t right. If Gilbey had paid the price for his actions, he’d either still be languishing behind bars or living the sort of shitty life most long-term prisoners came out to. A scummy council flat surrounded by junkies and small-time hoods, with a stairwell that smelled of piss and vomit, that’s the best he deserved. Not this valuable piece of real estate with its spectacular vista and its triple glazing to keep out the sound of the trains that rattled over the bridge all day and most of the night. Macfadyen wanted to take it all away from him, to make him understand what he’d stolen when he’d taken part in the murder of Rosie Duff.
But that was for another day. Tonight, he was keeping vigil. He’d been in Glasgow earlier, waiting patiently for a shopper to vacate the parking space that experience had taught him gave the perfect perspective on Kerr’s slot in the university car park. When his quarry had emerged just after four, Macfadyen had been surprised that he hadn’t headed for Bearsden. Instead, their destination had been the motorway that snaked through the middle of Glasgow before striking out across country to Edinburgh. When Kerr had turned off for the Forth Bridge, Macfadyen had smiled in anticipation. It looked like the conspirators were getting together after all.
His prediction turned out to be spot on. But not quite immediately. Kerr left the motorway on the north side of the estuary and, instead of heading down into North Queensferry, he turned off toward the modern hotel that commanded prime views from the sandstone bluff above the estuary. He parked his car and hurried inside. By the time Macfadyen entered the hotel less than a minute behind him, there was no trace of his quarry. He wasn’t in the bar or the restaurant area. Macfadyen hurried to and fro through the public areas, his anxious flurry of movement attracting curious glances from staff and customers alike. But Kerr was nowhere to be seen. Furious that he’d lost his man, Macfadyen stormed back outside, slamming the flat of his hand on his car roof. Christ, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. What was Kerr playing at? Had he realized he was being followed and deliberately shaken off his pursuer? Macfadyen hastily whirled round. No, Kerr’s car was still where it should be.
What was going on? Obviously, Kerr was meeting someone and they didn’t want their meeting to be observed. But who could it be? Could Alex Gilbey have returned from the States and decided to meet his co-conspirator on neutral ground to keep their meeting from his wife? There was no obvious way to find out. Cursing softly, he climbed back into his car and fixed his gaze on the hotel entrance.
He didn’t have long to wait. About twenty minutes after Kerr had entered the hotel, he returned to his car. This time, he drove down into North Queensferry. That answered one question. Whoever he’d met, it hadn’t been Gilbey. Macfadyen hung back by the corner of the street until Kerr’s car turned into Gilbey’s drive. Within ten minutes, he was taking up his station under the bridge, grateful that the rain had eased off. He raised his powerful binoculars to his eyes and focused on the house below. A dim glow from inside trickled into the conservatory, but he couldn’t see anything else. He moved his field of vision along the wall, finding the oblong of light from the kitchen.
He saw Lynn Gilbey pass, a bottle of red wine in her hand. Nothing for a long couple of minutes, then the lamps in the conservatory flickered into brightness. David Kerr followed the woman in and sat down while she opened the wine and poured two glasses. They were, he knew, brother and sister. Gilbey had married her six years after Rosie’s death, when he’d been twenty-seven and she twenty-one. He wondered if she knew the truth about what her brother and her husband had been involved with. Somehow, he doubted it. She would have been spun a web of lies, and it had suited her to believe it. Just like it had suited the police. They’d all been happy to take the easy way out back then. Well, he wasn’t going to let that happen a second time.
And now she was pregnant. Gilbey was going to be a father. It infuriated him that their child would have the privilege of knowing its parents, of being wanted and loved instead of blamed and reproached. Kerr and his friends had taken that chance from him all those years before.
There wasn’t much conversation going on down there, he noted. Which meant one of two things. Either they were so close they didn’t need chatter to fill the space. Or else there was a distance between them that small talk couldn’t bridge. He wondered which it was; impossible to gauge from this distance. After ten minutes or so, the woman glanced at her watch and stood up, one hand in the small of her back, the other on her belly. She walked back into the house.
When she hadn’t reappeared after ten minutes, he began to wonder if she’d left the house. Of course, it made sense. Gilbey would be returning from the funeral. Meeting up with Kerr for a debriefing. Talking through the questions raised by Malkiewicz’s mysterious death. The murderers reunited.
He hunkered down and took a thermos from his backpack. Strong, sweet coffee to keep him awake and energized. Not that he needed it. Since he’d begun stalking the men he believed responsible for his mother’s death, he seemed fired with vigor. And when he fell into bed at night, he slept more deeply than he had since childhood. It was further justification, if any were needed, that the path he had chosen was the right one.
More than an hour passed. Kerr kept jumping up and pacing back and forth, occasionally going back into the house then coming back almost immediately. He wasn’t comfortable, that was for sure. Then suddenly, Gilbey walked in. There was no handshake, and it was soon clear to Macfadyen that this was no easy, relaxed encounter. Even through the binoculars, he could tell the conversation wasn’t one either man relished.
Nevertheless, he wasn’t expecting Kerr to go to pieces as he did. One minute, he was fine, then he was in tears. The dialogue that followed seemed intense, but it didn’t last long. Kerr got to his feet abruptly and pushed past Gilbey. Whatever had passed between them, it hadn’t made either of them happy.
Macfadyen hesitated for a moment. Should he keep watch here? Or should he follow Kerr? His feet started moving before he was aware of having decided. Gilbey wasn’t going anywhere. But David Kerr had broken his pattern once. He might just do it again.
He ran back to his car, reaching the corner just as Kerr pulled out of the quiet side street. Cursing, Macfadyen dived behind the wheel and gunned the engine, taking off with a screech of rubber. But he needn’t have worried. Kerr’s silver Audi was still at the intersection with the main road, waiting to turn right. Instead of heading for the bridge and home, he chose the M90 going north. There wasn’t much traffic, and Macfadyen had no trouble keeping him in sight. Within twenty minutes, he had a pretty good idea where his quarry was making for. He’d bypassed Kirkcaldy and his parents’ home and taken the Standing Stone road east. It had to be St. Andrews.
As they reached the outskirts of the town, Macfadyen crept closer. He didn’t want to lose Kerr now. The Audi signaled a left turn, heading up toward the Botanic Gardens. “You just couldn’t stay away, could you?” Macfadyen muttered. “Couldn’t leave her alone.”
As he expected, the Audi turned into Trinity Place. Macfadyen parked on the main road and hurried down the quiet suburban street. Lights were on behind curtained windows, but there was no other sign of life. The Audi was parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, sidelights still glowing. Macfadyen walked past, noting the empty driver’s seat. He took the path that skirted the bottom of the hill, wondering how many times that same mud had been trampled by those four students before the night they took their fatal decision. Looking up to his left, he saw what he expected. On the brow of the hill, silhouetted against the night, Kerr stood, head bowed. Macfadyen slowed down. It was strange how everything kept coming together to confirm his conviction that the four men who had found his mother’s body knew far more about her death than they’d ever been forced to admit. It was hard to understand how the police had failed all those years ago. To have bungled something so straightforward defied belief. He’d done more for the cause of justice in a few months than they’d achieved in twenty-five years with all their resources and manpower. Just as well he wasn’t relying on Lawson and his trained monkeys to avenge his mother.
Maybe his uncle had been right and they’d been in thrall to the University. Or maybe he’d been closer to the mark when he’d accused the police of corruption. Wherever the truth lay, it was a different world now. The old servility was dead. Nobody was afraid of the University anymore. And people understood now that the police were just as likely to be crooked as anybody else. So it still fell to individuals like him to make sure justice was done.
As he watched, Kerr straightened up and headed back toward his car. Another entry in the ledger of guilt, Macfadyen thought. Just another brick in the wall.
Alex shifted onto his side and checked the time. Ten to three. Five minutes since he’d last looked at it. It was no use. His body was disorientated by flight and the shift of time zones. All he would achieve if he kept trying to sleep would be to wake Lynn. And given how disturbed her sleep pattern had been by the pregnancy, he didn’t want to risk that. Alex slipped out from under the duvet, shivering a little as the chill air hit his skin. He grabbed his dressing gown on his way out of the room and closed the door softly behind him.
It had been a hell of a day. Taking his farewell of Paul at the airport had felt like an abandonment, his natural desire to be home with Lynn a selfishness. On his first flight, he’d been crammed in a bulkhead seat with no window, next to a woman so large he felt certain the whole bank of seats would leave with her when she attempted to rise. He’d fared a little better on the second leg, but he’d been too tired to sleep by then. Thoughts of Ziggy had plagued him, infusing his heart with regrets at all the opportunities missed over the past twenty years. And instead of a restful evening with Lynn, he’d had to deal with Mondo’s emotional outburst. He’d have to go to the office in the morning, but already he knew he’d be good for nothing. Sighing, he made for the kitchen and put the kettle on. Maybe a cup of tea would soothe him back to sleepiness.
Carrying his mug, he wandered through the house, touching familiar objects as if they were talismans that would ground him safely. He found himself standing in the nursery, leaning on the cot. This was the future, he told himself. A future worth having, a future that offered him the opportunity to make something of his life that was more than getting and spending.
The door opened and Lynn stood silhouetted against the warm light of the hall.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asked.
“No, I managed that all by myself. Jet lag?” She came in and put an arm round his waist.
“Probably.”
“And Mondo didn’t help, right?”
Alex nodded. “I could have done without that.”
“I don’t suppose he considered that for a moment. My selfish brother thinks we’re all on the planet for his convenience. I did try to put him off, you know.”
“I don’t doubt it. He’s always had the knack of not hearing what he doesn’t want to hear. But he’s not a bad man, Lynn. Weak and self-centered, sure. But not malicious.”
She rubbed her head against his shoulder. “It comes from being so handsome. He was such a beautiful child, he was indulged by everybody, wherever he went. I used to hate him for it when we were wee. He was the object of adoration, a little Donatello angel. People were dazzled by him. And then they’d look at me and you could see the bafflement. How could a stunner like him have such a plain sister?”
Alex chuckled. “And then the ugly duckling turned into a stunner herself.”
Lynn dug him in the ribs. “One of the things I’ve always loved about you is your ability to lie convincingly about the really unimportant things.”
“I’m not lying. Somewhere around fourteen, you stopped being plain and got gorgeous. Trust me, I’m an artist.”
“Flannel merchant, more like. No, I was always in Mondo’s shadow in the looks department. I’ve been thinking about that lately. The things my parents did that I don’t want to repeat. If our baby turns out to be a beauty, I don’t ever want to make a big issue out of it. I want our child to have confidence, but not that sense of entitlement that’s poisoned Mondo.”
“You’ll get no argument from me on that.” He put a hand on the swell of her stomach. “You hear, Junior? No getting big-headed, right?” He leaned down and kissed the top of Lynn’s head. “Ziggy dying like that, it’s made me scared. All I want is to see my kid grow up, with you by my side. But it’s all so fragile. One minute you’re here, the next you’re gone. All the things Ziggy must have left undone, and now they’ll never be done. I don’t want that to happen to me.”
Lynn gently took his tea from him and put it on the changing table. She drew him into her arms. “Don’t be scared,” she said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
He wanted to believe her. But he was still too close to his own mortality to be entirely convinced.
A huge yawn cracked Karen Pirie’s jaw as she waited for the buzzer that signaled the door release. When it came, she pushed the door open and trudged across the hall, nodding to the security guard as she passed his office. God, how she hated the evidence storage center. Christmas Eve, and the rest of the world was girding its loins for the festivities, and where was she? It felt as if her whole life had narrowed to these aisles of archive boxes with their bagged contents telling pathetic stories of crimes perpetrated by the stupid, the inadequate and the envious. But somewhere in here, she was sure there was the evidence that would open her cold case for her.
It wasn’t the only route her investigation could take. She knew she’d have to go back and reinterview witnesses at some point. But she knew that in old cases like this, physical evidence was the key. With modern forensic techniques, it was possible that the case exhibits would provide solid proof that would make witness statements largely redundant.
That was all well and good, she thought. But there were hundreds of boxes in the storage facility. And she had to go through every single one. So far, she reckoned she’d covered about a quarter of the containers. The only positive result was that her arm muscles were getting stronger from toting boxes up and down stepladders. At least she had ten glorious days of leave starting tomorrow, when the only boxes she’d be opening would contain something more appealing than the detritus of crime.
She exchanged greetings with the officer on duty and waited while he unlocked the door in the wire cage that enclosed the shelves of boxes. The security protocol was the worst thing about this task. With every box, the routine was the same. She had to get the box off the shelf, and bring it down to the table where the duty officer could see her. She had to write down the case number in the master log, then fill in her name, number and the date on the sheet of paper affixed to the lid. Only then could she open the box and rummage through its contents. Once she’d satisfied herself that it didn’t contain what she was looking for, she had to replace it and go through the whole mind-numbing routine again. The only break in the monotony was when another officer turned up to check through one of the boxes. But this was usually a short-lived respite since they were invariably lucky enough to know the whereabouts of what they were looking for.
There was no simple way to narrow it down. At first, Karen had thought the easiest way to conduct the search would be to go through everything that had originally come from St. Andrews. Boxes were filed according to case numbers, which were chronological. But the process of amalgamating all the evidence lockers of all the individual police stations throughout the region had dispersed the St. Andrews boxes through the entire collection. So that possibility was ruled out.
She had started by going through everything from 1978. But that had turned up nothing of interest, apart from a craft knife that belonged to a 1987 case. Then she’d attacked the years on either side. This time, the misfiled item had been a child’s gym shoe, a relic of the unsolved disappearance of a ten-year-old boy in 1969. She was fast reaching the point where she feared that she could easily miss the very thing she was looking for because her brain was so dulled by the process.
She popped the top on a can of Diet Irn-Bru, took a swig that set her taste-buds jangling and got started: 1980. Third shelf. She dragged her jaded body to the bottom of the stepladder, still sitting where she’d finished with it the day before. She climbed up, pulled out the box she needed and cautiously descended the aluminium steps.
Back at the table, she did the paperwork then lifted the lid. Great. It looked like a charity-shop reject pile in there. Laboriously, she took out the bags one by one, checking that none had Rosie Duff’s case number on its adhesive label. A pair of jeans. A filthy T-shirt. A pair of women’s knickers. Tights. A bra. A checked shirt. None of them anything to do with her. The last item looked like a woman’s cardigan. Karen lifted out the final bag, expecting nothing.
She gave the label a cursory glance. Then she blinked, unable to believe her eyes. She checked the number again. Not trusting herself, she dug her notebook out of her bag and compared the case number on the cover with the bag she was gripping tightly in her hand.
There was no mistake. Karen had found her early Christmas present.