Alex’s enthusiasm was growing thin. All that kept him going was a dogged conviction that the answer he so desperately sought was out there somewhere. It had to be. He’d covered the south side of the loch and now he was working his way round to the north shore. He’d lost count of the number of fields he’d looked into. He’d been stared at by geese, by horses, by sheep and even, once, by a llama. He vaguely remembered reading somewhere that shepherds put them in with their flocks to act as a defense against foxes, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how a big lazy lump with eyelashes a model would die for was going to deter anything as fearless as the average fox. He’d bring Davina out here and show her the llama one day. She’d like that when she was bigger.
The track he was driving down passed a pathetic-looking farm. The buildings were down at the heel, guttering sagging and window frames peeling. The farmyard resembled a graveyard for machinery that had been moldering quietly into rust for generations. A skinny collie with a mad look strained against a chain, barking furiously and fruitlessly at his passage. A hundred yards past the farm gate, the ruts deepened and grass straggled feebly up the middle. Alex splashed through the puddles, wincing as a rock crunched against his chassis.
A gateway loomed up in the high hedge to his left, and Alex pulled in wearily. He walked around the front of his car and leaned over the metal bars. He looked to his left and saw a handful of dirty brown cows mournfully chewing the cud. He gave a cursory glance to his right and gasped. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Was this really it?
Alex fumbled with the rusty chain that held the gate shut. He let himself into the field, and looped the links back around the post. He picked his way down the field, not caring about the mud or the dung that clung to his expensive American loafers. The closer he got to his goal, the more certain he was that he’d found what he was looking for.
He hadn’t seen the caravan for twenty-five years, but his memory told him this was the one. Two-tone, like he remembered. Cream on top, sage green below. The colors had faded, but it was still possible to match them to his recollection. As he grew closer, he could see it was still in decent repair. Breeze blocks piled at either end kept the tires above the ground, and there was no moss clinging to the roof or the sills. The brittle rubber round the windows had been treated with some sort of sealant to keep it watertight, he saw as he circled it cautiously. There was no sign of life. Light-colored curtains were drawn across the windows. About twenty yards beyond the caravan, a wicket gate in the fence led to the lochside. Alex could see a rowing boat drawn up on the shore.
He turned back and stared. He could hardly believe his eyes. What were the chances of this, he wondered. Probably not as remote as it might at first seem. People got rid of furniture, carpets, cars. But caravans lived on, assuming an existence of their own. He thought of the elderly couple who lived opposite his parents. They’d had the same tiny two-berth caravan since he’d been a teenager. Every summer Friday evening, they hitched it to their car and headed off. Nowhere far, just up the coast to Leven or Elie. Sometimes they’d really go for it and cross the Forth to Dunbar or North Berwick. And on Sunday evening, they’d return, as thrilled with themselves as if they’d crossed the North Pole. So really, it wasn’t such a surprise that PC Jimmy Lawson had hung on to the caravan he’d lived in while he’d built his house. Especially since every angler needs a retreat. Most people would likely have done the same.
Except, of course, that most people wouldn’t have been hanging on to a crime scene.
“Now do you believe Alex?” Weird demanded of Lawson. The effect of his words was tempered by the fact that he was huddled into himself, his arm across his ribs trying to stop them grating against each other in spasms of agony.
The police hadn’t been far ahead of Weird, and he’d arrived to find apparent chaos. Men in bulletproof vests with field caps and rifles milled around, while other officers bustled hither and thither on obscure tasks of their own. Curiously, nobody seemed to be paying him much attention. He limped out of the taxi and surveyed the scene. It didn’t take him long to spot Lawson, leaning over a map spread on a car bonnet. The woman cop he and Alex had talked to at police headquarters was at his side, a mobile to her ear.
Weird approached, anger and apprehension acting as painkillers. “Hey, Lawson,” he called from a few feet away. “You happy now?”
Lawson spun round, a guilty thing surprised. His jaw dropped as recognition filtered through the damage to Weird’s face. “Tom Mackie?” he said uncertainly.
“The same. Now do you believe Alex? That maniac has his kid in there. He’s already killed two people and you’re just standing by in the hope he’ll make it easy for you by making it three.”
Lawson shook his head. Weird could see the anxiety in his eyes. “That’s not true. We’re doing everything we can to get the Gilbeys’ baby back safely. And you don’t know that Graham Macfadyen is guilty of anything else except this offense.”
“No? Who the hell else do you think killed Ziggy and Mondo? Who the hell else do you think did this to me?” He raised a single finger toward his face. “He could have killed me last night.”
“You saw him?”
“No, I was too busy trying to stay alive.”
“In that case, we’re exactly where we were before. No evidence, Mr. Mackie. No evidence.”
“Listen to me, Lawson. We’ve lived with Rosie Duff’s death for twenty-five years. Suddenly, her son turns up out of the blue. And the next thing that happens is that two of us are murdered. For pity’s sake, man, why are you the only one who can’t see that’s cause and effect?” Weird was shouting now, oblivious to the fact that several cops were now staring at him with watchful, impassive eyes.
“Mr. Mackie, I’m trying to mount a complex operation here. You standing here throwing out unfounded allegations really doesn’t help. Theories are all very well, but we operate on evidence.” Lawson’s anger was obvious now. At his side, Karen Pirie had ended her call and was moving unobtrusively closer to Weird.
“You don’t find evidence unless you start looking for it.”
“It’s not my job to investigate murders that are outside my jurisdiction,” Lawson snapped. “You’re wasting my time, Mr. Mackie. And, as you point out, a child’s life may be at stake.”
“You are going to pay for this,” Weird said. “Both of you,” he added, turning to include Karen in his condemnation. “You were warned and you did nothing. If he harms a hair on that child’s head, I swear, Lawson, you are going to wish you had never been born. Now, where’s Lynn?”
Lawson shuddered inwardly, remembering Lynn Gilbey’s arrival at the scene. She’d hurtled out of the police car and thrown herself at him, raining blows on his chest and screaming incoherently. Karen Pirie had stepped in smartly, wrapping her arms round the frantic woman.
“She’s in that white van over there. Karen, take Mr. Mackie over to the armed-response unit vehicle. And stay with him and Mrs. Gilbey. I don’t want them running around like loose cannons when we’ve got marksmen all over the place.”
“See, when this is all over?” Weird said as Karen steered him away. “You and me are going to have a reckoning.”
“I wouldn’t bank on it, Mr. Mackie,” Lawson said. “I’m a senior police officer and threatening me is a serious offense. Away you go and lead a prayer meeting. You do your job and I’ll do mine.”
Carlton Way looked like a backstreet in a ghost town. Nothing stirred. It was always quiet during the day, but today it was preternaturally hushed. The night-shift worker at number seven had been rousted from his bed by a hammering at the back door. Befuddled, he’d been persuaded to get dressed and to accompany the two police officers on his doorstep over the fence at the bottom of his garden and through the playing fields to the main road, where he’d been told of events so unlikely that he’d have thought it was a wind-up if not for the overwhelming presence of the police and the roadblock that cut off Carlton Way from the rest of the world.
“Is that all the houses empty now?” Lawson asked DI McIntyre.
“Yes, sir. And the sole communication into Macfadyen’s house is a dedicated phone line for our use only. All the armed response team officers are deployed round the house now.”
“Right. Let’s do it.”
Two marked police cars and a van drove single-file into Carlton Way. They parked in a line outside Macfadyen’s house. Lawson got out of the lead vehicle and joined the hostage negotiator, John Duncan, behind the van, out of sight of the house. “We’re sure he’s in there?” Duncan said.
“So the techies say. Thermal-imaging, or something. He’s in there with the baby. They’re both still alive.”
Duncan handed Lawson a set of headphones and picked up the phone handset that would give him a line into the house. The phone was answered on the third ring. Silence. “Graham? Is that you?” Duncan said, his voice firm but warm.
“Who’s that?” Macfadyen sounded surprisingly relaxed.
“My name’s John Duncan. I’m here to see what we can do to resolve this situation without anyone getting hurt.”
“I’ve nothing to say to you. I want to speak to Lawson.”
“He’s not here right now. But anything you say to me, I’ll pass on to him.”
“It’s Lawson or nobody.” Macfadyen’s tone was pleasant and casual, as if they were talking about the weather or the football.
“Like I said, Mr. Lawson isn’t here right now.”
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Duncan. But let’s pretend you’re telling me the truth. I’m in no hurry. I can wait till you find him.” The line went dead. Duncan looked at Lawson. “End of round one,” he said. “We’ll give him five minutes then I’ll try him again. He’ll start talking eventually.”
“You think so? He sounded pretty cool to me. Don’t you think I should maybe talk to him? That way, he might feel that he’s going to get what he’s asking for.”
“It’s too early for concessions, sir. He has to give us something before we give him anything in return.”
Lawson sighed deeply and turned away. He hated the feeling of being out of control. This was going to be a media circus and the potential for an atrocious outcome was far, far greater than the alternative. He knew about sieges. They almost always ended badly for someone.
Alex contemplated his options. In any other set of circumstances, the sensible course of action would be to walk away now and go to the police. They could send in their forensic team and take the place apart in search of the single drop of blood or the teardrop of paint that would make the inevitable connection between this caravan and Rosie Duff’s death.
But how could he do that when the caravan in question belonged to the Assistant Chief Constable? Lawson would stop any investigation in its tracks, kill it dead before it even got started. The caravan would doubtless go up in flames, laid at the door of vandals. And then what would there be? Nothing more than coincidence. Lawson’s presence so close to the place where Alex had stumbled over her body. At the time, nobody had thought twice about it. Back in the late seventies in Fife, the police were still above suspicion, the good guys keeping the bad things at bay. Nobody had even questioned why Lawson hadn’t seen the killer driving Rosie’s body to Hallow Hill, even though he was parked facing the most obvious route. But this was a new world, a world where it was possible to question the integrity of men like James Lawson.
If Lawson had been the mystery man in Rosie’s life, it made sense that she would keep his identity secret. Her troublemaking brothers would have hated her seeing a copper. Then there was the way that Lawson always seemed to turn up when he or his friends were under threat, as if he had appointed himself their guardian angel. Guilt, Alex thought now. Guilt would do that to a man. In spite of having killed Rosie, Lawson still retained enough decency not to want someone else to pay the price for his crime.
But none of those circumstances was any kind of proof. The chance of going back to witnesses after twenty-five years and finding someone who had seen Rosie with Jimmy Lawson was nil. The only solid evidence was inside that caravan, and if Alex didn’t do something about it now, it would be too late.
But what could he do? He wasn’t versed in the techniques of burglary. Breaking into cars as a teenager was light years away from picking a lock, and if he forced the door, Lawson would be alerted. At any other time, he might put it down to kids or some homeless wanderer. But not now. Not with so much interest in the Rosie Duff case. He couldn’t afford to treat it as anything other than significant. He might just torch the place.
Alex stepped back and considered. There was, he noticed, a skylight on the roof. Maybe he could squeeze in there? But how to get up to the roof? There was only one possibility. Alex trudged back to the gate, wedged it open and drove into the boggy field. For the first time in his life, he wished he was the kind of moron who drove a big fuckoff four-wheel drive around the city. But no, he had to be Mr. Flash with his BMW 535. What would he do if he got stuck in the mud?
He cruised slowly down to the caravan and stopped parallel with one end. He opened the boot and unfastened the car’s standard-issue toolkit. Pliers, a screwdriver, a spanner. He pocketed everything that looked as if it might be useful, took off his suit jacket and his tie then closed the boot. He clambered over the bonnet and onto the car roof. From there, it wasn’t far to the top of the caravan. Scrabbling for purchase, Alex somehow managed to launch himself onto the roof.
It was disgusting up there. The roof was slippery and slimy. Particles of dirt clung to his clothes and his hands. The skylight was a raised plastic dome about thirty inches by twelve. It was going to be a very tight squeeze. He jammed the screwdriver under the edge and tried to lever it up.
At first, it wouldn’t budge. But after repeated attempts at various points along the rim, it slowly shifted, creaking upward. Sweating, Alex wiped the back of his hand over his face and peered in. There was a pivoting metal arm with a screw adjustment that kept the skylight in place, so it could be raised and lowered from within. It also prevented the skylight from opening more than a few inches at one end. Alex groaned. He was going to have to unscrew the metal arm and then replace it.
He fumbled to get the right angle. It was hard to get any purchase on the screws, which hadn’t been moved since they were first put in more than a quarter of a century before. He strained and struggled until, eventually, first one screw and then the other shifted in their moorings. At last, the skylight swung free.
Alex looked down. It wasn’t as bad as it might have been. If he lowered himself carefully, he reckoned he could reach the bench seat that ran along one side of the living area. He took a deep breath, gripped the edge and let go.
He thought his arms would fly free from their sockets as the jolt of his full weight traveled upward. His feet bicycled madly, trying for purchase, but after a few seconds, he just let himself drop.
In the dim light, it looked as if little had changed since he’d sat here all those years ago. He’d had no intuition then that he was sitting in the very place where Rosie had met her violent end. There was no tell-tale smell, no giveaway blood smears, no psychic stain to set his nerves jangling.
He was so close to an answer now. Alex could hardly bear to look up at the ceiling. What if Lawson had repainted it a dozen times since? Would there still be evidence? He let his heart rate subside to something approaching normal, then, muttering a prayer to Weird’s God, he tilted his head back and looked up.
Shit. The ceiling wasn’t blue. It was cream. All this, and for nothing. Well, he wasn’t going away empty-handed. He climbed up on the bench seat and chose a spot right in the corner, where it wouldn’t be noticed. With the sharp blade of the screwdriver, he chipped away at the paint, catching the flakes in an envelope he’d taken from his briefcase.
When he had gathered a decent amount, he climbed back down and picked out a decent-sized chip. It was cream on one side, and blue on the other. Alex’s legs trembled and he sat down heavily, overcome with a turmoil of emotion. From his pocket, he pulled the color chart Jason had left behind and looked at the blue oblong that had jogged his visual memory of twenty-five years ago. He lifted the edge of the curtain to let daylight in and placed the flake of paint on the swatch of pale blue. It almost disappeared.
Tears pricked at Alex’s eyes. Was this the final answer?