The Distant Echo Read online

  That year, Alex and Ziggy arrived together. Ziggy had called round to the house to collect him, charming Mary Gilbey into giving them both a tot of Scotch to keep out the cold. Pockets stuffed with homemade shortbread, black bun which nobody would eat, and sultana cake, they'd walked down past the station and the library, past the Adam Smith Center with its posters advertising BabesintheWoodstarring Russell Hunter and the Patton Brothers, past the Memorial Gardens. Their conversation kicked off with speculation as to whether Weird would manage to persuade his father to let him off the leash for Hogmanay.

  "He's been acting pretty strange lately," Alex said.

  "Gilly, he's always strange. That's why we call him Weird."

  "I know, but he's been different. I've noticed it, working beside him. He's been kind of subdued. He's not had much to say for himself."

  "Probably something to do with his current lack of access to alcohol and substances," Ziggy said wryly.

  "He's not even been stroppy, though. That's the clincher. You know Weird. The minute he thinks anybody might be taking the piss, he erupts. But he's been keeping his head down, not arguing when the supervisors have a go. He just stands and takes it, then gets on with whatever they want him to do. You think it's the business with Rosie that's got to him?"

  Ziggy shrugged. "Could be. He took it pretty lightly at the time, but then he was off his head. To tell you the truth, I've hardly spoken to him since the day Maclennan came over."

  "I've only seen him at work. Soon as we clock off, he's out of there. He won't even come for a coffee with me and Mondo."

  Ziggy pulled a face. "I'm surprised Mondo's got the time for coffee."

  "Go easy on him. It's his way of dealing with it. When he's getting his end away with some lassie, he can't be thinking about the murder. Which is why he's going for the all-comer's record," Alex added with a grin.

  They crossed the road and walked down Wemyssfield, the short street that led to the town square. They had the confident stride of men on their home turf, a place so familiar that it conferred a kind of ownership. It was ten to twelve when they trotted down the wide, shallow steps that led to the paved area outside the Town House. There were already several groups of people passing bottles from hand to hand. Alex looked around to see if he could spot the others.

  "Over there, up at the Post Office end," Ziggy said. "Mondo's brought the latest lay. Oh, and Lynn's there with them too." He pointed to his left, and they set off to join the others.

  After the exchange of greetings, and the general agreement that it didn't look like Weird was going to make it, Alex found himself standing next to Lynn. She was growing up, he thought. Not a kid anymore. With her elfin features and dark curls, she was a feminine version of Mondo. But paradoxically, the elements that made his face seem weak had the opposite effect with Lynn. There was nothing remotely fragile about her. "So, how's it going?" Alex said. It wasn't much of a line, but then, he didn't want to be thought to be chatting up fifteen-year-olds.

  "Great. You have a good Christmas?" "Not bad." He screwed up his face. "It was hard not to think about… you know."

  "I know. I couldn't get her out of my mind either. I kept wondering what it must be like for her family. They'd have probably bought her Christmas presents by the time she died. What a horrible reminder, having them in the house."

  "I suppose practically everything must be a horrible reminder. Come on, let's talk about something different. How are you getting on at school?"

  Her face fell. She didn't want to be reminded of the age gap between them, he realized. "Fine. I've got my O grades this year. Then my Highers. I can't wait to get them out of the way so I can start my life properly."

  "Do you know what you're going to do?" Alex asked.

  "Edinburgh College of Art. I want to do a Fine Art degree and then go to the Courtauld in London and learn how to be a picture restorer."

  Her confidence was beautiful to behold, he thought. Had he ever been so sure of himself? He'd more or less drifted into History of Art, because he'd never had the confidence in his talent as a practitioner. He whistled softly. "Seven years studying? That's a big commitment."

  "It's what I want to do, and that's what it takes."

  "What made you want to restore pictures?" He was genuinely curious.

  "It fascinates me. First the research and then the science, and then that leap in the dark where you have to get in tune with what the artist really wanted to let us see. It's exciting, Alex."

  Before he could respond, a shout went up from the others. "He made it!"

  Alex turned round to see Weird outlined against the gray Scottish baronial Sheriff Court, his arms windmilling like a disarticulated scarecrow. As he ran, he let out a whooping cry. Alex looked up at the clock. Only a minute to spare.

  Then Weird was upon them, hugging them, grinning. "I just thought, this is stupid. I'm a grown man and my father's trying to keep me from my friends on Hogmanay. What's that about?" He shook his head. "If he throws me out, I can bunk up with you, right, Alex?"

  Alex punched him on the shoulder. "Why not? I'm used to your disgusting snoring."

  "Quiet, everybody," Ziggy shouted over the hubbub. "It's the bells."

  A hush fell over them as they strained to hear the tinny translation of Big Ben coming from Ziggy's transistor. As the chimes began, the Laddies fi' Kirkcaldy looked at each other. Their arms rose as if drawn by a common thread and they clasped their hands on the final stroke of twelve. "Happy New Year," they chorused. Alex could see his friends were as choked with emotion as he was himself.

  Then they broke away from each other and the moment was gone. He turned to Lynn and kissed her chastely on the lips. "Happy New Year," he said.

  "I think it might be," she said, a rosy blush on her cheeks.

  Ziggy cracked open the bottle of Grouse and it passed from hand to hand. Already the groups in the square were breaking up, everyone mingling and wishing strangers a guid New Year with whiskey breath and generous embraces. A few people who knew them from school commiserated with their hard luck at stumbling on a dying girl in the snow. There was no malice in their words, but Alex could see from the eyes of his friends that they hated it as much as he did. A bunch of girls were dancing an impromptu eightsome reel by the Christmas tree. Alex looked around, unable to articulate the emotions swelling in his breast.

  Lynn sneaked her hand into his. "What are you thinking, Alex?"

  He looked down at her and forced a tired smile. "I was just thinking how easy it would be if time froze now. If I never had to see St. Andrews again as long as I live."

  "It won't be as bad as you think. You've only got six months to go anyway, and then you'll be free."

  "I could come back at weekends." The words were out before Alex knew he was going to say them. They both knew what he meant.

  "I'd like that," she said. "We'll just not mention it to my horrible brother, though."

  Another New Year, another pact.

  * * *

  At the police social club in St. Andrews, the drink had been flowing for some time. The bells were almost lost in the raucous bonhomie of the Hogmanay dance. The only curb on the boisterousness of those who suffered restraint as a condition of their employment was the presence of spouses, fiancées and anyone who could be inveigled into coming along to save the faces of the unattached.

  Flushed with exertion, Jimmy Lawson was flanked by the two middle-aged women who operated the station switchboard in a Dashing White Sergeant set. The pretty dental receptionist he'd arrived with had escaped to the toilets, worn out by his apparently boundless enthusiasm for Scottish country dancing. He didn't care; there were always plenty of women up for a turn on the floor on Hogmanay, and Lawson liked to let off steam. It made up for the intensity he brought to his work.

  Barney Maclennan leaned on the bar, flanked by lain Shaw and Allan Burnside, each holding a substantial whiskey. "Oh God, look at them," he groaned. "If the Dashing White Sergeant comes, can Strip the W
illow be far behind?"

  "Nights like this, it's good to be single," Burnside said. "Nobody dragging you away from your drink and on to the dance floor."

  Maclennan said nothing. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd tried to convince himself he was better off without Elaine. He'd never managed it for more than a few hours at a time. They'd still been together last Hogmanay, though only just. They were hanging on to each other with rather less determination than the sets of dancers birling in circles on the floor. Only a few weeks into the year, she'd told him she was off. She was tired of his job coming before her.

  With a flash of irony, Maclennan remembered one of her rants. "I wouldn't mind so much if it was important crimes you were solving, like rape or murder. But you're out there all the hours God sends on tuppeny-ha'penny burglaries and car thefts. How do you think it feels to play second fiddle to some middle-aged old fart's Austin Maxi?" Well, her wish had come true. Here he was, a year later, mired in the biggest case of his career. And all he was doing was spinning his wheels.

  Every avenue they'd pursued had turned into a cul-de-sac. Not a single witness who could put Rosie with a man after the beginning of November. Lucky for the mystery man that it had been a hard winter, when folk were more interested in the square yard of pavement in front of them than in who was hanging about with somebody they shouldn't. Lucky for him, but unlucky for the police. They'd tracked down her two previous boyfriends. One had dumped her in favor of the girl he was still going out with. He'd had no axe to grind with the dead barmaid. Rosie had chucked the other in early November, and at first he'd seemed a promising prospect. He'd been reluctant to take no for an answer, turning up a couple of times to make trouble at the bar. But he had a rock-solid alibi for the night in question. He'd been at his office Christmas party till gone midnight, then he'd gone home with his boss's secretary and spent the rest of the night with her. He admitted he'd been sore about Rosie ending their relationship at the time, but, frankly, he was having a lot more fun with a woman who was a bit more generous with her sexual favors.

  When pressed by Maclennan as to what he meant by that, male pride had kicked in and he'd clammed up. But under pressure, he'd admitted they'd never actually had intercourse. They'd played around plenty; it wasn't that Rosie was a prude. Just that she wouldn't go all the way. He'd mumbled about blow jobs and hand jobs, but said that was the extent of it.

  So Brian had been right, sort of, when he said his sister was a nice girl. Maclennan understood that, in the hierarchy of these things, Rosie was a long way from a goodtime girl. But an intimate knowledge of her sexual proclivities didn't take him any nearer finding her killer. In his heart, he knew the chances were that the man she'd met that night had also been the man who had taken what he wanted from her and then taken her life. It might have been Alex Gilbey or one of his friends. But it might not.

  His fellow detectives had argued that there could be a good reason why her date hadn't come forward. "Maybe he's married," Burnside had said. "Maybe he's scared we're going to fit him up," Shaw had added cynically. They were valid explanations, Maclennan supposed. They didn't alter his personal conviction, however. Never mind Jimmy Lawson's theories about satanic rites. None of the ministers Burnside had spoken to had even heard a whisper of anything like that happening locally. And Maclennan believed they were the most likely vessels for such information. He was relieved in a way; he didn't need any red herrings. He was sure that Rosie had known her killer, and she'd walked into the night confidently with him.

  Just like thousands of other women all over the country would tonight. Maclennan hoped fervently they'd all end up safe in their own beds.

  * * *

  Three miles away in Strathkinness, the New Year had arrived in a very different atmosphere. Here, there were no Christmas decorations. Cards sat in an unheeded pile on a shelf. The television, which normally hanselled in the first of January, was blank and silent in the corner. Eileen and Archie Duff sat huddled in their chairs, untouched glasses of whiskey at their sides. The oppressive stillness carried the weight of grief and depression. The Duffs knew in their hearts they would never have another happy New Year. The festive season would forever be tainted by their daughter's death. Others might celebrate; they could only mourn.

  In the scullery, Brian and Colin sat slumped on a pair of plastic-covered kitchen chairs. Unlike their parents, they were having no difficulty in drinking the New Year in. Since Rosie's death, they'd found it easy to pour alcohol down their throats till they couldn't find their mouths any longer. Their response to tragedy had not been to retreat into themselves but to become more expansively themselves. The publicans of St. Andrews had grown resigned to the drunken antics of the Duff brothers. They didn't have much alternative, not unless they wanted to face the wrath of their volatile clientele who reckoned Colin and Brian deserved all the sympathy that was going.

  Tonight, the bottle of Bells was already past the halfway mark. Colin looked at his watch. "We missed it," he said.

  Brian looked at him blearily. "Why should I care? Rosie's going to miss it every year."

  "Aye. But somewhere out there, whoever killed her is probably raising a glass to getting away with it."

  "It was them. I'm sure it was them. You see that picture? Did you ever see anybody look more guilty?"

  Colin drained his glass and reached for the bottle, nodding agreement. "There was nobody else about. And they said she was still breathing. So if it wasn't them, where did the murderer disappear to? He didnae just vanish into thin air."

  "We should make a New Year's resolution."

  "Like what? You're not going to give up smoking again, are you?"

  "I'm serious. We should make a solemn promise. It's the least we can do for Rosie."

  "What do you mean? What kind of a solemn promise?"

  "It's simple enough, Col." Brian topped up his glass. He held it up expectantly. "If the cops can't get a confession, then we will."

  Colin considered for a moment. Then he raised his glass and chinked it against his brother's. "If the cops can't get a confession, then we will."

  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-u
ps, 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."