Val McDermid - The Distant Echo

‘Are you saying Rosie was a bit of a flirt?’

Mondo shook his head, impatient at himself. ‘No. Not at all. It was her job. She was a barmaid, she had to be nice to people.’

‘But not to you.’

Mondo tugged nervously at the ringlets falling round his ears. ‘You’re twisting this. Look, she was nothing to me, I was nothing to her. Now, can I go, please?’

‘Not quite yet, Mr Kerr. Whose idea was it tonight to come back via Hallow Hill?’

Mondo frowned. ‘It wasn’t anybody’s idea. That’s just the quickest route from where we were back to Fife Park. We often walk back that way. Nobody gave it a second thought.’

‘And did any of you ever feel the need to run up to the Pictish cemetery before?’

Mondo shook his head. ‘We knew it was there, we went up to look at it when they were excavating it. Like half of St Andrews. Doesnae make us weirdos, you know.’

‘I never said it did. But you never made a detour there on the way back to your residence before?’

‘Why would we?’

Maclennan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Daft boys’ games. Maybe you’ve watched Carrie a few too many times.’

Mondo tugged at a lock of his hair. Death, guilt, fear, suspicion. ‘I’m not interested in horror films. Look, Inspector, you’re reading this all wrong. We’re just four ordinary guys that walked into the middle of something extraordinary. Nothing more, nothing less.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of innocence that he prayed was convincing. ‘I’m sorry for what happened to the lassie, but it’s got nothing to do with me.’

Maclennan leaned back in his chair. ‘So you say.’ Mondo said nothing, simply letting his breath out in a long sigh of frustration. ‘What about the party? What were your movements there?’

Mondo twisted sideways in his seat, his desire for escape obvious in every muscle. Would the lassie talk? He doubted it. She’d had to sneak in to the house, she’d been supposed to be home hours before. And she wasn’t a student, had known almost nobody there. With a bit of luck, she’d never be mentioned, never questioned. ‘Look, why do you care about this? We just found a body, you know?’

‘We have to explore all the possibilities.’

Mondo sneered. ‘Just doing your job, eh? Well, you’re wasting your time if you think we had anything to do with what happened to her.’

Maclennan shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, I’d like to know about the party.’

Stomach churning, Mondo produced an edited version he hoped would pass muster. ‘I don’t know. It’s hard to remember every detail. Not long after we arrived, I was chatting up this lassie. Marg, her name was. From Elgin. We danced for a while. I thought I was in there, you know?’ He pulled a rueful face. ‘Then her boyfriend turned up. She hadn’t mentioned him before. I was pretty fed up, so I had a couple more beers, then I went upstairs. There was this wee study, just a boxroom really, with a desk and a chair. I sat there feeling sorry for myself for a bit. Not long, just the time it took to drink a can. Then I went back downstairs and mooched around. Ziggy was giving some English guys his Declaration of Arbroath speech in the conservatory, so I didn’t hang around there. I’ve heard it too many times. I didn’t really pay attention to anybody else. There wasn’t much in the way of talent, and what there was was spoken for, so I just hung around. Tell you the truth, I was ready to go ages before we finally left.’

‘But you didn’t suggest leaving?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? Don’t you have a mind of your own?’

Mondo gave him a look of loathing. It wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of following the others around like a mindless sheep. ‘Of course I do. I just couldn’t be bothered, OK?’

‘Fine,’ Maclennan said. ‘We’ll be checking your story out. You can go home now. We’ll want the clothes you were wearing tonight. There’ll be an officer at your residence to take them from you.’ He stood up, the chair legs grating on the floor in a screech that set Mondo’s teeth on edge. ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Kerr.’

WPC Janice Hogg closed the door of the panda car as quietly as she could. No need to wake the whole street. They’d hear the news soon enough. She flinched as DC Iain Shaw slammed the driver’s door without a thought and directed a glare at the back of his balding head. Only twenty-five and already he had an old man’s hairline, she thought with a flash of smug pleasure. And him thinking he was such a catch.

As if the tenor of her thoughts had penetrated his skull, Shaw turned and scowled. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get it over with.’

Janice gave the cottage the once-over as Shaw pushed open the wooden gate and walked briskly up the short path. It was typical of the area; a low building with a couple of dormer windows thrusting out of the pantile roof, crow-stepped gables dressed with snow. A small porch thrust out between the downstairs windows, the harling painted some dun colour that was hard to identify in the weak light shed by the streetlamps. It looked well enough kept, she reckoned, wondering which room had been Rosie’s.

Janice put the thought from her mind as she prepared herself for the coming ordeal. She’d been brought in to deliver the bad news on more than her fair share of occasions. It came with the gender. She braced herself as Shaw banged the heavy iron knocker on the door. At first, nothing stirred. Then a muted light glowed behind the curtains at the right-hand downstairs window. A hand appeared, pulling the curtain to one side. Next, a face, lit on one side. A man in late middle-age, hair greying and tousled, stared open-mouthed at the pair of them.

Shaw produced his warrant card and held it out. There was no mistaking the gesture. The curtain fell back. A couple of moments later, the front door opened to reveal the man, tying the cord of a thick woollen dressing gown round his waist. The legs of his pyjamas pooled over faded tartan slippers. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, hiding apprehension imperfectly behind belligerence.

‘Mr Duff?’ Shaw asked.

‘Aye, that’s me. What are you doing at my door at this hour?’

‘I’m Detective Constable Shaw, and this is WPC Hogg. Can we come in, Mr Duff? We need to talk to you.’

‘What have they laddies of mine been up to?’ He stood back and waved them inside. The inner door gave straight on to the living room. A three-piece suite covered in brown corduroy laid siege to the biggest TV set Janice had ever seen. ‘Have a seat,’ he said.

As they made for the sofa, Eileen Duff emerged from the door at the far end of the room. ‘What’s going on, Archie?’ she asked. Her naked face was greasy with night cream, her hair covered in a beige chiffon scarf to protect her shampoo and set. Her quilted nylon housecoat was buttoned awry.

‘It’s the polis,’ her husband said.

The woman’s eyes were wide with anxiety. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Could you come and sit down, Mrs Duff?’ Janice said, crossing to the woman and taking her elbow. She steered her to the sofa and gestured to her husband that he should join her there.

‘It’s bad news, I can tell,’ the woman said piteously, clutching at her husband’s arm. Archie Duff stared impassively at the blank TV screen, lips pressed tightly together.

‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Duff. But I’m afraid you’re right. We do have some very bad news for you.’ Shaw stood awkwardly, head slightly bowed, eyes on the multicoloured swirls of the carpet.

Mrs Duff pushed her husband. ‘I told you not to let Brian buy that motorbike. I told you.’

Shaw cast a glance of appeal at Janice. She took a step closer to the Duffs and said gently, ‘It’s not Brian. It’s Rosie.’