The Distant Echo. Val McDermid

      Before Alex could reply, Ziggy’s cool tones cut through the atmosphere. ‘He thinks we’re all queer for each other,’ he said sarcastically. ‘And that of course is why we murdered Rosie. Never mind the complete absence of logic, that’s what’s going on in his mind. Actually, Mr Maclennan, the explanation is far more mundane.’ Ziggy gestured over his shoulder at the closed door across the landing. ‘Take a look,’ he said.

      Curious, Maclennan seized Ziggy’s invitation. Alex took the opportunity of his turned back to strip himself hastily, grabbing at his dressing gown to cover his embarrassment. He followed the other two across the landing and couldn’t help a smug smile when he saw Maclennan’s bemused expression.

      ‘You see?’ Ziggy said. ‘There’s simply no room for a full drum kit, a Farfisa organ, two guitars and a bed in one of these rabbit hutches. So Weird and Gilly drew the short straws and ended up sharing.’

      ‘You boys are in a group, then?’ Maclennan sounded like his father, Alex thought with a pang of affection that surprised him.

      ‘We’ve been making music together for about five years,’ Ziggy said.

      ‘What? You’re going to be the next Beatles?’ Maclennan couldn’t let it go.

      Ziggy cast his eyes heavenwards. ‘There are two reasons why we’re not going to be the next Beatles. For one thing, we play purely for our own pleasure. Unlike the Rezillos, we have no desire to be on Top of the Pops. The second reason is talent. We’re perfectly competent musicians, but we haven’t got an original musical thought between us. We used to call ourselves Muse until we realized we didn’t have one to call our own. Now we call ourselves the Combine.’

      ‘The Combine?’ Maclennan echoed faintly, taken aback by Ziggy’s sudden access of confidentiality.

      ‘Again, two reasons. Combine harvesters gather in everybody else’s crop. Like us. And because of the Jam track of the same name. We just don’t stand out from the crowd.’

      Maclennan turned away, shaking his head. ‘We’ll have to search in there as well, you know.’

      Ziggy snorted. ‘The only lawbreaking you’ll find evidence of in there is breach of copyright,’ he said. ‘Look, we’ve all co-operated with you and your officers. When are you going to leave us in peace?’

      ‘Just as soon as we’ve bagged all your clothes. We’d also like any diaries, appointment books, address books.’

      ‘Alex, give the man what he wants. We’ve all handed our stuff over. The sooner we get our space back, the sooner we can get our heads straight.’ Ziggy turned back to Maclennan. ‘You see, what you and your minions seem to have taken no notice of is the fact that we have had a terrible experience. We stumbled on the bleeding, dying body of a young woman that we actually knew, however slightly.’ His voice cracked, revealing the fragility of his cool surface. ‘If we seem odd to you, Mr Maclennan, you should bear in mind that it might have something to do with the fact that we’ve had our heads royally fucked up tonight.’

      Ziggy pushed past the policeman and took the stairs at a run, wheeling into the kitchen and slamming the door behind him. Maclennan’s narrow face took on a pinched look around the mouth.

      ‘He’s right,’ Alex said mildly.

      ‘There’s a family up in Strathkinness who’ve had a far worse night than you, son. And it’s my job to find some answers for them. If that means treading on your tender corns, that’s just tough. Now, let’s have your clothes. And the other stuff.’

      He stood on the threshold while Alex piled his filthy clothes into a bin liner. ‘You need my shoes as well?’ Alex said, holding them up, his face worried.

      ‘Everything,’ Maclennan said, making a mental note to tell forensics to take special care with Gilbey’s footwear.

      ‘Only, I’ve not got another decent pair. Just baseball boots, and they’re neither use nor ornament in weather like this.’

      ‘My heart bleeds. In the bag, son.’

      Alex threw his shoes on top of the clothes. ‘You’re wasting your time here, you know. Every minute you spend concentrating on us is a minute lost. We’ve got nothing to hide. We didn’t kill Rosie.’

      ‘As far as I’m aware, nobody has said you did. But the way you guys keep going on about it is starting to make me wonder.’ Maclennan grabbed the bag from Alex and took the battered university diary he proffered. ‘We’ll be back, Mr Gilbey. Don’t go anywhere.’

      ‘We’re supposed to be going home today,’ Alex protested.

      Maclennan stopped two steps down the stairs. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ he said suspiciously.

      ‘I don’t suppose you asked. We’re due to get the bus this afternoon. We’ve all got holiday jobs starting tomorrow. Well, all except Ziggy.’ His mouth twitched in a sardonic smile. ‘His dad believes students need to work on their books in the school holidays, not stacking shelves in Safeway.’

      Maclennan considered. Suspicions based mostly on his gut didn’t justify demanding that they remained in St Andrews. It wasn’t as if they were about to flee the jurisdiction. Kirkcaldy was only a short drive away, after all. ‘You can go home,’ he said finally. ‘Just as long as you don’t mind me and my team turning up on your parents’ doorsteps.’

      Alex watched him leave, dismay dragging him further into depression. Just what he needed to make the festive season go with a swing.

6

      The events of the night had caught up with Weird at least. When Alex went upstairs after a glum cup of coffee with Ziggy, Weird was in his usual position. Flat on his back, his gangling legs and arms thrown out from under the bedclothes, he shattered the relative peace of the morning with grumbling snores that mutated every now and again into a high-pitched whistle. Normally, Alex had no trouble sleeping to the strident soundtrack. His bedroom at home backed on to the railway tracks, so he’d never been accustomed to night silence.

      But this morning, Alex knew without even trying that he’d never drop off with Weird’s noises as a backdrop to his racing thoughts. Even though he felt lightheaded with lack of sleep, he wasn’t in the least drowsy. He gathered an armful of clothes from his chair, scrabbled under the bed for his baseball boots and backed out of the room. He dressed in the bathroom and crept downstairs, not wanting to wake Weird or Mondo. He didn’t even want Ziggy’s company for once. He paused by the coat hooks in the hall. His parka was gone with the police. That only left a denim jacket or a kagoule. He grabbed them both and headed out.

      The snow had stopped, but the clouds were still low and heavy. The town seemed smothered in cotton wool. The world had turned monochrome. If he half-closed his eyes, the white buildings of Fife Park disappeared, the purity of the vista defeated only by the rectangles of blank windows. Sound had disappeared too, smothered under the weight of the weather. Alex struck out across what would have been grass towards the main road. Today, it resembled a track in the Cairngorms, flattened snow indicating where occasional vehicles had toiled past. Nobody who didn’t absolutely have to was driving in these conditions. By the time he reached the university playing fields, his feet were wet and freezing, and somehow that felt appropriate. Alex turned up the drive and headed out towards the hockey pitches. In the middle of an expanse of white, he brushed a goalmouth backboard clear of snow and perched on it. He sat, elbows on knees, chin cupped in his hands, and stared out over the unbroken tablecloth of snow until little lights danced in front of his vision.

      Try as he might, Alex couldn’t get his mind as blank as the view. Images of Rosie Duff flitted behind his eyes like static. Rosie pulling a pint of Guinness, serious concentration on her face. Rosie half turned away, laughing at some quip from a customer. Rosie raising her eyebrows, teasing him about something he’d said. Those were the memories he could just about