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 color 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 graying 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 woolen dressing gown round his waist. The legs of his pajamas 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 multicolored 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."
A soft mewing noise came from Mrs. Duff.
"That cannae be right," Mr. Duff protested.
Janice forced herself to continue. "Earlier tonight, the body of a young woman was found on Hallow Hill."
"There's been some mistake," Archie Duff said stubbornly.
"I'm afraid not. Some of the officers at the scene recognized Rosie. They knew her from the Lammas Bar. I'm very sorry to have to tell you that your daughter is dead."
Janice had delivered the blow often enough to know that most people fell into one of two reactions. Denial, like Archie Duff. And overwhelming grief that hit the surviving relatives like an elemental force of nature. Eileen Duff threw her head back and roared her pain at the ceiling, her hands twisting and wringing in her lap, her whole body possessed by anguish. Her husband stared at her as if she were a stranger, his brows drawn down in a firm refusal to acknowledge what was happening.
Janice stood there, letting the first wave break over her like a spring tide on the West Sands. Shaw shifted from one foot to the other, unsure what to say next.
Suddenly there were heavy footfalls on the stairs that