meeting, he'd lost weight. His eyes burned feverish above hollow cheeks and his hair was lank and greasy. "What the hell are you doing here?" Lawson demanded.
"I need to talk to you. They said you were having a couple of days off, so I thought you must be here." Macfadyen's tone was matter-of-fact, as if there were nothing unusual about a member of the public turning up on the doorstep of the Assistant Chief Constable's fishing caravan.
"How the hell did you find me here?" Lawson demanded, anxiety making him belligerent.
Macfadyen shrugged. "You can find out anything these days. You gave an interview to the Fife Record last time you were promoted. It's on their Web site. You said you liked fishing, that you had a place up at Loch Leven. There's not many roads that go close to the waterside. I just drove around till I spotted your car."
There was something in his manner that chilled Lawson to the bone. "This isn't appropriate," he said. "Come and see me at the office if you want to discuss police business."
Macfadyen looked annoyed. "This is important. It won't wait. And I'm not talking to anybody else. You understand my position. You're the one I need to talk to. I'm here now. So why not listen to me? You need to listen to me, I'm the man who can help you."
Lawson started to close the door, but Macfadyen raised a hand and pressed against it. "I'll stand outside and shout if you won't let me in," he said. The nonchalance of his tone was at odds with the determination in his face.
Lawson weighed up the odds. Macfadyen didn't strike him as potentially violent. But you never knew. However, he did have the knife if it came to it. Better to hear the man out and get rid of him. He let the door swing open and stepped back, never turning his back on his unwelcome visitor.
Macfadyen followed him inside. In a dislocating perversion of normal discourse, he grinned and said, "You've made it very cozy in here." Then his glance fell on the table and he looked apologetic. "I've disturbed you at your tea. I'm really sorry."
"It's OK," Lawson lied. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"
"They're gathering. They're huddling together to try to avoid their fate," Macfadyen said, as if it were an explanation.
"Who's gathering?" Lawson asked.
Macfadyen sighed, as if frustrated at dealing with a particularly slow trainee. "My mother's killers," he said. "Mackie's back. He's moved in with Gilbey. It's the only way they feel safe. But they're wrong, of course. That won't protect them. I never believed in fate before, but there's no other way to describe what's happened to that foursome lately. Gilbey and Mackie must feel it too. They must be afraid time is running out for them like it has for their friends. And of course, it is. Unless they pay the proper price. Them coming together like this?it's a confession. You must see that."
"You might well be right," Lawson said, going for conciliation. "But it's not the sort of confession that works in a court of law."
"I know that," Macfadyen said impatiently. "But they're at their most vulnerable. They're afraid. It's time to use that weakness to drive a wedge between them. You have to arrest them now, make them tell you the truth. I've been watching them. They could crack at any time."
"We've no evidence," Lawson said.
"They'll confess. What more evidence do you need?" Macfadyen never took his eyes from the policeman.
"People often think that. But in Scots law, a confession on its own isn't enough to convict someone. There needs to be corroborative evidence."
"That can't be right," Macfadyen protested.
"It's the law."
"You've got to do something. Get them to confess, then find the evidence that will make it stand up in court. That's your job," Macfadyen said, his voice rising.
Lawson shook his head. "That's not how it works. Look, I promise I'll go and talk to Mackie and Gilbey. But that's all I can do."
Macfadyen clenched his right hand into a fist. "You don't care, do you? Not any of you."
"Yes, I do care," Lawson said. "But I have to operate inside the law. And so do you, sir."
Macfadyen made a strange noise in the back of his throat, like a dog choking on a chicken bone. "You were supposed to understand," he said coldly, grabbing the door handle and pulling it open. The door swung right back and banged against the