shut the door in their faces and stormed off to her child, giving Alex a look that dared him to let the two women in. Weird slipped past him and caught up with them as they were getting into their car. When he returned an hour later, he revealed he'd booked them into a nearby motel under his name. "They've got a wee chalet in among the trees," he'd reported. "Nobody knows they're there. They'll be fine."
Weird's apparent chivalry had got the evening off to an awkward start, but their common purpose gradually overcame their discomfort, assisted by liberal quantities of wine. The three adults sat round the kitchen table, blinds closed against the evening dark, the wine bottles emptying as they talked round in circles. But it wasn't enough to talk about what ailed them; they needed action.
Weird was all for confronting Graham Macfadyen, demanding an explanation of the wreaths at the funerals of Ziggy and Mondo. He'd been shouted down by the other two; without evidence of his involvement in the murders, they would only alert Macfadyen to their suspicions rather than provoke a confession.
"I don't mind if he's alerted," Weird had said. "That way he might just quit while he's ahead and leave us two in peace."
"Either that or he'll go away and come up with even more subtle approaches next time. He's not in any hurry, Weird. He's got his whole life to avenge his mother," Alex pointed out.
"Always supposing it is him and not Jackie's hitman that killed Mondo," said Lynn.
"Which is why we need Macfadyen to confess," Alex said. "It doesn't help clear anybody's name if he just retreats into the shadows."
They chased their conversational tails, the dead-ends enlivened only by Davina's occasional wailing as she woke up ready for yet another feeding. Now they were reliving the past again, Alex and Weird running over the damage done to their lives by the toxic rumors that had enveloped their final year at St. Andrews.
It was Weird who first lost patience with the past. He drained his glass and stood up. "I need some fresh air," he announced. "I'm not going to be intimidated into hiding behind locked doors for the rest of my life. I'm going for a walk. Anybody want to keep me company?"
There were no takers. Alex was about to cook dinner and Lynn was feeding Davina. Weird borrowed Alex's waxed jacket and set off toward the shore. Against all odds, the clouds that had shrouded the sky all day had cleared. The sky was clear, a gibbous moon hanging low in the sky between the bridges. The temperature had dropped several degrees and Weird hunched into the collar of the jacket as a squall of chill wind gusted up from the Firth. He veered off toward the shadows under the railway bridge, knowing that if he climbed up on the headland, he'd earn himself a great view down the estuary toward the Bass Rock and the North Sea beyond.
Already, he felt the benefit of being outside. A man was always closer to God in the open air, without the clutter of other people. He thought he'd made his peace with his past, but the events of the past few days had left him uneasily aware of his connection to the young man he had once been. Weird needed to be alone, to restore his belief in the changes he'd made. As he walked, he considered how far he had come, how much cumbersome baggage he'd shed on the way thanks to his belief in the redemption offered by his religion. His thoughts grew brighter, his heart lighter. He'd call the family later tonight. He wanted the reassurance of their voices. A few words with his wife and kids and he'd feel like a man waking from a nightmare. Nothing practical would change. He knew that. But he'd be better able to cope with whatever the world threw at him.
The wind was picking up now, blustering and whooping around his head. He paused for breath, aware of the distant hum of traffic crossing the road bridge. He heard the clatter of a train on the approach to the rail bridge and he leaned back, craning his neck to watch it make its toy-town progress a hundred and fifty feet above his head.
Weird neither saw nor heard the blow that brought him to his knees in a terrible parody of prayer. The second blow caught him in the ribs and propelled him crashing