the short path to the little stone villa where he'd grown up. He fumbled his keys out of his trouser pocket and let himself in. A blast of warmth enveloped him. They'd had central heating installed over the summer, and this was the first time he'd experienced the difference it made. He dumped his bag by the door and shouted, "I'm home."
His mother appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish-towel. "Alex, it's lovely to have you back. Come away through, there's soup and there's stew. We've had our tea, I was expecting you earlier. I suppose it was the weather? I saw on the local news you'd had it bad up there."
He let her words wash over him, their familiar tone and content a security blanket. He hauled off his kagoule and walked down the hall to give her a hug. "You look tired, son," she said, concern in her voice.
"I've had a pretty terrible night, Mum," he said, following her back into the tiny kitchen.
From the living room, his father's voice. "Is that you, Alex?"
"Aye, Dad," he called back. "I'll be through in a minute."
His mother was already dishing up a plate of soup, handing him the bowl and a spoon. While there was food to be served, Mary Gilbey had no attention to be spared for minor details like personal grief. "Away and sit with your dad. I'll heat up the stew. There's a baked potato in the oven."
Alex went through to the living room where his father sat in his armchair, the TV facing him. There was a place set at the dining table in the corner and Alex sat down to his soup. "All right, son?" his father asked, not taking his eyes off the game show on the screen.
"No, not really."
That got his father's attention. Jock Gilbey turned and gave his son the sort of scrutiny that schoolteachers are adept at. "You don't look good," he said. "What's bothering you?"
Alex swallowed a spoonful of soup. He hadn't felt hungry, but at the first taste of homemade Scotch broth, he'd realized he was ravenous. The last he'd eaten had been at the party and he'd lost that twice over. All he wanted now was to fill his belly, but he was going to have to sing for his supper. "A terrible thing happened last night," he said between mouthfuls. "There was a girl murdered. And it was us that found her. Well, me, actually, but Ziggy and Weird and Mondo were with me."
His father stared, mouth agape. His mother had walked in on the tail end of Alex's revelation and her hands flew to her face, her eyes wide and horrified. "Oh, Alex, that's?Oh, you poor wee soul," she said, rushing to him and taking his hand.
"It was really bad," Alex said. "She'd been stabbed. And she was still alive when we found her." He blinked hard. "We ended up spending the rest of the night at the police station. They took all our clothes and everything, like they thought we had something to do with it. Because we knew her, you see. Well, not really knew her. But she was a barmaid in one of the pubs we sometimes go to." Appetite deserted him at the memory, and he put his spoon down, his head bowed. A tear formed at the corner of his eye and trickled down his cheek.
"I'm awful sorry, son," his father said inadequately. "That must have been a hell of a shock."
Alex tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "Before I forget," he said, pushing his chair back. "I need to phone Mr. Malkiewicz and tell him Ziggy won't be home tonight."
Jock Gilbey's eyes widened in shock. "They've not kept him at the police station?"
"No, no, nothing like that," Alex said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "We had journalists on the doorstep at Fife Park, wanting pictures and interviews. And we didn't want to talk to them. So me and Weird and Mondo climbed out the toilet window and went off the back way. We're all supposed to be working at Safeway tomorrow, see? But Ziggy's not got a job, so he said he'd stay behind and come home tomorrow. We didn't want to leave the window unlocked, you know? So I've got to phone his dad and explain."
Alex gently freed himself from his mother's hand and went through to the hall. He lifted the phone and dialed Ziggy's number from memory. He