important crimes you were solving, like rape or murder. But you're out there all the hours God sends on tuppeny-ha'penny burglaries and car thefts. How do you think it feels to play second fiddle to some middle-aged old fart's Austin Maxi?" Well, her wish had come true. Here he was, a year later, mired in the biggest case of his career. And all he was doing was spinning his wheels.
Every avenue they'd pursued had turned into a cul-de-sac. Not a single witness who could put Rosie with a man after the beginning of November. Lucky for the mystery man that it had been a hard winter, when folk were more interested in the square yard of pavement in front of them than in who was hanging about with somebody they shouldn't. Lucky for him, but unlucky for the police. They'd tracked down her two previous boyfriends. One had dumped her in favor of the girl he was still going out with. He'd had no axe to grind with the dead barmaid. Rosie had chucked the other in early November, and at first he'd seemed a promising prospect. He'd been reluctant to take no for an answer, turning up a couple of times to make trouble at the bar. But he had a rock-solid alibi for the night in question. He'd been at his office Christmas party till gone midnight, then he'd gone home with his boss's secretary and spent the rest of the night with her. He admitted he'd been sore about Rosie ending their relationship at the time, but, frankly, he was having a lot more fun with a woman who was a bit more generous with her sexual favors.
When pressed by Maclennan as to what he meant by that, male pride had kicked in and he'd clammed up. But under pressure, he'd admitted they'd never actually had intercourse. They'd played around plenty; it wasn't that Rosie was a prude. Just that she wouldn't go all the way. He'd mumbled about blow jobs and hand jobs, but said that was the extent of it.
So Brian had been right, sort of, when he said his sister was a nice girl. Maclennan understood that, in the hierarchy of these things, Rosie was a long way from a good-time girl. But an intimate knowledge of her sexual proclivities didn't take him any nearer finding her killer. In his heart, he knew the chances were that the man she'd met that night had also been the man who had taken what he wanted from her and then taken her life. It might have been Alex Gilbey or one of his friends. But it might not.
His fellow detectives had argued that there could be a good reason why her date hadn't come forward. "Maybe he's married," Burnside had said. "Maybe he's scared we're going to fit him up," Shaw had added cynically. They were valid explanations, Maclennan supposed. They didn't alter his personal conviction, however. Never mind Jimmy Lawson's theories about satanic rites. None of the ministers Burnside had spoken to had even heard a whisper of anything like that happening locally. And Maclennan believed they were the most likely vessels for such information. He was relieved in a way; he didn't need any red herrings. He was sure that Rosie had known her killer, and she'd walked into the night confidently with him.
Just like thousands of other women all over the country would tonight. Maclennan hoped fervently they'd all end up safe in their own beds.
Three miles away in Strathkinness, the New Year had arrived in a very different atmosphere. Here, there were no Christmas decorations. Cards sat in an unheeded pile on a shelf. The television, which normally hanselled in the first of January, was blank and silent in the corner. Eileen and Archie Duff sat huddled in their chairs, untouched glasses of whiskey at their sides. The oppressive stillness carried the weight of grief and depression. The Duffs knew in their hearts they would never have another happy New Year. The festive season would forever be tainted by their daughter's death. Others might celebrate; they could only mourn.
In the scullery, Brian and Colin sat slumped on a pair of plastic-covered kitchen chairs. Unlike their parents, they were having no difficulty in drinking the New Year in. Since Rosie's death, they'd found it easy to pour alcohol down their throats till they couldn't find their mouths any longer. Their response to tragedy had not been to retreat into themselves but to become