frighten the horses. He ran a comb through his thick dark hair, scowling slightly at his reflection. A woman had once told him he resembled James Dean, but he'd dismissed it as a pathetic attempt to get him to take an interest in her. He slipped on a pair of black leather loafers and glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to kill. Macfadyen walked through to the spare bedroom and sat down at one of the three computers. He had one lie to tell, and if he was going to be convincing, he needed to be calm.
James Lawson drove slowly up Carlton Way. It was a crescent of small detached homes, built in the 1990s to resemble the traditional East Neuk style of houses. The harled walls, steep tiled roofs and crow-stepped gables were all trademarks of the local vernacular architecture, and the houses were individual enough to blend innocuously with their surroundings. About half a mile inland from the fishing village of St. Monans, the houses were perfect for young professionals who couldn't afford the more traditional homes that had been snapped up by incomers who wanted something quaint either to retire to or to let out to holidaymakers.
Graham Macfadyen's house was one of the smaller ones. Two recep, two beds, Lawson thought. No garage, but enough of a drive to accommodate a couple of small cars. An elderly silver VW Golf sat there presently. Lawson parked on the street and walked up the path, the trousers of his lounge suit flapping against his legs in the stiff breeze from the Firth of Forth. He rang the bell and waited impatiently. He didn't think he'd fancy living somewhere this bleak. Pretty enough in the summer, but grim and dreich on a cold November evening.
The door opened, revealing a man in his late twenties. Medium height, slim build, Lawson thought automatically. A mop of dark hair, the kind with a wave that's almost impossible to keep looking neat. Blue eyes, deep set, wide cheekbones and a full, almost feminine mouth. No criminal convictions, he knew from his background check. But far too young to have any personal knowledge of the Rosie Duff case. "Mr. Macfadyen?" Lawson said.
The man nodded. "You must be Assistant Chief Constable Lawson. Is that what I call you?"
Lawson smiled reassuringly. "No need for rank, Mr. Lawson is fine."
Macfadyen stepped back. "Come in."
Lawson followed him down a narrow hallway into a neat living room. A three-piece suite in brown leather faced a TV set next to a video and a DVD player. Shelves on either side held video tapes and DVD boxes. The only other furniture in the room was a cabinet containing glasses and several bottles of malt whiskey. But Lawson only took that in later. What hit him between the eyes was the only picture on the walls. An atmospheric photograph blown up to 20" by 30", it was instantly recognizable to anyone involved with the Rosie Duff case. Taken with the sun low in the sky, it showed the exposed long cists of the Pictish cemetery on Hallow Hill where her dying body had been discovered. Lawson was transfixed. Macfadyen's voice dragged him back to the present.
"Can I offer you a drink?" he asked. He stood just inside the doorway, still as prey caught in the gaze of the hunter.
Lawson shook his head, as much to disperse the image as to refuse the offer. "No thanks." He sat down, the assurance of years as a police officer granting him permission.
Macfadyen came into the room and settled in the armchair opposite. Lawson couldn't read him at all, which he found faintly unsettling. "You said in your letter that you have some information on the Rosemary Duff case?" he began cautiously.
"That's right." Macfadyen leaned forward slightly. "Rosie Duff was my mother."
Chapter 20
December 2003
The cannibalized timer from a video recorder; a paint tin; quarter of a liter of petrol; odds and ends of fuse wire. Nothing remarkable, nothing that might not be found in any jumbled collection of domestic flotsam in any cellar or garden shed. Innocuous enough.
Except when combined in one particular configuration. Then it becomes something entirely undomesticated.
The timer reached the set date and time; a spark crossed a gap of wire and ignited the petrol vapor. The lid of the tin exploded upward, spraying the surrounding waste paper and offcuts of wood with flaming petrol. A textbook operation, perfect and deadly.
Flames found fresh fodder in rolls of discarded carpet, half-empty paint pots, the varnished