Val McDermid – The Distant Echo (страница 3)

Blood. The realization dawned at the same instant that the snow in his ears melted and allowed him to hear the faint but stertorous wheeze of her breath.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Alex stuttered, trying to scramble away from the horror that he had stumbled into. But he kept banging into what felt like little stone walls as he squirmed backwards. ‘Jesus Christ.’ He looked up desperately, as if the sight of his companions would break this spell and make it all go away. He glanced back at the nightmare vision in the snow. It was no drunken hallucination. It was the real thing. He turned again to his friends. ‘There’s a lassie up here,’ he shouted.

Weird Mackie’s voice floated back eerily. ‘Lucky bastard.’

‘No, stop messing, she’s bleeding.’

Weird’s laughter split the night. ‘No’ so lucky after all, Gilly.’

Alex felt sudden rage well up in him. ‘I’m not fucking joking. Get up here. Ziggy, come on, man.’

Now they could hear the urgency in Alex’s voice. Ziggy in the lead as always, they wallowed through the snow to the crest of the hill. Ziggy took the slope at a jerky run, Weird plunged headlong towards Alex, and Mondo brought up the rear, cautiously planting one foot in front of the other.

Weird ended up diving head over heels, landing on top of Alex and driving them both on top of the woman’s body. They thrashed around, trying to free themselves, Weird giggling inanely. ‘Hey, Gilly, this must be the closest you’ve ever got to a woman.’

‘You’ve had too much fucking dope,’ Ziggy said angrily, pulling him away and crouching down beside the woman, feeling for a pulse in her neck. It was there, but it was terrifyingly weak. Apprehension turned him instantly sober as he took in what he was seeing in the dim light. He was only a final-year medical student, but he knew life-threatening injury when he saw it.

Weird leaned back on his haunches and frowned. ‘Hey, man, you know where this is?’ Nobody was paying him any attention, but he continued anyway. ‘It’s the Pictish cemetery. These humps in the snow, like wee walls? That’s the stones they used like coffins. Fuck, Alex found a body in the cemetery.’ And he began to giggle, an uncanny sound in the snow-muffled air.

‘Shut the fuck up, Weird.’ Ziggy continued to run his hands over her torso, feeling the unnerving give of a deep wound under his searching fingers. He cocked his head to one side, trying to examine her more clearly. ‘Mondo, got your lighter?’

Mondo moved forward reluctantly and produced his Zippo. He flicked the wheel and moved the feeble light at arm’s length over the woman’s body and up towards her face. His free hand covered his mouth, ineffectually stifling a groan. His blue eyes widened in horror and the flame trembled in his grasp.

Ziggy inhaled sharply, the planes of his face eerie in the shivering light. ‘Shit,’ he gasped. ‘It’s Rosie from the Lammas Bar.’

Alex didn’t think it was possible to feel worse. But Ziggy’s words were like a punch to his heart. With a soft moan, he turned away and vomited a mess of beer, crisps and garlic bread into the snow.

‘We’ve got to get help,’ Ziggy said firmly. ‘She’s still alive, but she won’t be for long in this state. Weird, Mondo – get your coats off.’ As he spoke, he was stripping off his own sheepskin jacket and wrapping it gently round Rosie’s shoulders. ‘Gilly, you’re the fastest. Go and get help. Get a phone. Get somebody out of their bed if you have to. Just get them here, right? Alex?’

Dazed, Alex forced himself to his feet. He scrambled back down the slope, churning the snow beneath his boots as he fought for purchase. He emerged from the straggle of trees into the streetlights that marked the newest cul-de-sac in the new housing estate that had sprung up over the past half-dozen years. Back the way they’d come, that was the quickest route.

Alex tucked his head down and set off at a slithering run up the middle of the road, trying to lose the image of what he’d just witnessed. It was as impossible as maintaining a steady pace on the powdery snow. How could that grievous thing among the Pictish graves be Rosie from the Lammas Bar? They’d been in there drinking that very evening, cheery and boisterous in the warm yellow glow of the public bar, knocking back pints of Tennent’s, making the most of the last of their university freedom before they had to return to the stifling constraints of family Christmases thirty miles down the road.

He’d been speaking to Rosie himself, flirting with her in the clumsy way of twenty-one-year-olds uncertain whether they’re still daft boys or mature men of the world. Not for the first time, he’d asked her what time she was due to finish. He’d even told her whose party they were going on to. He’d scribbled the address down on the back of a beer mat and pushed it across the damp wooden bar towards her. She’d given him a pitying smile and picked it up. He suspected it had probably gone straight in the bucket. What would a woman like Rosie want with a callow lad like him, after all? With her looks and her figure, she could take her pick, go for somebody who could show her a good time, not some penniless student trying to eke his grant out till his holiday job stacking supermarket shelves.

So how could that be Rosie lying bleeding in the snow on Hallow Hill? Ziggy must have got it wrong, Alex insisted to himself as he veered left, heading for the main road. Anybody could get confused in the flickering glow of Mondo’s Zippo. And it wasn’t as if Ziggy had ever paid much attention to the dark-haired barmaid. He’d left that to Alex himself and Mondo. It must just be some poor lassie that looked like Rosie. That would be it, he reassured himself. A mistake, that’s what it was.

Alex hesitated for a moment, catching his breath and wondering where to run. There were plenty of houses nearby, but none of them was showing a light. Even if he could rouse someone, Alex doubted whether anyone would be inclined to open their door to a sweaty youth smelling of drink in the middle of a blizzard.

Then he remembered. This time of night, there was regularly a police car parked up by the main entrance to the Botanic Gardens a mere quarter of a mile away. They’d seen it often enough when they’d been staggering home in the small hours of the morning, aware of the car’s single occupant giving them the once-over as they attempted to act sober for his benefit. It was a sight that always set Weird off on one of his rants about how corrupt and idle the police were. ‘Should be out catching the real villains, nailing the grey men in suits that rip the rest of us off, not sitting there all night with a flask of tea and a bag of scones, hoping to score some drunk peeing in a hedge or some eejit driving home too fast. Idle bastards.’ Well, maybe tonight Weird would get part of his wish. Because it looked like tonight the idle bastard in the car would get more than he bargained for.

Alex turned towards the Canongate and began to run again, the fresh snow creaking beneath his boots. He wished he’d kept up his rugby training as a stitch seized his side, turning his rhythm into a lopsided hop and skip as he fought to pull enough air into his lungs. Only a few dozen more yards, he told himself. He couldn’t stop now, when Rosie’s life might depend on his speed. He peered ahead, but the snow was falling more heavily now and he could barely see further than a couple of yards.

He was almost upon the police car before he saw it. Even as relief flooded his perspiring body, apprehension clawed at his heart. Sobered by shock and exertion, Alex realized he bore no resemblance to the sort of respectable citizen who normally reported a crime. He was dishevelled and sweaty, bloodstained and staggering like a half-shut knife. Somehow, he had to convince the policeman who was already halfway out of his panda car that he was neither imagining things nor playing some kind of prank. He slowed to a halt a couple of feet from the car, trying not to look like a threat, waiting for the driver to emerge.

The policeman set his cap straight on his short dark hair. His head was cocked to one side as he eyed Alex warily. Even masked by the heavy uniform anorak, Alex could see the tension in his body. ‘What’s going on, son?’ he asked. In spite of the diminutive form of address, he didn’t look much older than Alex himself, and he possessed an air of unease that sat ill with his uniform.

Alex tried to control his breathing, but failed. ‘There’s a lassie on Hallow Hill,’ he blurted out. ‘She’s been attacked. She’s bleeding really badly. She needs help.’

The policeman narrowed his eyes against the snow, frowning. ‘She’s been attacked, you say. How do you know that?’

‘She’s got blood all over her. And …’ Alex paused for thought. ‘She’s not dressed for the weather. She’s not got a coat on. Look, can you get an ambulance or a doctor or something? She’s really hurt, man.’

‘And you just happened to find her in the middle of a blizzard, eh? Have you been drinking, son?’ The words were patronizing, but the voice betrayed anxiety.