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 toward 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 gray 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 toward 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 and he could barely see farther 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 disheveled 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