lower than a first when we do our university trawl. The reason I don't
know much about him is that we've put him in our family department, so
I don't come across his work. I'm a corporate partner myself; as well
as being top dog around here, that is. I may have been a late entrant
to the firm, and there may be the family tradition, but I've got into
this chair on merit."
"You're still a full-service firm, then?" asked Steele.
"Apart from buying and selling houses. We got out of that line of work
when we moved up here. Best left to the estate agents and those
solicitor firms who are clinging on to traditional offices. Come on."
Suddenly Candela pushed himself to his feet. "I'll install you and
fetch the boy."
He led them out of his office and along a corridor. Its walls were
glazed, allowing them to see into a modern open-plan office with an
imaginative layout, which meant that no employee was directly looking
on to the desk of another. They could see across the floor and through
the windows on the far side. On the other side of the Western Approach
Road, Steele noticed that several windows on one floor of the block
opposite were shattered. It was dark and deserted, although the floors
above and below were bright and buzzing with action.
"What's that?" he asked casually.
"That's the scene of the other fire on Saturday," the solicitor told
him. "Their bad luck that the Academy fire was first, and on a
Saturday."
Candela led them round a corner, then stopped at a beech wood door.
"In here," he said, showing them into a small windowless room, with a
round meeting table and six chairs, and two Peter Howson prints on the
walls. "Won't be a minute," said the solicitor, closing the door behind
him.
It re-opened a few minutes later and a young man came in, alone. Eric
Sheringham was tall and fairhaired; he wore a white, short-sleeved
shirt, and dark trousers that looked as if they were part of a suit.
The detectives knew that as a graduate trainee he would be no more than
in his early twenties, but he looked older. His eyes were pale blue
and very vivid,
like Andy Martin's, Maggie thought, if another colour. She wondered if
he too wore contact lenses.
"Mr. Candela said you wanted to see me?" he began. They looked for
signs of nervousness, but saw none.
"Yes, Mr. Sheringham; please sit down." She introduced herself, and
Steele.
"What can I do for you?" the would-be lawyer asked, politely.
Stevie Steele looked back at him, unsmiling. "We're investigating the
arson attack that took place on Saturday at the opening of the art
exhibition that your firm is sponsoring."
"Oh, that. Pretty spectacular, wasn't it."
"And pretty criminal," said Rose, sharply. "Quite apart from the
potential danger to life, from panic as much as from the fire, that
painting was insured for half a million pounds."
"Wow, that much?" Sheringham looked impressed, but not rattled.
"You don't care about it, then?" The Superintendent felt herself
approaching her annoyance threshold.
"Not much. I've seen better at the end-of-year exhibition at the
Lauriston art school."
"I don't think Ms Rose was talking about its artistic merit," said
Steele, with a half smile. "I think she was talking more about the
principle of arson. Are you against that?"
The young man smiled back. "I'm against arson in principle, but let's
just say I'd get more worked up about some fires than others. This one
rated pretty low on my personal scale of outrage ... apart from the
fact that I was there, of course."
"Yes, you were, weren't you. We noticed that from the list of
interviewees. Your statement was pretty brief. You said you didn't
see anything."
"That's right. I was on reception. I had to stay at my post during
the ceremony, and Mr. Candela's speech, to register any late-comers.
All I saw were people's backs."
"Do you know a woman called Andrea Strachan?" Rose asked suddenly.
Eric Sheringham blinked; she thought she saw the first flicker of
uncertainty in his eyes. "No," he answered, quietly.
"You sure? You were at Edinburgh University at the same time. You
overlapped there for a couple of years."
He paused. Rose knew that he was either searching his memory or
covering his tracks. "Yes," he announced at last. "Sorry, I did know
an Andrea Strachan. She was a chemist, and she used to take part in
union debates. She dressed like my mother's auntie, and she used to
stand up and preach at everyone in a funny high voice. Yet she never
spoke to anyone directly apart from then. We called her the Dormouse.
Like in the Mad Hatter's tea party. You remember, the dormouse wakes
up every so often, says something, then goes back to sleep. Is that
the woman you mean?"
"That sounds like her. Did she speak to you on Saturday, at the
opening ceremony?"
"I never saw her at the ceremony," Sheringham shot back, quickly; maybe
too quickly, Steele thought.
"So you didn't slip her into the thing, without an invitation?" he
asked.
"No." The reply was more considered, and firmer.
"That's funny," said Steele, his voice hardening. "Because she says
you invited her."
"Well she's a liar. I don't know her to speak to and I didn't invite
her anywhere. I don't even know where she lives."
"Do you have a telephone directory?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, she's in it. Miss Strachan says she had a phone call last
Friday night inviting her to the Academy next day. Mr. Sheringham,
there's a floor full of lawyers here, and another above. Before we go
any further, would you like one of them to join us?"
For the first time, he looked flustered. "Not yet," he replied. "I'll
know when, don't worry."
"Okay. The thing is, sir, the call to Miss Strachan was made from your
mobile."
Panic and relief seemed to cross the man's face at the same time. "Ah,
so that's it," he exclaimed. "My mobile was stolen."
"I've heard that one before somewhere," said Steele, coldly. "Haven't
you, Superintendent?"
Rose nodded. "So often that I did a check before we came along here.
You haven't reported a stolen mobile."
The relief was gone, leaving only the panic. "I didn't bother,"
1SA
Sheringham protested. "I didn't see the point. It was a pay-as-you-go
phone, and I only had a couple of quid left in the voucher. I fancied
a new one anyway."
"Have you bought one yet?"
"No. I haven't got round to it."
Rose leaned across the table. "Mr. Sheringham, are you telling me the
truth?"
"Yes."
"In that case, will you be kind enough to let Mr. Steele search your
desk right now? Or if you'd prefer it, I'll ask Mr. Candela's
secretary to do it, to avoid you any unnecessary embarrassment. Oh
yes, and if we don't find it, would you be prepared let me have
officers search your home? All of t
his is just to confirm your story,
you understand. Would you agree to that?"
The trainee shook his head; his complexion had gone several shades
paler than when he had entered the room. The look of panic in his eyes
had given way to one of pure fright. "No," he whispered, then slid his
right hand into his trouser pocket, took out a royal blue Ericsson
cellphone and laid it on the table.
Steele picked it up; he saw that it was switched on and flipped it
open. Quickly, he flicked through the menu and selected 'call list',
then he stood and walked round the table. "Let's have a look, shall
we," he said. He chose the first log entry; a name showed on the led
read-out. Sonia. "Who's that?"
"My girlfriend." Steele moved on; another name. Hazza. "My pal,"
Sheringham whispered. He moved on. Sonia, once more.
There were six more calls to Sonia, two to Hazza, three others to
friends called Bill, Marti and Brick, all logged by name, before the
first number showed. It had an 0131 prefix and the call had been made
on the previous Friday. "Whose is that?" asked Steele.
"I don't know," Sheringham replied. "I can't remember."
"Well I can," said the inspector icily. "It's Andrea Strachan's. Time
for you to shut up, sir, and get that lawyer in here." He turned to
Rose. "I'll go and speak to Mr. Candela."
He left the room and headed back down the corridor. After a few yards,
he stopped, took out his own cellphone and re-called Adam
Broadley's number. "Is Andrea still with you?" he asked, when the
psychiatrist answered.
"Yes. She's fine. I'll probably release her tomorrow, if it's okay
with you."
"A hundred per cent okay. If you decide to discharge her tonight, I'll
even pick her up, if she wants. Meantime, I've got some news for the
two of you that you can explain however you like. It looks like we've
found God."
Thirty-Eight.
If Skinner had been less preoccupied, he would have noticed that Andy
Martin's office in the Tayside police headquarters building was bigger
than his own. Indeed his friend would probably have pointed this out
to him. But both had other things on their minds.
Martin's forehead was ridged in a frown to match Skinner's own. "Bob,
I don't know what to say."
"Neither do I, so I'm saying nothing else until I get to Buffalo. Then
I'll be asking plenty."
"Sure; just keep it level, that's all. Now, is there anything that I
can do while you're away?"
Bob looked at him gratefully. "Yes, there is. A couple of things; one
you'll find easy, the other maybe not. First, I'd like you to keep in
regular telephone touch with Alex. Just make sure that she's okay and
all that. She'll be as frantic about this as the rest of us, and she's
got no one to lean on at this moment."
"Sure, I'll do that. I'll ask Karen to call her, once you've broken
this to her and headed out of town; might be better."
"As you see fit. Now the other thing. When I got Oakdale's call, I
was in the middle of a bit of private enterprise, involving a man named
Cecil Williamson, aka Skipper. He's a contemporary of Michael's. He's
from Mother well and he runs a country house hotel up near Birnam.
It's called Fir Park Lodge.
"I was trying to get an up-to-date photo of him, without alarming the
locals, to show to old Aidan. If he'd identified him, there's a guy on
his payroll called dAbo, who's done a bit of time. I was proposing to
have a chat with him, before I squared up his boss."
Skinner hesitated. "Andy, I know the autopsy report knocked the
suspicious death investigation on its head, but..."
18Q
Martin stood up from behind his desk, and walked to the window. "That
enquiry may be stood down, Bob, but we still have an interest in
finding out how he wound up in the river. You've put a name in the
frame, so I'll look into it. I won't be as subtle as you, either. I'll
pull dAbo in straight away."
"Thanks, mate." Skinner stood himself and looked across the room at
his friend. "Just in case it isn't this Skipper, it might do no harm
to have a list of estate owners on your patch, especially those with
salmon rivers running through them. My brother's last meal wasn't
something he knocked up on a fire at the roadside. It was rich man's
fare. If it wasn't Williamson, although he's a heavy favourite, I will
find the man who fed it to him."
"I'll get someone on it," said Martin. "Now try and forget it for now.
You have, if I may say so, more important things to attend to."
Bob shrugged his shoulders as he headed for the door. "Maybe so, son,"
he murmured, 'but I will attend to them both in time, mark me on that.
Guilt is one of the strongest motivations there is, be it for covering
things up, or for uncovering them. My private dread is that before I'm
finished, I might have to do both."
1QO
Thirty-Nine.
"This man," exclaimed Andrea Strachan. "You say he knows me?"
Stevie Steele nodded. "He was at university at the same time as
you."
"What's his name?"
"I can't tell you that, I'm afraid."
"Why? Because I might fall at his feet and worship him?"
Steele glanced across to the passenger seat, saw her smile, and laughed
out loud.
"No. It wouldn't be like you to worship a false god. Idolatry's
forbidden, remember."
"Could I forget?" she exclaimed. "That's one of the many things my
father's drummed into me over the years."
"How do you get on with your father?" Stevie asked.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile flicker again. "What is
this? Am I still being interrogated?"
"Nah," he said, 'that's all over. It was an idle question, that's all.
Well, almost idle. Here I am picking you up from hospital, and I'm
taking you home, when I might be taking you to your parents."
"Just in case I harmed myself, you mean?"
"No! Oh, Christ, Steele, shut up. Mouth open, foot straight in. I
think just driving would be a good idea."
"Maybe, but I'll let you off the hook. And I'll overlook the Name you
just took in vain. After my crisis, I thought, and Adam agreed, that
it would be better for me not to go back to that atmosphere. My father
holds highly orthodox views, which he never ceases to proclaim, and we
felt that given the nature of my illness, it would be easier if I
wasn't exposed to them. It's worked out all right, too."
He looked across at her again. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail,
and he saw that she was wearing lipstick and eye make-up. Yes,
pretty;
1Q1
very definitely attractive. "Adam recommended that I wear make-up; to
let my real personality out, he said. His diagnosis was that in my
schizophrenia, my other side had taken me over completely."
Her smile became dazzling. "Of course, there is the possibility that
this is the real nutter you're looking at now."
"If it is, it suits me fine." The words were out before he had time to
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