anything to do with Ron's death."
"How the hell could I do that, even if I wanted to?" Bob retorted. "I
kick-started this bloody investigation, when he was happy to send you
straight down the river. I can't turn around and tell him to rein it
in. Besides, he needs to be checked out, after your loose-tongued
friend Mrs. Bierhoff stuck him well in the frame."
"No friend of mine!"
"Thank Christ you see that. If only you'd seen the same about dear
Babs."
"I've always known what Babs was like, but in spite of everything she's
always been my friend. I can't help it."
"We'll see if that survives her old man being interviewed by the
police."
"But why?" she exclaimed. "What possible reason could Ian have had to
harm Ron?"
"They're looking at the possibility that he might have held a grudge
against him for a long time. Over you, in fact. Alice told them that
you chucked him for Ron when you were in college. Is that true?"
"No, it isn't! Ian and I were more friends than anything else. We had
a relationship, sure, but we never made a commitment to each other. It
wasn't a case of me chucking him at all."
"Alice suggested that Ian might have seen it that way."
"Well, the bitch is wrong," said Sarah, angrily.
"You sure about that? Did you ever talk it through with him?"
"No, but.. . Bob, this is ancient history."
"That may be, but there's been a new chapter written lately. What if
Ian heard about it and didn't like it?"
"Not a chance. I just don't believe it."
Skinner shrugged his shoulders. "For what it's worth, neither do I,
but Bierhoff made the suggestion and the police have to look into
it."
"Well let's hope they do it discreetly."
"Brady will, don't worry."
Sarah frowned. "It's your discretion that's worrying me."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you haven't said a word about Ron and me," she exclaimed,
her voice rising. "I keep waiting for you to explode, but it's not
happening. All I see is icy calm. Or is it just indifference? Is our
marriage already over as far as you're concerned?"
He looked at her, unsmiling. "My only purpose at this minute," he
answered, 'is to prove that you didn't kill Neidholm. I don't actually
care who did, but given the circumstantial evidence against you the
only way I can clear you is by finding that person. Once I've done
that, you and I will deal with us."
She bit her lip, and sat forward in the big drawing-room chair, tugging
nervously at her hair. As Bob stared at her, he noticed for the first
time the dark circles under her eyes, and the lines around them that
seemed not to have been there before. "That's something, I suppose,"
she conceded. "It would be easy for you simply to let me go to
jail."
"Easy?" he retorted. "Do you think I want my kids visiting their
mother in the slammer?"
She frowned. "In other words, "don't make any assumptions, Sarah"."
"If you like."
"Don't you feel anything?"
Finally he allowed himself a smile, but it was not one that she
enjoyed. "Sure," he said. "I feel bloody pleased that your lover's
dead. It takes a great weight off my shoulders and a great temptation
away from me. He looked good on the slab, though; it was obvious what
you saw in him."
"No it wasn't," she answered, quietly. "For one thing, he was here for
me."
The barb got to him, and he winced. "Touche. No, let's not get into
this now. Let's just concentrate on the job at hand. Does the name
Candrace Brew mean anything to you?"
"No. Should it?"
"Not necessarily; but he's heard of you all right. He was on Alice's
gossip list; she told him all about you and Ron."
Sarah shuddered. "Ugh! It makes me feel soiled, knowing that cow's
been telling the town about me. Who is this person Brew?"
"He's the librarian."
"The librarian! My God, our library's always been an information
exchange. It'll be all over town."
"Honey," said Bob, quietly, 'if Brady's investigation doesn't get a
result by this time tomorrow, it'll be all over Good Morning bloody
America."
"Don't remind me, please. I'm scared enough as it is." The truth of
that showed in her eyes.
He sighed; it was the first sign of tenderness he had shown towards her
since his arrival. "You must be. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said
that." He smiled at her again, but more kindly this time. "Let's do
something about it, then. I want you to think back, to the time when
you arrived at Neidholm's house. Then I want you to describe what you
saw."
She leaned back in her chair, frowning. "I can't remember, Bob," she
whispered, after a few seconds. "All I can see in my mind's eye is
Ron, lying there dead on the floor."
"Of course you can remember. Just close your eyes and concentrate.
Tell me what you saw."
She did as he said. He watched her as she concentrated. "There was a
man walking a dog," she said at last. "An old black man, walking an
old black dog."
"Did you recognise him?"
"No, but I would if I saw him again."
"Good. Now, what about cars; did you see any cars?"
She hesitated. "There was one; a blue Dodge people-carrier. The
driver was a woman; she was collecting a kid."
"From where?"
"From a party; in the house across the street from Ron's."
"How did you know it was a party?"
"There were balloons tied to a tree in the yard; and there were still a
couple of children playing outside, even though it was nearly dark."
"Good. Anything else?"
"No. After that I pulled into Ron's driveway." She opened her eyes.
"Does any of that help?"
"No, in that you didn't see the real killer driving away," he said.
"But maybe the old man with the dog did. Or maybe the woman in the
Dodge van did. The police can find them and ask them. If they'd done
a proper job from the start they'd have traced them by now."
He frowned. "A party, eh," he mused. "What do you do at a party these
days?"
"Play, if you're a kid. Drink beer if you're you. What else?"
"You take photographs."
Sarah sat upright, suddenly. "Or you film it!" she exclaimed, showing
her first sign of excitement. "Bob, there was a lady filming the kids
when I drove up. It was nearly dark, but that's no problem to a modern
movie camera."
Instantly, Skinner was as excited as his wife. "In that case, let's
hope she took plenty of footage." He jumped to his feet. "Come on.
Tell Trish to pick up Mark from school when it's time. You and I are
going out."
"Why? Are we going to see Brady?"
"Bugger him," he laughed. "We're going to find the woman with the
camera."
Fifty-Three.
The young Steven Steele had been brought up in Dunfermline, and it had
gone against the grain with his police superintendent father when he
had applied to join the force across the river ra
ther than his own life
constabulary.
He had dug his heels in nevertheless, refusing to consider a move that
would have led to comparisons between them for years ahead. In
Edinburgh, Stevie had never felt himself to be involved in a race to
match his dad's progress up the promotion ladder, and indeed that of
his father, before him; in life that is exactly how his career would
have been seen.
As it happened, he had made inspector at thirty-two, five years faster
than Steele senior. He believed that his success owed a lot to the
understanding of the police culture that had been built into him in the
family home; it had made him less in awe of senior officers than other
young coppers, made it easier for him to relate to them, and
consequently for them to notice him. Just as he had never paced
himself against Superintendent Steele in life, neither had he picked
any of his fellow officers in Edinburgh as a benchmark. However, he
had on occasion looked at Maggie Rose as an example; she had taken
longer than him to break out of the mass of constables with potential,
but as far as he knew there was no police tradition in her family. Once
she had, though, her ability had been recognised with a series of
promotions.
Steele knew that he and Maggie worked well together because they
brought the same skills to the job, and because, intellectually, they
were well matched. Okay, he was a couple of rungs below her on the
ladder, but time would take care of that. He had wondered on occasion
about her family; she never spoke of anyone, other than Mario. His
speculation was that she had been an orphan; perhaps she had lost her
parents in an accident, for there was an unexplained hurt within her
that he could see. Their exchange the day before had been the first
time they had ever spoken of personal matters; until then it had always
been work, or the occasional piece of social nonsense over an
after-hours drink with other colleagues. There had been a spark
between them; it had been very faint, no more than a firefly on a cold
night, yet he had felt it. He had the sense to know, though, that she
was territory beyond his limits, not just because of the formidable,
dangerous Mario McGuire, but because he sensed that there were depths
to her that no one would ever reach, or be allowed anywhere near.
As he stood on the stone landing outside the Albany Terrace flat, it
occurred to him that Margaret Rose and Andrea Strachan had two things
in common. They were both troubled women, and maybe, he suspected,
Maggie's problems ran deeper than Andrea's; also, neither of them
seemed to have any grasp of how attractive they were to a normal,
healthy male like Detective Inspector Steven Steele,
copper-about-town.
As he pondered them both, thoughts of a third woman came to him;
someone with whom, a few months before, he had shared a bottle of
Pesquera, in sombre mood, in a dark wine-bar, after a post-mortem
examination which he had witnessed, and which she had carried out.
Sarah Skinner had her troubles too; she had not spoken of them, but
they had been there to see, and he had known lonely women before.
Unlike Maggie and Andrea, however, the deputy chief constable's wife
knew exactly how attractive she was, and was in no way afraid of
herself. He still was not sure what had made him kiss her, or whether
it was she who had kissed him. He only knew that it had happened, and
that for her, as for him, it had been the opening of a door. It had
only been pure, abject cowardice that had made him close it again,
without stepping through, by offering her the excuse of coffee at his
place. He wondered whether, if they ever had the opportunity to play
the same scene again, he would be braver.
He frowned and put the thought out of his mind as he pressed Andrea's
doorbell. He heard her footfall, lightly on the other side of the
door; grinning, he put his eye to the spyglass for a moment, then
stepped back, so that she could see who he was.
She was smiling when she opened the door, and he felt his heart lift;
he had seen the woman who lived on the other side of this Andrea. For
a moment he wondered if he would have the same feeling every time they
met. She seemed smaller than before, and he realised that she was
barefoot, wearing jeans that were frayed at the hems and a university
sweatshirt that he was sure did not date back to her dowdy student
days. Her brown hair was tied back from her face in a ponytail.
"Have I missed something here?" she asked, glancing at her watch. "Did
we decide to make it tonight for the pictures?"
"No," said Stevie, brightly. "I've been thinking about what you said
at lunch. We've hit the wall with our investigation and I wanted to
talk to you some more about it."
He sensed her tense a little. "You're not coming back to me as a
suspect, are you?" She was still smiling, but some of the light seemed
to have gone out of her eyes.
"Absolutely not," he said at once. "If we were, it wouldn't be me who
came to see you."
"Why not?"
He grinned at her. "Work it out."
"Ahh," she exclaimed. "So the police are a bit like doctors; not
allowed to get personal with the clients. You'll have to forgive me,
Stevie; I really am naive in these areas."
"You sure are. When are you going to invite me in?"
She started, with a tiny jump, and put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, I'm
sorry," she laughed, and threw the door open wide. "Straight through
there."
He followed her pointing finger and stepped from the tiny hall into a
square living room, with two big windows that reached almost from
ceiling to floor. They were uncurtained, but still had their original
wooden shutters, a popular feature with the Georgian and Victorian
architects who designed the New Town. Andrea's flat faced north-west,
and the room was bathed in the warm light of the evening summer sun.
He looked around as she closed the door and joined him. The room was a
strange mix of austerity and colour. The two armchairs were
upholstered in stiff, old-fashioned, imitation leather, with brass
studs on their facings, and the sideboard and occasional tables were
dark, dull things. In contrast there were bright, primary-coloured
cushions scattered around, and vivid landscapes on the walls, with not
a hint of Van Gogh about them. A vase of fresh cut flowers stood on
the sideboard and alongside it a compact Sony hi-fi was playing
something breezy by Jools Holland.
"Get rid of the furniture," he murmured, as she came to stand behind
him.
"I know what you mean," she confessed, 'but it was my granny's."
"Then donate it to Age Concern and get some new stuff. She won't
mind."
"You didn't know my granny. "Waste not, want not", that was her motto.
Actually it should just have been "waste not"; she believed that
wanting was a sin. Granny Strachan was firmly on the zealot side of my
family."
"What about Grandpa? Where was he?"
"Well out of it, in a cemetery on the Isle of Lewis; he died about
fifty years ago."
In the background, Jools ended with a flourish, and the CD changer
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