Autographs in the Rain

by Quintin Jardine

  The solicitor stared up at the ceiling.

  'Don't piss us about any longer, Raymond. We didn't press you on this

  this afternoon because we hoped that Mr Lesser might have persuaded you

  that the smart thing to do would have been to name your accomplices. I'm

  sure he suggested it to you, but you've taken the stupid option.

  111 give you one chance here. Tell me who else was in on the robberies.

  I can't promise this, but I might be able to persuade the Crown Office to

  accept a plea of guilty to the robberies alone, if you name your accomplices in (-ourt- As things stand you and you alone are going away for life.'

  'The

  Anders was as white as his solicitor's shirt, but he shook his head.

  prisoner declines to answer,' said McGurk to the tape.

  Look son,' said Pringle. 'Be sure of what you're facing here. This is a

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  brutal murder committed in the furtherance of theft. There's no chance of

  this being talked down to culpable homicide. This will be a life sentence.

  The Crown won't leave it at that though; they will ask the judge to throw

  the book at you, with a minimum sentence recommendation that will make

  you an old, old man by the time you come out.

  'Mind you, you might not want to come out by then. You might fancy

  settling down with a nice bloke for the next twenty-five years.'

  'I never killed her!' Anders screamed.

  'Raymond!' his solicitor warned, but in vain.

  % 'I never touched the woman, I swear it. I was waiting in one of the trucks

  when she was done.'

  'What about the coat and the bludgeon?' McGurk asked, harshly.

  'I was given them to bum.'

  'By whom?' Pringle barked.

  'Superintendent,' Lesser interjected. 'I must advise my client to say no

  more.'

  'That's the last thing you should advise him, Geoff, and you know it.

  Now answer the question. Who gave you the coat and club to burn?'

  'I can't tell you. I never knew his name.'

  'Bollocks. Who was it?'

  'Can't tell you.'

  McGurk grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face him. 'Was it Glenn

  Lander?'

  'Who's he?' Anders bleated.

  'You know him. You met him the day after his farm was robbed. I think

  you arranged to see him at Raeburn Place, to tell him that the robbery had

  gone fine.' Anders looked at him in astonishment, and the sergeant knew

  that he had hit the mark.

  The prisoner turned, desperately, to his solicitor. 'I want to go back to

  my cell, sir,' he pleaded.

  'Raymond,' said Lesser, solemnly, 'at this stage, it may be in your interests

  to co-operate.'

  'I want to go back to my cell!'

  The lawyer shook his head. 'Very well.' He looked across at Pringle.

  'This interview is over, gentlemen.'

  'I might as well tell you, Geoff,' the superintendent said, as he switched

  off the tape, 'that the boy really did a bad job of burning that stuff. He says

  he didn't kill the girl, but he did manage to leave part of the baton untouched

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  by the fire, and we've got his palm-print off it.

  'He'll be in court for remand tomorrow morning, as per the usual routine.

  You've got till then to persuade him to change his mind.'

  The alarm buzzed once; its red signal light flashed once, but Neil Mcllhenney

  was not asleep. His right hand flashed out and hit the 'cancel' button inside

  a second. In the same movement he swung out of bed, snatched up his

  jeans, sweater and shoes from the floor, slipping silently into the trousers,

  not bothering about underwear or socks as he slipped out into the hall.

  There he unlocked his desk with a key on his chain, took out a Glock

  automatic pistol, and slipped it into a pocket of his heavy outdoor jacket as

  he pulled it on over his sweater. He left the house within a minute of the

  alarm's warning, having made barely a sound.

  He ran down Colinton Road as quickly as he could safely manage in

  moccasins on the slippery pavement, and turned into Craiglockhart Avenue,

  skidding to a halt as a red glow behind the houses close by told him the

  reason for the emergency signal. As he broke into a run once more, he

  heard a car; crashing gears, screeching tyres then the roar of an engine as it

  sped away into the night.

  Twenty yards down the Avenue he slipped and fell, thanking his lucky

  stars that the Glock was on safe as he landed on it. He ignored the sharp

  pain, pushed himself to his feet, and ran on, until he reached the cul-de-sac

  where Louise's rented home stood.

  He had made it in less than three minutes, yet the house was an inferno.

  The front door was consumed, and through it he could see that the wildfire

  had spread almost instantly along the acrylic hall carpet and up the varnished

  wooden staircase which led to the two attic bedrooms.

  Whatever had happened, it had been so sudden, so cataclysmic, that

  none of the neighbours had yet been awakened . . . nor, as far as he could

  see or hear, had anyone in the house. He took out his mobile and keyed in

  the direct number of the Torphichen Place office where the back-up alarm

  was situated.

  It was answered quickly. 'This is Mcllhenney,' he snapped. 'There's a

  fire at the house; major outbreak. All available appliances, at once,

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  ambulances, the whole fucking shooting match.'

  As he ended the call, he saw, to his horror, a figure appear in one of the

  bedroom windows. It was Glenys Algodon; she was naked, silhouetted by

  the flames behind her, as she struggled with the handle of the double-glazed

  window unit. He held his breath as he watched her, knowing that there was

  nothing he could do, no one else he could call who would help.

  At last, the window swung open on its central hinge; as it did so, he

  heard her screams for the first time and saw the blaze behind her, fuelled

  by the inrush of air, reaching out as if to feed on her.

  'Get out!' he bellowed. 'On to the roof, then jump!' He vaulted the steel

  driveway gate, into the garden and ran for the bungalow. 'Now, Glenys, I'll

  catch you.'

  She did as he said, and slithered, still screaming, out of the half-opened

  window, then rolled, over tongues of flame which were already licking

  through the tiles, down and off the roof.

  He reached her, but only in time to break her fall; her weight sent him

  sprawling beside her on the lawn. She rolled around still screaming, with

  her hair on fire. He beat it out with his bare hands, then dragged her as far

  away from the house as he could, noticing as he did so that her back and

  buttocks had been turned into one large blister by the heat.

  He held her, firmly, face down, talking to her, soothing her, until her

  screams turned to whimpers, and stopped, finally, as she slipped into a

  daze. He took off his heavy jacket, slipping the gun into the waistband of

  his jeans and his mobile into a pocket, and covered her, gently.

  As he did so he heard an indignant, scared voice behind him. 'What are

  you doing?' it demanded.

  M
cllhenney turned, to see a middle-aged man in dressing-gown and

  pyjamas, peering down at him, over the garden wall. 'I'm having a fucking

  barbecue,' he roared. 'What did you think?'

  The man recoiled. 'Are you a neighbour?' the policeman snapped.

  Nod. 'Yes. Next door.'

  'Well, get back in there, bring me a blanket or something like it, then

  make a strong cup of tea.'

  'For the young lady?'

  'No. For you. The young lady will be going off in an ambulance in a

  minute. When she does, I'm going to want to talk to you.'

  As he spoke, the first fire appliance swung round the corner into the cul

  de-sac, siren silent but blue lights flashing. 'Go on,' the detective shouted,

  more kindly, to the neighbour. 'Get me that blanket, now.'

  The firemen did not see him at first as he crouched by Glenys; instead

  they cleared the locked driveway gate as he had done, hoses connected to

  the nearest hydrants, playing water on the roof and shooting it at the front

  door. Behind them, another appliance arrived, then, as the neighbour

  appeared with a travelling rug, an ambulance.

  Mcllhenney wrapped Glenys carefully in the blanket, then stood and

  waved to the paramedics. As they ran across, a white-helmeted figure jumped

  from the second fire engine, spotting the policeman as he did.

  % 'Neil?' DO Matt Grogan called out. 'What the hell are you doing here?'

  'I live round the corner. I'll speak to you later; I'll want to know how

  and where this started.' As the veteran firefighter strode towards the blaze,

  the detective helped the ambulance crew as they lifted the casualty and

  placed her, still face downwards, on a stretcher. She was still dazed, but as

  they lifted her over the low wall, she looked at him sideways, and he could

  see that she was numb with horror. 'Clarence, Louise . . .' she whispered,

  and then her eyes glazed over once more.

  'Oh Jesus,' Mcllhenney murmured, feeling himself shivering, but not

  from the cold of the night.

  He took his handphone from his pocket and dialled a familiar number;

  as always, the man on the other end was wide awake, although the call was

  answered on only the second ring.

  'Yes Neil,' Skinner said, quietly and evenly. His bedside phone had a

  readout which identified incoming numbers, and sometimes, callers. 'What

  is it?' He knew that at 1 a.m. the call would not be trivial.

  Tm at Louise's place, boss. There's a fire; it's still burning, but the

  place is gutted. My alarm went off, and I got here double quick, but it was

  well alight by then. Matt Grogan's here; hopefully he'll give us an idea of

  how it happened.'

  'And . . .' Skinner did not have to say more.

  'Glenys got out, Boss. A bit scorched, but she'll be okay. I'm afraid for

  Clarence Sparrow, her boyfriend; I thought he was catching the last shuttle

  home to London, but

  'Louise, man, Louise. Did she get out?'

  Mcllhenney took a deep breath. 'Lou was never in the house, Boss. She

  was with me.'

  'With you?' Skinner's exec. heard the astonishment in his voice. 'Did

  you have her up for dinner again?' he asked. It was the first time in

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  Mcllhenney's life he had ever heard him ask anything remotely like a stupid

  question.

  'No, Boss. She was asleep when I left her.'

  There was a long silence, yet during it the two men seemed to say things

  to each other, things which were for life. Then you'd better go and tell her

  what's happened,' the DCC said at last.

  'I've got to have a word with the neighbours, Boss; and with Grogan.'

  'They can wait until I get there. No, off you go and see Louise; you

  don't want her to be waking up and wandering down there looking for

  you.'

  'So Clarence was still there,' said Lou. She was sitting on Neil's sofa, her

  hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. Her eyes were red and blotchy, she

  wbre no make-up, her hair was tangled, and she was dressed in a tee-shirt

  and Neil's black towelling dressing-gown, but she was still beautiful.

  'Yes, love,' he said, quietly. 'Since the last time we saw them, he must

  have decided to stay the extra night. And clearly, from what she said to me,

  Glenys assumed that you'd come back in after they'd gone to bed.'

  She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. 'As she would,' she

  murmured. She slipped a hand, warm from the mug, into his and squeezed

  it. 'You were right, love. There's someone watching over us.'

  He pressed his face against her, kissing her hair. 'Never doubt it,' he

  whispered in her ear.

  It was as if for that moment there was no one else in the room; a fact that

  was not lost on Bob Skinner and Andy Martin as they stood in front of the

  fireplace. Eventually, Mcllhenney remembered their presence.

  'Sorry Boss. This situation's become a bit ... well, unprofessional, I

  suppose.'

  'Who gives a damn?' said Skinner, with a quick look that put his assistant

  at his ease. 'Because it did, Lou wasn't in that house, and thank God for it.'

  'But poor Clarence was,' she reminded him.

  He winced. 'Yes. Poor Clarence. Matt Grogan said that they found him

  in the bedroom doorway. He's seen similar before; the victim's in bed,

  hears these funny noises outside; he's half-asleep and opens the door to

  investigate.

  'Whoosh! The fireball's sucked in and he's right in the middle of it. Ms

  Algodon was lucky she got out.'

  'Does Matt have any theory about how it started?' asked Martin.

  'Yes,' the DCC answered, 'and a pretty good one at that. The perpetrator

  climbed over the driveway gate, walked up the concrete path to the front

  door... knowingly or otherwise avoiding triggering the geophones we put

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  me garden . . . and put three cans of petrol up against it. Then he put

  detonators in each one.'

  He glanced at his two colleagues. 'Know what Matt thinks he used? Big

  firework rockets, one in each can. He linked the three fuses together with a

  single petrol-soaked cord, lit the blue touch-paper and withdrew, effing

  sharpish.

  'The explosion would have been soft, probably not enough to wake the

  neighbours, unless they were sleeping with the windows open ... unlikely

  in December. However, it would have blown the front door in... triggering

  your alarm, Neil... and torching the place in seconds.

  'You took how long to get there?' he asked Mcllhenney.

  'Under three minutes.'

  'Nevertheless, that would have been enough for the blaze to have been

  impenetrable, even without the second explosion.'

  'What second explosion, boss? I never heard anything.'

  'No, it would have happened seconds after the first. There was a box of

  highly inflammable aerosols in the hall; they gave the fire a sort of turbo