Quintin Jardine - Fallen Gods

Sarah looked him in the eye, and patted his approach to one side. "That is an area," she said, her voice becoming muffled as she slid below the cover, then finally, as she found what she was seeking, inaudible, 'where I never make com pari."

Andy Martin looked into the future and saw a quandary. In the fifteen minutes since he had recovered from his breakdown in the armchair, Skinner had said not another word, other than to apologise, repeatedly, for his weakness.

But he was a witness. He had information crucial to the progress of a murder investigation and he had to be interviewed, regardless of his emotional state.

Andy went through to the kitchen and returned with two bottles of Rolling Rock beer. As he returned, the Fairground Attraction CD came to an end, and the changer replaced it with a new Peter Green blues album. Normally, Bob would have reacted. Typically he would have asked him if it was Eric Clapton… on first hearing, he thought that all blues guitarists were Eric Clapton… but as he sat there, all he did was nod his thanks as he took his uncapped beer.

He stared at the carpet as the first two tracks on the album played themselves out; then as the horns came in, upbeat, at the start of track three, he put the bottle to his lips and took a long draining swallow.

When he was finished, he laid the empty bottle on the occasional table beside his chair, and looked across at his friend.

"Right," he said, abruptly. "Now that I've finished making an arse of myself, do you want to take my statement yourself, or do you want to get a couple of your guys up here?"

A smile of undisguised relief seemed to flood Martin's face. "I reckon you're worth the head of CID. I'll call him now and ask him to come up."

Skinner frowned. "No, wait; that's not fair on Karen. We'll go to him." He reached out a hand. "Here; don't you drink that beer. Give it to me."

Andy grinned and handed it over. "Fine, but Karen's making dinner."

"Then tell your guy to have his as well and we'll see him afterwards."

"Man, we're still in the early hours of the investigation; you know how important the first stages are."

"How long was he in the water?"

"About a week."

"Where did he go in?"

"We haven't a clue."

"Then let's not risk your happiness and my digestion by spoiling Karen's excellent dinner. I'm not going to be able to lead you straight to whoever it is you're after." His forehead creased and his eyes turned hard and cold. "Even if I could, I don't know that I would. I might be inclined to pay a call on him myself."

Martin felt himself shiver. "For Christ's sake, Bob, don't even think that."

"Ah, but I do, son. Because I'm human and because it's in my nature."

"Then suppress it, please." Andy looked at him, with pure concern.

"Man, you shouldn't be handling this alone. Let me call Sarah in the States and tell her what's happened."

Skinner looked at him as if he was a stranger. "You do that and I'll make you eat your silver-braided hat, Deputy Chief."

"Well let me call Alex, then."

"Nor her either; she doesn't know she ever had an uncle, nor Sarah a brother-in-law. I'll handle this, Andy. I promise you I'll behave myself and tell you everything I know; but not here, or now. I'll do it in a formal situation, because for my own sake, I need to make sure

I stay dispassionate about it. Now, are we about ready to eat? I'm fucking starving."

Martin smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "We should be just about there. You finish that beer, and I'll call Rod Greatorix to set up a meeting."

He was heading towards the phone in the hall, when Skinner called him back. "Hey," he said, pointing towards the CD player with the Rolling Rock in his hand. "If I didn't know that was Eric Clapton, I'd say it was the guy who used to be in Fleetwood Mac'

They were halfway though the Mongolian meal when Maggie's cellphone played its distinctive tune. She looked at Mario, awkwardly, apologetically; he grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "Could just as easily have been mine," he said. "Go on."

She flipped the phone open, pressed the 'yes' button, and answered, "Rose'.

"Sorry, Maggie," said Stevie Steele. "I hope it isn't a bad time, but you did say to keep you informed."

"I know I did; it's not a problem. Are you still at it?"

"Afraid so."

"I thought you'd have had it wrapped up by now, at least as far as you could. What's up? Have you been watching more video tapes?"

"I have, but it was a waste of time," said the inspector. "I went back far enough to watch the picture being hung on the wall. It wasn't tampered with at that point, and from the tapes we saw earlier on, there's no sign of anyone interfering with it after that."

"So it must have been rigged to go before it was delivered to the gallery?"

"Not necessarily; the exhibits came from all over the place. The curator waited until he had them all on the premises before he hung them. They were kept in a storage area below the main hall; it isn't covered by video cameras so in theory the device could have been planted there."

Steele hesitated. "Tell me, Maggie," he went on eventually. "Did Quintin Jardine Fallen Gods anything strike you as wrong about the notion that it was set off by a timer?"

As her husband looked on, Rose frowned. "You could ask why it was, I suppose. And I guess the answer could be either to give the arsonist time to get well clear, or, to have the painting go up before an audience, as a sort of a statement."

"If that was the case, he got it right, didn't he, our fire-raiser.

Bang in the middle of old Candela's speech."

"True. So unless that was pure coincidence, whoever set it must have known the timings and running order of the opening ceremony."

"So you'd think," Steele agreed, 'except…" He stopped in mid-sentence.

"What?"

"Except for the fact that there was no timer."

Maggie's eyes widened. "Come again?"

"The technicians have finished with the picture. They found the remains of a device, sure enough. It had been laid against the frame and conductors had been attached to the back of the canvas, to make sure that it went up fast, from the centre. Then the back of the painting had been covered over with heavy brown paper, sealed with gaffer tape. There's nothing unusual about that, and none of the gallery staff thought twice about it.

"The bomb, if you want to call it that, was primed and hung on the wall, ready to be detonated. But when it was, there was no ticking clock involved. It was set off remotely, triggered by a radio signal."

"Bloody hell! From how far away? Can they tell?"

"Up to four hundred yards, according to Tony Davidson, the telecommunications guy. It could have been blown from anywhere in

Princes Street, or from the top of the Mound, even. But was it? After all, it did happen right in the middle of the speech. What does that suggest?"

"That whoever did it was actually there, in the hall."

"Exactly. "Light the blue touch paper and withdraw", I reckon. And just to put the tin lid on it, at five this evening, the Press

Association had an anonymous call from a guy claiming responsibility for, I quote, "an act of retribution against blasphemy". He didn't name any organisation; he just said that much and hung up. All the PA reporter was able to say was that he sounded like a teuchter."

"The Presbyterian militant wing, in other words."

"Aye, or just as likely a nutter, who had nothing to do with it. The story was on the radio and television bulletins by the time the call was made. Oh yes, and the call came from a phone box."

"Like as not a fruitcake, then, I agree. Do we have a list of everyone who was there?" asked Rose.