Quintin Jardine - Fallen Gods

"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."

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 rather 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.