Quintin Jardine - Fallen Gods

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 switched to a surprising piece of blue-grass by someone who sounded to Steele like Dolly Parton, with a voice as clear and sharp as her chest was rounded.

"So what is it, inspector, that you want to talk to me about?" asked Andrea. "Sit down," she insisted, pushing him towards one of the uncomfortable chairs. "Let me get you a drink. Would orange juice or cola be all right? I don't have anything alcoholic'

"Anything."

She opened a door to his left; he followed her with his eyes into a small kitchen. A fridge door swung open and he heard can-opening sounds; she reappeared with a tin of red cola in each hand. "Will it do like this?" she asked. "All my glasses are in the dishwasher."

He grinned as he took it from her, letting his hand brush hers for a second longer than necessary, and noting that, like Maggie Rose the day before, she did not flinch from his touch. "You're getting more decadent by the day, Andrea," he chuckled.

"Good," she said, firmly, and folded herself into the other chair, tucking her feet under her and managing somehow to make the thing look comfortable. "Now what is it, or were you just looking for an excuse to see me again?"

"I probably was," he admitted, 'but I wanted to speak to a chemist, and you're the only one I know. I've had some daft thoughts running about in my head, and some questions I need answering."

"About what?"

"Bombs. Specifically, incendiary devices that wouldn't leave a trace after they'd done what they were meant to do."

"And you think I'm a specialist, do you?" She gave him what he hoped was a mock frown.

"No, not at all; like I said, you're a chemist."

"With special experience," she added, dryly, with a raised eyebrow.

"Chuck it. I'll go if you like."

She smiled, like a rainbow through a shower. "No, I like you being here; you're the first man to come through that door who hasn't been a relation or a doctor. Okay, this bomb of yours; how would you set it off?"

"Remotely; with either a device triggered by a radio signal or a simple timer."