Quintin Jardine - Fallen Gods

"Ask yourself this," said Bob Skinner, as he left. "What's expected of a real gentleman in your situation?"

He glanced around his drawing room. "Did you ever fancy oak panelling in here?" he asked.

"Certainly not!" Sarah replied. "Much too old-fashioned. What brought that on?"

"Ah, nothing," said Bob. "You're right; that sort of stuff belongs to another era."

"I should think so." She turned back to the Scotsman, and to the front page story. "Will this man Candela be convicted?"

"There's a chance. He's remanded on bail, so we have as long as we like, within reason, to complete a case. We've got a search warrant for his place in Perthshire and his flat in Edinburgh. We might just find some supporting evidence; even if it's only wire that matches the material used on the Academy fire-bomb, it could turn a possibility into a probability.

"I'm still hoping for another outcome, though."

"A guilty plea, do you mean?"

"Yeah, something like that." He pressed the button of the television remote, and turned on A Question of Sport.

"Do you know yet when Michael's funeral will be?" she asked.

"I'll hear from the undertaker tomorrow, but I think it'll be next Tuesday. He'll be cremated in Gourock; Brother Aidan will take the service. That'll suit all his friends through there. Afterwards, his ashes will be interred beside my mother and father, in the cemetery in Mother well."

"That's good. Appropriate. Will you go?"

"Of course. And you, if you want."

"That's good too. Of course I'll come." She paused. "Speaking of funerals," she continued. "I had a call from Babs today, the bitch that she is. She said that Ron's mother's arrived in Buffalo, and that she's planning to hold his service on Saturday week, once the DA's office has released his body."

He looked at her, frowned, and shook his head. "Don't even think about it," he said.