Thursday Legends

by Quintin Jardine

have another go at teaching eventually, but the medical advice was

  against that."

  "The Church of Scotland, eh. The Moderator and his wife were guests

  yesterday, weren't they?"

  "Aye, and the new archbishop, but I don't think that any of them are in

  the frame, eh?"

  Steele frowned. "Let's stay serious. George, okay?"

  "Right, inspector, I'll get serious. Why are we sitting about here?

  Why don't we just pick her up, then?"

  "What for?" asked Rose. "The girl might have a genuine interest in

  religious art. It isn't an offence to gate crash a private function.

  No, George; since you're so keen for action, you can get back into

  those tapes. Forget everyone else, just concentrate on Andrea

  Strachan. Let's see whether we can catch her in the vicinity of the

  Vargas Trinity at any time. Then let's see if we have a shot of her at

  the moment of the detonation of the device. You never know; we might

  get lucky and find a shot of her pulling the trigger."

  "And if we don't?" the sergeant countered.

  "Then we, that's to say you and DI Steele, will make further enquiries

  tomorrow, at the Church of Scotland, to see if the girl might have been

  there legitimately, through them, and at Candela and Finch, to check

  whether they issued informal invitations to anyone else.

  "We'll keep her under surveillance, but I'm only going to move against

  this girl when all these avenues have been explored. She's a

  schizophrenic arsonist, George. If they hadn't done the probation deal

  over the church thing, she'd probably have gone to the state mental

  hospital at Carstairs. If she did torch that painting, that's where

  she's bound this time, for sure. She could wind up there for a good

  chunk of the rest of her life, so we cannot afford to make any

  mistakes."

  Twenty-Four.

  As it happened, Alice Bierhoff was in church, on the other side of the

  central aisle, but not too far away for Sarah to catch her eye and

  throw her a look that was meant to say, Spread gossip about me, lady,

  and you "II wish you d never been born.

  But Alice, a short dumpy woman .. . She probably can't remember the

  last time she had any excitement in her life, thought Sarah as she

  looked at her... was either tougher than she looked, or had forgotten

  to put in her contacts, for she replied with a small wave and a sweet,

  knowing smile.

  Sarah let it go at that, for she had enough on her hands with Seonaid

  and a restless, fidgety James Andrew. Jazz had not been best pleased

  when his mother had told him that the trip to the lake had been

  postponed, and he spent much of the service determinedly punching the

  thigh of his adopted brother, Mark, who had been given the task of

  trying to keep him under control.

  Once or twice, as they rose for hymns, Sarah glanced around her,

  looking for a familiar face, but there was no sign of him ... and he

  was way too big to be concealing himself among the congregation.

  Finally they reached the business end of the hour, Ian Walker's sermon.

  It took Sarah a while to take a grip of what he was saying, but finally

  she understood; his message was that while society had evolved in ways

  that only God could have imagined during the two thousand years of

  Christianity, the ten commandments still stood at the centre of the

  faith, and still encapsulated the values by which Christians should

  live their lives.

  Sarah sat poker-faced when Babs caught her eye; she wondered whether

  the preacher's wife had suggested the theme, or even if she had let him

  in on Alice Bierhoff's chance discovery, and if this was his discreet

  way of registering disapproval.

  If it was, she found it more than a little rich; she remembered, among

  other things, smoking a little grass with Ian in her freshman college

  year. While there might not have been a commandment that referred to

  that specifically, she was pretty sure that it was covered somewhere.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him of the occasion as he

  bade his congregation farewell outside the church, but she decided to

  keep it in reserve. By that time Jazz was virtually uncontrollable,

  Mark was complaining that his leg was numb and even the obedient infant

  Seonaid was becoming restless. '

  "Are you going to behave?" she hissed at her younger son, as Babs

  Walker came towards them.

  "Want to go to the lake," James Andrew muttered.

  "I have told you; Auntie Babs has invited us all for lunch."

  "Want to go to the lake."

  "Maybe later, then; maybe we'll go for a little while. Will that make

  you happy?"

  The child's expression softened, but only a little. He whispered

  something that she could not hear. Gratefully she handed Seonaid over

  to Babs, as she arrived beside her and crouched down beside him. "What

  did you say?" she asked him, quietly. Still his whispered reply was

  inaudible. "What?" she asked again.

  "I want Dad," Jazz muttered, plaintively, on the edge of tears. "I

  want my dad."

  Sarah felt her heart melt inside her. "So did I, son," she said,

  ruffling his hair as she stood. "So did I. But he's had to go away."

  "Hi, guys," said Babs, brightly, holding Seonaid up in the sunshine.

  "My, but you're a little beauty." The blonde-haired child gurgled and

  smiled at the attention. "You ready for lunch?" she asked Sarah. "My

  boys are looking forward to playing soccer in the yard with your

  boys."

  "Sure, but Mark might opt out of the soccer; the only kind he plays is

  on a computer screen. As for James Andrew, Matthew might be able to

  handle him, since he's seven, but Daniel might find him a little

  rough."

  "Rough? At soccer?"

  "They play a slightly different game in Scotland; and James Andrew's

  learned from his father. Speaking of whom .. ."

  "It's all right," Babs broke in, forestalling her. "Like I promised,

  there will be no extra lunch guest. I did call Ron, though. On

  reflection I thought I'd better tell him about Alice ... before he

  heard from someone else, you understand."

  Sarah understood very clearly. "What did he say?"

  "My dear, he used language quite inappropriate for the wife of a

  Lutheran clergyman to repeat, and certainly not in front of the

  children. Let's just say that his view of Alice is in line with your

  own. Now come on; let's be going. Ian will be a little while, but the

  rest of us can head on back to the house now."

  Lunch at the Walkers proved to be a pleasant experience, even if the

  soccer game did come to an abrupt end with Jazz, still dour and

  fractious, punching Matthew, the older of his hosts' sons. "I'm sorry,

  Babs," said Sarah, as her friend wiped the tears from his face and the

  blood from his nose. "This one," she threw James Andrew a thunderous

  look, 'who will, incidentally, be lucky to get within a hundred miles

  of the lake after that, has been impossible lately."

  "He's missing his dad," Mark explained, coming to his brother's defence

  in a way that touched Sarah, even through her anger.

&nb
sp; "Be that as it may," she said, trying to stay severe, 'he has to

  learn."

  "He kicked me," Jazz muttered.

  Once the peace treaty between the boys had been signed, they settled

  down to a chicken lunch, American style, although Sarah kept tight rein

  on the size of her children's portions.

  "I enjoyed your sermon, Ian," Sarah ventured, finally, once the four

  oldest children had been released to watch television.

  The preacher smiled. "I give them traditional values every so often,"

  he said. "Babs suggested it was time for another round."

  "Indeed? What will it be next week? Keeping God with us on the

  campus? Finding Him through a haze of marijuana smoke like we used to

  do?"

  Babs's jaw dropped. "Why Ian!" she exclaimed. "You never did, did

  you?"

  "It's all right," Sarah laughed. "He didn't inhale either."

  Her friend read the sign correctly and kept the conversation on safe

  ground, from then on, until Sarah announced that it was time to go.

  "Mum," Jazz called from the back seat as they pulled out of the

  Walkers' driveway.

  She knew what was coming. "Okay," she answered. "Since you said you

  were sorry, we'll go to the lake. We'll need to go back to the house

  first, though. We're all still in our church clothes, and Seonaid

  needs changing."

  They were almost home when she saw him, driving towards her in his

  Camaro. She had teased him about it, asking if he had a Burt Reynolds

  fixation, but he had pointed out that he had trouble fitting into a

  Porsche. He did not slow down, nor did he seem to notice her, until

  the cars had almost reached each other. Then a broad easy smile

  crossed his face; as they passed he took his left hand from the wheel

  and waved. She thought that she caught a flash of something white on

  his thumb.

  "That was the man who picked you up yesterday, wasn't it?" said Mark.

  "The man who was going to fly you to the cabin."

  "That's right. He's Mr. Neidholm; an old college friend and a very

  famous foot baller

  "Rangers," Jazz announced.

  "No," said Mark, severely. "American. He's too big to be one of our

  foot ballers

  Sarah smiled and wondered whether Ron would take that as a compliment.

  Then she wondered why he had been there, and, if he had called to see

  her, why he had driven away.

  One more turn and they had reached the Grace mansion. She slid the

  Jaguar into the long driveway, and, on impulse, stopped at her mailbox.

  She stepped out of the car and swung it open. There was a white

  envelope inside. She took it out, slipped it into the pocket of her

  jacket, and got back into the car.

  "Okay, boys," she exclaimed as she cancelled the alarm and let them

  into the house. "Lakeside clothes, please. Shorts, shirts and

  sandals. I'll take care of us girls and see you down here in ten

  minutes."

  She carried Seonaid upstairs into her own bedroom and laid her on the

  bed, then took the envelope from her pocket and ripped it open. It

  contained a single white A4 sheet, a printed letter.

  She whispered the words as she read it.

  My darling Sarah

  I'm not going to be a fool again. You mean more to me than all the

  Superbowl rings in the world, and all the nonsense that goes with

  them.

  This is my pledge. If you will have me, I will finish with the game,

  in every aspect, here and now. I will practice law, as you practice

  your pathology, until it's time for us to sail off into the sunset

  together.

  I love you. Will you marry me?

  She looked at the signature. "Ron." It was scrawled, roughly, in a

  colour unlike any ink she had ever seen. She knew what it was, all

  right; she'd have known even without seeing the white flash of surgical

  tape on his left thumb.

  "Oh damn," she whispered, feeling her knees go weak as a sudden wave of

  panic surged through her. "Sarah, it's choosing time."

  twenty-Five.

  Of all the excellent restaurants in which she ate regularly, Alex had

  to admit that the Roseberry was her favourite. It was an emotional as

  much as a culinary thing. She had studied in Glasgow. Her

  professional life had begun in Edinburgh and had then taken her to

  London, for a period yet to be determined. For all that, there was

  something about the bay-windowed bistro on Gullane's main street that

  reminded her where her home really was.

  She still owned her flat in Leith, although it was rented to a Curie,

  Anthony and Jarvis colleague during her London secondment. There, she

  had been found a very pleasant apartment in bustling Spitalfields. Yet

  she knew within herself that one day she would return to the village in

  which she had been raised. She even knew the house that she would like

  to buy, should the opportunity arise.

  "Will you be selecting the wine tonight, Mr. Skinner?" asked Ronald,

  the Roseberry's front-of-house partner.

  "Not a chance," Alex answered him cheerfully. "I will, and we'll have

  a bottle of that nice Chablis, thanks." She looked at her father as

  the waiter headed off towards the kitchen. "You'd better not have

  anything too heavy tonight, if you're having your big medical tomorrow.

  Did you get it set up?"

  "Yup. I called a cardiologist Sarah knows and told him the story. He

  and another consultant are going to give me a total going-over at the

  Murrayfield Hospital at five tomorrow evening. I've told Mitch what

  I'm doing; he agrees it's sensible. We'd probably have had to do it

  anyway, if the committee's doctors had refused to examine me."

  "How do the family solicitors feel about you using our firm for this

  one?"

  "I haven't even told them; it's none of their business. If your firm

  had a private client department, I'd probably be on its books by now,

  given your connection. You don't, but this is a litigation matter.

  It's like golf. Who would you choose to hole a ten-foot putt to save

  your life?"

  "Not you," Alex laughed, 'that's for sure."

  "Right. You'd go for Tiger Woods. In a sense my life's at stake, but

  the game here is litigation. So by the same token, I'm going for

  Mitchell Laidlaw."

  "Then you'll win. You're The Man, Mitch," she exclaimed,

  gallery-style, then paused. "But Pops, just suppose the consultants

  find an underlying abnormality. Suppose they decide they can't pass

  you fit to go back to work. What would you do?"

  "That's not going to happen."

  "Answer the question."

  Bob looked down at the menu on the table, as if he was studying it. "I

  don't know," he murmured. "I've never contemplated retirement; I've

  never imagined a life outside the police. I've got a professional

  future that's mapped out for, oh, the next fifteen years anyway, and

  I've never given any thought to the idea of it being taken away."

  "Come on, Pops. You must plan on living beyond sixty-five. What will

  you do then?"

  He looked up and shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe I'll write. Maybe I'll

  just join the seniors' section and play golf e
very day, till eventually

  they carry me off the course." He frowned. "Or maybe .. . and this is

  something that has floated through my mind on occasion ... I could find

  a visiting chair in criminology at some university or other."

  "Pops, you could do that now, without any difficulty, in Britain, and

  probably in the States as well. And maybe, just maybe, you understand,