Thursday Legends

by Quintin Jardine

  those bruises could have been a beating and he could have had his

  coronary as a result, but the prof said that they were a couple of days

  old at the time of death."

  "Could he have fallen in the drink and had his attack as a result? Did

  you ask that?"

  "Yes, and Joe discounted it. He said that there would have been some

  ingestion or inhalation of river water even with that scenario, but

  there wasn't any."

  "Yeah, okay." Skinner's disappointment was clear in his voice.

  "He didn't put himself in the river," Martin continued. "We've

  established that. But even then, all I've got as a potential charge is

  concealing a death, which ranks pretty low on the priority list of CID

  in a small police force."

  "Meaning you're scaling down your investigation?" Skinner asked,

  quietly.

  "As you would do in the same circumstances."

  "True."

  "So you won't mind if I go looking for this Skipper bloke on my own?"

  It was Martin's turn to heave a sigh. "And I could stop you, could I?"

  he exclaimed.

  Thirty-three.

  Adam Broadley was in a consulting room, rather than a waiting room,

  when Rose and Steele returned to the Royal Edinburgh Hospital on

  Tuesday morning. They had accepted the clinician's suggestion that

  rather than risk terrifying his sensitive patient. by arriving at her

  home unannounced, he should ask her to come to see him, so that he

  could explain what was going to happen.

  Andrea Strachan was seated behind a table when Broadley led them in to

  see her. She wore a dark twin-set, and her shoulders were hunched. Her

  eyes had a glassy look as she peered up at them. She had been with the

  police before, and when he introduced them, she was frightened.

  Maggie Rose tried at once to put her at her ease. "This is a routine

  interview, Miss Strachan," she began, 'but given your recent illness,

  Adam thought that it would be best if it took place in his presence. We

  had no problem agreeing to that. Normally a discussion like this would

  be recorded these days, but this morning Inspector Steele will just

  take notes. So, if I can explain what it's about.. ."

  "You don't have to!" the woman exclaimed in a shrill voice that fell

  not far short of a screech. "I'm mentally ill, not mentally deficient.

  I know what this is. It has to do with that ridiculous painting going

  up in smoke. This is haul in the loony and pin it on her."

  Steele leaned forward and looked her in the eye, kindly, he hoped. "No

  it's not, Andrea," he said. "We don't have a remit to find a scapegoat

  here. If we did, you'd be in a smelly room in Torphichen Place, not

  here in Adam's office."

  She seemed to soften, very slightly. "Go on then," she muttered, 'what

  is it about then?" The inspector looked to Rose, seated on his right.

  Recognising that their subject seemed to respond better to a man, she

  nodded and leaned back in her chair.

  "First of all," he resumed, "I want to get some things clear, so that

  you can understand at least what's brought us here. Is that fair?"

  "I suppose."

  "Good. First and foremost then, you were there when the picture was

  burned, weren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "And you'd seen it before when you went with Mr. O'Reilly and Mrs.

  Laing to take delivery at the Academy?"

  "Yes."

  "Fine; that's established. Next I want to tell you something, and then

  I want to ask you something. But I want to make it clear that I am

  making no accusation, just establishing facts. What I have to tell you

  is that the painting was ignited by an incendiary device, triggered

  remotely."

  "That's what you would say," Andrea retorted. "Some of us would say

  that it was God's punishment."

  Steele and Rose saw Adam Broadley's forehead clench in an involuntary

  frown at her comment, but it went unnoticed by the girl, who was seated

  beside him. "If it was," said the inspector, with a soft smile, "He

  still used an incendiary. We found pieces of its casing afterwards."

  For a second, he thought that Andrea smiled back at him, but if she did

  it was so fleeting that it was gone in less than a second. "Now," he

  continued, 'to what I want to ask you. You have an honours in

  chemistry, I know. Would you have the capability of making such a

  device?"

  "In the event that God told me to do it? Is that what you mean?"

  "No, it was a straight question; but you can frame it any way you

  like."

  She made a small, exasperated sound. "You know I could, because I did

  it before, when I tried to burn that holy roller place last year. But

  let me save you a question. I didn't."

  "I wasn't necessarily going there, Andrea."

  "Not much."

  Steele grinned, in part at the girl, but mainly to preserve their

  fragile rapport. "Well, maybe I was. But first I was going to ask you

  what you thought of the Vargas Trinity. Some people thought it was

  blasphemous. Did you?"

  "Funnily enough I didn't; I saw it as a feminist joke, that's all. God

  doesn't actually have a sex; mankind was made in God's image, not just

  a man. Yet he's been depicted as male; that's more of a blasphemy in a

  way. He's referred to in male terms, but that's purely a convenience.

  What Vargas was saying was that if you see God as a woman then since

  Christ was made in Her image too, then all three, the Holy Spirit

  included, had to be women. A joke, you see; a bad joke, I admit,

  expressed in an execrably bad painting, but not something that would

  move God to destroy it."

  This time she looked Steele in the eye, and held his gaze. "I see," he

  said, slowly. "But what about those holy rollers? This is a genuine

  question, by the way, Andrea, no tricks. I'm interested. What made

  them blasphemous in your eyes?"

  She seemed to bridle and he thought for a moment that the thread tying

  them together had snapped. "The way they carry on, of course," she

  answered, her voice rising. "Have you seen the pagan way in which

  these people purport to worship God? All that hand-clapping and

  wailing and yelling, all that calling attention to themselves. They

  are approaching God without any humility, as if He was a celebrity of

  some sort, rather than the Lord of Creation before Whom we should all

  bow down our heads. Their practices bring Him into disrepute, and

  that's why He called me to destroy their temple."

  Broadley laid a hand softly on her arm. She shook it off. "Oh all

  right, Adam," she said, crossly. "I accept that I was ill; I accept

  that I still am. But you have to accept that God's call was real to me

  at the time, and that it still is. Just as it was real when He spoke

  to me again on Friday. Yes, I know it's part of my illness, but it

  still has reality for me, and it is natural for me to obey Him."

  The physician looked at the detectives. For a second Steele thought he

  was about to intervene, and silenced him with a quick chilling glare.

  "Let's get this straight, Andrea," he continued, quietly. "God spoke

  to you again on Friday,
you say?"

  She looked at him with a calmness that was almost serene, a total

  contrast to her attitude fifteen minutes earlier. "Yes."

  "How?"

  "This time it was on the telephone," she told him.

  "How did He speak to you before?"

  "Last time it was through the television, when it was switched off.

  Other times it's been through the speakers of my stereo. There's

  nothing odd about Him using the phone."

  "Will you tell me what happened?"

  "Of course. I was at home, alone as usual, when the phone rang, or

  seemed to. I picked it up and He was on the other end."

  "How did you know it was Him?"

  She smiled at him, and for the first time he noticed that behind all

  that severity, she was actually very pretty. "Do you mean did He say,

  "Hello, Andrea, this is God"? No, of course not. He doesn't need to.

  He's in my head. I know that now, so when it happens I just accept

  it."

  "Okay. So what did He say?"

  "He said that He had a task for me. He said that He wanted me to go to

  the opening of the exhibition on Saturday. There would be a purpose to

  it, He said. I would be His witness."

  "What did you say?"

  "Don't be daft, inspector. You listen to God, you don't talk to

  Him."

  "Sorry. So you went to the opening ceremony?"

  "Of course."

  "How did you get in without a ticket?"

  "I'd been there before. The security people all knew me. I just waved

  and went in."

  "We saw you on the videotapes. You looked apprehensive."

  "I was. For all I knew, we were all going to be smitten with

  thunderbolts."

  "When it happened, when the picture went up, were you surprised?"

  She gave him that smile again, this time with her eyes as well as her

  mouth. "Inspector Steele, I suppose I was the only person in that room

  who wasn't."

  "But you did not do anything to set off that device and you did not

  create and plant it?"

  "No, I did not. As I told you, this time I was only a witness. I

  suppose I was such an awful instrument against the Baptists that God

  felt He couldn't trust me again."

  Steele grinned back at her; for a few seconds they simply looked at

  each other, saying nothing.

  "Is that it?" asked Broadley, eventually. "Because if it is .. ."

  Andrea Strachan turned to look at him. Steele thought of a butterfly,

  emerged from its chrysalis. "I know, Adam," she said. "You don't have

  to say it. You'd like me to stay with you for a few more weeks."

  The young clinician looked almost grateful. "I'd hope it won't be

  weeks, but yes, I would like you to spend some time with me."

  "If you wish. I know better than to argue anyway. You're as

  persuasive as the inspector here. Can you fetch my medication and some

  clothes from my place?"

  "We've got medication here, but I'll have a nurse get some clothes for

  you. Come on, I'll find you a room."

  She stood, and the detectives followed suit. Just as she was leaving

  the room, Steele called out to her. "Andrea, just one more thing." She

  stopped and looked back. "After God had finished speaking to you last

  Friday, what happened?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "How did the call end?"

  "He said what He had to say, and then He was gone."

  "What did you hear after that?"

  "A dialling tone, that was all."

  "Mmm," Steele mused. "In that case didn't it strike you as odd that

  God should hang up His phone?"

  She left them with a shade of doubt in her eyes, for the first time

  since they had met.

  "Stevie," Maggie Rose exclaimed as the door closed, 'that was most

  impressive; a master class in interviewing. Well done."

  He blinked and looked at her as if he had heard not a word she had

  said. "Sorry?"

  "Ah, never mind. What do you think?"

  "You're the boss. What's your take?"

  "She probably did it, but we have no witnesses to her planting the

  device or igniting it. We could maybe search her home under warrant

  and find something that could have been the triggering device, but we'd

  still be a mile short of making a case. As it is she's under

  psychiatric care again, so she's no risk. Do you agree?"

  Steele scratched his chin. "Remember what we were saying yesterday

  about things being too easy?" he asked her. "Well this is. I'm sorry

  but I

  just don't think she did it. I am quite sure she had a phone call on

  Friday, and I'm even more certain that it wasn't from God. Andrea's

  been handed to us on a plate by some clever bastard who doesn't want us

  to take this investigation any further. If you want me to buy that,

  you're going to have to order me. But even then, I don't think I

  can."

  Rose smiled. "Are you sure you haven't just fallen in love?" "Maybe I

  have, but that's got nothing to do with it. I can still spot a set-up

  when I see one."

  Thirty-Four.

  The pervasive example of Bob Skinner, who often said that the uniform

  was the last thing that had made him join the police service, may have

  made him less of a stickler, but Sir James Proud still enjoyed wearing

  his. He felt that it was part of his rank, and also that it let the

  people under his command know that he had respect for his job, and,

  through it, for them.

  He prepared himself for his scheduled meeting, as always, in the

  private bathroom of his office suite. He ran a comb through his

  crinkly, silver hair, checked that his tie was straight, and finally

  turned to his uniform jacket. He held it up for inspection, then,

  spotting a flaw, brushed a few specks from the shoulders. Finally,

  when he was ready, he slipped it on.

  He looked in the mirror as he fastened the heavy silver buttons, one by

  one. There was a time when he had had to strain to fasten the middle

  one, but the warning shot that nature had fired across his bows a year

  or two earlier had changed all that. Now the jacket was too slack, if

  anything; he might have to think about having it taken in, or maybe

  even order a new one. He would have enough time left in post to get

  the wear out of it; just as well, for he wouldn't be handing it on. The

  man who would be his successor was wider in the shoulders than him.

  Sir James gave himself one last appraising look; although he intended

  that it would be brief, this was a meeting for which he wanted to be at

  his most impressive. "Yes, Jimmy," he said, satisfied at last, 'you

  are the very model of an old-fashioned chief constable."

  Turning sharply on his heel, he strode out of his sanctuary and into

  his office. The two lawyers were waiting for him, seated at his

  meeting table; Mitchell Laidlaw, representing Bob Skinner, and Tom

  Hogg, a respected solicitor from a small Glasgow firm from which he

  sought independent legal advice on behalf of the force, when the need

  arose. He looked from one to the other as he took his seat behind his

  desk, at Hogg, small, sharp-faced, sharp-eyed, sharp-witted, then at

  Laidlaw, the physical opposite, bulky.. . although it occurred
to Sir

  James that he had seen him look more portly.. . round face,