Thursday Legends

by Quintin Jardine

  lower than a first when we do our university trawl. The reason I don't

  know much about him is that we've put him in our family department, so

  I don't come across his work. I'm a corporate partner myself; as well

  as being top dog around here, that is. I may have been a late entrant

  to the firm, and there may be the family tradition, but I've got into

  this chair on merit."

  "You're still a full-service firm, then?" asked Steele.

  "Apart from buying and selling houses. We got out of that line of work

  when we moved up here. Best left to the estate agents and those

  solicitor firms who are clinging on to traditional offices. Come on."

  Suddenly Candela pushed himself to his feet. "I'll install you and

  fetch the boy."

  He led them out of his office and along a corridor. Its walls were

  glazed, allowing them to see into a modern open-plan office with an

  imaginative layout, which meant that no employee was directly looking

  on to the desk of another. They could see across the floor and through

  the windows on the far side. On the other side of the Western Approach

  Road, Steele noticed that several windows on one floor of the block

  opposite were shattered. It was dark and deserted, although the floors

  above and below were bright and buzzing with action.

  "What's that?" he asked casually.

  "That's the scene of the other fire on Saturday," the solicitor told

  him. "Their bad luck that the Academy fire was first, and on a

  Saturday."

  Candela led them round a corner, then stopped at a beech wood door.

  "In here," he said, showing them into a small windowless room, with a

  round meeting table and six chairs, and two Peter Howson prints on the

  walls. "Won't be a minute," said the solicitor, closing the door behind

  him.

  It re-opened a few minutes later and a young man came in, alone. Eric

  Sheringham was tall and fairhaired; he wore a white, short-sleeved

  shirt, and dark trousers that looked as if they were part of a suit.

  The detectives knew that as a graduate trainee he would be no more than

  in his early twenties, but he looked older. His eyes were pale blue

  and very vivid,

  like Andy Martin's, Maggie thought, if another colour. She wondered if

  he too wore contact lenses.

  "Mr. Candela said you wanted to see me?" he began. They looked for

  signs of nervousness, but saw none.

  "Yes, Mr. Sheringham; please sit down." She introduced herself, and

  Steele.

  "What can I do for you?" the would-be lawyer asked, politely.

  Stevie Steele looked back at him, unsmiling. "We're investigating the

  arson attack that took place on Saturday at the opening of the art

  exhibition that your firm is sponsoring."

  "Oh, that. Pretty spectacular, wasn't it."

  "And pretty criminal," said Rose, sharply. "Quite apart from the

  potential danger to life, from panic as much as from the fire, that

  painting was insured for half a million pounds."

  "Wow, that much?" Sheringham looked impressed, but not rattled.

  "You don't care about it, then?" The Superintendent felt herself

  approaching her annoyance threshold.

  "Not much. I've seen better at the end-of-year exhibition at the

  Lauriston art school."

  "I don't think Ms Rose was talking about its artistic merit," said

  Steele, with a half smile. "I think she was talking more about the

  principle of arson. Are you against that?"

  The young man smiled back. "I'm against arson in principle, but let's

  just say I'd get more worked up about some fires than others. This one

  rated pretty low on my personal scale of outrage ... apart from the

  fact that I was there, of course."

  "Yes, you were, weren't you. We noticed that from the list of

  interviewees. Your statement was pretty brief. You said you didn't

  see anything."

  "That's right. I was on reception. I had to stay at my post during

  the ceremony, and Mr. Candela's speech, to register any late-comers.

  All I saw were people's backs."

  "Do you know a woman called Andrea Strachan?" Rose asked suddenly.

  Eric Sheringham blinked; she thought she saw the first flicker of

  uncertainty in his eyes. "No," he answered, quietly.

  "You sure? You were at Edinburgh University at the same time. You

  overlapped there for a couple of years."

  He paused. Rose knew that he was either searching his memory or

  covering his tracks. "Yes," he announced at last. "Sorry, I did know

  an Andrea Strachan. She was a chemist, and she used to take part in

  union debates. She dressed like my mother's auntie, and she used to

  stand up and preach at everyone in a funny high voice. Yet she never

  spoke to anyone directly apart from then. We called her the Dormouse.

  Like in the Mad Hatter's tea party. You remember, the dormouse wakes

  up every so often, says something, then goes back to sleep. Is that

  the woman you mean?"

  "That sounds like her. Did she speak to you on Saturday, at the

  opening ceremony?"

  "I never saw her at the ceremony," Sheringham shot back, quickly; maybe

  too quickly, Steele thought.

  "So you didn't slip her into the thing, without an invitation?" he

  asked.

  "No." The reply was more considered, and firmer.

  "That's funny," said Steele, his voice hardening. "Because she says

  you invited her."

  "Well she's a liar. I don't know her to speak to and I didn't invite

  her anywhere. I don't even know where she lives."

  "Do you have a telephone directory?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Well, she's in it. Miss Strachan says she had a phone call last

  Friday night inviting her to the Academy next day. Mr. Sheringham,

  there's a floor full of lawyers here, and another above. Before we go

  any further, would you like one of them to join us?"

  For the first time, he looked flustered. "Not yet," he replied. "I'll

  know when, don't worry."

  "Okay. The thing is, sir, the call to Miss Strachan was made from your

  mobile."

  Panic and relief seemed to cross the man's face at the same time. "Ah,

  so that's it," he exclaimed. "My mobile was stolen."

  "I've heard that one before somewhere," said Steele, coldly. "Haven't

  you, Superintendent?"

  Rose nodded. "So often that I did a check before we came along here.

  You haven't reported a stolen mobile."

  The relief was gone, leaving only the panic. "I didn't bother,"

  1SA

  Sheringham protested. "I didn't see the point. It was a pay-as-you-go

  phone, and I only had a couple of quid left in the voucher. I fancied

  a new one anyway."

  "Have you bought one yet?"

  "No. I haven't got round to it."

  Rose leaned across the table. "Mr. Sheringham, are you telling me the

  truth?"

  "Yes."

  "In that case, will you be kind enough to let Mr. Steele search your

  desk right now? Or if you'd prefer it, I'll ask Mr. Candela's

  secretary to do it, to avoid you any unnecessary embarrassment. Oh

  yes, and if we don't find it, would you be prepared let me have

  officers search your home? All of t
his is just to confirm your story,

  you understand. Would you agree to that?"

  The trainee shook his head; his complexion had gone several shades

  paler than when he had entered the room. The look of panic in his eyes

  had given way to one of pure fright. "No," he whispered, then slid his

  right hand into his trouser pocket, took out a royal blue Ericsson

  cellphone and laid it on the table.

  Steele picked it up; he saw that it was switched on and flipped it

  open. Quickly, he flicked through the menu and selected 'call list',

  then he stood and walked round the table. "Let's have a look, shall

  we," he said. He chose the first log entry; a name showed on the led

  read-out. Sonia. "Who's that?"

  "My girlfriend." Steele moved on; another name. Hazza. "My pal,"

  Sheringham whispered. He moved on. Sonia, once more.

  There were six more calls to Sonia, two to Hazza, three others to

  friends called Bill, Marti and Brick, all logged by name, before the

  first number showed. It had an 0131 prefix and the call had been made

  on the previous Friday. "Whose is that?" asked Steele.

  "I don't know," Sheringham replied. "I can't remember."

  "Well I can," said the inspector icily. "It's Andrea Strachan's. Time

  for you to shut up, sir, and get that lawyer in here." He turned to

  Rose. "I'll go and speak to Mr. Candela."

  He left the room and headed back down the corridor. After a few yards,

  he stopped, took out his own cellphone and re-called Adam

  Broadley's number. "Is Andrea still with you?" he asked, when the

  psychiatrist answered.

  "Yes. She's fine. I'll probably release her tomorrow, if it's okay

  with you."

  "A hundred per cent okay. If you decide to discharge her tonight, I'll

  even pick her up, if she wants. Meantime, I've got some news for the

  two of you that you can explain however you like. It looks like we've

  found God."

  Thirty-Eight.

  If Skinner had been less preoccupied, he would have noticed that Andy

  Martin's office in the Tayside police headquarters building was bigger

  than his own. Indeed his friend would probably have pointed this out

  to him. But both had other things on their minds.

  Martin's forehead was ridged in a frown to match Skinner's own. "Bob,

  I don't know what to say."

  "Neither do I, so I'm saying nothing else until I get to Buffalo. Then

  I'll be asking plenty."

  "Sure; just keep it level, that's all. Now, is there anything that I

  can do while you're away?"

  Bob looked at him gratefully. "Yes, there is. A couple of things; one

  you'll find easy, the other maybe not. First, I'd like you to keep in

  regular telephone touch with Alex. Just make sure that she's okay and

  all that. She'll be as frantic about this as the rest of us, and she's

  got no one to lean on at this moment."

  "Sure, I'll do that. I'll ask Karen to call her, once you've broken

  this to her and headed out of town; might be better."

  "As you see fit. Now the other thing. When I got Oakdale's call, I

  was in the middle of a bit of private enterprise, involving a man named

  Cecil Williamson, aka Skipper. He's a contemporary of Michael's. He's

  from Mother well and he runs a country house hotel up near Birnam.

  It's called Fir Park Lodge.

  "I was trying to get an up-to-date photo of him, without alarming the

  locals, to show to old Aidan. If he'd identified him, there's a guy on

  his payroll called dAbo, who's done a bit of time. I was proposing to

  have a chat with him, before I squared up his boss."

  Skinner hesitated. "Andy, I know the autopsy report knocked the

  suspicious death investigation on its head, but..."

  18Q

  Martin stood up from behind his desk, and walked to the window. "That

  enquiry may be stood down, Bob, but we still have an interest in

  finding out how he wound up in the river. You've put a name in the

  frame, so I'll look into it. I won't be as subtle as you, either. I'll

  pull dAbo in straight away."

  "Thanks, mate." Skinner stood himself and looked across the room at

  his friend. "Just in case it isn't this Skipper, it might do no harm

  to have a list of estate owners on your patch, especially those with

  salmon rivers running through them. My brother's last meal wasn't

  something he knocked up on a fire at the roadside. It was rich man's

  fare. If it wasn't Williamson, although he's a heavy favourite, I will

  find the man who fed it to him."

  "I'll get someone on it," said Martin. "Now try and forget it for now.

  You have, if I may say so, more important things to attend to."

  Bob shrugged his shoulders as he headed for the door. "Maybe so, son,"

  he murmured, 'but I will attend to them both in time, mark me on that.

  Guilt is one of the strongest motivations there is, be it for covering

  things up, or for uncovering them. My private dread is that before I'm

  finished, I might have to do both."

  1QO

  Thirty-Nine.

  "This man," exclaimed Andrea Strachan. "You say he knows me?"

  Stevie Steele nodded. "He was at university at the same time as

  you."

  "What's his name?"

  "I can't tell you that, I'm afraid."

  "Why? Because I might fall at his feet and worship him?"

  Steele glanced across to the passenger seat, saw her smile, and laughed

  out loud.

  "No. It wouldn't be like you to worship a false god. Idolatry's

  forbidden, remember."

  "Could I forget?" she exclaimed. "That's one of the many things my

  father's drummed into me over the years."

  "How do you get on with your father?" Stevie asked.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile flicker again. "What is

  this? Am I still being interrogated?"

  "Nah," he said, 'that's all over. It was an idle question, that's all.

  Well, almost idle. Here I am picking you up from hospital, and I'm

  taking you home, when I might be taking you to your parents."

  "Just in case I harmed myself, you mean?"

  "No! Oh, Christ, Steele, shut up. Mouth open, foot straight in. I

  think just driving would be a good idea."

  "Maybe, but I'll let you off the hook. And I'll overlook the Name you

  just took in vain. After my crisis, I thought, and Adam agreed, that

  it would be better for me not to go back to that atmosphere. My father

  holds highly orthodox views, which he never ceases to proclaim, and we

  felt that given the nature of my illness, it would be easier if I

  wasn't exposed to them. It's worked out all right, too."

  He looked across at her again. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail,

  and he saw that she was wearing lipstick and eye make-up. Yes,

  pretty;

  1Q1

  very definitely attractive. "Adam recommended that I wear make-up; to

  let my real personality out, he said. His diagnosis was that in my

  schizophrenia, my other side had taken me over completely."

  Her smile became dazzling. "Of course, there is the possibility that

  this is the real nutter you're looking at now."

  "If it is, it suits me fine." The words were out before he had time to