Fallen Gods

Thirty-Seven

"I appreciate the urgency of your enquiries, Superintendent," said David Candela, 'but couldn't this have waited until close of business?

Couldn't you have interviewed the chap at home?"

"I could also have sent my colleague Detective Sergeant Regan," Maggie Rose answered. "George would have marched straight up to your reception desk, flashed his warrant card, and demanded to see Mr. Sheringham there and then. That's his style; I find him quite a useful blunt instrument when I'm dealing with an awkward customer. With you involved though, Mr. Candela, I thought it would be more appropriate if I came along myself, with Inspector Steele, and asked you to arrange for us to speak to the man in private."

The autocratic senior partner was mollified. "Yes, of course," he said at once. "I appreciate your discretion. You say this is a purely routine interview?"

"It is. If it was otherwise we'd be seeing him on our premises, not yours."

"I'm sure. Very well, let me show you to one of our conference rooms, then I'll fetch Eric'

"Thanks. Since we're being discreet, before you do that, could you tell us something about him? For example, is he quiet or extrovert?"

"I don't really know a lot about him," Candela confessed. He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. Steele glanced around his office, taking it in. There was a flat-screen computer terminal on a corner of the big desk, yet somehow it seemed to be balanced on the other side by a photo of a man in uniform, set in an ornate antique frame. The total effect was surprisingly traditional in a modern building, as if it had been designed to give the feel of two-hundred-year-old values in a twenty-first-century environment.

"Young Sheringham is one of our last round of graduate recruits. That means he'll be bright. You can assume that, because we rarely take 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,"

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 this 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."