"Get rid of the furniture," he murmured, as she came to stand behind him.
"I know what you mean," she confessed, 'but it was my granny's."
"Then donate it to Age Concern and get some new stuff. She won't mind."
"You didn't know my granny. "Waste not, want not", that was her motto.
Actually it should just have been "waste not"; she believed that wanting was a sin. Granny Strachan was firmly on the zealot side of my family."
"What about Grandpa? Where was he?"
"Well out of it, in a cemetery on the Isle of Lewis; he died about fifty years ago."
In the background, Jools ended with a flourish, and the CD changer switched to a surprising piece of blue-grass by someone who sounded to Steele like Dolly Parton, with a voice as clear and sharp as her chest was rounded.
"So what is it, inspector, that you want to talk to me about?" asked Andrea. "Sit down," she insisted, pushing him towards one of the uncomfortable chairs. "Let me get you a drink. Would orange juice or cola be all right? I don't have anything alcoholic'
"Anything."
She opened a door to his left; he followed her with his eyes into a small kitchen. A fridge door swung open and he heard can-opening sounds; she reappeared with a tin of red cola in each hand. "Will it do like this?" she asked. "All my glasses are in the dishwasher."
He grinned as he took it from her, letting his hand brush hers for a second longer than necessary, and noting that, like Maggie Rose the day before, she did not flinch from his touch. "You're getting more decadent by the day, Andrea," he chuckled.
"Good," she said, firmly, and folded herself into the other chair, tucking her feet under her and managing somehow to make the thing look comfortable. "Now what is it, or were you just looking for an excuse to see me again?"
"I probably was," he admitted, 'but I wanted to speak to a chemist, and you're the only one I know. I've had some daft thoughts running about in my head, and some questions I need answering."
"About what?"
"Bombs. Specifically, incendiary devices that wouldn't leave a trace after they'd done what they were meant to do."
"And you think I'm a specialist, do you?" She gave him what he hoped was a mock frown.
"No, not at all; like I said, you're a chemist."
"With special experience," she added, dryly, with a raised eyebrow.
"Chuck it. I'll go if you like."
She smiled, like a rainbow through a shower. "No, I like you being here; you're the first man to come through that door who hasn't been a relation or a doctor. Okay, this bomb of yours; how would you set it off?"
"Remotely; with either a device triggered by a radio signal or a simple timer."
"I don't see how you could do it, then. You'd have to use combustible materials to start your fire. Their reaction wouldn't make their elements disappear; I'd expect there still to be a residue, an oxidisation, that could be traced afterwards."
"What if you used a material that would be natural at the scene, like oil in a garage, or paper in an office? Any traces that were found wouldn't seem unusual."
"No," Andrea agreed, 'but what about your trigger device? That wouldn't disappear into thin air either. Suppose you simply lit a blue touch paper and retired, that would leave a trace of what it had been before it was consumed." She laughed. "You can't do it, Stevie; you'd be talking spontaneous combustion, and that's not a very efficient way of starting a fire, at least not the sort you're talking about."
"What sort might it work on?" he asked, casually.
She smiled again; pure rainbow this time, no shower in sight. "Strictly speaking this is physics, not chemistry, so I'm just guessing, you understand. But maybe there's me, for a start. By the nature of the phenomenon, though, you'll have to stick around till it happens … if you're interested that is." She stretched her hand out towards him, and he took it.
"Oh, I'm interested, all right," he murmured, grinning back at her.
"What do I do if you show signs of bursting into flames?"
"As I told you," she replied, 'it's never happened before, but I'd guess you throw a blanket over us and do what you have to, to keep them from getting out of control. I have been told, though, that it might be more interesting if you just let me burn."
She unwound herself from her chair and stood up. "It could take some time, though; a few weeks, months even. So while we're waiting, I'll just make us a nice salad."
Fifty-Four
"That's the house," said Sarah. He drew the Jag to a halt and looked across the street to where she was pointing. A single deflated balloon still hung from a tree in the yard.
"Okay," he muttered. "Let's see if the lady's at home." He opened the car door and swung it open.
"Do you want me to come?" she asked.
Bob paused. "Better not," he replied, after a couple of seconds of thought. "I'm pushing my luck with Brady as it is. Let me talk to her. If there's anything I think you need to hear or see, I'll come back and get you."
He stepped out on to the road and started to walk the fifty yards towards the house. As he neared it, he looked to his right. The sheriff's department's crime scene tape was still stretched across Ron Neidholm's front door. It spoiled the look of the place. Skinner could see personality in houses; without the tape this one would have looked friendly and welcoming. Sometimes he thought he could see their history also. He looked at an upstairs window and pictured Sarah, framed in it, with a dreamy look in her eye as she dressed. He snapped his gaze away and turned in to the driveway of the house across the street.
He had always been struck by the size of the plots on which even the most modest of American houses are built. "This is a big-ass country, my man," his poor, dead friend Joe Doherty had said to him once. "We ain't stingy with our land like you Brits." He guessed that the acreage on which he stood was around the same as that of his own home in Gullane, and wondered how much less it had cost.
The front door opened before he reached it. A straw-haired woman appeared, leaning against the frame and frowning at him as he approached; she looked to be in her early thirties, around Sarah's age, and was dressed much as his wife did at home, in jeans, tee-shirt and trainers.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
Skinner smiled at her; her expression softened a little, but suspicion remained in her eyes. "I hope so," he replied. He took out his warrant card and held it up for her to see; at home or abroad, he never went anywhere without it. "I'm a police officer. I'm not from around here, but I've been working with the Erie County sheriff in the investigation of Ron Neidholm's death. There are a couple of things I'd like to ask you."
The woman gasped, involuntarily. "Oh yeah," she exclaimed. "Poor Ron; how awful! He was such a nice man, for all that he was a big sports star; he was so ordinary, and so pleasant. I just can't imagine him being killed like they said. Right in the middle of my little boy's birthday party too; why I spoke to him that very afternoon. He came across to say hello."
She paused, and gave him an appraising look; Skinner found himself reminded of Alex, when he had taken her to Edinburgh Zoo as an eight-year-old. She had peered at the pygmy hippos in exactly the same way. "You're Scottish, aren't you?" she asked.
"I am indeed," he replied. "From Lanarkshire originally, but now from Edinburgh."
"How interesting. I'm Scottish too," she tittered, 'not that you'd know it to listen to me. Actually, I'm Canadian, but my parents emigrated from Scotland to Toronto about forty years ago. They came from Bellshill. That's in Lanarkshire, isn't it?"
"It sure is. My mother was brought up there."