The Circle

Andy had run through the list. He was about to end the interview when he had an inspiration. 'How is your garden laid out?'

A frown from Basil. 'Do you really want to know?'

'I wouldn't ask if I didn't.'

'It's the narrow strip that most suburban gardens are. I've tried to introduce curved shapes in the flower beds and the path for interest, and there's a small pond and some fruit trees. I like roses, so I have a pergola with trellis work. Oh, and a gazebo.'

'A lawn?'

'Certainly.'

'Do you mow it yourself?'

He said with pride, 'I do all the gardening myself.'

'What kind of mower? Hover?'

'No, I prefer the cylindrical sort that gives me those beautiful stripes. Mine is a Ransom.'

'Petrol-driven?'

'I'm not out of the ark.'

'So you have a supply of petrol, leaded petrol?'

'Of course. A couple of cans in my shed.' He hesitated. 'Oh, I see what you're getting at, but you'd be wrong, quite wrong.'

Hen felt as if she was still on the dry outer layer of onion skin with Anton. While others were getting dramatic results, she might as well have gone to the canteen for a coffee and a doughnut.

'I've given this some thought,' he said when she returned.

'Good.'

'What time of the night does this arsonist choose?'

'The small hours.'

'You can't be more precise?'

'Around four a.m., in the case of the latest fire.' She added, 'I'm supposed to ask the questions.'

'So if I can prove I was at home between three thirty and five, am I in the clear?'

'I reckon you would be.'

'Excellent.' He felt in his pocket and dangled a house key in front of her. 'You have my permission to send one of your officers to check my computer.'

'We've been over this,' Hen said with a sigh. 'The fact that your computer was switched on is no proof you were there.'

He nodded. 'But if you look in my e-mail facility you'll find a record of the messages I sent and received that night, and each one has a time beside it. I'm very busy at that hour because I have friends across the world who share my interest in virtual architecture and it's a good time for an insomniac like me to communicate. When you look at the messages you won't need much convincing that they were mine. And you can do the same for the night of the first fire.'

She took the key. 'If you're right about this, I'll take back what I said. I'll get someone to drive you round there.'

She came out with mixed feelings. It would be good to get a result, yet secretly she'd rather fancied Anton as the arsonist. His calculating manner and his contempt for the rest of the circle had made him a prime suspect in her eyes.

When she came out of the interview room young Shilling was waiting in the corridor with a photo in a plastic folder. 'Guv, I've got it'

Her mood lightened up. 'Good lad.'

They went into her office and examined the black and white shot of two grinning men, one recognisable as the young Edgar Blacker, the other, with yellowish hair, unknown to her and unlike any of the men in the circle. The pair looked similar in age. Both wore striped shirts, but no ties. They were holding beer cans. Their free hands were over each other's shoulders.

'What do you think?' she asked Shilling. 'Family or friend?'

'They don't look like family to me.'

'Nor me.'

She turned it over and found the writing. '"Innocents, Christmas 1982". Over twenty years ago. What do you make of it?'

'The "Innocents" bit? Could be, like, a joke, guv.'

She turned it over to look at the front again. 'You mean they look well plastered?'

'A couple of lads on the beer isn't most people's idea of innocence.'

'Can you see what's in the background? It's been taken with a flash and there's some heavy shadowing, but that looks like a coffee machine behind them.'

Shilling studied it. 'And maybe the corner of a notice board.'

'Suggesting it's an office. The office Christmas party? Let's do a computer scan on this. Take care of it, will you? See if we can get the background enhanced. If there are clues here, I want to see them. It may have no bearing on the case, but I can't take the chance.'

She went back to where the remaining members of the circle were waiting. That stalwart character Maurice McDade was still there with the three who hadn't yet been seen: Bob Naylor, Dagmar Bumstead and Naomi Green. They all looked up.

'Almost ready for you,' she said to them as a group. 'You've been extremely patient.'

Bob looked at his watch in a pointed manner.

'You're the Parcel Force driver? Are you working nights?'

'Early mornings.'

'It won't take that long. Stella Gregson will see you shortly. Miss Bumstead, you're with DC Shilling. That means you're with me, Mrs Green.'

Naomi followed her like a lamb.

'Is this a voluntary statement?' Dagmar asked DC Shilling.

'You took the words out of my mouth.'

'I work in a solicitor's office, you see.'

Shilling gave a nod. 'We're doing this by the book.'

'If you suspected me of an offence, you'd have to caution me and give me certain advice about my rights. But like the others I'm only here because the chief inspector asked for our help as witnesses.'

No flies on this one. 'That's my understanding, ma'am. You're the romantic novelist, I believe?'

Dagmar flushed deeply. 'I don't know about the — as if I was Danielle Steel.'

'What I mean is that you're the only one in the circle.'

'So far as I'm aware, yes.'

You've written a lot of these — what do they call them? — bodice-rippers.'

'You were right the first time. Romantic novels. Twelve altogether. And now you're about to ask me with a snigger where I get my ideas from.'

'Actually, no.'

She carried on as if he hadn't spoken. 'And I can't and won't answer.'

'I wasn't going to ask,' Shilling said. 'I don't mind betting you get your best ideas at work.'

'Why?'

'Correct me if I'm wrong, but the books you write are all about women who go through a series of misunderstandings with the hell-raiser who in the end turns out to be Mr Right. You must get more than enough inspiration for stories working in a solicitor's office.'

She gave him a stare fit to impale him. 'The solicitors I work with are gentlemen through and through.'

Shilling smiled. 'I meant the clients. All the problems that are brought in, divorce and separation and disputes between neighbours.'

'That's all conjecture on your part.'

Shilling nodded and smiled. 'Let's move quickly on, then. We'll talk about the publisher, Edgar Blacker. Whose idea was it to bring him to the circle?'

'Maurice's.'

'And did everyone agree?'

'Most of them sent in their work for appraisal, so they must have.'

'Nice word, "appraisal". Better than criticism.'

'You mean we wanted to hear nice things? I'm sure we did.'

'Coming back to the question: did everyone agree it was a good plan to invite Blacker?'

'I didn't, for one. Maurice is a lovely man, but he doesn't know much about human nature. I could see it would raise unrealistic hopes.'

'Did you tell him?'

'Privately, yes. I was one of the original members, so I felt I had a right to protest.'

'Protest? It was as strong as that?'

'No, it was a civilised discussion. Maurice listened to me and then gave his point of view. He thought it would do us all good to get a professional opinion on our work. He really felt it was for the best. In the end he talked me into sending in my latest, saying it would show Mr Blacker that one of us at least was capable of finishing a novel.'

Listening to this little lady speaking in her earnest tone, with never a hint of a smile, Shilling wondered how she had reacted to being rejected — for what, the twelfth time? — but in the presence of people she regarded as inferior writers. 'And did Blacker appreciate your work?'