`Pass,' said Skinner.
Ahh, I see. Nothing identifiable. So what will they do about a funeral, do you think?'
`Stuffed if I know. We can give them a boxful of something. The trouble is, at the moment it would be a sheep.'
Ugh.' The agent screwed up his face. 'Have you established the cause of the accident yet?'
Skinner took him by the elbow. 'Let's go back inside. That's something I still have to break to Leona. It might be helpful if you were there when I tell her. She'll need friends around her.'
THIRTY
The Press Briefing Room was as full as Skinner had ever seen it, even in the times of major crises which had marked his career. Six television cameras, including the Force Video Unit, pointed at him, from behind ranks of reporters.
I have a very short statement to make, ladies and gentlemen, after which I do not intend to take any questions.
It has now been established that yesterday morning's disaster on the Lammermuirs was caused by an explosion in the cabin of the plane. We are satisfied that a device was smuggled on board the aircraft, although we do not know whether it was intended that it should detonate in flight.
`This Force has now begun a murder investigation. I am in direct control of enquiries, assisted by Chief Superintendent Andrew Martin. He has been appointed Head of CID, in succession to Roy Old who, as you will know, died in yesterday's tragedy. Mr Martin and I will call on other Forces for cooperation and assistance as necessary.
I have nothing more to say today, but further briefings will be held as appropriate.'
He stood up amid a clamour of shouted questions, and a forest of waving tape recorders, and walked from the room.
As he passed the back row of journalists, Noel Salmon, an untidy, black-stubbled man who worked for Skinner's least favourite tabloid, chuckled to his neighbour, `D'you reckon Andy Martin planted the bomb so he could get Roy Old's job?'
As a collective moan escaped the lips of all those journalists who were near enough to hear the remark, the DCC froze in mid-stride. He reached down, grabbed the podgy reporter by his leather belt, hauled him from his seat and propelled him bodily from the room. Sammy Pye, on duty by the double doors, held them open for him, unquestioningly, then had the innate good sense not to follow.
The corridor wound to the right towards a stairway, fifteen feet from the doors. Skinner turned into it out of sight, and threw the man against the opposite wall, face first, and very hard.
Salmon squealed: 'That's assault!'
`No, it's not, it's carelessness. I just dropped you, that's all. I wouldn't dirty my knuckles on a little shit like you, son. But if I ever hear of you saying something as crass as that again, then for the rest of your life you will never know a day when you don't regret it. Now you get on your way, and don't ever present yourself in this office again, or in any other run by this Force.'
Salmon lived up to his name. His face was a deep pink colour. 'You can't take on the Press, Skinner! I'll get you!'
The policeman's face twisted with scorn. 'You? You graceless wanker, you could barely get your own tea. Now shift out of here before I charge you with imitating a human being.'
He pushed the man towards the door, and trotted up the stairway. He was still shaking with anger as he sat down behind his desk. When Maggie Rose came into the room the phone was in his hand and he was dialling a London number.
`Reggie,' he barked, when the call was answered. 'Bob Skinner. Remember you told me that a couple of years ago you sorted out a problem for that newspaper proprietor fellow, the one that owns those nasty tabloids, and that he owes our side a few favours as a result?
You do? Good! Well, now I've got a wee problem, and I'd like him to sort it out. In fact, I'd like him make sure that my wee problem never gets a job in journalism in Britain again… ever.'
THIRTY-ONE
Neil Mcllhenney was never at his best with lachrymose women. In fact, he was rarely at his best with women in any situation. In their occasional matrimonial jousts, Olive Mcllhenney could best her husband in many ways, from simple tears to extended silence, and others which she still kept hidden in her armoury, just in case.
The moments in his career which he had enjoyed least had been those on the Drugs and Vice Squad when Andy Martin, its Commander, had decreed a crack-down on Edinburgh's burgeoning massage parlours — establishments in which the massage, on offer only to men, was of a localised and specialist nature.
Although he had given of his best, his diffidence had been noticed, prompting Martin to comment to Bob Skinner, 'See that McIlhenney! If I sent him in to sort out a male brothel, he'd tear the place, and the characters in it, apart with his bare fists. But take him on a raid on a sauna and he goes in with his cap in his hand. The fact is, the big fella's just scared of women!'
At times, who can blame him?' the DCC, fresh from a roasting by his exam-stressed daughter, had muttered.
No, Mcllhenney was an old-fashioned man's copper, and so, faced across the cream-topped table by the sobbing Shana Mirzana, he was happy to play the part of junior officer, leaving all the questioning to DC' Dave Donaldson.
Ms Mirzana had been Assistant Private Secretary to the Secretary of State for Defence.
She was the third member of the Private Office staff whom Donaldson, Mcllhenney and Maui Arrow had interviewed. Their Metropolitan Police colleague, Detective Sergeant Garen Price, was there simply to throw the cloak of his jurisdiction over the proceedings.
He sat in the corner and sipped coffee.
I know this is difficult for you, ma'am,' said the DCI, 'but you will understand that an investigation as serious as this must go ahead with all speed. So if you'll compose yourself, please.'
Listening, Mcllhenney was struck by the way in which Donaldson kept a sympathetic tone in his voice, but did not disguise the fact that the woman was there to be questioned, aggressively if necessary. You're a cold-hearted bastard under that smooth surface, Dave, he thought.
She nodded, dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief. 'Of course,' she said. 'I'm sorry. I will try to help you.'
`We know you will, Shana,' said Adam Arrow, offering a familiar face as a reassurance.
'Just keep calm.'
He had shown them her Personnel file and her vetting report. She was twenty-seven, the granddaughter of an immigrant from India just as it gained nationhood, his departure sped, no doubt, by the fact that he was a Muslim. The family religion had been retained in Britain, but half a century on, as she sat before them, Shana wore an outfit which was distinctly Western in its style and cut. She had indeed liberated herself considerably, as her LSE degree bore out. She was the daughter of an orthopaedic surgeon, and, while not on as fast a track as Maurice Noble, she was expected to carve out a good civil service career.
The vetting process had thrown up no skeletons, other than a student membership of the Young Conservatives, and a speeding conviction at the age of twenty-two.
When was the trip to Scotland first put into Mr Davey's diary, Ms Mirzana?' asked Donaldson.
'It was talked about perhaps three weeks ago, when the Chief of the General Staff first invited the Secretary of State to visit the exercise.' She spoke with the few faint traces of a Midlands accent to have survived a good education.
