‘Photographs?’
‘He’s bearded with glasses, and I can place him. He was the photographer at the press briefing who asked Colin at the beginning where he was staying. You couldn’t tell her from Eve, though . . . or maybe even from Adam. She looks weird: she’s got short silver jaggy hair, no eyebrows at all, wears blue glasses, has studs through both nostrils and her bottom lip, and three or four rings in each ear.’
‘In other words she doesn’t look a bit like a corporate banker?’
‘Not like any I’ve ever seen.’
‘Thank you, Superintendent. Your late friend Colin owes you one.’
Skinner clicked an end to the call, then found the media-relations manager’s number in his phonebook. ‘Alan, it’s Bob Skinner. Where are the press at this moment?’
‘Telly’s on the fixed platform, up in the stand, with two free cameras out on the ground. The photographers are in rows just to the side of the tunnel and the reporters are behind them. I can see them now.’
‘Two names: Bailey and Cookson. Are they there?’
‘Yes. She’s sat directly behind him, in fact; they’re in the seats next to the aisle. He’s got the usual enormous camera and she’s got a pocket recorder, for all the good that’ll do her. She won’t get that close. Bob,’ Royston asked, ‘do you know when the action’s going to start? Everyone’s getting fidgety.’
‘Tell them one of the pipers fainted with the excitement, but that he’s okay now. Neil and I are on our way there. One thing; whatever happens, you do not let anyone leave. Who’s the nearest senior officer?’
‘Brian. He’s ten yards away.’
‘Good. Tell him. Nobody leaves.’ He replaced his phone and turned to McIlhenney. ‘Come on.’ He led him, running, out of the tent.
The massed bands were in their ranks outside, inflating their pipes, almost ready to march. Skinner raced up to the lead pipe-major. ‘Two more minutes,’ he said. ‘Then go. It’s important. Wait two minutes.’
Leaving them behind, the two policemen ran from the gateway to the ground, round the curve where north stand became west. ‘This way,’ said Skinner, still breathing easily as he led the way up a flight of stairs to the first level. He looked along towards the centre of the stand and saw Maggie Rose in her uniform, standing by an entrance door, looking out into the ground. Somewhere in the background he heard the skirl of pipes, and the buzz of forty thousand children turn once more to cheers. He ran towards her. ‘Press? Where?’ he called out, his breath coming harder now.
She pointed to her right. ‘Next stairway and down.’ Skinner and McIlhenney sprinted on, the DCC wishing that he had asked for an extra minute.
He saw her as soon as he turned into the entrance, her back to him, silver hair, spiked up, seated to the left of the aisle, in the second row from the front, behind a burly man. He paused, gathering himself, and allowing McIlhenney a few seconds to recover. ‘I’ll take him,’ he gasped, ‘you take her. Get the recorder, I’ll get his camera; pound to a pinch of pig-shit that’s where they’ve hidden the transmitters to detonate the bombs. I don’t want those triggers going off in any soldier’s hands, and when they see their boys are missing . . .’
‘Christ, no,’ the inspector muttered. ‘But I’ll take him. He’s bigger and I’ve got the gun.’
‘Deal.’
They slipped quietly down the stairway as the last of the long parade of pipers made their way into the stadium. They reached their targets just as the first flash of blue appeared in the gateway, as the colonel, diminutive in the distance, but marching straight-backed, led the Bastogne Drummers into the stadium.
Skinner was close enough to hear her exclamation as she realised that the front rank was two men short. He slipped down beside her and snatched the small device from her hand. The man in front turned, in time to look into the barrel of the Glock, as McIlhenney grabbed his camera with his free left hand.
‘Show’s over,’ Skinner exclaimed, above the noise. He yanked the woman quickly out of her seat and pulled her towards the stairway, as McIlhenney motioned her companion to follow. He was glancing behind when she slammed a stiletto heel into the instep of his right foot. The pain was momentary but intense, loosening his grip for long enough for her to twist free and run up the stairs.
Maggie Rose seemed to step out of the shadows, to catch her in the doorway, spin her round and slam her, face first, into the wall, as hard as she could. The DCC whistled. ‘Who the hell’s been annoying you this morning?’ he asked, as he limped up the stairs.
The incident was barely noticed, so intent was the crowd on the scene outside. McIlhenney held Bailey’s arm twisted up behind his back, as Rose restrained the woman who had been Cookson for the day; together they forced them out on to the concourse. As they did so, Chief Superintendent Mackie appeared, with Alan Royston by his side.
‘The last two for the lock-up,’ said Skinner, ‘but keep them separate from the rest. They’re very special.’
‘There’s another holding cell,’ Mackie told him. ‘Beside the command centre. I’ll put them in there.’
‘You do that. Strip-search them, put them in restraints, then lock them up. Put a police officer on the door, armed but with weapon concealed.’ He looked at Royston. ‘Alan, if anyone asks you about this, tell them, for now, that we thought she looked odd, and that we were concerned that they’d slipped in among the press contingent, so we had them out of there as a precaution. When they’ve been questioned and charged, we’ll release a full statement.’ He turned away. ‘Okay, get on with it; I’ll see you after.’
‘After what?’ asked Rose.
‘After the rally, of course. This is a uniform-section show; officially, I’m not on duty here. I’m going to watch.’
And watch Bob Skinner did, as the pipers piped, the dancers danced, the singers sang, as the Bastogne Drummers played and marched their finest, as the musketeers fired their ear-splitting gunpowder salute and as Auguste Malou came face to face with his old friend Father Gibb, for the first time in forty years.
He listened too, as Pope John the Twenty-fifth preached reconciliation and peace to a gathering of forty thousand, of many faiths and of none, to a generation with the youth and optimism, Skinner found himself hoping, to hear what he was saying and to put his teaching into practice.
And then it was over. The white-robed figure said his goodbyes to the Prime Minister and his wife, to the First Minister and Mrs Murtagh, and to the Lord and Lady Provost, then climbed back inside his bullet-proof, armour-plated bubble for the journey back to Rome. The DCC caught Gio Rossi’s eye as he climbed into the car behind; he gave him a large thumbs-up sign, both hands clenched together in the gesture. Jack Russell saw it too, as he shepherded the prime ministerial couple into their Jaguar, and returned it with a smile and a quick wave.
As the convoy pulled out, Skinner made his way down to the ground, intercepting Aileen de Marco as she and her brother walked from the field.
‘Is all well, then,’ she asked, once she had introduced the two men, ‘here at least?’
He smiled. ‘Here at least.’
‘You look really pleased with yourself,’ she exclaimed. ‘Is there something the Justice Minister should know?’
‘Sounds intriguing. How can I refuse?’ She turned to her brother. ‘Peter, you follow Tommy and his wife, the LP, the chief constable and everybody into the reception; we’ll be along in a minute. Where to?’ she asked Skinner.
‘Up to the top level. I’ll show you the command centre, and let you look through a peephole at a couple of special guests of ours. I think they’re going to become very famous in the months to come . . . if they can ever figure out what to call them.’
‘My God, you’ve made arrests?’
‘Let’s not talk here. Come on.’ He led her inside and up the first of several flights of stairs. The last of the young people and their escorts were leaving the stadium; they passed them and kept on climbing until they reached the highest point of the west stand, the command centre from which everything could be seen, either through binoculars or on a series of monitors, each showing feed from a different security camera.
He opened the door and ushered her inside: Willie Haggerty, Brian Mackie, Maggie Rose and Neil McIlhenney all turned as they entered. She greeted the three men, whom she had met before, and smiled at Rose as the DCC introduced them. As she shook her hand she noticed that her knuckles were grazed.
‘Where’s Royston?’ Skinner asked McIlhenney, as Haggerty began to explain the working of the centre to the
