the same time, the front wheel of the motorcycle reared up, and the whole machine spun in a grotesque somersault, crashing, handle-bars first, to the ground with its engine still roaring, a few feet away from its spread-eagled rider.
Skinner ignored the biker, and ran instead towards Barry Macgregor. As soon as he reached him, he realised that there was no hope. The young man was convulsing. Blood pumped from an awful wound in his throat, squirting through his fingers as he struggled in vain to stem its flow, and running down his neck and shoulders to stain his braided hair.
Sarah arrived only seconds later, but even in that time the last of the life had ebbed from the boy's body.
For a time. Skinner knelt beside him, blood on his hands and tears in his eyes, though his jaw was set firm. When eventually Sarah took him by the shoulders and drew him gently to his feet she found, on his face, an expression which she had never seen before; not his, not Bob's, but that of someone she did not know at all.
Suddenly, in the stillness and silence which surrounded their little tableau, she felt very frightened; fear for her husband, and – for a flash – fear of him and yet not him, of someone cold, vengeful and absolutely deadly who dwelt within him.
60
'Bob, isn't that our clown? Remember, on Saturday. The one on the unicycle at the Mound, with the leaflets.'
'It could be love, could be. But I do know I saw him somewhere else that same day.'
Skinner had banished his grief and rage, and looked his normal self again, controlled, hardened against the horror, and deferring; his time of mourning until the job was done. They were standing with Andy Martin and Brian Mackie in the area which bad been cordoned off around the motorcycle assassin. A hundred yards away. Sir James Proud stood at the head of an honour guard over; the body of young Barry Macgregor, as his officers cleared the park slowly of public and performers. I In contrast to the stillness of the two groups, the ambulance '.: crews were working feverishly to tend the casualties. There were some who were as far beyond help as Barry Macgregor. Four of the six members of the Belorussian Folk Ensemble, the onstage targets of the grenade attack, lay sprawled in death. The lucky survivors were already in an ambulance which was screaming its way out of the Park, towards the Royal Infirmary, its blue lights whirling. Three members of the crowd had been killed, including a baby still clutched in the arms of her stunned mother, and fourteen others wounded either by the explosion's deadly shrapnel I or by gunfire. I The motorcylist, in his turn, was very dead.
One or two colleagues had bestowed on Brian Mackie the nickname 'Dirty Harry' because of his legendary prowess with various firearms on the rifle range at St Leonard's Police Station.
But Brian never acknowledged the title, nor played up to it in any way. Not for him the dint Eastwood stride, or throwaway lines about days made. Brian took his role as an expert marksman very seriously indeed. It was an important part of his job as a policeman, and not the subject for humour. On the one occasion in his career when he had been called on to fire at a human target, his disciplined approach ensured that his reaction had been instant, emotionless, and absolutely effective. Afterwards, his conscience had been untroubled. He had not, as he said once in answer to Andy Martin's question, lost a single night's sleep.
So it would be again now, he knew. As he looked down at the body of the motorcyclist, he banished from his mind any feeling of elation that he had felled the man who had killed Barry Macgregor. This was just another job done well, and on that basis alone he was pleased. As an expert, Mackie believed in arming himself to suit the occasion and the possible circumstances. His choice of weapon that morning had been a Colt.45 magnum revolver. The gun, he noted as he looked at the body, had lived up to its awesome reputation. There was a fist-sized exit wound right through the biker's breast-hone. Mackie saw chips and slivers of white bone mixed in there. He surmised that the bullet had spread when it struck the spine, shattering it and sending fragments of bone and lead tearing through the heart.
Sarah had removed the man's helmet, but through the clown make-up it was difficult to tell anything about the man's appearance, other than that he was blond.
McGuire, Rose and Mcllhenney were standing a little way off, with the three other riders from the troupe, and one other: a muscular, short-haired girl who wore a vest with 'Le Cirque Tour' emblazoned on its front. Skinner waved them over.
The three riders cringed when they saw their dead colleague, but the girl merely whistled and shook her head. 'You guys don't miss, eh,' she said in a chirpy East London accent- 'This is Alison, sir,' said Maggie Rose. 'The three lads are all French. All the English they speak between them couldn't buy you a bag of chips, but Alison's one of the troupe too. She's a mechanic, and she knew this fellow.'
'Hey, steady on. I know he called himself Ricky, but that's about it.'
Skinner looked at the pass which he had taken from the back pocket of the dead man's jeans. It was made out in the name of Richard Smith.
'How long had he been with you?' he asked the girl.
'He joined us in France a month ago. Said he was a Scottie and wanted to work his way home. Didn't want much in wages – only his fare paying. The manager said he had a reference from a man in Marseilles. He was a mechanic, too, and good with the bikes.
Mind you, he wasn't a regular in the troupe. Shouldn't have been riding today, only…'
'Only what?' said Skinner impatiently, as the girl's story tailed off momentarily – as if she was working something out in her mind.
'Only Paul, the fourth of our regular bikers, got mugged in Leith last night. Three geezers jumped him, apparently. He's in hospital now. They banged him up and broke his arm. 'Ere, you don't think…?'
'Fine Alison. Just you leave the thinking to us. Any ideas you have, you keep them to yourself. Is that understood?'
'Sure, boss. Anything you say.'
'OK, now will you please give a statement to DS Rose here, give her also your address, and then take your pals home. From the look of them there's no show tonight.'
61
'Her story checked out, then?'
'The mugging? Aye. The boy Paul was French too, but he spoke English. Apparently he was making his way home last night after the show, when three guys in suits came up to him, took him up a close, and gave him a doing.'
Skinner and Proud sat facing each other, over two large whiskies in the Chiefs room at Fettes Avenue. It was still only 6:45 pm, but each looked tired and drained. Removed from the scene of the crime, a second wave of sadness had washed over them both at the loss of their colleague.
Then in suits?' said the Chief Constable. 'That doesn't sound much like Leith.'
'No, it doesn't. Strangest thing of all, the boy said there was a woman with them, and she seemed to be giving the orders.'
'It wasn't this Typhoid Mary woman, was it?'
'No. This one was dark-haired, and she was under five-six.
'I'm already pulling in all of our likely candidates to undertake a contract thumping, but I don't hold out any great hopes that any of them will fit the bill. These will either have been members of the team or out-of-town heavies brought in for this job alone, and so virtually untraceable. They were very professional. Apparently one of them said to the boy, 'Sorry, mate, but it's in a good cause.' Then he broke his arm with a mason's hammer.
According to Paul. when the guy spoke to him, the woman said 'Silence'. And again, according to him, she said it in French. But since he's French himself, and he was having his arm broken at the time, I'm discounting that
