'The show goes on. Warn the Directors of the various Festivals if you consider it necessary, but no one else. Keep this thing under wraps for as long as you can. Issue a further statement through your press office, saying that you are still looking into the causes of the explosion, but at the moment it looks like a gas leak of some sort. Pick your team and use whatever time the news blackout buys you as best you can. Maybe we'll get lucky.'
Skinner nodded. 'Very good. Minister,' he said, formal for the first time. 'That's -how it will be. Now I'll tell you just how objective my advice was. If this lot are going to start blowing up the Festival, as they threaten, then that makes my daughter a target. She's performing in a play on the Fringe. It could have been her lying in that tent today, and when I find these characters, I'll go just as hard as if it had been her. Meanwhile, I'm on the spot. Do I tell Alex to pull out, without telling her why, or do I cfollow your orders to the letter, and keep my mouth shut, letting her run the same risk as the rest?'
'For God's sake. Bob. Of course you must get her out of it!'
'Thanks, Alan, but that has to be my choice to make. It won't be an easy one. There are so many what ifs. The best answer is just to catch these bastards before this thing gets any bigger. I'm off to do that now.'
He picked up the letter and its envelope and made for the door, but stopped just before he reached it.
'Oh, Alan, here's a piece of non-police advice. You could find photographers hanging around here today. If Carlie might be a problem in some newspaper picture, best not let that happen, eh.'
'Thanks, Bob. Point taken.'
6
Skinner was deep in thought as he slid the BMW into St Coime Street. On impulse he indicated to the left and drove up the, cobbled slope of Glenfinlas Street, turning left at the top into;
Charlotte Square.
As usual, all of the parking bays in the Square were occupied.
Scores of cars, and not a few camper vans, bearing German, French and Belgian registration plates, were nosed in on the angle, facing the gardens in the centre, their tails pointing back towards the one-way traffic as it circulated clockwise. The space on the, outer side of the wide street, normally kept clear by yellow lines, was mostly full, the vigilance of Edinburgh's redoubtable traffic wardens being relaxed on Saturday afternoons. However, there was a vacant slot only a few yards from Glenfinlas Street, just outside the head office of one of Scotland's largest public companies. Skinner reversed the BMW in, switched off the engine and sat looking thoughtfully at the pavement across the street from the Secretary of State's front door.
With its fund managers, its surveyors and its few remaining lawyers on the golf course rather than at work in their offices, Charlotte Square was usually one of the quietest spots in central Edinburgh on Saturday afternoons. Occasionally, special weekend events were held in its gardens, on the grass among the trees, around the oxidised bronze equestrian statuary on its marble plinth. Two years before, an age ago to Skinner, this green space had been covered with marquees serving as the venue of the biennial Edinburgh Book Festival. But, for this year at least, the Festival was being staged in different surroundings, in the City's newly opened international conference centre. Now, as Skinner looked across the expanse of grass, he saw only a few recumbent sunbathers enjoying the warmth of the August day. He scanned the pavement opposite Number 6. Its surface was m raised above the level of roadway by four cobbled steps, and so he could observe the pedestrians clearly. He saw two elderly grey- haired ladies, wearing shapeless hats and coats even in flaming August, their backs to him, walking slowly in step, with the same rolling gait. 'Afternoon tea in the Roxburghe, I'll bet,' he murmured to himself, smiling at this enduring tradition among the aged well-to-do of Edinburgh. As Skinner watched them, the two old ladies drew alongside and passed a bulky, bearded figure who was leaning against the railings, idly adjusting the camera which hung on a strap round his neck.
'Denis,' he said aloud, recognising one of the city's best-known news photographers.
He was on the point of climbing out of his car to talk to the man, when suddenly his eye was caught by a motorcyclist astride his vehicle in one of the parking bays on the corner: a tall figure, in black leathers, with a metallic blue crash helmet. He wore the livery of one of Edinburgh's many motorcycle delivery companies. That's odd, thought Skinner. Why the hell was a bike courier at work on a Saturday? And if he was supposed to be working, why the hell was he sitting on his arse in Charlotte Square, doing bugger all?
Deciding to postpone his chat with Denis the photographer, he settled back into the driver's seat of the BMW, keeping as inconspicuous as any good detective should be. The leather gear made it difficult to judge the man's age, but Skinner knew that most of Edinburgh's delivery riders were in their early twenties, and his build and bearing seemed to bear this out. The courier held a folded newspaper in his left hand and gave the appearance of studying it intently. But Skinner noticed that, every so often, he would glance along the street – looking in the same direction as Denis the photographer – towards the Secretary of State's front door.
What the Devil is he up to? Skinner thought. Was he a tip-off man for the Sunday Mail, maybe, looking for action around Number 6?
As he gazed at the man, intrigued, his view was obscured for a moment by a black Rover Sterling with a familiar figure in the back seat. The car drew to a halt outside Number 6, and Lord Peters, Minister of State for Scotland and, as such, Ballantyne's deputy, heaved his girth on to the pavement. He tapped the car on the bonnet in dismissal and made towards the big brown door, tugging a key from his pocket as he walked.
Skinner looked across towards Denis, who was snapping off frame after frame of the Minister's arrival, then glanced across at the motorcyclist. The man had dropped his newspaper and now was holding a mobile telephone. There was a brief scene of pantomime as he put the earpiece up to his crash-helmet, then set the instrument down on the saddle of the bike and began to fiddle with his chinstrap.
'Let's check this boy out,' Skinner muttered to himself. He jumped from the car and began to trot across the street. 'Hey, just a minute!'he shouted as he ran.
The rider gave up his battle with the chinstrap, and reached inside his jacket with his ungloved right hand.
Later, it would strike Skinner as remarkable that he had not registered surprise when he saw the gun. But, at that moment, all that concerned him was reaching the nearest cover.
It was a small weapon, possibly a Beretta. The man swung towards him, his left hand coming up to join the other in a marksman's grip. By that time Skinner's trot had accelerated into a sprint. He reached the other side of the street, which was' mercifully free of traffic, and threw himself full-length between a: couple of parked cars. He was still in mid-dive when he heard the two shots, and the zinging sound of the ricochets as the bullets flew off the tarmac behind him.
Lying face-down, aware of the pounding of his heart, he tried to work out his next move. But in the very moment that he realised that he did not have one, he heard the motorcycle roar into life.
Skinner pulled himself into a crouch behind the car which was his shield. Tyres squealed as the rider swung out of his parking bay against the traffic flow. barely missing a red Peugeot which was cornering at speed. Skinner stood up in time to see the silver-grey; bike racing off down Glenfinlas Street, but a second too late to read its registration number.
'Bob!' The shout came from behind him. Skinner turned and saw Denis the photographer lumbering towards him. 'What the hell happened there? Were those gun-shots? Are you all right?' The big man was out of breath by the time he reached Skinner.
'No panic, Denis. It's okay. There's no harm done. What did you see anyway?'
'Nothing much. I just sort of heard the noise and caught a flash of you ducking between those two motors. Only I didn't realise it was you till you stood up. Who was the guy on the bike? I'll be looking twice at Apache Couriers next time they turn up on one of my jobs, I'll tell you.'
Skinner thought fast. 'Courier, my arse. That was a boy we've had under surveillance as a suspected drug- dealer.' He put a hand on Denis's shoulder and said, conspiratorially, 'But listen, old mate. You saw nothing – understand? All that you heard was the bike backfiring. The fact is, my imagination got the better of me, and I got the wrong idea and jumped for it. Now, for God's sake, not a cheep about that in your bloody rag or I'll be the laughingstock of Edinburgh.'
Denis looked sceptical, but nodded. 'Well, if you say so. Bob. If you say so. But it's a bloody queer backfire
