He chuckled. 'Apart from me, you mean? No, I’ll tell them I’m handling things here. But for the next half-hour or so I want anyone going through this city on a motorcycle pulled over and questioned. On you go, now. Put your aunt’s mind at rest.’
She started towards the stairs, then looked back at him from the doorway. 'Andy,’ she said quietly. 'Will you stay till morning?’
He smiled his widest smile. 'And the morning after, and the morning after that; as many mornings as you want. Try and stop me. You, lady, now have the highest-ranking personal bodyguard in Edinburgh.’

She was waiting for him under the duvet – after he had made his call and issued his orders to the Gayfield night-shift. Her white robe lay on the floor, the curtains were drawn, and a lamp on the bedside table was lit. He undressed and slipped into bed beside her.
As she hugged him, he felt her shiver very slightly.
'Andy, you don’t suppose there could have been any connection between that burglar and the things you told us about this afternoon.’
He shook his head vigorously. 'Not at all. That was just a Saturday-night chancer. The sort of thing that happens every weekend in life, in any city.’
As she smiled and pulled him towards her he hoped that he would never have to lie to her again.

'I know it’s a big if, boss, but she is connected with the Festival.’
'Yes, but hold on, Andy. You said yourself that the curtains were open at the front of the house: downstairs and upstairs. And your car was parked round the corner. The guy probably just guessed, wrongly, that the place was empty. How was he to know that you just like having it off with the curtains open?’
'Aye, very funny, Bob. Look, damn few opportunists come equipped with a cylinder of mastic to fuck up any alarm system they might happen to come across.’
'OK, maybe he was a professional Saturday-nighter.’
Skinner saw Martin’s frown deepen, his expression made even darker by the stubble on his chin. He put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

'Look, Andy, I know you’re worried about this girl. Nothing’s impossible, and the chances are we’ll never know whether there was a connection. But one thing’s for sure: after having a close shave like that, there’s no way the bastard will come back.’
'Maybe so, boss, but I’m still having that house watched, and Julia escorted to and from work. And once the alarm’s fixed, it’s being linked to Gayfield.’
Skinner whistled at Martin’s vehemence. 'Here, this sounds serious. How long have you known this lass? One day? Is this the Andy Martin that I know, and that dozens of women have come to love in vain? Your thinking must be affected, right enough. Otherwise, last night you’d have let that boy get all the way in the door! Then you could have stiffened him and we’d have got all the answers that we’re just guessing at now. That’s what I’d have done if I’d been there – and been thinking straight, that is!’

Skinner and Martin were alone in the private office of the Special Branch suite. It was 8:50 am on Sunday morning, and the headquarters building was weekend quiet. But suddenly, they
heard the outer door open.

'Someone’s keen said Skinner. 'We told them nine o’clock.’
There was a soft knock on Martin’s door. 'Come!’ he shouted.
The door opened and a little round man, no more than five feet four inches tall, seemed to roll into the room. At first Martin was reminded of a football, then, noting the way in which the little man appeared to taper inward and down from the shoulders, decided that he looked more like a spinning top.
The newcomer had a friendly, inquisitive smile, and receding gingery, close-cropped hair. He wore a Harris tweed jacket, unusually heavy for August, a check shirt, and grey trousers. His
black shoes were polished to a high shine.
'Hello, Bob, 's good to see you again.’ There was a twinkle in his eyes as he stretched a hand upwards towards Skinner. The accent was unmistakably North of England, Lancashire or hereabouts, Martin guessed.
Skinner shook the outstretched hand and returned the smile.
'Adam, good to see you, too. Glad you’re here, although I didn’t expect you to make it so fast.’

'You kiddin’? I was in fookin’ Belfast. You get a chance to get clear of that place, you don’t hang about. Natives are fookin’ restless over there just now. Whatever you’ve got here, it’ll be a fookin’ holiday by comparison.’
Skinner smiled grimly. 'Hope that’s the way it turns out, mate.’
He turned to Martin. 'Andy, this is Captain Adam Arrow, Military Intelligence. Special Air Services, counter-terrorist adviser. You name it, he’s the lot. He and I met at that security
seminar I went to last month. Adam. Meet Andy Martin, DCI Special Branch. He might only look like a lad, but he’s been there, done that.’
'That’s enough for me,’ said Arrow.
The two shook hands, and Martin was suddenly aware that the little man was immensely strong.

Arrow turned back towards Skinner. 'OK, Bob, so why have I been pulled out of t’ fookin’ frying-pan? All that the Five woman said was that you’d asked for me as a specialist.’
Skinner waved him over to a chair. 'Sit yourself down, and I’ll tell you.’
Quickly but comprehensively, he briefed Arrow on the crisis, describing the Waverley Market bomb, Ballantyne’s letter, his own encounter with the motorcycle gunman, and finally even Martin’s late-night tussle.

'Like as not, Andy’s incident had nothing to do with all this, but he’s not so sure.’
Martin cut in: 'Let’s just say I’m taking no chances.’
Arrow nodded his round head vigorously. 'Quite right. As Bob says, it’s a long shot, but it’s best to keep an eye on the lass. If it were connected, they might just have another go. Unless you identified y’self. Didn’t shout “Stop in t’ name of the law”, or owt like that, did you?’
Martin grinned. “No. I did shout something when that chain stopped the door, but it wasn’t anything like that.’
Arrow nodded. Then he looked up at Skinner. 'Tell you one thing already. Bob. Nowt to do wi’ Ireland, this lot.’
'Why so sure?’ Skinner asked.
Loads of reasons. Your average Paddy, whatever side he’s on, wouldn’t write it all down, then nail it to Secretary of State’s fookin’ door. It’d be telephone warning every time. Then there’s t’ tone of yon letter. It’s ponderous. Pretentious almost. This bastard is a new hand at the game. He’s feeling very important or at least he’s trying to make us think he is. Then there’s your biker. Irish wouldn’t do anything so fookin’ stupid as to shoot at a civilian. And you didn’t shout “Police”, either. Most of all, our intelligence is pretty good when it comes to things like this. We’re good at monitoring their contacts wi’ other organisations. I reckon if they’d been in touch with anyone over here, there’s a fair chance our guys’d have stumbled on it. No – no Irish link 'ere.

This is a new lot, and that’s a big problem.’
Why so big?’ said Martin, quizzically.
“Cos it means we know fook-all about 'em, that’s why. No established behaviour pattern. In Ireland we know how the fookers think. Gives us whatever edge we have. Lets us guess what
they’re likely to do. We don’t always guess right. But when we do, and we’re in the right place, then they can get out the black gloves, beret, tricolour – or the Union Jack; we don’t play favourites and the hearse.’ Arrow’s small bright eyes hardened, and his voice dropped to not much above a whisper. “Cos they’ll fookin’ need 'em.’

He looked sharply across at Martin. 'This lot’s starting from scratch. That’ll make it harder for us. What have you done so far on the security side. Bob?’
'As much as I could in, what . . .’ Skinner looked at his slim gold wristwatch. ' ... less than twenty-four hours.’

He described the steps which had been taken, the security checks, the pass system.
'All that’s in place. My people are coming in this morning to finish writing up security reports on each of the higher-risk venues. We’ve designated about two dozen of them. Once I’ve
looked through them, I’ll be able to judge how I’m off for manpower.’ His glance at Arrow held a question in it. 'If I decide I’m a bit light, and need some extra cover for special places, how are your lot placed just now?’

The little man paused, as if he was deciding how frankly he could answer such a direct question. Then, with an imperceptible nod, he said: 'I think we could give you some help. We’ve got quite a few over in Ireland at the moment. Then there’s others up to no fookin’ good in the Middle East. There’s a few bastards out there we’re going to get even with, and one in particular. We lost some guys in the Gulf War, and we haven’t forgotten them.’
Suddenly the eyes lost all their jollity, as his mind turned over a bitter memory. 'We never forget things like that. We’ve nailed a few of the guys responsible already, but there’s more to get yet.
That lot think it’s Mossad.’ He chuckled – a quiet sound which chilled Martin to the bone. 'But it ain’t. Fookin’ pussies, Mossad are, compared wi’ our lot when someone upsets us.’
He looked up at Skinner, and the genial smile returned. 'Still an’ all, I reckon the CO could sort out a dozen or so good lads for you. You’d have to ask through the politicians, mind you.’
Skinner nodded. 'I know – 'and I probably will. Meantime there are some things we can do in-house. Andy’s pulled a list of odd-ball journalists from the SB files, the sort of guys whose
names pop up in criminal investigations, or who are known to make heavy use of criminal sources. There’s about a dozen of them, and they’ve all still to be interviewed. As well as that, I’m expecting a report that I asked Five to do for me last night. It’s on its way up now, by courier.’

Arrow raised his eyebrows. 'Too hot for fax or telex, then.’
'Mm.’ Skinner nodded. 'Tell you what, Adam. Are you checked in anywhere yet?’
'No. I’m stoppin’ at Redford, wherever that is.’
'I’ll get someone to show you. In fact, we’ll give you the grand tour, while we’re at it. Let’s see, who was the early-shift guy out there again?’ I
He pressed a buzzer on Martin’s desk. A few seconds later his question was answered, as Mario McGuire appeared in the doorway.
·Sir?’
'Morning, Mario.’ Skinner introduced Arrow to the big dark-haired detective. 'Captain Arrow’s new in town. Sergeant. It’s your first time here, Adam, isn’t it?’
The little man nodded.
'Mario,’ said Skinner, 'I’d like you to give Captain Arrow a run-around. Take him out to Redford Barracks first, to drop off his kit. Then show him Festival Edinburgh. Let him get a feel of the place, show him some of the venues: the Usher Hall, Lyceum, Assembly Hall, places like that. Take a look at the Pleasance.
Grab some lunch there, maybe, and I’ll see you both back here around two. Is that okay with you, Adam?’
'First-rate. There a bar at this Pleasance place, then? I’ll be fookin’ gaspin’ by then, I reckon. Looks like I’m out of the fryin’-pan in Belfast and into the fookin’ fire here, right enough.’

The two men, one large, one little, left the room, looking incongruous side-by-side. Yet, as they left, Martin found himself thinking that, of the two, big, hard and powerful as McGuire was, if forced to make the choice he would rather tackle three Mario McGuires, than a single Adam Arrow.
As the door closed behind them, Skinner turned back to Martin.
'OK, Andy. Let’s have a look at that list of journos.’
From a secure cabinet which he opened with a key, Martin produced a yellow folder. Coming to stand beside Skinner, he laid it on the desk and opened it to show a list of names in alphabetical order.
'They’re all here: fourteen in all. Five in and around Glasgow, six in Edinburgh, one in Haddington, one in Stirling, and one in Dundee. Only five of them are employed full-time on the staff of newspapers. The rest are a mixture of freelances, mostly writers and researchers, but two describe themselves as television producers.’

Skinner pointed to a name in the lower half of the list. 'Aye, and that one’s our number-one target.’
Martin followed his finger. 'Mr Frazer Pagett. Yes, I agree.
Christ, he’d take the huff if we didn’t feel his collar. He’d take it as a slur on his reputation as an investigative journalist if he didn’t get a visit from us.’
Skinner shook his head. 'No,’ he said vehemently. 'That’s just what he’s not going to get. I want him watched. I want his phone tapped. In fact, I want taps on everyone on that list.’
'Don’t we need Ballantyne’s signature to do that, boss?’
'We’ve got it already. That piece of paper he signed yesterday gives me authority to do as I think fit. And I think fit now to start telephone surveillance on all the people mentioned here. The half of them probably believe they’re being tapped all the time, anyway. As far as Mr Pagett’s concerned, we’re going to let him sit on it for a few days. Listen to him, look at him, and just see if he says or does anything funny. He’s the only guy on your list that I take seriously. The others are just unscrupulous reporters, or nutters. We’ll give all of them the courtesy of a visit right away.

Word of that’ll get back to Mr Pagett, and it’ll make him nervous.
When we finally do go to see him, I want him as jumpy as possible.’
Martin closed the yellow folder. 'I’ll need your written authority for Telecom to set up the phone taps.’
'No, we’re not going to Use them. There’s a guy in Scottish Office: Mel Christian, Director of Telecommunications. Here’s his home number.’ Skinner scribbled on a memo pad, tore off the page, and handed it to Martin. 'Call him right away. Use my name. Tell him it’s a Beta operation. That’ll get his attention. Tell him what you need and he’ll make it ha—’
He was cut short by the trembling tone of his mobile phone. He took it from his pocket and pressed the ''receive’ button. 'Hello.’
'Bob. It’s Alan B. Can you come to St Andrew’s House, right away. I’ve had another.’

The three flags hanging limp on their poles seemed to emphasise the Sunday morning quiet, making the massive grey stone building look for all the world like an abandoned fortress.
Skinner pulled the BMW into a parking space opposite the tall brass-bound double entrance doors, one of which was slightly ajar. Across Regent Road, the morning sun, as it rose skywards, shone brightly on the foliage of Calton Hill, but the foyer of St Andrews House – which was north-facing – was in shade.
His eyes took a second or two to adjust to the gloom as he stepped into the big entrance hall, which was made even darker than usual by the closed outer doors. He waved his pass at the
security guard on duty in his booth.
'Morning, John.’
'Morning, Mr Skinner.’

As he crossed the hall he noted that the alert board had been changed from the low-grade of the previous day to the yellow state which he had ordered. He stepped into the waiting lift and pressed the button marked 5.
Arnold Shields, Ballantyne’s Private Secretary, was working at his desk in the Secretary of State’s outer office. Another man sat in a chair in the corner, reading avidly the sports section of Scotland on Sunday. Skinner had taken three paces into the room before the man looked up. Recognition flooded his face. In the same instant, he dropped the newspaper and sat bolt upright.
For a second, Skinner fixed the man with a glare. Then he turned to Shields. The Private Secretary was tall, thin and dapper.
He was also sharp, perceptive and destined for high office, as were all those who were appointed to his important post. Sunday morning or not, he was dressed in a dark single-breasted suit, striped shirt, collar and tie. He was a reserved man, with an unfailing formality of manner which added to his overall air of aloofness. He did not mix socially with colleagues, and none knew anything of his private life. Although he was respected universally, he was regarded, just as universally, as standoffish, and was disliked by his colleagues as a result.

Skinner knew more about Shields than any of the man’s office peers. He and Martin had handled the meticulous vetting to which Shields had been subjected before being offered the Private Secretary post. They had discovered without difficulty that he was a practising homosexual, and had a stable, twelve-year-old relationship with a partner in the Glasgow office of an international accountancy practice. After considering their course of action for some days. Skinner and Martin had taken the unusual step of talking over the situation with Shields and his friend. They had been persuaded by the discussion that, although the relationship was private, it was not secret, and that it could not possibly lay either man open to blackmail. Skinner had approved the appointment, keeping the information he had uncovered entirely under wraps.

Shields rose from his chair and extended his hand, as Skinner approached his desk.
'Mr Skinner. Good morning. The Secretary of State is expecting you. Go right in.’
Ballantyne was working his way through a pile of correspondence as Skinner entered. 'Sit down over there. Bob. I won’t be a moment. Read that in the meantime.’ He pushed a
brown envelope across the desk. 'It was handed to the doorman at the Caledonian Hotel at nine o’clock. Motorcyclist again, but no courier’s livery this time. This one just wore denims and a crash-helmet. The manager of the Caley sent the letter straight along here.’

There was a faint catch in the Secretary of State’s voice. Skinner studied him closely, as he worked. The tension of the previous day showed in his face once more, as he scrawled his signature across a letter. He cast it, in its folder, on to the pile in his out-tray, then picked up another, barely reading it before signing. Skinner thought that the man looked strung-out and nervous. Was that all down to this the terror threat, or could some of it be due to that designer blonde, Carlie, he mused.
He looked down at the envelope which Ballantyne had handed to him. It was the twin of the previous day’s, addressed in the same way, with a white label. He drew out the letter and read.

To the so-called Secretary of State for Scotland.

From the Fighters for an Independent Scotland.
Code word Arbroath.

The failure of the media to report yesterday’s demonstration, or to publish our letter leads us to conclude that you and your colleagues in the Government of the occupying power have
secured their silence by coercion.
Clearly we cannot allow this situation to continue. If your censorship is not lifted by 1:00 pm today, and if, by that time, yesterday’s statement of our demands has not been broadcast on radio and television, we will take further stern action to force you to accede. No warning of that action will be given, and full responsibility for its consequences will rest entirely with you.

Skinner sank into a chair by the window and read the letter through once again. As he was finishing, Ballantyne put the last of the green folders, its letter signed, in his out-tray. He rose from behind the desk and crossed the room, to sit in a facing chair.
'What d’you think, Bob? What’ll they do?
'I don’t know, Alan. If I did, I’d stop them from doing it, and that would be that.’
'Well, what can do?’ There was a note of frustration in the Secretary of State’s voice.
'Maybe we should do what they ask. We’ve bought some time, and used it as best we could. Our plans are made, and even now they’re being put into action. We can’t keep this genie in the bottle for ever, so we might as well thank the media for their cooperation and tell them they’re free to run the letter.’

'Absolutely not!’ Ballantyne’s tone was suddenly strident.
Skinner was alarmed to detect hysteria lurking not far below the surface.
'We can’t do that. I won’t do that! It would be a surrender to terrorism. And the Prime Minister would never countenance it. I spoke to him last night. He’s quite resolute.’
Skinner shook his head. “That’s inspiring news. Look, Alan, there’s no surrender about it. You were gung-ho yesterday, and that was right, but it doesn’t do to be tough just for the sake of it.
Sometimes you’ve got to use this.’ As he spoke he tapped the side of his head. 'You can’t believe, surely, that we can keep the truth from the public for ever. What’s the point, anyway? As I said, we’ve bought our time and used it wisely, by putting in extra security everywhere. That’ll start to show soon. Give it a day or two, three at the most, and the public will begin to figure out that yesterday’s bang wasn’t any gas explosion. And, listen, these
bastards are right about one thing. We have coerced the bloody media! We did it for a purpose, and now we’ve achieved it, we should thank them for their cooperation and let them go ahead.’

Ballantyne jumped from his seat. 'No!’ he shouted. 'It’s a matter of principle.’
Skinner stood too. He glared down at the man, and when he answered, his voice was raised also. 'I’ve had a taste of politicians’ principles in my time. Secretary of State, and I’ve noticed that they have a nasty tendency to get innocent people killed. Do you think this outfit are kidding? “Stern action to force you to accede.” Whatever that means, it’s a direct threat.’
'You seem to forget they’ve threatened more action, come what may – unless we hand them the keys to the kingdom, that is.’
Skinner slapped the walnut-panelled wall in frustration. 'I don’t forget that at all, but there’s no sense in pushing them into more violence, when we’ve nothing immediate to gain.’
Although still shaking, Ballantyne had recovered at least some of his composure. 'I’m sorry. Bob. I am adamant. The Government must stand its ground. We take the decisions; your
job is to protect. That’s what I expect you, and your people, to do.’

Skinner glowered at him, making no effort to hide the flame of his anger. 'I hope you realise you could be signing some poor sod’s death warrant. Not your own, though; you’re safe enough. As for our job, we’re already doing it. But since you’re making it difficult for us, you can come up with some extra resources. I want some SAS people up here. You can quote the Prime Minister’s resolve, to get the OK from MOD. A dozen will do me.
I’m told they’re available.’

Ballantyne retreated across the room to the citadel of the, ministerial desk. 'Yes, I’ll do that for you. Bob, I’m sure it’ll be all right.’ His tone had changed; now it was almost placatory.
Skinner too had cooled down. 'I hope it is, Alan. It’s your shout. If you’re wrong, it’ll be as if our disagreement never happened. I won’t ever cast it up to you, but you’ll have some job
forgiving yourself.’
Ballantyne said nothing. He stood behind his desk, head bowed.

Skinner looked at him coolly for a few seconds, then changed the subject. 'What time are the Chief Constables coming in?’
'Twelve noon. I thought we’d see them in the third-floor conference room. I’ll welcome them, and you can give them the low-down. I spoke to McGuinness personally, as you requested,
and explained that you were working directly to me on this thing. I told him that if you need to ask for his cooperation in anything, he’s to give it without question. I’ll tell the Chiefs that too.’
Skinner looked at his watch. It was five minutes before ten.
'OK. Thanks. Look, I’m going back down to Fettes. I’ve got one or two things to do there. I’ll be back for ten to twelve.’
'Fine. See you then.’

As he left the room. Skinner knew that something had gone for ever from his relationship with the Secretary of State. He had previously thought more highly of Ballantyne’s judgement, yet there was more to it than that. He was deeply disappointed in the man. Skinner’s creed was built on unswerving loyalty: to family, to friends, to colleagues, to country. The Secretary of State’s implacable refusal even to consider his view had left him feeling personally betrayed, and he knew in his heart that he would never be able to look at Ballantyne in quite the same way again.
He closed the door quietly behind him. If Shields and the other man had heard the raised voices, neither gave the slightest sign.
Skinner smiled at the Private Secretary. 'I’ll be back for that other meeting in a couple of hours, Arnold.’
Shields simply nodded in acknowledgement.

Skinner beckoned the other man to follow him into the corridor. When they were alone, he turned on him. 'Detective Constable Howells, just what the hell do you think you’re here
for? You are an armed Special Branch officer assigned to close protection of the Secretary of State. I walk into that room and you’re in there reading the fucking funny papers. If I had been a bad guy, you’d have been dead in one second, then Mr Shields, then the Secretary of State. Your job is out here, not in there. You have to assume that everyone who comes on to this floor unannounced is a bad guy, and be ready to act until you find out different. Do you know what happens to detective officers if they screw up badly enough around me? Night-shift in uniform on the beat in fucking Eyemouth, that’s what. You’ve just walked perilously close to having a permanent smell of fish in your wide nostrils. So don’t do it again. Clear?’

The detective, who was two inches taller than Skinner, nodded vigorously. 'Clear, sir. Sorry, sir.’
'OK, incident closed. But be on guard in the corridor from now on.’
He started towards the lift, then looked over his shoulder.
'I’ll be back. You’d better be the first person I see on this floor.’

The courier was a woman. She was seated in a corner of the main Special Branch office, sipping coffee and reading a magazine.
When Skinner entered the room, she stood up at once, recognising him from the photograph which she had been shown early that morning in London.
Forestalling Brian Mackie’s attempt to introduce her, she came towards him, hand outstretched. 'Good morning, sir. My name’s Mary. I’m from Five. I have some papers for you from London, which I believe you’re expecting.’
Skinner shook the woman’s hand. 'Yes, that’s right. Thank you for coming all this way.’
Mary was carrying a brown leather satchel. She fished a key from the pocket of her blue woollen jacket and unfastened the heavy brass lock, releasing the catch with a flick of her thumb. She withdrew a long white envelope and handed it over.
'Mission accomplished, sir. Now may I call for a cab back to the airport?’

Skinner held the envelope unopened in his hand. 'Thank you, Mary. No need for a taxi. Even on a Sunday I think we can find you a driver.’ He looked across to Mackie. 'See to it please,
Brian.’
'Sir!’
'DCI in?’
“Yes. boss.’
He thanked the messenger once more, and excused himself.

Martin was speaking softly into the telephone. He was seated in his swivel chair with his back to the door. When Skinner entered the room he swung round, making a wind-up motion with his left hand. 'Got to go now. I’ll pick you up at around one o’clock.’ He paused for a second, as he listened to the voice on the line.
'If you’re sure your aunt will be all right at home, we’ll go to my place. I need to shave, badly. See you then.’ He was still smiling as he replaced the receiver in its cradle.

Skinner shook his head and laughed. 'I don’t believe what I’m seeing here. A thirty-something schoolboy. Everyone’s cracking up today. First Ballantyne turns into General fucking Patton, now you turn into fucking Romeo.’
Martin looked at him curiously. 'What’s up with Ballantyne?’
Skinner’s good humour disappeared as he described his altercation with the Secretary of State. 'I hate these boys when they decide to get brave, Andy. It’s always some other bastard
that winds up bleeding.’
'Let’s hope not this time.’
'Yeah. Anyway, forget that for the moment and let’s look at what’s in here. It’s my report from Five.’
He drew up a chair and sat down, facing Martin across the desk.

Slitting open the white envelope, he drew out its contents, three sheets of A4 folded top to bottom. He scanned the first sheet, and glanced across at Martin.
'This says they’ve been through all of the most sensitive running files on politicians, and found only one that fits the bill.’
He put the covering letter to one side and studied the two-page report.
'We know about this guy all right. Grant Forrest Macdairmid.
Labour MP for Glasgow Marymount. He used to be a right wee hoodlum when he was a youngster. Ran a gang and did time in Barlinnie Young Offenders, till he got into politics and started doing people over legally. He’s on the ultra-nationalist wing of the People’s Party. Advocates direct action to secure Home Rule. But there’s a twist to him: he’s a monarchist. Wants to set up a Scottish Parliament with a head of state on Scandinavian lines you know, what they call a minimalist monarch. A king with a day job. He’s even got a candidate picked out: a descendant of the Stuarts. Our potential king is an Italian who barely speaks English, but that’s nae bother to our Mr Macdairmid. The general view of him is that he’s just a nutter, but worth watching nonetheless. He’s got the sort of humourless zeal in his eye that alarms the likes of you and me.’

'Mm. I know what you mean,’ said Martin. 'I’ve seen him on telly. Have we been paying him any special attention?’
'Up here? The Glasgow Special Branch keeps a tap on his phone. It’s never picked up anything more sinister than an order for a carry-out Chinese. That probably means that he expects to be tapped. He makes a load of noise in public, but in private well the transcripts read like he’s a real A-l bore. That’s what he’s like up here.’ Skinner tapped the report on the desk. 'According to this, though, he comes out of the closet when he’s in London. Five were giving him a sort of general look-over a few weeks back.
They tailed him to an Irish club in Camden Town. It seems they walked into a sort of terrorist jamboree. All shapes and sizes: Irish, Basques, neo-Nazis, Libyans, all jabbering away, pissing it up, and our man Macdairmid right in the midst of it all.’
'So what did the Five guys do?’

'Hung around long enough to commit as many faces to memory as they could, then beat a retreat. Apparently, so says this report, they had a problem; one of the Five guys was a gal. This was a real hairy-arsed place and they felt too obvious, so they split. When they got back to the shop, they dug out the picture gallery, spotted four or five faces, and realised what they had been into. They sent the heavies round right away, but the party had broken up.
They’ve been tailing Macdairmid ever since. No more contacts, but three weeks ago, as soon as Parliament broke up, he went on holiday.’
Where to?’
'Ready for this? Tripoli. One of the world’s prime sources of Semtex and other choice ordnance. He got back to Glasgow last Thursday.’
'Fucking hell!’

'Couldn’t have put it more eloquently myself. They searched his luggage at the airport. He had a big hold-all thing as hand baggage, and when he caught the shuttle, they X-rayed it, but they couldn’t search it without making him suspicious. He could have had anything in there.’
Skinner folded the report, replaced it in the envelope, and handed it to Martin. 'Here, lock this in your safe. So Mr Grant
Forrest Macdairmid MP has been installed as bookies’ favourite.
We need a round-the-clock job on him.’
'Want me on it?’
'No. Your wee friend Julia and I both need you here. Anyway, it’s a Glasgow job: one for Super-Haggerty. Dig out his home phone number for me. You’ve got it here, haven’t you?’
Martin nodded. He flicked through his Filofax until he found the Glasgow number, dialled it and handed the receiver to Skinner.

Two rings later a gruff voice answered. 'Hullo.’
'Willie? It’s Bob Skinner.’
'Mornin’, sir. Sunday mornin’, too. What’s up? Ye got a crisis in Edinburgh? Is it rainin’ or something?’
“It’s about to rain on your weekend, fella. I need you through here. I’m seeing your Chief and others in about ninety minutes in St Andrew’s House. I want you there to hear what I’ve got to tell them. It’ll save me having to repeat myself. Are you fit to drive? I know what your weekends can be like.’
'Aw, come on, sir. You ken very well I’m teetotal.’
Skinner laughed ironically, and replaced the receiver.
'Scotland can sleep easy in her bed, Andy. Haggerty’s on the job. Speaking of which, take a few hours off and see your new girlfriend. There isn’t a lot you can do here till the troops finish their reports from last night. Me, I’m going along to kill some paperwork till it’s time for my briefing.’

Martin smiled his new contented smile. 'Yeah, okay, boss. I think I’ll do that. Before I go, though, one thing occurs to me about Macdairmid. If he’s such a nutter, why doesn’t the Labour Party get shot of him as one of their MPs?’
'They can’t,’ said Skinner. 'You see he’s really a Nat.
Apparently an extreme nationalist splinter group, like that old Seed of the Gael thing from ten years back, infiltrated the , Marymount constituency Labour Party, took control, deselected
the last MP, and installed the boy Macdairmid. He’s untouchable by Head Office. They’d love to find a good excuse to bump him, but they haven’t come up with one yet. Labour are desperate to keep the whole thing hushed up. None of the other parties know, not even the official Nationalists. If they found out, they’d crucify them, and so would the voters. Funny game politics, eh.’
Martin grunted. 'Not when you start playing it with Semtex, it isn’t.’

'Macdairmid? That bampot? Surely he’s all wind and piss, sir.’
'That was my impression too, Willie, till Five told me different.’
The last of the Chief Constables had driven or been driven away from St Andrew’s House, and the Secretary of State had departed for Charlotte Square. Skinner and Detective Superintendent Willie Haggerty, the new head of Special Branch in Glasgow, were sitting alone in the big conference room, which still reeked of the smoke from Sir John Govan’s pipe. The Glasgow Chief, two months from retirement, had smiled cheerfully through the
coughs and splutters of his colleagues.
The big table was still littered with the debris of the buffet lunch which the Secretary of State had provided. Haggerty munched on the last of the sandwiches as he considered Skinner’s story.
'Christ, that’s amazin’. We listen in tae the guy’s phone and he never as much as breaks wind. Down in the Smoke and he’s off taste a Murder Incorporated smoker! And tae Libya fur his holidays!
Looks like he could be our man, right enough.’

'Not our man, Willie. One of them, perhaps, but not the only one. He was home in Glasgow when the bomb went off, and when the first letter was delivered, and when that biker took a shot at me.’
'How d’you know that?’
'Because I’ve read the transcripts. The tap picked up three calls during that time. One at 11:20 to his wife – they’re separated.
One at 11:30, to his girlfriend. One right on the stroke of midday, to the Chief Reporter of the Sunday Mail. It’s the third one that interests me. Twelve noon on the dot, the same moment that the bomb goes off, and he phones a mate on a newspaper.’
'What did they talk about?’
'That’s the strange thing. He calls the bloke up to ask what time the Rangers game kicks off. Says he thought it could have been one o’clock rather than three, but that his Daily Record hasn’t been delivered that morning, so he can’t check. Says he realises the newspaper guy isn’t a football fan, but could he find out and call him back on his home number. What does that say to you?’
That he could have been trying tae fix himself up with an alibi for twelve noon?’

'Most juries I’ve known would call that a reasonable conclusion. Especially if you tell them that Rangers weren’t playing at all yesterday. Their game’s today.’
Haggerty washed down the last of his sandwich with lukewarm coffee. 'So what d’you want me tae do, Mr S?’
'I want you to be like sticking plaster to him, Willie.
Everywhere he goes, everything he does, everyone he talks to, I want to know. I’ll detail a couple of guys to work with you. If he goes for a shit, I want to know how many sheets of paper he uses.
If he goes to Confession, I want to know how many Hail Marys he gets as his penance.’
Haggerty’s eyebrows rose. 'If he’s a Rangers supporter, he’s hardly going tae Confession!
Skinner laughed. 'That’s the other funny thing about the phone call. Grant Macdairmid’s a Catholic. Not too many Tims at the Rangers end!’

'No’ for long, at any rate!’ said Haggerty with a snort. 'Right, sir. Leave it tae Haggerty’s heroes. Every contact he makes will be reported back to you daily. What about other checks? Can you get us the authority to look into his bank accounts?’
'You’ve got it. Anybody gives you problems, call me. Use this number.’
He picked up a paper napkin and a rollerball pen, and wrote down the number of his mobile. As he did so, as if on cue, the phone itself, which was lying on the table, sang into life. He
picked it up and pressed the 'receive’ button.
'Hello.’
'Boss, it’s Andy.’ At once. Skinner sensed the tension in Martin’s voice. 'I need to see you at the Sheraton – now. Suite 207.’
'What’s the problem?’
'Ballantyne’s bravery. Someone’s bled for it – to the death.’

In fact there was very little blood. Yet Skinner recognised the odours of death as soon as he opened the bedroom door in the Sheraton suite.
The woman lay curled on her left side on the floor, in the centre of the room. Her right arm was thrown out in front of her, the hand palm downward. Her short, greying hair was wet, and plastered to her head. The left side of her face was pressed to the carpet. Her right eye seemed to stare at Skinner’s feet as he stood in the doorway. Her expression, even in death, was one of pure aggression, accentuated by the fact that her top lip was curled back in a snarl from her prominent teeth. Her pale pink towelling robe had fallen open. Beneath her heavy left breast a single puncture wound was visible, dark red and vivid against the postmortem pallor of her skin. From it, a thin trail of blood ran down to form a small scarlet blot on the robe, which was marked also by a second stain, yellow-hued, beneath her hips.

Martin stood over the body. Sarah was by his side.
'Who is she?’ Skinner asked.
Martin opened his mouth to answer, but it was Sarah who replied, in a strange soft voice.
'Hilary Guillaum. From Buffalo, New York. The world’s greatest mezzo-soprano. I first heard her sing there, in a summer concert, when I was twelve years old. She’d come back to Buffalo to do a charity recital in an open-air theatre. My dad took me, and I thought she was wonderful. The second time was thirteen years later, at the Met. She sang Norma, and she was just glorious. She was due to sing at the Usher Hall tonight. I tried to get tickets for
us, but they were sold out.’
She shook her head and looked at the floor, biting her lip as she fought to regain her professional detachment.
Skinner stared at the body. He too had heard Hilary Guillaum sing, on the records and CDs of her repertoire which made up a large part of Sarah’s collection. He pictured in his mind the
photographs – on the record sleeves and boxes – of a beautiful, confident statuesque woman with hair piled high and an extravagant cleavage, as he now looked more closely at the fleshy
lump lying on the floor. He saw not the slightest similarity between the two.

“Death doesn’t compromise with dignity, does it.’ Skinner spoke his thought aloud into the quiet room.
'Tell me what happened. Doc.’
Sarah banished all memories of the Metropolitan Opera House from her mind, and went to work. 'You see it there. Skinner. Single knife wound, lower chest area, left of centre. Made by a very sharp, double-edged weapon with a long blade, thrust in and upwards into the heart. Death ensued certainly within ten seconds.
It would have been caused by shock, not haemorrhage. That’s why there’s very little external bleeding.’
'So show me how it was done,’ he said. 'Andy, you be the victim. She couldn’t have been far short of your height.’
'That’s right,’ said Sarah, with an appraising glance at Martin.
'And there’s no sign of any struggle.

'OK, let’s see. Andy, over here, please.’ She led him towards the door to the ensuite bathroom. 'This is where it begins. She’s just had a shower, OK. She’s been across at the Usher Hall doing sound checks. She dries off and plasters her hair back, then goes into the bedroom.’
'Does she hear something that makes her go back in?’ Skinner asked, knowing the answer but looking for confirmation.
'No. She didn’t tie her bathrobe. But whoever killed her was in the room, waiting. Either behind the door, or else it was someone she was expecting, someone whose appearance there was quite normal and didn’t cause her any alarm. Because she still didn’t tie the bathrobe.’
'Do we know if she was here alone?’

Martin answered. 'Her husband travels with her occasionally, but not this time. There’s always a voice coach, male, and a secretary, female. They were both still at the Usher Hall from the time she left there at 1:00 o’clock until the secretary came back across here and found her at 2:15.’
'So,’ said Skinner, 'she was either taken completely by surprise, and overcome quickly and easily by someone very fast and very strong, or she was taken completely off-guard by someone she knew or didn’t regard as a threat. If we look at the second of those options, it brings us back to the fact that she didn’t tie the robe.
That means that she either had a boyfriend – or girlfriend – in town that we don’t know about, or-’
Sarah broke in. 'Or the person in the room was another woman.’

'Would a woman have had the strength to do that?’
'If she took her by surprise, yes, no question. Looking at the wound, the weapon must have been so sharp that a child could have killed with it. It happened one of two ways. Either like
this . . .’
She took a pair of long scissors from her bag, and held them as one would grasp a knife. She beckoned to Martin, and positioned him with his back to the bathroom door, close to where the body lay. Then she stepped up to him, quickly, spun him round with her left hand on his right shoulder, and imitated the upward thrust of the knife, pulling him down by the shoulder and towards her as she did so. Instinctively Martin’s right hand came up and caught Sarah’s shoulder.
' ... or like this.’

She stood Martin with his back to the dead Hilary Guillaum.
She held the scissors inverted and point-upwards against the inside of her forearm, concealed from his sight.
'Let’s assume that the killer was in the room, and that Hilary had just come in from her shower,’ she said. 'He or she could have made as if to go into the bathroom. Then . . .’
Again she stepped in close, grasping Martin by the shoulder, letting the scissors fall into her hand and stabbing upwards.
Again, instinctively, the detective pushed against her with his right hand, but she was able to hold herself close to him.
'Right, I buy that so far,’ said Skinner. 'Now, how did the victim react?’
'You saw how Andy grasped my shoulder? I’d say she did the same. See how the fingers of her right hand are still partly closed.
Rather than break that grip, the killer just let go of the knife and took her weight as she fell to the floor. If it had been pulled out at this point, blood would probably have spurted, but she must have been dead within a second or two of hitting the ground. When it was removed that’s all the bleeding there was, apart from a drop or two from the blade. Look, there’s one here on the sleeve of the robe.’

Skinner stepped up to the body and bent over it. He examined it closely, comparing its posture in his mind against Sarah’s description. Suddenly, as he looked at the victim’s right hand, his brows tightened and he bent closer.
'Andy, look here.’ He spoke without looking up.
Martin crossed the room to his side.
'Look at this.’
Very gently Skinner lifted the right hand. Stiffness had not yet set in. Indeed the body was still warm, as well as supple. He turned the hand so that Martin could see the fingers.
The nail on the third finger was split. A small piece of lemon-coloured cloth was lodged in the tear.
'At least that’ll give the technicians something to do,’ said Skinner. 'The place looks clean as a whistle otherwise.’
Martin was still examining the fragment. 'Boss, I know that’s only a wee bit of cloth, but it looks to me like the same colour as the uniform the hotel’s domestic staff wear.’
'What, the chambermaids, you mean?’
“Yeah.’

'Right, I want the whole place searched, top to bottom. When are we getting some manpower here? I saw young Macgregor at the door when I came in, but no one else around. How come
you’re here, Andy, but not the divisional CID?’
'Dunsmuir, the general manager, knows me. When the victim’s secretary found the body, she managed to control herself, and called him straight up to the suite. He all but shit himself, and then called me – or at least he phoned Fettes and asked for me. Young Barry out there called me on my mobile. By that time, I was dropping Julia back at Filmhouse, just next-door. I rang Sarah first, then you. I thought you’d want to decide how we handle this one.’

'Fair enough. Before I do that, call down to your pal Dunsmuir. Ask him to line up his chambermaids, count them, and see if they’re all present and correct.’
Martin picked up the telephone at the side of the bed, and carried out this order.
As he finished. Skinner said, 'That florid remark of yours earlier, about Ballantyne’s bravery – were you just assuming that poor Hilary over there relates to the other thing?’
'No, sir. Come next door and I’ll show you why I said it.’
He led the way to the suite’s sitting-room. A small coffee table was placed amidst a semicircle of four armchairs, arranged to face a picture window which offered a panoramic view across Festival Square to the Usher Hall, then, above and beyond its copper roof, to the western ramparts of Edinburgh Castle, rising from the vertical face of the great rock in which their foundations were set.

An envelope lay on the low rectangular table. Even before he picked it up and read the white label. Skinner knew what it was. It was addressed in the same way as its predecessors. Skinner opened it carefully and drew out the letter inside. He then read it aloud to Martin and Sarah.

To the so-called Secretary of State for Scotland.
From the Fighters for an Independent Scotland.
Code word Arbroath.

The fact that you are reading this letter means that you have chosen to ignore our ultimatum, and that an innocent person has suffered the consequences of your folly.
After this demonstration, you will not be able to keep from the world our just demand that you and your cohorts quit our beloved country and restore to us the democratic rights which were stolen from us almost three hundred years ago.
This lady, an international celebrity, has died so that world attention will be focused on our struggle, and so that international pressure will be brought to bear upon you, to force you to withdraw from our land.
Accede now, and no more blood will be spilled. Force us to continue, and you will find us resolved to take whatever action we believe to be necessary during this global Festival,
and thereafter, to drive England and its institutions from our beloved Scotland.

As he finished reading. Skinner looked up at Sarah. 'Same author as the one you read yesterday, d’you think?’
'Certain.’
'Single author or more than one?’
'Probably just one. Give me some time and I’ll try to work up a profile. There’s something odd about the language, though.’
'What d’ you mean?’
'I don’t know exactly. It’s very formal. These people are on a jihad, yet there’s something dispassionate about their language.’
'Well think on it some more, and see what guesses you can make about the kind of person our writer is. Andy, we keep this one in-house for a while. No flashing blue lights, please. Get the
technicians in now, and bring in Divisional CID to help interview everyone we can find who was in the hotel from midday to 2:30.
What have you done with the voice coach and the secretary?’
“They’re in their own rooms. Neil and Maggie are with them.’
“Good. Keep them on ice for now. I’m going across to tell the Usher Hall manager that he’s got no show tonight. Then I’m off to tackle Ballantyne. We can’t put a blackout on this one.’

Skinner was halfway across Festival Square, the plaza which lies between the Sheraton and Lothian Road, when his phone sounded again. He stopped and sat down on a bench to answer it. The wooden seat was hot to the touch, such was the force of the sun.
'Boss, it’s Brian here. I’ve had a guy on from the States, going absolutely apeshit. Said his name was Albert Neidermeyer from TNI, or something. He claims to have had a call at his London office, tipping him off that some American opera singer’s been killed in Edinburgh. And, boss, he says the caller used the proper code-word. Now he wants you to confirm if it’s true. He says if it is he’s going to blow it and – his words, sir – fuck all you Scots bastards and your threats. Seems he doesn’t like you at all, chief.’
'I’m chilled with terror,’ said Skinner, icily.
'He left a number. Wants you to call him back personally.’
'Bugger that for a game of soldiers. Soldiers! There’s an idea. Is Adam Arrow with you?’
'Yes, boss. He and Mario got back here twenty minutes ago.’
'Right. Adam’s an English bastard, not Scots, but he’ll do. Ask him if he’ll do us a turn and call Neidermeyer back. He’s to stall him, bullshit him, tell him we don’t know what he’s talking about, but we’re looking into it. Ask Adam to spin him out for as long as he can. That should be quite some time. Neidermeyer won’t understand a fookin’ word Adam says.’
Skinner pressed the end button, and carried on across FestivalSquare.

Again, it was Carlie who opened the rear door of Number 6 Charlotte Square. She had on the same skirt she had worn at their first meeting, but with a different top; silk once again but fastened at the shoulder, Chinese style.
“Hello again, Mr Skinner. What’s the crisis this time?’
He can’t have told her any of this, thought Skinner as he tried, but failed, to return her easy smile. She read the concern written on his face and turned serious herself. 'Alan’s waiting for you upstairs. He’s working on some papers in the dining-room.’
Skinner made no move towards the stairway. Instead he stood his ground, gazing coolly at the woman, and saying nothing for several seconds. His expression was one of undisguised appraisal.

She was unflustered by his scrutiny, and when at last he opened his mouth to speak, she beat him to it.
'I know who you are, Mr Skinner, and what it is you do for Alan. And I can guess that you’re wondering where I fit in. What sort of a family friend I am, how close, and to whom. If I won’t tell, does it get to the point where you take me down to the cells and beat me with rubber hoses?’
In spite of himself. Skinner smiled at her frankness, and her jest. 'No. I have other people who do that sort of thing.’
She grinned in her turn. “Stop, I give in.’ She spoke in a light, cultured Scots accent; rural and north of the Tay, Skinner guessed.
In a flash she was serious again. 'Look, you’ll be aware, surely, of the stories about Alan’s marriage being on the rocks.’
Skinner nodded.

'Well, they’re true. Of course I know that most women in my position would claim this, but I’m not the cause of it. I’m the consequence. Honor Ballantyne opted out of Alan’s life five years ago. She lives in London full-time now. She has her own career, and she’s having an affair with a Liberal peer. Just so you know everything about me, I live in Alan’s constituency. I’m a partner in a firm of solicitors in Aberdeen, called Goldstone and Ferris.
Look me up: Charlotte Mays, spelled M-A-Y-S. Tenth on the list of partners out of fourteen. I specialise in Maritime Law. I’ve passed my Rights of Audience exams, and appear occasionally in the Court of Session.

'I’ve paid my subs to the Tory Party since I was twenty-three, but I didn’t do anything for them until last year. Then a girlfriend got me involved in organising the constituency Christmas dance. I met Alan there, for the first time. I thought nothing of it. I was too busy selling tombola tickets. The next thing to happen was that my friend persuaded me to go on a branch committee. That was how I really met Alan. We went canvassing together in the
spring, and it just took off from there. This is the first time I’ve been sort of “in residence” here. Alan thinks we should come out into society in easy stages. Everybody in the Constituency Association knows about us already, and they all seem to approve.

They haven’t had an MP’s wife there for God knows how long, and they feel deprived. So, far from being a shameless hussy, I’m almost the flavour of the month.’
'What about the other political parties?’ Skinner asked. 'Won’t someone run to the media?’
'Not in politics, Mr Skinner. In our constituency, the SNP are the opposition. Their standard-bearer is screwing his secretary, so he won’t say anything. The Liberals don’t play the game that way, as a matter of principle, and as for the Labour candidate, he’s one of my partners at Goldstones. No, the real problem is Honor Ballantyne. Alan’s asked her for a quiet divorce, but she’s looking for a horrendous amount of money to agree. They have two daughters, you know. One’s ten, the other fourteen. So it’s stalemate on that front, for the moment. Alan’s even thinking about counter-suing, claiming adultery with the Liberal peer.’

'Silly bugger if he does.’
'As a lawyer, I agree with you. As one of the points in the triangle, I’m selfish. I just wish it could be sorted out.’ For the first time traces of pain and frustration showed through the outer
shell of her self-assurance.
Skinner’s smile was sympathetic. 'I understand that.
'Look, I’m sorry to have pressed the question. Miss Mays-’
'Carlie, please.’
'OK, Carlie. But since you know what my job is, you’ll understand why. I’m responsible not just for advising Alan on security policy, but for his personal security as well. I have to
know everything about him, and to know about everything that could affect him, and the Government.’
'Yes. I understand all that. So what do you think? Do we worry you?’

Skinner decided to tell her the truth. 'Yes, the way things are, you do. Your relationship, as long as it remains secret, could lay Alan open to all sorts of external pressure. My duty is to the office of Secretary of State, not to a man, or to an MP, and my advice can’t take your interests into account. But you might like it nonetheless. On the basis that he’s serious about you, I would advise that you go public, and take what political flak there is. But that’s business for later. Right now we have a crisis to handle.’

Together, Skinner and Carlie Mays climbed the stairs. She ushered him into the dining-room and closed the door behind him.
Ballantyne was seated with his back to the door, at the end of a long mahogany dining table strewn with paper. A bulky document case, bound in red leather, lay open at his feet. He looked over his shoulder as Skinner entered the room, and, laying his thick Mont Blanc fountain pen down on the table, went over to greet him.
'Bob, hello. You sounded very serious when you phoned.
What’s happened?’
Quickly, Skinner informed the Secretary of State of the murder of Hilary Guillaum, then he handed him the third letter. As he read it, Ballantyne slumped into one of the dining chairs. When he had finished he laid the single sheet of paper on the table and leaned back in his chair, with his right hand trembling over his eyes.

'Oh, sweet Jesus Christ. We’re responsible. Bob. If we only hadn’t stood on principle.’
At first. Skinner thought that Ballantyne’s use of the plural included him, too, until he remembered his earlier claim to have consulted the Prime Minister. He said nothing as the Secretary of State sat lost for a while in his panicking thoughts, but watched the man gradually compose himself again. Eventually Ballantyne stood up from the table and walked over to the Adam fireplace, its hearth lit by imitation coals. He leaned against the mantelpiece, as he had done in the drawing-room twenty-four hours before, and looked back across the room towards Skinner, who was still standing near the door.

'Well, Bob? Did we sign her death warrant?’
The tall policeman stared back at him, dispassionately. As he did so, all of his gnawing doubts about Ballantyne surged up to the surface. There was a clear trace of panic in the man’s eyes, and the faintest trembling still in his movements. Skinner doubted that Ballantyne had ever dreamed of his prestigious office throwing him into the midst of such a crisis. Now his expression begged for absolution; and relief washed across his face when Skinner gave it to him.

'No, Alan. I don’t think you did. Not this one, at any rate. The way this murder was done, it was planned well in advance. I had a call on my way down here. We’ve made two solid discoveries at the Sheraton. The first was a chambermaid’s uniform stuffed in a servicing cart on the same floor as Hilary Guillaum’s suite. The second was its original wearer, in a cleaner’s cupboard. She was in her bra and knickers, trussed up like she was ready for the oven, and blindfolded and gagged with tape. The girl’s still hysterical, but when she’s calm enough to talk, she’ll confirm for us, I’ve no doubt, that she was grabbed from behind by more than one person, bundled into the cupboard and stripped of her uniform.
They’ll have gagged her at once so that she couldn’t scream, then blindfolded her so that she couldn’t see any of them. If we had published that letter, Hilary Guillaum might well be alive now, but I’m pretty certain she’d still be dead tomorrow. Remember, they’ve promised more incidents, and we’ve been assuming they’ll look for high-profile targets. What the third letter tells us is that they’ll be looking for international targets as well. Hilary Guillaum’s murder was well planned. They didn’t just knock her off to force you to go public. They’d have done it anyway.’
'What do we do now? Give in to them?’

Suddenly Skinner’s disappointment in Ballantyne swelled to overflowing. 'Christ, man, where is it about giving in? Look, you’re the politician. You take the decisions. I’d have thought it was pretty fucking obvious what you do, but I’m just a poor simple copper. Dig up the Prime Minister wherever he is. Tell him you’re going to call a press conference today to lay out the whole scene. You’re going to say that Scotland is under terrorist attack, and that the Government is determined to see the threat off. While you’re at it, you should call on all the opposition parties to make public declarations of support for your position. You tell the
public that all possible steps are being taken to protect Festival venues, and that you’re counting on them to show their contempt for the terrorists by making it business as usual.’

“What if the PM disagrees?’
'You’re not asking him, you’re telling him. Neither of you has any option any more. Hilary Guillaum’s been murdered, remember. That’s major international news, and the enemy’s
already called a satellite news channel with the story. Of course, they used the code-word. On the way down here, I told my guys that they could confirm the information, and give the details. It’ll be on air in the States by now, and here too for those who tune in to that station. Everyone else will follow it up. The genie’s out of the bottle, Alan.’
Ballantyne spun round to face Skinner. ‘You said they could confirm it’ he shouted, suddenly red-faced. 'On whose authority?’
'On mine!’ Skinner roared back. This is a murder. It’s my city, and I’m in charge of the investigation – not you. My call. End of story – or you can find yourself a new security adviser.’

The Secretary of State looked at him with a mixture of amazement and apprehension, realising that he was seeing just a flash of the danger in the man: the frightening Skinner of whom Sir James Proud had spoken. Quickly he backed down.
'Bob, you are quite right. Please forgive my outburst. This affair is preying on me. I will do as you recommend. And I’d like you to be with me when I confront the press. I have a number to contact the PM, so let’s raise him now. Then we’ll have Licorish call the press conference. Let’s see. It’s nearly four now. Shall we invite everyone here for, say, 5:30?’
Skinner’s anger was, as usual with him, quick to dissipate.
'Sounds fine, Alan. Sorry I blew my cool, too.
'Where is the Prime Minister anyway?’
'He’s at EuroDisney with his family – and with a small press contingent. He’s given all of us orders to be nice to the French, though God knows why. This seems to be his way of setting an example.’

'OK, then, so you dig him out of the Magic Kingdom and update him on the real world. Meanwhile, I’ll get Licorish moving.’

Skinner hurried from the residence, and, from his car, he called the Director of Information and instructed him to set up a meeting with the press for the time that he and Ballantyne had agreed.
Then he called Martin.
'Andy. A check for me please.
“Miss Charlotte Mays. Solicitor. Age thirty-something. Partner in a firm called Goldstone and Ferns, Aberdeen. Everything there is to know, please. I’m on my way back.’

There must be fifty people in there.’
The Secretary of State was staring nervously at a monitor screen set up by the police audio-visual unit in the Special Branch Office suite. On the advice of Michael Licorish, the press briefing had been transferred to the main hall at Fettes Avenue, both because of the potential turn-out and because of the difficulty of providing full security cover at St Andrews House at such short notice.
'I can’t ever recall such a turn-out for a press conference in Scotland. Can you. Bob?’
One or two. But they had to do either with murder or football.
You see, you only deal with politics as a rule, so when you have a press conference up here, or even at Westminster, you see the same half-dozen or so faces, again and again. Whereas if we have a briefing here that’s to do with a really sensational murder case, we’ll have a turn-out not far short of this one. Best of all, though, is if it’s anything to do with football, say crowd misbehaviour, or stadium regulations. Then they’re breaking down the doors trying
to get in. The press are governed by the laws of supply and demand, just like any other business, and the sad fact is, Secretary of State, our stuff sells more papers than your stuff!’

Andy Martin, who had vivid memories of earlier occasions, looked at Skinner thoughtfully, but said nothing.
Ballantyne grunted. 'Sad fact indeed. Bob. Violence and soccer.
The twin opiates of the masses. Come on, Michael,’ he said to Licorish, with forced humour, “lead on and let’s face the scribbling classes.’

There were six television crews crammed together on a hastily erected platform at the back of the hall, behind theatre-style seating which held around forty newspaper and broadcast journalists. Most were home-based Scots, but the numbers had been swelled by writers and broadcasters from England and beyond, currently in Edinburgh on assignment to cover the Festival, but pitched suddenly into the midst of the fastest breaking story of the day.

The three participants, with Licorish in front and Skinner bringing up the rear, entered from a door to the right of the table at which they were to sit. It was placed in front of a simple blue
backdrop, kept for media occasions, which had been assembled quickly that afternoon by Alan Royston, the police press officer.
The noisy air-extractors in the high-ceilinged hall had been switched off. The day outside was still blazing hot, and already many of the audience were perspiring freely.
Ballantyne took the seat in the centre of the table, with Skinner on his right. The two were introduced formally to their inquisitors by Michael Licorish. Ballantyne opened a blue folder, which he had carried with him into the hall, and produced a prepared statement which he began to read to the hushed assembly.

He recounted the events of the previous thirty hours, from the Waverley Centre explosion to the murder of Hilary Guillaum. He thanked the media for their restraint in withholding publication of the first threatening letter, saying that it had allowed full security measures to be put in place at each of the major Festival venues, without alarming the public unduly in the process. But he made no mention of the second letter.
As he reached his conclusion he said: “As most of you will know. Assistant Chief Constable Skinner also acts as my adviser on security matters. I am very pleased to say that at my request he has formed, within the past twenty-four hours, an elite antiterrorist squad to deal with this new and unexpected threat. I have assured him that he will have all the facilities he needs to enable him to catch this group and shut it down. He bears a heavy responsibility, but I have every confidence that he will succeed. At the same time, the public can have confidence that the security precautions which have been taken under his direction will prove
effective, and that the horrifying actions perpetrated by this ruthless group will not be repeated.

The people of Scotland, whose Festival this is, have been targeted by this group of desperate men. They have given the lie to their bluster about freedom by their willingness to use violence against those same people whose imaginary cause they purport to champion. I ask all Scots, and those who are among us as our guests, to show their support for the actions I have taken by declaring business as usual at the Edinburgh Festival. I pledge that these bandits will be hunted down and punished to the full extent of the law. We can all feel safe under the protection of Mr Skinner and his team, while these terrorists should know that they will have no refuge while they remain among us. Scotland will not give in to them. The Government will never accede to their demands.’

Ballantyne paused, and stared across at the rows of seats, then beyond them at the television cameras. 'I give them warning that their days are numbered. Thank you all.’
Skinner’s face was visibly grim as Ballantyne finished. He had been staggered by the Secretary of State’s assumption of copyright over the creation of the antiterrorist squad. And he had been shocked by the way that he had been set up. He knew that Ballantyne’s promise of total safety at the Festival was a sham.
Equally he knew who had been placed squarely in the firing line should things go badly wrong. All of his burgeoning doubts about the Secretary of State’s valour in a crisis crystallised finally into a certainty that the man was innately treacherous.

A question broke into his thoughts.
'Mr Ballantyne. Dave Bassett, TNI Bureau Chief, London. I’d like to ask about the reference to an ultimatum in the second communiqué. I have information that this relates to a warning
given to you this morning that – and I quote my source – “stern action” would be taken unless you lifted the news blackout by midday.’
'Who told you that?’ Ballantyne snapped back.
'That doesn’t matter. If it is true, what was the point in holding out?’
The Secretary of State stared at Bassett. As Ballantyne replied, Skinner felt him shaking beside him.
'Yes it is true that we received such a communication. Mr Skinner was involved in our decision. Perhaps he can best explain our thinking.’

There was a faint smile of acknowledgement on Skinner’s face as he glanced towards Ballantyne, but his eyes, locking on the other man’s for a fraction of a second, said something completely different.
'Thank you. Secretary of State. Mr Bassett, all I can say to you is that we took a view at the time. I don’t believe that our decision led to this unfortunate lady’s murder. I am quite certain
that it was planned all along, and it’s quite clear that she was chosen as a victim who would attract the maximum international attention. You’ll agree with that. I think.’
Bassett nodded.

'These are ruthless, evil people,’ Skinner went on. 'We’ve had only a little over twenty-four hours to weigh them up, but it seems clear to me already that they are not operating on any spur-of-the-moment basis, and that they are well resourced both in terms of equipment and manpower. Yesterday’s atrocity and today’s were both well planned. The bomb used a sophisticated and fairly rare type of explosive, one that hasn’t been encountered before in the
UK. We believe that two or three people were involved in Miss Guillaum’s murder, and that one of them may have been a woman. We have to assume that what has happened so far is part of a longer-term strategy. My officers and I have to try to anticipate each move as far as we can, and aim, at the same time, to make the city as safe as we can.’

John Hunter, a veteran Edinburgh reporter, and an old friend of Skinner’s, raised a hand. 'Bob, can you tell us something about the precautions you’re taking?’
'Some of them are obvious. For example, we’re sealing up litter bins and welding down underground access covers. All traffic cones will be taken off the streets so that no one can leave anything nasty under them. On-street parking by private motorists, other than residents displaying valid permits, will be banned in the city centre. We’re setting up temporary car parks and running shuttle bus services free of charge. Our press officer will issue details of locations as you leave, and they’ll be published in tomorrow’s Scotsman and Evening News. We’re putting other things in place as well, but I’m not going to talk about them.’

Bassett broke in again. 'Mr Skinner, can the public really have faith in your guarantee of safety, as just expressed by Mr Ballantyne? It didn’t do Hilary Guillaum much good, did it?’
Skinner glared at the fat man, as he sat sweating in his short-sleeved shirt. It was a look which said: 'Don’t challenge me, friend. Don’t push, it could be dangerous.’ Even in the
superheated hall, he felt an alien coldness spread over him. He was under fire again. This time there were words, not bullets, but the intent was as hostile, nonetheless.

Bassett picked up the warning in the eyes, and when he spoke again, his tone was noticeably more circumspect. 'I mean aren’t these people fanatics, and can you protect one hundred per cent against types like that?’
Skinner stared at him for a few seconds more, then slowly shook his head. 'No. No, I don’t think they are fanatics. A fanatic is a person suffering from an excess of zeal. Look it up in your Concise Oxford. I don’t see that here. Nothing these “Fighters for an Independent Scotland” – ' his voice was tinged with scorn ' – have said leads me to believe that they are willing to fight to the death, at least not their own. They make bold statements about sacrifice, but only sacrifice by others. You won’t find any of them charging into a hail of gunfire. People like that can be dealt with. The other sort, the true fanatics, are always likely to do damage simply because they don’t expect to walk away.’

He looked away from Bassett and directly towards the bank of television cameras. 'I cannot say to the public that there is no risk. Of course there is. The plain fact is that this city and all of its people are now under terrorist attack. But I can say three things.
First, these people will not succeed. Second, each of us can help knock them on the head by looking out for, and reporting to the police, anything that looks at all suspicious. Third, it isn’t a matter of just making them go away. These are murderous louts who have killed two people, and who are going to pay for it.
That’s my promise, to you and to them.’

Like Ballantyne before him, but instinctively, he too paused and looked directly at the cameras.
'We’re all in this together, and the world is watching us. So let’s stand up to these terrorists, let’s smoke them out, and let’s have justice for Danny Baker, for Hilary Guillaum, and for us all.’
He held his gaze on the cameras for several seconds. And then something happened; something quite unexpected and quite unique. John Hunter first, then a second, then three more journalists began to applaud, all of them Scots, and all of them long in the media tooth.
Taken aback and embarrassed. Skinner rose from the table, motioned Ballantyne and Licorish to their feet, and led them from the hall.
'Good on you. Bob,’ Hunter called out just before the swing- door closed behind them.
Skinner led Ballantyne up a short flight of stairs. Licorish remained behind in the corridor to cope with the media as they left, and to answer any remaining questions.
At the top of the stairs. Skinner opened the door to the command corridor with his pass key, and held it open for Ballantyne. It had no sooner closed behind them than the Secretary of State turned on him.

'Nice speech. Bob.’ His voice was laden with sarcasm. 'I didn’t realise you were a politician too!’
The other man was there inside him again, so swiftly that Skinner could not keep him bottled up. It was as if someone else, not he, grabbed Ballantyne by the throat and slammed him against the wall. And for his part, Ballantyne, raised to his tiptoes and beginning to purple, saw the menace in Skinner’s unfamiliar expression and heard the threat in his cold, hard, quiet voice.
'You set me up in there, mister. You put your miserable politician’s hide first, and everything else second, you chickenhearted little bastard. “It’s all down to Skinner.” That’s what you
were saying to those people. “If it goes wrong, it’s his fault.
Hilary Guillaum? Don’t look at me. I’d have done as they asked and gone public. Ask Skinner about it. Anything else goes wrong, blame him.” I’d thought more of you than that, but now I know better. You’re the sort who would lay down the life of his best friend to save his own, aren’t you, Alan. Without a second fucking thought. When the shit hits the fan. we know where to find you: hiding under the table, keeping your nice suit clean.
When this is over, pal, you can get yourself a new security adviser.
Until then do not, repeat do not, fuck me about again!’

'Come on. Bob. Snap out of it. The girls’ll be back in a minute.’
'Eh, what? Oh, sorry, Andy. I was somewhere else.’
'You still mad at Ballantyne?’
'What makes you think I ever was?’
'Come off it. I was watching you when he put you on the spot back there.’
'Nah. That was no problem. Here they are. Let’s go.’
He stood up and led the way out of the Filmhouse bar, to meet his wife and Julia Shahor as they emerged from the ladies’ room.
The evening’s performance, a Louis Malle feature, was scheduled to begin in only a few minutes. They had almost reached the auditorium when Julia was called to the telephone.
'Go on in, you two,’ said Andy. 'I’ll wait for Julia.’

She was gone for only a few minutes. As soon as she reappeared at the foot of the staircase he could see that something was wrong.
She looked close to tears.
'What is it, love?’
Oh Andyl She’s cancelled!’
For a few seconds a frown of puzzlement creased his forehead.
Then his eyebrows rose. 'What, you mean . . . what’sher-name?’
'Yes. That was her agent. She’s heard about Hilary Guillaum, and she’s said that no way is she coming. The bitch! How could she! What a coward.’
'And that’s what other people will think, sweetheart. It’s not surprising, though. I’ve a feeling she could be the first of many.
Damn shame, though. I was looking forward to processing her in person!’
'That’s all right,’ said Julia, squeezing his arm and brightening up in an instant. 'You can process me instead!’

Bob and Sarah had been home for only ten minutes when Alex turned up with the supper guest she had invited earlier in the day.
'Hello, Ingo. Good to meet you again.’ Bob stretched out a hand to the Swede, as he stood in the doorway of the sitting-room.
Smiling, he looked the younger man square in the eye. Ingo shook his hand powerfully, holding his gaze unblinking, with a faint but confident grin. 'Come on through. Sarah’s working one of her microwave miracles.’ Bob led the way through to the conservatory, where an oval table was set for four.
Supper was a spicy lemon chicken dish, which Sarah had prepared earlier in the day. Bob helped her to serve it, spooning out portions of light, fluffy rice. Since Ingo would have to drive later. Bob decreed that they would all drink Gleneagles spring water which, he assured their guest, had more life to it than most white wines, and certainly more than any from north of the Mediterranean or south of the Equator.

Alex was still on a high from her evening’s performance. She spoke so fast she was almost breathless, as she rushed to tell Bob and Sarah of the group’s first review, which was scheduled to appear in the next morning’s Scotsman, and which would be 'absolutely rave’, or so their director had been assured by the arts editor. He had said that it would make special reference to the quality of the lighting, and of its importance to the flow of the play.
'Isn’t Ingo brilliant, folks? And it’s only his hobby!’
'You’re not a professional electrician?’ Bob’s question spoke volumes. His inflection was such that it was as if he had said straight out, 'Tell me all there is to know about you, young man.’
Suddenly silenced, Alex looked at him curiously.
'No, sir. Not in that sense,’ said the Swede. 'I have a degree in mining engineering, and now I do what you would call post-grad research at university in Sweden. The theatre work I do for fun, as something different. And it helps me pass this summer.’

'But it’s unpaid?’
'Yes, my amateur status remains intact!’ He laughed, self-assured.
“They must look after you well in Sweden. Here, damn few postgraduates can afford to be amateur at anything.’
'In Sweden is no different. But I have a scholarship.’
'A good one, obviously.’
'Big enough for me anyway. It comes from a foundation set up by a South African mining company. The story goes that they were anxious to atone for their racial policy, and so they decided to set up scholarships at universities around the world, mostly for black students of mining. But what they found was that only Sweden would take their money. Of course there are very few black students in Sweden, and none at all in mining engineering!
Still, the scholarship is very generous and so, for someone who is no more than a researcher, I am, as you say here, rolling in it.’
Only Alex did not join in the laughter.

'So what brought you to Edinburgh?’
'I have heard much of your Festival. I had hoped to come with a Swedish group, but they could not raise the cash. It was suggested that I write to the Festival people and offer my services. To tell truth, I was coming anyway, but the Glasgow people had an emergency, they call me, and here I am, in this very fine play, in your lovely city.’
'What son of emergency?’
Alex broke in. 'I thought I’d told you. Our regular lighting technician went on holiday to Gran Canaria last month. On the way back, the Spanish airport police searched his rucksack, and found lots of white powder in a big talcum tin. Only it wasn’t talc.
The story goes that it was a kilo of heroin. He’s in jail now, waiting to be tried. He swears he’s innocent, that it was planted on him.’

Skinner laughed out loud and shook his head. 'Sorry, love. The smack smuggler isn’t born yet who won’t say that when he gets nicked. Doesn’t matter whether it’s Las Palmas or Las Pilton, the story’s always the same. “Who? Me, officer? Never saw it before in my life.” We had this lady once, off a holiday flight at Edinburgh. The stuff was tied up in a French letter, hidden, shall we say about her person. Know what she said? That her boyfriend has asked her to take it through, but that he had told her they were the diamonds for her engagement ring, packed in icing sugar.

Romantic, eh. The only trouble was she was travelling alone. She claimed her boyfriend had missed the flight.’
'Hold on, darling,’ said Sarah, breaking in. I could almost swallow that.’
Bob raised his eyebrow in an exaggerated gesture. 'You could what?’
Her mouth fell open and she flushed bright pink.
'Be that as it may,’ he went on, 'we didn’t. Turned out the boyfriend was her husband, a Spanish brigand with a ton of form.
They missed him in Malaga. They said they reckoned he was hiding out in La Gomera, till he could get across to Africa. We keep waiting for him to turn up on visiting day at Cornton Vale.
No joy yet, though. Not one visit in five years. Some husband, eh.’ He shook his head. 'No, sorry. Alex. Your lighting man got greedy, and got caught. You might see him again in around fifteen years.’

He smiled back across the table at the Swede. 'So the lights-man’s ill wind blew you some good, Ingo.’
'Yes, sir. So it seems.’
'Enough of the “sir”, the name’s Bob, remember.’ He twisted the top off the Gleneagles bottle and topped up his guest’s glass.
'Is mining a family thing, Ingo? Is that what your father does?’
The Swede laughed. 'No, no. Nothing like that. The opposite, I should say. He was an airline pilot with SAS.’
“There’s a coincidence,’ Skinner muttered.
“Pardon?’
'Sorry, a private joke. Rude of me. I have one of his colleagues working with me just now, in a manner of speaking. SAS: Scandinavian Airlines.

How about your mother?’
'Ah. Like Alex, my mother died when I was very young.’
'Ahh. That’s too bad. Anyway, enough of that. Dig into those strawberries.’

By the time the meal was over. Skinner had learned a great deal about Ingemar Svart. But he had been concentrating so hard on his gentle cross-examination that he had failed to notice the frown as it gathered and deepened on his daughter’s face. Alex had hardly closed the door from saying her goodnight to the Swede, when she squared up to him.
'Pops, just what is it with you?’
'What do you mean?’
“You interrogated Ingo like a suspect.’
Bob laughed, but he was taken aback by an edge in her voice which he had never heard before. 'Your artistic imagination’s running away with you.’
“Like hell it is. You gave the guy the third degree. You were rude and inquisitive. Are you coming the heavy father or something?’

'Hey, calm down, girl. A mat comes into our house with my daughter; it’s natural to want to know something about him.’
'Not his collar size and inside-leg measurement, for Christ’s sake. What is this? Since when did you bring the office home with you.’
For the first time that he could remember. Bob Skinner raised his voice in anger to his daughter. 'Since when? Since innocent people started to get killed in Edinburgh, for no reason other than being useful propaganda fodder, or for just being expendable. Did you see the TV news this evening? Recognise anyone – such as me? Get used to it, honey. Till this thing’s over, no one in this town’s going to be a stranger to me. Did you collect your pass tonight?’

Alex looked puzzled. 'Yes. So what?’
'You filled in a form?’
‘Yes.’
'Right. Even now, as we stand here shouting at each other, the information on that form, and on every other form we collected tonight, is being run through a computer. That’s called security. It’s called taking precautions. It’s all we can do against these people. God knows, it’s not much, and it’s probably useless, but at least it’s something. Our best protection is all the information we can get about all the people in this city. That includes your friend Ingo.’
'And me?’
'Yes. Crazy as it may seem: and you. Just in case, through in Glasgow, you’ve fallen in with the sort of people who do the sort of things Sarah and I have been close up in the last couple of days. And just in case, as your father, I’m too close to read the signs.’

'Then thank you. Father, for your love and trust.’ The living-room door rattled on its hinges as she slammed it behind her.
Bob turned to Sarah. Amazement, tinged with hurt, showed on his face. 'What the bloody hell was all that about?’
'Hey, big man. Cool down.’ She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him slowly, ruffling his hair. 'Read the signs, Dad. She thought you were attacking her man, so she defended him.’
‘What d’ you mean, her man?’
'I mean that our Alex has got it bad, and it shows – to everyone but you, that is.’
'But she’s only a-’
'Slip of a girl, you were going to say? Oh no she isn’t, my darling. Oh no, she isn’t.’

SCOTLAND DEFIANT AGAINST TERROR.

The banner headline of Monday morning’s Scotsman blared up at Skinner from the table as he joined Sarah for breakfast in the conservatory. He picked it up and saw himself on the front page, seated beside a subdued Ballantyne at the press conference, and looking hard at Dave Bassett as he faced him down.
He scanned the accompanying stories, which took up the entire front page, then turned to the leader column. He snorted quietly as he read the editorial, which praised the Secretary of State for displaying a firm and resolute face to the terrorists, and for his good sense in handing over complete responsibility to his security adviser.

'Mr Skinner and his newly formed squad bear a heavy responsibility,’ it read. 'We are confident that they are up to the challenge. Yet it must be noted that however distinguished they may be as police officers, they are inexperienced in facing the type of threat which now confronts them. While no blame can be attached to any individual for failing to prevent the two deaths which took place at the weekend, security precautions are now in place and the public have a right to expect them to be effective.’

He threw the paper on to a chair and glanced at Sarah. 'Did you see the leader?’
She nodded, unsmiling. 'Odd, isn’t it. It seems to say that Ballantyne’s done all he possibly can, and that from now on it’s all down to you if anything else happens.’
Bob shrugged his shoulders. 'Joe Compton, the editor – he’s an old chum of Ballantyne, and it bloody well shows there. That’s politics for you.’
'What are the chances of some other calamity happening?’
'Depends what they want to do. It’ll be dangerous for them to target individuals from now on, but unless they’ve run out of Semtex we can look for some more bangs. There’s bugger-all we can do about someone leaving a Marks Spencer bag in the middle of Marks Spencer, for example. That’s what I expect, anyway. My reading of these characters says that they won’t
expose themselves to direct danger – not the ringleaders at any rate. What d’ you think? Got any sort of a profile for me yet?’

'No chance. I’ve only got three short letters to go on, and frankly there just isn’t enough in them to tell me anything about the man who wrote them.’
'Man? Is that an assumption?’
'No it is not. That’s one thing I am fairly sure of: it wasn’t a woman who wrote them. There’s something about – how do I say? – the posture of the language that is decidedly male. Very
assertive. Confident. In fact certain. Let me put it this way. If the writer of those letters isn’t a man, then we’re looking for someone as forceful as Germaine Greer – or, and it’s just a thought, for more than one person.’

When Skinner reached his office he found ample evidence that the security operation was in full swing. His in-tray was piled high with folders, each one listing a different Festival location.
He picked one off the top of the heap. Its subject venue and its contents were noted on the front. He murmured quietly to himself as his eye scanned down the page.

'Signet Library.
'Description of venue.
'Potential hazards.
'Risk assessment.
'Recommendations.
'Inspecting officer’s signature: Margaret Rose, Detective Sergeant.’

He opened the folder and read the report. As he expected of a Maggie Rose job, it was thorough, concise, and its recommendations were sound. The Signet Library, she had concluded, was an unlikely target. It would be the location of only four events, each
of them part of the 'Official’ Festival.
The spectacularly beautiful, pillared room, with its valuable collection of volumes arranged on two levels, was well alarmed.
All of the potential access points, other than the main door, were bolted shut, and there was permanent building security all year round. Maggie Rose recommended that the security firm
be deployed on a round-the-clock basis, with regular and ostentatious visits by uniformed police officers. Finally she proposed that, during performances, an armed officer, in uniform, should be posted at the main entrance. Her report closed with the suggestion, couched in properly respectful terms, that her senior officers might consider whether widespread
deployment of high-profile armed police, in uniform, at all major venues might offer the double benefit of deterring would be terrorists, while boosting public morale.

Skinner closed the folder and smiled to himself. 'Nice one, Maggie. You’ll make inspector before that man of yours, I reckon.’ He picked up the telephone and told Martin of her
suggestion.
'She’s right, boss. We might have enough people to do it, but they’ll all have to be qualified marksmen. That could give us a problem.’
'No problem at all. Adam Arrow’s SAS guys arrive this evening. Ask him if he minds us sticking them into police uniforms and using them as armed sentries.’
'Will do. Adam’s right here.’

Skinner read through the rest of the reports. Each one was marked 'Actioned’, with Andy Martin’s initials alongside. When the last of the reports had been consigned to the out-tray, he came upon a ribbon of computer printout sheets, still in fan-fold. A glance told him that they were the results of at least the first checks on the application forms completed by Festival performers.
Subjects were listed by name, nationality, and home city. Almost all were marked 'Nothing Known’. Occasionally there would be a note of some past encounter with the law, mostly motoring offences, with a few drug-use or theft convictions scattered among them. He flicked through the sheets, scanning the names, which were listed as they had been fed into the computer. Near the end, he found the entry for which he had been looking.

'Svart, Ingemar. Age 29, currently residing at 43 Close Avenue, Stockbridge. Student. Swedish national. Interpol check run.
Nothing known.’

'Hm. Just as well for you, pal.’
He was about to toss the sheaf of paper into his out-tray when a name at the foot of the page caught his eye. For an instant it made his stomach drop, but a quick look reassured him

'Skinner, Alexis. Age 20, currently residing at 20 Fairy house Avenue, Edinburgh.
Student. Nothing known.’

The sight of Alex’s name listed there with the herd, and vetted with the rest, touched his heart. He laughed, but it was forced.
'Just as well for you too, my girl.’
He spent the next half-hour trying to restore a semblance of normality to his working life. In spite of Jimmy Proud’s assurance, at the time of his promotion, that the attainment of
Chief Officer rank would not affect his operational status as a working detective, inevitably Skinner had become caught up in the bureaucracy that all high command brings with it. He read through the pile of reports, circulars and standing orders which had been left in his pending tray by Ruth, the secretary he shared with the other two Assistant Chief Constables. Fortunately, most were circulation copies of documents which had been dealt with by Harry Gass, the ACC responsible for Management Services. He absorbed their essence as quickly as possible, committing them to memory as best he could. The few which called for his executive action he placed to the side, to be dealt with when his concentration was less affected by the immediate crisis.

Eventually he gave up. He picked up his jacket and headed along the corridor to the Special Branch suite. The outer door had been labelled 'Antiterrorist Squad’.
Adam Arrow was seated behind a desk, reading the Sun and looking bored.
'Come on, Adam. You’ve had the Mario McGuire tour of Edinburgh. Now I’ll give you the Bob Skinner version.’
They left the building and climbed into the BMW, which was parked in one of half-a-dozen reserved spaces in front of the main entrance.

Skinner’s tour of Edinburgh followed none of the usual routes.
Arrow noticed the absence of open-topped, green Guide Friday tourist buses in the parts of the city through which he was driven.
'All this, Adam,’ Skinner said as he drove, 'all this is ours. This is where my people and I work most of the time. There’s little or no corporate crime in Edinburgh, or anywhere else in Scotland, you know. My Fraud Squad, and the Regional Crime guys, occasionally get to deal with a bent lawyer diverting clients’ funds, or with some idiots who think they can get away with mortgage swindles, but dishonesty up here mostly involves poor skint bastards turning over the DSS for a few extra quid. Normally, the city centre’s as clean as a whistle.

Edinburgh, at the top end of the social scale, is a city of Holy Willies. Not like Glasgow. You’ll find far more spivs and hooligans through there. But down here in the bits of Edinburgh that the visitors don’t get told about – is where my CID does its real hard slogging. I’ve seen detective officers in tears of sheer frustration at the work they have to face here. I’ve lost a couple of them through emotional breakdowns.
Ten years ago this place was Smack City; we bad one of the worst drug problems in Europe. Every week we found at least one kid dead up a close with a needle hanging out of his arm.
'We had families living in hell, respectable people but with a drug-dealer next door, who’d be turning the stuff out through his kitchen window like ice-cream. And these poor folk would be terrified that, if we turned the place over, the guy’s pals would assume they’d grassed, and they’d get a kicking, or worse. And that happened too. I remember once when some of my lads busted a dealer. One of them knew the bloke next door slightly. He nodded to him, just briefly, as they took the villain away. Two nights later, the same neighbour staggered into his house with his throat cut, and bled to death on the living-room carpet in front of his wife and kids.’

Arrow hissed, grim-faced, sucking breath between his teeth. 'Is it still like that?’
'Not so bad now. It took us years, but we broke most of the big drug-dealers. None of them was hard to find. Christ, they used to fit steel doors to their council houses, so it would take longer for us to bash then in. The trick for us was to catch them dirty. We just kept battering away at them, though. We used every legitimate trick in the book: bogus DSS investigations, officers dressed up as meter readers, council workmen, you name it. One by one, we nicked them, and when we did, our judges did the business. As a policeman I’ve got a lot of time for the old boys in the High Court, in their red robes. “Dealing in Horse, my man? That’ll be fifteen years of your time, thank you very much. Next case please.” They didn’t piss about when we needed them.

'All the big dealers are gone now. There’s still a fair bit of drugs about, but it’s well underground now. There seems to be a different distribution network. The estates aren’t blighted and terrorised the way they used to be, but they’re still hard, violent places. These blocks of flats might not look so bad, at least not the ones that have had a lick of paint, but a lot of them are still castles of misery, lived in by poor, frightened people, bullied by the DSS,
the tally-men, even at times, I have to admit, by the police.’
He negotiated a roundabout, glowering across at Arrow. 'But do you know what hacks me off, Adam? Back in the Eighties, there we were tackling and beating one of the worst drug problems in Europe, and few if any people outside Edinburgh knew or cared about it. They didn’t know, because it wasn’t hot news. It was like murders in Ireland, everyday occurrences, so it only got a wee bit of coverage, short-lived and mainly local. Didn’t matter that it was a tragedy. It had no news value.

Yet look at Edinburgh now. Some arseholes set off a firework and murder a prima-donna, and we’ve got every news organisation in the world demanding to know what we’re going to do about it. The world’s unjust, Adam.
A rich and famous person becomes a victim, and we have a media shit-storm. OK, well and good, and so we should have. But where were they all eight years ago when that poor wee man died in his front room, with his blood spraying all over his three-year-old daughter? Just two newspapers carried that story. Two: that’s all.’

As Skinner spoke, they wound their way through the area which had been the battleground in the fight against the dealers. Wester Hailes, the windows of its high-rise blocks glinting in the sun. Niddrie, beginning to look scruffy again a few years on from its last cosmetic repainting. Pilton, much of it still grey and terrible, its poverty proclaimed by the boarded windows, the steel shutters guarding its shops even as they did business, and the burnt-out cars in its school grounds.
Skinner swung the car down towards Newhaven and the east. 'Enough, Adam, enough. Now at least you know that all human misery isn’t concentrated in Belfast. Come on and I’ll show you the other side of my patch. I need to clear my mind.’

They drove through Leith and Seafield, by-passed Portobello, and beaded out of the city on the A I. As they passed the Craigpark retail centre, he glanced across at his passenger.
'You a golfer, Adam?’
'Not so’s you’d fookin’ notice, but I play.’
'Good lad. It’s too nice a day to waste.’
Twenty minutes later they were in Gullane, in Bob and Sarah’s 'other house’, as they had come to call it. As Adam admired the garden in full bloom. Bob delved into a cavernous cupboard, emerging eventually with his golf kit, Sarah’s ladies’ clubs, and a pair of her studded shoes which proved an ideal fit for the stocky little soldier.
Gullane number-one course was mostly clear. There were no party bookings, and as Bob looked down the first two fairways and up to the third tee, high on the hill, he could see only one match, nearing the long second green in its peculiar ravine. He recognised the players: two of the club’s many retired bankers.

Waved on to the tee by the bespectacled starter, he showed his guest the line to the first green with a low straight shot, hit with a two iron. The ball seemed to run for ever on the hard, brown fairway.
Arrow selected Sarah’s metal three wood, teed low, and boomed off a drive which headed straight for the far side of the roadway, and for the garden of one of the big white houses which ran parallel to the fairway on the right. But just as Skinner’s hand crept up to cover his eyes, the ball drew back in towards the fairway, cleared the waiting sand-trap, bounced, and ran on to finish only twenty yards or so short of the green.
' “Not so’s you’d fookin’ notice,” indeed!’ Skinner mimicked.
They each took four, then halved the next three holes, before Arrow’s aggression lost him a ball on the difficult, rising dogleg fifth. Skinner was still one up when they climbed on to the seventh tee, the highest point on Gullane Hill. Like all first-time visitors to the famous old course. Arrow was stunned by the finest view in golf. The wide estuary of the River Forth sparkled in the sun, its waters flat calm at ebb tide. The watermark was so low that the
grounded wreck of the Great War submarine in Aberlady Bay could be seen clearly.

Bob recited the names of each of the six golf courses which were in view from the hill-top, then pointed his way along the Fife coast opposite, past Kirkcaldy and the Methil rig yard, on to the East Neuk villages. Largo, Earlsferry, Elie, St Mohans, Pittenweem, Anstruther and, in the far distance, Crail.
'By Christ, Bob. Why bother to play fookin’ golf? Why not just come straight up here and enjoy it?’
Skinner laughed. 'Many’s the time I’ve wished I had done just that, mate. And it tends to be all downhill from here, in more ways than one.’

Their match continued as tight as it had begun. Each was fiercely competitive, and Sarah’s clubs seemed to suit Arrow perfectly. However Skinner’s straighter game gave him the edge,
until they shook hands on the green of the short sixteenth, after the little soldier had missed a ten-foot putt for a match-saving half. Both to celebrate and to demonstrate, on the seventeenth tee Bob took out his boron-shafted driver for the first time, and sent a huge shot soaring over the downward-sloping fairway. His body English seemed to give the shot extra yardage as it squeezed over the cross bunkers guarding the approach to the green.
Arrow came very close to following him, but his ball found the sand.

As they walked down the steep slope, the little soldier looked up at his partner. 'Cool bugger most of the time, ain’t yer, Bob. It’s as well you don’t give people the same treatment you gave that fookin’ ball there. Tell me something. You’ve told me one thing that makes you angry, but is there anything that makes you really mad, really blow your stack?’
As he continued down the hill. Bob looked deep into himself, as if searching for the other Skinner, the one whose appearance he dreaded, as if analysing him, working out what brought him to the surface. Eventually, on the ridge above the bunker, he stopped,
and leaned on his clubs.
“That’s a better question than you know, Adam, and it’s a tough one to answer honestly. But I’ll try. You say I’m a cool bugger, but you’re wrong. I might be controlled, but that’s a
different thing. There are, I think, just two things that would make me lose self-control. Christ, I hope there are only two. One is any direct threat to my nearest and dearest: to my wife Sarah or my daughter Alex. Most people would say the same. The other one is betrayal. An act of serious betrayal. That gets me. And if that betrayal is bad enough, then – well let’s just say I’m not so nice to know.’

Arrow looked at him shrewdly. 'Betrayal. You mean like what that prick of a Secretary of State of yours did to you at your press conference?’
Skinner’s eyes narrowed as he took out his putter. 'Who called the prick a Secretary of State, Adam, that’s what I’d like to know,’ he said softly, with a cold smile, rolling the ball into the
hole.

The world was still turning on its axis as normal when Skinner and Arrow returned to Edinburgh from Gullane.
It looked like any other Festival Monday afternoon as they drove along Princes Street. The hospitality marquee above the Waverley Centre had been repaired. Banners bearing the
sponsor’s corporate logo fluttered from poles set on its supporting pillars. A few guests stood in the entrance, drinks in hand, enjoying the summer day.

Skinner rolled down the windows of the BMW. The sunroof had been open all through the journey from Gullane. As they drove along, they took in the sounds of the street. Competing
bagpipers, some live, some no more than taped Muzak floating from the open-fronted shops, competed for attention above the noise of the traffic, vehicular and human. The open-air Fringe sideshow at the Mound was in full swing. Edinburgh was alive: full of bustle. The capital was wearing its bright Festival face, as if there was no threat, as if no crisis existed.

Back at Fettes, Arrow headed for the car which had been assigned to him, and drove straight off to Redford Barracks to await the check in of his SAS unit. His men were travelling north
on various afternoon flights from Heathrow, in groups of two or three.
Skinner settled back into his swivel chair, behind his desk, at precisely two minutes before 4:00 pm, just in time for his regular Monday meeting with his deputy and the six Divisional heads of CID. As Commander he needed to know everything that was going on throughout the force’s sprawling territory. At the same time these weekly meetings as a group encouraged a healthy exchange of information among colleagues.

Once Ruth had brought in coffee and the obligatory chocolate digestives, he gave his fellow detectives a comprehensive run-through of the threat and the security operation. The summary briefing took only ten minutes.

‘So that’s what we’ve done,’ Skinner said finally, ' and that’s who’s in the antiterrorist squad. Any questions, gentlemen?’
'One, sir.’
Skinner looked across at Douglas Armstrong, a big, bluff man from Dalkeith. Armstrong was his nominated deputy and, as a Detective Chief Superintendent, a rank above the Divisional
heads. 'Whose side are the politicians on?’
'If you mean our own Board, they’re solidly behind us, as always. If you mean ministers, they’re backing us too, for the moment at least. We’ve got a job to do. Let’s just do it as well as we can, and earn any thanks we get at the end of the day. And when I say we’ve got a job to do, I mean you too, whatever your Division, aye, even you down in the Borders, Ron. These people must have a home base. For all the high-flown language, and all that crap, this is just another bloody gang. We don’t know how big it is, but there has to be a gang-hut somewhere, a place where the boss is, a place where orders are given – a place where these
letters are typed. Even if they’re so well organised that they never meet as a complete group, there is still movement and contact between them. They communicate through letters, not over the phone, and they use pretend couriers. There’s a contact point, when the courier picks up his envelope – unless of course, he’s the author, but that’s unlikely.

'So we’re not just looking for people, we’re looking for that place as well. I want you, in your Divisions, to put all your people on the alert, uniform as well as CID, to keep an eye out for any possibility, however slight. The only forensic knowledge which we have is that the notes were produced by a computer or word processor using a fairly obscure typeface called Venice, and that they were printed on Conqueror paper by a Hewlett Packard Desk-jet.’
He handed each man a manufacturer’s brochure showing the ugly but functional square-shaped printer, and a sample sheet of Conqueror paper with its clear water mark.

'If any of your people find anywhere where they see those two items together, they should report it back and let us follow it up. I don’t care who the owner is, whether it’s your wife’s brother or the parish priest, each case is to be reported back. We’re checking out all printer stockists and paper suppliers. Both these items are sold over the counter, but we already think we know where the printer was bought: a shop in Queensferry Street, last Tuesday.
Buyer paid cash and left a phoney address for product registration. All the assistant could describe was tallish male, may have been dark-haired, but he wore a hooded tank-top and shades, so she couldn’t be certain. She didn’t remember his accent. The shop doesn’t sell Conqueror paper, but there’s a stockist in William Street, and we’re checking it out now.’

'Any prints on either letter?’ asked Armstrong.
'No, Douglas, not a smear. Gloves all down the chain. So, gentlemen, unless any one of you has anything else on your patch that’s about to go pear-shaped, and you need to tell me about in private, that’s it for today. See you all here next week, on a group basis again, I think, unless you hear different. Go to it, and good luck.’

Heading for home. Skinner was in the act of closing the door of his office behind him when another thought occurred. He went back to his desk and picked up his scrambled telephone, keying in one of forty pre-programmed numbers.
The call was answered brusquely on the first ring. 'Hullo.’
Willie. Skinner here. How are you lot getting on with our pal?’
'No’ bad, sir.’
'How are my guys doing?’
'First class. That’s a hard big bastard, that Mcllhenney. And the boy Macgregor, he’s so sharp he’ll cut himself.’
'Well just you keep an eye on him and see that he doesn’t. Now, what about Macdairmid?’
'He’s spent most of the day at the Constituency Labour Party offices. Ah had a tap put on them too. Is that OK wi’ you?’
'Yes, for now, but just make sure you remember to take it off as soon as Macdairmid’s eliminated as a suspect.’

'Shame! But yes, sir. That’s understood. No’ that it’s produced anything yet that would interest you, other than the guy haranguin’ lassies in the Housin’ Department, threatenin’ them that their jobs ’ll no be safe if they don’t do as he says.’
'He’s not saying he’ll use his political clout to have them sacked, is he?’
'Not straight out. Naw. Well it isn’t enough for a charge, if that’s what ye’re thinking; it’s nothing that the Crown Office needs to tae hear. Mind you,’ Haggerty mused, 'if someone
dropped a copy of the transcript taste the Sun, it might finish him as an MP.’,
'Don’t bother yourself, Willie. Nice thought as it is, it would cause too many problems. Anyway, we’ve got enough on the guy now to make sure that he’s quietly de-selected, and we’ll do that at the right time. For now just keep tabs on him and see if he leads us anywhere.’

Haggerty grunted. 'Understood. There is one thing, sir. The boy does have a funny habit. Twice, he left the offices and went fur a pint in a pub on Greenlands Road. Mcllhenney and
Macgregor took turns tailing him. Apparently, each time, he only had a half-pint, and hardly touched that. But each time, he used the pub pay-phone. 'S’that no interesting?’
'It’s funny, for sure. It could be anything, though, that he didn’t want heard in the office. Calling the girlfriend for example.
Still, we’ll take a punt on it. As soon as you see him heading for the CLP offices again, put a tap on that pub phone, and let’s see what we get.’

The rest of the day passed peacefully. Bob and Sarah took in a one-man show. based on the life of Houdini, in a converted church hall in Newington. The star – A game guy,’ as Bob
declared later – performed several of Houdini’s easier illusions as part of the show, prevailing upon members of the audience to verify that he was securely chained, or straight-jacketed, or boxed in, whatever each trick demanded. Sarah’s enjoyment of the show was dampened slightly by a constant niggling fear that Bob’s mobile telephone would ring, but it never did.
They returned to their bungalow in Fairyhouse Avenue at around 10:30 pm. Half an hour later, Andy Martin and Julia Shahor arrived for a late supper after the evening’s film
performance. It was partly a social visit, and partly an opportunity for the two detectives to touch base on the day’s events.

While, in the conservatory. Skinner told Martin of Grant Macdairmid’s peculiar visits to the pub in Greenlands Road,

Sarah and Julia chatted in the kitchen.
'How’s your aunt reacting to all the excitement?’ Sarah asked.
'She’s taken herself off,’ said Julia, a note of disappointment creeping into her voice, giving it sudden depth where normally it was flat and devoid of accent. 'She said that I had enough on my hands without having her around, and so she insisted on going back home to Uncle Percy in Brighton. I put her on the Gatwick flight this morning, and he was going to pick her up at the other end. I’m sorry in a way. She likes to be around when it’s busy, to help me as best she can. She still does little things about the house.
I said I didn’t want her to leave, but she had made her mind up.’
'So you’re there on your own now?’
Julia smiled. 'Well, not exactly. Andy says that since his work has become involved with mine, and since he insists on looking after me, after my scare the other night, it makes sense for me to move in with him for a week or two. That is nice of him, is it not.’

Sarah laughed. 'Nice! It’s amazing. For as long as I’ve known Andy Martin, he’s been adamant that he’d never let a girlfriend hang her clothes in his wardrobe. This sounds serious. He’s not the head-over-heels type; and that’s not the way you strike me either.’
'I didn’t think I was. But when I saw him on Saturday, something just went into melt-down. Earlier tonight he asked me to marry him.’
Sarah’s mouth dropped open in amazement. 'He did what!
What did you say?’
'I said that he should ask me again in a month. If he does, and if I still feel this same way, then I will marry him, and just as fast as I can.’
'Good for you, lady. Bob and I didn’t hang about either. We took a little more time over it than you and Andy but, still, we only met last year. He had to be a bit more cautious though,
having the other love of his life to consider.’
'What, do you mean his job?’

Sarah smiled again, and shook her head. 'Apart from that! No, I meant Alex, his daughter. If she and I had hated each other, it’d have been difficult for him – and for me too, come to that. It was fine, though. I love Alex. She’s like my kid sister, only she’s no kid. It’s funny, but your moving in with Andy – it’s come just at the right time, in a way. It might help Bob understand something he doesn’t fathom yet.’
‘What’s that?’
'Alex and Bob had their first real row last night. I mean their first ever. She brought her new man home for supper, and Bob gave him the third degree. After he’d gone, Alex just blew her
stack. So did Bob. This afternoon she came back from her theatre while he was out – she’s acting in a play – and picked up some of her clothes and things. She’s moved in with Ingo, the boyfriend. I promised I’d break the news to Bob.’

She saw a look of apprehension cloud Julia’s face, and was quick to dispel it. 'Don’t worry. I won’t let it spoil our evening. I’ll wait till afterwards, to tell him.’
'What will he do?’
'Well, he might just go and find Ingo and give him a quiet going over.’ She paused, and Julia’s mouth dropped open, a frown creasing her forehead. Sarah grinned. 'But I think I should be able to stop him doing that. Especially now that I can remind him that you and Andy are in the same situation. He’ll sulk for a while, but he’ll be OK. Alex wouldn’t do anything just for the sake of hurting Bob, and he knows that.’

'Would it help if I asked Andy to talk to him?’ said Julia, tentatively.
'God no! Andy treats her like a sister, too. He’s known her since she was a little girl. He’d probably have Ingo deported! No, don’t say anything to him. We’ll let Bob sort himself out first, then he can sort out Andy!’

At the insistence of Sarah and Julia, no shop was talked during supper. Instead Bob replayed, shot by shot, his round of golf with Adam Arrow. The walk in the sun had added a pink touch to his tan and a bleached hint to his hair. His account rose in its superlatives until it climaxed in his description of his eagle two at the seventeenth, passed off casually at the time, for Arrow’s benefit, but in fact, a lifetime first.
'And what happened at the eighteenth?’ asked Andy.
'Trust you, boy. I was going to gloss over that, but OK. Gave it the long handle again, didn’t I. Stuffed my drive in that chest-high rough up the right. Bunkered my second ball. Took eight. Anyway, by that time I was thinking about work again.’
In a sense that was true. In fact, as he stood on the tee, he had been considering still, in depth, the subject of betrayal.

He seemed the usual Skinner on arriving at his office next morning, but Ruth, ever the perceptive secretary, caught a preoccupied, slightly sharp edge to his 'Good morning’.
'Where’s Alex?’ he had asked, as the door had closed on Andy and Julia seven hours earlier. Then Sarah had told him. He had taken the news better than she had thought he might, but his
reaction had opened a new shaft of concern for Alex in Sarah herself.
'Sarah, love, in all of her life since her mother died, the girl’s never known disappointment. Some of that I’ve seen to, but most of the credit’s hers. She’s never failed an exam in her life. And as far as I can remember, or at least know about, she’s never made a serious error of judgement. But I suspect that she’s made one this time.’
'What do you mean?’

'I mean that guy Ingo isn’t right – not for her at any rate.
There’s something about him that I don’t like. I can’t say what it is. All I can tell you that in my time I’ve interviewed a lot of people in the course of police investigations. I’ve reached the stage when I can usually smell the wrong ones. And believe me, that fellow smells wrong. He’s a self-centred bastard, and he doesn’t give a damn about Alex. He’s just taking a loan of her.’
'Come on. Bob, you’re hardly being objective.’
'I’m hardly objective about criminals either, but I’m usually right.’
Sarah reached out a hand and touched his cheek, whispering as she did,

' “Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up,
fostered alike by beauty and by fear.” '

'What’s that?’
'Wordsworth. It just came into my head, thinking about you and Alex. Your relationship is beautiful. Bob, but there’s fear there too. Your fear, every father’s fear, of what might happen to his little girl.’
He shook his head. 'I wish it was so simple, or so poetic, lover, but the hair on the back of my neck prickled the first time I ever met the guy, when Alex introduced him just as one of the squad, without even saying there was something between them. And the day I stop trusting the hair on the back of my neck – that day I’ll be finished as a detective.’
'Well if you really believe that, what are you going to do?’
'What can I do? I can’t talk her round. It’s gone too far for that. I could put the fear of God into him, but to do that properly I have a feeling that I might have to break at least one of his legs!
And what would that do for me and Alex? It’d never be the same again.
'No, I – what do I mean – we just have to accept it for now, but watch the situation and be around to pick up the pieces when he dumps her and buggers off back to Sweden.’

They sat up until 2:00 am discussing Alex’s decampment.
Back in his office, faced once again with the tyranny of his pending tray. Bob could feel the loss of those few hours’ sleep, but he persevered until, by mid-morning, he had worked his way through most of the heap of files and folders.
Just after 11:00 am he was interrupted by a call on his private line. He picked up the receiver and heard a familiar voice echoing through a bad international connection.
'Bob, Jimmy here. I’ve just seen a copy of yesterday’s Telegraph. What the hell’s going on there?’
Sir James Proud’s celebration of his recently conferred knighthood was taking the form of a four-week break with Lady Proud in Lanzarote. 'Twenty-eight days of doing absolutely sod
all,’ he had announced before his departure. His holiday still had almost twenty-one of those days to run.

Skinner was not in the least surprised by his call. 'Hello, Chief. I thought you’d be on the phone as soon as the news caught up with you. If you’ve seen the Telegraph, you probably know it all.
Since the murder of the Guillaum woman, we’ve had no more incidents, or any further contact from the terrorists. That’s nearly forty-eight hours now. We’ve put as much security in place as we can, including some of the boys in black from Hereford. Maybe we’ve scared them off, but I have my doubts.’

How’s Ballantyne taking it?’
'I don’t want to talk about that.’
For a few seconds there was only a whistling sound on the otherwise silent line, as Proud considered the implications of Skinner’s reticence. When he spoke again, there was a warning in his tone.
'You watch our friend, Robert. Like most politician’s, he’s not to be trusted. Look, I’ll try to get a plane out of here. I should be back home there.’
No you shouldn’t. What could you do that I haven’t done?
Besides if you’ve read the ‘Torygraph’, you’ll know that this isn’t a force matter anyway. Officially, it’s in the hands of an antiterrorist squad, and I’m in command, courtesy of our friend Ballantyne. So you just lie in the sun with Lady Chrissie, and try to enjoy doing all that bugger-all that you were looking forward to.’
'But, man, I’ll feel terrible, worrying about you lot.’
'Why should you? Do you think all crime stops in Edinburgh just because you’ve gone on bloody holiday? Think of it as just another investigation.’
Proud grunted. 'I suppose you’re right. I have to admit that Chrissie did give me the start of a very black look when I mentioned going back home. How’s McGuinness getting on?’
'Not bothering me.’
'And Sarah? How’s Sarah?’
'Terrific. She’s taking years off me.’
And Alex?’
Playing house with some Swede at the moment. Much to my displeasure, I have to say.’
Take some advice from an expert, Bob. Let her get on with it. When you’re her age, no one else knows anything about life.’
“That’s more or less what Sarah says too.’
Warning pips sounded on the line. Ok, boss, thanks for the call. Now go on. Get back to your sun-bed.’
Proud laughed. 'All right. If you’re certain. It’s true what they say, by the way. I have to get up at 7:30 to book our places. So long.’ The line went dead.

The rest of the day passed peacefully, apart from the distraction of a mid-afternoon bank robbery at the Bank of Scotland in Picardy Place – a crime which was almost refreshing in its
normality after the tumult of the weekend. The bearded senior manager’s terse and vivid description of the raiders struck a chord with the investigating Detective Chief Inspector, and a replay of the bank video confirmed his suspicions. Within three hours of the crime, arrests were made and the stolen 33,000 recovered.

Bob and Sarah decided to give the performing arts a miss that evening. Instead they visited a private view of a major exhibition of Inca treasures in the Royal Scottish Museum. After their guided tour, they mingled with the rich and famous of Edinburgh and various members of the visiting glitterati, at a drinks reception in the Museum’s main hall, under its magnificent high-arched glass ceiling.
They had just spent some time in confusing conversation with one of Scotland’s leading young jazz saxophonists and his identical twin brother, and were circulating towards the next
group, when they were confronted by a stocky, bull-like, crew-cut figure sweating in his pink shirt and white cotton jacket, even in the controlled climate of the Museum.
'Skinner?’ The man seemed to bark rather than speak.
Skinner nodded, hackles rising instantly.
Al Neidermeyer. We spoke on the transatlantic horn on Saturday. Remember?’
'Oh yes, I remember.’ Skinner’s voice was suddenly soft. He felt Sarah’s hand tighten on his arm, as if she was holding him back.

A vein throbbed on the side of the shorter man’s bullet-like head. 'I want you to know that I’m watching you, Skinner. You fucked me around. I don’t forget that. You slip up just once on this case, and I’ll make you international bad news. I’ll screw you so hard your eyes’ll pop. You get me? Now tell me what the fuck you’re doing to catch these people.’

A slow, cold smile spread across Skinner’s face. Beside him Sarah was trembling in fury. She made to speak, but Bob, still smiling, silenced her with a slight movement of his hand. The
chattering of the groups of guest around them had stilled, and a circle had opened up around them. The closest bystanders stared self-consciously into their wine glasses. 'Mr Neidermeyer – or can I call you Al? You’re new in town. You’re probably jet-lagged. And, like my wife, here, you’re an American. All that cuts you one piece of slack. You’ve just used it up.’ The smile left his lips.
'So now you listen to me, and listen well. Here you get the same rights and privileges on this story as any other member of the foreign press. In your special case, that means you’re at the back of the queue. You want to ask any questions about this investigation, you contact my information office. You don’t waylay me in a public place. Understood?’

Suddenly his voice was different, still quiet but hard now, and very, very cold. 'And one more thing. You ever talk to me like that again, or block my way, or use language like that in front of my wife, and you’ll either be on liquids for a week, or locked up, or both.
'Come on, love. Time we were going.’ He slipped an arm around Sarah’s waist and led her from the Museum.

An hour later Sarah was still seething. She sat on the edge of the bed in her matching pink bra and panties, pulling a brush through her hair. Bob lay naked between the sheets.
'That little jerk. Who the hell does he think he is? Guys like him give all us Americans a bad name. What an asshole! If I ever see him again . . .’
Bob laughed and shook his head. 'Calm down, Doc. You’re getting as red in the face as he was. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you phone Don the Consul and report him?’
She frowned at him. 'How can you be so calm about it? He threatened you in front of all those people.’
'Yeah, and I threatened him back. I don’t think he’ll do it again. If he does, I’ll just have to call my pal Joe. To hell, maybe I’ll do that anyway.’
'Who’s your pal Joe?’
'The FBI guy in your Embassy in London. I wonder if old Al would fancy a full-scale IRS tax audit.’

Sarah looked at him. Even now, he was still capable of surprising her. 'Could you fix that?’
'Damn right I could. Now forget that bastard, and come here. There’s a fella wants to talk to you.’
In an instant, she slipped out of her bra and panties and into bed, reaching for him. Just as he drew her close to him, the telephone rang.
Sarah swore softly, rolled over and picked it up. 'Hello?’
'Sarah? It’s Maggie Rose here.’ At once, Sarah was aware of the tension in the detective sergeant’s voice. The woman was struggling hard to stay in control. 'I’m sorry, but I need
to speak to the boss.’
Frowning, Sarah handed over the receiver.
Bob took it from her. 'Yes, Sergeant. What is it?’
'It’s a bomb, sir. In the Assembly Rooms. In the Music Hall. They’ve done it again. Oh, my God, but it’s awful. Get here, please, sir! Just get here, please!’

George Street was closed off along its entire length, from Charlotte Square to St Andrew Square. A uniformed officer, stationed at the junction of Queen Street and Frederick Street,
recognised Skinner and Sarah instantly, and waved them through.
They parked in front of the double-windows of Phillips, the fine art auctioneers. Clad in the jeans and sweatshirts which they had pulled on after tumbling out of bed, they raced across the street, past the police cars lined along the central reservation, and past the rank of ambulances which stood like blue-beaconed taxis at the arched and pillared entrance to the Assembly Rooms.

At once. Skinner spotted Deputy Chief Constable McGuinness standing in the doorway, looking out into the street. The portly policeman was in evening dress, as if he had been summoned from the opera. His normally ruddy face had a yellowish tinge, and his eyes gave a clear hint of what lay inside.
Skinner greeted him sympathetically. 'Hello, Eddie. What’s happened?’ Even as he spoke two paramedics hurried past, bearing a keening victim on a stretcher towards one of the ambulances. He looked down at their burden, and in spite of himself, he felt his stomach knot, and his testicles tighten. It was a girl, young and blonde. Her left ear and part of the left side of her face had been sliced off. Through the mess, Skinner could see white bone. A long shard of wood protruded from her belly. Her hands, all bloody, were grasping it as if she were holding on to her pain and, through that, to life itself.
McGuinness’s lips moved as if he was speaking, but no sound came out. Instead his eyes filled with tears as he followed the girl on her stretcher. For the first time in his life, Skinner found that he felt sorry for the Deputy. He knew that most of McGuinness’s career had been spent in administration, and yet here he was visiting his second charnel-house in only four days.

'Go and sit in one of the cars, Eddie. You don’t have to look at this. You can’t help these people.’
But the Deputy Chief Constable shook his head, blinking the glaze from his eyes. Then, as Skinner looked at him, he straightened his back and clenched his jaw. 'No, Bob. I realise
that things like this come with the job.’
Skinner patted him on the shoulder with a new-found sense of camaraderie. 'Good man, Eddie,’ he murmured softly. 'Jimmy would be pleased with you.’

As he led Sarah into the foyer of the Assembly Rooms, they were met by a babel of sound. The shouts of the emergency teams mingled with cries of paid from victims. Somewhere not too far away a man was screaming.
Carrying her bulky First-aid bag, Sarah looked around until she saw a nurse in uniform. 'I’m a doctor,’ she called out to the man.
'Where’s the medical centre?’
'Up those stairs, in the big room to the left.’
She turned to Skinner. 'Bob, I’m . . .’
'Yes, of course. I’ll send for you if I need you.
'Maggie Rose said it was in the Music Hall,’ he said to no one in particular. Then he caught sight of Andy Martin standing at the foot of the wide staircase to the right, waving to him.
'Boss,’ he called. “This way.’

Skinner followed Martin up the staircase. At the top he made to step into the big Music Hall which he knew so well, but Martin caught his arm.
'No, boss. Come up to the gallery. You’ll get a better idea there.
And listen, prepare yourself. It’s not a pretty sight.’
Martin led him through the access door to the balcony, and up a second flight of stairs, much narrower than the first. As he stepped into the auditorium. Skinner’s eyes screwed up involuntarily, taking in the horror. Glass was strewn across the full width of the upper seating area. White stuffing, much of it stained crimson with blood, protruded from torn tip-up seats. A line of pockmarks ran irregularly along the painted back wall of the gallery. The whole upper area of the hall looked as if it had been strafed with machine-gun fire.
As soon as Skinner looked down into the body of the hall, he realised why. The framework of the huge, ornate chandelier, which had been the main feature of the room, now hung twisted
and tangled, suspended from the ceiling by only a few wires. Its heavy crystal fittings were virtually all gone. Skinner saw at once that the blast had torn them off and sent them whistling like heavy-calibre bullets into the balcony seats.

He walked down the few steps from the doorway, and looked into the body of the theatre. From the way the wreckage was spread out, he could see that the explosion had taken place mid-stage. The lower part of the auditorium was filled with temporary tiered-stall seating. The rows of seats nearest the front, and thus closest to the explosion, were below stage level, and seemed to have been shielded from the worst of the blast. He could see that those in the middle and towards the rear had been riddled with a savage assortment of wooden, glass and metal shrapnel. Skinner remembered the girl on the stretcher, and guessed that it was the
debris of the stage furniture.

Suddenly he was overwhelmed by the horror of it all. 'Jesus Christ, Andy. What a mess.’
Martin had been working at the scene for some time, but he too was still ashen-faced. 'Hellish. We’ve got at least twelve dead, and who knows how many injured. A few of them won’t make it.
There was a girl there . . .’
'I know. I saw her, I think. Sarah came with me. She’s gone next door to do what she can.’
'That’s good, boss. Maggie Rose is there too. She was in the building – down in the foyer, and thank Christ not in the Hall when it happened.’
'She holding up OK?’
'Maggie? Are you kidding?’

'That’s good. Now tell me what you’ve worked out so far.’
'Well, as you can see, the bomb seems to have exploded right on the stage itself. The show was an Australian musical called Waltzing Matilda or some such. The cast was bang – oh Christ!
He paused, aghast at his choice of words – in the middle of one of their big production numbers when it happened. We can account for three bodies on stage, but there’s another one missing.
We reckon she’s probably just been blown all over the fucking place. You can see what the blast did to the big chandelier. The folk upstairs caught the worst of it. One or two of the poor sods were just cut to pieces. The audience downstairs didn’t do too well either. The people at the front and at the back got off lightest; mostly shock, some deafened, a few scrapes. The folk in the middle caught the stage debris. They were lucky the frame of that big chandelier didn’t come down on them as well.’

Martin paused, to bring his rising voice under control. Skinner looked over into the mid-section of the big hall, which was flooded by the temporary lights which had been set up. Many of the seats were torn and, as in the upper area, some were stained scarlet. More blood trails led up the aisle towards the exit door.
'By the time I got here,’ Martin continued, 'they’d taken eight people out dead from the audience. Five more are touch-and-go.
One woman had her hand sliced off. Her boyfriend had to put a tourniquet on her.’ He paused, gulping in breath. 'The worst casualties are on their way to hospital. Most of them are being treated here.’
Skinner caught sight of 'Gammy’ Legge kneeling in the centre of the scorched blackened stage. 'Do we know anything about the type of bomb yet? Was it the same as Saturday?’
'There’s an old guy reckons he can describe it for us. He’s a weird old boy; he’s either tremendously excited or a bit hysterical or both. He can’t stop talking. I’ve sent him downstairs with a PC. Do you want to talk to him?’

'Too right. Let’s get to him before he starts to embroider it.’
Martin led the way out of the Music Hall and down the wide carpeted staircase, back to the foyer. The Fringe cafe-bar in the rear ground-level hall had been turned into an emergency canteen.
A number of survivors, more shocked than injured, were sitting around on stacking chairs, drinking mugs of hot sweet tea.
Skinner could hear the old man’s shrill, hoarse voice rising above the hubbub even before Martin pointed him out. He was standing on his tip toe, clutching a white mug, with his chin stuck out, bellowing and gesticulating with his free hand to the young officer detailed to look after him. His small stature was accentuated by the wizening and shrinkage which the advancing years had brought with them.

Skinner could see at once why Martin had thought him weird.
More than anything else, he looked like a large monkey in fancy dress. He had a broad flat face, and a high forehead, from which his long, thinning hair swept back. Skinner noted with surprise a sprinkling of black still showing among the grey. A small gold ring looked garish in his left ear, but somehow it was in accord with his crew-necked blue-and-white hooped sweater, and comfort-cut black jeans. He wore open-toed sandals, without socks. He might have been. Skinner estimated, anywhere between sixty-five and eighty.
Martin introduced them. 'Boss, this is Mr Charles Forsyth. Mr Forsyth, ACC Skinner.’

The little man turned and looked slowly up at the figure towering above him. 'So you’re the great Bob Skinner! I’ve met you once before. Must be nearly twenty years ago. You were just a raw-arsed sergeant then!’
The man’s voice was still raised and hoarse, and Skinner guessed this was his normal tone. He looked at Forsyth afresh, trying to place him in his memory, but failed.
'Well I’m pleased to meet you again, Mr Forsyth, although I’d rather it hadn’t been here, and in these circumstances. So you were in the Music Hall when the explosion happened. Tell me, were you there alone?’

'Call me Charlie. Aye I was alone, thank Christ. Mary – that’s my girlfriend – she was feeling a bit off-colour, and anyway, she didnae really fancy the idea of Aussies pretending tae be song-and-dance men. Don’t know what brought me, truth be told. It’s out of my usual line, all that prancin’ poofter stuff. I’m a writer,y’know,’ he added inconsequentially.
Skinner was not surprised by the revelation, but decided instinctively not to pursue that line of conversation.
'Where were you sat, Charlie?’
'Downstairs, three rows from the back. If I’d been three rows further down . . . The guy in the sixth row, straight in front of me, caught a big lump of flying timber or something, right in the throat. It took the poor bastard’s head half off. And that could have been me. Mind you, I’ve always been lucky. I remember once in Burma . . .’ His voice trailed off, as if he had suddenly discovered that this detail of his war-time memories was no longer there.

'Andy says you can describe the explosion, Charlie,’ Skinner prodded, gently.
The little man’s eyes lit up at once, and he seemed almost to straighten from his stoop. 'Aye, too fuckin’ right I can! It was the radiogram.’
What?’
'Well this nonsense – I won’t dignify it with the name of a play – was set in the early Sixties and the stage was dressed with props from that time. Gate-leg table, chintzy chairs, that sort of stuff and one of those huge standard electric radiograms they had back in those days. You’ll be too young to remember them, maybe.
Great big bastards they were. They weighed a ton. That’s what blew up! I was lookin’ straight at it at the time. It just seemed to disintegrate, and puff outwards in smoke, and everything else on stage along with it. Funny, looking back it’s as if it happened in slow motion.’
'Are you certain?’
'Certain? Of course I’m fucking certain. I was there, wasn’t I?