In the foyer, DCC McGuinness now seemed in full control both of himself and of the situation. The stream of casualties out to the ambulances had subsided.
Skinner went to check on Sarah in the first-aid room, which was still crowded with bleeding, shocked victims, waiting mainly in silence for attention. He realised that the decision to treat the less seriously injured at the scene had been a wise one. Edinburgh’s main hospital casualty departments would have been swamped by the numbers.
Sarah estimated that she had another thirty minutes of stitching and patching to do. 'Look, you’ll want to start work on this. Why don’t you just leave me the car key and go off with Andy?’
'Yes, I’ll do that,’ he agreed. Handing her the big BMW key, he kissed her on the forehead and went downstairs. In the lower hall he was intercepted by Alan Royston, the police Media Relations Manager, who had set up a makeshift press office in a room to the left of the foyer.

He led Skinner to where a dozen reporters stood waiting. There he explained to them what had happened in the Music Hall, describing the scale of the destruction. He answered the questions of the group as best he could, and agreed finally to Royston’s suggestion that the journalists and photographers should be taken together into the hall to see for themselves. As he was making his way towards the exit, Al Neidermeyer arrived.
There was a television cameraman puffing at his heels, a city freelance whom Skinner knew by sight.
'Well, copper,’ snarled Neidermeyer. 'So much for your security. How many more people did you let die here tonight?’
Once more. Skinner felt his self-control valve begin to strain.
He glanced quickly at the camera to make certain that the red action light was unlit. The cameraman was looking away, embarrassed. Then his right hand swept upwards in one short,
swift motion. As it passed close to Neidermeyer’s face, he flicked the second finger with his thumb, lightning-fast. The broad fingernail caught the American, very hard, square on the tip of the nose. Neidermeyer howled, and instantly his eyes flooded with tears
I warned you about pushing your luck, Al’' skinner whispered. ’Too bad you didn’t listen”
He swept the man from his path and left the building

Andy Martin was waiting for him outside. He saw the anger in Skinner’s eyes, but an inner caution stopped him from asking what was wrong. Instead he suggested that they go and talk things out at his flat near Haymarket, rather than return to the headquarters building.
They found Julia Shahor there when they arrived, home from the Film Festival. She greeted Martin, obvious anxiety turning quickly to relief. Radio Forth RFM was playing, and the television was on, with Teletext On 3 on screen, carrying the latest news on the explosion. A Royal Infirmary spokeswoman had confirmed the current death toll at fourteen; the condition of two other victims was said to be critical.

For a time, they stared grim-faced and speechless at the news bulletin on the screen. Then Martin handed Skinner and Julia a Beck’s each from the fridge, taking a tin of Tennent’s LA for himself. He joined Julia on the sofa, facing the television, while Skinner settled on the floor, his back against the wall.
It was Skinner who broke the silence – broke the spell cast by the horror of the Assembly Rooms. 'Andy, my brother, we’ve been kidding ourselves to think that we could prevent something like tonight. And we’ve been underestimating these people. They’re good: very well planned. We’ve got to catch them before it goes any further. But I do not, for the life of me, know how we’re going to do it.’
For once, Martin had no word of encouragement to offer in reply.

Skinner finished his Beck’s in one swallow, straight from the bottle. He got up to fetch himself another, then resumed his seat on the floor. With a wry smile, he said, 'But that’s me seeing the glass half-empty. The positive side is that at least we’ve got some straightforward police work to do, thanks to good old Charlie Forsyth.’
'What do you mean?’ asked Julia.
'Well, first we have to check every member of every other company that’s been using that venue. Then there’s the stage props. That exploding radiogram. No fucking way – oh, sorry,
Julia – did they bring that all the way from Oz. They must have sourced it locally.’
'Maybe I can help you there,’ she offered. 'I know of only three companies in Scotland which supply stage props. I looked into it earlier this year, when I needed things for a display I put on at Filmhouse. One’s in Glasgow, one’s down towards the Borders somewhere, but the biggest by far is here in Edinburgh. Let me see. What was it called? Proscenium Props – that was it. It was based in a big warehouse out to the west of the city, near Sighthill.’

'Good, Julia, Thanks for that. Well, Andy, that’s a priority task for first thing tomorrow – I mean this morning. Find out where those props came from. Then we’ll find out all there is to
know about everybody on the supplier’s payroll – like whether any of them has been handling Semtex over the last few days.’
He drained his second Beck’s then pushed himself up from his hard seat on the floor. 'Right, that’s it for me. I’m off home.’
'Want me to phone for a patrol car to pick you up?’ asked Martin.
'No, no. Don’t do that. The boys are too busy for taxi runs tonight. I’ll walk. It’s not that hellish far from here.’ He paused. 'It’s a nice night, and it’ll let me pull some things together in my head. So long, Julia.’

Martin walked him to the front door of the second-floor flat.
He looked quizzically after his chief as he disappeared down the brightly lit, curving stairway. Eventually he closed the door and rejoined Julia in the living-room.
She caught the faraway look in his eyes. 'What is it?’ she asked.
'It’s the boss. He’s got one of his niggles, I can tell.’
'What do you mean?’
'How do I explain it? Every so often, on a really difficult job, when we’re pursuing a particular line of enquiry, Bob’ll decide that maybe it’s not quite right: that all the bits don’t fit that jigsaw. But he’ll keep it to himself, just niggling and worrying away at the thought, like a dog at a bone, until either he’s satisfied himself that, yes, we are on the right track after all, or until he comes up with a completely new approach.’ He broke off. 'But enough of that. Heard from your aunt?’

'Yes, she’s fine.’
'Which side of the family is she from? Mother or father?’
'Actually . . .’ said Julia hesitantly, as if looking for the right words, 'neither. She’s a sort of courtesy aunt, really. She was at school with my mother. They were very close.’
'In Israel? Funny, I wouldn’t have thought that. Her accent sounds more European.’
'No, not in Israel. Somewhere else. The thing is – well. The thing is, my parents broke up when I was a girl, and I went to live with relatives in Israel. I got in touch with Auntie again when I came to the Sorbonne.’ Suddenly she looked troubled. 'But, Andy, I really don’t like to talk about all that. It was a bad time for me, and it is best left in the past.’
'Sure, love,’ he said, soothingly. And in a second it was forgotten. 'He’s some machine, old Bob, when he gets one of his niggles going. Wonder what it is this time? One thing’s for sure
though: sooner or later, we’ll find out!’

The first rumblings of discontent appeared in the hastily written leaders of the following morning’s Scotsman and Herald, while in the tabloids the rumbling was a full-scale earthquake. One late-edition banner blared, 'PLOD FIASCO: BOMBS HIT OZ’. This
articulate headline filled two-thirds of the front page, and led a story filled with hastily assembled 'bystander’ condemnation of the security operation in general, and of its commander in person.
Resisting the urge to crumple it up and throw it across the room, Skinner read it through to the end. He noted grimly that the only critic identified in the story was Al Neidermeyer.
While the more serious Scottish dailies were more circumspect, notes of concern rang in them all. The sombre leader in the Scotsman went so far as to praise Skinner as an outstanding detective, but developed its theme of two days before, wondering whether counter-terrorism was suited to his skills, and whether the crisis might be better placed under someone else’s command.
'Like who, for instance?’ he muttered to the empty room.

Michael Licorish and Alan Royston had scheduled a media conference, to be taken by Ballantyne and Skinner, at 10:00 am in the main hall at Fettes Avenue. In preparation for the inevitable grilling, the ACC read all of the reports which lay on his desk, including one from the Royal Infirmary which put the final death toll at eighteen, including the girl he had seen on the stretcher. Her name had been Alice Carroll, and she had been seventeen years old. Also listed at the end of the report was Alice’s elderly grandmother, untouched by the shrapnel, but who had died of aheart attack shortly after the explosion.

Skinner had just finished his perusal when Ruth buzzed through on the intercom to tell him that Licorish was waiting outside.
'OK,’ he said, 'send him in.’
The Information Director came in a few seconds later. Skinner could see an embarrassed look in his eyes, and knew that he had some uncomfortable news to break. He took a guess.
'Where’s the Secretary of State, Mike? I thought he’d be here by now.’
“That’s just it. Bob. He can’t make it. He asked me to apologise to you, and to ask you to take the chair in his place. He said I was to tell you he still has every confidence in you.’
“That’s fucking big of him. What’s his story?’
'It’s to do with a family friend having just died. Between you and me, it’s actually a friend of Mrs Ballantyne. You know how it is with them?’

Skinner nodded. But he wondered if Licorish knew how it was with Ballantyne and Carlie.
The Scottish Office man continued, almost sotto voce. 'She’s been having an affair with a Liberal peer. Lord Broadgate. But it seems she was too much for him. He had a stroke during the night. She phoned S of S in a bit of a panic, and he caught the first shuttle down to London.’
'Mmm,’ Skinner muttered. 'Nice of him.’
As he looked at Licorish, he sensed something else. Before he could ask, the civil servant produced a brown envelope which he had been holding behind his back. 'This arrived just after he left.’
He pushed it across the desk. The latest letter was brief and to the point.

Ballantyne, you and your lackeys must believe us now. We have shown you what we can do, and we will not stop until you give us back what is ours. Now we have the attention of the international community, and we have its support.
Withdraw from Scotland before its people rise up and join us in throwing you out.

Skinner threw it down on the desk.
'What the hell is that? It’s just fucking rhetoric. They kill an American. They kill Australians. They kill their own Scots folk. These people have to be crazy, or playing for very big stakes. Is Scotland that important?’ He rose from behind his desk and led the way to his meeting with the media.
In the briefing room, the media corps – even Al Neidermeyer, his nose noticeably swollen – were unusually subdued as Skinner described the scene in the Music Hall, then listed the dead. Finally, he put down his notes and looked at his audience. “There’s little I can say to you that I haven’t said before. This is a well-organised, well-resourced and completely ruthless group of people. What happened last night was beyond words – beyond mine, and I think beyond even yours, eloquent as you all may be.
The thing that I find most incredible is that Scots people could treat other Scots in this way, whatever justifiable cause they think they have. Last night, I talked to an eighty-year-old man who told me that he grieved for Scotland. I share his grief.’
'Having said that, I can tell you that there is now some sign of outside involvement in these atrocities. The explosive used in both attacks is a new type of Semtex. So far it’s been unknown here. It hasn’t even turned up in Ireland. Until now, no one has been aware that there was an illicit market in this material. The country of manufacture is pretty jealous of its reputation, and its government felt sure that all batches were accounted for. It seems they were wrong. We now know that there was a break in at a French military arsenal two months ago, when a quantity of the stuff was stolen. We’re pretty certain that’s the explosive used here. Before all this started, we never had an inkling of any embryonic Scottish terrorist organisation. It’s asking a lot – of me, at least – to believe that such a group has existed all along, with a plan so detailed that it involved stealing high explosives from an arsenal in France.’

Skinner’s old friend, John Hunter, interrupted him. 'Bob, are you suggesting that all this might have been contrived outside Scotland, or that there might be some foreign involvement?’
'I can’t say that for certain, John, but whatever this group is, it’s tied into some sort of network.’
“Irish?’
'I don’t know. I know someone who definitely doesn’t think so, but sooner or later I’ll find out for sure! Thank you, gentlemen.
From now on, in the light of these events, I’m prepared to take briefings on a daily basis, at 10:00 every morning, here, but that’s all for this morning.’
Skinner rose to his feet. There was a stampede for the door as the media corps rushed off en masse to file their French connection copy.

A message, written in Ruth’s neat hand, lay on Skinner’s desk when he returned to his office. 'Call DC Mcllhenney, Glasgow.
Urgent.’ She had noted down the telephone number.
Using his secure telephone, he keyed it in. 'Neil? ACC here. What’ve you got for me?’
'Morning, sir. Our man Macdairmid’s an early bird. He pitched up at his Party offices at 9:00 this morning, but he was only there for twenty minutes, then off down to that pub of his. It’s got an early-opening licence for night-shift workers at the factory up the road.
'Barry beat him there. He was waiting when he arrived. Sure as God made wee green apples, he ordered a half-pint of Gillespie’s then used the pay-phone. The Glasgow technical boys had their tap in place, and got the whole thing.’
'Interesting?’
'As Mr Haggerty would say, “Too bliddy right it is, sir.” But you can judge for yourself. There’s a motorcycle polisman heading along the M8 right now with a copy for you. He should get it to you in half-an-hour. I’ll tell you one thing, sir. That Macdairmid – for an MP he’s bollock-deep in something that’s definitely non-Parliamentary. That’s bliddy certain!’

Bridie Lindwall, writer of the new musical revue Waltzing Matilda, and director of the Brisbane Youth Theatre Company, was still in a state of shock when Andy Martin and Brian Mackie were finally allowed into the private room in the Murrayfield Hospital in which she had been installed, thanks to the provision of generous private health insurance by her show’s Australian sponsor.

Ms Lindwall had been given a heavy sedative by the junior doctor who had treated her at the Royal Infirmary immediately after the explosion, and so it was midday before Martin and
Mackie were allowed to interview her. Even then, Martin had needed to use his Special Branch clout to overrule the senior house officer in charge. At first, Martin thought that talking to her was like interviewing mist. The two detectives were unable to hold the woman’s attention for more than a few seconds before a distant, glazed look washed across her face, as her fuzzy memory took her back to the night before, fitting together jagged
fragments of recollection to form a jigsaw picture of confusion and terror.

'Ms Lindwall,’ Martin said finally, as gently as he could but with an edge of steel to hold the woman’s concentration, 'we have to know where you sourced your props for the production. The explosion happened in centre stage. We believe that the bomb was hidden in a piece of prop furniture.’
The woman was sitting up in bed, propped against a mound of pillows. She turned her freckled face towards him.
'Explosion? Oh yes, the explosion. How is everyone? It all happened so fast. Little Kelly, how about her? Is she all right?’
Martin sat down on the side of her bed, and took the woman’s hand. 'Don’t worry about the others. Just concentrate on yourself. You’ve had quite a shock. Now we need very badly to
know about those props. Where did you get them? Was it Proscenium?’

The woman frowned as she tried to clear a path through the flotsam of her memory. 'Proscenium? No. We went there first, but they couldn’t give us everything we wanted. Eventually we found someone who could, in a little place with a funny name, south of Edinburgh.’
'What about the radiogram? You remember, the big thing in centre stage. Did you get that there, too?’ She shuddered. 'The radiogram.’ Her voice rose. 'Yes. I remember the radiogram. I was standing in the wings. There was a flash, and I was being pushed backwards by a great big hand. Yes, it was as if the radiogram reached out and pushed me.’
She shot bolt upright in the bed, starring wide-eyed at Martin.
'OK, now. It’s all right.’ He put his hands on her shoulders, and eased her very gently back on to the pillows. 'We think that’s where the bomb was hidden, Ms Lindwall – in the radiogram.
Now, can you remember where you got it?’
She nodded her head vigorously. Suddenly she seemed more in focus. 'Yes, that was one of the items that they couldn’t give us at Proscenium. We had to go to the place with the funny name to find that.’

'That’s good, Ms Lindwall. Now one other thing. When you weren’t actually using the theatre – when the other companies were using it – what did you do with your props?’
'We have a storeroom allocated to us in the basement. All our stuff’s locked up there between shows.’
'Who keeps the keys?’
'I do. Both of them. The theatre management doesn’t want the responsibility of looking after anyone’s kit.’
'Have you ever given a key to anyone else?’
'No. No one at all.’
'You don’t recall seeing any sign that anyone else might have been in that store?’
'Nothing at all. Everything always looked normal.’
'Ok, Ms Lindwall. That’s been very helpful. Now you get yourself some more rest.’

She grabbed his arm as he stood up. 'Aren’t you going to tell me about the rest of them. How is everyone? How is little Kelly?’
Martin decided that economy with the truth would be in everyone’s interests. 'Look, Bridie, obviously with a bang like that there were a few other scrapes, as well as your own. We don’t have the full details yet, but I’ll arrange for someone to come by and talk to you as soon as possible. Now, you just relax. And thanks again.’
Mackie closed the door of the private room gently behind them.
'Nice one, Andy. I wouldn’t have fancied telling her that one of her guys is dead because wee Kelly’s arm was blown right through his chest!’

McIlhenney’s motorcycle officer arrived with the promised tape cassette, five minutes ahead of schedule. Meanwhile Skinner had called Adam Arrow to his room to await its delivery. When Ruth brought the package in, she found the two seated in armchairs beside the low coffee table. Skinner accepted the clear plastic cassette and dropped it straight into a tape-recorder placed in the centre of the table. Once his secretary had closed the heavy door behind her, he pressed the 'play’ button.
For a few seconds there was only the hiss of the tape. Then they heard seven coins drop, one by one, followed by the musical beeps of a thirteen-digit telephone number being keyed in on a modern instrument. Seconds later a ringing began in monotone. The call was answered on the sixth ring, in a tongue that sounded like Arabic. The voice was guttural, the accent heavy. Neither listener was able to identify the language.

Grant Macdairmid’s response in English was strangely hushed, far removed from the bellowing rant for which he was locally famous. 'Hello, Glasgow here. How are our arrangements coming along?’
'Everything is progressing very well. We will be able to move on to the next stage on Saturday. The second delivery will be made then.’
'From the same French source?’
“Yes.’
'That’s good. My people have things well in hand, too. The
police don’t have a bloody clue. And they’re stretched so tight just
now, they’re starting to come apart.’
'Yes, I see that your compatriots are keeping them very busy.
That worries me a little. Their approach is so high-profile and you are, shall we say, so well known, might it not mean that your security people will soon turn their attention to you?’
Macdairmid laughed softly. 'Look, we went over all that at the start. I’m a public figure, an MP. Yes, the SB plods keep an occasional eye on me; it’s sort of like a ritual dance. I can always slip their gaze, like now. And they wouldn’t really expect me to be involved in something like this. Grant Macdairmid, MP, windbag, demagogue and general nuisance, that’s my reputation. But the real view of our friends in the cheap suits is Grant Macdairmid,
MP, all fart, no shit.’
This time the other man laughed. 'Ah, my friend, if they only knew you as I do. Why, you’re full of shit!’
There was a moment’s silence as Macdairmid tried to work out whether he had been insulted. Then, deciding to make allowances for the other man’s poor grasp of colloquial English, he ignored the remark and went on. 'So it’s Saturday. Where do we take delivery?’

'I suggest that we do it in Edinburgh. The police there are fully occupied.’
“Yeah. Why not?’
'So where do we meet?’
There was another silence. Then Macdairmid laughed softly.
'There’s a bookseller’s in George Street called James Thin. On the first floor there’s a coffee shop. Most of the time it’s full of old people and young mums and kids, but during the Festival there’s all sorts in there. I’ll have my person there by 11:30 am. Are you using the same courier as before?’
'Yes.’
'Fine. So identification will be no problem, then. It’s all gone well so far, but they’ve seen nothing yet. Once I get my hands on your next consignment, we’ll really make Scotland go off with a bang!’
There was a click as the receiver went down.

Skinner switched off the player. He and Arrow stared at each other in silence across the table.
'Fookin’ hell!’ said the little soldier, eventually.
'Yup, that just about sums it up,’ said Skinner. 'He’s right, you know, Adam. We do think of him as just a loud-mouthed wanker, capable of causing bother up to a point, but no further. I mean, I know the Five computer spat out his name, but I didn’t think for a minute that he’d have the stones to be into this sort of thing. From the sound of it, I was wrong.’
'So what do we do. Bob? Pick him up?’
'On what grounds? One meeting in a pub in London, which he’d claim was a coincidence? One funny telephone call? Even antiterrorist squads need evidence, if they’re going to go around arresting MPs.’

'I’m not a copper. Bob.’ Arrow spoke slowly, as if weighing his words. Skinner noted that his accent had disappeared. 'Let me go underground for a couple of days, and you’d never hear of the man again.’
Skinner looked at him steadily and seriously. 'Adam, I know what can happen in Ireland, but it’s not going to happen here. I’m a policeman, not a judge. Listen, chum, I knew a man once for whom that was the only way. You may have gone to the same school, but you’re not like he was – so far. Be careful you never get that way, because if you do, sooner or later you’ll come up against someone like me, who’ll have to stop you.’
Arrow smiled at him, and when he spoke, the accent was back.
'Rather not come up against you. Bob. Don’t worry, mate. That’s not my choice. But these people are fookin’ butchers, so I had to make the offer.’

'Ok. Enough said. Anyway, taking Macdairmid for a trip wouldn’t necessarily stop anything. He may be mixed up in it, he may even be a leader, but no way is he doing the heavy stuff
himself. No, we’ll watch him like a hawk till Saturday, then we’ll pick up his messenger, and the other one. Now, that’s a job you can handle. My face is too well known.’
'Be glad to. Will you give me someone to work with?’
'Sure. It’ll be McGuire and Rose. Mcllhenney and Macgregor are already watching Macdairmid, so it could be they’d know the messenger by sight, and he in turn might clock them. So you’d better have a different team. And if it comes to a bundle, McGuire’s your man!’
'I can hardly wait.’
'Right, I’ll brief them. Now what about the other voice on that tape. Any ideas?’
'Not a voice I know, put it that way. It sounded like a fookin’ Libyan, though.’
'Could have been, but I’m hardly an expert in Middle Eastern languages. I’ll have copies of the tape made and get someone on a plane down to London. We’ll let Five have a listen, and Six for that matter. Let’s see if it strikes a chord with anyone down there.’

Stow – the place with the funny name – was a drab little village.
'It’s pronounced as in “cow” not as in “blow”,’ Mackie, a Borderer himself, explained to Martin.
They reached Stow just on 4:00 pm, after a forty-five-minute drive down the A7, the road from Edinburgh to Galashiels and the Borders heartland of rugby football. The place clearly offered no attractions to delay the northward flood of tourist traffic on the scenic route into Scotland.
The business base of 'Frank Adams, Theatrical Props’, as the Yellow Pages listing read, was difficult to locate, even in such a pocket-sized community. Eventually, with the help of the sub-postmistress, they found their quarry in a cluster of buildings which, Mackie guessed, had once been part of a small farm.

Before leaving Edinburgh they had checked out 'Frank Adams, Theatrical Props’ as far as they could, using the Department of Social Security and the Inland Revenue as their starting points.
The business had only two staff; Francis Snowdon Adams, listed by the tax office as self-employed, and Hugh Minto Dickson.
Both were in their forties, with Adams three years the elder at forty-seven.
From a friendly bank manager, contacted through the DSS, they had learned that Mr Adams made acceptable annual profits from business contacts all around the UK. These were steady
throughout the year, and peaked during August, and also over the Christmas season when the British pantomime craze was at its height. The company operated on a cash-and-carry basis.

Mr Adams owned the premises, and his overheads were restricted to the two salaries, rates, heat and light, motor expenses, hotel costs arising from his buying and selling trips around the UK, stationery, including a modest catalogue, stock purchases and insurance. To the bank manager’s certain knowledge, the last category included a substantial indemnity premium to cover death or injury to any customers arising from defective stock.

'Wise man, Mr Adams,’ Martin had commented.
Although Adams lived in Lauder, a few miles away from Stow, the bank manager knew him well not only as a customer, but also as a neighbour. He had described him as a forthright man, with abiding interests in rugby football, golf and cricket, but little else.
He was also an avowed Conservative, who regarded nationalism and its exponents as 'just plain stupid’.
Hugh Dickson was employed as stock controller, dispatch clerk and book-keeper. He was exceptionally well paid, possibly – the bank manager surmised – due to the fact that he was Mr Adams’ brother-in-law.
Neither man was personally extravagant, although Mr Dickson, who was single and lived in Stow rent-free in a cottage alongside the company’s storage barns, was known to have a close relationship with the village pub. However, he was known most of all for his reluctance ever to leave Stow.

It was said that his last journey of more than one-and a-half miles had been to Galashiels by bus, eighteen months before, to buy clothes and Christmas presents for his sister, her husband his employer, and two nephews. Mr Adams and Mr Dickson enjoyed a cordial, proper relationship, but, said the bank manager, they could not be described as bosom companions.

Martin related all this account to Mackie as the Detective Inspector drove them southwards down the A7.
'From the sound of it.’ said Skinner’s personal assistant, 'we’ll get nothing from these guys.’
'On the face of it, that’s right, but maybe there’s someone else in the chain that we don’t know about, someone who fits in between them and the Aussies.’

Both men were taking a coffee break in the company’s small office, when Martin and Mackie arrived unannounced. Neither Adams not Dickson seemed in any way surprised by their visit.
Frank Adams stood up to greet them, shaking each by the hand, and making steady eye contact. He was a big man – not exceptionally tall, but big – with a hand that swallowed even
Brian Mackie’s oversized paw. As Martin looked at him, remembering his own rugby days, he guessed that once he might have been a member of the closed brotherhood of front-row
forwards.
'We’ve been expecting you guys, after that thing last night,’ said Adams. 'We supplied that company – but you’ll know that already, I suppose.’
Dickson remained seated. Even in his chair he seemed dwarfed by his brother-in-law, yet he had that air of aggressive self-assurance that small men often adopt to compensate for their lack of size.

'Never under-estimate a wee man,’ Skinner had said of Adam Arrow. “That one there’ll kill you just as dead as anyone.’ The words returned unbidden to Martin, as he returned Dickson’s confident gaze. He switched his attention back to Adams.
'What exactly have you heard or read?’
'Only that the explosion happened on the stage itself, in mid-performance. Nobody would leave a bomb just lying about, so it must have been planted somewhere.’
'You guessed right. Tell me about the radiogram you hired out to the Australians.’
'That big bugger? Was that it? Christ, you could hide a depth charge in there. Look, it was nothing to do wi’ us. I’ll tell you that right now.’
Martin laughed lightly. 'Mr Adams, if I thought it was, we’d have come in here with guns and flak jackets. You’d have to be very stupid indeed to hide a bomb in your own gear and then sit here waiting for us to turn up. You’re not that stupid, are you? Or you, Mr Dickson?’

Adams grinned; possibly in relief, Martin guessed. Dickson looked mortally offended.
'No, what we do need to know is whether anyone else had access to that radiogram while it was still here. When was it hired out last? Could it have been passed on directly from one renter to another?’
Adams rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. 'Hughie can check the stock sheet, but I’m certain it hadn’t been out for two years. And we always have kit brought back here first, just so we can check it’s OK. We make our customers pay for the insurance of all our stock, under our own policy. Delivery back here is one of the conditions. And we take a twenty per cent value deposit.’
'So who else had access to it here, other than you and Mr Dickson?’
'Nobody!’
Martin was surprised by his vehemence. 'You haven’t seen any sign of a break in?’
'No, nor heard any. All our storage buildings are alarmed like bank vaults. You try and get insurance without that, these days.’
'And you’ve had no visitors?’
'No, we haven’t.’
'It’s your busy season. You haven’t taken on any casual labour?’
No.’
'Look, we’re not the DSS. If you have, you can tell us. It goes no further.’
'No, I tell you!’ Adams’ tone was insistent.

'OK, OK.’ He glanced at Mackie. 'That’s as far as we can take it, Brian. Thanks, Mr Adams, Mr Dickson. We won’t take up any more of your time now. I’ll dictate a statement back at the office and have a uniformed officer drop it in for you to approve and sign.’
They had almost left of the building when they heard Hugh Dickson call out. 'Frankie!’
The detectives stopped and looked back. The little man had stood up. He was looking not at them but at Adams, a strange pleading expression on his face.
'Look, Frankie, this is nae use. Sister or no’, I won’t say a word tae Shona, I promise, but ye’ve got taste tell them about the lassie.’
If looks could kill, thought Martin, as Adams glared at his brother-in-law, we’d have a murder on our hands here. But then the big man’s eyes dropped, and his shoulders sagged.
'Aye, Hughie. You’re right enough. I’ve got to, haven’t I? But mind, if you do say a bloody word to Shona . . .’

Martin broke in. 'Listen, Mr Adams. If you don’t tell us whatever it is right now, I’ll arrest you and do you for wasting our time. Then Shona’ll find out for sure! Now, cough it up!’
Adams led them back into the office. This time he offered them seats. Mackie produced a notebook and pen.
'About three weeks ago,’ Adams began, 'this girl showed up, looking for work. She was American. She said her name was Mary McCall. Said she was working her way round Britain, that she was skint, and needed a job. Most of all, she told me, she needed a roof over her head. I said I didn’t need any help – that Hughie and I could manage fine. Hughie, by the
way, he was down the village getting coffee and stuff when all this happened. Then she says if I give her a job and a place to kip, she’ll make it worth my while. I ask her what the hell shemeans, and you know what she does?’

Before Martin and Mackie could hazard a guess he went on.
'She comes straight over and unzips me. Then she gives me the most memorable . . .’ Adams closed his eyes and shuddered.
'Christ, man, I thought she was gonnae . . .’ He stopped, and glanced at Martin, in a strange, conspiratorial, man-to-man way.
'Anyway, that was how Mary persuaded me to give her a job. Not that she did much work . . . standing up, at any rate.
'There’s a wee flat above the garage across the yard. I let her stay there. I was giving her one every night. Once or twice I didn’t go home, but Shona thought nothing of that.
Sometimes I kip over there, if Hughie and I have had a few bevvies after work. I didn’t mean it to go on for more than a few days, but, man, she was something else. She fucked like a
jackrabbit! Hughie here caught on quick enough … He wasn’t best pleased at first, but he laughed about it eventually. He called it the old ram’s last stand.’ He glanced across at his
brother-in-law with a sheepish grin. The smaller man looked at the floor.

'How did it end?’ asked Martin. 'I take it that it did end.’
'Oh, yes,’ said Adams, 'it ended. I came here last Saturday night, after golf. Shagged me stupid she did, just like always. I came back across on Sunday, about midday, and she was gone.
She didn’t have much in the way of baggage, but what she had was away. She left not a trace behind her. No goodbye note, no “Thanks for a great time”, no nothing.’
'Did she have access to your stores while she was here?’
'Sure. She helped Hughie check out some orders.’
'Including the Australian stuff?’
'Aye, I think so.’
'That’s right,’ Dickson confirmed.
When was that?’
'Last Thursday,’ said Adams. 'They wanted it delivered by Friday for their rehearsals.’
'And she disappeared on Sunday morning?’
'Right.’
'Did she take anything?’
'Steal anything, you mean? No. Nothing. The petty cash tin was there, too, wi’ two-hundred-odd quid in it, but it was untouched.’
'You didn’t see her leave, Mr Dickson?’ asked Martin.
The man shook his head. 'No. I had nothing tae do wi’ her. Ah’d rather have a good pint tae a blonde any day. Ah stayed out of her way as far as ah could.’

Martin looked back to Adams. 'How good a description can you give us?’
Try this. Five feet nine or ten. Shoulder-length hair, blonde but dyed. Tanned, all but her bum. Legs right up to her arse. Very narrow waist, explosive hips, firm bum, wide shoulders, good-sized firm tits with wee pink nipples. Two moles low on her back. Appendix scar. Blue eyes, wide mouth, good teeth, long eyelashes.
Oh, yes, and very strong.’
'Eh?’
'Aye. She’s got exceptional strength on her for a woman. She challenged me to arm-wrestle once. I had a hell of a job getting her arm over, and I’m no pussy.’ He rolled up his shirt sleeve to display a massive forearm.
'Did she ever talk about herself?’
'Not much. She said she came from Iowa, that she’d run away from home when she was sixteen, seven years ago. Said she’d been abused by her stepfather, but that she didn’t want to talk about it.’
'Did you ever see her passport?’
No.’

Right. We’ll need to get a technical team down here, to go over the flat where she stayed. Will you show us now, please.’
Adams led them out of the office and across the yard, past Mackie’s Mondeo and past a silver Audi which the detectives assumed belonged to Adams.
A flight of narrow steps led up to the little flat, which had only two rooms. One was the main living area and the other, which opened from it, contained a single bed and a small wardrobe. A shower room and toilet opened off the top of the stairs.
If this is our girl,’ said Mackie, 'chances are she’s wiped the place clean.’
Martin looked into the shower-room. The toilet seat was up. He turned to Adams. 'Do you always leave it like that?’
The man grinned. 'Aye. Bad habit of mine. The wife’s always getting on to me.’
Not so bad this time. I’ll bet you we get a print off that, if nowhere else.’

Six called just after four. Copies of the Macdairmid tape had been rushed down on the 1:00 pm shuttle, carried by a Special Branch typist. She had handed them over to a motorcyclist waiting at Heathrow, and they had reached their destinations by 2:45 pm.
'Sorry to take so long to respond.’
Skinner thought for a moment that the Deputy DG was joking, but remembered that she had no sense of humour. The woman was rarely flippant, and most certainly never on a scrambled
telephone.
'It took us a little while, because we believed we were listening to an Arab. But we were wrong. The reason he sounds that way is because he learned his English in Libya. Actually, the subject is a Peruvian. Our friend Macdairmid has got himself into some seriously bad company. The man on the telephone is Jesus Giminez.’
She paused.

Skinner knew the name at once. He had been shown the file on Giminez, a legendary figure among the world’s security services.
The man was an international terror consultant, wanted in many countries around the globe, but most of all by the Israelis. He was known to be responsible, either as hit-man or as planner, for a string of political assassinations over around thirty years. His name had run like a scarlet thread around the world’s trouble spots until 1991, not long after the death of Robert Maxwell, when he had vanished abruptly from the distant surveillance which the international intelligence community had managed to maintain, tenuously, for a quarter of a century. Some believed that he was dead, but the most commonly held opinion was that at the age of fifty-five he had decided to retire, like any businessman might.

One of the most impressive things about Giminez had always been his anonymity. Other terrorists had become household names, but, to the international media and to the world at large, Giminez had remained unknown.
'Of course, we had no idea he was active again,’ the Deputy DG continued. 'God knows what he’s up to, but an operation like the one you’ve got on just now is right up his street. And if he was involved, he’d run it through someone just like Macdairmid, a radical front-man with an axe to grind. One thing about Giminez, his only principle is money. He works for cash only. Big cash. So if he’s a player, someone’s paying him: not less than seven figures
sterling. Can you think of anyone in Scotland with access to that sort of cash?’
'It’s possible, but what about contact? The man’s a shadow. So how do you set about hiring him?’
'He has an agent, believe it or not – or rather a string of them. They’re contactable through officials of a certain Middle Eastern government with a very dark name for that sort of thing.’
'But if wasn’t aware of that, how could someone like Macdairmid be in the know?’
'Well, he is an MP, after all. He does mooch around Whitehall. You can get anything there if you really want it. Of course, maybe they approached Macdairmid.’
'Meaning?’

'Meaning if your thing up there wasn’t hatched in Scotland at all. Not everybody loves us Brits. You should know that more than most. Suppose someone wanted to do us a really bad turn. We’ve already got Ireland on our hands as an endemic problem. Stir up Scotland, then the Welsh, then a bit of ethnic warfare – in Bradford or Manchester, say. Mix all together, and Britain would become ungovernable. Our economy, our whole society would collapse. You know. Bob, I really do think you should catch these people.’

Andy Martin’s guess had fallen just short of the mark: his technicians found not one but two sources of fingerprints. From the toilet seat, the scene-of-crime team had lifted perfect prints of the thumb and first three fingers of what they suspected, by taking and eliminating the prints of Adams and Dickson, to have been Mary McCall’s right hand. And they had excelled themselves by taking from the toilet-roll holder the thumb and first finger of her left hand.
Everything else in the tiny garage apartment had been wiped clean, meticulously – and, as was clear to the technicians, by someone who had known exactly what she was doing.

Martin and Mackie had arrived back at Fettes Avenue with the prints at 9:10 pm, and had found Skinner still in his office.
'You say she split on Sunday morning? You think she’s our woman, then, Andy?’
'Yes, boss, I do indeed. I think that our Mary deliberately gets herself tucked in beside randy old Frank Adams, and has time to take her pick of the stuff he’s got going out to Festival companies – she had a choice of seventeen customers. She picks the Aussies, and plants her bomb in the radiogram with a timer set for mid-show – Adams told us that she had a Fringe programme in the flat – and stays under cover in Stow till last weekend. She gives old Frank one to remember her by, then nips up to Edinburgh on Sunday morning, either by bus or hitching, and teams up with the rest of her team to kill poor Hilary Guillaum. She’s a big strong girl, says Frank. Well able to handle the knife work.’

'Yes,’ said Skinner, his eyes bright with interest. 'It fits, all right. Brian, get out to the lab now, if not sooner and compare those prints with everything we lifted from Hilary Guillaum’s suite at the Sheraton, and from that chambermaid’s trolley. While you’re at it, dig up a technician and get me blow-ups of those prints – top quality they can manage. Get back here as soon as you can. I’ll be waiting. We’ll see if the States can help us.’

Adam Arrow and 'Gammy’ Legge arrived together. The two soldiers had met before in Ireland, and were resurrecting old stories as they walked into Skinner’s office, just after 9:30 pm.
'So, put yourself in my place. Gammy. There you are, you search the fookin’ house when the fella’s out and you find, hidden in his fookin’ bedroom, a bomb wi’ the timer set to go off in
thirty-six hours. I ask you, what would you do?’
'I suppose I’d send for me. What did you do?’
'Ah, but you weren’t about. No, I just moved the timer forward thirty hours and fooked off. Six hours later, and so did 'e sound asleep in his bed. Smashin’ dream, be must have 'ad.’
Skinner put his hands over his ears. 'For God’s sake, Adam, keep those stories to yourself. I’ll assume you made that one up.’
The little man laughed. 'Course I did.’ His eyes twinkled.
Skinner decided not to pry further. Instead he gave each man a beer from the small fridge standing in a corner of his office, and briefed them, as they drank, about the day’s discovery at Stow.

'Does our assumption about the bomb sound right to you,
Gammy? Could the timer have been set as accurately as that?’
'Yes. That’s how she’d have done it, all right. They’ve got some really pricey timers these days, although if she really knew what she was about, she could have done it with the programming chip from a video. So in theory we could have sleeper Semtex bombs lying around all over Edinburgh.’
'Christ, that’s all we need!’
'Ah, but in practice it’s a different matter.’
'How come?’
'Thanks to some technical spec the manufacturers sent me, I’ve been able to work out how much of this super-Semtex stuff was used in each of our two explosions. The good news is that the total matches exactly the quantity nicked from that French arsenal.
Add the fact that all of the rest of the world supply is accounted for, and in safe hands, and we reach the conclusion that as far as this super-Semtex is concerned, the bastards are out of ammo.’
'That’s a relief; but what if they have conventional explosive?
Maybe there are still sleeper bombs lying around.’
“If there are,’ said Legge, 'then our dogs’ll be able to smell them, or we’ll be able to pick them out with some other little tricks that we have. We’ve already given every Festival venue a really thorough sniffing, and we’ll keep on doing so on a regular basis.’

Skinner looked across at Arrow. 'All that makes our friend’s meeting on Saturday even more interesting.’
The little soldier nodded. But Major Legge looked puzzled, until Skinner described the surveillance of Macdairmid, without actually naming him.
Arrow cut in. 'Did you find out who the other fooker was on the line?’
Skinner nodded, but said nothing. Instead he slapped a thick folder which lay on his desk. It was labelled 'Most Secret’, and had arrived by courier from MI6 only two hours earlier. It
contained the career history of Jesus Giminez.
Arrow raised his eyebrows, but asked no more questions.
'Well,’ said Legge. 'Good luck to you cloak-and-dagger Johnnies. Tell you one thing, though. If your geezer is expecting another consignment of those special fireworks, then he’s likely to
be disappointed, unless there’s a second factory that no one knows about, because no one else is keen to be caught with their drawers down like the French were.’
'Hah,’ Skinner snorted. 'Brave words. Gammy, but from what we’ve seen so far of this outfit, someone’s arse is going to be exposed to the four winds!’

The two soldiers had been gone for only ten minutes when Brian Mackie returned with blow-ups of the six Mary McCall fingerprints. He brought too the opinion of the technicians that a
fragment of a print taken from the chambermaid’s trolley in the Sheraton Hotel could have come from her right hand.
'That’s a start,’ said Skinner. 'Now let’s see how far our luck will run.’ He led the way along the corridor to the Special Branch suite, past the duty officer in the outer area, and into Martin’s empty office. A fax machine with a scrambled line sat on a table in the corner. Skinner picked up its telephone handset and dialled in a London number.
'FBI.’
Skinner was always struck by the frankness of the Americans.
They knew and valued the respect in which the Bureau was held around the world, and were never shy of announcing its presence, even in foreign countries.

Joe Doherty was the FBI’s senior man in Europe, based at the Embassy in Grosvenor Square. He had looked Skinner up on a tour of Special Branch heads when first posted to the UK in 1989, and they had been in touch ever since.
'You dragged yourself in, then,’ said Skinner.
'Yup; I said I would. But this better be worth it.’
'Let’s hope so. Joe, I’m going to fax you down six fingerprints. I’d like you to scan them into your magic machine, the one that connects back to the States, and see what it tells you – if it tells you anything at all, that is. I’ll wait here. You’ll get me on Andy Martin’s direct line.’ He gave him the number.
'OK, Bob,’ said Doherty. 'Go for it.’
Skinner loaded the fax, selected half-tone quality, and keyed in the FBI’s London number. The six pages took just over five minutes to transmit. He settled down to wait.
'Brian, this could take a while. You can go home if you want.’
'No way, boss. I want to see what he turns up.’

On Martin’s office television, they watched the remainder of 'News at Ten’, then midweek football. Rangers were two down in a League Cup tie to Motherwell, Skinner’s team, when the telephone rang.
'Bugger it,’ he swore, but switched off the television set as he picked up the receiver.
'Bob!’ Doherty’s excitement rang down the line, taking Skinner by surprise. 'Know who you’ve got there? Typhoid friggin’ Mary, that’s all.’
'And who the hell is she?’
'Typhoid Mary Little Horse. One of the most celebrated members of the American underclass. Hit-woman, bank-robber, political activist, terrorist, highly skilled with firearms, knives and explosives. You name it, that’s Typhoid Mary. Deadly is her middle name. She styles herself a native American freedom fighter, but she’s just a plain killer. We lost sight of her when she broke out of jail in Kansas last year. So what’s she into over here?’

As quickly as he could. Skinner explained the detail of the Music Hall bomb, and summarised Adams’ story. When he had finished, Doherty whistled loudly down the line. 'That’s Mary, both times. She’s great with explosives, and she likes to kill people. But I’ll tell you this. Bob. If she has Scotch blood, then you’re a friggin’ Sioux Indian.’ Doherty paused, then went on. 'Couple of things for your Mr Adams. First the moderately good news. Not everything she told him was a lie. She was indeed raped by her step-daddy when she was sweet sixteen, and she did indeed run away from home. The detail that she left out was that, before she ran away, she cut his heart out . . . and I mean that literally, my friend.’
'Sounds like our friend Frank might have been lucky.’

'Well, no. Bob. You can’t exactly say that. For now comes the really bad news for the Adams family. Mary can kill you in a whole lot of ways, but in one that’s the most certain of all. She can kill you with her snatch, without you even being there – like she’s probably killed Mrs Adams by now, through her poor sap of a husband. Her nickname’s an understatement. We’ve got Mary’s prison medical records. Bob, she’s HIV positive. Look, I’ll fax you up her picture. Better find her, man, before she screws the whole of Scotland to death!’

'So that’s the story so far, Alan. A Scots MP mixed up with an international terrorist, and a crazy squaw killing people all over Edinburgh.’
The Secretary of State looked stunned. He leaned back in his chair and stared for several seconds up at the ceiling, affording Skinner a clear view of a large bruise, perhaps the size of a thumbprint, on the right side of his throat. Eventually he looked back across the desk. Their Sunday confrontation had not been mentioned, but a coldness hung between them, one which each man knew would never dissipate completely.
'This MI5 woman’s theory, what do you make of it?’
'Mary Little Horse showing up makes it the best one we’ve got. You can count on the fingers of two hands the people in Scotland who could afford to fund this thing, and still have three fingers left over. I know; I have counted. Then you can rule out all of them as being too old, too straight, too boring, too law-abiding. None of the radical groups have the dough either. Yes, Alan, it all fits.’
'So what do you do now?’

'Well, I’m holding my morning briefing in an hour. I’ve got Crown Office permission to issue photographs of Mary Little Horse, and to put out a “Do not approach” warning.’ As he spoke, Skinner opened the folder on his lap and handed across the desk a copy of the computer-generated print which Joe Doherty had faxed to him. Ballantyne looked at it and saw an attractive blonde girl, expressionless in the standard prison mug-shot.
'I’ll leave out the HIV bit,’ Skinner went on. 'Stow’s only a wee place, and I’m sure the story of Adams and the Yankee dolly-bird will be all over town already. The press coverage will produce a ton of calls, all of them rubbish no doubt, but if the heat makes her run for it, it’ll have served its purpose. If I can’t catch her here, I’d rather she was somewhere else.’
He paused and looked Ballantyne in the eye. 'But even if we do get rid of this girl, that doesn’t solve our problem. She’s a mercenary, and someone’s brought her here to do a job. There may well be others, and we have got to expect other attacks. With that Semtex stuff used up, I’m less worried about more bomb attacks, but there are other things they can get up to. Like picking out more big-name assassination targets, for example. There are two events that really worry me. One is Fringe Sunday, and the other’s the Fireworks Concert in Princes Street Gardens on the last Thursday of the Festival. One’s held in a park, the other takes
place after dark, and they’re both too big for us to give them total protection. So I want to cancel them both.’

Ballantyne sat bolt upright in his chair. “Absolutely not! I’ve made my position, and the Government’s position, quite clear on that. We will do nothing that concedes an inch to these people. They cannot be allowed to claim a single victory through the threat of more violence. These events will go on as scheduled, and it’s the job of your team and of your force to police them. Better still, it’s your own job to catch these perpetrators. You’ve shown me some progress, but now I expect more concrete successes. Protection and detection, that’s what I want to hear from you, Bob – not retreat and vacillation.’
It was Skinner’s turn to jerk upright in his chair. An angry retort formed on his lips, but was stilled as he realised that something else was troubling Ballantyne. By now he knew the man
well enough to read like a book the ups and downs of his personality, and he sensed clearly a second layer of concern, beyond the Festival crisis.

'Alan, is there anything else that you want to tell me?’ he probed.’
The Secretary of State sighed, and slammed his right fist into his left palm.
'Oh damn it! Yes, Bob. Look, I’m sorry I was so sharp there. You’re right, I have another problem. You heard about my trip to London yesterday?’
Skinner nodded in silence.
'My wife has been absolutely devastated by the death of her, shall we say, friend. She regards it as some sort of punishment upon her. The upshot is she announced to me last night that she
intends to resume our marriage. To make a fresh start.’
'Mm,’ said Skinner, 'I can see that might be a problem. I had a talk with Carlie, Alan – for security purposes, you understand. I know the situation.’

Yes, but you don’t know about this.’ He produced a brown manila envelope from his desk drawer and pushed it across to Skinner, who picked it up and shook out a letter.
The salutation was the same as the earlier communications, but the message was different. Skinner read it quickly.

Attached is a photograph of the lady with whom you have been carrying on a liaison. We have others of you both which are more explicit, and in which the press will be interested.
Accede to our demands, Ballantyne, or the people of Scotland will learn what a dishonourable man you are.

Clipped to the letter was a photograph of Carlie leaving Number 6 Charlotte Square by the back door.
'What do they mean, other pictures, Alan?’ 'Haven’t a clue, Bob. Why would they do that, anyway?’
'Keeping up the pressure, Alan. On you, on me, on us all. They know we’re unlikely to ask for media help on this one. I’m afraid you’re just going to have to take it on the chin when they show us what they’ve got.’
Is there nothing I can do?’
'Yes. You have a choice. Announce that your marriage is over and that Carlie is the next Mrs Ballantyne, or – get her out of the country!’

The Mary Little Horse story caused a sensation at the Thursday morning briefing, even without the intimate details of her relationship with Frank Adams. Skinner’s carefully worded
statement, warning the public to be on the look-out for the woman, together with her photograph, caught the media corps off guard.
'So where does that put your investigation?’ With some of his belligerence recovered, Al Neidermeyer put the first question.
'It puts a new slant on it, that’s for sure. Inevitably you have to be a bit sceptical about the real nature of a so-called patriotic organisation that gets itself involved with a foreign criminal like Typhoid Mary.’

Skinner saw the eyes of the Sun reporter, seated in the front row, light up at his use of her nickname.
'I regard this as significant progress. For legal reasons, I can’t go into much detail, but we need to talk with this woman urgently in connection with the death of Hilary Guillaum and the Waltzing Matilda bombing. She’s a striking girl: the sort who stands out in a crowd. She is also very, very dangerous, I am assured by the FBI. So any member of the public who thinks they’ve spotted her should give us a call at once, but otherwise leave her well alone.’

Reported sightings of Typhoid Mary began to flood the Fettes switchboard, from the moment the first reports were broadcast. Indeed the earliest claims were made even before the first edition of the Evening News had hit the streets, giving her photograph page-one prominence.
As Skinner had surmised, all the calls were fruitless. Members of the public from as far afield as Barra and Lerwick called in to declare that they had seen the native American fugitive, but
although these sightings were all followed up, none was even close to the mark. The only action that the police saw was when a young lady with a pronounced Sloane Ranger accent was detained in Shetland, before being identified as the daughter of a minor peer, on a back-packing tour of the Scottish Islands.
As Thursday stretched into Friday with no sign of further action by the Fighters, Skinner was able to report an incident-free twenty-four hours at the next morning’s briefing.

When Skinner returned from the Friday press conference, he found Alex waiting in his office. As he entered the room, she jumped up and rushed across to him.

'Hi, Pops.’
He took her into his arms and hugged her.

'Pops, I’m sorry. You’re under all this pressure and I behave like a selfish, love-sick cow. I am really, really sorry.
'Am I forgiven?’
His face lit up as he smiled at her. Suddenly the world was a better place. 'Yeah, just this once I’ll let you off with a caution.
How are you and the boy getting on?’
'Fine. Ingo’s great. He’s so bright, and I just love him to bits. Don’t worry, though. I’m not going to do anything daft like rushing off to Sweden with him. I’ve got a degree to finish first, and a diploma to get after that. He’s got his course to finish, too. Once he’s done that, he says he’ll find a job in Britain, in the theatre if nothing else, and we can be together for good.’
In spite of his misgivings about the Swede, Bob grinned.
'Sounds like you’ve got his life thoroughly organised for him, just like you organised mine for twenty years.’
'Exactly. But you’ve got someone else to do that for you now. Even Andy, I hear from Sarah, may have found the love of his life. I have to have someone to look after.’
'Well, babe, all I ask is that you look after yourself as well. In fact put yourself first for a while.’ He decided it was time to change the subject. 'How’s your play then? We must pay it
another visit.’

“We’re doing great. It won’t be announced in the Scotsman till tomorrow, but we’ve won a Fringe Award. Why don’t you come to the Sunday show. It’s being presented then.’
Sunday? Bob referred to his memory for a second. 'Sorry, can’t do that. Sarah’s got tickets for Le Cirque Mobile, or something, down on Leith Links. Tonight we’re doing a movie with Andy and Julia, his new girlfriend, and tomorrow . . .’ He paused for a second. 'Tomorrow I might be busy. So we’ll come some time next week.’
Alex did not notice his momentary preoccupation.

'Le Cirque? I’ve heard of them. They’re all bikers or something like that, aren’t they. They’re supposed to be terrific.’
'We’ll see,’ he said, although his tone implied doubt. 'All that carbon monoxide inside a tent doesn’t sound too great to me. I’d rather be at your show, darling, believe me, but Sarah’s dead keen on it.’

Alex laughed. 'It’ll be all right. Sarah can pick 'em, you know. 'Well, look. Pops. If I don’t see you at the theatre, I’ll look out for you at Fringe Sunday.’
“No!’
His sudden vehemence stopped her in her tracks.
'Look, babe. Do just one thing for your old man. Steer well clear of Fringe Sunday.’
'But why? All the gang are going.’
'Just for me, give it a miss.’
She looked hard at him. 'You think something bad might happen? Do you know something?’
'Let’s just say I’ll feel happier if I know I don’t have to look out for you there.’
“Well, my old Dad, if it makes you feel happier, I’ll give it a miss. Promise.’
She stood on tiptoe, kissed him on the forehead and flitted out of the room, waving goodbye.

Sir James Proud was the last man he had expected to see that morning. Or so Skinner told himself at first. But when he thought about it later, he realised that he had not been in the least surprised when his door burst open to reveal the Chief Constable’s ample frame. Proud Jimmy, as he was known throughout his force, looked as imposing as ever in full uniform.
Chief What the hell are you doing here?’
You know bloody fine,’ said Sir James Proud. 'I couldn’t settle for a moment out there, knowing all this nonsense was going on back home. Eventually it all got too much for her ladyship. Yesterday morning she said to me, “Jimmy. That’s it. I’m packing and we’re going to the airport. Get your Gold Card ready.” So here I am.’ ;

Skinner smiled at him. He realised at that moment just how much he had missed the solid support and advice of Sir James Proud.
Well, I’m sorry it had to happen that way, but by God I’m glad you’re back.’
'So what’s been happening?’
Quickly Skinner updated him on the crisis. He showed him the MI6 file on Jesus Giminez, and the FBI sheet on Mary Little Horse.
'I am impressed,’ said the Chief. 'You seem to draw these people. Bob, like a flame attracts moths. So now I’m back, what can I do? How can I help?’
'You can chair tomorrow morning’s press conference for a start. I’ll be busy, doing something else. I’ll have a Member of Parliament to arrest!’

Neil Mcllhenney was impressed by Macdairmid’s choice of meeting-place. Edinburgh born and bred, he had never heard of the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, far less visited it. So when he ambled up the red sandstone steps and into the cathedral-like central hall, with its massive pipe organ at the far end, he was taken by surprise by its elegance and its scale. Neil had always liked organ music, and the fact that he had arrived in the middle of the Friday afternoon recital made the job the highlight of his week in Glasgow.
The tap had picked up Grant Macdairmid on the pub telephone as he set up his assignation at Kelvingrove. His call had been brief and to the point. 'Cassie? Grant here. Look I need you to run another message for me. Meet me this afternoon. Four-thirty, Kelvingrove Art Gallery.’

Haggerty had instructed Barry Macgregor to tail the MP from his office to the meeting-place, while Mcllhenney had been sent on ahead.

Wooden seats were set out in rows across the hall. Those near the front were well filled, but in the row second from the back a girl sat alone, round-shouldered but relaxed in a pale blue T-shirt. Mcllhenney looked at the back of her head and wondered. Rather than take a seat he wandered across to one of the display cases in an area off the hall. It was filled with an assortment of Cromwellian armour, out-of-place somehow in a Glasgow setting.

He could observe the main door from the far side of the glass case, and so Macdairmid did not see him as he glanced all around the hall on his arrival. Satisfied, the MP moved swiftly down the hall and made his way calmly between the seats towards the girl.
Mcllhenney noticed that he was carrying a black briefcase.
Macgregor entered a few seconds later, and sat down in the back row, a comfortable distance away from the couple. He had untied his pony-tail, and his long hair, with its white-beaded
Plaits, fell around his shoulders. He wore a crew-necked, short sleeved shirt over faded jeans, split at the knee. Mcllhenney looked at him and smiled. 'Crime Squad throws up some sights,
right enough,’ he whispered to himself.
The meeting lasted only a few minutes. Neither detective dared edge close enough to hear the conversation, but from what they could see it was one-sided, Macdairmid doing all the talking. Less than five minutes after he had entered, the MP stood up and made his way out of the Gallery – without the black briefcase. Neither detective made a move to follow him. They knew that Glasgow officers were waiting outside at each exit from the Gallery, ready
to pick up Macdairmid’s trail. Instead they stayed, as ordered, with the girl.

She had little taste either, it seemed, for the fine organ music, for three minutes later she too rose to go. The briefcase looked heavy in her right hand. Outside, she made quickly for the car park , where she unlocked the door of a battered green Metro. She heaved the case on to the passenger seat, before jumping in and driving off.
Braided hair flying behind him, Macgregor sprinted over to McIlhenney’s Astra and jumped in, as the older man revved the engine and set off after the girl.

'Registration D436 QQS,’ barked Mcllhenney. 'Call it in.’
Using the car telephone rather than radio, Macgregor waited on the line while the number was checked. Eventually he said, 'Got that,’ and put the phone back in its magnetic cradle. 'It’s his sister, Neil. The bugger’s using his own sister on a pick-up. The Metro’s registered to Cassandra Macdairmid, date of birth 29 June 1969, listed address 124 Dundonald Road, Partickhill.’ “
'In that case, she’s going home,’ said Mcllhenney, turning the Astra into Dundonald Road. a

Adam Arrow, Mario McGuire and Maggie Rose were all in position in the Chapter One Coffee Shop on the first floor of James Thin, in George Street, well before Cassie Macdairmid climbed the staircase at 11:25 am.
They were seated several tables apart. Wearing a light cotton jacket. Arrow looked for all the world like a tourist, as he sat reading the Saturday Telegraph. His view extended from the top
of the stairs and into the second room of the cafeteria. He could see McGuire and Rose at their table through the open doorway which connected the cafe’s two rooms. They looked for all the world like a thirty-something Edinburgh couple – which in fact they were – out on a morning’s shopping expedition. Maggie’s Marks Spencer carrier bag, containing a few purchases made earlier that day, added authenticity.

They recognised Cassie Macdairmid as soon as she entered, not only from the description given by Mcllhenney and Macgregor, but from the heavy black briefcase which she carried in her right hand. It tugged her shoulder down slightly as she moved. Arrow’s eyes were fixed on her back as she passed through the doorway, past McGuire and Rose, who seemed to take no notice of her. She made her way to the service counter, where she bought a Cappuccino and a slab of thick brown cake. With difficulty she carried them, and the briefcase, in the direction of a table, somewhere to the left of McGuire and Rose, but out of Arrow’s line of sight.

If being inconspicuous was part of the other messenger’s brief, then, thought Arrow, he was inept at it. He wore the loudest black-and-white check woollen jacket that Arrow had ever seen on a man, with bright yellow polyester trousers. His lank jet-black hair, which emphasised his sallow complexion, looked as if it had been cut by a blind man. Apart from the fact that he looked so out of place, it was his briefcase which marked him out immediately as their second target. It was identical to that which Cassie Macdairmid had brought with her from Glasgow.
Arrow studied his Telegraph intently as the man looked quickly round the room, and, clearly having seen nothing to alarm him, moved through towards the service counter. He purchased a Coke, and, holding the bottle, looked round once more. At last, his eyebrows rose briefly in recognition as – Arrow guessed – he caught sight of Cassie Macdairmid. The messenger moved towards her table.

'May I join you?’ he heard him asking in a Hispanic accent, just as he disappeared from view. Arrow switched his gaze to McGuire and Rose, ready to take his cue from them.
Five minutes had passed before he saw Maggie Rose make at sudden slight movement in his direction with her left hand. The little soldier stood up and moved towards the wide doorway, just as the man appeared in it. Arrow noticed at once that this time he was holding his briefcase in his left hand, while the other was plunged deep in the voluminous pocket of his jacket. As the two men’s eyes met the right hand started to move. Arrow stepped in, close and fast. With his left hand he grabbed the man’s right wrist and immobilised it, just as the gun came into sight. At the same time the hard edge of his right hand smashed across the messenger’s windpipe. With a choking sound, the man dropped his briefcase and crumpled to the floor. Arrow ripped the gun from his grasp and let his wrist go. He stepped over the
writhing, pop-eyed form and through the doorway.

Maggie Rose was holding Cassie Macdairmid down in her chair by the shoulders. The woman looked terrified. McGuire held the second briefcase. He was about to open it when Arrow called to him.
'No, Mario. Leave that for Major Legge. He should have arrived outside by now. Let’s get the public out of here, and fetch him in.’

'Gammy’ Legge shook his head. 'No damned explosive I’ve ever seen looks like that.’ He stood in the second, inner room of the James Thin coffee-shop, still wearing his heavy black blast armour. 'You can come up now,’ he called loudly.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and, a few seconds later, Arrow, Rose and McGuire appeared together in the doorway.
The black briefcase which the man had brought with him lay open on the table. It was full to the brim with fist-sized packages wrapped in brown paper. Legge had slit one open, and held it in the palm of his hand.
'What is it?’ asked Arrow.
'Buggered if I know, old son. But it isn’t explosive.’
Maggie Rose took the parcel from him. She looked at the powder inside and sniffed.
'You’re wrong there. Major,’ she said quietly. 'This stuffs explosive all right. It’s high-octane and very dirty-looking heroin!’

'I am Assistant Chief Constable Robert Skinner, and I don’t believe I’m saying this, but. Grant Forrest Macdairmid, I am arresting you on suspicion of being a party to the illegal importation into the United Kingdom of a controlled substance, namely heroin, and of being involved in its illegal sale. You have the right to silence, but I must caution you that if you do say anything, it will be taken down and may be used against you.’
Macdairmid looked from Skinner to Willie Haggerty, and back again, in blank-faced astonishment.

As soon as the call had come through from Maggie Rose, they had gone in, four of them. Mcllhenney and Macgregor made up the quartet, and all but Skinner were carrying firearms. They had brought a search warrant and, even as Skinner cautioned Macdairmid, the two detective constables were beginning to take his flat apart.
'Seems you didnae reform after all. Grant.’ The intensely angry edge to Haggerty’s tone was one that Skinner had never heard from him before. There was a passion in it which was totally unexpected in the normally cynical, worldly Glaswegian.
'Ah remember you as a tearaway, wi’ yir heavies, and yir dirty wee protection racket. Ah wis one of the team that lifted ye the last time, but ye won’t remember that. There were we thinkin’ that ye’d seen the light, but ye had us kidded on, all along. You never gave it up, did ye? You jist got dirtier. How did ye get tae be an MP? How did ye get away wi that?’

'Most people in Glasgow are just as thick as you, so it wasn’t difficult.’ There was contempt in Macdairmid’s voice. Haggerty’s fury was ready to erupt. He took a pace towards the
man, his heavy fists balled, but Skinner held him back.
'You’re the thickhead in this room, pal,’ Skinner said. 'With all that’s going on just now, you should have known that we’d have been on you like bluebottles on a turd, yet you still got involved in this deal. You must be fucking mad.’ As he said this, it occurred to him suddenly that he might well be right. For a man in his predicament, Macdairmid’s arrogance seemed beyond belief.
'Don’t count your chickens, Skinner. I want my lawyer here now. I bet that any evidence you have against me won’t be admissible in court. Once I’m out, I’ll crucify you. The next
election isn’t that far off, you know. I expect to be a Scottish Office Minister, once it’s over. Then you’ll see.’

With lazy strength. Skinner picked Macdairmid up and slammed him against the wall, hard. The back of his head cracked against the plaster.
'Listen, boy, to what you are,’ he said, in a controlled steady voice. 'You are a fucking horse trader. You’re a heroin dealer. You are less than dog-shit on my shoe. Make no mistake, you are going away for a long, long time. There is someone in this room who’s an expert with a hammer and nails, and you’re looking at him. But before your public crucifixion in the High Court, you’re going to tell me how a Glasgow snot-rag like you comes to be mixed up in a drugs deal with Jesus Giminez, international terrorist numero uno. How do you think old Jesus is going to like having had his messenger, his two hundred grand and his drugs all
nicked? Maybe I will let you go, and see just how long you survive. Personally, I wouldn’t give you a month.’

As Macdairmid stared at him, fear and amazement replaced the bellicosity. 'What the hell do you mean? Who’s this Jesus whatever-you-called-him? I’ve never heard of him. My only
contact was some Colombian. Even then, we only spoke over the phone, and only ever on secure lines.’ Macdairmid was convicting himself with every word, but he cared not a bit.
'Not as secure as you thought,’ said Skinner. 'We heard you
talking to Giminez. He was identified by the best. You wouldn’t believe some of the heavyweight things he’s done, so why’s he messing himself with a wee shite like you? That’s what you’re going to tell me – and bloody fast, too.’ He let go of Macdairmid’s shirt front. 'You’ve got some serious talking to do before the day’s out. But not here. I’ll see you again through in Edinburgh. Neil, Barry, finish up here, and take Mr Macdairmid, MP, though to Fettes. His lawyer can see him there. He’d better be bloody good, though!’
Macdairmid was handcuffed, and the two detective constables hustled him away.
'Well, sir,’ said Haggerty. 'We didnae expect all this, did we?’
'No we bloody did not.
'Fucking ironic, Willie, isn’t it. You and I have just made what for most coppers would be the arrest of a lifetime, yet here we an – well, me at least – absolutely pissed off. We started of
thinking that Macdairmid was our best lead to the Fighters for fucking Freedom. Now we find he’s just another drug-dealer.
Look at the time we spent on it. A great result, sure, and I’m glad that stuff isn’t going to hit the street. But as far as our main business in concerned, we’re right back to square one!’

Skinner was passing Shawhead, on the drive back to Edinburgh, when Brian Mackie’s call came through.
'Boss, this is incredible. I thought you’d want to know right away. The lab boys ran a quick test on a sample of Macdairmid’s heroin. Their report’s just arrived. That stuff is lethal. First of all it’s so pure that your average addict would off himself with just one fix. And, as if that wasn’t enough, there’s something else in there too. They haven’t isolated it yet, but it seems to act as a catalyst to turn the heroin into pure poison. That’s what Macdairmid was going to spread all over Glasgow.’

'Holy Christ, Brian! Look, don’t let anyone say anything about it to our man. I want to break that piece of news myself.
'What about his sister? She saying anything since her arrest?’
'She can’t stop crying. She says she knows nothing about anything – but how many times have we heard that before? She swears she hadn’t a clue about the heroin. She says she thought she was picking up hot cash from Libya to fund some left-wing newspaper, and that the briefcase she brought with her was just a dummy for a swop, weighted down to make it look authentic.’
'What about the messenger?’
'He definitely isn’t saying anything. He tried to pull a gun on Captain Arrow. The wee man hit him so hard he smashed his voice-box. He’d have died if Sarah hadn’t been with the emergency team outside. She did an emergency tracheotomy. She kept him alive, but she reckons he might never speak again. He’s in intensive care.’
'OK, Brian, thanks. Be back soon.’

Next, from the car, he called Six, then Joe Doherty, who for once had been spending a weekend at home. When he broke the news, it was the first time that Skinner had ever heard Doherty rattled.
'Christ, Bob! You really mean that? Giminez is running poisoned smack? I gotta feed that back to the Bureau and the DBA. Suppose he’s doing that in the States as well. You any idea
how many people you could kill with a case full of poison?’
'As many as there are needles to go round, my friend. Good luck.’

The Sentinel broke the Carlie story on Sunday morning. Bob and Sarah were still asleep when the telephone rang. It was Ballantyne in a panic which verged on hysteria. First, Bob calmed
him down, then he dressed and drove down to the newsagent at the nearby road junction to pick up a copy of the newspaper. The Sentinel was a new, independent Scottish Sunday tabloid, launched three months earlier, and already struggling for survival.
The candid back-door shot was there, all right. But, much more serious, there was a second photograph, taken with a long lens through an upper floor window, which showed clearly the
Secretary of State and his lady in a fond embrace. Fortunately, Skinner thought as he studied it, they were both fully clothed.

“MYSTERY BLONDE IN BALLANTYNE LOVE-NEST’

screamed the headline, crediting the 'Fighters for an Independent Scotland’ as the source of the photographs, and printing in full their denunciation of Ballantyne. However, in neither the
statement nor the Sentinel’s subsequent story was Carlie identified.
As Sarah sat down to read the story and study the photographs, Skinner called Ballantyne back on the kitchen phone.
'Alan, I’m sorry for you, but this isn’t one that I can help you with. They’ve broken no law here. Any paparazzi could have done that; and I’m surprised that no one has before now. Best thing you can do is call Mike Licorish and ask him if he’ll stretch the rules and issue a personal statement for you.’
'But, Bob, my career.’
'Alan, with respect, you should have thought of that before. What you do now is up to you and your conscience. You’re either a man or you’re a weasel. I know what I think you are. It’s up to you to prove me right or wrong.’
As he hung the phone up, he noticed that Sarah was looking at him in astonishment. But he shook his head and said no more.

An hour later, as they were clearing away the breakfast dishes, the telephone rang again. This time, it was Michael Licorish.
'Bob, I thought you’d like to hear this before it goes out. You listening?’
Skinner grunted.
'It’s a statement by the Secretary of State. It reads:

“Mrs Ballantyne and I deprecate the publication in this morning’s press of photographs of our close friend Miss Charlotte Mays, and the libellous story which accompanied them. One of these photographs was particularly intrusive in that it shows Miss Mays comforting me immediately after I had received the sad and unexpected news of the death of another close family friend, Lord Broadgate. Mrs Ballantyne and I wish to make clear that if there if any further publication of these photographs or these allegations, we will pursue libel actions against the perpetrators with the full rigour of the law.

” What do you think of that?’
'Jesus, that’s our man all right. Where’s Carlie now?’
'On a plane heading for the States. S of S bought the ticket.’
'Isn’t he just the ticket himself, eh? Cheers, Mike.’ He hung up.
Sarah, reaching up to put two mugs away in a high cupboard, looked across at him. 'Well? Which is he then?’
'I was right enough. He’s a fucking weasel.’

The full team – police and SAS back-up – gathered in the Fettes Hall at 11:00 am, long after the last journalists had left the regular morning briefing. For the newsmen, the highlight had been Skinner’s brief and completely unexpected statement that Grant Macdairmid, MP and his sister Cassandra had been arrested, along with a third man, identity as yet unknown, and charged with possession of heroin with intent to supply.
Faced with a threat by Skinner of prosecution for attempted murder, Macdairmid, on the advice of his lawyer, had made a full formal statement at 2:00 am. He had said that his contacts in London had taken him to meet a man in a pub, a Libyan who had told him that he had a connection to some cheap, high-quality drugs. Macdairmid had also admitted that he had been dealing for some years.

The contact had given him a number in Colombia, and he had talked price with the man there. The supplier had explained that he routed the heroin in through France, and across the Channel, easy since the borders had been opened. Macdairmid had decided to take a trial shipment, and had done well out of it. He had agreed to take a second batch, bigger this time. He had been astonished at the man’s low price.
The same thought had occurred to Skinner. Two hundred thousand for a case-load of heroin was bargain basement. But now Skinner’s full attention was turned to his briefing for the Fringe Sunday event. From the rows of theatre seating which had been set out for the press, twenty serious faces looked back at him. Among them was Sarah’s. He had attempted to persuade her that she would not be needed, and that her presence would be a personal distraction to him, but she had been adamant. 'You included me in this team. That means all the way.’

Now, he fixed his troubled gaze upon her as he stood up, behind his desk, to address the team.
'Well, ladies and gentlemen. Let me begin by giving it to you straight. This is going to be the devil’s own job to police. Even in a normal year. Fringe Sunday gives your average pickpocket an orgasm just thinking about it. This time, well . . .
'For our army friends, who may be new to the Festival, let me explain what happens. Fringe Sunday is the one major gathering of all the Fringe performers, giving the public a chance to see them close-up and to sample their shows. You’ll all by now have seen what happens at the foot of the Mound every lunchtime, and you’ll have an idea of the crowds that gather there. Well, this event attracts about forty to fifty times that number. It takes place in Holyrood Park, it’s open to the public, and it’s absolutely free.

We’ve only been able to guess at the possible numbers, but the experienced boys in operations reckon that there could be as many as one hundred thousand there, given a fine day – and this will be as fine a day as you could ask for. I’ve checked the forecast, and
there’s no chance of the weather breaking for a few days yet.
'You might expect the crowd to be less today, with all that’s happened. Let’s hope that’s right. But it’s been nearly a week since the last major incident. The press are even beginning to suggest that the enemy has shot his bolt.’
Skinner paused to look around the hall.
'Don’t you believe it! These people want something big. They’ve had access to state-of-the-art equipment, and to people who know how to use it.’

Mario McGuire cut in. 'They’re claiming they want an independent Scotland. Are you saying it might be something else they’re after?’
'That’s what I’m beginning to wonder, yes. How come we don’t have a clue as to who they are. We led ourselves well and truly up the garden path with Macdairmid. All our known agitators have checked out clean – even that daft hack, Frazer Pagett. There is something else, Mario. I feel it in my water! Maybe it’s really us they’re after.’

“Us?’
'Yes. The police. Authority. Maybe that’s what it’s all about.’
He turned back to the group. 'But that’s irrelevant for now. Today we’ve got to be fully on guard against another terrorist attack. That’s our job. Fringe Sunday presents a big target, and so far that’s the pattern they’ve followed. Big, attention-grabbing events.
'There are four official entrances to Holyrood Park. We’ll have uniformed officers guarding them all, and there will be plenty others among the crowds. The sight of all those flat hats might have a deterrent effect! But just in case it doesn’t, I want you there, too, all of you armed and ready to react in whatever way seems necessary. You will all wear sunglasses, and one of these’ he held up a small lapel pin in the shape of a golden lion 'so that if there is trouble, the uniforms will be able to tell the difference between the terrorists and the good guys. If we have action, and you SAS people get involved, then please leave the scene as soon as it’s over. We don’t want any of you identified by anyone. I take that very seriously.

The uniformed detachment, all ninety-five of them, are being given their briefing separately for that very reason.
'By the way, people, the uniformed detachment is led by the Chief. The deputy and the other two ACCs will be there, too. I want you to know that the Command Suite is leading from the
front on this one.’ He looked around the room once more. 'Any questions?’
No one answered.
'Good. Let’s go.’ The group began to break up. 'And, hey’
Twenty faces turned back towards him. He was grinning.
'Be careful out there!’

As Skinner was heading for the exit, he was stopped by the Chief Constable’s staff officer, a uniformed superintendent.
'Sorry, sir, but before you leave, could you please call Mr Doherty. He’s in his office. He said you would know who he is.’
'Thanks, Malcolm.’
Skinner sprinted up the stairs to his office, and punched in Joe Doherty’s number on the secure line.
'Joe? What can I do for you?’
'Just listen, that’s all. I have a story to tell you, about Giminez and your friend Macdairmid, the patsy. I’ve found out who was behind it all.’
Skinner sensed that Doherty was spinning out the suspense.
Joe, come on, for fuck’s sake. I’ve got a crisis here.’
The FBI man laughed. 'So have some cousins of mine. OK, I’ll get to the point. It’s the CIA. They’ve been running Giminez.’
'What!’

'Yeah. To be exact it’s one man. A crazy hawk at Langley called Goodman. It seems that at some point during the last administration, the President was being given an interdepartmental
briefing on the drugs problem, and he made some sort of throwaway remark, along the lines of: “If someone would just go away and come up with a miracle cure for all this, what a
goddamned hero he’d be.” A bit like your Henry II wishing to be rid of that turbulent priest of his. So Goodman’s at the meeting, and his crazy little mind starts to work. He figures, “We’ll never kill all the Colombians and the Burmese, or torch all their crops. So what we have to do is discredit their product.”

“The health agencies all over the world have been saying it for years: “If you touch smack or coke you will die, eventually.” to an addict that just ain’t true. We’ve had a boom in the drug
market, and in all the other crime that runs alongside it. Goodman figures that what he’s got to do is make the users believe: “If you touch heroin or smack you will die . . . now! No second chance.” Then he does some more thinking and comes up with Giminez. The CIA have been running him for years, doing all sorts of things that we won’t go into. Goodman tells him what he wants, Giminez says: “OK, gimme da money, I do it. But it’ll take time.” Goodman siphons off dough from a big CIA slush fund. Giminez drops out of sight, and stays in deep cover for years. What he’s been doing is one, he’s been building up supplies of horse and coke; two, putting some of the world’s finest illicit chemists to work in making them lethal; and three, and most recently, setting up relationships with dealers around the world,
like your MP friend, all of them greedy and in the market for cheap supplies. Say, Bob. Being an MP, that’s pretty good cover, eh?

“The final stage of the plan, and it’s a beauty, I have to say, is that Giminez, through his network, feeds the marks a little good stuff to whet their appetites, and get the street excited, then drops the bomb with the big shipment. End result is, dead users all around the world, stories leaked to the press, mass panic, and everyone too scared to touch the stuff, like ever again.’
Time was ebbing away, but Skinner was fascinated. 'So how did you get on to Goodman?’
'I passed the name Giminez on to Langley. They found the slush money, traced the payment to Goodman, and used all means necessary to make him talk.’
'So how do they stop it?’
'God knows. Maybe they can’t. Goodman doesn’t know names, or even how many Macdairmid’s there are, and the CIA can’t get to Giminez anyway. He’s operating blind. Broke contact with Goodman long ago. All the CIA can do now is put the word out on the street, and tell the Colombians about Giminez in the hope that they can stop him. But maybe they won’t do that either. Because, goddamn it, crazy Goodman’s crazy idea could actually
work. I did hear that the DBA can’t figure out whether to give you a medal for uncovering this whole operation, or put a contract out on you!

'Meantime, Interpol has started to log reports from Hamburg of dozens of coke users – some of them top people – suddenly winding up dead all over the city. And somehow I doubt if that’ll be the last we hear of Giminez and his special deliveries. Hope your crisis up in Scotland turns out to be a damn sight easier to solve!’

Skinner’s mind whirled with the consequences of Doherty’s story, as he headed off towards Holyrood Park in his BMW, on the heels of his squad.
The Park is, in a sense, the biggest back garden in Scotland. Within its grounds, behind a high grey wall, stands the Palace of Holyroodhouse, modest in size but rich in history. Four centuries ago, as the machinations of the court of the doomed Mary, Queen of Scots tore her country apart, it was a place of intrigue and murder. Today it stands largely unchanged, as the official residence in Scotland of her heirs and successors, and as a venue for great gatherings of heads of government. Though Holyrood is a Royal Park in status, in practice it is one of
Edinburgh’s favourite and largest public open spaces, covering well over a square mile of greenlands, with three small lochs which provide lodgings for dozens of swans, geese and ducks, with literally thrown in – a constant supply of food from children and tourists. '

Holyrood Park is dominated by Arthur’s Seat, an extinct volcano from whose vantage point the legendary king is said to have overlooked the first dwellings of what was to become the beautiful city of Edinburgh. Dark Age overtones continue to cling to the ancient hill. As he looked up at it in the fine August morning sunshine. Skinner recalled with a tug at his heart another morning twenty years earlier, when he had walked with his first wife Myra, the baby Alexis cradled in her arms, to the summit, with dozens of other parents, to wash in the midsummer morning dew. He closed his eyes for a moment, and could see again the clear vision of Myra gently dabbing her baby’s face, and saying softly, “There. That’ll guard her beauty for life.’ She had been right in her prediction for Alex. But, sadly, life had not been long for Myra.

Skinner tore himself back to the present and surveyed the Royal Park. It was still well short of midday, but thousands of people were there already, congregating on the flatter grassland around the palace and beyond towards the park wall, and the grey tenements of Royal Park Terrace. At intervals, flat-backed lorries and other temporary staging had been set up to provide venues for impromptu performances by Fringe players. He noted with approval the numbers of police caps which could be seen in the crowd. Occasionally, he saw casually dressed figures, looking around observantly through their sunglasses, and caught the glint
of gold on their chests.

The first performers arrived just after midday: a student revue from Oxford University. They set out their props on one of the lorry stages and soon gathered a crowd as they began to perform snatches of their show, involving the audience whenever they could. Gradually, more and more spectators and more and more players filled the Park, until by 2:00 pm it was thronged with happy folk, singing, playing and laughing in the sunshine. The only people there who could not relax were Skinner’s plainclothes team, the SAS soldiers, and the ninety-five policemen and policewomen in uniform, who continued to mingle with the crowd.

He was standing with Sarah, some way off, when it happened. A few minutes earlier, a wide circle had opened amid the crowd, perhaps one hundred and fifty yards across. A motorcycle had roared into life, then another, then a third, and a fourth.
'It’s Le Cirque Mobile,’ Sarah cried. 'Let’s have a look.’
But he had held her back, seeing no easy way through the thick crowd. So Sarah had stretched on tip-toe, catching only glimpses of the riders’ lightweight helmets, and occasionally the clown make-up on their faces, as they bucked and twisted their bikes in
wheelies, or left the ground in acrobatic leaps. Skinner was looking away when he heard the first screams, and Sarah grasped his arm tightly. He looked round, to see the wide circle of spectators burst apart as one of the riders revved his bike and roared through them, steering with his left hand alone. The bike carved a swathe amid the diving people as it ploughed
through the panicking crowd. It headed straight towards a wide platform stage, on which a group of dancers were performing, dressed in a colourful folk costume. One by one, they stopped and stared as the cyclist roared towards them. They could only look on, frozen with shock, as he threw the object which he held aloft in his free right hand.

The grenade exploded in mid-air, among the dancers. Bodies flew everywhere, and a fine red mist seemed to hang in the air for a second or two.
As the screaming erupted and escalated, Skinner, running now towards the scene, saw the motorcyclist veer away from the makeshift stage, pulling a squat, ugly gun from his jacket. There was something about his movement, about the way he handled his bike, which made Bob certain that this was the same man who had shot at him in Charlotte Square. But this time he was carrying an automatic machine-pistol. As he roared through the scattering crowd towards the Meadowbank gateway, he sprayed fire from right to left and back again. To his horror. Skinner saw young Barry Macgregor go tumbling backwards, gun in hand, blood spraying from his throat.
And then the man had broken through the last of the crowd. The bike accelerated towards the exit, the rider steering now with both hands. He had thrown the gun, spent, on the grass behind him.

It was a hell of a shot, they all agreed later. Brian Mackie fired only once. Technically, Skinner might have rebuked him for failing first to call out, identifying himself as an armed police officer, but in the circumstances he decided to let this pass. The rider’s back arched and his arms flew wide, as the bullet cut through his spine. He seemed to rise out of the saddle, and to hang, cruciform, in mid-air for a second, before falling, almost gracefully, on to his back. At the same time, the front wheel of the motorcycle reared up, and the whole machine spun in a grotesque somersault, crashing, handle-bars first, to the ground with its
engine still roaring, a few feet away from its spread-eagled rider.

Skinner ignored the biker, and ran instead towards Barry Macgregor. As soon as he reached him, he realised that there was no hope. The young man was convulsing. Blood pumped from an awful wound in his throat, squirting through his fingers as he struggled in vain to stem its flow, and running down his neck and shoulders to stain his braided hair.
Sarah arrived only seconds later, but even in that time the last of the life had ebbed from the boy’s body. For a time. Skinner knelt beside him, blood on his hands and tears in his eyes, though his jaw was set firm. When eventually Sarah took him by the shoulders and drew him gently to his feet she found, on his face, an expression which she had never seen before; not his, not Bob’s, but that of someone she did not know at all.

Suddenly, in the stillness and silence which surrounded their little tableau, she felt very frightened; fear for her husband, and – for a flash – fear of him and yet not him, of someone cold, vengeful and absolutely deadly who dwelt within him.

'Bob, isn’t that our clown? Remember, on Saturday. The one on the unicycle at the Mound, with the leaflets.’
'It could be love, could be. But I do know I saw him somewhere else that same day.’
Skinner had banished his grief and rage, and looked his normal self again, controlled, hardened against the horror, and deferring his time of mourning until the job was done. They were standing with Andy Martin and Brian Mackie in the area which had been cordoned off around the motorcycle assassin. A hundred yards away. Sir James Proud stood at the head of an honour guard over the body of young Barry Macgregor, as his officers cleared the park slowly of public and performers.

In contrast to the stillness of the two groups, the ambulance crews were working feverishly to tend the casualties. There were some who were as far beyond help as Barry Macgregor. Four of the six members of the Belorussian Folk Ensemble, the onstage targets of the grenade attack, lay sprawled in death. The lucky survivors were already in an ambulance which was screaming its way out of the Park, towards the Royal Infirmary, its blue lights whirling. Three members of the crowd had been killed, including a baby still clutched in the arms of her stunned mother, and fourteen others wounded either by the explosion’s deadly shrapnel or by gunfire.

The motorcyclist, in his turn, was very dead.
One or two colleagues had bestowed on Brian Mackie the nickname 'Dirty Harry’ because of his legendary prowess with various firearms on the rifle range at St Leonard’s Police Station.
But Brian never acknowledged the title, nor played up to it in anyway. Not for him the Clint Eastwood stride, or throwaway lines about days made. Brian took his role as an expert marksman very seriously indeed. It was an important part of his job as a policeman, and not the subject for humour. On the one occasion in his career when he had been called on to fire at a human target, his disciplined approach ensured that his reaction had been instant, emotionless, and absolutely effective. Afterwards, his conscience had been untroubled. He had not, as he said once in answer to Andy Martin’s question, lost a single night’s sleep.

So it would be again now, he knew. As he looked down at the body of the motorcyclist, he banished from his mind any feeling of elation that he had felled the man who had killed Barry
Macgregor. This was just another job done well, and on that basis alone he was pleased. As an expert, Mackie believed in arming himself to suit the occasion and the possible circumstances. His choice of weapon that morning had been a Colt .45 magnum revolver. The gun, he noted as he looked at the body, had lived up to its awesome reputation. There was a fist-sized exit wound right through the biker’s breast-hone. Mackie saw chips and slivers of white bone mixed in there. He surmised that the bullet had spread when it struck the spine, shattering it and sending fragments of bone and lead tearing through the heart.

Sarah had removed the man’s helmet, but through the clown make-up it was difficult to tell anything about the man’s appearance, other than that he was blond.
McGuire, Rose and Mcllhenney were standing a little way off, with the three other riders from the troupe, and one other, a muscular, short-haired girl who wore a vest with 'Le Cirque Tour’ emblazoned on its front. Skinner waved them over.
The three riders cringed when they saw their dead colleague, but the girl merely whistled and shook her head. 'You guys don’t miss, eh,’ she said in a chirpy East London accent.

“This is Alison, sir,’ said Maggie Rose.’the three lads are all French. All the English they speak between them couldn’t buy you a bag of chips, but Alison’s one of the troupe too. She’s a mechanic, and she knew this fellow.’
'Hey, steady on. I know he called himself Ricky, but that’s about it.’
Skinner looked at the pass which he had taken from the back pocket of the dead man’s jeans. It was made out in the name of Richard Smith.

'How long had he been with you?’ he asked the girl.
'He joined us in France a month ago. Said he was a Scottie and wanted to work his way home. Didn’t want much in wages – only his fare paying. The manager said he had a reference from a man in Marseilles. He was a mechanic, too, and good with the bikes.
Mind you, he wasn’t a regular in the troupe. Shouldn’t have been riding today, only . . .’
'Only what?’ said Skinner impatiently, as the girl’s story tailed off momentarily – as if she was working something out in her mind.
'Only Paul, the fourth of our regular bikers, got mugged in Leith last night. Three geezers jumped him, apparently. He’s in hospital now. They banged him up and broke his arm. 'Ere, you don’t think . . . ?’

'Fine Alison. Just you leave the thinking to us. Any ideas you have, you keep them to yourself. Is that understood?’
'Sure, boss. Anything you say.’
'OK, now will you please give a statement to DS Rose here, give her also your address, and then take your pals home. From the look of them there’s no show tonight.’

'Her story checked out, then?’
'The mugging? Aye. The boy Paul was French too, but he spoke English. Apparently he was making his way home last night after the show, when three guys in suits came up to him, took him up a close, and gave him a doing.’
Skinner and Proud sat facing each other, over two large whiskies in the Chiefs room at Fettes Avenue. It was still only 6:45 pm, but each looked tired and drained. Removed from the
scene of the crime, a second wave of sadness had washed over them both at the loss of their colleague.
“Men in suits?’ said the Chief Constable. 'That doesn’t sound much like Leith.’
'No, it doesn’t. Strangest thing of all, the boy said there was a woman with them, and she seemed to be giving the orders.’
'It wasn’t this Typhoid Mary woman, was it?’
'No. This one was dark-haired, and she was under five-six.

'I’m already pulling in all of our likely candidates to undertake a contract thumping, but I don’t hold out any great hopes that any of them will fit the bill. These will either have been members of the team or out-of-town heavies brought in for this job alone, and so virtually untraceable. They were very professional. Apparently one of them said to the boy, “Sorry, mate, but it’s in a good cause.” Then he broke his arm with a mason’s hammer.
According to Paul, when the guy spoke to him, the woman said “Silence”. And again, according to him, she said it in French. But since he’s French himself, and he was having his arm broken at the time, I’m discounting that one.’

'What about the late Mr Ricky Smith? Do we have anything on him?’
'Yes. He has a French connection, too. Their police have dug out their file for us. According to his prints, his name wasn’t Richard Smith at all. It was Raymond Mahoney, age twenty-six, birthplace Glasgow. Time-served mechanic. Lived in France since he was twenty. Bad boy, Raymond, or so they think: believed to have been involved in the gang scene in Marseilles. They had him marked down as a driver mostly, but he was known to have been
in the vicinity of two or three shootings. The closest they came to doing him for anything was when he was picked up as one of a team in a freelance armed robbery. But then one of the police witnesses was killed on duty, and the other had a fit of amnesia financially induced, they reckoned, so nothing came of it.
Technically he’s got a clean sheet, but they won’t miss him now he’s gone.’

Proud freshened up their drinks from a bottle of Highland Park. 'What’re you doing about the press?’
'Royston’s got a statement ready to go out, as soon as I’ve been to visit Barry’s dad. He’s a widower, and he’s been away golfing with a pal. They’re due back at eight according to the pal’s wife.
I’ll catch him them.’
'No, you won’t,’ said Proud. 'I’ll see that’s taken care of.
You’ve done enough.’
'Come on. Jimmy, he was my man.’
'My man, too. I was planning to see Mr Macgregor myself, but Eddie McGuinness insisted. He feels that he has to take on at least some of the tough tasks personally. A solid man is our Eddie.’
'So I’m beginning to realise,’ said Skinner thoughtfully.
The Chief Constable took a sip from his glass, savoured the smoky taste, and swallowed it. 'So what do these bastards do next, Bob?’

'I’m trying to think like them, Jimmy. Looking at the pattern so far, I’d say it’s got to be the Fireworks Concert, a week on Thursday. They know we won’t let them near any more celebs,
and the Fireworks are the last big event in the Festival. It’s even on telly this year. They might stick in a couple of wee surprises between now and then, but I’ll bet that’s the next thing they’ll go for.’
'Let’s cancel it then.’
'I’ve already suggested that to Ballantyne, but there’s no way he’ll agree. He’s got brave again.’
'Well, we’ll just have to police it so tightly they’ll have to use aircraft to hit it. Tomorrow you and I will go and see Mr bloody Ballantyne. It’s time you had some back-up when you’re dealing with him

The inevitable communiqué was delivered to the Queen Street office of the BBC at 9:00 am on the following day. For the first time it was addressed to the media, rather than to the Secretary of State.
The News Editor, Radio, never a man to turn down a scoop, took a snap decision. He sent copies at once to St Andrew’s House and to Skinner’s office, then ordered that the morning’s music programme should be interrupted and the text of the letter broadcast.
Skinner therefore heard it on the radio before he received his copy. He was alerted at once by the excitement in the newsreader’s voice.

'The following message has just been received by the BBC.
Because of its use of a special code-word, we believe it to be genuine. It reads as follows:

“From the Fighters for an Independent Scotland.
“Communiqué.
“It is with regret that we report the death of a fine young Scottish patriot, Raymond Mahoney, on an active service mission in Edinburgh yesterday. We regret too that a further demonstration of our resolve has proved necessary. However the intransigence of Scotland’s colonial governor, the Secretary of State, left us no choice. As before, our target was selected with a view to focusing international attention on our struggle for freedom. We note with some satisfaction that one member of the enemy’s security forces also fell yesterday. If the occupying government continues to deny Scotland its right to freedom, he will not be the last.
The first phase of our struggle is over. We have claimed the attention, and we believe the support, of the nations of the world. From now on we will seek to strike at the heart of the tyranny, wherever the opportunity arises. Our fight for an independent Scotland will not end with the Edinburgh Festival. It will go on until the occupying government yields, or until the last of its members is cut down. The Secretary of State and his puppet-masters in London are legitimate targets. They must realise that their police cannot protect them for ever.”

'That is the end of this newsflash,’ said the newsreader breathlessly. 'Now back to the studio, and to Eddie.’

'For Christ’s sake. Sir James, don’t you people ever listen! I’ve told Skinner, ever since this thing started, that we will not give in to terrorism. Now even you have joined the chorus of appeasers. I will not cancel the Fireworks Concert.’
Proud Jimmy looked at his most formidable, as thunderclouds of rage gathered on his brow. Skinner sat back in the Secretary of State’s comfortable armchair and waited for the storm to break. But Ballantyne had not finished. 'Whatever these people may threaten, far from cancelling the event, I will attend personally! And I won’t be alone. I spoke with the Prime Minister himself this morning and he has insisted on being present also! My information directorate has just made that announcement.’
'Sweet Jesus,’ said Skinner softly.

Ballantyne shot him a haughty glance, but continued to address the Chief Constable. 'Protection and detection is what I asked of Bob last week. As our opponents point out in their so-called communiqué, his anti-terrorist squad has protected very little so far, and detected even less. Let’s see if things will improve now that you’re back.’ “

'Secretary of State,’ Proud’s tone was even, but Skinner knew that he was controlling himself with difficulty, 'I note what you say. However I have to tell you that I believe that you are being foolhardy, and that the Prime Minister should know better than to go along with you. If you insist, the Concert will proceed. However, since my force is responsible for your safety, I will apply the following conditions. First, the general public will be barred from the Gardens, and only people with auditorium tickets will be admitted. Princes Street will be closed to all traffic between the Mound and Lothian Road. Spectators will be confined to the North side of the street, well away from the railings. They’ll hear the music and see the fireworks, but they won’t see either you or Second, the arena will be kept in darkness throughout. The conductor’s rostrum and the players will be lit, to the extent that is necessary, but the rest will be blacked out. Third, the PM’s armoured Jaguar will be used to drive you and him right up to your seats. Fourth, soldiers in protective clothing will be positioned behind you both throughout the concert, acting as human shields. Fifth, as soon as the concert is over, you and the, Prime Minister will be collected by the Jag and driven from the Gardens to overnight accommodation of our choice, which will be made properly secure. On those conditions alone, the Concert may proceed.’

Ballantyne stood up behind his desk. 'Quite unacceptable. That is quite unacceptable,’ he shouted. 'We will not skulk in and out like that.’
Proud rose up, too, massive and formidable in his uniform. His voice was still quiet and steady.
'Secretary of State, sit down, while I tell you something. If you do not accept every one of those conditions, and put yourself and the Prime Minister completely in my charge, then I will resign as Chief Constable, and will make it known, loudly and publicly, that I have done so because the Secretary of State for Scotland has no thought or concern for public or police safety and is prepared to put lives unnecessarily at risk, lives like that of young Barry
Macgregor, who died yesterday obeying your orders, or of that baby who was killed because you thought it was right to have a party in the face of terrorism.’

Still standing, Ballantyne seemed to fight, for a few seconds, for breath and words. Eventually he gasped, 'You can’t threaten me.
I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’
The storm broke. Proud Jimmy exploded in a fury that Skinner had never witnessed before. He roared at Ballantyne. 'Don’t be a bloody fool, man! I am Scotland’s senior Chief Constable. You’re just another tin-pot politician. You have no jurisdiction over me.
Of course I can threaten you. I have just threatened you. I am still fucking threatening you! And I will carry out my threat at once, if you cross me!’

He glared at Ballantyne for a moment, then went on, his voice lower, grinding out the words. 'I’ll go further than that. I missed the first few days of this affair, but I’ve kept in touch with Bob Skinner here, who, in spite of your scorn, is in my opinion the finest policeman in Britain. I am now observing for myself the final stages of your transformation under fire from a moderately acceptable minister to a dangerous buffoon who is quite unsuited for high office. For now, Mr Ballantyne, Bob Skinner needs my support. But I tell you today that, once this affair is over, I will renew the promise I have just made to you, and will carry it out
exactly as I have described, unless you yourself resign to make way for someone with the judgement and ability to do the job!’

He glanced down at Skinner, who sat in his chair marvelling silently at his Chief. 'Come on. Bob. Let’s go and get on with the job of keeping this pathetic man alive!’
He turned his back on Ballantyne, and slammed out of the room. Skinner, for once in his life, followed silently and obediently at Proud Jimmy’s heels.

At the Chief Constable’s insistence. Bob took the rest of that Monday off.
'Take your lovely wife away to the seaside, man. Recharge those batteries for Thursday night.’
So, with Sarah signed off from her practice and her police duties for twenty-four hours, they headed down to Gullane. All three of the golf-courses were jam-packed, and so they decided
instead to walk along the beach path to North Berwick, and back via the highway – a good twelve-mile hike. Dressed in T-shirts, shorts and Reeboks, they walked mostly in silence at first, finding and following a narrow path which wound down through a forest of head-high thorn bushes, then ran for a stretch along the perimeter of Muirfield golf course, before opening out on to the broad East Sands, far from the Gullane Bents car park. No day
trippers knew of this attractive beach, and so it was always deserted, even on the finest of days. Sheltered, in a natural alcove among the dunes, from the light breeze which signalled the turningof the tide, they lay down to sunbathe for a while, stripping off their T-shirts to use as beach-mats.

Bob marvelled anew at the firmness of his wife’s body as she lay on her back, high-breasted, nipples erect, eyes closed against the sun which glinted on her auburn hair.
'Perfection,’ he whispered, and suddenly into his mind came a premonition of brown-haired sons and of a second shot at fatherhood. He felt himself harden, and laughed softly.
'Skinner?’ She voiced his name as a question. Then, without needing an answer, she rolled sideways and on top of him, full of desire and with the suppleness of her youth, She made love to him quickly, lustily, hungrily, in the hot August sunshine which bathed the deserted beach, mounted on him as if he were her stallion, calling out to him in her pleasure.

When their journey was over, she lay upon him for a while longer their foreheads touching, covering his face with kisses. And then, as if she had read his earlier thought, she said: 'You
and I are ready to be parents, my love. You deserve another shot, and I couldn’t get any broodier if I tried.’
He held her breasts in his hands as she lifted herself up from his chest. 'Well, honey,’ he said, huskily. 'If that happens, we’ll just have to call him Jimmy. After all, he did give me the afternoon off

The Mallard’s Eighty-shilling ale was pouring at its best. The village clock showed 6:15 pm as they arrived back in Gullane. Their hike, and the excitement of their sudden, spontaneous, sun-washed coupling on the deserted beach, had left them with a raging thirst, which they slaked with two pints each of Scottish Brewers finest product, They gave some thought to dining in the bar, but eventually, they agreed that the evening was too good to be spent indoors. And so, instead, they went back to their cottage and barbecued two thick steaks in the garden, with potatoes baking in foil in the red-hot coals, and sliced onions sizzling on the grid. They ate as hungrily as they had made love in the sand, washing down the succulent meat with good red Valdepenas, and finishing off with a whole pineapple quartered and soaked in Cassis.

Then, all their appetites satisfied, they sat in the garden and watched the day go down in the west – and with it, their brief break from the dangers which had so recently overwhelmed their lives.
'Will they ever stop, Bob?’ Sarah asked him suddenly.
'Yes, love. They’ll stop, when they’ve got what they want. And that isn’t Scottish independence, or any of that crap. I don’t believe that any more. They’ve got us tear-arsing around all over Edinburgh, and that’s what they’ve been out to achieve all along.
It’s all being done with a purpose in mind, though I’ve no idea at all of what that could be. When I do know, that’s when they’ll stop. Because I’ll stop them.’
The hard determination in his voice made her suddenly afraid again, just as she had felt in the Park, over the body of young Macgregor.

'Darling, promise me one thing. Please. That when you do meet up with these people, you’ll take care. Of yourself. Inside and out.’
He looked at her in silence.
'There’s someone in you that I don’t know. It’s like there’s a closet inside you with something awful and dangerous inside: a real bogeyman. I’m just terribly afraid that if he ever really gets out, he could take you over.’
She held his gaze until his eyes dropped.
Aye, my love,’ he said with a deep sigh. 'I know the man you mean. I’ve met him. And I’ve no wish to encounter him again either. But I have to say that if I’m ever in that kind of danger
again, I hope he’s still around. Because one thing about my alter ego: he doesn’t half get the business done!’

Skinner saw the ball drop as the gun went off.

“This is where I’ll be, Andy. I can see the whole show from here.’
The three of them – Skinner, Martin and Adam Arrow stood on the Castle battlements, just at the angle where the Mills Mount Battery joins with the Western Defences, a part of the image which most visitors conjure up when their thoughts return to Edinburgh,
It was a few seconds after one o’clock. Close by, the famous gun still smoked, having just boomed out its time signal. When it had fired, Skinner had been gazing out, across Princes Street, over the Scott Monument and the Balmoral Hotel, at the roof of the round grey stone building on the top of Calton Hill, and had seen the huge green globe as it slid down its flagpole, in a visual time-check for navigators in the wide River Forth, simultaneous with
the sounding of the gun for those on land.

Now all three looked downwards, observing the main Glasgow railway line at the base of the rock, and beyond it the chasm of Princes Street Gardens, all in the shadow of the great Castle. The tented roof had been removed from the Ross Theatre. Only the stage was out of sight, under the canopy of the open-air bandstand, which for all its grand theatrical title, it was for most of the year.
The air was heavy, the heat stifling. Skinner glanced up. There was a hint of purple about the sky.

'It’s going to break, Andy.’
‘you can set your watch by it, boss. Whatever else the weather does in Edinburgh, you can be sure it’ll piss down on the Fireworks concert!’
Skinner laughed. 'Aye, that and don’t forget the Queen’s Garden party in July!’ But their moment of light relief was a short one. 'Have we covered everything, d’you think?’ he asked, deadly serious once more. '’

'Yes, I think so,’ said Martin. 'Princes Street gets blocked off to vehicles at nine o’clock, but the crowd barriers will be installed along the north pavement this afternoon, and we’ll close the pavement looking into the Gardens at eight, as soon as the last of the shops close.’
'Right,’ said Skinner. 'And as soon as you see to that, you’re off to Number 6 to meet up with Ballantyne and the Prime Minister. Although we’ve doubled the guard on him, like all the
Scottish ministers, I want you and Brian to be as close to him and the PM as their underarm deodorant, until tonight’s well and truly over. The PM’s protection men are happy for us to run this one, not that they were given a choice. You and Brian will be in the Jag with our two VIPs when they leave Number 6. You’ll have armed officers in cars in front and back, and four motorcycle outriders, one on each corner. Mind you, you should be all right in that Jag
anyway. There’s a ton-and-a-half of armour plating in it, and all its glass is proof against any sort of bullet. So listen, if the shit does start to fly down there tonight, the first thing you do is get Ballantyne and the PM inside that bloody motor. It’ll be the safest place in Edinburgh.’

He turned to Arrow. 'Adam, you and your men will be stationed inside the theatre area, agreed?’
'Mm. That’s right. We’ll guard the perimeter, and keep watch on the seats, in case some fooker’s planted himself in the audience.
One lookin’ out, one lookin’ in, alternately, all the way round, using night glasses. I’d be happier with another couple of men, though.’
'You’ve got them. I’ll give you McGuire and Mcllhenney. In fact, why don’t we kit them out in bulletproof vests and helmets and ask them take up position behind Ballantyne and the PM.
They’re both big wide buggers. They’ll make good blockers.

They’d have to volunteer, but I know them – they will. That’ll free up all of your guys for what they’re best at.’
“Thanks, Bob.’
'What about Maggie Rose?’ said Martin. 'We mustn’t forget about her. She’d be pissed off if she was left out of the action.’
“That’s OK. Maggie will be with me, up here, watching for whatever happens. For believe me, boys, there will be something to be seen, and it won’t be just fireworks. I’ve never felt as certain of anything in my life.’

Everything that evening happened on cue – even the weather. The storm broke, finally, at 8:45 pm, just as Skinner and Maggie Rose were driving up the deserted Castle esplanade between the high-tiered temporary grandstands, which on another night would have
been filling with spectators gathering for the Military Tattoo in the wide parade ground which they flanked. But fireworks and orchestra had taken precedence over marching bands and military gymnastics, and for that. Skinner guessed, as the first flash of lightning lit up the gloaming, six thousand potential ticket-holders should feel truly grateful.

Heavy raindrops pounded on the roof of the car as he swung if into the tunnel which takes vehicles into Edinburgh Castle, resuming their bombardment as he drove back into the open, and up to the parking area between Butts Battery and the Castle Hospital, which had once been, ironically, its powder magazine. He felt glad of the long Burberry waterproof coat and hat which he had thrown on to the back seat as he had left home.
Maggie Rose was clad for wet weather, too. In knee-length boots, jeans and a hooded Barbour jacket, she looked for all the world like a countrywoman on a week-end walk, not a detective engaged on life-or-death duty.
Skinner opened the boot of the car and produced from it two pairs of odd-looking, heavy binoculars.
'Here, take these,’ he said, handing one set to Maggie Rose.
'They’re light-intensifying, infra-red or some such. However, they work; they’ll help you see in the dark. You’re going to need them before much longer.
'Are you armed?’ he asked casually as they walked up to their vantage point on the Mills Mount Battery.
'No, sir. I didn’t see the need for it up here.’
Me neither. This is an army garrison, after all. There’s guns enough all around us.’

The adjutant of the Castle garrison regiment, the Royal Scots, was waiting for them on the Battery. He held a large blue umbrella over his head. Soldier’s bravado, thought Skinner, as lightning cracked across the sky, searching for a route to earth.
'Taking a chance. Major Ancram, aren’t you?’ he said, pointing at the umbrella.
The big, middle-aged officer laughed. 'Rubber soles, old boy!
Anyway, if the bloody Argies couldn’t hit me, what hope is there for this lot!’
Skinner shook his head and smiled. Daft as a brush, he thought.

He introduced Major Ancram to Detective Sergeant Rose. Then, moving forward to the edge of the Battery, he raised the night-glasses and swept his gaze along Princes Street, from the
Mound to Lothian Road. Without its street lighting, the famous street, with its shops on one side, Gardens and Castle on the other, was beginning to resemble an island of darkness in the midst of the dramatic illuminations which show off historic Edinburgh by night.

In the deepening gloom, the north pavement was already well filled with people, braving the rain for the sounds and spectacle of this unique evening. Above the pedestrians was a second tier of spectators, those privileged ones with access to upper-floor windows, or to the wide galleried fronting of some of the buildings – memorials to an architectural eccentricity decades earlier which had envisaged the eventual creation of a first-floor walkway running the length of Princes Street.
The lights of the New Club, of which Skinner was a member, caught his eye. Through its high windows he could see clearly that the Fireworks drinks party was gathering momentum. He was suddenly glad that he had persuaded the Chief to make the Club his vantage point, out of harm’s way yet able to observe the crowd. Further along, others, with glasses in hand, peered out of the upper apartments of the Royal Overseas League. Business was good, he noted, in the two-storey Burger King, bright on its corner in contrast to the gap site on the opposite side of Castle Street, where the Palace Hotel had once stood, and where rebuilding
work was still far from completion.

'Fast food’s selling well,’ he muttered to no one in particular, as he registered that McDonald’s too was packed. From Princes Street, Skinner swung the glasses down into the
Gardens, to the Ross Theatre itself. He checked his watch. It was still only 9:15, too early for ticket-holders, especially on a night like this. But already Arrow and his black-suited men were deployed there in waiting, hooded and with bulky automatic weapons in their hands.
The stage was hidden from his view, but twenty feet away from it, behind two seats in the centre, he saw two bulky figures, grotesque in their helmets, with rain tunics over their flak-jackets, but standing there solidly as human shields. Skinner was suddenly very touched by the loyalty of his team, and very proud of them. His moment of reverie was broken by Major Ancram
“Everything OK, Mr Skinner?’
“Yes, Major, so far. So far.’
'What do we do now?’
'We wait and we watch. And, if you’re into it, you might like to do a wee bit of praying for those boys down there, and for the two clowns they’re looking after.’

If smiles could cut you, Andy Martin thought to himself, Ballantyne would be bleeding all over the place. The tension between the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State for Scotland was obvious to the six other people in the room: Martin himself, Brian Mackie, the ministers’ two private secretaries Fowler and Shields, and the PM’s two protection officers. From chance remarks it was also obvious that the appearance by the country’s leader at this concert had been Ballantyne’s idea rather than his own.
The Prime Minister was a small man, almost slender alongside the stocky bulk of Ballantyne, but his firecracker temper was known to equal that of even his most formidable predecessor. He was clearly not best pleased to be here in Edinburgh, in the firing line, in the rain. The conversation between the two ministers remained polite, but it was stilted. They were clearly not the closest of political allies. And although the PM was working hard to maintain an affable front, every so often the truth of his feelings would flash in his eyes, behind the spectacles, betraying the insincerity of his professional smile.

It was a relief to everyone when Martin’s radio crackled into life on an open channel. Only he could hear the voice through his earpiece. It was distorted, but it was unmistakably Skinner. 'It’s all secure up here, Andy. The punters are in their seats, the orchestra’s tuning up, and the blue touch paper’s lit. It’s five to ten, so let’s get the show on the road.’
Martin snapped an acknowledgement into the handset, then turned to his charges. 'All’s well, gentlemen, so if you’re ready . . .’
'Yes,’ said the Prime Minister, fixing Ballantyne with his frostiest and least sincere smile. 'I love a good fireworks display in the rain, sitting behind a bulletproof shield! Let’s go, Alan, and do your duty!’