They walked quickly from the tent. Outside, more uniformed officers had arrived and were busy moving the crowds back. An ambulance was pulling out of the Princes Street Gardens gateway, with its blue light whirling. Two others stood by, waiting for passengers. Skinner caught sight of Sarah beside the Scott Monument, tending to Danny's friend, the boy from the tent. As he looked on, she wiped the blood from his forehead with a towel, then helped him, very gently, to take off his frightful shirt. For a moment, the youth held it away from him, at arm's length, then dropped it on the ground, Four fire appliances had arrived. They were lined up on Waverley Bridge, at the spot where, normally, the tour buses took on their passengers. A senior fire officer, recognising Skinner, came across. 'What can we do here?' he asked.
'Nothing in the tent for now, but you could tell your people to evacuate the shopping station, and to close off the Station exit up the Waverley Steps.'
The officer nodded, his bulky helmet giving this gesture added emphasis. 'You've got it.' He turned and walked back towards the fire appliances, barking out orders to his men.
Skinner looked around for the highest-ranking policeman, and soon spotted a superintendent in uniform. He walked over and tapped the man on the shoulder. The officer spun round, impatient at first, until recognition brought him swiftly to attention.
'Afternoon, Archie,' said Skinner. 'Look, I want the Balmoral emptied. See to it, please. Then get on your radio and have someone tell the Transport Police, on my authority, that I want all trains stopped at Haymarket, and held up to the east. Until the bomb boys have cleared the site, I don't want any more people in that station than can be helped. If there's another bang, it could bring down the glass roof – if that one hasn't already!'
The man saluted and moved away to carry out his orders.
Skinner retraced his steps and found Martin.
'Andy, you get down to your office. I want to know the minute someone claims responsibility for this mess. And even if no one does, I want the best analysis that your outfit can give me of the likely runners. I don't recall any recent intelligence in my other job to give me a hint of this, but I'll look again. You check your network for ideas.
'Maybe it's the Arabs getting even for us blowing out their plot P'vesco.anda own. I don't fancy any of Z 8rown some new "ers of our " the last one. th'eTde weTl' but the one I like le erronst outfit. If that's so I o collected our ow" them out.' "• wa1" to nail them quick and clean
2
Martin had been gone for less than ten minutes when the Army Bomb Squad arrived from their base on the outskirts of the city.
Major Gabriel 'Gammy' Legge, their commander, was well known to Skinner from countless call-outs to bomb hoaxes, and from their work together on security preparations for Royal and VIP visits to the city. The two stood beside the gold chairs, in the first area of the marquee.
'I suppose it was bound to happen one day. Bob,' said the slim soldier. His accent was that of an Ulsterman, but its harsher tones had been smoothed away by years of military service. 'All those false alarms, and then when the real thing comes we don't have a chance to defuse it.'
'You might have that chance yet. Gammy. There's all sorts of stuff lying in there needing to be checked out. There's something else in there, too. Maybe it'll make you and your lads think twice about being heroes. If it doesn't, at the least it'll sure as hell make you careful.'
The smile left the Major's face.
'Look out for yourselves, but. Gammy, I need the place checked out with all safe speed. I need to get the forensics people in, and I have to get the station reopened as soon as possible, before the effect of train hold-ups ripples all the way down to London.'
'Thank you, Robert, I'll take charge now.'
The voice breaking in on their conversation came from the entrance to the marquee. Surprised, and instantly annoyed, Skinner looked up to see the Deputy Chief Constable, in full uniform, bearing down on him.
DCC Edward McGuinness was in temporary command of the force, in the absence on holiday of the recently knighted Chief Constable, Sir James Proud. Skinner was aware that even at the best of times he was not the Deputy's favourite colleague. At the Chief Constable's regular management meetings, he and McGuinness were drawn almost invariably to taking opposite sides in any debate. Now Skinner guessed that to arrive at the disaster scene and find Bob in command, and matters well under control, was more than the other man could bear.
Mastering his irritation at McGuinness's rank-pulling, he mustered a smile.
That's fine, Eddie. I'm glad you're here. Crowd control's for the uniform branch, anyway!'
The DCC reddened.
'I'd better fill you in, since you've only just got here.' Still smiling. Skinner seized him by the elbow and led him towards the entrance through the partition. 'The bang happened through there. Some form of explosive. We don't know for sure what, but from the pattern of destruction it could have been Semtex.'
He ushered McGuinness through into the second area. 'There have been some casualties, almost all of them superficial – apart from poor Danny there.'
The DCC had taken a few steps into the chamber, before he realised what lay on the floor. He started back in horror, but Skinner held tight to his elbow and drew him onwards.
McGuinness's ruddy face had gone grey.
"They can be hellish, these crime scenes, can't they, Eddie. I'm glad you're here to take charge of this one. I'll be in my other office if you need me.' He slapped the DCC on the back in friendly fashion, then turned and strode out of the marquee, his grim smile broadening with every step.
3
Skinner's 'other office' was a small room in St Andrews House, the headquarters of government in Scotland.
Three months before, out of the blue, he had received a telephone call from Alan Ballantyne, then newly appointed as Secretary of State for Scotland. The surprising thing, he had thought as he answered that summons to a private meeting, was that Ballantyne had placed the call himself, rather than arranging an appointment through his Private Secretary. The unorthodoxy of this approach had soon been explained. A suave politician, Ballantyne was still a few years short of forty, and his rise to power had been meteoric. It had been helped along by a lack of alternative talent among his party's Scottish membership, but nonetheless, even with that dearth of competition, his appointment to the Cabinet had been greeted with some surprise on both sides of the Commons Chamber. Ballantyne was a stocky man, with quick darting eyes and a quiff of frizzy hair which, however expertly it was cut, invariably stood up from the rest in defiance of gravity, giving the appearance of a permanent overhanging question-mark.
At their first meeting in his office, the new Secretary of State had received the detective alone.
'Sorry about the mystery, Mr Skinner, but I'm finding that, as in your own job, there are one or two matters in mine which can't be delegated, or even discussed over the telephone. I find myself with a… shall we say a personnel problem. You will find many advisers to the Secretary of State listed in those office directories over there. But there is one who is not listed among the rest. I think you are aware of the job I'm talking about, and I believe that you're acquainted with the previous post-holder.'
He had paused then, palms laid flat on the polished mahogany surface of his desk, and had thrown Skinner a sidelong glance which he still recalled vividly. Then he continued. 'Indeed, I believe that you may even have had something to do with the man's rapid departure from office.'
Skinner had said nothing, nor given anything away in his expression.
'If that's the case, Mr Skinner, you yourself have left me with something of a problem. So the way I see it, now it's up to you to solve it. Therefore, with the approval of your Chief Constable, I am inviting you to combine your present role within the police force with that of security adviser to the Secretary of State, in succession to Mr Hugh Fulton.'
At Ballantyne's suggestion. Skinner had called Jimmy Proud to discuss the offer there
and then, and had found his chief enthusiastic.
'It's an honour. Bob, and it'll be the first time that job's been combined with active service in a police force. There's all sorts of ways it could help you here. Of course I think you should take it.
Who do you think put your name up anyway? Mind you, combining the two jobs was my idea. There's no way I'd want to lose you from here, I'm not that bloody patriotic.'
And so Skinner had accepted – with one proviso. 'I don't want any more of this secrecy crap. It's well outdated. Hughie Fulton used it only to build up a wall of mystique around him – to suit his ego. So, if I take the job, I go into the directories, along with the doctors, the dentists, the social workers and all your other advisers.'
'If you say so,' the Secretary of State had conceded, 'but remember the confidentiality is most of all for your own protection.'
Skinner had laughed. 'Listen, Mr Ballantyne. I make enemies enough just by being head of Edinburgh CID. A few more won't bother me.'
And so he had accepted the appointment. In the ensuing weeks he had seen a lot of the Secretary of State, their meetings usually in private. Their relationship was informal and cordial, yet Skinner, despite his long experience of appraising people, still felt that he knew very little of the real man. This Secretary of State was an enigmatic, secretive character, and though Skinner had sought to pinpoint the special quality which had won Ballantyne his high office, it remained hidden to him.
Skinner had experienced no problems in coping with the extra workload of his part-time post. Most of it involved nothing more strenuous than writing reports to the Secretary of State on an assortment of questions relating to his personal security and that of his junior Ministers, or to the security of establishments which were the responsibility of government, directly or through its agencies. He had taken the precaution of following some of his own security advice, varying his daily routine rather more often than before, garaging his car when possible, and checking underneath it whenever it had been left in a public place for any length of time. But overall, his new job, which carried a modest additional salary, had made his life no more difficult than before.
However, it had given him, as a serving policeman, one very big advantage. As Hugh Fulton had been before him. Skinner was now regarded as an active member of the UK Security Service. As such, he had access to the latest files on terrorism at national and international level, intelligence far more sensitive than any available to Andy Martin's Special Branch network. For example, Skinner was briefed fully on the Ulster Unionist plot, foiled earlier that summer, to assassinate President Clinton in New York, and on the secret elimination by the SAS, only a month before, of an underground organisation in Hong Kong which had been planning violent public opposition to the forthcoming Chinese takeover.
He had been told of the rigorous international search for the ringleaders in each case, and of the harsh orders to be carried out should any of them be traced in Britain. He knew the true operational strength of the various Northern Irish paramilitary groups, and was aware of the routes which were used to smuggle weapons and explosives to the British mainland. He had heard rumours, too, of the summary justice meted out to those terrorists who, by chance, fell into the hands of the SAS rather than the police.
But he knew of nothing at all, on either the MI5 or the Special Branch networks, which offered the faintest clue to the identity of the perpetrators of the Waverley Centre explosion.
4
Much of the information held by MI5 is stored on computer.
Skinner had access to it through a modem and a dedicated 'secure' telephone line. Seated before his terminal in his St Andrews House office, he gained entry to the network by keying in his personal code, a five-letter password known only to him, which was made up of his parents' initials.
The colour screen lit up, to be filled rapidly by a directory. One by one. Skinner selected all of the most recent intelligence files, then others which had any bearing on UK security or UK nationals, or which attempted to predict future trends in terrorism. He found a forecast of renewed Irish activity on the mainland in late September through early October, with a flash that a 'major event' was planned for the week of the Conservative Party Conference. There was a warning of possible trouble within the Chinese community in the wake of the recent Hong Kong incident. Another file reported that a senior government Minister had become a major security risk because of an active homosexual relationship with a military attache from a North African embassy. There was a warning posted of the possibility of further Basque nationalist activity against British tourists arriving on flights into Malaga and Alicante airports. But there was nothing – nothing at all – to suggest the likelihood of terrorist attacks in Scotland.
After closing the last file, Skinner stared for a few seconds at the blank screen, then, with a shake of his head, signed out of the network. He picked up his secure telephone and called Andy Martin's direct-line number, which was also scrambled.
'How're you getting on? I've turned up nothing here.' The neither. One thing I have done, though, is track down the managing director of the firm that sponsored that marquee some big knitwear outfit or other – to check whether they've got any serious business rivals, or if there are any former employees with a grievance. He's thinking over the second possibility, but I said there's no chance of the first. He claims he knows all his rivals personally. They're all in the same golf club. He reckons that alone would rule out any nasties.'
Skinner chuckled. 'Course it would! You can't play golf with a man, then bomb his business. Just isn't done! Got any other theories, m'boy?'
Martin exhaled noisily at his end of the line. 'None that are worth a stuff, boss. I've checked out the Nats and some of the wilder boys in the home-rule wing of the Labour Party, but there's absolutely nothing on any of the characters we've got on file to suggest that they'd be capable of this. And just suppose there is a Home Ruler out there of a mind to do something stupid, why the hell would he do it in some bloody tent? He'd choose a highprofile target, wouldn't he? No, my best guess is that it's linked in some way to the sponsors of that marquee. And that's all I've got.'
Skinner grunted. 'And as far as I'm concerned, you haven't even got that. OK, Andy. I'm on my way down to Fettes. We'll need to work out a statement on this, and get it out before the media start a public panic through lack of solid information. See you shortly.'
Skinner was turning the key of the five-lever Chubb lock to close his office door when his mobile telephone started its trembling call sound. He dug it out of the breast pocket of his shirt and pushed the receive' button. 'Skinner.'
'Bob, it's Alan Ballantyne here. I'm at Number 6. Can you get here right away, please.'
Skinner recognised concern, almost alarm in the Secretary of State's voice, but made an effort to keep his own tone relaxed.
'Sure, Alan. I'm at the House just now. I'll be with you in five minutes.' "That's good. But use the back door, will you. I don't want anyone to know you're here!'
Skinner's new BMW was parked in his reserved space in the St Andrews House courtyard, where he and Sarah had left it earlier that day.
As he pulled out of the exit gates held open for him by a security guard, he saw the traffic tailed back from the closed section of Princes Street, so he nipped across the flow and headed eastwards, turning into Regent Terrace. Just three minutes later he pulled off St Colrne Street and up the rising driveway which led into the car park at the rear of Number 6 Charlotte Square. After parking, he called Andy Martin to warn him that he had been delayed, but without telling him exactly where he was. Then he climbed out of the BMW, locked it securely, headed over to the anonymous bluepainted back door, and rang its brass bell.
The official residence of the Secretary of State for Scotland had been gifted to the nation by an aristocratic family, to be used for that special purpose. It is a noble Georgian building in the centre of the terrace extending along the north side of Charlotte Square, Edinbu
rgh's finest. Unlike Downing Street, there is no ministerial office in Number 6. Its only business function is to serve as a venue for government receptions and official dinner parties.
However, its private apartments are occupied frequently by Scottish Office ministers, particularly those with rural i constituencies. Alan Ballantyne was Member of Parliament for a sprawling seat in the north-east of Scotland. Skinner knew, too, that he had a shaky marriage, and that he used his Edinburgh residence on occasion as a bolt-hole.
The back door was opened by a beautiful woman. She looked to be around thirty, and was dressed in a silk blouse and a perfectly, cut beige skirt. About Sarah's age. Skinner thought, and he doesn't have any sisters. Dressed with money, too. Careful, Alan. careful.
The blonde's accent sounded even more expensive than her clothes. 'Mr Skinner?' He nodded. 'Come away in, you're '3 18 expected. I'm Carlie, by the way. A sort of friend of the family.'
She led him up a flight of stairs which ascended to an austere hallway at street level. At the top she turned to him. 'Alan's waiting for you in the drawing-room. Do you know the way from here?'
Skinner smiled. 'Yes, I've been here a few times. Usually get to use the front door, though.'
Carlie returned his grin, and disappeared through a door at the back of the hall. Skinner continued up a second flight of stone stairs. One of the double doors to the drawing-room lay open. He entered and closed it behind him.
The magnificent room extended across the full width of the house. Its original fixtures had all been preserved, and the antique furniture and fittings were in tune with the period of the building itself.
The Secretary of State for Scotland stood leaning with his left forearm on the mantelpiece of the big empty fireplace. His right hand held a heavy crystal glass, in which a peaty liquid swirled.
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