'Does she hear something that makes her go back in?' Skinner asked, knowing the answer but looking for confirmation.
'No. She didn't tie her bathrobe. But whoever killed her was in the room, waiting. Either behind the door, or else it was someone she was expecting, someone whose appearance there was quite normal and didn't cause her any alarm. Because she still didn't tie the bathrobe.'
'Do we know if she was here alone?'
Martin answered. 'Her husband travels with her occasionally, but not this time. There's always a voice coach, male, and a secretary, female. They were both still at the Usher Hall from the time she left there at 1:00 o'clock until the secretary came back across here and found her at 2:15.'
'So,' said Skinner, 'she was either taken completely by surprise, and overcome quickly and easily by someone very fast and very strong, or she was taken completely off-guard by someone she knew or didn't regard as a threat. If we look at the second of those options, it brings us back to the fact that she didn't tie the robe.
That means that she either had a boyfriend – or girlfriend – in town that we don't know about, or-'
Sarah broke in. 'Or the person in the room was another woman.'
'Would a woman have had the strength to do that?'
'If she took her by surprise, yes, no question. Looking at the wound, the weapon must have been so sharp that a child could have killed with it. It happened one of two ways. Either like this…'
She took a pair of long scissors from her bag, and held them as one would grasp a knife. She beckoned to Martin, and positioned him with his back to the bathroom door, close to where the body lay. Then she stepped up to him, quickly, spun him round with her left hand on his right shoulder, and imitated the upward thrust of the knife, pulling him down by the shoulder and towards her as she did so. Instinctively Martin's right hand came up and caught Sarah's shoulder.
'… or like this.'
She stood Martin with his back to the dead Hilary Guillaum.
She held the scissors inverted and point-upwards against the inside of her forearm, concealed from his sight.
'Let's assume that the killer was in the room, and that Hilary had just come in from her shower,' she said. 'He or she could have made as if to go into the bathroom. Then…'
Again she stepped in close, grasping Martin by the shoulder, letting the scissors fall into her hand and stabbing upwards.
Again, instinctively, the detective pushed against her with his right hand, but she was able to hold herself close to him.
'Right, I buy that so far,' said Skinner. 'Now, how did the victim react?'
'You saw how Andy grasped my shoulder? I'd say she did the same. See how the fingers of her right hand are still partly closed.
Rather than break that grip, the killer just let go of the knife and took her weight as she fell to the floor. If it had been pulled out at this point, blood would probably have spurted, but she must have been dead within a second or two of hitting the ground. When it was removed that's all the bleeding there was, apart from a drop or two from the blade. Look, there's one here on the sleeve of the robe.'
Skinner stepped up to the body and bent over it. He examined it closely, comparing its posture in his mind against Sarah's description. Suddenly, as he looked at the victim's right hand, his brows tightened and he bent closer.
'Andy, look here.' He spoke without looking up.
Martin crossed the room to his side.
'Look at this.'
Very gently Skinner lifted the right hand. Stiffness had not yet set in. Indeed the body was still warm, as well as supple. He turned the hand so that Martin could see the fingers.
The nail on the third finger was split. A small piece of lemoncoloured cloth was lodged in the tear.
'At least that'll give the technicians something to do,' said Skinner. 'The place looks clean as a whistle otherwise.'
Martin was still examining the fragment. 'Boss, I know that's only a wee bit of cloth, but it looks to me like the same colour as the uniform the hotel's domestic staff wear.'
'What, the chambermaids, you mean?' •Yeah.'
'Right, I want the whole place searched, top to bottom. When are we getting some manpower here? I saw young Macgregor at the door when I came in, but no one else around. How come you're here, Andy, but not the divisional CID?'
'Dunsmuir, the general manager, knows me. When the victim's secretary found the body, she managed to control herself, and called him straight up to the suite. He all but shit himself, and then called me – or at least he phoned Fettes and asked for me. Young Barry out there called me on my mobile. By that time, I was dropping Julia back at Filmhouse, just next-door. I rang Sarah first, then you. I thought you'd want to decide how we handle this one.'
'Fair enough. Before I do that, call down to your pal Dunsmuir.
Ask him to line up his chambermaids, count them, and see if they're all present and correct.'
Martin picked up the telephone at the side of the bed, and carried out this order.
As he finished. Skinner said, 'That florid remark of yours earlier, about Ballantyne's bravery – were you just assuming that poor Hilary over there relates to the other thing?'
'No, sir. Come next door and I'll show you why I said it.'
He led the way to the suite's sitting-room. A small coffee table was placed amidst a semicircle of four armchairs, arranged to face
a picture window which offered a panoramic view across Festival Square to the Usher Hall, then, above and beyond its copper roof, to the western ramparts of Edinburgh Castle, rising from the vertical face of the great rock in which their foundations were set.
An envelope lay on the low rectangular table. Even before he picked it up and read the white label. Skinner knew what it was. It was addressed in the same way as its predecessors. Skinner opened it carefully and drew out the letter inside. He then read it aloud to Martin and Sarah.
To the so-called Secretary of State for Scotland.
From the Fighters for an Independent Scotland.
Code word Arbroath.
The fact that you are reading this letter means that you have chosen to ignore our ultimatum, and that an innocent person has suffered the consequences of your folly.
After this demonstration, you will not be able to keep from the world our just demand that you and your cohorts quit our beloved country and restore to us the democratic rights which were stolen from us almost three hundred years ago.
This lady, an international celebrity, has died so that world attention will be focused on our struggle, and so that international pressure will be brought to bear upon you, to force you to withdraw from our land.
Accede now, and no more blood will be spilled. Force us to continue, and you will find us resolved to take whatever action we believe to be necessary during this global Festival, and thereafter, to drive England and its institutions from our beloved Scotland.
As he finished reading. Skinner looked up at Sarah. 'Same author as the one you read yesterday, d'you think?'
'Certain.'
'Single author or more than one?'
'Probably just one. Give me some time and I'll try to work up a profile. There's something odd about the language, though.'
'What d' you mean?'
'I don't know exactly. It's very formal. These people are on a jihad, yet there's something dispassionate about their language.'
'Well think on it some more, and see what guesses you can make about the kind of person our writer is. Andy, we keep this one inhouse for a while. No flashing blue lights, please. Get the technicians in now, and bring in Divisional CID to help interview everyone we can find who was in the hotel from midday to 2:30.
What have you done with the voice coach and the secretary?' They're in their own rooms. Neil and Maggie are with them.' •Good. Keep them on ice for now. I'm going across to tell the Usher Hall manager that he's got no show tonight. Then I'm off to tackle Ballantyne. We can't put a blackout on this one.'
> 21
Skinner was halfway across Festival Square, the plaza which lies between the Sheraton and Lothian Road, when his phone sounded again. He stopped and sat down on a bench to answer it. The wooden seat was hot to the touch, such was the force of the sun.
'Boss, it's Brian here. I've had a guy on from the States, going absolutely apeshit. Said his name was Albert Neidermeyer from TNI, or something. He claims to have had a call at his London office, tipping him off that some American opera singer's been killed in Edinburgh. And, boss, he says the caller used the proper code-word. Now he wants you to confirm if it's true. He says if it is he's going to blow it and – his words, sir – fuck all you Scots bastards and your threats. Seems he doesn't like you at all, chief.'
'I'm chilled with terror,' said Skinner, icily.
'He left a number. Wants you to call him back personally.'
'Bugger that for a game of soldiers. Soldiers! There's an idea. Is Adam Arrow with you?'
'Yes, boss. He and Mario got back here twenty minutes ago.'
'Right. Adam's an English bastard, not Scots, but he'll do. Ask him if he'll do us a turn and call Neidermeyer back. He's to stall him, bullshit him, tell him we don't know what he's talking about, but we're looking into it. Ask Adam to spin him out for as long as he can. That should be quite some time. Neidermeyer won't understand a fookin' word Adam says.'
Skinner pressed the end1 button, and carried on across Festival Square.
22
Again, it was Carlie who opened the rear door of Number 6 Charlotte Square. She had on the same skirt she had worn at their first meeting, but with a different top; silk once again but fastened at the shoulder, Chinese style. •Hello again, Mr Skinner. What's the crisis this time?'
He can't have told her any of this, thought Skinner as he tried, but failed, to return her easy smile. She read the concern written on his face and turned serious herself. 'Alan's waiting for you upstairs. He's working on some papers in the dining-room.'
Skinner made no move towards the stairway. Instead he stood his ground, gazing coolly at the woman, and saying nothing for several seconds. His expression was one of undisguised appraisal.
She was unflustered by his scrutiny, and when at last he opened his mouth to speak, she beat him to it.
'I know who you are, Mr Skinner, and what it is you do for Alan. And I can guess that you're wondering where I fit in. What sort of a family friend I am, how close, and to whom. If I won't tell, does it get to the point where you take me down to the cells and beat me with rubber hoses?'
In spite of himself. Skinner smiled at her frankness, and her jest. 'No. I have other people who do that sort of thing.'
She grinned in her turn. "Stop, I give in.' She spoke in a light, cultured Scots accent; rural and north of the Tay, Skinner guessed.
In a flash she was serious again. 'Look, you'll be aware, surely, of the stories about Alan's marriage being on the rocks.'
Skinner nodded.
'Well, they're true. Of course I know that most women in my position would claim this, but I'm not the cause of it. I'm the consequence. Honor Ballantyne opted out of Alan's life five years ago. She lives in London full-time now. She has her own career, and she's having an affair with a Liberal peer. Just so you know everything about me, I live in Alan's constituency. I'm a partner in a firm of solicitors in Aberdeen, called Goldstone and Ferris.
Look me up: Charlotte Mays, spelled M-A-Y-S. Tenth on the list of partners out of fourteen. I specialise in Maritime Law. I've passed my Rights of Audience exams, and appear occasionally in the Court of Session.
'I've paid my subs to the Tory Party since I was twenty-three, but I didn't do anything for them until last year. Then a girlfriend got me involved in organising the constituency Christmas dance. I met Alan there, for the first time. I thought nothing of it. I was too busy selling tombola tickets. The next thing to happen was that my friend persuaded me to go on a branch committee. That was how I really met Alan. We went canvassing together in the spring, and it just took off from there. This is the first time I've beensort of "in residence" here. Alan thinks we should come out into society in easy stages. Everybody in the Constituency Association knows about us already, and they all seem to approve.
They haven't had an MP's wife there for God knows how long, and they feel deprived. So, far from being a shameless hussy, I'm almost the flavour of the month.'
'What about the other political parties?' Skinner asked. 'Won't someone run to the media?'
'Not in politics, Mr Skinner. In our constituency, the SNP are the opposition. Their standard-bearer is screwing his secretary, so he won't say anything. The Liberals don't play the game that way, as a matter of principle, and as for the Labour candidate, he's one of my partners at Goldstones. No, the real problem is Honor Ballantyne. Alan's asked her for a quiet divorce, but she's looking for a horrendous amount of money to agree. They have two daughters, you know. One's ten, the other fourteen. So it's stalemate on that front, for the moment. Alan's even thinking about counter-suing, claiming adultery with the Liberal peer.'
'Silly bugger if he does.'
'As a lawyer, I agree with you. As one of the points in the triangle, I'm selfish. I just wish it could be sorted out.' For the first time. traces of pain and frustration showed through the outer shell of her self-assurance.
Skinner's smile was sympathetic. 'I understand that.
'Look, I'm sorry to have pressed the question. Miss Mays-'
'Carlie, please.'
'OK, Carlie. But since you know what my job is, you'll understand why. I'm responsible not just for advising Alan on security policy, but for his personal security as well. I have to know everything about him, and to know about everything that could affect him, and the Government.'
'Yes. I understand all that. So what do you think? Do we worry you?'
Skinner decided to tell her the truth. 'Yes, the way things are, you do. Your relationship, as long as it remains secret, could lay Alan open to all sorts of external pressure. My duty is to the office of Secretary of State, not to a man, or to an MP, and my advice can't take your interests into account. But you might like it nonetheless. On the basis that he's serious about you, I would advise that you go public, and take what political flak there is. But that's business for later. Right now we have a crisis to handle.'
Together, Skinner and Carlie Mays climbed the stairs. She ushered him into the dining-room and closed the door behind him.
Ballantyne was seated with his back to the door, at the end of a long mahogany dining table strewn with paper. A bulky document case, bound in red leather, lay open at his feet. He looked over his shoulder as Skinner entered the room, and, laying his thick Mont Blanc fountain pen down on the table, went over to greet him.
'Bob, hello. You sounded very serious when you phoned.
What's happened?'
Quickly, Skinner informed the Secretary of State of the murder of Hilary Guillaum, then he handed him the third letter. As he read it, Ballantyne slumped into one of the dining chairs. When he had finished he laid the single sheet of paper on the table and leaned back in his chair, with his right hand trembling over his eyes.
'Oh, sweet Jesus Christ. We're responsible. Bob. If we only hadn't stood on principle.'
At first. Skinner thought that Ballantyne's use of the plural included him, too, until he remembered his earlier claim to have consulted the Prime Minister. He said nothing as the Secretary of State sat lost for a while in his panicking thoughts, but watched the man gradually compose himself again. Eventually Ballantyne stood up from the table and walked over to the Adam fireplace, its hearth lit by imitation coals. He leaned against the mantelpiece, as he had done in the drawing-room twenty-four hours before, and looked back across the room towards Skinner, who was still standing near the door.
'Well, Bob? Did we sign her death warrant?'
The tall policeman stared back at him, dispassionately. As he did so, all of his gnawing doubts about Ballantyne surged u
p to the surface. There was a clear trace of panic in the man's eyes, and the faintest trembling still in his movements. Skinner doubted that Ballantyne had ever dreamed of his prestigious office throwing him into the midst of such a crisis. Now his expression begged for absolution; and relief washed across his face when Skinner gave it to him.
'No, Alan. I don't think you did. Not this one, at any rate. The way this murder was done, it was planned well in advance. I had a call on my way down here. We've made two solid discoveries at the Sheraton. The first was a chambermaid's uniform stuffed in a servicing cart on the same floor as Hilary Guillaum's suite. The second was its original wearer, in a cleaner's cupboard. She was in her bra and knickers, trussed up like she was ready for the oven, and blindfolded and gagged with tape. The girl's still hysterical, but when she's calm enough to talk, she'll confirm for us, I've no doubt, that she was grabbed from behind by more than one person, bundled into the cupboard and stripped of her uniform.
They'll have gagged her at once so that she couldn't scream, then blindfolded her so that she couldn't see any of them. If we had published that letter, Hilary Guillaum might well be alive now, but I'm pretty certain she'd still be dead tomorrow. Remember, they've promised more incidents, and we've been assuming they'll look for high-profile targets. What the third letter tells us is that they'll be looking for international targets as well. Hilary Guillaum's murder was well planned. They didn't just knock her off to force you to go public. They'd have done it anyway.'
'What do we do now? Give in to them?'
Suddenly Skinner's disappointment in Ballantyne swelled to overflowing. 'Christ, man, where is it about giving in? Look, you're the politician. You take the decisions. I'd have thought it was pretty fucking obvious what you do, but I'm just a poor simple copper. Dig up the Prime Minister wherever he is. Tell him you're going to call a press conference today to lay out the whole scene. You're going to say that Scotland is under terrorist attack, and that the Government is determined to see the threat off. While you're at it, you should call on all the opposition parties to make public declarations of support for your position. You tell the public that all possible steps are being taken to protect Festival venues, and that you're counting on them to show their contempt for the terrorists by making it business as usual.' •What if the PM disagrees?'
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