Mosley’s normally even temper was restored immediately. She had been anticipating the invitation since de Marco had mentioned it a few days before. She was looking forward also to meeting ‘Bob’, the First Minister’s partner. Deputy Chief Constable Robert Skinner was something of a legend in Edinburgh. Aileen had never said much about him, but Mosley had heard stories of him from others; ‘formidable’ was the most cautious adjective that had been used to describe the man. The others had ranged from ‘charismatic’ to ‘ruthless’. She had been told that the relationship had taken the city by surprise when whispers of it had begun to circulate, since Skinner’s past had included several confrontations with politicians. But she had learned by her own experience that the First Minister was a one-off, and she suspected that he was also. She typed a one-word acceptance, ‘Absolutely,’ and sent it off into cyberspace, then moved on to the last remaining item in the mailbox.
She was puzzled by it, not least by its timing; the display on her screen showed that it had been received at the very start of that very day. But Ainsley Glover had been at the party to the bitter end; she had met him when he arrived, and had spoken to him later, just before he had been commandeered by that boozy Glasgow journalist, Ryan McCool, and she could not recall his carrying anything as conspicuous as a laptop bag. She pondered and eventually decided that his internet service provider was one of those that was guilty of delays in forwarding messages to recipients, but that left the unanswered, nagging question. Why should he have sent her an email, knowing that he would be seeing her at the reception?
Trust a crime writer, she told herself, to come up with a mystery; and trust Ainsley, in particular. He was one of those guys who, everyone assumed, saw himself as the main character in one of his own books, and he made no attempt to dissuade them of that notion; his sleuth was a rough-cut Glaswegian detective inspector called Walter Strachan, and Glover had a terrible habit of adopting an appropriate accent when reading from his work on public platforms, even though he had been born in Edinburgh and educated at Loretto School, among the privileged. Still, she frowned, murmuring, ‘What the hell could this be?’ as she clicked the ‘Read’ icon.
The message was as short as it was to the point. Three words: ‘randy yurt dying’. Followed by a few more, informative, explanatory: ‘Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device.’ The mystery solved.
Mosley’s mouth set in a tight line as she considered the message. She checked the sender address: Allyg@wattiestrachan.com. No mistake; it was him. She pushed back her chair, spun it and rose to her feet in a single flowing movement, then headed for the door. Gwyn Richards was standing a few yards away, on the walkway in front of the signing tent, in conversation with one of his night staff. She called to him, and waved him towards her as he looked round. He frowned at her peremptory summons, but headed in her direction.
‘Do you have a key for the author tent on you?’ she asked him.
He reached into his trouser pocket and produced a ring, attached by a cord to a loop on his belt. ‘I’ve got all the bloody keys,’ he replied. ‘You know that.’
‘Yes, of course. Sorry, Gwyn. I need you to open it.’
‘What’s the rush?’ he grumbled. ‘The caterers won’t be here for an hour and a half yet.’
‘I know, but I need to get in there now.’
‘No worries. Come on.’ He led the way past the office and round a corner to an area that was fenced off from the rest of the site, containing and giving privacy to a tented complex, centred on a large round tent, with smaller circles to the left, right and front. The director stood back as he unlocked the padlock that secured the double doors, then stepped past him as he threw them wide open.
The interior was neat and tidy: the people who staffed the hospitality centre at which Festival guests were greeted all knew that their last duty of each day was to leave the place set up for the following morning. The reception desk was clear, apart from the boxes that held complimentary tickets requested by participants, notepads, and several pens in a tin. At the further point of the central tent a glass-fronted drinks fridge stood, empty but for a couple of bottles, ready to be re-stocked for the day. The only relics of the day before were the inevitable curly sandwiches, and the last few plates and glasses, left for washing up.
‘What is it?’ the guard asked Mosley as she stared ahead of her.
‘I don’t know,’ she murmured, letting him step past her and move beyond the desk, into the main area. She watched him as he peered around, first to his left, then to his right. Suddenly he seemed to freeze. His knees seemed to buckle slightly, but he recovered himself in an instant.
She moved alongside him, her gaze following his. . and saw what had made him react. In the side pod, with the sign at its entrance that read ‘Quiet area for event preparation’, a man was sprawled on his back along a cushioned bench. A small splash of vomit lay on the floor beside him, and there was more on his shirt and on his suit. His head was pressed forward by a wooden support, chin digging into his chest, so that he seemed to be staring directly at them.
But Gwyn Richards had served in the first Gulf War, in the First Armoured Division during the uncompromising advance into Kuwait. He had seen the strange postures that death can contrive, and he knew full well that those milky eyes were seeing nothing. He stepped closer, and as he did came recognition. ‘Is that who I. .’ he began.
‘Yes,’ said Randall Mosley, ‘it is. It surely is.’ She began to move forward as if to help, but the security chief put out a hand to restrain her.
‘No point,’ he told her. ‘You’d better call the police.’
Two
In common with most uniformed officers, if he had to work on Sundays, Sergeant Ian McCall preferred the early shift. OK, maybe it did curtail Saturday night, but he and his wife were no carousers, so that was a burden that could be borne. The upside was that the best part of the afternoon and all the evening was his; that meant he could catch the football on telly. . if there was a game that took his fancy.
He was in Lothian Road when the call came in, in the passenger seat with his rookie partner at the wheel. ‘Police attendance required at a sudden death at Charlotte Square Gardens.’
‘Got it,’ he radioed back to the communications centre. ‘Sergeant McCall and PC Knight are in the area, will respond. We should be there in two minutes.’ He paused. ‘Isn’t that the Book Festival site?’ he asked.
‘No idea,’ the operator replied.
‘Yes it is, Sarge,’ said Kylie Knight. (‘You know you’re getting old,’ McCall, who was forty-three, had declared to a colleague, ‘when we start to recruit coppers called Kylie.’) ‘I was at an event there last night. The speaker was Bruce Anderson; remember that politician who was Secretary of State for Scotland a few years back, the one whose wife was murdered?’
‘Big audience, was it?’ asked McCall, the question heavily layered with sarcasm. He was not a man with time in his life for politics and he had little understanding of those who had.
‘The tent was full,’ she told him. ‘I know,’ she added, seeing his reaction. ‘I was surprised myself. It was quite lively, though.’
‘Forgive me, Kylie, but you don’t seem the sort to give up a Saturday night to listen to a guy like that.’
‘I’m not, but my boyfriend’s a politics student, and he wanted to go. He says that Anderson’s interesting. Apparently he’s been threatening to switch to the Nationalists, and he’s written a book, attacking the government that he was a part of.’