Skinner shook his head. 'Alan, if that was a gas explosion, then I'll never use my cooker again.' Then quite suddenly, his expression changed. His grey eyes had lost their warmth. 'Look, I'd love to be wrong, but I'm not. Like it or not, you've got some big decisions to make, my friend. For what it's worth, here's how I see them.
'Do you, could you, close down the Festival? No way! It's too big and it's too late. Everyone's here, tickets are sold, and the shows start tonight. Do you warn the public? I'd say not at this stage. It'd be too easy to start a panic; and we would for sure frighten off thousands of-visitors. It could just be that all our friends are aiming to do is to disrupt the Festival, for now at least.
If we let them do it that easily, then we're in real long-term trouble. That letter gives us nothing solid to go on. All we can do is hunt these people as best we can, and hope we get lucky. But, chances are, the next move is theirs. We, all of us, have got to live with that probability.'
He paused, looking hard at Ballantyne. Then he said, 'That's policeman's advice. Secretary of State, and for a reason I'll teli you shortly, it's the most honest you're ever likely to receive. It's not a political judgement; that's your arena. But these are decisions that need to be taken now.'
Ballantyne returned his gaze. He had respected Bob Skinner from the beginning of their relationship, but now he began to understand the very strange thing that Sir James Proud, imposing and unimpeachable as ever in full uniform, had said as they had discussed Skinner's appointment. 'Bob is the son I never had.
He's clever and intuitive as a detective. He's strict but fair as a commander. He's charming and generous as a man. Yet inside all that, there lives also the most fearsome human being I know. I hope you never have to encounter that side of him.'
Looking into Skinner's eyes, Ballantyne felt, for the very first time, the faint chill of something else in the man, something very hard and formidable, and perceived at last an inkling of what Proud had meant. He had never sought to learn in detail the circumstances which had led up to Hugh Fulton's resignation, although he knew that something had caused bad blood between him and Skinner. Now he realised with certainly that Fulton had been mortally afraid of his successor. Suddenly and irrationally, Ballantyne was glad that he did not know why.
He forced himself to consider the choice he had to make, the choice which Skinner had set out for him. There could be only one decision.
'The show goes on. Warn the Directors of the various Festivals if you consider it necessary, but no one else. Keep this thing under wraps for as long as you can. Issue a further statement through your press office, saying that you are still looking into the causes of the explosion, but at the moment it looks like a gas leak of some sort. Pick your team and use whatever time the news blackout buys you as best you can. Maybe we'll get lucky.'
Skinner nodded. 'Very good. Minister,' he said, formal for the first time. 'That's -how it will be. Now I'll tell you just how objective my advice was. If this lot are going to start blowing up the Festival, as they threaten, then that makes my daughter a target. She's performing in a play on the Fringe. It could have been her lying in that tent today, and when I find these characters, I'll go just as hard as if it had been her. Meanwhile, I'm on the spot. Do I tell Alex to pull out, without telling her why, or do I cfollow your orders to the letter, and keep my mouth shut, letting her run the same risk as the rest?'
'For God's sake. Bob. Of course you must get her out of it!'
'Thanks, Alan, but that has to be my choice to make. It won't be an easy one. There are so many what ifs. The best answer is just to catch these bastards before this thing gets any bigger. I'm off to do that now.'
He picked up the letter and its envelope and made for the door, but stopped just before he reached it.
'Oh, Alan, here's a piece of non-police advice. You could find photographers hanging around here today. If Carlie might be a problem in some newspaper picture, best not let that happen, eh.'
'Thanks, Bob. Point taken.'
6
Skinner was deep in thought as he slid the BMW into St Coime Street. On impulse he indicated to the left and drove up the, cobbled slope of Glenfinlas Street, turning left at the top into;
Charlotte Square.
As usual, all of the parking bays in the Square were occupied.
Scores of cars, and not a few camper vans, bearing German, French and Belgian registration plates, were nosed in on the angle, facing the gardens in the centre, their tails pointing back towards the one-way traffic as it circulated clockwise. The space on the, outer side of the wide street, normally kept clear by yellow lines, was mostly full, the vigilance of Edinburgh's redoubtable traffic wardens being relaxed on Saturday afternoons. However, there was a vacant slot only a few yards from Glenfinlas Street, just outside the head office of one of Scotland's largest public companies. Skinner reversed the BMW in, switched off the engine and sat looking thoughtfully at the pavement across the street from the Secretary of State's front door.
With its fund managers, its surveyors and its few remaining lawyers on the golf course rather than at work in their offices, Charlotte Square was usually one of the quietest spots in central Edinburgh on Saturday afternoons. Occasionally, special weekend events were held in its gardens, on the grass among the trees, around the oxidised bronze equestrian statuary on its marble plinth. Two years before, an age ago to Skinner, this green space had been covered with marquees serving as the venue of the biennial Edinburgh Book Festival. But, for this year at least, the Festival was being staged in different surroundings, in the City's newly opened international conference centre. Now, as Skinner looked across the expanse of grass, he saw only a few recumbent sunbathers enjoying the warmth of the August day. He scanned the pavement opposite Number 6. Its surface was m raised above the level of roadway by four cobbled steps, and so he could observe the pedestrians clearly. He saw two elderly grey- haired ladies, wearing shapeless hats and coats even in flaming August, their backs to him, walking slowly in step, with the same rolling gait. "Afternoon tea in the Roxburghe, I'll bet,' he murmured to himself, smiling at this enduring tradition among the aged well-to-do of Edinburgh. As Skinner watched them, the two old ladies drew alongside and passed a bulky, bearded figure who was leaning against the railings, idly adjusting the camera which hung on a strap round his neck.
'Denis,' he said aloud, recognising one of the city's best-known news photographers.
He was on the point of climbing out of his car to talk to the man, when suddenly his eye was caught by a motorcyclist astride his vehicle in one of the parking bays on the corner: a tall figure, in black leathers, with a metallic blue crash helmet. He wore the livery of one of Edinburgh's many motorcycle delivery companies. That's odd, thought Skinner. Why the hell was a bike courier at work on a Saturday? And if he was supposed to be working, why the hell was he sitting on his arse in Charlotte Square, doing bugger all?
Deciding to postpone his chat with Denis the photographer, he settled back into the driver's seat of the BMW, keeping as inconspicuous as any good detective should be. The leather gear made it difficult to judge the man's age, but Skinner knew that most of Edinburgh's delivery riders were in their early twenties, and his build and bearing seemed to bear this out. The courier held a folded newspaper in his left hand and gave the appearance of studying it intently. But Skinner noticed that, every so often, he would glance along the street – looking in the same direction as Denis the photographer – towards the Secretary of State's front door.
What the Devil is he up to? Skinner thought. Was he a tip-off man for the Sunday Mail, maybe, looking for action around Number 6?