As he gazed at the man, intrigued, his view was obscured for a moment by a black Rover Sterling with a familiar figure in the back seat. The car drew to a halt outside Number 6, and Lord Peters, Minister of State for Scotland and, as such, Ballantyne's deputy, heaved his girth on to the pavement. He tapped the car on the bonnet in dismissal and made towards the big brown door, tugging a key from his pocket as he walked.
Skinner looked across towards Denis, who was snapping off frame after frame of the Minister's arrival, then glanced across at the motorcyclist. The man had dropped his newspaper and now was holding a mobile telephone. There was a brief scene of pantomime as he put the earpiece up to his crash-helmet, then set the instrument down on the saddle of the bike and began to fiddle with his chinstrap.
'Let's check this boy out,' Skinner muttered to himself. He jumped from the car and began to trot across the street. 'Hey, just a minute!'he shouted as he ran.
The rider gave up his battle with the chinstrap, and reached inside his jacket with his ungloved right hand.
Later, it would strike Skinner as remarkable that he had not registered surprise when he saw the gun. But, at that moment, all that concerned him was reaching the nearest cover.
It was a small weapon, possibly a Beretta. The man swung towards him, his left hand coming up to join the other in a marksman's grip. By that time Skinner's trot had accelerated into a sprint. He reached the other side of the street, which was' mercifully free of traffic, and threw himself full-length between a: couple of parked cars. He was still in mid-dive when he heard the two shots, and the zinging sound of the ricochets as the bullets flew off the tarmac behind him.
Lying face-down, aware of the pounding of his heart, he tried to work out his next move. But in the very moment that he realised that he did not have one, he heard the motorcycle roar into life.
Skinner pulled himself into a crouch behind the car which was his shield. Tyres squealed as the rider swung out of his parking bay against the traffic flow. barely missing a red Peugeot which was cornering at speed. Skinner stood up in time to see the silver-grey; bike racing off down Glenfinlas Street, but a second too late to read its registration number.
'Bob!' The shout came from behind him. Skinner turned and saw Denis the photographer lumbering towards him. 'What the hell happened there? Were those gun-shots? Are you all right?' The big man was out of breath by the time he reached Skinner.
'No panic, Denis. It's okay. There's no harm done. What did you see anyway?'
'Nothing much. I just sort of heard the noise and caught a flash of you ducking between those two motors. Only I didn't realise it was you till you stood up. Who was the guy on the bike? I'll be looking twice at Apache Couriers next time they turn up on one of my jobs, I'll tell you.'
Skinner thought fast. 'Courier, my arse. That was a boy we've had under surveillance as a suspected drug-dealer.' He put a hand on Denis's shoulder and said, conspiratorially, 'But listen, old mate. You saw nothing – understand? All that you heard was the bike backfiring. The fact is, my imagination got the better of me, and I got the wrong idea and jumped for it. Now, for God's sake, not a cheep about that in your bloody rag or I'll be the laughingstock of Edinburgh.'
Denis looked sceptical, but nodded. 'Well, if you say so. Bob. If you say so. But it's a bloody queer backfire that can put a hole through a window thirty yards away!'
He pointed across the street to Number 8. Skinner's eye followed his finger. In the top right-hand pane of one of its ground-floor windows there was a neat round hole, cracks fanning out from it like rays from a tiny, dark sun.
'Honest to Christ, Denis. See vandals these days. Nothing's sacred any more.' A guileless look crept across his face. 'What brings you here today anyway?'
Denis looked embarrassed. 'You shouldn't ask me that. Bob.
Secrets of the trade and all that. The truth is, as usual, I don't know. Us photographers, in our army we're just the bloody infantry. I'm told to get along here and get some pies of Ballantyne and of anyone else that arrives here, so that's what I'm doing. But I'm not told why. Same old bloody story. Every other photographer's at bloody Tynecastle covering the football, and I'm stuck here watching a fucking door!'
Skinner sighed out loud, in mock sympathy, silencing the rising tirade. 'Ah, well, big fella, sometimes there's no justice at all.
Sounds like a right boring afternoon, but good luck to you. Me, I'm doing something really exciting. I'm off to take the wife to Asda.' He raised a hand in farewell and strolled across the road towards his car.
'That'll be bloody right!' muttered Denis, towards his disappearing back.
As was usual at weekends, a heavy gate barred entry to the sloping driveway which rises up to the main entrance to Edinburgh's police headquarters building.
Denied access to his parking space, Skinner drove on out of Fettes Avenue, and used the side entrance in Carrington Road.
The civilian security guard manning the entrance barriers recognised him, but nonetheless inspected his photographic warrant card carefully, knowing that the ACC would have roasted him had he done any less.
Skinner entered the building at basement level, in the rear, and made his way up four flights of stairs to Andy Martin's office on the same level as his own in the Command Suite, but in the main four-storey section. The Detective Chief Inspector's room opened off the main area of the Special Branch office. In the outer room. Skinner recognised Detective Constables Neil Mcllhenney, a Special Branch regular, and Barry Macgregor – borrowed, he guessed, from week-end duty with the Crime Squad to help with the call-round of the media.
'Afternoon, gentlemen. Had a busy time?'
'Not as busy as you, by the looks of it, sir,' said the normally phlegmatic Mcllhenney, pointing towards Skinner's lower half.
'Been playing football wi' the lads?'
Skinner looked down and noticed for the first time the split across the right leg of his denims, just above the knee. 'Hah. Not quite football, Neil, but a bit of fancy diving all the same.
'Mr Martin in?'
'Sir.' Mcllhenney nodded in confirmation, and Skinner walked on up to Martin's door, rapped on it, and pushed it open without waiting for a response.
The Special Branch commander was seated behind his desk, his shoulders hunched and the telephone pressed to his right ear. He glanced up at Skinner, his eyes taking in the torn jeans and registering surprise. He pointed awkwardly and unnecessarily towards the phone with his left hand, then towards a filter coffee- maker on a table beneath the room's only window.
'Sorry, sir, but my boss just came in, and I missed that.' He paused, listening to the voice on the line. 'I appreciate your point, but you have to understand our situation too. Our information is that today's explosion was quite possibly accidental. If this hoax letter appears anywhere, it could cause quite unnecessary public alarm, not to mention its effect on such a popular international event. Every other news organisation in the UK has already agreed to a black-out of that letter. You'll lose nothing by cooperating.'
Skinner was listening intently now. 'Who is this?' he mouthed silently to Martin.
'Hold on one second please, sir,' the Chief Inspector said to the telephone. 'I have to speak to my chief.' He pressed the privacy button. 'It's an American guy, sir. He's chief editor, or some such title, of Television News International, that satellite channel that we always hear about on other people's news bulletins. I called his bureau chief in London about the black-out. He told me he had to refer upwards, and this is the result. The bloke's mouthing on about global responsibility. Sounds like he's after a world scoop, and since his channel's on in every newsroom in this country, if he runs the letter we've got trouble – emergency powers or not.