me, taking Bob on would be a career-ending move. Your only chance
would be to hit him on the pacemaker, but I don't think you'd get near
it."
He raised an eyebrow. "So by getting into the sack with me, you're
putting my life at risk?"
She smiled, and shook her head. "No, because he's not going to find
out. The only person who would tell him would be you, and I hope I've
persuaded you not to be that stupid."
"What about Babs Walker?"
"She's certainly not going to find out."
"She put us back together, remember."
"Then I'll make sure that she and Bob never meet again."
"What if he asks you straight out if you've been a good girl?"
"That presupposes I'm going back to him, which is far from certain. But
even if I do, he won't. Bob and I have been married for a while, but
he doesn't really know anything about my sexual feelings. Even when we
had our first split, he accepted that I had my fling to get even for
his ... because that's what I told him. It wasn't entirely true; maybe
about ten per cent, but that's all. It happened because I met someone
who turned me on, just as you do, lover."
"And have there been others?" he asked, huskily.
She slapped him lightly on the chest. "No, there have not!" She
smiled. "Do you think I'm that easy?
"Sure, between you and me ending, and my meeting Bob, I had
relationships. I was even engaged, briefly, in New York. Ron, I enjoy
sex. It's always been a part of my adult life and it always will be. I
try to be good at it too."
"You succeed."
"I wasn't fishing for that, but thank you anyway, kind sir. No, I've
always taken the view that if you ain't both getting the most from it,
you might as well both be doing it alone." She grinned again. "I have
to say that this is not a unanimous view among men .. . present company
and my husband excepted, of course. My first fiance, gorgeous boy
though he was, was a sad example of horizontal single-mindedness.
"Anyway, to answer the question I think you asked, since I've been
married, my infidelities have been limited to you and the other guy I
mentioned. But even if there had been others .. . and I'll admit that
there's one guy in Bob's force with whom I came close. He still starts
my juices flowing whenever I look at him .. ." She paused. "Why is it
only married men," she asked, 'that society allows to put themselves
about? Why should their infidelities be taken as excusable, while a
woman is seen as a whore for following the same urges? I wanted to
have great sex with you, Ron; that's why I called Trish tonight and
spun her a story. And great sex we have had."
His face seemed to darken. "So love doesn't come into it," he
murmured.
"Oh, don't take it that way; it does in your case. I loved you in our
college days, and even now there are things about you that I love. I
couldn't sleep with you if there weren't. I really am not like
that."
"And Bob?"
"Oh yes, I love him; don't think otherwise, not for a second, even
though I'm here with you now. He has his imperfections. He's been
unfaithful too, a couple of times; he's a driven man, and he's got a
hell of a temper. He has something else though, something I can't put
into words, that transcends all that, and it's what's tied me to him
through everything. From the moment I met him he pushed all my buttons
at once, without even knowing it.
"But now, he's putting his career before me and before his family.
That's something I could never do, and that's what I'm having big
trouble dealing with. I'm angry, I feel alienated, and that in part..
. although I doubt it would have happened with anyone else but you...
is what's brought me into your bed, in your house.
"Bob could retire now, justifiably and honourably, given all the things
he's done. Financially, he and I, and our children, are well fixed for
life after my inheritance, and even in his own right he's comfortably
off. I wanted him to quit; maybe, just maybe, without this trouble
he's had I might have persuaded him. But the fact that he's been told
that he may have to retire .. . that's what's made him explode. That's
why he's gone back to Scotland. He's gone to confront the people who
think they can tell Bob Skinner what he can and can't do. I feel sorry
for them; they don't know what they've turned loose."
"What do you mean?"
Sarah frowned. "There's a dark side to him. I've told you how tough
he is, but it's more than that. If he's under threat, or if those
close to him are, then God help the people who are doing the
threatening."
"Are you afraid of him?"
"No."
"Not even if he found out about you and me?"
"No."
"But you're afraid for me?"
"I'm afraid he'd beat the crap out of you. Look, if the roles were
reversed, if you and I were married and I was sleeping with Bob and you
found out, wouldn't you react like that?"
"I suppose," Ron conceded. "Standard caveman behaviour."
"Well, he's better at it than you, that's all."
He grinned, then moved a hand towards her. "And are there things I'm
better at than him?" he asked.
Sarah looked him in the eye, and patted his approach to one side. "That
is an area," she said, her voice becoming muffled as she slid below the
cover, then finally, as she found what she was seeking, inaudible,
'where I never make com pari ."
Thirteen.
Andy Martin looked into the future and saw a quandary. In the fifteen
minutes since he had recovered from his breakdown in the armchair,
Skinner had said not another word, other than to apologise, repeatedly,
for his weakness.
But he was a witness. He had information crucial to the progress of a
murder investigation and he had to be interviewed, regardless of his
emotional state.
Andy went through to the kitchen and returned with two bottles of
Rolling Rock beer. As he returned, the Fairground Attraction CD came
to an end, and the changer replaced it with a new Peter Green blues
album. Normally, Bob would have reacted. Typically he would have
asked him if it was Eric Clapton ... on first hearing, he thought that
all blues guitarists were Eric Clapton ... but as he sat there, all he
did was nod his thanks as he took his uncapped beer.
He stared at the carpet as the first two tracks on the album played
themselves out; then as the horns came in, upbeat, at the start of
track three, he put the bottle to his lips and took a long draining
swallow.
When he was finished, he laid the empty bottle on the occasional table
beside his chair, and looked across at his friend.
"Right," he said, abruptly. "Now that I've finished making an arse of
myself, do you want to take my statement yourself, or do you want to
get a couple of your guys up here?"
A smile of undisguised relief seemed to flood Martin's face. "I reckon
you're worth the head of CID. I'll call him now and ask him to come
&nbs
p; up."
Skinner frowned. "No, wait; that's not fair on Karen. We'll go to
him." He reached out a hand. "Here; don't you drink that beer. Give
it to me."
Andy grinned and handed it over. "Fine, but Karen's making dinner."
"Then tell your guy to have his as well and we'll see him
afterwards."
"Man, we're still in the early hours of the investigation; you know how
important the first stages are."
"How long was he in the water?"
"About a week."
"Where did he go in?"
"We haven't a clue."
"Then let's not risk your happiness and my digestion by spoiling
Karen's excellent dinner. I'm not going to be able to lead you
straight to whoever it is you're after." His forehead creased and his
eyes turned hard and cold. "Even if I could, I don't know that I
would. I might be inclined to pay a call on him myself."
Martin felt himself shiver. "For Christ's sake, Bob, don't even think
that."
"Ah, but I do, son. Because I'm human and because it's in my
nature."
"Then suppress it, please." Andy looked at him, with pure concern.
"Man, you shouldn't be handling this alone. Let me call Sarah in the
States and tell her what's happened."
Skinner looked at him as if he was a stranger. "You do that and I'll
make you eat your silver-braided hat, Deputy Chief."
"Well let me call Alex, then."
"Nor her either; she doesn't know she ever had an uncle, nor Sarah a
brother-in-law. I'll handle this, Andy. I promise you I'll behave
myself and tell you everything I know; but not here, or now. I'll do
it in a formal situation, because for my own sake, I need to make sure
I stay dispassionate about it. Now, are we about ready to eat? I'm
fucking starving."
Martin smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "We should be just about
there. You finish that beer, and I'll call Rod Greatorix to set up a
meeting."
He was heading towards the phone in the hall, when Skinner called him
back. "Hey," he said, pointing towards the CD player with the Rolling
Rock in his hand. "If I didn't know that was Eric Clapton, I'd say it
was the guy who used to be in Fleetwood Mac'
Fourteen.
They were halfway though the Mongolian meal when Maggie's cellphone
played its distinctive tune. She looked at Mario, awkwardly,
apologetically; he grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "Could just as
easily have been mine," he said. "Go on."
She flipped the phone open, pressed the 'yes' button, and answered,
"Rose'.
"Sorry, Maggie," said Stevie Steele. "I hope it isn't a bad time, but
you did say to keep you informed."
"I know I did; it's not a problem. Are you still at it?"
"Afraid so."
"I thought you'd have had it wrapped up by now, at least as far as you
could. What's up? Have you been watching more video tapes?"
"I have, but it was a waste of time," said the inspector. "I went back
far enough to watch the picture being hung on the wall. It wasn't
tampered with at that point, and from the tapes we saw earlier on,
there's no sign of anyone interfering with it after that."
"So it must have been rigged to go before it was delivered to the
gallery?"
"Not necessarily; the exhibits came from all over the place. The
curator waited until he had them all on the premises before he hung
them. They were kept in a storage area below the main hall; it isn't
covered by video cameras so in theory the device could have been
planted there."
Steele hesitated. "Tell me, Maggie," he went on eventually. "Did
anything strike you as wrong about the notion that it was set off by a
timer?"
As her husband looked on, Rose frowned. "You could ask why it was, I
suppose. And I guess the answer could be either to give the arsonist
time to get well clear, or, to have the painting go up before an
audience, as a sort of a statement."
"If that was the case, he got it right, didn't he, our fire-raiser.
Bang in the middle of old Candela's speech."
"True. So unless that was pure coincidence, whoever set it must have
known the timings and running order of the opening ceremony."
"So you'd think," Steele agreed, 'except..." He stopped in
mid-sentence.
"What?"
"Except for the fact that there was no timer."
Maggie's eyes widened. "Come again?"
"The technicians have finished with the picture. They found the
remains of a device, sure enough. It had been laid against the frame
and conductors had been attached to the back of the canvas, to make
sure that it went up fast, from the centre. Then the back of the
painting had been covered over with heavy brown paper, sealed with
gaffer tape. There's nothing unusual about that, and none of the
gallery staff thought twice about it.
"The bomb, if you want to call it that, was primed and hung on the
wall, ready to be detonated. But when it was, there was no ticking
clock involved. It was set off remotely, triggered by a radio
signal."
"Bloody hell! From how far away? Can they tell?"
"Up to four hundred yards, according to Tony Davidson, the
telecommunications guy. It could have been blown from anywhere in
Princes Street, or from the top of the Mound, even. But was it? After
all, it did happen right in the middle of the speech. What does that
suggest?"
"That whoever did it was actually there, in the hall."
"Exactly. "Light the blue touch paper and withdraw", I reckon. And
just to put the tin lid on it, at five this evening, the Press
Association had an anonymous call from a guy claiming responsibility
for, I quote, "an act of retribution against blasphemy". He didn't
name any organisation; he just said that much and hung up. All the PA
reporter was able to say was that he sounded like a teuchter."
"The Presbyterian militant wing, in other words."
"Aye, or just as likely a nutter, who had nothing to do with it. The
story was on the radio and television bulletins by the time the call
was made. Oh yes, and the call came from a phone box."
"Like as not a fruitcake, then, I agree. Do we have a list of everyone
who was there?" asked Rose.
"We have the complete invitation list," Steele replied. "It includes
clients, other lawyers and professionals, the Lord and Lady Provost,
the Chief Constable and Lady Proud ... who declined, by the way... a
couple of Supreme Court judges, and the media. We have a list of all
the people who were signed in and given lapel badges with their names
on them. We have a list of all those guests whose badges were not
picked up. We have a list of all of the staff on duty. But we do not
have a list of those people, guests or otherwise, who simply wandered
in and past the registration desk without picking up their badges ...
as some people do at these bashes."
"Weren't there invitation cards?"
"Yes, but they were taken at the reception desk, not at the door. There
were a couple of security people on the steps wh
o were supposed to look
at the invitations, but they've admitted already that it was quite
possible for someone to have got past them. There were full taxi-loads
of people arriving, five, ten at a time. No way did they check
everyone."
"No. Listen, Stevie, where are you?"
"In the office."
"I'd better get along there then."
"Why, Mags? To do what, exactly?"
Rose frowned. "The video tapes from the security cameras. We'll need
to check every face against those lists, looking for someone who isn't
on any of them. And we should take that phone call seriously. This is
borderline terrorism, so we should get Neil Mcllhenney and Special
Branch involved. We should tell Dan Pringle as well."
"I've done some of that already, Mags; I've told Neil. I agree there's
a chance we'll come up with a face that's on his files. I'll leave it
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