‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘Not much, but Byron did; he was on his feet at the end, and afterwards he couldn’t stop talking about the way the man’s reinvented himself. . like Al Gore, he said, whoever he is.’
‘American footballer, I think,’ McCall ventured. ‘What did you think of him?’
‘I can’t honestly say I took to him. He struck me as an angry man. Byron says that he is; he says that he feels the Labour Party didn’t give him the support he should have had after he lost his wife, that they used it as an excuse to shove him on to the sidelines, and to keep him out there.’
‘Was the DCC there?’
Knight frowned. ‘Mr Skinner? Not that I saw. Why should he have been?’
‘Because if you go far enough back, you’ll find that he was Anderson’s security adviser, when he was Secretary of State.’
The young constable shrugged. ‘His name wasn’t mentioned. Aileen de Marco’s was, though. Anderson said that she was. . How did he put it? He was so pumped up when he said it that he made me laugh. . a Westminster poodle at the head of a government with no authority, and that she had sold her soul to her coalition partners to stay in power after the last election.’
‘The DCC will not like that,’ the sergeant grunted. ‘All the same. .’ He took out his mobile and called his base at Gayfield Square. ‘Put me through to Inspector Varley,’ he said as he was answered. ‘Jock,’ Knight heard him say. ‘It’s Ian here; we’ve just taken a shout for a sudden death at the Book Festival site. No idea who, but it’s a pretty high-profile venue, so I thought you’d best know about it.’ Pause. ‘Yes, OK, see you there.’
As he spoke, Knight swung the car from Princes Street into South Charlotte Street. ‘Where do I park?’ she asked. ‘At the entrance?’
‘No, because there are traffic lights there. Take a left turn into the square.’
‘Can I do that, Sarge? Isn’t it one-way?’
McCall sighed. ‘Kylie, this is a police car. You can do pretty much what you like, short of blocking the chief constable’s driveway. Go round the square and park on the far side. It’s no through road there, apart from taxis. . and us.’
The constable followed his direction; there were several empty bays on the far side of the square and she pulled into the one closest to the entrance, and in front of the side gate. It was being held open by a middle-aged man in a security uniform, with thinning red hair and a goatee beard. The older police officer recognised him from previous meetings. ‘Hello, Mr Richards,’ he called out as he climbed from the patrol vehicle.
As he did so, he was aware of a tall, tanned figure, with close-cropped, steel-grey hair, his muscles sharply defined in a red T-shirt and tight black shorts. He saw him run along the pavement to McCall’s left, then down the ramp that provided wheelchair passage between the roadway and the Festival site, heading towards North Charlotte Street. As the man’s eye took in the scene, his stride seemed to falter momentarily; but if he had considered stopping, he put the idea to one side and carried on, loping across the roadway, down the slope and out of sight.
‘He’s up early,’ Knight exclaimed. ‘Shouldn’t we have stopped him?’
The sergeant smiled as he shook his head. ‘We’ll hear from him soon enough, I’ll bet.’
Three
The top hinge of the bedroom door creaked as he eased it open. Bob Skinner winced. That’s the trouble with historic buildings, he thought. They can never quite keep up with the maintenance. He held his breath in the hope that the sleeper would not wake, but after a few seconds she stirred, and peered out from under the covering sheet.
‘Thanks,’ Aileen de Marco mumbled. ‘I might as well have come out with you. What time is it?’
‘About ten to seven,’ he replied, as he peeled off his T-shirt and tossed it into the furthest corner of the bedroom.
‘Bob!’
‘Sorry, babe. I couldn’t sleep, so. .’
‘So you went out for a run. This is becoming a habit. You should take something to help: pills, or even alcohol.’
He shook his head as he stepped out of his shorts. ‘Pills, I never will; as for alcohol, if I did that at my age I’d be up in the middle of the bloody night anyway.’
She propped herself up on her elbows and gazed at him. ‘At your age? Is that what this is about? You’ve got a big birthday creeping up on you and it’s getting to you?’ She smiled. ‘Bob, my love, you don’t have to prove anything, you know; not to me, not to anyone else, and certainly not to yourself. You don’t have to get up at six and go running round the streets, or along the beach like you do when we’re in Gullane.’
‘It doesn’t do me any harm,’ he said, his tone unusually defensive. ‘I like to keep in shape.’
‘You’re already in terrific shape, for. .’ She paused, and he grinned.
‘For a man of my age, you were going to say?’
‘No, I wasn’t,’ she protested, lying. ‘But it’s true. Look at those scars on your body. You have a stab wound there,’ she pointed to his side, ‘you’ve been shot in the leg. Then there’s the pacemaker in your chest, for. . what’s the name again of the condition you have? I can never remember.’
‘Sinus bradycardia.’
‘Sounds like a runny nose.’
He tapped his left pectoral muscle, just below the collarbone, where the pacemaker was located. ‘With this thing it’s less of a problem than a runny nose.’
‘Then why are you trying to use up the battery?’
‘I’m not. It doesn’t work like that anyway. The device is insurance against a recurrence, no more than that.’
‘Fine, but it’s there, and you’ve come through the experience like you came through the others, because you’re so damn fit.’
‘And I have to work to stay that way,’ he countered, turning and walking naked into the en-suite bathroom, twisting the shower’s mixer tap to reach the customary temperature, and stepping under the power spray.
Aileen slipped out of bed and followed him. ‘But not that hard. I think it’s got to the stage where you aren’t going running because you can’t sleep, you’re making yourself wake up so you can get out there and flog yourself.’
‘That’s what you reckon, is it?’ he said, raising his voice above the water sound. As she nodded, he reached out, took her arm, gently, and drew her into the cubicle and under the shower head, pulling the glass door closed after her. ‘Then you’re wrong,’ he told her. ‘I’m not sleeping very well just now because I’ve got a lot on my mind, and I run because I do some of my best thinking on the move.’
She picked a bar of soap from its dish and began to rub it over his body. ‘And what are you thinking about?’ she asked. ‘Not about going back on our deal, I hope.’
He chuckled. ‘No danger, my love. You and I will be married. I was thinking about asking our friend Jim Gainer if he’d perform the ceremony. I know you say you’re an atheist, but you’re baptised, so. .’
‘The Archbishop?’ she exclaimed. ‘Friend or not, he’d have difficulty with that, Bob; you’re not a Catholic, and even if you were, you’re divorced, remember.’
‘But I wasn’t married in his church.’
‘I don’t think that would make any difference. Besides, you’re an atheist too.’
‘I’m not so sure about that any more,’ he said.
She grinned. ‘In that case you’re an agnostic.’
‘I’m not even sure if I’m one of them. But going back to Jim, I do realise that a full-blown nuptial Mass would be a non-runner, for both those reasons. However. .’ he paused, with a small intake of breath as she reached a sensitive area, ‘. . I have spoken to him, and if we have a civil wedding, he’d be prepared to bless it afterwards at a small private ceremony, families only, that sort of thing; if you’d like it, that is.’
She frowned. ‘Bob, I’d love that, if you’re prepared to go through with it. For my parents’ sake if nothing else; they go to church still.’ He took the soap, and reached behind her. ‘But when I mentioned our deal, I wasn’t talking about the wedding. I meant you putting your name forward for the chief’s job.’ She wriggled. ‘And don’t think you can distract me that way either.’