'You saw how Andy grasped my shoulder? I'd say she did the same. See how the fingers of her right hand are still partly closed.
Rather than break that grip, the killer just let go of the knife and took her weight as she fell to the floor. If it had been pulled out at this point, blood would probably have spurted, but she must have been dead within a second or two of hitting the ground. When it was removed that's all the bleeding there was, apart from a drop or two from the blade. Look, there's one here on the sleeve of the robe.'
Skinner stepped up to the body and bent over it. He examined it closely, comparing its posture in his mind against Sarah's description. Suddenly, as he looked at the victim's right hand, his brows tightened and he bent closer.
'Andy, look here.' He spoke without looking up.
Martin crossed the room to his side.
'Look at this.'
Very gently Skinner lifted the right hand. Stiffness had not yet set in. Indeed the body was still warm, as well as supple. He turned the hand so that Martin could see the fingers.
The nail on the third finger was split. A small piece of lemoncoloured cloth was lodged in the tear.
'At least that'll give the technicians something to do,' said Skinner. 'The place looks clean as a whistle otherwise.'
Martin was still examining the fragment. 'Boss, I know that's only a wee bit of cloth, but it looks to me like the same colour as the uniform the hotel's domestic staff wear.'
'What, the chambermaids, you mean?' •Yeah.'
'Right, I want the whole place searched, top to bottom. When are we getting some manpower here? I saw young Macgregor at the door when I came in, but no one else around. How come you're here, Andy, but not the divisional CID?'
'Dunsmuir, the general manager, knows me. When the victim's secretary found the body, she managed to control herself, and called him straight up to the suite. He all but shit himself, and then called me – or at least he phoned Fettes and asked for me. Young Barry out there called me on my mobile. By that time, I was dropping Julia back at Filmhouse, just next-door. I rang Sarah first, then you. I thought you'd want to decide how we handle this one.'
'Fair enough. Before I do that, call down to your pal Dunsmuir.
Ask him to line up his chambermaids, count them, and see if they're all present and correct.'
Martin picked up the telephone at the side of the bed, and carried out this order.
As he finished. Skinner said, 'That florid remark of yours earlier, about Ballantyne's bravery – were you just assuming that poor Hilary over there relates to the other thing?'
'No, sir. Come next door and I'll show you why I said it.'
He led the way to the suite's sitting-room. A small coffee table was placed amidst a semicircle of four armchairs, arranged to face
a picture window which offered a panoramic view across Festival Square to the Usher Hall, then, above and beyond its copper roof, to the western ramparts of Edinburgh Castle, rising from the vertical face of the great rock in which their foundations were set.
An envelope lay on the low rectangular table. Even before he picked it up and read the white label. Skinner knew what it was. It was addressed in the same way as its predecessors. Skinner opened it carefully and drew out the letter inside. He then read it aloud to Martin and Sarah.
To the so-called Secretary of State for Scotland.
From the Fighters for an Independent Scotland.
Code word Arbroath.
The fact that you are reading this letter means that you have chosen to ignore our ultimatum, and that an innocent person has suffered the consequences of your folly.
After this demonstration, you will not be able to keep from the world our just demand that you and your cohorts quit our beloved country and restore to us the democratic rights which were stolen from us almost three hundred years ago.
This lady, an international celebrity, has died so that world attention will be focused on our struggle, and so that international pressure will be brought to bear upon you, to force you to withdraw from our land.
Accede now, and no more blood will be spilled. Force us to continue, and you will find us resolved to take whatever action we believe to be necessary during this global Festival, and thereafter, to drive England and its institutions from our beloved Scotland.
As he finished reading. Skinner looked up at Sarah. 'Same author as the one you read yesterday, d'you think?'
'Certain.'
'Single author or more than one?'
'Probably just one. Give me some time and I'll try to work up a profile. There's something odd about the language, though.'
'What d' you mean?'
'I don't know exactly. It's very formal. These people are on a jihad, yet there's something dispassionate about their language.'
'Well think on it some more, and see what guesses you can make about the kind of person our writer is. Andy, we keep this one inhouse for a while. No flashing blue lights, please. Get the technicians in now, and bring in Divisional CID to help interview everyone we can find who was in the hotel from midday to 2:30.
What have you done with the voice coach and the secretary?' They're in their own rooms. Neil and Maggie are with them.' •Good. Keep them on ice for now. I'm going across to tell the Usher Hall manager that he's got no show tonight. Then I'm off to tackle Ballantyne. We can't put a blackout on this one.'
21
Skinner was halfway across Festival Square, the plaza which lies between the Sheraton and Lothian Road, when his phone sounded again. He stopped and sat down on a bench to answer it. The wooden seat was hot to the touch, such was the force of the sun.
'Boss, it's Brian here. I've had a guy on from the States, going absolutely apeshit. Said his name was Albert Neidermeyer from TNI, or something. He claims to have had a call at his London office, tipping him off that some American opera singer's been killed in Edinburgh. And, boss, he says the caller used the proper code-word. Now he wants you to confirm if it's true. He says if it is he's going to blow it and – his words, sir – fuck all you Scots bastards and your threats. Seems he doesn't like you at all, chief.'
'I'm chilled with terror,' said Skinner, icily.
'He left a number. Wants you to call him back personally.'
'Bugger that for a game of soldiers. Soldiers! There's an idea. Is Adam Arrow with you?'
'Yes, boss. He and Mario got back here twenty minutes ago.'
'Right. Adam's an English bastard, not Scots, but he'll do. Ask him if he'll do us a turn and call Neidermeyer back. He's to stall him, bullshit him, tell him we don't know what he's talking about, but we're looking into it. Ask Adam to spin him out for as long as he can. That should be quite some time. Neidermeyer won't understand a fookin' word Adam says.'
Skinner pressed the end1 button, and carried on across Festival Square.
22
Again, it was Carlie who opened the rear door of Number 6 Charlotte Square. She had on the same skirt she had worn at their first meeting, but with a different top; silk once again but fastened at the shoulder, Chinese style. •Hello again, Mr Skinner. What's the crisis this time?'
He can't have told her any of this, thought Skinner as he tried, but failed, to return her easy smile. She read the concern written on his face and turned serious herself. 'Alan's waiting for you upstairs. He's working on some papers in the dining-room.'
Skinner made no move towards the stairway. Instead he stood his ground, gazing coolly at the woman, and saying nothing for several seconds. His expression was one of undisguised appraisal.
She was unflustered by his scrutiny, and when at last he opened his mouth to speak, she beat him to it.
'I know who you are, Mr Skinner, and what it is you do for Alan. And I can guess that you're wondering where I fit in. What sort of a family friend I am, how close, and to whom. If I won't tell, does it get to the point where you take me down to the cells and beat me with rubber hoses?'