'Skinner?' The man seemed to bark rather than speak.
Skinner nodded, hackles rising instantly.
A1 Neidermeyer. We spoke on the transatlantic horn on Saturday. Remember?'
'Oh yes, I remember.' Skinner's voice was suddenly soft. He felt Sarah's hand tighten on his arm, as if she was holding him back.
A vein throbbed on the side of the shorter man's bullet-like head. 'I want you to know that I'm watching you, Skinner. You fucked me around. I don't forget that. You slip up just once on this case, and I'll make you international bad news. I'll screw you so hard your eyes'll pop. You get me? Now tell me what the fuck you're doing to catch these people.'
A slow, cold smile spread across Skinner's face. Beside him Sarah was trembling in fury. She made to speak, but Bob, still smiling, silenced her with a slight movement of his hand. The chattering of the groups of guest around them had stilled, and a circle had opened up around them. The closest bystanders stared selfconsciously into their wine glasses. 'Mr Neidermeyer – or can I call you Al? You're new in town. You're probably jet-lagged.
And, like my wife, here, you're an American. All that cuts you one piece of slack. You've just used it up.' The smile left his lips.
'So now you listen to me, and listen well. Here you get the same rights and privileges on this story as any other member of the foreign press. In your special case, that means you're at the back of the queue. You want to ask any questions about this investigation, you contact my information office. You don't waylay me in a public place. Understood?'
Suddenly his voice was different, still quiet but hard now, and very, very cold. 'And one more thing. You ever talk to me like that again, or block my way, or use language like that in front of my wife, and you'll either be on liquids for a week, or locked up, or both.
'Come on, love. Time we were going.' He slipped an arm around Sarah's waist and led her from the Museum.
33
An hour later Sarah was still seething. She sat on the edge of the bed in her matching pink bra and panties, pulling a brush through her hair. Bob lay naked between the sheets.
'That little jerk. Who the hell does he think he is? Guys like him give all us Americans a bad name. What an asshole! If I ever see him again…'
Bob laughed and shook his head. 'Calm down, Doc. You're getting as red in the face as he was. I'll tell you what, why don't you phone Don the Consul and report him?'
She frowned at him. 'How can you be so calm about it? He threatened you in front of all those people.'
'Yeah, and I threatened him back. I don't think he'll do it again. If he does, I'll just have to call my pal Joe. To hell, maybe I'll do that anyway.'
'Who's your pal Joe?'
'The FBI guy in your Embassy in London. I wonder if old Al would fancy a full-scale IRS tax audit.'
Sarah looked at him. Even now, he was still capable of surprising her. 'Could you fix that?'
'Damn right I could. Now forget that bastard, and come here. There's a fella wants to talk to you.'
In an instant, she slipped out of her bra and panties and into bed, reaching for him. Just as he drew her close to him, the telephone rang.
Sarah swore softly, rolled over and picked it up. 'Hello?'
'Sarah? It's Maggie Rose here.' At once, Sarah was aware of the tension in the detective sergeant's voice. The woman was struggling hard to stay in control. 'I'm sorry, but I need to speak to the boss.'
Frowning, Sarah handed over the receiver.
Bob took it from her. 'Yes, Sergeant. What is it?'
'It's a bomb, sir. In the Assembly Rooms. In the Music
Hall. They've done it again. Oh, my God, but it's awful. Get here, please, sir! Just get here, please!'
34
George Street was closed off along its entire length, from Charlotte Square to St Andrew Square. A uniformed officer, stationed at the junction of Queen Street and Frederick Street, recognised Skinner and Sarah instantly, and waved them through.
They parked in front of the double-windows of Phillips, the fine art auctioneers. Clad in the jeans and sweatshirts which they had pulled on after tumbling out of bed, they raced across the street, past the police cars lined along the central reservation, and past the rank of ambulances which stood like blue-beaconed taxis at the arched and pillared entrance to the Assembly Rooms.
At once. Skinner spotted Deputy Chief Constable McGuinness standing in the doorway, looking out into the street. The portly policeman was in evening dress, as if he had been summoned from the opera. His normally ruddy face had a yellowish tinge, and his eyes gave a clear hint of what lay inside.
Skinner greeted him sympathetically. 'Hello, Eddie. What's happened?' Even as he spoke two paramedics hurried past, bearing a keening victim on a stretcher towards one of the ambulances. He looked down at their burden, and in spite of himself, he felt his stomach knot, and his testicles tighten. It was a girl, young and blonde. Her left ear and part of the left side of her face had been sliced off. Through the mess, Skinner could see white bone. A long shard of wood protruded from her belly. Her hands, all bloody, were grasping it as if she were holding on to her pain and, through that, to life itself.
McGuinness's lips moved as if he was speaking, but no sound came out. Instead his eyes filled with tears as he followed the girl on her stretcher. For the first time in his life, Skinner found that he felt sorry for the Deputy. He knew that most of McGuinness's career had been spent in administration, and yet here he was visiting his second charnel-house in only four days.
'Go and sit in one of the cars, Eddie. You don't have to look at this. You can't help these people.'
But the Deputy Chief Constable shook his head, blinking the glaze from his eyes. Then, as Skinner looked at him, he straightened his back and clenched his jaw. 'No, Bob. I realise that things like this come with the job.'
Skinner patted him on the shoulder with a new-found sense of camaraderie. 'Good man, Eddie,' he murmured softly. 'Jimmy would be pleased with you.'
As he led Sarah into the foyer of the Assembly Rooms, they were met by a babel of sound. The shouts of the emergency teams mingled with cries of paid from victims. Somewhere not too far away a man was screaming.
Carrying her bulky First-aid bag, Sarah looked around until she saw a nurse in uniform. 'I'm a doctor,' she called out to the man.
'Where's the medical centre?'
'Up those stairs, in the big room to the left.'
She turned to Skinner. 'Bob, I'm…'
'Yes, of course. I'll send for you if I need you.
'Maggie Rose said it was in the Music Hall,' he said to no one in particular. Then he caught sight of Andy Martin standing at the foot of the wide staircase to the right, waving to him.
'Boss,' he called. "This way.'
Skinner followed Martin up the staircase. At the top he made to step into the big Music Hall which he knew so well, but Martin caught his arm.
'No, boss. Come up to the gallery. You'll get a better idea there.
And listen, prepare yourself. It's not a pretty sight.'
Martin led him through the access door to the balcony, and up a second flight of stairs, much narrower than the first. As he stepped into the auditorium. Skinner's eyes screwed up involuntarily, taking in the horror. Glass was strewn across the full width of the upper seating area. White stuffing, much of it stained crimson with blood, protruded from torn tip-up seats. A line of pockmarks ran irregularly along the painted back wall of the gallery. The whole upper area of the hall looked as if it had been strafed with machine-gun fire.