Skinner calmed the old man's excitement. "Thanks, Charlie.
Thanks very much. You're a good man. You've given us the first eye-witness account we've had since all this business started.' He turned to the young PC. 'Constable, organise a car. Have Mr Forsyth taken home.' The man set off obediently.
Ta,' said Forsyth. 'Ye know, Skinner. All this, it makes me glad I'm not long away from the wooden waistcoat. I grieve for Scotland when this can happen. Good luck to you, son. Catch these fuckers.'
As he left the little man in the canteen, Skinner wondered about his reaction. What kind of man could witness such appalling carnage and still describe it so matter-of-factly? Then he realised quite simply that, perhaps an eighty-year-old could do so: someone knowing that his lease on the planet was running out, taking every day as a bonus, caring only about that day and the next, and hopefully the day beyond. The horror of that evening might be blocked out easily by a man like that, and a strange satisfaction drawn from the privileged position of being an important witness, from the unexpected burst of warmth at being the centre of attention once again, rather than being just another lonely old man shouting his bizarre reminiscences to gather himself an audience.
35
In the foyer, DCC McGuinness now seemed in full control both of himself and of the situation. The stream of casualties out to the ambulances had subsided.
Skinner went to check on Sarah in the first-aid room, which was still crowded with bleeding, shocked victims, waiting mainly in silence for attention. He realised that the decision to treat the less seriously injured at the scene had been a wise one. Edinburgh's main hospital casualty departments would have been swamped by the numbers.
Sarah estimated that she had another thirty minutes of stitching and patching to do. 'Look, you'll want to start work on this. Why don't you just leave me the car key and go off with Andy?'
'Yes, I'll do that,' he agreed. Handing her the big BMW key, he kissed her on the forehead and went downstairs. In the lower hall he was intercepted by Alan Royston, the police Media Relations Manager, who had set up a makeshift press office in a room to the left of the foyer. He led Skinner to where a dozen reporters stood waiting. There he explained to them what had happened in the Music Hall, describing the scale of the destruction. He answered the questions of the group as best he could, and agreed finally to Royston's suggestion that the journalists and photographers should be taken together into the hall to see for themselves. As he was making his way towards the exit, Al Neidermeyer arrived.
There was a television cameraman puffing at his heels, a city freelance whom Skinner knew by sight.
'Well, copper,' snarled Neidermeyer. 'So much for your security. How many more people did you let die here tonight?'
Once more. Skinner felt his self-control valve begin to strain.
He glanced quickly at the camera to make certain that the red action light was unlit. The cameraman was looking away, embarrassed. Then his right hand swept upwards in one short, swift motion. As it passed close to Neidermeyer's face, he flicked the second finger with his thumb, lightning-fast. The broad fingernail caught the American, very hard, square on the tip of the nose.
36
Andy Martin was waiting for him outside. He saw the anger in Skinner's eyes, but an inner caution stopped him from asking what was wrong. Instead he suggested that they go and talk things out at his flat near Haymarket, rather than return to the headquarters building.
They found Julia Shahor there when they arrived, home from the Film Festival. She greeted Martin, obvious anxiety turning quickly to relief. Radio Forth RFM was playing, and the television was on, with Teletext On 3 on screen, carrying the latest news on the explosion. A Royal Infirmary spokeswoman had confirmed the current death toll at fourteen; the condition of two other victims was said to be critical.
For a time, they stared grim-faced and speechless at the news bulletin on the screen. Then Martin handed Skinner and Julia a Beck's each from the fridge, taking a tin of Tennent's LA for himself. He joined Julia on the sofa, facing the television, while Skinner settled on the floor, his back against the wall.
It was Skinner who broke the silence – broke the spell cast by the horror of the Assembly Rooms. 'Andy, my brother, we've been kidding ourselves to think that we could prevent something like tonight. And we've been underestimating these people.
They're good: very well planned. We've got to catch them before it goes any further. But I do not, for the life of me, know how we're going to do it.'
For once, Martin had no word of encouragement to offer in reply.
Skinner finished his Beck's in one swallow, straight from the bottle. He got up to fetch himself another, then resumed his seat on the floor. With a wry smile, he said, 'But that's me seeing the glass half-empty. The positive side is that at least we've got some straightforward police work to do, thanks to good old Charlie Forsyth.'
'What do you mean?' asked Julia.
'Well, first we have to check every member of every other company that's been using that venue. Then there's the stage props. That exploding radiogram. No fucking way – oh, sorry, Julia – did they bring that all the way from Oz. They must have sourced it locally.'
'Maybe I can help you there,' she offered. 'I know of only three companies in Scotland which supply stage props. I looked into it earlier this year, when I needed things for a display I put on at Filmhouse. One's in Glasgow, one's down towards the Borders somewhere, but the biggest by far is here in Edinburgh. Let me see. What was it called? Proscenium Props – that was it. It was based in a big warehouse out to the west of the city, near Sighthill.'
'Good, Julia, Thanks for that. Well, Andy, that's a priority task for first thing tomorrow – I mean this morning. Find out where those props came from. Then we'll find out all there is to know about everybody on the supplier's payroll – like whether any of them has been handling Semtex over the last few days.'
He drained his second Beck's then pushed himself up from his hard seat on the floor. 'Right, that's it for me. I'm off home.'
'Want me to phone for a patrol car to pick you up?' asked Martin.
'No, no. Don't do that. The boys are too busy for taxi runs tonight. I'll walk. It's not that hellish far from here.' He paused.
'It's a nice night, and it'll let me pull some things together in my head. So long, Julia.'
Martin walked him to the front door of the second-floor flat.
He looked quizzically after his chief as he disappeared down the brightly lit, curving stairway. Eventually he closed the door and rejoined Julia in the living-room.
She caught the faraway look in his eyes. 'What is it?' she asked.
'It's the boss. He's got one of his niggles, I can tell.'
'What do you mean?'
'How do I explain it? Every so often, on a really difficult job, when we're pursuing a particular line of enquiry, Bob'11 decide that maybe it's not quite right: that all the bits don't fit that jigsaw. But he'll keep it to himself, just niggling and worrying away at the thought, like a dog at a bone, until either he's satisfied himself that, yes, we are on the right track after all, or until he comes up with a completely new approach.' He broke off. 'But enough of that. Heard from your aunt?'
'Yes, she's fine.'
'Which side of the family is she from? Mother or father?'