30
Colonel Malou was impressed. The sight of the reception that had awaited the Bastogne Drummers in Haddington had taken him by surprise, and had made him think for the first time since Hull of something other than the death of Philippe Hanno. He had not been told of it in advance, and in other circumstances the sight of it would have gladdened his heart.
When their bus had pulled into the centre of the old county town, they had found an official welcoming party, headed by the chairman of East Lothian Council, and by the president of the area council of the Royal British Legion. There was another there too; a young priest, in a dark suit, looking sombre amongst the jovial councillors and their boisterous ex-service hosts. ‘Colonel Malou,’ he said, in French, when it was his turn to greet him, ‘I am Father Angelo Collins, private secretary to His Holiness. He has asked me to give you his personal welcome to Scotland, and to tell you how pleased he is that you have been able to come to play for him.’
The old soldier was deeply moved. ‘It’s an honour beyond the dreams of any of us.’
‘His Holiness has heard of the accident in Hull,’ Father Collins continued, ‘through the priest who attended. He sends his sympathy on your loss, and his prayers for the soul of Corporal Hanno.’
Malou simply nodded his thanks, for he could not speak them.
A civic buffet awaited the Belgians in the Corn Exchange and a marching route had been laid out for the afternoon. After Hanno’s tragic death. . the police in Hull had called Malou that morning in Newcastle, but only to tell him that they had had no success in tracing the drunken driver who had knocked him down. . Malou had surprised many of the bandsmen by declaring that for the rest of the tour there would be no drinking before parades and that the Stella would be strictly rationed afterwards.
Some of the senior men had suggested that their fallen colleague would have wanted the opposite form of tribute, but the colonel had rebuffed them. ‘This was always my intention,’ he had told them, ‘and Philippe knew it. We are on our way to play for His Holiness. When we do, every one of us will be at his sharpest.’
And so the crates of beer in the Corn Exchange had been untouched by the visitors. . although not by the official representatives. . and an extra supply of soft drinks had been fetched from the nearby supermarket. To the surprise of the Royal British Legionnaires, at least, Malou and his company had remained clear-eyed throughout the lunch.
At three o’clock sharp, they lined up outside the Sheriff Court building. The colonel was at the head of the parade, leading the twenty-three bandsmen in their blue uniforms, with the squad of twelve musketeers bringing up the rear.
Although they were known officially as the Bastogne Drummers, half of the instruments were brass, with six trombones, two tenor horns, two baritone horns and two tubas. Normally there would have been two bass drums flanking the ten side-drummers, but as Malou marched them out into Court Street, there was only one. They had left without reserves, and Hanno’s place remained vacant.
The route was a short one; for traffic had to be held up for the march, and Haddington was always busy on a Saturday afternoon. Malou the bandmaster led them, playing as they went, from Court Street into Market Street; the pavements were not exactly lined, but many shoppers stopped to watch them pass through the wider area of the old marketplace, past Kesley’s bookshop on the right, and the East Lothian Courier office on the left, before they moved into the bottleneck that led to Hardgate.
Malou had not been given an opportunity to rehearse the parade, but he found no difficulty as there was a strong police presence and officers were lined on either side of the marchers, showing them the way. He speeded the march as they took the right turn into the narrow section of Hardgate that led them towards, then past, the old George Hotel and into High Street. There the roadway widened out once more, and the colonel was able to slow the march again. The music was loud and martial, but tight and disciplined, as were his troops. A lump came to the old soldier’s throat as he glanced to either side of him and saw genuine admiration in the eyes of many of the onlookers, where these days in Belgium he usually saw only amusement and ridicule.
If this was to be the Drummers’ last tour, they would go out in style, he promised himself as he led his proud column past the Town House.
The march ended where it had begun, in front of the Sheriff Court and the old council buildings. As the colonel led the squad into the assembly area he turned them, so that the musket platoon was in front.
‘Raise your weapons!’ he called out; the command was in English, for the benefit of his audience. The ancient, heavy muskets, shouldered during the march, were pointed in the air.
‘Prepare salute!’ A dozen thumbs drew back hammers, and the side-drummers began a long roll.
Malou counted to ten. ‘Fire!’ he yelled, making himself heard above the bandsmen.
The noise was deafening. Several members of the official party were seen to jump backwards, and even across the street, the colonel saw that the crowds were startled. Good, he thought, as he always did at such a moment. They should know, they should know.
31
Bob had always liked the smoking room in the Gullane golf clubhouse, the big front lounge with its oak panelling, and the gold-inscribed boards high on the wall, listing the club champions and past captains. Once he had entertained hopes of seeing his own name on the former, but his erratic putting stroke had thwarted him in each of the three or four years when he had come close.
He had told McGuire to be there for eight o’clock, but he and Sarah had arrived a good fifteen minutes early, to be on the safe side. He had chosen a bottle of Chablis from the list; it sat on their table in an ice bucket, as they waited, sipping the gentle white wine and making small-talk, sitting close together to make themselves heard above the conversation of the other dining parties.
The Gleneagles weekend had been a good move, Bob had told himself on the way back. The surroundings had encouraged them both to say things that had needed saying, and as a result there was a degree of restored warmth between them, where before the atmosphere had been chilly and unpredictable. Their marriage was not out of the woods, but at least there was light shining through the trees.
If the clock above the fireplace had had a chimer, it would have struck eight at the precise moment that McGuire’s bulky form appeared in the doorway. The big superintendent wore a navy blue blazer and slacks, but even in a white suit he would still have managed to cast a dark figure, Skinner thought. His hair, his complexion and his eyes worked together to create that impression, and also to radiate considerable menace to those who did not know him, although he was by nature the most amiable of men.
Skinner rose to greet his guests, making for Paula Viareggio first. They had met before at a few social events around Edinburgh; he had always found her as striking a figure as her cousin, although in a different way. She was as typically Italian as he could imagine, save for her silver hair, long and sleek and shining, which made her olive skin seem even richer. Heads at every table turned in her direction as she walked into the room.
‘Hello,’ he said warmly, leaning forward to kiss her cheek, bending only slightly, for she was tall. ‘Good to see you.’
He turned to the American; the two shook hands. ‘Inspector, welcome to Gullane. How’s your day been so far?’