Quintin Jardine: Skinner's festival

Then, louder, he heard Good issue orders to his officers. 'Get our nearest units there at once. Make sure all the other emergency services are on the way. Then get on to the Bomb Squad!'

Skinner heard the control room burst into activity as the inspector turned his attention back to him. 'That was something just then, sir. A shout from Waverley Market, from that big entertainment tent they stick on top of it for the Festival. A report of an explosion. It came in on 999. All services required. The caller said it looked as if there were casualties. Where are you just now, sir?'

'Dr Grace and I are only about two hundred and fifty yards away. We are on our way right now. You get hold of DCI Martin, and tell him to get there, pronto.' He pushed the 'end' button, folded the telephone and replaced it in his pocket.

Sarah looked at him wide-eyed, questioning, but calm. 'So?'

'See that big tent along there? The one with the flag in front?

That's where it happened. You're needed as well, so let's leg it along there.'

Breaking into a trot, he set off out of the impromptu showground, its cacophony and its tumult still unaffected by the drama nearby. Sarah, gripping his hand, ran alongside him, keeping pace with his loping stride. Faced with a throng of pedestrians in Princes Street, Skinner pulled her behind him into its tree-lined Gardens. They ran across the grass, skirted the towering, grey neo-Gothic Scott Monument, and reached the exit which faced Waverley Market, the decked-over centre which provides the only shopping on the south side of Princes Street without compromising its famous skyline. They were confronted by a scene of panic and confusion around the big marquee. The entrance which faced them looked undamaged, but they could see that, towards the rear of the huge tent, a main support pillar had collapsed.

People stood around, some simply looking stunned, others in tears. Somewhere in the crowd a man was screaming hysterically.

A few held handkerchiefs to head wounds. As Bob and Sarah took in the scene from across the street, a girl stumbled from the tent's wide entrance, above which the sponsor's name was emblazoned.

Skinner guessed that she had been wearing a tartan uniform.

Shreds of her skirt hung from her waist, and a piece of fabric still clung to her left arm as it dangled, broken, at her side. Her face was a mask of blood; her blonde hair looked singed in places. If the girl was aware of being virtually naked, it concerned her not at all as she felt her way blindly forward with her uninjured right arm.

The crowd around them was growing thicker as people emerged from the shopping centre beneath the tent, shock replacing curiosity on their faces as they were gathered into the chaos.

Again Skinner took Sarah by the arm and pulled her after him, stopping the traffic with an upraised hand. They crossed the street together, jogged up the short slope back into Princes Street, and made their way towards the damaged marquee. Just as they arrived, a panda car drew up, and Skinner saw a traffic vehicle approaching also. He waited for its arrival, then called all of the four uniformed officers to him.

'What's your name?' Skinner asked the one sergeant among the four, feeling the inevitable pang of guilt which struck him every time he failed to recall the name of any police officer of promoted rank.

'Sergeant Holland, sir.'

'Right, Sergeant. Take charge outside here till a senior uniform arrives. Use your three constables to divert traffic: eastbound at the traffic lights past the Balmoral, westbound at Jenners corner, and southbound up in St Andrew Square.' He pointed for emphasis in each direction as he issued his orders. 'For now, you place yourself at the entrance to Ithe tent and keep the public out.

As more officers arrive, use them to clear the immediate area completely, to make room for the emergency services.'

Meantime, Sarah had gone to the assistance of the naked, blinded victim. She had taken off her own light cotton jacket and had draped it around the girl's shoulders, comforting her as best she could while quickly assessing her injuries.

Skinner called over to her as she worked. 'Love, I want you to round up the walking casualties and take them across the street into the Gardens; as far away as the Scott Monument, and behind it for safety. The sergeant here will route the ambulances to you as they arrive.'

Sarah nodded acknowledgement – but to the back of his head, for Skinner was already striding off towards the tent. She turned towards the crowd which had gathered in Princes Street. 'Hey!

Are there any doctors or nurses here?' she shouted.

A middle-aged man and two young women raised their hands.

'Well, why the hell are you standing there gawping? Come over here and help me with these people.'

The two girls ran forward at once, but the man, though closest of the three, merely shook his head slowly, mouthing 'Sorry.' I Sarah stared at him, astonished. 'You're a doctor?' Yes.'

'So help here, for Christ's sake.'

The man shook his balding head again. 'I'm sorry, but I can't. I work in a hospital. My indemnity cover doesn't extend to situations like these.'

'In that case,' said Sergeant Holland, who had overheard the exchange, 'on your bike, or I'll do you for obstruction!'

The neon strip-lights were still working as Skinner stepped into the big marquee. It was sectioned off by a canvas divider which stretched almost its full width, with only a short gap on the right acting as a doorway. This partition was torn in two places, but that was the only damage apparent in that part of the tent. A small stage, fringed by a blue velvet pelmet and edged by potted greenery, had been set up against the perimeter canvas on the left.

The paved deck of the Waverley Centre had been covered with green hessian flooring, and gold-painted, blue-upholstered seats were arranged on it, theatre-style, around the small stage. Two long rectangular tables stood against the tent wall opposite the stage. Each was covered by a white cloth, ruffled by the force of the blast but still held in place by boxes of wineglasses, presumably there in readiness for the marquee's first Festival party.

Skinner did not notice the young man at first. It was a faint whimper that made him look across the rows of seats to catch sight of the figure sitting on the floor, his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking.

Skinner spoke softly, not wanting to startle the boy. 'Son, are you all right? Son.'

The youth turned his head slowly to look up him. His face was chalk-white, in awful contrast with the drying blood across his forehead. Then he stood up unsteadily, and Skinner saw the rest of it smeared across the front of his blue and black striped Heart of Midlothian replica football shirt, spread also on his black denim jeans and matting in his hair.

'Go and see Danny, mister. Go and see him. Go and see Danny.

Look at him. He's all over me.' He began to cry, softly at first, then louder. He slumped to his knees again and Skinner went closer, but he could think of nothing to do but put his hands on the boy's shoulders. For silent seconds he stood over the kneeling, sobbing young man in a strange attitude of blessing.

'We'll see to the lad, sir.' The voice came from behind him. He looked round to see an ambulance crew; a man and a woman in uniform. Nodding, but without a word, the big detective took a step back, then turned and walked towards the opening in the canvas wall.

As once it was clear to Skinner that the explosion had originated in the far right-hand corner of the tent's inner apartment. One of the structure's stout supporting pillars had been blown to fragments, and debris radiated outwards from that spot. Slowly, Skinner stepped towards the wreckage. But suddenly he paused, his eyes widening, as he caught sight of what was left of Danny, the boy he had been sent there to see.