Quintin Jardine: Skinner's festival

After closing the last file, Skinner stared for a few seconds at the blank screen, then, with a shake of his head, signed out of the network. He picked up his secure telephone and called Andy Martin's direct-line number, which was also scrambled.

'How're you getting on? I've turned up nothing here.' The neither. One thing I have done, though, is track down the managing director of the firm that sponsored that marquee some big knitwear outfit or other – to check whether they've got any serious business rivals, or if there are any former employees with a grievance. He's thinking over the second possibility, but I said there's no chance of the first. He claims he knows all his rivals personally. They're all in the same golf club. He reckons that alone would rule out any nasties.'

Skinner chuckled. 'Course it would! You can't play golf with a man, then bomb his business. Just isn't done! Got any other theories, m'boy?'

Martin exhaled noisily at his end of the line. 'None that are worth a stuff, boss. I've checked out the Nats and some of the wilder boys in the home-rule wing of the Labour Party, but there's absolutely nothing on any of the characters we've got on file to suggest that they'd be capable of this. And just suppose there is a Home Ruler out there of a mind to do something stupid, why the hell would he do it in some bloody tent? He'd choose a highprofile target, wouldn't he? No, my best guess is that it's linked in some way to the sponsors of that marquee. And that's all I've got.'

Skinner grunted. 'And as far as I'm concerned, you haven't even got that. OK, Andy. I'm on my way down to Fettes. We'll need to work out a statement on this, and get it out before the media start a public panic through lack of solid information. See you shortly.'

Skinner was turning the key of the five-lever Chubb lock to close his office door when his mobile telephone started its trembling call sound. He dug it out of the breast pocket of his shirt and pushed the receive' button. 'Skinner.'

'Bob, it's Alan Ballantyne here. I'm at Number 6. Can you get here right away, please.'

Skinner recognised concern, almost alarm in the Secretary of State's voice, but made an effort to keep his own tone relaxed.

'Sure, Alan. I'm at the House just now. I'll be with you in five minutes.' "That's good. But use the back door, will you. I don't want anyone to know you're here!'

Skinner's new BMW was parked in his reserved space in the St Andrews House courtyard, where he and Sarah had left it earlier that day.

As he pulled out of the exit gates held open for him by a security guard, he saw the traffic tailed back from the closed section of Princes Street, so he nipped across the flow and headed eastwards, turning into Regent Terrace. Just three minutes later he pulled off St Colrne Street and up the rising driveway which led into the car park at the rear of Number 6 Charlotte Square. After parking, he called Andy Martin to warn him that he had been delayed, but without telling him exactly where he was. Then he climbed out of the BMW, locked it securely, headed over to the anonymous bluepainted back door, and rang its brass bell.

The official residence of the Secretary of State for Scotland had been gifted to the nation by an aristocratic family, to be used for that special purpose. It is a noble Georgian building in the centre of the terrace extending along the north side of Charlotte Square, Edinburgh's finest. Unlike Downing Street, there is no ministerial office in Number 6. Its only business function is to serve as a venue for government receptions and official dinner parties.

However, its private apartments are occupied frequently by Scottish Office ministers, particularly those with rural i constituencies. Alan Ballantyne was Member of Parliament for a sprawling seat in the north-east of Scotland. Skinner knew, too, that he had a shaky marriage, and that he used his Edinburgh residence on occasion as a bolt-hole.

The back door was opened by a beautiful woman. She looked to be around thirty, and was dressed in a silk blouse and a perfectly, cut beige skirt. About Sarah's age. Skinner thought, and he doesn't have any sisters. Dressed with money, too. Careful, Alan. careful.

The blonde's accent sounded even more expensive than her clothes. 'Mr Skinner?' He nodded. 'Come away in, you're '3 18 expected. I'm Carlie, by the way. A sort of friend of the family.'

She led him up a flight of stairs which ascended to an austere hallway at street level. At the top she turned to him. 'Alan's waiting for you in the drawing-room. Do you know the way from here?'

Skinner smiled. 'Yes, I've been here a few times. Usually get to use the front door, though.'

Carlie returned his grin, and disappeared through a door at the back of the hall. Skinner continued up a second flight of stone stairs. One of the double doors to the drawing-room lay open. He entered and closed it behind him.

The magnificent room extended across the full width of the house. Its original fixtures had all been preserved, and the antique furniture and fittings were in tune with the period of the building itself.

The Secretary of State for Scotland stood leaning with his left forearm on the mantelpiece of the big empty fireplace. His right hand held a heavy crystal glass, in which a peaty liquid swirled.

Skinner was astonished by this, as he knew the man rarely drank alcohol in any form.

Ballantyne turned at the sound of the closing of the door. 'Bob, am I glad to see you. Want a drink?'

Skinner shook his head. 'Too early for me, Alan.' The too, as a rule, but when you hear what I have to tell you, you'll understand why. First things first, tell me about this explosion. Everything you know or suspect. Don't worry about anyone walking in on us. There's no staff here today, and I've told Carlie not to disturb us.'

Ballantyne led the way over to two finely carved, tightly upholstered armchairs at the far end of the room. They sat down, facing each other. Skinner leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, and looked the Secretary of State in the eye.

'Well, first of all, there was no warning, no tip-off, no chance to clear the place. Whoever planted that bomb meant for it to go off, and didn't care a bit about casualties. Mind you, I don't think that it was meant particularly to cause injury. It was placed in a corner of the tent, and the lad who was killed – a poor wee bugger called Danny Baker – was just unlucky. He was standing right next to the thing when it went off. It blew him to bits, and hurt quite a few other people, but none of the survivors seems to have been critically injured. The boy's body probably shielded the rest of them. We don't know for sure, but the army people think it was some Semtex device. So it wouldn't have been very big, and could have been stashed in anything: a biscuit tin, or any container like that. Something took the top of the boy Baker's head off; it could have been the lid.'

As Ballantyne winced at the thought. Skinner went on. 'So, despite the recklessness, I think that this was meant as some sort of demonstration. The objective could have been just to bring down the tent and attract public attention. But it's the why that beats me. As for who our somebody might be, I've looked at all the obvious candidates, and I don't fancy any of them. There've been no hints from the intelligence networks of anything cooking, so it looks like either a random nutter or a completely new setup.

It's the Semtex that worries me most of all. You don't steal that stuff from construction sites. Anybody who can get his hands on Semtex is either tied into an international terror group, or has serious cash at his disposal. I wish to God I knew which it is.

'The thing that surprises me, Alan, is that we haven't had a call yet. I'd have expected whoever did this to have been in touch by now, identifying himself, telling us what it's all about, and making some specific demands. But so far, there's been nothing at all.'