Gallery Whispers

97

A small crowd of people stood on the pavement in Morrison Street, opposite the entrance to the Edinburgh International Conference Centre. Apart from the Scottish Office minders, and two uniformed police officers, they were all journalists, not accredited to enter the conference itself, but given secondary passes to allow them limited access to the arrival.

They stood in professional, dispassionate silence as the President of the United States stepped out of his armour-plated car under the Centre's decorative canopy, watching as he was greeted by the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, gold chain glinting, by Chief Constable Sir James Proud, silver braid shining, and by the American Consul General, in a dark lounge suit.

Andy Martin was waiting in the foyer as the group moved inside: the world's most powerful man shook his hand as the Consul General introduced him, gave him a drawled, 'Good morning and thank you,' and moved on.

The chief superintendent had never seen the President in the flesh before. On the basis of the documentaries he had watched on television and the studies he had read of his ascent to power, he had always wondered how the man had reached the world's most powerful office.

Close to he began to understand: there was a presence about him, an aura which was almost visible, and which had been lacking in all of the other world figures who had walked past him previously that morning, even the formidable Chinese and French leaders.

As he gazed after him, the President walked through the security archway — the metal detector having been turned off for that moment, to ensure that his belt buckle did not set it off — smiled and waved briefly over his shoulder to the police and officials gathered in the entrance.

'Two more to go, sir,' said Mario McGuire as he stepped alongside Martin. 'The Russian and our PM.'

'Don't forget the Secretary of State.'

'Easily done,' the inspector grunted, as they stepped closer to the entrance. 'D'you remember the saying about that old Prime Minister.

What was it? "An empty car drew up outside Number Ten and Mr Attlee got out." That could have been told about Anderson.'

The Head of CID laughed. 'You've been spending too much time with the Deputy Chief Constable. That's how he feels about all politicians these days. If someone told him there was a bomb in here, I reckon he'd clear out the civilians and lock the leaders in.'

As he spoke, McGuire nudged his elbow, and gestured towards the group across the street. 'There's a friend of yours over there.'

Martin's eye followed his pointing finger. Estelle Lawrence stood among the group of journalists, waving at them with a slightly uncertain smile. He grinned and gave her a brief wave in return.

'Here, sir,' the inspector muttered, 'you dropped us right in it last night, bringing that one back to the table and having us all pretend we were catering contractors. Christ, when Maggie said she was in charge of dishwashing…' He shook his head, laughing softly to himself.

'After we all left, did you manage to stick to your ten o'clock curfew?'

'Oh aye, no problem. I might have trouble tonight, though. I'm picking Estelle up at nine from her hotel.'

McGuire pointed across the street once more. 'I'm not so sure about that. See who she's talking to?'

The Head of CID looked back at the journalists and saw Estelle deep in conversation with John Tough, a local news reporter whom they both knew well. Suddenly her expression changed; she shot them both a venomous glare.

'Know what?' said the Special Branch commander. 'I think us two catering contractors have just been dropped right in the soup.'