The Press Briefing Room was as full as Skinner had ever seen it, even in the times of major crises which had marked his career. Six television cameras, including the Force Video Unit, pointed at him, from behind ranks of reporters.
I have a very short statement to make, ladies and gentlemen, after which I do not intend to take any questions.
It has now been established that yesterday morning's disaster on the Lammermuirs was caused by an explosion in the cabin of the plane. We are satisfied that a device was smuggled on board the aircraft, although we do not know whether it was intended that it should detonate in flight.
`This Force has now begun a murder investigation. I am in direct control of enquiries, assisted by Chief Superintendent Andrew Martin. He has been appointed Head of CID, in succession to Roy Old who, as you will know, died in yesterday's tragedy. Mr Martin and I will call on other Forces for cooperation and assistance as necessary.
I have nothing more to say today, but further briefings will be held as appropriate.'
He stood up amid a clamour of shouted questions, and a forest of waving tape recorders, and walked from the room.
As he passed the back row of journalists, Noel Salmon, an untidy, black-stubbled man who worked for Skinner's least favourite tabloid, chuckled to his neighbour, `D'you reckon Andy Martin planted the bomb so he could get Roy Old's job?'
As a collective moan escaped the lips of all those journalists who were near enough to hear the remark, the DCC froze in mid-stride. He reached down, grabbed the podgy reporter by his leather belt, hauled him from his seat and propelled him bodily from the room. Sammy Pye, on duty by the double doors, held them open for him, unquestioningly, then had the innate good sense not to follow.
The corridor wound to the right towards a stairway, fifteen feet from the doors. Skinner turned into it out of sight, and threw the man against the opposite wall, face first, and very hard.
Salmon squealed: 'That's assault!'
`No, it's not, it's carelessness. I just dropped you, that's all. I wouldn't dirty my knuckles on a little shit like you, son. But if I ever hear of you saying something as crass as that again, then for the rest of your life you will never know a day when you don't regret it. Now you get on your way, and don't ever present yourself in this office again, or in any other run by this Force.'
Salmon lived up to his name. His face was a deep pink colour. 'You can't take on the Press, Skinner! I'll get you!'
The policeman's face twisted with scorn. 'You? You graceless wanker, you could barely get your own tea. Now shift out of here before I charge you with imitating a human being.'
He pushed the man towards the door, and trotted up the stairway. He was still shaking with anger as he sat down behind his desk. When Maggie Rose came into the room the phone was in his hand and he was dialling a London number.
`Reggie,' he barked, when the call was answered. 'Bob Skinner. Remember you told me that a couple of years ago you sorted out a problem for that newspaper proprietor fellow, the one that owns those nasty tabloids, and that he owes our side a few favours as a result?
You do? Good! Well, now I've got a wee problem, and I'd like him to sort it out. In fact, I'd like him make sure that my wee problem never gets a job in journalism in Britain again… ever.'