Skinner's Festival by Quintin Jardine Page A

himself in the fifteen years between Myra’s death and Sarah’s arrival in his life: a quiet, private, thoughtful man, a loner; good qualities for a high-achieving detective but barriers on the road to happiness. For all of those years he had been wounded inwardly, like Sarah, but more severely. His few brief sexual encounters with available women – never at his home, and always when Alex was away with her grandparents or at school camps – had been deeply unsatisfying and had left him grieving afresh for his daughter’s dead mother. So when he had first met Sarah, in the line of duty, and had felt immediately drawn to her, it had been in spite of himself, and his nature, that he had followed his instincts. And now he was, he knew, a far better man for it. He had still only a very few close friends, Andy Martin and James Proud top of the list, but he had become more approachable, more ready to laugh with others, and to share his thoughts with them. He perceived, too, that he was now more active in his support of those in trouble, where before he might have offered no more than sympathy. At first he had worried whether the new Skinner might be too soft as a
commander, but he had realised quickly that the qualities which he had felt himself developing were strengths rather than weaknesses.
    He had now lapsed into a reverie, from which Sarah recalled him abruptly, by propping herself up on an elbow and tweaking his nose.
Hey! I’m still here, you know.’ She glanced down towards his right leg. 'Going to tell me about that now?’
Bob glanced down to see the red raw scrape on his knee. He looked at Sarah and grinned.
All right. I’m in Charlotte Square, and I’m watching this motorcyclist outside Alan Ballantyne’s place, you know Number 6. I think he looks a bit iffy, so I decide to check him out.
I’m on my way over to talk to him when he reaches inside his jacket. That bomb must have got to me more than I thought, because I decide he’s going for a gun, and I dive for cover. In fact, what’s he got in his hand is nothing but a mobile phone. Did I feel like a prat? Yes I did. Worst of all, big Denis from the Scotsman saw it all. Ask him.’
He said it all with a smile, thinking: That last part was a clever touch. Hope it does the trick.
Sarah’s eyes narrowed as she weighed up the plausibility of his story. 'What did the biker do?’
'He got the fright of his life. Imagine. He hears what he must have thought was a nutter shouting and running at him, then sees him diving about in the street. He revved up his bike and bombed off. What else would you expect?’ Bob kept smiling, his fingers mentally crossed, as she looked at him for a few long seconds.
Well, if that’s all. Lie there and I’ll clean up that knee.’ She swung herself off the bed and walked on tiptoes into their shower-room. A few seconds later she reappeared, leaning on the
doorjamb with an uncapped bottle of Dettol and a wad of cotton wool in her hand.
As always, the sudden sight of his wife naked gave Bob a rush of pleasure, even although he had seen her thus only a few seconds before. He smiled as his eyes took in her long legs, her smooth belly with the dark heart of mystery at its base, her high, proud, full breasts.
    In her turn she looked at him, stretched out on the bed with the special relaxation that only follows great sex: grey-maned but still vibrant with the spirit of youth, long, lean and muscular. He smiled at her again, but she kept her face straight.
'Think it’s funny, huh. Spread 'em, boy, and take your medicine.’
He did as he was told, rolling on to his back, his legs forming a V. She knelt alongside him and padded the scrape on his knee with the cotton wool, now well soaked in the antiseptic. She held the bottle of Dettol upright in her left hand as she worked.
He winced as the antiseptic stung, smiling a stage smile through clenched teeth.
'That’s a brave soldier,’ she cooed.
Then, suddenly, she straddled him again,