In the last hour night had fallen on the city. The ruins of the palace were as dark as anywhere in Edinburgh. Holyroodhouse had been the epicentre of the catastrophic riots that followed the heir to the throne’s second marriage to the daughter of a Colombian drugs baron before his coronation in 2002. It wasn’t only his fault. We’d been strung along for years by political parties who’d set up devolution but kept their sticky unionist fingers very much on the controls. The crown prince’s attempt to improve his family’s cash reserves wasn’t a brilliant public relations exercise though. His involvement with a drugs heiress went down like a lead zeppelin at a time when the UK was being torn apart by drugs-related crime. Just as well he wasn’t staying at the palace. The masses would have had no problem blowing him up as well. “Hope you’ve got a torch,” Davie said. “Hope the directorate manages to find a generator.” The Council had left the ruins exactly as they were.