'Isn't Ingo brilliant, folks? And it's only his hobby!'
'You're not a professional electrician?' Bob's question spoke volumes. His inflection was such that it was as if he had said straight out, 'Tell me all there is to know about you, young man.'
Suddenly silenced, Alex looked at him curiously.
'No, sir. Not in that sense,' said the Swede. 'I have a degree in mining engineering, and now I do what you would call post-grad research at university in Sweden. The theatre work I do for fun, as something different. And it helps me pass this summer.'
'But it's unpaid?'
'Yes, my amateur status remains intact!' He laughed, self-assured. •They must look after you well in Sweden. Here, damn few postgraduates can afford to be amateur at anything.'
'In Sweden is no different. But I have a scholarship.'
'A good one, obviously.'
'Big enough for me anyway. It comes from a foundation set up by a South African mining company. The story goes that they were anxious to atone for their racial policy, and so they decided to set up scholarships at universities around the world, mostly for black students of mining. But what they found was that only Sweden would take their money. Of course there are very few black students in Sweden, and none at all in mining engineering!
Still, the scholarship is very generous and so, for someone who is no more than a researcher, I am, as you say here, rolling in it.'
Only Alex did not join in the laughter.
'So what brought you to Edinburgh?'
'I have heard much of your Festival. I had hoped to come with a Swedish group, but they could not raise the cash. It was suggested that I write to the Festival people and offer my services. To tell truth, I was coming anyway, but the Glasgow people had an emergency, they call me, and here I am, in this very fine play, in your lovely city.'
'What son of emergency?'
Alex broke in. 'I thought I'd told you. Our regular lighting technician went on holiday to Gran Canaria last month. On the way back, the Spanish airport police searched his rucksack, and found lots of white powder in a big talcum tin. Only it wasn't talc.
The story goes that it was a kilo of heroin. He's in jail now, waiting to be tried. He swears he's innocent, that it was planted on him.'
Skinner laughed out loud and shook his head. 'Sorry, love. The smack smuggler isn't born yet who won't say that when he gets nicked. Doesn't matter whether it's Las Palmas or Las Pilton, the story's always the same. "Who? Me, officer? Never saw it before in my life." We had this lady once, off a holiday flight at Edinburgh. The stuff was tied up in a French letter, hidden, shall we say about her person. Know what she said? That her boyfriend has asked her to take it through, but that he had told her they were the diamonds for her engagement ring, packed in icing sugar.
Romantic, eh. The only trouble was she was travelling alone. She claimed her boyfriend had missed the flight.'
'Hold on, darling,' said Sarah, breaking in. I could almost swallow that.'
Bob raised his eyebrow in an exaggerated gesture. 'You could what?'
Her mouth fell open and she flushed bright pink.
'Be that as it may,' he went on, 'we didn't. Turned out the boyfriend was her husband, a Spanish brigand with a ton of form.
They missed him in Malaga. They said they reckoned he was hiding out in La Gomera, till he could get across to Africa. We keep waiting for him to turn up on visiting day at Cornton Vale.
No joy yet, though. Not one visit in five years. Some husband, eh.' He shook his head. 'No, sorry. Alex. Your lighting man got greedy, and got caught. You might see him again in around fifteen years.'
He smiled back across the table at the Swede. 'So the lights man's ill wind blew you some good, Ingo.'
'Yes, sir. So it seems.'
'Enough of the "sir", the name's Bob, remember.' He twisted the top off the Gleneagles bottle and topped up his guest's glass.
'Is mining a family thing, Ingo? Is that what your father does?'
The Swede laughed. 'No, no. Nothing like that. The opposite, I should say. He was an airline pilot with SAS.' "There's a coincidence,' Skinner muttered. •Pardon?'
'Sorry, a private joke. Rude of me. I have one of his colleagues working with me just now, in a manner of speaking. SAS:
Scandinavian Airlines. How about your mother?'
'Ah. Like Alex, my mother died when I was very young.'
'Ahh. That's too bad. Anyway, enough of that. Dig into those strawberries.'
By the time the meal was over. Skinner had learned a great deal about Ingemar Svart. But he had been concentrating so hard on his gentle cross-examination that he had failed to notice the frown as it gathered and deepened on his daughter's face. Alex had hardly closed the door from saying her goodnight to the Swede, when she squared up to him.
'Pops, just what is it with you?'
'What do you mean?'
"You interrogated Ingo like a suspect.'
Bob laughed, but he was takel aback by an edge in her voice which he had never heard before. 'Your artistic imagination's running away with you."Like hell it is. You gave the gw the third degree. You were rude and inquisitive. Are you coming the heavy father or something?'
'Hey, calm down, girl. A mat comes into our house with my daughter; it's natural to want to know something about him.'
'Not his coUar size and insids-leg measurement, for Christ's sake. What is this? Since when did you bring the office home with you.'
For the first time that he couli remember. Bob Skinner raised his voice in anger to his daughter. 'Since when? Since innocent people started to get killed in Edinburgh, for no reason other than being useful propaganda fodder, or Tor just being expendable. Did you see the TV news this evening? Recognise anyone – such as me? Get used to it, honey. Till this thing's over, no one in this town's going to be a stranger to me. Did you collect your pass tonight?'
Alex looked puzzled. 'Yes. So what?'
'You fiUed in a form?' •Yes.'
'Right. Even now, as we stand here shouting at each other, the information on that form, and on every other form we collected tonight, is being run through a computer. That's called security.
It's called taking precautions. It's all we can do against these people. God knows, it's not much, and it's probably useless, but at least it's something. Our best protection is all the information we can get about all the people in this city. That includes your friend Ingo.'
'And me?'
'Yes. Crazy as it may seem: fnd you. Just in case, through in Glasgow, you've fallen in with the sort of people who do the sort of things Sarah and I have feen close up in the last couple of days. And just in case, as your father, I'm too close to read the signs.'
'Then thank you. Father, for your love and trust.' The livingroom door rattled on its hinges as she slammed it behind her.
Bob turned to Sarah. Amazement, tinged with hurt, showed on his face. 'What the bloody hell was all that about?'
'Hey, big man. Cool down.' She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him slowly, ruffling his hair. 'Read the signs, Dad. She thought you were attacking her man, so she defended him.' •What d' you mean, her man?'
'I mean that our Alex has got it bad, and it shows – to everyone but you, that is.'
'But she's only a-'
'Slip of a girl, you were going to say? Oh no she isn't, my darling. Oh no, she isn't.'
26
SCOTLAND DEFIANT AGAINST TERROR.
The banner headline of Monday morning's Scotsman blared up at Skinner from the table as he joined Sarah for breakfast in the conservatory. He picked it up and saw himself on the front page, seated beside a subdued Ballantyne at the press conference, and looking hard at Dave Bassett as he faced him down.
He scanned the accompanying stories, which took up the entire front page, then turned to the leader column. He snorted quietly as he read the editorial, which praised the Secretary of State for displaying a firm and resolute face to the terrorists, and for his good sens
e in handing over complete responsibility to his security adviser.
'Mr Skinner and his newly formed squad bear a heavy responsibility,' it read. 'We are confident that they are up to the challenge. Yet it must be noted that however distinguished they may be as police officers, they are inexperienced in facing the type of threat which now confronts them. While no blame can be attached to any individual for failing to prevent the two deaths which took place at the weekend, security precautions are now in place and the public have a right to expect them to be effective.'
He threw the paper on to a chair and glanced at Sarah. 'Did you see the leader?'
She nodded, unsmiling. 'Odd, isn't it. It seems to say that Ballantyne's done all he possibly can, and that from now on it's all down to you if anything else happens.'
Bob shrugged his shoulders. 'Joe Compton, the editor – he's an old chum of Ballantyne, and it bloody well shows there. That's politics for you.'
'What are the chances of some other calamity happening?'
'Depends what they want to do. It'll be dangerous for them to target individuals from now on, but unless they've run out of Semtex we can look for some more bangs. There's bugger-all we can do about someone leaving a Marks Spencer bag in the middle of Marks Spencer, for example. That's what I expect, anyway. My reading of these characters says that they won't expose themselves to direct danger – not the ringleaders at any rate. What d' you think? Got any sort of a profile for me yet?'
'No chance. I've only got three short letters to go on, and frankly there just isn't enough in them to tell me anything about the man who wrote them.'
'Man? Is that an assumption?'
'No it is not. That's one thing I am fairly sure of: it wasn't a woman who wrote them. There's something about – how do I say? – the posture of the language that is decidedly male. Very assertive. Confident. In fact certain. Let me put it this way. If the writer of those letters isn't a man, then we're looking for someone as forceful as Germaine Greer – or, and it's just a thought, for more than one person.'
27
When Skinner reached his office he found ample evidence that the security operation was in full swing. His intray was piled high with folders, each one listing a different Festival location.
He picked one off the top of the heap. Its subject venue and its contents were noted on the front. He murmured quietly to himself as his eye scanned down the page.
'Signet Library.
'Description of venue.
'Potential hazards.
'Risk assessment.
'Recommendations.
'Inspecting officer's signature: Margaret Rose, Detective Sergeant.'
He opened the folder and read the report. As he expected of a Maggie Rose job, it was thorough, concise, and its recommendations were sound. The Signet Library, she had concluded, was an unlikely target. It would be the location of only four events, each of them part of the 'Official' Festival.
The spectacularly beautiful, pillared room, with its valuable collection of volumes arranged on two levels, was well alarmed.
All of the potential access points, other than the main door, were bolted shut, and there was permanent building security all year round. Maggie Rose recommended that the security firm be deployed on a round-the-clock basis, with regular and ostentatious visits by uniformed police officers. Finally she proposed that, during performances, an armed officer, in uniform, should be posted at the main entrance. Her report closed with the suggestion, couched in properly respectful terms, that her senior officers might consider whether widespread deployment of high-profile armed police, in uniform, at all major venues might offer the double benefit of deterring would126 be terrorists, while boosting public morale.
Skinner closed the folder and smiled to himself. 'Nice one, Maggie. You'll make inspector before that man of yours, I reckon.' He picked up the telephone and told Martin of her suggestion.
'She's right, boss. We might have enough people to do it, but they'll all have to be qualified marksmen. That could give us a problem.'
'No problem at all. Adam Arrow's SAS guys arrive this evening. Ask him if he minds us sticking them into police uniforms and using them as armed sentries.'
'Will do. Adam's right here.'
Skinner read through the rest of the reports. Each one was marked 'Actioned', with Andy Martin's initials alongside. When the last of the reports had been consigned to the out-tray, he came upon a ribbon of computer printout sheets, still in fan-fold. A glance told him that they were the results of at least the first checks on the application forms completed by Festival performers.
Subjects were listed by name, nationality, and home city. Almost all were marked 'Nothing Known'. Occasionally there would be a note of some past encounter with the law, mostly motoring offences, with a few drug-use or theft convictions scattered among them. He flicked through the sheets, scanning the names, which were listed as they had been fed into the computer. Near the end, he found the entry for which he had been looking.
'Svart, Ingemar. Age 29, currently residing at 43 Close Avenue, Stockbridge. Student. Swedish national. Interpol check run.
Nothing known.'
'Hm. Just as well for you, pal.'
He was about to toss the sheaf of paper into his out-tray when a name at the foot of the page caught his eye. For an instant it made his stomach drop, but a quick look reassured him 'Skinner, Alexis. Age 20, currently residing at 20 Fairy house Avenue, Edinburgh.
Student. Nothing known.'
The sight of Alex's name listed there with the herd, and vetted with the rest, touched his heart. He laughed, but it was forced.
'Just as well for you too, my girl.'
He spent the next half-hour trying to restore a semblance of normality to his working life. In spite of Jimmy Proud's assurance, at the time of his promotion, that the attainment of Chief Officer rank would not affect his operational status as a working detective, inevitably Skinner had become caught up in the bureaucracy that all high command brings with it. He read through the pile of reports, circulars and standing orders which had been left in his pending tray by Ruth, the secretary he shared with the other two Assistant Chief Constables. Fortunately, most were circulation copies of documents which had been dealt with by Harry Gass, the ACC responsible for Management Services. He absorbed their essence as quickly as possible, committing them to memory as best he could. The few which called for his executive action he placed to the side, to be dealt with when his concentration was less affected by the immediate crisis.
Eventually he gave up. He picked up his jacket and headed along the corridor to the Special Branch suite. The outer door had been labelled 'Anti-terrorist Squad'.
Adam Arrow was seated behind a desk, reading the Sun and looking bored.
'Come on, Adam. You've had the Mario McGuire tour of Edinburgh. Now I'll give you the Bob Skinner version.'
They left the building and climbed into the BMW, which was parked in one of half-a-dozen reserved spaces in front of the main entrance.
Skinner's tour of Edinburgh followed none of the usual routes.
Arrow noticed the absence of open-topped, green Guide Friday tourist buses in the parts of the city through which he was driven.
'All this, Adam,' Skinner said as he drove, 'all this is ours. This is where my people and I work most of the time. There's little or no corporate crime in Edinburgh, or anywhere else in Scotland, you know. My Fraud Squad, and the Regional Crime guys, occasionally get to deal with a bent lawyer diverting clients' funds, or with some idiots who think they can get away with mortgage swindles, but dishonesty up here mostly involves poor skint bastards turning over the DSS for a few extra quid. Normally, the city centre's as clean as a whistle. Edinburgh, at the top end of the social scale, is a city of Holy Willies. Not like Glasgow. You'll find far more spivs and hooligans through there. But down here in the bits of Edinburgh that the visitors don't get told about – is where my CID does its real hard slogging. I've seen detective officers in tears
of sheer frustration at the work they have to face here. I've lost a couple of them through emotional breakdowns.
Ten years ago this place was Smack City; we bad one of the worst drug problems in Europe. Every week we found at least one kid dead up a close with a needle hanging out of his arm.
'We had families living in hell, respectable people but with a drug-dealer next door, who'd be turning the stuff out through his kitchen window like ice-cream. And these poor folk would be terrified that, if we turned the place over, the guy's pals would assume they'd grassed, and they'd get a kicking, or worse. And that happened too. I remember once when some of my lads busted a dealer. One of them knew the bloke next door slightly. He nodded to him, just briefly, as they took the villain away. Two nights later, the same neighbour staggered into his house with his throat cut, and bled to death on the living-room carpet in front of his wife and kids.'
Arrow hissed, grim-faced, sucking breath between his teeth. 'Is it still like that?'
'Not so bad now. It took us years, but we broke most of the big drug-dealers. None of them was hard to find. Christ, they used to fit steel doors to their council houses, so it would take longer for us to bash then in. The trick for us was to catch them dirty. We just kept battering away at them, though. We used every legitimate trick in the book: bogus DSS investigations, officers dressed up as meter readers, council workmen, you name it. One by one, we nicked them, and when we did, our judges did the business. As a policeman I've got a lot of time for the old boys in the High Court, in their red robes. "Dealing in Horse, my man?
That'll be fifteen years of your time, thank you very much. Next case please." They didn't piss about when we needed them.
'All the big dealers are gone now. There's still a fair bit of drugs about, but it's well underground now. There seems to be a different distribution network. The estates aren't blighted and terrorised the way they used to be, but they're still hard, violent places. These blocks of flats might not look so bad, at least not the ones that have had a lick of paint, but a lot of them are still castles of misery, lived in by poor, frightened people, bullied by the DSS, the tally-men, even at times, I have to admit, by the police.'
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