Skinner's festival bs-2

by Quintin Jardine

I'd like you to scan them into your magic machine, the one that connects back to the States, and see what it tells you – if it tells you anything at all, that is. I'll wait here. You'll get me on Andy Martin's direct line.' He gave him the number.

  'OK, Bob,' said Doherty. 'Go for it.'

  Skinner loaded the fax, selected half-tone quality, and keyed in the FBI's London number. The six pages took just over five minutes to transmit. He settled down to wait.

  'Brian, this could take a while. You can go home if you want.'

  'No way, boss. I want to see what he turns up.'

  On Martin's office television, they watched the remainder of 'News at Ten', then midweek football. Rangers were two down in a League Cup tie to Motherwell, Skinner's team, when the telephone rang.

  'Bugger it,' he swore, but switched off the television set as he picked up the receiver.

  'Bob!' Doherty's excitement rang down the line, taking Skinner by surprise. 'Know who you've got there? Typhoid friggin' Mary, that's all.'

  'And who the hell is she?'

  'Typhoid Mary Little Horse. One of the most celebrated members of the American underclass. Hit-woman, bank-robber, political activist, terrorist, highly skilled with firearms, knives and explosives. You name it, that's Typhoid Mary. Deadly is her middle name. She styles herself a native American freedom fighter, but she's just a plain killer. We lost sight of her when she broke out of jail in Kansas last year. So what's she into over here?'

  As quickly as he could. Skinner explained the detail of the Music Hall bomb, and summarised Adams' story. When he had finished, Doherty whistled loudly down the line. 'That's Mary, both times. She's great with explosives, and she likes to kill people. But I'll tell you this. Bob. If she has Scotch blood, then you're a friggin' Sioux Indian.' Doherty paused, then went on.

  'Couple of things for your Mr Adams. First the moderately good news. Not everything she told him was a lie. She was indeed raped by her step-daddy when she was sweet sixteen, and she did indeed run away from home. The detail that she left out was that, before she ran away, she cut his heart out… and I mean that literally, my friend.'

  'Sounds like our friend Frank might have been lucky.'

  'Well, no. Bob. You can't exactly say that. For now comes the really bad news for the Adams family. Mary can kill you in a whole lot of ways, but in one that's the most certain of all. She can kill you with her snatch, without you even being there – like she's probably killed Mrs Adams by now, through her poor sap of a husband. Her nickname's an understatement. We've got Mary's prison medical records. Bob, she's HIV positive. Look, I'll fax you up her picture. Better find her, man, before she screws the whole of Scotland to death!'

  46

  'So that's the story so far, Alan. A Scots MP mixed up with an international terrorist, and a crazy squaw killing people all over Edinburgh.'

  The Secretary of State looked stunned. He leaned back in his chair and stared for several seconds up at the ceiling, affording Skinner a clear view of a large bruise, perhaps the size of a thumbprint, on the right side of his throat. Eventually he looked back across the desk. Their Sunday confrontation had not been mentioned, but a coldness hung between them, one which each man knew would never dissipate completely.

  'This MI5 woman's theory, what do you make of it?'

  'Mary Little Horse showing up makes it the best one we've got.

  You can count on the fingers of two hands the people in Scotland who could afford to fund this thing, and still have three fingers left over. I know; I have counted. Then you can rule out all of them as being too old, too straight, too boring, too law-abiding.

  None of the radical groups have the dough either. Yes, Alan, it all fits.'

  'So what do you do now?'

  'Well, I'm holding my morning briefing in an hour. I've got Crown Office permission to issue photographs of Mary Little Horse, and to put out a "Do not approach" warning.' As he spoke, Skinner opened the folder on his lap and handed across the desk a copy of the computer-generated print which Joe Doherty had faxed to him. Ballantyne looked at it and saw an attractive blonde girl, expressionless in the standard prison mugshot.

  'I'll leave out the HIV bit,' Skinner went on. 'Stow's only a wee place, and I'm sure the story of Adams and the Yankee dolly-bird will be all over town already. The press coverage will produce a ton of calls, all of them rubbish no doubt, but if the heat makes her run for it, it'll have served its purpose. If I can't catch her here, I'd rather she was somewhere else.'

  He paused and looked Ballantyne in the eye. 'But even if we do get rid of this girl, that doesn't solve our problem. She's a mercenary, and someone's brought her here to do a job. There may well be others, and we have got to expect other attacks. With that Semtex stuff used up, I'm less worried about more bomb attacks, but there are other things they can get up to. Like picking out more big-name assassination targets, for example. There are two events that really worry me. One is Fringe Sunday, and the other's the Fireworks Concert in Princes Street Gardens on the last Thursday of the Festival. One's held in a park, the other takes place after dark, and they're both too big for us to give them total protection. So I want to cancel them both.'

  Ballantyne sat bolt upright in his chair. "Absolutely not! I've made my position, and the Government's position, quite clear on that. We will do nothing that concedes an inch to these people.

  They cannot be allowed to claim a single victory through the threat of more violence. These events will go on as scheduled, and it's the job of your team and of your force to police them. Better still, it's your own job to catch these perpetrators. You've shown me some progress, but now I expect more concrete successes.

  Protection and detection, that's what I want to hear from you, Bob – not retreat and vacillation.'

  It was Skinner's turn to jerk upright in his chair. An angry retort formed on his lips, but was stilled as he realised that something else was troubling Ballantyne. By now he knew the man well enough to read like a book the ups and downs of his personality, and he sensed clearly a second layer of concern, beyond the Festival crisis.

  'Alan, is there anything else that you want to tell me?' he probed.'

  The Secretary of State sighed, and slammed his right fist into hi! left palm.

  'Oh damn it! Yes, Bob. Look, I'm sorry I was so sharp there.You're right, I have another problem. You heard about my trip to London yesterday?'

  Skinner nodded in silence.

  'My wife has been absolutely devastated by the death of her, shall we say, friend. She regards it as some sort of punishment upon her. The upshot is she announced to me last night that she intends to resume our marriage. To make a fresh start.'

  'Mm,' said Skinner, 'I can see that might be a problem. I had a talk with Carlie, Alan – for security purposes, you understand. I know the situation.'

  Yes, but you don't know about this.'

  He produced a brown manila envelope from his desk drawer and pushed it across to Skinner, who picked it up and shook out a letter.

  The salutation was the same as the earlier communications, but the message was different. Skinner read it quickly.

  Attached is a photograph of the lady with whom you have been carrying on a liaison. We have others of you both which are more explicit, and in which the press will be interested.

  Accede to our demands, Ballantyne, or the people of Scotland will learn what a dishonourable man you are.

  Clipped to the letter was a photograph of Carlie leaving Number 6 Charlotte Square by the back door.

  'What do they mean, other pictures, Alan?' 'Haven't a clue, Bob. Why would they do that, anyway?'

  'Keeping up the pressure, Alan. On you, on me, on us all. They know we're unlikely to ask for media help on this one. I'm afraid you're just going to have to take it on the chin when they show us what they've got.'

  Is there nothing I can do?'

  'Yes. You have a choice. Announce that your marriage is over and that Carlie is the next Mrs Ballantyne, or – get her
out of the country!'

  47

  The Mary Little Horse story caused a sensation at the Thursday morning briefing, even without the intimate details of her relationship with Frank Adams. Skinner's carefully worded statement, warning the public to be on the look-out for the woman, together with her photograph, caught the media corps off guard.

  'So where does that put your investigation?' With some of his belligerence recovered, Al Neidermeyer put the first question.

  'It puts a new slant on it, that's for sure. Inevitably you have to be a bit sceptical about the real nature of a so-called patriotic organisation that gets itself involved with a foreign criminal like Typhoid Mary.'

  Skinner saw the eyes of the Sun reporter, seated in the front row, light up at his use of her nickname.

  'I regard this as significant progress. For legal reasons, I can't go into much detail, but we need to talk with this woman urgently in connection with the death of Hilary Guillaum and the Waltzing Matilda bombing. She's a striking girl: the sort who stands out in a crowd. She is also very, very dangerous, I am assured by theFBI. So any member of the public who thinks they've spotted her should give us a call at once, but otherwise leave her well alone.'

  48

  Reported sightings of Typhoid Mary began to flood the Fettes switchboard, from the moment the first reports were broadcast.

  Indeed the earliest claims were made even before the first edition of the Evening News had hit the streets, giving her photograph page-one prominence.

  As Skinner had surmised, all the calls were fruitless. Members of the public from as far afield as Barra and Lerwick called in to declare that they had seen the native American fugitive, but although these sightings were all followed up, none was even close to the mark. The only action that the police saw was when a young lady with a pronounced Sloane Ranger accent was detained in Shetland, before being identified as the daughter of a minor peer, on a back-packing tour of the Scottish Islands.

  As Thursday stretched into Friday with no sign of further action by the Fighters, Skinner was able to report an incident-free twenty-four hours at the next morning's briefing.

  49

  When Skinner returned from the Friday press conference, he found Alex waiting in his office. As he entered the room, she jumped up and rushed across to him. s 'Hi, Pops.' i He took her into his arms and hugged her. I 'Pops, I'm sorry. You're under all this pressure and I behave like a selfish, love-sick cow. I am really, really sorry.

  'Am I forgiven?'

  His face lit up as he smiled at her. Suddenly the world was a better place. 'Yeah, just this once I'll let you off with a caution.

  How are you and the boy getting on?'

  'Fine. Ingo's great. He's so bright, and I just love him to bits.

  Don't worry, though. I'm not going to do anything daft like rushing off to Sweden with him. I've got a degree to finish first, and a diploma to get after that. He's got his course to finish, too.

  Once he's done that, he says he'll find a job in Britain, in the theatre if nothing else, and we can be together for good.'

  In spite of his misgivings about the Swede, Bob grinned.

  'Sounds like you've got his life thoroughly organised for him, just like you organised mine for twenty years.'

  'Exactly. But you've got someone else to do that for you now.

  Even Andy, I hear from Sarah, may have found the love of his life. I have to have someone to look after.'

  'Well, babe, all I ask is that you look after yourself as well. In fact put yourself first for a while.' He decided it was time to change the subject. 'How's your play then? We must pay it another visit.' •We're doing great. It won't be announced in the Scotsman till tomorrow, but we've won a Fringe Award. Why don't you come to the Sunday show. It's being presented then.'

  Sunday? Bob referred to his memory for a second. 'Sorry, can't do that. Sarah's got tickets for Le Cirque Mobile, or something, down on Leith Links. Tonight we're doing a movie with Andy and Julia, his new girlfriend, and tomorrow…' He paused for a second. 'Tomorrow I might be busy. So we'll come some time next week.'

  Alex did not notice his momentary preoccupation. 'Le Cirque?

  I've heard of them. They're all bikers or something like that, aren't they. They're supposed to be terrific.'

  'We'll see,' he said, although his tone implied doubt. 'All that carbon monoxide inside a tent doesn't sound too great to me. I'd rather be at your show, darling, believe me, but Sarah's dead keen on it.'

  Alex laughed. 'It'U be all right. Sarah can pick 'em, you know.

  'Well, look. Pops. If I don't see you at the theatre, I'll look out for you at Fringe Sunday.' •No!'

  His sudden vehemence stopped her in her tracks.

  'Look, babe. Do just one thing for your old man. Steer well clear of Fringe Sunday.'

  'But why? All the gang are going.'

  'Just for me, give it a miss.'

  She looked hard at him. 'You think something bad might happen? Do you know something?'

  'Let's just say I'll feel happier if I know I don't have to look out for you there.' •Well, my old Dad, if it makes you feel happier, I'll give it a miss. Promise.'

  She stood on tiptoe, kissed him on the forehead and flitted out of the room, waving goodbye.

  50

  Sir James Proud was the last man he had expected to see that morning. Or so Skinner told himself at first. But when he thoughtfl about it later, he realised that he had not been in the least surprised when his door burst open to reveal the Chief Constable's ample frame. Proud Jimmy, as he was known throughout his force, looked as imposing as ever in full uniform.

  Chief What the hell are you doing here?'

  You know bloody fine,' said Sir James Proud. 'I couldn't settle for a moment out there, knowing all this nonsense was going on back home. Eventually it all got too much for her ladyship.

  Yesterday morning she said to me, "Jimmy. That's it. I'm packing and we're going to the airport. Get your Gold CardjI ready." So here I am.';

  Skinner smiled at him. He realised at that moment just how much he had missed the solid support and advice of Sir James Proud.

  Well, I'm sorry it had to happen that way, but by God I'm glad you're back.'

  'So what's been happening?'

  Quickly Skinner updated him on the crisis. He showed him the MI6 file on Jesus Giminez, and the FBI sheet on Mary Little Horse.

  'I am impressed,' said the Chief. 'You seem to draw these people. Bob, like a flame attracts moths. So now I'm back, what can I do? How can I help?'

  'You can chair tomorrow morning's press conference for a start. I'll be busy, doing something else. I'll have a Member of Parliament to arrest!'

  51

  Neil Mcllhenney was impressed by Macdainnid's choice of meeting-place. Edinburgh born and bred, he had never heard of the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, far less visited it. So when he ambled up the red sandstone steps and into the cathedrallike central hall, with its massive pipe organ at the far end, he was taken by surprise by its elegance and its scale. Neil had always liked organ music, and the fact that he had arrived in the middle of the Friday afternoon recital made the job the highlight of his week in Glasgow.

  The tap had picked up Grant Macdairmid on the pub telephone as he set up his assignation at Kelvingrove. His call had been brief and to the point. 'Cassie? Grant here. Look I need you to run another message for me. Meet me this afternoon. Four-thirty, Kelvingrove Art Gallery.'

  Haggerty had instructed Barry Macgregor to tail the MP from his office to the meeting-place, while Mcllhenney had been sent on ahead.

  Wooden seats were set out in rows across the hall. Those near the front were well filled, but in the row second from the back a girl sat alone, round-shouldered but relaxed in a pale blue T-shirt.

  Mcllhenney looked at the back other head and wondered. Rather than take a seat he wandered across to one of the display cases in an area off the hall. It was filled with an assortment of Cromwellian armour, out-
of-place somehow in a Glasgow setting.

  He could observe the main door from the far side of the glass case, and so Macdairmid did not see him as he glanced all around the hall on his arrival. Satisfied, the MP moved swiftly down the hall and made his way calmly between the seats towards the girl.

  Mcllhenney noticed that he was carrying a black briefcase.

  Macgregor entered a few seconds later, and sat down in the back row, a comfortable distance away from the couple. He had untied his pony-tail, and his long hair, with its white-beaded Plaits, fell around his shoulders. He wore a crew-necked, short191 sleeved shirt over faded jeans, split at the knee. Mcllhenney looked at him and smiled. 'Crime Squad throws up some sights, right enough,' he whispered to himself.

  The meeting lasted only a few minutes. Neither detective dared edge close enough to hear the conversation, but from what they could see it was one-sided, Macdairmid doing all the talking. Less than five minutes after he had entered, the MP stood up and made his way out of the Gallery – without the black briefcase. Neither detective made a move to follow him. They knew that Glasgow officers were waiting outside at each exit from the Gallery, ready to pick up Macdairmid's trail. Instead they stayed, as ordered, with the girl.

  She had little taste either, it seemed, for the fine organ music, for three minutes later she too rose to go. The briefcase looked heavy in her right hand. Outside, she made quickly for the car park, where she unlocked the door of a battered green Metro. She heaved the case on to the passenger seat, before jumping in and driving off.

  Braided hair flying behind him, Macgregor sprinted over to Mcllhenney's Astra and jumped in, as the older man revved the engine and set off after the girl.

  'Registration D436 QQS,' barked Mcllhenney. 'Call it in.'

  Using the car telephone rather than radio, Macgregor waited on the line while the number was checked. Eventually he said, 'Got that,' and put the phone back in its magnetic cradle. 'It's his sister, Neil. The bugger's using his own sister on a pick-up. The Metro's registered to Cassandra Macdairmid, date of birth 29 June 1969, listed address 124 Dundonald Road, Partickhill.' " 'In that case, she's going home,' said Mcllhenney, turning the Astra into Dundonald Road. a