Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

  Three large Thermos jugs lay on three occasional tables in the centre of the room.

  'Everyone all right for coffee, before we begin?’ An assortment of grunts and nods came from around the room. 'Right, if you’ll each find a seat, I’ll explain what all this is about.’

  The long room had no windows. It was furnished with three deep and comfortable two-seater sofas and two armchairs. The policemen each took a chair, leaving the sofas for their guests. As the directors sat down. Skinner saw that they seemed to sort themselves unconsciously into natural pairings.

  Harriet Nelson, in her second year as director for the 'Official’ Festival, sat on the left-hand sofa, alongside Colonel Archie McPhee, organiser of the Military Tattoo. Even seated, Harriet Nelson was an imposing woman: tall, heavy featured and with flaming red hair. She had won her spurs in the arts in her late twenties, as one of the very few leading female orchestral conductors, and had wielded her baton in concert halls around the world for almost two decades. Her appointment as director of the Edinburgh International Festival had been announced by the governing committee as a major coup, which indeed it was.

  Colonel McPhee, the Military Tattoo director, was in his own way as imposing as his neighbour on the sofa. Before his retirement from active service, five years earlier, he had been a battalion commander in the Parachute Regiment, and had seen bloody combat in the Falklands. He was in his early fifties, with close-cropped, receding hair, a sharp nose and piercing, perceptive eyes. He was dressed in light slacks and a short-sleeved green shirt,

  an outfit which emphasised an impression of total physical fitness.

  The director of the Film Festival, Julia Shahor, sat directly facing Skinner and Martin, next to the one person of the six whom Skinner had not met before, whom he knew therefore to be Ray Starkey. head of the television event. Julia Shahor’s shock of very black hair exploded in a natural Afro, framing a small, pale but unforgettably attractive face. She wore a voluminous white robe which covered her from neck to ankles. She was a small woman, the youngest of the six directors by at least seven or eight years, Skinner guessed. She had come to the Film Festival ten months earlier, on a one-year contract, and like Harriet Nelson she had been regarded as a catch for Edinburgh. She was still in her twenties, but already she had built a brilliant career as a screenwriter. It was said that her ambition was to emulate one of her predecessors by using the Festival as the springboard for a career as a movie director in America.

  Ray Starkey wore large, yellow-framed spectacles, with lenses which made his eyes seem huge. He was very fat, and dressed incongruously in a pale blue Armani suit, with a grey shirt, yellow braces, and a tie which seemed to have been hand-painted, badly,

  that same afternoon. Skinner knew that Starkey had come to run the television event after having been a casualty of the 1991 commercial television licence auctions. He had been programme controller with one of the losing franchise-holders and had waited in vain for a year for one of the winners to offer him a contract, before being invited to take up the Festival post.

  Finally, seated together on the sofa to the right of the two policemen, were David Leroy, the director of the Fringe, and Jay Hands, his counterpart at the Jazz Festival.

  The Edinburgh Festival Fringe enjoys a reputation as one of the great showcases for new-wave theatre and new performing talent.

  Many artists now world-famous had made their first impressions upon public consciousness at Edinburgh Fringe productions.

  David Leroy’s appearance was completely at odds with the avant-garde style of his Festival. While many of his performers found kaftans and sandals de rigueur, the Fringe director could have been taken for a successful big-firm chartered accountant. Even on an August Saturday he wore a blue Austin Reed suit, black Loake shoes, a white shirt with a thin blue stripe, and an Edinburgh Academy Old Boys’ tie.

  However, Jay Hands, the longest-serving of all the directors, was much more in tune with the image of the grizzled jazzman.

  Even seated, he seemed round-shouldered. He was in his late fifties, tall and lean, with a sallow complexion and lank grey hair which looked two months overdue for a trim. He had the tired eyes of a man who played with a jazz band several nights a week, then stayed on after the show.

  The six directors now sat in waiting, some looking curious, some – Nelson and Hands in particular – showing an edge of annoyance. Skinner smiled his warmest smile. 'For those of you who haven’t met us, I’m Bob Skinner, Assistant Chief Constable and head of CID in Edinburgh. It’s a matter of public knowledge that I also act as security adviser to the Secretary of State. My colleague here is Detective Chief Inspector Andrew Martin, head

  of Special Branch in Edinburgh. Some of you may have guessed why we’ve asked you to meet us.’

  Only two reacted in any way. Archie McPhee smiled tightly and nodded. Jay Hands looked puzzled.

  'For those of you who don’t already know, we have had what we describe in police-speak as “a serious incident”, specifically an explosion. It happened at midday today at a Festival hospitality venue in Princes Street. In fact, we now know that it was a bomb attack on the Festival itself.’

  He paused. Opposite him, Julia Shahor’s eyes seemed to grow impossibly wide.

  'Jesus Christ!’ whispered Jay Hands.

  Skinner went on. 'Shortly after the bang, we received this.

  Would you all read it, please.’

  He handed his copy of the letter to Harriet Nelson. She scanned it slowly, then, white-faced , handed it to Archie McPhee. By the time Jay Hands had finished studying the letter, and handed it back to Skinner, all six directors looked considerably shaken.

  'Before any of you ask me, I’ll tell you that we are taking this letter at face value. We believe that the people behind this atrocity are serious. We don’t know the first thing about them

  yet, but we do know that anyone who can lay hands on a pound or two of Semtex is unlikely to be a one-hit wonder. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, we have to believe that the Festival events for which you are responsible are now all under threat. More than that, while I don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily, we have to assume, for safety’s sake, that each of you could be a target.’

  He studied each face in turn. The expressions ranged from the incredulity of Ray Starkey to the serenity of Julia Shahor. As Skinner had expected, the first to speak was Archie McPhee.

  The colonel’s eyes seemed to gleam with memories of conflict as he asked softly: 'What would you like us to do about it. Bob?’

  'I’d like all six of you to co-operate with us, but, Archie, I’d like you to do a wee bit more than that. The Tattoo isn’t run by the army, but it is military in nature, and it does take place at what is in fact an army base – the Castle. I’d like you yourself to take on responsibility for extra security. Pull in soldiers from Craigiehall if you have to. You won’t have any difficulty getting them. I can promise you that. At the moment I’m considering whether I need

  help from other quarters for the wider task. Is that okay with you?’

  'Certainly!’ said McPhee emphatically,

  'Thanks. Now, everyone else, the first thing to say is that we do not believe that we should, nor do we even believe that we could call off any or all of your Festivals in response to this threat. And that isn’t just a police view. It’s a decision of the Secretary of State. So Mr Martin and I have two tasks. First, we have to take steps to protect all the Festival events, organisers, performers, and audiences, as best we can. Then, having done that, we must make it all unnecessary by catching these terrorists and putting them away. I have already set up a team to tackle both those jobs.’

  He described the instructions which he had issued earlier to his own team.

  'When my officers make their security checks, they’ll do so discreetly. I don’t want to cause any more public concern than is necessary. At the moment, that letter’s between you, us, and

  some very cooperative newspaper editors. We’
ve secured a news blackout on it, otherwise you’d have heard about it before now. I would ask you to assist my people in every way, as they assess each of our priority venues. If they need specific help or information, please let them have it without question. If any curious managers ask you what that was all about, the party line is that it is routine procedure. Please stick to that.’

  Skinner look around and smiled. 'OK so far? Good. That’s what we’re doing about the buildings. Now for the people – and this is where you’re asked to give us the greatest help. As part of the security operation we need to ensure that each participant can be identified, and also that we know when they’re on site. That means a pass system for everyone who is performing at every Festival event, front or back stage, prima-donna or call-boy.’

  There was a collective cry of protest from five of the six directors. Only Archie McPhee stayed relaxed, sprawled comfortably back on his sofa. The Military Tattoo had operated

  its own pass system since its inception.

  'You can’t mean everyone!’ said Harriet Nelson.

  'That’s impossible!’ said David Leroy.

  'I do, Ms Nelson – and it isn’t, Mr Leroy.’ He looked across at Martin. 'Andy, explain how we’ll go about it.’

  Martin waited until he was sure that he had the full attention of every one of the six. He flashed a wide smile at Julia Shahor, who responded with a small one of her own.

  'As Mr Skinner has said, it’s important that we are able to check people’s identity and that we know precisely when they’re in their venues. God forbid, but we could have another incident like today’s, or an arson attack, or even just a warning that we take seriously enough to act upon – and if this threat becomes public knowledge we could have every drunk and nutter under the sun calling in hoaxes. If anything like that were to happen, we’d have to clear the place in question totally, and account for everyone supposedly there. Ticket stubs would tell us how many people are in the audience, but we need a pass system for the performers.

  Agreed?’

  His last word was a statement rather that a question. Martin sat forward on his chair, accidentally swinging his bolstered pistol into full sight. His vivid green eyes were intense as they scanned the three sofas. Five heads nodded. Even Colonel McPhee sat up straight.

  'Good. Now let me tell you how we’ll do it. These passes needn’t be photographic. They’ll be credit-card style, and they’ll be signed on the back by the holder, in the presence of the issuing officer, when they’re allocated. We’ll use experienced Scottish Office personnel to process the applications and issue passes on the spot. They’ll be based in your various offices. So what we’d like you to do, as soon as you all get back to your offices is to

  organise a circular to every performing company that’s here so far. It should advise them that the fire safety officer has demanded that, in the light of new regulations, all performers and

  crew will have to carry passes and show them whenever they enter their venues. Here’s a draft for you to work on.’

  He delved into his briefcase, produced a handful of copy letters, and handed them round.

  “This asks everyone involved to report to whichever Festival Office is appropriate, between four and seven o’clock tomorrow evening, and to take with them some form of personal identification.’

  Jay Hands broke in. 'What if they don’t possess any?’

  'We won’t actually turn anyone down on those grounds, but I think you’ll find that nowadays everybody carries something with their signature on it. We’ll put experienced people into your offices to do the job. It’ll be painless, I promise you – no worse than the queue at the building society on the last Friday of the month.’

  He grinned at the six directors. Julia Shahor smiled back; the rest reacted with an assortment of grunts and snorts.

  'Of course, you and all of your staff will require passes, too.

  Even you, Colonel McPhee, in case you need to go backstage at any other event.’

  The colonel acknowledged with the faintest nod of his head.

  Harriet Nelson voiced again her earlier concern. No exceptions at all?’

  Martin shook his head. 'Ms Nelson, if the Royal Ballet had the ghosts of Fonteyn and Nureyev appearing in Swan Lake, I’d want them to have passes. There are no exemptions when it comes to security. Even the Prime Minister has to carry a pass for the House of Commons.’ He looked around the room once more.

  'Your circulars should make it clear that, as from Monday, anyone without a pass just doesn’t get in. So that this daily signing-in routine isn’t a burden with the larger companies, we’ll

  put our own plain-clothes people in to look after it. The smaller groups should be able to handle that end themselves.’

  Martin picked up his briefcase again, and lifted the lid. 'As Mr Skinner said earlier, we have to consider every foreseeable threat, however remote it might seem. For example, these terrorists may decide that it’s easier to target individuals than venues. You’re all prominent people, and we have to keep you safe. If any of you want round-the-clock police protection, just ask and you’ll have it. In my view, that’s not necessary, but just say the word.

  Anyone?’

  The room hung with tension, but no one spoke.

  'OK, but my offer stays open. For what it’s worth, I think a constant police presence would be a greater irritant for you than the risk justifies. But there are some simple precautions which you should take all the same.’

  He reached into his case and produced two bundles of small volumes, one bound in blue, the other in russet brown. He handed a copy of both to each of the directors.

  “These two wee books contain advice on security procedures.

  The blue one relates to office security, tells you how to look out for suspect parcels in the mail – stuff like that. The brown one deals with personal security, tells you the bad habits to cut out like going to work every day at the same time, by the same route.

  It tells you how to search your car, and what to do if you think you’re being watched. That last bit’s quite important. If any of you do believe that you’re being followed, don’t just try to scare the suspect off by shouting “Murder! Polis!” Only do that if you feel you’re in imminent danger. What you should do is stay in a crowd, if you can, and try to find some unobtrusive way to let us know about your situation. Do you all have mobile telephones?

  Yes? Well you’ll find a telephone number written in the brown book. Short-code that into your phones. In a real emergency, all you’ll need to do is punch in that one number and you’ll be straight through to my office. Remember, we don’t just want to frighten these people off. We want to catch them, and keep them – for a hell of a long time.’

  He closed his briefcase, snapped the locks shut, and spun the combination wheels. 'That’s all I have to say. Sir?’

  Skinner took his cue. 'So that’s the situation, ladies and gentlemen. I’m sorry you’ve been handed this extra worry, but, hate it as we may, we’re all involved in this crisis. If anybody has any questions, we’ll deal with them now. And if anybody wants to ask us, or tell us, anything privately, we’ll deal with it here too.’

  Julia Shahor’s slim hand crept up tentatively, like a child at school. 'Could I have a word with Mr Martin in private?’

  'Sure. Would the two of you like to step out into the corridor?’

  The policeman held open the door for the Film Festival director, then closed it behind them. Outside she turned to face him, her cheeks slightly flushed.

  'What can I do for you, Miss Shahor?’

  'Julia, please.’

  'OK. What can I do for you, Julia?’ He looked into her eyes and had to stop himself from adding, ' . . . and if I can, I will.’ She really had very attractive dark brown eyes. And, even under the Jesus dress, all the rest looked in fair working order, too.

  “Well, Mr Martin . . .’

  'Andy. please.’

  'Well, Andy, I heard what you said
in there about no exceptions. But, you see, we’ve got this mega star coming. You know—’

  'Yeah, sure, what’s-her-name.’

  'That’s right, her. Well, I’m just afraid that if we ask her to apply for a pass, that . . . well, you know her reputation – that she’ll just tell us to take a flying you-know-what. That’s what

  she’s said to be like.’

  Martin almost laughed out loud, but restricted himself to what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He gazed deep into the brown eyes. 'I hear you, Julia, but I just can’t make any exceptions. I’ll tell you what I can do, though. Since she’s so high-profile, I can bend the rules a bit. How would it be if you and I went to her hotel, and processed her there ourselves? And you have a back entrance, she can sign in there on the night.’

  'Andy, that’d be great. The only thing is, whenever she makes an appearance like this, she wants to pose out front. She’ll never agree to sign in at the back door.’

  'She will if the alternative could be a high-velocity round between the eyes. Tell you what, why don’t I come up and check out the venue myself?’

  'Would you really? That’d be great. Can you come up tonight, maybe? We’re screening the European premiere of the new Costner movie as our launch event. You could look things over, then stay on for the film – as my guest, or course.’

  'I’d like that. And I’ll even leave this thing behind in the office.’

  He tapped the gun under his left arm.

  She laughed. 'Terrific. Just ask for me at the door. Better come about 7:30. The film starts at 8:15.’

  She waved over her shoulder as she walked away. Martin stood gazing after her, until the door opened and the other five Festival directors emerged, followed by Skinner.