Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

  'No, we’re not going to Use them. There’s a guy in Scottish Office: Mel Christian, Director of Telecommunications. Here’s his home number.’ Skinner scribbled on a memo pad, tore off the page, and handed it to Martin. 'Call him right away. Use my name. Tell him it’s a Beta operation. That’ll get his attention. Tell him what you need and he’ll make it ha—’

  He was cut short by the trembling tone of his mobile phone. He took it from his pocket and pressed the ''receive’ button. 'Hello.’

  'Bob. It’s Alan B. Can you come to St Andrew’s House, right away. I’ve had another.’

  SEVENTEEN

  The three flags hanging limp on their poles seemed to emphasise the Sunday morning quiet, making the massive grey stone building look for all the world like an abandoned fortress.

  Skinner pulled the BMW into a parking space opposite the tall brass-bound double entrance doors, one of which was slightly ajar. Across Regent Road, the morning sun, as it rose skywards, shone brightly on the foliage of Calton Hill, but the foyer of St Andrews House – which was north-facing – was in shade.

  His eyes took a second or two to adjust to the gloom as he stepped into the big entrance hall, which was made even darker than usual by the closed outer doors. He waved his pass at the

  security guard on duty in his booth.

  'Morning, John.’

  'Morning, Mr Skinner.’

  As he crossed the hall he noted that the alert board had been changed from the low-grade of the previous day to the yellow state which he had ordered. He stepped into the waiting lift and pressed the button marked 5.

  Arnold Shields, Ballantyne’s Private Secretary, was working at his desk in the Secretary of State’s outer office. Another man sat in a chair in the corner, reading avidly the sports section of Scotland on Sunday. Skinner had taken three paces into the room before the man looked up. Recognition flooded his face. In the same instant, he dropped the newspaper and sat bolt upright.

  For a second, Skinner fixed the man with a glare. Then he turned to Shields. The Private Secretary was tall, thin and dapper.

  He was also sharp, perceptive and destined for high office, as were all those who were appointed to his important post. Sunday morning or not, he was dressed in a dark single-breasted suit, striped shirt, collar and tie. He was a reserved man, with an unfailing formality of manner which added to his overall air of aloofness. He did not mix socially with colleagues, and none knew anything of his private life. Although he was respected universally, he was regarded, just as universally, as standoffish, and was disliked by his colleagues as a result.

  Skinner knew more about Shields than any of the man’s office peers. He and Martin had handled the meticulous vetting to which Shields had been subjected before being offered the Private Secretary post. They had discovered without difficulty that he was a practising homosexual, and had a stable, twelve-year-old relationship with a partner in the Glasgow office of an international accountancy practice. After considering their course of action for some days. Skinner and Martin had taken the unusual step of talking over the situation with Shields and his friend. They had been persuaded by the discussion that, although the relationship was private, it was not secret, and that it could not possibly lay either man open to blackmail. Skinner had approved the appointment, keeping the information he had uncovered entirely under wraps.

  Shields rose from his chair and extended his hand, as Skinner approached his desk.

  'Mr Skinner. Good morning. The Secretary of State is expecting you. Go right in.’

  Ballantyne was working his way through a pile of correspondence as Skinner entered. 'Sit down over there. Bob. I won’t be a moment. Read that in the meantime.’ He pushed a

  brown envelope across the desk. 'It was handed to the doorman at the Caledonian Hotel at nine o’clock. Motorcyclist again, but no courier’s livery this time. This one just wore denims and a crash-helmet. The manager of the Caley sent the letter straight along here.’

  There was a faint catch in the Secretary of State’s voice. Skinner studied him closely, as he worked. The tension of the previous day showed in his face once more, as he scrawled his signature across a letter. He cast it, in its folder, on to the pile in his out-tray, then picked up another, barely reading it before signing. Skinner thought that the man looked strung-out and nervous. Was that all down to this the terror threat, or could some of it be due to that designer blonde, Carlie, he mused.

  He looked down at the envelope which Ballantyne had handed to him. It was the twin of the previous day’s, addressed in the same way, with a white label. He drew out the letter and read.

  To the so-called Secretary of State for Scotland.

  From the Fighters for an Independent Scotland.

  Code word Arbroath.

  The failure of the media to report yesterday’s demonstration, or to publish our letter leads us to conclude that you and your colleagues in the Government of the occupying power have

  secured their silence by coercion.

  Clearly we cannot allow this situation to continue. If your censorship is not lifted by 1:00 pm today, and if, by that time, yesterday’s statement of our demands has not been broadcast on radio and television, we will take further stern action to force you to accede. No warning of that action will be given, and full responsibility for its consequences will rest entirely with you.

  Skinner sank into a chair by the window and read the letter through once again. As he was finishing, Ballantyne put the last of the green folders, its letter signed, in his out-tray. He rose from behind the desk and crossed the room, to sit in a facing chair.

  'What d’you think, Bob? What’ll they do?

  'I don’t know, Alan. If I did, I’d stop them from doing it, and that would be that.’

  'Well, what can do?’ There was a note of frustration in the Secretary of State’s voice.

  'Maybe we should do what they ask. We’ve bought some time, and used it as best we could. Our plans are made, and even now they’re being put into action. We can’t keep this genie in the bottle for ever, so we might as well thank the media for their cooperation and tell them they’re free to run the letter.’

  'Absolutely not!’ Ballantyne’s tone was suddenly strident.

  Skinner was alarmed to detect hysteria lurking not far below the surface.

  'We can’t do that. I won’t do that! It would be a surrender to terrorism. And the Prime Minister would never countenance it. I spoke to him last night. He’s quite resolute.’

  Skinner shook his head. “That’s inspiring news. Look, Alan, there’s no surrender about it. You were gung-ho yesterday, and that was right, but it doesn’t do to be tough just for the sake of it.

  Sometimes you’ve got to use this.’ As he spoke he tapped the side of his head. 'You can’t believe, surely, that we can keep the truth from the public for ever. What’s the point, anyway? As I said, we’ve bought our time and used it wisely, by putting in extra security everywhere. That’ll start to show soon. Give it a day or two, three at the most, and the public will begin to figure out that yesterday’s bang wasn’t any gas explosion. And, listen, these

  bastards are right about one thing. We have coerced the bloody media! We did it for a purpose, and now we’ve achieved it, we should thank them for their cooperation and let them go ahead.’

  Ballantyne jumped from his seat. 'No!’ he shouted. 'It’s a matter of principle.’

  Skinner stood too. He glared down at the man, and when he answered, his voice was raised also. 'I’ve had a taste of politicians’ principles in my time. Secretary of State, and I’ve noticed that they have a nasty tendency to get innocent people killed. Do you think this outfit are kidding? “Stern action to force you to accede.” Whatever that means, it’s a direct threat.’

  'You seem to forget they’ve threatened more action, come what may – unless we hand them the keys to the kingdom, that is.’

  Skinner slapped the walnut-panelled wall in frustration. 'I don’t forget that at all
, but there’s no sense in pushing them into more violence, when we’ve nothing immediate to gain.’

  Although still shaking, Ballantyne had recovered at least some of his composure. 'I’m sorry. Bob. I am adamant. The Government must stand its ground. We take the decisions; your

  job is to protect. That’s what I expect you, and your people, to do.’

  Skinner glowered at him, making no effort to hide the flame of his anger. 'I hope you realise you could be signing some poor sod’s death warrant. Not your own, though; you’re safe enough. As for our job, we’re already doing it. But since you’re making it difficult for us, you can come up with some extra resources. I want some SAS people up here. You can quote the Prime Minister’s resolve, to get the OK from MOD. A dozen will do me.

  I’m told they’re available.’

  Ballantyne retreated across the room to the citadel of the, ministerial desk. 'Yes, I’ll do that for you. Bob, I’m sure it’ll be all right.’ His tone had changed; now it was almost placatory.

  Skinner too had cooled down. 'I hope it is, Alan. It’s your shout. If you’re wrong, it’ll be as if our disagreement never happened. I won’t ever cast it up to you, but you’ll have some job

  forgiving yourself.’

  Ballantyne said nothing. He stood behind his desk, head bowed.

  Skinner looked at him coolly for a few seconds, then changed the subject. 'What time are the Chief Constables coming in?’

  'Twelve noon. I thought we’d see them in the third-floor conference room. I’ll welcome them, and you can give them the low-down. I spoke to McGuinness personally, as you requested,

  and explained that you were working directly to me on this thing. I told him that if you need to ask for his cooperation in anything, he’s to give it without question. I’ll tell the Chiefs that too.’

  Skinner looked at his watch. It was five minutes before ten.

  'OK. Thanks. Look, I’m going back down to Fettes. I’ve got one or two things to do there. I’ll be back for ten to twelve.’

  'Fine. See you then.’

  As he left the room. Skinner knew that something had gone for ever from his relationship with the Secretary of State. He had previously thought more highly of Ballantyne’s judgement, yet there was more to it than that. He was deeply disappointed in the man. Skinner’s creed was built on unswerving loyalty: to family, to friends, to colleagues, to country. The Secretary of State’s implacable refusal even to consider his view had left him feeling personally betrayed, and he knew in his heart that he would never be able to look at Ballantyne in quite the same way again.

  He closed the door quietly behind him. If Shields and the other man had heard the raised voices, neither gave the slightest sign.

  Skinner smiled at the Private Secretary. 'I’ll be back for that other meeting in a couple of hours, Arnold.’

  Shields simply nodded in acknowledgement.

  Skinner beckoned the other man to follow him into the corridor. When they were alone, he turned on him. 'Detective Constable Howells, just what the hell do you think you’re here

  for? You are an armed Special Branch officer assigned to close protection of the Secretary of State. I walk into that room and you’re in there reading the fucking funny papers. If I had been a bad guy, you’d have been dead in one second, then Mr Shields, then the Secretary of State. Your job is out here, not in there. You have to assume that everyone who comes on to this floor unannounced is a bad guy, and be ready to act until you find out different. Do you know what happens to detective officers if they screw up badly enough around me? Night-shift in uniform on the beat in fucking Eyemouth, that’s what. You’ve just walked perilously close to having a permanent smell of fish in your wide nostrils. So don’t do it again. Clear?’

  The detective, who was two inches taller than Skinner, nodded vigorously. 'Clear, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  'OK, incident closed. But be on guard in the corridor from now on.’

  He started towards the lift, then looked over his shoulder.

  'I’ll be back. You’d better be the first person I see on this floor.’

  EIGHTEEN

  The courier was a woman. She was seated in a corner of the main Special Branch office, sipping coffee and reading a magazine.

  When Skinner entered the room, she stood up at once, recognising him from the photograph which she had been shown early that morning in London.

  Forestalling Brian Mackie’s attempt to introduce her, she came towards him, hand outstretched. 'Good morning, sir. My name’s Mary. I’m from Five. I have some papers for you from London, which I believe you’re expecting.’

  Skinner shook the woman’s hand. 'Yes, that’s right. Thank you for coming all this way.’

  Mary was carrying a brown leather satchel. She fished a key from the pocket of her blue woollen jacket and unfastened the heavy brass lock, releasing the catch with a flick of her thumb. She withdrew a long white envelope and handed it over.

  'Mission accomplished, sir. Now may I call for a cab back to the airport?’

  Skinner held the envelope unopened in his hand. 'Thank you, Mary. No need for a taxi. Even on a Sunday I think we can find you a driver.’ He looked across to Mackie. 'See to it please,

  Brian.’

  'Sir!’

  'DCI in?’

  “Yes. boss.’

  He thanked the messenger once more, and excused himself.

  Martin was speaking softly into the telephone. He was seated in his swivel chair with his back to the door. When Skinner entered the room he swung round, making a wind-up motion with his left hand. 'Got to go now. I’ll pick you up at around one o’clock.’ He paused for a second, as he listened to the voice on the line.

  'If you’re sure your aunt will be all right at home, we’ll go to my place. I need to shave, badly. See you then.’ He was still smiling as he replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  Skinner shook his head and laughed. 'I don’t believe what I’m seeing here. A thirty-something schoolboy. Everyone’s cracking up today. First Ballantyne turns into General fucking Patton, now you turn into fucking Romeo.’

  Martin looked at him curiously. 'What’s up with Ballantyne?’

  Skinner’s good humour disappeared as he described his altercation with the Secretary of State. 'I hate these boys when they decide to get brave, Andy. It’s always some other bastard

  that winds up bleeding.’

  'Let’s hope not this time.’

  'Yeah. Anyway, forget that for the moment and let’s look at what’s in here. It’s my report from Five.’

  He drew up a chair and sat down, facing Martin across the desk.

  Slitting open the white envelope, he drew out its contents, three sheets of A4 folded top to bottom. He scanned the first sheet, and glanced across at Martin.

  'This says they’ve been through all of the most sensitive running files on politicians, and found only one that fits the bill.’

  He put the covering letter to one side and studied the two-page report.

  'We know about this guy all right. Grant Forrest Macdairmid.

  Labour MP for Glasgow Marymount. He used to be a right wee hoodlum when he was a youngster. Ran a gang and did time in Barlinnie Young Offenders, till he got into politics and started doing people over legally. He’s on the ultra-nationalist wing of the People’s Party. Advocates direct action to secure Home Rule. But there’s a twist to him: he’s a monarchist. Wants to set up a Scottish Parliament with a head of state on Scandinavian lines you know, what they call a minimalist monarch. A king with a day job. He’s even got a candidate picked out: a descendant of the Stuarts. Our potential king is an Italian who barely speaks English, but that’s nae bother to our Mr Macdairmid. The general view of him is that he’s just a nutter, but worth watching nonetheless. He’s got the sort of humourless zeal in his eye that alarms the likes of you and me.’

  'Mm. I know what you mean,’ said Martin. 'I’ve seen him on telly. Have we been paying him any special attention?’r />
  'Up here? The Glasgow Special Branch keeps a tap on his phone. It’s never picked up anything more sinister than an order for a carry-out Chinese. That probably means that he expects to be tapped. He makes a load of noise in public, but in private well the transcripts read like he’s a real A-l bore. That’s what he’s like up here.’ Skinner tapped the report on the desk. 'According to this, though, he comes out of the closet when he’s in London. Five were giving him a sort of general look-over a few weeks back.

  They tailed him to an Irish club in Camden Town. It seems they walked into a sort of terrorist jamboree. All shapes and sizes: Irish, Basques, neo-Nazis, Libyans, all jabbering away, pissing it up, and our man Macdairmid right in the midst of it all.’

  'So what did the Five guys do?’

  'Hung around long enough to commit as many faces to memory as they could, then beat a retreat. Apparently, so says this report, they had a problem; one of the Five guys was a gal. This was a real hairy-arsed place and they felt too obvious, so they split. When they got back to the shop, they dug out the picture gallery, spotted four or five faces, and realised what they had been into. They sent the heavies round right away, but the party had broken up.

  They’ve been tailing Macdairmid ever since. No more contacts, but three weeks ago, as soon as Parliament broke up, he went on holiday.’

  Where to?’

  'Ready for this? Tripoli. One of the world’s prime sources of Semtex and other choice ordnance. He got back to Glasgow last Thursday.’

  'Fucking hell!’

  'Couldn’t have put it more eloquently myself. They searched his luggage at the airport. He had a big hold-all thing as hand baggage, and when he caught the shuttle, they X-rayed it, but they couldn’t search it without making him suspicious. He could have had anything in there.’