Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

  Skinner was halfway across Festival Square, the plaza which lies between the Sheraton and Lothian Road, when his phone sounded again. He stopped and sat down on a bench to answer it. The wooden seat was hot to the touch, such was the force of the sun.

  'Boss, it’s Brian here. I’ve had a guy on from the States, going absolutely apeshit. Said his name was Albert Neidermeyer from TNI, or something. He claims to have had a call at his London office, tipping him off that some American opera singer’s been killed in Edinburgh. And, boss, he says the caller used the proper code-word. Now he wants you to confirm if it’s true. He says if it is he’s going to blow it and – his words, sir – fuck all you Scots bastards and your threats. Seems he doesn’t like you at all, chief.’

  'I’m chilled with terror,’ said Skinner, icily.

  'He left a number. Wants you to call him back personally.’

  'Bugger that for a game of soldiers. Soldiers! There’s an idea. Is Adam Arrow with you?’

  'Yes, boss. He and Mario got back here twenty minutes ago.’

  'Right. Adam’s an English bastard, not Scots, but he’ll do. Ask him if he’ll do us a turn and call Neidermeyer back. He’s to stall him, bullshit him, tell him we don’t know what he’s talking about, but we’re looking into it. Ask Adam to spin him out for as long as he can. That should be quite some time. Neidermeyer won’t understand a fookin’ word Adam says.’

  Skinner pressed the end button, and carried on across FestivalSquare.

  TWENTYTWO

  Again, it was Carlie who opened the rear door of Number 6 Charlotte Square. She had on the same skirt she had worn at their first meeting, but with a different top; silk once again but fastened at the shoulder, Chinese style.

  “Hello again, Mr Skinner. What’s the crisis this time?’

  He can’t have told her any of this, thought Skinner as he tried, but failed, to return her easy smile. She read the concern written on his face and turned serious herself. 'Alan’s waiting for you upstairs. He’s working on some papers in the dining-room.’

  Skinner made no move towards the stairway. Instead he stood his ground, gazing coolly at the woman, and saying nothing for several seconds. His expression was one of undisguised appraisal.

  She was unflustered by his scrutiny, and when at last he opened his mouth to speak, she beat him to it.

  'I know who you are, Mr Skinner, and what it is you do for Alan. And I can guess that you’re wondering where I fit in. What sort of a family friend I am, how close, and to whom. If I won’t tell, does it get to the point where you take me down to the cells and beat me with rubber hoses?’

  In spite of himself. Skinner smiled at her frankness, and her jest. 'No. I have other people who do that sort of thing.’

  She grinned in her turn. “Stop, I give in.’ She spoke in a light, cultured Scots accent; rural and north of the Tay, Skinner guessed.

  In a flash she was serious again. 'Look, you’ll be aware, surely, of the stories about Alan’s marriage being on the rocks.’

  Skinner nodded.

  'Well, they’re true. Of course I know that most women in my position would claim this, but I’m not the cause of it. I’m the consequence. Honor Ballantyne opted out of Alan’s life five years ago. She lives in London full-time now. She has her own career, and she’s having an affair with a Liberal peer. Just so you know everything about me, I live in Alan’s constituency. I’m a partner in a firm of solicitors in Aberdeen, called Goldstone and Ferris.

  Look me up: Charlotte Mays, spelled M-A-Y-S. Tenth on the list of partners out of fourteen. I specialise in Maritime Law. I’ve passed my Rights of Audience exams, and appear occasionally in the Court of Session.

  'I’ve paid my subs to the Tory Party since I was twenty-three, but I didn’t do anything for them until last year. Then a girlfriend got me involved in organising the constituency Christmas dance. I met Alan there, for the first time. I thought nothing of it. I was too busy selling tombola tickets. The next thing to happen was that my friend persuaded me to go on a branch committee. That was how I really met Alan. We went canvassing together in the

  spring, and it just took off from there. This is the first time I’ve been sort of “in residence” here. Alan thinks we should come out into society in easy stages. Everybody in the Constituency Association knows about us already, and they all seem to approve.

  They haven’t had an MP’s wife there for God knows how long, and they feel deprived. So, far from being a shameless hussy, I’m almost the flavour of the month.’

  'What about the other political parties?’ Skinner asked. 'Won’t someone run to the media?’

  'Not in politics, Mr Skinner. In our constituency, the SNP are the opposition. Their standard-bearer is screwing his secretary, so he won’t say anything. The Liberals don’t play the game that way, as a matter of principle, and as for the Labour candidate, he’s one of my partners at Goldstones. No, the real problem is Honor Ballantyne. Alan’s asked her for a quiet divorce, but she’s looking for a horrendous amount of money to agree. They have two daughters, you know. One’s ten, the other fourteen. So it’s stalemate on that front, for the moment. Alan’s even thinking about counter-suing, claiming adultery with the Liberal peer.’

  'Silly bugger if he does.’

  'As a lawyer, I agree with you. As one of the points in the triangle, I’m selfish. I just wish it could be sorted out.’ For the first time traces of pain and frustration showed through the outer

  shell of her self-assurance.

  Skinner’s smile was sympathetic. 'I understand that.

  'Look, I’m sorry to have pressed the question. Miss Mays-’

  'Carlie, please.’

  'OK, Carlie. But since you know what my job is, you’ll understand why. I’m responsible not just for advising Alan on security policy, but for his personal security as well. I have to

  know everything about him, and to know about everything that could affect him, and the Government.’

  'Yes. I understand all that. So what do you think? Do we worry you?’

  Skinner decided to tell her the truth. 'Yes, the way things are, you do. Your relationship, as long as it remains secret, could lay Alan open to all sorts of external pressure. My duty is to the office of Secretary of State, not to a man, or to an MP, and my advice can’t take your interests into account. But you might like it nonetheless. On the basis that he’s serious about you, I would advise that you go public, and take what political flak there is. But that’s business for later. Right now we have a crisis to handle.’

  Together, Skinner and Carlie Mays climbed the stairs. She ushered him into the dining-room and closed the door behind him.

  Ballantyne was seated with his back to the door, at the end of a long mahogany dining table strewn with paper. A bulky document case, bound in red leather, lay open at his feet. He looked over his shoulder as Skinner entered the room, and, laying his thick Mont Blanc fountain pen down on the table, went over to greet him.

  'Bob, hello. You sounded very serious when you phoned.

  What’s happened?’

  Quickly, Skinner informed the Secretary of State of the murder of Hilary Guillaum, then he handed him the third letter. As he read it, Ballantyne slumped into one of the dining chairs. When he had finished he laid the single sheet of paper on the table and leaned back in his chair, with his right hand trembling over his eyes.

  'Oh, sweet Jesus Christ. We’re responsible. Bob. If we only hadn’t stood on principle.’

  At first. Skinner thought that Ballantyne’s use of the plural included him, too, until he remembered his earlier claim to have consulted the Prime Minister. He said nothing as the Secretary of State sat lost for a while in his panicking thoughts, but watched the man gradually compose himself again. Eventually Ballantyne stood up from the table and walked over to the Adam fireplace, its hearth lit by imitation coals. He leaned against the mantelpiece, as he had done in the drawing-room twenty-four hours before, and looked back across the room towards Skin
ner, who was still standing near the door.

  'Well, Bob? Did we sign her death warrant?’

  The tall policeman stared back at him, dispassionately. As he did so, all of his gnawing doubts about Ballantyne surged up to the surface. There was a clear trace of panic in the man’s eyes, and the faintest trembling still in his movements. Skinner doubted that Ballantyne had ever dreamed of his prestigious office throwing him into the midst of such a crisis. Now his expression begged for absolution; and relief washed across his face when Skinner gave it to him.

  'No, Alan. I don’t think you did. Not this one, at any rate. The way this murder was done, it was planned well in advance. I had a call on my way down here. We’ve made two solid discoveries at the Sheraton. The first was a chambermaid’s uniform stuffed in a servicing cart on the same floor as Hilary Guillaum’s suite. The second was its original wearer, in a cleaner’s cupboard. She was in her bra and knickers, trussed up like she was ready for the oven, and blindfolded and gagged with tape. The girl’s still hysterical, but when she’s calm enough to talk, she’ll confirm for us, I’ve no doubt, that she was grabbed from behind by more than one person, bundled into the cupboard and stripped of her uniform.

  They’ll have gagged her at once so that she couldn’t scream, then blindfolded her so that she couldn’t see any of them. If we had published that letter, Hilary Guillaum might well be alive now, but I’m pretty certain she’d still be dead tomorrow. Remember, they’ve promised more incidents, and we’ve been assuming they’ll look for high-profile targets. What the third letter tells us is that they’ll be looking for international targets as well. Hilary Guillaum’s murder was well planned. They didn’t just knock her off to force you to go public. They’d have done it anyway.’

  'What do we do now? Give in to them?’

  Suddenly Skinner’s disappointment in Ballantyne swelled to overflowing. 'Christ, man, where is it about giving in? Look, you’re the politician. You take the decisions. I’d have thought it was pretty fucking obvious what you do, but I’m just a poor simple copper. Dig up the Prime Minister wherever he is. Tell him you’re going to call a press conference today to lay out the whole scene. You’re going to say that Scotland is under terrorist attack, and that the Government is determined to see the threat off. While you’re at it, you should call on all the opposition parties to make public declarations of support for your position. You tell the

  public that all possible steps are being taken to protect Festival venues, and that you’re counting on them to show their contempt for the terrorists by making it business as usual.’

  “What if the PM disagrees?’

  'You’re not asking him, you’re telling him. Neither of you has any option any more. Hilary Guillaum’s been murdered, remember. That’s major international news, and the enemy’s

  already called a satellite news channel with the story. Of course, they used the code-word. On the way down here, I told my guys that they could confirm the information, and give the details. It’ll be on air in the States by now, and here too for those who tune in to that station. Everyone else will follow it up. The genie’s out of the bottle, Alan.’

  Ballantyne spun round to face Skinner. ‘You said they could confirm it’ he shouted, suddenly red-faced. 'On whose authority?’

  'On mine!’ Skinner roared back. This is a murder. It’s my city, and I’m in charge of the investigation – not you. My call. End of story – or you can find yourself a new security adviser.’

  The Secretary of State looked at him with a mixture of amazement and apprehension, realising that he was seeing just a flash of the danger in the man: the frightening Skinner of whom Sir James Proud had spoken. Quickly he backed down.

  'Bob, you are quite right. Please forgive my outburst. This affair is preying on me. I will do as you recommend. And I’d like you to be with me when I confront the press. I have a number to contact the PM, so let’s raise him now. Then we’ll have Licorish call the press conference. Let’s see. It’s nearly four now. Shall we invite everyone here for, say, 5:30?’

  Skinner’s anger was, as usual with him, quick to dissipate.

  'Sounds fine, Alan. Sorry I blew my cool, too.

  'Where is the Prime Minister anyway?’

  'He’s at EuroDisney with his family – and with a small press contingent. He’s given all of us orders to be nice to the French, though God knows why. This seems to be his way of setting an example.’

  'OK, then, so you dig him out of the Magic Kingdom and update him on the real world. Meanwhile, I’ll get Licorish moving.’

  Skinner hurried from the residence, and, from his car, he called the Director of Information and instructed him to set up a meeting with the press for the time that he and Ballantyne had agreed.

  Then he called Martin.

  'Andy. A check for me please.

  “Miss Charlotte Mays. Solicitor. Age thirty-something. Partner in a firm called Goldstone and Ferns, Aberdeen. Everything there is to know, please. I’m on my way back.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  There must be fifty people in there.’

  The Secretary of State was staring nervously at a monitor screen set up by the police audio-visual unit in the Special Branch Office suite. On the advice of Michael Licorish, the press briefing had been transferred to the main hall at Fettes Avenue, both because of the potential turn-out and because of the difficulty of providing full security cover at St Andrews House at such short notice.

  'I can’t ever recall such a turn-out for a press conference in Scotland. Can you. Bob?’

  One or two. But they had to do either with murder or football.

  You see, you only deal with politics as a rule, so when you have a press conference up here, or even at Westminster, you see the same half-dozen or so faces, again and again. Whereas if we have a briefing here that’s to do with a really sensational murder case, we’ll have a turn-out not far short of this one. Best of all, though, is if it’s anything to do with football, say crowd misbehaviour, or stadium regulations. Then they’re breaking down the doors trying

  to get in. The press are governed by the laws of supply and demand, just like any other business, and the sad fact is, Secretary of State, our stuff sells more papers than your stuff!’

  Andy Martin, who had vivid memories of earlier occasions, looked at Skinner thoughtfully, but said nothing.

  Ballantyne grunted. 'Sad fact indeed. Bob. Violence and soccer.

  The twin opiates of the masses. Come on, Michael,’ he said to Licorish, with forced humour, “lead on and let’s face the scribbling classes.’

  There were six television crews crammed together on a hastily erected platform at the back of the hall, behind theatre-style seating which held around forty newspaper and broadcast journalists. Most were home-based Scots, but the numbers had been swelled by writers and broadcasters from England and beyond, currently in Edinburgh on assignment to cover the Festival, but pitched suddenly into the midst of the fastest breaking story of the day.

  The three participants, with Licorish in front and Skinner bringing up the rear, entered from a door to the right of the table at which they were to sit. It was placed in front of a simple blue

  backdrop, kept for media occasions, which had been assembled quickly that afternoon by Alan Royston, the police press officer.

  The noisy air-extractors in the high-ceilinged hall had been switched off. The day outside was still blazing hot, and already many of the audience were perspiring freely.

  Ballantyne took the seat in the centre of the table, with Skinner on his right. The two were introduced formally to their inquisitors by Michael Licorish. Ballantyne opened a blue folder, which he had carried with him into the hall, and produced a prepared statement which he began to read to the hushed assembly.

  He recounted the events of the previous thirty hours, from the Waverley Centre explosion to the murder of Hilary Guillaum. He thanked the media for their restraint in withholding publication of the first threatening letter,
saying that it had allowed full security measures to be put in place at each of the major Festival venues, without alarming the public unduly in the process. But he made no mention of the second letter.

  As he reached his conclusion he said: “As most of you will know. Assistant Chief Constable Skinner also acts as my adviser on security matters. I am very pleased to say that at my request he has formed, within the past twenty-four hours, an elite antiterrorist squad to deal with this new and unexpected threat. I have assured him that he will have all the facilities he needs to enable him to catch this group and shut it down. He bears a heavy responsibility, but I have every confidence that he will succeed. At the same time, the public can have confidence that the security precautions which have been taken under his direction will prove

  effective, and that the horrifying actions perpetrated by this ruthless group will not be repeated.

  The people of Scotland, whose Festival this is, have been targeted by this group of desperate men. They have given the lie to their bluster about freedom by their willingness to use violence against those same people whose imaginary cause they purport to champion. I ask all Scots, and those who are among us as our guests, to show their support for the actions I have taken by declaring business as usual at the Edinburgh Festival. I pledge that these bandits will be hunted down and punished to the full extent of the law. We can all feel safe under the protection of Mr Skinner and his team, while these terrorists should know that they will have no refuge while they remain among us. Scotland will not give in to them. The Government will never accede to their demands.’

  Ballantyne paused, and stared across at the rows of seats, then beyond them at the television cameras. 'I give them warning that their days are numbered. Thank you all.’