Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

  Skinner’s face was visibly grim as Ballantyne finished. He had been staggered by the Secretary of State’s assumption of copyright over the creation of the antiterrorist squad. And he had been shocked by the way that he had been set up. He knew that Ballantyne’s promise of total safety at the Festival was a sham.

  Equally he knew who had been placed squarely in the firing line should things go badly wrong. All of his burgeoning doubts about the Secretary of State’s valour in a crisis crystallised finally into a certainty that the man was innately treacherous.

  A question broke into his thoughts.

  'Mr Ballantyne. Dave Bassett, TNI Bureau Chief, London. I’d like to ask about the reference to an ultimatum in the second communiqué. I have information that this relates to a warning

  given to you this morning that – and I quote my source – “stern action” would be taken unless you lifted the news blackout by midday.’

  'Who told you that?’ Ballantyne snapped back.

  'That doesn’t matter. If it is true, what was the point in holding out?’

  The Secretary of State stared at Bassett. As Ballantyne replied, Skinner felt him shaking beside him.

  'Yes it is true that we received such a communication. Mr Skinner was involved in our decision. Perhaps he can best explain our thinking.’

  There was a faint smile of acknowledgement on Skinner’s face as he glanced towards Ballantyne, but his eyes, locking on the other man’s for a fraction of a second, said something completely different.

  'Thank you. Secretary of State. Mr Bassett, all I can say to you is that we took a view at the time. I don’t believe that our decision led to this unfortunate lady’s murder. I am quite certain

  that it was planned all along, and it’s quite clear that she was chosen as a victim who would attract the maximum international attention. You’ll agree with that. I think.’

  Bassett nodded.

  'These are ruthless, evil people,’ Skinner went on. 'We’ve had only a little over twenty-four hours to weigh them up, but it seems clear to me already that they are not operating on any spur-of-the-moment basis, and that they are well resourced both in terms of equipment and manpower. Yesterday’s atrocity and today’s were both well planned. The bomb used a sophisticated and fairly rare type of explosive, one that hasn’t been encountered before in the

  UK. We believe that two or three people were involved in Miss Guillaum’s murder, and that one of them may have been a woman. We have to assume that what has happened so far is part of a longer-term strategy. My officers and I have to try to anticipate each move as far as we can, and aim, at the same time, to make the city as safe as we can.’

  John Hunter, a veteran Edinburgh reporter, and an old friend of Skinner’s, raised a hand. 'Bob, can you tell us something about the precautions you’re taking?’

  'Some of them are obvious. For example, we’re sealing up litter bins and welding down underground access covers. All traffic cones will be taken off the streets so that no one can leave anything nasty under them. On-street parking by private motorists, other than residents displaying valid permits, will be banned in the city centre. We’re setting up temporary car parks and running shuttle bus services free of charge. Our press officer will issue details of locations as you leave, and they’ll be published in tomorrow’s Scotsman and Evening News. We’re putting other things in place as well, but I’m not going to talk about them.’

  Bassett broke in again. 'Mr Skinner, can the public really have faith in your guarantee of safety, as just expressed by Mr Ballantyne? It didn’t do Hilary Guillaum much good, did it?’

  Skinner glared at the fat man, as he sat sweating in his short-sleeved shirt. It was a look which said: 'Don’t challenge me, friend. Don’t push, it could be dangerous.’ Even in the

  superheated hall, he felt an alien coldness spread over him. He was under fire again. This time there were words, not bullets, but the intent was as hostile, nonetheless.

  Bassett picked up the warning in the eyes, and when he spoke again, his tone was noticeably more circumspect. 'I mean aren’t these people fanatics, and can you protect one hundred per cent against types like that?’

  Skinner stared at him for a few seconds more, then slowly shook his head. 'No. No, I don’t think they are fanatics. A fanatic is a person suffering from an excess of zeal. Look it up in your Concise Oxford. I don’t see that here. Nothing these “Fighters for an Independent Scotland” – ' his voice was tinged with scorn ' – have said leads me to believe that they are willing to fight to the death, at least not their own. They make bold statements about sacrifice, but only sacrifice by others. You won’t find any of them charging into a hail of gunfire. People like that can be dealt with. The other sort, the true fanatics, are always likely to do damage simply because they don’t expect to walk away.’

  He looked away from Bassett and directly towards the bank of television cameras. 'I cannot say to the public that there is no risk. Of course there is. The plain fact is that this city and all of its people are now under terrorist attack. But I can say three things.

  First, these people will not succeed. Second, each of us can help knock them on the head by looking out for, and reporting to the police, anything that looks at all suspicious. Third, it isn’t a matter of just making them go away. These are murderous louts who have killed two people, and who are going to pay for it.

  That’s my promise, to you and to them.’

  Like Ballantyne before him, but instinctively, he too paused and looked directly at the cameras.

  'We’re all in this together, and the world is watching us. So let’s stand up to these terrorists, let’s smoke them out, and let’s have justice for Danny Baker, for Hilary Guillaum, and for us all.’

  He held his gaze on the cameras for several seconds. And then something happened; something quite unexpected and quite unique. John Hunter first, then a second, then three more journalists began to applaud, all of them Scots, and all of them long in the media tooth.

  Taken aback and embarrassed. Skinner rose from the table, motioned Ballantyne and Licorish to their feet, and led them from the hall.

  'Good on you. Bob,’ Hunter called out just before the swing- door closed behind them.

  Skinner led Ballantyne up a short flight of stairs. Licorish remained behind in the corridor to cope with the media as they left, and to answer any remaining questions.

  At the top of the stairs. Skinner opened the door to the command corridor with his pass key, and held it open for Ballantyne. It had no sooner closed behind them than the Secretary of State turned on him.

  'Nice speech. Bob.’ His voice was laden with sarcasm. 'I didn’t realise you were a politician too!’

  The other man was there inside him again, so swiftly that Skinner could not keep him bottled up. It was as if someone else, not he, grabbed Ballantyne by the throat and slammed him against the wall. And for his part, Ballantyne, raised to his tiptoes and beginning to purple, saw the menace in Skinner’s unfamiliar expression and heard the threat in his cold, hard, quiet voice.

  'You set me up in there, mister. You put your miserable politician’s hide first, and everything else second, you chickenhearted little bastard. “It’s all down to Skinner.” That’s what you

  were saying to those people. “If it goes wrong, it’s his fault.

  Hilary Guillaum? Don’t look at me. I’d have done as they asked and gone public. Ask Skinner about it. Anything else goes wrong, blame him.” I’d thought more of you than that, but now I know better. You’re the sort who would lay down the life of his best friend to save his own, aren’t you, Alan. Without a second fucking thought. When the shit hits the fan. we know where to find you: hiding under the table, keeping your nice suit clean.

  When this is over, pal, you can get yourself a new security adviser.

  Until then do not, repeat do not, fuck me about again!’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  'Come on. Bob. Snap out of it. The girls’ll be back in
a minute.’

  'Eh, what? Oh, sorry, Andy. I was somewhere else.’

  'You still mad at Ballantyne?’

  'What makes you think I ever was?’

  'Come off it. I was watching you when he put you on the spot back there.’

  'Nah. That was no problem. Here they are. Let’s go.’

  He stood up and led the way out of the Filmhouse bar, to meet his wife and Julia Shahor as they emerged from the ladies’ room.

  The evening’s performance, a Louis Malle feature, was scheduled to begin in only a few minutes. They had almost reached the auditorium when Julia was called to the telephone.

  'Go on in, you two,’ said Andy. 'I’ll wait for Julia.’

  She was gone for only a few minutes. As soon as she reappeared at the foot of the staircase he could see that something was wrong.

  She looked close to tears.

  'What is it, love?’

  Oh Andyl She’s cancelled!’

  For a few seconds a frown of puzzlement creased his forehead.

  Then his eyebrows rose. 'What, you mean . . . what’sher-name?’

  'Yes. That was her agent. She’s heard about Hilary Guillaum, and she’s said that no way is she coming. The bitch! How could she! What a coward.’

  'And that’s what other people will think, sweetheart. It’s not surprising, though. I’ve a feeling she could be the first of many.

  Damn shame, though. I was looking forward to processing her in person!’

  'That’s all right,’ said Julia, squeezing his arm and brightening up in an instant. 'You can process me instead!’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Bob and Sarah had been home for only ten minutes when Alex turned up with the supper guest she had invited earlier in the day.

  'Hello, Ingo. Good to meet you again.’ Bob stretched out a hand to the Swede, as he stood in the doorway of the sitting-room.

  Smiling, he looked the younger man square in the eye. Ingo shook his hand powerfully, holding his gaze unblinking, with a faint but confident grin. 'Come on through. Sarah’s working one of her microwave miracles.’ Bob led the way through to the conservatory, where an oval table was set for four.

  Supper was a spicy lemon chicken dish, which Sarah had prepared earlier in the day. Bob helped her to serve it, spooning out portions of light, fluffy rice. Since Ingo would have to drive later. Bob decreed that they would all drink Gleneagles spring water which, he assured their guest, had more life to it than most white wines, and certainly more than any from north of the Mediterranean or south of the Equator.

  Alex was still on a high from her evening’s performance. She spoke so fast she was almost breathless, as she rushed to tell Bob and Sarah of the group’s first review, which was scheduled to appear in the next morning’s Scotsman, and which would be 'absolutely rave’, or so their director had been assured by the arts editor. He had said that it would make special reference to the quality of the lighting, and of its importance to the flow of the play.

  '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?’
r />   'What do you mean?’

  “You interrogated Ingo like a suspect.’

  Bob laughed, but he was taken 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 guy 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 collar size and inside-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 could 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 for 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 filled 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: and 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 been close up in the last couple of days. And just in case, as your father, I’m too close to read the signs.’