Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

  Arrow looked at him shrewdly. 'Betrayal. You mean like what that prick of a Secretary of State of yours did to you at your press conference?’

  Skinner’s eyes narrowed as he took out his putter. 'Who called the prick a Secretary of State, Adam, that’s what I’d like to know,’ he said softly, with a cold smile, rolling the ball into the

  hole.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The world was still turning on its axis as normal when Skinner and Arrow returned to Edinburgh from Gullane.

  It looked like any other Festival Monday afternoon as they drove along Princes Street. The hospitality marquee above the Waverley Centre had been repaired. Banners bearing the

  sponsor’s corporate logo fluttered from poles set on its supporting pillars. A few guests stood in the entrance, drinks in hand, enjoying the summer day.

  Skinner rolled down the windows of the BMW. The sunroof had been open all through the journey from Gullane. As they drove along, they took in the sounds of the street. Competing

  bagpipers, some live, some no more than taped Muzak floating from the open-fronted shops, competed for attention above the noise of the traffic, vehicular and human. The open-air Fringe sideshow at the Mound was in full swing. Edinburgh was alive: full of bustle. The capital was wearing its bright Festival face, as if there was no threat, as if no crisis existed.

  Back at Fettes, Arrow headed for the car which had been assigned to him, and drove straight off to Redford Barracks to await the check in of his SAS unit. His men were travelling north

  on various afternoon flights from Heathrow, in groups of two or three.

  Skinner settled back into his swivel chair, behind his desk, at precisely two minutes before 4:00 pm, just in time for his regular Monday meeting with his deputy and the six Divisional heads of CID. As Commander he needed to know everything that was going on throughout the force’s sprawling territory. At the same time these weekly meetings as a group encouraged a healthy exchange of information among colleagues.

  Once Ruth had brought in coffee and the obligatory chocolate digestives, he gave his fellow detectives a comprehensive run-through of the threat and the security operation. The summary briefing took only ten minutes.

  ‘So that’s what we’ve done,’ Skinner said finally, ' and that’s who’s in the antiterrorist squad. Any questions, gentlemen?’

  'One, sir.’

  Skinner looked across at Douglas Armstrong, a big, bluff man from Dalkeith. Armstrong was his nominated deputy and, as a Detective Chief Superintendent, a rank above the Divisional

  heads. 'Whose side are the politicians on?’

  'If you mean our own Board, they’re solidly behind us, as always. If you mean ministers, they’re backing us too, for the moment at least. We’ve got a job to do. Let’s just do it as well as we can, and earn any thanks we get at the end of the day. And when I say we’ve got a job to do, I mean you too, whatever your Division, aye, even you down in the Borders, Ron. These people must have a home base. For all the high-flown language, and all that crap, this is just another bloody gang. We don’t know how big it is, but there has to be a gang-hut somewhere, a place where the boss is, a place where orders are given – a place where these

  letters are typed. Even if they’re so well organised that they never meet as a complete group, there is still movement and contact between them. They communicate through letters, not over the phone, and they use pretend couriers. There’s a contact point, when the courier picks up his envelope – unless of course, he’s the author, but that’s unlikely.

  'So we’re not just looking for people, we’re looking for that place as well. I want you, in your Divisions, to put all your people on the alert, uniform as well as CID, to keep an eye out for any possibility, however slight. The only forensic knowledge which we have is that the notes were produced by a computer or word processor using a fairly obscure typeface called Venice, and that they were printed on Conqueror paper by a Hewlett Packard Desk-jet.’

  He handed each man a manufacturer’s brochure showing the ugly but functional square-shaped printer, and a sample sheet of Conqueror paper with its clear water mark.

  'If any of your people find anywhere where they see those two items together, they should report it back and let us follow it up. I don’t care who the owner is, whether it’s your wife’s brother or the parish priest, each case is to be reported back. We’re checking out all printer stockists and paper suppliers. Both these items are sold over the counter, but we already think we know where the printer was bought: a shop in Queensferry Street, last Tuesday.

  Buyer paid cash and left a phoney address for product registration. All the assistant could describe was tallish male, may have been dark-haired, but he wore a hooded tank-top and shades, so she couldn’t be certain. She didn’t remember his accent. The shop doesn’t sell Conqueror paper, but there’s a stockist in William Street, and we’re checking it out now.’

  'Any prints on either letter?’ asked Armstrong.

  'No, Douglas, not a smear. Gloves all down the chain. So, gentlemen, unless any one of you has anything else on your patch that’s about to go pear-shaped, and you need to tell me about in private, that’s it for today. See you all here next week, on a group basis again, I think, unless you hear different. Go to it, and good luck.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  Heading for home. Skinner was in the act of closing the door of his office behind him when another thought occurred. He went back to his desk and picked up his scrambled telephone, keying in one of forty pre-programmed numbers.

  The call was answered brusquely on the first ring. 'Hullo.’

  Willie. Skinner here. How are you lot getting on with our pal?’

  'No’ bad, sir.’

  'How are my guys doing?’

  'First class. That’s a hard big bastard, that Mcllhenney. And the boy Macgregor, he’s so sharp he’ll cut himself.’

  'Well just you keep an eye on him and see that he doesn’t. Now, what about Macdairmid?’

  'He’s spent most of the day at the Constituency Labour Party offices. Ah had a tap put on them too. Is that OK wi’ you?’

  'Yes, for now, but just make sure you remember to take it off as soon as Macdairmid’s eliminated as a suspect.’

  'Shame! But yes, sir. That’s understood. No’ that it’s produced anything yet that would interest you, other than the guy haranguin’ lassies in the Housin’ Department, threatenin’ them that their jobs ’ll no be safe if they don’t do as he says.’

  'He’s not saying he’ll use his political clout to have them sacked, is he?’

  'Not straight out. Naw. Well it isn’t enough for a charge, if that’s what ye’re thinking; it’s nothing that the Crown Office needs to tae hear. Mind you,’ Haggerty mused, 'if someone

  dropped a copy of the transcript taste the Sun, it might finish him as an MP.’,

  'Don’t bother yourself, Willie. Nice thought as it is, it would cause too many problems. Anyway, we’ve got enough on the guy now to make sure that he’s quietly de-selected, and we’ll do that at the right time. For now just keep tabs on him and see if he leads us anywhere.’

  Haggerty grunted. 'Understood. There is one thing, sir. The boy does have a funny habit. Twice, he left the offices and went fur a pint in a pub on Greenlands Road. Mcllhenney and

  Macgregor took turns tailing him. Apparently, each time, he only had a half-pint, and hardly touched that. But each time, he used the pub pay-phone. 'S’that no interesting?’

  'It’s funny, for sure. It could be anything, though, that he didn’t want heard in the office. Calling the girlfriend for example.

  Still, we’ll take a punt on it. As soon as you see him heading for the CLP offices again, put a tap on that pub phone, and let’s see what we get.’

  THIRTY

  The rest of the day passed peacefully. Bob and Sarah took in a one-man show. based on the life of Houdini, in a converted church hall in Newington. The star – A game guy,’ as Bob

  dec
lared later – performed several of Houdini’s easier illusions as part of the show, prevailing upon members of the audience to verify that he was securely chained, or straight-jacketed, or boxed in, whatever each trick demanded. Sarah’s enjoyment of the show was dampened slightly by a constant niggling fear that Bob’s mobile telephone would ring, but it never did.

  They returned to their bungalow in Fairyhouse Avenue at around 10:30 pm. Half an hour later, Andy Martin and Julia Shahor arrived for a late supper after the evening’s film

  performance. It was partly a social visit, and partly an opportunity for the two detectives to touch base on the day’s events.

  While, in the conservatory. Skinner told Martin of Grant Macdairmid’s peculiar visits to the pub in Greenlands Road,

  Sarah and Julia chatted in the kitchen.

  'How’s your aunt reacting to all the excitement?’ Sarah asked.

  'She’s taken herself off,’ said Julia, a note of disappointment creeping into her voice, giving it sudden depth where normally it was flat and devoid of accent. 'She said that I had enough on my hands without having her around, and so she insisted on going back home to Uncle Percy in Brighton. I put her on the Gatwick flight this morning, and he was going to pick her up at the other end. I’m sorry in a way. She likes to be around when it’s busy, to help me as best she can. She still does little things about the house.

  I said I didn’t want her to leave, but she had made her mind up.’

  'So you’re there on your own now?’

  Julia smiled. 'Well, not exactly. Andy says that since his work has become involved with mine, and since he insists on looking after me, after my scare the other night, it makes sense for me to move in with him for a week or two. That is nice of him, is it not.’

  Sarah laughed. 'Nice! It’s amazing. For as long as I’ve known Andy Martin, he’s been adamant that he’d never let a girlfriend hang her clothes in his wardrobe. This sounds serious. He’s not the head-over-heels type; and that’s not the way you strike me either.’

  'I didn’t think I was. But when I saw him on Saturday, something just went into melt-down. Earlier tonight he asked me to marry him.’

  Sarah’s mouth dropped open in amazement. 'He did what!

  What did you say?’

  'I said that he should ask me again in a month. If he does, and if I still feel this same way, then I will marry him, and just as fast as I can.’

  'Good for you, lady. Bob and I didn’t hang about either. We took a little more time over it than you and Andy but, still, we only met last year. He had to be a bit more cautious though,

  having the other love of his life to consider.’

  'What, do you mean his job?’

  Sarah smiled again, and shook her head. 'Apart from that! No, I meant Alex, his daughter. If she and I had hated each other, it’d have been difficult for him – and for me too, come to that. It was fine, though. I love Alex. She’s like my kid sister, only she’s no kid. It’s funny, but your moving in with Andy – it’s come just at the right time, in a way. It might help Bob understand something he doesn’t fathom yet.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  'Alex and Bob had their first real row last night. I mean their first ever. She brought her new man home for supper, and Bob gave him the third degree. After he’d gone, Alex just blew her

  stack. So did Bob. This afternoon she came back from her theatre while he was out – she’s acting in a play – and picked up some of her clothes and things. She’s moved in with Ingo, the boyfriend. I promised I’d break the news to Bob.’

  She saw a look of apprehension cloud Julia’s face, and was quick to dispel it. 'Don’t worry. I won’t let it spoil our evening. I’ll wait till afterwards, to tell him.’

  'What will he do?’

  'Well, he might just go and find Ingo and give him a quiet going over.’ She paused, and Julia’s mouth dropped open, a frown creasing her forehead. Sarah grinned. 'But I think I should be able to stop him doing that. Especially now that I can remind him that you and Andy are in the same situation. He’ll sulk for a while, but he’ll be OK. Alex wouldn’t do anything just for the sake of hurting Bob, and he knows that.’

  'Would it help if I asked Andy to talk to him?’ said Julia, tentatively.

  'God no! Andy treats her like a sister, too. He’s known her since she was a little girl. He’d probably have Ingo deported! No, don’t say anything to him. We’ll let Bob sort himself out first, then he can sort out Andy!’

  At the insistence of Sarah and Julia, no shop was talked during supper. Instead Bob replayed, shot by shot, his round of golf with Adam Arrow. The walk in the sun had added a pink touch to his tan and a bleached hint to his hair. His account rose in its superlatives until it climaxed in his description of his eagle two at the seventeenth, passed off casually at the time, for Arrow’s benefit, but in fact, a lifetime first.

  'And what happened at the eighteenth?’ asked Andy.

  'Trust you, boy. I was going to gloss over that, but OK. Gave it the long handle again, didn’t I. Stuffed my drive in that chest-high rough up the right. Bunkered my second ball. Took eight. Anyway, by that time I was thinking about work again.’

  In a sense that was true. In fact, as he stood on the tee, he had been considering still, in depth, the subject of betrayal.

  THIRTY-ONE

  He seemed the usual Skinner on arriving at his office next morning, but Ruth, ever the perceptive secretary, caught a preoccupied, slightly sharp edge to his 'Good morning’.

  'Where’s Alex?’ he had asked, as the door had closed on Andy and Julia seven hours earlier. Then Sarah had told him. He had taken the news better than she had thought he might, but his

  reaction had opened a new shaft of concern for Alex in Sarah herself.

  'Sarah, love, in all of her life since her mother died, the girl’s never known disappointment. Some of that I’ve seen to, but most of the credit’s hers. She’s never failed an exam in her life. And as far as I can remember, or at least know about, she’s never made a serious error of judgement. But I suspect that she’s made one this time.’

  'What do you mean?’

  'I mean that guy Ingo isn’t right – not for her at any rate.

  There’s something about him that I don’t like. I can’t say what it is. All I can tell you that in my time I’ve interviewed a lot of people in the course of police investigations. I’ve reached the stage when I can usually smell the wrong ones. And believe me, that fellow smells wrong. He’s a self-centred bastard, and he doesn’t give a damn about Alex. He’s just taking a loan of her.’

  'Come on. Bob, you’re hardly being objective.’

  'I’m hardly objective about criminals either, but I’m usually right.’

  Sarah reached out a hand and touched his cheek, whispering as she did,

  ' “Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up,

  fostered alike by beauty and by fear.” '

  'What’s that?’

  'Wordsworth. It just came into my head, thinking about you and Alex. Your relationship is beautiful. Bob, but there’s fear there too. Your fear, every father’s fear, of what might happen to his little girl.’

  He shook his head. 'I wish it was so simple, or so poetic, lover, but the hair on the back of my neck prickled the first time I ever met the guy, when Alex introduced him just as one of the squad, without even saying there was something between them. And the day I stop trusting the hair on the back of my neck – that day I’ll be finished as a detective.’

  'Well if you really believe that, what are you going to do?’

  'What can I do? I can’t talk her round. It’s gone too far for that. I could put the fear of God into him, but to do that properly I have a feeling that I might have to break at least one of his legs!

  And what would that do for me and Alex? It’d never be the same again.

  'No, I – what do I mean – we just have to accept it for now, but watch the situation and be around to pick up the pieces when h
e dumps her and buggers off back to Sweden.’

  They sat up until 2:00 am discussing Alex’s decampment.

  Back in his office, faced once again with the tyranny of his pending tray. Bob could feel the loss of those few hours’ sleep, but he persevered until, by mid-morning, he had worked his way through most of the heap of files and folders.

  Just after 11:00 am he was interrupted by a call on his private line. He picked up the receiver and heard a familiar voice echoing through a bad international connection.

  'Bob, Jimmy here. I’ve just seen a copy of yesterday’s Telegraph. What the hell’s going on there?’

  Sir James Proud’s celebration of his recently conferred knighthood was taking the form of a four-week break with Lady Proud in Lanzarote. 'Twenty-eight days of doing absolutely sod

  all,’ he had announced before his departure. His holiday still had almost twenty-one of those days to run.

  Skinner was not in the least surprised by his call. 'Hello, Chief. I thought you’d be on the phone as soon as the news caught up with you. If you’ve seen the Telegraph, you probably know it all.

  Since the murder of the Guillaum woman, we’ve had no more incidents, or any further contact from the terrorists. That’s nearly forty-eight hours now. We’ve put as much security in place as we can, including some of the boys in black from Hereford. Maybe we’ve scared them off, but I have my doubts.’

  How’s Ballantyne taking it?’