Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

'I don’t want to talk about that.’

  For a few seconds there was only a whistling sound on the otherwise silent line, as Proud considered the implications of Skinner’s reticence. When he spoke again, there was a warning in his tone.

  'You watch our friend, Robert. Like most politician’s, he’s not to be trusted. Look, I’ll try to get a plane out of here. I should be back home there.’

  No you shouldn’t. What could you do that I haven’t done?

  Besides if you’ve read the ‘Torygraph’, you’ll know that this isn’t a force matter anyway. Officially, it’s in the hands of an antiterrorist squad, and I’m in command, courtesy of our friend Ballantyne. So you just lie in the sun with Lady Chrissie, and try to enjoy doing all that bugger-all that you were looking forward to.’

  'But, man, I’ll feel terrible, worrying about you lot.’

  'Why should you? Do you think all crime stops in Edinburgh just because you’ve gone on bloody holiday? Think of it as just another investigation.’

  Proud grunted. 'I suppose you’re right. I have to admit that Chrissie did give me the start of a very black look when I mentioned going back home. How’s McGuinness getting on?’

  'Not bothering me.’

  'And Sarah? How’s Sarah?’

  'Terrific. She’s taking years off me.’

  And Alex?’

  Playing house with some Swede at the moment. Much to my displeasure, I have to say.’

  Take some advice from an expert, Bob. Let her get on with it. When you’re her age, no one else knows anything about life.’

  “That’s more or less what Sarah says too.’

  Warning pips sounded on the line. Ok, boss, thanks for the call. Now go on. Get back to your sun-bed.’

  Proud laughed. 'All right. If you’re certain. It’s true what they say, by the way. I have to get up at 7:30 to book our places. So long.’ The line went dead.

  The rest of the day passed peacefully, apart from the distraction of a mid-afternoon bank robbery at the Bank of Scotland in Picardy Place – a crime which was almost refreshing in its

  normality after the tumult of the weekend. The bearded senior manager’s terse and vivid description of the raiders struck a chord with the investigating Detective Chief Inspector, and a replay of the bank video confirmed his suspicions. Within three hours of the crime, arrests were made and the stolen 33,000 recovered.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Bob and Sarah decided to give the performing arts a miss that evening. Instead they visited a private view of a major exhibition of Inca treasures in the Royal Scottish Museum. After their guided tour, they mingled with the rich and famous of Edinburgh and various members of the visiting glitterati, at a drinks reception in the Museum’s main hall, under its magnificent high-arched glass ceiling.

  They had just spent some time in confusing conversation with one of Scotland’s leading young jazz saxophonists and his identical twin brother, and were circulating towards the next

  group, when they were confronted by a stocky, bull-like, crew-cut figure sweating in his pink shirt and white cotton jacket, even in the controlled climate of the Museum.

  'Skinner?’ The man seemed to bark rather than speak.

  Skinner nodded, hackles rising instantly.

  Al Neidermeyer. We spoke on the transatlantic horn on Saturday. Remember?’

  'Oh yes, I remember.’ Skinner’s voice was suddenly soft. He felt Sarah’s hand tighten on his arm, as if she was holding him back.

  A vein throbbed on the side of the shorter man’s bullet-like head. 'I want you to know that I’m watching you, Skinner. You fucked me around. I don’t forget that. You slip up just once on this case, and I’ll make you international bad news. I’ll screw you so hard your eyes’ll pop. You get me? Now tell me what the fuck you’re doing to catch these people.’

  A slow, cold smile spread across Skinner’s face. Beside him Sarah was trembling in fury. She made to speak, but Bob, still smiling, silenced her with a slight movement of his hand. The

  chattering of the groups of guest around them had stilled, and a circle had opened up around them. The closest bystanders stared self-consciously into their wine glasses. 'Mr Neidermeyer – or can I call you Al? You’re new in town. You’re probably jet-lagged. And, like my wife, here, you’re an American. All that cuts you one piece of slack. You’ve just used it up.’ The smile left his lips.

  'So now you listen to me, and listen well. Here you get the same rights and privileges on this story as any other member of the foreign press. In your special case, that means you’re at the back of the queue. You want to ask any questions about this investigation, you contact my information office. You don’t waylay me in a public place. Understood?’

  Suddenly his voice was different, still quiet but hard now, and very, very cold. 'And one more thing. You ever talk to me like that again, or block my way, or use language like that in front of my wife, and you’ll either be on liquids for a week, or locked up, or both.

  'Come on, love. Time we were going.’ He slipped an arm around Sarah’s waist and led her from the Museum.

  THIRTY-THREE

  An hour later Sarah was still seething. She sat on the edge of the bed in her matching pink bra and panties, pulling a brush through her hair. Bob lay naked between the sheets.

  'That little jerk. Who the hell does he think he is? Guys like him give all us Americans a bad name. What an asshole! If I ever see him again . . .’

  Bob laughed and shook his head. 'Calm down, Doc. You’re getting as red in the face as he was. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you phone Don the Consul and report him?’

  She frowned at him. 'How can you be so calm about it? He threatened you in front of all those people.’

  'Yeah, and I threatened him back. I don’t think he’ll do it again. If he does, I’ll just have to call my pal Joe. To hell, maybe I’ll do that anyway.’

  'Who’s your pal Joe?’

  'The FBI guy in your Embassy in London. I wonder if old Al would fancy a full-scale IRS tax audit.’

  Sarah looked at him. Even now, he was still capable of surprising her. 'Could you fix that?’

  'Damn right I could. Now forget that bastard, and come here. There’s a fella wants to talk to you.’

  In an instant, she slipped out of her bra and panties and into bed, reaching for him. Just as he drew her close to him, the telephone rang.

  Sarah swore softly, rolled over and picked it up. 'Hello?’

  'Sarah? It’s Maggie Rose here.’ At once, Sarah was aware of the tension in the detective sergeant’s voice. The woman was struggling hard to stay in control. 'I’m sorry, but I need

  to speak to the boss.’

  Frowning, Sarah handed over the receiver.

  Bob took it from her. 'Yes, Sergeant. What is it?’

  'It’s a bomb, sir. In the Assembly Rooms. In the Music Hall. They’ve done it again. Oh, my God, but it’s awful. Get here, please, sir! Just get here, please!’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  George Street was closed off along its entire length, from Charlotte Square to St Andrew Square. A uniformed officer, stationed at the junction of Queen Street and Frederick Street,

  recognised Skinner and Sarah instantly, and waved them through.

  They parked in front of the double-windows of Phillips, the fine art auctioneers. Clad in the jeans and sweatshirts which they had pulled on after tumbling out of bed, they raced across the street, past the police cars lined along the central reservation, and past the rank of ambulances which stood like blue-beaconed taxis at the arched and pillared entrance to the Assembly Rooms.

  At once. Skinner spotted Deputy Chief Constable McGuinness standing in the doorway, looking out into the street. The portly policeman was in evening dress, as if he had been summoned from the opera. His normally ruddy face had a yellowish tinge, and his eyes gave a clear hint of what lay inside.

  Skinner greeted him sympathetically. 'Hello, Eddie. What’s happened?’ Even as he spoke two paramedics hur
ried past, bearing a keening victim on a stretcher towards one of the ambulances. He looked down at their burden, and in spite of himself, he felt his stomach knot, and his testicles tighten. It was a girl, young and blonde. Her left ear and part of the left side of her face had been sliced off. Through the mess, Skinner could see white bone. A long shard of wood protruded from her belly. Her hands, all bloody, were grasping it as if she were holding on to her pain and, through that, to life itself.

  McGuinness’s lips moved as if he was speaking, but no sound came out. Instead his eyes filled with tears as he followed the girl on her stretcher. For the first time in his life, Skinner found that he felt sorry for the Deputy. He knew that most of McGuinness’s career had been spent in administration, and yet here he was visiting his second charnel-house in only four days.

  'Go and sit in one of the cars, Eddie. You don’t have to look at this. You can’t help these people.’

  But the Deputy Chief Constable shook his head, blinking the glaze from his eyes. Then, as Skinner looked at him, he straightened his back and clenched his jaw. 'No, Bob. I realise

  that things like this come with the job.’

  Skinner patted him on the shoulder with a new-found sense of camaraderie. 'Good man, Eddie,’ he murmured softly. 'Jimmy would be pleased with you.’

  As he led Sarah into the foyer of the Assembly Rooms, they were met by a babel of sound. The shouts of the emergency teams mingled with cries of paid from victims. Somewhere not too far away a man was screaming.

  Carrying her bulky First-aid bag, Sarah looked around until she saw a nurse in uniform. 'I’m a doctor,’ she called out to the man.

  'Where’s the medical centre?’

  'Up those stairs, in the big room to the left.’

  She turned to Skinner. 'Bob, I’m . . .’

  'Yes, of course. I’ll send for you if I need you.

  'Maggie Rose said it was in the Music Hall,’ he said to no one in particular. Then he caught sight of Andy Martin standing at the foot of the wide staircase to the right, waving to him.

  'Boss,’ he called. “This way.’

  Skinner followed Martin up the staircase. At the top he made to step into the big Music Hall which he knew so well, but Martin caught his arm.

  'No, boss. Come up to the gallery. You’ll get a better idea there.

  And listen, prepare yourself. It’s not a pretty sight.’

  Martin led him through the access door to the balcony, and up a second flight of stairs, much narrower than the first. As he stepped into the auditorium. Skinner’s eyes screwed up involuntarily, taking in the horror. Glass was strewn across the full width of the upper seating area. White stuffing, much of it stained crimson with blood, protruded from torn tip-up seats. A line of pockmarks ran irregularly along the painted back wall of the gallery. The whole upper area of the hall looked as if it had been strafed with machine-gun fire.

  As soon as Skinner looked down into the body of the hall, he realised why. The framework of the huge, ornate chandelier, which had been the main feature of the room, now hung twisted

  and tangled, suspended from the ceiling by only a few wires. Its heavy crystal fittings were virtually all gone. Skinner saw at once that the blast had torn them off and sent them whistling like heavy-calibre bullets into the balcony seats.

  He walked down the few steps from the doorway, and looked into the body of the theatre. From the way the wreckage was spread out, he could see that the explosion had taken place mid-stage. The lower part of the auditorium was filled with temporary tiered-stall seating. The rows of seats nearest the front, and thus closest to the explosion, were below stage level, and seemed to have been shielded from the worst of the blast. He could see that those in the middle and towards the rear had been riddled with a savage assortment of wooden, glass and metal shrapnel. Skinner remembered the girl on the stretcher, and guessed that it was the

  debris of the stage furniture.

  Suddenly he was overwhelmed by the horror of it all. 'Jesus Christ, Andy. What a mess.’

  Martin had been working at the scene for some time, but he too was still ashen-faced. 'Hellish. We’ve got at least twelve dead, and who knows how many injured. A few of them won’t make it.

  There was a girl there . . .’

  'I know. I saw her, I think. Sarah came with me. She’s gone next door to do what she can.’

  'That’s good, boss. Maggie Rose is there too. She was in the building – down in the foyer, and thank Christ not in the Hall when it happened.’

  'She holding up OK?’

  'Maggie? Are you kidding?’

  'That’s good. Now tell me what you’ve worked out so far.’

  'Well, as you can see, the bomb seems to have exploded right on the stage itself. The show was an Australian musical called Waltzing Matilda or some such. The cast was bang – oh Christ!

  He paused, aghast at his choice of words – in the middle of one of their big production numbers when it happened. We can account for three bodies on stage, but there’s another one missing.

  We reckon she’s probably just been blown all over the fucking place. You can see what the blast did to the big chandelier. The folk upstairs caught the worst of it. One or two of the poor sods were just cut to pieces. The audience downstairs didn’t do too well either. The people at the front and at the back got off lightest; mostly shock, some deafened, a few scrapes. The folk in the middle caught the stage debris. They were lucky the frame of that big chandelier didn’t come down on them as well.’

  Martin paused, to bring his rising voice under control. Skinner looked over into the mid-section of the big hall, which was flooded by the temporary lights which had been set up. Many of the seats were torn and, as in the upper area, some were stained scarlet. More blood trails led up the aisle towards the exit door.

  'By the time I got here,’ Martin continued, 'they’d taken eight people out dead from the audience. Five more are touch-and-go.

  One woman had her hand sliced off. Her boyfriend had to put a tourniquet on her.’ He paused, gulping in breath. 'The worst casualties are on their way to hospital. Most of them are being treated here.’

  Skinner caught sight of 'Gammy’ Legge kneeling in the centre of the scorched blackened stage. 'Do we know anything about the type of bomb yet? Was it the same as Saturday?’

  'There’s an old guy reckons he can describe it for us. He’s a weird old boy; he’s either tremendously excited or a bit hysterical or both. He can’t stop talking. I’ve sent him downstairs with a PC. Do you want to talk to him?’

  'Too right. Let’s get to him before he starts to embroider it.’

  Martin led the way out of the Music Hall and down the wide carpeted staircase, back to the foyer. The Fringe cafe-bar in the rear ground-level hall had been turned into an emergency canteen.

  A number of survivors, more shocked than injured, were sitting around on stacking chairs, drinking mugs of hot sweet tea.

  Skinner could hear the old man’s shrill, hoarse voice rising above the hubbub even before Martin pointed him out. He was standing on his tip toe, clutching a white mug, with his chin stuck out, bellowing and gesticulating with his free hand to the young officer detailed to look after him. His small stature was accentuated by the wizening and shrinkage which the advancing years had brought with them.

  Skinner could see at once why Martin had thought him weird.

  More than anything else, he looked like a large monkey in fancy dress. He had a broad flat face, and a high forehead, from which his long, thinning hair swept back. Skinner noted with surprise a sprinkling of black still showing among the grey. A small gold ring looked garish in his left ear, but somehow it was in accord with his crew-necked blue-and-white hooped sweater, and comfort-cut black jeans. He wore open-toed sandals, without socks. He might have been. Skinner estimated, anywhere between sixty-five and eighty.

  Martin introduced them. 'Boss, this is Mr Charles Forsyth. Mr Forsyth, ACC Skinner.’

  The little man tur
ned and looked slowly up at the figure towering above him. 'So you’re the great Bob Skinner! I’ve met you once before. Must be nearly twenty years ago. You were just a raw-arsed sergeant then!’

  The man’s voice was still raised and hoarse, and Skinner guessed this was his normal tone. He looked at Forsyth afresh, trying to place him in his memory, but failed.

  'Well I’m pleased to meet you again, Mr Forsyth, although I’d rather it hadn’t been here, and in these circumstances. So you were in the Music Hall when the explosion happened. Tell me, were you there alone?’

  'Call me Charlie. Aye I was alone, thank Christ. Mary – that’s my girlfriend – she was feeling a bit off-colour, and anyway, she didnae really fancy the idea of Aussies pretending tae be song-and-dance men. Don’t know what brought me, truth be told. It’s out of my usual line, all that prancin’ poofter stuff. I’m a writer,y’know,’ he added inconsequentially.

  Skinner was not surprised by the revelation, but decided instinctively not to pursue that line of conversation.

  'Where were you sat, Charlie?’

  'Downstairs, three rows from the back. If I’d been three rows further down . . . The guy in the sixth row, straight in front of me, caught a big lump of flying timber or something, right in the throat. It took the poor bastard’s head half off. And that could have been me. Mind you, I’ve always been lucky. I remember once in Burma . . .’ His voice trailed off, as if he had suddenly discovered that this detail of his war-time memories was no longer there.

  'Andy says you can describe the explosion, Charlie,’ Skinner prodded, gently.

  The little man’s eyes lit up at once, and he seemed almost to straighten from his stoop. 'Aye, too fuckin’ right I can! It was the radiogram.’

  What?’

  'Well this nonsense – I won’t dignify it with the name of a play – was set in the early Sixties and the stage was dressed with props from that time. Gate-leg table, chintzy chairs, that sort of stuff and one of those huge standard electric radiograms they had back in those days. You’ll be too young to remember them, maybe.