Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

  Great big bastards they were. They weighed a ton. That’s what blew up! I was lookin’ straight at it at the time. It just seemed to disintegrate, and puff outwards in smoke, and everything else on stage along with it. Funny, looking back it’s as if it happened in slow motion.’

  'Are you certain?’

  'Certain? Of course I’m fucking certain. I was there, wasn’t I?

  There was a lassie standing right alongside it. Lamentable Christ, what a sight! I remember once I saw this big Nigerian soldier take a direct hit from Japanese artillery. The only thing left was his boots. Great big boots they were, with his great big fucking feet still in them. I’d ordered him tae stay under cover. Christ, ye couldnae tell those boys anything at all. Hearts of lions, brains of field-mice.’ His voice tailed off, the awful memory of the evening reviving another horror of the past, taking him back to the jungles of fifty years before.

  Skinner calmed the old man’s excitement. “Thanks, Charlie. Thanks very much. You’re a good man. You’ve given us the first eye-witness account we’ve had since all this business started.’ He turned to the young PC. 'Constable, organise a car. Have Mr Forsyth taken home.’ The man set off obediently.

  Ta,’ said Forsyth. 'Ye know, Skinner. All this, it makes me glad I’m not long away from the wooden waistcoat. I grieve for Scotland when this can happen. Good luck to you, son. Catch

  these fuckers.’

  As he left the little man in the canteen, Skinner wondered about his reaction. What kind of man could witness such appalling carnage and still describe it so matter-of-factly? Then he realised quite simply that, perhaps an eighty-year-old could do so: someone knowing that his lease on the planet was running out, taking every day as a bonus, caring only about that day and the next, and hopefully the day beyond. The horror of that evening might be blocked out easily by a man like that, and a strange satisfaction drawn from the privileged position of being an important witness, from the unexpected burst of warmth at being the centre of attention once again, rather than being just another lonely old man shouting his bizarre reminiscences to gather himself an audience.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  In the foyer, DCC McGuinness now seemed in full control both of himself and of the situation. The stream of casualties out to the ambulances had subsided.

  Skinner went to check on Sarah in the first-aid room, which was still crowded with bleeding, shocked victims, waiting mainly in silence for attention. He realised that the decision to treat the less seriously injured at the scene had been a wise one. Edinburgh’s main hospital casualty departments would have been swamped by the numbers.

  Sarah estimated that she had another thirty minutes of stitching and patching to do. 'Look, you’ll want to start work on this. Why don’t you just leave me the car key and go off with Andy?’

  'Yes, I’ll do that,’ he agreed. Handing her the big BMW key, he kissed her on the forehead and went downstairs. In the lower hall he was intercepted by Alan Royston, the police Media Relations Manager, who had set up a makeshift press office in a room to the left of the foyer.

  He led Skinner to where a dozen reporters stood waiting. There he explained to them what had happened in the Music Hall, describing the scale of the destruction. He answered the questions of the group as best he could, and agreed finally to Royston’s suggestion that the journalists and photographers should be taken together into the hall to see for themselves. As he was making his way towards the exit, Al Neidermeyer arrived.

  There was a television cameraman puffing at his heels, a city freelance whom Skinner knew by sight.

  'Well, copper,’ snarled Neidermeyer. 'So much for your security. How many more people did you let die here tonight?’

  Once more. Skinner felt his self-control valve begin to strain.

  He glanced quickly at the camera to make certain that the red action light was unlit. The cameraman was looking away, embarrassed. Then his right hand swept upwards in one short,

  swift motion. As it passed close to Neidermeyer’s face, he flicked the second finger with his thumb, lightning-fast. The broad fingernail caught the American, very hard, square on the tip of the nose. Neidermeyer howled, and instantly his eyes flooded with tears

  I warned you about pushing your luck, Al’' skinner whispered. ’Too bad you didn’t listen”

  He swept the man from his path and left the building

  THIRTY-SIX

  Andy Martin was waiting for him outside. He saw the anger in Skinner’s eyes, but an inner caution stopped him from asking what was wrong. Instead he suggested that they go and talk things out at his flat near Haymarket, rather than return to the headquarters building.

  They found Julia Shahor there when they arrived, home from the Film Festival. She greeted Martin, obvious anxiety turning quickly to relief. Radio Forth RFM was playing, and the television was on, with Teletext On 3 on screen, carrying the latest news on the explosion. A Royal Infirmary spokeswoman had confirmed the current death toll at fourteen; the condition of two other victims was said to be critical.

  For a time, they stared grim-faced and speechless at the news bulletin on the screen. Then Martin handed Skinner and Julia a Beck’s each from the fridge, taking a tin of Tennent’s LA for himself. He joined Julia on the sofa, facing the television, while Skinner settled on the floor, his back against the wall.

  It was Skinner who broke the silence – broke the spell cast by the horror of the Assembly Rooms. 'Andy, my brother, we’ve been kidding ourselves to think that we could prevent something like tonight. And we’ve been underestimating these people. They’re good: very well planned. We’ve got to catch them before it goes any further. But I do not, for the life of me, know how we’re going to do it.’

  For once, Martin had no word of encouragement to offer in reply.

  Skinner finished his Beck’s in one swallow, straight from the bottle. He got up to fetch himself another, then resumed his seat on the floor. With a wry smile, he said, 'But that’s me seeing the glass half-empty. The positive side is that at least we’ve got some straightforward police work to do, thanks to good old Charlie Forsyth.’

  'What do you mean?’ asked Julia.

  'Well, first we have to check every member of every other company that’s been using that venue. Then there’s the stage props. That exploding radiogram. No fucking way – oh, sorry,

  Julia – did they bring that all the way from Oz. They must have sourced it locally.’

  'Maybe I can help you there,’ she offered. 'I know of only three companies in Scotland which supply stage props. I looked into it earlier this year, when I needed things for a display I put on at Filmhouse. One’s in Glasgow, one’s down towards the Borders somewhere, but the biggest by far is here in Edinburgh. Let me see. What was it called? Proscenium Props – that was it. It was based in a big warehouse out to the west of the city, near Sighthill.’

  'Good, Julia, Thanks for that. Well, Andy, that’s a priority task for first thing tomorrow – I mean this morning. Find out where those props came from. Then we’ll find out all there is to

  know about everybody on the supplier’s payroll – like whether any of them has been handling Semtex over the last few days.’

  He drained his second Beck’s then pushed himself up from his hard seat on the floor. 'Right, that’s it for me. I’m off home.’

  'Want me to phone for a patrol car to pick you up?’ asked Martin.

  'No, no. Don’t do that. The boys are too busy for taxi runs tonight. I’ll walk. It’s not that hellish far from here.’ He paused. 'It’s a nice night, and it’ll let me pull some things together in my head. So long, Julia.’

  Martin walked him to the front door of the second-floor flat.

  He looked quizzically after his chief as he disappeared down the brightly lit, curving stairway. Eventually he closed the door and rejoined Julia in the living-room.

  She caught the faraway look in his eyes. 'What is it?’ she asked.

  'It’s the boss. He’s got one of his
niggles, I can tell.’

  'What do you mean?’

  'How do I explain it? Every so often, on a really difficult job, when we’re pursuing a particular line of enquiry, Bob’ll decide that maybe it’s not quite right: that all the bits don’t fit that jigsaw. But he’ll keep it to himself, just niggling and worrying away at the thought, like a dog at a bone, until either he’s satisfied himself that, yes, we are on the right track after all, or until he comes up with a completely new approach.’ He broke off. 'But enough of that. Heard from your aunt?’

  'Yes, she’s fine.’

  'Which side of the family is she from? Mother or father?’

  'Actually . . .’ said Julia hesitantly, as if looking for the right words, 'neither. She’s a sort of courtesy aunt, really. She was at school with my mother. They were very close.’

  'In Israel? Funny, I wouldn’t have thought that. Her accent sounds more European.’

  'No, not in Israel. Somewhere else. The thing is – well. The thing is, my parents broke up when I was a girl, and I went to live with relatives in Israel. I got in touch with Auntie again when I came to the Sorbonne.’ Suddenly she looked troubled. 'But, Andy, I really don’t like to talk about all that. It was a bad time for me, and it is best left in the past.’

  'Sure, love,’ he said, soothingly. And in a second it was forgotten. 'He’s some machine, old Bob, when he gets one of his niggles going. Wonder what it is this time? One thing’s for sure

  though: sooner or later, we’ll find out!’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The first rumblings of discontent appeared in the hastily written leaders of the following morning’s Scotsman and Herald, while in the tabloids the rumbling was a full-scale earthquake. One late-edition banner blared, 'PLOD FIASCO: BOMBS HIT OZ’. This

  articulate headline filled two-thirds of the front page, and led a story filled with hastily assembled 'bystander’ condemnation of the security operation in general, and of its commander in person.

  Resisting the urge to crumple it up and throw it across the room, Skinner read it through to the end. He noted grimly that the only critic identified in the story was Al Neidermeyer.

  While the more serious Scottish dailies were more circumspect, notes of concern rang in them all. The sombre leader in the Scotsman went so far as to praise Skinner as an outstanding detective, but developed its theme of two days before, wondering whether counter-terrorism was suited to his skills, and whether the crisis might be better placed under someone else’s command.

  'Like who, for instance?’ he muttered to the empty room.

  Michael Licorish and Alan Royston had scheduled a media conference, to be taken by Ballantyne and Skinner, at 10:00 am in the main hall at Fettes Avenue. In preparation for the inevitable grilling, the ACC read all of the reports which lay on his desk, including one from the Royal Infirmary which put the final death toll at eighteen, including the girl he had seen on the stretcher. Her name had been Alice Carroll, and she had been seventeen years old. Also listed at the end of the report was Alice’s elderly grandmother, untouched by the shrapnel, but who had died of aheart attack shortly after the explosion.

  Skinner had just finished his perusal when Ruth buzzed through on the intercom to tell him that Licorish was waiting outside.

  'OK,’ he said, 'send him in.’

  The Information Director came in a few seconds later. Skinner could see an embarrassed look in his eyes, and knew that he had some uncomfortable news to break. He took a guess.

  'Where’s the Secretary of State, Mike? I thought he’d be here by now.’

  “That’s just it. Bob. He can’t make it. He asked me to apologise to you, and to ask you to take the chair in his place. He said I was to tell you he still has every confidence in you.’

  “That’s fucking big of him. What’s his story?’

  'It’s to do with a family friend having just died. Between you and me, it’s actually a friend of Mrs Ballantyne. You know how it is with them?’

  Skinner nodded. But he wondered if Licorish knew how it was with Ballantyne and Carlie.

  The Scottish Office man continued, almost sotto voce. 'She’s been having an affair with a Liberal peer. Lord Broadgate. But it seems she was too much for him. He had a stroke during the night. She phoned S of S in a bit of a panic, and he caught the first shuttle down to London.’

  'Mmm,’ Skinner muttered. 'Nice of him.’

  As he looked at Licorish, he sensed something else. Before he could ask, the civil servant produced a brown envelope which he had been holding behind his back. 'This arrived just after he left.’

  He pushed it across the desk. The latest letter was brief and to the point.

  Ballantyne, you and your lackeys must believe us now. We have shown you what we can do, and we will not stop until you give us back what is ours. Now we have the attention of the international community, and we have its support.

  Withdraw from Scotland before its people rise up and join us in throwing you out.

  Skinner threw it down on the desk.

  'What the hell is that? It’s just fucking rhetoric. They kill an American. They kill Australians. They kill their own Scots folk. These people have to be crazy, or playing for very big stakes. Is Scotland that important?’ He rose from behind his desk and led the way to his meeting with the media.

  In the briefing room, the media corps – even Al Neidermeyer, his nose noticeably swollen – were unusually subdued as Skinner described the scene in the Music Hall, then listed the dead. Finally, he put down his notes and looked at his audience. “There’s little I can say to you that I haven’t said before. This is a well-organised, well-resourced and completely ruthless group of people. What happened last night was beyond words – beyond mine, and I think beyond even yours, eloquent as you all may be.

  The thing that I find most incredible is that Scots people could treat other Scots in this way, whatever justifiable cause they think they have. Last night, I talked to an eighty-year-old man who told me that he grieved for Scotland. I share his grief.’

  'Having said that, I can tell you that there is now some sign of outside involvement in these atrocities. The explosive used in both attacks is a new type of Semtex. So far it’s been unknown here. It hasn’t even turned up in Ireland. Until now, no one has been aware that there was an illicit market in this material. The country of manufacture is pretty jealous of its reputation, and its government felt sure that all batches were accounted for. It seems they were wrong. We now know that there was a break in at a French military arsenal two months ago, when a quantity of the stuff was stolen. We’re pretty certain that’s the explosive used here. Before all this started, we never had an inkling of any embryonic Scottish terrorist organisation. It’s asking a lot – of me, at least – to believe that such a group has existed all along, with a plan so detailed that it involved stealing high explosives from an arsenal in France.’

  Skinner’s old friend, John Hunter, interrupted him. 'Bob, are you suggesting that all this might have been contrived outside Scotland, or that there might be some foreign involvement?’

  'I can’t say that for certain, John, but whatever this group is, it’s tied into some sort of network.’

  “Irish?’

  'I don’t know. I know someone who definitely doesn’t think so, but sooner or later I’ll find out for sure! Thank you, gentlemen.

  From now on, in the light of these events, I’m prepared to take briefings on a daily basis, at 10:00 every morning, here, but that’s all for this morning.’

  Skinner rose to his feet. There was a stampede for the door as the media corps rushed off en masse to file their French connection copy.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  A message, written in Ruth’s neat hand, lay on Skinner’s desk when he returned to his office. 'Call DC Mcllhenney, Glasgow.

  Urgent.’ She had noted down the telephone number.

  Using his secure telephone, he keyed it in. 'Neil? ACC here. What’ve you got for me?’

/>   'Morning, sir. Our man Macdairmid’s an early bird. He pitched up at his Party offices at 9:00 this morning, but he was only there for twenty minutes, then off down to that pub of his. It’s got an early-opening licence for night-shift workers at the factory up the road.

  'Barry beat him there. He was waiting when he arrived. Sure as God made wee green apples, he ordered a half-pint of Gillespie’s then used the pay-phone. The Glasgow technical boys had their tap in place, and got the whole thing.’

  'Interesting?’

  'As Mr Haggerty would say, “Too bliddy right it is, sir.” But you can judge for yourself. There’s a motorcycle polisman heading along the M8 right now with a copy for you. He should get it to you in half-an-hour. I’ll tell you one thing, sir. That Macdairmid – for an MP he’s bollock-deep in something that’s definitely non-Parliamentary. That’s bliddy certain!’

  THIRTY-NINE

  Bridie Lindwall, writer of the new musical revue Waltzing Matilda, and director of the Brisbane Youth Theatre Company, was still in a state of shock when Andy Martin and Brian Mackie were finally allowed into the private room in the Murrayfield Hospital in which she had been installed, thanks to the provision of generous private health insurance by her show’s Australian sponsor.

  Ms Lindwall had been given a heavy sedative by the junior doctor who had treated her at the Royal Infirmary immediately after the explosion, and so it was midday before Martin and

  Mackie were allowed to interview her. Even then, Martin had needed to use his Special Branch clout to overrule the senior house officer in charge. At first, Martin thought that talking to her was like interviewing mist. The two detectives were unable to hold the woman’s attention for more than a few seconds before a distant, glazed look washed across her face, as her fuzzy memory took her back to the night before, fitting together jagged