Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

  fragments of recollection to form a jigsaw picture of confusion and terror.

  'Ms Lindwall,’ Martin said finally, as gently as he could but with an edge of steel to hold the woman’s concentration, 'we have to know where you sourced your props for the production. The explosion happened in centre stage. We believe that the bomb was hidden in a piece of prop furniture.’

  The woman was sitting up in bed, propped against a mound of pillows. She turned her freckled face towards him.

  'Explosion? Oh yes, the explosion. How is everyone? It all happened so fast. Little Kelly, how about her? Is she all right?’

  Martin sat down on the side of her bed, and took the woman’s hand. 'Don’t worry about the others. Just concentrate on yourself. You’ve had quite a shock. Now we need very badly to

  know about those props. Where did you get them? Was it Proscenium?’

  The woman frowned as she tried to clear a path through the flotsam of her memory. 'Proscenium? No. We went there first, but they couldn’t give us everything we wanted. Eventually we found someone who could, in a little place with a funny name, south of Edinburgh.’

  'What about the radiogram? You remember, the big thing in centre stage. Did you get that there, too?’ She shuddered. 'The radiogram.’ Her voice rose. 'Yes. I remember the radiogram. I was standing in the wings. There was a flash, and I was being pushed backwards by a great big hand. Yes, it was as if the radiogram reached out and pushed me.’

  She shot bolt upright in the bed, starring wide-eyed at Martin.

  'OK, now. It’s all right.’ He put his hands on her shoulders, and eased her very gently back on to the pillows. 'We think that’s where the bomb was hidden, Ms Lindwall – in the radiogram.

  Now, can you remember where you got it?’

  She nodded her head vigorously. Suddenly she seemed more in focus. 'Yes, that was one of the items that they couldn’t give us at Proscenium. We had to go to the place with the funny name to find that.’

  'That’s good, Ms Lindwall. Now one other thing. When you weren’t actually using the theatre – when the other companies were using it – what did you do with your props?’

  'We have a storeroom allocated to us in the basement. All our stuff’s locked up there between shows.’

  'Who keeps the keys?’

  'I do. Both of them. The theatre management doesn’t want the responsibility of looking after anyone’s kit.’

  'Have you ever given a key to anyone else?’

  'No. No one at all.’

  'You don’t recall seeing any sign that anyone else might have been in that store?’

  'Nothing at all. Everything always looked normal.’

  'Ok, Ms Lindwall. That’s been very helpful. Now you get yourself some more rest.’

  She grabbed his arm as he stood up. 'Aren’t you going to tell me about the rest of them. How is everyone? How is little Kelly?’

  Martin decided that economy with the truth would be in everyone’s interests. 'Look, Bridie, obviously with a bang like that there were a few other scrapes, as well as your own. We don’t have the full details yet, but I’ll arrange for someone to come by and talk to you as soon as possible. Now, you just relax. And thanks again.’

  Mackie closed the door of the private room gently behind them.

  'Nice one, Andy. I wouldn’t have fancied telling her that one of her guys is dead because wee Kelly’s arm was blown right through his chest!’

  FORTY

  McIlhenney’s motorcycle officer arrived with the promised tape cassette, five minutes ahead of schedule. Meanwhile Skinner had called Adam Arrow to his room to await its delivery. When Ruth brought the package in, she found the two seated in armchairs beside the low coffee table. Skinner accepted the clear plastic cassette and dropped it straight into a tape-recorder placed in the centre of the table. Once his secretary had closed the heavy door behind her, he pressed the 'play’ button.

  For a few seconds there was only the hiss of the tape. Then they heard seven coins drop, one by one, followed by the musical beeps of a thirteen-digit telephone number being keyed in on a modern instrument. Seconds later a ringing began in monotone. The call was answered on the sixth ring, in a tongue that sounded like Arabic. The voice was guttural, the accent heavy. Neither listener was able to identify the language.

  Grant Macdairmid’s response in English was strangely hushed, far removed from the bellowing rant for which he was locally famous. 'Hello, Glasgow here. How are our arrangements coming along?’

  'Everything is progressing very well. We will be able to move on to the next stage on Saturday. The second delivery will be made then.’

  'From the same French source?’

  “Yes.’

  'That’s good. My people have things well in hand, too. The

  police don’t have a bloody clue. And they’re stretched so tight just

  now, they’re starting to come apart.’

  'Yes, I see that your compatriots are keeping them very busy.

  That worries me a little. Their approach is so high-profile and you are, shall we say, so well known, might it not mean that your security people will soon turn their attention to you?’

  Macdairmid laughed softly. 'Look, we went over all that at the start. I’m a public figure, an MP. Yes, the SB plods keep an occasional eye on me; it’s sort of like a ritual dance. I can always slip their gaze, like now. And they wouldn’t really expect me to be involved in something like this. Grant Macdairmid, MP, windbag, demagogue and general nuisance, that’s my reputation. But the real view of our friends in the cheap suits is Grant Macdairmid,

  MP, all fart, no shit.’

  This time the other man laughed. 'Ah, my friend, if they only knew you as I do. Why, you’re full of shit!’

  There was a moment’s silence as Macdairmid tried to work out whether he had been insulted. Then, deciding to make allowances for the other man’s poor grasp of colloquial English, he ignored the remark and went on. 'So it’s Saturday. Where do we take delivery?’

  'I suggest that we do it in Edinburgh. The police there are fully occupied.’

  “Yeah. Why not?’

  'So where do we meet?’

  There was another silence. Then Macdairmid laughed softly.

  'There’s a bookseller’s in George Street called James Thin. On the first floor there’s a coffee shop. Most of the time it’s full of old people and young mums and kids, but during the Festival there’s all sorts in there. I’ll have my person there by 11:30 am. Are you using the same courier as before?’

  'Yes.’

  'Fine. So identification will be no problem, then. It’s all gone well so far, but they’ve seen nothing yet. Once I get my hands on your next consignment, we’ll really make Scotland go off with a bang!’

  There was a click as the receiver went down.

  Skinner switched off the player. He and Arrow stared at each other in silence across the table.

  'Fookin’ hell!’ said the little soldier, eventually.

  'Yup, that just about sums it up,’ said Skinner. 'He’s right, you know, Adam. We do think of him as just a loud-mouthed wanker, capable of causing bother up to a point, but no further. I mean, I know the Five computer spat out his name, but I didn’t think for a minute that he’d have the stones to be into this sort of thing. From the sound of it, I was wrong.’

  'So what do we do. Bob? Pick him up?’

  'On what grounds? One meeting in a pub in London, which he’d claim was a coincidence? One funny telephone call? Even antiterrorist squads need evidence, if they’re going to go around arresting MPs.’

  'I’m not a copper. Bob.’ Arrow spoke slowly, as if weighing his words. Skinner noted that his accent had disappeared. 'Let me go underground for a couple of days, and you’d never hear of the man again.’

  Skinner looked at him steadily and seriously. 'Adam, I know what can happen in Ireland, but it’s not going to happen here. I’m a policeman, not a judge. Listen, chum, I knew a man once for whom th
at was the only way. You may have gone to the same school, but you’re not like he was – so far. Be careful you never get that way, because if you do, sooner or later you’ll come up against someone like me, who’ll have to stop you.’

  Arrow smiled at him, and when he spoke, the accent was back.

  'Rather not come up against you. Bob. Don’t worry, mate. That’s not my choice. But these people are fookin’ butchers, so I had to make the offer.’

  'Ok. Enough said. Anyway, taking Macdairmid for a trip wouldn’t necessarily stop anything. He may be mixed up in it, he may even be a leader, but no way is he doing the heavy stuff

  himself. No, we’ll watch him like a hawk till Saturday, then we’ll pick up his messenger, and the other one. Now, that’s a job you can handle. My face is too well known.’

  'Be glad to. Will you give me someone to work with?’

  'Sure. It’ll be McGuire and Rose. Mcllhenney and Macgregor are already watching Macdairmid, so it could be they’d know the messenger by sight, and he in turn might clock them. So you’d better have a different team. And if it comes to a bundle, McGuire’s your man!’

  'I can hardly wait.’

  'Right, I’ll brief them. Now what about the other voice on that tape. Any ideas?’

  'Not a voice I know, put it that way. It sounded like a fookin’ Libyan, though.’

  'Could have been, but I’m hardly an expert in Middle Eastern languages. I’ll have copies of the tape made and get someone on a plane down to London. We’ll let Five have a listen, and Six for that matter. Let’s see if it strikes a chord with anyone down there.’

  FORTY-ONE

  Stow – the place with the funny name – was a drab little village.

  'It’s pronounced as in “cow” not as in “blow”,’ Mackie, a Borderer himself, explained to Martin.

  They reached Stow just on 4:00 pm, after a forty-five-minute drive down the A7, the road from Edinburgh to Galashiels and the Borders heartland of rugby football. The place clearly offered no attractions to delay the northward flood of tourist traffic on the scenic route into Scotland.

  The business base of 'Frank Adams, Theatrical Props’, as the Yellow Pages listing read, was difficult to locate, even in such a pocket-sized community. Eventually, with the help of the sub-postmistress, they found their quarry in a cluster of buildings which, Mackie guessed, had once been part of a small farm.

  Before leaving Edinburgh they had checked out 'Frank Adams, Theatrical Props’ as far as they could, using the Department of Social Security and the Inland Revenue as their starting points.

  The business had only two staff; Francis Snowdon Adams, listed by the tax office as self-employed, and Hugh Minto Dickson.

  Both were in their forties, with Adams three years the elder at forty-seven.

  From a friendly bank manager, contacted through the DSS, they had learned that Mr Adams made acceptable annual profits from business contacts all around the UK. These were steady

  throughout the year, and peaked during August, and also over the Christmas season when the British pantomime craze was at its height. The company operated on a cash-and-carry basis.

  Mr Adams owned the premises, and his overheads were restricted to the two salaries, rates, heat and light, motor expenses, hotel costs arising from his buying and selling trips around the UK, stationery, including a modest catalogue, stock purchases and insurance. To the bank manager’s certain knowledge, the last category included a substantial indemnity premium to cover death or injury to any customers arising from defective stock.

  'Wise man, Mr Adams,’ Martin had commented.

  Although Adams lived in Lauder, a few miles away from Stow, the bank manager knew him well not only as a customer, but also as a neighbour. He had described him as a forthright man, with abiding interests in rugby football, golf and cricket, but little else.

  He was also an avowed Conservative, who regarded nationalism and its exponents as 'just plain stupid’.

  Hugh Dickson was employed as stock controller, dispatch clerk and book-keeper. He was exceptionally well paid, possibly – the bank manager surmised – due to the fact that he was Mr Adams’ brother-in-law.

  Neither man was personally extravagant, although Mr Dickson, who was single and lived in Stow rent-free in a cottage alongside the company’s storage barns, was known to have a close relationship with the village pub. However, he was known most of all for his reluctance ever to leave Stow.

  It was said that his last journey of more than one-and a-half miles had been to Galashiels by bus, eighteen months before, to buy clothes and Christmas presents for his sister, her husband his employer, and two nephews. Mr Adams and Mr Dickson enjoyed a cordial, proper relationship, but, said the bank manager, they could not be described as bosom companions.

  Martin related all this account to Mackie as the Detective Inspector drove them southwards down the A7.

  'From the sound of it.’ said Skinner’s personal assistant, 'we’ll get nothing from these guys.’

  'On the face of it, that’s right, but maybe there’s someone else in the chain that we don’t know about, someone who fits in between them and the Aussies.’

  Both men were taking a coffee break in the company’s small office, when Martin and Mackie arrived unannounced. Neither Adams not Dickson seemed in any way surprised by their visit.

  Frank Adams stood up to greet them, shaking each by the hand, and making steady eye contact. He was a big man – not exceptionally tall, but big – with a hand that swallowed even

  Brian Mackie’s oversized paw. As Martin looked at him, remembering his own rugby days, he guessed that once he might have been a member of the closed brotherhood of front-row

  forwards.

  'We’ve been expecting you guys, after that thing last night,’ said Adams. 'We supplied that company – but you’ll know that already, I suppose.’

  Dickson remained seated. Even in his chair he seemed dwarfed by his brother-in-law, yet he had that air of aggressive self-assurance that small men often adopt to compensate for their lack of size.

  'Never under-estimate a wee man,’ Skinner had said of Adam Arrow. “That one there’ll kill you just as dead as anyone.’ The words returned unbidden to Martin, as he returned Dickson’s confident gaze. He switched his attention back to Adams.

  'What exactly have you heard or read?’

  'Only that the explosion happened on the stage itself, in mid-performance. Nobody would leave a bomb just lying about, so it must have been planted somewhere.’

  'You guessed right. Tell me about the radiogram you hired out to the Australians.’

  'That big bugger? Was that it? Christ, you could hide a depth charge in there. Look, it was nothing to do wi’ us. I’ll tell you that right now.’

  Martin laughed lightly. 'Mr Adams, if I thought it was, we’d have come in here with guns and flak jackets. You’d have to be very stupid indeed to hide a bomb in your own gear and then sit here waiting for us to turn up. You’re not that stupid, are you? Or you, Mr Dickson?’

  Adams grinned; possibly in relief, Martin guessed. Dickson looked mortally offended.

  'No, what we do need to know is whether anyone else had access to that radiogram while it was still here. When was it hired out last? Could it have been passed on directly from one renter to another?’

  Adams rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. 'Hughie can check the stock sheet, but I’m certain it hadn’t been out for two years. And we always have kit brought back here first, just so we can check it’s OK. We make our customers pay for the insurance of all our stock, under our own policy. Delivery back here is one of the conditions. And we take a twenty per cent value deposit.’

  'So who else had access to it here, other than you and Mr Dickson?’

  'Nobody!’

  Martin was surprised by his vehemence. 'You haven’t seen any sign of a break in?’

  'No, nor heard any. All our storage buildings are alarmed like bank vaults. You try and get insurance without that,
these days.’

  'And you’ve had no visitors?’

  'No, we haven’t.’

  'It’s your busy season. You haven’t taken on any casual labour?’

  No.’

  'Look, we’re not the DSS. If you have, you can tell us. It goes no further.’

  'No, I tell you!’ Adams’ tone was insistent.

  'OK, OK.’ He glanced at Mackie. 'That’s as far as we can take it, Brian. Thanks, Mr Adams, Mr Dickson. We won’t take up any more of your time now. I’ll dictate a statement back at the office and have a uniformed officer drop it in for you to approve and sign.’

  They had almost left of the building when they heard Hugh Dickson call out. 'Frankie!’

  The detectives stopped and looked back. The little man had stood up. He was looking not at them but at Adams, a strange pleading expression on his face.

  'Look, Frankie, this is nae use. Sister or no’, I won’t say a word tae Shona, I promise, but ye’ve got taste tell them about the lassie.’

  If looks could kill, thought Martin, as Adams glared at his brother-in-law, we’d have a murder on our hands here. But then the big man’s eyes dropped, and his shoulders sagged.

  'Aye, Hughie. You’re right enough. I’ve got to, haven’t I? But mind, if you do say a bloody word to Shona . . .’

  Martin broke in. 'Listen, Mr Adams. If you don’t tell us whatever it is right now, I’ll arrest you and do you for wasting our time. Then Shona’ll find out for sure! Now, cough it up!’

  Adams led them back into the office. This time he offered them seats. Mackie produced a notebook and pen.

  'About three weeks ago,’ Adams began, 'this girl showed up, looking for work. She was American. She said her name was Mary McCall. Said she was working her way round Britain, that she was skint, and needed a job. Most of all, she told me, she needed a roof over her head. I said I didn’t need any help – that Hughie and I could manage fine. Hughie, by the