Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

  'May I join you?’ he heard him asking in a Hispanic accent, just as he disappeared from view. Arrow switched his gaze to McGuire and Rose, ready to take his cue from them.

  Five minutes had passed before he saw Maggie Rose make at sudden slight movement in his direction with her left hand. The little soldier stood up and moved towards the wide doorway, just as the man appeared in it. Arrow noticed at once that this time he was holding his briefcase in his left hand, while the other was plunged deep in the voluminous pocket of his jacket. As the two men’s eyes met the right hand started to move. Arrow stepped in, close and fast. With his left hand he grabbed the man’s right wrist and immobilised it, just as the gun came into sight. At the same time the hard edge of his right hand smashed across the messenger’s windpipe. With a choking sound, the man dropped his briefcase and crumpled to the floor. Arrow ripped the gun from his grasp and let his wrist go. He stepped over the

  writhing, pop-eyed form and through the doorway.

  Maggie Rose was holding Cassie Macdairmid down in her chair by the shoulders. The woman looked terrified. McGuire held the second briefcase. He was about to open it when Arrow called to him.

  'No, Mario. Leave that for Major Legge. He should have arrived outside by now. Let’s get the public out of here, and fetch him in.’

  FIFTY-THREE

  'Gammy’ Legge shook his head. 'No damned explosive I’ve ever seen looks like that.’ He stood in the second, inner room of the James Thin coffee-shop, still wearing his heavy black blast armour. 'You can come up now,’ he called loudly.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and, a few seconds later, Arrow, Rose and McGuire appeared together in the doorway.

  The black briefcase which the man had brought with him lay open on the table. It was full to the brim with fist-sized packages wrapped in brown paper. Legge had slit one open, and held it in the palm of his hand.

  'What is it?’ asked Arrow.

  'Buggered if I know, old son. But it isn’t explosive.’

  Maggie Rose took the parcel from him. She looked at the powder inside and sniffed.

  'You’re wrong there. Major,’ she said quietly. 'This stuffs explosive all right. It’s high-octane and very dirty-looking heroin!’

  FIFTY-FOUR

  'I am Assistant Chief Constable Robert Skinner, and I don’t believe I’m saying this, but. Grant Forrest Macdairmid, I am arresting you on suspicion of being a party to the illegal importation into the United Kingdom of a controlled substance, namely heroin, and of being involved in its illegal sale. You have the right to silence, but I must caution you that if you do say anything, it will be taken down and may be used against you.’

  Macdairmid looked from Skinner to Willie Haggerty, and back again, in blank-faced astonishment.

  As soon as the call had come through from Maggie Rose, they had gone in, four of them. Mcllhenney and Macgregor made up the quartet, and all but Skinner were carrying firearms. They had brought a search warrant and, even as Skinner cautioned Macdairmid, the two detective constables were beginning to take his flat apart.

  'Seems you didnae reform after all. Grant.’ The intensely angry edge to Haggerty’s tone was one that Skinner had never heard from him before. There was a passion in it which was totally unexpected in the normally cynical, worldly Glaswegian.

  'Ah remember you as a tearaway, wi’ yir heavies, and yir dirty wee protection racket. Ah wis one of the team that lifted ye the last time, but ye won’t remember that. There were we thinkin’ that ye’d seen the light, but ye had us kidded on, all along. You never gave it up, did ye? You jist got dirtier. How did ye get tae be an MP? How did ye get away wi that?’

  'Most people in Glasgow are just as thick as you, so it wasn’t difficult.’ There was contempt in Macdairmid’s voice. Haggerty’s fury was ready to erupt. He took a pace towards the

  man, his heavy fists balled, but Skinner held him back.

  'You’re the thickhead in this room, pal,’ Skinner said. 'With all that’s going on just now, you should have known that we’d have been on you like bluebottles on a turd, yet you still got involved in this deal. You must be fucking mad.’ As he said this, it occurred to him suddenly that he might well be right. For a man in his predicament, Macdairmid’s arrogance seemed beyond belief.

  'Don’t count your chickens, Skinner. I want my lawyer here now. I bet that any evidence you have against me won’t be admissible in court. Once I’m out, I’ll crucify you. The next

  election isn’t that far off, you know. I expect to be a Scottish Office Minister, once it’s over. Then you’ll see.’

  With lazy strength. Skinner picked Macdairmid up and slammed him against the wall, hard. The back of his head cracked against the plaster.

  'Listen, boy, to what you are,’ he said, in a controlled steady voice. 'You are a fucking horse trader. You’re a heroin dealer. You are less than dog-shit on my shoe. Make no mistake, you are going away for a long, long time. There is someone in this room who’s an expert with a hammer and nails, and you’re looking at him. But before your public crucifixion in the High Court, you’re going to tell me how a Glasgow snot-rag like you comes to be mixed up in a drugs deal with Jesus Giminez, international terrorist numero uno. How do you think old Jesus is going to like having had his messenger, his two hundred grand and his drugs all

  nicked? Maybe I will let you go, and see just how long you survive. Personally, I wouldn’t give you a month.’

  As Macdairmid stared at him, fear and amazement replaced the bellicosity. 'What the hell do you mean? Who’s this Jesus whatever-you-called-him? I’ve never heard of him. My only

  contact was some Colombian. Even then, we only spoke over the phone, and only ever on secure lines.’ Macdairmid was convicting himself with every word, but he cared not a bit.

  'Not as secure as you thought,’ said Skinner. 'We heard you

  talking to Giminez. He was identified by the best. You wouldn’t believe some of the heavyweight things he’s done, so why’s he messing himself with a wee shite like you? That’s what you’re going to tell me – and bloody fast, too.’ He let go of Macdairmid’s shirt front. 'You’ve got some serious talking to do before the day’s out. But not here. I’ll see you again through in Edinburgh. Neil, Barry, finish up here, and take Mr Macdairmid, MP, though to Fettes. His lawyer can see him there. He’d better be bloody good, though!’

  Macdairmid was handcuffed, and the two detective constables hustled him away.

  'Well, sir,’ said Haggerty. 'We didnae expect all this, did we?’

  'No we bloody did not.

  'Fucking ironic, Willie, isn’t it. You and I have just made what for most coppers would be the arrest of a lifetime, yet here we an – well, me at least – absolutely pissed off. We started of

  thinking that Macdairmid was our best lead to the Fighters for fucking Freedom. Now we find he’s just another drug-dealer.

  Look at the time we spent on it. A great result, sure, and I’m glad that stuff isn’t going to hit the street. But as far as our main business in concerned, we’re right back to square one!’

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Skinner was passing Shawhead, on the drive back to Edinburgh, when Brian Mackie’s call came through.

  'Boss, this is incredible. I thought you’d want to know right away. The lab boys ran a quick test on a sample of Macdairmid’s heroin. Their report’s just arrived. That stuff is lethal. First of all it’s so pure that your average addict would off himself with just one fix. And, as if that wasn’t enough, there’s something else in there too. They haven’t isolated it yet, but it seems to act as a catalyst to turn the heroin into pure poison. That’s what Macdairmid was going to spread all over Glasgow.’

  'Holy Christ, Brian! Look, don’t let anyone say anything about it to our man. I want to break that piece of news myself.

  'What about his sister? She saying anything since her arrest?’

  'She can’t stop crying. She says she knows nothing about anything – but how many tim
es have we heard that before? She swears she hadn’t a clue about the heroin. She says she thought she was picking up hot cash from Libya to fund some left-wing newspaper, and that the briefcase she brought with her was just a dummy for a swop, weighted down to make it look authentic.’

  'What about the messenger?’

  'He definitely isn’t saying anything. He tried to pull a gun on Captain Arrow. The wee man hit him so hard he smashed his voice-box. He’d have died if Sarah hadn’t been with the emergency team outside. She did an emergency tracheotomy. She kept him alive, but she reckons he might never speak again. He’s in intensive care.’

  'OK, Brian, thanks. Be back soon.’

  Next, from the car, he called Six, then Joe Doherty, who for once had been spending a weekend at home. When he broke the news, it was the first time that Skinner had ever heard Doherty rattled.

  'Christ, Bob! You really mean that? Giminez is running poisoned smack? I gotta feed that back to the Bureau and the DBA. Suppose he’s doing that in the States as well. You any idea

  how many people you could kill with a case full of poison?’

  'As many as there are needles to go round, my friend. Good luck.’

  FIFTY-SIX

  The Sentinel broke the Carlie story on Sunday morning. Bob and Sarah were still asleep when the telephone rang. It was Ballantyne in a panic which verged on hysteria. First, Bob calmed

  him down, then he dressed and drove down to the newsagent at the nearby road junction to pick up a copy of the newspaper. The Sentinel was a new, independent Scottish Sunday tabloid, launched three months earlier, and already struggling for survival.

  The candid back-door shot was there, all right. But, much more serious, there was a second photograph, taken with a long lens through an upper floor window, which showed clearly the

  Secretary of State and his lady in a fond embrace. Fortunately, Skinner thought as he studied it, they were both fully clothed.

  “MYSTERY BLONDE IN BALLANTYNE LOVE-NEST’

  screamed the headline, crediting the 'Fighters for an Independent Scotland’ as the source of the photographs, and printing in full their denunciation of Ballantyne. However, in neither the

  statement nor the Sentinel’s subsequent story was Carlie identified.

  As Sarah sat down to read the story and study the photographs, Skinner called Ballantyne back on the kitchen phone.

  'Alan, I’m sorry for you, but this isn’t one that I can help you with. They’ve broken no law here. Any paparazzi could have done that; and I’m surprised that no one has before now. Best thing you can do is call Mike Licorish and ask him if he’ll stretch the rules and issue a personal statement for you.’

  'But, Bob, my career.’

  'Alan, with respect, you should have thought of that before. What you do now is up to you and your conscience. You’re either a man or you’re a weasel. I know what I think you are. It’s up to you to prove me right or wrong.’

  As he hung the phone up, he noticed that Sarah was looking at him in astonishment. But he shook his head and said no more.

  An hour later, as they were clearing away the breakfast dishes, the telephone rang again. This time, it was Michael Licorish.

  'Bob, I thought you’d like to hear this before it goes out. You listening?’

  Skinner grunted.

  'It’s a statement by the Secretary of State. It reads:

  “Mrs Ballantyne and I deprecate the publication in this morning’s press of photographs of our close friend Miss Charlotte Mays, and the libellous story which accompanied them. One of these photographs was particularly intrusive in that it shows Miss Mays comforting me immediately after I had received the sad and unexpected news of the death of another close family friend, Lord Broadgate. Mrs Ballantyne and I wish to make clear that if there if any further publication of these photographs or these allegations, we will pursue libel actions against the perpetrators with the full rigour of the law.

  ” What do you think of that?’

  'Jesus, that’s our man all right. Where’s Carlie now?’

  'On a plane heading for the States. S of S bought the ticket.’

  'Isn’t he just the ticket himself, eh? Cheers, Mike.’ He hung up.

  Sarah, reaching up to put two mugs away in a high cupboard, looked across at him. 'Well? Which is he then?’

  'I was right enough. He’s a fucking weasel.’

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The full team – police and SAS back-up – gathered in the Fettes Hall at 11:00 am, long after the last journalists had left the regular morning briefing. For the newsmen, the highlight had been Skinner’s brief and completely unexpected statement that Grant Macdairmid, MP and his sister Cassandra had been arrested, along with a third man, identity as yet unknown, and charged with possession of heroin with intent to supply.

  Faced with a threat by Skinner of prosecution for attempted murder, Macdairmid, on the advice of his lawyer, had made a full formal statement at 2:00 am. He had said that his contacts in London had taken him to meet a man in a pub, a Libyan who had told him that he had a connection to some cheap, high-quality drugs. Macdairmid had also admitted that he had been dealing for some years.

  The contact had given him a number in Colombia, and he had talked price with the man there. The supplier had explained that he routed the heroin in through France, and across the Channel, easy since the borders had been opened. Macdairmid had decided to take a trial shipment, and had done well out of it. He had agreed to take a second batch, bigger this time. He had been astonished at the man’s low price.

  The same thought had occurred to Skinner. Two hundred thousand for a case-load of heroin was bargain basement. But now Skinner’s full attention was turned to his briefing for the Fringe Sunday event. From the rows of theatre seating which had been set out for the press, twenty serious faces looked back at him. Among them was Sarah’s. He had attempted to persuade her that she would not be needed, and that her presence would be a personal distraction to him, but she had been adamant. 'You included me in this team. That means all the way.’

  Now, he fixed his troubled gaze upon her as he stood up, behind his desk, to address the team.

  'Well, ladies and gentlemen. Let me begin by giving it to you straight. This is going to be the devil’s own job to police. Even in a normal year. Fringe Sunday gives your average pickpocket an orgasm just thinking about it. This time, well . . .

  'For our army friends, who may be new to the Festival, let me explain what happens. Fringe Sunday is the one major gathering of all the Fringe performers, giving the public a chance to see them close-up and to sample their shows. You’ll all by now have seen what happens at the foot of the Mound every lunchtime, and you’ll have an idea of the crowds that gather there. Well, this event attracts about forty to fifty times that number. It takes place in Holyrood Park, it’s open to the public, and it’s absolutely free.

  We’ve only been able to guess at the possible numbers, but the experienced boys in operations reckon that there could be as many as one hundred thousand there, given a fine day – and this will be as fine a day as you could ask for. I’ve checked the forecast, and

  there’s no chance of the weather breaking for a few days yet.

  'You might expect the crowd to be less today, with all that’s happened. Let’s hope that’s right. But it’s been nearly a week since the last major incident. The press are even beginning to suggest that the enemy has shot his bolt.’

  Skinner paused to look around the hall.

  'Don’t you believe it! These people want something big. They’ve had access to state-of-the-art equipment, and to people who know how to use it.’

  Mario McGuire cut in. 'They’re claiming they want an independent Scotland. Are you saying it might be something else they’re after?’

  'That’s what I’m beginning to wonder, yes. How come we don’t have a clue as to who they are. We led ourselves well and truly up the garden path with Macdairmid. All our known agitators have checked out cl
ean – even that daft hack, Frazer Pagett. There is something else, Mario. I feel it in my water! Maybe it’s really us they’re after.’

  “Us?’

  'Yes. The police. Authority. Maybe that’s what it’s all about.’

  He turned back to the group. 'But that’s irrelevant for now. Today we’ve got to be fully on guard against another terrorist attack. That’s our job. Fringe Sunday presents a big target, and so far that’s the pattern they’ve followed. Big, attention-grabbing events.

  'There are four official entrances to Holyrood Park. We’ll have uniformed officers guarding them all, and there will be plenty others among the crowds. The sight of all those flat hats might have a deterrent effect! But just in case it doesn’t, I want you there, too, all of you armed and ready to react in whatever way seems necessary. You will all wear sunglasses, and one of these’ he held up a small lapel pin in the shape of a golden lion 'so that if there is trouble, the uniforms will be able to tell the difference between the terrorists and the good guys. If we have action, and you SAS people get involved, then please leave the scene as soon as it’s over. We don’t want any of you identified by anyone. I take that very seriously.

  The uniformed detachment, all ninety-five of them, are being given their briefing separately for that very reason.

  'By the way, people, the uniformed detachment is led by the Chief. The deputy and the other two ACCs will be there, too. I want you to know that the Command Suite is leading from the

  front on this one.’ He looked around the room once more. 'Any questions?’

  No one answered.