Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

'Yes. He has a French connection, too. Their police have dug out their file for us. According to his prints, his name wasn’t Richard Smith at all. It was Raymond Mahoney, age twenty-six, birthplace Glasgow. Time-served mechanic. Lived in France since he was twenty. Bad boy, Raymond, or so they think: believed to have been involved in the gang scene in Marseilles. They had him marked down as a driver mostly, but he was known to have been

  in the vicinity of two or three shootings. The closest they came to doing him for anything was when he was picked up as one of a team in a freelance armed robbery. But then one of the police witnesses was killed on duty, and the other had a fit of amnesia financially induced, they reckoned, so nothing came of it.

  Technically he’s got a clean sheet, but they won’t miss him now he’s gone.’

  Proud freshened up their drinks from a bottle of Highland Park. 'What’re you doing about the press?’

  'Royston’s got a statement ready to go out, as soon as I’ve been to visit Barry’s dad. He’s a widower, and he’s been away golfing with a pal. They’re due back at eight according to the pal’s wife.

  I’ll catch him them.’

  'No, you won’t,’ said Proud. 'I’ll see that’s taken care of.

  You’ve done enough.’

  'Come on. Jimmy, he was my man.’

  'My man, too. I was planning to see Mr Macgregor myself, but Eddie McGuinness insisted. He feels that he has to take on at least some of the tough tasks personally. A solid man is our Eddie.’

  'So I’m beginning to realise,’ said Skinner thoughtfully.

  The Chief Constable took a sip from his glass, savoured the smoky taste, and swallowed it. 'So what do these bastards do next, Bob?’

  'I’m trying to think like them, Jimmy. Looking at the pattern so far, I’d say it’s got to be the Fireworks Concert, a week on Thursday. They know we won’t let them near any more celebs,

  and the Fireworks are the last big event in the Festival. It’s even on telly this year. They might stick in a couple of wee surprises between now and then, but I’ll bet that’s the next thing they’ll go for.’

  'Let’s cancel it then.’

  'I’ve already suggested that to Ballantyne, but there’s no way he’ll agree. He’s got brave again.’

  'Well, we’ll just have to police it so tightly they’ll have to use aircraft to hit it. Tomorrow you and I will go and see Mr bloody Ballantyne. It’s time you had some back-up when you’re dealing with him

  SIXTY-TWO

  The inevitable communiqué was delivered to the Queen Street office of the BBC at 9:00 am on the following day. For the first time it was addressed to the media, rather than to the Secretary of State.

  The News Editor, Radio, never a man to turn down a scoop, took a snap decision. He sent copies at once to St Andrew’s House and to Skinner’s office, then ordered that the morning’s music programme should be interrupted and the text of the letter broadcast.

  Skinner therefore heard it on the radio before he received his copy. He was alerted at once by the excitement in the newsreader’s voice.

  'The following message has just been received by the BBC.

  Because of its use of a special code-word, we believe it to be genuine. It reads as follows:

  “From the Fighters for an Independent Scotland.

  “Communiqué.

  “It is with regret that we report the death of a fine young Scottish patriot, Raymond Mahoney, on an active service mission in Edinburgh yesterday. We regret too that a further demonstration of our resolve has proved necessary. However the intransigence of Scotland’s colonial governor, the Secretary of State, left us no choice. As before, our target was selected with a view to focusing international attention on our struggle for freedom. We note with some satisfaction that one member of the enemy’s security forces also fell yesterday. If the occupying government continues to deny Scotland its right to freedom, he will not be the last.

  The first phase of our struggle is over. We have claimed the attention, and we believe the support, of the nations of the world. From now on we will seek to strike at the heart of the tyranny, wherever the opportunity arises. Our fight for an independent Scotland will not end with the Edinburgh Festival. It will go on until the occupying government yields, or until the last of its members is cut down. The Secretary of State and his puppet-masters in London are legitimate targets. They must realise that their police cannot protect them for ever.”

  'That is the end of this newsflash,’ said the newsreader breathlessly. 'Now back to the studio, and to Eddie.’

  SIXTY-THREE

  'For Christ’s sake. Sir James, don’t you people ever listen! I’ve told Skinner, ever since this thing started, that we will not give in to terrorism. Now even you have joined the chorus of appeasers. I will not cancel the Fireworks Concert.’

  Proud Jimmy looked at his most formidable, as thunderclouds of rage gathered on his brow. Skinner sat back in the Secretary of State’s comfortable armchair and waited for the storm to break. But Ballantyne had not finished. 'Whatever these people may threaten, far from cancelling the event, I will attend personally! And I won’t be alone. I spoke with the Prime Minister himself this morning and he has insisted on being present also! My information directorate has just made that announcement.’

  'Sweet Jesus,’ said Skinner softly.

  Ballantyne shot him a haughty glance, but continued to address the Chief Constable. 'Protection and detection is what I asked of Bob last week. As our opponents point out in their so-called communiqué, his anti-terrorist squad has protected very little so far, and detected even less. Let’s see if things will improve now that you’re back.’ “

  'Secretary of State,’ Proud’s tone was even, but Skinner knew that he was controlling himself with difficulty, 'I note what you say. However I have to tell you that I believe that you are being foolhardy, and that the Prime Minister should know better than to go along with you. If you insist, the Concert will proceed. However, since my force is responsible for your safety, I will apply the following conditions. First, the general public will be barred from the Gardens, and only people with auditorium tickets will be admitted. Princes Street will be closed to all traffic between the Mound and Lothian Road. Spectators will be confined to the North side of the street, well away from the railings. They’ll hear the music and see the fireworks, but they won’t see either you or Second, the arena will be kept in darkness throughout. The conductor’s rostrum and the players will be lit, to the extent that is necessary, but the rest will be blacked out. Third, the PM’s armoured Jaguar will be used to drive you and him right up to your seats. Fourth, soldiers in protective clothing will be positioned behind you both throughout the concert, acting as human shields. Fifth, as soon as the concert is over, you and the, Prime Minister will be collected by the Jag and driven from the Gardens to overnight accommodation of our choice, which will be made properly secure. On those conditions alone, the Concert may proceed.’

  Ballantyne stood up behind his desk. 'Quite unacceptable. That is quite unacceptable,’ he shouted. 'We will not skulk in and out like that.’

  Proud rose up, too, massive and formidable in his uniform. His voice was still quiet and steady.

  'Secretary of State, sit down, while I tell you something. If you do not accept every one of those conditions, and put yourself and the Prime Minister completely in my charge, then I will resign as Chief Constable, and will make it known, loudly and publicly, that I have done so because the Secretary of State for Scotland has no thought or concern for public or police safety and is prepared to put lives unnecessarily at risk, lives like that of young Barry

  Macgregor, who died yesterday obeying your orders, or of that baby who was killed because you thought it was right to have a party in the face of terrorism.’

  Still standing, Ballantyne seemed to fight, for a few seconds, for breath and words. Eventually he gasped, 'You can’t threaten me.

  I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’

  The sto
rm broke. Proud Jimmy exploded in a fury that Skinner had never witnessed before. He roared at Ballantyne. 'Don’t be a bloody fool, man! I am Scotland’s senior Chief Constable. You’re just another tin-pot politician. You have no jurisdiction over me.

  Of course I can threaten you. I have just threatened you. I am still fucking threatening you! And I will carry out my threat at once, if you cross me!’

  He glared at Ballantyne for a moment, then went on, his voice lower, grinding out the words. 'I’ll go further than that. I missed the first few days of this affair, but I’ve kept in touch with Bob Skinner here, who, in spite of your scorn, is in my opinion the finest policeman in Britain. I am now observing for myself the final stages of your transformation under fire from a moderately acceptable minister to a dangerous buffoon who is quite unsuited for high office. For now, Mr Ballantyne, Bob Skinner needs my support. But I tell you today that, once this affair is over, I will renew the promise I have just made to you, and will carry it out

  exactly as I have described, unless you yourself resign to make way for someone with the judgement and ability to do the job!’

  He glanced down at Skinner, who sat in his chair marvelling silently at his Chief. 'Come on. Bob. Let’s go and get on with the job of keeping this pathetic man alive!’

  He turned his back on Ballantyne, and slammed out of the room. Skinner, for once in his life, followed silently and obediently at Proud Jimmy’s heels.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  At the Chief Constable’s insistence. Bob took the rest of that Monday off.

  'Take your lovely wife away to the seaside, man. Recharge those batteries for Thursday night.’

  So, with Sarah signed off from her practice and her police duties for twenty-four hours, they headed down to Gullane. All three of the golf-courses were jam-packed, and so they decided

  instead to walk along the beach path to North Berwick, and back via the highway – a good twelve-mile hike. Dressed in T-shirts, shorts and Reeboks, they walked mostly in silence at first, finding and following a narrow path which wound down through a forest of head-high thorn bushes, then ran for a stretch along the perimeter of Muirfield golf course, before opening out on to the broad East Sands, far from the Gullane Bents car park. No day

  trippers knew of this attractive beach, and so it was always deserted, even on the finest of days. Sheltered, in a natural alcove among the dunes, from the light breeze which signalled the turningof the tide, they lay down to sunbathe for a while, stripping off their T-shirts to use as beach-mats.

  Bob marvelled anew at the firmness of his wife’s body as she lay on her back, high-breasted, nipples erect, eyes closed against the sun which glinted on her auburn hair.

  'Perfection,’ he whispered, and suddenly into his mind came a premonition of brown-haired sons and of a second shot at fatherhood. He felt himself harden, and laughed softly.

  'Skinner?’ She voiced his name as a question. Then, without needing an answer, she rolled sideways and on top of him, full of desire and with the suppleness of her youth, She made love to him quickly, lustily, hungrily, in the hot August sunshine which bathed the deserted beach, mounted on him as if he were her stallion, calling out to him in her pleasure.

  When their journey was over, she lay upon him for a while longer their foreheads touching, covering his face with kisses. And then, as if she had read his earlier thought, she said: 'You

  and I are ready to be parents, my love. You deserve another shot, and I couldn’t get any broodier if I tried.’

  He held her breasts in his hands as she lifted herself up from his chest. 'Well, honey,’ he said, huskily. 'If that happens, we’ll just have to call him Jimmy. After all, he did give me the afternoon off

  SIXTY-FIVE

  The Mallard’s Eighty-shilling ale was pouring at its best. The village clock showed 6:15 pm as they arrived back in Gullane. Their hike, and the excitement of their sudden, spontaneous, sun-washed coupling on the deserted beach, had left them with a raging thirst, which they slaked with two pints each of Scottish Brewers finest product, They gave some thought to dining in the bar, but eventually, they agreed that the evening was too good to be spent indoors. And so, instead, they went back to their cottage and barbecued two thick steaks in the garden, with potatoes baking in foil in the red-hot coals, and sliced onions sizzling on the grid. They ate as hungrily as they had made love in the sand, washing down the succulent meat with good red Valdepenas, and finishing off with a whole pineapple quartered and soaked in Cassis.

  Then, all their appetites satisfied, they sat in the garden and watched the day go down in the west – and with it, their brief break from the dangers which had so recently overwhelmed their lives.

  'Will they ever stop, Bob?’ Sarah asked him suddenly.

  'Yes, love. They’ll stop, when they’ve got what they want. And that isn’t Scottish independence, or any of that crap. I don’t believe that any more. They’ve got us tear-arsing around all over Edinburgh, and that’s what they’ve been out to achieve all along.

  It’s all being done with a purpose in mind, though I’ve no idea at all of what that could be. When I do know, that’s when they’ll stop. Because I’ll stop them.’

  The hard determination in his voice made her suddenly afraid again, just as she had felt in the Park, over the body of young Macgregor.

  'Darling, promise me one thing. Please. That when you do meet up with these people, you’ll take care. Of yourself. Inside and out.’

  He looked at her in silence.

  'There’s someone in you that I don’t know. It’s like there’s a closet inside you with something awful and dangerous inside: a real bogeyman. I’m just terribly afraid that if he ever really gets out, he could take you over.’

  She held his gaze until his eyes dropped.

  Aye, my love,’ he said with a deep sigh. 'I know the man you mean. I’ve met him. And I’ve no wish to encounter him again either. But I have to say that if I’m ever in that kind of danger

  again, I hope he’s still around. Because one thing about my alter ego: he doesn’t half get the business done!’

  SIXTY-SIX

  Skinner saw the ball drop as the gun went off.

  “This is where I’ll be, Andy. I can see the whole show from here.’

  The three of them – Skinner, Martin and Adam Arrow stood on the Castle battlements, just at the angle where the Mills Mount Battery joins with the Western Defences, a part of the image which most visitors conjure up when their thoughts return to Edinburgh,

  It was a few seconds after one o’clock. Close by, the famous gun still smoked, having just boomed out its time signal. When it had fired, Skinner had been gazing out, across Princes Street, over the Scott Monument and the Balmoral Hotel, at the roof of the round grey stone building on the top of Calton Hill, and had seen the huge green globe as it slid down its flagpole, in a visual time-check for navigators in the wide River Forth, simultaneous with

  the sounding of the gun for those on land.

  Now all three looked downwards, observing the main Glasgow railway line at the base of the rock, and beyond it the chasm of Princes Street Gardens, all in the shadow of the great Castle. The tented roof had been removed from the Ross Theatre. Only the stage was out of sight, under the canopy of the open-air bandstand, which for all its grand theatrical title, it was for most of the year.

  The air was heavy, the heat stifling. Skinner glanced up. There was a hint of purple about the sky.

  'It’s going to break, Andy.’

  ‘you can set your watch by it, boss. Whatever else the weather does in Edinburgh, you can be sure it’ll piss down on the Fireworks concert!’

  Skinner laughed. 'Aye, that and don’t forget the Queen’s Garden party in July!’ But their moment of light relief was a short one. 'Have we covered everything, d’you think?’ he asked, deadly serious once more. '’

  'Yes, I think so,’ said Martin. 'Princes Street gets blocked off to vehicles at nine o’clock, but the crowd barriers wi
ll be installed along the north pavement this afternoon, and we’ll close the pavement looking into the Gardens at eight, as soon as the last of the shops close.’

  'Right,’ said Skinner. 'And as soon as you see to that, you’re off to Number 6 to meet up with Ballantyne and the Prime Minister. Although we’ve doubled the guard on him, like all the

  Scottish ministers, I want you and Brian to be as close to him and the PM as their underarm deodorant, until tonight’s well and truly over. The PM’s protection men are happy for us to run this one, not that they were given a choice. You and Brian will be in the Jag with our two VIPs when they leave Number 6. You’ll have armed officers in cars in front and back, and four motorcycle outriders, one on each corner. Mind you, you should be all right in that Jag

  anyway. There’s a ton-and-a-half of armour plating in it, and all its glass is proof against any sort of bullet. So listen, if the shit does start to fly down there tonight, the first thing you do is get Ballantyne and the PM inside that bloody motor. It’ll be the safest place in Edinburgh.’

  He turned to Arrow. 'Adam, you and your men will be stationed inside the theatre area, agreed?’

  'Mm. That’s right. We’ll guard the perimeter, and keep watch on the seats, in case some fooker’s planted himself in the audience.

  One lookin’ out, one lookin’ in, alternately, all the way round, using night glasses. I’d be happier with another couple of men, though.’

  'You’ve got them. I’ll give you McGuire and Mcllhenney. In fact, why don’t we kit them out in bulletproof vests and helmets and ask them take up position behind Ballantyne and the PM.

  They’re both big wide buggers. They’ll make good blockers.

  They’d have to volunteer, but I know them – they will. That’ll free up all of your guys for what they’re best at.’