Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

  Unfortunately, the airport manager is away on holiday, but we’re trying to trace him to obtain a description, and we’re also tracing the ownership of the plane. My guess is it’ll turn out to have been chartered, for cash.’

  'This Mr Black, could he have been one of the men taken tonight?’ asked Neidermeyer,

  Skinner shook his head. 'I don’t think so.’

  'So Mr Black is still out there?’

  Skinner nodded. 'I reckon so. Mind you, I don’t expect him to turn up in person to collect his aeroplane.’

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  The getaway plane stayed where it was. But something else was picked up instead, something much more precious.

  'One thing that niggles me, Andy, is not knowing if any of the bastards are still hanging around here.’

  It was just over twelve hours since the press briefing. Skinner and Martin were settled in the DCI’s office in the Special Branch Suite, going through the mountain of paperwork involved in the winding up of the enquiry. Each had snatched a few hours at home, although Andy had spent much of his break consoling Julia after her frightening experience with the Filmhouse explosion. 'If any of them are still here,’ said Martin, 'they’re bloody crazy.

  That guy in the Royal’s going to make it. He’s bound to bargain a few years off his sentence in return for telling us everything he knows.’

  'Don’t count on it. Those were pros. They’ll have been well paid for this job, and it probably included something extra for keeping shtum if they got caught. And don’t assume that he knows…’

  Skinner was interrupted by an internal call on Martin’s extension. Being closer to it, he picked it up. 'Skinner.’

  The caller was Ruth. 'Sorry to bother you, sir, but I felt I had to. It’s a Mr Morris, and he says it’s important. It’s about Alex.’

  'Put him through.’

  Skinner had never met the man, but he recognised the name.

  Ben Morris was the director of Alex’s theatre company.

  'What can I do for you, Mr Morris?’

  The man hesitated. 'Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but do you happen to know where your daughter might be.’

  The first faint chill crept into Skinner’s stomach. 'What d’you mean?’ He didn’t realise that he had snapped at the caller, a hard edge suddenly in his voice.

  Morris began to splutter. 'Well, it’s just that – well last night her friend Ingo didn’t turn up. Alex didn’t know where he’d got to. We went on with the show, but without the lighting effects. It was a bloody disaster. Alex did her best, but I still felt I had to give the audience half their money back. I called their number this morning to find out where the hell he had been, but I got no reply. So I went round to see them. The landlady said she hadn’t seen or

  heard either of them all day. She let me in with a pass-key, but the place was empty. Not a sign. All his clothes, all of his things were gone. Some of Alex’s stuff seemed to be there, but I couldn’t see her handbag – you know, that big one she carries everywhere. So can you help me? Are they with you? I’ve got to know if he’s coming back.’

  Skinner replaced the receiver without a word.

  Martin watched him anxiously as he sat staring chalk-faced at the wall. His first thought was that his boss had experienced some delayed reaction to the night’s events.

  'What’s wrong, Bob?’

  The voice which replied was strange, quiet, shaky – unlike anything Martin had heard from him before. 'It’s Alex. She’s been snatched.’

  “Eh!’

  'That was her director. That guy Ingo didn’t show up last night. Now Alex has disappeared too. Andy, I knew he was wrong! He’s taken her!’

  'Steady on, man. She could be anywhere. Maybe he’s just done a moonlight on her, and she’s down at your place now, crying her eyes out to Sarah.’

  Skinner shook his head, feeling cold all over.

  'No, Andy. Since last night I’ve been wondering whether our Mr Black would have a Plan B. Now I know that he has, and I can guess what it is.’

  SEVENTY-NINE

  The letter was delivered only ten minutes later. It had been found on a table in the first-floor coffee lounge of the busy Mount Royal Hotel, but none of the staff could describe the person who had sat there last.

  It was addressed:

  Assistant Chief Constable Skinner,

  Police Headquarters.

  Private and Confidential

  To be delivered.

  The hotel manager had brought it personally to Fettes Avenue. Skinner could not stop his hand from trembling as he slit the envelope. He had recognised at once its style and its size, and the typeface on the address label. He withdrew the familiar single sheet of white paper, and steeled himself to read what he knew would be there.

  He read it aloud to Proud, Martin and Arrow, who had all gathered in his office.

  “Mr Skinner,

  'You may know my name already. Let us say that I am simply someone who has undertaken to obtain something special for a client who wants it very badly. Last night I almost succeeded, but your own good fortune prevented me.

  'However, I do not give up as easily as you might have hoped. Through the good offices of Ingo Svart, I now hold in my care someone who is very precious to you. I now propose

  that we exchange her for that which is just as precious to my client: the items which you prevented us from taking last night.

  'I require that you arrange the following. The Regalia will be left, in the same holdalls which my associates carried into the Castle, in the middle of the car park at the Gyle Shopping

  Centre, at 11:00 pm tomorrow night. Once the delivery has been made, the car park should be completely cleared. An aeroplane, with a range of at least three thousand miles, will be waiting, fully fuelled, on the runway at Edinburgh Airport. No attempt should be made to follow us at any stage. No personnel, police or military, should come anywhere near. No attempt should be made to hide tracking devices in the holdalls. We have the equipment to detect them. No attempt should be made to track our flight-path. We also carry equipment that can detect radar. 'If any one of these conditions is breached in any way, Miss Skinner will be shot immediately. However, if all are met to the letter, she will be released safely, as soon as we reach our first stopping-off point.

  Mr Black’

  Skinner placed the letter slowly on his desk. He looked up at Andy Martin with absolute desolation on his face.

  'Give that paper to me, Bob,’ said Proud Jimmy gently, but with determination in his voice. 'I’m off to see the Prime Minister.’

  EIGHTY

  'I don’t care whose daughter she is!’

  'Secretary of State,’ said Sir James Proud, hissing the words in a tone he had rarely used before in his life. 'If Bob Skinner had heard you say that, I would not guarantee your safety.’ He took a menacing step towards Ballantyne.

  'Sir James, please.’ The Prime Minister restrained him with a light touch on the sleeve of his uniform. He turned to face Ballantyne, questioningly, across the drawing room of Number 6

  Charlotte Square.

  'I only meant that we can’t give in to blackmail, PM,’ said the Secretary of State, now flushed and flustered.

  The Prime Minister walked slowly down the long room towards him, his eyes cold behind his spectacles.

  'Alan, if you showed such bravery and courage with your own person as you do in putting other people’s lives at risk – mine included – then you would probably make a great Minister. As it is, you’re undoubtedly the biggest mistake I have ever made. Last night I said I wanted you to demit office, on health grounds, after a decent interval. You don’t deserve decency, man. Give me your resignation now, please.’

  He turned back to Proud. 'Now, Sir James, how are we going to help Mr Skinner?’

  'With respect. Prime Minister, that isn’t really a matter for you,’ a voice interrupted.

  There was a fourth man in the long room. Sir Hamish Tebbit, Private Secretar
y to the Queen, had flown to Edinburgh that morning for a personal briefing on the situation from the Prime

  Minister. The tall grey-suited courtier stepped forward from the window. He had been doing his best to make himself inconspicuous while the politicians and the policeman had their

  confrontation.

  'I would remind you that the Honours of Scotland are the property of the Crown. Therefore their disposal is a matter for the Crown alone. If you will permit me, I will withdraw to another room, one with a telephone, and seek guidance from that highest authority.’

  EIGHTY-ONE

  'Andy, son, they’ll kill her, whatever. You know that. This Mr Black won’t leave her alive to identify him. He’ll realise that if he does, it’ll be too easy for me to find him. And when I do find him, I’ll find his paymaster – his bloody client. Oh, believe me, Andy, I’ll find him anyway, but unless we do it by tomorrow night, we’ll be too late to help Alex.’

  Sarah had joined them in Skinner’s office. She sat beside Bob, on one of the low, cushioned seats, shocked and red-eyed, sipping coffee.

  Martin looked back at Skinner. He had no answer, for he knew the inescapable truth of what Skinner had said.

  Bob pushed himself up from the seat, pounding fist into palm in a gesture of pure frustration. 'We don’t know where she is, boys, and we haven’t a clue how to find her. Oh, my lass. My poor, poor lass. Where in God’s name are you?’ As he cried out, he linked his fingers together, and covered his eyes with his hands, Martin and Arrow gazed, helpless and silent, at his back and rounded shoulders. But Sarah rose quietly from her chair and crossed to him, taking him in her arms, cradling his bowed head against hers. They stood like that for a time, motionless. Then, slowly, steadily, Skinner’s shoulders straightened, and his hands left his face. He now stood erect again, and it was almost as if Martin and Arrow were looking at a stranger. The man they saw – Skinner but not Skinner – touched them both, tough as they

  were, with sudden alarm. Distress and despair had been put aside and replaced by hope, the light of which gleamed cold and savage in his eyes.

  'There’s someone who does know, boys, or who’d better know.

  And he’s lying in the Simpson!’ The voice was little more than a whisper.

  He eased himself out of Sarah’s arms and started for the door, but Adam Arrow stopped him, and, using all his strength, held him back.

  'Bob. Bob. Listen to me. Bob.’

  Skinner looked down at him, still with that awful cold look.

  “Man,’ said Arrow quietly, making an effort at a reassuring smile, 'if you went near that man just now, the first time he said “No’'’ to you, you’d rip 'is fookin’ head off and piss down his

  fookin’ neck. He’s got to be handled gentle if he’s to tell us anything that’ll help Alex. So you stay here with Sarah. Leave him to me I’ll talk to him, reasonable like. You know what I mean. If he does know anything, I’ll get it out of him better than you could.’

  His smile would have calmed the wildest beast – which, for a moment, Skinner had seemed to be.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  Sir Hamish wasn’t out of the room for long. But he was gone long enough for Alan Ballantyne to scrawl out the briefest of letters of resignation, 'for reasons of health, and in the interests of my family’, on Scottish Office crested notepaper. He handed it to the Prime Minister and, without even the briefest glance at Sir James Proud, stalked out of the room.

  Scarcely more than five minutes had elapsed, by the carriage clock on the Adam mantelpiece, before the Queen’s Private Secretary returned from his telephone consultation. To his huge

  relief, the Chief Constable noticed that he was smiling in satisfaction.

  'Prime Minister,’ the tall grey man said formally. 'Her Majesty has given me some very strict instructions, which should make your course of action quite clear. The demands contained in the letter to Mr Skinner are to be complied with in every detail. Her Majesty has said that, when seen in this context, no treasure is of greater value than a human life.’

  He looked at Sir James. 'She has said also. Chief Constable, that knowing Mr Skinner from her many visits to Edinburgh, he and his daughter have her heartfelt sympathy in their predicament. She will pray for Alex’s safe return. Her Majesty said also that she expects Mr Skinner to ensure that, once he has been reunited with his daughter, her kidnappers will not remain for long in possession of the Honours, or indeed of their own liberty.’

  Warmly and spontaneously, the Prime Minister shook Sir Hamish by the hand. He turned to Proud, who was standing just behind him.

  'There you have it, Chief Constable. Now go and get the girl back – and bag these people while you’re at it.’

  EIGHTY-THREE

  Babies made Adam Arrow feel uncomfortable. He would never actually admit that he disliked them. It was only that, having been involved all too often, through his chosen profession, with the other end of the life cycle, they pricked his conscience with the

  thought that every one of the villains he had been forced to deal with had been some mother’s son – or occasionally, some mother’s daughter. A conscience was something which Arrow

  could not afford, and so it was to maintain his own efficiency what others might call his ruthlessness — that Adam tended to steer clear of any close contact with babies. Thus it was that to him, the everyday sounds in the private wing of the Simpson Memorial Pavilion, in the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, were a little disturbing.

  Andy Martin had arranged with the general manager, with whom he had frequent professional contact, that the wounded prisoner from the Castle should be housed in a private room in the maternity wing. The reason given was that the Simpson was the last place where any prying journalist would be likely to look. However, Martin’s overriding consideration had been that not even Mr Black or his associates – should they feel the need to tie

  off a loose end – would have the idea of searching there, either. None of the hospital staff knew of the wounded man’s presence, other than members of the theatre team who had

  operated on him, or were now overseeing his recovery, and these people had been sworn to secrecy. The surgeon was an RAMC major, with a career dedicated to repairing gunshot

  wounds. He and his chief nurse had been flown up specially from England.

  Near the door of the private room, two men sat on opposite sides of the corridor, casually dressed in jeans and bulky jackets. They were reading magazines, and did not look particularly interested in each other, or in what was going on around them, but when Arrow turned into the corridor he saw to his satisfaction that each man glanced quickly up before – at his brief nod delving back into his magazine.

  Arrow rapped the door three times, the agreed signal, and entered. Another two SAS soldiers, also in plain clothes, were on guard inside. One watched the window, the other the door.

  Hello, lads. All secure?’

  Yes, sir,’ said the man facing the door, in a thick Cornish accent. 'Quiet as a church, it’s been.’

  'How’s our pal?’

  'He’s doing all right, the doc said.’

  They turned to look at the bed. Its frame had been arranged to support the prisoner at an angle, presumably to guard against congestion. He wore no gown, and heavy bandages were wrapped round his chest, and extended down from his shoulder, covering the wounds where Skinner’s two shots had torn through his right lung. The man seemed to be dozing, and Arrow noted the rough edge to his breathing. A tube ran into his nose, and another led

  out from beneath the sheets, into an opaque, flexible container which was hung below the level of the mattress. A long needle was taped down in place on the man’s left forearm. It was connected by a third tube to a jar of glucose solution hanging high on a stand beside the bed. :

  'Has he had much to say for himself yet?’ asked Arrow, “Nah,’ said the Cornishman. 'We tried talking to him, but he told us to fuck off.’ '

  Arrow smiled pleasantly towards th
e bed. 'Maybe he’ll talk to me. Let’s see, shall we? You lads take a tea break. You can take them two outside, as well. I’ll lock myself in. This must be a fookin’ boring detail. Take 'alf-an-hour, at least. I’ll look after him.’

  The two soldiers left the room without protest.

  Arrow said nothing for a while. He stood quietly at the side of the bed, looking down at the nameless prisoner. Mid-thirties, he guessed. As he studied the torso more closely, where it showed above the sheets, he noted several marks and disfigurements, including a ragged scar on the left shoulder, crudely treated at some time, from the size of the stitch marks. He guessed that it might be the relic of another bout of gun-play. Both upper arms were garishly tattooed. There was a lavishly endowed naked lady on the right, with the word 'Mother’ scrolled below, and on the left a snake entwined around a dagger, with four characters alongside.

  Well-travelled feller, ain’t you?’ Arrow said suddenly. Mercenary, I’d guess. That could be a problem. I hate fookin’ mercenaries. Showing up in other people’s countries and killing 'em, for no reasons other than they like it and 'cos they get paid. Hate 'em, I do. Still I shouldn’t hold that against you. You’re a wounded man, after all. So come on, my friend. Tell me: who are you?’

  The pattern of the man’s breathing changed. The closed eyes opened lazily. The laboured voice croaked. 'Go fuck your mother.’

  Arrow laughed, out loud. 'She’s dead, pal. And anyway, I’d rather fook yours.’

  He sat on the edge of the bed. Idly, he touched the tube which led to the needle in the man’s forearm. He was still smiling. 'OK, that’s the pleasantries over. Now let’s have a nice little

  chat. I’ll go first. All you have to do is to listen – for now at least.

  “I belong – as my friends who’ve been looking after you belong – to what you might call a closed organisation. No one’s allowed to see us, and when we leave a place, it’s as if we’d never fookin’ been there at all. Only it’s different. That place, I mean. It’s been changed in some way or another. Sometimes a building or two won’t quite be where it was before. Other times, there’s some fooker doesn’t live there anymore, or anywhere else for that matter. Sometimes both. For a closed organisation, we’re quite famous really. You’ll have heard of us, I’m sure.’