Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

  Skinner checked his watch and counted down softly. He felt his heart race.

  'Christ, Andy,’ he muttered softly to Martin.

  'I know, Bob. I know. But it’ll be all right.’

  Seconds later they heard Arrow’s single gunshot. Its echoes still rang round the valley as the sound of shattering glass reached their ears, and the stun grenades exploded.

  They waited for more shooting, but there was none.

  Skinner waited for a call from Arrow, but none came.

  'Come on, people,’ he said grimly. 'Sounds like there’s no one there. Let’s go in.’ They rushed from their cover towards the house. Light was blazing now from all of its windows.

  Three of the SAS men stood in the lower hallway of the shabby dwelling. It smelled of damp, but of recent occupancy too. The aroma of ground coffee came from the kitchen, blown through on the night breeze from the shattered window.

  Skinner stepped into the room to the right, off the hall. It was deserted. A small television set in the corner was switched on, but the sound had been turned down, either by the departed occupants or by the soldiers.

  Martin, still standing in the hall, was the first to realise that none of the SAS soldiers would look at Skinner. A small knot of apprehension grew in the pit of his stomach. He looked up the narrow flight of wooden-banistered stairs.

  Adam Arrow stood at the top. His voice was sad, desperately sad, and once again devoid of accent as he called from the upper floor – looking down not at Martin, but beyond him at Skinner, who had stepped back into the hallway.

  'Bob. Can you come up, please. We need you here.’

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  Skinner almost fainted when he saw the body lying on the crumpled bed. Involuntarily, he turned his head away, grasping either side of the doorframe to hold himself steady. But at last he forced himself to look back into the small room, with its damp-stained yellowing wallpaper, its wardrobe, its cracked mirror, and its twin divans.

  And on one of them, he saw his Alex, dead.

  For it had to be Alex. The girl, stretched out on her back, was tall. Alex’s height. She was tanned all over; Alex’s tan from sunbathing topless in the secluded cottage garden at Gullane, or on the beach in her early summer trips to their holiday home in Spain. Her legs – Alex’s

  legs – were long and lithe, unpitted, still those of a girl rather than of a woman. Her small pink, proud nipples, set on young Firm breasts – Alex’s breasts – pointed towards the ceiling.

  She was wearing only a pair of cream panties, wet at the crotch, and, grotesquely, a white pillow-case. It was pulled over her head like a hangman’s hood, and it was blood-stained at the front. It reached down to her shoulders, covering completely her hair, face and neck.

  Still braced in the doorway. Skinner, feeling his heart thundering in his chest, looked desperately at her hands for jewellery, for a wristwatch, for anything strange or new to him,

  anything that would let him tell himself, 'No, this is not my daughter.’

  But he saw no sign, nothing there to give him that comfort.

  Maggie Rose moved past him, towards the body.

  'Stop, Sergeant.’

  She froze in her tracks at the sound of his voice.

  'I have to do this, Maggie.’

  Dreadfully slowly, or so it seemed to those who watched, he walked towards the body. Andy Martin was not in the room. He sat at the foot of the stairs, trembling, the knot of fear in his 1

  stomach now grown to a grasping, twisting fist.

  At last, Bob Skinner reached the dead girl. He leaned over her, then gently, reverently, lifted her shoulders up from the bed and drew the pillow-case away from her head.

  As he did so he closed his eyes. It was only with an effort of will that he opened them again – and looked into the face of Mary Little Horse.

  The girl’s eyes stared back at him, lifeless. Above them there was a dark, round hole in the centre of her blood-smeared forehead. Later Skinner would feel guilt at his immediate reaction, but in the moment of recognition he knew only a sense of relief deeper than any he had ever experienced in his life. And he gave thanks to whoever was there to hear him, that it was this girl who was dead, and not another.

  He gave way suddenly to a great weakness. He felt unmanned, and so, afraid that his frailty might be recognised, he laid Mary Little Horse – a murderess but another father’s daughter

  nonetheless – back down on her death-bed, walked from the chamber, head bowed and without a word, and locked himself in the bathroom across the landing.

  He sat for a while on the white enamelled edge of the old cast-iron bath and, alone behind the solid oak door of the little room, he wept tears of relief. He was trembling and his heart was still pounding. He had been certain that it was his Alex lying there, and in that short time from his first sight of the body to his discovery that it was not her, he had been swept by a sense of bereavement so profound that, even although it had now been lifted, the shadow of its desolation would remain with him for ever.

  He lost all track of time for a while, but eventually he calmed himself and recovered his strength. But with it he found a feeling of new foreboding. His daughter was alive, but now his best chance of recovering her safely had evaporated. Mr Black had outguessed him. Now they would have to risk the Jewels, staking them, and most of all, staking his daughter’s life, on the plan he had devised.

  Feeling a sudden pressure in his bladder, he raised the wooden toilet seat and the lid, together, and urinated heavily into the bowl. Finished, he pulled the flush lever, zipped himself, and turned to wash his hands in the white basin. As he turned on the taps, his eye was caught by a piece of white paper folded and Jammed under a plastic shell-shaped soap-dish which sat on a wooden shelf above the basin. Curious, he lifted the pink dish and

  picked it up.

  The three sheets of paper appeared to have been torn out of a diary. They were folded across the centre. As he opened them out, his earlier foreboding was swept away by his sudden joy at the sight of his daughter’s message, written in pencil on the torn dirty pages, scrawled but still legible.

  Hi, Pops,

  They let me watch TV today. I saw you, and know what this is about. Ingo says I’m Mr Black’s second chance, so I can guess what my ransom is. He and an American called Dave brought me here during the night. On the way they picked up a girl called Mary. She’d been living rough in a hut near Gifford.

  It’s 8:00 pm. A woman called Ariel just turned up, and ' we’re leaving in a hurry. She said Mr Black (?) assumed you’d get someone called Carl to talk. They’ve allowed me a quick pee and a wash first, though. Ingo just killed my room-mate, Mary. He came in as she was changing, pulled a pillow-case over her head, and shot her. He said she was too risky baggage to carry further. I don’t know where we’re going now, but if I see a chance. I’ll leg it. When you catch up with Ingo, Pops, be careful. He’s very dangerous. I’m sorry I got you into this.

  Love you.

  Alex.

  He was smiling as he walked out of the bathroom and down into the hall where Martin, Mackie and Arrow waited, anxious, none of them certain what sort of a man would emerge. He waved the note at Martin. 'Look at this, Andy. It’s from our lass. She’s something else.' Martin took the note and read it, and, as he did, Bob Skinner laughed to himself, and shook his head again in wonderment at his daughter.

  He had never been prouder of her. She had just seen murder done, sudden and shocking but she had still had the presence off mind to leave a note, to try to give what assistance she could. Bright, tough, and brave, too. He hoped in the hours to come he could live up to her example.

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  'If you were there, you’d be putting Alex’s life at risk! There’s no way, love, I’ll let you do that!’

  'Bob, that’s an awful thing to say. How could you!’ Sarah wore, for a moment, an expression which was completely new to him: one of pure hurt. Then it melted into one of anger and
>
  frustration. 'Dammit man, I’m a member of your team. You made me one, remember.’

  'Well, as of now, you’re off the pitch. I didn’t tell you about last night’s operation until it was over because I knew that, if I had, we’d have had this argument then.’

  'But you could need me there! As a doctor. If there is trouble, if there’s shooting, people could get hurt. Alex could get hurt. You could get hurt.’

  He put his big hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. She leaned back against the larder cupboard of their kitchen at Fairyhouse Avenue, tears gleaming in her eyes.

  He did his best to soothe her. 'Sarah, my darling, I hope with all my heart that, when I catch up with them, these people will decide that they are not on a suicide mission, and will let Alex go. In fact, I’m forcing myself to believe that’s what will happen. If I’m wrong, then yes, there will be shooting. If there is, then believe me, the people on my team are the best – me included. But to give our best, we have to be completely focused on the job. If you were

  anywhere near, you’d be a distraction for me, and probably for Andy too. If the shit did start flying we’d have you to worry about as well. All our thoughts have to be focused on protecting Alex, and rescuing her. If you were there to distract us, then, as I say, you would be adding to her danger. Look, wherever we end up, if we need a doctor, we’ll get one quick. If I do decide to take one, it won’t be you; it’ll be an Army medic. But Adam Arrow’s probably as good as anyone. He’d seen action, and dealt with wounded.’

  Slightly guiltily, a grin gleamed through her tears. 'Yeah. From what I’ve seen of little Arrow, with a point-four-five round in the ear!’

  The tension between them eased. Bob chuckled quietly. He lifted up her chin and made her look ,him in the eye. That’s better. You’re smiling again. That’s how you can help me most, love.’

  She hugged him close, and very tight.

  'Oh, but, my darling, I’ll be so worried about you. About you both. About you all.’

  'I know, honey, but we’ll be all right.’

  He was struck by a sudden thought.

  'Listen. Wee Julia’ll be in the same boat as you, in her case worrying about Andy. I’ll have him bring her up here, and the two of you can hold each other’s hands like the astronauts’ wives did in Alex’s play, when their men were in orbit.’

  She brightened up again. 'Yeah. We can watch videos. Woody Allen rather than Kevin Costner, though.’

  'What, not even The Bodyguard?’

  'Especially not that!’

  'What about Batman? That’d be quite appropriate really for you and Julia?’ ;

  She looked at him, puzzled. 'Why?’

  'Well, what with Andy’s nickname among the old-timer uniform PCs . . .’

  What’s that?’

  'Robin the Boy Wonder . . . I’

  Her eyes widened. 'So that means yours must be . . .’

  'Exactly! That’s why I gave up wearing the black leather coat. Folk thought I was trying to live up to my nickname!’

  They laughed together again in the midst of their troubles, and Bob kissed her once more.

  'Right I’ll fix that up with Andy. Now I must be off to Fettes.

  It’s eight o’clock. All my plans are made. It’s time to brief the troops. Brian’s picking me up and he’ll be outside by now. Next time you see me, Alex will be with me. Believe me.’

  As the door closed behind him, the smile on her face dissolved. She leaned back against the larder door once more, tears flowing freely.

  'Yes, my love, I do believe you,’ she whispered. 'But will you both still be alive?’

  EIGHTY-NINE

  Brian Mackie hefted the sniper’s rifle, with its telescopic sight, to his shoulder, and settled it against him like a new lover, adjusting himself to its shape, making himself comfortable with its feel, and with the lines of its long body.

  Skinner looked at the two of them, man and mistress, silhouettes in the little light which invaded the dark of the office. He took in the slender shape of the hand-built gun, and was struck by the contrast with the ugliness of the long silencer which extended its barrel.

  Mackie nuzzled his cheek against the walnut stock and waited.

  It was 10:58 pm. Outside, the Gyle Centre car park, cleared completely of vehicles as instructed, was illuminated brightly by its floodlights on their pillars, in contrast with the bulky darkness of the two superstores and the other, smaller shops which bounded it on two sides.

  'It’s nearly time, Brian,’ said Skinner. 'Any second now.

  Remember, our car is a white Mondeo. Theirs might be a Vauxhall Senator.’

  He felt the rush of adrenaline pumping him up, readying him for action. Though he was still fearful for Alex, he was glad that the moment had almost come. The last thirty, sleepless hours had been the longest of his life.

  The rest of the farmhouse had offered them few new leads. They had found Mary Little Horse’s things, in a rucksack in the wardrobe in the bedroom. The only other signs of the house’s occupants had been their refuse – the tins and discarded food wrappers which someone had thrown into a green wheelie-bin outside the back door – and the coffee pot and stained mugs which had been left on the kitchen table. Eventually Skinner had returned to look again, more professionally and dispassionately this time, at the body of Mary Little Horse.

  'Alex wasn’t kidding about Mr Ingo, Andy. The man must be good. Our Mary here was a pro herself.’

  'Yes,’ said Martin, 'and she was strong as well, according to poor old Frank Adams. Ingo must have taken her completely by surprise. Pillow-case over her head and bang, before she had time to react. Poetic justice, I suppose.’

  'Or dog eat bitch!’

  Beside the Vitara in the yard, they found, and photographed a second set of tyre tracks in the setting mud. A tyre-centre manager, called out in the early hours of the morning, had identified them as belonging to the type normally fitted to a 24valve Vauxhall Senator, the flagship saloon of the range

  'Vauxhall,’ Skinner had grunted. 'Not exactly a rare model. Still, put the word out to all of our traffic cars, and to all traffic wardens, to look out for Senators. Anybody who sees one carrying a group of two men and two women is to call it in right away. But no one is to approach it. I don’t want them getting nervy while Alex is still in that car. I want these bastards out in the open.’

  The memory of his own instructions snapped him back to the present, just as the white Mondeo swept into the deserted car park, heading towards the centre of the pool of light. He had time to spot Maggie Rose in the driver’s seat, before she swung the car around so that its near-side faced the office where Skinner and Mackie were hidden.

  As soon as it had drawn to a halt, Neil Mcllhenney jumped from the front passenger seat, and raced round to the boot. He pushed the release button and, as the lid swung up, reached inside

  and withdrew the two holdalls, one long, the other squarish, which Skinner had seen before in another place. He wondered whether anyone had bothered to clean off the blood streaks, then found himself hoping that they had not.

  Without even glancing around, Mcllhenney – obeying to the letter Skinner’s orders at his briefing earlier that evening — put the holdalls down close together on the ground, right in the centre of the car park. He took three long strides back to the passenger door and jumped in. The door had barely closed behind him before Maggie Rose slammed the car into gear and raced off into the night, heading out of the Centre and turning in the direction the city.

  Skinner peered at his watch, holding it up towards the little light that crept in through the open window. It showed almost 11:00 pm. He looked at the second hand as it swept up towards the hour, and waited, hardly daring to breathe.

  The Senator was forty-three seconds late. They heard it just before they saw it roaring through the car park entrance and into view. The high floodlights reflected strongly from its brilliant white bodywork, and gave the heavily smoked g
lass of its windows a mirror-like sheen. Skinner, in his hide, read the number-plate from afar through powerful field-glasses. He struggled to catch a glimpse of the occupants, but the glass was impenetrable under the floodlights, and he was unable even to make out their shadows.

  Driven very fast and very smoothly, the car zigzagged for a second or two as it entered the park, before straightening up and making directly for the two holdalls sitting in the centre. Just as it drew close, the driver slammed on the brakes hard, and swung it round and to a halt, tail-first. At it spun. Skinner thought that he could just make out four heads inside, but it was the most fleeting of glimpses, and he could not be certain.

  'Ok, Brian. Stay ready.’ In the dark, renewed tension, almost overwhelming, gripped Skinner.

  'Sir.’ Mackie’s reply was whispered, but certain.

  The Vauxhall was positioned now between their office stakeout and the holdalls. A few seconds passed with no sign of movement. Skinner guessed that the Senator’s occupants were

  looking around for any sign of an ambush. Involuntarily he pressed himself back into the shadows. At first he was unable to catch a clear view of the person who climbed out of the car. The only indication of any movement was a very slight drop in the suspension. Then, from his distant viewpoint, through the glasses he saw, under the Vauxhall’s body, a shadow moving on the ground beyond, as the passenger door was opened. Left, then right; two feet in trainers appeared. He swung the field-glasses upward and caught the back of a blond head and broad shoulders, rising well above the level of the car roof.

  'It’s Ingo, I think,’ he said to Mackie.

  The powerful figure moved over swiftly to the holdalls. For a second or two there was more of him in view, across the bonnet of the Senator – then none at all, as he crouched down,