Skinner's Festival

by Quintin Jardine

  disappearing from Skinner’s sight completely. Even his feet were hidden by the front wheels.

  Some time passed.

  'He must be giving those bags a good going over,’ mutter Skinner. 'Just as well we didn’t chance putting a tracking device in there.’

  Mackie, who was concentrating all his attention on his view through the telescopic sight, offered no reply.

  Only the shadow on the ground told Skinner that the search was on the move. Then suddenly he was in his clear view again, as he came round to the rear of the vehicle, still crouching, with a holdall in each hand – but in the right hand also, a small black object not much larger than a walkie-talkie radio handset. Without putting down his burden he pressed the boot release button with his left thumb. The lid swung up. He placed the bags and the black object carefully inside, and quickly slammed it shut.

  As it closed, the man stood up straight, and Skinner caught his first clear sight of him. Even if the view was only in profile, and at a distance, the power of the field-glasses left him in no doubt.

  'Ingo, right enough.’

  His mind swept back to their last meeting, in his own home, with Ingo as his guest – as his daughter’s guest; as her lover. He remembered the man’s cool arrogance, and Skinner’s own certain belief that he was being sized up by someone with much more to him that met the eye.

  As Skinner watched, Ingo swung round, scanning the surrounding buildings one more time, and he was able to look straight into his face. It was cold, intent, ruthless; a face he had seen before, yet never seen in this way. Even without the evidence of Mary Little Horse’s corpse, he would have known at once why Alex had stressed this man’s menace.

  For a moment the Swede seemed to halt in the sweep of his gaze. It was as if his and Skinner’s eyes had met. Skinner thought for that second, his heart dropping, that Ingo had spotted him, even from that far away. Then, with relief, he remembered that he was looking through field-glasses. The gaze of inspection continued on past their place of concealment, and round the rest of the adjoining buildings. Then he spun on his heel and ran back to the passenger door, disappearing from sight. The car started to move. Skinner stared after it, numbed by hatred for the man who had abused his daughter and now threatening her life.

  Beside him, Brian Mackie pulled the trigger without waiting for any order to be given. The soft thud of the silenced rifle broke Skinner’s trance. He trained his binoculars on the Senator as it started to gather pace, and picked out, on the offside rear wing, something that had been not been there before. It was barely distinguishable against the white bodywork, but there it was, a big whitish-grey stain, looking for all the world like a seagull dropping.

  'Nailed it, Brian. Good shot, son.’

  'No problem, sir.’

  Mackie looked over at Skinner as he stood in the shadows, staring after the car as it disappeared into the night.

  'So that was Ingo himself, boss.’

  'That was Ingo all right. No one else. He didn’t spot us there, but he’s going to see me again before this night is over. Oh by Christ he is!’

  NINETY

  There is no way that helicopters can fly quietly. They heard the first whirr of the rotors barely twenty seconds after the Vauxhall Senator had cleared the car park. The Bell Jet Ranger which had taken them to Stocksmoor twenty-four hours earlier came in low, from the south, where it had been hovering out of sight and sound, waiting for the pick-up at a distance. The

  pilot swept in low across the car park, touching down as close as he dared to the building from which Skinner and Mackie were emerging.

  Skinner sprinted up to the craft, ducking by reflex under the rotors. The door swung open as he reached it, and he saw Andy Martin and Adam Arrow seated inside behind the pilot.

  Skinner jumped into the empty front seat, then turned to Mackie. ..

  'Brian, did you bring regular ammo for that gun?’

  Mackie looked offended. 'Of course, boss “

  'Let’s have it, then. You never know, it might come in handy. He took the gun and ammunition from his aide and closed the door. Instantly, the Jet Ranger lifted off. Skinner turned to look at the two men in the seats behind him.

  'Right, boys,’ he said grimly, grasping the rifle by its stock and unscrewing the ugly silencer. 'Let’s hunt some bears!’

  NINETY-ONE

  McGuire was inside the Jetstream parked on the runway at Edinburgh Airport. Alongside him were three of Adam Arrow’s SAS contingent, fully armed and ready for action. The remainder were disguised as airport ground crew, with side-arms tucked inside their work tunics. Mario McGuire carried an H & K carbine rather than a pistol, for its extra accuracy even at close quarters, and its instant stopping power. He had once stood up against an

  automatic weapon when armed only with a handgun, and had good reason to be aware of the difference.

  The small turbo-prop aeroplane stood on the tarmac in front of the main terminal building, just beyond the Loganair stand. A hundred yards away, twin gates lay open to allow the getaway vehicle access to the aircraft. Skinner had asked for radio silence on the operation in the assumption that Mr Black’s group would be covering all open frequencies. However, McGuire was linked by a short-range two-way radio to Sir James Proud, who was perched high in the airport control tower. He checked his watch, and spoke into the handset. 'It’s 11:04, sir. See anything from up there?’

  Up in the tower, the Chief Constable surveyed the wide carriageway which led from the landscaped A8 airport slip-road up to the terminal building. The last shuttle had long since landed, and no tourist flights were allowed to depart from Edinburgh that late in the evening. The road was empty. Proud Jimmy clicked the transmit button on his radio.

  'Nothing yet, McGuire. Looks like Mr Skinner’s right. This whole thing was a feint. They’re going somewhere else. Give it to 11:15, then – hold on!’

  Even as the Chief spoke, he saw in the distance a car shoot off the roundabout at speed and enter the approach road. Its headlights were full on, and badly adjusted. Even at that distance,

  he was blinded for a second.

  'There’s a car now. Can’t make out colour or anything else, but it’s travelling. It could be the target. Ready for action on my command. Officer at the terminal approach: route that car

  straight on to the tarmac. It’ll be with you in no more than thirty seconds. Acknowledge.’

  The uniformed constable on the road at the British Midland terminal raised a hand above his head to indicate that he had heard. Proud had underestimated the car’s speed. Less than twenty seconds later, it took the corner into the terminal straight, headlights still ablaze. The constable stepped into the roadway and flagged the car vigorously towards the open gates, and on to the tarmac. The driver slammed on the brakes and swung the vehicle round and through the opening. The policeman had no time to identify the make of the vehicle. He saw only a white flash as it sped past him.

  Above, Proud watched the car as it slowed down to crawl. Even from his high vantage point it was half obscured by the first buildings of the terminal complex. But, as he watched, it cruised slowly towards the Jetstream, which was parked in the open beyond a Loganair ATP.

  'Ready, everyone. They may be confused about which plane to take, but they’re getting closer. They’re stopping. OK, wait for it.! Door’s opening. Now go!’

  Down on the tarmac, the driver’s door of the white car swung open. A stocky, ginger-haired man got out – and reeled back in surprise as six handguns were trained on him by airport

  ground-crew.

  “What the fuck!’ he cried reaching so high above his head that for a second it looked as if he would take off.

  'What the fuck!’ said Sir James Proud, up in the control tower 'McGuire, get out and see what this is.’

  Mario McGuire jumped from the Dash and ran over to the silent group surrounding the white car. The passenger doors had been torn open. There were no other occupants.

  'Police,’
snapped McGuire, as he reached the scene. 'Who areyou and what the hell are you doing here?’

  The red-haired man continued to reach for the sky. 'Harry Page. Ah’m Harry Page. Look, ah know ah wis speedin’. Ah’m sorry! Ma wife works as a stewardess fur Loganair. Ah’m here tae pick her up. Christ, mister, what is this? Ah’m late enough already. Ah should have been here at ten-fifteen. She’ll bloody murder me, as it is!’

  NINETY-TWO

  'Remember, pilot, let it get more than two miles away, and we’ve fookin’ lost it.’

  'But it is working?’

  'Sure, Bob. It’s working like a fookin’ dream. There’s enough irradiated iodine in that paint-splash to give us a good strong signal. Cracking shot by Brian, that were.’

  Arrow held a small box on his knee. It was wired into the helicopter’s electrical system. A green glow from its screen reflected on his face.

  'We can follow them forever with this, as long as we stay within two miles, and as long as the paint doesn’t get washed off.’

  'Can we make visual contact?’ Skinner asked the pilot.

  'Yes. But do you want to take the chance, sir? A mile is as close as I’d come, to be sure they won’t see us.’

  'No,’ Arrow answered for him. 'Trust our little box, Bob. I’ll wager that’s the only car on the road with a big patch ofradioactive bird-shit on its tail!’

  'Ok, Adam.’ Skinner’s voice could only just be heard above the noise of the helicopter’s engine. 'Let’s go with it. What does it tellus?’

  'Well, you were right. They’ve by-passed Edinburgh Airport. That were a con all along. I reckon they’ve just gone past the Norton House.’

  'Unless they turn off for Ratho, it’s Newbridge roundabout next,’ said Skinner. 'From there they can go anywhere. North over the Forth Bridge, although I don’t think they’ll fancy stopping to pay the tolls; Falkirk and Stirling up the M9; or due West to Glasgow on the M8, and then, as far south as the road goes.’

  'How far can they get on a tank of fuel in that thing?’ asked Arrow.

  'Hard to say, but the bigger the engine, the bigger the tank.

  Even though that’s a three-litre, he should get to Birmingham easy, maybe London at a pinch, without stopping. If he goes south and gets into heavy traffic we’ve got a problem.’

  'As long as he’s got that paint on his arse, he’s the one with the problem.’

  “Let’s hope so,’ said Skinner. 'Watch that tracker. He should be at Newbridge any second now.’

  Arrow bent close to the little screen. The reflected glow turned his face green in the darkness of the cabin. “Here we go. He’s swinging. He’s going left. Yes, he’s off. Its the M8, Bob. He’s off to Glasgow.’

  NINETY-THREE

  No one came to the door when Maggie Rose rang the bell. The porch of the Skinner bungalow in Fairyhouse Avenue was lit and welcoming, but no one answered.

  'Surely they haven’t gone out?’ she said to Neil Mcllhenney.

  “Can’t imagine so. But then the boss didn’t tell them we were coming. It was an afterthought of his, this baby-sitting idea.’

  'God, Neil, don’t let Sarah hear that. Remember, the party line is that he decided he should expect anything from these characters, with him and Andy out of town, he sent us down here as protection.’

  “She’ll never believe that.’

  'Maybe not, but she won’t take it out on us. She’s a nice lady, the doctor.’

  'Try the bell again.’

  They rang again, listening hard to make certain the bell had sounded, and waited for two full minutes more, before deciding to check round the back. They crept softly along the gravel towards the back door, and saw as they went that the garage door was open. Skinner’s car was there, but Sarah’s was gone. The garden was lit from the un-shaded kitchen window and from the back door, which lay slightly ajar.

  They had their pistols drawn as they slipped nervously into the house. Moving quickly through the deserted kitchen, they went from room to room on the ground floor, checking each one cautiously. Then they climbed the short flight of stairs to the attic, to satisfy themselves that the three upper rooms were empty also, before returning to the living-room for a second look. They saw that Sarah had prepared for Julia’s arrival. A big oval plate of freshly cut ham and tomato sandwiches, American-sized, sat on the low glass coffee-table between the two sofas. Alongside it were two plates, two china mugs, knives, spoons and paper napkins. Nothing there was out of place.

  They went back into the kitchen. The coffee filter was primed and ready, waiting to be switched on. Two glasses, a bottle of Smirnoff Silver and a tin of diet Coca-Cola sat on the work surface beside the tall fridge-freezer. Without touching anything, Mcllhenney crouched down and studied each item closely. One glass was three-quarters full. A few bubbles clung to the side, and a slice of greenish lime floated on the surface. Lipstick traces showed on the rim. He leaned over the glass and sniffed.

  'Bacardi and tonic,’ he said. He looked at the other glass. A slice of lemon was wedged at its foot in a finger of a clear liquid. He sniffed that, too, but found no trace of alcohol. He looked again at the bottle. Vodka and Coke in the making, probably. 'So what happened to them?’ he asked Maggie. 'Sarah’s got a drink on the go when Julia arrives, and she comes into the kitchen to mix one for her guest. She gets the ice and lemon from the fridge, drops them in the glass. Takes the Smirnoff and the Coke from the fridge as well. And that’s as far as she gets . . . Then they decide to go to the pictures? Hardly!’

  Maggie’s face broke into a sudden, relieved smile.

  'Neil, she’s a doctor, isn’t she? Not just with the police, but in a general practice. She’s had an emergency call-out. Rather than leave Julia here, she’s taken her with her. That’s your mystery.’

  Mcllhenney looked sceptical. 'Oh aye, and being an ACC’s wife she just runs out the back door and leaves it wide open, with all the lights on.’

  Maggie grimaced. 'I see what you mean.’

  Then she made a decision.

  “Look, let’s wait here anyway, as ordered. But in the meantime let’s try and check her practice. Then we can call in to Brian Mackie, when he gets back to the office.’

  NINETY-FOUR

  Glasgow reflected yellow in the night sky ahead. Closer at hand they saw below them the lights of the Harthill Service Area, as the helicopter continued to track the Vauxhall westward along the M8. They matched its speed, keeping a mile behind it. Occasionally, Skinner fancied he glimpsed tail-lights in the distance. The car was travelling fast, at just over 80 mph, but not so fast as to attract the attention of the motorway patrols.

  Skinner checked his watch. The time was 11:23 pm, yet it seemed like an age since the Senator had raced into the Gyle Centre. He hated to be bottled up; it made him feel

  claustrophobic. Eventually he could stand the tension inside him no longer. He dug his mobile telephone from the top right pocket of his black leather jacket.

  'Pilot, if I use this thing, will it work?’

  'Shouldn’t have a problem this close to the ground. We’re right on top of a cell here too. You might find it a bit patchy, but go ahead.’

  Skinner peered at the keyboard in the dim cabin light, and keyed in the stored number of Brian Mackie’s direct line. He was answered after a few seconds.

  'Brian, it’s me. You made good time getting back. You’ll know by now that we were right about that plane at Edinburgh. We’re heading for Glasgow. I want you to call Willie Haggerty, give him the number of the Senator.’ He dictated the number which he had

  memorised. 'Tell Willie I want people at all docks, and I want as many men as he can get under cover at Glasgow Airport.’

  The line went faint for a second, then strengthened again. 'You think they’ll go for another plane?’

  'Has to be. Could be they’re just going to drive in and hijack one, using Alex as bargaining power. But the way this thing’s been planned, I reckon they’ve got a back-up ready. Needn’t b
e very big. An 800-mile range will get you to a hell of a lot of places from Glasgow. Especially overnight. Whatever it is, wherever it is, I can’t let them take off with Alex on board. Now give Haggerty the message, and tell him to make sure that nobody moves in without me there to give the orders. I don’t want any of those Glasgow lads playing cowboys with my daughter’s life on the line.’

  NINETY-FIVE

  Suddenly the trace vanished from the monitor. Skinner could not actually see the screen, but he sensed its disappearance from the sudden look of panic which flashed across Arrow’s face.

  'Where’s it gone? What’s happened?’ he snapped.

  “S’OK, Bob,’ came the calm, steady voice of Andy Martin. Seated next to Arrow, he had detailed maps on his knees and a torch in his hand. 'They’re in the Charing Cross underpass,

  beneath that ugly office block that goes over the road. We’ll have them back in a second. Yes, there it is. Still on course for Glasgow Airport. Just going on to the Kingston Bridge now.’

  Skinner turned to the pilot. 'How fast can this thing go?’

  'Twice as fast as they can. And dead straight, remember.’

  'Good. I must be at the airport before they get there. We’ll follow them for a minute of two more, then once we’re absolutely certain that’s where they’re headed, we’ll put the foot down and beat them to it. Suppose they see a chopper there at an airport, they won’t think anything of it.’

  Martin broke it. 'Hold on, boss. They seem to be turning off the motorway.’

  'Eh! Which way?’

  'Hold on. They’re in a sort of a curve. They’re still on the slip-road. I’ll know in a minute. Yes, they’re still heading west. I’d say they’re taking the off-motorway route to the airport, out through Govan. That’s got to be it. It’s one last feint. Tricky sods these.’