Skinner's festival bs-2

by Quintin Jardine

  What the Devil is he up to? Skinner thought. Was he a tip-off man for the Sunday Mail, maybe, looking for action around Number 6?

  As he gazed at the man, intrigued, his view was obscured for a moment by a black Rover Sterling with a familiar figure in the back seat. The car drew to a halt outside Number 6, and Lord Peters, Minister of State for Scotland and, as such, Ballantyne's deputy, heaved his girth on to the pavement. He tapped the car on the bonnet in dismissal and made towards the big brown door, tugging a key from his pocket as he walked.

  Skinner looked across towards Denis, who was snapping off frame after frame of the Minister's arrival, then glanced across at the motorcyclist. The man had dropped his newspaper and now was holding a mobile telephone. There was a brief scene of pantomime as he put the earpiece up to his crash-helmet, then set the instrument down on the saddle of the bike and began to fiddle with his chinstrap.

  'Let's check this boy out,' Skinner muttered to himself. He jumped from the car and began to trot across the street. 'Hey, just a minute!'he shouted as he ran.

  The rider gave up his battle with the chinstrap, and reached inside his jacket with his ungloved right hand.

  Later, it would strike Skinner as remarkable that he had not registered surprise when he saw the gun. But, at that moment, all that concerned him was reaching the nearest cover.

  It was a small weapon, possibly a Beretta. The man swung towards him, his left hand coming up to join the other in a marksman's grip. By that time Skinner's trot had accelerated into a sprint. He reached the other side of the street, which was' mercifully free of traffic, and threw himself full-length between a: couple of parked cars. He was still in mid-dive when he heard the two shots, and the zinging sound of the ricochets as the bullets flew off the tarmac behind him.

  Lying face-down, aware of the pounding of his heart, he tried to work out his next move. But in the very moment that he realised that he did not have one, he heard the motorcycle roar into life.

  Skinner pulled himself into a crouch behind the car which was his shield. Tyres squealed as the rider swung out of his parking bay against the traffic flow. barely missing a red Peugeot which was cornering at speed. Skinner stood up in time to see the silver-grey; bike racing off down Glenfinlas Street, but a second too late to read its registration number.

  'Bob!' The shout came from behind him. Skinner turned and saw Denis the photographer lumbering towards him. 'What the hell happened there? Were those gun-shots? Are you all right?' The big man was out of breath by the time he reached Skinner.

  'No panic, Denis. It's okay. There's no harm done. What did you see anyway?'

  'Nothing much. I just sort of heard the noise and caught a flash of you ducking between those two motors. Only I didn't realise it was you till you stood up. Who was the guy on the bike? I'll be looking twice at Apache Couriers next time they turn up on one of my jobs, I'll tell you.'

  Skinner thought fast. 'Courier, my arse. That was a boy we've had under surveillance as a suspected drug-dealer.' He put a hand on Denis's shoulder and said, conspiratorially, 'But listen, old mate. You saw nothing – understand? All that you heard was the bike backfiring. The fact is, my imagination got the better of me, and I got the wrong idea and jumped for it. Now, for God's sake, not a cheep about that in your bloody rag or I'll be the laughingstock of Edinburgh.'

  Denis looked sceptical, but nodded. 'Well, if you say so. Bob. If you say so. But it's a bloody queer backfire that can put a hole through a window thirty yards away!'

  He pointed across the street to Number 8. Skinner's eye followed his finger. In the top right-hand pane of one of its ground-floor windows there was a neat round hole, cracks fanning out from it like rays from a tiny, dark sun.

  'Honest to Christ, Denis. See vandals these days. Nothing's sacred any more.' A guileless look crept across his face. 'What brings you here today anyway?'

  Denis looked embarrassed. 'You shouldn't ask me that. Bob.

  Secrets of the trade and all that. The truth is, as usual, I don't know. Us photographers, in our army we're just the bloody infantry. I'm told to get along here and get some pies of Ballantyne and of anyone else that arrives here, so that's what I'm doing. But I'm not told why. Same old bloody story. Every other photographer's at bloody Tynecastle covering the football, and I'm stuck here watching a fucking door!'

  Skinner sighed out loud, in mock sympathy, silencing the rising tirade. 'Ah, well, big fella, sometimes there's no justice at all.

  Sounds like a right boring afternoon, but good luck to you. Me, I'm doing something really exciting. I'm off to take the wife to Asda.' He raised a hand in farewell and strolled across the road towards his car.

  'That'll be bloody right!' muttered Denis, towards his disappearing back.

  As was usual at weekends, a heavy gate barred entry to the sloping driveway which rises up to the main entrance to Edinburgh's police headquarters building.

  Denied access to his parking space, Skinner drove on out of Fettes Avenue, and used the side entrance in Carrington Road.

  The civilian security guard manning the entrance barriers recognised him, but nonetheless inspected his photographic warrant card carefully, knowing that the ACC would have roasted him had he done any less.

  Skinner entered the building at basement level, in the rear, and made his way up four flights of stairs to Andy Martin's office on the same level as his own in the Command Suite, but in the main four-storey section. The Detective Chief Inspector's room opened off the main area of the Special Branch office. In the outer room. Skinner recognised Detective Constables Neil Mcllhenney, a Special Branch regular, and Barry Macgregor – borrowed, he guessed, from week-end duty with the Crime Squad to help with the call-round of the media.

  'Afternoon, gentlemen. Had a busy time?'

  'Not as busy as you, by the looks of it, sir,' said the normally phlegmatic Mcllhenney, pointing towards Skinner's lower half.

  'Been playing football wi' the lads?'

  Skinner looked down and noticed for the first time the split across the right leg of his denims, just above the knee. 'Hah. Not quite football, Neil, but a bit of fancy diving all the same.

  'Mr Martin in?'

  'Sir.' Mcllhenney nodded in confirmation, and Skinner walked on up to Martin's door, rapped on it, and pushed it open without waiting for a response.

  The Special Branch commander was seated behind his desk, his shoulders hunched and the telephone pressed to his right ear. He glanced up at Skinner, his eyes taking in the torn jeans and registering surprise. He pointed awkwardly and unnecessarily towards the phone with his left hand, then towards a filter coffee- maker on a table beneath the room's only window.

  'Sorry, sir, but my boss just came in, and I missed that.' He paused, listening to the voice on the line. 'I appreciate your point, but you have to understand our situation too. Our information is that today's explosion was quite possibly accidental. If this hoax letter appears anywhere, it could cause quite unnecessary public alarm, not to mention its effect on such a popular international event. Every other news organisation in the UK has already agreed to a black-out of that letter. You'll lose nothing by cooperating.'

  Skinner was listening intently now. 'Who is this?' he mouthed silently to Martin.

  'Hold on one second please, sir,' the Chief Inspector said to the telephone. 'I have to speak to my chief.' He pressed the privacy button. 'It's an American guy, sir. He's chief editor, or some such title, of Television News International, that satellite channel that we always hear about on other people's news bulletins. I called his bureau chief in London about the black-out. He told me he had to refer upwards, and this is the result. The bloke's mouthing on about global responsibility. Sounds like he's after a world scoop, and since his channel's on in every newsroom in this country, if he runs the letter we've got trouble – emergency powers or not.

  Everyone else is playing ball, but if this arsehole publishes it, they all will.'

  Skinner's eyes glinted. A dangerou
s smile hung around the corners of his mouth. He held out his right hand towards Martin.

  'Gimme. What's his name?'

  'Albert Neidenneyer.'

  Skinner took the receiver from Martin, earpiece first.

  'Mr Neidermeyer? My name is Bob Skinner. I am in charge of this investigation, and the request made by Mr Martin comes directly from me. As you've just been told, we don't want to start a major public fuss over a letter which could well have been sent in by a crank. Every other news outlet in the country has agreed not to publish that letter for the time being so I'd be grateful if you would instruct your man in London to go along with-'

  Neidermeyer cut in. 'Listen, mister. I'm in charge of the world's biggest news organisation. We didn't get that way by dropping our pants every time some guy like you comes by. We have viewers everywhere, and we don't keep news from them on the say-so of just any copper. What did you say your name was?'

  'Skinner. Assistant Chief Constable Skinner. Edinburgh CID.'

  'Skinner.' Across the Atlantic, there was a pause. 'Say, weren't you the guy who-'

  This time Skinner cut in. 'Yes, I probably was. Look me up. If your information library is any good, I'll be there. While you're doing that, let me tell you what I'll be doing at this end. I'll be making one telephone call. About two minutes later, you'll find that every one of your satellite transponders has been shut down for repair. The more fuss you make, the longer that repair will take. I'm not just talking about Europe. I'm talking home base too. I'm talking everywhere.'

  'Bull Shit!'

  'Try me. You want to find out what's possible, then force me to make that phone call. I don't care how big a fish you are in your own pond. If you want still to be swimming there tomorrow, you'll do what we request. If the situation changes, we'll let you know. For now, please be sensible and co-operate with us.'

  For a few seconds there was silence. Then Neidermeyer gave a loud sigh. 'OK, Skinner. Experience tells me that if anybody makes a threat that heavy, then he can probably make it good. So I'll do what you ask. But, pal, you'd better be right every step of the way. Otherwise you'll have the full resources of the world's biggest news organisation after your ass!'

  Skinner gave a strange cold smile. 'Thank you, Mr Neidermeyer, for showing such good sense. I'll bear your promise in mind, but just be sure that you don't forget mine! He put the telephone back in its cradle. 'There, Andy. Like my old mother used to say, a problem shared is a problem halved. And in this case, solved.'

  Martin looked at him curiously. 'I suppose you could have done that thing with the transponders.'

  Skinner grinned back at him affably. 'Well, maybe it wouldn't have been just as easy as that. I might have had to make two phone calls.'

  He took several steps across to the window table and poured coffee into two mugs. He added a little milk to his own and handed the other, plain black, to Martin. Then he took the folded envelope enclosing the letter from the back pocket of his jeans, and tossed it down on the desk.

  'That's what the fuss is about. What d'you think?'

  Martin extracted the letter and scanned it quickly. 'Where was this handed in?', 'St Andrews House. By motorbike courier. About half an hour after the bang.'

  'Well, I suppose this could be from some idiot who saw the fuss over the explosion in the centre of town and decided to take the piss out of the polis. But he'd need to have moved very fast. From the look of this, too, he'd also have needed access to a computer and a bubble-let printer. Mind you, that doesn't mean much these days, given the size of some of the kit around.

  'What about the courier?'

  'I haven't checked that yet. But I think that when we ask the security men at St Andrew's House, we'll find he was wearing an Apache Couriers vest. And when we check Apache Couriers and we will – we'll find that they had no one working today, but also that either one of their new recruits has gone missing or one of their vests has been nicked.'

  'What makes you think all that then, boss?' Martin asked warily.

  Quickly, Skinner described the incident in Charlotte Square.

  'Ripped my new Levis too. I'll take it out of the bastard's hide when I catch him, see if I don't. Not, of course, that there's a cat's chance that we will catch him. Nonetheless, we'll put a call out for a tall guy with a metallic blue brain-bucket, riding a silver grey bike. You never know. Anyway, that wee encounter removed my last doubt that this letter could be just kidology. Our man was on look-out duty, reporting all arrivals at Number 6 to someone else, our anonymous correspondent no doubt. We've got to assume that they were watching the back door as well, and they'll have seen me come and go. They probably wanted to see how Ballantyne would react to the letter. By now, since they've heard nothing on the radio, they'll be finding that out. I wonder what their next move will be.' He winced. 'Painful for someone, I have no doubt.'

  He pulled up a chair and sat down, facing Martin across the desk. 'What we've got to do now is put a unit in place to deal with these characters. Ballantyne's given me all the power and authority I need… for now at any rate.'

  Martin raised his eyebrows. 'You worried about him?' 'He's a politician, Andy. I always worry about them. Their judgement gets clouded by the ballot box – then, depending on what son they are, they either shit themselves or overreact. And our Secretary of State's just one man on the ladder. There are others with more clout than him. But, in any event, the ball's in our court, so let's run with it and set up our anti-terrorist unit. I want a team briefing in this office at 3:45. Then I want to meet all of the Festival directors in a hotel somewhere in the city centre.

  You set that up, will you. Make it for five o'clock.'

  'That's short notice, boss.'

  'The fuckers who planted that bomb didn't give us any notice at all!' said Skinner, tersely.

  He sat silent in thought for a few seconds, then went on. 'Our team has to be tight. I want people I know and can trust – not too many of them, but enough. They've all got to be able to take sector responsibility, if they need to, for running a part of what will be, in total, a very big security operation. Naturally, Andy, you're my second-in-command. As my personal assistant, Brian Mackie has to be in, too. And I'll have Maggie Rose and Mario McGuire. They've been over the course with us already. They're both tough and we know for sure they don't get rattled.'

  'I thought you wanted them kept apart, because they're going together off-duty.'

  'I've had second thoughts on that, but you'll figure out why in a minute. I'll call their divisional commanders and put them on temporary secondment. Then there's those two outside, Neil and Barry. They're in the know already, and they're good guys, so we'll have them too. You tell Jimmy Hodgson, the Crime Squad gaffer, that I'd like to borrow the boy Macgregor until further notice. Do it nicely, mind you. He's his own boss in this place. I need someone through in the West, too. Although these lunatics say that it's the Festival that's under threat, you never know when this could turn into a cross-border affair.'

  'Who'll you want over there?' asked Martin. •Willie Haggerty. Who else?'

  'Haggerty? What about McKinstery? He's Special Branch in Strathclyde.'

  'Not any more he isn't. He's out, and Haggerty's in.'

  Martin's eyebrows shot up. Skinner smiled at the surprise written on his face. 'You Special Branch guys aren't allowed to get together as a group – in case you form your own secret police force – so there's some excuse for you not to have noticed the changes that have been made lately.'

  7

  'What d'you mean?'

  'I mean that you are now the only surviving Special Branch head who was in post during Hughie Fulton's time. Since I took over, the commander in every other force has been posted elsewhere. It's happened in stages, but it's happened. McKinstery was the last to be moved.'

  'You've done all that?' Martin's voice rose in surprise.

  'Let's say that I've persuaded all their Chief Constables that it was a good idea.'

  'But why?' />
  'Remember when we had that carry-on last winter, and big Fulton seemed to know everything that we did?'

  Martin nodded.

  'At the time, you and I pinned some of the blame for that on Roy Thornton, up at the Court. As it happens we were right, but only up to a point, for there was a hell of a lot he didn't know that Fulton still found out. I wondered at the time who the big bastard's touts were, and itdidn't take me long to find out, once I took over his job. All your opposite numbers in Special Branch were feeding him stuff that even their own bosses – my equivalents – didn't know. In short, they were all in his pocket.

  Alee Smith, your predecessor, was at it as well. When Sarah and I started seeing each other, he reported it to Fulton, and big Hughie had her vetted.'

  'How did you find that out?'

  'The stupid bastard kept a file on me. As soon as he quit, the locks on his office door were changed, and so he didn't get the chance to destroy the file before he left. He's in Ibiza now, retired.

  Be just as well for him if he stays there.'

  'Why didn't he approach me when I took over?'

  'Take that as a compliment. He must have decided that you were incorruptible, as far as I was concerned. I guess that Alee Smith told him that. Actually, Alee did make one brief attempt to talk me into giving his job to someone else, but he changed horses when he saw my mind was made up, and he backed you instead.'

  'Who was the someone else?'

  'If I told you, it might prejudice your view of a perfectly good copper – who is, incidentally, in the uniformed branch now.'

  Skinner paused reflectively. 'Anyway, all Fulton's boys are gone now. They're either back in uniform, on promotion, or they're retired.'

  Martin shook his head. 'But I liked Davie MacKinstery. Alee, too for that matter.'

  'No need to stop loving them, Andy. The fact that they were Fulton's touts didn't make them bad people. He set the rules and got away with it, thanks to his reputation and his power. I don't condemn anyone for not crossing him. Still, when I took over, I decided that I could never trust anybody who had previously reported to Fulton on that basis. Hence the complete and total clear-out.' Skinner's tone grew heavy. 'One thing stays the same: all the new guys talk to me regularly. The big difference is that none of them keeps secrets from or spies on his bosses in his home force. It's an open system now – as far as it can be in our game.'