Skinner's festival bs-2

by Quintin Jardine

  'You're not asking him, you're telling him. Neither of you has any option any more. Hilary Guillaum's been murdered, remember. That's major international news, and the enemy's already called a satellite news channel with the story. Of course, they used the code-word. On the way down here, I told my guys that they could confirm the information, and give the details. It'll be on air in the States by now, and here too for those who tune in to that station. Everyone else will follow it up. The genie's out of the bottle, Alan.'

  Ballantyne spun round to face Skinner. ' You said they could confirm it' he shouted, suddenly red-faced. 'On whose authority?'

  'On mine!' Skinner roared back. This is a murder. It's my city, and I'm in charge of the investigation – not you. My call. End of story – or you can find yourself a new security adviser.'

  The Secretary of State looked at him with a mixture of amazement and apprehension, realising that he was seeing just a flash of the danger in the man: the frightening Skinner of whom Sir James Proud had spoken. Quickly he backed down.

  'Bob, you are quite right. Please forgive my outburst. This affair is preying on me. I will do as you recommend. And I'd like you to be with me when I confront the press. I have a number to contact the PM, so let's raise him now. Then we'll have Licorish call the press conference. Let's see. It's nearly four now. Shall we invite everyone here for, say, 5:30?'

  Skinner's anger was, as usual with him, quick to dissipate.

  'Sounds fine, Alan. Sorry I blew my cool, too.

  'Where is the Prime Minister anyway?'

  'He's at EuroDisney with his family – and with a small press contingent. He's given all of us orders to be nice to the French, though God knows why. This seems to be his way of setting an example.'

  'OK, then, so you dig him out of the Magic Kingdom and update him on the real world. Meanwhile, I'll get Licorish moving.'

  Skinner hurried from the residence, and, from his car, he called the Director of Information and instructed him to set up a meeting with the press for the time that he and Ballantyne had agreed.

  Then he called Martin.

  •Miss Charlotte Mays. Solicitor. Age thirty-something. Partner in a firm called Goldstone and Ferns, Aberdeen. Everything there is to know, please. I'm on my way back.'

  23

  There must be fifty people in there.'

  The Secretary of State was staring nervously at a monitor screen set up by the police audio-visual unit in the Special Branch Office suite. On the advice of Michael Licorish, the press briefing had been transferred to the main hall at Fettes Avenue, both because of the potential turn-out and because of the difficulty of providing full security cover at St Andrews House at such short notice.

  'I can't ever recall such a turn-out for a press conference in Scotland. Can you. Bob?'

  One or two. But they had to do either with murder or football.

  You see, you only deal with politics as a rule, so when you have a press conference up here, or even at Westminster, you see the same half-dozen or so faces, again and again. Whereas if we have a briefing here that's to do with a really sensational murder case, we'll have a turn-out not far short of this one. Best of all, though, is if it's anything to do with football, say crowd misbehaviour, or stadium regulations. Then they're breaking down the doors trying to get in. The press are governed by the laws of supply and demand, just like any other business, and the sad fact is, Secretary of State, our stuff sells more papers than your stuff!'

  Andy Martin, who had vivid memories of earlier occasions, looked at Skinner thoughtfully, but said nothing.

  Ballantyne grunted. 'Sad fact indeed. Bob. Violence and soccer.

  The twin opiates of the masses. Come on, Michael,' he said to Licorish, with forced humour, 'lead on and let's face the scribbling classes.'

  There were six television crews crammed together on a hastily erected platform at the back of the hall, behind theatre-style seating which held around forty newspaper and broadcast journalists. Most were home-based Scots, but the numbers had been swelled by writers and broadcasters from England and beyond, currently in Edinburgh on assignment to cover the Festival, but pitched suddenly into the midst of the fastest breaking story of the day.

  The three participants, with Licorish in front and Skinner bringing up the rear, entered from a door to the right of the table at which they were to sit. It was placed in front of a simple blue backdrop, kept for media occasions, which had been assembled quickly that afternoon by Alan Royston, the police press officer.

  The noisy air-extractors in the high-ceilinged hall had been switched off. The day outside was still blazing hot, and already many of the audience were perspiring freely.

  Ballantyne took the seat in the centre of the table, with Skinner on his right. The two were introduced formally to their inquisitors by Michael Licorish. Ballantyne opened a blue folder, which he had carried with him into the hall, and produced a prepared statement which he began to read to the hushed assembly.

  He recounted the events of the previous thirty hours, from the Waverley Centre explosion to the murder of Hilary Guillaum. He thanked the media for their restraint in withholding publication of the first threatening letter, saying that it had allowed full security measures to be put in place at each of the major Festival venues, without alarming the public unduly in the process. But he made no mention of the second letter.

  As he reached his conclusion he said: "As most of you will know. Assistant Chief Constable Skinner also acts as my adviser on security matters. I am very pleased to say that at my request he has formed, within the past twenty-four hours, an elite antiterrorist squad to deal with this new and unexpected threat. I have assured him that he will have all the facilities he needs to enable him to catch this group and shut it down. He bears a heavy responsibility, but I have every confidence that he will succeed. At the same time, the public can have confidence that the security precautions which have been taken under his direction will prove effective, and that the horrifying actions perpetrated by this ruthless group will not be repeated.

  The people of Scotland, whose Festival this is, have been targeted by this group of desperate men. They have given the lie to their bluster about freedom by their willingness to use violence against those same people whose imaginary cause they purport to champion. I ask all Scots, and those who are among us as our guests, to show their support for the actions I have taken by declaring business as usual at the Edinburgh Festival. I pledge that these bandits will be hunted down and punished to the full extent of the law. We can all feel safe under the protection of Mr Skinner and his team, while these terrorists should know that they will have no refuge while they remain among us. Scotland will not give in to them. The Government will never accede to their demands.'

  Ballantyne paused, and stared across at the rows of seats, then beyond them at the television cameras. 'I give them warning that their days are numbered. Thank you all.'

  Skinner's face was visibly grim as BaUantyne finished. He had been staggered by the Secretary of State's assumption of copyright over the creation of the anti-terrorist squad. And he had been shocked by the way that he had been set up. He knew that Ballantyne's promise of total safety at the Festival was a sham.

  Equally he knew who had been placed squarely in the firing line should things go badly wrong. All of his burgeoning doubts about the Secretary of State's valour in a crisis crystallised finally into a certainty that the man was innately treacherous.

  A question broke into his thoughts.

  'Mr Ballantyne. Dave Bassett, TNI Bureau Chief, London. I'd like to ask about the reference to an ultimatum in the second communique. I have information that this relates to a warning given to you this morning that – and I quote my source – "stern action" would be taken unless you lifted the news blackout by midday.'

  'Who told you that?' Ballantyne snapped back.

  'That doesn't matter. If it is true, what was the point in holding out?'

  The Secretary of State stared at Ba
ssett. As Ballantyne replied, Skinner felt him shaking beside him.

  'Yes it is true that we received such a communication. Mr Skinner was involved in our decision. Perhaps he can best explain our thinking.'

  There was a faint smile of acknowledgement on Skinner's face as he glanced towards Ballantyne, but his eyes, locking on the other man's for a fraction of a second, said something completely different.

  'Thank you. Secretary of State. Mr Bassett, all I can say to you is that we took a view at the time. I don't believe that our decision led to this unfortunate lady's murder. I am quite certain that it was planned all along, and it's quite clear that she was chosen as a victim who would attract the maximum international attention. You'll agree with that. I think.'

  Bassett nodded.

  'These are ruthless, evil people,' Skinner went on. 'We've had only a little over twenty-four hours to weigh them up, but it seems clear to me already that they are not operating on any spur-of-themoment basis, and that they are well resourced both in terms of equipment and manpower. Yesterday's atrocity and today's were both well planned. The bomb used a sophisticated and fairly rare type of explosive, one that hasn't been encountered before in the UK. We believe that two or three people were involved in Miss Guillaum's murder, and that one of them may have been a woman. We have to assume that what has happened so far is part of a longer-term strategy. My officers and I have to try to anticipate each move as far as we can, and aim, at the same time, to make the city as safe as we can.'

  John Hunter, a veteran Edinburgh reporter, and an old friend of Skinner's, raised a hand. 'Bob, can you tell us something about the precautions you're taking?'

  'Some of them are obvious. For example, we're sealing up litter bins and welding down underground access covers. All traffic cones will be taken off the streets so that no one can leave anything nasty under them. On-street parking by private motorists, other than residents displaying valid permits, will be banned in the city centre. We're setting up temporary car parks and running shuttle bus services free of charge. Our press officer will issue details of locations as you leave, and they'll be published in tomorrow's Scotsman and Evening News. We're putting other things in place as well, but I'm not going to talk about them.'

  Bassett broke in again. 'Mr Skinner, can the public really have faith in your guarantee of safety, as just expressed by Mr Ballantyne? It didn't do Hilary Guillaum much good, did it?'

  Skinner glared at the fat man, as he sat sweating in his shortsleeved shirt. It was a look which said: 'Don't challenge me, friend. Don't push, it could be dangerous.' Even in the superheated hall, he felt an alien coldness spread over him. He was under fire again. This time there were words, not bullets, but the intent was as hostile, nonetheless.

  Bassett picked up the warning in the eyes, and when he spoke again, his tone was noticeably more circumspect. 'I mean aren't these people fanatics, and can you protect one hundred per cent against types like that?'

  Skinner stared at him for a few seconds more, then slowly shook his head. 'No. No, I don't think they are fanatics. A fanatic is a person suffering from an excess of zeal. Look it up in your Consise Oxford. I don't see that here. Nothing these "Fighters for an Independent Scotland" – ' his voice was tinged with scorn ' – have said leads me to believe that they are willing to fight to the death, at least not their own. They make bold statements about sacrifice, but only sacrifice by others. You won't find any of them charging into a hail of gunfire. People like that can be dealt with. The other sort, the true fanatics, are always likely to do damage simply because they don't expect to walk away.'

  He looked away from Bassett and directly towards the bank of television cameras. 'I cannot say to the public that there is no risk.

  Of course there is. The plain fact is that this city and all of its people are now under terrorist attack. But I can say three things.

  First, these people will not succeed. Second, each of us can help knock them on the head by looking out for, and reporting to the police, anything that looks at all suspicious. Third, it isn't a matter of just making them go away. These are murderous louts who have killed two people, and who are going to pay for it.

  That's my promise, to you and to them.'

  Like Ballantyne before him, but instinctively, he too paused and looked directly at the cameras.

  'We're all in this together, and the world is watching us. So let's stand up to these terrorists, let's smoke them out, and let's have justice for Danny Baker, for Hilary Guillam, and for us all.'

  He held his gaze on the cameras for several seconds. And then something happened; something quite unexpected and quite unique. John Hunter first, then a second, then three more journalists began to applaud, all of them Scots, and all of them long in the media tooth.

  Taken aback and embarrassed. Skinner rose from the table, motioned Ballantyne and Licorish to their feet, and led them from the hall.

  'Good on you. Bob,' Hunter called out just before the swingdoor closed behind them.

  Skinner led Ballantyne up a short flight of stairs. Licorish remained behind in the corridor to cope with the media as they left, and to answer any remaining questions.

  At the top of the stairs. Skinner opened the door to the command corridor with his pass key, and held it open for Ballantyne. It had no sooner closed behind them than the Secretary of State turned on him.

  'Nice speech. Bob.' His voice was laden with sarcasm. 'I didn't realise you were a politician too!'

  The other man was there inside him again, so swiftly that Skinner could not keep him bottled up. It was as if someone else, not he, grabbed Ballantyne by the throat and slammed him against the wall. And for his part, Ballantyne, raised to his tiptoes and beginning to purple, saw the menace in Skinner's unfamiliar expression and heard the threat in his cold, hard, quiet voice.

  'You set me up in there, mister. You put your miserable politician's hide first, and everything else second, you chickenhearted little bastard. "It's all down to Skinner." That's what you were saying to those people. "If it goes wrong, it's his fault.

  Hilary Guillaum? Don't look at me. I'd have done as they asked and gone public. Ask Skinner about it. Anything else goes wrong, blame him." I'd thought more of you than that, but now I know better. You're the sort who would lay down the life of his best friend to save his own, aren't you, Alan. Without a second fucking thought. When the shit hits the fan. we know where to find you: hiding under the table, keeping your nice suit clean.

  When this is over, pal, you can get yourself a new security adviser.

  Until then do not, repeat do not, fuck me about again!'

  24

  'Come on. Bob. Snap out of it. The girls'll be back in a minute.'

  'Eh, what? Oh, sorry, Andy. I was somewhere else.'

  'You still mad at Ballantyne?'

  'What makes you think I ever was?'

  'Come off it. I was watching you when he put you on the spot back there.'

  'Nah. That was no problem. Here they are. Let's go.'

  He stood up and led the way out of the Filmhouse bar, to meet his wife and Julia Shahor as they emerged from the ladies' room.

  The evening's performance, a Louis Malle feature, was scheduled to begin in only a few minutes. They had almost reached the auditorium when Julia was called to the telephone.

  'Go on in, you two,' said Andy. 'I'll wait for Julia.'

  She was gone for only a few minutes. As soon as she reappeared at the foot of the staircase he could see that something was wrong.

  She looked close to tears.

  'What is it, love?'

  Oh Andyl She's cancelled!'

  For a few seconds a frown of puzzlement creased his forehead.

  Then his eyebrows rose. 'What, you mean… what'sher-name?'

  'Yes. That was her agent. She's heard about Hilary Guillaum, and she's said that no way is she coming. The bitch! How could she! What a coward.'

  'And that's what other people will think, sweetheart. It's not surpris
ing, though. I've a feeling she could be the first of many.

  Damn shame, though. I was looking forward to processing her in person!'

  'That's all right,' said Julia, squeezing his arm and brightening up in an instant. 'You can process me instead!'

  25

  Bob and Sarah had been home for only ten minutes when Alex turned up with the supper guest she had invited earlier in the day.

  'Hello, Ingo. Good to meet you again.' Bob stretched out a hand to the Swede, as he stood in the doorway of the sitting-room.

  Smiling, he looked the younger man square in the eye. Ingo shook his hand powerfully, holding his gaze unblinking, with a faint but confident grin. 'Come on through. Sarah's working one of her microwave miracles.' Bob led the way through to the conservatory, where an oval table was set for four.

  Supper was a spicy lemon chicken dish, which Sarah had prepared earlier in the day. Bob helped her to serve it, spooning out portions of light, fluffy rice. Since Ingo would have to drive later. Bob decreed that they would all drink Gleneagles spring water which, he assured their guest, had more life to it than most white wines, and certainly more than any from north of the Mediterranean or south of the Equator.

  Alex was still on a high from her evening's performance. She spoke so fast she was almost breathless, as she rushed to tell Bob and Sarah of the group's first review, which was scheduled to appear in the next morning's Scotsman, and which would be 'absolutely rave', or so their director had been assured by the arts editor. He had said that it would make special reference to the quality of the lighting, and of its importance to the flow of the play.