Skinner's Festival Page 10

  Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her with a kiss.

  'It’s true. Until now, what I’ve known has been no more than screwing.’ He paused. 'Suddenly, I’m scared. This is new territory for me. We met what, eight hours ago? – and yet… Well, it’s incredible. I’m a logical man, I’m pushing thirty-five, and here I am, gone, shot, stoned … in love, I think. Do you think I’m crazy?’

  She laid two small fingers across his mouth. 'If you are, my darling, it’s contagious.’ She took his hand and placed it between her breasts. 'Feel here. I’m shaking.’

  It was true. Under his touch, Andy could feel a faint trembling mixed in with the steady pounding of her heart. He moved his hand round and drew her, gently, close against him. He nodded his head towards the window. 'Maybe it’s just that full moon.

  Maybe tomorrow . . .’

  She smiled. 'Maybe. But it doesn’t feel that way to me. In the meantime . . .’

  She pulled his head towards her and began to chew his earlobe, gently. A shaft of pleasure ran down his body, all the way to his toes.

  'Julia!’ Mrs Rosenberg’s voice came in an insistent whisper from the open doorway.

  In her surprise, Julia bit down sharply on Andy’s ear. He managed to stifle a yelp. Taken completely unawares by the silence of the woman’s approach, and forgetting that she was

  blind, he reached out automatically for his clothes.

  The whisper came again. “There’s someone downstairs.

  Someone trying to get in.’

  'Are you sure, auntie?’ Julia whispered in return.

  'Of course I’m sure. At the front door. As well we have a policeman here.’ In the moonlight, he saw her smile faintly into the room.

  Martin was into his slacks and shirt before she had finished speaking. Barefoot, he moved silently through the doorway and crept downstairs. He and Julia had left the living-room door ajar when they had gone up. He stood behind it and listened. At first there was nothing, only a heavy silence, until he heard a scratchy, creaking noise, which he recognised as a jemmy on the door-frame.

  Keeping out of the moonlight and close to the wall, he slid into the room and up to the front door. Grabbing the oval handle ofthe Yale lock. he twisted it and pulled, hard. The door swung open, only to be stopped after a few inches by a brass security chain, fixed peculiarly a few inches above floor level.

  'Shit!’

  Martin closed the door again and freed the chain, then pulled it wide but, in those few seconds, the intruder had bolted. The garden gate swung creaking on its hinges. He had just time to see what he was certain was a male figure disappearing around the corner. As he ran from the lane into the sloping Dublin Street, he saw his quarry at the foot of the hill, racing into Drummond Place. Martin gave up the chase. Seconds later he heard a motorcycle bark into life, then roar away. He jogged back to the house, where he found Julia standing in the doorway, once again wearing her white robe.

  'Sorry, love. He got away. I’d have had him, but I didn’t notice the chain.’

  'You were in the kitchen when I fixed it. I do that every night without even thinking. A previous occupant installed it down there. He must have been a midget. Oh, but, Andy, thank God you were here. So much for my precious alarm system!’

  Martin looked up at the big red box above the door. 'Don’t blame that too much. The guy’s pumped some quick-dry stuff into it. A pound to a pinch of pig-shit, this was the container.’ He kneltand picked up a long cylinder, with a pistol grip at one end, and a nozzle at the other. 'Yes. Sure enough. Quick-dry mastic: a sort of rubber solution. Your alarm probably still thinks it’s working. It won’t realise it’s been choked to death. I don’t suppose it’s linked

  to the Gayfield police station?’

  Julia shook her head.

  Together they went back indoors, Martin carrying the mastic tube.

  'Where’s your aunt?’

  'I made her go back to bed.’

  'Well, go and tell her everything’s ok, but first show me where the phone is. I’m going to call this in.’

  'It’s in the kitchen. Will that mean police here tonight?’

  He chuckled. 'Apart from me, you mean? No, I’ll tell them I’m handling things here. But for the next half-hour or so I want anyone going through this city on a motorcycle pulled over and questioned. On you go, now. Put your aunt’s mind at rest.’

  She started towards the stairs, then looked back at him from the doorway. 'Andy,’ she said quietly. 'Will you stay till morning?’

  He smiled his widest smile. 'And the morning after, and the morning after that; as many mornings as you want. Try and stop me. You, lady, now have the highest-ranking personal bodyguard in Edinburgh.’

  She was waiting for him under the duvet – after he had made his call and issued his orders to the Gayfield night-shift. Her white robe lay on the floor, the curtains were drawn, and a lamp on the bedside table was lit. He undressed and slipped into bed beside her.

  As she hugged him, he felt her shiver very slightly.

  'Andy, you don’t suppose there could have been any connection between that burglar and the things you told us about this afternoon.’

  He shook his head vigorously. 'Not at all. That was just a Saturday-night chancer. The sort of thing that happens every weekend in life, in any city.’

  As she smiled and pulled him towards her he hoped that he would never have to lie to her again.

  SIXTEEN

  'I know it’s a big if, boss, but she is connected with the Festival.’

  'Yes, but hold on, Andy. You said yourself that the curtains were open at the front of the house: downstairs and upstairs. And your car was parked round the corner. The guy probably just guessed, wrongly, that the place was empty. How was he to know that you just like having it off with the curtains open?’

  'Aye, very funny, Bob. Look, damn few opportunists come equipped with a cylinder of mastic to fuck up any alarm system they might happen to come across.’

  'OK, maybe he was a professional Saturday-nighter.’

  Skinner saw Martin’s frown deepen, his expression made even darker by the stubble on his chin. He put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

  'Look, Andy, I know you’re worried about this girl. Nothing’s impossible, and the chances are we’ll never know whether there was a connection. But one thing’s for sure: after having a close shave like that, there’s no way the bastard will come back.’

  'Maybe so, boss, but I’m still having that house watched, and Julia escorted to and from work. And once the alarm’s fixed, it’s being linked to Gayfield.’

  Skinner whistled at Martin’s vehemence. 'Here, this sounds serious. How long have you known this lass? One day? Is this the Andy Martin that I know, and that dozens of women have come to love in vain? Your thinking must be affected, right enough. Otherwise, last night you’d have let that boy get all the way in the door! Then you could have stiffened him and we’d have got all the answers that we’re just guessing at now. That’s what I’d have done if I’d been there – and been thinking straight, that is!’

  Skinner and Martin were alone in the private office of the Special Branch suite. It was 8:50 am on Sunday morning, and the headquarters building was weekend quiet. But suddenly, they

  heard the outer door open.

  'Someone’s keen said Skinner. 'We told them nine o’clock.’

  There was a soft knock on Martin’s door. 'Come!’ he shouted.

  The door opened and a little round man, no more than five feet four inches tall, seemed to roll into the room. At first Martin was reminded of a football, then, noting the way in which the little man appeared to taper inward and down from the shoulders, decided that he looked more like a spinning top.

  The newcomer had a friendly, inquisitive smile, and receding gingery, close-cropped hair. He wore a Harris tweed jacket, unusually heavy for August, a check shirt, and grey trousers. His

  black shoes were polished to a high shi
ne.

  'Hello, Bob, 's good to see you again.’ There was a twinkle in his eyes as he stretched a hand upwards towards Skinner. The accent was unmistakably North of England, Lancashire or hereabouts, Martin guessed.

  Skinner shook the outstretched hand and returned the smile.

  'Adam, good to see you, too. Glad you’re here, although I didn’t expect you to make it so fast.’

  'You kiddin’? I was in fookin’ Belfast. You get a chance to get clear of that place, you don’t hang about. Natives are fookin’ restless over there just now. Whatever you’ve got here, it’ll be a fookin’ holiday by comparison.’

  Skinner smiled grimly. 'Hope that’s the way it turns out, mate.’

  He turned to Martin. 'Andy, this is Captain Adam Arrow, Military Intelligence. Special Air Services, counter-terrorist adviser. You name it, he’s the lot. He and I met at that security

  seminar I went to last month. Adam. Meet Andy Martin, DCI Special Branch. He might only look like a lad, but he’s been there, done that.’

  'That’s enough for me,’ said Arrow.

  The two shook hands, and Martin was suddenly aware that the little man was immensely strong.

  Arrow turned back towards Skinner. 'OK, Bob, so why have I been pulled out of t’ fookin’ frying-pan? All that the Five woman said was that you’d asked for me as a specialist.’

  Skinner waved him over to a chair. 'Sit yourself down, and I’ll tell you.’

  Quickly but comprehensively, he briefed Arrow on the crisis, describing the Waverley Market bomb, Ballantyne’s letter, his own encounter with the motorcycle gunman, and finally even Martin’s late-night tussle.

  'Like as not, Andy’s incident had nothing to do with all this, but he’s not so sure.’

  Martin cut in: 'Let’s just say I’m taking no chances.’

  Arrow nodded his round head vigorously. 'Quite right. As Bob says, it’s a long shot, but it’s best to keep an eye on the lass. If it were connected, they might just have another go. Unless you identified y’self. Didn’t shout “Stop in t’ name of the law”, or owt like that, did you?’

  Martin grinned. “No. I did shout something when that chain stopped the door, but it wasn’t anything like that.’

  Arrow nodded. Then he looked up at Skinner. 'Tell you one thing already. Bob. Nowt to do wi’ Ireland, this lot.’

  'Why so sure?’ Skinner asked.

  Loads of reasons. Your average Paddy, whatever side he’s on, wouldn’t write it all down, then nail it to Secretary of State’s fookin’ door. It’d be telephone warning every time. Then there’s t’ tone of yon letter. It’s ponderous. Pretentious almost. This bastard is a new hand at the game. He’s feeling very important or at least he’s trying to make us think he is. Then there’s your biker. Irish wouldn’t do anything so fookin’ stupid as to shoot at a civilian. And you didn’t shout “Police”, either. Most of all, our intelligence is pretty good when it comes to things like this. We’re good at monitoring their contacts wi’ other organisations. I reckon if they’d been in touch with anyone over here, there’s a fair chance our guys’d have stumbled on it. No – no Irish link 'ere.

  This is a new lot, and that’s a big problem.’

  Why so big?’ said Martin, quizzically.

  “Cos it means we know fook-all about 'em, that’s why. No established behaviour pattern. In Ireland we know how the fookers think. Gives us whatever edge we have. Lets us guess what

  they’re likely to do. We don’t always guess right. But when we do, and we’re in the right place, then they can get out the black gloves, beret, tricolour – or the Union Jack; we don’t play favourites and the hearse.’ Arrow’s small bright eyes hardened, and his voice dropped to not much above a whisper. “Cos they’ll fookin’ need 'em.’

  He looked sharply across at Martin. 'This lot’s starting from scratch. That’ll make it harder for us. What have you done so far on the security side. Bob?’

  'As much as I could in, what . . .’ Skinner looked at his slim gold wristwatch. ' ... less than twenty-four hours.’

  He described the steps which had been taken, the security checks, the pass system.

  'All that’s in place. My people are coming in this morning to finish writing up security reports on each of the higher-risk venues. We’ve designated about two dozen of them. Once I’ve

  looked through them, I’ll be able to judge how I’m off for manpower.’ His glance at Arrow held a question in it. 'If I decide I’m a bit light, and need some extra cover for special places, how are your lot placed just now?’

  The little man paused, as if he was deciding how frankly he could answer such a direct question. Then, with an imperceptible nod, he said: 'I think we could give you some help. We’ve got quite a few over in Ireland at the moment. Then there’s others up to no fookin’ good in the Middle East. There’s a few bastards out there we’re going to get even with, and one in particular. We lost some guys in the Gulf War, and we haven’t forgotten them.’

  Suddenly the eyes lost all their jollity, as his mind turned over a bitter memory. 'We never forget things like that. We’ve nailed a few of the guys responsible already, but there’s more to get yet.

  That lot think it’s Mossad.’ He chuckled – a quiet sound which chilled Martin to the bone. 'But it ain’t. Fookin’ pussies, Mossad are, compared wi’ our lot when someone upsets us.’

  He looked up at Skinner, and the genial smile returned. 'Still an’ all, I reckon the CO could sort out a dozen or so good lads for you. You’d have to ask through the politicians, mind you.’

  Skinner nodded. 'I know – 'and I probably will. Meantime there are some things we can do in-house. Andy’s pulled a list of odd-ball journalists from the SB files, the sort of guys whose

  names pop up in criminal investigations, or who are known to make heavy use of criminal sources. There’s about a dozen of them, and they’ve all still to be interviewed. As well as that, I’m expecting a report that I asked Five to do for me last night. It’s on its way up now, by courier.’

  Arrow raised his eyebrows. 'Too hot for fax or telex, then.’

  'Mm.’ Skinner nodded. 'Tell you what, Adam. Are you checked in anywhere yet?’

  'No. I’m stoppin’ at Redford, wherever that is.’

  'I’ll get someone to show you. In fact, we’ll give you the grand tour, while we’re at it. Let’s see, who was the early-shift guy out there again?’ I

  He pressed a buzzer on Martin’s desk. A few seconds later his question was answered, as Mario McGuire appeared in the doorway.

  ·Sir?’

  'Morning, Mario.’ Skinner introduced Arrow to the big dark-haired detective. 'Captain Arrow’s new in town. Sergeant. It’s your first time here, Adam, isn’t it?’

  The little man nodded.

  'Mario,’ said Skinner, 'I’d like you to give Captain Arrow a run-around. Take him out to Redford Barracks first, to drop off his kit. Then show him Festival Edinburgh. Let him get a feel of the place, show him some of the venues: the Usher Hall, Lyceum, Assembly Hall, places like that. Take a look at the Pleasance.

  Grab some lunch there, maybe, and I’ll see you both back here around two. Is that okay with you, Adam?’

  'First-rate. There a bar at this Pleasance place, then? I’ll be fookin’ gaspin’ by then, I reckon. Looks like I’m out of the fryin’-pan in Belfast and into the fookin’ fire here, right enough.’

  The two men, one large, one little, left the room, looking incongruous side-by-side. Yet, as they left, Martin found himself thinking that, of the two, big, hard and powerful as McGuire was, if forced to make the choice he would rather tackle three Mario McGuires, than a single Adam Arrow.

  As the door closed behind them, Skinner turned back to Martin.

  'OK, Andy. Let’s have a look at that list of journos.’

  From a secure cabinet which he opened with a key, Martin produced a yellow folder. Coming to stand beside Skinner, he laid it on the desk and opened it to show a list of names in alphabetica
l order.

  'They’re all here: fourteen in all. Five in and around Glasgow, six in Edinburgh, one in Haddington, one in Stirling, and one in Dundee. Only five of them are employed full-time on the staff of newspapers. The rest are a mixture of freelances, mostly writers and researchers, but two describe themselves as television producers.’

  Skinner pointed to a name in the lower half of the list. 'Aye, and that one’s our number-one target.’

  Martin followed his finger. 'Mr Frazer Pagett. Yes, I agree.

  Christ, he’d take the huff if we didn’t feel his collar. He’d take it as a slur on his reputation as an investigative journalist if he didn’t get a visit from us.’

  Skinner shook his head. 'No,’ he said vehemently. 'That’s just what he’s not going to get. I want him watched. I want his phone tapped. In fact, I want taps on everyone on that list.’

  'Don’t we need Ballantyne’s signature to do that, boss?’

  'We’ve got it already. That piece of paper he signed yesterday gives me authority to do as I think fit. And I think fit now to start telephone surveillance on all the people mentioned here. The half of them probably believe they’re being tapped all the time, anyway. As far as Mr Pagett’s concerned, we’re going to let him sit on it for a few days. Listen to him, look at him, and just see if he says or does anything funny. He’s the only guy on your list that I take seriously. The others are just unscrupulous reporters, or nutters. We’ll give all of them the courtesy of a visit right away.

  Word of that’ll get back to Mr Pagett, and it’ll make him nervous.

  When we finally do go to see him, I want him as jumpy as possible.’

  Martin closed the yellow folder. 'I’ll need your written authority for Telecom to set up the phone taps.’