Skinner's Festival Read online

  'Oh, Alan, here’s a piece of non-police advice. You could find photographers hanging around here today. If Carlie might be a problem in some newspaper picture, best not let that happen, eh.’

  'Thanks, Bob. Point taken.’

  SIX

  Skinner was deep in thought as he slid the BMW into St Colme Street. On impulse he indicated to the left and drove up the , cobbled slope of Glenfinlas Street, turning left at the top into Charlotte Square.

  As usual, all of the parking bays in the Square were occupied.

  Scores of cars, and not a few camper vans, bearing German, French and Belgian registration plates, were nosed in on the angle, facing the gardens in the centre, their tails pointing back towards the one-way traffic as it circulated clockwise. The space on the , outer side of the wide street, normally kept clear by yellow lines, was mostly full, the vigilance of Edinburgh’s redoubtable traffic wardens being relaxed on Saturday afternoons. However, there was a vacant slot only a few yards from Glenfinlas Street, just outside the head office of one of Scotland’s largest public companies. Skinner reversed the BMW in, switched off the engine

  and sat looking thoughtfully at the pavement across the street from the Secretary of State’s front door.

  With its fund managers, its surveyors and its few remaining lawyers on the golf course rather than at work in their offices, Charlotte Square was usually one of the quietest spots in central Edinburgh on Saturday afternoons. Occasionally, special weekend events were held in its gardens, on the grass among the trees, around the oxidised bronze equestrian statuary on its marble plinth. Two years before, an age ago to Skinner, this green space had been covered with marquees serving as the venue of the biennial Edinburgh Book Festival. But, for this year at least, the Festival was being staged in different surroundings, in the City’s newly opened international conference centre. Now, as Skinner looked across the expanse of grass, he saw only a few recumbent sunbathers enjoying the warmth of the August day. He scanned the pavement opposite Number 6. Its surface was m raised above the level of roadway by four cobbled steps, and so he could observe the pedestrians clearly.

  He saw two elderly grey- haired ladies, wearing shapeless hats and coats even in flaming

  August, their backs to him, walking slowly in step, with the same rolling gait. “Afternoon tea in the Roxburghe, I’ll bet,’ he murmured to himself, smiling at this enduring tradition among the aged well-to-do of Edinburgh. As Skinner watched them, the two old ladies drew alongside and passed a bulky, bearded figure who was leaning against the railings, idly adjusting the camera which hung on a strap round his neck.

  'Denis,’ he said aloud, recognising one of the city’s best-known news photographers.

  He was on the point of climbing out of his car to talk to the man, when suddenly his eye was caught by a motorcyclist astride his vehicle in one of the parking bays on the corner: a tall figure, in black leathers, with a metallic blue crash helmet. He wore the livery of one of Edinburgh’s many motorcycle delivery companies. That’s odd, thought Skinner. Why the hell was a bike courier at work on a Saturday? And if he was supposed to be working, why the hell was he sitting on his arse in Charlotte Square, doing bugger all?

  Deciding to postpone his chat with Denis the photographer, he settled back into the driver’s seat of the BMW, keeping as inconspicuous as any good detective should be. The leather gear

  made it difficult to judge the man’s age, but Skinner knew that most of Edinburgh’s delivery riders were in their early twenties, and his build and bearing seemed to bear this out. The courier held a folded newspaper in his left hand and gave the appearance of studying it intently. But Skinner noticed that, every so often, he would glance along the street – looking in the same direction as Denis the photographer – towards the Secretary of State’s front

  door.

  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 un-gloved 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 photog
raphers, 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.

  SEVEN

  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 weekend 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 blackout 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 blackout. 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 dangerous smile hung around the corners of his mouth. He held out his right hand towards Martin.

  'Gimme. What’s his name?’

  'Albert Neidermeyer.’

  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-jet 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 Apac
he 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 sort 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.’