Skinner's Festival (24 page)

SIXTY-SIX

Skinner saw the ball drop as the gun went off.

“This is where I’ll be, Andy. I can see the whole show from here.’
The three of them – Skinner, Martin and Adam Arrow stood on the Castle battlements, just at the angle where the Mills Mount Battery joins with the Western Defences, a part of the image which most visitors conjure up when their thoughts return to Edinburgh,
It was a few seconds after one o’clock. Close by, the famous gun still smoked, having just boomed out its time signal. When it had fired, Skinner had been gazing out, across Princes Street, over the Scott Monument and the Balmoral Hotel, at the roof of the round grey stone building on the top of Calton Hill, and had seen the huge green globe as it slid down its flagpole, in a visual time-check for navigators in the wide River Forth, simultaneous with
the sounding of the gun for those on land.

Now all three looked downwards, observing the main Glasgow railway line at the base of the rock, and beyond it the chasm of Princes Street Gardens, all in the shadow of the great Castle. The tented roof had been removed from the Ross Theatre. Only the stage was out of sight, under the canopy of the open-air bandstand, which for all its grand theatrical title, it was for most of the year.
The air was heavy, the heat stifling. Skinner glanced up. There was a hint of purple about the sky.

'It’s going to break, Andy.’
‘you can set your watch by it, boss. Whatever else the weather does in Edinburgh, you can be sure it’ll piss down on the Fireworks concert!’
Skinner laughed. 'Aye, that and don’t forget the Queen’s Garden party in July!’ But their moment of light relief was a short one. 'Have we covered everything, d’you think?’ he asked, deadly serious once more. '’

'Yes, I think so,’ said Martin. 'Princes Street gets blocked off to vehicles at nine o’clock, but the crowd barriers will be installed along the north pavement this afternoon, and we’ll close the pavement looking into the Gardens at eight, as soon as the last of the shops close.’
'Right,’ said Skinner. 'And as soon as you see to that, you’re off to Number 6 to meet up with Ballantyne and the Prime Minister. Although we’ve doubled the guard on him, like all the
Scottish ministers, I want you and Brian to be as close to him and the PM as their underarm deodorant, until tonight’s well and truly over. The PM’s protection men are happy for us to run this one, not that they were given a choice. You and Brian will be in the Jag with our two VIPs when they leave Number 6. You’ll have armed officers in cars in front and back, and four motorcycle outriders, one on each corner. Mind you, you should be all right in that Jag
anyway. There’s a ton-and-a-half of armour plating in it, and all its glass is proof against any sort of bullet. So listen, if the shit does start to fly down there tonight, the first thing you do is get Ballantyne and the PM inside that bloody motor. It’ll be the safest place in Edinburgh.’

He turned to Arrow. 'Adam, you and your men will be stationed inside the theatre area, agreed?’
'Mm. That’s right. We’ll guard the perimeter, and keep watch on the seats, in case some fooker’s planted himself in the audience.
One lookin’ out, one lookin’ in, alternately, all the way round, using night glasses. I’d be happier with another couple of men, though.’
'You’ve got them. I’ll give you McGuire and Mcllhenney. In fact, why don’t we kit them out in bulletproof vests and helmets and ask them take up position behind Ballantyne and the PM.
They’re both big wide buggers. They’ll make good blockers.

They’d have to volunteer, but I know them – they will. That’ll free up all of your guys for what they’re best at.’
“Thanks, Bob.’
'What about Maggie Rose?’ said Martin. 'We mustn’t forget about her. She’d be pissed off if she was left out of the action.’
“That’s OK. Maggie will be with me, up here, watching for whatever happens. For believe me, boys, there will be something to be seen, and it won’t be just fireworks. I’ve never felt as certain of anything in my life.’

SIXTY-SEVEN

Everything that evening happened on cue – even the weather. The storm broke, finally, at 8:45 pm, just as Skinner and Maggie Rose were driving up the deserted Castle esplanade between the high-tiered temporary grandstands, which on another night would have
been filling with spectators gathering for the Military Tattoo in the wide parade ground which they flanked. But fireworks and orchestra had taken precedence over marching bands and military gymnastics, and for that. Skinner guessed, as the first flash of lightning lit up the gloaming, six thousand potential ticket-holders should feel truly grateful.

Heavy raindrops pounded on the roof of the car as he swung if into the tunnel which takes vehicles into Edinburgh Castle, resuming their bombardment as he drove back into the open, and up to the parking area between Butts Battery and the Castle Hospital, which had once been, ironically, its powder magazine. He felt glad of the long Burberry waterproof coat and hat which he had thrown on to the back seat as he had left home.
Maggie Rose was clad for wet weather, too. In knee-length boots, jeans and a hooded Barbour jacket, she looked for all the world like a countrywoman on a week-end walk, not a detective engaged on life-or-death duty.
Skinner opened the boot of the car and produced from it two pairs of odd-looking, heavy binoculars.
'Here, take these,’ he said, handing one set to Maggie Rose.
'They’re light-intensifying, infra-red or some such. However, they work; they’ll help you see in the dark. You’re going to need them before much longer.
'Are you armed?’ he asked casually as they walked up to their vantage point on the Mills Mount Battery.
'No, sir. I didn’t see the need for it up here.’
Me neither. This is an army garrison, after all. There’s guns enough all around us.’

The adjutant of the Castle garrison regiment, the Royal Scots, was waiting for them on the Battery. He held a large blue umbrella over his head. Soldier’s bravado, thought Skinner, as lightning cracked across the sky, searching for a route to earth.
'Taking a chance. Major Ancram, aren’t you?’ he said, pointing at the umbrella.
The big, middle-aged officer laughed. 'Rubber soles, old boy!
Anyway, if the bloody Argies couldn’t hit me, what hope is there for this lot!’
Skinner shook his head and smiled. Daft as a brush, he thought.

He introduced Major Ancram to Detective Sergeant Rose. Then, moving forward to the edge of the Battery, he raised the night-glasses and swept his gaze along Princes Street, from the
Mound to Lothian Road. Without its street lighting, the famous street, with its shops on one side, Gardens and Castle on the other, was beginning to resemble an island of darkness in the midst of the dramatic illuminations which show off historic Edinburgh by night.

In the deepening gloom, the north pavement was already well filled with people, braving the rain for the sounds and spectacle of this unique evening. Above the pedestrians was a second tier of spectators, those privileged ones with access to upper-floor windows, or to the wide galleried fronting of some of the buildings – memorials to an architectural eccentricity decades earlier which had envisaged the eventual creation of a first-floor walkway running the length of Princes Street.
The lights of the New Club, of which Skinner was a member, caught his eye. Through its high windows he could see clearly that the Fireworks drinks party was gathering momentum. He was suddenly glad that he had persuaded the Chief to make the Club his vantage point, out of harm’s way yet able to observe the crowd. Further along, others, with glasses in hand, peered out of the upper apartments of the Royal Overseas League. Business was good, he noted, in the two-storey Burger King, bright on its corner in contrast to the gap site on the opposite side of Castle Street, where the Palace Hotel had once stood, and where rebuilding
work was still far from completion.

'Fast food’s selling well,’ he muttered to no one in particular, as he registered that McDonald’s too was packed. From Princes Street, Skinner swung the glasses down into the
Gardens, to the Ross Theatre itself. He checked his watch. It was still only 9:15, too early for ticket-holders, especially on a night like this. But already Arrow and his black-suited men were deployed there in waiting, hooded and with bulky automatic weapons in their hands.
The stage was hidden from his view, but twenty feet away from it, behind two seats in the centre, he saw two bulky figures, grotesque in their helmets, with rain tunics over their flak-jackets, but standing there solidly as human shields. Skinner was suddenly very touched by the loyalty of his team, and very proud of them. His moment of reverie was broken by Major Ancram
“Everything OK, Mr Skinner?’
“Yes, Major, so far. So far.’
'What do we do now?’
'We wait and we watch. And, if you’re into it, you might like to do a wee bit of praying for those boys down there, and for the two clowns they’re looking after.’

SIXTY-EIGHT

If smiles could cut you, Andy Martin thought to himself, Ballantyne would be bleeding all over the place. The tension between the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State for Scotland was obvious to the six other people in the room: Martin himself, Brian Mackie, the ministers’ two private secretaries Fowler and Shields, and the PM’s two protection officers. From chance remarks it was also obvious that the appearance by the country’s leader at this concert had been Ballantyne’s idea rather than his own.
The Prime Minister was a small man, almost slender alongside the stocky bulk of Ballantyne, but his firecracker temper was known to equal that of even his most formidable predecessor. He was clearly not best pleased to be here in Edinburgh, in the firing line, in the rain. The conversation between the two ministers remained polite, but it was stilted. They were clearly not the closest of political allies. And although the PM was working hard to maintain an affable front, every so often the truth of his feelings would flash in his eyes, behind the spectacles, betraying the insincerity of his professional smile.

It was a relief to everyone when Martin’s radio crackled into life on an open channel. Only he could hear the voice through his earpiece. It was distorted, but it was unmistakably Skinner. 'It’s all secure up here, Andy. The punters are in their seats, the orchestra’s tuning up, and the blue touch paper’s lit. It’s five to ten, so let’s get the show on the road.’
Martin snapped an acknowledgement into the handset, then turned to his charges. 'All’s well, gentlemen, so if you’re ready . . .’
'Yes,’ said the Prime Minister, fixing Ballantyne with his frostiest and least sincere smile. 'I love a good fireworks display in the rain, sitting behind a bulletproof shield! Let’s go, Alan, and do your duty!’

SIXTY-NINE

The rain still poured down, the thunder crashed and the lightning flashed, like some great overture to the fireworks to come. The motorcyclists and the escort cars peeled off as soon as the convoy entered the Gardens. Watching from above. Skinner and Maggie Rose could follow the Jaguar’s headlights as they cut a path through the dark to the entrance to the Ross Theatre. Expertly, the PM’s driver swung the car round, and reversed it up to stop a few feet in front of four empty seats, two of them with massive sentinels positioned behind them.

Martin and Mackie, in heavy anoraks and flat caps, jumped out and scanned the audience. Then Martin leaned back into the car and spoke softly. The Prime Minister stepped out first, and then the Secretary of State for Scotland, each in heavy rainwear. Their arrival in the darkness went unseen by the great majority of the audience, but they were greeted by a round of polite applause nonetheless, led by the Concert’s guest conductor, Daniel Greenspan, standing well back on his spot-lit rostrum, only just out of the pounding rain.
The Prime Minister was ramrod straight, and smiled widely around him as he walked the few steps to his seat. Behind him, Ballantyne, glum and nervous, hurried to sit down under the cover provided by Mario McGuire. Martin took the seat immediately beside the PM, while Mackie flanked the Secretary of State. Each detective kept a hand inside his jacket, on the butt of his pistol. Greenspan turned to face the orchestra and raised his baton.

SEVENTY

Skinner felt Maggie Rose jump slightly beside him, in involuntary alarm, as the first firework. launched from the wide area around the foot of the Castle rock, exploded in synchronicity with the first bars of Aaron Copland’s 'Outdoor’ overture.
'Get used to it, Maggie. Keep looking around, and keep your fingers crossed that’s all you’ll see or hear.’
For some while it seemed as if Skinner’s hope against hope would be fulfilled.
As the Concert unfolded, the unamplified music boomed up towards them on their battlement. Different shapes, colours and patterns of light burst all around them, as the pyrotechnics lit the night sky, in uncanny harmony with the music. Skinner concentrated his view to the left, and Rose kept hers to the right. From time to time, flashes from the fireworks were channelled through the night-glasses and blinded them, but as the hour’s duration of the concert wore on, they were able, between them, to keep under observation the whole of the area surrounding the Gardens and the theatre. They could see nothing untoward, only the enthusiastic crowds down in the Street, as they jumped and clapped with each new wonder of light in the dark sky.

At last, the programme reached its climax, Handel’s
Music
f
or
the Royal Fireworks
.
'They’re nearly at the end now,’ Skinner called out above the noise to his two companions. 'So far, so….’
He was cut short by the sound of an explosion, carrying clearly through a lull in the music, and a momentary break in the fireworks. It came from their left. Skinner swept his glasses along Princes Street to the Caledonian Hotel, but saw nothing untoward. Carrying on, he scanned along Castle Terrace. Saltire Court and the Traverse Theatre seemed undisturbed, and from what he could see of the Usher Hall and the Sheraton, they too looked undamaged. But beyond them, beyond the Royal Lyceum, in Lothian Road, to the left of the high top of Capital House, he saw a billowing cloud of smoke and dust rising and shining in the floodlights which illuminated the front ofthe building which had been home to the Film Festival.

His radio was in his hand in a second. 'Major incident, Filmhouse,’ he barked into the open line. 'All emergency services required now. Every second officer in Princes Street go to the
scene, immediately.’
Just as he finished issuing the order, he heard the tail-end of a second blast, this time sounding from the right. Again Skinner swung round, searching through the glasses, but
something took him instinctively to the Balmoral. The hotel’s foyer was out of his line of sight, but his eye was caught at once by the shattered windows in its side. Then he saw the smoke of the bomb as it spread outwards in a mushroom from the front of the huge, square stone building.
'Jesus Christ, there’s been another.’
The radio mike was in his hand once more. 'Second explosion, Balmoral Hotel. Emergency services respond again. Headquarters, let’s get every policeman in Edinburgh into this area!’
He was still issuing his orders when Maggie Rose grabbed his arm. 'Sir, what’s that over there, on the Mound?’

He followed her finger pointing into the night, until his glasses found the stationary lorry. It was big and flat-backed, and it seemed to have been pulled right up on to the pavement, just at the point where the curving section of the Mound straightened to run down towards Princes Street, past the National Gallery. The lorry’s cab was empty, but its curtain side, facing the Gardens, had been pulled open, and four figures stood on its platform. Skinner could see them clearly – and could see clearly what they were doing.
Two of them clasped bulky, box-like objects to their shoulders, while the others were braced against them, to hold them steady.
'Andy!’ he roared into the radio. 'Get them into the car, now, they’ve got missiles! In the car! In the car! In the car!’ And as he spoke he saw the launchers fire, simultaneously. He followed the path of the squat fly-by-wire projectiles as each homed in on its target.
'Down! Down! Everybody down.’ He screamed into the radio, and into the darkness of the Garden Theatre.