Skinner's Festival (30 page)

NINETY-ONE

McGuire was inside the Jetstream parked on the runway at Edinburgh Airport. Alongside him were three of Adam Arrow’s SAS contingent, fully armed and ready for action. The remainder were disguised as airport ground crew, with side-arms tucked inside their work tunics. Mario McGuire carried an H & K carbine rather than a pistol, for its extra accuracy even at close quarters, and its instant stopping power. He had once stood up against an
automatic weapon when armed only with a handgun, and had good reason to be aware of the difference.

The small turbo-prop aeroplane stood on the tarmac in front of the main terminal building, just beyond the Loganair stand. A hundred yards away, twin gates lay open to allow the getaway vehicle access to the aircraft. Skinner had asked for radio silence on the operation in the assumption that Mr Black’s group would be covering all open frequencies. However, McGuire was linked by a short-range two-way radio to Sir James Proud, who was perched high in the airport control tower. He checked his watch, and spoke into the handset. 'It’s 11:04, sir. See anything from up there?’

Up in the tower, the Chief Constable surveyed the wide carriageway which led from the landscaped A8 airport slip-road up to the terminal building. The last shuttle had long since landed, and no tourist flights were allowed to depart from Edinburgh that late in the evening. The road was empty. Proud Jimmy clicked the transmit button on his radio.
'Nothing yet, McGuire. Looks like Mr Skinner’s right. This whole thing was a feint. They’re going somewhere else. Give it to 11:15, then – hold on!’

Even as the Chief spoke, he saw in the distance a car shoot off the roundabout at speed and enter the approach road. Its headlights were full on, and badly adjusted. Even at that distance,
he was blinded for a second.
'There’s a car now. Can’t make out colour or anything else, but it’s travelling. It could be the target. Ready for action on my command. Officer at the terminal approach: route that car
straight on to the tarmac. It’ll be with you in no more than thirty seconds. Acknowledge.’

The uniformed constable on the road at the British Midland terminal raised a hand above his head to indicate that he had heard. Proud had underestimated the car’s speed. Less than twenty seconds later, it took the corner into the terminal straight, headlights still ablaze. The constable stepped into the roadway and flagged the car vigorously towards the open gates, and on to the tarmac. The driver slammed on the brakes and swung the vehicle round and through the opening. The policeman had no time to identify the make of the vehicle. He saw only a white flash as it sped past him.

Above, Proud watched the car as it slowed down to crawl. Even from his high vantage point it was half obscured by the first buildings of the terminal complex. But, as he watched, it cruised slowly towards the Jetstream, which was parked in the open beyond a Loganair ATP.
'Ready, everyone. They may be confused about which plane to take, but they’re getting closer. They’re stopping. OK, wait for it.! Door’s opening. Now go!’
Down on the tarmac, the driver’s door of the white car swung open. A stocky, ginger-haired man got out – and reeled back in surprise as six handguns were trained on him by airport
ground-crew.

“What the fuck!’ he cried reaching so high above his head that for a second it looked as if he would take off.
'What the fuck!’ said Sir James Proud, up in the control tower 'McGuire, get out and see what this is.’
Mario McGuire jumped from the Dash and ran over to the silent group surrounding the white car. The passenger doors had been torn open. There were no other occupants.
'Police,’ snapped McGuire, as he reached the scene. 'Who areyou and what the hell are you doing here?’
The red-haired man continued to reach for the sky. 'Harry Page. Ah’m Harry Page. Look, ah know ah wis speedin’. Ah’m sorry! Ma wife works as a stewardess fur Loganair. Ah’m here tae pick her up. Christ, mister, what is this? Ah’m late enough already. Ah should have been here at ten-fifteen. She’ll bloody murder me, as it is!’

NINETY-TWO

'Remember, pilot, let it get more than two miles away, and we’ve fookin’ lost it.’
'But it is working?’
'Sure, Bob. It’s working like a fookin’ dream. There’s enough irradiated iodine in that paint-splash to give us a good strong signal. Cracking shot by Brian, that were.’
Arrow held a small box on his knee. It was wired into the helicopter’s electrical system. A green glow from its screen reflected on his face.

'We can follow them forever with this, as long as we stay within two miles, and as long as the paint doesn’t get washed off.’
'Can we make visual contact?’ Skinner asked the pilot.
'Yes. But do you want to take the chance, sir? A mile is as close as I’d come, to be sure they won’t see us.’
'No,’ Arrow answered for him. 'Trust our little box, Bob. I’ll wager that’s the only car on the road with a big patch ofradioactive bird-shit on its tail!’
'Ok, Adam.’ Skinner’s voice could only just be heard above the noise of the helicopter’s engine. 'Let’s go with it. What does it tellus?’
'Well, you were right. They’ve by-passed Edinburgh Airport. That were a con all along. I reckon they’ve just gone past the Norton House.’

'Unless they turn off for Ratho, it’s Newbridge roundabout next,’ said Skinner. 'From there they can go anywhere. North over the Forth Bridge, although I don’t think they’ll fancy stopping to pay the tolls; Falkirk and Stirling up the M9; or due West to Glasgow on the M8, and then, as far south as the road goes.’
'How far can they get on a tank of fuel in that thing?’ asked Arrow.
'Hard to say, but the bigger the engine, the bigger the tank.
Even though that’s a three-litre, he should get to Birmingham easy, maybe London at a pinch, without stopping. If he goes south and gets into heavy traffic we’ve got a problem.’
'As long as he’s got that paint on his arse, he’s the one with the problem.’
“Let’s hope so,’ said Skinner. 'Watch that tracker. He should be at Newbridge any second now.’
Arrow bent close to the little screen. The reflected glow turned his face green in the darkness of the cabin. “Here we go. He’s swinging. He’s going left. Yes, he’s off. Its the M8, Bob. He’s off to Glasgow.’

NINETY-THREE

No one came to the door when Maggie Rose rang the bell. The porch of the Skinner bungalow in Fairyhouse Avenue was lit and welcoming, but no one answered.
'Surely they haven’t gone out?’ she said to Neil Mcllhenney.
“Can’t imagine so. But then the boss didn’t tell them we were coming. It was an afterthought of his, this baby-sitting idea.’
'God, Neil, don’t let Sarah hear that. Remember, the party line is that he decided he should expect anything from these characters, with him and Andy out of town, he sent us down here as protection.’
“She’ll never believe that.’
'Maybe not, but she won’t take it out on us. She’s a nice lady, the doctor.’
'Try the bell again.’

They rang again, listening hard to make certain the bell had sounded, and waited for two full minutes more, before deciding to check round the back. They crept softly along the gravel towards the back door, and saw as they went that the garage door was open. Skinner’s car was there, but Sarah’s was gone. The garden was lit from the un-shaded kitchen window and from the back door, which lay slightly ajar.

They had their pistols drawn as they slipped nervously into the house. Moving quickly through the deserted kitchen, they went from room to room on the ground floor, checking each one cautiously. Then they climbed the short flight of stairs to the attic, to satisfy themselves that the three upper rooms were empty also, before returning to the living-room for a second look. They saw that Sarah had prepared for Julia’s arrival. A big oval plate of freshly cut ham and tomato sandwiches, American-sized, sat on the low glass coffee-table between the two sofas. Alongside it were two plates, two china mugs, knives, spoons and paper napkins. Nothing there was out of place.
They went back into the kitchen. The coffee filter was primed and ready, waiting to be switched on. Two glasses, a bottle of Smirnoff Silver and a tin of diet Coca-Cola sat on the work surface beside the tall fridge-freezer. Without touching anything, Mcllhenney crouched down and studied each item closely. One glass was three-quarters full. A few bubbles clung to the side, and a slice of greenish lime floated on the surface. Lipstick traces showed on the rim. He leaned over the glass and sniffed.

'Bacardi and tonic,’ he said. He looked at the other glass. A slice of lemon was wedged at its foot in a finger of a clear liquid. He sniffed that, too, but found no trace of alcohol. He looked again at the bottle. Vodka and Coke in the making, probably. 'So what happened to them?’ he asked Maggie. 'Sarah’s got a drink on the go when Julia arrives, and she comes into the kitchen to mix one for her guest. She gets the ice and lemon from the fridge, drops them in the glass. Takes the Smirnoff and the Coke from the fridge as well. And that’s as far as she gets . . . Then they decide to go to the pictures? Hardly!’

Maggie’s face broke into a sudden, relieved smile.
'Neil, she’s a doctor, isn’t she? Not just with the police, but in a general practice. She’s had an emergency call-out. Rather than leave Julia here, she’s taken her with her. That’s your mystery.’
Mcllhenney looked sceptical. 'Oh aye, and being an ACC’s wife she just runs out the back door and leaves it wide open, with all the lights on.’
Maggie grimaced. 'I see what you mean.’
Then she made a decision.
“Look, let’s wait here anyway, as ordered. But in the meantime let’s try and check her practice. Then we can call in to Brian Mackie, when he gets back to the office.’

NINETY-FOUR

Glasgow reflected yellow in the night sky ahead. Closer at hand they saw below them the lights of the Harthill Service Area, as the helicopter continued to track the Vauxhall westward along the M8. They matched its speed, keeping a mile behind it. Occasionally, Skinner fancied he glimpsed tail-lights in the distance. The car was travelling fast, at just over 80 mph, but not so fast as to attract the attention of the motorway patrols.

Skinner checked his watch. The time was 11:23 pm, yet it seemed like an age since the Senator had raced into the Gyle Centre. He hated to be bottled up; it made him feel
claustrophobic. Eventually he could stand the tension inside him no longer. He dug his mobile telephone from the top right pocket of his black leather jacket.
'Pilot, if I use this thing, will it work?’
'Shouldn’t have a problem this close to the ground. We’re right on top of a cell here too. You might find it a bit patchy, but go ahead.’

Skinner peered at the keyboard in the dim cabin light, and keyed in the stored number of Brian Mackie’s direct line. He was answered after a few seconds.
'Brian, it’s me. You made good time getting back. You’ll know by now that we were right about that plane at Edinburgh. We’re heading for Glasgow. I want you to call Willie Haggerty, give him the number of the Senator.’ He dictated the number which he had
memorised. 'Tell Willie I want people at all docks, and I want as many men as he can get under cover at Glasgow Airport.’
The line went faint for a second, then strengthened again. 'You think they’ll go for another plane?’
'Has to be. Could be they’re just going to drive in and hijack one, using Alex as bargaining power. But the way this thing’s been planned, I reckon they’ve got a back-up ready. Needn’t be very big. An 800-mile range will get you to a hell of a lot of places from Glasgow. Especially overnight. Whatever it is, wherever it is, I can’t let them take off with Alex on board. Now give Haggerty the message, and tell him to make sure that nobody moves in without me there to give the orders. I don’t want any of those Glasgow lads playing cowboys with my daughter’s life on the line.’

NINETY-FIVE

Suddenly the trace vanished from the monitor. Skinner could not actually see the screen, but he sensed its disappearance from the sudden look of panic which flashed across Arrow’s face.
'Where’s it gone? What’s happened?’ he snapped.
“S’OK, Bob,’ came the calm, steady voice of Andy Martin. Seated next to Arrow, he had detailed maps on his knees and a torch in his hand. 'They’re in the Charing Cross underpass,
beneath that ugly office block that goes over the road. We’ll have them back in a second. Yes, there it is. Still on course for Glasgow Airport. Just going on to the Kingston Bridge now.’

Skinner turned to the pilot. 'How fast can this thing go?’
'Twice as fast as they can. And dead straight, remember.’
'Good. I must be at the airport before they get there. We’ll follow them for a minute of two more, then once we’re absolutely certain that’s where they’re headed, we’ll put the foot down and beat them to it. Suppose they see a chopper there at an airport, they won’t think anything of it.’
Martin broke it. 'Hold on, boss. They seem to be turning off the motorway.’
'Eh! Which way?’

'Hold on. They’re in a sort of a curve. They’re still on the slip-road. I’ll know in a minute. Yes, they’re still heading west. I’d say they’re taking the off-motorway route to the airport, out through Govan. That’s got to be it. It’s one last feint. Tricky sods these.’
'God, Andy, but I hope you’re right. Look, we can’t track them street by street through this. Let’s give them two more minutes, then we commit to Glasgow Airport.’
They hugged the line of the motorway as it headed towards the airport, and, as they did so, the trace from the dye on the Vauxhall Senator stayed to the north on Arrow’s screen, moving much more slowly now, as the car wound through the streets of Govan.

Skinner tapped the pilot on the shoulder to attract his attention.
'How long to the airport?’
'For us, three minutes. For him, by that route, fifteen minimum.’
Skinner was about to commit himself finally to Glasgow Airport, leaving the trace behind, when Martin broke in. 'What the hell’s this? They’re doubling back.’
'What?’
'The trace. It’s turned back on itself.’
'Dear Christ!’ said Skinner, with a sigh of fear and frustration.
'It’s gone again,’ said Martin. 'Pilot, hover. Hold your position.’
Arrow and Martin stared at the screen. Skinner leaned back over the seat for a clear sight, and Arrow turned the tracer set half towards him, to allow him to view. The little cathode screen stayed obstinately blank.

'Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!’ Skinner roared in his rage.
'Where’s the fucker gone?’
Arrow offered a suggestion in hope. 'He could have gone into a garage to fill up.’
'Bollocks! You think this lot’s planning includes running out of petrol in the middle of the night in fucking Govan! They’ll have another car somewhere. The bastards have stashed the Senator and switched. We’ve lost her, boys. We’ve lost her.’
His despair was even greater than that of the night before, for then there had been that other slim possibility. But now . . .
'No!’ The certainty in Martin’s voice banished the darkness gathering in Skinner’s heart.

“The Tunnel. The Clyde Tunnel entrance is down there. Pilot, head north.’
The helicopter banked sharply round and headed away from the bright lights of the motorway, towards the network of orange lines which crisscross the west of Glasgow by night, bisected by the dark slash of the River Clyde.
North they went, but the screen was still dead, even when they had almost reached the river.
'Andy, you sure about this?’
'What other chance is there? They’ll have gone out of range for a bit. We’ll have to catch them up. Look. There they are already!’
'Yeah, you beauty!’ Skinner cried with delight. 'You bastards won’t do that again,’ he growled at the trace, as if, through it, Alex’s kidnappers could hear him. He looked again and saw that the Senator was headed due north. “

'So, now where’re they off to?’ asked Adam Arrow, and the atmosphere at once grew more sober again.
'What does the map say?’ asked Skinner.
'I don’t need the map for that,’ said Martin. 'They’re headed up Crow Road, towards Anniesland Cross. From there they can go in four different directions. It’s anyone’s guess now which one they’ll take.’
'Whatever it is,’ said Skinner, 'we’ve got to guess their destination, and get there before them. Otherwise . . .’ His voice tailed away wearily.

'Let’s see what they do,’ said Martin. 'They could even cut back across the Erskine Bridge and come into the airport from the other side. Anniesland Cross’ll tell us that. They must be there now. The trace has stopped. That’ll be the traffic-lights. Of course they’re so complicated there, it’s always possible the bugger could get lost!’
He stared at the screen. 'There he goes again. West is it? No, he’s going north still. That makes it Bearsden, and Milngavie beyond that. That’s the wrong way for a boat, and it’s away from all the airports. Christ knows where he’s off to. Bob. To lie low for a few days, d’you think?’

Skinner shook his head. 'No, they’ve got what they came for. They won’t let the sun come up on them. Somewhere there’s an aircraft. Any ideas, pilot?’
'No, sir. Not in this direction. I have to warn you, though, if they’ve got a full tank, they’ll outlast us, especially if we’re flying stop-and-start like this.’
Skinner nodded. 'Aye, I figured. Look, my last option is that if we’re going to run out of fuel, we land on the road in front of them and shoot their tyres out. But that’s nightmare stuff. It’s the slimmest of all chances for my daughter.
'How long have we got?’
'No more than half an hour, sir.’
'Jesus.’

'Here, Bob. Hold on a minute. I’ve got it.’
Skinner looked over his shoulder to the rear seat. A sly smile showed on Martin’s face. The green eyes, made even greener by the reflection of the screen caught in his contact lens, seemed to glow brightly in the dark.
“He’s off to Balnaddar.’