Skinner's Festival (5 page)

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 Apache 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.’
'That’s short notice, boss.’
'The fuckers who planted that bomb didn’t give us any notice at all!’ said Skinner, tersely.

He sat silent in thought for a few seconds, then went on. 'Our team has to be tight. I want people I know and can trust – not too many of them, but enough. They’ve all got to be able to take sector responsibility, if they need to, for running a part of what will be, in total, a very big security operation. Naturally, Andy, you’re my second-in-command. As my personal assistant, Brian Mackie has to be in, too. And I’ll have Maggie Rose and Mario McGuire. They’ve been over the course with us already. They’re both tough and we know for sure they don’t get rattled.’
'I thought you wanted them kept apart, because they’re going together off-duty.’
'I’ve had second thoughts on that, but you’ll figure out why in a minute. I’ll call their divisional commanders and put them on temporary secondment. Then there’s those two outside, Neil and Barry. They’re in the know already, and they’re good guys, so we’ll have them too. You tell Jimmy Hodgson, the Crime Squad gaffer, that I’d like to borrow the boy Macgregor until further notice. Do it nicely, mind you. He’s his own boss in this place. I
need someone through in the West, too. Although these lunatics say that it’s the Festival that’s under threat, you never know when this could turn into a cross-border affair.’

'Who’ll you want over there?’ asked Martin.
“Willie Haggerty. Who else?’
'Haggerty? What about McKinstery? He’s Special Branch in Strathclyde.’
'Not any more he isn’t. He’s out, and Haggerty’s in.’
Martin’s eyebrows shot up. Skinner smiled at the surprise written on his face. 'You Special Branch guys aren’t allowed to get together as a group – in case you form your own secret police force – so there’s some excuse for you not to have noticed the changes that have been made lately.’

'What d’you mean?’
'I mean that you are now the only surviving Special Branch head who was in post during Hughie Fulton’s time. Since I took over, the commander in every other force has been posted
elsewhere. It’s happened in stages, but it’s happened. McKinstery was the last to be moved.’
'You’ve done all that?’ Martin’s voice rose in surprise.
'Let’s say that I’ve persuaded all their Chief Constables that it was a good idea.’
'But why?’
'Remember when we had that carry-on last winter, and big Fulton seemed to know everything that we did?’
Martin nodded.
'At the time, you and I pinned some of the blame for that on Roy Thornton, up at the Court. As it happens we were right, but only up to a point, for there was a hell of a lot he didn’t know that Fulton still found out. I wondered at the time who the big bastard’s touts were, and it didn’t take me long to find out, once I took over his job. All your opposite numbers in Special Branch were feeding him stuff that even their own bosses – my equivalents – didn’t know. In short, they were all in his pocket.

Alee Smith, your predecessor, was at it as well. When Sarah and I started seeing each other, he reported it to Fulton, and big Hughie had her vetted.’
'How did you find that out?’
'The stupid bastard kept a file on me. As soon as he quit, the locks on his office door were changed, and so he didn’t get the chance to destroy the file before he left. He’s in Ibiza now, retired.
Be just as well for him if he stays there.’
'Why didn’t he approach me when I took over?’
'Take that as a compliment. He must have decided that you were incorruptible, as far as I was concerned. I guess that Alee Smith told him that. Actually, Alee did make one brief attempt to talk me into giving his job to someone else, but he changed horses when he saw my mind was made up, and he backed you instead.’
'Who was the someone else?’
'If I told you, it might prejudice your view of a perfectly good copper – who is, incidentally, in the uniformed branch now.’
Skinner paused reflectively. 'Anyway, all Fulton’s boys are gone now. They’re either back in uniform, on promotion, or they’re retired.’

Martin shook his head. 'But I liked Davie McKinstery. Alee, too for that matter.’
'No need to stop loving them, Andy. The fact that they were Fulton’s touts didn’t make them bad people. He set the rules and got away with it, thanks to his reputation and his power. I don’t condemn anyone for not crossing him. Still, when I took over, I decided that I could never trust anybody who had previously reported to Fulton on that basis. Hence the complete and total clear-out.’ Skinner’s tone grew heavy. 'One thing stays the same, all the new guys talk to me regularly. The big difference is that none of them keeps secrets from or spies on his bosses in his home force. It’s an open system now – as far as it can be in our game.’
Martin stared at the surface of his desk, his brow furrowed.
'Christ, boss. I knew you had clout, but to clear the whole of Special Branch . . .’
'Forget it, Andy. It’s history, and only the Chief Constables know that it’s happened. So, for this emergency, it’ll be Haggerty in the West, Bill Finlay in Aberdeen, and Peter Buxton in Dundee – as and when we need them.’

He stood up and walked over to the window. 'There are two other people I’m going to include on our team. One’s a counter-terrorist specialist from the SAS: I guy I met when I was away at that seminar in Yorkshire last month. His name is Arrow, Captain Adam Arrow, and he’s got years in Ireland and other places under his belt.’
He paused. Martin looked up at him.
'Not another one of those guys. Bob, please?’
Skinner smiled softly. 'No, son. There’ll never be another of them – anywhere. Not while I’m around, at least. Arrow’s a good guy. His speciality is counter-terrorism: IRA, UVF, it doesn’t matter to him. He loathes them all. He’s put a few active service men into early retirement, one way or another. Just recently, he was involved in sorting out something particularly nasty that the Loyalists were planning. Arrow knows something of what
happened last winter – but not everything.’
Andy Martin looked at Skinner, and held his eyes. An awkward silence hung in the room, until Martin broke it.