Skinner's Festival (23 page)

SIXTY-ONE

'Her story checked out, then?’
'The mugging? Aye. The boy Paul was French too, but he spoke English. Apparently he was making his way home last night after the show, when three guys in suits came up to him, took him up a close, and gave him a doing.’
Skinner and Proud sat facing each other, over two large whiskies in the Chiefs room at Fettes Avenue. It was still only 6:45 pm, but each looked tired and drained. Removed from the
scene of the crime, a second wave of sadness had washed over them both at the loss of their colleague.
“Men in suits?’ said the Chief Constable. 'That doesn’t sound much like Leith.’
'No, it doesn’t. Strangest thing of all, the boy said there was a woman with them, and she seemed to be giving the orders.’
'It wasn’t this Typhoid Mary woman, was it?’
'No. This one was dark-haired, and she was under five-six.

'I’m already pulling in all of our likely candidates to undertake a contract thumping, but I don’t hold out any great hopes that any of them will fit the bill. These will either have been members of the team or out-of-town heavies brought in for this job alone, and so virtually untraceable. They were very professional. Apparently one of them said to the boy, “Sorry, mate, but it’s in a good cause.” Then he broke his arm with a mason’s hammer.
According to Paul, when the guy spoke to him, the woman said “Silence”. And again, according to him, she said it in French. But since he’s French himself, and he was having his arm broken at the time, I’m discounting that one.’

'What about the late Mr Ricky Smith? Do we have anything on him?’
'Yes. He has a French connection, too. Their police have dug out their file for us. According to his prints, his name wasn’t Richard Smith at all. It was Raymond Mahoney, age twenty-six, birthplace Glasgow. Time-served mechanic. Lived in France since he was twenty. Bad boy, Raymond, or so they think: believed to have been involved in the gang scene in Marseilles. They had him marked down as a driver mostly, but he was known to have been
in the vicinity of two or three shootings. The closest they came to doing him for anything was when he was picked up as one of a team in a freelance armed robbery. But then one of the police witnesses was killed on duty, and the other had a fit of amnesia financially induced, they reckoned, so nothing came of it.
Technically he’s got a clean sheet, but they won’t miss him now he’s gone.’

Proud freshened up their drinks from a bottle of Highland Park. 'What’re you doing about the press?’
'Royston’s got a statement ready to go out, as soon as I’ve been to visit Barry’s dad. He’s a widower, and he’s been away golfing with a pal. They’re due back at eight according to the pal’s wife.
I’ll catch him them.’
'No, you won’t,’ said Proud. 'I’ll see that’s taken care of.
You’ve done enough.’
'Come on. Jimmy, he was my man.’
'My man, too. I was planning to see Mr Macgregor myself, but Eddie McGuinness insisted. He feels that he has to take on at least some of the tough tasks personally. A solid man is our Eddie.’
'So I’m beginning to realise,’ said Skinner thoughtfully.
The Chief Constable took a sip from his glass, savoured the smoky taste, and swallowed it. 'So what do these bastards do next, Bob?’

'I’m trying to think like them, Jimmy. Looking at the pattern so far, I’d say it’s got to be the Fireworks Concert, a week on Thursday. They know we won’t let them near any more celebs,
and the Fireworks are the last big event in the Festival. It’s even on telly this year. They might stick in a couple of wee surprises between now and then, but I’ll bet that’s the next thing they’ll go for.’
'Let’s cancel it then.’
'I’ve already suggested that to Ballantyne, but there’s no way he’ll agree. He’s got brave again.’
'Well, we’ll just have to police it so tightly they’ll have to use aircraft to hit it. Tomorrow you and I will go and see Mr bloody Ballantyne. It’s time you had some back-up when you’re dealing with him

SIXTY-TWO

The inevitable communiqué was delivered to the Queen Street office of the BBC at 9:00 am on the following day. For the first time it was addressed to the media, rather than to the Secretary of State.
The News Editor, Radio, never a man to turn down a scoop, took a snap decision. He sent copies at once to St Andrew’s House and to Skinner’s office, then ordered that the morning’s music programme should be interrupted and the text of the letter broadcast.
Skinner therefore heard it on the radio before he received his copy. He was alerted at once by the excitement in the newsreader’s voice.

'The following message has just been received by the BBC.
Because of its use of a special code-word, we believe it to be genuine. It reads as follows:

“
From the Fighters
f
or an Independent Scotland.
“
Communiqué
.
“It is with regret that we report the death of a fine young
Scottish patriot, Raymond Mahoney, on an active service
mission in Edinburgh yesterday. We regret too that a further
demonstration of our resolve has proved necessary. However
the intransigence of Scotland’s colonial governor, the
Secretary of State, left us no choice.
As before, our target was selected with a view to focusing
international attention on our struggle for freedom. We note
with some satisfaction that one member of the enemy’s
security forces also fell yesterday. If the occupying
government continues to deny Scotland its right to freedom,
he will not be the last.
The first phase of our struggle is over. We have claimed
the attention, and we believe the support, of the nations of
the world. From now on we will seek to strike at the heart of
the tyranny, wherever the opportunity arises. Our fight for
an independent Scotland will not end with the Edinburgh
Festival. It will go on until the occupying government yields,
or until the last of its members is cut down. The Secretary of
State and his puppet-masters in London are legitimate
targets. They must realise that their police cannot protect
them for ever.”

'That is the end of this newsflash,’ said the newsreader breathlessly. 'Now back to the studio, and to Eddie.’

SIXTY-THREE

'For Christ’s sake. Sir James, don’t you people ever listen! I’ve told Skinner, ever since this thing started, that we will not give in to terrorism. Now even you have joined the chorus of appeasers. I will not cancel the Fireworks Concert.’
Proud Jimmy looked at his most formidable, as thunderclouds of rage gathered on his brow. Skinner sat back in the Secretary of State’s comfortable armchair and waited for the storm to break. But Ballantyne had not finished. 'Whatever these people may threaten, far from cancelling the event, I will attend personally! And I won’t be alone. I spoke with the Prime Minister himself this morning and he has insisted on being present also! My information directorate has just made that announcement.’
'Sweet Jesus,’ said Skinner softly.

Ballantyne shot him a haughty glance, but continued to address the Chief Constable. 'Protection and detection is what I asked of Bob last week. As our opponents point out in their so-called communiqué, his anti-terrorist squad has protected very little so far, and detected even less. Let’s see if things will improve now that you’re back.’ “

'Secretary of State,’ Proud’s tone was even, but Skinner knew that he was controlling himself with difficulty, 'I note what you say. However I have to tell you that I believe that you are being foolhardy, and that the Prime Minister should know better than to go along with you. If you insist, the Concert will proceed. However, since my force is responsible for your safety, I will apply the following conditions. First, the general public will be barred from the Gardens, and only people with auditorium tickets will be admitted. Princes Street will be closed to all traffic between the Mound and Lothian Road. Spectators will be confined to the North side of the street, well away from the railings. They’ll hear the music and see the fireworks, but they won’t see either you or Second, the arena will be kept in darkness throughout. The conductor’s rostrum and the players will be lit, to the extent that is necessary, but the rest will be blacked out. Third, the PM’s armoured Jaguar will be used to drive you and him right up to your seats. Fourth, soldiers in protective clothing will be positioned behind you both throughout the concert, acting as human shields. Fifth, as soon as the concert is over, you and the, Prime Minister will be collected by the Jag and driven from the Gardens to overnight accommodation of our choice, which will be made properly secure. On those conditions alone, the Concert may proceed.’

Ballantyne stood up behind his desk. 'Quite unacceptable. That is quite unacceptable,’ he shouted. 'We will not skulk in and out like that.’
Proud rose up, too, massive and formidable in his uniform. His voice was still quiet and steady.
'Secretary of State, sit down, while I tell you something. If you do not accept every one of those conditions, and put yourself and the Prime Minister completely in my charge, then I will resign as Chief Constable, and will make it known, loudly and publicly, that I have done so because the Secretary of State for Scotland has no thought or concern for public or police safety and is prepared to put lives unnecessarily at risk, lives like that of young Barry
Macgregor, who died yesterday obeying your orders, or of that baby who was killed because you thought it was right to have a party in the face of terrorism.’

Still standing, Ballantyne seemed to fight, for a few seconds, for breath and words. Eventually he gasped, 'You can’t threaten me.
I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’
The storm broke. Proud Jimmy exploded in a fury that Skinner had never witnessed before. He roared at Ballantyne. 'Don’t be a bloody fool, man! I am Scotland’s senior Chief Constable. You’re just another tin-pot politician. You have no jurisdiction over me.
Of course I can threaten you. I have just threatened you. I am still fucking threatening you! And I will carry out my threat at once, if you cross me!’

He glared at Ballantyne for a moment, then went on, his voice lower, grinding out the words. 'I’ll go further than that. I missed the first few days of this affair, but I’ve kept in touch with Bob Skinner here, who, in spite of your scorn, is in my opinion the finest policeman in Britain. I am now observing for myself the final stages of your transformation under fire from a moderately acceptable minister to a dangerous buffoon who is quite unsuited for high office. For now, Mr Ballantyne, Bob Skinner needs my support. But I tell you today that, once this affair is over, I will renew the promise I have just made to you, and will carry it out
exactly as I have described, unless you yourself resign to make way for someone with the judgement and ability to do the job!’

He glanced down at Skinner, who sat in his chair marvelling silently at his Chief. 'Come on. Bob. Let’s go and get on with the job of keeping this pathetic man alive!’
He turned his back on Ballantyne, and slammed out of the room. Skinner, for once in his life, followed silently and obediently at Proud Jimmy’s heels.

SIXTY-FOUR

At the Chief Constable’s insistence. Bob took the rest of that Monday off.
'Take your lovely wife away to the seaside, man. Recharge those batteries for Thursday night.’
So, with Sarah signed off from her practice and her police duties for twenty-four hours, they headed down to Gullane. All three of the golf-courses were jam-packed, and so they decided
instead to walk along the beach path to North Berwick, and back via the highway – a good twelve-mile hike. Dressed in T-shirts, shorts and Reeboks, they walked mostly in silence at first, finding and following a narrow path which wound down through a forest of head-high thorn bushes, then ran for a stretch along the perimeter of Muirfield golf course, before opening out on to the broad East Sands, far from the Gullane Bents car park. No day
trippers knew of this attractive beach, and so it was always deserted, even on the finest of days. Sheltered, in a natural alcove among the dunes, from the light breeze which signalled the turningof the tide, they lay down to sunbathe for a while, stripping off their T-shirts to use as beach-mats.

Bob marvelled anew at the firmness of his wife’s body as she lay on her back, high-breasted, nipples erect, eyes closed against the sun which glinted on her auburn hair.
'Perfection,’ he whispered, and suddenly into his mind came a premonition of brown-haired sons and of a second shot at fatherhood. He felt himself harden, and laughed softly.
'Skinner?’ She voiced his name as a question. Then, without needing an answer, she rolled sideways and on top of him, full of desire and with the suppleness of her youth, She made love to him quickly, lustily, hungrily, in the hot August sunshine which bathed the deserted beach, mounted on him as if he were her stallion, calling out to him in her pleasure.

When their journey was over, she lay upon him for a while longer their foreheads touching, covering his face with kisses. And then, as if she had read his earlier thought, she said: 'You
and I are ready to be parents, my love. You deserve another shot, and I couldn’t get any broodier if I tried.’
He held her breasts in his hands as she lifted herself up from his chest. 'Well, honey,’ he said, huskily. 'If that happens, we’ll just have to call him Jimmy. After all, he did give me the afternoon off

SIXTY-FIVE

The Mallard’s Eighty-shilling ale was pouring at its best. The village clock showed 6:15 pm as they arrived back in Gullane. Their hike, and the excitement of their sudden, spontaneous, sun-washed coupling on the deserted beach, had left them with a raging thirst, which they slaked with two pints each of
Scottish
Brewers
finest product, They gave some thought to dining in the bar, but eventually, they agreed that the evening was too good to be spent indoors. And so, instead, they went back to their cottage and barbecued two thick steaks in the garden, with potatoes baking in foil in the red-hot coals, and sliced onions sizzling on the grid. They ate as hungrily as they had made love in the sand, washing down the succulent meat with good red Valdepenas, and finishing off with a whole pineapple quartered and soaked in Cassis.

Then, all their appetites satisfied, they sat in the garden and watched the day go down in the west – and with it, their brief break from the dangers which had so recently overwhelmed their lives.
'Will they ever stop, Bob?’ Sarah asked him suddenly.
'Yes, love. They’ll stop, when they’ve got what they want. And that isn’t Scottish independence, or any of that crap. I don’t believe that any more. They’ve got us tear-arsing around all over Edinburgh, and that’s what they’ve been out to achieve all along.
It’s all being done with a purpose in mind, though I’ve no idea at all of what that could be. When I do know, that’s when they’ll stop. Because I’ll stop them.’
The hard determination in his voice made her suddenly afraid again, just as she had felt in the Park, over the body of young Macgregor.

'Darling, promise me one thing. Please. That when you do meet up with these people, you’ll take care. Of yourself. Inside and out.’
He looked at her in silence.
'There’s someone in you that I don’t know. It’s like there’s a closet inside you with something awful and dangerous inside: a real bogeyman. I’m just terribly afraid that if he ever really gets out, he could take you over.’
She held his gaze until his eyes dropped.
Aye, my love,’ he said with a deep sigh. 'I know the man you mean. I’ve met him. And I’ve no wish to encounter him again either. But I have to say that if I’m ever in that kind of danger
again, I hope he’s still around. Because one thing about my alter ego: he doesn’t half get the business done!’