Skinner's Festival (26 page)

SEVENTY-SEVEN

Skinner could scarcely believe that so many journalists would turn up sober for a 2:30 am press briefing. Extra seats had been brought in, filling the briefing hall completely. Yet they were all soon occupied, and the side aisles were also packed with correspondents, many standing, others crouching to allow the photographers and television cameramen a clear view of the table at the head of the room, and of the big dark-suited, steel-haired, stubble-chinned man who sat at it – his Chief Constable, in full uniform and clean-shaven, by his side.
Skinner waited as Alan Royston and his uniformed assistants distributed the printed statement which he and Proud Jimmy had dictated together within the last hour. They waited for some
minutes more, to give every man and woman in the room an opportunity to read and understand it fully. When he judged the time was right, Skinner rapped the table with his knuckles to recapture the attention of his audience, and began, slightly hoarsely.

'I’d appreciate it if everyone here could take that statement as read. It’ll save my voice. But I’ll sum up now for television and radio.’ He glanced down the room towards the camera platform. 'In relative terms we have been fortunate tonight. This is no comfort to the families of the nine victims killed by the ground-to-ground missile fired into the Ross Theatre. However, things could have been much worse. There were no other serious casualties, either in the Gardens or due to the other explosions at Filmhouse and at the Balmoral Hotel. The first of these, we know now, was caused by a satchel of explosives placed against a wall in the foyer. It brought down the front of the building, but the rest stood firm. Fortunately all the audience and staff were inside the cinemas at the time, so everyone was brought out safely.
'We believe that the Balmoral bomb, too, was left in a suitcase in the foyer. Again fortunately, the receptionist had gone into her office, and the doorman was outside watching the fireworks. So that area was completely empty when the device went off”.

'We believe that the second missile at the Ross Theatre was aimed at the Prime Minister’s car, but the vehicle moved out of the line of fire just in time, thanks to the speed with which DCI Andy Martin and DI Brian Mackie acted to get the two ministers clear of the scene.’
On impulse, Sir James Proud broke in, pointing towards a stocky, blond, green-eyed man leaning against the wall. 'I’d like to single out Andy Martin for special commendation, but also congratulate all the other members of the team: Brian Mackie, Mario McGuire and Neil Mcllhenney, who placed themselves without hesitation in the line of fire, and not forgetting DS Maggie Rose, but for whose keen eyes we could well have had a dead Prime Minister by now, not to mention her fellow officers and friends.’

As Al Neidermeyer raised a hand. Skinner eyed him without animosity. The American looked back with caution and new respect.
'We’re putting this out live on TNI. Could you just run over the whole picture of what happened tonight?’
Certainly. It’s now clear that the so-called independence campaign was in fact a professionally planned operation to cause chaos and confusion among the police and emergency services, and to steadily stretch us to the point we reached tonight, when we
had to call out every last resource at our disposal, including the garrison from the Castle. We know now that the real objective was theft of the
Honours of Scotland
, our Royal Regalia. Call it fantastic, call it audacious, but it actually happened, and it almost succeeded.’

'Do you think you’ve got them all. Bob?’ The questioner was the grizzled John Hunter, looking slightly unkempt in the middle of the night, an unaccustomed time for him.
Skinner smiled at the familiar face. 'No, John, we haven’t. We don’t know yet whether the types who planted those bombs and fired the missiles were the same ones who attacked the Castle. Forensic tests should tell us, though. Also we don’t know for sure that there were only four in the raiding party up at the Castle. A long rope ladder was found fastened to the Half Moon Battery dropping down to the lawn below. That was their getaway route so possibly someone was guarding it, then legged it.

“There’s Mary Little Horse, too. We still haven’t traced her. And there’s someone else we haven’t got. That’s the one who set this whole thing up. Somebody who wanted so badly to possess the Scottish Crown Jewels that he or she was ready to provide the necessary finance for an operation as brilliant and as ruthless as this one. There is absolutely no clue as to who that person might be, but we can assume that he or she is extremely rich, and must have some very special interest in Scotland.’
'So what else have you got?’ said Al Neidermeyer.

'Well, we’ve got a wounded man in the Royal, under very special guard. An hour and a half ago we faxed fingerprints from all four intruders to various agencies around the world, but we’ve had no firm response as yet. So we still haven’t identified any of them. However, we think we may have the getaway vehicle. We found a Mercedes saloon with false plates parked in Johnstone Terrace under the Half Moon Battery. Not the driver, though, and
none of the four killed in the raid had car keys on him.
'Within the last hour we’ve learned that an aircraft, a De Havilland Dash, has been sitting in a hangar at Cumbernauld Airport, ever since it was flown in two weeks ago. The hangar rent
was paid up until tomorrow, cash down, by the pilot who flew it in. The copy receipt is made out in the name of Mr Black.

Unfortunately, the airport manager is away on holiday, but we’re trying to trace him to obtain a description, and we’re also tracing the ownership of the plane. My guess is it’ll turn out to have been chartered, for cash.’
'This Mr Black, could he have been one of the men taken tonight?’ asked Neidermeyer,
Skinner shook his head. 'I don’t think so.’
'So Mr Black is still out there?’
Skinner nodded. 'I reckon so. Mind you, I don’t expect him to turn up in person to collect his aeroplane.’

SEVENTY-EIGHT

The getaway plane stayed where it was. But something else was picked up instead, something much more precious.
'One thing that niggles me, Andy, is not knowing if any of the bastards are still hanging around here.’
It was just over twelve hours since the press briefing. Skinner and Martin were settled in the DCI’s office in the Special Branch Suite, going through the mountain of paperwork involved in the winding up of the enquiry. Each had snatched a few hours at home, although Andy had spent much of his break consoling Julia after her frightening experience with the Filmhouse explosion. 'If any of them are still here,’ said Martin, 'they’re bloody crazy.
That guy in the Royal’s going to make it. He’s bound to bargain a few years off his sentence in return for telling us everything he knows.’

'Don’t count on it. Those were pros. They’ll have been well paid for this job, and it probably included something extra for keeping shtum if they got caught. And don’t assume that he knows…’
Skinner was interrupted by an internal call on Martin’s extension. Being closer to it, he picked it up. 'Skinner.’
The caller was Ruth. 'Sorry to bother you, sir, but I felt I had to. It’s a Mr Morris, and he says it’s important. It’s about Alex.’
'Put him through.’
Skinner had never met the man, but he recognised the name.
Ben Morris was the director of Alex’s theatre company.
'What can I do for you, Mr Morris?’
The man hesitated. 'Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but do you happen to know where your daughter might be.’
The first faint chill crept into Skinner’s stomach. 'What d’you mean?’ He didn’t realise that he had snapped at the caller, a hard edge suddenly in his voice.

Morris began to splutter. 'Well, it’s just that – well last night her friend Ingo didn’t turn up. Alex didn’t know where he’d got to. We went on with the show, but without the lighting effects. It was a bloody disaster. Alex did her best, but I still felt I had to give the audience half their money back. I called their number this morning to find out where the hell he had been, but I got no reply. So I went round to see them. The landlady said she hadn’t seen or
heard either of them all day. She let me in with a pass-key, but the place was empty. Not a sign. All his clothes, all of his things were gone. Some of Alex’s stuff seemed to be there, but I couldn’t see her handbag – you know, that big one she carries everywhere. So can you help me? Are they with you? I’ve got to know if he’s coming back.’
Skinner replaced the receiver without a word.

Martin watched him anxiously as he sat staring chalk-faced at the wall. His first thought was that his boss had experienced some delayed reaction to the night’s events.
'What’s wrong, Bob?’
The voice which replied was strange, quiet, shaky – unlike anything Martin had heard from him before. 'It’s Alex. She’s been snatched.’
“Eh!’
'That was her director. That guy Ingo didn’t show up last night. Now Alex has disappeared too. Andy, I knew he was wrong! He’s taken her!’
'Steady on, man. She could be anywhere. Maybe he’s just done a moonlight on her, and she’s down at your place now, crying her eyes out to Sarah.’
Skinner shook his head, feeling cold all over.
'No, Andy. Since last night I’ve been wondering whether our Mr Black would have a Plan B. Now I know that he has, and I can guess what it is.’

SEVENTY-NINE

The letter was delivered only ten minutes later. It had been found on a table in the first-floor coffee lounge of the busy Mount Royal Hotel, but none of the staff could describe the person who had sat there last.
It was addressed:

Assistant Chief Constable Skinner,
Police Headquarters.
Private and Confidential
To be delivered.

The hotel manager had brought it personally to Fettes Avenue. Skinner could not stop his hand from trembling as he slit the envelope. He had recognised at once its style and its size, and the typeface on the address label. He withdrew the familiar single sheet of white paper, and steeled himself to read what he knew would be there.
He read it aloud to Proud, Martin and Arrow, who had all gathered in his office.

“Mr Skinner,
'You may know my name already. Let us say that I am
simply someone who has undertaken to obtain something
special for a client who wants it very badly. Last night I
almost succeeded, but your own good fortune prevented
me.
'However, I do not give up as easily as you might have
hoped. Through the good offices of Ingo Svart, I now hold in
my care someone who is very precious to you. I now propose
that we exchange her for that which is just as precious to my
client: the items which you prevented us from taking last
night.
'I require that you arrange the following. The Regalia will
be left, in the same holdalls which my associates carried into
the Castle, in the middle of the car park at the Gyle Shopping
Centre, at 11:00 pm tomorrow night. Once the delivery has
been made, the car park should be completely cleared. An
aeroplane, with a range of at least three thousand miles, will
be waiting, fully fuelled, on the runway at Edinburgh
Airport. No attempt should be made to follow us at any
stage. No personnel, police or military, should come
anywhere near. No attempt should be made to hide tracking
devices in the holdalls. We have the equipment to detect
them. No attempt should be made to track our flight-path.
We also carry equipment that can detect radar.
'If any one of these conditions is breached in any way,
Miss Skinner will be shot immediately. However, if all are
met to the letter, she will be released safely, as soon as we
reach our first stopping-off point.
Mr Black’

Skinner placed the letter slowly on his desk. He looked up at Andy Martin with absolute desolation on his face.
'Give that paper to me, Bob,’ said Proud Jimmy gently, but with determination in his voice. 'I’m off to see the Prime Minister.’

EIGHTY

'I don’t care whose daughter she is!’
'Secretary of State,’ said Sir James Proud, hissing the words in a tone he had rarely used before in his life. 'If Bob Skinner had heard you say that, I would not guarantee your safety.’ He took a menacing step towards Ballantyne.
'Sir James, please.’ The Prime Minister restrained him with a light touch on the sleeve of his uniform. He turned to face Ballantyne, questioningly, across the drawing room of Number 6
Charlotte Square.
'I only meant that we can’t give in to blackmail, PM,’ said the Secretary of State, now flushed and flustered.
The Prime Minister walked slowly down the long room towards him, his eyes cold behind his spectacles.
'Alan, if you showed such bravery and courage with your own person as you do in putting other people’s lives at risk – mine included – then you would probably make a great Minister. As it is, you’re undoubtedly the biggest mistake I have ever made. Last night I said I wanted you to demit office, on health grounds, after a decent interval. You don’t deserve decency, man. Give me your resignation now, please.’
He turned back to Proud. 'Now, Sir James, how are we going to help Mr Skinner?’

'With respect. Prime Minister, that isn’t really a matter for you,’ a voice interrupted.
There was a fourth man in the long room. Sir Hamish Tebbit, Private Secretary to the Queen, had flown to Edinburgh that morning for a personal briefing on the situation from the Prime
Minister. The tall grey-suited courtier stepped forward from the window. He had been doing his best to make himself inconspicuous while the politicians and the policeman had their
confrontation.
'I would remind you that the
Honours of Scotland
are the property of the Crown. Therefore their disposal is a matter for the Crown alone. If you will permit me, I will withdraw to another room, one with a telephone, and seek guidance from that highest authority.’