Skinner's Festival (28 page)

EIGHTY-FIVE

“Carl Stewart!’
The name broke out of him in a strange, half-strangled squawk, as if the man had been holding his breath in disbelief while he watched the last of Arrow’s preparation for his execution.
'That’s good. Seen the light, have we?’ Arrow’s right thumb and index finger were clamped tight on the clear plastic tube, holding up the flow of the nutrient – and of the deadly bubble.
'Let’s have the rest, then. Nationality: Canadian, I’d guess by the accent. Right?’
The man nodded.
'And you are a fookin’ mercenary, aren’t you? Where’ve you been?’
It came more slowly this time, weakly, as Stewart measured each painful breath.
'I wasn’t always a mercenary. I was a regular in the Gulf. I came out after that. Since then I’ve been in Bosnia, in Africa, inGuatemala – and a few other places.’
'What d’you know of this Mr Black, the fella who paid for the plane you lot were going to catch?’
'He does things for people. Difficult things they need done – or want done.’
'You worked for him before?’
'Twice. Once in the States. Once in South Africa. First time, we busted into a gallery in New York – and stole a painting for a collector.’

'Who?’
'Don’t know. We never know who the customer is – or the client, as Mr Black calls them. And we know better than to ask.
Mr Black wouldn’t like that. And you don’t cross him.’
'So what did you do in South Africa?’
'We started a bit of a Civil War. We killed a black guy, a leader.
Made it look like one tribal group did it. Then we killed some other guys, leaders on the other side – and made it look like the first lot was taking revenge. Once they were all killing each other, we killed some white guys – and all the black guys were blamed at once. Christ, man, we had them all chasing their tails down there.
Just like we’ve had you chasing yours up here. Once the cops were all used up, keeping the sides apart, we hit a diamond mine. We cleared one hundred million dollars in uncut stones. The nearest cops were sixty miles away, caught in the middle of a gun battle.
Mr Black’s a great planner. What makes him so great is he thinks big.’

'So what’s he like?’
'I’ve never met him.’
Arrow’s hand moved on the tube. The man flinched in quick terror.
'Come on, Stewart. You expect me to believe that? You tell me that this fooker walks on water, then you say you’ve never met him.’
“It’s true. None of us have ever seen him. He sends his messages, his orders, through someone else, A woman, her name’s Ariel. She’s European of some sort. We all figure she must be his lady.’
'If you’ve never seen this Mr Black, how d’you know this Ariel isn’t the boss herself.’
'Ariel could never do what someone did to Klaus. That had be Mr Black himself.’
'Who’s Klaus?’
'He was our explosives guy on the New York contract. We were holed up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, up in the Catskills ready to go – when Klaus decided that the money wasn’t good enough. He told Ariel that he was out unless the dough was doubled. He said he wanted to see Mr Black himself, not deal with his whore. Ariel got very steamed up – as she can – but she said OK, she would arrange for Klaus to meet him.’

'So what 'appened?’
'Next morning we all came down to breakfast. Ariel cooked for us all in that place, and she dished it up in this big mess hall. Klaus was there, waiting for us. He was nailed to the timber wall. I mean he was crucified, hands and feet, man. There was a big knife through the middle of his chest, pinning a notice. It said, “A deal is a deal. Anyone else want to meet me?” Wasn’t no Ariel did that to Klaus. The guy was a house. Six feet six. Looked like Hulk
Hogan.

'Mary Little Horse, she was brought in to replace him. A genius with explosives, and pretty good with a knife too. I read in the papers you’ve tied her into this thing. But I never saw Mary here. She did the jobs she was paid to do, but she didn’t know the whole story, or get to see any of my team.
'Mr Black let only me and my guys in on the whole plan. Ariel said he had a very big commission, money no object, from some collector. Each of us was on 200,000 dollars, and if anybody had to do time, there would be an annuity waiting when we were released, so we’d never have to work again. No, Mary just did her thing with the bombs. Then she came up to town and did the singer. Ray helped her get in, but it was mostly her. She went underground after that. Ray, the guy you killed, he stole the special explosive in France.’

Arrow nodded. 'So who was in on last night? Who planted the other bombs?’
'Ariel and Ingo did that.’
'Ingo!’ Arrow’s grip on the tube almost slipped.
'Yeah. Ingemar Svart. He’s our pilot, engineer. An all-round mechanical genius. You need it built, lngo’ll build it. You need it fixed, lngo’ll fix it. You need it to run, lngo’ll run it. You need it screwed, lngo’ll. . .’ For a second, the man laughed, weakly, then coughed with the effort. 'Ingo flies us out of the action, so he tends to be kept out of the shooting. But he has pitched in sometimes. I saw him in Cape Town. He is very good with a gun.’
Stewart looked pleadingly at Arrow. 'So how’m I doing, man?’
Adam shook his bullet head. Somewhere along the corridor a baby was crying, but he put the sound to the back of his mind.
'Not well enough, mate. You still haven’t given me any clue where Mr Black might be keeping our lass. Wi’out that . . . well it’s “Turn out the lights, the party’s over.” So tell me the rest of it. Then we’ll see.’

'A farmhouse. That was where the four of us were holed up, and Dave our driver. He didn’t know the plan – only where and when to be waiting, and where we were going. Dave used to drive Indy cars. We rehearsed there, in the barn. Practised handling the Sidewinders. Looked at videos of the Castle that Ariel had shot. She just walked in there like any tourist with a camera, and cased the place. The videos showed us the tunnel entrance and the way up to the Jewel building.’
'So where’s this farmhouse?’

'The nearest name on the map is some place called Longformacus – if that’s how you say it. East of the City, and south. Way up on the moors, in the middle of nowhere. A shit-track road, way too far for traffic or tourists. Only snakes and sheep up there.’
'Does it have a name?’
'Stocksmoor, it was called. Ariel said Mr Black had rented it for the whole of August and September. So no one else would go up there until weeks after we were clear. If you want to find your friend’s girl, that’s where to head first.’
He stared at Arrow again, a plea in his eye.
Adam smiled at him. Along the corridor, the baby’s crying had stopped. He sat on the bed, still holding the tube pinched tightly,gently, almost, he took Stewart’s right hand in his left.
'A-1, Carl. A-fookin’ one. That’s just what I wanted to hear.’
And then the smile left his face, turning as hard as stone.
'But you know summat. I still hate fookin’ mercenaries.”
Especially them as kills soldiers, like you lot did in the Castle last night!’
He let go of the tube. Now grasping both of Stewart’s hands and holding them vicelike, he stared into his eyes, without mercy or pity, as the man struggled in vain to find the strength and the breath to scream, as the air bubble made its way downwards, and finally out of sight.

EIGHTY-SIX

'So how’s our man Stewart doing now?’
'Didn’t you hear? He had a relapse, the poor bugger. Must 'ave been just a couple of minutes after I left him. What a shame, eh. Now he won’t collect his pension.’
Skinner eyed him pensively, but decided to ask no more questions.
Their helicopter was flying low over the Lammermuirs, away from the setting evening sun. Skinner and Arrow, Martin and Mackie were crammed around the pilot in the small craft. Another helicopter, larger than their Jet Ranger, followed behind, carrying McGuire, Mcllhenney, Maggie Rose and six SAS men in full combat gear. All of the police officers, including Skinner, carried firearms.

'So there could be as many as five of them?’
'Yes, Bob. That’s if Mr Black’s there too. There’s him, Ariel, Ingo and Dave the Indy car driver.’
'Right,’ said Skinner. 'We’ll assume that they’re all there, and that they’re all armed. Your men have seen photos of Alex, yes?’
'Yes, Bob. Don’t worry, man. They’ll know her.’
'God, they’d better!’ Skinner’s voice betrayed, for just a second, the unbearable tension which gripped him. 'Right, when we get there, we watch for five minutes. Then your guys go in
hard, upper and lower floors, in sync. Her life could be in your hands, Adam. I trust you with it, my friend. With everyone else in there, your usual engagement rules apply. Do what you think best, and I’ll back you.’

Just as he finished speaking, the helicopters banked in to land, some two miles away from the farmhouse called Stocksmoor. The group waited until it was fully dark, and until their eyes had grown accustomed to the night conditions, before beginning to move across the moorland towards where their maps indicated the farm buildings lay. They took bearings with compasses as they went, confident of the accuracy of the Ordnance Survey.

The ground was completely open for the first mile or so covered by a mass of tangled heather, still soaking from the stormy of the night before, which caught at their feet as they moved through the night.
'Christ, Bob,’ said Arrow. 'What do they farm here?’
'Sheep, mate. Sheep and adders. Watch your ankles.’ ,
Eventually the ground began to drop. The clinging heather began to thin out and gave way to grassland and gorse bushes. They found themselves descending into a narrowing valley, with a dark shape at its heart.
Arrow raised his night-glasses. 'Down there.’ His voice was hushed, although they were still more than half a mile from their destination. They moved on.
Three hundred yards from the farm. Arrow drew them all together, police and SAS. He handed Skinner the binoculars.
'Take a look. Bob. Tell us what you see.’
Skinner put the bulky glasses to his eyes, and adjusted the focus wheel.
'There are two buildings. One’s a steading or barn of some sort. Looks half ruined. The house is more of a cottage, two-storey, but the upper rooms are in the attic. There’s a chink of light through the curtains of one of the upstairs rooms. There’s a car in the yard. Looks like a Vitara. I can’t see the registration from here.’

'We’ll call it in for checking when we get closer,’ said Martin.’
'No,’ said Skinner. 'We’re keeping radio silence, and your mobile won’t work up here. It’s a blind spot on the network.’
'Any sign of movement?’ said Arrow.
'No, none.’

'Right,’ said the little soldier. 'My lads approach first. You coppers stay twenty yards behind. Stay quiet and keep your fookin’ heads down. OK, lads, you three.’ He pointed to the men
nearest him. 'On the roof. But not a fookin’ sound, mind. The rest of us, on the ground. Five minutes from now, if nowt’s changed I fire one shot and we go in like shit off a shovel, through the windows, stun grenades first, then us. Now, you all know what Alex looks like? Confirm that everyone, please.’
Six voices each whispered 'Yes’ in the dark.
'Right. Everyone else goes down. No one walks out.’ Arrow turned back to Skinner. 'Right, Bob. Once we’re in, and the shootin’ stops, bring your people in. Better you don’t see what,
we’re up to. But don’t worry about your lass. She’ll be all right wi’ us.’

He gestured to his men, and they moved off towards the house.
Skinner led his group after them at the distance Arrow had specified, keeping low and taking whatever cover they could. Eventually, behind the dilapidated steading, they hid in waiting.
Skinner checked his watch and counted down softly. He felt his heart race.
'Christ, Andy,’ he muttered softly to Martin.
'I know, Bob. I know. But it’ll be all right.’
Seconds later they heard Arrow’s single gunshot. Its echoes still rang round the valley as the sound of shattering glass reached their ears, and the stun grenades exploded.
They waited for more shooting, but there was none.
Skinner waited for a call from Arrow, but none came.
'Come on, people,’ he said grimly. 'Sounds like there’s no one there. Let’s go in.’ They rushed from their cover towards the house. Light was blazing now from all of its windows.
Three of the SAS men stood in the lower hallway of the shabby dwelling. It smelled of damp, but of recent occupancy too. The aroma of ground coffee came from the kitchen, blown through on the night breeze from the shattered window.

Skinner stepped into the room to the right, off the hall. It was deserted. A small television set in the corner was switched on, but the sound had been turned down, either by the departed occupants or by the soldiers.
Martin, still standing in the hall, was the first to realise that none of the SAS soldiers would look at Skinner. A small knot of apprehension grew in the pit of his stomach. He looked up the narrow flight of wooden-banistered stairs.
Adam Arrow stood at the top. His voice was sad, desperately sad, and once again devoid of accent as he called from the upper floor – looking down not at Martin, but beyond him at Skinner, who had stepped back into the hallway.
'Bob. Can you come up, please. We need you here.’

EIGHTY-SEVEN

Skinner almost fainted when he saw the body lying on the crumpled bed. Involuntarily, he turned his head away, grasping either side of the doorframe to hold himself steady. But at last he forced himself to look back into the small room, with its damp-stained yellowing wallpaper, its wardrobe, its cracked mirror, and its twin divans.
And on one of them, he saw his Alex, dead.
For it had to be Alex. The girl, stretched out on her back, was tall. Alex’s height. She was tanned all over; Alex’s tan from sunbathing topless in the secluded cottage garden at Gullane, or on the beach in her early summer trips to their holiday home in Spain. Her legs – Alex’s
legs – were long and lithe, unpitted, still those of a girl rather than of a woman. Her small pink, proud nipples, set on young Firm breasts – Alex’s breasts – pointed towards the ceiling.
She was wearing only a pair of cream panties, wet at the crotch, and, grotesquely, a white pillow-case. It was pulled over her head like a hangman’s hood, and it was blood-stained at the front. It reached down to her shoulders, covering completely her hair, face and neck.

Still braced in the doorway. Skinner, feeling his heart thundering in his chest, looked desperately at her hands for jewellery, for a wristwatch, for anything strange or new to him,
anything that would let him tell himself, 'No, this is not my daughter.’
But he saw no sign, nothing there to give him that comfort.
Maggie Rose moved past him, towards the body.
'Stop, Sergeant.’
She froze in her tracks at the sound of his voice.
'I have to do this, Maggie.’
Dreadfully slowly, or so it seemed to those who watched, he walked towards the body. Andy Martin was not in the room. He sat at the foot of the stairs, trembling, the knot of fear in his 1
stomach now grown to a grasping, twisting fist.
At last, Bob Skinner reached the dead girl. He leaned over her, then gently, reverently, lifted her shoulders up from the bed and drew the pillow-case away from her head.
As he did so he closed his eyes. It was only with an effort of will that he opened them again – and looked into the face of Mary Little Horse.

The girl’s eyes stared back at him, lifeless. Above them there was a dark, round hole in the centre of her blood-smeared forehead. Later Skinner would feel guilt at his immediate reaction, but in the moment of recognition he knew only a sense of relief deeper than any he had ever experienced in his life. And he gave thanks to whoever was there to hear him, that it was this girl who was dead, and not another.
He gave way suddenly to a great weakness. He felt unmanned, and so, afraid that his frailty might be recognised, he laid Mary Little Horse – a murderess but another father’s daughter
nonetheless – back down on her death-bed, walked from the chamber, head bowed and without a word, and locked himself in the bathroom across the landing.

He sat for a while on the white enamelled edge of the old cast-iron bath and, alone behind the solid oak door of the little room, he wept tears of relief. He was trembling and his heart was still pounding. He had been certain that it was his Alex lying there, and in that short time from his first sight of the body to his discovery that it was not her, he had been swept by a sense of bereavement so profound that, even although it had now been lifted, the shadow of its desolation would remain with him for ever.
He lost all track of time for a while, but eventually he calmed himself and recovered his strength. But with it he found a feeling of new foreboding. His daughter was alive, but now his best chance of recovering her safely had evaporated. Mr Black had outguessed him. Now they would have to risk the Jewels, staking them, and most of all, staking his daughter’s life, on the plan he had devised.

Feeling a sudden pressure in his bladder, he raised the wooden toilet seat and the lid, together, and urinated heavily into the bowl. Finished, he pulled the flush lever, zipped himself, and turned to wash his hands in the white basin. As he turned on the taps, his eye was caught by a piece of white paper folded and Jammed under a plastic shell-shaped soap-dish which sat on a wooden shelf above the basin. Curious, he lifted the pink dish and
picked it up.
The three sheets of paper appeared to have been torn out of a diary. They were folded across the centre. As he opened them out, his earlier foreboding was swept away by his sudden joy at the sight of his daughter’s message, written in pencil on the torn dirty pages, scrawled but still legible.

Hi, Pops,
They let me watch TV today. I saw you, and know what
this is about. Ingo says I’m Mr Black’s second chance, so I
can guess what my ransom is. He and an American called
Dave brought me here during the night. On the way they picked up a girl called Mary. She’d been living rough in a hut
near Gifford.
It’s 8:00 pm. A woman called Ariel just turned up, and ' we’re leaving in a hurry. She said Mr Black
(
?
)
assumed
you’d get someone called Carl to talk. They’ve allowed me a
quick pee and a wash first, though.
Ingo just killed my room-mate, Mary. He came in as she
was changing, pulled a pillow-case over her head, and shot
her. He said she was too risky baggage to carry further. I
don’t know where we’re going now, but if I see a chance. I’ll leg it. When you catch up with Ingo, Pops, be careful. He’s very dangerous. I’m sorry I got you into this.
Love you.
Alex.

He was smiling as he walked out of the bathroom and down into the hall where Martin, Mackie and Arrow waited, anxious, none of them certain what sort of a man would emerge. He waved the note at Martin. 'Look at this, Andy. It’s from our lass. She’s something else.' Martin took the note and read it, and, as he did, Bob Skinner laughed to himself, and shook his head again in wonderment at his daughter.
He had never been prouder of her. She had just seen murder done, sudden and shocking but she had still had the presence off mind to leave a note, to try to give what assistance she could. Bright, tough, and brave, too. He hoped in the hours to come he could live up to her example.