Skinner's festival

12

Dropped off by Skinner at Fettes Avenue, Martin entered the building by the back door and trotted up the stairs from the basement level to his office.

He was pleased to see that, save for Barry Macgregor, who was manning the telephones, the Special Branch suite was empty. It was 6:20 pm, and it was Saturday, but he knew this meant, not that everyone has finished for the night, but that the inspection of the chosen venues was already well under way. Sitting down behind his desk, he read the ex-directory telephone number which Skinner had written down for him on the back of a business card, then picked up his secure telephone and punched it in.

A clipped, slightly cautious voice answered. 'Hello, Michael Licorish.'

Andy Martin had met the Head of the Scottish Office Information Directorate on a few occasions, and had seen him in action in one or two high-pressure situations. Licorish had impressed Martin each time as an unflappable, no-nonsense performer, who could keep his media people under control, out of respect as well as his authority, and at times when others would be running for the nearest exit. He had been deputy director in those days, waiting patiently for his crusty old military predecessor to complete his last few months.

'Michael, hi. Andy Martin here. Special Branch. Remember me?'

The responding voice lost its cautious edge. 'Hah. I should forget? What can I do for you, Andy?'

'I take it that you'll have heard by now, the real story of our socalled gas explosion in Princes Street today.'

'Mm. I know all about it. Secretary of State briefed me this afternoon. Told me about the warning letter, too. And about Bob Skinner's anti-terrorist unit. Seems a strong reaction for this S of S, between you and me.'

'Needed though, as it's turned out.' Martin described Skinner's encounter with the motorcyclist.

'Jesus, Andy. S of S didn't tell me that.'

'He doesn't know. It happened after Bob had left him. Now you appreciate how serious this is, I hope you won't quibble over what I'm going to ask you for.'

Martin explained the plan for a pass system, and all of the reasons for it.

'We're going to have to process a hell of a lot of people very quickly, so the sooner we can get started, the happier I'll be. My outfit is having the registration forms printed overnight, and the passes too. What I'd like you to do is to provide us with suitable staff to handle the accreditation at the Festival office venues, from tomorrow evening onwards. I could put police personnel in to do it, but your people are properly experienced in this sort of thing.

They'll handle it faster, and the performers won't get prickly the way some people do when they have to deal with us.

'What d'you say?'

'I say yes, if you'll pick up any overtime tab.' •Done.'

'Right. How many will you need?'

'Tomorrow, six good people. Two each at the Festival and Fringe offices, and one at each of the Jazz, and Film festivals. The television thing doesn't start for another week. After that, their job will be continuous at least up to the third weekend, with completely new companies and solo performers coming in all the time. But we'll drawn up a rota of registration times at all the offices. That'll let you run it with two people at the most – maybe only one.'

'That sounds fair. I'll line my people up. I'll use my tour escorts; they're smooth talkers. And my publicity section people; they do this sort of thing on royal visits. Where will you want them, and when?'

'Ask them all to report to Fettes at 2:30 tomorrow, and to ask for DI Brian Mackie. We'll brief them then, and allocate them around the offices.'

'You've got it.' There was a pause. 'Here, does this mean that we get to meet that glamour girl, her with the… If it does, I might come along myself!'

'Nice one, Michael, but I've put myself down for that painful task.'

'That sounds like corruption to me, Andy! See you.' The line clicked dead.

Martin grinned. Suddenly he thought again of Julia Shahor, her black hair, her pale, heart-stopping face and her dark brown eyes.

He snorted. 'Crystal Tipps, indeed! Shag Desert Orchid, indeed!

Ginseng and Vitamin E, indeed! Giving away your own secrets, Bob?'