Skinner's festival

16

'I know it's a big if, boss, but she is connected with the Festival.'

'Yes, but hold on, Andy. You said yourself that the curtains were open at the front of the house: downstairs and upstairs. And your car was parked round the corner. The guy probably just guessed, wrongly, that the place was empty. How was he to know that you just like having it off with the curtains open?'

'Aye, very funny, Bob. Look, damn few opportunists come equipped with a cylinder of mastic to fuck up any alarm system they might happen to come across.'

'OK, maybe he was a professional Saturdaynighter.'

Skinner saw Martin's frown deepen, his expression made even darker by the stubble on his chin. He put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

'Look, Andy, I know you're worried about this girl. Nothing's impossible, and the chances are we'll never know whether there was a connection. But one thing's for sure: after having a close shave like that, there's no way the bastard will come back.'

'Maybe so, boss, but I'm still having that house watched, and Julia escorted to and from work. And once the alarm's fixed, it's being linked to Gayfield.'

Skinner whistled at Martin's vehemence. 'Here, this sounds serious. How long have you known this lass? One day? Is this the Andy Martin that I know, and that dozens of women have come to love in vain? Your thinking must be affected, right enough. Otherwise, last night you'd have let that boy get all the way in the door! Then you could have stiffened him and we'd have got all the answers that we're just guessing at now. That's what I'd have done if I'd been there – and been thinking straight, that is!'

Skinner and Martin were alone in the private office of the Special Branch suite. It was 8:50 am on Sunday morning, and the headquarters building was weekend quiet. But suddenly, they heard the outer door open.

'Someone's keen said Skinner. 'We told them nine o'clock.'

There was a soft knock on Martin's door. 'Come!' he shouted.

The door opened and a little round man, no more than five feet four inches tall, seemed to roll into the room. At first Martin was reminded of a football, then, noting the way in which the little man appeared to taper inward and down from the shoulders, decided that he looked more like a spinning top.

The newcomer had a friendly, inquisitive smile, and receding gingery, close-cropped hair. He wore a Harris tweed jacket, unusually heavy for August, a check shirt, and grey trousers. His black shoes were polished to a high shine.

'Hello, Bob, 's good to see you again.' There was a twinkle in his eyes as he stretched a hand upwards towards Skinner. The accent was unmistakably North of England, Lancashire or hereabouts, Martin guessed.

Skinner shook the outstretched hand and returned the smile.

'Adam, good to see you, too. Glad you're here, although I didn't expect you to make it so fast.'

'You kiddin'? I was in fookin' Belfast. You get a chance to get clear of that place, you don't hang about. Natives are fookin' restless over there just now. Whatever you've got here, it'll be a fookin' holiday by comparison.'

Skinner smiled grimly. 'Hope that's the way it turns out, mate.'

He turned to Martin. 'Andy, this is Captain Adam Arrow, Military Intelligence. Special Air Services, counter-terrorist adviser.You name it, he's the lot. He and I met at that security seminar I went to last month. Adam. Meet Andy Martin, DCI Special Branch. He might only look like a lad, but he's been there, done that.'

'That's enough for me,' said Arrow.

The two shook hands, and Martin was suddenly aware that the little man was immensely strong.

Arrow turned back towards Skinner. 'OK, Bob, so why have I been pulled out of t' fookin' frying-pan? All that the Five woman said was that you'd asked for me as a specialist.'

Skinner waved him over to a chair. 'Sit yourself down, and I'll tell you.'

Quickly but comprehensively, he briefed Arrow on the crisis, describing the Waverley Market bomb, Ballantyne's letter, his own encounter with the motorcycle gunman, and finally even Martin's late-night tussle.

'Like as not, Andy's incident had nothing to do with all this, but he's not so sure.'

Martin cut in: 'Let's just say I'm taking no chances.'

Arrow nodded his round head vigorously. 'Quite right. As Bob says, it's a long shot, but it's best to keep an eye on the lass. If it were connected, they might just have another go. Unless you identified y'self. Didn't shout "Stop in t' name of the law", or owt like that, did you?'

Martin grinned. "No. I did shout something when that chain stopped the door, but it wasn't anything like that.'

Arrow nodded. Then he looked up at Skinner. 'Tell you one thing already. Bob. Nowt to do wi' Ireland, this lot.'

'Why so sure?' Skinner asked.

Loads of reasons. Your average Paddy, whatever side he's on, wouldn't write it all down, then nail it to Secretary of State's fookin' door. It'd be telephone warning every time. Then there's t' tone of yon letter. It's ponderous. Pretentious almost. This bastard is a new hand at the game. He's feeling very important or at least he's trying to make us think he is. Then there's your biker. Irish wouldn't do anything so fookin' stupid as to shoot at a civilian. And you didn't shout "Police", either. Most of all, our intelligence is pretty good when it comes to things like this. We're good at monitoring their contacts wi' other organisations. I reckon if they'd been in touch with anyone over here, there's a fair chance our guys'd have stumbled on it. No – no Irish link 'ere.

This is a new lot, and that's a big problem.'

Why so big?' said Martin, quizzically.

"Cos it means we know fook-all about 'em, that's why. No established behaviour pattern. In Ireland we know how the lookers think. Gives us whatever edge we have. Lets us guess what they're likely to do. We don't always guess right. But when we do, and we're in the right place, then they can get out the black gloves, beret, tricolour – or the Union Jack; we don't play favourites and the hearse.' Arrow's small bright eyes hardened, and his voice dropped to not much above a whisper. "Cos they'll fookin' need 'em.'

He looked sharply across at Martin. 'This lot's starting from scratch. That'll make it harder for us. What have you done so far on the security side. Bob?'

'As much as I could in, what…' Skinner looked at his slim gold wristwatch. '… less than twenty-four hours.'

He described the steps which had been taken, the security checks, the pass system.

'All that's in place. My people are coming in this morning to finish writing up security reports on each of the higher-risk venues. We've designated about two dozen of them. Once I've looked through them, I'll be able to judge how I'm off for manpower.' His glance at Arrow held a question in it. 'If I decide I'm a bit light, and need some extra cover for special places, how are your lot placed just now?'

The little man paused, as if he was deciding how frankly he could answer such a direct question. Then, with an imperceptible nod, he said: 'I think we could give you some help. We've got quite a few over in Ireland at the moment. Then there's others up to no fookin' good in the Middle East. There's a few bastards out there we're going to get even with, and one in particular. We lost some guys in the Gulf War, and we haven't forgotten them.'

Suddenly the eyes lost all their jollity, as his mind turned over a bitter memory. 'We never forget things like that. We've nailed a few of the guys responsible already, but there's more to get yet.

That lot think it's Mossad.' He chuckled – a quiet sound which chilled Martin to the bone. 'But it ain't. Fookin' pussies, Mossad are, compared wi' our lot when someone upsets us.'

He looked up at Skinner, and the genial smile returned. 'Still an' all, I reckon the CO could sort out a dozen or so good lads for you. You'd have to ask through the politicians, mind you.'

Skinner nodded. 'I know – 'and I probably will. Meantime there are some things we can do in-house. Andy's pulled a list of odd-ball journalists from the SB files, the sort of guys whose names pop up in criminal investigations, or who are known to make heavy use of criminal sources. There's about a dozen of them, and they've all still to be interviewed. As well as that, I'm expecting a report that I asked Five to do for me last night. It's on its way up now, by courier.'

Arrow raised his eyebrows. 'Too hot for fax or telex, then.'

'Mm.' Skinner nodded. 'Tell you what, Adam. Are you checked in anywhere yet?'

'No. I'm stoppin' at Redford, wherever that is.'

'I'll get someone to show you. In fact, we'll give you the grand tour, while we're at it. Let's see, who was the early-shift guy out there again?' I He pressed a buzzer on Martin's desk. A few seconds later his question was answered, as Mario McGuire appeared in the doorway.

"Sir?'

'Morning, Mario.' Skinner introduced Arrow to the big darkhaired detective. 'Captain Arrow's new in town. Sergeant. It's your first time here, Adam, isn't it?'

The little man nodded.

'Mario,' said Skinner, 'I'd like you to give Captain Arrow a run-around. Take him out to Redford Barracks first, to drop off his kit. Then show him Festival Edinburgh. Let him get a feel of the place, show him some of the venues: the Usher Hall, Lyceum, Assembly Hall, places like that. Take a look at the Pleasance.

Grab some lunch there, maybe, and I'll see you both back here around two. Is that okay with you, Adam?'

'First-rate. There a bar at this Pleasance place, then? I'll be fookin' gaspin' by then, I reckon. Looks like I'm out of the fryin'pan in Belfast and into the fookin' fire here, right enough.'

The two men, one large, one little, left the room, looking incongruous side-by-side. Yet, as they left, Martin found himself thinking that, of the two, big, hard and powerful as McGuire was, if forced to make the choice he would rather tackle three Mario McGuires, than a single Adam Arrow.

As the door closed behind them, Skinner turned back to Martin.

'OK, Andy. Let's have a look at that list ofjournos.'

From a secure cabinet which he opened with a key, Martin produced a yellow folder. Coming to stand beside Skinner, he laid it on the desk and opened it to show a list of names in alphabetical order.

'They're all here: fourteen in all. Five in and around Glasgow, six in Edinburgh, one in Haddington, one in Stirling, and one in Dundee. Only five of them are employed full-time on the staff of newspapers. The rest are a mixture of freelances, mostly writers and researchers, but two describe themselves as television producers.'

Skinner pointed to a name in the lower half of the list. 'Aye, and that one's our number-one target.'

Martin followed his finger. 'Mr Frazer Pagett. Yes, I agree.

Christ, he'd take the huff if we didn't feel his collar. He'd take it as a slur on his reputation as an investigative journalist if he didn't get a visit from us.'

Skinner shook his head. 'No,' he said vehemently. 'That's just what he's not going to get. I want him watched. I want his phone tapped. In fact, I want taps on everyone on that list.'

'Don't we need Ballantyne's signature to do that, boss?'

'We've got it already. That piece of paper he signed yesterday gives me authority to do as I think fit. And I think fit now to start telephone surveillance on all the people mentioned here. The half of them probably believe they're being tapped all the time, anyway. As far as Mr Pagett's concerned, we're going to let him sit on it for a few days. Listen to him, look at him, and just see if he says or does anything funny. He's the only guy on your list that I take seriously. The others are just unscrupulous reporters, or nutters. We'll give all of them the courtesy of a visit right away.

Word of that'll get back to Mr Pagett, and it'll make him nervous.

When we finally do go to see him, I want him as jumpy as possible.'

Martin closed the yellow folder. 'I'll need your written authority for Telecom to set up the phone taps.'

'No, we're not going to Use them. There's a guy in Scottish Office: Mel Christian, Director of Telecommunications. Here's his home number.' Skinner scribbled on a memo pad, tore off the page, and handed it to Martin. 'Call him right away. Use my name. Tell him it's a Beta operation. That'll get his attention. Tell him what you need and he'll make it ha-'

He was cut short by the trembling tone of his mobile phone. He took it from his pocket and pressed the ''receive' button. 'Hello.'

'Bob. It's Alan B. Can you come to St Andrew's House, right away. I've had another.'