Skinner's festival

18

The courier was a woman. She was seated in a corner of the main Special Branch office, sipping coffee and reading a magazine.

When Skinner entered the room, she stood up at once, recognising him from the photograph which she had been shown early that morning in London.

Forestalling Brian Mackie's attempt to introduce her, she came towards him, hand outstretched. 'Good morning, sir. My name's Mary. I'm from Five. I have some papers for you from London, which I believe you're expecting.'

Skinner shook the woman's hand. 'Yes, that's right. Thank you for coming all this way.'

Mary was carrying a brown leather satchel. She fished a key from the pocket of her blue woollen jacket and unfastened the heavy brass lock, releasing the catch with a flick of her thumb. She withdrew a long white envelope and handed it over.

'Mission accomplished, sir. Now may I call for a cab back to the airport?'

Skinner held the envelope unopened in his hand. 'Thank you, Mary. No need for a taxi. Even on a Sunday I think we can find you a driver.' He looked across to Mackie. 'See to it please, Brian.'

'Sir!'

'DCI in?' •Yes. boss.'

He thanked the messenger once more, and excused himself.

Martin was speaking softly into the telephone. He was seated in his swivel chair with his back to the door. When Skinner entered the room he swung round, making a wind-up motion with his left hand. 'Got to go now. I'll pick you up at around one o'clock.' He paused for a second, as he listened to the voice on the line.

'If you're sure your aunt will be all right at home, we'll go to my place. I need to shave, badly. See you then.' He was still smiling as he replaced the receiver in its cradle.

Skinner shook his head and laughed. 'I don't believe what I'm seeing here. A thirty-something schoolboy. Everyone's cracking up today. First Ballantyne turns into General fucking Patton, now you turn into fucking Romeo.'

Martin looked at him curiously. 'What's up with Ballantyne?'

Skinner's good humour disappeared as he described his altercation with the Secretary of State. 'I hate these boys when they decide to get brave, Andy. It's always some other bastard that winds up bleeding.'

'Let's hope not this time.'

'Yeah. Anyway, forget that for the moment and let's look at what's in here. It's my report from Five.'

He drew up a chair and sat down, facing Martin across the desk.

Slitting open the white envelope, he drew out its contents, three sheets of A4 folded top to bottom. He scanned the first sheet, and glanced across at Martin.

'This says they've been through all of the most sensitive running files on politicians, and found only one that fits the bill.'

He put the covering letter to one side and studied the two-page report.

'We know about this guy all right. Grant Forrest Macdainnid.

Labour MP for Glasgow Marymount. He used to be a right wee hoodlum when he was a youngster. Ran a gang and did time in Barlinnie Young Offenders, till he got into politics and started doing people over legally. He's on the ultra-nationalist wing of the People's Party. Advocates direct action to secure Home Rule. But there's a twist to him: he's a monarchist. Wants to set up a Scottish Parliament with a head of state on Scandinavian lines you know, what they call a minimalist monarch. A king with a day job. He's even got a candidate picked out: a descendant of the Stuarts. Our potential king is an Italian who barely speaks English, but that's nae bother to our Mr Macdainnid. The general view of him is that he's just a nutter, but worth watching nonetheless. He's got the sort of humourless zeal in his eye that alarms the likes of you and me.'

'Mm. I know what you mean,' said Martin. 'I've seen him on telly. Have we been paying him any special attention?'

'Up here? The Glasgow Special Branch keeps a tap on his phone. It's never picked up anything more sinister than an order for a carry-out Chinese. That probably means that he expects to be tapped. He makes a load of noise in public, but in private 94 well the transcripts read like he's a real A-l bore. That's what he's like up here.' Skinner tapped the report on the desk. 'According to this, though, he comes out of the closet when he's in London. Five were giving him a sort of general look-over a few weeks back.

They tailed him to an Irish club in Camden Town. It seems they walked into a sort of terrorist jamboree. All shapes and sizes:

Irish, Basques, neo-Nazis, Libyans, all jabbering away, pissing it up, and our man Macdainnid right in the midst of it all.'

'So what did the Five guys do?'

'Hung around long enough to commit as many faces to memory as they could, then beat a retreat. Apparently, so says this report, they had a problem; one of the Five guys was a gal. This was a real hairy-arsed place and they felt too obvious, so they split. When they got back to the shop, they dug out the picture gallery, spotted four or five faces, and realised what they had been into. They sent the heavies round right away, but the party had broken up.

They've been tailing Macdainnid ever since. No more contacts, but three weeks ago, as soon as Parliament broke up, he went on holiday.'

Where to?'

'Ready for this? Tripoli. One of the world's prime sources of Semtex and other choice ordnance. He got back to Glasgow last Thursday.'

'Fucking hell!'

'Couldn't have put it more eloquently myself. They searched his luggage at the airport. He had a big hold-all thing as hand baggage, and when he caught the shuttle, they X-rayed it, but they couldn't search it without making him suspicious. He could have had anything in there.'

Skinner folded the report, replaced it in the envelope, and handed it to Martin. 'Here, lock this in your safe. So Mr Grant Forrest Macdainnid MP has been installed as bookies' favourite.

We need a round-the-clock job on him.'

'Want me on it?'

'No. Your wee friend Julia and I both need you here. Anyway, it's a Glasgow job: one for Super-Haggerty. Dig out his home phone number for me. You've got it here, haven't you?'

Martin nodded. He flicked through his Filofax until he found the Glasgow number, dialled it and handed the receiver to Skinner.

Two rings later a gruff voice answered. 'Hullo.'

'Willie? It's Bob Skinner.'

'Momin', sir. Sunday mornin', too. What's up? Ye got a crisis in Edinburgh? Is it rainin' or something?'

It's about to rain on your weekend, fella. I need you through here. I'm seeing your Chief and others in about ninety minutes in St Andrew's House. I want you there to hear what I've got to tell them. It'll save me having to repeat myself. Are you fit to drive? I know what your weekends can be like.'

'Aw, come on, sir. You ken very well I'm teetotal.'

Skinner laughed ironically, and replaced the receiver.

'Scotland can sleep easy in her bed, Andy. Haggerty's on the job. Speaking of which, take a few hours off and see your new girlfriend. There isn't a lot you can do here till the troops finish their reports from last night. Me, I'm going along to kill some paperwork till it's time for my briefing.'

Martin smiled his new contented smile. 'Yeah, okay, boss. I think I'll do that. Before I go, though, one thing occurs to me about Macdairmid. If he's such a nutter, why doesn't the Labour Party get shot of him as one of their MPs?'

'They can't,' said Skinner. 'You see he's really a Nat.

Apparently an extreme nationalist splinter group, like that old Seed of the Gael thing from ten years back, infiltrated the, Marymount constituency Labour Party, took control, deselected the last MP, and installed the boy Macdairmid. He's untouchable by Head Office. They'd love to find a good excuse to bump him, but they haven't come up with one yet. Labour are desperate to keep the whole thing hushed up. None of the other parties know, not even the official Nationalists. If they found out, they'd crucify them, and so would the voters. Funny game politics, eh.'

Martin grunted. 'Not when you start playing it with Semtex, it isn't.'