Skinner's festival

21

Skinner was halfway across Festival Square, the plaza which lies between the Sheraton and Lothian Road, when his phone sounded again. He stopped and sat down on a bench to answer it. The wooden seat was hot to the touch, such was the force of the sun.

'Boss, it's Brian here. I've had a guy on from the States, going absolutely apeshit. Said his name was Albert Neidermeyer from TNI, or something. He claims to have had a call at his London office, tipping him off that some American opera singer's been killed in Edinburgh. And, boss, he says the caller used the proper code-word. Now he wants you to confirm if it's true. He says if it is he's going to blow it and – his words, sir – fuck all you Scots bastards and your threats. Seems he doesn't like you at all, chief.'

'I'm chilled with terror,' said Skinner, icily.

'He left a number. Wants you to call him back personally.'

'Bugger that for a game of soldiers. Soldiers! There's an idea. Is Adam Arrow with you?'

'Yes, boss. He and Mario got back here twenty minutes ago.'

'Right. Adam's an English bastard, not Scots, but he'll do. Ask him if he'll do us a turn and call Neidermeyer back. He's to stall him, bullshit him, tell him we don't know what he's talking about, but we're looking into it. Ask Adam to spin him out for as long as he can. That should be quite some time. Neidermeyer won't understand a fookin' word Adam says.'

Skinner pressed the end1 button, and carried on across Festival Square.