Skinner's festival

38

A message, written in Ruth's neat hand, lay on Skinner's desk when he returned to his office. 'Call DC Mcllhenney, Glasgow.

Urgent.' She had noted down the telephone number.

Using his secure telephone, he keyed it in. 'Neil? ACC here.

What've you got for me?'

'Morning, sir. Our man Macdairmid's an early bird. He pitched up at his Party offices at 9:00 this morning, but he was only there for twenty minutes, then off down to that pub of his. It's got an early-opening licence for night-shift workers at the factory up the road.

'Barry beat him there. He was waiting when he arrived. Sure as God made wee green apples, he ordered a half-pint of Gillespie's then used the pay-phone. The Glasgow technical boys had their tap in place, and got the whole thing.'

'Interesting?'

'As Mr Haggerty would say, "Too bliddy right it is, sir." But you can judge for yourself. There's a motorcycle polisman heading along the M8 right now with a copy for you. He should get it to you in half-an-hour. I'll tell you one thing, sir. That Macdairmid – for an MP he's bollock-deep in something that's definitely non-Parliamentary. That's bliddy certain!'