Skinner's festival

The evening's performance, a Louis Malle feature, was scheduled to begin in only a few minutes. They had almost reached the auditorium when Julia was called to the telephone.

'Go on in, you two,' said Andy. 'I'll wait for Julia.'

She was gone for only a few minutes. As soon as she reappeared at the foot of the staircase he could see that something was wrong.

She looked close to tears.

'What is it, love?'

Oh Andyl She's cancelled!'

For a few seconds a frown of puzzlement creased his forehead.

Then his eyebrows rose. 'What, you mean… what'sher-name?'

'Yes. That was her agent. She's heard about Hilary Guillaum, and she's said that no way is she coming. The bitch! How could she! What a coward.'

'And that's what other people will think, sweetheart. It's not surprising, though. I've a feeling she could be the first of many.

Damn shame, though. I was looking forward to processing her in person!'

'That's all right,' said Julia, squeezing his arm and brightening up in an instant. 'You can process me instead!'

25

Bob and Sarah had been home for only ten minutes when Alex turned up with the supper guest she had invited earlier in the day.

'Hello, Ingo. Good to meet you again.' Bob stretched out a hand to the Swede, as he stood in the doorway of the sitting-room.

Smiling, he looked the younger man square in the eye. Ingo shook his hand powerfully, holding his gaze unblinking, with a faint but confident grin. 'Come on through. Sarah's working one of her microwave miracles.' Bob led the way through to the conservatory, where an oval table was set for four.

Supper was a spicy lemon chicken dish, which Sarah had prepared earlier in the day. Bob helped her to serve it, spooning out portions of light, fluffy rice. Since Ingo would have to drive later. Bob decreed that they would all drink Gleneagles spring water which, he assured their guest, had more life to it than most white wines, and certainly more than any from north of the Mediterranean or south of the Equator.

Alex was still on a high from her evening's performance. She spoke so fast she was almost breathless, as she rushed to tell Bob and Sarah of the group's first review, which was scheduled to appear in the next morning's Scotsman, and which would be 'absolutely rave', or so their director had been assured by the arts editor. He had said that it would make special reference to the quality of the lighting, and of its importance to the flow of the play.

'Isn't Ingo brilliant, folks? And it's only his hobby!'

'You're not a professional electrician?' Bob's question spoke volumes. His inflection was such that it was as if he had said straight out, 'Tell me all there is to know about you, young man.'

Suddenly silenced, Alex looked at him curiously.

'No, sir. Not in that sense,' said the Swede. 'I have a degree in mining engineering, and now I do what you would call post-grad research at university in Sweden. The theatre work I do for fun, as something different. And it helps me pass this summer.'

'But it's unpaid?'

'Yes, my amateur status remains intact!' He laughed, self-assured. •They must look after you well in Sweden. Here, damn few postgraduates can afford to be amateur at anything.'

'In Sweden is no different. But I have a scholarship.'

'A good one, obviously.'

'Big enough for me anyway. It comes from a foundation set up by a South African mining company. The story goes that they were anxious to atone for their racial policy, and so they decided to set up scholarships at universities around the world, mostly for black students of mining. But what they found was that only Sweden would take their money. Of course there are very few black students in Sweden, and none at all in mining engineering!

Still, the scholarship is very generous and so, for someone who is no more than a researcher, I am, as you say here, rolling in it.'

Only Alex did not join in the laughter.

'So what brought you to Edinburgh?'

'I have heard much of your Festival. I had hoped to come with a Swedish group, but they could not raise the cash. It was suggested that I write to the Festival people and offer my services. To tell truth, I was coming anyway, but the Glasgow people had an emergency, they call me, and here I am, in this very fine play, in your lovely city.'

'What son of emergency?'

Alex broke in. 'I thought I'd told you. Our regular lighting technician went on holiday to Gran Canaria last month. On the way back, the Spanish airport police searched his rucksack, and found lots of white powder in a big talcum tin. Only it wasn't talc.

The story goes that it was a kilo of heroin. He's in jail now, waiting to be tried. He swears he's innocent, that it was planted on him.'

Skinner laughed out loud and shook his head. 'Sorry, love. The smack smuggler isn't born yet who won't say that when he gets nicked. Doesn't matter whether it's Las Palmas or Las Pilton, the story's always the same. "Who? Me, officer? Never saw it before in my life." We had this lady once, off a holiday flight at Edinburgh. The stuff was tied up in a French letter, hidden, shall we say about her person. Know what she said? That her boyfriend has asked her to take it through, but that he had told her they were the diamonds for her engagement ring, packed in icing sugar.

Romantic, eh. The only trouble was she was travelling alone. She claimed her boyfriend had missed the flight.'

'Hold on, darling,' said Sarah, breaking in. I could almost swallow that.'

Bob raised his eyebrow in an exaggerated gesture. 'You could what?'

Her mouth fell open and she flushed bright pink.

'Be that as it may,' he went on, 'we didn't. Turned out the boyfriend was her husband, a Spanish brigand with a ton of form.

They missed him in Malaga. They said they reckoned he was hiding out in La Gomera, till he could get across to Africa. We keep waiting for him to turn up on visiting day at Cornton Vale.

No joy yet, though. Not one visit in five years. Some husband, eh.' He shook his head. 'No, sorry. Alex. Your lighting man got greedy, and got caught. You might see him again in around fifteen years.'

He smiled back across the table at the Swede. 'So the lights man's ill wind blew you some good, Ingo.'

'Yes, sir. So it seems.'

'Enough of the "sir", the name's Bob, remember.' He twisted the top off the Gleneagles bottle and topped up his guest's glass.

'Is mining a family thing, Ingo? Is that what your father does?'

The Swede laughed. 'No, no. Nothing like that. The opposite, I should say. He was an airline pilot with SAS.' "There's a coincidence,' Skinner muttered. •Pardon?'

'Sorry, a private joke. Rude of me. I have one of his colleagues working with me just now, in a manner of speaking. SAS:

Scandinavian Airlines. How about your mother?'

'Ah. Like Alex, my mother died when I was very young.'

'Ahh. That's too bad. Anyway, enough of that. Dig into those strawberries.'

By the time the meal was over. Skinner had learned a great deal about Ingemar Svart. But he had been concentrating so hard on his gentle cross-examination that he had failed to notice the frown as it gathered and deepened on his daughter's face. Alex had hardly closed the door from saying her goodnight to the Swede, when she squared up to him.

'Pops, just what is it with you?'

'What do you mean?'

"You interrogated Ingo like a suspect.'

Bob laughed, but he was takel aback by an edge in her voice which he had never heard before. 'Your artistic imagination's running away with you."Like hell it is. You gave the gw the third degree. You were rude and inquisitive. Are you coming the heavy father or something?'

'Hey, calm down, girl. A mat comes into our house with my daughter; it's natural to want to know something about him.'