Skinner's festival

'Not his coUar size and insids-leg measurement, for Christ's sake. What is this? Since when did you bring the office home with you.'

For the first time that he couli remember. Bob Skinner raised his voice in anger to his daughter. 'Since when? Since innocent people started to get killed in Edinburgh, for no reason other than being useful propaganda fodder, or Tor just being expendable. Did you see the TV news this evening? Recognise anyone – such as me? Get used to it, honey. Till this thing's over, no one in this town's going to be a stranger to me. Did you collect your pass tonight?'

Alex looked puzzled. 'Yes. So what?'

'You fiUed in a form?' •Yes.'

'Right. Even now, as we stand here shouting at each other, the information on that form, and on every other form we collected tonight, is being run through a computer. That's called security.

It's called taking precautions. It's all we can do against these people. God knows, it's not much, and it's probably useless, but at least it's something. Our best protection is all the information we can get about all the people in this city. That includes your friend Ingo.'

'And me?'

'Yes. Crazy as it may seem: fnd you. Just in case, through in Glasgow, you've fallen in with the sort of people who do the sort of things Sarah and I have feen close up in the last couple of days. And just in case, as your father, I'm too close to read the signs.'

'Then thank you. Father, for your love and trust.' The livingroom door rattled on its hinges as she slammed it behind her.

Bob turned to Sarah. Amazement, tinged with hurt, showed on his face. 'What the bloody hell was all that about?'

'Hey, big man. Cool down.' She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him slowly, ruffling his hair. 'Read the signs, Dad. She thought you were attacking her man, so she defended him.' •What d' you mean, her man?'

'I mean that our Alex has got it bad, and it shows – to everyone but you, that is.'

'But she's only a-'

'Slip of a girl, you were going to say? Oh no she isn't, my darling. Oh no, she isn't.'

26

SCOTLAND DEFIANT AGAINST TERROR.

The banner headline of Monday morning's Scotsman blared up at Skinner from the table as he joined Sarah for breakfast in the conservatory. He picked it up and saw himself on the front page, seated beside a subdued Ballantyne at the press conference, and looking hard at Dave Bassett as he faced him down.

He scanned the accompanying stories, which took up the entire front page, then turned to the leader column. He snorted quietly as he read the editorial, which praised the Secretary of State for displaying a firm and resolute face to the terrorists, and for his good sense in handing over complete responsibility to his security adviser.

'Mr Skinner and his newly formed squad bear a heavy responsibility,' it read. 'We are confident that they are up to the challenge. Yet it must be noted that however distinguished they may be as police officers, they are inexperienced in facing the type of threat which now confronts them. While no blame can be attached to any individual for failing to prevent the two deaths which took place at the weekend, security precautions are now in place and the public have a right to expect them to be effective.'

He threw the paper on to a chair and glanced at Sarah. 'Did you see the leader?'

She nodded, unsmiling. 'Odd, isn't it. It seems to say that Ballantyne's done all he possibly can, and that from now on it's all down to you if anything else happens.'

Bob shrugged his shoulders. 'Joe Compton, the editor – he's an old chum of Ballantyne, and it bloody well shows there. That's politics for you.'

'What are the chances of some other calamity happening?'

'Depends what they want to do. It'll be dangerous for them to target individuals from now on, but unless they've run out of Semtex we can look for some more bangs. There's bugger-all we can do about someone leaving a Marks Spencer bag in the middle of Marks Spencer, for example. That's what I expect, anyway. My reading of these characters says that they won't expose themselves to direct danger – not the ringleaders at any rate. What d' you think? Got any sort of a profile for me yet?'

'No chance. I've only got three short letters to go on, and frankly there just isn't enough in them to tell me anything about the man who wrote them.'

'Man? Is that an assumption?'

'No it is not. That's one thing I am fairly sure of: it wasn't a woman who wrote them. There's something about – how do I say? – the posture of the language that is decidedly male. Very assertive. Confident. In fact certain. Let me put it this way. If the writer of those letters isn't a man, then we're looking for someone as forceful as Germaine Greer – or, and it's just a thought, for more than one person.'

27

When Skinner reached his office he found ample evidence that the security operation was in full swing. His intray was piled high with folders, each one listing a different Festival location.

He picked one off the top of the heap. Its subject venue and its contents were noted on the front. He murmured quietly to himself as his eye scanned down the page.

'Signet Library.

'Description of venue.

'Potential hazards.

'Risk assessment.

'Recommendations.

'Inspecting officer's signature: Margaret Rose, Detective Sergeant.'

He opened the folder and read the report. As he expected of a Maggie Rose job, it was thorough, concise, and its recommendations were sound. The Signet Library, she had concluded, was an unlikely target. It would be the location of only four events, each of them part of the 'Official' Festival.

The spectacularly beautiful, pillared room, with its valuable collection of volumes arranged on two levels, was well alarmed.

All of the potential access points, other than the main door, were bolted shut, and there was permanent building security all year round. Maggie Rose recommended that the security firm be deployed on a round-the-clock basis, with regular and ostentatious visits by uniformed police officers. Finally she proposed that, during performances, an armed officer, in uniform, should be posted at the main entrance. Her report closed with the suggestion, couched in properly respectful terms, that her senior officers might consider whether widespread deployment of high-profile armed police, in uniform, at all major venues might offer the double benefit of deterring would126 be terrorists, while boosting public morale.

Skinner closed the folder and smiled to himself. 'Nice one, Maggie. You'll make inspector before that man of yours, I reckon.' He picked up the telephone and told Martin of her suggestion.

'She's right, boss. We might have enough people to do it, but they'll all have to be qualified marksmen. That could give us a problem.'

'No problem at all. Adam Arrow's SAS guys arrive this evening. Ask him if he minds us sticking them into police uniforms and using them as armed sentries.'

'Will do. Adam's right here.'

Skinner read through the rest of the reports. Each one was marked 'Actioned', with Andy Martin's initials alongside. When the last of the reports had been consigned to the out-tray, he came upon a ribbon of computer printout sheets, still in fan-fold. A glance told him that they were the results of at least the first checks on the application forms completed by Festival performers.

Subjects were listed by name, nationality, and home city. Almost all were marked 'Nothing Known'. Occasionally there would be a note of some past encounter with the law, mostly motoring offences, with a few drug-use or theft convictions scattered among them. He flicked through the sheets, scanning the names, which were listed as they had been fed into the computer. Near the end, he found the entry for which he had been looking.