Skinner's festival

'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!'

39

Bridie Lindwall, writer of the new musical revue Waltvng Matilda, and director of the Brisbane Youth Theatre Company, was still in a state of shock when Andy Martin and Brian Mackie were finally allowed into the private room in the Murrayfield Hospital in which she had been installed, thanks to the provision of generous private health insurance by her show's Australian sponsor.

Ms Lindwall had been given a heavy sedative by the junior doctor who had treated her at the Royal Infirmary immediately after the explosion, and so it was midday before Martin and Mackie were allowed to interview her. Even then, Martin had needed to use his Special Branch clout to overrule the senior house officer in charge. At first, Martin thought that talking to her was like interviewing mist. The two detectives were unable to hold the woman's attention for more than a few seconds before a distant, glazed look washed across her face, as her fuzzy memory took her back to the night before, fitting together jagged fragments of recollection to form a jigsaw picture of confusion and terror.

'Ms Lindwall,' Martin said finally, as gently as he could but with an edge of steel to hold the woman's concentration, 'we have to know where you sourced your props for the production. The explosion happened in centre stage. We believe that the bomb was hidden in a piece of prop furniture.'

The woman was sitting up in bed, propped against a mound of pillows. She turned her freckled face towards him.

'Explosion? Oh yes, the explosion. How is everyone? It all happened so fast. Little Kelly, how about her? Is she all right?'

Martin sat down on the side of her bed, and took the woman's hand. 'Don't worry about the others. Just concentrate on yourself. You've had quite a shock. Now we need very badly to know about those props. Where did you get them? Was it Proscenium?'

The woman frowned as she tried to clear a path through the flotsam of her memory. 'Proscenium? No. We went there first, but they couldn't give us everything we wanted. Eventually-we found someone who could, in a little place with a funny name, south of Edinburgh.'

'What about the radiogram? You remember, the big thing in centre stage. Did you get that there, too?'

She shuddered. 'The radiogram.' Her voice rose. 'Yes. I remember the radiogram. I was standing in the wings. There was a flash, and I was being pushed backwards by a great big hand. Yes, it was as if the radiogram reached out and pushed me.'

She shot bolt upright in the bed, starring wide-eyed at Martin.

'OK, now. It's all right.' He put his hands on her shoulders, and eased her very gently back on to the pillows. 'We think that's where the bomb was hidden, Ms Lindwall – in the radiogram.

Now, can you remember where you got it?'

She nodded her head vigorously. Suddenly she seemed more in focus. 'Yes, that was one of the items that they couldn't give us at Proscenium. We had to go to the place with the funny name to find that.'

'That's good, Ms Lindwall. Now one other thing. When you weren't actually using the theatre – when the other companies were using it – what did you do with your props?'

'We have a storeroom allocated to us in the basement. All our stuff's locked up there between shows.'

'Who keeps the keys?'

'I do. Both of them. The theatre management doesn't want the responsibility of looking after anyone's kit.'

'Have you ever given a key to anyone else?'

'No. No one at all.'

'You don't recall seeing any sign that anyone else might have been in that store?'

'Nothing at all. Everything always looked normal.'

'Ok, Ms Lindwall. That's been very helpful. Now you get yourself some more rest.'

She grabbed his arm as he stood up. 'Aren't you going to tell me about the rest of them. How is everyone? How is little Kelly?'

Martin decided that economy with the truth would be in everyone's interests. 'Look, Bridie, obviously with a bang like that there were a few other scrapes, as well as your own. We don't have the full details yet, but I'll arrange for someone to come by and talk to you as soon as possible. Now, you just relax. And thanks again.'

Mackie closed the door of the private room gently behind them.

'Nice one, Andy. I wouldn't have fancied telling her that one of her guys is dead because wee Kelly's arm was blown right through his chest!'

40

Mcllhenney's motorcycle officer arrived with the promised tape cassette, five minutes ahead of schedule. Meanwhile Skinner had called Adam Arrow to his room to await its delivery. When Ruth brought the package in, she found the two seated in armchairs beside the low coffee table. Skinner accepted the clear plastic cassette and dropped it straight into a tape-recorder placed in the centre of the table. Once his secretary had closed the heavy door behind her, he pressed the 'play' button.

For a few seconds there was only the hiss of the tape. Then they heard seven coins drop, one by one, followed by the musical beeps of a thirteen-digit telephone number being keyed in on a modern instrument. Seconds later a ringing began in monotone. The call was answered on the sixth ring, in a tongue that sounded like Arabic. The voice was guttural, the accent heavy. Neither listener was able to identify the language.

Grant Macdairmid's response in English was strangely hushed, far removed from the bellowing rant for which he was locally famous. 'Hello, Glasgow here. How are our arrangements coming along?'

'Everything is progressing very well. We will be able to move on to the next stage on Saturday. The second delivery will be made then.'

'From the same French source?' •Yes.'

'That's good. My people have things well in hand, too. The police don't have a bloody clue. And they're stretched so tight just now, they're starting to come apart.'

'Yes, I see that your compatriots are keeping them very busy.

That worries me a little. Their approach is so high-profile and you are, shall we say, so well known, might it not mean that your security people will soon turn their attention to you?'

Macdairmid laughed softly. 'Look, we went over all that at the start. I'm a public figure, an MP. Yes, the SB plods keep an

occasional eye on me; it's son of like a ritual dance. I can always slip their gaze, like now. And they wouldn't really expect me to be involved in something like this. Grant Macdainnid, MP, windbag, demagogue and general nuisance, that's my reputation. But the real view of our friends in the cheap suits is Grant Macdairmid, MP, all fart, no shit.'

This time the other man laughed. 'Ah, my friend, if they only knew you as I do. Why, you're full of shit!'

There was a moment's silence as Macdairmid tried to work out whether he had been insulted. Then, deciding to make allowances for the other man's poor grasp of colloquial English, he ignored the remark and went on. 'So it's Saturday. Where do we take delivery?'

'I suggest that we do it in Edinburgh. The police there are fully occupied.' •Yeah. Why not?'

'So where do we meet?'

There was another silence. Then Macdairmid laughed softly.

'There's a bookseller's in George Street called James Thin. On the first floor there's a coffee shop. Most of the time it's full of old people and young mums and kids, but during the Festival there's all sorts in there. I'll have my person there by 11:30 am. Are you using the same courier as before?'

'Yes.'

'Fine. So identification will be no problem, then. It's all gone well so far, but they've seen nothing yet. Once I get my hands on your next consignment, we'll really make Scotland go off with a bang!'