'What about the messenger?'
'He definitely isn't saying anything. He tried to pull a gun on Captain Arrow. The wee man hit him so hard he smashed his voicebox. He'd have died if Sarah hadn't been with the emergency team outside. She did an emergency tracheotomy. She kept him alive, but she reckons he might never speak again. He's in intensive care.'
'OK, Brian, thanks. Be back soon.'
Next, from the car, he called Six, then Joe Doherty, who for once had been spending a weekend at home. When he broke the news, it was the first time that Skinner had ever heard Doherty rattled.
'Christ, Bob! You really mean that? Giminez is running poisoned smack? I gotta feed that back to the Bureau and the DBA. Suppose he's doing that in the States as well. You any idea how many people you could kill with a case full of poison?'
'As many as there are needles to go round, my friend. Good luck.'
56
The Sentinel broke the Carlie story on Sunday morning.
Bob and Sarah were still asleep when the telephone rang. It was Ballantyne in a panic which verged on hysteria. First, Bob calmed him down, then he dressed and drove down to the newsagent at the nearby road junction to pick up a copy of the newspaper. The Sentinel was a new, independent Scottish Sunday tabloid, launched three months earlier, and already struggling for survival.
The candid back-door shot was there, all right. But, much more serious, there was a second photograph, taken with a long lens through an upper floor window, which showed clearly the Secretary of State and his lady in a fond embrace. Fortunately, Skinner thought as he studied it, they were both fully clothed. •MYSTERY BLONDE IN BALLANTYNE LOVE-NEST' screamed the headline, crediting the 'Fighters for an Independent Scotland' as the source of the photographs, and printing in full their denunciation of Ballantyne. However, in neither the statement nor the Sentinel's subsequent story was Carlie identified.
As Sarah sat down to read the story and study the photographs, Skinner called Ballantyne back on the kitchen phone.
'Alan, I'm sorry for you, but this isn't one that I can help you with. They've broken no law here. Any paparazzi could have done that; and I'm surprised that no one has before now. Best thing you can do is call Mike Licorish and ask him if he'll stretch the rules and issue a personal statement for you.'
'But, Bob, my career.'
'Alan, with respect, you should have thought of that before.
What you do now is up to you and your conscience. You're either a man or you're a weasel. I know what I think you are. It's up to you to prove me right or wrong.'
As he hung the phone up, he noticed that Sarah was looking at him in astonishment. But he shook his head and said no more.
An hour later, as they were clearing away the breakfast dishes, the telephone rang again. This time, it was Michael Licorish.
'Bob, I thought you'd like to hear this before it goes out. You listening?'
Skinner grunted.
'It's a statement by the Secretary of State. It reads: "Mrs Ballantyne and I deprecate the publication in this morning's press of photographs of our close friend Miss Charlotte Mays, and the libellous story which accompanied them. One of these photographs was particularly intrusive in that it shows Miss Mays comforting me immediately after I had received the sad and unexpected news of the death of another close family friend, Lord Broadgate. Mrs Ballantyne and I wish to make clear that if there iff any further publication of these photographs or these allegations, we will pursue libel actions against the perpetrators with the fuUf rigour of the law." What do you think of that?'
'Jesus, that's our man all right. Where's Carlie now?'
'On a plane heading for theStates. S of S bought the ticket.'
'Isn't he just the ticket himself, eh? Cheers, Mike.' He hung up.
Sarah, reaching up to put two mugs away in a high cupboard, looked across at him. 'Well? Which is he then?'
'I was right enough. He's a fucking weasel.'
57
The full team – police and SAS back-up – gathered in the Fettes Hall at 11:00 am, long after the last journalists had left the regular morning briefing. For the newsmen, the highlight had been Skinner's brief and completely unexpected statement that Grant Macdairmid, MP and his sister Cassandra had been arrested, along with a third man, identity as yet unknown, and charged with possession of heroin with intent to supply.
Faced with a threat by Skinner of prosecution for attempted murder, Macdairmid, on the advice of his lawyer, had made a full formal statement at 2:00 am. He had said that his contacts in London had taken him to meet a man in a pub, a Libyan who had told him that he had a connection to some cheap, high-quality drugs. Macdairmid had also admitted that he had been dealing for some years.
The contact had given him a number in Colombia, and he had talked price with the man there. The supplier had explained that he routed the heroin in through France, and across the Channel, easy since the borders had been opened. Macdairmid had decided to take a trial shipment, and had done well out of it. He had agreed to take a second batch, bigger this time. He had been astonished at the man's low price.
The same thought had occurred to Skinner. Two hundred thousand for a case-load of heroin was bargain basement.
But now Skinner's full attention was turned to his briefing for the Fringe Sunday event. From the rows of theatre seating which had been set out for the press, twenty serious faces looked back at him. Among them was Sarah's. He had attempted to persuade her that she would not be needed, and that her presence would be a Personal distraction to him, but she had been adamant. 'You included me in this team. That means all the way.'
Now, he fixed his troubled gaze upon her as he stood up, behind his desk, to address the team.
'Well, ladies and gentlemen. Let me begin by giving it to you straight. This is going to be the devil's own job to police. Even in a normal year. Fringe Sunday gives your average pickpocket an orgasm just thinking about it. This time, well…
'For our army friends, who may be new to the Festival, let me explain what happens. Fringe Sunday is the one major gathering of all the Fringe performers, giving the public a chance to see them close-up and to sample their shows. You'll all by now have seen what happens at the foot of the Mound every lunchtime, and you'll have an idea of the crowds that gather there. Well, this event attracts about forty to fifty times that number. It takes place in Holyrood Park, it's open to the public, and it's absolutely free.
We've only been able to guess at the possible numbers, but the experienced boys in operations reckon that there could be as many as one hundred thousand there, given a fine day – and this will be as fine a day as you could ask for. I've checked the forecast, and there's no chance of the weather breaking for a few days yet.
'You might expect the crowd to be less today, with all that's happened. Let's hope that's right. But it's been nearly a week since the last major incident. The press are even beginning to suggest that the enemy has shot his bolt.'
Skinner paused to look around the hall.
'Don't you believe it! These people want something big.
They've had access to state-of-the-art equipment, and to people who know how to use it.'
Mario McGuire cut in. 'They're claiming they want an independent Scotland. Are you saying it might be something else they're after?'
'That's what I'm beginning to wonder, yes. How come we don't have a clue as to who they are. We led ourselves well and truly up; the garden path with Macdairmid. All our known agitators have checked out clean – even that daft hack, Frazer Pagett. There is something else, Mario. I feel it in my water! Maybe it's really us they're after.' I Us?'