Skinner's Festival (20 page)

FORTY-SEVEN

The Mary Little Horse story caused a sensation at the Thursday morning briefing, even without the intimate details of her relationship with Frank Adams. Skinner’s carefully worded
statement, warning the public to be on the look-out for the woman, together with her photograph, caught the media corps off guard.
'So where does that put your investigation?’ With some of his belligerence recovered, Al Neidermeyer put the first question.
'It puts a new slant on it, that’s for sure. Inevitably you have to be a bit sceptical about the real nature of a so-called patriotic organisation that gets itself involved with a foreign criminal like Typhoid Mary.’

Skinner saw the eyes of the Sun reporter, seated in the front row, light up at his use of her nickname.
'I regard this as significant progress. For legal reasons, I can’t go into much detail, but we need to talk with this woman urgently in connection with the death of Hilary Guillaum and the
Waltzing
Matilda
bombing. She’s a striking girl: the sort who stands out in a crowd. She is also very, very dangerous, I am assured by the FBI. So any member of the public who thinks they’ve spotted her should give us a call at once, but otherwise leave her well alone.’

FORTY-EIGHT

Reported sightings of Typhoid Mary began to flood the Fettes switchboard, from the moment the first reports were broadcast. Indeed the earliest claims were made even before the first edition of the Evening News had hit the streets, giving her photograph page-one prominence.
As Skinner had surmised, all the calls were fruitless. Members of the public from as far afield as Barra and Lerwick called in to declare that they had seen the native American fugitive, but
although these sightings were all followed up, none was even close to the mark. The only action that the police saw was when a young lady with a pronounced Sloane Ranger accent was detained in Shetland, before being identified as the daughter of a minor peer, on a back-packing tour of the Scottish Islands.
As Thursday stretched into Friday with no sign of further action by the
Fighters,
Skinner was able to report an incident-free twenty-four hours at the next morning’s briefing.

FORTY-NINE

When Skinner returned from the Friday press conference, he found Alex waiting in his office. As he entered the room, she jumped up and rushed across to him.

'Hi, Pops.’
He took her into his arms and hugged her.

'Pops, I’m sorry. You’re under all this pressure and I behave like a selfish, love-sick cow. I am really, really sorry.
'Am I forgiven?’
His face lit up as he smiled at her. Suddenly the world was a better place. 'Yeah, just this once I’ll let you off with a caution.
How are you and the boy getting on?’
'Fine. Ingo’s great. He’s so bright, and I just love him to bits. Don’t worry, though. I’m not going to do anything daft like rushing off to Sweden with him. I’ve got a degree to finish first, and a diploma to get after that. He’s got his course to finish, too. Once he’s done that, he says he’ll find a job in Britain, in the theatre if nothing else, and we can be together for good.’
In spite of his misgivings about the Swede, Bob grinned.
'Sounds like you’ve got his life thoroughly organised for him, just like you organised mine for twenty years.’
'Exactly. But you’ve got someone else to do that for you now. Even Andy, I hear from Sarah, may have found the love of his life. I have to have someone to look after.’
'Well, babe, all I ask is that you look after yourself as well. In fact put yourself first for a while.’ He decided it was time to change the subject. 'How’s your play then? We must pay it
another visit.’

“We’re doing great. It won’t be announced in the
Scotsman
till tomorrow, but we’ve won a Fringe Award. Why don’t you come to the Sunday show. It’s being presented then.’
Sunday? Bob referred to his memory for a second. 'Sorry, can’t do that. Sarah’s got tickets for Le Cirque Mobile, or something, down on Leith Links. Tonight we’re doing a movie with Andy and Julia, his new girlfriend, and tomorrow . . .’ He paused for a second. 'Tomorrow I might be busy. So we’ll come some time next week.’
Alex did not notice his momentary preoccupation.

'Le Cirque? I’ve heard of them. They’re all bikers or something like that, aren’t they. They’re supposed to be terrific.’
'We’ll see,’ he said, although his tone implied doubt. 'All that carbon monoxide inside a tent doesn’t sound too great to me. I’d rather be at your show, darling, believe me, but Sarah’s dead keen on it.’

Alex laughed. 'It’ll be all right. Sarah can pick 'em, you know. 'Well, look. Pops. If I don’t see you at the theatre, I’ll look out for you at Fringe Sunday.’
“No!’
His sudden vehemence stopped her in her tracks.
'Look, babe. Do just one thing for your old man. Steer well clear of Fringe Sunday.’
'But why? All the gang are going.’
'Just for me, give it a miss.’
She looked hard at him. 'You think something bad might happen? Do you know something?’
'Let’s just say I’ll feel happier if I know I don’t have to look out for you there.’
“Well, my old Dad, if it makes you feel happier, I’ll give it a miss. Promise.’
She stood on tiptoe, kissed him on the forehead and flitted out of the room, waving goodbye.

FIFTY

Sir James Proud was the last man he had expected to see that morning. Or so Skinner told himself at first. But when he thought about it later, he realised that he had not been in the least surprised when his door burst open to reveal the Chief Constable’s ample frame. Proud Jimmy, as he was known throughout his force, looked as imposing as ever in full uniform.
Chief What the hell are you doing here?’
You know bloody fine,’ said Sir James Proud. 'I couldn’t settle for a moment out there, knowing all this nonsense was going on back home. Eventually it all got too much for her ladyship. Yesterday morning she said to me, “Jimmy. That’s it. I’m packing and we’re going to the airport. Get your Gold Card ready.” So here I am.’ ;

Skinner smiled at him. He realised at that moment just how much he had missed the solid support and advice of Sir James Proud.
Well, I’m sorry it had to happen that way, but by God I’m glad you’re back.’
'So what’s been happening?’
Quickly Skinner updated him on the crisis. He showed him the MI6 file on Jesus Giminez, and the FBI sheet on Mary Little Horse.
'I am impressed,’ said the Chief. 'You seem to draw these people. Bob, like a flame attracts moths. So now I’m back, what can I do? How can I help?’
'You can chair tomorrow morning’s press conference for a start. I’ll be busy, doing something else. I’ll have a Member of Parliament to arrest!’

FIFTY-ONE

Neil Mcllhenney was impressed by Macdairmid’s choice of meeting-place. Edinburgh born and bred, he had never heard of the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, far less visited it. So when he ambled up the red sandstone steps and into the cathedral-like central hall, with its massive pipe organ at the far end, he was taken by surprise by its elegance and its scale. Neil had always liked organ music, and the fact that he had arrived in the middle of the Friday afternoon recital made the job the highlight of his week in Glasgow.
The tap had picked up Grant Macdairmid on the pub telephone as he set up his assignation at Kelvingrove. His call had been brief and to the point. 'Cassie? Grant here. Look I need you to run another message for me. Meet me this afternoon. Four-thirty, Kelvingrove Art Gallery.’

Haggerty had instructed Barry Macgregor to tail the MP from his office to the meeting-place, while Mcllhenney had been sent on ahead.

Wooden seats were set out in rows across the hall. Those near the front were well filled, but in the row second from the back a girl sat alone, round-shouldered but relaxed in a pale blue T-shirt. Mcllhenney looked at the back of her head and wondered. Rather than take a seat he wandered across to one of the display cases in an area off the hall. It was filled with an assortment of Cromwellian armour, out-of-place somehow in a Glasgow setting.

He could observe the main door from the far side of the glass case, and so Macdairmid did not see him as he glanced all around the hall on his arrival. Satisfied, the MP moved swiftly down the hall and made his way calmly between the seats towards the girl.
Mcllhenney noticed that he was carrying a black briefcase.
Macgregor entered a few seconds later, and sat down in the back row, a comfortable distance away from the couple. He had untied his pony-tail, and his long hair, with its white-beaded
Plaits, fell around his shoulders. He wore a crew-necked, short sleeved shirt over faded jeans, split at the knee. Mcllhenney looked at him and smiled. 'Crime Squad throws up some sights,
right enough,’ he whispered to himself.
The meeting lasted only a few minutes. Neither detective dared edge close enough to hear the conversation, but from what they could see it was one-sided, Macdairmid doing all the talking. Less than five minutes after he had entered, the MP stood up and made his way out of the Gallery – without the black briefcase. Neither detective made a move to follow him. They knew that Glasgow officers were waiting outside at each exit from the Gallery, ready
to pick up Macdairmid’s trail. Instead they stayed, as ordered, with the girl.

She had little taste either, it seemed, for the fine organ music, for three minutes later she too rose to go. The briefcase looked heavy in her right hand. Outside, she made quickly for the car park , where she unlocked the door of a battered green Metro. She heaved the case on to the passenger seat, before jumping in and driving off.
Braided hair flying behind him, Macgregor sprinted over to McIlhenney’s Astra and jumped in, as the older man revved the engine and set off after the girl.

'Registration D436 QQS,’ barked Mcllhenney. 'Call it in.’
Using the car telephone rather than radio, Macgregor waited on the line while the number was checked. Eventually he said, 'Got that,’ and put the phone back in its magnetic cradle. 'It’s his sister, Neil. The bugger’s using his own sister on a pick-up. The Metro’s registered to Cassandra Macdairmid, date of birth 29 June 1969, listed address 124 Dundonald Road, Partickhill.’ “
'In that case, she’s going home,’ said Mcllhenney, turning the Astra into Dundonald Road. a

FIFTY-TWO

Adam Arrow, Mario McGuire and Maggie Rose were all in position in the Chapter One Coffee Shop on the first floor of James Thin, in George Street, well before Cassie Macdairmid climbed the staircase at 11:25 am.
They were seated several tables apart. Wearing a light cotton jacket. Arrow looked for all the world like a tourist, as he sat reading the
Saturday Telegraph.
His view extended from the top
of the stairs and into the second room of the cafeteria. He could see McGuire and Rose at their table through the open doorway which connected the cafe’s two rooms. They looked for all the world like a thirty-something Edinburgh couple – which in fact they were – out on a morning’s shopping expedition. Maggie’s Marks Spencer carrier bag, containing a few purchases made earlier that day, added authenticity.

They recognised Cassie Macdairmid as soon as she entered, not only from the description given by Mcllhenney and Macgregor, but from the heavy black briefcase which she carried in her right hand. It tugged her shoulder down slightly as she moved. Arrow’s eyes were fixed on her back as she passed through the doorway, past McGuire and Rose, who seemed to take no notice of her. She made her way to the service counter, where she bought a Cappuccino and a slab of thick brown cake. With difficulty she carried them, and the briefcase, in the direction of a table, somewhere to the left of McGuire and Rose, but out of Arrow’s line of sight.

If being inconspicuous was part of the other messenger’s brief, then, thought Arrow, he was inept at it. He wore the loudest black-and-white check woollen jacket that Arrow had ever seen on a man, with bright yellow polyester trousers. His lank jet-black hair, which emphasised his sallow complexion, looked as if it had been cut by a blind man. Apart from the fact that he looked so out of place, it was his briefcase which marked him out immediately as their second target. It was identical to that which Cassie Macdairmid had brought with her from Glasgow.
Arrow studied his
Telegraph
intently as the man looked quickly round the room, and, clearly having seen nothing to alarm him, moved through towards the service counter. He purchased a Coke, and, holding the bottle, looked round once more. At last, his eyebrows rose briefly in recognition as – Arrow guessed – he caught sight of Cassie Macdairmid. The messenger moved towards her table.

'May I join you?’ he heard him asking in a Hispanic accent, just as he disappeared from view. Arrow switched his gaze to McGuire and Rose, ready to take his cue from them.
Five minutes had passed before he saw Maggie Rose make at sudden slight movement in his direction with her left hand. The little soldier stood up and moved towards the wide doorway, just as the man appeared in it. Arrow noticed at once that this time he was holding his briefcase in his left hand, while the other was plunged deep in the voluminous pocket of his jacket. As the two men’s eyes met the right hand started to move. Arrow stepped in, close and fast. With his left hand he grabbed the man’s right wrist and immobilised it, just as the gun came into sight. At the same time the hard edge of his right hand smashed across the messenger’s windpipe. With a choking sound, the man dropped his briefcase and crumpled to the floor. Arrow ripped the gun from his grasp and let his wrist go. He stepped over the
writhing, pop-eyed form and through the doorway.

Maggie Rose was holding Cassie Macdairmid down in her chair by the shoulders. The woman looked terrified. McGuire held the second briefcase. He was about to open it when Arrow called to him.
'No, Mario. Leave that for Major Legge. He should have arrived outside by now. Let’s get the public out of here, and fetch him in.’

FIFTY-THREE

'Gammy’ Legge shook his head. 'No damned explosive I’ve ever seen looks like that.’ He stood in the second, inner room of the James Thin coffee-shop, still wearing his heavy black blast armour. 'You can come up now,’ he called loudly.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and, a few seconds later, Arrow, Rose and McGuire appeared together in the doorway.
The black briefcase which the man had brought with him lay open on the table. It was full to the brim with fist-sized packages wrapped in brown paper. Legge had slit one open, and held it in the palm of his hand.
'What is it?’ asked Arrow.
'Buggered if I know, old son. But it isn’t explosive.’
Maggie Rose took the parcel from him. She looked at the powder inside and sniffed.
'You’re wrong there. Major,’ she said quietly. 'This stuffs explosive all right. It’s high-octane and very dirty-looking heroin!’