I want you to make contact with the chief regional officer of HM Customs and Excise in the south of England, and brief him on what we're involved with. Tell him that we expect our subjects to make landfall in the UK within the next twenty-four hours, at a port as yet unknown, but possibly Portsmouth or Southampton. Give him details of Monklands' van and trailer, and ask him to make absolutely certain it gets clearance without trouble. No one is to stop it, or do the slightest thing to arouse suspicion.'
Skinner paused. 'That's top priority. Eventually Brian Mackie will confirm the destination.
Once he does, contact the local police force, and tell them what's happening. Make sure that, whatever reason might arise — dodgy brake lights or anything else — no one approaches the van. Then put the word around all the forces on all routes back to Scotland. Find out the number of the car that Andy Martin's in too, and circulate that. I don't want this operation blown through him and Mcllhenney being pulled for speeding by some over-zealous plod in a motorway car. Finally, get me a return ticket on the shuffle. Leave the flight details for now.
I'll wait as long as I can for Brian Mackie to call in.'
Seventy-four
‘Sorry if I startled you.'
He had been walking through the security gate at Edinburgh Airport when the sound rang out.
The strange tone threw the duty officer into a state of sudden confusion, until Skinner produced his mobile phone from his pocket, apologising at the same time. He stepped to one side and pushed the receive button.
`Boss, it's Brian. They're crossing Caen to Portsmouth, Brittany Ferries, midnight sailing.
They just got here. Monklands bought a ticket at the gate. It's not their biggest vessel, but it seems quiet. He must have known there'd be no problem getting on a night sailing.
`Good lad. You book yourself on, too. Check that they board, then your job's done. Get yourself a cabin and crash out. We'll handle things from the landing point on.'
`Where are you just now, sir?'
Èdinburgh Airport, about to board the eight o'clock shuttle. Andy and Mcllhenney are picking me up at Heathrow. We'll head straight down to Portsmouth from there. What time do they dock?'
`Six a.m. UK time.'
Òkay. We'll be there to see them through safely, then Andy and Neil will tail them up the road. You and I'll fly back. I'm going to board this plane now, so you call Fettes and get Maggie or someone to pass on the details to Kevin Cochran, my contact in the Customs. This has got to go like clockwork, and at the moment they're the mainspring of the operation.'
Seventy-five
There is something a inherently unattractive about all customs halls. None are beautiful, thought Skinner, but the building at the Portsmouth ferry terminal, was exceptional in its drabness.
Skinner, Martin and Mcllhenney were seated along one side of a long refectory table, in a long narrow room lit by neon tubes. A series of windows ran along the wall behind them. The glass in each was one-way, allowing a clear view of all of the arrivals hall, but allowing nothing, not even the faintest glimmer of light, to show from the observation room.
Facing them across the table was a group of eight men and women. Seven were wearing white short-sleeved shirts with epaulettes. The eighth, like the three policemen, wore a lounge suit. The table was strewn with white mugs and the scraps from a large platter which, only a few minutes earlier, had been piled high with bacon rolls.
The customs officer in the lounge suit turned to a colleague. 'Is the Duc de Normandie making good time?'
`Yes, sir,' one of the women replied. 'In fact it was well ahead of schedule, so it laid up for a while. It'll be docking in ten minutes.'
`Right, you'd better all think about taking up position. You've all heard Mr Skinner, and so you know the form. For once we don't want to catch someone. This is a quite unique situation, in that not only do the police know of a suspected shipment coming in, but they believe they know also where it's heading. If our colleagues here can follow this consignment all the way, they can do some real damage. So no slip-ups. Normal treatment for these two, quick passport check, and wave them on.
Skinner broke in. 'Kevin, there is one other thing you might be able to do for us. We're going on the strongest supposition that this is a drugs deal, but we failed to track the French end of the operation to the buy, and so we haven't seen the stuff yet. How good is your sniffer dog?'
`Harry,' Kevin Cochran called to a man at the back of the room. He was holding, on a short leash, the biggest golden Labrador bitch that any of the policemen had ever seen. 'How good is Thatcher there?'
`She's brilliant, sir. Old Mags could sniff out a spoonful of heroin in a hundredweight of sugar.'
Ìn that case,' Skinner asked, 'would it be possible to walk her past the Transit and trailer while Monklands and Lucan are in the passport queue, to see if she reacts?'
`Sure.'
`We mustn't alert the suspects, though.'
`No problem, sir. Just you leave it to me.'
Òkay,' said Cochran. 'Places, everyone.'
The white-shirted officers left the room, and reappeared a few seconds later on the other side of the viewing windows. Cochran and the three policemen gathered around one window.
'What's the normal route north out of Portsmouth, Kevin?' asked Martin.
'If you're going north, the usual way is to head towards Southampton, then pick up the A34
and head on up through Newbury, towards Oxford. You take the M40 from there, and then choose whether to go up the Ml or the M6.'
`Good. Neil, you and I had better get to the car. Will you call me on the mobile, boss, once they're about to clear?' Skinner nodded.
Òkay, then. See you in Scotland. Come on, Neil.'
The two detectives left through the door at the other end of the long room.
`How are we doing, Kevin?' asked Skinner.
The Waterguard chief-regional officer glanced at his watch. Àny minute now. The Brittany Ferries crews are very slick.' Will we have a good view from here?'
‘The best. I'm only opening one passport-control channel. They'll pass by right under our noses.'
The first vehicle, a Renault Twingo with French plates, swung into the long hall less than two minutes later, leading a line of assorted cars and vans. The lady in the passport booth was a model of efficiency, checking each document without appearing to rush, but clearing the line in double-quick time.
Eventually the first of a series of caravans joined the end of the queue. 'Your guys, with their trailer, ought to be in this lot.' Cochran pressed against the window, looking to his left to see as far as possible down the line. 'Yes. That's got to be them. Navy blue Transit, UK plates; and there's a boat on the back.'
He took a two-way radio set from the pocket of his jacket, and pressed the send switch.
'Okay, Sandra, they're in the line now. Two cars, four vans, then our target. Skinner saw the woman in the booth acknowledge the message with a brief nod of her head. He took out his mobile phone and dialled Andy Martin's number. It was answered on the first ring. 'Okay, lads, ready for the off. Three or four minutes, no more.'
One by one, at the same brisk pace, the officer in the booth cleared the vehicles in the line, sending each on its way with a smile, until at last the Transit drew to a halt at her window, and Skinner had his first clear view of Norrie Monklands and Serge Lucan. Monklands, in the driver's seat, leaned down and handed two passports to the woman. She accepted them with a broad smile, responding — Skinner assumed — to a casual piece of small-talk. She glanced at the first passport, then looked up at Monklands in the Transit. As they chatted, Skinner saw the dog-handler walk the huge Labrador behind the boat trailer, to the far side of the line. He could not be sure but he thought that, as the dog passed the boat, its handler gave a sharp tug on the short lead to keep the animal moving.
As the handler passed out of sight behind the boat, the woman glanced at the second passport in her hand. She spoke up towar
ds the van, and Lucan leaned forward suddenly in the passenger seat, into her line of vision. As he did, the handler walked his dog briskly back across the line and back down the shed, away from the Transit. Still holding the passports the woman smiled and said something else to the two men. Whether she spoke in French or English, both Monklands and Lucan threw back their heads in laughter.
`Come on, now girl,' the big policeman muttered to himself. 'That's great, but don't drag it out. Get them to hell out of there.'
As if she had heard him, the woman, with a last smile, handed the two passports back to Monklands. The man, stocky even in the driving seat, accepted them with a nod, wound up his window, and drove off slowly and carefully to the exit from the shed. He took a sharp left turn and, in a second, Transit and trailer had passed out of sight.
Òkay, Andy and Neil,' said Skinner, once again to no one in particular. 'You've caught the pass. Now run with the ball.' He turned to Kevin Cochran. 'That was excellent. Your lady out there is a star.'
The man smiled. 'She's well used to it, is our Sandra. She's a specialist. I get a job like this every so often. Whenever I do, I bring her along. She doesn't panic, and she never gives a flicker of what's going on.'
`How about Harry and Thatcher?'
Cochran nodded. 'Yes, they're on my flying squad, too. Terrific dog, that. She's the best in the business . . . and Harry Garden's not too bad either. Let's go and find them.'
He led the way out into the main shed. Sandra had been relieved by one of the regular officers, and a second line had been opened up. She and Harry stood chatting; Thatcher lay idly at her handler's feet.
`Well done, you lot,' shouted Cochran as he and Skinner approached. 'No problems that we couldn't see?'
Sandra shook her head. 'No. That Monklands thinks he's made another conquest. He's the god's-gift type.' She had a mellow voice with a slight West Country accent. Listening to her reassuring tones, Skinner understood at least one reason why she was so good at her specialist role. She went on, lucan, the Frenchman, doesn't seem to speak much English, but Monklands' French is very good. I cracked a joke for Lucan, and the Scots fellow picked it up even before he did.'
`Good,' said Cochran. 'Harry, how about you? Did Thatcher have anything to tell you?'
Did she just, sir. Did she just.' The big man smiled broadly.
`First time I walked her behind the boat, she nearly took my arm out its socket. Had a hell of a job keeping her going on past. I took her back again to make sure, and it was the same.
Even on the trot, she was wanting to climb on that trailer.' He looked at Skinner. 'When you nick 'em, sir, don't waste time with the boat. Just go straight to those outboard motors. It's in there and, judging by the way Old Mags acted, there's a hell of a lot. You got a bonanza there.
Bloody good work by whoever tailed 'em.'
Skinner looked past the dog-handler. 'Speak of the devil. Here's that very guy.'
Even after a night on the Duc de Normandie, Brian Mackie still looked worn and dishevelled.
He carried bags of tiredness under both eyes, and his few remaining wisps of hair were flying about untidily.
Skinner smiled as he approached. 'Brian, you look bloody awful. I send you off to France on a cushy job and you come back like a death's head. Didn't you get a cabin?'
Mackie nodded. 'Sure. Right over the engine, I think. I've had better nights sleeping on the floor! Please, boss. Can we go back to plain, boring old Edinburgh? And can I get to stay there for a while?'
Seventy-six
‘Sir, have these boys got a toilet in that Transit, d'ye think? It's been four hours since we had those mugs of coffee. Don't know about you, but my bladder's beginning to get annoyed. A bit pissed off, y'might say.'
Andy Martin, in the passenger seat of the Peugeot, laughed softly. 'That's what they teach us on the Senior Command course, Neil. Self-discipline and iron-hard bladder control. But, seriously, they'll have to stop soon. The Transit must be eating up the fuel, with that trailer on the back. They have to be due a fill-up.'
They had made steady progress since leaving Portsmouth. Kevin Cochran's prediction of Monklands' route had been accurate. They had followed their quarry westward to Southampton, before striking north towards, and through the centre of the pretty town of Newbury. Even at that hour of the morning, the traffic had been sufficiently heavy for their pursuit to be unobtrusive, while keeping the target always in sight. From the start, Monklands had driven steadily, and within the speed limit, as concerned, possibly, that he give the trailer a smooth ride as with ensuring that he did not attract the attention of the motorway patrols.
Eventually, around three and a half hours after setting out, and with McIlhenney’s fidgets behind the wheel becoming more and more frequent, the van's orange indicator flashed at the approach of the Leicester Forest East service area. 'Thank Christ for that,' the detective sergeant muttered. 'Look, sir, if they're only stopping for petrol, will you take the wheel and let me nip off for a Jimmy Riddle?'
Martin nodded. But in fact, rather than heading directly for the pumps, the Transit pulled into the main car park. Keeping two cars between them, Mcllhenney followed. He parked several rows away, and turned to look at Martin with an unspoken appeal. Smiling, the detective superintendent nodded; the big man jumped from the car and headed off briskly towards the single-storey service building.
Alone in the Peugeot, Martin eased down in his seat. While keeping his eyes on the van, he became aware, for the first time, that the forecourt was unusually crowded. Several coaches were parked in their designated spaces, and throngs of Asian men were milling about, many carrying brightly coloured flags which fluttered in the fresh morning breeze. For a moment he was puzzled, until he remembered the Test Match, due to begin that morning. The crowds were boisterous almost to the point of rowdiness. He glanced around, and took in a heavy presence of uniformed policemen, with several dog-handlers among their number.
`More like football supporters every year,' he whispered to himself. 'It's an all-year-round job for the crowd-control squads now.'
Movement from the Transit reclaimed his attention. The driver's door opened, and Monklands jumped out. He emptied the remaining contents of a plastic cup on to the ground, then looked back into the van and spoke to his passenger, before heading off towards the shops and toilets.
Must be peeing in turn, one on guard all the time, thought Martin; just like us, if they only knew. He settled down again, to await McIlhenney’s return.
At first he thought little of the dog's insistent bark. There's always some idiot who gets brave when he sees a dog safely on the lead, he mused. But then it barked once more, the sound turning this time into something approaching a howl. He looked round, and saw the animal at once. Even by German Shepherd standards, this was a powerful dog. It was pulling its puzzled handler along gradually, inexorably, in the direction of the blue van and the trailer.
'Oh shit!' Martin cried aloud this time. 'It's a sniffer!'
As he watched, the handler loosed his grip on the leash, allowing the dog to follow its nose. It pulled him at a trot across the last few yards, straight to the twin outboard engines, canted up at the back of the boat, jumping up as it reached them and pawing at the engine casing.
Martin could not see inside the van, but he knew inevitably what would happen. He did not have to wait long. The passenger door of the Transit slid open, and Serge Lucan jumped out, running full-tilt away from the dog.
'Oh shit!' Martin roared once more, as he threw open the door of the Peugeot and sprinted towards the Frenchman. Lucan recognised this new threat almost at once, and veered away from his approach. But he was too late. Martin was already too close, and had an edge in speed which enabled him to run the man down in only a few strides. He launched himself in a rugby tackle, taking the man around the knees and bringing him down, heavily. Lucan kicked out fiercely, in his grip, and made to rise. He swung a punch at his pursuer's blond head, but his arm was trapped exper
tly and twisted up behind his back. Swiftly, brutally, Martin kicked his legs out from under him slamming him once more into the tarmac, face-down and helpless.
He looked over his shoulder, and saw Mcllhenney returning with a look of pure bewilderment on his face.
`Neil!' he shouted. 'Monklands is in the building. somewhere! Nail him!' He glared across at the dog-handler, who was approaching uncertainly. 'Police! Drugs Squad. Don't ask, just give my sergeant assistance!' The helmeted constable, who recognised authority when he heard it, obeyed at once.
The bulky Mcllhenney was halfway across the car park when Monklands appeared in the wide doorway. Panic flooded his features as he saw Lucan on the ground with Martin on top of him, his knee driven into his back. Then he, too, took to his heels. Mcllhenney, who was built for endurance rather than speed, began to give chase, but stopped in almost palpable relief as the dog, unleashed, shot past him. It caught Monklands in eight strides. Launching itself, it seized the man's forearm and knocked him to the ground. The man screamed. 'Get it off me, for Christ's sake!' Detective and handler arrived together. As the dog obeyed a command to release and come to heel, Mcllhenney took his prisoner by the collar and belt, hauled him to his feet and marched him off to join Martin and Lucan.
As the two pursuers stood beside the Transit, their captives restrained firmly, a uniformed inspector marched across, bristling with indignation.
`What are you people? What is this? 'Why wasn't I told?'
Piercing green eyes fixed upon him and silenced his outburst. 'Superintendent Martin and Sergeant Mcllhenney, Edinburgh Drugs Squad. We'd show you our warrant cards, but we've sort of got our hands full.'
The uniformed man stiffened with respect for rank. 'Yes, sir.'
Martin gave him a resigned smile. 'It's not your fault, Inspector, but I've got some bad news for you — then some worse news. The bad news is that RinTinTin here has just fucked up the biggest drugs round-up in the history of British policing. The worse news is that, until I can calm him down, there's a certain Assistant Chief Constable who's going to want to tear your heart out with his bare hands, and probably the dog's too!'
Skinner's Trail - Quintin Jardine Page 26