Skinner's Trail

by Quintin Jardine

`Okay, Brian, that's good work. You stick to it. Let me know once he leaves, then check in whenever you can, on the road. Speak to you later.'

  Beside him, Sarah rubbed her bleary eyes. Whwsat?' she murmured.

  `Brian Clouseau calling in from France. I think our game's about to kick off!'

  She reached up and pulled him down beside her. 'Well, before it does,' she yawned, 'how about one final training session?'

  Seventy

  As Skinner's morning unfurled and moved towards midday, his mood grew more and more tetchy. He had given Ruth instructions that he would take no calls other than from Brian Mackie, but as time passed the silent telephone on his desk disrupted his concentration. He could barely read a single page without his attention wandering as he eyed the receiver, urging it to ring.

  The mountainous in-tray which he had faced on the Saturday morning of his return had been largely weeded out. He was reduced to reading routine reports from the various divisions on the containment of petty crime, when Ruth buzzed him through. He flicked the intercom switch.

  `Sir, if you've got a few minutes, the Chief wonders if you'd join him for coffee. He's just back from his conference in Birmingham.'

  `Aye, sure. I'd welcome it. Can't get used to having my backside stuck in a chair again.'

  Sir James Proud's office was on the opposite side of the Command Corridor from his own. Skinner preferred his perch over the main driveway, from which he could keep an eye on the traffic to and from the headquarters, to his boss's outlook over the force's modest playing fields.

  Mary, the Chief's new secretary, was arranging three cups and a jug on a tray. 'Morning, sir. Go right in, please.'

  The unspoken question prompted by the third cup was answered as soon as he stepped into the long, spacious office. Proud Jimmy was sitting in an armchair facing his coffee table. Beside him was Chris Whitlow, the force's Management Services Director. Whitlow was a professional administrator who had been recruited from local government to take responsibility for establishment tasks, and to manage the force's budgets. To make way for him, one of the authorised Assistant Chief Constable posts had been removed from the establishment. Before the appointment had been made, Skinner had expressed private reservations over the principle of appointing a civilian to such a senior post in a disciplined service. 'Theory's great, Chief, but what about the practice? How long will it be before a guy like this starts questioning command decisions and policy on grounds of cost? It could be the thin end of a wedge. Before you know it we could have a chief executive, with powers, slotted in between us and the police board.' Nevertheless he had welcomed Whitlow to the team on his appointment, and had co-operated with him in every way, even suppressing slight feelings of alarm when the new broom had taken over the office next to Proud's own, made vacant by the retirement of Eddie McGuinness, the former Deputy Chief.

  Sir James jumped to his feet as Skinner entered the room.

  `Bob, good to see you. My, you're looking brown!'

  The ACC grinned at his boss. 'So they tell me. I'm thinking about putting in for a transfer to the Guardia Civil. After the last few days I feel like an honorary member anyway.'

  `Yes. Some holiday you've had. Roy Old told me about that business with Sarah and the man with the brick. That was bad. Did they get him?'

  Skinner nodded, a gleam in his eye. 'Oh yes, I got him,' he said quietly. 'He said he was sorry and he won't do it again. Now I'm going to get the guy who sent him. He's going to be sorry too.'

  `Sounds a mite personal, Bob.' If Whitlow's tone was jocular, it was lost on Skinner.

  `It is fucking personal, Chris, but it's professional too.' He turned back to Proud. So how was the ACPO conference, Jimmy?'

  The Chief pulled a face. 'Ponderous as usual. A sea of silver braid gathered together for the sole purpose of being lectured by civil servants and politicians. Here, sit down while I pour.' Mary had followed Skinner into the room with her tray. Proud Jimmy thanked her, picked up the jug and poured coffee into the three cups. They faced each other around the low table.

  So tell me about this business, Bob. Maggie Rose has been keeping me broadly up to date. Your simple fraud investigation seems to have taken wings.'

  `Wings and jet engines, Chief.' Quickly, Skinner explained the sequence of events which had stretched the investigation over five countries and half a continent.

  So where are things now?' asked Proud.

  `Waiting for the phone to ring. Something's happening in Monte Carlo. Our target's getting ready to leave, and it's our bet that he's bringing more than a boat back with him.'

  `But it is no more than a bet, Bob, isn't it?' said Whitlow.

  Skinner looked at him coldly. 'Maybe, but it's odds on. We've got a million-odd quid in laundered cash disappearing into the Mediterranean. That cash isn't a fucking donation to

  Oxfam. We know it's been used to buy something, and given Ainscow's encounter with Cocozza and the three wise men in the Powderhall sauna, our belief is that it's drugs.'

  ‘But what if you're wrong? What if it's not? What if this man Monklands isn't bringing anything back with him. What if Skinner's trail goes cold? You've had Mackie flying all over Europe . . . and you yourself for that matter. At the end of the day, if there's nothing to show for it, how am I going to explain those costs to the police board?'

  Skinner flashed a look at Proud. 'What is this, sir? Am I on the carpet here?'

  The Chief shook his head emphatically. 'Chris voiced some concerns to me. I told him he'd better put them to you directly.'

  `Okay.' Skinner, mollified, turned back to Whitlow. 'Right, Chris. I think it's time I spelled out the rules of engagement around here, because you seem to have misunderstood them. This is an active operation, and I'm in charge. I've been taking command decisions in this force for years and I back my own judgement on what is reasonable and what is not. If I think I'm into major cost, I'll tell you; otherwise I won't.

  `As for this so-called bet of mine, we have reason to believe that smack worth one and a half million dollars net is about to be imported into this country. Do you know what that will be worth on the street? Easily over ten million sterling, maybe much more, depending on how it's cut. Do you know something else? It'll sell like hot-cross buns at Easter. Get your accountant's mind round this. Try putting out a rights issue for ten million to private shareholders in your average public company. The odds are that the underwriters will be left with a good chunk. Not with this issue. It'll be fully subscribed within weeks of going on offer. Thousands of people with dependencies will be exploited. Their addictions will be fed and prolonged. Some will overdose and die. Few of these people earn enough to feed their habits. So as soon as this stuff becomes available in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and wherever else it goes, there will be an outbreak, in each of those cities, of petty and not-so-petty crime: burglaries, muggings, the odd armed robbery and so on. All the work of junkies needing readies. The public will be added to the list of victims and police resources everywhere will be stretched. Now, you weigh all of that against a couple of plane fares.

  `Through all of this, a few people will get very rich. Vaudan and Ainscow will pick up maybe half the total take. They'll be able to pay off their seed capital loan, set aside more cash for the next buy, and still split a couple of million sterling in profit. The dealers will be awash with surplus cash, ready to invest in whatever other villainy they're into. You follow that, and do you appreciate all the consequences?'

  Whitlow nodded, but said nothing.

  `That's good. Because it's important that we all operate in harmony along this corridor. So that we can do that, let me spell out a couple more of Skinner's rules for you. The first is that you don't answer to the police board for my actions. I do. You're here to service the force, not run it. The second is that if you've got a concern over any aspect of my operations, the first person you speak to about it had better be me.'

  Whitlow nodded again. He coughed. 'Yes, Bob, I hear what you say. I should ha
ve come to you first, and I will in future.' He stood up. 'Now, if you will excuse me, Sir James.'

  `Of course, Chris. Glad we've cleared the air.'

  Skinner was still fuming quietly as the door closed. Proud Jimmy smiled at him. 'Thought it was better to handle things that way than simply come across the corridor and tell you about it. I know you. You'd have kicked his bloody door in! Anyway, that's him calmed down now. Wish I could sort people out the way you can.'

  `Aye, maybe,' growled Skinner. 'We'd still better tell Ruth and Mary to keep a running tally of the paper-clips, though.'

  Proud laughed. 'That's the future, Bob. It'll all be yours when you're behind my desk.'

  `You're forgetting the regulation, Jimmy. No promotion to Chief without experience of command rank in another force.'

  Proud's smile grew even wider. 'Didn't I tell you? I've fixed that with ACPO and the Scottish Office. That other job of yours — Secretary of State's security adviser? That'll be counted as outside experience when the time comes. I've told you before, even if you're kicking and screaming, Bob, I'm going to make certain that you succeed me.'

  The surprise was still on Skinner's face when the phone rang.

  Proud moved to his desk and picked it up. 'Yes. Put him through.' He held out the receiver. ‘For you. Mackie.'

  Skinner took one long step across to take the call. 'Brian, yes.'

  `They're on the move sir. Two of them. Norman Monklands and Lucan. They've just pulled out of the yard. My first car's gone with them, and I'm off next. There's a speedboat on the trailer. Quite a big thing, it is, with two heavy outboard engines on the back.'

  'So Lucan's gone as well. Not surprised. If they're carrying what we think, Vaudan'll want his man there all the way. There's neither honour nor trust among criminals, is there, Brian? Okay, you get on your way, and let me know progress as you can. Meantime I'll start to set things up this end.'

  He hung up. 'That's it, Chief. Our courier's on the move. With a minder, and, though he doesn't know it, a police escort.'

  `What do you do now? Sit and wait?'

  `More or less, once I've briefed the Customs, to make sure that those people are waved through, wherever they land. I want them filmed, too. I want to be able to show the court a video of every stop that consignment makes in the UK, from the docks to the dealers. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and take care of that. Then I think I'll check on the surveillance of Ainscow and Cocozza.'

  Seventy-one

  Skinner opened the door of Andy Martin's office, and collided heavily with the detective superintendent as he stepped into the room. Martin was zipping up his brown leather jacket.

  `You off, Andy?'

  `Yes, boss. We've got action from our targets. I've got Neil Mcllhenney tailing Cocozza, and McGuire watching Ainscow. Mario called in nearly an hour ago to say that Ainscow had left his office in Stirling. He followed, and phoned in to say that he's heading for Glasgow. Meantime, Neil called in to say that Cocozza seems to be on a pub crawl. He's been to three of the Manson places so far. Stopped for about twenty minutes at each one. That's unusual behaviour for him. He checks up on them, sure, but we've never found him making a round of visits like this before. At one stop, a bloke arrived at the same time as him. They started talking on the street and went inside. Neil thought he recognised the guy as someone known to us. He took a couple of photos of the two of them together. I'm off out now to meet up with him. Neil's last call put him at the top of Leith Walk, probably heading for that pub near the foot, where big Lennie used to work.'

  What's your guess about what he's doing?' asked Skinner.

  `Same as yours, I reckon. That he could be putting word around the network that there's a ship coming in. Fucking idiot if he is, getting personally involved in it like that.'

  `Aye, you're right there. In Manson's day, if you saw signs on the street that there was a new supply around, you could bet that Tony would be on holiday at the time, somewhere far away. He was brilliant at distancing himself. He ran his show on the basis of one word to one person, and letting his orders filter out from there. Wee Cocozza doesn't have that authority, y'see. A message from Tony, even at third or fourth hand, and it was as if it had come from the Burning Bush. This wee chap, he'll be having to say "Please". Out of his depth. What about Ainscow, then Andy? What's your guess there?'

  Martin shrugged his shoulders. 'He could be going to Ralph Slater's for a new suit. But given what Cocozza's doing, I wouldn't be surprised if he's off to Glasgow to see Eddie Gilhooley, then to Manchester and Newcastle, and the other two Wise Men, to let them all know that the buy's made, and the stuff's on the way.'

  Skinner nodded. 'Yes. Ainscow didn't strike me as the Ralph Slater type. Hope big McGuire's got plenty of petrol and film in his camera. I think he's in for a long day. Make sure he keeps me informed as it goes on.'

  Skinner paused. 'As for you, don't bother teaming up with Mcllhenney. Get on the line and tell him to get back in here. I want you two to draw a diesel-engined vehicle with a big fuel tank — the sort that'll let you go at least five hundred miles without having to fill up — and head off down south. Make for somewhere on the M25 south of London, from where you can reach any port or terminal within two hours, and wait for further instructions. Wherever Monklands and Lucan make landfall, they're going to have a reception committee: you, big

  Neil and me. Then, once the Customs boys have closed their eyes and waved them through, you and Mcllhenney are going to stick to them like glue all the way home. Okay?'

  `Yes, boss.' As Martin nodded in response, Skinner caught a pensive gleam in his eye.

  `Am I buggering up your social diary, Andy? You got a new lady?'

  Martin smiled softly. He opened his mouth as if to reply, then changed his mind. He shook his head. 'That's okay Bob. She understands all about the job.' The distant look came back into his green eyes.

  Seventy-two

  This time, Skinner was wide awake when the bedside phone rang, ten minutes before eleven p.m.

  He was propped up on his pillows, holding Jazz as the baby settled to sleep. He smiled and winced simultaneously as tiny but strong fingers wound round his chest hairs and tugged. The muted ringing of the phone did not disturb the child, nor did Skinner's whispered 'Hello'.

  `Boss, sorry again, but this is the first chance I've had. Our targets have been sharing the driving, and making good time, sticking to autoroutes all the way. These French police drivers are very good. They've been doing a team job, keeping in touch by radio. The Transit's pulled into a service area for now. It looks as if they might be bedding down for the night.'

  `Where are you bound? D'you know yet?'

  `All I can tell for now is that we're headed for Paris. We just passed the fork in the road that leads to Reims and directly to Calais, but they took the other option. That means we still could be heading for any port in France. There is one clue, though. Monkland's van has a Brittany Ferries sticker on the back. That doesn't tell you much either. They have four terminals in France and three in Britain.

  The line was silent for a moment. When Mackie spoke again it was with a question. 'Which route would you choose boss, in their shoes?'

  Skinner paused as the baby sighed and moved on his chest.

  `I've been thinking about that,' he said quietly. 'I'd avoid Calais, Dunkerque, or the Channel Tunnel. The Customs there are always on the look-out for vans with big quantities of booze. They tail some too, to see if they can catch the owners selling their cargo. Other than that, getting on board a vessel is no problem. The danger is at the other end. Plymouth, Poole, Newhaven are all small. You'd be more obvious there, with a higher percentage change of a random pull-over. On balance, I'd go for Portsmouth or Southampton. With a bit of luck, you'll be having supper in Cherbourg tomorrow.'

  `With a bit of luck, boss, I'll be having a shower and a shave! I'll call you again soon as I can.'

  Seventy-three

  ‘Morning, Maggie. What time did big McGuire ge
t in, then? Or is he still out on the tiles?'

  DI Rose scowled. 'Don't ask, sir! He followed Ainscow all the way, like you guessed, from Glasgow to Manchester, then to Newcastle. Finally he tailed him back up the Al to Edinburgh. But does Mr Ainscow go home? Oh no. He goes to the Powderhall sauna for an hour and a half. Mario, thoughtful as ever, called me — woke me from a sound sleep — at one o'clock in the morning to tell me he was sitting in Powderhall Road, waiting while the guy got his executive relief. By the time he had seen him home to Dunblane, as per standing orders, it was five o'clock when he got in.'

  Skinner smiled. 'Very quietly, I hope.'

  `Not bloody quietly enough.'

  `Ouch!' He paused. 'Who's picking up Ainscow and Cocozza this morning?'

  `Superintendent Higgins' people are handling it.'

  `That's good, 'cause we're getting to crunch time. Once the consignment gets to wherever it's going, we mustn't let either of those bastards out of our sight. We've got to catch them up to their elbows in the stuff.'

  Skinner hung up his overcoat, still wet with the heavy morning rain, and went to sit behind his desk.

  'Do you want me back on surveillance duty, sir?' asked Rose.

  `Yes. When it gets vital, I want all my best involved. But for now I've got a few tasks for you. 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.'