Skinner's Trail (29 page)

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 e
y
es 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

T
his 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

‘M
orning, Maggie. What time did big McGuire get 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.'

Seventy-four

‘S
orry 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?'

`Edinburgh 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.'

`Okay. 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

T
here 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.'

`In 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.'

`Okay,' 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.

`Okay, 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. `Any 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 towards 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.

`Okay, 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, luca
n
, 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?'