`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 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
‘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?'
`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
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.'
`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.