`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, 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.