Skinner's Trail (30 page)

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 expertly 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!'

Seventy-seven

I'd like to tear their fucking hearts out, Andy — with my bare hands!'

On the other end of the line, Martin winced. 'Aye, sir, I know. But it wasn't their fault. These guys had their own operation on, and our target just landed in the middle of it. We briefed all the traffic departments to keep out of our road, but we couldn't warn every copper in Britain. It was luck, sir. Rank bad luck.'

There was a long silence. Eventually Skinner sighed. 'Yes, I suppose so. Where did you say you were now?'

`Back in Leicester, boss. The Transit and the boat have been brought here, and the local drugs boys are about to take the engines apart. Monklands and Lucan have been cautioned and detained. We've got no claim on them either.'

`No,' said Skinner, 'we won't have. They never made it north of the Border, so it'll be an English prosecution. What a bastard! There's no way now we'll lay a finger on Gilhooley and his two mates: probably not on Cocozza either. We can only hope to lean on Monklands and Lucan, and get them to incriminate Ainscow and Vaudan. That'll still be quite a score, but when I think of what we might have done . . . Bugger!'

Silence returned to the line until it was broken by Martin. `There is one bright spot. Since I told them what they'd blown,
the boys down here are being very co-operative. While you're right about this being an English prosecution, they've said that, if it helps tie in Ainscow to a conspiracy charge in England, we can borrow Monklands and Lucan for questioning if we like. What d'you think?'

`No!' Skinner's response was swift and vehement. 'Don't do that. If we're going to salvage anything from this, Ainscow and Vaudan have got to think that this has been a pure accident. On the face of it, that shipment could have been going anywhere. They don't know we were tailing it, but as soon as I take those guys over the Border, then, in effect, we've told them. Surprise is the only small advantage we have left, so let's keep it if we can. I want to interrogate Monklands, sure, but I'll come down there to do it. And, one other thing, when they go public on the seizure, I want no mention made of you and Mcllhenney, or your parts in it.'

`Okay, that's how it'll be. When'll you be down?'

`I'll get a flight to Birmingham or East Midlands tomorrow morning. You wait for me there — even if it does screw up your love life. I tell you, Andy. Once this lot's over, suppose I never see another aeroplane ..

Seventy-eight

‘
Aye, so what if I know Paul Ainscow? Paul's got fuck all tae do with this. He just gave me an intro tae Vaudan. Towin' boats is what I do for a livin', and that's what the job was — towing a fuckin' boat.'

Police interview rooms have the same uniform drabness wherever they are, thought Skinner, recalling Pujol's hospitality suite in L'Escala, with its single chair bolted to the floor. The Leicester model had movable furniture, but the paint on the walls had a depressing similarity.

Local officers had begun the interview with Monklands, who had received their insistent questions with a stoic silence. After half an hour, Skinner, frustrated beyond endurance by the man's lack of response, had driven his rank through the formalities of territorial jurisdiction and had taken over.

`Look, pal. This is the scene. Paul Ainscow's your golf pal. He has a drug deal with Vaudan in France. He sends you down with a piece of paper to unlock the funds, and a trailer for smuggling back the stuff that it buys. I know that, as sure as you've got a hole in your arse. Now you make a statement confirming it, and it'll save you a right few years in Parkhurst, or Dartmoor, or some other nice hotel down here.'

Monklands' reply was accompanied by a defiant stare. At
once, Skinner knew in his heart that the man would not be broken.

`Interview suspended.' He glanced down at his watch. `Eleven twenty-two.' He reached over and switched off the tape-recorder, then leaned across the table. 'Okay, Norrie, we've nailed you fair and square with the narcotics equivalent of Santa's sledge on Christmas Eve. Not even the stupidest jury in England is going to let you off. You're going down for fifteen years, yet you won't give us Ainscow and Vaudan even though it would take ten years off that stretch, maybe more. I'm not going to lose my voice or bloody my knuckles trying to make you, 'cause I know I can't. So, tell me off the record. Satisfy my inquisitive mind. Is it money, or is it fear?'

Monklands glanced across at the tape-recorder, as if to verify that it really was switched off. He looked up at Skinner. `If I did what you ask, how long d'you think I'd last. See that man in Glasgow? Any jail you like to name, he's got someone in it that would do me in for five hundred quid tae his wife on the outside. So you're right, mister. You and these Brummies can kick the shit out of me all day, and all I'll tell you is that Serge and I did the deal ourselves, off our own bats. The same goes for Lucan too. Bet on it.'

Skinner stood up and shrugged his shoulders. He looked across at the detective who had begun the interrogation. 'You lads might as well charge them and take the rest of the day off. You heard what he said, and he's not kidding. Come on, Andy, Neil.

Martin and Mcllhenney stood up from their seats in the corner of the room. Mcllhenney held the door open for Skinner. As the ACC left the room, he beckoned for the local officer to follow.

The man obeyed. Looking to see that the door was securely closed, Skinner leaned close to him. 'Listen, I don't care how you do it, but I want those two kept incommunicado. Use the Prevention of Terrorism Act, rabies regulations, anything you need, but keep them under wraps for as long as you can. When you do have to let them see lawyers, make sure that you hear every word of the conversation. I don't want any messages sent anywhere by either of them.'

He turned back to Martin and
Mcllhenney
. 'Come on, lads. Let's drive on up the road.'

Seventy-nine

‘No
, Arturo, believe me, there's no way these boys are going to cough. The Leicester fellas did their best. They went at them all weekend. No contact with the outside or with each other, sleep deprivation, the whole works. No use at all.'

Skinner paused to take a sip from the coffee on his desk.

`Each of them trotted out the same story, word-perfect, over and over again. Paul Ainscow told Monklands about Vaudan's business, then he got a few jobs from him. He got to know Lucan, and between them they cooked up the drugs idea. Vaudan knew nothing about it, they say, and Ainscow, he knew even less. They questioned them all through Friday and Saturday, right up to last night. Eventually they gave up. They charged them last night and released the story to the press. They said that it was pure luck that a police dog, at the service area on other business, was alerted by the scent of heroin from the boat. It's all over the English press today.'

Pujol's voice echoed down the line. 'So what about Vaudan and Ainscow? What can you do there?'

`The French police have already done it. They went to see Vaudan yesterday, and told him that Lucan and Monklands had been arrested. He must have known by then, of course, but he kept a straight face, apparently. He looked shocked, and of course he denied all knowledge of the stuff. He even said that
he knew Lucan was a bit of a suspect character, but he was good at his job, so he had kept him on. As far as Ainscow's concerned, we've got nothing to gain by going anywhere near him, so we've left him alone. He's still under close surveillance, although he hasn't twigged.'

`What about the joint bank account, and the cash withdrawal? Does not that give you grounds to arrest them?'

Skinner hesitated. 'It would, except we've got a wee problem there. That bank is not going to say a bloody word to the police about the ownership or the business of a numbered account. If it did, given the nature of its clientele, it would lose all its best accounts overnight, and its owners would probably wind up face-down in the Med. And without their cooperation, we're stuffed.'

Pujol was puzzled. 'But how did you know about the account?'

`That I can't tell you, my friend, on an open telephone line, and I most certainly couldn't discuss it in open court. If I did, a life would be at risk. I'm afraid that's the way things stand. All we've got from that shipment, and from all that work, are the two humphers — that's carriers to you. The thinkers, the planners, the money men are all in the clear. It's a bastard, and I hate it, but that clever f
u
cking dog in Leicester blew the lot.'

Pujol sighed. 'That is too bad, Bob. I know how much it all meant to you.'

`Maybe it meant too much. Maybe I was getting too wrapped up for my own good in that one investigation, big as it was. It didn't help when Vaudan made it personal. You know, I've been tied up all weekend by a nice juicy axe murder on my patch. Blood, bone and brains all over the place. It was almost a pleasant relief to be investigating a nice simple uncomplicated crime again.'

Did you solve it?'

`Yeah, no problem. My deputy led the team; he wrapped it up in a day and a half. It was a fall-out among thieves. There are two of them up in the Sheriff Court this morning.'

`You make it sound like a second prize.' Pujol's laughter echoed down the line.

Skinner interrupted. 'Hold on a minute, mate. I haven't given up on the other yet! You're forgetting something. We can't do Vaudan for the drugs, but we do have him bang to rights for Alan Inch's killing. You've still got Hansi Gruber shut up tight, haven't you?'

`Yes,' said Pujol hesitantly. 'But that would mean extradition from France. That would be very difficult, maybe impossible. For sure it would take a long time.'

`That's right,' said Skinner. 'That's why you've got to arrest him in Spain. And I'm going to be there. There's a cheap flight from Newcastle to Girona tomorrow night, and I'm coming over on it to pick up my car. It's the last time I'll be on a plane this year, I swear. But while I'm there I'd like nothing better than to be around for the arrest of Mr Nicolas fucking Vaudan.' He paused. 'Now this is what I suggest you do.'