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.
`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?'