‘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. some shy;where! 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!'