‘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.'