But a warning from the aircraft captain? That was new. A note from one of his own passengers? Two passengers denounced as suspicious? Somewhere behind all this was the organizing brain and it was Butler’s job to pit his wits against that man and win. It could just be that this time an interfering busybody had thrown a spanner in the works.
He parked at Terminal Four and strode into the almost empty building. It was four thirty and a dozen huge jets in the livery of British Airways, which almost monopolized the fourth terminal, were heading in from Africa, the Orient and the Americas. In two hours the place would be bedlam again.
The six p.m. departures from New York, Washington, Boston and Miami, flying for seven hours downwind and adding five hours, would be meeting the flights from the east, flying for thirteen and subtracting seven. Within minutes, between six a.m. and six forty, the first hesitant off-boarded passengers would become a tidal wave. Ten members of his Knock team were also heading towards Terminal Four, weaving their way through the darkened lanes of the Home Counties. Butler needed to have his men at every stage of the disembarkation, immigration and customs hall process, but inconspicuously so. The last thing he wanted was a ‘bottle-out’.
There had been such cases. The carrier, knowing exactly what his main suitcase contained, had simply lost his nerve and refused to collect his case. The carousel had gone on turning in the baggage hall and the customs officers had gone on watching, but that last single case was never claimed. How the carrier expected to face a bitter and angry gang boss was his own business and some no doubt failed to survive the experience. Butler wanted more than an abandoned suitcase. He wanted the carrier and the consignment at least.
According to instructions from West Drayton, Speedbird One Zero was moving across the Channel towards the coast of Suffolk. Her course was to bring her north of the airport, then a long, slow curve to port would l
ine her up with the main runway, approaching from the west.
On the flight deck Adrian Fallon was back in the left-hand seat, listening to the instructions from West Drayton, on course and on schedule. The 747 was down to 15,000 feet and Fallon could see the lights of Ipswich drifting towards them.
One of his two First Officers brought him a message received on the ACARS. It politely asked for the mysterious letter to be available at the door as soon as it opened, in the hand of the CSD and ready for collection. Fallon grunted in annoyance, took the two sheets of folded paper from his top shirt pocket and gave them to the First Officer, with instructions for Harry Palfrey. They crossed the coast. Six-oh-five.
In the three cabins there was that air of expectancy that always precedes a landing. Lights were long up, breakfast trays removed and stowed, video entertainment terminated. The cabin crew now had their jackets on, distributing passengers’ jackets in First and Club. Window-seat occupants peered wearily out at the chains of lights passing beneath them.
Mr Hugo Seymour emerged from the First Class washroom, clean, shaved, combed and emitting the fragrance of an expensive Lichfield aftershave. Back in his seat he adjusted his tie, buttoned his waistcoat and accepted his cream silk jacket, folding it across his lap for later. His crocodile attaché case was between his feet.
In Economy the Canadian hippie shifted wearily and longed for a cigarette. Being in the aisle seat he could see nothing through the portholes and did not try.
The Higgins family four rows back was fully awake and ready for landing. Between her parents Julie was carefully telling Pooky of all the wonders she would be seeing in her new homeland. Mrs Higgins was packing the last of her paraphernalia into her carry-on bag. The ever-neat Mr Higgins had his plastic attaché case on his knees, hands folded on top. He had done his duty and felt the better for it.
On the seat-back the little white aeroplane finally jerked its way round the curve until its nose was pointing at Heathrow. The ensuing figures declaimed twenty miles to touchdown. It was six twelve.
From the flight deck the crew could see the still dark fields of Berkshire below them and the lights that illuminated Windsor Castle. The undercarriage went down; the flaps eased down in sequence to the full twenty-five degrees required. To a ground observer Speedbird One Zero appeared to be drifting, almost motionless, across the last miles to the concrete; in fact she was still flying at 170 knots, but slowing and dropping.
Adrian Fallon checked all his instruments yet again and acknowledged the instruction from Heathrow Tower that he was clear to land. Ahead of him a Boeing out of Miami had just cleared the runway and ten miles behind him was a Northwest carrier out of Boston. But their passengers would be going to Terminal Three. As for British Airways’ dedicated Terminal Four, he would be the first of the morning. As his wing passed over the Colnbrook reservoir he went through 800 feet and the airspeed moved easily towards the 138 knots landing speed. At six eighteen Speedbird One Zero touched down.
Ten minutes later Adrian Fallon brought the huge jetliner to a final stop next to the mobile passenger tunnel, applied the parking brake and let the First Officer close her down. Power went from the main engines to the APU, causing a second-long flicker of the cabin lights, which then resumed burning brightly. Below him the cabin staff at the front end watched the gaping maw of the passenger tunnel move towards them and, as it clamped onto the side of the airliner, hauled back the door.
Standing immediately outside was a young man in the coveralls of the airport’s technical staff. He spotted Harry Palfrey and raised an eyebrow.
‘CSD?’
‘The note?’
The young man nodded. Palfrey palmed him the two sheets of folded paper and he was gone. The CSD turned back with his practised beam to the First Class passengers waiting behind him.
‘Goodbye, sir, and I hope you enjoyed the flight.’
They began to file past him. The eighth to go was the impeccable Mr Hugo Seymour, his sheer grooming singling him out at this dishevelled hour as very definitely one of the quality. Harry Palfrey genuinely hoped that some silly man in the back had not caused him any inconvenience.
After the First Class cabin was clear came the Club Class passengers, some from the rear, others tumbling down the stairs from the upper cabin. Right down the hull of the Boeing the Economy Class travellers, upright and jostling for space even with ten minutes left to wait, longed for their release like cattle from a pen.
The Immigration Hall is cavernous at that hour and the line of passport control officers waited behind their desks for the sea of humanity to come. Above and to one side is a mirrored wall, but it is a two-way mirror with a room behind it. Bill Butler stood in that room looking down.
There were ten passport officers below him, two for UK and European Union passports, eight for the rest of the world. One of his assistants had briefed them all. There was always co-operation between Immigration and Customs, and anyway the briefing had given another boring morning a little extra buzz. Of the First Class passengers only four were British, the rest Thai or Australian. The four UK citizens took only seconds to pass the necessary desk, and as the third received his passport back the immigration officer lifted her head slightly and nodded at the mirror. Bill Butler had the written note in his hand. Cream silk suit, only one. Hugo Seymour. He spoke quickly to a small communicator in his hand.
‘Coming out now. Cream silk suit. Crocodile attaché case.’
Ranjit Gul Singh was a Sikh. He was also a Master of Arts from Manchester University and an officer of Customs and Excise, on attachment to the Knock. An observer that morning would have spotted his first qualification but not the other two. He was in the passage behind passport control, with a dustpan on a long handle and a brush. He took the message in a small earpiece no larger than a hearing-plug in his right ear. Seconds later a cream suit swished past his lowered head.
Officer Singh watched the businessman disappear into the men’s lavatories halfway down the passage. He addressed his left sleeve in a low mumble.
‘He’s gone straight into the men’s washroom.’
‘Follow him, see what he does.’