The Judas Sheep (16 page)

I drove over the Humber Bridge, into no-man’s-land. It was fun driving the E-type across the bridge, but I’d have liked to have been down on the river, watching it go by. I pushed the tape into the machine and waited for the music. It was the Karelia Suite; just right.

The roads were deserted. The only other vehicles I saw were the occasional police traffic cars perched on
their ramps at the side of the motorway, the driver with his head down, engrossed in the News of the World on his knees. I shot by at about a ton without attracting any attention. The M180, M18 and M62 took me to the A1 services and breakfast. It was just after eleven when I revved the engine in the drive of the cottage, hopefully awakening Kevin from his slumbers and dreams of the Big Time.

At ten past twelve, shaved and showered, I knocked on his door. He emerged blinking, like Mr Hedgehog on the first day of spring. It soon would be, I thought, and a week later Annabelle would be home.

‘Hi, Kevin. Fancy going to the pub for Sunday dinner?’ I asked.

‘Er, dunno.’ He was tucking his shirt into his trousers.

‘C’mon, do you good. My treat, I’m feeling flush. We’ll go in the Jag.’

‘Oh, all right then. Ta.’

‘Good lad. Come round when you’re ready, but don’t be too long: my stomach thinks my throat has a knot in it.’

He came in about twenty minutes, looking quite smart in a suit but no tie. I was restricted to jeans, clean shirt and my trusty leather jacket. I drove us over the Humber Bridge again to a big pub I’d seen on the outskirts of Brig. Maybe I showed off just a little on the way. Kevin beamed like he was coaching a team of synchronised swimmers.

‘What will she do?’ he asked, inevitably.

I shrugged my shoulders and sucked a long breath in, like a cowboy plumber surveying someone’s flooded kitchen. ‘It’s supposed to do a hundred and fifty,’ I told him, modestly adding: ‘but I’ve only ever had a hundred and thirty-five out of her. That’s plenty fast enough for me, though.’

‘And me. What does she do to the gallon?’

Kevin asked questions all the way. Anything I didn’t know I invented. All part of the training, some might say. What do macho drug smugglers have for Sunday lunch? Something different, like trout and salad, would have been very nice, but I had an image to cultivate.

‘Roast beef and Yorkshire,’ I told the waitress, dismissing the proffered menu.

‘Yeah, me too,’ Kevin agreed. ‘So,’ he said, sipping the froth off his pint. ‘How did the trip go?’

‘Pretty good,’ I replied. ‘One package collected and delivered. Charlie paid, cash on delivery. That’s how I like it.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘Just to Rotterdam. No sweat. You ever been?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been a few times. So where did you have to deliver to?’

I plonked my glass down hard. ‘Come off it, Kevin. You’ll be asking me what was in the package next. And if you do, the answer is: “I don’t know”.’

He grinned and said: ‘I bet you’ve a good idea, though.’

The waitress was hovering with two heaped plates. I leant across to him an whispered: ‘Well, I don’t suppose it was friggin’ Edam cheese.’

It was my treat, so I fetched the drinks each time and was able to order myself low-alcohol lager. Strange thing is, you feel just as drunk on it. I didn’t quiz Kevin about his activities, being content to concentrate on winning his confidence. He’d open up, do some boasting, all in good time.

He insisted on buying a final round, so I told him to make mine an LA. ‘Don’t want pulling over by the filth,’ I said, strangling a burp.

I drove back well within the speed limits, and laughed a lot. When Kevin got out, in my drive, he said: ‘Thanks for the meal, Charlie. I appreciate it. I’ll get the next one, if things buck up a bit.’

I adopted my grave, empathic look. I did a course on it, once, but the pretend booze helped. ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t you doing too well at the moment?’

He looked embarrassed. ‘No, not really. Things have dried up a bit. It’s just temporary, though.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Kevin,’ I said, in tones you could have sweetened porridge with. This was my fatherly bit. ‘These are rough times for everyone, it’s not easy. Look, I might be able to direct something your way. Would you be interested?’

‘Er, no. Thanks all the same though, Charlie. I’ve heard there’s something in the pipeline for me, in the next few days. Like I said, it’s just temporary.’

I was glad about that. The plan was that he recruit me, not the other way round. I said: ‘I hope so, Kevin,’ adding: ‘Well, I don’t know about you, old pal, but I’m going to crash out for four hours, catch up on my sleep.’

And that’s what I did.

In the evening I drove home, to Heckley. There was a long blue envelope lying on the doormat, with four stamps with elephants on them, nearly obliterated by the wavy lines of the franking machine. I made a pot of tea and opened a new packet of custard creams. When I was nice and comfortable in front of the gasfire, I sliced open the envelope and unfolded the pages.

It was a long letter, and I’d been looking forward to receiving it, but now I felt a strange reluctance to read. Sometimes, distance changes one’s perspective, throws you into decisions that you might not otherwise take. She’d be visiting new places as well as familiar ones, meeting interesting people, finding a purpose. Maybe Heckley and its inhabitants couldn’t compete with all that.

The phone was ringing, but I ignored it. Annabelle had arrived safely and was met at the airport as planned. After six rings the tape on the ansaphone clicked into action and I heard my flat tones inviting the caller to leave a message. Annabelle’s schedule was hectic, no time for sightseeing, so she hadn’t seen any wildlife.

A faraway female voice said: ‘Hello, Charlie, this is Diane Dooley …’

Annabelle had written: I’m missing you; wish you’d been able to come, too. Maybe next time?

‘… could you give me a ring, please. It’s about Guy.’

I’d read what I wanted to hear, so I jumped up and grabbed the phone. ‘Hello, Diane, it’s me. How are you?’

‘Oh, hello, Charlie. I’m all right, I think.’

‘You said something about Guy.’

‘Yes. I hope you don’t mind me ringing you …’

‘Of course not. Has something happened?’

‘I’m not sure. He says someone took a shot at him.’

‘Well, that sounds serious enough,’ I told her. ‘When was this?’

I heard a big sigh come down the line, then she said: ‘First of all, he went out with a patrol car one day last week. The school let him have a day off – work experience, they called it. Needless to say, Guy came back determined to be the next Chief Constable; he was full of it. By the way, he’s in the middle of writing you a thank-you letter.’

‘No problem,’ I interrupted. ‘Glad he enjoyed it.’

‘Oh, he enjoyed it all right. They were very good to him – gave him the full treatment. In fact, I felt quite envious when he told me all about it.’

‘So who shot at him?’

‘This was Saturday morning. He often gets up before dawn to go down to the beach, birdwatching. Then he comes home filled with fanciful tales of what he’s
seen: killer whales, eagles, all sorts of things. Saturday he came home and said he’d saved a man’s life, and someone took a shot at him.’

‘And you don’t believe him?’

‘I’m not sure. He was certainly scared when he came home – he’d left all his stuff at the beach.’

‘Do you want me to have a word with him?’

‘I’d be grateful if you could, Charlie. You know how impressionable he is, but he seems to look up to you.’

That sounded like being damned by faint praise, but I don’t think it was intended that way. ‘Tell me the full story,’ I suggested.

When she’d finished I asked if she had the number of the Rover.

‘Yes, it’s here on the pad.’ She read it to me.

‘And the police haven’t been back to you?’

‘No.’

‘Do you think they believed him?’

‘I’m not sure.’

I drew a doodle on my pad, of a stranded whale alongside a hole in the ground, with shovelfuls of sand being ejected from the hole. ‘Well, I believe him,’ I told her. ‘Leave it with me; I’ll see what I can find out and come back to you. It might be tomorrow.’

I rang Heckley nick and asked them to run a PNC check for me. ‘Don’t you ever give it a rest, Charlie?’ the duty Sergeant protested.

‘Just find out who he is. Nobody gives me a dirty look like that and gets away with it.’ A few minutes
later I knew that the Rover belonged to one Richard J. Kidderminster, of an address in St Ives. He had no convictions. Technology is wonderful.

I rang Diane straight back and asked her if the name meant anything. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Never heard of him. Shall I look in the phone book – see if he’s in?’

‘Mmm, good idea.’

But unfortunately he wasn’t.

‘Never mind,’ I told her. ‘I’ll have a word with the local police and see what they say. If I learn anything interesting I’ll let you know.’

It was late, but I didn’t want to sleep on it. I dug out an ancient copy of the Police Almanac and found the number of the station where I’d arranged for Guy to have his visit. The PC who answered had been on the early shift when I’d called in to make arrangements for Guy’s visit, and he’d read the reports of the shooting.

I said: ‘His mother is worried that he’s romancing, carried away after his ride in a squad car. Is his story being taken seriously?’

‘Oh yes, sir, very seriously. We checked with Mr Kidderminster and he made a complaint. Said young Guy probably saved his life.’

‘Good, I’m glad about that. Who is this Kidderminster?’

‘Sorry, don’t you know? He’s an MP.’

‘A military policeman?’ I queried, being my normal awkward self. Ambiguity is the mother of confusion.

‘Er, no, sir. A Member of Parliament. He lives in
St Ives, but he’s MP for North Dorset. Apparently he comes down from London every Friday evening and takes his dog for a walk on the beach early Saturday morning. It looks as if they were waiting for him. We’ve notified the Special Branch and are awaiting further instructions. It’s in their hands now.’ He added: ‘I’m not sure if I ought to be telling you all this.’

‘Don’t worry about it. So presumably the Special Branch or the anti-terrorist people will contact Guy as soon as they find a map with St Ives on it.’

‘I imagine so.’

‘OK, thanks for your help. I won’t say anything to him, leave it all to the big boys. One last thought: is anything being done about Guy’s safety?’

‘Yes, we’re keeping a discreet eye on him.’

‘Smashing. I’m very grateful.’

So, somebody was trying to pop off an MP. Speculation was pointless – I didn’t even know which party he belonged to, though I could have a good guess. I’d never heard of him, so he can’t have held particularly outrageous opinions about anything. I wondered about the group who’d claimed credit for the fires, but the name wouldn’t come to me. TLC? No. The Struggle Continues, that was it – TSC. They were probably the favourites. I picked up Annabelle’s letter and started to read it again, from the beginning, and all thoughts of St Ives and MPs and terrorists went from my head.

When I’d had lunch with Kevin he’d said that he was expecting some work in the next few days. Presumably
he didn’t mean laying tarmac on the M62 extension. I needed to know what he did mean, and if possible become involved. In cases like this you have to think while you are running, take advantage of any little snippet that comes your way.

I was switching round the TV channels, trying to find something worth watching. It was a choice between a couple arguing in cockney accents; a couple arguing in Liverpudlian accents; a pair of giraffes mating; and a commercial for a car, designed to appeal to elderly vineyard owners with plain but wilful daughters. Someone should have a word with their advertising agents. I stayed with the giraffes until the news came on. Then I grabbed the van keys and my jacket and drove the ninety miles to the cottage.

First item on the news, read out over the introductory fanfare, was details of a drugs bust, up in Tyneside. A ton of cannabis and an estimated million pounds’ worth of heroin and cocaine had been found on a Russian fishing boat. Gleeful Customs Officers were interviewed, claiming that this was their biggest-ever haul. A lot of dealers were going to be disappointed; prices would soar.

It was nearly midnight when I reached the cottage, but there was still a light on downstairs at Kevin’s. I made a lot of noise with the van, then knocked softly on his door.

‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘Charlie,’ in a loud whisper.

He slid back a bolt and opened the door. ‘What’s the matter, Charlie?’ he asked.

‘Not sure,’ I told him. ‘But if anyone comes asking after me, you never spoke to me. And you never saw the Jag, OK?’

‘Er, yeah.’

‘You never saw the Jag. Remember?’

‘I got it. Don’t worry.’

‘Fair enough. I might see you at the weekend. If not, you can come and visit me at one of Her Majesty’s holiday camps. They say the food’s good. Take care.’

‘Yeah, thanks, and you.’

He closed the door and I climbed back into the van. It had been a long drive to deliver a short message. I hoped I hadn’t wasted my time.

Shawn Parrott picked up the mobile phone at the first ring. ‘’Ello?’ he said tersely.

‘It’s me,’ Frank Bell told him. ‘I’ll be on the seventeen thirty-five. Meet me at Huddersfield at twenty
twenty-seven
, but stand by just in case I decide to catch a taxi from Leeds.’

‘Understood,’ Parrott replied, and folded the phone, breaking the circuit. ‘C’mon,’ he ordered Darren Atkinson, the third member of the gang. ‘You’ve nearly three hours to get us to Huddersfield. Even you should be able to manage that.’

In the car, Atkinson asked: ‘So what’s ’appening?’

‘The Skipper’s followed Noon on to the Leeds train at Kings Cross,’ Parrott told him. ‘He’ll probably catch the connection from Leeds to Huddersfield, where we’ll
pick him up. If he catches a taxi from Leeds, Frank will ring us with the number. Then we’ll just have to watch out for him.’

Atkinson grinned across at him. ‘Me and you should do this one, eh, Shawn? Make a better job than you and the Skip did in Cornwall.’

‘Yeah, well, we were disturbed. A stupid kid jumped up out of nowhere.’

‘So why didn’t you just kill them both?’

Parrott pulled a folded magazine from within his jacket and started to look at the pictures. It was called Viet Vet Monthly, and was filled with lurid details of the killing power of the accoutrements of war. ‘Because, Darren, old son,’ he explained, ‘there’s no point in killing anyone unless it looks like an accident.’

‘Dead’s dead. What difference does it make?’

Parrott lowered the magazine. ‘This first one is just the bait – sprat to catch a mackerel, if you’re knowing what I’m meaning. Then we go for the big one. That’ll make Operation Nimrod look like a bunch of girls’ blouses at a tea party.’ Operation Nimrod was the freeing of the hostages by the SAS in the Iranian Embassy Siege in 1980.

Atkinson looked confused. ‘What’s Operation Nimrod?’ he asked.

‘Just fuckin’ drive,’ Parrott ordered, burying his face in the magazine.

They stopped for a burger at the Birch services on the M62, but still made it to Huddersfield station with
nearly an hour to spare. ‘How about that?’ Atkinson boasted, nodding towards the station clock as they came to a standstill. ‘Fast but safe, that’s what the Skip calls me.’

‘Not bad,’ Parrott grudgingly admitted. It was a fact that Atkinson had a flair for driving fast, but with the minimum of fuss, never attracting attention. He was the slowest of the three in other ways, but a useful asset. And every gang has to have a driver. At
twenty-five
minutes past seven the phone rang again.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me. I’ve decided to catch the connection.’

‘Understood.’ Parrott turned to his colleague: ‘He’s coming on the Huddersfield train, making it easy for us.’

Parrott wandered inside the concourse to check the arrivals. ‘Be here in three minutes,’ he said when he returned.

A better parking place became available, one that gave them a good view and a decent getaway, so Atkinson manoeuvred into it. A trickle of people began to exit through the ticket barriers.

‘There’s Frank.’ Atkinson gave a single flash on the headlights, attracting his attention. Bell saw them and sprinted over.

He climbed into the back of the Sierra. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Third in the queue, in the light coat, carrying the big pilot’s briefcase.’ The two in the front focused their eyes on Tom Noon, Member of Parliament, for
the first time, and recorded the appearance of the man they intended to kill.

The taxis shuffled forwards and picked up their fares. The Asian driver of the second one recognised the man who represented him in Her Majesty’s Government. ‘Hello, Mr Noon,’ he said, enunciating his words. ‘Have you had a busy week?’

Noon muttered a silent curse – now he’d have to give a big tip. ‘Yes, thank you, we’re always busy. And you?’

‘Oh, so-so.’

‘Wife and family well?’

The car slid into the traffic flow, the driver hardly noticing the red Sierra that pulled out behind him. ‘Yes, very well, sir, thank you.’ He smiled. Now he’d be able to go home and tell his wife that his friend Tom Noon, Opposition Spokesman on Foreign Affairs, had asked after the welfare of her and the children.

Noon lived in a select new housing development on the outskirts of Heckley. Just before the last General Election, the seat he’d held for fifteen years vanished in a vindictive reorganisation of the constituencies. With characteristic grit he’d contested a nearby Government held seat and overturned a 9000-vote majority to win the place at Westminster by the slenderest of margins. At the next election, due in less than a year, he was confident of consolidating his position.

The taxi stopped outside his five-bedroomed executive-style house, complete with its two-point-four
en suite bathrooms. A Land Rover Discovery stood beneath the carport at the side of the house, glistening like a funeral car. A hundred yards away, Darren Atkinson switched off his headlights.

Tom Noon fumbled with his wallet and handed over a twenty-pound note and a fiver. ‘Call that right,’ he said.

‘Thank you, sir. Thank you,’ the taxi driver gushed.

‘And remember me to your wife. Good night.’

‘Yes, sir. Good night.’ As he drove away he radioed his controller to say that he was available for hire. It was fifteen minutes past nine.

‘What now?’ Atkinson asked.

‘Watch and wait,’ Bell told him. Parrott tried to sleep.

Periodically another vehicle would drive into the development. Three men sitting in a darkened car looked suspicious, so Atkinson would start his engine and turn on the lights, as if they were about to drive off. Once, they did a tour round the immediate district, and saw a pub, the Royal Oak, about a quarter of a mile away.

‘I could murder a drink,’ Parrott said.

Atkinson agreed. ‘Not here,’ Bell told them. ‘We’d be noticed. We’ll find somewhere later, if we get chance.’

They watched the lighted windows of Noon’s house, guessing his behaviour from their patterns. Kitchen, stairs, bathroom, bedroom. A few spots of rain fell on the windscreen, and every few minutes Atkinson gave
a short burst on the wipers to improve their vision.

‘He’s either gone to bed or he’s getting changed,’ Bell guessed.

At twenty minutes past ten a beam of illumination from the side door caused all three of them to sit up. ‘He’s coming out,’ Parrott declared.

Tom Noon walked down his drive. He’d changed into casual clothes, and was now wearing a padded jacket with big pockets, in a subdued colour that immediately identified the store from which it came. Trotting in front of him, pulling on its lead, was a pedigree King Charles spaniel. Most MPs agree that owning a dog is good for at least a five per cent swing, providing of course that the Opposition doesn’t own one. Some
dog-hating
politicians have been known to make a pairing arrangement with their rivals – I won’t buy one if you don’t. Tom Noon, alas, had failed to do so, hence the King Charles.

When Noon reached the pavement he turned up his collar and gazed skywards for a second. It was raining – he’d go in the Discovery. The dog leapt in ahead of him, for he too preferred riding to walking.

‘Shit! He’s driving,’ Bell exclaimed. ‘If he’d walked we might have been able to run him down, here and now. That would have been perfect.’

There were no fences or gates around the houses, demarcation between the properties being indicated by red-paved driveways and large areas of lawn. A few rebels had declared independence by planting hedges
of miniature conifers, which would soon blot out their neighbours’ daylight. The large all-terrain vehicle, which, like most of its cousins, never encountered anything more challenging than the speed bumps in Sainsbury’s car park, trickled out into the road. As soon as it was out of sight Atkinson started the engine of the Sierra and caught up with it.

‘He’s going to the pub,’ Parrott guessed, correctly.

The parking area in front of the Royal Oak housed several cars, but Noon drove round the back, where it was quieter.

‘Great,’ Frank Bell declared. ‘He’s playing right into our hands.’

‘Are we going in?’ Atkinson asked.

‘No, we’ve seen enough. Let’s talk tactics, then we’ll have a drink somewhere in the town. Be less conspicuous there. Any suggestions, Shawn?’

‘No problem. If he walks, we run him down. Accidental death, if you’re knowing what I’m meaning. If he drives, we meet him here. Darren and me invite him to take us for a ride in his Land Rover to somewhere quiet. You follow in this. Somewhere along the way he meets with a nasty accident. He really did ought to be more careful.’

‘Good. Well done,’ Bell agreed, ‘Except that Darren drives the Sierra, me and you take Noon.’

Parrott nodded his approval. ‘And we’re talking about next Friday?’

‘Yeah, next Friday.’

‘And where are we taking him?’

‘I know the perfect place,’ Bell said. ‘Boy, do I know the perfect place.’

Darren Atkinson drove the three of them into the centre of Heckley and from there they gravitated, like dross, to the less savoury corner of town. It was just before eleven o’clock, and the youth of the area were making their way from the public houses, which closed at eleven, to the town’s only night club, which didn’t. Two Panda cars were watching the action, and several taxis cruised by. Nobody wore a coat, despite the drizzle. The males swaggered along, anaesthetised by alcohol; the girls folded their bare arms as protection against it.

‘It’s buzzing wi’ cops,’ Atkinson observed.

‘We’re just out for the evening,’ Bell told him. ‘Don’t worry about them.’ It was good advice. The police, hopelessly outnumbered, were looking for a quiet night. They’d only intervene if absolutely necessary.

Two girls, similarly dressed in borderline-obscene mini skirts, white blouses and denim waistcoats, watched the car pass them. One was attractive, in a waiflike way, the other was overweight from a surfeit of chips. They were standing in a shop doorway,
self-consciously
smoking. Parrott turned to inspect them, and the slim one caught his gaze.

‘Looks like it’s the Copper Banana,’ Bell declared, nodding towards the neon sign above the door of the ex-cinema. ‘Who knows, we might be able to do some business here.’

Once, Randolph Scott and Dorothy Lamour had excited its clientèle, now it was house music and Ecstasy. Atkinson reversed expertly into a parking place, between an elderly Ford Capri with all the trimmings and a Skoda with none, and the three of them got out.

Although they were well above the average age of the majority of customers, they knew what to expect: dim lights, thick smoke, and a constant throbbing beat, as if an aneurism in the brain was about to go critical. Bell pointed to some empty tables at the rear of the hall, and mimed a drinking action. Speech was impossible. He and Parrott sat down while Atkinson fetched three pints of lager.

It was marginally quieter here, the beat reduced to a rumble in the furniture, like on a ship at full speed with a grossly unbalanced propellor. Young men stood around, clutching their pints and swaying. The girls, most of them hardly nubile, dashed to and fro, pulling each other, as if on the most important business in the world. To them, it was.

Atkinson returned, three unappetising pints held between his hands. ‘Two-fifty a bleeding pint,’ he complained.

Parrott took a sip. ‘And it’s watered, if you ask me.’ He pulled a pack of Red Wings from his pocket and fumbled with the cellophane wrap.

‘Here, ’ave one of mine,’ Atkinson told him, throwing an opened pack on to the table. They all took one and lit up.

Bell studied his lager, swilling a good draught of it around his mouth. He swallowed and said: ‘You’re right, this beer’s watered. Maybe we should have a word with the management.’

Parrott grinned. ‘Want me to find someone, Skip?’

‘Yeah, please, Shawn, if you don’t mind.’

He was back in a couple of minutes. ‘One of ‘is penguins has gone to fetch ‘im,’ he said.

When he arrived, the owner of the club looked more Hollywood than Heckley. Above white skin-tight jeans he wore a lilac leather jacket with its sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. The zipper was unfastened, to avoid trapping the blond forest growing on his chest, for he wore nothing under it. His long bleached hair was pulled back into a ponytail and he peered at them through tiny spectacles whose lenses could have been made from the bottoms of iodine bottles. A yard behind him walked a bow-tied bodyguard with a chest like bulldozer pushing a snowdrift. Bell gestured towards a chair, inviting the owner to join them.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he said, turning the chair round and sitting on it the wrong way, cowboy style. ‘Not having any problems, are we?’

Bell pushed his pint forward. ‘My driver,’ he said, ‘is worried about breaking the drink-driving laws, and wants to know how much of this piss he is allowed. I reckon about eight pints, but he says fourteen. What do you say?’

‘Oh dear,’ replied the owner. ‘If my manager is
doctoring the booze again, then I want to know about it. Mister … Smith, I believe your colleague said?’

‘Just call me Frank.’

‘Right, Frank. And I’m Georgie. What would you gentlemen like to drink?’ He’d assessed his three visitors from the first moment he saw them, and come to a number of conclusions: they weren’t the filth; they weren’t here for a night out; and they weren’t complaining about the beer. No, they were here to do business. It might be good business or it might be bad. Either way, he’d listen to what they had to say and act accordingly. The bodyguard was dispatched to fetch four full-strength drinks.

‘Actually,’ Georgie confessed with a conspiratorial wink, ‘we’re doing everyone a favour by serving weak drinks. The police prefer it, the parents approve, and the kids themselves don’t seem to mind. They need the fluid, not the alcohol. Dancing all night takes a lot out of you.’

‘Yeah,’ said Shawn. ‘’Specially when you’re zapped on XTC.’

Georgie shrugged philosophically, like a Jewish mother at her son’s wedding. ‘You’re so right,’ he said. ‘But what can we do? How can we stop them bringing these things in? We thought about intimate body searches – I even offered to do them myself – but it wouldn’t work.’ He laughed, and the others joined in.