Last Resort (19 page)

Nineteen

T
he man in charge was an intendant; a slightly built guy, around the forty mark, with a look of Rhett Butler, right down to the pencil moustache. He came in after the footsoldiers had secured the scene, and calmed things down.

‘Who is Señor Aislado?’ he asked, in Catalan, as we lowered our hands. The big fellow nodded.

‘My name is Reyes, señor,’ the officer said, in a respectful tone, then added something in which I caught the name Canals, and my own.

‘Yes, that’s him,’ Xavi said in English, for my benefit, then switched languages again and said something about me being police chief in Scotland. In the circumstances I didn’t object to that, even though it was somewhat out of date.

With my friend’s help I explained to Reyes that we’d done as little as possible to fuck up his crime scene. That wasn’t quite true. We should really have backed out of there as soon as we found Battaglia’s body. He accepted our good faith, though, and then asked us to minimise further damage by accompanying him to somewhere we could talk while his CSIs got to work. That turned out to be a bar across the street; it was fairly busy but his uniform ensured that we had plenty of space around us.

Xavi’s call to Canals had been brief; he had given him no more than the address and the fact that we’d found a woman’s body there, so we had to start from scratch. We gave him the basic facts that we had come to Barcelona on the trail of a missing colleague, and that we were still looking for him.

We talked him through the timeline, and were doing fine until he asked if we knew who the dead woman was. When Xavi told him, and explained where Bernicia Battaglia stood in the Italian hierarchy, his eyes narrowed and his moustache dropped a little as he spoke.

‘Intendant Reyes says this has suddenly gone way above his pay grade,’ the big man explained. ‘He thinks we should all go to the director general’s office.’

‘That would seem eminently sensible,’ I remarked.

It was going on for midnight before we were clear of Barcelona.

I hadn’t wanted to pull rank on Reyes, so I hadn’t mentioned the fact, but I know the head of the Mossos d’Esquadra, Julien Valencia, having met him at a policing conference two years ago. We’d hit it off then because of my special interest in Catalunya, and had kept in touch afterwards.

Julien greeted me like an old pal, in English, then had his most senior available officer take formal statements from the two of us. I avoided speculation, but offered my theory that Hector Sureda had been in the kitchen when the woman had been shot.

I volunteered nothing else, though. Instead I suggested that it would be unhelpful to name Hector at that stage of the investigation, or to put out any public appeal for sightings. The murder of one of the highest-profile media figures in Europe would give the press plenty of meat to chew, while his forensic investigators looked for traces of the unknown little man who’d stood in the doorway of Hector’s living room, sighting his pistol on the back of Battaglia’s head.

Valencia went with that. Indeed he ordered that no formal statement was to be made until the following morning, when he would hold a press conference himself.

‘Something funny happened, Bob,’ he said, as his deputy left us. ‘I just called Italy, to tell them what we got here, an’ they knew already. How could that be?’

‘Maybe they had her killed,’ I suggested, with a smile. I didn’t believe that, but it did no harm to throw that pebble into the pond.

He didn’t react at all; Julien’s a good cop, open to all possibilities until they’re proved to be impossible. So am I, but my thinking was that if the Italian security apparatus wanted her dead, they’d have done it on their own ground, in a much more subtle way, rather than make a big mess in another country.

He gave us dinner in his office, then took us back to Xavi’s Range Rover in his own car, complete with driver. Just before I stepped out, I had a quiet word with him.

‘We’re not going to give up looking for Hector,’ I told him. ‘We won’t get in the way of your investigation, that’s a promise, but I’d appreciate being kept informed of your progress. Young Sureda is very important to Xavi’s business, and more, he’s almost family.’

‘I’ll arrange that,’ Valencia said, ‘on the understanding that if you find him, I want him.’

‘You’ll have him,’ I promised, ‘if only to prove his innocence.’

The director general smiled. ‘Or his guilt, my friend. None of us are infallible; you could be wrong about him. Is there anything I can do to help you look for him, since it is in both our interests?’

‘There have been places I haven’t been able to go,’ I replied, ‘while we’ve been looking for him, information that hasn’t been open to me. For example, it would be useful to know if his personal credit cards and bank debit cards have been used. So far the only things I’ve had to go on are a couple of card slips that I found. You can access that stuff; I’d appreciate it if you could share it.’

‘I have no problem with that,’ Valencia said. ‘I’ll keep you informed.’

Neither Xavi nor I had anything to say on the way out of the city. In fact it wasn’t until we passed the prison, on our right as we headed for the Granollers autopista station, that either of us spoke.

‘Where has he gone, Bob?’ my friend asked. ‘And who’s he running from?’

‘He could be almost anywhere in Europe,’ I replied. ‘We know that his passport is still in Begur, for I saw it in one of his underwear drawers, but he wouldn’t need it to go to any of the Schengen countries. When Valencia accesses his card activity that might tell us.’

I paused, as that metaphorical kite came back into my mind, the one I’d been about to fly when the police burst into the apartment.

‘As for the who, Xavi . . . the gunman ran away from him, so I can’t imagine that the threat of immediate physical danger made him go. But consider where he was; in Barcelona, having a fling with Bernicia Battaglia.’ I studied his profile in the dark. ‘When she approached you and offered to buy you out, did you share that with the rest of the board?’

‘I told Sheila, Pilar and Hector. We laughed about it, about the sheer cheek of the bloody woman, and her colourful threat.’

‘Are you sure that all four of you laughed?’

‘Mmm. Now that you ask,’ he murmured, thoughtfully, ‘maybe not. Where are you going with this?’

I didn’t answer directly. ‘You told them, and they knew how you felt, yet a few months later we find Hector having dinner with Battaglia and then taking her to his fuck-pad in Barcelona. As I said earlier, that suggests that he was considering selling you out.’

‘How could he? He doesn’t have a controlling interest.’

‘Come on, sunshine. You told me yourself that he runs the growth areas of the company and that he’s invaluable to you. If Battaglia bought Hector Sureda, with his skills and his unique knowledge, and had him set up a rival Spanish digital network, what would happen?’

‘We’d probably be fucked if he got it right,’ Xavi admitted.

‘It’s not going to happen now, but if it had, would that have made you angry?’

‘Oh yes,’ he murmured, his face a blue shadow in the light from the instrument panel, ‘it would have made me very angry indeed.’

‘And maybe you don’t know how formidable you can appear,’ I said.

‘Now consider this,’ I continued. ‘There he is, in his apartment, potentially about to fuck both Battaglia and you, simultaneously, when there’s a shot, he goes back into his living room and she’s dead. A few scenarios must have run though his mind, Xavi, but which one scared him the most? I believe that I know. I suspect, my scary big pal, that Hector’s running from you.’

Twenty

I
stayed at Xavi’s place for a second night. Sheila was still up and wide awake when we got there, well after one o’clock. She hadn’t been told what had happened in Barcelona, only that we had been delayed, but when she saw how tired we looked she wouldn’t be fobbed off any longer.

As a result, my head didn’t hit the pillow until two thirty; it proved to be a waste of time, for I doubt if I managed more than two hours’ sleep. It doesn’t matter how many dead people you find in a career, they always hang around for a while.

We were all up and about by eight. I was uncomfortable, as I hate wearing the same clothes two days running, but I hung around, for there was a lot to discuss.

As soon as Ben had left for the school run with Paloma, we got down to it over breakfast, with Sheila sitting in.

‘You have to see Pilar,’ she said, ‘and straight away too, before Señor Valencia has his press conference. It’s bound to be live on the news channel.’

‘He promised to keep Hector’s name out of it for now,’ Xavi countered. ‘She won’t be too bothered that Battaglia’s dead, but there’s nothing to link him to her.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh no, Mr Journalist? Every crime reporter in Barcelona will be covering this story, including ours. They will know already that there’s a crime scene at an address in Carrer de Trafalgar, and as soon as the city offices open for business, they’ll know who owns the place. Our staffer will know for sure who Hector Sureda is, and it won’t take the rest long to make the connection.’

‘True,’ he sighed. He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘I’ve been management too long, honey. When this is sorted, I think I’m going to put myself back on the news desk.’

‘I will go and see Pilar,’ I volunteered, ‘as soon as we’re done here. I have to get back to L’Escala, and it’s more or less on my way. It’ll give me a chance to pick her brains. If anyone’s likely to know where Hector’s potential boltholes might be, it’s his mother.’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Sheila laughed. ‘Ask me the same thing about my son and I wouldn’t have a bloody clue. Nonetheless, Bob, it’s very good of you. We all appreciate the help you’ve given. I am so glad that Xavi wasn’t on his own when he walked into that apartment.’

‘Hey, I’ve not done yet,’ I promised. ‘I’m out of clothes, that’s all. Wherever we go next, I’ll be there.’

‘But where will that be?’ Xavi grumbled. ‘I’m tired, and I’m stumped.’

I punched him, gently, on the shoulder. ‘Like you said, you’re out of practice, investigator, that’s all. Me? I’m getting my second wind.’

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Two days ago you’d never heard of Hector Sureda.’

‘But I have now,’ I retorted. ‘And there’s more. I have this compulsion, you see. Every time I see a dead body, and I don’t know who made it dead, or why, I have an irresistible urge to find out.’

‘To give them justice?’

I looked at Sheila as she spoke. ‘Not any more,’ I told her. ‘These days I’m just plain curious.’

I was on my way fifteen minutes later. We’d debated whether Xavi should tell Pilar that I was coming, but in the end we decided that I should go in there unannounced.

As I drove out of the estate, I paused, looking left and right for any glimpse of any part of a Skoda. When I was satisfied that my follower had given up, I re-joined the highway and set off for Begur.

The morning had turned dull and damp by the time I reached Carrer de Santa Reparada, and cold too, for I felt distinctly chilly as I stood waiting at the Sureda/Roca door. I had to stand there for a full two minutes;
maybe I should have let Xavi make that call
, I thought,
to give the lady a chance to make herself presentable
.

She certainly was when she opened the door, dressed in slacks and a heavy shirt. ‘You’ve only just caught me, Señor Skinner,’ she said as she let me in. ‘I’ve decided to go to the office today, if only to clear my in-tray.’ She must have read something in my expression for suddenly hers changed.

‘Is there news?’ she asked, urgently. ‘Have you traced Hector?’

I was about to answer, ‘Yes and no,’ when my phone sounded. I checked the screen and recognised a Barcelona number from the code. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I need to take this.’

It was Julien Valencia, the Mossos DG himself. ‘I have a little news,’ he said. ‘First, our crime scene people have done a good job. They have found a left handprint on the front door that doesn’t match anything we have on record, or the victim. Also they have found a couple of hairs in the doorway, and a DNA profile is being prepared. When it is ready the technicos will do a check against the database.’

‘Very good.’

‘There is more. They found an ejected cartridge casing, and they have identified it as coming from a Russian automatic pistol called a Makarov or possibly from a newer weapon called a Pernach. So maybe the killer is Russian.’

‘Not necessarily,’ I countered. ‘There are Russian guns all over Europe now. You should know that.’

‘I suppose. That’s the crime scene, Bob, but I have news on Sureda. We know now that he withdrew six hundred euro, the daily limit, in cash from his bank account from a machine at Barcelona Sants station on Friday afternoon, six hundred more in Lleida the following morning, and six hundred more on Sunday, in Zaragoza. Since then there has been nothing, and his credit cards have not been used at all.’

‘Thanks, Julien,’ I said.

‘
De nada
. I must go now to prepare for my press briefing. The news will be released simultaneously here and in Italy. It’s going to get crazy.

‘You must realise the press will identify the owner of the flat very soon, so I don’t think I can hold off identifying him any longer. Already I have passed his name and the image you left with me to the Policia Nacional, since my authority does not go beyond Catalunya.

‘Publicly, I will try to treat him as a witness, rather than a suspect, but my colleagues may not be so subtle . . . also I may not be my own master at the briefing,’ he added, as if in warning. ‘Does any of that help, Bob?’ he asked.

‘It does. When I make progress, I’ll let you know.’

‘Good. I am relying on you to an extent; I have a feeling you may have a better chance of finding Señor Sureda than the police have. That’s why I am letting you run with it.’

‘You understand that finding him may not clear up your crime?’

‘Yes, but to be brutal, if it comes to it, I will have someone to pacify the media, and our bosses.’

And do huge damage to Xavi Aislado’s business in the process
. That’s what I thought, but I needed Valencia onside, so I kept it to myself.

I’d been aware as I spoke that Pilar’s eyes were fixed on me. ‘Was that about Hector?’ she asked.

I nodded. ‘Let’s sit down somewhere, I have a lot to tell you and it’s not pleasant.’ Her hands flew to her mouth; I continued, quickly, ‘Hector’s still missing, but he’s safe. I believe he’s hiding somewhere.’

She took me into her kitchen, and offered me coffee. I needed a caffeine boost, so I accepted. As soon as she’d made it, I went through every detail of what had happened since I saw her last.

When I reached the part of the drama that was set in her son’s apartment she began to tremble. When I told her who we’d found dead on the floor, the news that was soon to be announced on national television, she stared at me, and gasped, her mouth forming a perfect O shape.

‘It was her? What was my Hector doing with her?’

‘I can hazard a guess, señora, but only he can tell us.’

‘This will kill his father,’ she wailed. ‘Simon must not know.’

‘Must not know what, my dear?’

The hoarse question came from behind me. I turned to see a man in a dressing gown framed in the doorway. He walked with help from a carved stick, and carried in his free hand an oxygen bottle, from which a fine tube led behind his back and into twin feeds inserted in his nostrils.

‘Simon,’ Pilar exclaimed. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking for food; I’m hungry. Why are we speaking English? If it’s for the benefit of our visitor, you might introduce him.’

‘Let me introduce myself,’ I said, standing. ‘My name’s Bob Skinner; I’m a friend of Xavi Aislado.’

‘Ahh,’ Sureda grated, ‘he has spoken of you for many years: the fearsome policeman.’ He smiled. ‘You don’t look so fierce to me, but the deceptive appearance can be the most dangerous.’

‘Simon!’ his wife snapped. ‘You must go back to bed.’

‘No, my dear. I see the way you’re dressed. You are going to Girona. As soon as you were gone I would have got up anyway and made myself a
bocadillo
. You want to save me some energy, you can do it for me.’

She frowned at him but moved towards the fridge.

‘And while you do that,’ he added, easing himself into a carver chair, and laying the oxygen bottle by his side, ‘Señor Skinner can tell me what it is that has you so anxious, this thing you say will kill me to know.’ He smiled, and I could see the charm of the man. ‘Pilar, my curiosity is aroused, and if it is not satisfied that will be more dangerous for me than knowing what has happened with my son.’

Simon Sureda looked me in the eye, and I understood at once why Xavi revered him: there was an intangible quality about him, a calm wisdom. ‘I know something is wrong,’ he said, ‘because I have not seen him since Friday morning, when he left here with an excitement in his eyes that has not been there for a while. I know he is not dead, because his mother is not prostrate with grief, only anxious. So what is it, señor? What is this mystery?’

I glanced at Pilar. She sighed, then nodded, giving up the fight.

‘Let’s begin on Friday, then,’ I said, ‘with what we know so far. But first, do you know the name Battaglia?’

‘The Warrior? Of course I do.’ He grinned. ‘She wants to buy us all out, the stupid woman. As if there was a chance of that happening. Never, while Xavi Aislado breathes.’

‘That’s more true than you realise,’ I told him.

As I had done with his wife, I led him step by step through the story, ending with the discovery that Xavi and I made in Hector’s apartment, and our subsequent meeting with Julien Valencia.

‘I know Valencia,’ Simon murmured, interrupting me. He was calm, a man in control of his emotions. ‘He’s an ambitious man, as much of a politician as a policeman, but overall, I believe you can trust him.’ He paused for a second, before adding, ‘And that is everything, señor,
si
?’

I nodded. ‘Almost, but I’ll get to the rest in a minute. First, I want to ask you . . . did you have any idea that your son had been in contact with Bernicia Battaglia?’

He moved in the chair, and his oxygen bottle started to roll away from him. I reached down to stop it, and stood it on end.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘none at all.’

‘I understand that he knew about her offer to buy InterMedia?’

‘Of course he did. Xavi reported her approach to the directors, quite properly, even though he had already taken the decision that it was unacceptable.’

‘I understand that you’re not a director, señor,’ I ventured.

‘That is correct.’ He smiled. ‘You wonder why, since my wife is and my son is, and I have been there from the beginning of the Aislado ownership?’ I nodded.

‘The answer is simple: I chose not to be. I am a journalist, señor, not a manager. Pilar is comfortable with being on the company board, of course she is. When Josep-Maria Aislado bought his first newspaper in Girona, he brought her in as its editor because he saw her as an ally as much as an employee.

‘We were together even then, she and I, but I preferred to be a simple reporter, for that was my strength. I was happy to mentor others, but I believed then and I believe now that as a senior manager there would be a danger of my integrity being compromised.

‘Xavi, he was the same. When he worked for the
Saltire
, in Edinburgh, before InterMedia bought it, he discovered that its owner was a crook. He ran the story; he exposed the guy in his own newspaper, and then he saved it, by having Joe take it over.’

‘Xavi’s a manager now,’ I pointed out.

‘That’s true,’ Simon conceded, ‘but only because it was forced on him by circumstances. He hasn’t written a news story in years, yet I’ll bet if he found a scandal and chose to shine light on it, he would do so fearlessly, even if it struck at his own heart.’

His wife interrupted him, by placing before him a sandwich on a plate; it was half a baguette, filled with lettuce, tomato and tortilla.

He smiled. ‘Thank you, my dear. Now you should go.’

She said something to him in Catalan, that I took to mean, ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’ He nodded. ‘Three hours,’ she added, ‘then I’ll be back.’

‘I will try not to die while you’re away,’ he chuckled, in Castellano, which I understood completely.

‘It’s better she’s gone,’ he said, as soon as he heard the door close behind her. ‘I can guess what you are going to ask me, and Pilar might not like to hear it.’

‘Indeed? What would that be?’

‘Whether my son was as resolutely opposed to the idea of a sale to BeBe as Xavi was . . . am I correct?’

‘Spot on,’ I murmured. ‘Was he?’

‘The fact is, no, he wasn’t. Hector is a child of the Internet. He believes in growth and global markets. His preference would be for InterMedia to absorb BeBe, but he knows that Xavi has no ambition to do that, so he would accept the alternative. He has gone as far as he can in the company as it stands; it cannot contain him any longer.’

‘Xavi has never mentioned any of this to me,’ I told him.

‘Xavi does not know how Hector feels; nor does his mother. He has only spoken of this to me.’

‘How did you react when he did?’

The frail man shrugged his shoulders, weakly. ‘I didn’t react. I cannot take sides between my son and his mother, or for that matter between him and his patron, the man who has made him what he is today.’

‘Between us, how do you feel?’ I asked.

‘I understand him. If you stand still in a world that is moving constantly, everyone will pass you by.’

‘Have you said that to Pilar?’