Skinner's Trail (21 page)

Fifty-one

‘
What d'you call a thousand lawyers chained together at the bottom of the sea?' asked Skinner.

`A good start,' said Pujol.

`So it's the same in Spain, then.'

`Even more so, my friend. Even more so. And shortly this one here, who clearly speaks no English, judging from his bewildered expression, will wish that he was at the bottom of the sea. This one thinks that he can play dumb with me and get away with it.'

Josep Albert, the lawyer of record listed on the company registration of Torroella Locals, was as unprepossessing as his seedy backstreet office on the third floor of a tumbledown Girona building. Lank, wavy black hair was plastered to the sides of his head by too much oil, and his pinched yellow face looked overdue for a meeting with soap and water. Thick-lensed spectacles made his eyes seem huge, and served only to accentuate their shiftiness. But perched on a swivel chair, behind a huge desk which seemed to be designed at least in part as a barricade, he presented a wall of resistance to Pujol's gentle questioning.

Since Albert had insisted on speaking in Catalan, the content of their exchanges had been a mystery to Skinner from the start. He could follow the general drift of most
conversations in Spanish, but was completely lost when the guttural regional tongue was used. However, from Pujol's translated summaries, he knew that Albert was being deliberately obstructive, denying knowledge of the operations of Torroella Locals, and claiming no involvement in its management.

`This man,' said Pujol to Skinner, 'he would not admit to knowing his own mother if a policeman asked him. "Senor Inch? He was a minor client. Of course he has no idea where the money invested in the company came from." And "Santi Alberni? He has never heard of him."' Pujol glowered at the little man perched on his swivel chair,
but, Albert
sat there, smug and defiant. 'Paul Ainscow? "Oh no, Commandante, I do not know him. Scottish you say? I know no Scottish people."'

`So introduce him to this one,' Skinner murmured.

`Okay,' said Pujol. 'You don't speak his language, but you can't get any less out of him than me!' He turned back to face Albert, and spoke rapidly to him in Spanish. Skinner picked up enough to know that he was being introduced as a very important policeman from Great Britain, who was in Spain specially to investigate property fraud. The introduction completed, Pujol leaned back.

Skinner pulled his chair close to Albert's massive desk and leaned forward, his forearms resting on the scratched wooden surface. He smiled. Nervously, the little lawyer smiled back. And then Skinner's smile faded and, with it, all of his customary warmth and amiability. It was as if another Skinner held Albert in his gaze: a cold, dangerous gaze full of threat and menace. He sat in silence for a full minute staring across the desk at the untidy little man, as if he was probing him, trying to read his mind.

As Pujol looked on from the side, he saw first bewilderment, then panic, then fear gather in Albert's hugely magnified eyes. He began to shift uncomfortably in his seat, fidgeting, working the swivel from side to side, glancing down occasionally into his lap, but always drawn back by the magnet of Skinner's hypnotic stare. Once, then again, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it each time, helpless.

Eventually, after three full unblinking minutes, Skinner said quietly, 'Arturo, ask him where the deeds to the Torroella Locals properties are held.'

Pujol put the question, and saw a look of almost pathetic gratitude sweep across the man's face at the chance to break free from his silent inquisitor. The words poured out, in Catalan, as if the Commandante had become his confessor.

When Albert fell silent, Pujol turned to Skinner. 'He says that they are held by a bank in Amsterdam, as security for a loan of one hundred million pesetas in US dollars. He says that he did not arrange the loan. He was simply instructed to inspect the agreement, and to pass on the deeds to the bank. He does not know to whom the money was paid, or what happened to it. He says that if it was used to buy more property, then it was for another company, one of which he knows nothing.'

`Ask him who arranged the loan.'

Pujol translated the question. Again, the response was instant. Even in Catalan, Skinner recognised one word, a name — confirmed by the Commandante's translation. 'He says it was Nick Vaudan.'

`Not Inch?'

`No. He says that Inch was simply, how you say, a puppet. He was the name on the record, but the orders came from Vaudan.'

`Ask him again about Alberni and Ainscow, and about the money coming into Torroella Locals.'

Again, Pujol translated. Albert's reply was insistent, almost beseeching.

`He swears that he has never met Ainscow, although he knows of him, and that he had never heard of Alberni until Vaudan called to tell him that you would probably come to see him, to ask him about the company, and about the deaths of Inch and Alberni. Of the money, he knows nothing.'

`When did Vaudan call?'

`Around one o'clock. He said that he was calling from Monaco, and that is true. I had my people check on him after you left my office yesterday afternoon. He flew home on Sunday.'

`He's good at not being around when suicides and fatal accidents happen, isn't he? Yet, two hours after Inch is killed, he calls our man here to tell him about it and to warn him about me'

'
Si
, and he told him that you were a very dangerous man. He said something else, too. He said that you were maybe too dangerous for your own good.'

Skinner flashed a look at Pujol which made the Spaniard feel suddenly very glad that they were on the same side. Did he indeed! Tell you something, my friend. Before this is over, Monsieur Vaudan is going to find out just how fucking dangerous I am. Now please ask Ratso here whether he knows of any connection between Vaudan and Ainscow, and tell him that unless I am personally convinced that he is telling the truth, you will take a walk outside for five minutes'

Pujol smiled, and put the question. Skinner saw Albert's mouth drop open and terror flare in his eyes behind the
magnifying lenses. As he answered, he held out his hands in supplication. As he finished, Pujol nodded gently, calming his hysteria.

He turned back to Skinner. 'Our friend swears on the lives of his family that he knows of no such connection. I believe him, for he believed me when I said that I would take that walk.'

`Okay, he can do one more thing, and he's off the hook. Tell him to give you a letter of authority to the Torroella Locals bank. You should look into that account, and trace the source of all payments made into it. Tell him something else, too. Tell him, whether you mean it or not, that his telephones, office and home will be tapped from now on, in case of calls from Vaudan or anyone else. And tell him that if Vaudan does call, he's to swear blind that he never told us about Amsterdam. One whisper, tell him, and I'll be back. Alone.'

Fifty-two

T
he instant Bob stepped into the hall, he sensed that something was wrong. He paused, listening for alien sounds, only to realise that it was the absence of noise that was unusual. Normally, during the day, the cries of gulls and the breaking of waves drifted in from the terrace. But on this blazing afternoon, the patio doors were closed.

`Sarah?' He called from the hallway, fearful.

`Bob! I'm in here.' She called to him from the living room, her voice edged with tension. He found her sitting at one end of their long sofa, facing the glass doors, with the sleeping Jazz cradled in her arms. As he came into the room she looked over her shoulder towards him, and he saw a small cut on the right side of her forehead, just below the hairline. Lying on the coffee table, within her reach, was the long, sharp-pointed, jagged-edged carving knife from their kitchen set.

`Honey, what the hell . .?'

`It's all right. We're all right. Stay cool. just go and look in the kitchen.' She sounded calmer than before.

Skinner did as she asked. He crossed the hall, and opened the kitchen door. 'Bloody hell!' he hissed. Of the room's single window only a few wicked shards of glass remained in the
frame. The rest, shattered, was spread all over the work surface
and all over the floor. In the midst lay a large red building brick. A huge boiling rage welled up in Skinner as he remembered words he had heard only an hour before. Too dangerous for my own good,' he snarled into the room. Vaudan, if this was your doing ..

Mastering his fury he returned to Sarah. 'Are you sure you're okay?'

`Yes, I'm fine, and Jazz is oblivious to it all.'

`So tell me what happened. But can I get you a drink first?' She looked up at him and shook her head. He noticed that the blood on her forehead was dried and crusted.

`It was just after you left. Oh, only a couple of minutes. I went into the kitchen and there was this man. He was standing outside the kitchen window and he was holding a brick. I don't think he was waiting for me, or anything like that. For a second or two we both just stood and stared at each other. And then he threw the brick. I flung my arms up in front of my face. But I got this . . .' she pointed to her forehead 'and this . . .' she held up her right forearm to show another small cut 'and my hair was full of glass, but otherwise I was all right. But, Bob,' she whispered, 'suppose I'd been holding the baby.'

`Don't. Just tell yourself, for ever more, that he wouldn't have thrown the brick. What happened after that?' -

`Well, when I looked again he seemed to be edging towards the window, as if he was going to climb in. So I picked up the biggest knife I could find, and I said to him, in Spanish, "Come here, motherfucker and I'll stick this right in your guts." And, boy, did I mean it. My baby was in this house. If that man had come in here, I'd have put that knife right through him and worried about the Hippocratic Oath later. So he stayed outside, and eventually he ran off.

But before he did,
he said something in bad English, something all jumbled up and confused, about it being a message, and him being a messenger to you.'

Bob nodded his head. 'I understand. Describe this guy for me.'

She thought for a second or two. 'He looked to be late thirties or early forties, and quite tall for a Spanish man of that age. Heavily built, with black curly hair and dark eyes. Hadn't shaved for a couple of days. He wore a dirty check shirt, and jeans, and I could see workboots when he ran.

Bob sat down beside her and put his arms around her. 'You are a very brave lady. I am so glad for that guy that he didn't climb through the window.' He gave her a gentle hug. She laid her head on his shoulder and began to cry. He comforted her until she quietened down.

`Did you call the police?'

`No. I decided to wait for you. I was pretty sure he wouldn't be back, but I kept that thing close just in case.' She nodded towards the knife on the coffee table. 'What did he mean, about being a messenger? You said you understood.'

`He meant that he had been sent to warn me off.'

`Who would send him?'

`Nick Vaudan, or Ainscow, or both. I'm starting to ask the wrong questions. There's a big operation of some sort going on here, using laundered money, and I'm starting to unravel it. Alberni and Inch were both killed, I'm quite certain, as part of a cover-up. That hasn't worked, so now they revert to Plan B, which presumably means scaring me off. Vaudan's a smart guy. He knows that everyone has a weak point, and he knows that you and the baby are mine.'

He looked down at them both, and kissed Sarah on the
forehead — on the wound. 'Maybe I should just back off and let Arturo take it as far as he can.'

She nodded. 'Yes. Then Santi can stay in the books as a suicide, and Gloria'll be broke, and this big operation of theirs, that's big enough to have two people killed for, that can go on too. Maybe, with you out of the picture, they'll decide to get rid of poor old Arturo. I mean Guardia Civil people are killed every week in Spain. It wouldn't even make the national news.' She snorted. 'Back off? You don't know how, Skinner.'

He kissed her again, and pushed himself up from the couch. 'Well, if that's so, there's one thing that's going to happen. You're going home, by air, tomorrow. Vaudan's right. You two are my weakness. But as soon as you're safe back in Edinburgh, then he and Mr Ainscow — for I can smell him in this now — are in the deepest shit of their lives.'

He walked out into the hall, picked up the telephone, and punched in Pujol's direct line number. 'Arturo, hello. Who am I describing? Around forty, tallish, heavily built, dark curly hair, badly dressed, usually needs a shave.'

`Paco Garcia.'

`Thought so. Where can I find him? Bastard tossed a brick through my kitchen window, courtesy of Vaudan. I wouldn't mind, but Sarah was in the kitchen at the time.'

Pujol growled at the other end of the line. `Leave Paco to me. I know where to find him. Come and see me in an hour. Meantime, I send someone to mend the window.'

`There's something else you could do for me. You could make sure that there's a seat for a woman with a baby on tomorrow's Iberia flight from Barcelona to Manchester. I'm sending Sarah and Jazz back to Scotland.'

`
Si
,' said Pujol. 'That may be wise. I will arrange it. And if you are in Barcelona tomorrow, we can go to the prison and talk to the German. He should be sober by then. But, for now, let us deal with Paco.'