Skinner's Trail (24 page)

Fifty-seven

‘Like
a fucking CID convention,' Mackie muttered
to
himself as he pulled his car into a parking space in Powderhal
l
Road, around a hundred yards away from the red-painted
shop
front of the Hot Spot sauna and massage parlour.

As he looked along the street, he could see a flash of Andy Martin's blond head and the bulk of
Mcllhenney
in the front seats of an anonymous blue Sierra. They were parked around twenty yards beyond the Hot Spot, with a clear view of the entrance. Fifty yards further on, Mackie recognised a red Metro GTi, and saw the outline of a figure in the driver's seat.

Mackie was almost level with the Sierra before Martin spotted his approach. He looked up, surprised, but reached round at once and opened the rear door. Glancing around to make sure that he was unobserved, Mackie slid quickly into the back seat.

`What are you doing here?' Martin asked sharply.

`Sorry, sir,' said Mackie, 'but we've got a wee situation.
You
weren't thinking about raiding that place, were you?'

`No,' said Martin, shaking his head. 'We're just keeping it under observation for now. It seems that Tony Manson hasn't left a will. In the absence, wee Cocozza's appointed himself administrator of the estate. We've had no word of any drugs action for a while but, as far as we can see, Cocozza's still
running the girls in the saunas. I want to put a stop to that, so we're building up a photograph album of his punters. Once we've got enough, I'm going to give him a straight choice: pack it in or I go to the Law Society. I tell you, we've got some crackers already. Bankers, lawyers, accountants, even a certain deputy Fiscal. The professions are well represented at the Hot Spot saunas, that's for sure. But today . . . today could be very interesting indeed. Cocozza's in there himself, and four other guys have gone in while we've been watching. Once of them
we recognised.'

`Tall, well built, smooth-looking guy, late thirties, went in
about fifteen minutes ago. Yes?'

`Him? No. Never seen him before in my life. No, I was talking about Eddie Gilhooley. You've heard of him, haven't you? The Godfather of Glasgow. Tony Manson's opposite number through in the west. A premier-league drug baron, if ever there was one. So who's this other guy? And what's your problem?'

Mackie took a deep breath. 'Paul Ainscow. Maggie Rose followed him here from Stirling. She's back there.' He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. 'We've got him under round-the-clock watch for the boss. He thinks he's—'

Martin interrupted. 'Yes, Sarah told me all about it. So that's Mr Ainscow. He keeps some funny company, then. Wonder what the hell he's doing here?'

`Aye, and the boss'll wonder too. You don't know who the other guys are?'

'No. We should have some pretty good mug-shots though. We'll get them processed as fast as we can, and run them
through the PNC. Could you take the film back to the lab for me?'

`Sure. I'll tell them it's a SB rush job. I'll do the PNC check, too.'

`Thanks,' said Martin. 'Meantime I'll go along and say hello to Maggie. Odd job for a woman, isn't it, sitting all evening in Powderhall Road waiting for your subject to get his end away!'

Fifty-eight

‘Y
ou on your usual, Brian?'

`Aye, thanks, Andy.'

Martin turned back to the barman. 'That's another pint shandy, please.' He waited while the last drink was poured, paid the barman, and carried the round across
,
on a tray, to the corner table where Maggie Rose, Mario McGuire, Alison Higgins and the newly arrived Brian Mackie were waiting. Ryrie's, the famous Haymarket tavern, was a regular meeting place for police officers. It was only a few hundred yards away from the Torphichen Place Divisional HQ, and coincidentally, from Andy Martin's flat.

`S
o,
Neil's taken over the Ainscow surveillance?' asked Mackie.

`Yes,' said Martin. 'He volunteered. Said he'd take him home and put him to bed. Apparently his wife's having her pals round tonight, so he was glad of something to do. You okay with that, Brian?'

`Sure. Glad to be of help.

`Okay. So how d'you do with our snapshots? Anything back from the PNC scan? I thought you were looking a bit pleased with yourself when you came in.

Mackie grinned. 'I've got every right. And so have you, Superintendent. We've got results on both your mystery men. Tell me, did you see them leave?'

`Yes. They went not long after you. A taxi stopped at the sauna. Gilhooley and the two unknowns went off in it. Then wee Cocozza came out and drove off in his GSi.'

`What about Ainscow?'

Martin shook his head. 'No. He was still inside when Maggie and I left. Maybe he had nothing to do with the rest of them. Maybe he was only there to get his leg over.'

`Be a blow if he was. The boss would just love to tie Ainscow in with Gilhooley and those other two. I think it could be a hell of a big piece in the jigsaw he's putting together.'

`So who were these guys?'

Mackie smiled again round all the faces at the table. They looked back at him, curious, as he savoured the moment of his disclosure.

`Okay. You ready? One's called Peter McAteer. He's from
Newcastle. The other one is Terence Michael Bennett. He's from Manchester. According to the PNC, each one is to his own city what Eddie Gilhooley is to Glasgow, and what Tony Manson was to Edinburgh — Mr Big in the drugs business. You, Superintendent, in what I am sure you will describe later as a brilliant piece of detection, have stumbled upon a drug dealers' convention.

Martin looked at him, his green eyes wide with surprise.
‘Je
sus Christ,' he whispered. 'And Cocozza was there. Not only that, he was the host. God, but the wee bugger's getting above himself, playing with the likes of them. He must really fancy taking over Tony's seat at the big table. But what the hell was your man Ainscow doing there?'

`Beats me. As you said, maybe that was just a coincidence.'
Martin nudged him with an elbow. 'Look out that window,
thin man, and you will see a pig in a Hibernian strip flying over
Haymarket. Coincidence, my arse. You've been around Big Bob long enough to know what he thinks of them. Coincidences of that sort are like miracles. They happen very rarely, or not at all. I'd love to hear what the boss says to this.'

`I'll hear that the day after tomorrow. I'm meeting him. The Big Man's taking me on a tour of the fleshpots of Europe.'

`What?' said Maggie Rose. 'When did all this happen?' There was a tinge of annoyance in her tone, as though she felt slighted at not being the first to know of her boss's return.

`S'all right, Maggie,' said Mackie. 'It all came up while you were out following Ainscow. We're going to Germany — to Hamburg — to follow up a lead that the Ainscow inquiry threw up today. Then we're off to Amsterdam. Don't know what that's about, though, other than that it's all part of the same investigation.' He leaned back in his chair and took a deep swallow of his shandy. 'After that, he's coming home.

Beside him, Martin was lost in thought. He shook his head. `I still can't get over that meeting, or Cocozza being the host. The nerve of the bastard. Those hooligans on my patch. Christ, I'm going to have him. From tomorrow morning, Cocozza's on twenty-four-hour cover. He yawns — I know it. Just like Ainscow. Let's see if they meet up again.' He looked across the table. 'Alison, I'm going to be tight for people. I don't suppose .

Superintendent Higgins grinned at the big figure on her right. 'Sergeant McGuire's bloody useless, I know, but you can have him if you like.'

`That's good. Thanks.' He glanced to his left. 'Maggie, would you make up the numbers till the boss gets back?'

Of course. Be just like old times.'

Martin glanced at his watch. 'Right, that's fixed. My office
eight o'clock tomorrow. Now I've got to go. Dinner must be nearly ready.' He finished his Beck's and stood up.

Brian Mackie looked at him curiously. 'You not doing your own cooking any more, Andy?'

Martin returned his gaze with a bland smile. 'Brian, my friend, you're letting Special Branch go to your head. You should leave the detecting for the office, not the pub. G'night all.'

Fifty-nine

T
he blonde girl's pale blue eyes sparkled a welcome as Pujol — with Skinner following behind — walked into the offices of Montgo SA.

`
Buenos
D
ias, se
ñ
ores.'

`
H
abla Ingles, por favor?
' asked the Commandante, explaining,
‘
P
or mi amigo.
' He was dressed as casually as Skinner, in light slacks and a pale blue shirt.

She smiled. 'Yes, and French also.

Pujol was charmed. But he began to feel a pang of concern over the purpose of their visit.

Skinner had received his call on the heels of Mackie's fax advising him of his flight and arrival times, and briefing him on the merging at Powderhall of Mackie's surveillance with that conducted by Andy Martin. As he read the message, a long slow grin of satisfaction had spread over Skinner's face, as he had grasped the possible implications of Ainscow's presence at the meeting. But before he could dwell on the message any further, the phone had sounded its single repeating tone.

`Bob? This is Arturo. My people have reported something positive from the check on the Torroella Locals bank. They have found the pay-in records from the account. Some are rents, but there are many others. The Director of the bank remembered that they were large amounts in sterling paid
directly into that account, by a special arrangement agreed with Senor Inch. The records show that on each occasion the cheques were paid in by one Veronica
Chaumont.'

`And she is?'

`The secretary of Nicolas Vaudan. You now have your first link between him and Ainscow. Meet me at the Montgo SA office in ten minutes, and we will talk to this lady.'

The girl was utterly charming. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. The pale eyes were set in an oval face with a light golden tan. Only slightly irregular teeth stopped her short of cover-girl perfection. She smiled up at Pujol and Skinner like someone with nothing in the world to hide.

Forcing himself to the business at hand, Pujol coughed, and introduced first himself, then Skinner. She nodded to each in turn, not appearing flustered in the slightest. 'Veronica Chaumont,' she responded, offering each a chair.

`You are Belgian, yes?' Pujol asked, as he sat down. She nodded her head. `
Oui
’

'How-long have you worked for Senor Vaudan?'

She shrugged. 'Since the company was started.'

`This company, Montgo SA?'

`Yes. I do not work for any other.'

`No?' Pujol paused and looked at her a little less kindly than before. 'Are you not involved also with a company called Torroella Locals?'

She shook her head. 'No, I am not. I know of it, of course, but I don't work for it.'

`But we know that you have made payments into its bank account.'

She paused. 'Yes, that is true, but only on the instructions of Nicolas.'

`Can you describe how the payments were made?'

`Yes. Every little while, Nicolas would give me a number of blank cheques. They were made out for cash, and they were for a bank in Scotland. It was called the Clydesdale.' She pronounced the name slowly and with difficulty.

Skinner spoke for the first time. 'Do you remember the name of the account?'

Veronica nodded. 'Yes, it was InterCosta UK.'

`Were you told when to pay each one in?'

`Yes. Nicolas would call me and give me instructions. He would tell me the amount in sterling that the cheque should be made out for, and where it should be paid.'

`Where?' said Pujol, surprised.

`Yes. Sometimes I would pay into the Torroella Locals
account; and other times into our own account here.' Did the cheques always have the same signature?' `Yes. Mr Paul Ainscow.'

`Never Santi Alberni?' asked Skinner.

It was Veronica's turn to look surprised. `Santi? No never. Why would he sign? He only worked for InterCosta, didn't he? That's what Nick said.'

Skinner shook his head. 'No, he had a piece of it. How well did you know Santi Alberni?'

`Not very well. He was a friend of Nick's. Occasionally the three of us would have coffee in the Café Navili, but other than that he didn't come around here much.'

Did you know much about him as a businessman?'

`He was a great salesman. The best in L'Escala, everyone said. InterCosta did very well, thanks to him. Sold a lot of properties, and some of them were very big ones. But he used to make jokes about how bad he was with money. I remember
him saying once that it was just as well that he did not have to do the accounts for InterCosta, otherwise they would be in trouble.'

`Were you surprised when he killed himself?'

`I couldn't believe it. He never seemed like a sad guy.' `What about Paul Ainscow? Did he come around here much?'

`Never. I have never met Mr Ainscow. I have never even spoken to him on the telephone.'

`Have you ever seen him at all,
with Nick Vaudan for example?'

`No. I often think that it is odd. Sometimes I wonder if he exists.'

`Is there any correspondence anywhere between him and Vaudan.'

Again, Veronica shook her head. 'No, there is nothing I can think of. The only time I have ever seen Mr Ainscow's signature is on those blank cheques.'

`Tell me, senorita,' said Pujol. Did it not strike you as strange, to be paying this money from one company to others in this way?'

`Why should it? Many things much stranger than that happen in Spain, as you must know, Commandante. Nicolas told me that Paul Ainscow wished to invest money in two businesses: Montgo SA and Torroella Locals. He had agreed to run Montgo, and that Alan Inch — poor man — was looking after the other one. He said that Ainscow was never quite sure until the last moment how much each investment would be, and that blank cheques were the simplest way of going about it.'

`Were you surprised by the amounts of money being transferred?'

`Not when I saw how good a salesman Santi Alberni was. The other parts of the business — property management and holiday rentals — seemed to do well also.'

Skinner shifted in his chair. The Montgo properties, Miss Chaumont. Do you know where the deeds are?'

`The
escrituras
? Nicolas keeps them himself. I never see
them. There is no need. My job is to collect the rents, fix the problems, keep the books, and make sure that everyone is happy. That's all.

Pujol coughed again. 'Senorita Veronica, there is one other thing I must ask you. Your relationship with Nicolas Vaudan. Is
i
t purely one of business?'

A light pink flush showed beneath the girl's tan. 'Certainly! Senor Commandante, you must know that Nicolas is a happily
m
arried man.' She stared boldly across the desk, a sparkle still in the pale eyes and a smile toying with the corners of her mouth. 'So what possible reason could you have for asking me
s
uch a question?'

Beneath his tan, Arturo Pujol blushed bright red.