Skinner's Trail - Quintin Jardine

by Quintin Jardine

  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.'

  Àsk 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.'

  Àsk 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?'

  Àround 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.'

  Òkay, 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

  The 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 . .?'

  Ìt'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.

  Ìt 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 k
nows 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.'

  Fifty-three

  ‘Señor Commandante Skinner, may I introduce Senor Don Francisco Garcia, who is our guest at this time.'

  There was one chair only in the small interrogation cell, and it was bolted to the floor. Paco Garcia stood behind it, grasping its back with strong hands, as if wishing to tear it loose and use it as a weapon.

  ` Buenas Tardes, señor,' said Skinner evenly. 'I think you owe me a new window.' Garcia stared back at him. 'How much English does this pig speak?' The man did not react in any way to his question to Pujol.

  Not much. His French is okay.'

  'Sarah did say that he sounded mixed up. What's he told you so far?'

  `Nothing. He called your wife a bad name and said she was a liar. You know, Bob, it is very stuffy in here without windows. I am feeling a little faint. I think I will take that walk of which I spoke this morning.'

  `That's good,' said Skinner, smiling at Garcia. 'About five or ten minutes' worth should see you all right. You might want to bring something to write on when you come back.'

  As the door closed on Pujol's back, the smile left Skinner's face. Pourquoi. Garcia , pourquoi?'

  The man pulled himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest. 'Vous n'êtes pas policia ici. lei vous êtes rien.' He spat on the floor.

  Slowly Skinner walked towards him. Rien? Je suis rien?' Lazily he reached out his right hand and slapped Garcia lightly across the face. The man looked back at him in astonishment.

  Skinner reached out again, and the big man seemed to offer his cheek to the slap — but one never landed. Instead it changed into a flashing, smashing, cutting-edge blow to the base of the jaw, just below the left ear. With a loud click, the joint dislocated. Garcia's mouth opened with the force and the pain of the blow, but before he could scream, Skinner pivoted and drove his left hand, straight-fingered, into the pit of his stomach, just above the diaphragm.

  The air hissed out of the man's lungs in a low moan. He slumped forward, catching hold of the back of the chair, instinctively, as support.

  In no particular hurry, Skinner moved round behind him and, impacting with the first joints of his fingers rather than the tips or the knuckles, struck him two downward blows, right-handed, one to each kidney. Garcia's back arched with the pain. His legs seemed to bow under him, but he stayed on his feet, bent forward over the chair.

  ` Celá, it êtait pour ma femme, Garcia, et pour mon petit. ' Skinner paused and took a pace back, then went on in a whisper. ` Celui ici, il est pour mes vacances! ' He kicked the man between his spread legs, square on the testicles.

  At last Garcia screamed, and crumpled to the floor. He lay there, clutching himself and moaning for perhaps three minutes. Eventually, Skinner bent over, grabbed him under the armpits, and hauled him to his feet, before dropping him into the bolted chair. The man began to double over again, but Skinner pushed him upright.

  'Oh,' he said. 'I see you've hurt your jaw. We must fix you up so you can talk to the Commandante.'

  The man looked back at him uncomprehending, his eyes still crossed with pain. Skinner threw a punch: a short, powerful boxer's left hook. It landed on the right side of the jaw.

  There was a second click, as loud as the first, as the joint snapped back into place. This time Garcia howled with pain, and tears streamed down his face.

  Skinner grabbed him under the chin and pulled his head up, forcing the man to look into his eyes. ‘ Oui, monsieur,' he said softly. ‘ je suis rien, mais ma femme et mon enfant sont tout le monde.'

  At that moment, there was a soft knock on the door. Skinner opened it, and Pujol stepped back into the room, looking anxiously at Garcia in the process, as if checking him for visible injuries, and brightening up when he saw him sitting in the chair, unmarked and seemingly none the worse for wear.

  D'you feel the better for your stroll, Arturo? Paco and I got on great when you were away. I think you'll find he's quite keen to answer your questions now, starting with who told him to heave that fucking brick through my window!'

  Pujol stood in front of Garcia and put the question to him in Spanish. The big man looked up at him, tears still shining in his eyes, then sneaked a fearful glance across at Skinner, and answered, 'Senor Vaudan.

  ‘Por que?'

  Garcia blurted out his answer almost before the question was out. He paused, then leaned forwards conspiratorially towards Pujol and muttered something else. The Commandante turned to Skinner. 'He says that Vaudan told him you had become a problem, and that he was to give you a message by frightening Sarah. He says that she frightened him. When he broke the window, he thought that she was going to cut his heart out.'

  Ìf he'd made a move for her she would have.'

  `Bob, Paco also says that he would speak much more readily if you were not here. He seems to think that you wish him harm. I think perhaps that it is —'

  `Sure,' said Skinner. 'Wouldn't want to upset the poor chap. I'll wait outside. But don't piss about with him. As soon as I'm through that door, you ask him who was with him when he murdered Santi.'

  Pujol nodded. Skinner opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

  Ten minutes later, he heard a buzzer sound. When two uniformed officers marched past him along the corridor, and into the interrogation room, he realised that it had been a signal from Pujol. As Garcia was led away, still doubled over and clutching his groin, the Commandante signalled him to come back into the room.

  `Well?' asked Skinner.

  Ì put your question to him as you asked. It was amazing. Twenty minutes ago he knew nothing. Now, in here he would have told my fortune if I had asked him. What did you do to him, Bob?'

  'I'll show you sometime. What did he say?'

  Pujol smiled. 'When I put your question to him, he went as white as a ghost. Then he said, "It was Serge Lucan, Senor Vaudan's man from France. I was with him. But we did not kill Senor Alberni."'

  Òh, yes?'

  `That's right. He said that he was there, at Alberni's villa, wi
th Lucan. They were there before you. Vaudan sent them to put money in Alberni's safe. Santi had shown him around the house, so he knew where it was. They thought that Alberni would be at work and that they would have to break in, but when they got there, the garden door was open and Santi's car was still there. They were going to go away and come back later, but when the dog barked at them and no one appeared, they decided to take a look around. Paco said that he looked through the window of the garage, and saw Santi hanging there. He called Lucan over to show him. He said that Lucan just laughed, and said, "That's saved me a messy job." When Paco asked him what he meant, Lucan said that his orders were that, once the money was in the safe, Santi was to suffer a fatal accident.'

  `How did Garcia react to that?'

  `He said that he was terrified. He said that he did not realise until then what sort of a man Vaudan is.'

  Skinner snorted. 'So how come he's still doing his dirty work?'

  `He is afraid not to. He heard about Inch's accident, and he thinks that it would be easy for him to have one also, if he crossed Vaudan.'

  Ì suppose so. Anyway, how did his story go on?'

  `There wasn't much more to it. They went into the villa, found the safe, found Santi's key so they didn't have to pick the lock, and they put the money inside. Paco said that Lucan had locksmith's tools with him.'

  `Did you ask him if they took anything from the safe — a letter, for example?'

  Pujol nodded. 'Si. I asked him that. He thought I was going to accuse him of robbery as well as all the rest. He said to me — he gave me his solemn promise — that they did not take anything. They put the money in, and then they left. From the time he said, they can only have been gone a couple of minutes before you arrived.'

  Skinner cast his mind back to that Saturday morning. He recalled a battered old green van, with two men inside, waiting to pull out of the Camp dels Pilans road as he had swung in from the highway. 'Does Paco have a car?'

  ` Si. A very old Renault, green, but not a car, a . . . oh, what is the word?'

  Ìt's all right. I remember. I saw them. He's told you true, about the time, at least. That doesn't mean they didn't kill Santi, though. They could have taken their time about it.'