Skinner's Trail

by Quintin Jardine

  He was about to drive on, when a sturdy, nut-brown old man, wearing oily blue overalls and a flat Breton cap, appeared from the side of the farmhouse which bounded the yard. The old man looked at the car and, as he drew near, made a swift, truly Gallic gesture, with a hand half-cupped over his lower regions, to indicate beyond any doubt the reason for his absence. Suddenly he caught sight of Sarah in the back of the car. He swept off his beret and bowed in profuse apologies. Bob grinned and pointed to one of the pumps on which a green sans plomb sticker had been affixed. Idly he wondered what else might be floating around in the tank beneath his feet, but took comfort from the Routier sign on the hut.

  As the pump chugged laboriously, the old man nodded at the car. Angleterre?'

  Bob shook his head vigorously. 'Non! Ecossais. Edimbourg:

  The old man's eyes lit up and he smiled, `Ah! Edimbourg,' he said, with evident if mysterious pleasure at the sound of the name.

  Still the pump droned on. The attendant shrugged his shoulders and cast his eyes all around him. 'Eh, monsieur, le vent. C'est trës fort, non?'

  Bob searched his French. ‘Oui, mais c'est trës chaud.'

  The ancient looked at him in amazement. `Chaud, monsieur? Trës chaud? Eh, monsieur, c'est comme l'hiver!'

  As they reached Bordeaux, Sarah was still laughing spontaneously at the memory of the old man, his gesture and his notion of winter chills. They spent the night in a small two-star hotel on the edge of the city, which Bob had found some years before on a trip with Alex, and had used frequently since. They ate early, before Sarah, seeing clearly that Nineties woman had not reached this part of France, retired to bathe and feed Jazz, and to bed him down for the night.

  Next morning they took a leisurely breakfast, allowing Bordeaux's commuter traffic to clear before setting out on the last stage of their trip. Sarah dozed all the way to and through Toulouse, and so, when she awakened, the change in the texture of the countryside was suddenly and immediately apparent. 'Why, look, the hills seem almost, well, reddish.'

  Eventually the road swept round a long curve, and there it was, like a huge tooth from a giant's mouth: Le Canigou, the great mountain, snow-capped almost all the year round — the high point of the Pyrenean skyline which dominated the view from their terrace in L'Escala.

  `Yes!' Sarah squealed with delight, but quietly, lest she wake her sleeping child. 'My mountain. Now I know we're there!'

  Twenty-three

  ‘So come on, Kath. Tell me what you know about Santi Alberni?' As he asked his sudden question, Bob gazed across the marina to the Pyrenees, fringed by the deepening red of the setting sun,

  They were seated at a small rectangular table under a long yellow and brown striped awning, on the terrace of their favourite restaurant. Trattoria La Clota was quieter than it should have been at nine p.m. on a Saturday, but, even so, half the tables on the terrace were occupied. Conversations in French, Dutch, Spanish, and a language which Bob guessed might be Polish, went on all around them as they leaned back in their seats, the debris of their paella spread before them and an empty bottle of Torres Gran Vina Sol inverted in the ice-bucket.

  A few seconds' silence made Bob turn to look again at their blonde companion. 'Who's asking?' she said. 'The property owner or the policeman?'

  He smiled. 'Shrewd lady. It's Mr Plod that's asking. But don't worry, he never reveals his sources.'

  Kathleen, their hostess, laughed. 'I've heard that one before from the boys here!' Even after twenty-five years in Spain, her tones were still almost as Scottish as his. She was about to answer him when her eye was caught by a movement at a table in the far corner of the terrace. 'Excuse me for a moment, please.' She bustled across the paved courtyard to answer the summons of the beckoning hand.

  `Bob, you're terrible,' said Sarah. 'We're only just here and you're at work. Why don't you begin by telling her how good the paella was?'

  `She knows that. Besides, if I did, Senor Carlos would probably put the prices up.'

  Carlos Pallares and his Scottish wife were the Skinners' closest friends in L'Escala. For years their restaurant had been an unofficial advice centre. They had helped solve all types of problems for all types of people, and had been rewarded by a consistent custom the like of which most of the other restaurants in the town could only imagine. Bob and Sarah's arrival that evening had been anticipated. No sooner had they crossed the narrow roadway from the parking bays than the nutmeg-brown Carlos had come bounding down the four steps from the dining room and bar. `Hola, my friends. Is good to see you. And this is the new arrival, yes?'

  As they had anticipated, Jazz became the star of the show. Throughout their meal a stream of restaurant staff had ventured out, one by one, to peer into the buggy and go through the universal language of baby sounds.

  Kathleen returned to their table. 'Everything all right up the road?'

  `Yes,' said Sarah. 'No problem. Mary was as good as her word. The place was spotless, the water was hot, and the cot was there. It's brand new. We think we might buy it, rather than hiring.'

  `Plans for more Jazzes, yes?'

  Sarah winced. 'Give us a break!'

  Kathleen laughed and, as she sat down, Bob poured her a glass of wine from a second bottle.

  `So what do you want to know about friend Santi?'

  `I want to know what you think about him. What sort of a bloke is he? You know just about everyone around here, and there's no one better for sizing people up.'

  ‘Hmm. Thanks for the compliment. Is that why you phoned Carlos the other day?'

  Skinner nodded. 'Yes. All he could say was that Santi isn't one of the local inner circle. But Carlos is a cagey character.'

  `Hah, that's one way of putting it. He's right, though. No one here really knows too much about Alberni. He's been in the property business for a few years. Before that he worked in a bar down the coast somewhere. What sort of a man is he? Well on the surface he's everyone's friend. He's very showy, always well dressed. But nothing is Santi's. Flash car on the firm. Big new villa, with a swimming pool, mortgaged to the hilt. Having said all that, most people here like him. What's it all about, anyway?'

  'Between you and me?'

  `Course.'

  D'you know a bloke called Pitkeathly?'

  `Greg and Jean? Sure! Nice couple. From Edinburgh, too, aren't they?'

  `That's right. Well, they've had a wee problem. I hope it's all a mistake. I'm sure it is.'

  There was a sudden bustle as a party of eight Germans converged on the restaurant. Kathleen jumped to her feet. `Must go. Coffee, yes?'

  Skinner nodded, smiling. 'Si, cortado, por favor. Y Para la senora, Americano con poco leche frio apart.’

  Kathleen scribbled a note in her book, and moved off to seat the Germans at a long table in front of the door.

  Bob leaned over to look at his son. Jazz's eyes, caught and fascinated by the movement around him, sparkled in the silvery light of the street lamps. Then they fixed on his, and a tiny smile touched the corners of his mouth. A lump seemed to form in Bob's throat.

  Sarah broke the moment by digging him in the ribs with her sharp knuckles. 'Hey copper, this piece of detecting that you brought without telling me — it is all a mistake, isn't it?'

  `I'm not so sure about that, love. But even if it ain't, it'll be Arturo Pujol's problem. I'll brief him tomorrow, and that'll be it as far as I'm concerned.

  `Honest!'

  He turned back towards Jazz, and so he did not see her eyes narrow as she gazed at him, or her wry smile as she mouthed the word, 'Sure.'

  Twenty-four

  ‘Commandante, Buenos dias! Que tal?'

  `Muy bien, mi amigo, muy bien!'

  Skinner held the heavy wooden door of his villa open with his shoulder, and shook hands with his friend. 'Come away in, Arturo. It's good to see you again.'

  `And you Bob. And you.

  Skinner led Commandante Arturo Pujol through the tiled hallway, into the living room, and beyond to the wide terra
ce of his villa, of which the greater part was flooded by the early afternoon sun. He offered him a blue cushioned seat beside a drinks trolley, on which four bottles of Damm Estrella beer sat chilling in a silver ice bucket. He uncapped two of them and handed one to Pujol, who took it with thanks, declining the offered glass.

  `It's good of you to come round, Arturo. I'd have come to the barracks, no problem.'

  `No, no, no, my friend. It is always a pleasure to come to the home of a colleague as distinguished as you. Assistant Chief of Police, government security advisor. Your rank dazzles this humble rural para-military.'

  Skinner's laugh choked on a mouthful of beer.

  `And also, it gives me a chance to meet once again your lovely wife, and to see your new son, who is already the talk of L'Escala. When Bob Skinner hires a crib from Mary, all of his friends learn very quickly. Where are they, anyway?'

  `Here we are, Arturo.' Sarah emerged through the double door from the living room, pushing Jazz in his heavily shaded buggy. Pujol kissed her on both cheeks, then looked down to admire the baby. He leaned into the buggy and slipped a two-thousand-peseta note under the pillow. 'For a little gift, Sarah, yes?'

  `Why, thank you, Arturo.'

  `You choose something. I have no wife to do these things for me.

  `Okay. I'll buy him a toy from that nice shop in the old town — something tough that'll last for ever.'

  She parked the buggy in an area of the terrace that was still in shade, and took a seat beside her husband and the Guardia Commandant.

  Arturo Pujol was out of uniform, and no one at all would have taken him for a policeman. He was a stocky, bald man with a moustache, and the expression of someone who is anticipating a nasty surprise. But Skinner knew him in uniform and had noted, on his visits to the barracks, the respect in which Pujol was held by his men. He knew too that the Guardia's legendary toughness had not died with Franco, and that it was present in his self-effacing friend.

  They made small talk for a while, in English, in which Pujol was much more proficient than was Skinner in Spanish.

  They compared notes on the standard of football in their respective countries, each looking back to the times when things had been very much better. Pujol asked Sarah about her new appointment, and bemoaned the lack of good medical support from which his own force suffered.

  Eventually, halfway through his second beer, Pujol raised the subject which had led to his visit. 'So what is this problem that you bring with you from Scotland, Robert, and how does it relate to our friend Santiago Alberni?'

  `Let me show you,' said Skinner. He picked up Greg Pitkeathly's folder, which he had placed in readiness in the lower shelf of the drinks trolley, and handed it to the commandant. Pujol took it without a word, and began to read through the dated documents in sequence. After a few minutes he put it down in his lap, and took another swig of Estrella.

  `I see what you mean. This is why you asked about Alberni, and it is why your colleague Senor Mackie made his enquiries with our national records office.' He smiled at Skinner's reaction. 'Yes, I know about that. They sent me a copy of the request as a matter of form, and a copy of the result. Our friend is, as you say, quite clean. So what would you like me to do?'

  Skinner shot him a look of surprise. 'Take it over, of course. Treat it as a complaint made against a Spanish national in Spain.

  `Mmm. Si, that is the proper thing for me to do.'

  `Does that give you a problem?'

  `Me, not at all. But it may be a little harsh for Alberni.' `What d'you mean?'

  `I mean that if I take this up officially, a record will be made. And even if Alberni has a perfect answer, and there is no problem, with him at any rate, that record will remain. Even a visit from the Guardia will be enough. Word gets around here, and it will cast a shadow on him in the future. It will mean that his record is not quite so clean. And possibly that will be through no fault of his. It could affect his credit rating. It could affect his business, if someone checks him out thoroughly enough. The papers which you have shown me still leave a strong possibility of a simple mistake. Do you want to cast such a shadow, if it is for nothing?'

  `So you don't want to touch it?' said Skinner, surprised.

  Pujol raised his hands in protest. 'No, no, no, Bob. If you feel it is necessary and if you insist, I will take it up at once. But what I would ask you to do is talk to the man yourself first. His English is as good as mine. Go to see him. Talk the matter over with him. See what he has to say. Once you have done that, if you still believe that there is a problem, then I will take it up.

  It is the fairest way, believe me.' He turned to Sarah. 'Don't you agree?'

  Sarah grimaced. 'There goes some more holiday time. But yes, I think that's right.'

  Pujol handed the folder back to Skinner. 'There. Perhaps you can call on him tomorrow. I, happen to know that he is away today, with a client, but tomorrow, a Saturday, he should certainly be in his office.'

  Skinner took the papers. 'Okay, if that's how you want it. Let's just hope today's client isn't being stitched up too!'

  `If he is,' said Pujol, suddenly very serious, 'we will find that out. If you decide that there is something to be investigated, then it will not be this case alone that we will look into. I promise you, my people will turn InterCosta inside out. If this company is dishonest, then it is giving Catalunya's biggest industry a bad name. For that, we will come down hard, very hard indeed. If I find that Senor Alberni has been stealing from his clients, or from constructors, or anyone, he will go to prison not just for what he has done; but as an example to others. And now,' he said, pushing himself up from his chair, 'beautiful as the day is, and agreeable as my companions may be, I must go.

  How do you say it? Duty, she is calling. I like to go for a drive around the town while everyone is at siesta. Just to make sure that everything is quiet. And, of course, in beautiful L'Escala it always is.'

  As Bob escorted their visitor to the door, Sarah pushed Jazz in his buggy through to the small bedroom next to their own and, without waking him from his afternoon slumber, laid him gently in his cot.

  When Bob closed the front door and turned to go back to the terrace, she was in the hall, blocking his way. She wound her arms around him. 'As Arturo was saying, it's siesta time . .

  He could feel the heat of her body through his T-shirt. He looked down at her, reading her agenda for the afternoon in her smouldering eyes. 'Hey, are you sure? It's only been a couple of weeks since Jazz.'

  `Exactly!' she murmured. 'Nineteen whole days, and a while before that too. My darling, I'm just about as horny as I've ever been. And just at this moment, from your significantly altered profile, you ain't going to persuade me that you ain't too!'

  His laughter died in his throat as she pulled his head down and kissed him fiercely. He swept her off her feet in a single strong movement and carried her through the living room and into their bedroom. It was late enough in the afternoon for the sun to be flooding in through the brown-framed three-quarter-glazed doors which led out to the terrace, but not too late for it to have passed by the small square window to the side, above one of the two chests of drawers which flanked the white-quilted bed.

  He laid her down, and in seconds they were naked, kissing and fondling, their fingers and tongues searching, exploring, reacquainting themselves with familiar regions. And then Bob's hand found Sarah's secret centre, the heart of her moistness, and she climaxed at once, suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, a bucking, thrusting, crying-out orgasm almost frightening in its intensity. As it peaked, she clamped her thighs closed on his fingers and twisted towards him, eyes shut, with a shout that was almost a scream. She lay still for a while, with her head resting on his shoulder. Occasionally, a small shiver ran through her.

  Eventually she looked up at him, into his eyes. 'Bob, I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'That was so selfish. I don't know what happened.

  He nuzzled her auburn hair, laughing 'Selfish nothing. Don't be daft. Listen,
love, if that's what happens when you have a baby, can I have one too!'

  She chuckled with pleasure, a playful sound with more than a hint of promise. 'Okay, let's see what we can do about that.' As she spoke, she rolled over, straddling him, taking him deep inside her, and in a single movement pulling her knees up and sitting on him, bolt upright. She seemed barely to move, yet he could feel the honey grip of secret muscles, strengthened by childbirth, tensing and relaxing as they massaged him. He lay on his back, looking up, touching her only with his eyes. She started to sway more vigorously, rocking backwards and forwards upon him, tensing, relaxing, tensing again. Pleasure seemed to wash upwards and over him, starting from the soles of his feet, moving up through his ankles, his calves. He surrendered himself to the most powerful orgasm of his life, even though he expected that when the high tide of pleasure broke upon his groin he would die of its intensity. He was helpless beneath her. Someone in the room was shouting out aloud, and dimly he was aware that it was himself. Then the cries became a duet, and he knew that Sarah had climaxed also in the same moment. He saw her back arch and felt those secret muscles grasp tight and hold on as he pulsed and pumped into her, on and on. They held their frozen pose, neither breathing, each concentrating only on the other's pleasure, until eventually, with a last triumphant shout, Sarah relaxed, and slumped, shuddering, on to his chest.

  A full five minutes elapsed in silence, as if each were printing every detail, every moment of the experience indelibly upon their memory. Eventually Bob wrapped his arms around his wife and kissed her on the forehead.

  `Do you think it gets any better than that?' she asked. It was an entirely serious question.

  'I think we should hope not, my love. If it did, I don't know if either of us could stand it. Think of it — that wee lad through there left an orphan because his parents humped each other to death!'

  `Christ, imagine the post-mortems!'