Skinner's Trail

by Quintin Jardine

  Brian Mackie whistled. 'Tough on Ainscow. Is there anything else you want me to tell him?'

  `No — other than that he should probably have legal advice handy, and a good accountant. We'll want to go through those books with a fine-tooth comb.'

  `That's twice you've said "we", boss. Are you helping out there?'

  `Yes. Arturo Pujol's asked me to give him a hand because of the UK interest. Sort of unofficial liaison.'

  What's Sarah saying to that?'

  Skinner laughed. 'He's cute, my friend Arturo. He invited her to observe their pathologist at work on Monday, knowing she'd jump at the chance. So she can hardly dig me up. Anyway, we're both keen that this is cleared up as quickly as possible, for the sake of Alberni's widow. Nice woman. Sarah's looking after her now. She's given her a sedative from the farmacia . . . sorry, Brian, that's chemist to you! Okay, go on, get a hold of Ainscow. Tell him first available flight tomorrow, without fail! Tell him to let me know, through you, what flight he's on, and I'll have the Guardia pick him up from the airport. So long.

  He hung up and went out to join Sarah on the terrace. He found her in a bikini, walking Jazz up and down in her arms. He was awake and as bright as the day, taking a greater interest than ever in his surroundings, and in the things going on about him. Sarah had dressed him in a pale-blue sun-suit, and a wide brimmed sunhat fastened under his chin.

  `Here, gimme a shot,' said Bob. Sarah passed the wriggling baby to him and sat down on a cushioned sun-bed. She unclipped her bikini top, picked up a yellow bottle of Delial factor four, and stretched out on her back to prepare herself for the sun.

  Shielding him from the sun with his body, Bob turned the baby to face the Bay of Rosas. The bite-shaped expanse of blue water seemed to be alive with windsurfers. 'Fancy some of that, Jazz boy?' The baby wriggled and gurgled in his arms. 'Never done any myself, but I'm sure it'll become second nature to you.'

  He felt the wriggling subside. 'Time to go back to the buggy, is it? Come on, then.' He laid the unprotesting baby in his mobile crib and, stripping off his shirt, settled on a recliner alongside Sarah.

  `Is Gloria out for the count?' he asked.

  `Yes. I found a good strong sedative down there. It isn't really over-the-counter stuff, even here, but I flashed my stethoscope and ID at him, and used Arturo's name to back them up. He came across without an argument.'

  `How long will she be out?'

  `Let's see. It's three now. I'd say till seven, anyway. I've got some Librium for when she wakes up. When did she think her father would get here?'

  `She hoped he'd make it for eight. Where will they stay?'

  `At her place. I asked her if she wanted them to be booked into the Bonaire or the Nieves Mar, but she said no. I suspect she was worried about cost, but she didn't say so — just that she'd have to face it some time, and it might as well be now.'

  `She's a brave lady.'

  A thought struck Sarah. 'God, I wasn't in the house, but didn't you say that it looked as if a bomb had hit it. I really hate the thought of her going back to the debris of last night's party with Santi and their friends and all.

  `No, that won't happen. Arturo set half a dozen of his finest to making the place look spotless. I told him he should have used the Policia for that, but he said he didn't want any breakages.'

  'Yes! That man with the hat, wasn't he awful! Gloria told me about the stretcher. She said she thought you were going to hit him.'

  The thought did cross my mind. Arturo's too. What a bollocking he gave the guy — Chief of Police or not.'

  `You'd better not park on any yellow lines in L'Escala for a while!'

  Bob laughed. The only line I'd like to park on is the one round that pillock's hat.' He propped himself up on an elbow, and picked up the sun cream. 'Want your back done?'

  Nope. It's not too comfortable lying face-down right now. The D cups are still pretty tender, thanks to the milk monster over there!'

  Thirty-one

  ‘I must say, Mr Skinner, the thought of an airport welcome by the Guardia Civil had me worried all the way across. It was quite a relief when their driver turned out to be in plain clothes!'

  Skinner smiled. 'Even the Guardia have men in suits, Mr Ainscow.'

  The two Scots shook hands on the pavement of the Passeig Maritim, outside the office of InterCosta. Ainscow thanked his driver, and the black car which had delivered him pulled away from the kerb and headed off in the direction of L'Escala's old town. It was 4:30 p.m., and even on a Sunday the few shops along the Passeig were in the process of reopening after their afternoon break, in the hope of gathering in a few more pesetas from the weekend visitors.

  `You made good time,' said Skinner.

  `Yes, I took the quickest option available: Air France from Edinburgh and on to Barcelona from Charles de Gaulle. Bloody expensive, though. Not the way I'd choose to travel. I take charters to Girona from Glasgow when I can, and look for deals on schedules to Barcelona in the winter months, when Girona's shut. How do you come down?'

  `Varies. Quite often, like on this trip, I drive down. Look, shall we go inside?'

  Ainscow nodded. Skinner pushed open the door of the small office, and the two stepped inside. Ainscow dropped his flight bag on the floor and placed his briefcase on one of three desks in the room.

  `That's the desk you use normally, when you're here?' Skinner asked.

  `Yes. That's ... that was Santi's over there, and the other's used by a part-time secretary.'

  `Right. Nothing's been touched here since yesterday. Everything is exactly as it was the last time Alberni locked up. What I want you to do, or more precisely what the Guardia want, is to go through the books of the business, and try to locate all the funds transferred under that crazy blank-cheque system of yours. Have you called the InterCosta accountant?'

  Ainscow looked at him a shade sheepishly. 'We don't have one. We have a book-keeper over here, and I have one in the UK. We operate as a partnership, so there's no need for filing of accounts anywhere. However, I have located an independent accountant in Girona. She'll be here tomorrow.'

  `Good. What about a lawyer?'

  `I'll call one if and when I need one. There's a bloke in Torroella that I've used in the past. But I've got nothing to hide. It was Santi who had the five million in his safe, not me. Do you want me to begin today?'

  `No. Wait till your accountant gets here — and the Guardia man. They're sending someone up from their fraud department.

  `Have you met Pujol, the local Commandante?'

  `No.'

  'Didn't think you would. Not too many people seek out the company of the Guardia. He's coming down here this afternoon to meet you.' Skinner looked out of the window, peering through a chink in the mass of posters which covered most of its surface and darkened the room. 'In fact, here he is now.'

  As he spoke, Pujol, out of uniform, appeared in the doorway. Skinner made the formal introductions.

  `I am glad to see you here, Senor,' said the Commandante. `I think that there are matters with your company which have to be looked into: things that happened here in Spain.'

  Ainscow broke in. 'Look, I want you to know that apart from this Pitkeathly business, and let's hope that still turns out to have been a mistake, there has never been a single complaint to me in Scotland by any client about any transaction. Ask around town and you will find nothing but satisfied people.'

  `We shall ask, Senor. In fact we are asking already. Tell me, how long have you been in business with Senor Alberni.'

  `Nearly ten years. I was in the estate-agency business back home. I built up a chain in central Scotland, then sold to an insurance company at the height of the boom. I did well — well enough to buy my place in Punta Montgo, and to spend some quality time out here. That's when I got to know Santi. He was working as a salesman for a big promoter-developer. He had sold me a couple of apartments as investments. I was looking for a manager and the thought shuck me: why not set up Santi in a business of his
own, combining estate agency with property management, and all the other add-ons that brings? Then I thought that a business like that should have a UK outlet on the estate agency side. I looked at the restrictive covenant attached to my sale, and discovered that I was clear to deal in overseas property. So InterCosta opened in Scotland as well. Initially I ran it from our house, but when the Stirling

  Business Centre was built, I liked it and moved in there. Gives clients a better impression, you understand.'

  `You said you were partners,' said Skinner. 'What was the profit split?'

  `I put up the development capital, so I had seventy-five per cent. Santi had twenty-five, but he still had a good package, by Spanish standards.'

  `Has the business been profitable?' asked Pujol.

  `It's washed its face, I'd say. If I were to be completely frank, I'd have to say that it's under-performing. It's always made a profit, but somehow it's never come up to business-plan forecasts. Some years the profit has been so low that I've given Santi a fifty-per cent share just so that he'd have something worth having.'

  `Where has the problem been? Sales?' Skinner quizzed.

  Not really. The way the thing is structured, we're not dependent on the market. Property management — and by that I mean looking after villas and apartments and providing a rental service — that's always given us a second income stream. The problem has always been that the overhead at the Spanish end was way over budget.'

  `Why didn't you crack down on it? Put in an accountant?'

  `In a business like this, it's not that easy to pin down the overhead. There are always things that you didn't budget for. Things like putting clients up in a hotel for a night or two because the maid forgot to renew the gas bottle in their apartment and you can't get one till Monday, unexpected trips to the airport with clients, people taking inspection flights over and ripping you off by buying from someone else. Loads of wee things like that can cut into your costs. I've always reckoned I'd just have to live 'with that. As I said to you in Scotland, Mr

  Skinner, I've been feeling a bit uneasy lately, but until Pitkeathly there's been nothing to go on. Now there's this five million.'

  `How often did you see Santi Alberni?' Pujol asked.

  I'm over here about half a dozen times a year, in some years more. When I'm here, even apart from on business, I see Santi a lot. And Gloria, of course.'

  `Are you married, Senor?'

  Was once — not now.'

  Pujol sighed. 'Ah, yes. I can say the same. And so could Bob here, until recently. Now he has a wife and a new family to go home to, so we should let him do that. Senor, I shall drive you to your villa, and tomorrow we will begin the search for the origin of Santi Alberni's five million.'

  Thirty-two

  Gloria and her father called in while you were gone. To thank us for yesterday.'

  `I hope you told them it was de nada.'

  `Of course.'

  `How's she bearing up?'

  `Pretty well. She's got guts — and her father being here's helping her a lot too. Arturo's told her that he'll release the body tomorrow straight after the autopsy, all being well. They're fixing the funeral for Wednesday. Gloria asked if we'd go. I said yes, if Kathleen could find us a babysitter.'

  `Wait and see: Kathleen'll do it herself. There'll be no stopping her.'

  `Then she'll be Jazz's first official sitter. It's just too bad about the reason we need one.'

  `Yes. Here, try this theory for size. Apparently Ainscow's footloose and fancy free. No current missus. Arturo was wondering if he and Gloria might have been having it off, then Santi found out and couldn't take it. What d'you think?'

  `No way. She's a well-brought-up Spanish lady. She wouldn't do that. And Santi was a Spanish guy, remember. If Arturo's idea was right, Santi would have been more likely to kill her, and Ainscow, than himself. No way, no way, no way.'

  `Yes, that's more or less what I said to Arturo as well.'

  They were dining at home, on their wide terrace. The air had cleared with the cooling of the day, and the jagged skyline of the Pyrenees was etched sharply on the horizon. The sun had just fallen and the sky along the mountains had taken on the pinkish tinge that they knew would darken and turn purple with the breakthrough of the earliest of the evening stars.

  Sarah raised her glass of Fonter towards the Pyrenees in a toast. 'To my big mountain. It's a dream here; Bob, isn't it?'

  He looked at her and smiled; a smile from the eyes, a smile from the heart. 'Because of you, Professor Sarah, all because of you. The best night I ever had in this town was the night you said you'd marry me. I still dream about that — here and in Scotland.'

  She smiled back at him. Their eyes locked, and the air between them seemed to grow warmer, in defiance of the gathering -dusk. 'Ask me again,' she whispered.

  He gave a tiny shake of his head. 'No. You might give me a different answer.'

  `No chance of that, copper. You're stuck with me.'

  He reached across the table and took her hand. 'Well, in that case .His smile widened again into a grin which had , only one meaning.

  And then the telephone rang.

  'Bugger.' Bob walked into the villa and picked it up. 'Nola.'

  `Hi, hombre. How goes it with you, and how's my kid brother?' Alex's timing has always been accidentally impeccable, Bob thought.

  `It goes great with us all, and your kid brother is unstoppable. Eats, sleeps, shits and smiles; that just about sums him up. He doesn't stint on any of them, either.'

  `Buy him a drink for me, then.'

  Bob laughed at his daughter's obvious delight in her new sibling. 'Aye, I'll do that.'

  `I hear you're busy out there, Pops. Andy said you'd fallen on some police work.'

  `Andy said?'

  `Yes. I'm at his place just now.' Before he could comment, she added, `I'm staying at Fairyhouse Avenue tonight.'

  `Yes, fine. How are the finals?'

  `One to go, on Tuesday. Studying's over, though. You could say that quiet confidence is flowing down the telephone line.'

  `Good. Keep your mind on Tuesday, and let's hope that confidence is not misplaced.'

  `So what is this thing you're caught up in?'

  `It's a mess, but we'll sort it out in the next couple of days, I reckon. Now go and give Andy's phone bill a break. I'll call you after your last exam.'

  `Don't make it Tuesday evening, then. Andy's taking me out to celebrate. Bye.'

  He went back to the terrace, and to Sarah. She looked at him, enquiring with her eyes.

  `Alex. Asking after Jazz. She's at Andy's.'

  `Mmm.' Sarah smiled a quiet smile.

  Bob reached his hand across the table once more. 'Now Professor, as I was saying ..

  And then, through the baby intercom, came the strident sound of Jazz's first waking cry.

  Bob shook his head and laughed. 'That does it. I'm going to have a beer. I know whose needs come first in this house!'

  Thirty-three

  ‘My God, Bob, I'm cooked. Stand back, man, and let me get out of this shirt. Why did I choose to wear this spring gear? Why didn't I just put on a blouse and shorts, like every sensible woman I've seen today?'

  `How's Jazz?'

  'Fine, Good as gold. What does a Spanish postmortem look like then?'

  'Messy, just like everywhere else. Dr Martinez, the pathologist, was first-class, though. We could use one or two like him back home. Nothing unnecessary. Straight to the point . . . Back in a minute.' She ran off towards the bedroom to change. When she reappeared in the kitchen a few minutes later, she was wearing a Lycra swimsuit and shorts.

  Bob handed her a coffee. 'What's the verdict, then?'

  ‘Exactly as you'd expect. Death by asphyxiation, due to hanging. All vital organs okay, brain normal. Santi was as healthy as a horse, so you can rule out terminal illness as a motive. Slight alcohol level in the blood, but no more than you'd find from three or four beers the night before, No unusual marks on the bo
dy, apart from horizontal bruising on each upper arm. The pathologist suggested — and it's as good an explanation as I can think of — that the short sleeves of his shirt tightened on him as he struggled, after kicking the chair away. There was an oily mark on the chair by the way, and oil on the sole of Santi's left shoe.'

  `How do you know he struggled?'

  `Martinez found yellow hemp fibres from the rope under his fingernails. His proposition was that, after Santi kicked the chair away, he thought better of it and clawed at the rope. That fits too. It's a common finding in autopsies on hanging suicides.'

  `So that's it then. Suicide officially.'

  Sarah nodded. 'Yes. Arturo said he's completely satisfied. He's going to put the papers before a magistrate, but that's what they'll say, and that's what the magistrate will rule.' She paused, looking suddenly gloomy. 'I wish it was otherwise, for Gloria's sake. I looked in to see her on the way back, to let her know what had happened. She still refuses to believe that her husband could have done something like that. You couldn't do some clever detecting and prove otherwise, could you?'

  A wry expression twisted Bob's face for a second. 'Much as I'd like to help the lady, and much as I hate pat answers, there are times when a responsible investigator has to accept the obvious and leave it at that. You know me. I've been gnawing away at the scene in my mind, looking for something that might argue against the suicide explanation. But if there is anything, I'm stuffed if I can see it. Anyway, that's enough shop for today. I phoned Ainscow. He won't be through until tomorrow, he reckons. He, Arturo and I are meeting in the afternoon. Also, while you were out, I managed to begin work on this great treatise on detecting that I came down here to write. But that is it. Enough, the sun is calling. So why don't we attend to Jazz's needs, and then we can all go out for lunch. Between you and me, my love, there's quite a lot I'd do for a pizza!'