Skinner's Trail

by Quintin Jardine

  He gave one loud burp and forgot his discomfort as recognition showed in his tiny eyes. Sarah stood up from her chair and held the baby out to his father.

  Bob took him, arms outstretched, and raised him high above his head. 'Hello there, wee man. If you've missed me one-tenth as much as I've missed you these last couple of days, then you've still missed me a lot.' Jazz smiled down at him, a dribble starting at the corner of his mouth. Bob cradled him to his shoulder, leaned over and kissed Sarah.

  `Hello, love. The same goes for you, too.

  She squeezed his arm. `Hmm. I'm just glad you're back so soon. How were Hamburg and Amsterdam?'

  `Interesting and very useful. We're hot on Ainscow now. He's tied right into Vaudan through that money.'

  `Where does that put Gloria? Does it help you prove that Santi's death wasn't suicide?'

  Not yet. Paco Garcia's statement still gives us a big problem there. If it were discounted, Gloria would probably have enough doubt on her side now to challenge the insurance company in the civil courts. But with that on the record, she's stuffed.'

  `But couldn't Garcia be lying?'

  Skinner shook his head. 'No chance, love. Garcia would have given me the PIN number to his granny's cash card if I'd asked him. He was telling the truth, no doubt about it. It looks as if I was wrong about Santi. That dog theory was just the great detective's imagination running away with him. The guy must have had a brainstorm. Suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed; that's how it goes. The fact that Vaudan was going to kill him won't soften the insurers' hearts.'

  Dammit!' said Sarah. 'I feel so sorry for that woman.'

  `Yeah, so do I, but we've done all we can. Anyway, enough of that. Brian's downstairs. He's stopping for supper . . . if that's okay. Has Fettes dropped off a paper for me?'

  Sarah gave him a longish look. 'Of course it's all right for Brian to stay. I was half expecting him anyway. As for the fax, couldn't it wait until tomorrow morning?'

  `Maybe not. Things are moving fast on this one.'

  They walked downstairs — Jazz still nestled happily on Bob's shoulder, drooling quietly on to his shirt — and joined Brian Mackie in the living room. 'Your envelope's on the coffee table,' said Sarah. 'I'll get supper under way while you two see what's in it.'

  Skinner nodded toward the brown manila envelope. 'Open that, Brian, will you.'

  The Chief Inspector picked it up and tore it open with his index finger. He took out a sheet of paper, scanned it and passed it to Skinner, who took it from him, left-handed.

  The report was a day in the life of Nicolas Vaudan, compiled in secret by his watchers. It listed everyone with whom he had been in contact while Skinner and Mackie had been in Hamburg and Amsterdam: some by name, others unidentified and simply by description. One section was underlined.

  Skinner read aloud. "'Caller arrived at Vaudan's waterfront office just before midday. White male, aged around fifty, stocky, of medium height wearing denims. Heavy moustache, black-framed spectacles. Drove a Ford Transit van, UK registration L 254 DQT, with trailer attached. Spent twenty minutes in Vaudan's office before Vaudan himself showed him to the door. Left his vehicle parked in Vaudan's yard and left in a taxi."'

  He looked across at Mackie. 'Has anyone . . .' The question was answered with a nod before it was complete.

  `Yes, sir. This was in the envelope too.'

  He handed across a second sheet of A4 paper. Skinner read once more. "'Caller subsequently identified provisionally from van registration as Norman Melville Monklands, age forty-nine, of 7 Dalziel Terrace, Whitburn, West Lothian. Monklands has no record of convictions or arrests. He is DSS registered as a self-employed delivery driver, specialising in the transportation of light motorboats between Spain, Portugal, France, Italy and the UK. He maintains a small office at Inverkip Marina, near Gourock, and employs two other drivers on a casual basis. Monklands is known, on a social and business basis, to the police in Whitburn, where he and his wife also operate a small fleet of vehicles as licensed taxis. Whitburn officers provided the information that his main social interest is golf, and that he is a member of Dalmahoy Golf Club."'

  The note was signed by Maggie Rose.

  `Interesting,' said Skinner. 'Maybe this guy is a complete innocent. Maybe he's in Monaco to pick up a boat.' He paused to shift position in his chair as Jazz, falling asleep, slumped against his neck. in a deal like this one — if we are on the right trail — there has to be a courier. And if you didn't have someone like Mr Norman Melville Monklands, you'd have to invent him. Tomorrow, Brian, while I'm arranging to have a look in that Monaco bank account without anyone knowing about it, you do some more checking. Find out everything there is to know about this guy. What kind of perfume his mistress likes, the whole damn lot. But that is for tomorrow. For now, I am going to put my son to bed. Then you, his mother and I are going to eat. So far today, I've had a Spanish breakfast, a German lunch, and a Dutch tea. It'll be nice to end it with a plain Scottish supper!'

  Sixty-five

  ‘You need to get details of a numbered account in a small private bank without anyone knowing you've done it?'

  `That's right, Maggie, and I need them today if possible. See to it, will you.

  Maggie Rose shook her red locks and smiled. 'Too tall an order for me, sir. I think I'll have to decline.'

  `I was afraid you would. Looks like I'll have to get on my Superman cape. And I'm knackered after yesterday, too. Okay, Mags, sit down and learn something. What I'm going to do is cheat a bit and call in the resources of my other job.'

  The young inspector nodded and sat down. By virtue of his `other job' as part-time Security Adviser to the Secretary of State for Scotland, Skinner was recognised as a senior member of a service which, while it had become less 'secret' over the years, could still call on facilities and cut corners in a way of which no police force could dream. Now, he picked up a black scrambled telephone on his desk and punched in a short-coded number. The telephonist answered with a number, not a name.

  `Morning. This is Skinner in Scotland. I know it's Saturday, but is Angie Dickson in? Good. Let me speak to her, please.'

  The extension rang twice, before a bubbly voice answered: `Dickson.'

  `Ms Dickson? This is Bob Skinner, the Five man in Scotland.

  `Good morning, Mr Skinner. How can I help you?'

  `By showing off your skills. Remember the lecture you gave at that seminar in Yorkshire last winter? "Armchair Spying" you called it. I found it fascinating, but I have to admit I was sceptical at times. Can you really do all those things?'

  `Sure. Given a fair wind, I can do everything I told you. I even managed to hack into the CIA last week. We thought they were holding out on us over a deal in the Middle East. We were right. Now the negotiations have taken a whole new turn, and the Americans can't figure out why.'

  Skinner laughed. 'Then what I've got for you should be plain sailing. I'm involved in an international investigation. It's a police matter rather than a security job, but something's come up which calls for skills that simply don't exist in that network. I need to know details of a numbered account in a small private bank in Monaco, called Sneyder et Fils. But I have to tap in with absolute secrecy, and leave no trace. You said in Yorkshire that you can do that.'

  `That's right, I can, in theory. Assuming that Mr Sneyder and his son have computerised records and a modem in their system.'

  `Yes,' said Skinner, 'that's the chance I'm taking. But I'm pretty certain they will have, though, for transferring credit. What do you need, to get in?'

  `Nothing other than the number of the modem. Once I've got that, I'll squirt my little gizmo down the line, and it will persuade Sneyder's system to cough up its access code. Once I'm in, I can go where I like, get what I'm after, and get out again. Then another little gizmo will persuade their computer not to log the search — and that's that.'

  `So will you do it?'

  Natch. Anything for a brother officer. What's the acc
ount number?'

  Skinner dug a small piece of paper from his pocket. `C 159480'

  ‘Got it. Leave it with me. I'll be quick as I can. I'll get you all the info I can. Balance, account owners, signatories — all that sort of stuff.'

  `That's the game. When will you be able to do it?' `Right now, I should think.'

  `Although it's Saturday?'

  `Yes. If they have a system, it'll be accessible to receive electronic transfers even when the bank is closed.'

  `How long'll it take?'

  `Will you be there all morning?'

  ‘For you, as long as it takes.' He gave her his direct number. `Thanks in advance.'

  He replaced the receiver. 'There you are, Maggie. Did you pick up enough from one side of the conversation?'

  `Yes, sir, I get it. I'm going to have to start calling you God. You surely move in mysterious ways!'

  Skinner snorted. ‘Hmph, d'you think God's got an intray as big as that one?' He pointed to the small mountain of files, memos and letters heaped on the big desk, close to his left hand. 'If I was the Almighty, you'd see a miracle done right here and now and that lot'd disappear. I take it this is what's left after you've filtered out the nonessential stuff.'

  `That's right, sir. I spared you as much as I could. I even farmed some of the punter correspondence out to Alan Royston, and told him to sign himself "Head of Public Affairs" instead of Media Relations Manager.'

  `Hope he doesn't come after me for a rise! Right, then. Let's get to it.'

  His hand was almost on a memo, balanced precariously on top of the heap, when there was a knock on the door and Brian Mackie burst into the room. 'Can I have a minute, sir?' The thin detective could barely contain his smile. Even the top of his head, which during the previous few months had moved beyond its balding phase and now could be described only as dome-like, shone red with excitement.

  `You can have as many minutes as you need, Brian. Grab yourself a coffee.'

  Mackie filled a mug from the pot in the corner, then took a seat beside Maggie Rose. He was still smiling. 'Took a detour on the way in, this morning, boss. I dropped into Dalmahoy Golf and Country Club, just for a look around. I went into the club-house. I found a bloody great notice-board covered with competition charts and results. One of them was the club foursomes. Mr Norrie Monklands is doing very well this year. He's in the semi-finals. Know who his partner is?'

  Mackie's grin broadened, until it infected Skinner. A smile spread across his face.

  'So tell me, Brian. You've earned the pleasure.'

  `Only Mr P. Ainscow, that's all. D'you think there's more than one?'

  Behind his desk, Skinner punched the air with his right fist. 'You — pardon my French, Maggie — fucking beauty! The whole thing fits. Vaudan, buyer; Monklands, courier; Ainscow, distributor. We've got them by the jewels. We follow Monklands home, let Ainscow make his contacts, and there won't be a court in Edinburgh that's big enough to hold all the drug-dealing bastards we'll pull in. Too bad for Monklands and Ainscow. Somehow, I don't see them making the foursomes final!'

  Sixty-six

  They were in the same small room in the Barcelona prison.

  Two guards stood in the corner, only a small step away from Gruber. The German's left eye was puffed and blackened. Pujol wondered if his escorts, after their previous meeting, had taken it upon themselves to instil in their prisoner a little respect for the Guardia Civil uniform. If that was the case, it seemed to have worked. Hansi Gruber seemed altogether more circumspect as he looked across the small table.

  The Commandante enjoyed his advantage. 'You are surprised to see me again?' he asked in French. 'Don't be. It's just that I was asked to deliver something to you, and being an obliging fellow by nature, well, I said "of course." Actually, I was asked to deliver two things to you. The first, you have seen before.'

  He took from his right breast pocket the German's letter to Hilda Braun, and threw it on the table. 'Sure, you have seen it before. In fact you wrote it, didn't you? When you did, you never thought it would need to be delivered. You didn't imagine you'd be so stupid as to foul your engine on Mr Inch and his sailboard. That letter, it was just to cover you against a million-to-one chance. You left it with Vaudan, to be delivered only if you were caught.'

  Gruber grunted. 'No, everything in that letter is true. I was going away on that cruise, but I had the accident with that poor man, and now I am here'

  `That accident, after you planned your escape, then stole a boat.'

  Gruber spread his hands wide in a theatrical gesture. 'I do crazy things sometimes, when I am drunk.

  `Okay,' said Pujol. 'That is of little importance for now. The second thing I have for you, here it is.' He produced a second letter, folded, from his left breast pocket and waved it in the air. As he did so, he fished in the same pocket with his left hand, and found a further piece of paper. He threw the letter on to the table with a broad smile.

  `That is for you, from Hilda. It is written in German, but I have had it translated into Spanish. Let me read it to you. Our friends in the corner will enjoy it too. She says:

  Dear Hansi

  How big a fool can you be? Your friend Lucan came to me with your letter, your story, and your money. Then two policemen arrived and told me the truth, that you are lying in a stinking jail in Spain on a murder charge. What have you done? You went away to find a new life for us, one free of trouble, and all you have done is throw away the little that we had. Your friend Lucan, some friend he is. He told to me that your trip might last much longer than you thought, and that the money might not be as good as you had been led to expect. He even said that if I needed comfort while you were away, then all I had to do was call him and he would come back to Germany just for me. Your friend is a pig, Hansi.

  The two policemen who came to see me said that, the way things are for you, you will go to jail for ever. But they also said that if you were to tell the truth — that you were paid to kill this man — and that if you gave evidence against the man who paid you, then you could go free. Be sure of this, Hansi, I will not grow old waiting for you. If you continue to protect these people, I will not be outside the prison gates when you come out, old and bent and leaning on a stick. If you ever want to see me again, and to feel free air in your lungs while you have the strength to enjoy it, then, for the first time in your stupid life, do something sensible. Tell the Spanish police what they want to know, and give evidence against this man. Otherwise, rot in there; at least until they eliminate you as a risk to them by arranging another accident — for you this time.

  "Hilda" '

  Some love letter, eh, Hansi.'

  As Pujol had read aloud, Gruber had been following Hilda's words in her original letter. He now re-read it in silence, then dropped it on the table and buried his face in his hands.

  `Nice man, that Lucan, isn't he, Hansi; said Pujol sympathetically, 'offering to look after your girlfriend for you while you're inside. He could get to look after her for a long time. Now, are you going to do the sensible thing? Here is the deal. You give evidence, and when Vaudan is convicted you walk free. Otherwise . . . well, you can forget about the sound of birdsong, the surge of the sea, and the smell of a woman for a long time, maybe forever. You going to do it?'

  Gruber's eyes seemed beaten as they looked up and across the table. He nodded briefly.

  `Good,' said Pujol. 'Now I want to hear you say it. You were paid to stage Inch's accident, yes?'

  `Yes,' said the German hoarsely.

  `By whom?'

  `By Nick Vaudan.'

  `He gave you your orders in person, yes?'

  `Yes.'

  Was anyone else there?'

  `Yes. That filthy bastard Serge Lucan.'

  `All very good. Now I am going to bring in a secretary who is fluent in German. You will dictate your story to her, she will type it up, and you will sign it. Then we will have copies made in Spanish, French and English. In whatever language you say it, Senor Vaudan wi
ll be cooked!'

  Sixty-seven

  ‘Nice little bank, Sneyder et Fils. I had a good rummage while I was there. I looked at a dozen numbered accounts, as well as the one you gave me. Two were held by terrorist organisations, one by a Mafia don, and a third by a company which is known to us as a CIA front. Once I can set aside some more time, I'm going to take a longer look. Congratulations, Mr Skinner, you're a hero of the Service.' Angie Dickson's voice sounded even more effervescent than before.

  `Don't think I really want to be,' said Skinner. 'Don't think I want to know too much, either, about what you can do to banks. As a policeman, it'd make me feel too uncomfortable. Apart from that rogues' gallery, what have you got on the account you went in to look for?'

  `All there was to know. Opened a couple of weeks ago. Joint holders: Nicolas Vaudan, French national, and Paul Ainscow, British. The day after the account was opened, a deposit of one and a half million US dollars was made by EFT from a lending bank in Holland.'

  `And it's still there?'

  `No, I just missed it. It was pulled at eight thirty this morning. French time.'

  Bugger!' Skinner snapped. 'All of it?'

  The lot,' said Angie Dickson. 'One-point-five mil. In greenbacks. It would have to be on the signatures of the joint holders.'

  `Would both need to be there?'

  `I don't know. I wouldn't have thought so, though. The Red Brigade are hardly going to turn up in person to pick up their cash.

  Skinner grunted. `No. Silly question really. I know that one of the signatories is in Scotland. Anything more to tell me?'

  `No, that's it. Glad to have been of help, though.' She added, 'That's assuming I have been'

  `Oh yes, Ms Dickson,' said Skinner. 'You surely have' `Good. I love being given the chance to show off! Bye'

  There was a click and the scrambled line went dead.

  Skinner replaced the black phone in its cradle. He looked across at Maggie Rose. 'There you are, Mags. An electronic bank job, by request, and it isn't even lunchtime yet.' `What did she have to say?'