Less than two minutes later, the steel shutters on the terrace level of the villa began to roll up slowly. As the light flooded in, Skinner could see that the upper floor comprised one large sitting room, furnished with leather sofas and armchairs and a long coffee table. In one corner of the room stood a huge television set, near which, silhouetted against the western window, were a twin-pedestal desk and low-backed chair. Vaudan sat down in the chair, his briefcase on the desk before him with lid upraised. Then, flipping it closed, he moved across to the north-facing patio doors and threw them wide, allowing him to roll out two white plastic loungers and a matching refectory table. With the terrace furniture arranged to his evident satisfaction, the Frenchman stripped off his shirt and settled on a lounger.
Skinner lowered the field-glasses and nodded to the man at his side. The young policeman picked up his radio and muttered a few words of Spanish into the mouthpiece.
The green Nissan Patrol made even more noise than the V12 Jaguar, as it hauled itself up the steep hill. As it approached and swung round the bend, Skinner trained the binoculars on Vaudan on the terrace. At first, the man did not react to the sound. Then, as it drew closer, he propped himself on an elbow to look over the mock battlements and the perimeter wall. As the vehicle drew to a halt, Skinner saw a frown crease the Frenchman's forehead. The man stood up, grabbed his shirt, and slipped it on.
Pujol, in full uniform, his gun in its holster by his side, stepped from the front passenger seat. Three other officers each carrying a machine-carbine identical to that which lay beside Skinner, followed his lead. The Commandante spoke to one of the three men, who remained beside the vehicle. Then he led the other two down the driveway and through the small gate to the terrace.
Vaudan stood waiting for them, the frown still lining his face. Although Pujol had his back to Skinner, the latter knew at once when he had spoken and, from the sudden widening of the Frenchman's eyes, what he had said. Through the glasses, the scene was that of a silent movie. He saw Vaudan's lips move, but caught not even the faintest sound. Then the Frenchman threw his hands wide, as if in appeal. A few seconds later he saw Pujol nod his head briefly. The Frenchman turned and walked back into the villa, moving across to the desk.
Skinner focused the glasses as sharply as he could. As he watched, Vaudan raised the lid of the briefcase very slightly and very swiftly, and took out a small dark object. Then he closed the case, spun its locks, and picked it up . . . with his left hand.
Instinct made Skinner call out. 'Arturo! Gun!'
For an instant, Pujol looked back over his shoulder. Then, trusting what he had heard, he reached for the safety buckle on his holster. His gun was drawn as Vaudan stepped back on to the terrace. Skinner saw it move up to cover the Frenchman, but realised at once that it was too late. From the doorway, Vaudan fired a quick shot from a small automatic pistol.
`No!' Skinner shouted in anguish as Pujol fell backwards.
The Frenchman gestured urgently with his gun to the two other officers on the terrace. At once they threw their carbines over the mock battlements, and clasped their hands together, behind their heads. Vaudan gestured again, and they retreated into a corner of the terrace. As they did, he turned and sprinted through the gate to the driveway. Pujol's third officer was waiting, his gun raised, but stiff and frozen. Vaudan snapped off two shots. The young man spun round and fell face-down.
Skinner looked at the private by his side, and saw the boy's face transfixed and white with shock. He grabbed the machine-carbine, and looked quickly at its mechanism. He found the safety and flicked it off.
The Frenchman had reached the Jaguar. He tossed his case into the back and reached awkwardly, left-handed, for his keys.
The bellow from the hilltop froze him in his tracks. Vaudan! Drop the gun on the ground now, and raise your hands.'
The Frenchman looked up towards the sound of the voice and, as he did, Skinner realised that the sun was shining on the barrel of the carbine he held. Vaudan did not drop his pistol. Instead he swung it up towards the glint of light.
Skinner's single shot took him square in the forehead. For a second he stood stock-still; then, like a discarded marionette, he collapsed sideways against the car, his left shoulder wedging between the side mirror and the sloping windscreen. Thus jammed, he hung there, head lolling, eyes glazed, and blood trickling slowly down his nose from the hole just above its bridge.
The carbine hung loosely in Skinner's hands. He lay still on his mat, his face suddenly as bloodless as that of his young companion.
Eventually the green-uniformed private prodded him, gently. `Senor?' He pointed towards the grotesquely trapped Vaudan. 'Es morte?'
Skinner looked at him in silence for a few seconds, feeling his colour return. 'Oh yes, son. He's dead. He points a gun at me and he's fucking dead all right. That's the way it is.'
A slow smile crept over his face. He patted the young man on the shoulder, and pressed the carbine into his hands. 'That was a fine shot of yours,' he said in pidgin Spanish. He patted him again. 'Hero.'
The private looked back at him blankly.
The smile left Skinner's face. He stood up and motioned to the man to follow him down the hillside towards the villa, where nothing moved and a funereal silence hung in the air.
Eighty-three
‘The Commandante will be okay, si?'
‘Yes, Carlos. He'll be fine, thank Christ. It was a flesh wound. The bullet went through his side but missed all the organs. An inch or so to the left and it would have taken a kidney out. He's a lucky fellow, Arturo is. He's not cut out to be a gunfighter, though.'
`How about the other Guardia? How is he? Alive too, I hear.'
Skinner nodded. 'Yes, but not so lucky. He's paralysed. One of the bullets is lodged in his spine. The surgeons hope to remove it once he builds up some strength. He lost a lot of blood'
The two friends sat side-by-side on high stools at the end of the bar in La Clota. Carlos looked at Skinner's reflection in the big mirror which formed virtually the whole back wall.,
`You know, Bob,' he said softly, 'That must have been some shot by young Joaquim. Hit him bang in the forehead, yes?' He made a sign with his extended index finger touching the bridge of his nose.
Skinner nodded silently towards the mirror.
`It's a funny thing,' said Carlos. 'My sons, they know Joaquim. In fact sometimes they go rabbit shooting, in a crowd. Only Joaquim, he never takes a rifle. He says it's because he
doesn't want to shoot anything, not even a rabbit for the kitchen. My sons, they say that the other reason is that he is a lousy shot.' He looked sideways at Skinner. 'I guess they were wrong, eh.'
`Si, mi amigo. I guess they were.' As Bob picked up his beer and drained it in a single swallow, Carlos thought he saw a very slight tremor in his hand.
He slapped him on the shoulder. 'So what's it to be? You come here just to drink, or you eat? I get you a menu?'
`Don't bother with the menu. I'll have the duck. In honour of old Arturo — who forgot to. Meantime, Paquita, another beer, please.'
The duckling and the telephone arrived at the table at the same time. As the elegant waiter was serving Skinner's meal, Kathleen appeared at his side, holding out a small black cordless telephone.
`Bob, this is for you. It's Maggie somebody.' She smiled. `Who's this we don't know about?'
Skinner took the phone with a smile. 'Maggie, hi. What's up?'
`Nothing vital, sir, but it's the sort of thing I thought you'd like to know about, so hope you don't mind. Sarah gave me the number. She said it'd be all right to call.'
`Mmm. No problem, but make it quick or my meal'll get cold.'
`Okay. Leicester called this evening. There's trouble between Monklands and Lucan apparently. It seems they were allowed exercise today, and Lucan attacked Monklands. Took a punch at him and broke his nose. They've had to separate them. They're due in court tomorrow, so apparently they're going to send them in separate vans.'
<
br /> `Do they know what it was about?'
`No, sir. Apparently, when they ask him, Lucan just swears in French. And when they ask Monklands, he just holds his nose and says it was an accident. Any idea what the problem could be?'
`No ideas, only guesses. Has anyone told them about Vaudan yet?'
Not as far as I know.'
`Well, get back on to Leicester and ask them to break the bad news to Lucan, then watch his reaction. They should be sure to have a French speaker handy when they do, just in case he lets something slip that we can use. And now, if you'll excuse me, this duckling needs my full attention. See you Monday.'
Eighty-four
He was cruising around the western outskirts of the city of Bordeaux when the shrill tone of his car phone mingled with the Latin rhythms of the David Byrne CD.
‘Bloody hell! Is there no peace?'
He stopped the player and pushed the phone's receive button. Brian Mackie's voice boomed out of the hands-free speaker. 'Hello, boss. How's the drive going?'
`Fine, until about five seconds ago. Making these things international was the worst telecommunications advance ever. What is it this time?'
`It's Lucan, chief.'
'Yes, I know,' said Skinner impatiently. 'Maggie called me last night'
`No, sir. This is today. Lucan's escaped. We've just had a flash from Leicester. They were taking him to court. Apparently the van was stopped at traffic lights, when he banjoed his guard and kicked the back door open.'
"Kin' ell!' Skinner shouted into the small microphone clipped above the sun visor, let me know developments'
He pushed the cancel button and drove on in the sunshine, across the bridge over the wide river and on towards the north. As the kilometres unrolled, he recalled his outward journey with Sarah and Jazz. It seemed as if months had gone by, yet he knew that his son was still a day under seven weeks old.
He was striking out along the N175, at the base of the Cherbourg peninsula and with the Autoroute network far behind him, when the phone rang again.
`Boss, it's Brian. No sign of Lucan, I'm afraid. He was in his own clothes, and he made it into a busy shopping centre, so they just lost him in the crowd. There was a report of a mugging in the area not long afterwards by someone answering his description, so they think he's now got some cash for the road.'
`Aye, but which road? He doesn't speak the language. His best chance would be to hitch a lift on a French lorry, I suppose. Did the Leicester people break the news about Vaudan?'
`Yes, first thing this morning. Lucan went ape-shit apparently. Burst into tears, but all he would say was "Bastards!" in French, over and over again.'
`Wonder which bastards he meant. Do we know any more about his dust-up with Monklands?'
`I was coming to that. The Leicester guys had another go at Monklands this afternoon. He told them to get stuffed. Said he would only speak to you, no one else.'
Behind the wheel, Skinner frowned. 'Didn't think I'd made that much of an impression. Okay, Brian. Ask them to have him ready to see me at police headquarters in Leicester tomorrow morning. I'll call in on my way up from Southampton. I'll bet he just wants to sell me a deal, though!'
Eighty-five
I hope Lucan did that, and not one of the boys here.'
Norrie Monklands sat at the table in an airless interview room in the main police station in Leicester. The left side of his face was disfigured by a huge yellow and purple swelling around the eye, which was closed to a slit. He nodded, wincing as he did.
`Aye, it was him, all right. Fuckin' nutter that he is. They brought us out of our cells in that remand unit, and as soon as we were alone in the exercise yard he wallops me. Down I go and he starts kickin' the shit out of me, till the warders came and hauled him off — eventually. They didna' seem too bothered, I have to say.'
`They've seen it all before, pal. You don't like the jail much, do you?' Monklands and Skinner were alone in the room. The tape-recorder on the desk was switched off.
`So come on then,' continued Skinner. 'What's so important that you hauled me all the way here? If it turns out that all you wanted to do was to show me your black eye, you'll be lucky not to wind up with a matching pair. Why did Lucan whack you? When I was here last you were all pals together?'
Monklands leaned back in his chair. 'Aye, that's right. But he's got a slow-burning, suspicious, vindictive mind, that bastard. Typical fuckin' anglophobic Frenchman. When he
was layin' into me on the ground, he was shouting in French. What he was saying was that we'd been set up by, Monklands paused. 'Here, before I go any further, I'm talking off the record here, right? I'm not admitting that anyone else was involved in this. I'm just telling you what Lucan thinks.'
Skinner shrugged. 'Sure, if that's how you want it. I know who was involved, anyway. I probably know a lot more than you do. You're just a poor fucking gopher who's going to jail, without being able to do anything about it. If you're thinking that there's a deal here, on the basis of no evidence offered, you can forget that.'
`No, I'm not looking for anything. I've got a good lawyer. He reckons he can get me off with three or four years.'
Skinner smiled. 'He'll need to be the bloody goods to do that, Norrie. But never mind that. Go on with what you were saying.'
`Okay. So Lucan's locked up by himself, away from me. And his suspicious French mind starts to work. Even though his spoken English is shite, he knows accents, and he understands words. He realises that the guy that flattened him, and the one that collared me, were Scottish, and that they'd been following us all the way up from Portsmouth, and maybe further. So he figures out that the operation's sprung a leak, and that it happened in Scotland. He convinces himself that Paul and I got cold feet and tipped you guys off.'
`Oh aye,' said Skinner, 'and in the process you get arrested and half eaten by a police dog!'
Monklands shook his head. 'No, he'd worked out that we were supposed to get to Scotland, and that once we were there he'd get nicked and I'd give evidence. He thought that Paul and I were working for you lot, to nail him and Vaudan. Now he's escaped, he can hardly get at me again. But Paul could be in real bother, if he can find him.'
Skinner looked long at the man with the yellow-and-purple eye. 'Got some news for you, Norrie. Nick Vaudan's dead. He was killed on Friday in a shoot-out with the Spanish police.
Lucan was told not long after it happened. How'd you think he'd react?'
Monklands stared back at him in disbelief through one and a half eyes. 'Serge? He'd go crazy. You do know that Vaudan was his brother?'
It was Skinner's turn to show surprise.
`That's right. Half-brother, to be accurate. Apparently, Vaudan's old man had a few mistresses around the Clite d'Azur. One of them got pregnant, and Serge was the result.
He was a secret for years, until Nick's father got cancer. Just before he died, he told Nick about Serge, and where to find him. He made him promise to look after him — and he did. If
somebody killed Nick, then Serge'll kill somebody else. Where did it happen?'
`Where Paul had his Spanish business? Then he's got to be bookie's favourite. Look out for him, will you. He's my mate.'
`Man, we haven't taken our eyes off him in weeks. Have you tried to get a message to him?'
Monklands shook his head. 'No.'
`Good. Don't, otherwise we'll let Serge — if he shows up — walk right through the front door.' He paused. 'What's your theory, Norrie? D'you think you were set up?'
`I haven't a fuckin' clue. My best guess is that you guys got lucky, found out about the buy, and were trying to follow us all the way home, so that you could tie in . . . whoever was waiting at the other end.
`That's not a bad guess, except we know who was waiting. What d'you know about Cocozza?'
`Who's fuckin' Cocozza? Wait a minute. Lucan did shout something that I didn't understand when he was kicking my ribs in. It could have been something about someone called Cocozza.'
> Skinner paused. 'Okay, if you've never heard of Cocozza, what d'you know about Tony Manson?'
`Only two things for sure. One, that he's dead; and, two, that he bank-rolled Paul when he started his Spanish business.'
A fist of excitement gripped Skinner's stomach, but he managed to keep his reaction from showing on his face.
`I thought Ainscow made a few quid when he sold his estate agency.'
Monklands smiled. 'That's what he let people think. He was a wee bit of a gambler in his early days. That's how he met Tony Manson. He didn't get a hell of a lot when he sold out, the casinos had had a lot before that.'
Did he and Manson keep in touch?'
`Aye, as far as I know. Paul cut out the casinos a while back, but he was partial to a sauna — if you know what I mean. In fact there's a bird in one of Manson's saunas that he fancies. He sees her quite a bit. He's got a stake in a couple of pubs around Stirling. He's never said as much, but I think Manson's got — or rather had — money in them, too.'
Skinner shrugged. 'That's history now. Okay, Norrie, we'll keep an eye out for your mate, as best we can. And when we get Lucan back, we'll try and arrange for him to be in the next cell to you. Would you like that?'
Monklands fingered his swollen eye. 'I'd like never to see that crazy bastard again as long as I live.'
Skinner laughed. ‘I’ll see if I can help there. Meantime, I hope this lawyer of yours is as good as you think. But if you can summon up a few remorseful tears for the judge and jury, that might come in handy too!'
Eighty-six
‘God, Jazz, but you're getting bigger by the day!'
`Bigger every time you see him, you mean,' said Sarah with a sideways glance along the top of the living-room sofa to where he sat holding his smiling son high in his outstretched arms.
`Yes, okay, don't rub it in. I missed you two every moment —most of all sitting on that hilltop.'
She slid along the leather couch and nestled beside him as he lowered the baby to his shoulder. 'Want to tell me about it?'
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