That other forces be alerted through Interpol.
The Guardia Civil are continuing a sweep of the many hostels and campsites in the Alicante area. In line with your orders, I will remain until Friday to assist them in that task.
Skinner put the folder down on his desk, and looked up at Roy Old. 'Doesn't seem much room for doubt in that, does there?'
`Not much, sir. If the big yin's pulled his cash and jumped across to North Africa, he could be anywhere now. Christ, he could have joined the bloody legion!'
Skinner laughed. 'Maybe we should send Maggie to check that out!
`Okay, Roy, thanks for that. I'll send Maggie a response. On your way past, would you ask Ruth McConnell to look in here.'
Old acknowledged the request — and his own dismissal — with a nod. Less than a minute later, Skinner heard his secretary's soft knock on the door. 'Come in.' he shouted.
`You wanted to see me?'
`Yes, Ruth, thanks. I'd like you to send DI Rose a fax in Alicante. Thank her for her report, confirm that she should remain there on duty until the end of the week. Tell her she can travel back whenever she likes over the weekend, but that I'd like to touch base with her on Monday here, before I head off myself. Will you ask her also to spend some more time at Rancho del Sol, and to find out as much as she can about the place, and its owner. If he's doing time for drug offences, it may be that he connects into Manson's operation. If he does, maybe we can identify some of the other points in the supply chain.
`Got all that?' Ruth nodded. 'Good. Knock something out along those lines and I'll sign it. Before you do that, ask Alan Royston to step up and see me. Tell him I want to issue a press release on the basis of Maggie's report.'
`Very good. By the way, did you see the note in your diary about Mr Pitkeathly?'
For a second, Skinner looked puzzled; then the conversation in the Barnton Hotel came back to him. 'I missed that. What have you fixed up?'
`Lunchtime. He suggested it, and I decided that would be best for you, too. He's booked a table at Ladolcevito for one o'clock. He said he thought that would be fairly discreet.' `That's nice of him. I hope I can help him.'
Nineteen
The diminutive Mr V welcomed Skinner like a long-lost brother to his smart bistro restaurant in Hanover Street, and showed him to a table in the small downstairs bar, where Greg Pitkeathly was waiting.
The thin man stood up, hand outstretched. 'Good of you to see me, Mr Skinner. I hope this lunchtime arrangement is all right for you.'
`Mmm. Sure. But I'd have been happy to fit you in at Fettes in the course of the day.'
Not at all. This is the least I can do. I thought I'd be lucky to get to see a constable, and here I am telling my story to Scotland's most famous detective.'
Their opening exchange was interrupted by Mr V, as he handed them leather-bound menus. 'I have given you the table in the far corner, Mr Pitkeathly. You won't be disturbed there. You want to go up now, yes?'
They rose and followed the little restaurateur, carrying their menus as they climbed the narrow staircase in single file. As he surveyed the long dining room lit by the May sunshine flood shy;ing through its south-facing windows, Skinner smiled inwardly at Pitkeathly's notion of discretion. He knew that, while Ladolcevito might not be the largest restaurant in Edinburgh, it was one of the most popular with the city's chattering classes.
As he followed his host across to the table in the far left-hand corner, he recognised and nodded to a Sunday newspaper editor, two business journalists and four chartered surveyors, all assiduous grinders of the rumour mill. He wondered what would be made of his lunchtime meeting.
They chose identical items from the a la carte menu, stracciatella followed by pan-fried steak, and Pitkeathly ordered a bottle of red Caruso, the meaty house wine. As the proprietor strolled off to the kitchen, the thin man picked up the tan leather briefcase which he had been carrying, rolled the combinations into place and flicked it open. He withdrew a yellow folder and placed it on the table.
`How long have you owned property in L'Escala, Mr Skinner?' he asked.
`Bob, please. It'll be around ten years now. I went there first on holiday with my daughter to a rented apartment up behind Montgo Bay. We both loved the place. I had some spare cash at the time, and so I bought a two-bed in a block which was being finished off in the same development. The peseta was dirt cheap then, and I was able to forward-buy currency, which made it an even better deal.
Pitkeathly's brow furrowed for a second. 'I thought Peter Payne said you had a villa.'
Skinner nodded. 'That's right. A couple of years after we bought, an old aunt died and left me her house. . I always think of old Auntie Jessie with great affection. I didn't need another house at the time, and certainly not a huge bloody thing in Aberfeldy with two and a half acres attached. So I sold the land to a builder, and the house to a couple who wanted to turn it into a nursing home, put half the proceeds into an investment trust with a Japanese portfolio, and the other half into a really nice three-bedroom villa up on Puig Pedro, overlooking the bay. It has a sort of pool, more of a swimming puddle really, in the garden. . and very heavy shutters for when the Tramuntana blows down over the Pyrenees.'
`Oh yes,' said Pitkeathly. The famous L'Escala north wind. Tell me, did you have much trouble selling your apartment?'
`I didn't try. I still own it, but I rent it out. I advertise in police publications, and I let only to coppers, active or retired. Being who I am, I never have any problem tenants. A very nice English lady called Mary manages it for me. It's hardly ever empty, and so the income covers all my overhead expenses out there, and puts fruit in the bowl as well. I'm a lucky guy, in every way. But tell me about you, Greg, and about your problem.'
Pitkeathly paused while Mr V's young waitress served the soup. He tasted the Caruso, which the wine waiter had opened, and nodded his approval. The young man filled the two glasses. As the staff then withdrew, he offered Skinner bread from a small basket.
`I've been in L'Escala for three years,' he began. 'Just to fill you in on my background, I own and run a medium-sized printing business called GFP. I have an office in Stafford Street, but my printing shop is in Slateford. I supply letter shy;heads, computer stationery, labels, and marketing materials, mostly to professionals and service businesses: lawyers, accountants, surveyors, PR consultancies, and so forth. My wife and I started the business fifteen years ago, and we've built the turnover steadily ever since. We don't have children, so we're both fully committed to the job. Even through the worst of the recession, we managed to make modest profits, and in the better years we've done quite well. We reinvest profits in plant and machinery, to ensure that we are always up with the technology. Quick response to customer needs is very important, and we have to maintain that capability.'
He sipped some wine, and continued. 'In the early years we pushed all of our spare money into our pension fund, and through that we bought the property which we occupy, and the factory unit next door to us — for possible expansion, you understand. About five years ago, with the business stable, the pension fund very healthy, and good back-up staff in place, we began to think that we should enjoy some of the fruits of success. So we started to look around for a holiday home. We decided that it should be reachable by car, since Jean doesn't like flying too much. And since I don't like the French too much, the Costa Brava was the obvious place. We did our research through the Sunday Times, approached a few companies with properties advertised, and took a trip out there to look at some of them. We saw Pals, Liafranc, Pallafrugel and L'Estartit, before we came upon L'Escala. But once we did, we were hooked. It was just the right size and had just the right feel to it.'
He glanced at Skinner. 'The L'Escala properties which we had arranged to view were being handled by a company called InterCosta. Does the name mean anything to you?'
Skinner thought for a moment. 'Yes, I think it does. Don't they have an office on the Passeig Maritim?'
`Y
es, that's right. InterCosta seems to be some sort of limited partnership, operating in Spain and in the UK. In Scotland in fact. Our first contact, through the Sunday Times, was with an office in Stirling, in a business centre there, run by a man named Ainscow, Paul Ainscow. Have you ever heard of him?'
`Yes. I've even met him. A neighbour introduced us a few years back, in the bar of El Golf Isabel. A nice enough bloke, as I remember. Not as flashy as most of the property guys. I knew he was in that line, but I didn't connect him with InterCosta. I've seen him around a couple of times since then, so you could say we're nodding acquaintances.'
Pitkeathly grimaced. 'I hope that doesn't make the rest of my story awkward for you.'
`Let's see. Go on.'
`Well, we didn't meet Ainscow on that first trip. We were received by his Spanish director, a man named Santiago Alberni. He's a good English speaker, a very outgoing chap, and he couldn't do enough for us. He showed us two apartments in the price range we specified. One was quite noisy, with a lot of people around the pool, but the other was very quiet, and very secluded, away up at the top of the Riells area, almost in the woods, with a small garden and a south-facing terrace. Jean loved it, so we did some ritual haggling and bought it, furniture and fittings included. Santi was a big help to us settling in, and in lots of other ways. He told us where the best shops were, which restaurants to avoid, and so on. He's a great chap, and seems to have lots of friends, especially among the British community.'
He paused in his narrative to attack his stracciatella. Skinner replaced his spoon in his empty bowl.
`Yes, I've heard of Santi Alberni. I have several friends who know him, but I've never met him. Most of what I've heard squares with your experience. I did hear that he's just bought a new villa in Camp dels Pilans, where most of the head boys in the town hall live. So how did your problem arise?'
Pitkeathly took another sip of wine as the soup bowls were removed. 'That happened only recently.'
He paused as the staff returned with the main course.
Skinner looked in appreciation at his steak, which had been hammered flat, then delicately fried in a pepper sauce and garnished with a few vegetables. They ate in silence for perhaps thirty seconds before Pitkeathly put down his cutlery. `You don't mind if I go on while we're eating, do you?'
Skinner shook his head, and Pitkeathly launched into the next chapter in his story.
`Our new apartment was fine for the first couple of years, as we got to know L'Escala. But after a while, the downside began to develop. The honking Belgians for a start. I don't know if you've noticed, but the common-or-garden domestic Spanish brick has remarkable acoustic properties. It gives you no sound-proofing at all. In fact it does the opposite: it seems to carry sound. Well, a Belgian couple owned the apartment above us, a big beefy pair, and they always seemed to be there at the same time as us. Their bedroom was directly above ours, and they seemed to be at it non-stop. Like it or not — and we didn't — Jean and I heard every grunt, every moan, every groan, every squeaking spring. We used to read until the performance was over, because there was no point in trying to sleep through it. That was a major irritation, but there were others. The roads aren't great up there, and every time it rained, new ruts and valleys appeared. Also, while it was very secluded, conversely we were a long way from the centre, so we tended to drive everywhere. Finally, as time went on, we made more and more friends among the British property owners. It wasn't long before we had quite a social circle out there.'
Skinner nodded. 'I know what you're going to say now. You were invited to lots of drinks parties and, before you knew it, you discovered that your apartment was just too small for you to entertain properly. Am I right?'
Pitkeathly had returned to his steak. He nodded vigorously as he finished the mouthful.
`Spot on! That's just how it was. So the upshot of it all was that last autumn we went to Santi, and told him that we were interested in a move. That very same day, he took us to see a new development up behind Avinguda Girona, near the Guardia Civil barracks. He said that the builder was under pressure from his bank, and that he had cut his prices to achieve quick sales. Even as incomplete shells, they were beautiful apartments. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a big terrace looking out on the Pyrenees, all built to a very high standard, and all for eight million pesetas.'
Skinner did a mental calculation. 'That's under forty K at last year's exchange rate. Sounds like a good buy.'
`It was. It is. We did the deal. As a sweetener, Santi said that he would sell the other place for us at zero commission, and that he would get us over five million for it. He was as good as his word. We were due to take possession of the new place at Easter, and, in January, Paul Ainscow called to say that they had sold the old one for five million two. The buyers were a couple from Sussex named Comfort. I've never met them, not to this day. When he called us to give us the good news, Ainscow said that the Comforts had paid a deposit — around twenty per cent or so; those were his exact words — and that InterCosta had credited that amount towards the purchase of the new apartment. A few days later we received a receipt, bearing the company stamp, from Santi Alberni for one million pesetas.'
He frowned for a moment before continuing. 'So far so good. We were due to complete both transactions at Easter, before the notary in L'Escala, only there was a hitch. The Comforts were involved in a bad car accident in March and were both hospitalised. We thought that the whole thing might collapse, but the Comforts gave power of attorney to a local lawyer, and we went to completion of both sale and purchase. Santi, the builder of our new place, the Comforts' lawyer, Jean and I all turned up at the notary's office. We had a certified cheque for two-point-eight million, the balance of our purchase price, on top of what we were due for the old place. We did our sale first. The notary took us through the deed, noted the price and we were all ready to sign on the dotted. But when the Comforts' lawyer presented their cheque, it was only for three-point-seven million, not the four-point-two we were expecting. We looked at Santi, and he looked puzzled. He swore blind that he had only received one million from Ainscow. We showed the lawyer our receipt from Santi, but he showed us a receipt given to the Comforts by Ainscow for one shy;-point-five million pesetas. I have copies of them both in here.' He tapped the yellow file.
Skinner looked across the table. Pitkeathly's brow was knotted with concern. 'So what did you do?'
`We didn't have much choice. We could have scrapped the deal with the Comforts, but frankly, we needed their cheque, even if it was half a million light. So we went through with it, and I wrote a second cheque on our Spanish bank account for the missing half million, assuming, or hoping at least, that it was all a misunderstanding and that Santi would sort it out with Ainscow.'
`And didn't he?'
`No. He told us that Ainscow was on holiday in America. So we said, sod it all; we decided to forget about it until we got home, and to clear things up ourselves with Ainscow. We spent the rest of our trip fitting out our new apartment. Quite frankly, if it did cost us half a million more, we've still got a bargain.' `And have you seen Ainscow?'
No, not yet. He wasn't due back from the States until last Friday, according to Santi. I did call his office once, but there was no reply. Eventually, Jean and I decided that it would be better to speak to the police. I hope you agree with us. It's no small sum after all, well over two thousand pounds, and it's more than a bit suspicious. I mean, even if Ainscow says sorry, it's all a mistake, and gives us half a million pesetas, how can we be sure that he isn't covering up? Maybe there are other people in the same boat as us.'
`Or maybe Alberni's the one on the fiddle. Don't you see that as equally likely?'
Pitkeathly shook his head. `Santi's as honest as the day is long. I'm convinced of that.'
`Hmm,' said Skinner sceptically. 'They have shorter days than us in Spain for a good chunk of the year! Greg, I'm a policeman. I'm never convinced until I see the proof. If you give me that file, I'll l
ook at everything that's in there. From what you've told me, there's been a theft all right, but it's just as likely, maybe even more likely, that it took place in Spain, not in Scotland. Still, you were quite right to bring it to me, rather than deal with it yourself. If Ainscow is a conman, then he'd probably talk his way out of it. If Alberni's bent, you're obviously far too chummy with him to suspect it. If they're both in on it, then all of the company's business will need to be investigated, here and in Spain. And if it is all a mistake, then it's one that should never have happened. A visit from the police will make sure that they're more careful with clients' funds in future.'
He reached across the table. 'Here. Gimme your file, and a business card too, so I can get it back to you. Do you have copies, or would you like me to send you a set?'
Pitkeathly handed over the file. 'Those are my only copies, but I don't need duplicates. What will you do?'
`I'll read this lot, and then I'll probably go out to interview Ainscow myself. That'll get his attention.'
`What if he proves to you that Santi is responsible, and that the theft occurred in Spain?'
`If that happens, I'll take your documents with me when I go to L'Escala next week. I know Arturo Pujol, the local Guardia commander, on a copper-to-copper basis. His boys keep a special eye on my properties. If it looks like Santi's the man, I'll just hand a copy of your file over to Pujol. I might have to ask you to file a complaint at the consulate in due course, but otherwise, it should be painless for you. I should warn you, though, if Alberni is a thief, you won't see your missing half million for a hell of a long time, if ever. The Spanish criminal justice system is slower than God's mills. On top of that, Greg, if he's convicted, you'll have to sue him for recovery, and their civil courts can be even slower.'
`Maybe I should just forget it all, in that case, and swallow my loss'
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