Skinner's trail bs-3

by Quintin Jardine

  `Who does Inch work for in Torroella?'

  'A general agency called Immobiliara Brava. It has an office in the old town near the square.'

  Skinner nodded, noting the name mentally. 'How well d'you know Paul Ainscow?'

  `Not at all. Earlier you called him Santi's partner. That is not what Santi told me. He said that Ainscow was not more than an employee, or an agent, working on salary and commission, and that all of the profit that he was diverting from InterCosta belonged to Santi.'

  `You believed that?'

  `Why not? Santi was my friend. Why should I think him a liar?'

  And you didn't have any scruples about being involved in a scheme that you knew was set up for tax-evasion purposes?'

  `Monsieur Skinner, this is Spain. One of the blackest economies in Europe. Tax evasion in business is a way of life.

  As for me, I do not do business in Monaco so that I can pay high taxes. Rather the opposite. Think of it, man, I am not a burden to anyone else in this world, therefore why should I work to pay the salaries of people like you, and the millions like you on the public payroll.' The suddenness of Vaudan's contempt took Skinner by surprise.

  His eyes flashed in anger, but he checked himself. 'What makes you so fucking special that you shouldn't?'

  Vaudan laughed softly. 'Friend, I pay my dues. I simply make sure that they are as low as possible. Check me out. You won't get your hands dirty.'

  `I may take you up on that,' Skinner said evenly.

  `Now, about Ainscow. You're telling me you didn't know he was the major partner in InterCosta?'

  ‘Oui. As I said, I've never met the man. He means nothing to me.'

  `Now that you do know, what will you do with Montgo SA?' `Why should I do anything?'

  `Because what you've told me means that seventy-five per cent of it belongs to Ainscow, and the other quarter to Gloria Alberni.'

  Vaudan shook his head. 'Oh no, monsieur. The record says that I am the owner and administrator of Montgo SA and all its assets.'

  `What about the letter you mentioned earlier? The one which confirms Santi's legal ownership?'

  Vaudan's smile was at its widest, stretching the moustache and revealing an expanse of white teeth. Did the Guardia find a copy among his papers?'

  No, not that I know of What about your copy?'

  `Hah. Life is strange. A few weeks ago, on my last visit here, I was arranging some papers on my terrace. My copy of the letter was among them. I have never known a tramuntana to spring up so quickly. A few seconds, that was all it took, and they were gone on the wind, all of them, the Montgo SA letter among them. Gone and never seen again.'

  Skinner looked at him. Now he understood his air of confidence. 'Let me guess, because of the nature of the thing, it was a private letter prepared by a lawyer, but not signed before the notary.'

  'Exactement. And so, my friend the policeman, if Ainscow or anyone else wants to talk to me about the legal ownership of Montgo SA, they had better come with Santi's copy of that letter.'

  He picked up his glass from the table and drained it. 'But what letter would that be, anyway? One of which I have never heard. I meant what I said earlier. I will never speak of this again, to you or anyone else. Poor Santi, I am sorry that he chose that way out of his problem with Monsieur Ainscow. But that is life's way: it is filled with winners and losers. Santi lost, but out of it Nick Vaudan seems to have won.'

  He made to rise, but Skinner grabbed his arm, and held him in his chair.

  'Sit down, pal. If what you've told me is true, it also says to me that Nick Vaudan had a first-class motive for helping Santi proactively, you might say — to commit suicide.' Vaudan shook his hand away. If you check you will find that at the time of Santi's death I was in Monaco selling a very large yacht to a very well-known oil sheikh.'

  Skinner nodded. 'Maybe, but some people have long arms.'

  'Not me, my friend.' Vaudan looked him coolly, disturbingly, in the eye as he spoke. 'If you think that someone killed Alberni, you'd better look some place else. I didn't do it. That is my word on it, and you can take it to the bank. Now I have no more to say to you. Ever.'

  Skinner stood up. `I'm all talked out too, Vaudan. There is just one other thing, though.' He picked up his beer which lay untouched on the table. 'A poor public servant like me couldn't be seen taking a drink from a guy like you. Corruption is all too easily alleged.' With a flick of the wrist, he emptied the contents of the glass into Vaudan's lap.

  The man started from his seat, his expression suddenly twisted into one of anger. He seemed ready to spring.

  `Yes?' Skinner hissed the word as he stood waiting for him, a smile on his face and an invitation in his eyes; an invitation which Vaudan decided it would be much better not to accept. Lazily Skinner reached out with his left hand and pushed him back into his chair. 'Stay cool, Nick. And, by the way, if you ever make a pass at my wife again, your interest in sex will become academic, very suddenly. See you again.'

  Forty-four

  ‘Brian? Skinner here. I've got a job for you. I want you to run a check with the French police on a man named Nicolas Vaudan.' He spelled out the name. 'He lives on the Riviera with his wife. They also own an apartment in Rome, possibly in her name. He's in the boat business. Deals in high-value yachts and cruisers, and also runs charters. I want to know everything about him and about his business. Has he any convictions, has he ever been arrested, has he ever been investigated for any crime, does he pay his parking tickets quickly. .? Everything they can dig up on him. I want to know about his business too. Ask them to check all filed accounts, and to look in particular at his tax affairs.'

  He paused to listen. 'Yes, the Guardia could do this, Brian, but they have their reasons for not wanting to get involved. So you use your international contacts to get it moving, and fax me a report as soon as you can. . Yes, I said fax. The way things are going here, it'll be an asset. I'm taking Sarah and the baby to Girona this afternoon to buy one.'

  `Bob?' Sarah's voice sounded from the living room as Skinner replaced the phone in the hall.

  `Yes, honey, it's me.'

  `I didn't hear you come in. I was dozing on the terrace. Who were you talking to? What were you saying about a fax?

  What's the time? God, you've been ages.'

  `Question one, Brian Mackie — and question two, get ready for Hipercort. We're going shopping.'

  `Okay, but first tell me what you've been up to. Did you see Arturo?'

  `Yes, and then I had a long talk with your admirer, Vaudan. Smart bastard — or he thinks he is.'

  Quickly he related Vaudan's account of Santi's involvement with Montgo SA, and of the missing letters.

  `He's a cute operator, is our Nick. And very confident. I need to talk to Gloria about that document.'

  `Then you'll get your chance tonight. You and I are going to La Clota for dinner, a deux, and Gloria's baby-sitting. Now, if we're going to Girona, let's get ready.'

  Forty-five

  The Panasonic tele/fax with integral answerphone was installed and tested by eight p.m. when Gloria arrived to baby-sit. It stood, white and gleaming, on a table in the living room. Gloria looked at it in surprise.

  `Keeps me in touch with the office,' offered Bob. 'Come on through, why don't you.' He led the way through the living room to the terrace. 'Sarah's got the wee fella plugged in, in the bedroom. He's all groomed and ready for bed, so with a touch of luck you won't see any action. Have a seat. While we’re waiting, there are a couple of things I'd like to ask you.'

  Gloria turned a chair round to face the sun, and sat down. It was just after seven-thirty. The customary evening clouds were building on the horizon, but the day was still warm. Bob handed his guest a glass of white wine from a bottle in the ice-bucket and offered her olives from a wide, flat dish.

  `I went to see Nick Vaudan today. Gloria, did you ever have any reason to believe that Santi might have had a stake in Montgo SA, or that he might have been the beneficial own
er of the company, with Vaudan as a nominee shareholder?'

  She looked at him, incredulous. 'Whoever told you that?'

  `That's Vaudan's story. He says that the Montgo property portfolio was bought with cash stripped out of InterCosta by Santi.'

  `That's crazy. Santi died with hardly a peseta to his name'

  `What about the five million in the safe? According to Vaudan's story, that could have been his share of the profit from Montgo.'

  Gloria lowered her eyes, bit her lip and shook her head.

  `All right,' said Skinner gently. 'Let me ask you, when you went through Santi's papers, did you find a letter referring to Vaudan, or to Montgo, the company? It would probably have been drafted by a lawyer and would have been on his stationery.'

  `No. Nothing like that.'

  Did Santi ever talk to you at all about Montgo SA.'

  The woman's face brightened. 'Yes. Yes, he did once. He told me that he understood from Vaudan that the money which he used to buy those properties came in cash from boat sales in Spain. It was so that he would not have to pay tax anywhere. He said that when he sold Nick the site for his villa, then found him a builder, that was how he paid.'

  `Yes,' said Skinner, 'that at least squares with Vaudan's account. When Santi told you this, did you feel that he believed it to be true?'

  Gloria looked hurt. 'Bob, Santi never told me a lie in his life. Of course he believed it. Santi trusted people. If someone told him something, he would naturally accept it as true.'

  `Okay. Let me ask you something else. Have you ever heard Santi mention a man named Inch.'

  Que?'

  `Inch. I-N-C-H. From Torroella?'

  No, never.'

  `Or a company called Torroella Locals?'

  She shook her head. 'Never.'

  Just then Sarah emerged from the villa. 'Hi, Gloria. Junior's just dropped off to sleep. He should stay under till we get back. If you do need us, the number's on the pinboard in the kitchen. We'll be as quick as we can.'

  Gloria stood up from her chair. 'No, no, no, you enjoy. Jazz will be fine with me.'

  As Bob and Sarah turned to go, Gloria called after them. `Bob. What I told you, does that help?'

  'I hope so, Gloria. But to be honest, even assuming that Santi has been framed, it's been bloody well done. Vaudan won't crack, that's for sure. It's about time for a touch of luck.'

  Forty-six

  At La Clota they were shown to their customary table under the awning, to the front of the terrace. Skinner looked across the roadway to Club Nautic. Vaudan was seated among a group scattered around the tables of the outdoor bar. Bob caught his eye, smiled and waved. The Frenchman, grim-faced, turned his chair around and set his back towards them.

  `What went on between you two this morning?' Sarah asked. 'I thought you just had a chat with him. He looked at you there as if he'd like to kill you.'

  `He probably would, but he's much too smart to try.' `You didn't say anything about. .?'

  Bob flashed her a sly smile. 'Who, me?'

  They chose, as a starter, piping hot onion soup with an egg poached in its liquor, finally deciding on roast duck as a main course, in spite of the counter-attractions of the chef's special fidua — delicious but laden with garlic.

  Bob was mopping up the last of his orange sauce with bread when Sarah asked him about his discussion with Gloria. `How does it look?'

  `To tell you the truth, love, it looks bloody awful. Vaudan's a smooth, opportunistic bastard, but his story is very plausible. Santi rips off InterCosta and washes the dough through Montgo SA, and through this other company. The twenty-five grand we found in Santi's safe could have been part of the profit split from one of those. Originally the idea is that Vaudan acts as a front, no questions asked, but now he finds himself in the box seat, with Santi gone, as the legal owner of a hundred million peseta property company. The thing that would prove it would be Santi's copy of the letter Vaudan talked about: the one confirming his ownership. But there's no trace of that and, of course, Vaudan says he's trashed his copy. . as he would. More than that, if the letter existed — and if Vaudan's story is true — it's a cert that he's got hold of Santi's copy too, or he'd never have mentioned it.'

  `Could Vaudan have. .?'

  Skinner shook his head. 'NO. He's got some sheikh as an alibi. I'm afraid that Santi, guilty or innocent, is well in the frame, and I can't see a way round it.'

  Sarah sat silent for a while, while Bob ordered coffee. As the waiter disappeared back into the restaurant, she reached across the table and grasped her husband's hand. 'No, Bob. He didn't do it. Look, who understands a man better than his wife? Know what Gloria said to me about Santi? She said, "He was a great salesman, one of the best, but as a book-keeper, one of the worst." She looked after all the household accounts, and their family banking. Santi handled it when they were first married, but he was hopeless. Their affairs were a shambles. Does that sound like a clever and devious fraudster to you?'

  `Depends how clever and devious he was. All that could have been an act — part of an elaborate cover.'

  `Come on! You think that, you've been out in the sun too long. Santi was not a thief, and if he wasn't who was?'

  `Paul Ainscow. But there's one big hole in that proposition. Ainscow had seventy-five per cent of the action. Why would he steal from himself? Also there's no link between Vaudan and Ainscow; there is between Vaudan and Santi. Sorry.'

  `Ahh!' Sarah threw up her hands in exasperation. 'Look, I know Santi was murdered. Your heart tells you that's so. Maybe there is a link between Vaudan and Ainscow. Maybe Ainscow had a reason to steal from himself. You're the detective, so find out. Go the extra mile, Bob!'

  He smiled at her persistence. 'Okay. But not the extra mile, the extra Inch. Alan Inch to be exact, of Torroella Locals. Tomorrow I'll pay him a visit. Let's see if he can help the cause.'

  Forty-seven

  The new fax rolled out its first incoming message soon after eleven next morning, just as Bob and Sarah were about to leave for Torroella de Montgri. They heard the ring, and Bob was on his way to pick up the phone in the hall when the fax recognition system kicked in.

  The message took only a few seconds to arrive, and was contained within two A4 pages. As always with Brian Mackie's communications, it was to the point. Its content came as no surprise to Skinner. Nicolas Vaudan had no criminal record of any sort, not even a speeding conviction. He had never been arrested or interviewed in connection with any crime. He was regarded with respect in the Monegasque business community, and included among his clients several members of European and Middle Eastern royal families. While his company was based in Monaco, he and his wife lived in Mougins, an exclusive suburb of Cannes, which boasted several major entertainment and sporting personalities among its residents.

  His business record was equally pristine. There had once been a complaint that a used boat had been offered to a buyer as new, but that had been revealed to be the malicious work of a frustrated rival. Scrupulous accounts of Vaudan Marine were filed annually. Invariably they showed all stock accounted for, no long-term creditors and no bad debts. They showed the

  company to have been consistently turning in adequate, although not excessive profits, and that most of these were being invested openly in pension funds for Vaudan and his wife.

  Both as a private citizen in France and as a company director in Monaco, Vaudan's tax affairs were similarly as spotless. He paid his taxes promptly and without complaint, and his returns were filed by the Monte Carlo office of one of the world's major accountancy firms.

  Sarah watched Skinner's face as he read the fax, seeing a look of resignation settle in.

  `No use?' she asked.

  `No. Just as I expected. The guy's as clean as a whistle. He seemed far too confident for it to have turned out any other way. Whatever Santi may have been told, there was no way that this fellow was siphoning off profit, not recently anyway. Every deal, everywhere, is logged and accounted for, as I thoug
ht. A bloody dead end. Let's get along to Torroella and see if there's more joy to be had out of Mr Inch.'

  Forty-eight

  They sat in the sun, on the new white plastic chairs outside Bar Isidre, in Torroella's town square, oblivious of the Sunday bustle around them, as they watched the sun creep westward to flood the old street at the foot of the sloping quadrangle. Outside a watchmaker's shop in the narrow thoroughfare, an LCD readout displayed time and temperature alternately.

  They sat patiently waiting for the sun to have its effect on the device, to see how high the temperature would climb from its shade level of twenty-three degrees. 'Five hundred pesetas says it tops thirty-three,' said Sarah.

  Bob licked a finger and held it up. He shook his head. 'No, there's a breeze. My five hundred says thirty-one.'

  The thermometer soared. Each time the clock gave way to the centigrade reading, it had risen by another degree. Five minutes after the bet was struck, Bob fished a five-hundred shy; peseta piece from his pocket and slapped it on the table in front of Sarah. She punched the air, and cheered as the figure rose. Eventually it topped out at thirty-six degrees.

  `Okay,' said Bob. 'Now that you've cleaned me out, I'm off to find Inch. Coming?'

  Sarah shook her head. 'No. I like it here, and Jazz is fine in the shade of this awning.'

  `Okay. I'll be as quick as I can.' Skinner headed off down the narrow street, passing under the temperature sign as it dropped to thirty-four degrees with the passage of the sun. He took the first turning to his right and found, much sooner than he had hoped, the office of Immobiliara Brava. He looked through the glass and saw three people inside: two women, one sitting at a desk and the other behind a counter, and a wiry, balding man with a deep walnut tan.