Skinner's trail bs-3

by Quintin Jardine

  Seventy-eight

  ‘Aye, so what if I know Paul Ainscow? Paul's got fuck all tae do with this. He just gave me an intro tae Vaudan. Towin' boats is what I do for a livin', and that's what the job was — towing a fuckin' boat.'

  Police interview rooms have the same uniform drabness wherever they are, thought Skinner, recalling Pujol's hospitality suite in L'Escala, with its single chair bolted to the floor. The Leicester model had movable furniture, but the paint on the walls had a depressing similarity.

  Local officers had begun the interview with Monklands, who had received their insistent questions with a stoic silence. After half an hour, Skinner, frustrated beyond endurance by the man's lack of response, had driven his rank through the formalities of territorial jurisdiction and had taken over.

  `Look, pal. This is the scene. Paul Ainscow's your golf pal. He has a drug deal with Vaudan in France. He sends you down with a piece of paper to unlock the funds, and a trailer for smuggling back the stuff that it buys. I know that, as sure as you've got a hole in your arse. Now you make a statement confirming it, and it'll save you a right few years in Parkhurst, or Dartmoor, or some other nice hotel down here.'

  Monklands' reply was accompanied by a defiant stare. At once, Skinner knew in his heart that the man would not be broken.

  `Interview suspended.' He glanced down at his watch. `Eleven twenty-two.' He reached over and switched off the tape-recorder, then leaned across the table. 'Okay, Norrie, we've nailed you fair and square with the narcotics equivalent of Santa's sledge on Christmas Eve. Not even the stupidest jury in England is going to let you off. You're going down for fifteen years, yet you won't give us Ainscow and Vaudan even though it would take ten years off that stretch, maybe more. I'm not going to lose my voice or bloody my knuckles trying to make you, 'cause I know I can't. So, tell me off the record. Satisfy my inquisitive mind. Is it money, or is it fear?'

  Monklands glanced across at the tape-recorder, as if to verify that it really was switched off. He looked up at Skinner. `If I did what you ask, how long d'you think I'd last. See that man in Glasgow? Any jail you like to name, he's got someone in it that would do me in for five hundred quid tae his wife on the outside. So you're right, mister. You and these Brummies can kick the shit out of me all day, and all I'll tell you is that Serge and I did the deal ourselves, off our own bats. The same goes for Lucan too. Bet on it.'

  Skinner stood up and shrugged his shoulders. He looked across at the detective who had begun the interrogation. 'You lads might as well charge them and take the rest of the day off. You heard what he said, and he's not kidding. Come on, Andy, Neil.

  Martin and Mcllhenney stood up from their seats in the corner of the room. Mcllhenney held the door open for Skinner. As the ACC left the room, he beckoned for the local officer to follow.

  The man obeyed. Looking to see that the door was securely closed, Skinner leaned close to him. 'Listen, I don't care how you do it, but I want those two kept incommunicado. Use the Prevention of Terrorism Act, rabies regulations, anything you need, but keep them under wraps for as long as you can. When you do have to let them see lawyers, make sure that you hear every word of the conversation. I don't want any messages sent anywhere by either of them.'

  He turned back to Martin and Mcllhenney. 'Come on, lads. Let's drive on up the road.'

  Seventy-nine

  ‘No, Arturo, believe me, there's no way these boys are going to cough. The Leicester fellas did their best. They went at them all weekend. No contact with the outside or with each other, sleep deprivation, the whole works. No use at all.'

  Skinner paused to take a sip from the coffee on his desk.

  `Each of them trotted out the same story, word-perfect, over and over again. Paul Ainscow told Monklands about Vaudan's business, then he got a few jobs from him. He got to know Lucan, and between them they cooked up the drugs idea. Vaudan knew nothing about it, they say, and Ainscow, he knew even less. They questioned them all through Friday and Saturday, right up to last night. Eventually they gave up. They charged them last night and released the story to the press. They said that it was pure luck that a police dog, at the service area on other business, was alerted by the scent of heroin from the boat. It's all over the English press today.'

  Pujol's voice echoed down the line. 'So what about Vaudan and Ainscow? What can you do there?'

  `The French police have already done it. They went to see Vaudan yesterday, and told him that Lucan and Monklands had been arrested. He must have known by then, of course, but he kept a straight face, apparently. He looked shocked, and of course he denied all knowledge of the stuff. He even said that he knew Lucan was a bit of a suspect character, but he was good at his job, so he had kept him on. As far as Ainscow's concerned, we've got nothing to gain by going anywhere near him, so we've left him alone. He's still under close surveillance, although he hasn't twigged.'

  `What about the joint bank account, and the cash withdrawal? Does not that give you grounds to arrest them?'

  Skinner hesitated. 'It would, except we've got a wee problem there. That bank is not going to say a bloody word to the police about the ownership or the business of a numbered account. If it did, given the nature of its clientele, it would lose all its best accounts overnight, and its owners would probably wind up face-down in the Med. And without their co shy;operation, we're stuffed.'

  Pujol was puzzled. 'But how did you know about the account?'

  `That I can't tell you, my friend, on an open telephone line, and I most certainly couldn't discuss it in open court. If I did, a life would be at risk. I'm afraid that's the way things stand. All we've got from that shipment, and from all that work, are the two humphers — that's carriers to you. The thinkers, the planners, the money men are all in the clear. It's a bastard, and I hate it, but that clever fucking dog in Leicester blew the lot.'

  Pujol sighed. 'That is too bad, Bob. I know how much it all meant to you.'

  `Maybe it meant too much. Maybe I was getting too wrapped up for my own good in that one investigation, big as it was. It didn't help when Vaudan made it personal. You know, I've been tied up all weekend by a nice juicy axe murder on my patch. Blood, bone and brains all over the place. It was almost a pleasant relief to be investigating a nice simple uncomplicated crime again.'

  Did you solve it?'

  `Yeah, no problem. My deputy led the team; he wrapped it up in a day and a half. It was a fall-out among thieves. There are two of them up in the Sheriff Court this morning.'

  `You make it sound like a second prize.' Pujol's laughter echoed down the line.

  Skinner interrupted. 'Hold on a minute, mate. I haven't given up on the other yet! You're forgetting something. We can't do Vaudan for the drugs, but we do have him bang to rights for Alan Inch's killing. You've still got Hansi Gruber shut up tight, haven't you?'

  `Yes,' said Pujol hesitantly. 'But that would mean extradition from France. That would be very difficult, maybe impossible. For sure it would take a long time.'

  `That's right,' said Skinner. 'That's why you've got to arrest him in Spain. And I'm going to be there. There's a cheap flight from Newcastle to Girona tomorrow night, and I'm coming over on it to pick up my car. It's the last time I'll be on a plane this year, I swear. But while I'm there I'd like nothing better than to be around for the arrest of Mr Nicolas fucking Vaudan.' He paused. 'Now this is what I suggest you do.'

  Eighty

  ‘Oh honey, did it have to be this week?'

  Bob saw the depth of Sarah's disappointment, and hung his head, feeling as guilty as Roy Old's two axe-murderers. 'I'm sorry, love, but I really find it awkward being without the car. The flight costs peanuts, and it ties in with this ploy that Arturo and I have got on the go.'

  `What's so important about that?' she asked.

  `I'll tell you once it works out. I know we've been living like gypsies lately, but I'll only be away for a few days, and then we'll be back to normal. Why the long face, anyway, as the barman asked the horse?<
br />
  `Is it just that you'll miss me, or did you have something planned?'

  Coyness sat uncomfortably on Sarah. 'We-ell. It's a bit of both, actually. I've invited these people for dinner on Friday. Nice couple. They've only just got together, and I thought it'll be nice for you to meet them and have dinner with them. With one thing and another, Friday was the only day we could fix up over the next few weeks.

  Bob took her in his arms and pressed her to his chest. 'I'm really sorry, love. But the ticket's bought and paid for, and Arturo's plans are laid. You'll just have to go ahead with it, and be host and hostess in one. Or maybe Andy could come along.'

  `Mmm. Maybe. So when do you expect to be back?'

  The flight leaves Newcastle just after midnight, and gets to Girona at about half-three. Arturo's having one of his lads pick me up, but even at that it'll be half-four by the time I get to the villa. So Wednesday'll be a "sleep on the terrace" day. Arturo's arrangements could fall into place either Thursday or Friday. Once the business is over with, I'll drive up to Cherbourg. So look for me Sunday at the latest. Promise. And that'll be the last time. So you can rearrange your dinner party.'

  `Copper, it had better be! As for the party, that might not wait.'

  Eighty-one

  ‘She sent it exactly as we discussed?'

  `Precisely. Word for word.'

  It was almost six p.m. but it was still hot on the Town Beach. Skinner had been true to his word to Sarah, and had slept away most of Wednesday on a lounger on the terrace. Now he sat, wearing only shorts and trainers, on the low wall at the edge of the sand. Arturo Pujol sweltered uncomfortably beside him, even though clad in light slacks and a cotton shirt. Each man drank from a can of Seven-Up acquired from one of several dispensers around the promenade.

  `I have a copy here,' said the Commandante. He fished in his shirt pocket and handed a folded piece of paper to Skinner.

  The photocopied fax was printed on Montgo SA letterhead. Skinner read through it, translating the French laboriously. `Senora Alberni has asked me to contact you. She is forced to sell her villa because of problems with her late husband's insurance, and she wonders whether Montgo SA would consider acquiring it as an investment, at no more than she and Senor Alberni paid for it. The matter is urgent, since she is being pressed by her husband's bank. She asks if you will come to L'Escala this week, on Thursday or Friday, to discuss it with her. She decided to contact you through me, rather than directly, since she felt that Madame Vaudan might not appreciate your having calls from strange women.'

  Skinner handed the creased paper back to Pujol. 'You told Gloria, I take it, in case he decided to phone her.'

  `Si. But he has not.'

  `Has Veronica had an acknowledgement?'

  `Yesterday. Vaudan says that he will arrive on Friday afternoon, that he will go straight to his villa, and that he will see Senora Alberni once she has finished work, at six p.m. at his office.'

  `Ace! One minute past six and he's nicked.'

  Pujol shook his head. 'No. If he goes to his villa, we will arrest him there.'

  Skinner frowned. 'What d'you want to do that for? The villa's built on the hillside up in Punta Montgo. He knows its layout — you don't. Wait till he gets to the office, and arrest him there. Much easier. You don't want to underrate this guy, Arturo. You're going to arrest him for ordering at least one murder, and maybe two. Don't assume that he'll just hold out his hands for the cuffs. And never give a man like that anything that might be an edge.'

  `Si, Bob. I understand that, but if we go into the office. Skinner nodded. 'I get it. The lovely Veronica'll be right in the middle of it!'

  Pujol flushed.

  `Get her out of there. Tell her to go to the ladies at two minutes to six, and lock herself in! When you go in, don't advertise yourselves. Your guys don't have to wear their green suits and their funny hats. You have heard of plain clothes, haven't you?'

  `No, Bob. That is not the way we do it. We will take him in uniform, at his villa.'

  ‘Fuckin" ell, I don't know! Just as well that you'll have me along.'

  Pujol looked at him sideways and shook his head. 'No, I am sorry. I am grateful, Bob, for all your help, but I think that now I have to follow the rules. This is a murder case in my jurisdiction. If I allowed you to take part in the arrest, my superiors would take — what is it you say? — a dark view.'

  Skinner sat upright on the wall. 'Come on, man. You can't keep me out of it now!'

  The Commandante's round, sallow face wore a pained expression. 'I am sorry, but if you were there and there was an. . accident. No, it is not possible.'

  `Arturo, this probably will be a straightforward arrest. But on the off-chance that it isn't, I've got experience you haven't. I've dealt with people who'd make Vaudan piss his pants.'

  Pujol shook his head. 'Much as I would be comforted by having you at my side, I cannot allow it.'

  Skinner saw that he would not win the argument. 'All right. Let me be a spectator. Give me field-glasses and a radio, and I'll keep watch on the villa and call you once he's inside.'

  The Commandante considered this request for a few moments in silence. Eventually he smiled. 'Okay. That I will allow. After all, I cannot keep you from going to the top of the Garbinell, can I? But, to be proper, one of my men will go with you. He will have the radio and the binoculars. I will do things by the rules.'

  Eighty-two

  There can't be many finer views than this in Europe,' said Skinner in faltering Spanish, to his uniformed companion. He added in English, 'The seventh tee of my golf course maybe, but damn few others.'

  It was just after three on a shimmering afternoon. He stood on the flattened top of the Garbinell, the crest of Punta Montgo, and looked across the Golfe de Rosas, to the north. The Pyrenean skyline, fringed with wispy cloud and, incredibly, with traces of snow still clinging to the peak of Canigou, was much the same as that which faced his own terrace, but below him the whole bay stretched out in a wide circle, from the wooded Montgo campsites, to the sprawling town of L'Escala and beyond. Kilometres of beach extended like a thin golden smile all the way to Ampuriabrava, tapering off only shortly before the rise of the northern headland. It was dotted with white houses built into the hillside above Rosas, the town with which the great bight shared its name. The `Stormy Bay' was almost still, too calm for windsurfers or sail shy;boats. The water shimmered and glistened under the high sun.

  Skinner hauled his attention back to the business of the afternoon. Their vantage point was little more than a hundred yards away from Nick Vaudan's sugar-white, castellated villa, but thick foliage growing from the rocks offered complete cover. The house was built into the steep hillside on three levels, topped by a wide three-sided terrace with stylised mock battlements, which surrounded the shuttered upper apartments. Skinner guessed that these would be the main reception rooms, with sleeping accommodation on the lower floors.

  He unrolled a rush mat and threw it on the ground, handing a second to the young Guardia private. They settled down into their hide, looking down towards the villa and the twisting approach road. The young man placed his machine-carbine between them and handed the field-glasses to Skinner.

  `Gracias’. The big Scot spun the focus wheel and took a closer look at Vaudan's mock castle. An impressive alarm box, with an orange light above, was fixed to the wall above the window on the east side of the terrace. The shutters were of steel, and Skinner guessed that they were motorised. To the rear of the house, a short concrete driveway led from black-painted, wrought-metal gates to a single garage. `I'm surprised he doesn't have a fucking drawbridge!' muttered Skinner.

  The young policeman at his side looked at him, bewildered.

  They had been in position for a little less than an hour when they heard the throb of a big engine labouring up the hill. Seconds later, a red Jaguar XJS convertible, its top down, swung awkwardly round the bend. Skinner recognised Vaudan at once. The Frenchman drew the car to a halt, and pointed a
small black box at the gate. Moments later it began to slide open, disappearing from sight behind the perimeter wall. Vaudan parked on the driveway, jumped from the car and, carrying a briefcase, trotted down a stairway which led from the drive, passing out of sight.

  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.