Last Resort

by Quintin Jardine

  From my first day in the service, there had been certainty in my professional life. If I did cut the cord, irrevocably, that would be gone; deep in my heart I wasn’t sure I could cope without it.

  I knew that was what Mitchell Laidlaw’s email would be about, another offer of a sinecure job . . . the last one had been head of strategic planning, whatever the hell that means, and I’d laughed it out of court. I was about to open the message when my phone sang its song, letting me off the hook for the moment.

  I glanced at the caller’s number, but it told me nothing. However I did recognise it as a Spanish mobile, by its format. I frowned; that was a puzzle. Nobody had known I was heading for L’Escala and there had been no time for word of my arrival to have spread around my few friends in the town. I came close to deciding it was a marketing cold call and hitting the red spot, but my curiosity overcame me. I took the call, answering with my usual simple grunt of, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Bob?’

  The voice in my ear was deep and mellow and although it had been a while since I’d heard it, I recognised it at once. ‘Xavi,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘The same,’ the caller agreed. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Personally, I’m okay,’ I replied. ‘Professionally, I’m fucked.’

  Xavier Aislado has been a friend of mine for around twenty-five years. For the first few of those, ours was a business relationship . . . Xavi the journalist, Bob the cop, it had to be that way . . . but somewhere along the line we’d come to be friends.

  He was born in Edinburgh, into a family of refugees from the Spanish Civil War; they had done well in business, and the young Xavi had never wanted for anything, other than the love of his parents.

  After a brief career as a pro footballer was cut short by injury, he found a job on a tired, rickety old Scottish broadsheet called the Saltire. He proved himself to be a natural journalist, and breathed new life into the place. It’s no exaggeration to say that he was almost entirely responsible for turning it into one of Scotland’s leading newspapers.

  Eventually, his input was more than simply editorial. When the title fell into the hands of a business scoundrel whose mismanagement and crookedness brought it perilously close to liquidation, Xavi engineered its purchase by a media group that his half-brother Joe had founded on his return to Spain after Franco’s death.

  While Xavi’s professional life was outstanding, his private life was an even bigger disaster than mine. After his marriage ended in a horrible bereavement that would have broken most men, he focused for years on nothing but work. He withdrew from the few friends he had, me included; any contact we had was by telephone, never face to face.

  His isolation from social Edinburgh did the Saltire no harm, it must be said. He was able to devote his entire life to being its managing editor, driving it on until it had left all its rivals in its wake.

  Its circulation continued to climb as those of other papers fell, so it came as a surprise when, without a word of warning, Xavi removed himself from our midst and joined Joe on his estate in the hills above Girona, leaving his life’s work in the hands of June Crampsey, his sister from his mother’s second marriage.

  I couldn’t remember when last I’d seen him, but I doubt that it was this century.

  ‘How did you get this number?’ I asked him. (It’s known only by my inner circle of friends and family.)

  ‘Why?’ he chuckled. ‘Is it on the state secret list?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m just curious, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll forget it.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ I told him. ‘Add it to your contacts.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘As it happens, your daughter shared it with me. None of your old colleagues were forthcoming, so I called your Alex. June told me where I could find her. You must have spoken kindly of me, for she passed it on, once she’d satisfied herself of my bona fides, by confirming with June that I was who I said I was.’

  ‘Did she tell you where I was?’

  ‘That she did not share,’ he admitted.

  ‘I wouldn’t have minded that either,’ I said, pausing as lunch arrived at my table. ‘So, my friend, good as it is to hear from you after all this time, you’ll understand me wondering why you’re calling me.’

  ‘I’ve been following your story,’ he replied, ‘trying to work out why you seem to have walked out on your career, just as it was about to reach its zenith.’

  ‘You’re not being a journo, are you, Xavi?’ I asked. I’d never made a public statement about my decision not to compete for the post of chief constable of the new nationwide Police Scotland force.

  ‘Of course not, I’m just a curious and concerned friend.’

  ‘In that case, if you look at your own paper’s back issues you’ll find that I made it pretty clear a few months ago that I thought the politicians had got it wrong over police unification.’

  ‘I don’t have to look up anything,’ he said. ‘I remember the piece you gave us. And then your marriage broke up, and everyone, me included, thought that your then wife’s being on the other side of the argument had everything to do with that.’

  ‘Not everything; there were other reasons. “Argument” is the wrong word, though. I wasn’t for debating the issue with anyone; the interview I did with your June was a statement of my beliefs. Aileen knew what those were all along. She ignored me, and thought I’d have to fall in line when the change was forced through.’

  ‘So did I. I always thought you were a pragmatist, and that once the decision was made you’d live with it.’

  ‘Like I said . . .’

  ‘Yes, there were other reasons,’ he said, ‘just as there’s another reason for this call. I’d like to consult you.’

  ‘Consult me?’ I laughed. ‘Do you think I’m Sherlock fucking Holmes?’

  He chuckled in return. ‘Nothing would surprise me about you. But I mean it, Bob. I have a situation and I need advice.’

  ‘What kind of situation?’

  ‘I can’t say over the phone. It would have to be in person.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere you like. I’ll come to Scotland if I have to.’

  When he said that, I understood that it was serious. I knew from June Crampsey that Xavi had never been back to Edinburgh since the day he left his office in the Saltire building for the last time.

  ‘You don’t.’ I held my phone up in the air for a few seconds then put it back to my ear. ‘What did you hear?’ I asked.

  ‘Seagulls,’ he replied, ‘and someone speaking French, too loudly, in a Belgian accent. Does that mean you’re not in Scotland?’

  ‘I’m in L’Escala, chum. I got here less than two hours ago. At this moment I’m watching my patatas bravas cool down and the head disappear from my beer.’

  ‘Then I’ll come to you . . . if you’re willing to talk to me, that is.’

  ‘I am, but you can host me. Sarah says I need a complete change of scene, and I’ve never been to your place.’

  ‘Great,’ he exclaimed. ‘When can you make it? I’ll send a car to pick you up. Hell, listen to me! I’ll come to fetch you myself.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ I told him. ‘I’ll be on the road as soon as I’ve finished lunch; give me your address and I’ll programme my satnav.’

  ‘That’s excellent, Bob. Bring an overnight bag; the very least I can do is put you up and give you a decent dinner.’

  As we ended the call, I found myself buzzing and, to my surprise, grateful for Xavi’s interruption, and his invitation. I’d only been in the house on the hill for a few minutes, but that was long enough for me to realise that the place was full of ghosts.

  Three

  As I paid my bill, a layer of cloud covered the sun, knocking the temperature down by about five degrees centigrade. It looked as if it wasn’t about to go anywhere in a hurry, and I began to regret my casual decision to come out without a jacket.

  I told the waiter not to bother
about the change and stood up, keen to be on my way, but I hadn’t gone ten paces before the corner of my eye caught a strange movement.

  I stopped and looked around, over my shoulder. There was another cafe next to mine; it wasn’t nearly as popular, with only two tables occupied. A young woman sat alone at one of them; she was holding a small Nikon pocket camera, and had a sheepish expression on her face.

  ‘I thought it was you, Mr Skinner,’ she said, in an accent that was almost as Scottish as mine, then snapped off another image as I frowned down at her. So much for my notion of anonymity.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘now you know for sure. I’m sorry I can’t spend some time with a fellow Scot, Ms . . .’

  ‘McDaniels; Carrie McDaniels.’

  ‘. . . but I have to be somewhere.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t expect to find many Scots here, in L’Escala.’ She raised the camera and clicked again. ‘Especially not one as famous as you.’

  I felt my hackles rise and took a couple of paces towards her. ‘Look, stop doing that,’ I told her.

  She frowned. ‘Why?’ she challenged. ‘It’s a free country. What are you going to do about it?’

  I snatched the camera from her hand, flicked open the cover in its base and ejected the SD card.

  Sudden anger flared in her eyes. ‘Hey,’ she yelled, ‘you can’t do that!’

  I laughed as I laid the Nikon down in front of her. ‘It’s bloody obvious that I can,’ I said, slipping my images into a trouser pocket.

  As I did so I was aware of movement at the other occupied table. The two guys who had been sitting there were on their feet and heading towards me. One of them was holding a beer bottle, and his mate was reaching into his jacket.

  Señor San Miguel reached me first, brandishing what he thought was his weapon. I jabbed two stiff fingers into his eyes, hard: welcome to the world of pain, chum. The other one had a flick-knife and looked ready to open it. Unfortunately for him he was left-handed, which meant that I didn’t have to reach across him to grab his wrist and twist his arm, spinning him round and putting him in the ‘come along’ hold beloved of cops everywhere, then slamming his face into Carrie’s tabletop.

  ‘You just pulled a knife on me, son,’ I murmured, then took weeks of frustration out on him with a short, sharp wrench that separated his shoulder and produced a satisfying scream. I took the blade from him, pocketed it and turned to have a further discussion with the first attacker, but he had recovered enough vision to spot the road out of town and was heading for it as fast as his legs could carry him.

  A guy in a waiter’s tunic was standing in the doorway, with a look on his face that contrived to be both fearful and quizzical at the same time. I caught his eye, shook my head, and called out, ‘It’s nothing. No problem.’

  I glanced at the cafe where I’d eaten. Not unnaturally, the action next door had attracted attention. I frowned at them, collectively, and they went back to their beer and tapas.

  Heavy Number Two was back in a chair, bleeding from the nose and moaning, holding on to his misshapen shoulder. He was dark-haired and brown-skinned, Moroccan, probably. ‘You speak English?’ I asked him.

  He nodded, without looking at me.

  ‘Okay, then understand this. If you go to the clinic along in Riells, they’ll fix that for you. I don’t have time to get involved with the police, but if I ever see you again, or your pal, I will hurt you far worse than the local medics can deal with. Go, now.’

  He did as he’d been told, leaving me alone with Carrie. She was a lot less confident than she had been before. I sat at her table and took a closer look at her than I had before. I guessed that she was much closer to thirty than twenty. Although her hair was fair, it wasn’t sun-bleached, and she was pale-skinned; two signs of someone who hadn’t been in Spain for very long.

  ‘You smell of two things, my dear,’ I told her, over-confidently, ‘duty-free perfume and journalist. Why are you here, and why the hell did you think you needed to hire those two clowns as protection?’

  ‘They were supposed to be my interpreters,’ she replied. ‘My Spanish is non-existent. I met them in a bar last night; I only got here yesterday,’ she added, in explanation. ‘It was a weird wee place, but British-owned. The owner was friendly enough, so I told him I needed somebody to translate for me while I’m here. Tony and Julio . . . that’s those two . . . were drinking in there. They heard me, and they volunteered. That’s to say, for a hundred euros a day each, they volunteered.’

  ‘Did they indeed?’ I laughed. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. However good their Spanish may be, their Arabic will be better.’

  ‘But they’ve got Spanish names,’ she protested.

  ‘Not on their ID cards, they don’t; you can be sure of that. Now, answer my other question. What are you up to?’

  ‘I’m doing a travel piece for my paper,’ she volunteered.

  ‘That paper being . . . ?’

  ‘Actually, it’s an airline flight mag: it’s a Belgian tour company called FlemAir.’

  ‘You speak Flemish?’

  ‘I write in English and they translate.’

  ‘Well, Caroline,’ I began.

  ‘It’s not Caroline,’ she retorted, ‘just Carrie.’

  ‘Well, Carrie,’ I continued, ‘good luck to you, but don’t go snapping any more strangers.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ she murmured. ‘But give me my memory card back first,’ she added.

  I smiled at her pouting lip. ‘No chance, lass. Put it down to experience, or on your expenses as my fee for saving you from those clowns. Sooner rather than later, you’d have been in bad trouble with them.’

  I felt her eyes boring into me as I walked away, but I didn’t look back. My unexpected exercise had made me forget about the gathering chill, but it reasserted itself pretty quickly and so I quickened my pace, to counteract it.

  As I crested the hill called Puig Pedro, where my house is located, I took out my phone and scrolled though my stored numbers. Still on the march, I chose one and called it.

  ‘DS Haddock,’ a young voice announced, after two rings.

  ‘Sauce,’ I said. ‘It’s Bob Skinner. Are you free to speak?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m clear. This is a surprise.’

  ‘I’m sure it is. For me too in a way; it isn’t a call I’d planned to make but I need some help, using channels that aren’t open to me at the moment.’

  ‘Then fire away, Chief.’

  Young Harold Haddock, Sauce being his inevitable nickname, is one of my protégés, although Maggie Steele, my successor as chief constable in Edinburgh, has equal claim to him, having spotted his potential when he was a young PC in her nick. He’s rewarded our faith in him by flourishing in the service and making detective sergeant as fast as I did.

  He did have one close encounter with disaster in his climb up the ladder. He found himself a girlfriend named Cheeky McCullough, and fell head over heels in love. Unsurprisingly, her forename isn’t how she was baptised. She was named Cameron, after her grandfather, a truth she wasn’t keen to share with Sauce when they met.

  That was understandable given that Grandpa’s businesses, along with property, commercial and residential construction, and leisure, are said to include every criminal activity known to man, although he’s never been convicted of anything. His closest calls were a murder charge, in which the crucial witnesses all vanished on the day of the trial, and a potential drugs prosecution that folded when the stuff vanished from a secure police store.

  When Sauce found out, it almost broke the relationship, but it turned out to be stronger than that.

  I could have called several other people looking for a favour, but I’d chosen Sauce because I knew he’d get it done with least fuss, and probably quickest. There was also the fact that he owed me one. Another chief constable might have forced him out of the service because of Cheeky, but I decided that he was too good to lose, and let him stay.

  ‘I
need a couple of things checked,’ I said. ‘First, is there a Belgian travel company called FlemAir? Second, if there is, has it commissioned a Scottish journalist named Carrie McDaniels to do a piece on Spain for its flight mag? Third, if there isn’t, or there is and it hasn’t, is there such a person and if so what’s her story?’

  ‘Can do, sir. What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘Very little; she has fair hair, she’s aged somewhere between twenty-five, if she doesn’t look after herself, and thirty-two if she does. Carrie’s her given name, not a shortened form, and she seems to be a Ms, not a Mrs. Likely she’ll have been on a flight to Barcelona or possibly Girona within the last forty-eight hours.’

  ‘Got all that,’ Sauce confirmed. ‘Are you going to tell me why you need this . . . just in case anyone asks?’

  ‘I’m not even sure I do need it,’ I confessed. ‘The lady just crossed me, and I’d like to check that she is what she says.’

  ‘And do you think she is?’

  ‘Not for a second, lad. That might well be her name, but I’m doubtful about the rest.’

  ‘Do I need to do anything else,’ he asked, ‘other than just check on her?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve given her a talking-to, and that may be enough. Hopefully she’ll get the message that I don’t like being accosted, especially not by journos. When I deal with them, it’s on my terms.’

  ‘How do I get back to you, sir?’ he asked. ‘If she’s in Spain . . .’

  ‘Then obviously so am I,’ I said. ‘Just call this number.’

  ‘It came up as withheld.’

  ‘Of course, sorry.’ Although Sauce was on my contact list, I wasn’t on his. I recited it, from memory. ‘I appreciate this,’ I told him.

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ I heard him chuckle. ‘It feels bloody weird, though, you calling me on the quiet.’

  ‘Hey, son,’ I murmured, just as I arrived at my front gate, ‘how do you think it feels for me?’

  I ended the call, then went inside. The house was appreciably warmer than before, but it was more than creature comfort that lifted my spirits. Somehow, my call from Xavi, and my peculiar encounter just afterwards, had yanked me out of the torpor in which I had been languishing. I was beginning to feel myself again.