Skinner's Trail - Quintin Jardine

by Quintin Jardine

  Ànd you, Carlos, can buy in a few litres of aqua minerale, and look for a saving on the wine bill!'

  Thirty-nine

  ‘Where did you put those notes?'

  `They're in the escritura. You bring Jazz in, I'll go fetch them.'

  Skinner unfastened the straps of his son's car cradle and carried him, asleep, through to his cot. As he went through to the living room, the motorised shutters were rising slowly, and light was advancing into the room from the patio doors towards the centre. Sarah stood waiting for him, a notebook in her hand.

  `Good job you took those.'

  `Come on, Bob, it's a reflex with me at autopsies. It helps keep my mind on the job. Do you think I never get squeamish over some of the things I see. Remember that time in Advocates Close?'

  Skinner looked at her in silence. 'Then you do a hell of a job of covering it up, my darling —

  even from me. The boys and girls all think you're superhuman, the way you've kept your cool, especially among some of the messes we've had to clear up.'

  She flicked the notepad open. 'Here they are. Don't know what good you expect they'll do, though. Just an hour ago we were both agreed it could only be suicide. Are you sure you aren't just grasping at this dog theory like a straw, to humour me?'

  `Come on, girl, what sort of a copper do you think I am?

  Listen, I was there. I saw that dog. It's a big friendly mutt, but when I got there it seemed terrified — of me. Barking, snarling, all the rest. As soon as it saw I was a friend, it was fine.

  It more or less pointed me, believe this or not, towards the garage. And those feeding bowls were bone dry.'

  `Couldn't they have dried out in the sun?'

  Skinner shook his head emphatically. 'They were well in the shade. Believe me. That was a friendly, well-fed, well-groomed animal, treated kindly, just like Carlos said. And it was Santi who treated it that way. Gloria doesn't like dogs. Believe me, he thought as much of the mongrel as he did of his grass. If he switched on the lawn sprinkler, he'd have fed the dog too

  . . . unless someone stopped him. So, Professor, my forensic genius of a wife, since what I'm saying is what happened, I want you to work out, from those notes, a picture of how it was done. Once you've done that, we'll get around to finding out who did it, and why.'

  Sarah looked at him doubtfully. 'Christ, you don't want much. You want me to make bricks, give me some straw. There ain't none in here that I can see.'

  `Nonetheless, let's go for it.'

  Òkay. Let's go outside.' Sarah led the way outside to the patio. Bob made a diversion via the kitchen to fetch two beers. They sat side-by-side at the white table, facing the mountains.

  Sarah read through her notes, then read them again.

  `Cause of death,' said Bob. 'Is there any chance that he was strangled manually by someone, and then hung up there as dead meat.'

  Sarah shook her head. 'Absolutely no indication of any other ligature being applied.

  Remember, too, the strands of rope under the fingernails.'

  `That's true. And there was that oily footmark on the chair, matching the smear on Alberni's shoe. So let's take that as certain: he died by hanging. So someone strung him up. How many would it take?'

  Àt least two, obviously. To control him, and to hoist him up on to that chair.'

  Àlberni wasn't very big, but he'd have put up some sort of a struggle. Surely they'd have had to pop him one to keep him quiet. There were no other signs of injury, no bruising, no bang on the head?'

  `No, absolutely none. We looked, believe me. If he'd been hit, anywhere, between his toes even, that guy Martinez would have found it. The only unusual things we found were, as I told you; those funny marks on his upper arms.' She picked up her Estrella and took a swig.

  'Bob. Go. Vamoose. Have a swim. Change a diaper. Anything at all, but just go and leave me here for a few minutes to try and figure this one out. Go. Scoot!'

  Thus bidden, Bob stood up, slipped off his shirt and the shorts which he wore over his trunks, sauntered around to the side of the house, and plunged into the small pool. He swam its short length, backward and forward, until he lost count, then floated for a while on his back in the sun. 'This time next year, maybe Jazz'll be in here with me.' They had decided that the baby would be taught to swim naturally, even before he could walk. Already, Sarah, a college swimming blue, had introduced him to the pool, and he had reacted with delight, taking his own buoyancy for granted, and splashing and kicking like a cygnet trying to fly.

  Sarah broke into his daydream with her shout. 'Copper! Get back here!'

  He hauled himself out of the pool at the deep end, and rejoined her at the table where she sat, hands clasped together on the closed notebook. There was an expression of satisfaction on her face which fell only a few points short of smugness.

  Ì think I've got it. Think I've built you something you can fly in. Sit down. I'll be back:, She disappeared into the house, and returned a few seconds later carrying a ball of string.

  `Those marks on his arms could have been made by a rope.'

  `How?'

  `Like this. Stand up again. Ohh, you're still dripping!' She stepped round behind him with the string. The two guys; let's say they're waiting in the garage with their rope — which Gloria said she'd never seen before. She leaves. Santi comes out. They hear him turning on the lawn sprinkler. Then one of them makes a noise, maybe accidentally, probably deliberately. Santi goes into the garage. They grab him, and before he can do anything, they do this.'

  She took the string and slipped it under and around Skinner's left arm, then across behind his back and around the right arm. She pulled sharply on the string, and he found that his arms were pinioned to his side.

  Òkay, so far,' she continued. 'He's helpless, and they frogmarch him over to beneath the maintenance pulley, where they've already set up the hanging rope and the chair. With this rope, they hoist him up on to the chair. He realises what's going to happen by now, and he's probably screaming bloody murder, but the villa is empty and isolated and there's only the dog to hear him. One of the guys holds him helpless; the other one slips the noose over his head, and kicks the chair away. They pull the other rope out from behind his back, then stand back and watch the poor man claw at the noose until he blacks out and dies. They take the other rope and they leave. Bingo.'

  `How did they get there? How do they leave?'

  `Very early, across the field behind the villa. They'd leave by the same way. Well?'

  Skinner smiled at his wife. 'God, you're clever. With an instinct for planning like that, I hope you never get mad at me.' He nodded 'Yes, I'll buy it, all right. I want another word with Gloria. I'll do that this evening, then I'll take it to Arturo in the morning.'

  `You'd better buy it. It's all you're gonna get.' She grinned at him wickedly. 'You could say your whole case is hanging on it!'

  Forty

  There was no answer to Bob's ring on the doorbell. A car, this time a battered Renault 5, stood in the driveway. The lawn sprinkler was on. A momentary shiver of apprehension rippled through him.

  He walked around to the back of the house, treading softly. `Gloria?' he called.

  The area around the pool was neat and tidy, a far cry from the shambles which Bob had found on his first visit six days earlier. A single empty glass lay on the poolside table.

  And then he saw it: a dark shape submerged below the sunlit shimmers of the pool, near the deep-end ladder. He took three long steps forward and readied himself to dive . . . only to pull himself up sharp as Gloria's head and shoulders broke the surface. She trod water and shook her hair loose from the side of her head, sending spray across Skinner's feet. Her eyes, previously squeezed tight together, opened first, then widened in surprise.

  `Bob, how good to see you.' She caught hold of the poolside ledge with both hands, bracing her feet against the tiles beneath the surface. 'Would you like to swim?'

  He smiled and shook his head. 'No, thank you
. I've had some of that today. No, I just wanted another word about Santi. Come on out and I'll explain.' Suddenly he realised that she was wearing only a bikini bottom. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Look, I'll . .

  She smiled at his momentary confusion. 'Bob, this is Spain. Just imagine that you're on the beach.' She swam over to the ladder and climbed out. 'Sit down, please. Would you like a drink?'

  He nodded. 'Beer would be nice.' He looked after her as she walked towards the house. Dark-skinned, high-breasted, slim-waisted, moving with a natural elegance. Yes, he thought, a man's mind would have to be seriously unbalanced to leave a woman like that behind. He took a seat beside the table.

  When she returned, she was wearing a short, pink towelling robe. Her wet black hair was pulled back and tied in a ponytail. In her left hand she carried a bottle of Blanc Pescador, opened, and in the other a litre bottle of Damm Xibeca beer, glistening from the fridge, with a long glass upside down over its neck.

  She handed the beer to Bob and refilled her glass on the table, as he unscrewed the Xibeca and poured himself a drink.

  `So,' she said, settling into her chair. 'What was it that you wanted to ask me?'

  He was about to answer, when a thought struck him. 'Hey, where's the dog?'

  She smiled. Was that it? My father took Romario back to Tarragona with him. He likes dogs, too; he'll give him a good home.'

  `That's fine. But, no, that wasn't my worry. Gloria, without being critical of my friends in the Guardia, because I understand the reasons for it, I'm still a bit concerned at the speed with which this whole thing has been put to rest.'

  She nodded vigorously. `So am I. Santi didn't kill himself and, however it looks, I can't believe he was a thief. That money in the safe, that Ainscow has been allowed to keep. Can anyone say that it ever came from InterCosta? Could I not have said that it was mine, that I had won it in the Casino?'

  `Not if you didn't. In any case, that's history now. The Guardia have given the cash to Ainscow, and you won't see it again. What d'you think of Ainscow?'

  Ì have nothing against him. Santi always got on well with him, in business. Officially they were partners, but Ainscow was the boss. A few times we went to dinner with him, and once or twice he had ladies here, from Scotland. Except I did not think they were ladies. I thought they were more like putas . . . what would you say?'

  `Tarts,' said Skinner. She nodded.

  ` Si, that is the word. Then I did not like Paul . . . But, no, with InterCosta they had no problems that Santi ever spoke of, although he never spoke to me much of InterCosta — or any of his other business.'

  Did he have other business?'

  `Well, that may be too big a description for it. There were one or two friends that he would help, or advise. Not buyers, not holiday people.' She paused. 'You do not take offence at that, Bob?'

  He smiled. 'Not at all. I am a holiday person, and for a while longer, too. What sort of friends?'

  `Local people looking for homes, looking for places to rent. Tony and Maria who were here a week ago, they were two of them. Santi found them an apartment when they were getting married. There are people who come here and buy property, then prefer to rent it out long-term, through local agents to local families, rather than to put it on the holiday market. Okay, the weekly rent for holidays is high in the summer, but in the winter there is nothing. Overall, renting to local people is more solid income. They take better care of your property, too.

  Santi knew many of these owners, and people used to come to him. He never took money for helping them. But if they owned a bar, then there would be free drinks; or if someone's father owned a restaurant, then there would be a big piece off the bill; or if someone was an electrician . . . A favour for a favour, you would say.'

  `There's no chance that Santi might have seen himself as a Robin Hood, and have been helping some of these people with InterCosta money?'

  `No. I know most of these people. They wouldn't have taken it — any more than he would have taken money from them.'

  `How about the other side: the property owners?'

  `There were a few; most of them had only one or two apartments. The rental agents here are mostly interested only in holidays. It was known that Santi could place local people, and so some investors would ask him to manage their properties, through InterCosta, because of the good long-term renters he could find.'

  `Does anyone stand out among these people?'

  She thought for a second or two. 'Well, the biggest would be Nick Vaudan, but he is not an InterCosta client. He manages his own properties. He has a company, Montgo SA, to actually own them.

  `Do you know anything about him?'

  Ì've met him a few times. Friendly guy, machismo sort of guy. He's half French, and I think the other half is Greek. He lives in the south of France, when he is not here. Property is not his main business, according to Santi. The rest is something to do with boats. Here he owns maybe twelve, maybe fifteen, apartments and small villas. Santi used to give him advice on properties he was thinking of buying.'

  `Was that on a professional basis?'

  'No, no. Santi was very honourable. He would never do anything for money outside InterCosta. Nick did him favours, though. The biggest was getting us this place.'

  `How did he do that?'

  Gloria paused to refill her glass, and Skinner poured himself another glass of Xibeca, before, screwing the cap tight on what was left in the bottle. Beyond the villa, the sun was beginning to sink towards the hilly horizon.

  `The man who built this house was greedy. We made him an offer that we thought was fair, but we needed a mortgage. So he said, "No, you take loan, so someone else take bigger loan.

  I get my price." That's the Catalan way with property. Santi mentioned this to Nick, and Nick goes to the builder. He shows him cash. The developer can't resist. Nick buys the place next day, for cash, at less than the price we were offering, but still way above the declared value, so the builder can maybe, if he wants, cheat on his income taxes. The day after that, he sells it to us at the same price. We pay the notario fees and the IVA on both sides, so Nick isn't out of pocket. Then Montgo SA buys our previous villa, a little one, at the price we ask, as an investment property.'

  `Sounds like a very decent guy.'

  `He is. He was at the funeral. In fact he was here, afterwards. I think I saw Sarah speak to him.'

  Ìs he still in town?'

  Às far as I know. He came down for the funeral, and I think he said he was staying for another two weeks.'

  `Where does he live?'

  `Punta Montgo,. but I don't know which house. He has an office, though. A very small one.

  Somewhere off the Riells road, near the beach.'

  Òkay,' said Skinner, finishing his beer. 'I'll try to persuade Pujol to talk to him. To see if he can think of anyone who might have had a major grudge against your husband. Cause, just between you and me, Gloria, I agree with you. I don't think Santi killed himself, either. But don't build your hopes up because, between what we think and what the Guardia Civil will accept as true, there lies a gap as wide as that blue bay over there! Now, you'd better get inside, and I must be off. It's drying time for you, but it's bathtime for Jazz!'

  Forty-one

  ‘Grgrgrgre’

  It was a small squeal. Bob and Sarah looked at each other across the bath, mouths slightly agape with surprise. Bob filled the soft sponge with water, held it over Jazz and squeezed once more, directing the water towards the centre of his long soft belly.

  `Grgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrg!' As the stream splashed into his navel, the baby kicked his legs furiously, splashing water over the side of the plastic bath and on to the floor of his bedroom.

  And his mouth opened wide in unmistakable delight, showing an expanse of toothless gums.

  `He's laughing! Look he's smiling. Sarah, should he be laughing out loud at this age?'

  She grinned. 'Why the hell not? He obviously finds you pretty funny.'

  Bob beamed at th
e sudden development of his son's vocal range, and he sent another stream of bath water cascading over his midriff.

  `Grgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrg!'

  Bath time for Jazz had become an essential part of the Skinner family's daily ritual. Sarah and Bob had agreed, in considering their parenthood, that, however busy each might be professionally, it would be their cardinal rule that father and mother would do all in their power to be at home every evening, if only for that special time.

  As Bob lifted him out of the cooling water, the baby gave a small whimper of annoyance. But as Sarah took him, wrapping him in the folds of a soft yellow towel, the smile returned. She dried him gently, rocking him in her arms and speaking softly to him. The child nuzzled, contented, against her shoulder.

  Bob watched her from a chair in the corner of the room, as she completed the process of drying, dusting, oiling and dressing for the night. 'Okay, chum,' she said eventually. 'Let's you and Mom take a walk on the terrace while Daddy makes up those rusks.'

  Half an hour later they were seated in the living room. Bob held the baby, fed to the point of contentment, and rubbed his back very gently between the shoulder-blades, until he heard the soft rumble of breaking wind.

  `That it?' asked Sarah.

  `Yes,' Bob said, quietly. 'Let's give him a minute, then I'll put him to bed.'

  Sarah left the room and returned with two flutes of pink cava. She put one on a small table within Bob's reach, holding her own glass as she settled on the couch alongside him.

  `So how was your talk with Gloria?'

  Worthwhile.' He paused. 'So who was this bloke who was chatting you up at the villa after the funeral, then?' He glanced down at her.

  For a second she looked puzzled, until recollection came. Bob saw to his surprise that, for an instant, she flushed.