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 thought. 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 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.
Òkay,' 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.'
Òkay. 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.
Skinner pushed the door open and stepped inside. Habla usted inglės?' he asked, tentatively.
The little man turned, a professional smile settling on his face. 'You're in luck, sir. I don't just speak English, I am English. How can we help you?'
`Well, it's about property.'
`You've come to the right place. We have the finest register around here, and it's all on our wonderful computer programme. Complete details on two hundred villas and apartments at the push of a button. Fantastic technology.'
Àctually,' said Skinner quietly, 'I was more interested in shop properties. Owned by a company called Torroella Locals. It is Mr Inch, isn't it?'
The smile lost its warmth in an instant — it stayed in place, but seemed to freeze on the little man's face. Skinner had seen fear in another human ten thousand times before; it was unmistakable. Inch went pale beneath the tan as he nodded dumbly.
`That's good. I was told I would find you here. Can we speak in private?'
Inch nodded again and led the way behind the counter and into a small office. The smile was gone completely as he closed the door. 'How can I help you?'
The big detective looked down at him. 'First, let me introduce myself. My name's Bob Skinner. I'm a policeman, from Scotland. I've been investigating an allegation of financial impropriety made against a company called InterCosta by one of its clients. In the line of that, I'm talking to all known associates of the late Santiago Alberni. I'm led to believe that you may have been acquainted with him, and that you may have had common interest in an investment company called Torroella Locals. Before I ask you anything, I must emphasise that I am acting entirely unofficially. On that basis, are you prepared to talk to me?'
Inch nodded again.
`Good. Can I begin by asking if my information is correct, and that you are the owner of record of a company called Torroella Locals?'
Inch looked at him sidelong. 'Yes.' It was scarcely more than a whisper.
Ànd was Santi Alberni a sleeping partner?'
`Yes, he was.'
`When was the company set up?'
`Six or seven years ago.'
`To do what?'
Inch coughed, and his voice seemed to strengthen slightly. `To reinvest profits from InterCosta in empty shop properties in good locations.'
Àround here?'
`No. Further south, in the busier resorts. They were the sort of properties where we could pull in high rents through the summer season from short-term operators.'
`Whose idea was it to set up the company?'
`Who owns it?'
Òfficially I do, but Alberni has a lawyer's letter signed by me confirming that he is the legal owner.'
`You don't have a copy?'
Inch shook his head vigorously enough to make his remaining hair fly up.
`How much in total did Alberni salt away in Torroella Locals?'
Àbout ninety million pesetas. Four-fifty grand.'
Ànd you assumed it was kosher money.'
`That's what he said.'
`What about Ainscow? Didn't he have any say in it?' Ì don't know Ainscow. Who's he?'
Skinner looked at him. 'Come on, you're in the agency business, aren't you? For how long?'
Inch nodded again, alarmed by the new toughness in Skinner's tone. 'For ten years.'
Àll you boys know each other around here. You're telling me you've been here since the mid-Eighties, as Paul Ainscow has, and you've never heard of him?'
Ì haven't!'
Skinner stared hard at him for several seconds. Eventually he grinned. 'Okay, so you haven't.
Let me ask you something else. What's the current valuation of the shops?'
`They're in the books at one hundred and thirty million. That's a professional valuation,' Inch added hurriedly.
Ànd who holds the deeds?'
Inch looked up at Skinner leaning relaxed against the wall. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he stayed silent.
`Come on, Inch. It's an easy question. Who holds the deeds?'
The little man shook his head, 'No, I'm not saying any more — not without legal advice. You said you were unofficial. I don't have to talk to you at all.'
Skinner straightened up. 'That's right, you don't . . . yet. But you take that legal advice, and make sure that it's sound. This is one step away from being a murder investigation, and you could be bang in the middle of it.'
Terror flared in Inch's eyes. 'Murder! What do you mean murder? I had nothing to do with any of it!'
Any of what, wee man?' asked Skinner quietly. Leaving Inch standing, mouth slightly agape, in the middle of the small room, he turned on his heel and walked out of the shop.
He found Sarah still at her table outside Bar Isidre. She was rocking Jazz gently back and forward in his buggy, making soft shushing noises as she did.
She looked up as Bob approached. 'Well, find him?' `Sure did.'
Ànd?'
`He was primed, for certain, warned that I was on my way. The wee bugger didn't even ask my name. He knew exactly who I was and what I was there for. I'm bloody certain that he was following a script. I know, because eventually we got to a bit that wasn't in it, and he was lost. Come on, love. Let's get back to L'Escala. I've got a fax to send.'
Forty-nine
The transmission signal changed pitch, then stopped, as the connection was made. The machine lay still and silent for a few seconds, causing Skinner to wonder whether, after all, it was faulty, until, with a low hum, the single white sheet began to roll through.
Half a minute later it cl
eared the transmission gate, and fell to the floor.
Sarah, who had come into the room halfway through the process, picked it up and read its contents, aloud.
Confidential
DCI Mackie from ACC Skinner.
Please put the following into effect.
I wish total surveillance placed on Paul Ainscow immediately. Its purpose is to establish who are his associates, whether any have criminal connections, and in particular whether there is any link between Ainscow and Nicolas Vaudan, and one Alan Inch.
Using all sources at your disposal, check for any available information on Alan Inch.
Currently employed as a property salesman by Immobiliara Brava of Torroella de Montgri.
Search for information should pay attention in particular to convictions/arrests for fraud. I will seek to arrange here for a watch to be placed on Inch.
Finally, use international connections to have a watch placed on Nicolas Vaudan in France. I have just been advised by his office that he returned to Mougins this morning. Purpose is again to ascertain who his business contacts might be, and to establish any possible link between Vaudan/Inch/Ainscow.
Please confirm as soon as all arrangements are in place, and report regularly.
`Mmm,' said Sarah. 'Not very policespeak. No "aforementioneds" or "thereafters"!'
Skinner grinned. 'Sorry, I must be slipping. You know, back home sometimes I still receive the odd report that's "respectfully submitted", even although I tried to ban the phrase on the ground that if I need to be told that I had the respect of my officers, then I don't deserve it!'
`Where do you go now? Back to Arturo?'
`Yes, but I can't do that until tomorrow. Even he takes Sunday off.'
`You've really latched on to this one, my darling, haven't you?' Sarah smiled. 'International surveillance; I mean that's pretty heavy. What if Vaudan's letter turns up and proves that Santi was guilty and that he did kill himself? Won't you be—?'
Skinner interrupted. 'Won't my arse be hung out to dry, you mean? Trust me, my love. If that letter turns up, Santa Claus will bring it down the fucking chimney! I have no doubts. Not since smelling Inch sweat in an air-conditioned room. Not since he lied to me all the way through our chat – I know when I'm being lied to, Sarah. Not since I threw the word "murder"
at him.'
You did? How did he react?'
`You could say that the bottom dropped out of his world . . . or maybe it was the other way around.'
Fifty
The tall yellow Guardia Civil barracks seemed to reflect the early afternoon sunshine as Skinner walked towards it. The day was even hotter than its predecessor, and there was a heaviness in the air which hinted that somewhere, maybe still a day or two distant but with gathering strength, a storm was brewing.
He turned into the building. At first the officer on desk duty looked sternly at the tall figure in T-shirt and shorts framed as a black shadow in the light of the doorway. But when the shadow said, ` Commandante por favor,' recognition dawned and the man sprang to his feet, snapping a salute.
The officer left his post to advise Pujol of his visitor, and returned a few seconds later to escort Skinner through to the small office.
` Buenas tardes, Bob,' said Pujol, rising. 'How are your conversations going? Is your "dog theory" any nearer proof?'
Skinner said nothing, but took from his bumbag, which was slung over his left shoulder, his fax to Brian Mackie of the day before, and the DCI's response, received three hours later, confirming that all arrangements were in place.
Pujol's eyebrows climbed skywards on his forehead as he read. 'You seem to be covering quite a bit of ground. When I see that you can sit in your villa and call up the resources of Interpol, I have to say that not even I realised how long is your arm. It frightens me a little.
You are so sure that Alberni was murdered, and that he was innocent?'
Skinner lowered himself into a chair facing the Commandante. He nodded. let me tell you why.'
He recounted in every detail his conversation with Vaudan and Inch, describing the latter's panic when murder had been added to the agenda of the investigation. 'Can you tell when someone is lying to you, Arturo? Course you can, you're a good copper. So take it from me, Santi was innocent. I believe that he was killed to prevent him finding out about something that's been going on under his nose for years, and to me it's inconceivable that Paul Ainscow wasn't involved. I've taken care of Scotland and France. I'd like you to look after this end. I don't care whether it's formal or not. I want Inch watched round the clock. If you can manage it, I want his phones tapped, office and home. Stick as close to him as possible.'
He looked across the desk. Pujol was smiling, but his eyes were heavy with irony. At once, Skinner was gripped by a sense of foreboding.
'I am ahead of you, Bob. I have Inch under close surveillance already. As close as it could be.
Come and I will show you' He led the way from the small room, and along the corridor. At its end, an officer stood guard over a heavy brown-stained wooden door. He stood aside as Pujol and Skinner approached. In the centre of the small, windowless, air-conditioned room stood a narrow table. Something lay on it. Something covered by a white sheet. Something —
Skinner guessed — that was around five feet six from end to end, with a walnut tan.
Pujol drew back one end of the sheet.
`Shit!' Skinner spat the word out. 'Son of a bitch!'
Inch's face was unmarked, but his tan had taken on an odd yellowish tinge as death had drained the blood from beneath the skin. His head lay at an odd angle on his shoulders, and Skinner knew without asking that his neck had been broken. Another death, he thought. How many more?
`What happened?' he asked, wearily.
`Senor Inch lived in L'Escala,' said Pujol, 'which makes it even less likely that he did not know Ainscow. He was a keen windsurfer. It was his sport. Every Monday — you know, Bob, that the property people all take Monday as their holiday — you would find him in Riells Bay, usually far out from the beach. It was the same today. Only today, at around eleven this morning, a man in a Sunseeker power-boat stolen from the marina, a man who appeared to be drunk, ran him down at full speed. He was killed instantly.'
`Where is the man now?'
Ì have just sent men to take him to prison in Barcelona. He will be interrogated there and charged, no doubt, with everything we can think of.'
`Who is he?'
Ì do not yet know. As I said, he seemed to be drunk. He wouldn't tell us anything, other than what we could do with our mothers. But he did tell us in German.'
`When can I see him?'
`Too soon to say, Bob. But I'll try to arrange a visit for us both as quickly as I can. And,' he added, with emphasis, 'I will arrange for the investigation of Torroella Locals. The Guardia is involved now . . . whether I like it or not!'
Fifty-one
‘What d'you call a thousand lawyers chained together at the bottom of the sea?' asked Skinner.
À good start,' said Pujol.
`So it's the same in Spain, then.'
Èven more so, my friend. Even more so. And shortly this one here, who clearly speaks no English, judging from his bewildered expression, will wish that he was at the bottom of the sea. This one thinks that he can play dumb with me and get away with it.'
Josep Albert, the lawyer of record listed on the company registration of Torroella Locals, was as unprepossessing as his seedy backstreet office on the third floor of a tumbledown Girona building. Lank, wavy black hair was plastered to the sides of his head by too much oil, and his pinched yellow face looked overdue for a meeting with soap and water. Thick-lensed spectacles made his eyes seem huge, and served only to accentuate their shiftiness. But perched on a swivel chair, behind a huge desk which seemed to be designed at least in part as a barricade, he presented a wall of resistance to Pujol's gentle questioning.
Since Albert had insisted on speaking in Catalan, the content of th
eir exchanges had been a mystery to Skinner from the start. He could follow the general drift of most conversations in Spanish, but was completely lost when the guttural regional tongue was used. However, from Pujol's translated summaries, he knew that Albert was being deliberately obstructive, denying knowledge of the operations of Torroella Locals, and claiming no involvement in its management.
`This man,' said Pujol to Skinner, 'he would not admit to knowing his own mother if a policeman asked him. "Senor Inch? He was a minor client. Of course he has no idea where the money invested in the company came from." And "Santi Alberni? He has never heard of him."' Pujol glowered at the little man perched on his swivel chair, but, Albert sat there, smug and defiant. 'Paul Ainscow? "Oh no, Commandante, I do not know him. Scottish you say? I know no Scottish people."'
`So introduce him to this one,' Skinner murmured.
Òkay,' said Pujol. 'You don't speak his language, but you can't get any less out of him than me!' He turned back to face Albert, and spoke rapidly to him in Spanish. Skinner picked up enough to know that he was being introduced as a very important policeman from Great Britain, who was in Spain specially to investigate property fraud. The introduction completed, Pujol leaned back.
Skinner pulled his chair close to Albert's massive desk and leaned forward, his forearms resting on the scratched wooden surface. He smiled. Nervously, the little lawyer smiled back.
And then Skinner's smile faded and, with it, all of his customary warmth and amiability. It was as if another Skinner held Albert in his gaze: a cold, dangerous gaze full of threat and menace. He sat in silence for a full minute staring across the desk at the untidy little man, as if he was probing him, trying to read his mind.
As Pujol looked on from the side, he saw first bewilderment, then panic, then fear gather in Albert's hugely magnified eyes. He began to shift uncomfortably in his seat, fidgeting, working the swivel from side to side, glancing down occasionally into his lap, but always drawn back by the magnet of Skinner's hypnotic stare. Once, then again, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it each time, helpless.
Skinner's Trail - Quintin Jardine Page 18
