Skinner's Trail - Quintin Jardine

by Quintin Jardine

  Pujol's expressive face became mournful. 'No, my friend. I am afraid not. I am a policeman like you, and like you I have an idea when a man is telling me lies. I have an idea about people, too. Paco may be stupid, and ready to do things like he did today, at your house. He is someone you would send out to frighten a woman, but not a man. He is certainly not someone that you could send out to kill.'

  Skinner sat down in the bolted chair and looked up at Pujol. 'You're a good copper, Arturo.

  You have good instincts. You're right about him. I found that out when I was . . . having my talk with him. Sarah scared him with that knife far more than he scared her. A lioness with her cub, right enough.' He laughed softly.

  `Yes, Bob, and whatever you, mm, said, to him, he is now far more afraid of you than of Vaudan.'

  That could come in handy.'

  Skinner folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in the chair. 'So what have we got?

  We know that Vaudan had that money planted in Santi's safe. We know that he was planning to kill him. Except Santi seems to have beaten him to it. It looks as if, whatever my friend Carlos says about the Catalan character and your kindness to animals, the guy killed himself after all. Yet the money in the safe indicates that Vaudan was trying to frame him. That was done to fit in with Vaudan's story.'

  Perhaps,' Pujol said tentatively, Vaudan had frightened or blackmailed Santi into taking the money from InterCosta.'

  Skinner shook his head. 'No, that would require Santi to have a partner who was so fucking stupid that he wouldn't notice a missing million — or one who was scared along with him.

  You've met Ainscow. Is he that fucking stupid? Is he the type who would scare easily? Sorry, Arturo, that's another bit I find hard to swallow. Ainscow's in this, I can feel it. He and Vaudan have been smart in covering up any link between them, but there has to be one. That makes it still my business, even after Pitkeathly's been paid off. That's why I'm using my force resources on this business. What we've got here is a very clever money-laundering operation. Cash ripped off, salted away in property to make it legit, then turned back into cash again. We know about the loan on the Torroella Locals shops. You can bet that if we looked, we'd find that the same had been done with the Montgo properties. So there's a million in funny money, carefully built up over a period of years. Where is it, and what's it doing? Those are the questions I want to answer. Santi topping himself, that's just confusing, and bad luck for Gloria, but in this business it's no more than a sideshow.'

  Pujol leaned on the steel door of the dingy, sweat-smelling room. With head pressed back against the metal, he closed his eyes, considering what Skinner had said. Eventually he looked down at his companion, still in the interrogation chair. 'Yes, you are absolutely right, my friend. All of that, simply put. But it is a million miles above the head of Paco Garcia.

  What do you want me to do with him? I could throw him in jail for quite a long time.

  Skinner shook his head. 'Your jails are full enough already, man. Why don't you just let him go? We won't press charges. Before you kick him out, though, tell him that when Vaudan gets in touch, he should say that I've got the message, and that I'm flying Sarah and the baby home tomorrow morning, then driving back myself. Tell him, too, that if I ever find out that he told Vaudan anything different, then the next time we have a talk there won't be anyone else around, and he won't walk away after it.' He pushed himself powerfully out of the chair.

  Now I'm going home to spend some time with my family, and to send another fax. We need to know all about Mr Serge Lucan, and we need to watch him very carefully from this day on.

  Fifty-four

  ‘You are sure the baby'll be okay on the plane?'

  `Hey, I'm not just his mother. I'm a doctor, remember. Everything in his life is a new experience. This will be another. They've given us a front-row seat, so we'll have plenty of space, and we'll be well in front of the engines, so it'll be quiet, or as quiet as you can get on a Spanish airplane!'

  They were standing at the end of the long straight concourse of Barcelona Airport. Behind them it stretched back almost a kilometre, looking more like a high-quality shopping arcade than a major international terminal. Arturo Pujol's Guardia uniform had whisked them round a long queue at passport control. As Bob and Sarah said their farewells, he sat across in the cafeteria, among passengers and air crew, sipping his first coffee of the day.

  Òkay,' said Bob, Ì'm convinced. Anyway it's a short flight. Alex will be well on her way down to Manchester to meet you by now. Alex and Andy, that is. It was nice of him to offer to keep her company.'

  Sarah smiled, `Mmm, wasn't it. He must be keen to see his new godson again.'

  `Yeah, that'll be it. Single guys in their mid-thirties do tend to get broody. Time he got himself sorted out in that area.'

  `He will. Don't you worry. He'll probably take you completely by surprise one day.'

  ‘Not him. I know him too well. Listen, when you get home, do one thing for me. Call Jimmy and tell him what's been going on here. Tell him that, since all this started from a complaint made in Scotland, and since there's a possibility that Ainscow's involved, I'm staying on here at the request of the Guardia to help their investigation.

  Sarah nodded. 'I'll call him soon as we're settled in. If he's free I'll invite him down for coffee, late afternoon. How long do you think you'll have to stay out here?'

  À few days, probably. Until we establish a link with Ainscow, or until the thing just stalls completely. When the time is right, I'll just jump in the car and drive up.' He glanced across at Gate 44. The queue for embarkation was down to its last few passengers. 'You'd better get on board now. I love you . . . both' He kissed her, long and tenderly. Now, safe home. And while you're in the air, Arturo and I'll be in jail!'

  Fifty-five

  Just as there is something unmistakable about the look of a prison from outside its walls, so also it is distinguished on the inside by its unmistakable smell.

  ‘Bad cooking and piss; it's the same the world over,' Skinner muttered to Pujol, screwing up his face, as the latest in a series of barriers was slammed shut behind them, and the key turned in the lock. A uniformed jailer led them along one more dark corridor, before showing them into a small room furnished with a table and four chairs. With a few words to Pujol, he withdrew, leaving the door open behind him.

  `He says he's going to fetch Gruber.'

  `Gruber,' said Skinner. 'They must have made some progress. Yesterday you said that he wouldn't even tell you his name.'

  `Si, that's right. When he was arrested, all he did was curse in German. He seemed to be drunk, and he made no sense at all.

  `He seemed to be drunk, but are you sure he was?'

  `No, not now. Now, like you, I think it was an act. When he was arrested, all he had on him was money and a set of keys. Nothing else. Then yesterday one of our sea patrols spotted a Kawasaki motorcycle on the shore on the old army land between L'Escala and Montgo. It had camping equipment strapped to the saddle, and two panniers. They alerted us and we picked it up. Those keys fitted it. In the pannier we found a passport identifying him as Hansi Gruber. There was also more money, in French francs.'

  `French? No D-Marks?'

  `No, there were none.'

  Òkay, Gruber is a biker. He comes in from France, parks his machine on a deserted piece of coast, gets drunk, makes his way to the marina, hot-wires the biggest, fastest boat he can see, takes it out into the bay, and just happens to run over Inch. Is that the picture? No, I think not.'

  Skinner paused and looked at Pujol. 'This is how it was. Gruber is sent down here. He's shown a picture of Inch, told where he lives, where he works, and what his habits are. Then he's told to kill him. He works out the best way to do it, probably keeps Inch under observation all the way to the beach, then drives over the hill and plants his bike. His idea would be to take the boat round there after he's done the business, dump it and get away on the bike, maybe cross the border s
omewhere quiet and be in France within an hour. How come you caught him?'

  `He was unlucky,' said Pujol. 'When he ran down Inch, the sail of the surfboard, and sadly, the right foot of Senor Inch were drawn into the engine of the boat. It seized up and stopped.

  Several other windsurfers, members of the same club as Senor Inch, saw what had happened, then sailed over and held on to Gruber. They pulled Senor Inch from the water and on to the boat, but he was dead.'

  'I take it you've run checks on this guy in Germany and France.'

  `Si,' said Pujol. 'There is nothing in France, but in Germany he has a record of violence. He is from Bremerhaven. He was a sailor, but five years ago he was sent to prison for attacking a man with a knife. He cut him up very badly. He was released over a year ago, and that was the last that the German authorities heard of him.'

  `Does he know that we know who he is?'

  `No. I instructed that that information should be kept from him.

  `Good. When he comes in, speak to him in French. See what reaction you get. Then I suggest you tell him my story of how he killed Inch, ask him to admit it, and to confirm that Vaudan sent him.'

  Pujol nodded. Less than a minute later, the jailer returned with another officer. Each grasped an arm of the stocky blond, handcuffed man whom they escorted. At a signal from Pujol they unlocked his manacles, and pressed the prisoner down into one of the four chairs, to face his two visitors across the table.

  `Good morning, Gruber,' said Pujol in French. The man's eyes widened in surprise, but he said nothing. Pujol reached into the left breast pocket of his uniform shirt and produced a German passport. He threw it on the desk.

  Gruber looked at it and shrugged.

  `Listen to me, my friend, and look at me while I am speaking to you,' said Pujol. He began to spell out in detail Skinner's scenario for the murder of Inch. A few seconds into the story, Gruber affected a yawn, and looked away from Pujol, staring up at the ventilator fan in the ceiling. Pujol's backhanded slap seemed to echo round the four corners of the room. 'I said look at me when I am speaking.' A vivid red mark showed on the German's cheek as Pujol completed his account.

  `Now my friend, you have a simple opportunity. You will admit to me that you were sent to do this thing by Nick Vaudan, and I will see to it that your case comes to court quickly, and that you are charged with something less than murder. What do you say?'

  Gruber leaned forward, his forearms on the table. No emotion showed in his eyes. He nodded his head, very slightly, then spat, full into Pujol's face. The Commandante jumped from his chair, his moustache twisted by the snarl on his face. The two officers grabbed their prisoner and hauled him upright. Wiping the spit away with his left hand, Pujol bunched his right into a fist and set himself to swing a punch across the table.

  But Skinner caught his arm and held it. 'No Arturo. You'd only hurt your hand.' He spoke in English, looking away from Gruber. 'You won't beat anything out of this guy. He's got a deal, and he'll protect it. Next thing you know, he'll have a good lawyer too, and he'll bargain the charge down to something not much worse than drunk driving. If we want him to finger Vaudan, we have to find out what his deal is, and try to put a spoke in it. Okay?'

  With an effort, Pujol controlled his anger. `Yes, I agree.'

  He turned to Gruber and spoke again in French. 'You, my friend, have just made a bad choice. Whatever you may have been told, there will be no reduced charge. Your case will take for ever to come to court, and once it does, you will be sent to jail for ever and a few more days. And some of our jails are very bad places, my friend. Not like this one. You may think you are tough, but in there you will be some monster's sweetheart within a week. Look forward to it because I will make it happen.'

  He glanced at the escorts. Now take this insolent piece shit away, before I forget my friend's advice'

  Fifty-six

  The emptiness of the villa washed over Skinner as soon as he opened the door, bringing with it a pang of sudden loneliness so strong that it carried him back to his youth, and to the days after the death of Myra, his first wife, Alex's mother.

  He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes after five o'clock. To free their nostrils of the stench of the prison, he and Pujol had taken time out in Barcelona. They had visited the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's epic, if impossible, cathedral with its melted-icing towers, and its cranes soaring above the most visited building site in the world. Then they had eaten a tapas lunch at one of the pavement tables of a Ramblas bar, where Pujol's green uniform had attracted the deepest respect of the waiters. Finally, with Skinner at the wheel of his white BMW, they had headed northward out of the hilly city, spectacular even in its occasional seediness, with its forests of medium- and high-rise buildings flanking traffic-thronged highways.

  But now, back in L'Escala, there was nothing to stave off the blues brought on by the departure of Sarah and Jazz. Bob walked into the living room, and looked at the new fax. Its LCD read-out told him that the answer machine held two messages.

  He pushed the replay button. The mechanism whirred for a second or two as the tape rewound. Then there was a whistle, before, suddenly, the room was filled with Sarah's voice.

  'Hi, darling. Just a call to say that we're home okay. The plane was fine, and Jazz was great.

  Alex and Andy were there waiting. I think there's something—'

  `Here stepmother, let me say hello.'

  Bob smiled as his daughter's effervescent tones cut across Sarah's light New York drawl. 'Hi, Pops. That brother of mine's a wee heartbreaker. You know, maybe I'm biased, but you do real good-looking kids. I've got some good news and some better news. The good news is I got my finals results this morning. The better news is I got a first. So get used to it. Your kid's a lawyer. Now, Pops, don't hang about too long out there.

  Get that thing sorted and come home. Sarah's missing you already – and it's only been six hours.'

  There was a click and a buzz as the message ended. Then a few seconds later, a whistling sound prefaced the second message. When a voice came on the line, it was that of Brian Mackie. 'Boss, hello. Could you call me back as soon as you get in? I've had feedback from France that you should know about. It's three forty-five BST at the moment.' The message clicked to a halt.

  Curious, Skinner pushed the hands-free button on the telefax console and keyed in 07. Within three seconds, the second tone sounded, and he dialled in a direct-line number.

  `Mackie.'

  `Brian, Skinner. What's the story?'

  `The man Lucan, sir. The associate of your fellow Vaudan that you asked us to tag as from yesterday. He's been on the move today. The French watchers had only just picked him up, when he headed for Nice Airport and caught an early flight to Hamburg.'

  ‘Yes?’

  The French faxed a photo to Germany while the plane was in the air, and the locals in Hamburg got on his tail. He took a taxi to a hotel, had coffee and strudel with the receptionist, then took another taxi, back to the airport and caught the first plane back to Nice.

  What d’you think of that?

  ‘I can think of one or two things, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. What do we know about the girl?’

  `Leggy redhead with big knockers, so the German watchers said. Name of Hilda Braun. They stayed clear of her, though.'

  `Good. When I go to see her I want it to come as a surprise.'

  'You're going to Germany?'

  `Yeah. There's fuck all to do here now. All the leads are dead, dried up, or staying silent. But Lucan's visit to this girl —I don't want to get too excited, but that could be a break for us, and I want to interview her. Fix it with the German police. And get yourself booked out, too. If there's any chance that this might wind up as evidence in a Scottish prosecution of Ainscow, then there must be two of us at the interview. Arturo Pujol's serving that purpose here, but I want you in Germany.'

  `You're still sure that Ainscow's involved, then?'

  `Bloody certain, and I'm not
letting up till I prove it. Brian, this is a big scam with one, probably two murders thrown in. Its been set up to accumulate, over a period, a pile of laundered cash. Once I find out what that's going to be used for, and once I can show that Ainscow and Vaudan are acting in concert, then I can pull the whole thing down.

  Where's this cash pile lying now, boss?'

  `That's a bloody good question, my son. Once we've done the business in Hamburg, we'll try to answer it. And to do that we'll need to go to Amsterdam.'

  Àmsterdam?'

  `That's right. The vice capital of Europe. Maybe I should take Andy Martin on that instead.

  That's more his line' There was a silence at the other end of the line.

  `No, you make the arrangements and the bookings. Get me on a plane from Barcelona to tie in with your arrival, and then book me back to Edinburgh with you from Amsterdam. Tell Ruth what you want, and ask her to make it happen.'

  Òkay, sir, will do.' Mackie paused. 'Wait a minute. What about your car?'

  Ì'll leave it here in my garage, and get a cheap tourist flight out to pick it up once things have settled down.'

  Òkay, I'll get things moving at once,' said the Chief Inspector. 'I'll send you a fax to let you know the arrangements. Can I leave that until tomorrow, though?'

  `Sure. But why? You got a date?'

  Àye, sir. With Maggie Rose. She's kicking her heels with you away, so I gave her a stint in Stirling keeping tabs on Ainscow. She called me in around half an hour ago to say that he's on the move. He's heading down the M9. towards Edinburgh. I told her to call in when he stopped, and I'd meet up with her.'

  `He's probably heading for Safeway. You can grab a trolley each and tail him through the aisles! Let me know if it's anything more significant. Otherwise I'll see you in Hamburg.

  `Cheers, boss. I'll be in touch.'

  Mackie replaced his receiver, then picked it up again immediately and called Skinner's secretary. He relayed the ACC's instructions and asked her to make travel arrangements. Next he called in the Special Branch typist and dictated a fax to the Interpol contact in Hamburg, advising him of their visit to interview Hilda Braun, and asking that they be met by an English-speaking officer who could interpret if necessary. `Check the ETA of the flights with Ruth. Once you have them, send it off.' The typist, a middle-aged woman of formidable demeanour, nodded. Even after only a short time in his new post, Mackie knew that there was no need to check her work.