`Too late for that now. You've shown me evidence of a possible crime in this country, so now I have a duty to investigate it. Even if it does turn into a Spanish matter, I have a sort of ethical duty to pass it on to them. Now that you've started the ball rolling, it has to go all the way down the hill'
`Ah, well,' said Pitkeathly. 'So the die is cast for Mr Ainscow and Santi. In that case, there's nothing for it now but to finish Mr V's fine wine!'
Twenty
Have you had a chance to read those papers I gave you on Wednesday, Brian?' Behind his desk in the inner office of the Special Branch suite at Fettes Avenue, Chief Inspector Brian Mackie nodded his balding head.
`What do you make of it?'
`Nothing really, boss. From what you told me, Pitkeathly thinks the sun shines out of Alberni's arse, but that alone doesn't put him in the clear. I've faxed the Spanish equivalent of the CRO and asked them to run a check on him for any previous. I've had a look through ours already for Mr Paul Ainscow. He's clean as a whistle. Chances are it was all a mistake.'
Skinner pushed himself up from the table on which he had been sitting. `I'm not so sure. There are some terrible cowboys in the property game out there. They take outrageous commissions. They make false declarations to the notary on price — with the collusion of the banks — so as to beat the taxman. They complete sales of properties when the developer doesn't even own all the land he's building on. All that stuff's happened in the wee town where my own place is, and in hundreds more like it. So, when the odd half-million pesetas goes missing in a property transaction, probability falls on the side of theft, not human error. I called my friend Pujol in L'Escala on Tuesday evening, and asked him about Alberni. He said that he's a nice enough guy, but he's not local, so no one really knows all that much about him. The local gossip has it, though, that he's pretty heavily borrowed. He's just moved into a big new house, yet his wife has two jobs, to help pay for it, they say.'
'A motive for theft, then.'
`Sure, but what thief needs a motive?'
Mackie leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. `Aye, right enough.' He paused for a moment, then looked across at Skinner, as he stood by the window.
`What's to be done about Ainscow, then, boss?'
`Fancy a trip to Stirling, Chief Inspector? 'Cos that's where we're going this afternoon.'
'You're going to see him personally, sir? It's a bit low-grade for you, surely. And for me, for that matter. It is only a two-and- shy;a-half-grand fraud, after all, and maybe not even that.'
`It's the international dimension, Brian. That's why I want you there. As for me? Ach well, Pitkeathly bought me a good lunch. He deserves my personal attention.' Skinner grinned. 'A taste of corruption, eh? No, I'm going along because I might have to take the papers across to L'Escala with me, and brief the Guardia. If it comes to that, it'll be as well if I've been involved in this interview with Ainscow.'
`Yes,' said Mackie. 'That makes sense, all right. What time's he expecting us?'
`He isn't. Not as coppers, anyway. Ruth called his secretary and arranged a meeting for three with a Mr Mackie, to discuss a property matter. He thinks you're a punter. I don't want him to know what the hell this is about until the minute we walk through the door. I want to drop the story on him absolutely cold, to see how he reacts. I'll drive us there. Look into my office around two. But, before that, let the boys in the Stirling CID know that we're going fishing in their patch. See you later!'
Twenty-one
‘Must have been some man, that Wallace, for them to have built that erection in his memory.'
The Wallace Monument glowered over Stirling, its phallic presence a permanent reminder of the great Scottish patriot. The morning's breeze had dropped, and the town seemed to shimmer in the early summer heat as the two detectives drew closer, following the line of the M9 motorway into Scotland's rural heart, leaving behind them the ugly, skeletal steel sprawl of the Grangemouth Refinery, the flat drabness of Falkirk, and the dirty River Carron.
A succession of five roundabouts led them from the motorway into the centre of the historic old town, a scaled-down Edinburgh with its castle on the hill.
The Stirling Business Centre was as easy to find as the local CID had promised. Following their directions Skinner drove past an imposing bank, and took the first turn on the left. He negotiated a security barrier and parked his white BMW in front of an attractive, wide, two-storey, brick office building. Over twenty tenant companies were listed on a big notice board in the Centre's foyer.
`How can I help you, gentlemen?' The receptionist's manner was as pleasant as her gleaming smile.
`Could you tell us where we'll find InterCosta?' asked Mackie.
`Certainly, sir. Through that door to your right, and along the corridor. It's the — let me see, one, two, three — yes, it's the fourth door on the left. The name's on it.'
`Thanks very much.' The normally diffident Brian Mackie smiled at the girl, struck by her resemblance to his wife. He led the way to the door to which she pointed with her right fore shy;finger, and pushed it open. As he and Skinner proceeded, they read the names on each of the first three doors on the left.
`Accountant, lawyer, design company,' said Skinner. 'All they need's a sandwich shop and you'd never have to leave here!'
`This is us, boss,' said Mackie. He read aloud the name on the door: `"InterCosta Limited. Spanish Property Consultancy. AIPC Registered." What's AIPC?'
`Christ knows. Probably meant to be some sort of governing body. If it is, it's doing a rotten job. Come on. Let's beard friend Ainscow.'
Mackie rapped on the door, and opened it without waiting for an acknowledgement. A plump, middle-aged woman with dyed auburn hair and ornately framed spectacles sat behind a desktop computer. She looked up at the two newcomers.
'Yes?' she said, slightly querulously, looking from one to the other.
Brian Mackie stepped towards the desk. 'Afternoon. I've an appointment with Mr Ainscow around now. The name's Mackie.'
`And you're dead on time.' The woman's reply was anticipated by the booming voice which said it. In the same second its owner stepped into the main office from behind two screens which partitioned off its left-hand corner. He was a tall, well-built man wearing a salesman's professional smile and with his hand outstretched in greeting. Gold links shone in the long shirt cuffs. He advanced towards Mackie, moving with an easy grace. Then all of a sudden he caught sight of Skinner sanding by the door, as it was swung shut by its auto-closer.
The smile faded, and was replaced by a puzzled look.
`Hello, Mr Ainscow. Good to see you in Scotland for a change. I'm sorry to spring this on you, but something's been brought to our attention and we'd like a wee chat with you bout it. Nothing serious, now. I'm sure you'll clear it up in a second. That's the reason for the discreet approach.'
Skinner kept his face absolutely impassive as he spoke, belying deliberately with his expression the reassurance in his words. He kept his eyes fixed on Ainscow, reading him — looking for any sign to counter the first impression that his arrival had taken the man completely by surprise. But he found none. Ainscow's smile returned, but this time it was one at Skinner had seen on a thousand faces in similar circumstances: puzzled and uncertain, wondering what would come next.
`Well, Mr Skinner. You'd better come through here and tell me about it. Nessie, could you rustle up some coffee, please, unless you'd prefer tea, gentlemen?'
Skinner shook his head. As Ainscow disappeared behind the partition, he glanced around the room. Its walls were covered with posters of Spain, many of them showing familiar views of L'Escala and its bay.
Behind the screen, Ainscow took his place behind a table which served as a desk, offering chairs to his visitors. Skinner sat down and placed his briefcase on his knees. He opened it and took out Greg Pitkeathly's file.
`Before we begin,' said Ainscow, 'would you prefer it if Nessie stepped outside?'
Skinner shook hi
s head. Not at all. In fact it may be useful for you to have her here.' As he spoke, the woman reappeared, carrying a tray laden with three mugs of coffee and a plate of chocolate sandwich biscuits, which Skinner recognised as his favourites from Spain. He smiled his thanks to the secretary.
`Mr Ainscow, we know each other, but I should introduce DCI Brian Mackie, the head of my international liaison unit.'
Ainscow, serious now, nodded towards Mackie.
`I'm sorry about the surprise, as I said, but we thought it best not to alarm you unnecessarily. Mr Ainscow, I think you know Greg Pitkeathly.'
`Greg and Jean, yes'
`John and Claire Comfort?'
`Yes.' Ainscow's tone took on a note of anticipation, almost intrigue. He leaned forward in his chair, anxious, Skinner assumed, to hear what was coming next.
`Have you had any recent contact with Santi Alberni, your partner?'
Ainscow shook his head. 'No. I've been away for a while. I had a couple of weeks in the States, then spent another fortnight just farting about in Scotland. This is my first day back in this office. So why do you ask about Santi? What's he been up to?'
`Why do you ask that?'
`No reason. A joke really.'
`Mr Ainscow, where do you bank your UK clients' funds?' `Here initially, then we transfer the money to a convertible peseta account in Spain.'
`How. Banker's transfer?'
`No. That costs an arm and a leg. We just write sterling cheques on the Scottish account, and pay them into Banca Catalana.'
`Who are the signatories on the Scottish account?'
`Just me. Santi and I have a very simple system. I leave him a supply of blank, signed cheques. When we need to transfer dough across, I just give him a call and he completes a cheque and pays it in. It's a bit unorthodox, but it's practical. It keeps costs down and it's perfectly legal. . isn't it?'
`Let's give you the benefit of the doubt on that last point. . for now. Don't you think it's a kind of slapdash way to treat clients' money? D'you never worry about security?'
`Mr Skinner, I trust Santi Alberni like a brother.'
Skinner snorted. 'A bloke called Abel said something similar. Mr Ainscow, take a look at this.' He took a document from the folder and passed it across the table. 'Can you confirm that it's a copy of your receipt to Mr and Mrs Comfort for their deposit on the Pitkeathly apartment?' Ainscow accepted the paper, looked at it for a few seconds, and nodded. `Yes, it is.
`And all that money was transferred to Spain?'
`Yes. So?'
`Okay, look at this one. It's Santi Alberni's receipt to the Pitkeathlys. And remember, this was a no-commission deal. He took a second page from the file, and handed it across the table.
Ainscow studied it, his brow furrowing as he did. He looked up. 'Jesus.'
`That's what Pitkeathly said, too. Alberni said that one million pesetas was all he got. What's your version? Was all the Comfort money sent to Spain?'
‘For sure! Look, I have to give detailed monthly management accounts to my bank. The guy along the corridor does them for me, and he's shit hot. If there was an anomaly of that size, he'd have picked it up.'
A nervous twitch fluttered in the corner of Ainscow's right eye. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then sighed. `Oh, look. I have to tell you this. I said I trusted Santi like a brother. That's always been true, but just recently — since he bought that new house, in fact — I've been getting a bit worried about him. He's borrowed up to here.' Ainscow drew a finger across his throat. 'I just hope he hasn't been a silly bugger.'
`You maintain that you're certain that the Comfort money all went to Spain? There's no possibility of error?'
`I wish there were. Then I could just say "Sorry, it's all a mistake!", pay Pitkeathly, and clean the mess up. But my accountant hasn't given me that option. It's all gone, and I can prove it.' He paused. 'There'd be two cheques. Five grand is the maximum we put on a single cheque, so it'd be one for that value, in pesetas, and another for the balance. Just over seven grand in total at current rates. Hold on a sec.'
Ainscow jumped up and stepped across to a filing cabinet against the back wall. He pulled open a drawer, and took out a sheaf of bank statements.
`Look, there you are. That's the Comfort money.' He brought the statements across and held them out.
Brian Mackie, who was closer than Skinner, followed Ainscow's pointing finger, examined the paper for a few seconds, then nodded his head. 'The amounts seem to tally, sir. Looks like it is.'
`Bugger,' said Skinner. 'Seems like I'll be taking some police work on holiday with me after all!'
Twenty-two
‘You know, Bob. Every time I close the door behind me as we leave for Spain, I say a little prayer that everything'll be okay at the other end. But never more so than this time.'
Sarah slammed the heavy front door of the Fairyhouse Avenue bungalow, and turned the key in the double-locking Chubb. Her husband smiled as she joined him on the pathway, where he stood holding his son. 'Your prayer's been answered before you've even left. I called when you were in the shower, to check that everything was in hand. It is, so relax and enjoy the trip. Mary's fixed us up with a hired cot, as we asked. She says it's brand new, and you can be sure it will be.'
They strapped Jazz into his secure carrier in the rear of the big white BMW, with Sarah seated alongside him, and set off at ten a.m. on a dull grey morning, for the sun of Spain. Bob was as good as his word in the sedate pace which he set on the journey. They stopped every two hours to check on the baby, but Jazz was content to sleep the day away, made drowsy by the smooth movement of the car. They took the Al south, bypassing the centre of Newcastle and skirting the ever-thronged MetroCentre, then heading on towards the curiously named Scotch Corner. After a stop for dinner, for parents and child, in a comfortable roadhouse on the outskirts of Newbury, they arrived at the modest Stena terminal in Southampton two hours ahead of their boarding time.
Their cabin was comfortable, the crossing was flat, and the pretty harbour of Cherbourg was bathed in morning sunlight as they disembarked in France. They waited for a while in an open-fronted waterside cafe, feasting on strong coffee and croissants and watching Jazz as his ears took in the sound of the gulls, and of vessels docking and making ready to sail. Eventually, they drove up the long hill out of port, and were soon into the open, undulating country of the peninsula. The sky was clear blue and, as the morning stretched towards noon and as they watched the rise, with the sun, of their car's external temperature read-out, they were grateful for its air-conditioning. Sarah, with the greyness of the drive through industrial England fresh in her mind, was impressed by her first sight of the grand modern cities of Rennes and Nantes, and charmed by the rural communities beyond, in particular by one where the main Euro-route heading south wound through a paved shopping court.
Later they agreed that the highlight of their first day in France had been that encounter in the petrol station. They were just north of Niort, crossing rich flat country, when, uncertain of the distance to the next oasis, Bob decided that he would fill up the BMW's tank there, despite the ramshackle look of the place, with its ancient pumps. He drew alongside the museum pieces, then saw that the wooden hut was empty. He sounded his horn and waited for a good two minutes. As he stood there, in T-shirt and shorts, he realised for the first time the strength of the warm wind which was blowing across the plain.
He was about to drive on, when a sturdy, nut-brown old man, wearing oily blue overalls and a flat Breton cap, appeared from the side of the farmhouse which bounded the yard. The old man looked at the car and, as he drew near, made a swift, truly Gallic gesture, with a hand half-cupped over his lower regions, to indicate beyond any doubt the reason for his absence. Suddenly he caught sight of Sarah in the back of the car. He swept off his beret and bowed in profuse apologies. Bob grinned and pointed to one of the pumps on which a green sans plomb sticker had been affixed. Idly he wondered what else might be floating around i
n the tank beneath his feet, but took comfort from the Routier sign on the hut.
As the pump chugged laboriously, the old man nodded at the car. Angleterre?'
Bob shook his head vigorously. 'Non! Ecossais. Edimbourg:
The old man's eyes lit up and he smiled, `Ah! Edimbourg,' he said, with evident if mysterious pleasure at the sound of the name.
Still the pump droned on. The attendant shrugged his shoulders and cast his eyes all around him. 'Eh, monsieur, le vent. C'est tres fort, non?'
Bob searched his French. ‘Oui, mais c'est tres chaud.'
The ancient looked at him in amazement. `Chaud, monsieur? Tres chaud? Eh, monsieur, c'est comme l'hiver!'
As they reached Bordeaux, Sarah was still laughing spontaneously at the memory of the old man, his gesture and his notion of winter chills. They spent the night in a small two-star hotel on the edge of the city, which Bob had found some years before on a trip with Alex, and had used frequently since. They ate early, before Sarah, seeing clearly that Nineties woman had not reached this part of France, retired to bathe and feed Jazz, and to bed him down for the night.
Next morning they took a leisurely breakfast, allowing Bordeaux's commuter traffic to clear before setting out on the last stage of their trip. Sarah dozed all the way to and through Toulouse, and so, when she awakened, the change in the texture of the countryside was suddenly and immediately apparent. 'Why, look, the hills seem almost, well, reddish.'
Eventually the road swept round a long curve, and there it was, like a huge tooth from a giant's mouth: Le Canigou, the great mountain, snow-capped almost all the year round — the high point of the Pyrenean skyline which dominated the view from their terrace in L'Escala.
`Yes!' Sarah squealed with delight, but quietly, lest she wake her sleeping child. 'My mountain. Now I know we're there!'
Twenty-three
‘So come on, Kath. Tell me what you know about Santi Alberni?' As he asked his sudden question, Bob gazed across the marina to the Pyrenees, fringed by the deepening red of the setting sun,
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