Summary:
Plenderleith has been in Alicante, but the likelihood is that he has now left the area, and very probably that he has left Spain. The Banco Central account has been emptied, and the traveller's cheques cashed. Cocozza's story of a potential investment seems to hold up, but there have been no sightings of Plenderleith at that location.
Main points:
1) Guardia co-operation has been excellent. On the day of my arrival, I was asked to brief local media on my visit at a press conference arranged by the GC commander. Press and television have carried details of the story, with photographs of Plenderleith. Significantly there have been no reported sightings.
2) I visited the Banco Central on Friday with the GC commander, who overcame quickly the manager's reluctance to discuss account details. His senior assistant, on sight of Plenderleith's photograph, confirmed that he visited the bank on Monday morning and withdrew all the funds on deposit. He also cashed all of his traveller's cheques.
The assistant, who speaks good English, asked him why he needed such a large amount of cash. Plenderleith said that he was putting down a deposit on an apartment. The Guardia are not best pleased with the bank, which is expected to keep it informed of foreign nationals moving large amounts of cash.
3) Since Friday, the Guardia has contacted all banks in the Alicante area, and has confirmed that no other accounts exist, or have been opened, in Plenderleith's name.
4) On Saturday, I visited Rancho del Sol, the club/timeshare complex in which Cocozza claimed that Manson was thinking of making an investment.
Advance intelligence gathered by the GC confirmed that the place is for sale. Officially it belongs to a development company, but behind that the real owner is a Barcelona gangster who has just begun a twenty-year jail sentence for drug-dealing.
The manager had never heard of Plenderleith. Nor did he recognise the photograph.
5) There is a report that a man answering Plenderleith's description bought a plane ticket for Morocco on Monday afternoon, paying in cash. The flight, a holiday charter, left on Tuesday morning. The operator keeps no record of whether bookings are taken up, but the supposition must be that Plenderleith has left European Union territory.
Recommendations:
That the Guardia Civil be asked to retain Plenderleith on their wanted list, against the possibility, however unlikely, that he may be in Spain.
That the authorities in Morocco should be asked to confirm, if possible, Plenderleith's arrival in that country, and if so, to institute a search within their territory.
That other forces be alerted through Interpol.
The Guardia Civil are continuing a sweep of the many hostels and campsites in the Alicante area. In line with your orders, I will remain until Friday to assist them in that task.
Skinner put the folder down on his desk, and looked up at Roy Old. 'Doesn't seem much room for doubt in that, does there?'
`Not much, sir. If the big yin's pulled his cash and jumped across to North Africa, he could be anywhere now. Christ, he could have joined the bloody legion!'
Skinner laughed. 'Maybe we should send Maggie to check that out!
`Okay, Roy, thanks for that. I'll send Maggie a response. On your way past, would you ask Ruth McConnell to look in here.'
Old acknowledged the request — and his own dismissal — with a nod. Less than a minute later, Skinner heard his secretary's soft knock on the door. 'Come in.' he shouted.
`You wanted to see me?'
`Yes, Ruth, thanks. I'd like you to send DI Rose a fax in Alicante. Thank her for her report, confirm that she should remain there on duty until the end of the week. Tell her she can travel back whenever she likes over the weekend, but that I'd like to touch base with her on Monday here, before I head off myself. Will you ask her also to spend some more time at Rancho del Sol, and to find out as much as she can about the place, and its owner. If he's doing time for drug offences, it may be that he connects into Manson's operation. If he does, maybe we can identify some of the other points in the supply chain.
`Got all that?' Ruth nodded. 'Good. Knock something out along those lines and I'll sign it. Before you do that, ask Alan Royston to step up and see me. Tell him I want to issue a press release on the basis of Maggie's report.'
`Very good. By the way, did you see the note in your diary about Mr Pitkeathly?'
For a second, Skinner looked puzzled; then the conversation in the Barnton Hotel came back to him. 'I missed that. What have you fixed up?'
`Lunchtime. He suggested it, and I decided that would be best for you, too. He's booked a table at Ladolcevito for one o'clock. He said he thought that would be fairly discreet.' `That's nice of him. I hope I can help him.'
Nineteen
The diminutive Mr V welcomed Skinner like a long-lost brother to his smart bistro restaurant in Hanover Street, and showed him to a table in the small downstairs bar, where Greg Pitkeathly was waiting.
The thin man stood up, hand outstretched. 'Good of you to see me, Mr Skinner. I hope this lunchtime arrangement is all right for you.'
`Mmm. Sure. But I'd have been happy to fit you in at Fettes in the course of the day.'
Not at all. This is the least I can do. I thought I'd be lucky to get to see a constable, and here I am telling my story to Scotland's most famous detective.'
Their opening exchange was interrupted by Mr V, as he handed them leather-bound menus. 'I have given you the table in the far corner, Mr Pitkeathly. You won't be disturbed there. You want to go up now, yes?'
They rose and followed the little restaurateur, carrying their menus as they climbed the narrow staircase in single file. As he surveyed the long dining room lit by the May sunshine flood shy;ing through its south-facing windows, Skinner smiled inwardly at Pitkeathly's notion of discretion. He knew that, while Ladolcevito might not be the largest restaurant in Edinburgh, it was one of the most popular with the city's chattering classes.
As he followed his host across to the table in the far left-hand corner, he recognised and nodded to a Sunday newspaper editor, two business journalists and four chartered surveyors, all assiduous grinders of the rumour mill. He wondered what would be made of his lunchtime meeting.
They chose identical items from the a la carte menu, stracciatella followed by pan-fried steak, and Pitkeathly ordered a bottle of red Caruso, the meaty house wine. As the proprietor strolled off to the kitchen, the thin man picked up the tan leather briefcase which he had been carrying, rolled the combinations into place and flicked it open. He withdrew a yellow folder and placed it on the table.
`How long have you owned property in L'Escala, Mr Skinner?' he asked.
`Bob, please. It'll be around ten years now. I went there first on holiday with my daughter to a rented apartment up behind Montgo Bay. We both loved the place. I had some spare cash at the time, and so I bought a two-bed in a block which was being finished off in the same development. The peseta was dirt cheap then, and I was able to forward-buy currency, which made it an even better deal.
Pitkeathly's brow furrowed for a second. 'I thought Peter Payne said you had a villa.'
Skinner nodded. 'That's right. A couple of years after we bought, an old aunt died and left me her house. . I always think of old Auntie Jessie with great affection. I didn't need another house at the time, and certainly not a huge bloody thing in Aberfeldy with two and a half acres attached. So I sold the land to a builder, and the house to a couple who wanted to turn it into a nursing home, put half the proceeds into an investment trust with a Japanese portfolio, and the other half into a really nice three-bedroom villa up on Puig Pedro, overlooking the bay. It has a sort of pool, more of a swimming puddle really, in the garden. . and very heavy shutters for when the Tramuntana blows down over the Pyrenees.'