`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 in 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.