`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,
They were seated at a small rectangular table under a long yellow and brown striped awning, on the terrace of their favourite restaurant. Trattoria La Clota was quieter than it should have been at nine p.m. on a Saturday, but, even so, half the tables on the terrace were occupied. Conversations in French, Dutch, Spanish, and a language which Bob guessed might be Polish, went on all around them as they leaned back in their seats, the debris of their paella spread before them and an empty bottle of Torres Gran Vina Sol inverted in the ice-bucket.
A few seconds' silence made Bob turn to look again at their blonde companion. 'Who's asking?' she said. 'The property owner or the policeman?'
He smiled. 'Shrewd lady. It's Mr Plod that's asking. But don't worry, he never reveals his sources.'
Kathleen, their hostess, laughed. 'I've heard that one before from the boys here!' Even after twenty-five years in Spain, her tones were still almost as Scottish as his. She was about to answer him when her eye was caught by a movement at a table in the far corner of the terrace. 'Excuse me for a moment, please.' She bustled across the paved courtyard to answer the summons of the beckoning hand.
`Bob, you're terrible,' said Sarah. 'We're only just here and you're at work. Why don't you begin by telling her how good the paella was?'
`She knows that. Besides, if I did, Senor Carlos would probably put the prices up.'
Carlos Pallares and his Scottish wife were the Skinners' closest friends in L'Escala. For years their restaurant had been an unofficial advice centre. They had helped solve all types of problems for all types of people, and had been rewarded by a consistent custom the like of which most of the other restaurants in the town could only imagine. Bob and Sarah's arrival that evening had been anticipated. No sooner had they crossed the narrow roadway from the parking bays than the nutmeg-brown Carlos had come bounding down the four steps from the dining room and bar. `Hola, my friends. Is good to see you. And this is the new arrival, yes?'
As they had anticipated, Jazz became the star of the show. Throughout their meal a stream of restaurant staff had ventured out, one by one, to peer into the buggy and go through the universal language of baby sounds.
Kathleen returned to their table. 'Everything all right up the road?'
`Yes,' said Sarah. 'No problem. Mary was as good as her word. The place was spotless, the water was hot, and the cot was there. It's brand new. We think we might buy it, rather than hiring.'
`Plans for more Jazzes, yes?'
Sarah winced. 'Give us a break!'
Kathleen laughed and, as she sat down, Bob poured her a glass of wine from a second bottle.
`So what do you want to know about friend Santi?'
`I want to know what you think about him. What sort of a bloke is he? You know just about everyone around here, and there's no one better for sizing people up.'
‘Hmm. Thanks for the compliment. Is that why you phoned Carlos the other day?'
Skinner nodded. 'Yes. All he could say was that Santi isn't one of the local inner circle. But Carlos is a cagey character.'
`Hah, that's one way of putting it. He's right, though. No one here really knows too much about Alberni. He's been in the property business for a few years. Before that he worked in a bar down the coast somewhere. What sort of a man is he? Well on the surface he's everyone's friend. He's very showy, always well dressed. But nothing is Santi's. Flash car on the firm. Big new villa, with a swimming pool, mortgaged to the hilt. Having said all that, most people here like him. What's it all about, anyway?'
'Between you and me?'
`Course.'
D'you know a bloke called Pitkeathly?'
`Greg and Jean? Sure! Nice couple. From Edinburgh, too, aren't they?'
`That's right. Well, they've had a wee problem. I hope it's all a mistake. I'm sure it is.'
There was a sudden bustle as a party of eight Germans converged on the restaurant. Kathleen jumped to her feet. `Must go. Coffee, yes?'
Skinner nodded, smiling. 'Si, cortado, por favor. Y Para la senora, Americano con poco leche frio apart.’
Kathleen scribbled a note in her book, and moved off to seat the Germans at a long table in front of the door.
Bob leaned over to look at his son. Jazz's eyes, caught and fascinated by the movement around him, sparkled in the silvery light of the street lamps. Then they fixed on his, and a tiny smile touched the corners of his mouth. A lump seemed to form in Bob's throat.
Sarah broke the moment by digging him in the ribs with her sharp knuckles. 'Hey copper, this piece of detecting that you brought without telling me — it is all a mistake, isn't it?'
`I'm not so sure about that, love. But even if it ain't, it'll be Arturo Pujol's problem. I'll brief him tomorrow, and that'll be it as far as I'm concerned.
`Honest!'
He turned back towards Jazz, and so he did not see her eyes narrow as she gazed at him, or her wry smile as she mouthed the word, 'Sure.'
Twenty-four
‘Commandante, Buenos dias! Que tal?'
`Muy bien, mi amigo, muy bien!'
Skinner held the heavy wooden door of his villa open with his shoulder, and shook hands with his friend. 'Come away in, Arturo. It's good to see you again.'
`And you Bob. And you.
Skinner led Commandante Arturo Pujol through the tiled hallway, into the living room, and beyond to the wide terrace of his villa, of which the greater part was flooded by the early afternoon sun. He offered him a blue cushioned seat beside a drinks trolley, on which four bottles of Damm Estrella beer sat chilling in a silver ice bucket. He uncapped two of them and handed one to Pujol, who took it with thanks, declining the offered glass.
`It's good of you to come round, Arturo. I'd have come to the barracks, no problem.'
`No, no, no, my friend. It is always a pleasure to come to the home of a colleague as distinguished as you. Assistant Chief of Police, government security advisor. Your rank dazzles this humble rural para-military.'
Skinner's laugh choked on a mouthful of beer.
`And also, it gives me a chance to meet once again your lovely wife, and to see your new son, who is already the talk of L'Escala. When Bob Skinner hires a crib from Mary, all of his friends learn very quickly. Where are they, anyway?'
`Here we are, Arturo.' Sarah emerged through the double door from the living room, pushing Jazz in his heavily shaded buggy. Pujol kissed her on both cheeks, then looked down to admire the baby. He leaned into the buggy and slipped a two-thousand-peseta note under the pillow. 'For a little gift, Sarah, yes?'
`Why, thank you, Arturo.'
`You choose something. I have no wife to do these things for me.
`Okay. I'll buy him a toy from that nice shop in the old town — something tough that'll last for ever.'
She parked the buggy in an area of the terrace that was still in shade, and took a seat beside her husband and the Guardia Commandant.
Arturo Pujol was out of uniform, and no one at all would have taken him for a policeman. He was a stocky, bald man with a moustache, and the expression of someone who is anticipating a nasty surprise. But Skinner knew him in uniform and had noted, on his visits to the barracks, the respect in which Pujol was held by his men. He knew too that the Guardia's legendary toughness had not died with Franco, and that it was present in his self-effacing friend.