`Do you think it gets any better than that?' she asked. It was an entirely serious question.
'I think we should hope not, my love. If it did, I don't know if either of us could stand it. Think of it — that wee lad through there left an orphan because his parents humped each other to death!'
`Christ, imagine the post-mortems!'
Sarah spluttered with laughter and, as she did, Jazz's hungry, wailing cry rang out, bang on cue through the baby shy;minder intercom, to rescue them from their jeopardy and to signal an end to their siesta.
Twenty-five
TANCAT CERRADO. FERME. CLOSED.
Whether callers were Catalan, Castellano, French or English, the message was the same in all four signs hanging in the glass door. The office of InterCosta, on the ground floor of a high-rise block on the Passeig Maritim, a long promenade looking across the small, windswept Riells Bay to L'Escala's ever-growing marina complex, was very definitely not open for business. Skinner wondered idly whether it was company policy to leave German callers at a loss.
It was ten a.m. At such an hour on a Saturday morning, even the most indolent of Costa Brava property agents is normally to be found behind his desk. On the first day of June, the peak sales month, absence is unthinkable.
Skinner re-crossed the sun-washed road and climbed back into his car, which was parked in one of the angled bays opposite the high-rise, its nose facing the sea wall. He sat there for ten minutes reading the sports section of La Vanguardia, watching the weekend windsurfers and looking occasionally in his rear-view mirror, checking for signs of activity at InterCosta. He saw several people stop at the office. One man, carrying a leather document case under his arm, pushed at the door without looking at the signs, and recoiled in surprise from the unexpected resistance. He peered through the glass for several seconds, and banged on the door with his fist in exasperation, before striding smartly back to a red Mercedes and driving off.
That bloke had an appointment, thought Skinner. Something up here.
He started the BMW's engine, reversed into the road and drove off, heading round Riells Bay to the marina and La Clota. Kathleen was on duty on the restaurant terrace when he arrived. She looked over as his car drew up, surprised to see him. 'Hello, Bob, you're early. Did you leave something last night?'
Skinner laughed. 'Aye, the baby. We're not used to having him around yet!'
Kathleen feigned horror. `Och, that's terrible. How could you forget a lovely wee boy like that!'
`No, seriously, Kath, I'm here to pick your brains. . again.
I know Alberni's new pad is in Camp dels Pilans, but do you know where, exactly.'
She angled her blonde head in thought. 'Yes. Come in and I'll show you.' She led the way into the unlit restaurant. Skinner's eyes had difficulty adjusting to the change from the bright morning outside. He peered in vain at the map which Kathleen held in front of him, until she led him into the neon-lit stainless-steel kitchen, where half a dozen staff were busy preparing the day's first meals. 'Look here,' she said. 'Take this turn here, and on round this road, up the hill. It's on top. You can't miss it: it's painted a horrible pink colour.'
`Thanks, Kath. I'll just nip up there and see what's keeping the boy off his work.'
Twenty-six
The villa was, as Kathleen had said, a truly horrible pink. It stood on an isolated site on the crest of a curving road which defined the limits of Camp dels Pilans, the only suburb of L'Escala to the west of the main road to Girona and Figueras. Set in the awful stucco, the two small windows on either side of the front door resembled, Skinner thought, hooded eyes looking northwards with embarrassment.
He pulled the BMW to a halt at the garden gate, and stepped out, picking up Pitkeathly's folder from the front passenger seat. He opened the gate and walked up the narrow path to the front door, timing his approach to avoid the sweep of a badly adjusted lawn-sprinkler, which seemed to be watering mainly the path and beyond it — to the right of the house — the driveway up to a single garage integral with the villa. Much of the spray was falling on a big Peugeot saloon, then running down the sides, creating zigzag patterns through the coating of reddish dust which the car had picked up since its last official wash.
To the left of the front garden, beside a path leading to the rear of the villa, a large mongrel dog was chained. As Skinner approached the door, a low growl in the animal's throat turned into a ferocious, snarling bark. It made towards him, but was pulled up short by its chain a good six feet away. Skinner shot the beast a glance which made it think again. Suddenly its ferocity was spent, and it slunk back to its place in the shade, beside empty food and water bowls.
A round brass bell-push was set in the centre of the studded door. Skinner pressed it and stood back, waiting for Alberni, or his wife to answer its call. But no one came. He rang the bell again. Another minute elapsed without a response. He pounded the door with his fist, but with no greater success.
Exasperation grew in him. 'Come on, you bastard,' he muttered. 'I'm supposed to be on my fucking holidays, and here I am chasing you around L'Escala.'
He abandoned his assault on the front door and walked around the corner to his left, towards the rear of the house, past the dog, which gave another token growl, then fell silent again quickly.
The back garden was a shambles. Plastic poolside chairs were gathered around a small white table on which was scattered an assortment of empty beer and wine bottles and half a dozen empty glasses. A cigarette packet was floating in the middle of the pool.
`You've been on the piss last night, Santi my son.' Skinner spoke the thought aloud. He looked around. The sliding patio doors were wide open and pink curtains as hideous as the house itself flapped limply in the gentle breeze. He walked across to the doors and stuck his head inside. Despite its airing, the villa still smelled stale. He listened, but there was no sound other than, from another room, the soft buzz of a refrigerator motor.
`Senor Alberni! Senora!' He shouted loudly into the empty room, with unconcealed impatience. He waited and listened for sounds of human movement, but there were none. ` Senora, Senora!' he bellowed again, and waited once more, but the obstinate silence remained. He thought of searching the place, but decided that Pujol's brief did not extend that far. Angry and exasperated, Skinner retraced his steps through the untidy garden, to the front of the house.
This time the dog merely whined. The sound was so different to its earlier reaction to Skinner's presence that he stopped. The animal looked up at him and whined again. `Come on, boy,' said Skinner. `I'm not that fierce.' He knelt down and stroked the mongrel. It whined once more, and this time the sound turned into a keen of distress. He looked at it closely and realised that it was sniffing, its nostrils flared. He followed the direction of its gaze, towards the garage door. It was the type that opened up and over, and it was slightly ajar. Skinner patted the animal's head once more, then stood up.
He walked over to the garage, grasped the door by its single, central handle, and pulled it up.
The sudden inrush of air made the body spin slowly round on the end of the rope.
`Sweet suffering Christ,' Skinner hissed into the garage gloom.
The man was hanging from a pulley set in the garage ceiling towards the far mall, and close to a heavy work bench.
The stout yellow rope on which he twisted was fastened into a classic hangman's knot, and was tied securely at its other end to one of the legs of the workbench, which was bolted to the floor. His feet, in hand-stitched brown shoes, were well clear of the ground, and his arms hung limply, hands unclenched.