`How long would it take?' Pujol asked, wincing. He was pale; clearly, Sarah realised, unused or — odd for a policeman — unreconciled to violent death.
`Not long. He looks to have made a good job of it. That's a heavy knot, and the rope's been oiled to make the noose as tight as possible. I'd say he gave it some thought. Although he looks grotesque, all that facial stuffs reflex. He'd have lost consciousness in only a few seconds, not through strangulation but through pressure on the arteries, and he'd have been brain dead within five minutes. You can tell his wife, if she asks, that it didn't involve much pain. . apart from the mental pain that drove him to do it.'
Pujol took Sarah's hands in his. 'My dear, you have been most kind. The Guardia Civil will, of course, pay you a proper professional fee for your services.'
She smiled and shook her head. Old Pals Act, Arturo,' she said. For a second the dapper commandant looked puzzled, until he worked out the meaning of the saying. 'In that case, perhaps I offer you something in return. Would it interest you, professionally, to attend the postmortem? To see how we do things here? We have a good pathologist in Figueras, and I know he would be delighted to meet you. It will be on Monday morning at ten o'clock.'
Sarah's eyes widened with pleasure. `I'd be delighted, Arturo.' Suddenly a thought struck her. 'But what about. .?' She jerked a thumb surreptitiously toward the Policia chief, who had gone across to direct the untying of the knot and the lowering of Alberni's stiffening body from the pulley.
Pujol shook his head. 'No problem. As soon as that body crosses the L'Escala municipal limit, it's all mine. That clown has nothing to do with it from then on.'
`In that case, I'll see you on Monday.'
`Excellent. I will collect you at nine-thirty. Let us hope that Bob does not mind.'
Sarah laughed. 'Don't worry. Minding the baby's still a novelty for him! Long may it stay that way!'
Twenty-nine
Skinner could barely believe what he saw when he returned to the Alberni villa.
There was movement in the garden as he came to the crest of the road. He drew the BMW to a halt a few yards away from the gate. Before him, as he stepped out into the street, stood a white ambulance, its back doors open wide. Closer to him was a police car from which a trim, well-dressed dark haired woman was emerging. And as she did, the local police chief led his men away from the garage, carrying the body of Santi Alberni, covered over, on a stretcher.
Skinner looked on, incredulous at the crassness of the man, as the Policia commandant signalled to the bearers to halt, and as he beckoned the woman towards him. Theatrically he drew back the sheet. 'Su marido, si?'
The woman stared at the contorted face on the stretcher and shrieked. Her knees began to buckle but, before she could fall to the ground in her faint, Skinner stepped up behind her and caught her, his arm round her waist. She clutched him and leaned against his chest, sobbing.
‘Dickhead’ Skinner roared at the policeman. 'If you were on my force, I'd have you making tea for the fucking traffic wardens.' He searched his limited Spanish. 'Tonto! Usted es tonto!'
Arturo Pujol stepped between them. 'Bob, please. Look after Senora Alberni. I will deal with this.' He snapped an order to the stretcher bearers. The body was covered once more, and borne into the ambulance. He turned to the Policia commander and began to speak rapidly to him in Catalan. This time there was nothing placatory in his tone. It was quiet but ferocious. This was another side of Arturo Pujol, and Skinner could see at once from the fearful reaction of the Policia, and the silent, grim satisfaction of the Guardia officers, why his amiable friend was afforded such respect. This was old-style Guardia, and it made Skinner suddenly grateful that he had not been around in Spain during those former days.
Leaving Pujol to continue his dressing-down, he guided Gloria Alberni along the path and into her home. Inside, she sat down in a big chair in the living room, and buried her face in her hands. Skinner left her to sob. He walked through to the kitchen, found coffee and a percolator, and made a fresh pot. When he returned to the living area, carrying the coffee in cups on a tray, Gloria Alberni's sobbing had subsided. She sat staring at the wall, expressionless, overwhelmed. Skinner fetched a small table, and put a cup of coffee close to her hand.
`Senora Alberni, do you speak English?'
She turned towards him slowly, taking in for the first time the kindly tanned face, the steel-grey hair, and the concern in his blue eyes.
`Yes,' she replied. 'I work in the National Westminster Bank in Figueras. Good English is required.' The vestiges of sobs tugged at her words.
`In that case, if we may, we will speak in English. I am a friend of Commandante Pujol of the Guardia Civil. My name is Bob Skinner. I am a policeman also. I am from Scotland, but I have a home in L'Escala.
She nodded. 'What happened to my husband?'
`Has no one told you anything?'
`Nothing. The men from the L'Escala police, they just came to the bank and said I was to come. They said nothing at all on the way here. I asked but they said nothing: And then when I got here. .' She broke down again, as the awful memory of the face on the stretcher swept over her. She controlled herself more quickly this time, gathering her inner strength to fight off hysteria.
`What happened, Senor…'
`Skinner,' he reminded her. 'Senora Alberni, it appears that your husband has killed himself' He paused as his words sank in, final confirmation for her that this was not a dream, that the face on the stretcher had been real, that the body on the stretcher had been that of Santi, her husband.
When he was satisfied that she was ready to hear more, he went on. 'I came here to see him on a business matter. I called at the office but it was closed, and so I came here. There was no answer to the bell. I looked around, and found him in the garage. He was hanging. He was dead. I am very sorry.'
Gloria Alberni shuddered in her chair. She picked up her coffee and took a sip. She shook her head. 'I do not understand, Senor Skinner. You say he killed himself. He hanged himself How can that be? Why would he?'
`Senora, the Guardia will ask all these questions of you, once you are ready.'
`I am ready now.' From long experience, Skinner recognised that this, the first moment after the shock of bereavement, might be the best time to interview the woman.
Once the truth sank in, she would collapse again, and after that it could be days before she was able to talk sensibly about the morning of her husband's death. There was even a chance that her mind would reject the memory of it.
`If you're sure, I'll fetch Senor Pujol.'
`No!' she said vehemently. 'I do not like the Guardia men.'
`Senor Pujol is okay.'
`No. I would rather speak to you. You are a policeman, you said.'
Skinner thought for a second or two. Finally he nodded. `Yes, okay. Arturo won't mind. I reckon he's got enough on his plate.' He sat down on a chair opposite the woman.
`So tell me, Senora. At what time did you leave for work this morning?'
She looked across at him. The tears had cut ridges through her make-up, but still she looked handsome; a classic Spanish face, Skinner thought.
`It would be around fifteen minutes to nine, maybe twenty to. I was late. We had friends visit us last night for dinner. We ate late, and the men had a lot to drink.'
‘Your husband too?'
`No, not so much as the rest. Santi does not drink a lot. Wine, a little whisky, but not a lot.'