`There's no chance that Santi might have seen himself as a Robin Hood, and have been helping some of these people with InterCosta money?'
`No. I know most of these people. They wouldn't have taken it — any more than he would have taken money from them.'
`How about the other side: the property owners?'
`There were a few; most of them had only one or two apartments. The rental agents here are mostly interested only in holidays. It was known that Santi could place local people, and so some investors would ask him to manage their properties, through InterCosta, because of the good long-term renters he could find.'
`Does anyone stand out among these people?'
She thought for a second or two. 'Well, the biggest would be Nick Vaudan, but he is not an InterCosta client. He manages his own properties. He has a company, Montgo SA, to actually own them.
`Do you know anything about him?'
`I've met him a few times. Friendly guy, machismo sort of guy. He's half French, and I think the other half is Greek. He lives in the south of France, when he is not here. Property is not his main business, according to Santi. The rest is something to do with boats. Here he owns maybe twelve, maybe fifteen, apartments and small villas. Santi used to give him advice on properties he was thinking of buying.'
`Was that on a professional basis?'
'No, no. Santi was very honourable. He would never do anything for money outside InterCosta. Nick did him favours, though. The biggest was getting us this place.'
`How did he do that?'
Gloria paused to refill her glass, and Skinner poured himself another glass of Xibeca, before, screwing the cap tight on what was left in the bottle. Beyond the villa, the sun was beginning to sink towards the hilly horizon.
`The man who built this house was greedy. We made him an offer that we thought was fair, but we needed a mortgage. So he said, "No, you take loan, so someone else take bigger loan. I get my price." That's the Catalan way with property. Santi mentioned this to Nick, and Nick goes to the builder. He shows him cash. The developer can't resist. Nick buys the place next day, for cash, at less than the price we were offering, but still way above the declared value, so the builder can maybe, if he wants, cheat on his income taxes. The day after that, he sells it to us at the same price. We pay the notario fees and the IVA on both sides, so Nick isn't out of pocket. Then Montgo SA buys our previous villa, a little one, at the price we ask, as an investment property.'
`Sounds like a very decent guy.'
`He is. He was at the funeral. In fact he was here, afterwards. I think I saw Sarah speak to him.'
`Is he still in town?'
`As far as I know. He came down for the funeral, and I think he said he was staying for another two weeks.'
`Where does he live?'
`Punta Montgo, but I don't know which house. He has an office, though. A very small one. Somewhere off the Riells road, near the beach.'
`Okay,' said Skinner, finishing his beer. 'I'll try to persuade Pujol to talk to him. To see if he can think of anyone who might have had a major grudge against your husband. Cause, just between you and me, Gloria, I agree with you. I don't think Santi killed himself, either. But don't build your hopes up because, between what we think and what the Guardia Civil will accept as true, there lies a gap as wide as that blue bay over there! Now, you'd better get inside, and I must be off. It's drying time for you, but it's bathtime for Jazz!'
Forty-one
‘Grgrgrgre’
It was a small squeal. Bob and Sarah looked at each other across the bath, mouths slightly agape with surprise. Bob filled the soft sponge with water, held it over Jazz and squeezed once more, directing the water towards the centre of his long soft belly.
`Grgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrg!' As the stream splashed into his navel, the baby kicked his legs furiously, splashing water over the side of the plastic bath and on to the floor of his bedroom. And his mouth opened wide in unmistakable delight, showing an expanse of toothless gums.
`He's laughing! Look he's smiling. Sarah, should he be laughing out loud at this age?'
She grinned. 'Why the hell not? He obviously finds you pretty funny.'
Bob beamed at the sudden development of his son's vocal range, and he sent another stream of bath water cascading over his midriff.
`Grgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrg!'
Bath time for Jazz had become an essential part of the Skinner family's daily ritual. Sarah and Bob had agreed, in considering their parenthood, that, however busy each might be professionally, it would be their cardinal rule that father and mother would do all in their power to be at home every evening, if only for that special time.
As Bob lifted him out of the cooling water, the baby gave a small whimper of annoyance. But as Sarah took him, wrapping him in the folds of a soft yellow towel, the smile returned. She dried him gently, rocking him in her arms and speaking softly to him. The child nuzzled, contented, against her shoulder.
Bob watched her from a chair in the corner of the room, as she completed the process of drying, dusting, oiling and dressing for the night. 'Okay, chum,' she said eventually. 'Let's you and Mom take a walk on the terrace while Daddy makes up those rusks.'
Half an hour later they were seated in the living room. Bob held the baby, fed to the point of contentment, and rubbed his back very gently between the shoulder-blades, until he heard the soft rumble of breaking wind.
`That it?' asked Sarah.
`Yes,' Bob said, quietly. 'Let's give him a minute, then I'll put him to bed.'
Sarah left the room and returned with two flutes of pink cava. She put one on a small table within Bob's reach, holding her own glass as she settled on the couch alongside him.
`So how was your talk with Gloria?'
Worthwhile.' He paused. 'So who was this bloke who was chatting you up at the villa after the funeral, then?' He glanced down at her.
For a second she looked puzzled, until recollection came. Bob saw to his surprise that, for an instant, she flushed.
The amorous Monsieur Nicolas Vaudan, you mean? I didn't realise that Gloria had overheard us.'
'She didn't. I was joking. D'you mean the guy really was chatting you up?'
She nodded. 'Yes. Why not?' she said slightly defensively. 'Most men take it as a compliment when someone else finds their wife attractive.'
'Within reason. Was the guy out of order?'
`Not really, for a Frenchman. Sexually aggressive, Alex would say. Par for the course, really.'
`Not with my wife, it isn't. Anyway, he's only half French, so he's nowhere near par. What'd he say?'
She smiled, self-consciously this time. 'Nothing much. He just came up and introduced himself. I didn't say who I was, and he clearly didn't know. The usual small talk, then the usual "Madame, even in black vous etes tres belle." Then he told me I had beautiful eyes, and bet me they were bedroom eyes.'
A heavy frown gathered on Bob's forehead. 'So what did you say?'
‘You know me. I said "How perceptive. Come on!" No, I said, "If I do, Monsieur, then I flash them only at my husband." And then I told him how I came to be there, the story of how you found Santi. I told him that you were a policeman from Scotland — a very senior policeman, I said; a very large and strong policeman, I even added for good measure — but he was well under control by that time. The guy had the decency to act embarrassed, and to become apologetic. After that he couldn't have been nicer.'
Bob was mollified. 'You didn't tell him why I had gone to see Santi, did you?'