Skinner's trail

‘I said you were enquiring about a property for a friend: a small lie, but not too far from the truth. Why d'you ask that?'

`Because I'm going to ask Arturo to visit him, and go along with him myself, if he'll let me. What language did you use?' `English. His was better than my French.'

`Not Spanish?'

`No. He told me that he spoke five languages fluently, but that Spanish was his one blind spot.'

Skinner grunted. 'Know what he means.’

Jazz, still on his shoulder, made a soft sound.

Sarah looked at him. 'He's out. Here, gimme him. I'll put him to bed. While I'm doing that, you can make a start on those desperately ugly fish that you bought.'

The monkfish? You love monkfish.'

`Yes, but off the bone. You always buy them whole. Those faces, those mouths, those teeth, those eyes. Uggh!'

`Yeah!' Bob grinned. 'Hey!' he called to her retreating back. `Wonder if lady monkfish have bedroom eyes, too!'

Forty-two

‘Bob, my amigo. I know of your reputation as a policeman and as a detective. I have heard of some of the things you have done. But this idea of yours — if I were to reopen the investigation of the death of Alberni on that basis alone, it would stir up a nest of hornets.'

`Come on, Arturo. I've told you how it was done.'

The Commandante was seated in uniform behind a file-covered desk in his small dark office at the rear of the five-storey yellow-brick Guardia Civil building on the crest of Avinguda Girona. Slowly and deliberately, he shook his head.

`No, you have not. You have told me what you think. And Sarah, very clever also in her field, has produced an explanation to fit your theory. You and I have discussed the matter. You agreed with my reasons for taking it no further. Those reasons have not changed.'

`But, man, if we're talking about murder now-'

`You are talking about murder, Bob. I am not. The Guardia has said it was suicide. The magistrate has said it was suicide. I cannot argue with him without a very good reason, and you have not given me one.'

Pujol paused. 'You have to allow me to be selfish, Bob. I have my career to consider. My superiors would look at me in a very strange way if I did as you ask.'

Skinner shrugged his shoulders in resignation. 'Okay, Arturo. I hear all of that. I won't press you further.'

Pujol smiled. 'That is good.' He paused. 'Of course, if you were in a position to offer me more conclusive information.

Skinner's eyes narrowed slightly. 'And how would I come by that?'

Pujol shrugged in his turn. 'Well, you are a private citizen. I cannot stop you from asking questions of anyone. But I cannot be seen to be lending you authority, you understand.'

Skinner nodded, a light smile flicking the corners of his mouth. 'I understand.' The smile widened. 'In that case, there are one or two things I'd like to ask you!'

`Hah! The investigator is at work already! Very well, what can I tell you?'

`D'you know a man named Nicolas Vaudan?'

Pujol thought for a moment. 'Si. I know him as I know most people with business interests in L'Escala. He is an extranjero from France. I know of him rather than knowing him in person.'

Skinner cut in. 'The south of France, or so I'm told. But go on. What d'you know about him?'

`Not very much. He has a company which makes investments in immobiliara — apartments and villas — and rents them to local people at very reasonable cost. One of my officers is his tenant, and I have never heard him speak badly of him.'

`Where's his company based?'

`Montgo SA? It has a small office in the edificio in the marina which looks towards L'Escala. Close to the Cafe Navili.'

Skinner nodded. 'Yes, I know where you mean. Does Vaudan have many associates in L'Escala?'

`He has a secretary who looks after his business here: collecting rent from tenants, and dealing with any problems they have. Her name is Veronica. She is Belgian, I think, and she is very nice. Also there is Paco — Paco Garcia. He is from L'Escala, and he does small things — odd jobs, you would say — for Senor Vaudan around his properties. He paints, fixes the water pipes when they need to be replaced, mends broken tiles, things like that. Paco is a simple fellow: big, clumsy. When Senor Vaudan is here, I often see them together, Paco following after him like a big dog.' From nowhere an image of Tony Manson and Lennie Plenderleith swam into Skinner's mind. He pushed it away and concentrated on Pujol.

`Is Vaudan married?'

`Yes, I think so. I don't know for certain, but I did hear it said once that there is a Madame Vaudan — but that she is very grand, very much of the Cote d' Azur, and does not like it here.'

`Apart from business, does he have many friends here?'

`None come to my mind. Sometimes, when he is here and I drive past, I see him sitting on the terrace of the Club Nautic, but apart from that I do not know what he does or who he sees.'

D'you ever see him with Santi Alberni?'

Pujol shook his head emphatically. 'No.'

'Or hear of any links between them?'

`Never.'

`I take it that Vaudan and his people aren't known to you officially, so to speak.'

`Senor Vaudan and Veronica, certainly not. Paco Garcia is slightly different. In the past we have suspected that he might be involved in minor crimes, mostly smuggling. When he was Younger, he was a bit. Pujol struggled for the English expression.

`Wild?'

`Si. But now, now he is harmless, I judge.'

Skinner leaned back in his chair and stretched himself. `Well, thanks for that, Arturo. I think I'll go for a stroll in the sun. And who knows, it might take me down past the Cafe Navili.' He stood up and gestured with a thumb at the files heaped on the small desk. 'I'll leave you to get on with that lot. I sympathise with you. Back home I have an intray too.'

`Si,' said Pujol, showing him to the door. 'And you will have someone to empty it for you also. Here, I do my own dirty work. Good day, my friend, and good luck with your theory. But as you try to prove it, please try not to make too many splashes!'

Forty-three

Skinner almost walked past the man. He was seated on the terrace of the Cafe Navili, in a cane chair in the shade, looking out across Riells Bay as it glistened in the morning sun. He was alone; a black Americano coffee and a croissant lay before him on the marble-topped table.

The tall policeman glanced at him, then looked ahead, searching for the Montgo SA office. He saw what he thought might be it, just before the walkway took a right turn, and was about to lengthen his stride when the memory came back to him. A slim, sleek man, immaculately suited, with gold-framed spectacles, jet-black hair and a neatly-trimmed moustache, standing a little way from him at Santi's funeral, quite close to Carlos.

Skinner stopped and turned towards the figure and, as he did so, the man picked up a newspaper from beside his chair. Skinner saw that it was French. He stepped up to the table.

`Monsieur Vaudan?'

Surprised, the man looked up. Skinner had a flashing impression of cold, cruel, dark eyes — threatening eyes, dangerous eyes — but then they blinked and, in that instant, softened.

`Oui.' The response was cautious.

`I thought I recognised you from Santi Alberni's funeral. I'm Bob Skinner.'

Vaudan sprang lithely to his feet, extending his hand.

Skinner shook it and felt a strong grip testing his own. He returned it with equal, but no greater, force. The man was, he guessed, around forty, but he moved with the ease of one who made a point of maintaining maximum fitness. He stood around six feet tall. He wore tan slacks and a tailored cotton shirt which gave emphasis to powerful shoulders.