Skinner's trail

Inch nodded again.

`Good. Can I begin by asking if my information is correct, and that you are the owner of record of a company called Torroella Locals?'

Inch looked at him sidelong. 'Yes.' It was scarcely more than a whisper.

`And was Santi Alberni a sleeping partner?'

`Yes, he was.'

`When was the company set up?'

`Six or seven years ago.'

`To do what?'

Inch coughed, and his voice seemed to strengthen slightly. `To reinvest profits from InterCosta in empty shop properties in good locations.'

`Around here?'

`No. Further south, in the busier resorts. They were the sort of properties where we could pull in high rents through the summer season from short-term operators.'

`Whose idea was it to set up the company?'

`Who owns it?'

`Officially I do, but Alberni has a lawyer's letter signed by me confirming that he is the legal owner.'

`You don't have a copy?'

Inch shook his head vigorously enough to make his remaining hair fly up.

`How much in total did Alberni salt away in Torroella Locals?'

`About ninety million pesetas. Four-fifty grand.'

`And you assumed it was kosher money.'

`That's what he said.'

`What about Ainscow? Didn't he have any say in it?' `I don't know Ainscow. Who's he?'

Skinner looked at him. 'Come on, you're in the agency business, aren't you? For how long?'

Inch nodded again, alarmed by the new toughness in Skinner's tone. 'For ten years.'

`All you boys know each other around here. You're telling me you've been here since the mid-Eighties, as Paul Ainscow has, and you've never heard of him?'

`I haven't!'

Skinner stared hard at him for several seconds. Eventually he grinned. 'Okay, so you haven't. Let me ask you something else. What's the current valuation of the shops?'

`They're in the books at one hundred and thirty million. That's a professional valuation,' Inch added hurriedly.

`And who holds the deeds?'

Inch looked up at Skinner leaning relaxed against the wall. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he stayed silent.

`Come on, Inch. It's an easy question. Who holds the deeds?'

The little man shook his head, 'No, I'm not saying any more — not without legal advice. You said you were unofficial. I don't have to talk to you at all.'

Skinner straightened up. 'That's right, you don't. . yet. But you take that legal advice, and make sure that it's sound. This is one step away from being a murder investigation, and you could be bang in the middle of it.'

Terror flared in Inch's eyes. 'Murder! What do you mean murder? I had nothing to do with any of it!'

Any of what, wee man?' asked Skinner quietly. Leaving Inch standing, mouth slightly agape, in the middle of the small room, he turned on his heel and walked out of the shop.

He found Sarah still at her table outside Bar Isidre. She was rocking Jazz gently back and forward in his buggy, making soft shushing noises as she did.

She looked up as Bob approached. 'Well, find him?' `Sure did.'

`And?'

`He was primed, for certain, warned that I was on my way. The wee bugger didn't even ask my name. He knew exactly who I was and what I was there for. I'm bloody certain that he was following a script. I know, because eventually we got to a bit that wasn't in it, and he was lost. Come on, love. Let's get back to L'Escala. I've got a fax to send.'

Forty-nine

The transmission signal changed pitch, then stopped, as the connection was made. The machine lay still and silent for a few seconds, causing Skinner to wonder whether, after all, it was faulty, until, with a low hum, the single white sheet began to roll through.

Half a minute later it cleared the transmission gate, and fell to the floor.

Sarah, who had come into the room halfway through the process, picked it up and read its contents, aloud.

Confidential

DCI Mackie from ACC Skinner.

Please put the following into effect.

I wish total surveillance placed on Paul Ainscow immediately. Its purpose is to establish who are his associates, whether any have criminal connections, and in particular whether there is any link between Ainscow and Nicolas Vaudan, and one Alan Inch.

Using all sources at your disposal, check for any available information on Alan Inch. Currently employed as a property salesman by Immobiliara Brava of Torroella de Montgri. Search for information should pay attention in particular to convictions/arrests for fraud. I will seek to arrange here for a watch to be placed on Inch.

Finally, use international connections to have a watch placed on Nicolas Vaudan in France. I have just been advised by his office that he returned to Mougins this morning. Purpose is again to ascertain who his business contacts might be, and to establish any possible link between Vaudan/Inch/Ainscow.

Please confirm as soon as all arrangements are in place, and report regularly.

`Mmm,' said Sarah. 'Not very policespeak. No "afore shy;mentioneds" or "thereafters"!'

Skinner grinned. 'Sorry, I must be slipping. You know, back home sometimes I still receive the odd report that's "respectfully submitted", even although I tried to ban the phrase on the ground that if I need to be told that I had the respect of my officers, then I don't deserve it!'

`Where do you go now? Back to Arturo?'

`Yes, but I can't do that until tomorrow. Even he takes Sunday off.'

`You've really latched on to this one, my darling, haven't you?' Sarah smiled. 'International surveillance; I mean that's pretty heavy. What if Vaudan's letter turns up and proves that Santi was guilty and that he did kill himself? Won't you be-?'

Skinner interrupted. 'Won't my arse be hung out to dry, you mean? Trust me, my love. If that letter turns up, Santa Claus will bring it down the fucking chimney! I have no doubts. Not since smelling Inch sweat in an air-conditioned room. Not since he lied to me all the way through our chat — I know when I'm being lied to, Sarah. Not since I threw the word "murder" at him.'

You did? How did he react?'

`You could say that the bottom dropped out of his world. . or maybe it was the other way around.'

Fifty

The tall yellow Guardia Civil barracks seemed to reflect the early afternoon sunshine as Skinner walked towards it. The day was even hotter than its predecessor, and there was a heaviness in the air which hinted that somewhere, maybe still a day or two distant but with gathering strength, a storm was brewing.

He turned into the building. At first the officer on desk duty looked sternly at the tall figure in T-shirt and shorts framed as a black shadow in the light of the doorway. But when the shadow said, `Commandante por favor,' recognition dawned and the man sprang to his feet, snapping a salute.

The officer left his post to advise Pujol of his visitor, and returned a few seconds later to escort Skinner through to the small office.

`Buenas tardes, Bob,' said Pujol, rising. 'How are your conversations going? Is your "dog theory" any nearer proof?'

Skinner said nothing, but took from his bumbag, which was slung over his left shoulder, his fax to Brian Mackie of the day before, and the DCI's response, received three hours later, confirming that all arrangements were in place.