‘Bad cooking and piss; it's the same the world over,' Skinner muttered to Pujol, screwing up his face, as the latest in a series of barriers was slammed shut behind them, and the key turned in the lock. A uniformed jailer led them along one more dark corridor, before showing them into a small room furnished with a table and four chairs. With a few words to Pujol, he withdrew, leaving the door open behind him.
`He says he's going to fetch Gruber.'
`Gruber,' said Skinner. 'They must have made some progress. Yesterday you said that he wouldn't even tell you his name.'
`Si, that's right. When he was arrested, all he did was curse in German. He seemed to be drunk, and he made no sense at all.
`He seemed to be drunk, but are you sure he was?'
`No, not now. Now, like you, I think it was an act. When he was arrested, all he had on him was money and a set of keys. Nothing else. Then yesterday one of our sea patrols spotted a Kawasaki motorcycle on the shore on the old army land between L'Escala and Montgo. It had camping equipment strapped to the saddle, and two panniers. They alerted us and we picked it up. Those keys fitted it. In the pannier we found a passport identifying him as Hansi Gruber. There was also more money, in French francs.'
`French? No D-Marks?'
`No, there were none.'
`Okay, Gruber is a biker. He comes in from France, parks his machine on a deserted piece of coast, gets drunk, makes his way to the marina, hot-wires the biggest, fastest boat he can see, takes it out into the bay, and just happens to run over Inch. Is that the picture? No, I think not.'
Skinner paused and looked at Pujol. 'This is how it was. Gruber is sent down here. He's shown a picture of Inch, told where he lives, where he works, and what his habits are. Then he's told to kill him. He works out the best way to do it, probably keeps Inch under observation all the way to the beach, then drives over the hill and plants his bike. His idea would be to take the boat round there after he's done the business, dump it and get away on the bike, maybe cross the border somewhere quiet and be in France within an hour. How come you caught him?'
`He was unlucky,' said Pujol. 'When he ran down Inch, the sail of the surfboard, and sadly, the right foot of Senor Inch were drawn into the engine of the boat. It seized up and stopped. Several other windsurfers, members of the same club as Senor Inch, saw what had happened, then sailed over and held on to Gruber. They pulled Senor Inch from the water and on to the boat, but he was dead.'
'I take it you've run checks on this guy in Germany and France.'
`Si,' said Pujol. 'There is nothing in France, but in Germany he has a record of violence. He is from Bremerhaven. He was a sailor, but five years ago he was sent to prison for attacking a man with a knife. He cut him up very badly. He was released over a year ago, and that was the last that the German authorities heard of him.'
`Does he know that we know who he is?'
`No. I instructed that that information should be kept from him.
`Good. When he comes in, speak to him in French. See what reaction you get. Then I suggest you tell him my story of how he killed Inch, ask him to admit it, and to confirm that Vaudan sent him.'
Pujol nodded. Less than a minute later, the jailer returned with another officer. Each grasped an arm of the stocky blond, handcuffed man whom they escorted. At a signal from Pujol they unlocked his manacles, and pressed the prisoner down into one of the four chairs, to face his two visitors across the table.
`Good morning, Gruber,' said Pujol in French. The man's eyes widened in surprise, but he said nothing. Pujol reached into the left breast pocket of his uniform shirt and produced a German passport. He threw it on the desk.
Gruber looked at it and shrugged.
`Listen to me, my friend, and look at me while I am speaking to you,' said Pujol. He began to spell out in detail Skinner's scenario for the murder of Inch. A few seconds into the story, Gruber affected a yawn, and looked away from Pujol, staring up at the ventilator fan in the ceiling. Pujol's back shy;handed slap seemed to echo round the four corners of the room. 'I said look at me when I am speaking.' A vivid red mark showed on the German's cheek as Pujol completed his account.
`Now my friend, you have a simple opportunity. You will admit to me that you were sent to do this thing by Nick Vaudan, and I will see to it that your case comes to court quickly, and that you are charged with something less than murder. What do you say?'
Gruber leaned forward, his forearms on the table. No emotion showed in his eyes. He nodded his head, very slightly, then spat, full into Pujol's face. The Commandante jumped from his chair, his moustache twisted by the snarl on his face. The two officers grabbed their prisoner and hauled him upright. Wiping the spit away with his left hand, Pujol bunched his right into a fist and set himself to swing a punch across the table.
But Skinner caught his arm and held it. 'No Arturo. You'd only hurt your hand.' He spoke in English, looking away from Gruber. 'You won't beat anything out of this guy. He's got a deal, and he'll protect it. Next thing you know, he'll have a good lawyer too, and he'll bargain the charge down to something not much worse than drunk driving. If we want him to finger Vaudan, we have to find out what his deal is, and try to put a spoke in it. Okay?'
With an effort, Pujol controlled his anger. `Yes, I agree.'
He turned to Gruber and spoke again in French. 'You, my friend, have just made a bad choice. Whatever you may have been told, there will be no reduced charge. Your case will take for ever to come to court, and once it does, you will be sent to jail for ever and a few more days. And some of our jails are very bad places, my friend. Not like this one. You may think you are tough, but in there you will be some monster's sweetheart within a week. Look forward to it because I will make it happen.'
He glanced at the escorts. Now take this insolent piece shit away, before I forget my friend's advice'
Fifty-six
The emptiness of the villa washed over Skinner as soon as he opened the door, bringing with it a pang of sudden loneliness so strong that it carried him back to his youth, and to the days after the death of Myra, his first wife, Alex's mother.
He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes after five o'clock. To free their nostrils of the stench of the prison, he and Pujol had taken time out in Barcelona. They had visited the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's epic, if impossible, cathedral with its melted-icing towers, and its cranes soaring above the most visited building site in the world. Then they had eaten a tapas lunch at one of the pavement tables of a Ramblas bar, where Pujol's green uniform had attracted the deepest respect of the waiters. Finally, with Skinner at the wheel of his white BMW, they had headed northward out of the hilly city, spectacular even in its occasional seediness, with its forests of medium- and high-rise buildings flanking traffic-thronged highways.
But now, back in L'Escala, there was nothing to stave off the blues brought on by the departure of Sarah and Jazz. Bob walked into the living room, and looked at the new fax. Its LCD read-out told him that the answer machine held two messages.
He pushed the replay button. The mechanism whirred for a second or two as the tape rewound. Then there was a whistle, before, suddenly, the room was filled with Sarah's voice. 'Hi, darling. Just a call to say that we're home okay. The plane was fine, and Jazz was great. Alex and Andy were there waiting. I think there's something-'
`Here stepmother, let me say hello.'
Bob smiled as his daughter's effervescent tones cut across Sarah's light New York drawl. 'Hi, Pops. That brother of mine's a wee heartbreaker. You know, maybe I'm biased, but you do real good-looking kids. I've got some good news and some better news. The good news is I got my finals results this morning. The better news is I got a first. So get used to it. Your kid's a lawyer. Now, Pops, don't hang about too long out there.