`I asked the French what the range would be of a boat that size,' said Mackie. 'They said it could go anywhere in the Mediterranean with maybe just one refuelling stop.'
`Yeah,' said Skinner. 'They're off with their cash pile to meet their supplier, and we can only guess where he might be. Sicily, Morocco, the Lebanon — any-bloody-where. Bang goes our chance of shutting down the whole supply chain.'
He looked up and grinned. 'Still, the ball's not burst yet… That's only part of it. We've still got Vaudan and Ainscow by the nuts. As long as we don't lose sight of Monklands, we're still in play. We can assume that he brought down Ainscow's signed authority for the dollar withdrawal. But he's still there, with his empty trailer, so let's add the assumption that he's taking a delivery back with him. Brian, you're on your travels again. I want you to get out there now, or maybe sooner. Join up with the French watchers, and wait for Vaudan and Lucan to get back from wherever they've been with whatever they've bought. Then, once Monklands leaves, tail him every centimetre of the way. As soon as you see which channel. crossing he's going to take, call ahead so that I can fix it with the customs at his landing port.'
Maggie Rose looked at her boss in surprise. 'I thought we'd follow him all the way home.'
Skinner nodded. 'We will. I want to make sure that he doesn't get stopped by the customs.' He turned back towards Mackie. 'You all right with that, Brian?'
A shaft of sunlight shone through the window and glistened on Mackie's bald head, as he smiled back at him. 'Sure, boss. But don't you want to go. I mean, Sarah could always use another T-shirt. You only brought her back three last night!'
Skinner laughed. 'No, you just be a good boss, and bring back the duty-free for your squad! Right, Detective Inspector Rose. Let's go up and see how Mr Martin's getting on, keeping tabs on Ainscow and that wee shit Cocozza.'
He led the way from the Special Branch suite up the single flight of stairs to Andy Martin's Drugs and Vice team. The outer office was empty save for a typist, hard at work. She was wearing transcription headphones.
Andy Martin, seated at his desk signing correspondence, looked up as they entered. His blond hair was tousled, and his green eyes shone. The breadth of his shoulders stood out beneath his tight-fitting, short-sleeved shirt. His tie was loosened and the top button was open. Skinner noticed that he had a fresh red scratch on his neck, but before he could comment Martin greeted them, brightly. 'Hello, sir; Maggie. I thought you two would be up to your fetlocks in paper today.'
`Aye, we were, but we found an excuse to drag ourselves away.' Quickly, Skinner explained the events of the previous twenty-four hours: the discovery of the cash-pile and the Monaco bank, Angie Dickson's electronic break-in, the withdrawal and, finally, the evasion of surveillance by Vaudan and Lucan.
'Christ,' said Martin, 'that makes my poor life seem dull and humdrum. I've just spent the last few days supervising a team watching two guys do sweet eff-all out of the ordinary:
'All quiet on the Ainscow front, then?'
'Yes. Church-mouse. And Cocozza too. He's been doing the rounds of the former Manson Empire. He's spending a lot more time there than in his law practice.'
'He never really had one,' said Skinner. 'Tony Manson was always his biggest client. I heard that Tony knew Cocozza's old man, and that he more or less set the son up in practice.'
Martin leaned back in his chair. 'There is one thing on Ainscow, boss. I asked Alison Higgins' guy, Ogilvie, to pull the record of his old estate agency from the back files in Companies House — remember, the one he cashed back in the Eighties — and have a look at them. He gave me his report last night. He said that anyone who paid big money for that business must have been off his head. He said the last couple of years' accounts were bloody ropy. I've arranged to see the managing director of the current parent company first thing on Monday morning, through in Glasgow. Want to come?’
Skinner thought for a moment. 'Yes, I think I will. l want to know as much as I can about Mr Ainscow, even if I have to go to Glasgow to find out. Will you pick me up from home?'
Before Martin could reply, Ruth appeared in the doorway, clutching a fax. 'Excuse me, sir. I thought you'd want to see this right away. It's just come in, from Barcelona.'
Skinner took the paper from her. As he read Pujol's account of his second meeting with Hansi Gruber, then the English translation of the German's statement, a broad smile spread over his face. 'Good news?' asked Martin.
Skinner nodded. `Mmm. But very bad news for Nick Vaudan. A life sentence, I'd say, on top of what he gets for complicity in fraud and for drug dealing.' He chuckled. `That'll teach the bastard to proposition my wife!'
Sixty-eight
Bob Skinner never visited Glasgow without being struck by the differences, architectural, climatic, cultural, social and emotional, between the former Second City of the Empire and Edinburgh, Scotland's capital.
There exists in many ordinary Glaswegians a bitter contempt for their compatriots forty-five miles to the east. Skinner, brought up on the city's outskirts, had managed to escape its influence, but could feel it hanging, almost palpable in the air as soon as he set foot in the city.
`It's like another world, Andy, isn't it?' he said to Martin as the younger man locked his red sports hatch, parked in a bay found unexpectedly in Blythswood Square, where the solemn classic frontage of the staid and ultra-conservative Royal Scottish Automobile Club — 'Jurassic Park' as Skinner had Once christened it — looked out across a leafy garden which once upon a time had turned after dark into a red-light district of national renown.
`Yes, I suppose it is. Nothing wrong with it, though,' said Martin defensively.
`No, but the Glasgow folk think there is. They don't just have a chip on their shoulder, they've got a whole bagful — with salt and vinegar. They're jealous of Edinburgh, and they feel inferior to it, so instead of just being content to be different they go in for all these daft civic slogans that cost big money and don't mean a fucking thing. Glasgow's got some of the most distinctive architecture of any city in Europe. It's got its galleries, its concert hall, three universities, two of the biggest football clubs in Britain, all sorts of things going for it, yet it's still got this inferiority that makes it stick out its chest and shout challenges along the M8.
People in Edinburgh don't understand Glaswegians, because they don't have that aggression in their blood, but they don't resent them either.' He paused. 'At least that's how I see it. What about you?'
`I don't know,' said Martin. 'You're right about the differences, and about the aggressive streak through here. That's probably the effect of the Scots-Irish element in Glasgow. But this place, it's got far more life to it than Edinburgh. Some of the people I know through there — I don't mean in the job. Other people.
'You mean women?'
Martin smiled, 'Aye, okay, women. They're very shallow. They're only enjoying life up to a point. Whereas, through here, people are more, more. . I don't know how to say it really. Well, look, take Alex as a classic example. She's lived in Glasgow for the last four years, virtually all her adult life you could say. And she's the most alive person I know. I realise she was only a youngster when she went through, but she's blossomed and taken on a depth to her personality that I've never encountered in anyone else. Not even.
The name died on Andy's lips as the memory flooded back. A memory which, even close on a year after the event, still thrust a pain like a red-hot spear into the pit of his soul. As they turned the corner from Blythswood Square into West George Street, Skinner decided that it was time to change the subject.
`To business, Andy,' he said gently. 'Remind me, this guy we're going to see. Who is he again?'