Skinner's Trail (11 page)

Twenty-four

‘
C
ommandante, Buenos dias! Que tal?'

`Muy bien, mi amigo, muy bien!'

Skinner held the heavy wooden door of his villa open with his shoulder, and shook hands with his friend. 'Come away in, Arturo. It's good to see you again.'

`And you Bob. And you.

Skinner led Commandante Arturo Pujol through the tiled hallway, into the living room, and beyond to the wide terrace of his villa, of which the greater part was flooded by the early afternoon sun. He offered him a blue cushioned seat beside a drinks trolley, on which four bottles of Damm Estrella beer sat chilling in a silver ice bucket. He uncapped two of them and handed one to Pujol, who took it with thanks, declining the offered glass.

`It's good of you to come round, Arturo. I'd have come to the barracks, no problem.'

`No, no, no, my friend. It is always a pleasure to come to the home of a colleague as distinguished as you. Assistant Chief of Police, government security advisor. Your rank dazzles this humble rural para-military.'

Skinner's laugh choked on a mouthful of beer.

`And also, it gives me a chance to meet once again your lovely wife,
and
to see your new son, who is already the talk of
L'Escala. When Bob Skinner hires a crib from Mary, all of his friends learn very quickly. Where are they, anyway?'

`Here we are, Arturo.' Sarah emerged through the double door from the living room, pushing Jazz in his heavily shaded buggy. Pujol kissed her on both cheeks, then looked down to admire the baby. He leaned into the buggy and slipped a two-thousand-peseta note under the pillow. 'For a little gift, Sarah, yes?'

`Why, thank you, Arturo.'

`You choose something. I have no wife to do these things for me.

`Okay. I'll buy him a toy from that nice shop in the old town — something tough that'll last for ever.'

She parked the buggy in an area of the terrace that was still in shade, and took a seat beside her husband and the Guardia Commandant.

Arturo Pujol was out of uniform, and no one at all would have taken him for a policeman. He was a stocky, bald man with a moustache, and the expression of someone who is anticipating a nasty surprise. But Skinner knew him in uniform and had noted, on his visits to the barracks, the respect in which Pujol was held by his men. He knew too that the
Guardia's legendary toughness had not died with Franco, and that it was present in his self-effacing friend.

They made small talk for a while, in English, in which Pujol was much more proficient than was Skinner in Spanish.

They compared notes on the standard of football in their
respective countries, each looking back to the times when
things had been very much better. Pujol asked Sarah about her
new appointment, and bemoaned the lack of good medical support from which his own force suffered.

Eventually, halfway through his second beer, Pujol raised the subject which had led to his visit. 'So what is this problem that you bring with you from Scotland, Robert, and how does it relate to our friend Santiago Alberni?'

`Let me show you,' said Skinner. He picked up Greg Pitkeathly's folder, which he had placed in readiness in the lower shelf of the drinks trolley, and handed it to the commandant. Pujol took it without a word, and began to read through the dated documents in sequence. After a few minutes he put it down in his lap, and took another swig of Estrella.

`I see what you mean. This is why you asked about Alberni, and it is why your colleague Senor Mackie made his enquiries with our national records office.' He smiled at Skinner's reaction. 'Yes, I know about that. They sent me a copy of the request as a matter of form, and a copy of the result. Our friend is, as you say, quite clean. So what would you like me to do?'

Skinner shot him a look of surprise. 'Take it over, of course. Treat it as a complaint made against a Spanish national in Spain.

`Mmm. Si, that is the proper thing for me to do.'

`Does that give you a problem?'

`Me, not at all. But it may be a little harsh for Alberni.' `What d'you mean?'

`I mean that if I take this up officially, a record will be made. And even if Alberni has a perfect answer, and there is no problem, with him at any rate, that record will remain. Even a visit from the Guardia will be enough. Word gets around here, and it will cast a shadow on him in the future. It will mean that his record is not quite so clean. And possibly that will be through no fault of his. It could affect his credit rating. It could affect his business, if someone checks him out thoroughly
enough. The papers which you have shown me still leave a
strong possibility of a simple mistake. Do you want to cast such a shadow, if it is for nothing?'

`So you don't want to touch it?' said Skinner, surprised.

Pujol raised his hands in protest. 'No, no, no, Bob. If you feel it is necessary and if you insist, I will take it up at once. But what I would ask you to do is talk to the man yourself first. His English is as good as mine. Go to see him. Talk the matter over with him. See what he has to say. Once you have done that, if you still believe that there is a problem, then I will take it up.

It is the fairest way, believe me.' He turned to Sarah. 'Don't you agree?'

Sarah grimaced. 'There goes some more holiday time. But yes, I think that's right.'

Pujol handed the folder back to Skinner. 'There. Perhaps you can call on him tomorrow. I, happen to know that he is
away today, with a client, but tomorrow, a Saturday, he should certainly be in his office.'

Skinner took the papers. 'Okay, if that's how you want it. Let's just hope today's client isn't being stitched up too!'

`If he is,' said Pujol, suddenly very serious, 'we will find that out. If you decide that there is something to be investigated, then it will not be this case alone that we will look into. I promise you, my people will turn InterCosta inside out. If this company is dishonest, then it is giving Catalunya's biggest industry a bad name. For that, we will come down hard, very hard indeed. If I find that Senor Alberni has been stealing from his clients, or from constructors, or anyone, he will go to prison not just for what he has done; but as an example to others. And now,' he said, pushing himself up from his chair, 'beautiful as the day is, and agreeable as my companions may be, I must go.

How do you say it? Duty, she is calling. I like to go for a drive around the town while everyone is at siesta. Just to make sure that everything is quiet. And, of course, in beautiful L'Escala it always is.'

As Bob escorted their visitor to the door, Sarah pushed Jazz in his buggy through to the small bedroom next to their own and, without waking him from his afternoon slumber, laid him gently in his cot.

When Bob closed the front door and turned to go back to the terrace, she was in the hall, blocking his way. She wound her arms around him. 'As Arturo was saying, it's siesta time . .

He could feel the heat of her body through his T-shirt. He looked down at her, reading her agenda for the afternoon in her smouldering eyes. 'Hey, are you sure? It's only been a couple of weeks since Jazz.'

`Exactly!' she murmured. 'Nineteen whole days, and a while before that too. My darling, I'm just about as horny as I've ever been. And just at this moment, from your significantly altered profile, you ain't going to persuade me that you ain't too!'

His laughter died in his throat as she pulled his head down and kissed him fiercely. He swept her off her feet in a single strong movement and carried her through the living room and into their bedroom. It was late enough in the afternoon for the sun to be flooding in through the brown-framed three-quarter-glazed doors which led out to the terrace, but not too late for it to have passed by the small square window to the side, above one of the two chests of drawers which flanked the white-quilted bed.

He laid her down, and in seconds they were naked, kissing and fondling, their fingers and tongues searching, exploring
, reacquainting
themselves with familiar regions. And then Bob's hand found Sarah's secret centre, the heart of her moistness, and she climaxed at once, suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, a bucking, thrusting, crying-out orgasm almost frightening in its intensity. As it peaked, she clamped her thighs closed on his fingers and twisted towards him, eyes shut, with a shout that was almost a scream. She lay still for a while, with her head resting on his shoulder. Occasionally, a small shiver ran through her.

Eventually she looked up at him, into his eyes. 'Bob, I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'That was so selfish. I don't know what happened.

He nuzzled her auburn hair, laughing 'Selfish nothing. Don't be daft. Listen, love, if that's what happens when you have a baby, can I have one too!'

She chuckled with pleasure, a playful sound with more than a hint of promise. 'Okay, let's see what we can do about that.' As she spoke, she rolled over, straddling him, taking him deep inside her, and in a single movement pulling her knees up and sitting on him, bolt upright. She seemed barely to move, yet he could feel the honey grip of secret muscles, strengthened by childbirth, tensing and relaxing as they massaged him. He lay on his back, looking up, touching her only with his eyes. She started to sway more vigorously, rocking backwards and forwards upon him, tensing, relaxing, tensing again. Pleasure seemed to wash upwards and over him, starting from the soles of his feet, moving up through his ankles, his calves. He surrendered himself to the most powerful orgasm of his life, even though he expected that when the high tide of pleasure broke upon his groin he would die of its intensity. He was helpless beneath her. Someone in the room was shouting
out aloud, and dimly he was aware that it was himself. Then the cries became a duet, and he knew that Sarah had climaxed also in the same moment. He saw her back arch and felt those secret muscles grasp tight and hold on as he pulsed and pumped into her, on and on. They held their frozen pose, neither breathing, each concentrating only on the other's pleasure, until eventually, with a last triumphant shout, Sarah relaxed, and slumped, shuddering, on to his chest.

A full five minutes elapsed in silence, as if each were printing every detail, every moment of the experience indelibly upon their memory. Eventually Bob wrapped his arms around his wife and kissed her on the forehead.

`Do you think it gets any better than that?' she asked. It was an entirely serious question.

'I think we should hope not, my love. If it did, I don't know if either of us could stand it. Think of it — that wee lad through there left an orphan because his parents humped each other to
death!'

`Christ, imagine the
post-mortems
!'

Sarah spluttered with laughter and, as she did, Jazz's hungry, wailing cry rang out, bang on cue through the babyminder intercom, to rescue them from their jeopardy and to signal an end to their siesta.

Twenty-five

TANCAT CERRADO. FERM
È
. CLOSED.

Whether callers were Catalan, Castellano, French or English, the message was the same in all four signs hanging in the glass door. The office of InterCosta, on the ground floor of a high-rise block on the Passeig Maritim, a long promenade looking across the small, windswept Riells Bay to L'Escala's ever-growing marina complex, was very definitely not open for business. Skinner wondered idly whether it was company policy to leave German callers at a loss.

It was ten a.m. At such an hour on a Saturday morning, even the most indolent of Costa Brava property agents is normally to be found behind his desk. On the first day of June, the peak sales month, absence is unthinkable.

Skinner re-crossed the sun-washed road and climbed back into his car, which was parked in one of the angled bays opposite the high-rise, its nose facing the sea wall. He sat there for ten minutes reading the sports section of La Vanguardia, watching the weekend windsurfers and looking occasionally in his rear-view mirror, checking for signs of activity at InterCosta. He saw several people stop at the office. One man, carrying a leather document case under his arm, pushed at the door without looking at the signs, and recoiled in surprise from the unexpected resistance. He peered through the glass for
several seconds, and banged on the door with his fist in
exasperation, before striding smartly back to a red Mercedes
and driving off.

That bloke had an appointment, thought Skinner.
Something up here.

He started the BMW's engine, reversed into the road and
drove off, heading round Riells Bay to the marina and La Clota. Kathleen was on duty on the restaurant terrace when he arrived. She looked over as his car drew up, surprised to see him. 'Hello, Bob, you're early. Did you leave something last
night?'

Skinner laughed. 'Aye, the baby. We're not used to having
him around yet!'

Kathleen feigned horror. `Och, that's terrible. How could
you forget a lovely wee boy like that!'

`No, seriously, Kath, I'm here to pick your brains . . . again.

I know Alberni's new pad is in Camp dels Pilans, but do you
know where, exactly.'

She angled her blonde head in thought. 'Yes. Come in and
I'll show you.' She led the way into the unlit restaurant. Skinner's eyes had difficulty adjusting to the change from the bright morning outside. He peered in vain at the map which Kathleen held in front of him, until she led him into the neon-lit stainless-steel kitchen, where half a dozen staff were busy preparing the day's first meals. 'Look here,' she said. 'Take this turn here, and on round this road, up the hill. It's on top. You
can't miss it: it's painted a horrible pink colour.'

`Thanks, Kath. I'll just nip up there and see what's keeping
the boy off his work.'