Skinner's Trail (28 page)

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?'

`Bernard McGirk. He's the head of the estate-agency division of the General Alliance insurance company. He's the bloke who bought Paul Ainscow's business. I've told him that I want to ask him about it purely as background, but that our investigation doesn't touch him or the business in any way.'

`As far as we know.'

`True.' They crossed West George Street and headed down a steep hill into St Vincent Street. The General Alliance headquarters was a tall marble and glass edifice built during the property boom of the 1980s, a modern structure which blended well, for all that, with its refurbished sandstone neighbours. A uniformed commissionaire greeted them with impressive formality, snapping to attention even more rigidly at the mention of Skinner's rank. He directed them to a lift.

`Mr McGirk's office is on the second floor, gentlemen.'

Bernard McGirk was a small, friendly man, with an efficient secretary who brought in a tray laden with coffee and biscuits almost before Skinner and Martin had settled into their seats-at a low, round table. While the coffee was being poured and handed round, they made small talk about the depth of Skinner's tan and the unpredictability of the weather, leading inevitably to the weekend's golf.

Eventually, McGirk looked across at Martin. 'Well Superintendent. You wanted to ask me about my purchase a few years back?'

Martin glanced sideways at Skinner, who nodded, happy that his subordinate should ask the questions.

`Before I do that, I ought to tell you why we're here. We are involved in another investigation, in which Mr Paul Ainscow
may be caught up. We're building up as much information about him as we can and that includes his financial health. We've been led to believe that he did well out of the sale to you of his estate-agency chain.'

McGirk smiled. 'I suppose you could say that.'

`On the other hand,' Martin continued, 'we've pulled some back accounts which don't look too clever. We hope that you'll be prepared to tell us how much General Alliance paid for the business, and how much of that would go to Ainscow.'

`Do either of you have a General Alliance policy?' McGirk asked, looking from Martin to Skinner and back again.

`Yes,' said Skinner, 'I have an endowment policy, and I've just taken one out for my son.'

`Fine. In that case, since we're a mutual, you're a member of the company, and as far as I'm concerned reasonably entitled to information on its business. So, where do I begin? At the end I suppose. Ainscow didn't pocket a hell of a lot from the sale. AREA, it was called. That stood for Ainscow Residential Estate Agency. It had high-street shop
-
front outlets in Stirling, Perth, Falkirk, Dundee and Edinburgh, opened in that order. Ainscow founded the business when he was in his mid-twenties. In those days any idiot could sell a house, and so he did well. Stirling prospered, he went to Perth. That did well — and so on. He lived a very full life, did the young Mr Ainscow. Bought himself his Porsche, obligatory in those days, a very nice house in Dunblane, and eventually a villa in Spain, and a couple of apartments for rental. He stuffed his pension fund too, for all he could'

McGirk paused. 'Terrific while it lasted. The man was one of Thatcher's children, a youthful entrepreneur. Something of a business celebrity for a while, in a small way. The trouble
was, like many of these boys, while he could sell in a boom market, when things turned down he didn't know what to do. Actually he was in trouble even before the slump. He could afford his various premises while things were rosy, but when the market began to edge south, his overhead caught up with him very quickly. He was tied to very long, very expensive leases, with no breakers, and he had ripped out so much of the profit in the boom years, without leaving anything for a rainy day.

`He went from boom to potentially bust in two years, as you no doubt saw from those accounts. Eventually he approached us. We were diversifying into estate agency at the time, and we were his landlords in Dundee and Perth. The location of his premises fitted our expanding portfolio, so we did a deal. We bought AREA's goodwill, basically, and its debt, and that, believe me, more or less cancelled out the cash value of the goodwill'

`So what did he walk away with?' asked Martin.

`In cash terms? Virtually nothing. Maybe twenty thousand
out of the net fifty we paid him for goodwill. His properties, and the Porsche, were all owned through a subsidiary of the main business. He separated that company out and kept it. There was about thirty thousand in borrowing there, which he flattened. He asked for a consultancy as part of the deal, but I didn't see that he had anything to offer, so I said no. However, I did tie him to a restrictive covenant which kept him out of business in the UK for three years. I heard that he had gone into the Spanish property market, and that didn't surprise me. Presumably he's an agent for a promoter-developer over there.'

`No,' said Skinner. 'He's the principal shareholder of a solidly capitalised business. We were told that he had funded
the start-up with some of the money he got from you.'

McGirk shook his head. 'No way. His lifestyle wouldn't have left him with the cash to do that. I'm not saying he was broke after he sold out, but he wouldn't have any investment capital. Unless he borrowed on his house.'

Martin shook his head. 'No, we've checked. There's nothing secured on it. What about his pension fund?'

`Locked up tight, and can't be used against borrowing.'

`And he didn't win the pools as far as we know. So, yet another mystery. Where the hell did he find the fifty grand it took to start InterCosta?'

Sixty-nine

A
t first the ringing of the telephone was part of Skinner's dream. He was in L'Escala on the terrace, with Sarah on the sun-bed beside him, and he was dreaming of home. In the living room, the phone was sounding . . . except that its ring was different from the usual Spanish single tone.

His mind was fuzzy with confusion as the dreamscape blurred. Then suddenly the sound from the bedside table snapped him into wakefulness. As he snatched the phone from its cradle, Sarah lay beside him, oblivious.

`Skinner:

`Boss, it's Brian. Sorry, did I wake you?'

`Mmm. It was my turn on the early shift with Jazz. Never mind.'

`Sorry to call so early, your time. I realise it's only seven forty with you, but I thought you'd want to know: they're back. Docked an hour ago. They sailed the big cruiser right into Vaudan's boathouse. Monklands just turned up, too.'

Skinner sat upright in bed. 'Any guesses as to where they've been? That's how long? This is Tuesday, so just under three days for the trip. Where could they have reached in that time?'

`The boys who know here say possibly halfway down the Italian coast, to one of the small islands offshore, maybe Elba. Definitely not Sicily. The best guess they're giving me is the

north-west coast of Sardinia. There's some pretty wild stuff there, and no Coastguard cover, so it would have made a good meeting point.'

`Right. Maybe we'll let the Italian police know later but, for now, are you ready for action?'

`Yes, the French are being very helpful. Their national drugs agency has put two cars on the job. The drivers sound as if they know what they're doing. They have a lot of this type of surveillance over here. Wherever Monklands goes, and whenever he sets off, we'll be after him.'

`Where are you now?'

`In an apartment straight across the road, about two hundred yards away. I can see the yard . . . Hey, there's some action right now. Norrie Monklands and another bloke—' He broke off for a second. The lads here say it's Lucan. They've unhitched the trailer from Monklands' Transit, and they're wheeling it into the boathouse, out of our sight.'

`Okay, Brian, that's good work. You stick to it. Let me know once he leaves, then check in whenever you can, on the road. Speak to you later.'

Beside him, Sarah rubbed her bleary eyes. Whwsat?' she murmured.

`Brian Clouseau calling in from France. I think our game's about to kick off!'

She reached up and pulled him down beside her. 'Well, before it does,' she yawned, 'how about one final training session?'

Seventy

As
Skinner's morning unfurled and moved towards midday, his mood grew more and more tetchy. He had given Ruth instructions that he would take no calls other than from Brian Mackie, but as time passed the silent telephone on his desk disrupted his concentration. He could barely read a single page without his attention wandering as he eyed the receiver, urging it to ring.

The mountainous in-tray which he had faced on the Saturday morning of his return had been largely weeded out. He was reduced to reading routine reports from the various divisions on the containment of petty crime, when Ruth buzzed him through. He flicked the intercom switch.

`Sir, if you've got a few minutes, the Chief wonders if you'd join him for coffee. He's just back from his conference in Birmingham.'

`Aye, sure. I'd welcome it. Can't get used to having my backside stuck in a chair again.'

Sir James Proud's office was on the opposite side of the Command Corridor from his own. Skinner preferred his perch over the main driveway, from which he could keep an eye on the traffic to and from the headquarters, to his boss's outlook over the force's modest playing fields.

Mary, the Chief's new secretary, was arranging three cups
and a jug on a tray. 'Morning, sir. Go right in, please.'

The unspoken question prompted by the third cup was answered as soon as he stepped into the long, spacious office. Proud Jimmy was sitting in an armchair facing his coffee table. Beside him was Chris Whitlow, the force's Management Services Director. Whitlow was a professional administrator who had been recruited from local government
to take responsibility for establishment tasks, and to manage the force's budgets. To make way for him, one of the authorised Assistant Chief Constable posts had been removed from the establishment. Before the appointment had been made, Skinner had expressed private reservations over the principle of appointing a civilian to such a senior post in a disciplined service. 'Theory's great, Chief, but what about the practice? How long will it be before a guy like this starts questioning command decisions and policy on grounds of cost? It could be the thin end of a wedge. Before you know it we could have a chief executive, with powers, slotted in between us and the police board.' Nevertheless he had welcomed Whitlow to the team on his appointment, and had co-operated with him in every way, even suppressing slight feelings of alarm when the new broom had taken over the office next to Proud's own, made vacant by the retirement of Eddie McGuinness, the former Deputy Chief.

Sir James jumped to his feet as Skinner entered the room.

`Bob, good to see you. My, you're looking brown!'

The ACC grinned at his boss. 'So they tell me. I'm thinking about putting in for a transfer to the Guardia Civil. After the last few days I feel like an honorary member anyway.'

`Yes. Some holiday you've had. Roy Old told me about that
business with Sarah and the man with the brick. That was bad. Did they get him?'

Skinner nodded, a gleam in his eye. 'Oh yes, I got him,' he said quietly. 'He said he was sorry and he won't do it again. Now I'm going to get the guy who sent him. He's going to be sorry too.'

`Sounds a mite personal, Bob.' If Whitlow's tone was jocular, it was lost on Skinner.

`It is fucking personal, Chris, but it's professional too.' He turned back to Proud. So how was the ACPO conference, Jimmy?'

The Chief pulled a face. 'Ponderous as usual. A sea of silver braid gathered together for the sole purpose of being lectured by civil servants and politicians. Here, sit down while I pour.' Mary had followed Skinner into the room with her tray. Proud Jimmy thanked her, picked up the jug and poured coffee into the three cups. They faced each other around the low table.

So tell me about this business, Bob. Maggie Rose has been keeping me broadly up to date. Your simple fraud investigation seems to have taken wings.'

`Wings and jet engines, Chief.' Quickly, Skinner explained the sequence of events which had stretched the investigation over five countries and half a continent.

So where are things now?' asked Proud.

`Waiting for the phone to ring. Something's happening in Monte Carlo. Our target's getting ready to leave, and it's our bet that he's bringing more than a boat back with him.'

`But it is no more than a bet, Bob, isn't it?' said Whitlow.

Skinner looked at him coldly. 'Maybe, but it's odds on. We've got a million-odd quid in laundered cash disappearing into the Mediterranean. That cash isn't a fucking donation to

Oxfam. We know it's been used to buy something, and given Ainscow's encounter with Cocozza and the three wise men in the Powderhall sauna, our belief is that it's drugs.'

‘B
ut what if you're wrong? What if it's not? What if this man Monklands isn't bringing anything back with him. What if Skinner's trail goes cold? You've had Mackie flying all over Europe . . . and you yourself for that matter. At the end of the day, if there's nothing to show for it, how am I going to explain those costs to the police board?'

Skinner flashed a look at Proud. 'What is this, sir? Am I on the carpet here?'

The Chief shook his head emphatically. 'Chris voiced some concerns to me. I told him he'd better put them to you directly.'

`Okay.' Skinner, mollified, turned back to Whitlow. 'Right, Chris. I think it's time I spelled out the rules of engagement around here, because you seem to have misunderstood them. This is an active operation, and I'm in charge. I've been taking command decisions in this force for years and I back my own judgement on what is reasonable and what is not. If I think I'm into major cost, I'll tell you; otherwise I won't.

`As for this so-called bet of mine, we have reason to believe that smack worth one and a half million dollars net is about to be imported into this country. Do you know what that will be worth on the street? Easily over ten million sterling, maybe much more, depending on how it's cut. Do you know something else? It'll sell like hot-cross buns at Easter. Get your accountant's mind round this. Try putting out a rights issue for ten million to private shareholders in your average public company. The odds are that the underwriters will be left with a good chunk. Not with this issue. It'll be fully subscribed
within weeks of going on offer. Thousands of people with dependencies will be exploited. Their addictions will be fed and prolonged. Some will overdose and die. Few of these people earn enough to feed their habits. So as soon as this stuff becomes available in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and wherever else it goes, there will be an outbreak, in each of those cities, of petty and not-so-petty crime: burglaries, muggings, the odd armed robbery and so on. All the work of junkies needing readies. The public will be added to the list of victims and police resources everywhere will be stretched. Now, you weigh all of that against a couple of plane fares.

`Through all of this, a few people will get very rich. Vaudan and Ainscow will pick up maybe half the total take. They'll be able to pay off their seed capital loan, set aside more cash for the next buy, and still split a couple of million sterling in profit. The dealers will be awash with surplus cash, ready to invest in whatever other villainy they're into. You follow that, and do you appreciate all the consequences?'

Whitlow nodded, but said nothing.

`That's good. Because it's important that we all operate in harmony along this corridor. So that we can do that, let me spell out a couple more of Skinner's rules for you. The first is that you don't answer to the police board for my actions. I do. You're here to service the force, not run it. The second is that if you've got a concern over any aspect of my operations, the first person you speak to about it had better be me.'

Whitlow nodded again. He coughed. 'Yes, Bob, I hear what you say. I should have come to you first, and I will in future.' He stood up. 'Now, if you will excuse me, Sir James.'

`Of course, Chris. Glad we've cleared the air.'

Skinner was still fuming quietly as the door closed. Proud
Jimmy smiled at him. 'Thought it was better to handle things that way than simply come across the corridor and tell you about it. I know you. You'd have kicked his bloody door in! Anyway, that's him calmed down now. Wish I could sort people out the way you can.'

`Aye, maybe,' growled Skinner. 'We'd still better tell Ruth and Mary to keep a running tally of the paper-clips, though.'

Proud laughed. 'That's the future, Bob. It'll all be yours when you're behind my desk.'

`You're forgetting the regulation, Jimmy. No promotion to Chief without experience of command rank in another force.'

Proud's smile grew even wider. 'Didn't I tell you? I've fixed that with ACPO and the Scottish Office. That other job of yours — Secretary of State's security adviser? That'll be counted as outside experience when the time comes. I've told you before, even if you're kicking and screaming, Bob, I'm going to make certain that you succeed me.'

The surprise was still on Skinner's face when the phone rang.

Proud moved to his desk and picked it up. 'Yes. Put him through.' He held out the receiver.
‘F
or you. Mackie.'

Skinner took one long step across to take the call. 'Brian, yes.'

`They're on the move sir. Two of them. Norman Monklands and Lucan. They've just pulled out of the yard. My first car's gone with them, and I'm off next. There's a speedboat on the trailer. Quite a big thing, it is, with two heavy outboard engines on the back.'

'So Lucan's gone as well. Not surprised. If they're carrying what we think, Vaudan'll want his man there all the way. There's neither honour nor trust among criminals, is there,
Brian? Okay, you get on your way, and let me know progress as you can. Meantime I'll start to set things up this end.'

He hung up. 'That's it, Chief. Our courier's on the move. With a minder, and, though he doesn't know it, a police escort.'

`What do you do now? Sit and wait?'

`More or less, once I've briefed the Customs, to make sure that those people are waved through, wherever they land. I want them filmed, too. I want to be able to show the court a video of every stop that consignment makes in the UK, from the docks to the dealers. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and take care of that. Then I think I'll check on the surveillance of Ainscow and Cocozza.'