Skinner's Trail (31 page)

Eighty

‘O
h honey, did it have to be this week?'

Bob saw the depth of Sarah's disappointment, and hung his head, feeling as guilty as Roy Old's two axe-murderers. 'I'm sorry, love, but I really find it awkward being without the car. The flight costs peanuts, and it ties in with this ploy that Arturo and I have got on the go.'

`What's so important about that?' she asked.

`I'll tell you once it works out. I know we've been living like gypsies lately, but I'll only be away for a few days, and then we'll be back to normal. Why the long face, anyway, as the barman asked the horse?

`Is it just that you'll miss me, or did you have something planned?'

Coyness sat uncomfortably on Sarah. 'We—ell. It's a bit of both, actually. I've invited these people for dinner on Friday. Nice couple. They've only just got together, and I thought it'll be nice for you to meet them and have dinner with them. With one thing and another, Friday was the only day we could fix up over the next few weeks.

Bob took her in his arms and pressed her to his chest. 'I'm really sorry, love. But the ticket's bought and paid for, and Arturo's plans are laid. You'll just have to go ahead with it, and be host and hostess in one. Or maybe Andy could come along.'

`Mmm. Maybe. So when do you expect to be back?'

The flight leaves Newcastle just after midnight, and gets to Girona at about half-three. Arturo's having one of his lads pick me up, but even at that it'll be half-four by the time I get to the villa. So Wednesday'll be a "sleep on the terrace" day. Arturo's arrangements could fall into place either Thursday or Friday. Once the business is over with, I'll drive up to Cherbourg. So look for me Sunday at the latest. Promise. And that'll be the last time. So you can rearrange your dinner party.'

`Copper, it had better be! As for the party, that might not wait.'

Eighty-one

‘S
he sent it exactly as we discussed?'

`Precisely. Word for word.'

It was almost six p.m. but it was still hot on the Town Beach. Skinner had been true to his word to Sarah, and had slept away most of Wednesday on a lounger on the terrace. Now he sat, wearing only shorts and trainers, on the low wall at the edge of the sand. Arturo Pujol sweltered uncomfortably beside him, even though clad in light slacks and a cotton shirt. Each man drank from a can of Seven-Up acquired from one of several dispensers around the promenade.

`I have a copy here,' said the Commandante. He fished in his shirt pocket and handed a folded piece of paper to Skinner.

The photocopied fax was printed on Montgo SA letterhead. Skinner read through it, translating the French laboriously. `
Senora Alberni has asked me to contact you. She is forced to sell her villa because of problems with her late husband's insurance, and she wonders whether Montgo SA would consider acquiring it as an investment, at no more than she and Senor Alberni paid for it. The matter is urgent, since she is being pressed by her husband's bank. She asks if you will come to L'Escala this week, on Thursday or Friday, to discuss it with her. She decided to contact you through me, rather than directly, since she felt that Madame Vaudan might not
appreciate your having calls from strange women.'

Skinner handed the creased paper back to Pujol. 'You told Gloria, I take it, in case he decided to phone her.'

`Si. But he has not.'

`Has Veronica had an acknowledgement?'

`Yesterday. Vaudan says that he will arrive on Friday afternoon, that he will go straight to his villa, and that he will see Senora Alberni once she has finished work, at six p.m. at his office.'

`Ace! One minute past six and he's nicked.'

Pujol shook his head. 'No. If he goes to his villa, we will arrest him there.'

Skinner frowned. 'What d'you want to do that for? The villa's built on the hillside up in Punta Montgo. He knows its layout — you don't. Wait till he gets to the office, and arrest him there. Much easier. You don't want to underrate this guy, Arturo. You're going to arrest him for ordering at least one murder, and maybe two. Don't assume that he'll just hold out his hands for the cuffs. And never give a man like that anything that might be an edge.'

`Si, Bob. I understand that, but if we go into the office . . Skinner nodded. 'I get it. The lovely Veronica'll be right in the middle of it!'

Pujol flushed.

`Get her out of there. Tell her to go to the ladies at two minutes to six, and lock herself in! When you go in, don't advertise yourselves. Your guys don't have to wear their green suits and their funny hats. You have heard of plain clothes, haven't you?'

`No, Bob. That is not the way we do it. We will take him in uniform, at his villa.'

‘F
uckin"ell, I don't know! Just as well that you'll have me along.'

Pujol looked at him sideways and shook his head. 'No, I am sorry. I am grateful, Bob, for all your help, but I think that now I have to follow the rules. This is a murder case in my jurisdiction. If I allowed you to take part in the arrest, my superiors would take — what is it you say? — a dark view.'

Skinner sat upright on the wall. 'Come on, man. You can't keep me out of it now!'

The Commandante's round, sallow face wore a pained expression. 'I am sorry, but if you were there and there was an . . . accident. No, it is not possible.'

`Arturo, this probably will be a straightforward arrest. But on the off-chance that it isn't, I've got experience you haven't. I've dealt with people who'd make Vaudan piss his pants.'

Pujol shook his head. 'Much as I would be comforted by having you at my side, I cannot allow it.'

Skinner saw that he would not win the argument. 'All right. Let me be a spectator. Give me field-glasses and a radio, and I'll keep watch on the villa and call you once he's inside.'

The Commandante considered this request for a few moments in silence. Eventually he smiled. 'Okay. That I will allow. After all, I cannot keep you from going to the top of the Garbinell, can I? But, to be proper, one of my men will go with you. He will have the radio and the binoculars. I will do things by the rules.'

Eighty-two

There can't be many finer views than this in Europe,' said Skinner in faltering Spanish, to his uniformed companion. He added in English, 'The seventh tee of my golf course maybe, but damn few others.'

It was just after three on a shimmering afternoon. He stood on the flattened top of the Garbinell, the crest of Punta Montgo, and looked across the Golfe de Rosas, to the north. The Pyrenean skyline, fringed with wispy cloud and, incredibly, with traces of snow still clinging to the peak of Canigou, was much the same as that which faced his own terrace, but below him the whole bay stretched out in a wide circle, from the wooded Montgo campsites, to the sprawling town of L'Escala and beyond. Kilometres of beach extended like a thin golden smile all the way to Ampuriabrava, tapering off only shortly before the rise of the northern headland. It was dotted with white houses built into the hillside above Rosas, the town with which the great bight shared its name. The `Stormy Bay' was almost still, too calm for windsurfers or sailboats. The water shimmered and glistened under the high sun.

Skinner hauled his attention back to the business of the afternoon. Their vantage point was little more than a hundred yards away from Nick Vaudan's sugar-white, castellated villa, but thick foliage growing from the rocks offered complete
cover. The house was built into the steep hillside on three levels, topped by a wide three-sided terrace with stylised mock battlements, which surrounded the shuttered upper apartments. Skinner guessed that these would be the main reception rooms, with sleeping accommodation on the lower floors.

He unrolled a rush mat and threw it on the ground, handing a second to the young Guardia private. They settled down into their hide, looking down towards the villa and the twisting approach road. The young man placed his machine-carbine between them and handed the field-glasses to Skinner.

`Gracias
’.
The big Scot spun the focus wheel and took a closer look at Vaudan's mock castle. An impressive alarm box, with an orange light above, was fixed to the wall above the window on the east side of the terrace. The shutters were of steel, and Skinner guessed that they were motorised. To the rear of the house, a short concrete driveway led from black-painted, wrought-metal gates to a single garage. `I'm surprised he doesn't have a fucking drawbridge!' muttered Skinner.

The young policeman at his side looked at him, bewildered.

They had been in position for a little less than an hour when they heard the throb of a big engine labouring up the hill. Seconds later, a red Jaguar XJS convertible, its top down, swung awkwardly round the bend. Skinner recognised Vaudan at once. The Frenchman drew the car to a halt, and pointed a small black box at the gate. Moments later it began to slide open, disappearing from sight behind the perimeter wall. Vaudan parked on the driveway, jumped from the car and, carrying a briefcase, trotted down a stairway which led from the drive, passing out of sight.

Less than two minutes later, the steel shutters on the terrace level of the villa began to roll up slowly. As the light flooded in, Skinner could see that the upper floor comprised one large sitting room, furnished with leather sofas and armchairs and a long coffee table. In one corner of the room stood a huge television set, near which, silhouetted against the western window, were a twin-pedestal desk and low-backed chair. Vaudan sat down in the chair, his briefcase on the desk before him with lid upraised. Then, flipping it closed, he moved across to the north-facing patio doors and threw them wide, allowing him to roll out two white plastic loungers and a matching refectory table. With the terrace furniture arranged to his evident satisfaction, the Frenchman stripped off his shirt and settled on a lounger.

Skinner lowered the field-glasses and nodded to the man at his side. The young policeman picked up his radio and muttered a few words of Spanish into the mouthpiece.

The green Nissan Patrol made even more noise than the V12 Jaguar, as it hauled itself up the steep hill. As it approached and swung round the bend, Skinner trained the binoculars on Vaudan on the terrace. At first, the man did not react to the sound. Then, as it drew closer, he propped himself on an elbow to look over the mock battlements and the perimeter wall. As the vehicle drew to a halt, Skinner saw a frown crease the Frenchman's forehead. The man stood up, grabbed his shirt, and slipped it on.

Pujol, in full uniform, his gun in its holster by his side, stepped from the front passenger seat. Three other officers each carrying a machine-carbine identical to that which lay beside Skinner, followed his lead. The Commandante spoke to one of the three men, who remained beside the vehicle. Then
he led the other two down the driveway and through the small gate to the terrace.

Vaudan stood waiting for them, the frown still lining his face. Although Pujol had his back to Skinner, the latter knew at once when he had spoken and, from the sudden widening of the Frenchman's eyes, what he had said. Through the glasses, the scene was that of a silent movie. He saw Vaudan's lips move, but caught not even the faintest sound. Then the Frenchman threw his hands wide, as if in appeal. A few seconds later he saw Pujol nod his head briefly. The Frenchman turned and walked back into the villa, moving across to the desk.

Skinner focused the glasses as sharply as he could. As he watched, Vaudan raised the lid of the briefcase very slightly and very swiftly, and took out a small dark object. Then he closed the case, spun its locks, and picked it up . . . with his left hand.

Instinct made Skinner call out. 'Arturo! Gun!'

For an instant, Pujol looked back over his shoulder. Then, trusting what he had heard, he reached for the safety buckle on his holster. His gun was drawn as Vaudan stepped back on to the terrace. Skinner saw it move up to cover the Frenchman, but realised at once that it was too late. From the doorway, Vaudan fired a quick shot from a small automatic pistol.

`No!' Skinner shouted in anguish as Pujol fell backwards.

The Frenchman gestured urgently with his gun to the two other officers on the terrace. At once they threw their carbines over the mock battlements, and clasped their hands together, behind their heads. Vaudan gestured again, and they retreated into a corner of the terrace. As they did, he turned and sprinted through the gate to the driveway. Pujol's third officer was
waiting, his gun raised, but stiff and frozen. Vaudan snapped off two shots. The young man spun round and fell face-down.

Skinner looked at the private by his side, and saw the boy's face transfixed and white with shock. He grabbed the machine-carbine, and looked quickly at its mechanism. He found the safety and flicked it off.

The Frenchman had reached the Jaguar. He tossed his case into the back and reached awkwardly, left-handed, for his keys.

The bellow from the hilltop froze him in his tracks. Vaudan! Drop the gun on the ground now, and raise your hands.'

The Frenchman looked up towards the sound of the voice and, as he did, Skinner realised that the sun was shining on the barrel of the carbine he held. Vaudan did not drop his pistol. Instead he swung it up towards the glint of light.

Skinner's single shot took him square in the forehead. For a second he stood stock-still; then, like a discarded marionette, he collapsed sideways against the car, his left shoulder wedging between the side mirror and the sloping windscreen. Thus jammed, he hung there, head lolling, eyes glazed, and blood trickling slowly down his nose from the hole just above its bridge.

The carbine hung loosely in Skinner's hands. He lay still on his mat, his face suddenly as bloodless as that of his young companion.

Eventually the green-uniformed private prodded him, gently. `
Senor
?' He pointed towards the grotesquely trapped Vaudan.
'Es morte
?'

Skinner looked at him in silence for a few seconds, feeling his colour return. 'Oh yes, son. He's dead. He points a gun at me and he's fucking dead all right. That's the way it is.'

A slow smile crept over his face. He patted the young man on the shoulder, and pressed the carbine into his hands. 'That was a fine shot of yours,' he said in pidgin Spanish. He patted him again. 'Hero.'

The private looked back at him blankly.

The smile left Skinner's face. He stood up and motioned to the man to follow him down the hillside towards the villa, where nothing moved and a funereal silence hung in the air.