Skinner's Trail (8 page)

Seventeen

W
h
en Bob returned to Fairyhouse Avenue, he found the scene already set in the nursery for the ritual of Jazz Skinner's first bathtime before guests in his new home.

Sarah's advance planning had been meticulous. The yellow plastic bath was in place, held in its collapsible frame beside a low changing table, and a simple wooden stool stood between the two. Andy Martin and Alex had arrived ahead of schedule and, to Sarah's surprise, together in Alex's car. They stood in a corner of the bright nursery and looked on as the new mother undressed her infant, dumped his disposable nappy, wrapped around its colourful contents, in a lined bin beneath the table, and gave him a preliminary wipe before lowering him carefully into the warm water.

Jazz chuckled as the water lapped over his skin, and he kicked his long, strong legs in pleasure, splashing his mother's apron, and his father's slacks. When the waves subsided, Sarah washed him gently with Johnson's soap. It was only when she began to shampoo his dark hair that the baby's equanimity was broken, as he screwed up his eyes and whimpered.

When she had rinsed off the last of the suds, she looked up at Bob. `
H
ow'm I doing then, Dad?'

Well, as the only person here with relevant experience, I'd say you were doing okay. So would Jazz, I think.' With the
annoyance of the suds behind him, the baby had resumed his energetic kicking. 'Better get him out of there before he empties the bath!'

`Okay. You can do the next bit.' Sarah lifted him from the bath and laid him on a soft fluffy blue towel which Bob had spread on the table. She stood to the side and watched as her husband dressed his son for the night, greasing his bottom liberally with Vaseline before fitting the bulky disposable nappy, then easing him — arms first, then legs — into the one-piece white sleep-suit. All the time, he spoke to Jazz in a matter-of-fact way. 'It amazes me, you know, wee pal, looking at that last nappy, how the stuff you get out of your mother converts into the stuff that comes out of you. I suppose there are some things in life that it's better not to know. What d'you think?'

Jazz blew a bubble in response. Bob nodded. 'Yes, I suppose that's as good an answer as any!'

Sarah smiled. As he lifted up the baby with both hands, supporting his head as he passed him to Alex, she reflected on the change that fatherhood had wrought in Bob Skinner. The troubled man of the summer before had vanished. Bob seemed to have despatched his private demons. Sarah hoped that they were gone for good.

Alex's laughter broke her mood. 'Hey, brother, wrong chest!' As she cradled the baby in her arms his mouth was searching, puckering, feeling for her breast through her shirt.

Sarah reached out her arms. 'It's that time again, Jazz. Come to Momma.' She took the baby from Alex and walked over to a low seat by the window, flicking open the buttons of her blouse as she went. Seated, and holding Jazz in the crook of her left arm, she tugged at the hooks of her nursing bra.

`Goddam contraption! Necessary though, Alex. One doesn't want them to start the long journey south before their time.' She freed her left breast, and Jazz set to feeding at once, sucking hungrily. As she settled back in her chair, Sarah's eye was caught by Andy Martin, edging self-consciously towards the door. 'What's the matter, Andy? Never seen one of these things before?'

`Sure, but always in pairs, and never in use.'

`Get accustomed to it, then, man. This here is Nineties woman.' She paused, then looked up again, struck by a sudden thought. I'm sorry, you two. Everybody here's been fed but you. Alex, take Andy downstairs and find yourselves some supper.'

`Thanks, Sarah,' said Andy, 'but we've got a table booked at the Loon Fung for nine-thirty. I thought that Alex could use some lemon chicken to give her a break from all that studying.'

Sarah thrust out her bottom lip in a petulant gesture. `Lucky Alex. That just makes me think of the downside of this here bundle of joy. My social life's his from now on.'

`Hah!' said Alex. 'I weep for you. I'm sitting finals in two weeks, while you're off to Spain.'

`Yeah,' said Bob. life's a bitch, kid.

`Well, make up for it. Get us a drink. I'll call a taxi for nine-twenty.'

Bob led the way downstairs. He disappeared into the kitchen, and re-emerged with three uncapped bottles of Sol beer.

`The Loon Fung, eh,' he said, grinning, as he handed them round. 'Should I be giving you the heavy father routine, Martin?'

`Don't you dare!' said Alex with a sharp edge to her voice
which was not entirely affected — and which took Bob by surprise. `I'm Nineties woman, too. Anyway, Andy's . . . well, Andy's . . . Andy. He's my mate. Isn't that right Superintendent?' Martin smiled and nodded sheepishly, his green eyes shining. He looked suddenly younger than thirty-something, just as Alex could be taken for mid rather than early twenties.

Bob grinned and shrugged his shoulders. 'Sure, what the hell. I keep forgetting that Andy's known you since you were smoking in the bike sheds.'

Alex looked at him, surprised. 'How did you . . .?'

`Don't be daft, kid. Everyone smokes in the bike shed when they're eleven!'

Andy laughed and took a mouthful of beer. 'When are you going to Spain?'

`I'm back in the office on Tuesday. There's a Police Board meeting on Wednesday, and I'm standing in for the Chief, so I'll go in on the day before to brief myself. I'm in for the rest of the week, then we head off on the following Tuesday.'

`How are you travelling?'

`By car, slowly. You know me, normally I just blaze down there. But this time, with the baby, we'll have a couple of overnight stops: on the ferry and then down in France. Sarah's never been to Cherbourg, so we're taking that route. It's a nice drive at this time of year.'

`Will you see Maggie out there?'

`Not unless the Spanish find Big Lennie. If they don't she'll be back by then. I'll be in the shit if they do turn up our man. Sarah'll kill me if I have to go down to Alicante. Apart from it being our first holiday with Jazz, I've promised her I'll do some writing when I'm out there. I'm taking my Powerbook.'

`Have you indeed! Memoirs?'

`Not yet. No, it'll be the theory and practice of police and security work. This is the age of open government and it should be the age of open policing too, as far as we can manage. But the public don't have the faintest idea of what our job's really like. All they know comes from fictional characters, and all of them are still at chief inspector rank in their fifties. It hasn't dawned on the public that if these guys were that fucking clever they'd have made chief super at least! Anyway, as for Maggie, she's well south of L'Escala, and she should be back before I leave. I think big Brian Mackie's a bit huffy that she got to go instead of him. But when I said to him "
Que tal, senor?
" and he said "Eh?" in response, he sort of blew his case out of the water!'

`Any feedback yet?'

`Give the woman a chance. She only got there this afternoon. Anyway, big Lennie's had a three-day start on us. Chances are he's cashed up and he's in South America already.'

The doorbell rang.

`That must be your taxi. Have a nice meal. And don't be late home, girl!'

Alex glared at him over her shoulder as she headed for the door.

Eighteen

When did Maggie's report come in?'

`She faxed yesterday morning from the Guardia Civil office in Alicante. I was going to send it out to you, but Ruth vetoed that idea!'

Skinner laughed. 'She's a good girl, my secretary. She sees herself as my personal Rottweiler. So where is it, then, this report the boss wasn't allowed to see?'

Roy Old passed a yellow folder across the desk.

`Thanks.' Skinner took it from him and flipped it open. The neatness and precision of the typed lay-out were typical of Maggie Rose, and the text itself was, as ever, concise and informative. He scanned down the page.

Fax message ACC Skinner from

DI Rose.

Summary:

Plenderleith has been in Alicante, but the likelihood is that he has now left the area, and very probably that he has left Spain. The Banco Central account has been emptied, and the traveller's cheques cashed. Cocozza's
story of a potential investment seems to hold up, but there have been no sightings of Plenderleith at that location.

Main points:

1) Guardia co-operation has been excellent. On the day of my arrival, I was asked to brief local media on my visit at a press conference arranged by the GC commander. Press and television have carried details of the story, with photographs of Plenderleith. Significantly there have been no reported sightings.

2) I visited the Banco Central on Friday with the GC commander, who overcame quickly the manager's reluctance to discuss account details. His senior assistant, on sight of Plenderleith's photograph, confirmed that he visited the bank on Monday morning and withdrew all the funds on deposit. He also cashed all of his traveller's cheques.

The assistant, who speaks good English, asked him why he needed such a large amount of cash. Plenderleith said that he was putting down a deposit on an apartment. The Guardia are not best pleased with the bank, which is expected to keep it informed of foreign nationals moving large amounts of cash.

3) Since Friday, the Guardia has contacted all banks in the Alicante area, and has confirmed that no other accounts exist, or have been opened, in Plenderleith's name.

4) On Saturday, I visited Rancho del Sol, the club/timeshare complex in which Cocozza claimed that Manson was thinking of making an investment.

Advance intelligence gathered by the GC confirmed that the place is for sale. Officially it belongs to a development company, but behind that the real owner is a Barcelona gangster who has just begun a twenty-year jail sentence for drug-dealing.

The manager had never heard of Plenderleith. Nor did he recognise the photograph.

5) There is a report that a man answering P
l
enderleith's description bought a plane ticket for Morocco on Monday afternoon, paying in cash. The flight, a holiday charter, left on Tuesday morning. The operator keeps no record of whether bookings are taken up, but the supposition must be that Plenderleith has left European Union territory.

Recommendations:

That the Guardia Civil be asked to retain Plenderleith on their wanted list, against the possibility, however unlikely, that he may be in Spain.

That the authorities in Morocco should be asked to confirm, if possible, Plenderleith's arrival in that country, and if so, to institute a search within their territory.

That other forces be alerted through Interpol.

The Guardia Civil are continuing a sweep of the many hostels and campsites in the Alicante area. In line with your orders, I will remain until Friday to assist them in that task.

Skinner put the folder down on his
desk, and
looked up at Roy Old. 'Doesn't seem much room for doubt in that, does there?'

`Not much, sir. If the big yin's pulled his cash and jumped across to North Africa, he could be anywhere now. Christ, he could have joined the bloody legion!'

Skinner laughed. 'Maybe we should send Maggie to check that out!

`Okay, Roy, thanks for that. I'll send Maggie a response. On your way past, would you ask Ruth McConnell to look in here.'

Old acknowledged the request — and his own dismissal —with a nod. Less than a minute later, Skinner heard his secretary's soft knock on the door. 'Come in.' he shouted.

`You wanted to see me?'

`Yes, Ruth, thanks. I'd like you to send DI Rose a fax in Alicante. Thank her for her report, confirm that she should remain there on duty until the end of the week. Tell her she can travel back whenever she likes over the weekend, but that I'd like to touch base with her on Monday here, before I head off myself. Will you ask her also to spend some more time at Rancho del Sol, and to find out as much as she can about the place, and its owner. If he's doing time for drug offences, it may be that he connects into Manson's operation. If he does, maybe we can identify some of the other points in the supply chain.

`Got all that?' Ruth nodded. 'Good. Knock something out along those lines and I'll sign it. Before you do that, ask Alan Royston to step up and see me. Tell him I want to issue a press release on the basis of Maggie's report.'

`Very good. By the way, did you see the note in your diary about Mr Pitkeathly?'

For a second, Skinner looked puzzled; then the conversation in the Barnton Hotel came back to him. 'I missed that. What have you fixed up?'

`Lunchtime. He suggested it, and I decided that would be
best for you, too. He's booked a table at Ladolcevito for one o'clock. He said he thought that would be fairly discreet.' `That's nice of him. I hope I can help him.'

Nineteen

The
diminutive Mr V welcomed Skinner like a long-lost brother to his smart bistro restaurant in Hanover Street, and showed him to a table in the small downstairs bar, where Greg Pitkeathly was waiting.

The thin man stood up, hand outstretched. 'Good of you to see me, Mr Skinner. I hope this lunchtime arrangement is all right for you.'

`Mmm. Sure. But I'd have been happy to fit you in at Fettes in the course of the day.'

Not at all. This is the least I can do. I thought I'd be lucky to get to see a constable, and here I am telling my story to Scotland's most famous detective.'

Their opening exchange was interrupted by Mr V, as he handed them leather-bound menus. 'I have given you the table in the far corner, Mr Pitkeathly. You won't be disturbed there. You want to go up now, yes?'

They rose and followed the little restaurateur, carrying their menus as they climbed the narrow staircase in single file. As he surveyed the long dining room lit by the May sunshine flooding through its south-facing windows, Skinner smiled inwardly at Pitkeathly's notion of discretion. He knew that, while Ladolcevito might not be the largest restaurant in Edinburgh, it was one of the most popular with the city's chattering classes.

As he followed his host across to the table in the far left-hand corner, he recognised and nodded to a Sunday newspaper editor, two business journalists and four chartered surveyors, all assiduous grinders of the rumour mill. He wondered what would be made of his lunchtime meeting.

They chose identical items from the
á
la carte menu
, stracciatella followed by pan-fried steak, and Pitkeathly ordered a bottle of red Caruso, the meaty house wine. As the proprietor strolled off to the kitchen, the thin man picked up the tan leather briefcase which he had been carrying, rolled the combinations into place and flicked it open. He withdrew a yellow folder and placed it on the table.

`How long have you owned property in L'Escala, Mr Skinner?' he asked.

`Bob, please. It'll be around ten years now. I went there first on holiday with my daughter to a rented apartment up behind Montgo Bay. We both loved the place. I had some spare cash at the time, and so I bought a two-bed in a block which was being finished off in the same development. The peseta was dirt cheap then, and I was able to forward-buy currency, which made it an even better deal.

Pitkeathly's brow furrowed for a second. 'I thought Peter Payne said you had a villa.'

Skinner nodded. 'That's right. A couple of years after we bought, an old aunt died and left me her house . . . I always think of old Auntie Jessie with great affection. I didn't need another house at the time, and certainly not a huge bloody thing in Aberfeldy with two and a half acres attached. So I sold the land to a builder, and the house to a couple who wanted to turn it into a nursing home, put half the proceeds into an investment trust with a Japanese portfolio, and the other half
into a really nice three-bedroom villa up on Puig Pedro, overlooking the bay. It has a sort of pool, more of a swimming puddle really, in the garden . . . and very heavy shutters for when the Tramuntana blows down over the Pyrenees.'

`Oh yes,' said Pitkeathly. The famous L'Escala north wind. Tell me, did you have much trouble selling your apartment?'

`I didn't try. I still own it, but I rent it out. I advertise in police publications, and I let only to coppers, active or retired. Being who I am, I never have any problem tenants. A very nice English lady called Mary manages it for me. It's hardly ever empty, and so the income covers all my overhead expenses out there, and puts fruit in the bowl as well. I'm a lucky guy, in every way. But tell me about you, Greg, and about your problem.'

Pitkeathly paused while Mr V's young waitress served the soup. He tasted the Caruso, which the wine waiter had opened, and nodded his approval. The young man filled the two glasses. As the staff then withdrew, he offered Skinner bread from a small basket.

`I've been in L'Escala for three years,' he began. 'Just to fill you in on my background, I own and run a medium-sized printing business called GFP. I have an office in Stafford Street, but my printing shop is in Slateford. I supply letterheads, computer stationery, labels, and marketing materials, mostly to professionals and service businesses: lawyers, accountants, surveyors, PR consultancies, and so forth. My wife and I started the business fifteen years ago, and we've built the turnover steadily ever since. We don't have children, so we're both fully committed to the job. Even through the worst of the recession, we managed to make modest profits, and in the better years we've done quite well. We reinvest profits in plant and machinery, to ensure that we are always up with the
technology. Quick response to customer needs is very important, and we have to maintain that capability.'

He sipped some wine, and continued. 'In the early years we pushed all of our spare money into our pension fund, and through that we bought the property which we occupy, and the factory unit next door to us — for possible expansion, you understand. About five years ago, with the business stable, the pension fund very healthy, and good back-up staff in place, we began to think that we should enjoy some of the fruits of success. So we started to look around for a holiday home. We decided that it should be reachable by car, since Jean doesn't like flying too much. And since I don't like the French too much, the Costa Brava was the obvious place. We did our research through the Sunday Times, approached a few companies with properties advertised, and took a trip out there to look at some of them. We saw Pals, Liafranc, Pallafrugel and L'Estartit, before we came upon L'Escala. But once we did, we were hooked. It was just the right size and had just the right feel to it.'

He glanced at Skinner. 'The L'Escala properties which we had arranged to view were being handled by a company called InterCosta. Does the name mean anything to you?'

Skinner thought for a moment. 'Yes, I think it does. Don't they have an office on the Passeig Maritim?'

`Yes, that's right. InterCosta seems to be some sort of limited partnership, operating in Spain and in the UK. In Scotland in fact. Our first contact, through the Sunday Times, was with an office in Stirling, in a business centre there, run by a man named Ainscow, Paul Ainscow. Have you ever heard of him?'

`Yes. I've even met him. A neighbour introduced us a few years back, in the bar of El Golf Isabel. A nice enough bloke,
as I remember. Not as flashy as most of the property guys. I knew he was in that line, but I didn't connect him with InterCosta. I've seen him around a couple of times since then, so you could say we're nodding acquaintances.'

Pitkeathly grimaced. 'I hope that doesn't make the rest of my story awkward for you.'

`Let's see. Go on.'

`Well, we didn't meet Ainscow on that first trip. We were received by his Spanish director, a man named Santiago Alberni. He's a good English speaker, a very outgoing chap, and he couldn't do enough for us. He showed us two apartments in the price range we specified. One was quite noisy, with a lot of people around the pool, but the other was very quiet, and very secluded, away up at the top of the Riells area, almost in the woods, with a small garden and a south-facing terrace. Jean loved it, so we did some ritual haggling and bought it, furniture and fittings included. Santi was a big help to us settling in, and in lots of other ways. He told us where the best shops were, which restaurants to avoid, and so on. He's a great chap, and seems to have lots of friends, especially among the British community.'

He paused in his narrative to attack his stracciatella. Skinner replaced his spoon in his empty bowl.

`Yes, I've heard of Santi Alberni. I have several friends who know him, but I've never met him. Most of what I've heard squares with your experience. I did hear that he's just bought a new villa in Camp dels Pilans, where most of the head boys in the town hall live. So how did your problem arise?'

Pitkeathly took another sip of wine as the soup bowls were removed. 'That happened only recently.'

He paused as the staff returned with the main course.

Skinner looked in appreciation at his steak, which had been hammered flat, then delicately fried in a pepper sauce and garnished with a few vegetables. They ate in silence for perhaps thirty seconds before Pitkeathly put down his cutlery. `You don't mind if I go on while we're eating, do you?'

Skinner shook his head, and Pitkeathly launched into the next chapter in his story.

`Our new apartment was fine for the first couple of years, as we got to know L'Escala. But after a while, the downside began to develop. The honking Belgians for a start. I don't know if you've noticed, but the common-or-garden domestic Spanish brick has remarkable acoustic properties. It gives you no sound-proofing at all. In fact it does the opposite: it seems to carry sound. Well, a Belgian couple owned the apartment above us, a big beefy pair, and they always seemed to be there at the same time as us. Their bedroom was directly above ours, and they seemed to be at it non-stop. Like it or not — and we didn't — Jean and I heard every grunt, every moan, every groan, every squeaking spring. We used to read until the performance was over, because there was no point in trying to sleep through it. That was a major irritation, but there were others. The roads aren't great up there, and every time it rained, new ruts and valleys appeared. Also, while it was very secluded, conversely we were a long way from the centre, so we tended to drive everywhere. Finally, as time went on, we made more and more friends among the British property owners. It wasn't long before we had quite a social circle out there.'

Skinner nodded. 'I know what you're going to say now. You were invited to lots of drinks parties and, before you knew it, you discovered that your apartment was just too small for you to entertain properly. Am I right?'

Pitkeathly had returned to his steak. He nodded vigorously as he finished the mouthful.

`Spot on! That's just how it was. So the upshot of it all was that last autumn we went to Santi, and told him that we were interested in a move. That very same day, he took us to see a new development up behind Avinguda Girona, near the Guardia Civil barracks. He said that the builder was under pressure from his bank, and that he had cut his prices to achieve quick sales. Even as incomplete shells, they were beautiful apartments. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a big terrace looking out on the Pyrenees, all built to a very high standard, and all for eight million pesetas.'

Skinner did a mental calculation. 'That's under forty K at last year's exchange rate. Sounds like a good buy.'

`It was. It is. We did the deal. As a sweetener, Santi said that he would sell the other place for us at zero commission, and that he would get us over five million for it. He was as good as his word. We were due to take possession of the new place at Easter, and, in January, Paul Ainscow called to say that they had sold the old one for five million two. The buyers were a couple from Sussex named Comfort. I've never met them, not to this day. When he called us to give us the good news, Ainscow said that the Comforts had paid a deposit — around twenty per cent or so; those were his exact words — and that InterCosta had credited that amount towards the purchase of the new apartment. A few days later we received a receipt, bearing the company stamp, from Santi Alberni for one million pesetas.'

He frowned for a moment before continuing. 'So far so good. We were due to complete both transactions at Easter, before the notary in L'Escala, only there was a hitch. The
Comforts were involved in a bad car accident in March and were both hospitalised. We thought that the whole thing might collapse, but the Comforts gave power of attorney to a local lawyer, and we went to completion of both sale and purchase. Santi, the builder of our new place, the Comforts' lawyer, Jean and I all turned up at the notary's office. We had a certified cheque for two-point-eight million, the balance of our purchase price, on top of what we were due for the old place. We did our sale first. The notary took us through the deed, noted the price and we were all ready to sign on the dotted. But when the Comforts' lawyer presented their cheque, it was only for three-point-seven million, not the four-point-two we were expecting. We looked at Santi, and he looked puzzled. He swore blind that he had only received one million from Ainscow. We showed the lawyer our receipt from Santi, but he showed us a receipt given to the Comforts by Ainscow for one
-
point-five million pesetas. I have copies of them both in here.' He tapped the yellow file.

Skinner looked across the table. Pitkeathly's brow was knotted with concern. 'So what did you do?'

`We didn't have much choice. We could have scrapped the deal with the Comforts, but frankly, we needed their cheque, even if it was half a million light. So we went through with it, and I wrote a second cheque on our Spanish bank account for the missing half million, assuming, or hoping at least, that it was all a misunderstanding and that Santi would sort it out with Ainscow.'

`And didn't he?'

`No. He told us that Ainscow was on holiday in America. So we said, sod it all; we decided to forget about it until we got home, and to clear things up ourselves with Ainscow. We spent
the rest of our trip fitting out our new apartment. Quite frankly, if it did cost us half a million more, we've still got a bargain.' `And have you seen Ainscow?'

No, not yet. He wasn't due back from the States until last Friday, according to Santi. I did call his office once, but there was no reply. Eventually, Jean and I decided that it would be better to speak to the police. I hope you agree with us. It's no small sum after all, well over two thousand pounds, and it's more than a bit suspicious. I mean, even if Ainscow says sorry, it's all a mistake, and gives us half a million pesetas, how can we be sure that he isn't covering up? Maybe there are other people in the same boat as us.'