Aftershock

Forty-nine

Bob Skinner’s Spanish was better than he was prepared to admit, but not up to a professional situation, so he was more than pleased that Intendant Josefina Cortes, the Mossos d’Esquadra’s chief regional criminal investigator, had spent, as she was quick to tell him, two years on an exchange programme with the Los Angeles Police Department, and did not require him to put it to the test.

She was in uniform when she arrived at the crime scene, the insignia on her shoulders leaving no-one in any doubt as to who was the ranking officer. Her manner underlined the fact. She was in her mid-thirties, sharp and authoritative, and in no way subservient to Skinner, although she had been briefed on his background before her arrival.

‘You have an eye for detail,’ she asked, ‘or just a good memory? You look at this woman twice, hours apart, and know something is wrong. Did you not think that they might have been two different people?’

‘You reckon?’ he replied. ‘Two identically undressed women sunbathing on the same hidden spot on the same day? That would mean that someone killed the victim in broad daylight, in the middle of the day, in full view of anyone who happened to be watching from L’Escala, then bundled up her clothes and possessions and took them away.’

Cortes smiled. ‘You have a point, Comisario.’

‘Yes, but now you have me kicking myself that I didn’t catch on first time to what had happened.’

‘Would it have made any difference if you had?’

‘Of course. It would have meant that the person who did this would have been four hours closer to us.’

‘Us? You are not in Scotland now, señor. You are only a witness in this thing.’

Skinner snorted. ‘Only a witness? Rephrase that: I’m the only witness. This guy is good.’

‘You speak as if you have knowledge of him.’

‘I wish I did. This is a very surreal situation, Intendant.’

‘Surreal? I don’t see anything surreal about it. I see a dead woman with a bullet in her head, according to my medico. As soon as I find out who she is, I will look for a husband or a boyfriend, or maybe the wife of someone else’s husband or boyfriend.’

‘And maybe you’ll get lucky. I really hope you do. But if you’re wrong, we’ll have a really worrying situation. . and don’t correct me this time, for I’m saying “we” deliberately. In recent months, we’ve had four murders in Scotland that are practically identical to this one.’

‘Maybe,’ said Cortes, unconvinced, ‘but in Los Angeles in two years we had fifty homicides where the body looked like this, gunshot to the head.’

‘Edinburgh ain’t Los Angeles, señora. Our homicides were very specific. The first three cases have been closed, as the only suspect is dead, but two weeks ago there was a fourth killing, so similar to the others that my people in Scotland are concerned that somebody is imitating him.’

‘Yes, but that’s in Scotland.’

‘Indeed, but yesterday I was in France trying to help my colleagues by tracking down the boyfriend of the most recent victim. He’s supposed to be on holiday in Collioure, but he isn’t. He’s gone missing, last heard of at the train station in Perpignan. He could be anywhere. He could be here.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Davis Colledge. He’s eighteen years old.’

‘Why would he do this?’

Skinner looked at her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You know sometimes that’s the last question to be answered. There are people who say that there’s no such thing as a motiveless crime. I’m not one of them.’ He smiled, and flexed his shoulders: his FBI shirt was sweat-soaked, uncomfortable against his skin. ‘I agree with you on at least one thing, though. Our. .’ He paused. ‘Sorry, your first priority is to identify this woman. Whoever killed her did his best to make that difficult.’ He glanced across at the small forensic team that Cortes had brought with her. ‘Is that a Polaroid your guy has?’

Her eyes followed his. ‘Yes.’

‘Then ask him to take a snap of the woman: full face, close up.’

Cortes called across to the technician, who did as she ordered, then waited for the image to develop, shielding it from the sun with his hand. When it was ready, he brought it across.

‘Good,’ said Skinner. ‘Now, can I make a suggestion?’

‘Please.’

‘Let’s say this woman has been here before. Did she come for a swim off the rocks? Or just to take the sun in the morning before it got too high? She isn’t too heavily tanned; that suggests that she took some care of her skin. When she was finished, did she go home?’

‘Or maybe did she go for a coffee?’ the intendant murmured.

‘Exactly.’

‘Let’s check the hostal,’ she said, then glanced up at Skinner. ‘Would you like to come?’

‘I’d appreciate the professional courtesy,’ he replied.

A rough path led from the rocky outcrop towards the beach, and Hostal Empuries. At its end they had to climb a small fence, before reaching the walkway that Skinner and Aileen had taken that morning. He checked his stride, allowing Intendant Cortes to lead the way towards the building. Afternoon was edging into evening, but the small bay was still thronged with sunbathers and swimmers. Heads turned as they passed; eyes followed the uniform.

The same young waiter, half Catalan, half British, who had served them earlier was still on duty, near the top of the steps as they reached the terrace. He frowned, but approached them. ‘Hello again,’ he said, in English. ‘Is there a problem?’

Skinner realised that the crime scene was so far off the track that not even a rumour of the incident had spread to the beach. ‘Not for you,’ the Scot told him. ‘The officer has a photograph she’d like you to look at, to see if you can identify the person in it. I warn you, though: it’s not too pleasant.’

His frown deepened. He took the Polaroid from Cortes and looked at it. As he did so, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. ‘Fuck!’ he whispered. ‘Is she. .’ Skinner nodded. ‘Ah, madre!’ he cried, distressed.

‘You know her?’ Cortes demanded.

‘It’s Nada,’ he replied. ‘Nada Sebastian. She comes here a lot, most mornings, when the weather’s fine.’

‘Nada?’

‘Short for Nadine.’

‘Is she local?’ Skinner asked.

‘She lives in Bellcaire. Her studio’s there.’

‘Her studio?’

‘Yes. She’s an artist.’