Aftershock

Fifty-two

It was Aileen who answered the call. ‘Hello, Andy,’ she said warmly. ‘I’m sorry about the poisoned chalice you’ve been handed. If my Lord Advocate had a bit more steel about him, it wouldn’t have been necessary.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he told her. ‘It’s on the way to being sorted.’

‘Ooh! That sounds as if it could mean trouble for someone.’

‘Private embarrassment, maybe. Mind you, that assumes that the geezer in question is capable of feeling embarrassed for longer than it takes him to straighten his tie.’ He could hear mellow music in the background. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘Melissa Etheridge. I put it on to help Bob chill out.’

‘He’s moved on. It used to take half a dozen beers and a couple of Del Amitri albums.’

‘Don’t worry, he’s working on the beers. He even took one into the shower with him, as soon as the Cortes woman left. You’ve spoken to the boys, have you?’

‘Yes. They’ve brought me up to speed. This must have been a hell of a shock for you. You okay?’

‘Me? I’m fine. Shocked, yes, and sad about the poor woman, but I learned a long time ago that life isn’t for the squeamish.’ She paused. ‘Here’s Bob.’

Martin waited as she handed the phone over. ‘You a fucking magnet?’ he said, as Skinner came on the line.

‘Hush now, boy. That’s exactly how I feel. It’s as if somebody’s taking the piss, Andy, right on my own doorstep. And when I told them what’s been happening in Scotland! The fucking thing’s following me around, man. Eventually I had to stop being diplomatic, and pull rank, hard, with the investigating officer, Intendant Cortes. I’m glad I’m Comisario Skinner, and not a civilian, or she’d still be putting the fucking thumbscrews on me.’

‘Have they made any headway so far?’

‘No danger. They’re going to have to put out an appeal for witnesses, but even that’s not going to be easy. It’s not just a matter of putting something in the press and on telly. I’ll guarantee you that, right now, at least half the people in this town don’t speak Spanish, far less read it. They’ll have to put up posters in English, French and German, maybe even Russian.’

‘What about the woman’s background? Is there anybody there?’

‘Hah!’ Skinner grunted. ‘Know what her day job was before she became a full-time painter? The lad who identified her was friendly with her; he told us. She was a nun. She studied art in the convent; when it became clear that she had a real talent, she decided that the way she could use it best was by devoting it to God. That meant leaving her convent, to be free to travel, but she gives most of the money she makes from her work to her order. So nobody’s looking for a jilted boyfriend.’

‘Who are they looking for?’

‘After what I told them they’re looking for Davis Colledge, as a first step. I called his father, and told him what had happened. He still hasn’t heard from the boy, or so he said.’

‘Do you fancy him for it?’ asked Martin.

‘He’s a possible for Sugar Dean, and Collioure’s a short hop from here, so he can’t be ignored. But then there’s the copycat thing. Sugar’s body was moved, but this one looks like a carbon copy of the Ballester jobs. How would Davis know how they were done? How would anybody know?’

‘I may have a lead on that.’ He told his friend about his interrogation of Dowley.

‘It was him?’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘All that fuss was to cover his own indiscretion?’

‘That’s not what he says, but it’s a fair conclusion.’

‘Are you going to copy your report to the Lord Advocate? We might be able to get rid of the bastard.’

‘No,’ said Martin, firmly. ‘I report to Jimmy, that’s all.’

‘In that case I may do something about it. . once I’ve cleaned up my own mess.’

‘You’re finished in Spain, though, aren’t you?’

‘Cortes has promised to brief me regularly on her investigation but, yes, I hope we are. We’re due to fly home on Saturday. Unless the Colledge lad shows up, of course.’ He sighed. ‘But there’s something I’ve got to do in Scotland, pal.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I have to give a formal statement to Neil. I remembered something this morning, when I was down town getting the bread and the Daily Telegraph. Guess where I was on the morning of Sugar Dean’s murder? Murrayfield fucking Golf Club, that’s where, as a guest at a Criminal Justice golf outing, organised by the Law Society. The courts weren’t sitting that day, so they invited people from all sides of the system; lawyers, judges, cops, the lot.

‘But know what, Andy?’ Skinner sighed wearily. ‘Maybe these murders aren’t following me around. Maybe I’m following them.’