Aftershock

Fifty-nine

‘But apart from that, Mrs Lincoln,’ said Bob, ‘how did you enjoy the play?’

Aileen lifted her head from the sun-lounger; her pale blue eyes stared blankly at him. ‘Eh?’ And then his meaning dawned on her. She pushed herself up on her forearms, until her nipples were just clear of the towel on which she lay; the midday sun glistened on the sheen of perspiration that it had brought to her back, her buttocks, her long legs. ‘Apart from the abortive trip to France to interview a witness. . which wasn’t too bad. . and you finding a body across the bay. . which was. . I’ve had a lovely time.’ She smiled, then blew away a strand of blonde hair that had found its way into the corner of her mouth. ‘As a matter of fact I’m still having it. I could easily stand this for another week or so.’

‘Me too,’ he conceded. ‘But you’ve got a country to run and I’ve got a job to get back to. Maybe we can fit in a week with the kids during the school half-term in October. Sarah and I are agreed that it’s too short for them to go to America.’

‘You miss them, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do, love, but that’s the way it has to be.’

‘Not necessarily. I know couples who stay together for the sake of their children, and nothing else. If you went to America and said to Sarah, “Come back and let’s give it another go, for Mark, James Andrew and Seonaid,” don’t you think she might?’

‘No, not for a second. She might say, “You stay here and we’ll give it a go,” but that’s not going to happen either.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘We’ve been over this. She doesn’t love me, and I don’t love her. I love you, and that’s it.’

‘But didn’t you once?’

‘Maybe, but I’m not so sure of that any more. If I did, if we did, at some point it just stopped. There’s no way back, even if you and her new boyfriend weren’t factors.’

The killer blue eyes widened. ‘Sarah has a new man? How did you find that out?’

‘There are no secrets between the Jazzer and his dad. He told me.’

Aileen laughed. ‘Will I remember that?’

‘Cuts both ways. When I tell him we’re getting married, his mum will be the next to know.’

‘You’ve got something to do before that happens.’

‘Yes,’ he said firmly, ‘and I will, if I don’t get arrested first. It’s fucking weird, Aileen, the way that these killings all manage to have links to me. If I was running this thing on the ground, I’d be my own chief suspect.’

‘Just as well you’re not. You’re so bloody conscientious, you’d lock yourself up.’ Her laugh faded as she saw his expression. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

His frown deepened, highlighting the scar above the bridge of his nose. ‘Grave-walking. Do you ever have thoughts that cross your mind so fast you can’t catch them?’

‘No, but I reckon I know several opposition politicians who do.’ Her smile restored his. ‘And you don’t have to lock yourself up,’ she added. ‘I’m your alibi for the latest murder.’

‘Honey-child,’ he told her, ‘just about the time Nada Sebastian was killed, I got out of bed, went downstairs, swam for about twenty minutes, dried myself off and got back into bed. That’s the first you knew of it, isn’t it?’

She looked at him, as if his eyes would tell her whether he was serious.

‘Isn’t it?’ he repeated.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes indeed. I’ve never told you this before, but you could sleep for Scotland. So you’re a lousy alibi.’

‘I could lie.’

‘Thanks, but you’d make an even worse liar.’

‘No worse than you, I’m happy to say.’ She rolled off the lounger, and on to his, on to him, along his length, her arms on his chest, her palms on his shoulders. ‘That’s how I’ll know,’ she murmured, gazing down at him, ‘if the moment comes when you stop loving me.’

‘It won’t,’ he promised, sliding his hands down her back, cupping them around her firm buttocks and pressing her into him. ‘You’re different. You fill me up. You make me truly happy. You make me believe I could achieve anything. . even filling Proud Jimmy’s uniform.’

‘Then go get it.’ She lowered her lips to his. ‘Speaking of filling up,’ she murmured, as the kiss ended, ‘how about. .’

From the other side of the house, they heard the door chime. ‘How about we just ignore that?’ he suggested.

‘Second that.’

They heard the sound again, and again and a fourth time. ‘Bugger.’ He sighed. ‘It’s the police. Can’t be anyone else, not as persistent as that.’

‘Whoever it is,’ said Aileen, ‘you’d better cover the bulge in those trunks.’

‘And you’d better hide upstairs.’

‘Sounds like a deal to me.’

He picked up his towelling robe and put it on, knotting its cord firmly, then walked to the door, just as its warning chimed for a fifth time. He twisted the handle and jerked it open. Intendant Josefina Cortes stood there, cool in her uniform shirt, a yellow folder in her hand. ‘Bon dia, Comisario,’ she said, in Catalan.

‘And a good day to you too.’ He held the door wider for her to enter. ‘What do you have to tell me? Have you made an arrest?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Have you?’

‘You may not have noticed,’ he said, ‘but I’m off duty. My people don’t report to me every step of the way. Last I heard we had a guy in court this morning on holding charges relating to the Edinburgh murder, but we’re still looking for young Colledge.’

Cortes’s expression frosted over. ‘You did not tell me yesterday about this other man.’

‘True, because he may not have done it. So? What brings you here?’

She waved the folder she was carrying. ‘I have the autopsy report. I thought you might like to see it.’

‘I appreciate that,’ said Skinner, ‘but to be honest, I don’t really fancy looking at photographs of brain tissue and extracted organs. Summarise it for me. Shot dead, yes?’

‘Yes, as we knew already. The pathologist believes she died at around seven thirty in the morning. We talked to her neighbours in Bellcaire. One of them told us that she liked to sketch very early, and to take photographs of the sea and the town with the sun low in the sky. She had a digital camera, a very good one, the man said. We found several images on her computer to bear out his story.’

‘No camera, no sketchbook, no clothes: the killer took the lot.’

‘We found her clothes,’ Cortes told him. ‘They were in one of the basuras, the public rubbish bins, in the street that goes behind the beach nearest the town. We’re looking for traces of the criminal on them, but. . it was a mess in there.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘No.’›

‘So he has the camera and the pad.’

‘It seems so.’

‘If there is no connection with the Edinburgh murder. . that is, if it wasn’t the Colledge lad who did it. . you’re back to it being an opportunist killing. In that case the killer might try to sell the camera.’

‘We are looking for that all across the region. We recovered the serial number from the studio in Bellcaire.’

‘What about the bullet? Did you recover that?’

‘Sí. As you suspected it was small calibre. We’re not sure, but our scientific people think it may have been fired from a modified starting pistol, or a replica firearm.’

‘Which might imply a degree of skill on the killer’s part?’

‘Exactly.’

‘That gives me something to go on. I’ll ask my team to check up on what the boy did at his school. We know already that he was in the CCF.’

‘What is that?’

‘Military cadets.’

‘You did not tell me that either.’

‘True. Forgive me, Intendant, but if you had caught up with Davis Colledge in Spain, I didn’t want your people shooting first, then checking to see if he was armed.’ He saw outrage rise in her eyes, and forestalled it. ‘And don’t tell me that only happens in London.’

‘Maybe not,’ she admitted.

He turned back towards the open door, a hint that her visit was over. ‘Thanks for that information. I’ll call my officers straight away, and tell them about the camera too. Who knows? When they find the kid, he might just have it.’

‘Merci,’ she said. ‘You’ll keep me informed when you return to Scotland?’

‘Yes. You’ll get me there as of tomorrow evening.’ He opened a drawer in a hall table, and took out a card. ‘These are my business numbers. Mobile’s usually best.’

He closed the door as she left, and went straight to the phone. McIlhenney was away from his office, but his number was on voicemail. He left brief instructions to check on Colledge’s metalworking capability, then hung up.

Aileen looked at him as he hung his robe behind the door of the en-suite bathroom. ‘I see you’re not in the mood any more.’ She chuckled.

‘I wouldn’t say that, but there’s no time to do you justice, First Minister. Get yourself ready; we’re out of here. One last surprise: I’ve booked us a room in the Hotel Arts in Barcelona, and arranged a lift down there. Our pick-up comes in an hour and a half. It’s the last night of our holiday and we will spend it where no bastard can find us.’