Aftershock

Eighty-two

Her Majesty’s Honorary Consul in Monaco was not used to evening visits from British police officers, bearing copies of international warrants. Looking at the nervous little man, Skinner was not sure that he was used to anything disturbing his sunny days.

He was an expatriate named James Major, who maintained a small law office on the second floor of a building in rue des Orangers, not far from the port. The official crest above his nameplate at street level implied grander surroundings than those in which the Scot stood.

‘What is it you’re telling me?’ Major asked.

‘There’s a man we’ve been after,’ Skinner replied, ‘in connection with the death of a colleague of mine. He disappeared a few months ago. Since then we believe he’s found himself a new identity. His parents are flying down here tomorrow: we’re not certain, but we believe there’s a chance that he’ll show up here to meet them. If he does, I’m having him.’

‘Why are you telling me? This is a police matter.’

‘I’ll be meeting them in the morning. I’m talking to you to warn you that later this week, you could have a British citizen in jail here awaiting extradition. That will definitely be a Foreign Office matter. Unless I’m mistaken, in this part of the world, that means you.’

‘Extradition’s way beyond my remit,’ the man spluttered. ‘I’ll need to take advice from the consulate in Marseille.’

‘You can take advice from the Foreign Secretary’s mistress for all I care. If this man turns up here, I want him back in Britain as soon as possible after his identity is confirmed.’

‘Are you sure you have the authority to do this?’ asked Major, officiously.

Skinner stared at him. ‘Am I what?’ he whispered.

It dawned on the honorary consul that he might have drifted into dangerous waters. ‘It is rather off your beat, that’s all.’

‘Sunshine, this man killed one of my officers, someone I’ve known all through his career, someone I considered a friend. In his pursuit, there is nowhere, absolutely nowhere, that is off my beat.’