Aftershock

Eighty-nine

The afternoon was at its hottest, but it can be virtually impossible to hail a taxi on the street in Monaco, and so by the time they reached the foot of the Avenue d’Ostende, Skinner and McGuire were both happy to see the shade offered by one of the bars along the quai Albert I. They ordered two mugs of Heineken and collapsed into chairs, looking out into the harbour, which was dominated by the bulk of the Lady Moura, a private yacht large enough to have a helicopter parked on a pad at the stern.

‘You know,’ said McGuire, wearily, ‘this guy could come and go without us having a bloody clue. Look at that thing there. Do you reckon that everyone who flies in there clears Customs?’

‘No,’ the DCC agreed, ‘and there’s no way we’ll get a search warrant for it either.’

His colleague pointed to the sky. ‘Do you reckon those are gulls up there, or could they be wild geese?’

‘That’s a possibility,’ Skinner admitted. ‘If it turns out that way, I’ll pay for this trip as penance for dragging you away from important business in Edinburgh.’

‘This is important.’

‘So’s the reopening of the Ballester investigation. Andy’s got proof that he didn’t kill any of those four people.’

‘Fuck!’ McGuire whispered. ‘You have to be kidding, boss. Tell me you’re kidding.’

‘How I would love to, but I can’t.’

‘But all the evidence was there, at the scene of his death. He must have had an accomplice.’

‘Mario, you’ve been over those inquiry files, over and over. In your wildest, can you see any of them as a two-man job?’

No,’ he admitted. ‘That’s not a runner: which means that Drazen planted all that stuff.’

‘Aye, that’s how it looks.’ The big DCC drained his glass in a single swallow. ‘But that’s all in Scotland and we’re here. Decision time. Another here, or do we go back to the hotel?’

‘To be honest, boss, I feel the need of efficient air-conditioning.’

By a small miracle, the first car they saw as they stepped on to the nearby boulevard was a taxi, with its light on. McGuire gave the driver no choice about picking them up by stepping into the roadway and stopping it. Less than five minutes later, it pulled up outside the Hôtel Columbus.

Heavy-legged, the two Scots climbed the steps to the lobby. Skinner was leading the way into the bar, to the right of the reception desk, when McGuire grabbed him by the arm, stopping him in mid-stride. He turned, to see his colleague wide-eyed.

A man stood a few feet away; his back was to them, as was that of the woman by his side. He was six feet tall, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. He wore a white T-shirt, decorated with a logo, a quotation from something or other, and below it, in large letters, the word ‘Margaritaville’.

They stared at him for a second or two, no more, before Skinner pulled his head of CID after him, inelegantly, into the bar, out of sight.