Skinner's Trail

`I went to see Nick Vaudan today. Gloria, did you ever have any reason to believe that Santi might have had a stake in Montgo SA, or that he might have been the beneficial owner of the company, with Vaudan as a nominee shareholder?'

She looked at him, incredulous. 'Whoever told you that?'

`That's Vaudan's story. He says that the Montgo property portfolio was bought with cash stripped out of InterCosta by Santi.'

`That's crazy. Santi died with hardly a peseta to his name'

`What about the five million in the safe? According to Vaudan's story, that could have been his share of the profit from Montgo.'

Gloria lowered her eyes, bit her lip and shook her head.

`All right,' said Skinner gently. 'Let me ask you, when you went through Santi's papers, did you find a letter referring to Vaudan, or to Montgo, the company? It would probably have been drafted by a lawyer and would have been on his stationery.'

`No. Nothing like that.'

Did Santi ever talk to you at all about Montgo SA.'

The woman's face brightened. 'Yes. Yes, he did once. He told me that he understood from Vaudan that the money which he used to buy those properties came in cash from boat sales in Spain. It was so that he would not have to pay tax anywhere. He said that when he sold Nick the site for his villa, then found him a builder, that was how he paid.'

`Yes,' said Skinner, 'that at least squares with Vaudan's account. When Santi told you this, did you feel that he believed it to be true?'

Gloria looked hurt. 'Bob, Santi never told me a lie in his life. Of course he believed it. Santi trusted people. If someone told him something, he would naturally accept it as true.'

`Okay. Let me ask you something else. Have you ever heard Santi mention a man named Inch.'

Que?'

`Inch. I-N-C-H. From Torroella?'

No, never.'

`Or a company called Torroella Locals?'

She shook her head. 'Never.'

Just then Sarah emerged from the villa. 'Hi, Gloria. Junior's just dropped off to sleep. He should stay under till we get back. If you do need us, the number's on the pinboard in the kitchen. We'll be as quick as we can.'

Gloria stood up from her chair. 'No, no, no, you enjoy. Jazz will be fine with me.'

As Bob and Sarah turned to go, Gloria called after them. `Bob. What I told you, does that help?'

'I hope so, Gloria. But to be honest, even assuming that Santi has been framed, it's been bloody well done. Vaudan won't crack, that's for sure. It's about time for a touch of luck.'

Forty-six

At La Clota they were shown to their customary table under the awning, to the front of the terrace. Skinner looked across the roadway to Club Nautic. Vaudan was seated among a group scattered around the tables of the outdoor bar. Bob caught his eye, smiled and waved. The Frenchman, grim-faced, turned his chair around and set his back towards them.

`What went on between you two this morning?' Sarah asked. 'I thought you just had a chat with him. He looked at you there as if he'd like to kill you.'

`He probably would, but he's much too smart to try.' `You didn't say anything about . . .?'

Bob flashed her a sly smile. 'Who, me?'

They chose, as a starter, piping hot onion soup with an egg poached in its liquor, finally deciding on roast duck as a main course, in spite of the counter-attractions of the chef's special fidua — delicious but laden with garlic.

Bob was mopping up the last of his orange sauce with bread when Sarah asked him about his discussion with Gloria. `How does it look?'

`To tell you the truth, love, it looks bloody awful. Vaudan's a smooth, opportunistic bastard, but his story is very plausible. Santi rips off InterCosta and washes the dough through Montgo SA, and through this other company. The twenty-five grand we found in Santi's safe could have been part of the profit split from one of those. Originally the idea is that Vaudan acts as a front, no questions asked, but now he finds himself in the box seat, with Santi gone, as the legal owner of a hundred million peseta property company. The thing that would prove it would be Santi's copy of the letter Vaudan talked about: the one confirming his ownership. But there's no trace of that and, of course, Vaudan says he's trashed his copy . . . as he would. More than that, if the letter existed — and if Vaudan's story is true — it's a cert that he's got hold of Santi's copy too, or he'd never have mentioned it.'

`Could Vaudan have . . .?'

Skinner shook his head. 'NO. He's got some sheikh as an alibi. I'm afraid that Santi, guilty or innocent, is well in the frame, and I can't see a way round it.'

Sarah sat silent for a while, while Bob ordered coffee. As the waiter disappeared back into the restaurant, she reached across the table and grasped her husband's hand. 'No, Bob. He didn't do it. Look, who understands a man better than his wife? Know what Gloria said to me about Santi? She said, "He was a great salesman, one of the best, but as a book-keeper, one of the worst." She looked after all the household accounts, and their family banking. Santi handled it when they were first married, but he was hopeless. Their affairs were a shambles. Does that sound like a clever and devious fraudster to you?'

`Depends how clever and devious he was. All that could have been an act — part of an elaborate cover.'

`Come on! You think that, you've been out in the sun too long. Santi was not a thief, and if he wasn't who was?'

`Paul Ainscow. But there's one big hole in that proposition. Ainscow had seventy-five per cent of the action. Why would he steal from himself? Also there's no link between Vaudan and Ainscow; there is between Vaudan and Santi. Sorry.'

`Ahh!' Sarah threw up her hands in exasperation. 'Look, I know Santi was murdered. Your heart tells you that's so. Maybe there is a link between Vaudan and Ainscow. Maybe Ainscow had a reason to steal from himself. You're the detective, so find out. Go the extra mile, Bob!'

He smiled at her persistence. 'Okay. But not the extra mile, the extra Inch. Alan Inch to be exact, of Torroella Locals. Tomorrow I'll pay him a visit. Let's see if he can help the cause.'

Forty-seven

The new fax rolled out its first incoming message soon after eleven next morning, just as Bob and Sarah were about to leave for Torroella de Montgri. They heard the ring, and Bob was on his way to pick up the phone in the hall when the fax recognition system kicked in.

The message took only a few seconds to arrive, and was contained within two A4 pages. As always with Brian Mackie's communications, it was to the point. Its content came as no surprise to Skinner. Nicolas Vaudan had no criminal record of any sort, not even a speeding conviction. He had never been arrested or interviewed in connection with any crime. He was regarded with respect in the Monegasque business community, and included among his clients several members of European and Middle Eastern royal families. While his company was based in Monaco, he and his wife lived in Mougins, an exclusive suburb of Cannes, which boasted several major entertainment and sporting personalities among its residents.

His business record was equally pristine. There had once been a complaint that a used boat had been offered to a buyer as new, but that had been revealed to be the malicious work of a frustrated rival. Scrupulous accounts of Vaudan Marine were filed annually. Invariably they showed all stock accounted for, no long-term creditors and no bad debts. They showed the

company to have been consistently turning in adequate, although not excessive profits, and that most of these were being invested openly in pension funds for Vaudan and his wife.

Both as a private citizen in France and as a company director in Monaco, Vaudan's tax affairs were similarly as spotless. He paid his taxes promptly and without complaint, and his returns were filed by the Monte Carlo office of one of the world's major accountancy firms.

Sarah watched Skinner's face as he read the fax, seeing a look of resignation settle in.

`No use?' she asked.

`No. Just as I expected. The guy's as clean as a whistle. He seemed far too confident for it to have turned out any other way. Whatever Santi may have been told, there was no way that this fellow was siphoning off profit, not recently anyway. Every deal, everywhere, is logged and accounted for, as I thought. A bloody dead end. Let's get along to Torroella and see if there's more joy to be had out of Mr Inch.'

Forty-eight

They sat in the sun, on the new white plastic chairs outside Bar Isidre, in Torroella's town square, oblivious of the Sunday bustle around them, as they watched the sun creep westward to flood the old street at the foot of the sloping quadrangle. Outside a watchmaker's shop in the narrow thoroughfare, an LCD readout displayed time and temperature alternately.

They sat patiently waiting for the sun to have its effect on the device, to see how high the temperature would climb from its shade level of twenty-three degrees. 'Five hundred pesetas says it tops thirty-three,' said Sarah.

Bob licked a finger and held it up. He shook his head. 'No, there's a breeze. My five hundred says thirty-one.'

The thermometer soared. Each time the clock gave way to the centigrade reading, it had risen by another degree. Five minutes after the bet was struck, Bob fished a five-hundred peseta piece from his pocket and slapped it on the table in front of Sarah. She punched the air, and cheered as the figure rose. Eventually it topped out at thirty-six degrees.

`Okay,' said Bob. 'Now that you've cleaned me out, I'm off to find Inch. Coming?'

Sarah shook her head. 'No. I like it here, and Jazz is fine in the shade of this awning.'

`Okay. I'll be as quick as I can.' Skinner headed off down the narrow street, passing under the temperature sign as it dropped to thirty-four degrees with the passage of the sun. He took the first turning to his right and found, much sooner than he had hoped, the office of Immobiliara Brava. He looked through the glass and saw three people inside: two women, one sitting at a desk and the other behind a counter, and a wiry, balding man with a deep walnut tan.

Skinner pushed the door open and stepped inside. Habla usted inglës?' he asked, tentatively.

The little man turned, a professional smile settling on his face. 'You're in luck, sir. I don't just speak English, I am English. How can we help you?'

`Well, it's about property.'

`You've come to the right place. We have the finest register around here, and it's all on our wonderful computer programme. Complete details on two hundred villas and apartments at the push of a button. Fantastic technology.'

`Actually,' said Skinner quietly, 'I was more interested in shop properties. Owned by a company called Torroella Locals. It is Mr Inch, isn't it?'

The smile lost its warmth in an instant — it stayed in place, but seemed to freeze on the little man's face. Skinner had seen fear in another human ten thousand times before; it was unmistakable. Inch went pale beneath the tan as he nodded dumbly.

`That's good. I was told I would find you here. Can we speak in private?'

Inch nodded again and led the way behind the counter and into a small office. The smile was gone completely as he closed the door. 'How can I help you?'

The big detective looked down at him. 'First, let me introduce myself. My name's Bob Skinner. I'm a policeman, from Scotland. I've been investigating an allegation of financial impropriety made against a company called InterCosta by one of its clients. In the line of that, I'm talking to all known associates of the late Santiago Alberni. I'm led to believe that you may have been acquainted with him, and that you may have had common interest in an investment company called Torroella Locals. Before I ask you anything, I must emphasise that I am acting entirely unofficially. On that basis, are you prepared to talk to me?'

Inch nodded again.

`Good. Can I begin by asking if my information is correct, and that you are the owner of record of a company called Torroella Locals?'

Inch looked at him sidelong. 'Yes.' It was scarcely more than a whisper.

`And was Santi Alberni a sleeping partner?'

`Yes, he was.'

`When was the company set up?'

`Six or seven years ago.'

`To do what?'

Inch coughed, and his voice seemed to strengthen slightly. `To reinvest profits from InterCosta in empty shop properties in good locations.'

`Around here?'

`No. Further south, in the busier resorts. They were the sort of properties where we could pull in high rents through the summer season from short-term operators.'

`Whose idea was it to set up the company?'

`Who owns it?'

`Officially I do, but Alberni has a lawyer's letter signed by me confirming that he is the legal owner.'

`You don't have a copy?'

Inch shook his head vigorously enough to make his remaining hair fly up.

`How much in total did Alberni salt away in Torroella Locals?'

`About ninety million pesetas. Four-fifty grand.'

`And you assumed it was kosher money.'

`That's what he said.'

`What about Ainscow? Didn't he have any say in it?' `I don't know Ainscow. Who's he?'

Skinner looked at him. 'Come on, you're in the agency business, aren't you? For how long?'

Inch nodded again, alarmed by the new toughness in Skinner's tone. 'For ten years.'

`All you boys know each other around here. You're telling me you've been here since the mid-Eighties, as Paul Ainscow has, and you've never heard of him?'

`I haven't!'

Skinner stared hard at him for several seconds. Eventually he grinned. 'Okay, so you haven't. Let me ask you something else. What's the current valuation of the shops?'

`They're in the books at one hundred and thirty million. That's a professional valuation,' Inch added hurriedly.

`And who holds the deeds?'

Inch looked up at Skinner leaning relaxed against the wall. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he stayed silent.

`Come on, Inch. It's an easy question. Who holds the deeds?'

The little man shook his head, 'No, I'm not saying any more — not without legal advice. You said you were unofficial. I don't have to talk to you at all.'

Skinner straightened up. 'That's right, you don't . . . yet. But you take that legal advice, and make sure that it's sound. This is one step away from being a murder investigation, and you could be bang in the middle of it.'

Terror flared in Inch's eyes. 'Murder! What do you mean murder? I had nothing to do with any of it!'

Any of what, wee man?' asked Skinner quietly. Leaving Inch standing, mouth slightly agape, in the middle of the small room, he turned on his heel and walked out of the shop.

He found Sarah still at her table outside Bar Isidre. She was rocking Jazz gently back and forward in his buggy, making soft shushing noises as she did.

She looked up as Bob approached. 'Well, find him?' `Sure did.'

`And?'

`He was primed, for certain, warned that I was on my way. The wee bugger didn't even ask my name. He knew exactly who I was and what I was there for. I'm bloody certain that he was following a script. I know, because eventually we got to a bit that wasn't in it, and he was lost. Come on, love. Let's get back to L'Escala. I've got a fax to send.'

Forty-nine

The transmission signal changed pitch, then stopped, as the connection was made. The machine lay still and silent for a few seconds, causing Skinner to wonder whether, after all, it was faulty, until, with a low hum, the single white sheet began to roll through.

Half a minute later it cleared the transmission gate, and fell to the floor.

Sarah, who had come into the room halfway through the process, picked it up and read its contents, aloud.

Confidential

DCI Mackie from ACC Skinner.

Please put the following into effect.

I wish total surveillance placed on Paul Ainscow immediately. Its purpose is to establish who are his associates, whether any have criminal connections, and in particular whether there is any link between Ainscow and Nicolas Vaudan, and one Alan Inch.

Using all sources at your disposal, check for any available information on Alan Inch. Currently employed as a property salesman by Immobiliara Brava of Torroella de Montgri. Search for information should pay attention in particular to convictions/arrests for fraud. I will seek to arrange here for a watch to be placed on Inch.

Finally, use international connections to have a watch placed on Nicolas Vaudan in France. I have just been advised by his office that he returned to Mougins this morning. Purpose is again to ascertain who his business contacts might be, and to establish any possible link between Vaudan/Inch/Ainscow.

Please confirm as soon as all arrangements are in place, and report regularly.

`Mmm,' said Sarah. 'Not very policespeak. No "aforementioneds" or "thereafters"!'

Skinner grinned. 'Sorry, I must be slipping. You know, back home sometimes I still receive the odd report that's "respectfully submitted", even although I tried to ban the phrase on the ground that if I need to be told that I had the respect of my officers, then I don't deserve it!'

`Where do you go now? Back to Arturo?'

`Yes, but I can't do that until tomorrow. Even he takes Sunday off.'

`You've really latched on to this one, my darling, haven't you?' Sarah smiled. 'International surveillance; I mean that's pretty heavy. What if Vaudan's letter turns up and proves that Santi was guilty and that he did kill himself? Won't you be—?'

Skinner interrupted. 'Won't my arse be hung out to dry, you mean? Trust me, my love. If that letter turns up, Santa Claus will bring it down the fucking chimney! I have no doubts. Not since smelling Inch sweat in an air-conditioned room. Not since he lied to me all the way through our chat – I know when I'm being lied to, Sarah. Not since I threw the word "murder" at him.'

You did? How did he react?'

`You could say that the bottom dropped out of his world . . . or maybe it was the other way around.'

Fifty

The tall yellow Guardia Civil barracks seemed to reflect the early afternoon sunshine as Skinner walked towards it. The day was even hotter than its predecessor, and there was a heaviness in the air which hinted that somewhere, maybe still a day or two distant but with gathering strength, a storm was brewing.

He turned into the building. At first the officer on desk duty looked sternly at the tall figure in T-shirt and shorts framed as a black shadow in the light of the doorway. But when the shadow said, `Commandante por favor,' recognition dawned and the man sprang to his feet, snapping a salute.

The officer left his post to advise Pujol of his visitor, and returned a few seconds later to escort Skinner through to the small office.

`Buenas tardes, Bob,' said Pujol, rising. 'How are your conversations going? Is your "dog theory" any nearer proof?'

Skinner said nothing, but took from his bumbag, which was slung over his left shoulder, his fax to Brian Mackie of the day before, and the DCI's response, received three hours later, confirming that all arrangements were in place.

Pujol's eyebrows climbed skywards on his forehead as he read. 'You seem to be covering quite a bit of ground. When I see that you can sit in your villa and call up the resources of Interpol, I have to say that not even I realised how long is your arm. It frightens me a little. You are so sure that Alberni was murdered, and that he was innocent?'

Skinner lowered himself into a chair facing the Commandante. He nodded. let me tell you why.'

He recounted in every detail his conversation with Vaudan and Inch, describing the latter's panic when murder had been added to the agenda of the investigation. 'Can you tell when someone is lying to you, Arturo? Course you can, you're a good copper. So take it from me, Santi was innocent. I believe that he was killed to prevent him finding out about something that's been going on under his nose for years, and to me it's inconceivable that Paul Ainscow wasn't involved. I've taken care of Scotland and France. I'd like you to look after this end. I don't care whether it's formal or not. I want Inch watched round the clock. If you can manage it, I want his phones tapped, office and home. Stick as close to him as possible.'

He looked across the desk. Pujol was smiling, but his eyes were heavy with irony. At once, Skinner was gripped by a sense of foreboding.

'I am ahead of you, Bob. I have Inch under close surveillance already. As close as it could be. Come and I will show you' He led the way from the small room, and along the corridor. At its end, an officer stood guard over a heavy brown-stained wooden door. He stood aside as Pujol and Skinner approached. In the centre of the small, windowless, air-conditioned room stood a narrow table. Something lay on it. Something covered by a white sheet. Something — Skinner guessed — that was around five feet six from end to end, with a walnut tan.

Pujol drew back one end of the sheet.

`Shit!' Skinner spat the word out. 'Son of a bitch!'

Inch's face was unmarked, but his tan had taken on an odd yellowish tinge as death had drained the blood from beneath the skin. His head lay at an odd angle on his shoulders, and Skinner knew without asking that his neck had been broken. Another death, he thought. How many more?

`What happened?' he asked, wearily.

`Senor Inch lived in L'Escala,' said Pujol, 'which makes it even less likely that he did not know Ainscow. He was a keen windsurfer. It was his sport. Every Monday — you know, Bob, that the property people all take Monday as their holiday — you would find him in Riells Bay, usually far out from the beach. It was the same today. Only today, at around eleven this morning, a man in a Sunseeker power-boat stolen from the marina, a man who appeared to be drunk, ran him down at full speed. He was killed instantly.'

`Where is the man now?'

`I have just sent men to take him to prison in Barcelona. He will be interrogated there and charged, no doubt, with everything we can think of.'

`Who is he?'

`I do not yet know. As I said, he seemed to be drunk. He wouldn't tell us anything, other than what we could do with our mothers. But he did tell us in German.'

`When can I see him?'

`Too soon to say, Bob. But I'll try to arrange a visit for us both as quickly as I can. And,' he added, with emphasis, 'I will arrange for the investigation of Torroella Locals. The Guardia is involved now . . . whether I like it or not!'

Fifty-one

‘What d'you call a thousand lawyers chained together at the bottom of the sea?' asked Skinner.

`A good start,' said Pujol.

`So it's the same in Spain, then.'

`Even more so, my friend. Even more so. And shortly this one here, who clearly speaks no English, judging from his bewildered expression, will wish that he was at the bottom of the sea. This one thinks that he can play dumb with me and get away with it.'

Josep Albert, the lawyer of record listed on the company registration of Torroella Locals, was as unprepossessing as his seedy backstreet office on the third floor of a tumbledown Girona building. Lank, wavy black hair was plastered to the sides of his head by too much oil, and his pinched yellow face looked overdue for a meeting with soap and water. Thick-lensed spectacles made his eyes seem huge, and served only to accentuate their shiftiness. But perched on a swivel chair, behind a huge desk which seemed to be designed at least in part as a barricade, he presented a wall of resistance to Pujol's gentle questioning.

Since Albert had insisted on speaking in Catalan, the content of their exchanges had been a mystery to Skinner from the start. He could follow the general drift of most conversations in Spanish, but was completely lost when the guttural regional tongue was used. However, from Pujol's translated summaries, he knew that Albert was being deliberately obstructive, denying knowledge of the operations of Torroella Locals, and claiming no involvement in its management.

`This man,' said Pujol to Skinner, 'he would not admit to knowing his own mother if a policeman asked him. "Senor Inch? He was a minor client. Of course he has no idea where the money invested in the company came from." And "Santi Alberni? He has never heard of him."' Pujol glowered at the little man perched on his swivel chair, but, Albert sat there, smug and defiant. 'Paul Ainscow? "Oh no, Commandante, I do not know him. Scottish you say? I know no Scottish people."'

`So introduce him to this one,' Skinner murmured.

`Okay,' said Pujol. 'You don't speak his language, but you can't get any less out of him than me!' He turned back to face Albert, and spoke rapidly to him in Spanish. Skinner picked up enough to know that he was being introduced as a very important policeman from Great Britain, who was in Spain specially to investigate property fraud. The introduction completed, Pujol leaned back.

Skinner pulled his chair close to Albert's massive desk and leaned forward, his forearms resting on the scratched wooden surface. He smiled. Nervously, the little lawyer smiled back. And then Skinner's smile faded and, with it, all of his customary warmth and amiability. It was as if another Skinner held Albert in his gaze: a cold, dangerous gaze full of threat and menace. He sat in silence for a full minute staring across the desk at the untidy little man, as if he was probing him, trying to read his mind.

As Pujol looked on from the side, he saw first bewilderment, then panic, then fear gather in Albert's hugely magnified eyes. He began to shift uncomfortably in his seat, fidgeting, working the swivel from side to side, glancing down occasionally into his lap, but always drawn back by the magnet of Skinner's hypnotic stare. Once, then again, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it each time, helpless.

Eventually, after three full unblinking minutes, Skinner said quietly, 'Arturo, ask him where the deeds to the Torroella Locals properties are held.'

Pujol put the question, and saw a look of almost pathetic gratitude sweep across the man's face at the chance to break free from his silent inquisitor. The words poured out, in Catalan, as if the Commandante had become his confessor.

When Albert fell silent, Pujol turned to Skinner. 'He says that they are held by a bank in Amsterdam, as security for a loan of one hundred million pesetas in US dollars. He says that he did not arrange the loan. He was simply instructed to inspect the agreement, and to pass on the deeds to the bank. He does not know to whom the money was paid, or what happened to it. He says that if it was used to buy more property, then it was for another company, one of which he knows nothing.'

`Ask him who arranged the loan.'

Pujol translated the question. Again, the response was instant. Even in Catalan, Skinner recognised one word, a name — confirmed by the Commandante's translation. 'He says it was Nick Vaudan.'

`Not Inch?'

`No. He says that Inch was simply, how you say, a puppet. He was the name on the record, but the orders came from Vaudan.'

`Ask him again about Alberni and Ainscow, and about the money coming into Torroella Locals.'

Again, Pujol translated. Albert's reply was insistent, almost beseeching.

`He swears that he has never met Ainscow, although he knows of him, and that he had never heard of Alberni until Vaudan called to tell him that you would probably come to see him, to ask him about the company, and about the deaths of Inch and Alberni. Of the money, he knows nothing.'

`When did Vaudan call?'

`Around one o'clock. He said that he was calling from Monaco, and that is true. I had my people check on him after you left my office yesterday afternoon. He flew home on Sunday.'

`He's good at not being around when suicides and fatal accidents happen, isn't he? Yet, two hours after Inch is killed, he calls our man here to tell him about it and to warn him about me'

'Si, and he told him that you were a very dangerous man. He said something else, too. He said that you were maybe too dangerous for your own good.'

Skinner flashed a look at Pujol which made the Spaniard feel suddenly very glad that they were on the same side. Did he indeed! Tell you something, my friend. Before this is over, Monsieur Vaudan is going to find out just how fucking dangerous I am. Now please ask Ratso here whether he knows of any connection between Vaudan and Ainscow, and tell him that unless I am personally convinced that he is telling the truth, you will take a walk outside for five minutes'

Pujol smiled, and put the question. Skinner saw Albert's mouth drop open and terror flare in his eyes behind the magnifying lenses. As he answered, he held out his hands in supplication. As he finished, Pujol nodded gently, calming his hysteria.

He turned back to Skinner. 'Our friend swears on the lives of his family that he knows of no such connection. I believe him, for he believed me when I said that I would take that walk.'

`Okay, he can do one more thing, and he's off the hook. Tell him to give you a letter of authority to the Torroella Locals bank. You should look into that account, and trace the source of all payments made into it. Tell him something else, too. Tell him, whether you mean it or not, that his telephones, office and home will be tapped from now on, in case of calls from Vaudan or anyone else. And tell him that if Vaudan does call, he's to swear blind that he never told us about Amsterdam. One whisper, tell him, and I'll be back. Alone.'

Fifty-two

The instant Bob stepped into the hall, he sensed that something was wrong. He paused, listening for alien sounds, only to realise that it was the absence of noise that was unusual. Normally, during the day, the cries of gulls and the breaking of waves drifted in from the terrace. But on this blazing afternoon, the patio doors were closed.

`Sarah?' He called from the hallway, fearful.

`Bob! I'm in here.' She called to him from the living room, her voice edged with tension. He found her sitting at one end of their long sofa, facing the glass doors, with the sleeping Jazz cradled in her arms. As he came into the room she looked over her shoulder towards him, and he saw a small cut on the right side of her forehead, just below the hairline. Lying on the coffee table, within her reach, was the long, sharp-pointed, jagged-edged carving knife from their kitchen set.

`Honey, what the hell . .?'

`It's all right. We're all right. Stay cool. just go and look in the kitchen.' She sounded calmer than before.

Skinner did as she asked. He crossed the hall, and opened the kitchen door. 'Bloody hell!' he hissed. Of the room's single window only a few wicked shards of glass remained in the frame. The rest, shattered, was spread all over the work surface and all over the floor. In the midst lay a large red building brick. A huge boiling rage welled up in Skinner as he remembered words he had heard only an hour before. Too dangerous for my own good,' he snarled into the room. Vaudan, if this was your doing ..

Mastering his fury he returned to Sarah. 'Are you sure you're okay?'

`Yes, I'm fine, and Jazz is oblivious to it all.'

`So tell me what happened. But can I get you a drink first?' She looked up at him and shook her head. He noticed that the blood on her forehead was dried and crusted.

`It was just after you left. Oh, only a couple of minutes. I went into the kitchen and there was this man. He was standing outside the kitchen window and he was holding a brick. I don't think he was waiting for me, or anything like that. For a second or two we both just stood and stared at each other. And then he threw the brick. I flung my arms up in front of my face. But I got this . . .' she pointed to her forehead 'and this . . .' she held up her right forearm to show another small cut 'and my hair was full of glass, but otherwise I was all right. But, Bob,' she whispered, 'suppose I'd been holding the baby.'

`Don't. Just tell yourself, for ever more, that he wouldn't have thrown the brick. What happened after that?' -

`Well, when I looked again he seemed to be edging towards the window, as if he was going to climb in. So I picked up the biggest knife I could find, and I said to him, in Spanish, "Come here, motherfucker and I'll stick this right in your guts." And, boy, did I mean it. My baby was in this house. If that man had come in here, I'd have put that knife right through him and worried about the Hippocratic Oath later. So he stayed outside, and eventually he ran off.

But before he did, he said something in bad English, something all jumbled up and confused, about it being a message, and him being a messenger to you.'

Bob nodded his head. 'I understand. Describe this guy for me.'

She thought for a second or two. 'He looked to be late thirties or early forties, and quite tall for a Spanish man of that age. Heavily built, with black curly hair and dark eyes. Hadn't shaved for a couple of days. He wore a dirty check shirt, and jeans, and I could see workboots when he ran.

Bob sat down beside her and put his arms around her. 'You are a very brave lady. I am so glad for that guy that he didn't climb through the window.' He gave her a gentle hug. She laid her head on his shoulder and began to cry. He comforted her until she quietened down.

`Did you call the police?'

`No. I decided to wait for you. I was pretty sure he wouldn't be back, but I kept that thing close just in case.' She nodded towards the knife on the coffee table. 'What did he mean, about being a messenger? You said you understood.'

`He meant that he had been sent to warn me off.'

`Who would send him?'

`Nick Vaudan, or Ainscow, or both. I'm starting to ask the wrong questions. There's a big operation of some sort going on here, using laundered money, and I'm starting to unravel it. Alberni and Inch were both killed, I'm quite certain, as part of a cover-up. That hasn't worked, so now they revert to Plan B, which presumably means scaring me off. Vaudan's a smart guy. He knows that everyone has a weak point, and he knows that you and the baby are mine.'

He looked down at them both, and kissed Sarah on the forehead — on the wound. 'Maybe I should just back off and let Arturo take it as far as he can.'

She nodded. 'Yes. Then Santi can stay in the books as a suicide, and Gloria'll be broke, and this big operation of theirs, that's big enough to have two people killed for, that can go on too. Maybe, with you out of the picture, they'll decide to get rid of poor old Arturo. I mean Guardia Civil people are killed every week in Spain. It wouldn't even make the national news.' She snorted. 'Back off? You don't know how, Skinner.'

He kissed her again, and pushed himself up from the couch. 'Well, if that's so, there's one thing that's going to happen. You're going home, by air, tomorrow. Vaudan's right. You two are my weakness. But as soon as you're safe back in Edinburgh, then he and Mr Ainscow — for I can smell him in this now — are in the deepest shit of their lives.'

He walked out into the hall, picked up the telephone, and punched in Pujol's direct line number. 'Arturo, hello. Who am I describing? Around forty, tallish, heavily built, dark curly hair, badly dressed, usually needs a shave.'

`Paco Garcia.'

`Thought so. Where can I find him? Bastard tossed a brick through my kitchen window, courtesy of Vaudan. I wouldn't mind, but Sarah was in the kitchen at the time.'

Pujol growled at the other end of the line. `Leave Paco to me. I know where to find him. Come and see me in an hour. Meantime, I send someone to mend the window.'

`There's something else you could do for me. You could make sure that there's a seat for a woman with a baby on tomorrow's Iberia flight from Barcelona to Manchester. I'm sending Sarah and Jazz back to Scotland.'

`Si,' said Pujol. 'That may be wise. I will arrange it. And if you are in Barcelona tomorrow, we can go to the prison and talk to the German. He should be sober by then. But, for now, let us deal with Paco.'

Fifty-three

‘Señor Commandante Skinner, may I introduce Senor Don Francisco Garcia, who is our guest at this time.'

There was one chair only in the small interrogation cell, and it was bolted to the floor. Paco Garcia stood behind it, grasping its back with strong hands, as if wishing to tear it loose and use it as a weapon.

`Buenas Tardes, señor,' said Skinner evenly. 'I think you owe me a new window.' Garcia stared back at him. 'How much English does this pig speak?' The man did not react in any way to his question to Pujol.

Not much. His French is okay.'

'Sarah did say that he sounded mixed up. What's he told you so far?'

`Nothing. He called your wife a bad name and said she was a liar. You know, Bob, it is very stuffy in here without windows. I am feeling a little faint. I think I will take that walk of which I spoke this morning.'

`That's good,' said Skinner, smiling at Garcia. 'About five or ten minutes' worth should see you all right. You might want to bring something to write on when you come back.'

As the door closed on Pujol's back, the smile left Skinner's face. Pourquoi. Garcia, pourquoi?'

The man pulled himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest. 'Vous n'êtes pas policia ici. lei vous êtes rien.' He spat on the floor.

Slowly Skinner walked towards him. Rien? Je suis rien?' Lazily he reached out his right hand and slapped Garcia lightly across the face. The man looked back at him in astonishment.

Skinner reached out again, and the big man seemed to offer his cheek to the slap — but one never landed. Instead it changed into a flashing, smashing, cutting-edge blow to the base of the jaw, just below the left ear. With a loud click, the joint dislocated. Garcia's mouth opened with the force and the pain of the blow, but before he could scream, Skinner pivoted and drove his left hand, straight-fingered, into the pit of his stomach, just above the diaphragm. The air hissed out of the man's lungs in a low moan. He slumped forward, catching hold of the back of the chair, instinctively, as support.

In no particular hurry, Skinner moved round behind him and, impacting with the first joints of his fingers rather than the tips or the knuckles, struck him two downward blows, right-handed, one to each kidney. Garcia's back arched with the pain. His legs seemed to bow under him, but he stayed on his feet, bent forward over the chair.

`Celá, it êtait pour ma femme, Garcia, et pour mon petit.' Skinner paused and took a pace back, then went on in a whisper. `Celui ici, il est pour mes vacances!' He kicked the man between his spread legs, square on the testicles.

At last Garcia screamed, and crumpled to the floor. He lay there, clutching himself and moaning for perhaps three minutes. Eventually, Skinner bent over, grabbed him under the armpits, and hauled him to his feet, before dropping him into the bolted chair. The man began to double over again, but Skinner pushed him upright.

'Oh,' he said. 'I see you've hurt your jaw. We must fix you up so you can talk to the Commandante.'

The man looked back at him uncomprehending, his eyes still crossed with pain. Skinner threw a punch: a short, powerful boxer's left hook. It landed on the right side of the jaw. There was a second click, as loud as the first, as the joint snapped back into place. This time Garcia howled with pain, and tears streamed down his face.

Skinner grabbed him under the chin and pulled his head up, forcing the man to look into his eyes. ‘Oui, monsieur,' he said softly. ‘je suis rien, mais ma femme et mon enfant sont tout le monde.'

At that moment, there was a soft knock on the door. Skinner opened it, and Pujol stepped back into the room, looking anxiously at Garcia in the process, as if checking him for visible injuries, and brightening up when he saw him sitting in the chair, unmarked and seemingly none the worse for wear.

D'you feel the better for your stroll, Arturo? Paco and I got on great when you were away. I think you'll find he's quite keen to answer your questions now, starting with who told him to heave that fucking brick through my window!'

Pujol stood in front of Garcia and put the question to him in Spanish. The big man looked up at him, tears still shining in his eyes, then sneaked a fearful glance across at Skinner, and answered, 'Senor Vaudan.

‘Por que?'

Garcia blurted out his answer almost before the question was out. He paused, then leaned forwards conspiratorially towards Pujol and muttered something else. The Commandante turned to Skinner. 'He says that Vaudan told him you had become a problem, and that he was to give you a message by frightening Sarah. He says that she frightened him. When he broke the window, he thought that she was going to cut his heart out.'

`If he'd made a move for her she would have.'

`Bob, Paco also says that he would speak much more readily if you were not here. He seems to think that you wish him harm. I think perhaps that it is —'

`Sure,' said Skinner. 'Wouldn't want to upset the poor chap. I'll wait outside. But don't piss about with him. As soon as I'm through that door, you ask him who was with him when he murdered Santi.'

Pujol nodded. Skinner opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

Ten minutes later, he heard a buzzer sound. When two uniformed officers marched past him along the corridor, and into the interrogation room, he realised that it had been a signal from Pujol. As Garcia was led away, still doubled over and clutching his groin, the Commandante signalled him to come back into the room.

`Well?' asked Skinner.

`I put your question to him as you asked. It was amazing. Twenty minutes ago he knew nothing. Now, in here he would have told my fortune if I had asked him. What did you do to him, Bob?'

'I'll show you sometime. What did he say?'

Pujol smiled. 'When I put your question to him, he went as white as a ghost. Then he said, "It was Serge Lucan, Senor Vaudan's man from France. I was with him. But we did not kill Senor Alberni."'

`Oh, yes?'

`That's right. He said that he was there, at Alberni's villa, with Lucan. They were there before you. Vaudan sent them to put money in Alberni's safe. Santi had shown him around the house, so he knew where it was. They thought that Alberni would be at work and that they would have to break in, but when they got there, the garden door was open and Santi's car was still there. They were going to go away and come back later, but when the dog barked at them and no one appeared, they decided to take a look around. Paco said that he looked through the window of the garage, and saw Santi hanging there. He called Lucan over to show him. He said that Lucan just laughed, and said, "That's saved me a messy job." When Paco asked him what he meant, Lucan said that his orders were that, once the money was in the safe, Santi was to suffer a fatal accident.'

`How did Garcia react to that?'

`He said that he was terrified. He said that he did not realise until then what sort of a man Vaudan is.'

Skinner snorted. 'So how come he's still doing his dirty work?'

`He is afraid not to. He heard about Inch's accident, and he thinks that it would be easy for him to have one also, if he crossed Vaudan.'

`I suppose so. Anyway, how did his story go on?'

`There wasn't much more to it. They went into the villa, found the safe, found Santi's key so they didn't have to pick the lock, and they put the money inside. Paco said that Lucan had locksmith's tools with him.'

`Did you ask him if they took anything from the safe — a letter, for example?'

Pujol nodded. 'Si. I asked him that. He thought I was going to accuse him of robbery as well as all the rest. He said to me — he gave me his solemn promise — that they did not take anything. They put the money in, and then they left. From the time he said, they can only have been gone a couple of minutes before you arrived.'

Skinner cast his mind back to that Saturday morning. He recalled a battered old green van, with two men inside, waiting to pull out of the Camp dels Pilans road as he had swung in from the highway. 'Does Paco have a car?'

`Si. A very old Renault, green, but not a car, a . . . oh, what is the word?'

`It's all right. I remember. I saw them. He's told you true, about the time, at least. That doesn't mean they didn't kill Santi, though. They could have taken their time about it.'

Pujol's expressive face became mournful. 'No, my friend. I am afraid not. I am a policeman like you, and like you I have an idea when a man is telling me lies. I have an idea about people, too. Paco may be stupid, and ready to do things like he did today, at your house. He is someone you would send out to frighten a woman, but not a man. He is certainly not someone that you could send out to kill.'

Skinner sat down in the bolted chair and looked up at Pujol. 'You're a good copper, Arturo. You have good instincts. You're right about him. I found that out when I was . . . having my talk with him. Sarah scared him with that knife far more than he scared her. A lioness with her cub, right enough.' He laughed softly.

`Yes, Bob, and whatever you, mm, said, to him, he is now far more afraid of you than of Vaudan.'

That could come in handy.'

Skinner folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in the chair. 'So what have we got? We know that Vaudan had that money planted in Santi's safe. We know that he was planning to kill him. Except Santi seems to have beaten him to it. It looks as if, whatever my friend Carlos says about the Catalan character and your kindness to animals, the guy killed himself after all. Yet the money in the safe indicates that Vaudan was trying to frame him. That was done to fit in with Vaudan's story.'

Perhaps,' Pujol said tentatively, Vaudan had frightened or blackmailed Santi into taking the money from InterCosta.'

Skinner shook his head. 'No, that would require Santi to have a partner who was so fucking stupid that he wouldn't notice a missing million — or one who was scared along with him. You've met Ainscow. Is he that fucking stupid? Is he the type who would scare easily? Sorry, Arturo, that's another bit I find hard to swallow. Ainscow's in this, I can feel it. He and Vaudan have been smart in covering up any link between them, but there has to be one. That makes it still my business, even after Pitkeathly's been paid off. That's why I'm using my force resources on this business. What we've got here is a very clever money-laundering operation. Cash ripped off, salted away in property to make it legit, then turned back into cash again. We know about the loan on the Torroella Locals shops. You can bet that if we looked, we'd find that the same had been done with the Montgo properties. So there's a million in funny money, carefully built up over a period of years. Where is it, and what's it doing? Those are the questions I want to answer. Santi topping himself, that's just confusing, and bad luck for Gloria, but in this business it's no more than a sideshow.'

Pujol leaned on the steel door of the dingy, sweat-smelling room. With head pressed back against the metal, he closed his eyes, considering what Skinner had said. Eventually he looked down at his companion, still in the interrogation chair. 'Yes, you are absolutely right, my friend. All of that, simply put. But it is a million miles above the head of Paco Garcia. What do you want me to do with him? I could throw him in jail for quite a long time.

Skinner shook his head. 'Your jails are full enough already, man. Why don't you just let him go? We won't press charges. Before you kick him out, though, tell him that when Vaudan gets in touch, he should say that I've got the message, and that I'm flying Sarah and the baby home tomorrow morning, then driving back myself. Tell him, too, that if I ever find out that he told Vaudan anything different, then the next time we have a talk there won't be anyone else around, and he won't walk away after it.' He pushed himself powerfully out of the chair. Now I'm going home to spend some time with my family, and to send another fax. We need to know all about Mr Serge Lucan, and we need to watch him very carefully from this day on.

Fifty-four

‘You are sure the baby'll be okay on the plane?'

`Hey, I'm not just his mother. I'm a doctor, remember. Everything in his life is a new experience. This will be another. They've given us a front-row seat, so we'll have plenty of space, and we'll be well in front of the engines, so it'll be quiet, or as quiet as you can get on a Spanish airplane!'

They were standing at the end of the long straight concourse of Barcelona Airport. Behind them it stretched back almost a kilometre, looking more like a high-quality shopping arcade than a major international terminal. Arturo Pujol's Guardia uniform had whisked them round a long queue at passport control. As Bob and Sarah said their farewells, he sat across in the cafeteria, among passengers and air crew, sipping his first coffee of the day.

`Okay,' said Bob, `I'm convinced. Anyway it's a short flight. Alex will be well on her way down to Manchester to meet you by now. Alex and Andy, that is. It was nice of him to offer to keep her company.'

Sarah smiled, `Mmm, wasn't it. He must be keen to see his new godson again.'

`Yeah, that'll be it. Single guys in their mid-thirties do tend to get broody. Time he got himself sorted out in that area.'

`He will. Don't you worry. He'll probably take you completely by surprise one day.'

‘Not him. I know him too well. Listen, when you get home, do one thing for me. Call Jimmy and tell him what's been going on here. Tell him that, since all this started from a complaint made in Scotland, and since there's a possibility that Ainscow's involved, I'm staying on here at the request of the Guardia to help their investigation.

Sarah nodded. 'I'll call him soon as we're settled in. If he's free I'll invite him down for coffee, late afternoon. How long do you think you'll have to stay out here?'

`A few days, probably. Until we establish a link with Ainscow, or until the thing just stalls completely. When the time is right, I'll just jump in the car and drive up.' He glanced across at Gate 44. The queue for embarkation was down to its last few passengers. 'You'd better get on board now. I love you . . . both' He kissed her, long and tenderly. Now, safe home. And while you're in the air, Arturo and I'll be in jail!'

Fifty-five

Just as there is something unmistakable about the look of a prison from outside its walls, so also it is distinguished on the inside by its unmistakable smell.

‘Bad cooking and piss; it's the same the world over,' Skinner muttered to Pujol, screwing up his face, as the latest in a series of barriers was slammed shut behind them, and the key turned in the lock. A uniformed jailer led them along one more dark corridor, before showing them into a small room furnished with a table and four chairs. With a few words to Pujol, he withdrew, leaving the door open behind him.

`He says he's going to fetch Gruber.'

`Gruber,' said Skinner. 'They must have made some progress. Yesterday you said that he wouldn't even tell you his name.'

`Si, that's right. When he was arrested, all he did was curse in German. He seemed to be drunk, and he made no sense at all.

`He seemed to be drunk, but are you sure he was?'

`No, not now. Now, like you, I think it was an act. When he was arrested, all he had on him was money and a set of keys. Nothing else. Then yesterday one of our sea patrols spotted a Kawasaki motorcycle on the shore on the old army land between L'Escala and Montgo. It had camping equipment strapped to the saddle, and two panniers. They alerted us and we picked it up. Those keys fitted it. In the pannier we found a passport identifying him as Hansi Gruber. There was also more money, in French francs.'

`French? No D-Marks?'

`No, there were none.'

`Okay, Gruber is a biker. He comes in from France, parks his machine on a deserted piece of coast, gets drunk, makes his way to the marina, hot-wires the biggest, fastest boat he can see, takes it out into the bay, and just happens to run over Inch. Is that the picture? No, I think not.'

Skinner paused and looked at Pujol. 'This is how it was. Gruber is sent down here. He's shown a picture of Inch, told where he lives, where he works, and what his habits are. Then he's told to kill him. He works out the best way to do it, probably keeps Inch under observation all the way to the beach, then drives over the hill and plants his bike. His idea would be to take the boat round there after he's done the business, dump it and get away on the bike, maybe cross the border somewhere quiet and be in France within an hour. How come you caught him?'

`He was unlucky,' said Pujol. 'When he ran down Inch, the sail of the surfboard, and sadly, the right foot of Senor Inch were drawn into the engine of the boat. It seized up and stopped. Several other windsurfers, members of the same club as Senor Inch, saw what had happened, then sailed over and held on to Gruber. They pulled Senor Inch from the water and on to the boat, but he was dead.'

'I take it you've run checks on this guy in Germany and France.'

`Si,' said Pujol. 'There is nothing in France, but in Germany he has a record of violence. He is from Bremerhaven. He was a sailor, but five years ago he was sent to prison for attacking a man with a knife. He cut him up very badly. He was released over a year ago, and that was the last that the German authorities heard of him.'

`Does he know that we know who he is?'

`No. I instructed that that information should be kept from him.

`Good. When he comes in, speak to him in French. See what reaction you get. Then I suggest you tell him my story of how he killed Inch, ask him to admit it, and to confirm that Vaudan sent him.'

Pujol nodded. Less than a minute later, the jailer returned with another officer. Each grasped an arm of the stocky blond, handcuffed man whom they escorted. At a signal from Pujol they unlocked his manacles, and pressed the prisoner down into one of the four chairs, to face his two visitors across the table.

`Good morning, Gruber,' said Pujol in French. The man's eyes widened in surprise, but he said nothing. Pujol reached into the left breast pocket of his uniform shirt and produced a German passport. He threw it on the desk.

Gruber looked at it and shrugged.

`Listen to me, my friend, and look at me while I am speaking to you,' said Pujol. He began to spell out in detail Skinner's scenario for the murder of Inch. A few seconds into the story, Gruber affected a yawn, and looked away from Pujol, staring up at the ventilator fan in the ceiling. Pujol's backhanded slap seemed to echo round the four corners of the room. 'I said look at me when I am speaking.' A vivid red mark showed on the German's cheek as Pujol completed his account.

`Now my friend, you have a simple opportunity. You will admit to me that you were sent to do this thing by Nick Vaudan, and I will see to it that your case comes to court quickly, and that you are charged with something less than murder. What do you say?'

Gruber leaned forward, his forearms on the table. No emotion showed in his eyes. He nodded his head, very slightly, then spat, full into Pujol's face. The Commandante jumped from his chair, his moustache twisted by the snarl on his face. The two officers grabbed their prisoner and hauled him upright. Wiping the spit away with his left hand, Pujol bunched his right into a fist and set himself to swing a punch across the table.

But Skinner caught his arm and held it. 'No Arturo. You'd only hurt your hand.' He spoke in English, looking away from Gruber. 'You won't beat anything out of this guy. He's got a deal, and he'll protect it. Next thing you know, he'll have a good lawyer too, and he'll bargain the charge down to something not much worse than drunk driving. If we want him to finger Vaudan, we have to find out what his deal is, and try to put a spoke in it. Okay?'

With an effort, Pujol controlled his anger. `Yes, I agree.'

He turned to Gruber and spoke again in French. 'You, my friend, have just made a bad choice. Whatever you may have been told, there will be no reduced charge. Your case will take for ever to come to court, and once it does, you will be sent to jail for ever and a few more days. And some of our jails are very bad places, my friend. Not like this one. You may think you are tough, but in there you will be some monster's sweetheart within a week. Look forward to it because I will make it happen.'

He glanced at the escorts. Now take this insolent piece shit away, before I forget my friend's advice'

Fifty-six

The emptiness of the villa washed over Skinner as soon as he opened the door, bringing with it a pang of sudden loneliness so strong that it carried him back to his youth, and to the days after the death of Myra, his first wife, Alex's mother.

He glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes after five o'clock. To free their nostrils of the stench of the prison, he and Pujol had taken time out in Barcelona. They had visited the Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's epic, if impossible, cathedral with its melted-icing towers, and its cranes soaring above the most visited building site in the world. Then they had eaten a tapas lunch at one of the pavement tables of a Ramblas bar, where Pujol's green uniform had attracted the deepest respect of the waiters. Finally, with Skinner at the wheel of his white BMW, they had headed northward out of the hilly city, spectacular even in its occasional seediness, with its forests of medium- and high-rise buildings flanking traffic-thronged highways.

But now, back in L'Escala, there was nothing to stave off the blues brought on by the departure of Sarah and Jazz. Bob walked into the living room, and looked at the new fax. Its LCD read-out told him that the answer machine held two messages.

He pushed the replay button. The mechanism whirred for a second or two as the tape rewound. Then there was a whistle, before, suddenly, the room was filled with Sarah's voice. 'Hi, darling. Just a call to say that we're home okay. The plane was fine, and Jazz was great. Alex and Andy were there waiting. I think there's something—'

`Here stepmother, let me say hello.'

Bob smiled as his daughter's effervescent tones cut across Sarah's light New York drawl. 'Hi, Pops. That brother of mine's a wee heartbreaker. You know, maybe I'm biased, but you do real good-looking kids. I've got some good news and some better news. The good news is I got my finals results this morning. The better news is I got a first. So get used to it. Your kid's a lawyer. Now, Pops, don't hang about too long out there.

Get that thing sorted and come home. Sarah's missing you already – and it's only been six hours.'

There was a click and a buzz as the message ended. Then a few seconds later, a whistling sound prefaced the second message. When a voice came on the line, it was that of Brian Mackie. 'Boss, hello. Could you call me back as soon as you get in? I've had feedback from France that you should know about. It's three forty-five BST at the moment.' The message clicked to a halt.

Curious, Skinner pushed the hands-free button on the telefax console and keyed in 07. Within three seconds, the second tone sounded, and he dialled in a direct-line number.

`Mackie.'

`Brian, Skinner. What's the story?'

`The man Lucan, sir. The associate of your fellow Vaudan that you asked us to tag as from yesterday. He's been on the move today. The French watchers had only just picked him up, when he headed for Nice Airport and caught an early flight to Hamburg.'

‘Yes?’

The French faxed a photo to Germany while the plane was in the air, and the locals in Hamburg got on his tail. He took a taxi to a hotel, had coffee and strudel with the receptionist, then took another taxi, back to the airport and caught the first plane back to Nice.

What d’you think of that?

‘I can think of one or two things, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. What do we know about the girl?’

`Leggy redhead with big knockers, so the German watchers said. Name of Hilda Braun. They stayed clear of her, though.'

`Good. When I go to see her I want it to come as a surprise.'

'You're going to Germany?'

`Yeah. There's fuck all to do here now. All the leads are dead, dried up, or staying silent. But Lucan's visit to this girl —I don't want to get too excited, but that could be a break for us, and I want to interview her. Fix it with the German police. And get yourself booked out, too. If there's any chance that this might wind up as evidence in a Scottish prosecution of Ainscow, then there must be two of us at the interview. Arturo Pujol's serving that purpose here, but I want you in Germany.'

`You're still sure that Ainscow's involved, then?'

`Bloody certain, and I'm not letting up till I prove it. Brian, this is a big scam with one, probably two murders thrown in. Its been set up to accumulate, over a period, a pile of laundered cash. Once I find out what that's going to be used for, and once I can show that Ainscow and Vaudan are acting in concert, then I can pull the whole thing down.

Where's this cash pile lying now, boss?'

`That's a bloody good question, my son. Once we've done the business in Hamburg, we'll try to answer it. And to do that we'll need to go to Amsterdam.'

`Amsterdam?'

`That's right. The vice capital of Europe. Maybe I should take Andy Martin on that instead. That's more his line' There was a silence at the other end of the line.

`No, you make the arrangements and the bookings. Get me on a plane from Barcelona to tie in with your arrival, and then book me back to Edinburgh with you from Amsterdam. Tell Ruth what you want, and ask her to make it happen.'

`Okay, sir, will do.' Mackie paused. 'Wait a minute. What about your car?'

`I'll leave it here in my garage, and get a cheap tourist flight out to pick it up once things have settled down.'

`Okay, I'll get things moving at once,' said the Chief Inspector. 'I'll send you a fax to let you know the arrangements. Can I leave that until tomorrow, though?'

`Sure. But why? You got a date?'

`Aye, sir. With Maggie Rose. She's kicking her heels with you away, so I gave her a stint in Stirling keeping tabs on Ainscow. She called me in around half an hour ago to say that he's on the move. He's heading down the M9. towards Edinburgh. I told her to call in when he stopped, and I'd meet up with her.'

`He's probably heading for Safeway. You can grab a trolley each and tail him through the aisles! Let me know if it's anything more significant. Otherwise I'll see you in Hamburg. `Cheers, boss. I'll be in touch.'

Mackie replaced his receiver, then picked it up again immediately and called Skinner's secretary. He relayed the ACC's instructions and asked her to make travel arrangements. Next he called in the Special Branch typist and dictated a fax to the Interpol contact in Hamburg, advising him of their visit to interview Hilda Braun, and asking that they be met by an

English-speaking officer who could interpret if necessary. `Check the ETA of the flights with Ruth. Once you have them, send it off.' The typist, a middle-aged woman of formidable demeanour, nodded. Even after only a short time in his new post, Mackie knew that there was no need to check her work.

She had barely left the room before his phone rang again.

He picked it up. `DCI Mackie.'

`Brian, it's Maggie Rose. Our man Ainscow's reached his destination. Believe it or not, he's at Tony Manson's sauna in Powderhall. Pulled right up to the door and walked in.'

`Eh! Bit early in the day, isn't it?'

`I don't know. Maybe he really has gone for a sauna.'

`Come on, Maggie. Nobody goes to one of those places for that!'

`You're just a cynic. Anyway, I've got a small complication. Andy Martin and Neil Mcllhenney are parked right across the road from the place. We seem to have crossed wires with another investigation. What do I do if they decide to go in? You remember the boss's orders on Ainscow. "Look, but don't touch."'

`Shit, yes. Listen, have they seen you yet?' 'No'

`Right. Sit tight where you are. I'm on my way.'

Fifty-seven

‘Like a fucking CID convention,' Mackie muttered to himself as he pulled his car into a parking space in Powderhall Road, around a hundred yards away from the red-painted shop front of the Hot Spot sauna and massage parlour.

As he looked along the street, he could see a flash of Andy Martin's blond head and the bulk of Mcllhenney in the front seats of an anonymous blue Sierra. They were parked around twenty yards beyond the Hot Spot, with a clear view of the entrance. Fifty yards further on, Mackie recognised a red Metro GTi, and saw the outline of a figure in the driver's seat.

Mackie was almost level with the Sierra before Martin spotted his approach. He looked up, surprised, but reached round at once and opened the rear door. Glancing around to make sure that he was unobserved, Mackie slid quickly into the back seat.

`What are you doing here?' Martin asked sharply.

`Sorry, sir,' said Mackie, 'but we've got a wee situation. You weren't thinking about raiding that place, were you?'

`No,' said Martin, shaking his head. 'We're just keeping it under observation for now. It seems that Tony Manson hasn't left a will. In the absence, wee Cocozza's appointed himself administrator of the estate. We've had no word of any drugs action for a while but, as far as we can see, Cocozza's still running the girls in the saunas. I want to put a stop to that, so we're building up a photograph album of his punters. Once we've got enough, I'm going to give him a straight choice: pack it in or I go to the Law Society. I tell you, we've got some crackers already. Bankers, lawyers, accountants, even a certain deputy Fiscal. The professions are well represented at the Hot Spot saunas, that's for sure. But today . . . today could be very interesting indeed. Cocozza's in there himself, and four other guys have gone in while we've been watching. Once of them we recognised.'

`Tall, well built, smooth-looking guy, late thirties, went in about fifteen minutes ago. Yes?'

`Him? No. Never seen him before in my life. No, I was talking about Eddie Gilhooley. You've heard of him, haven't you? The Godfather of Glasgow. Tony Manson's opposite number through in the west. A premier-league drug baron, if ever there was one. So who's this other guy? And what's your problem?'

Mackie took a deep breath. 'Paul Ainscow. Maggie Rose followed him here from Stirling. She's back there.' He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. 'We've got him under round-the-clock watch for the boss. He thinks he's—'

Martin interrupted. 'Yes, Sarah told me all about it. So that's Mr Ainscow. He keeps some funny company, then. Wonder what the hell he's doing here?'

`Aye, and the boss'll wonder too. You don't know who the other guys are?'

'No. We should have some pretty good mug-shots though. We'll get them processed as fast as we can, and run them through the PNC. Could you take the film back to the lab for me?'

`Sure. I'll tell them it's a SB rush job. I'll do the PNC check, too.'

`Thanks,' said Martin. 'Meantime I'll go along and say hello to Maggie. Odd job for a woman, isn't it, sitting all evening in Powderhall Road waiting for your subject to get his end away!'

Fifty-eight

‘You on your usual, Brian?'

`Aye, thanks, Andy.'

Martin turned back to the barman. 'That's another pint shandy, please.' He waited while the last drink was poured, paid the barman, and carried the round across, on a tray, to the corner table where Maggie Rose, Mario McGuire, Alison Higgins and the newly arrived Brian Mackie were waiting. Ryrie's, the famous Haymarket tavern, was a regular meeting place for police officers. It was only a few hundred yards away from the Torphichen Place Divisional HQ, and coincidentally, from Andy Martin's flat.

`So, Neil's taken over the Ainscow surveillance?' asked Mackie.

`Yes,' said Martin. 'He volunteered. Said he'd take him home and put him to bed. Apparently his wife's having her pals round tonight, so he was glad of something to do. You okay with that, Brian?'

`Sure. Glad to be of help.

`Okay. So how d'you do with our snapshots? Anything back from the PNC scan? I thought you were looking a bit pleased with yourself when you came in.

Mackie grinned. 'I've got every right. And so have you, Superintendent. We've got results on both your mystery men. Tell me, did you see them leave?'

`Yes. They went not long after you. A taxi stopped at the sauna. Gilhooley and the two unknowns went off in it. Then wee Cocozza came out and drove off in his GSi.'

`What about Ainscow?'

Martin shook his head. 'No. He was still inside when Maggie and I left. Maybe he had nothing to do with the rest of them. Maybe he was only there to get his leg over.'

`Be a blow if he was. The boss would just love to tie Ainscow in with Gilhooley and those other two. I think it could be a hell of a big piece in the jigsaw he's putting together.'

`So who were these guys?'

Mackie smiled again round all the faces at the table. They looked back at him, curious, as he savoured the moment of his disclosure.

`Okay. You ready? One's called Peter McAteer. He's from Newcastle. The other one is Terence Michael Bennett. He's from Manchester. According to the PNC, each one is to his own city what Eddie Gilhooley is to Glasgow, and what Tony Manson was to Edinburgh — Mr Big in the drugs business. You, Superintendent, in what I am sure you will describe later as a brilliant piece of detection, have stumbled upon a drug dealers' convention.

Martin looked at him, his green eyes wide with surprise. ‘Jesus Christ,' he whispered. 'And Cocozza was there. Not only that, he was the host. God, but the wee bugger's getting above himself, playing with the likes of them. He must really fancy taking over Tony's seat at the big table. But what the hell was your man Ainscow doing there?'

`Beats me. As you said, maybe that was just a coincidence.'

Martin nudged him with an elbow. 'Look out that window, thin man, and you will see a pig in a Hibernian strip flying over Haymarket. Coincidence, my arse. You've been around Big Bob long enough to know what he thinks of them. Coincidences of that sort are like miracles. They happen very rarely, or not at all. I'd love to hear what the boss says to this.'

`I'll hear that the day after tomorrow. I'm meeting him. The Big Man's taking me on a tour of the fleshpots of Europe.'

`What?' said Maggie Rose. 'When did all this happen?' There was a tinge of annoyance in her tone, as though she felt slighted at not being the first to know of her boss's return.

`S'all right, Maggie,' said Mackie. 'It all came up while you were out following Ainscow. We're going to Germany — to Hamburg — to follow up a lead that the Ainscow inquiry threw up today. Then we're off to Amsterdam. Don't know what that's about, though, other than that it's all part of the same investigation.' He leaned back in his chair and took a deep swallow of his shandy. 'After that, he's coming home.

Beside him, Martin was lost in thought. He shook his head. `I still can't get over that meeting, or Cocozza being the host. The nerve of the bastard. Those hooligans on my patch. Christ, I'm going to have him. From tomorrow morning, Cocozza's on twenty-four-hour cover. He yawns — I know it. Just like Ainscow. Let's see if they meet up again.' He looked across the table. 'Alison, I'm going to be tight for people. I don't suppose .

Superintendent Higgins grinned at the big figure on her right. 'Sergeant McGuire's bloody useless, I know, but you can have him if you like.'

`That's good. Thanks.' He glanced to his left. 'Maggie, would you make up the numbers till the boss gets back?'

Of course. Be just like old times.'

Martin glanced at his watch. 'Right, that's fixed. My office eight o'clock tomorrow. Now I've got to go. Dinner must be nearly ready.' He finished his Beck's and stood up.

Brian Mackie looked at him curiously. 'You not doing your own cooking any more, Andy?'

Martin returned his gaze with a bland smile. 'Brian, my friend, you're letting Special Branch go to your head. You should leave the detecting for the office, not the pub. G'night all.'

Fifty-nine

The blonde girl's pale blue eyes sparkled a welcome as Pujol — with Skinner following behind — walked into the offices of Montgo SA.

`Buenos Dias, señores.'

`Habla Ingles, por favor?' asked the Commandante, explaining, ‘Por mi amigo.' He was dressed as casually as Skinner, in light slacks and a pale blue shirt.

She smiled. 'Yes, and French also.

Pujol was charmed. But he began to feel a pang of concern over the purpose of their visit.

Skinner had received his call on the heels of Mackie's fax advising him of his flight and arrival times, and briefing him on the merging at Powderhall of Mackie's surveillance with that conducted by Andy Martin. As he read the message, a long slow grin of satisfaction had spread over Skinner's face, as he had grasped the possible implications of Ainscow's presence at the meeting. But before he could dwell on the message any further, the phone had sounded its single repeating tone.

`Bob? This is Arturo. My people have reported something positive from the check on the Torroella Locals bank. They have found the pay-in records from the account. Some are rents, but there are many others. The Director of the bank remembered that they were large amounts in sterling paid directly into that account, by a special arrangement agreed with Senor Inch. The records show that on each occasion the cheques were paid in by one Veronica Chaumont.'

`And she is?'

`The secretary of Nicolas Vaudan. You now have your first link between him and Ainscow. Meet me at the Montgo SA office in ten minutes, and we will talk to this lady.'

The girl was utterly charming. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. The pale eyes were set in an oval face with a light golden tan. Only slightly irregular teeth stopped her short of cover-girl perfection. She smiled up at Pujol and Skinner like someone with nothing in the world to hide.

Forcing himself to the business at hand, Pujol coughed, and introduced first himself, then Skinner. She nodded to each in turn, not appearing flustered in the slightest. 'Veronica Chaumont,' she responded, offering each a chair.

`You are Belgian, yes?' Pujol asked, as he sat down. She nodded her head. `Oui’

'How-long have you worked for Senor Vaudan?'

She shrugged. 'Since the company was started.'

`This company, Montgo SA?'

`Yes. I do not work for any other.'

`No?' Pujol paused and looked at her a little less kindly than before. 'Are you not involved also with a company called Torroella Locals?'

She shook her head. 'No, I am not. I know of it, of course, but I don't work for it.'

`But we know that you have made payments into its bank account.'

She paused. 'Yes, that is true, but only on the instructions of Nicolas.'

`Can you describe how the payments were made?'

`Yes. Every little while, Nicolas would give me a number of blank cheques. They were made out for cash, and they were for a bank in Scotland. It was called the Clydesdale.' She pronounced the name slowly and with difficulty.

Skinner spoke for the first time. 'Do you remember the name of the account?'

Veronica nodded. 'Yes, it was InterCosta UK.'

`Were you told when to pay each one in?'

`Yes. Nicolas would call me and give me instructions. He would tell me the amount in sterling that the cheque should be made out for, and where it should be paid.'

`Where?' said Pujol, surprised.

`Yes. Sometimes I would pay into the Torroella Locals account; and other times into our own account here.' Did the cheques always have the same signature?' `Yes. Mr Paul Ainscow.'

`Never Santi Alberni?' asked Skinner.

It was Veronica's turn to look surprised. `Santi? No never. Why would he sign? He only worked for InterCosta, didn't he? That's what Nick said.'

Skinner shook his head. 'No, he had a piece of it. How well did you know Santi Alberni?'

`Not very well. He was a friend of Nick's. Occasionally the three of us would have coffee in the Café Navili, but other than that he didn't come around here much.'

Did you know much about him as a businessman?'

`He was a great salesman. The best in L'Escala, everyone said. InterCosta did very well, thanks to him. Sold a lot of properties, and some of them were very big ones. But he used to make jokes about how bad he was with money. I remember him saying once that it was just as well that he did not have to do the accounts for InterCosta, otherwise they would be in trouble.'

`Were you surprised when he killed himself?'

`I couldn't believe it. He never seemed like a sad guy.' `What about Paul Ainscow? Did he come around here much?'

`Never. I have never met Mr Ainscow. I have never even spoken to him on the telephone.'

`Have you ever seen him at all, with Nick Vaudan for example?'

`No. I often think that it is odd. Sometimes I wonder if he exists.'

`Is there any correspondence anywhere between him and Vaudan.'

Again, Veronica shook her head. 'No, there is nothing I can think of. The only time I have ever seen Mr Ainscow's signature is on those blank cheques.'

`Tell me, senorita,' said Pujol. Did it not strike you as strange, to be paying this money from one company to others in this way?'

`Why should it? Many things much stranger than that happen in Spain, as you must know, Commandante. Nicolas told me that Paul Ainscow wished to invest money in two businesses: Montgo SA and Torroella Locals. He had agreed to run Montgo, and that Alan Inch — poor man — was looking after the other one. He said that Ainscow was never quite sure until the last moment how much each investment would be, and that blank cheques were the simplest way of going about it.'

`Were you surprised by the amounts of money being transferred?'

`Not when I saw how good a salesman Santi Alberni was. The other parts of the business — property management and holiday rentals — seemed to do well also.'

Skinner shifted in his chair. The Montgo properties, Miss Chaumont. Do you know where the deeds are?'

`The escrituras? Nicolas keeps them himself. I never see them. There is no need. My job is to collect the rents, fix the problems, keep the books, and make sure that everyone is happy. That's all.

Pujol coughed again. 'Senorita Veronica, there is one other thing I must ask you. Your relationship with Nicolas Vaudan. Is it purely one of business?'

A light pink flush showed beneath the girl's tan. 'Certainly! Senor Commandante, you must know that Nicolas is a happily married man.' She stared boldly across the desk, a sparkle still in the pale eyes and a smile toying with the corners of her mouth. 'So what possible reason could you have for asking me such a question?'

Beneath his tan, Arturo Pujol blushed bright red.

Sixty

‘What do I think? I think you fancy your chances with Mamselle Veronica, that's what I bloody think!'

Pujol smiled, replacing his beer on the Café Navili's marble-topped table. 'You know what I mean. Did you believe her?'

`Implicitly. Every word she said was true, or at least she believed it was. That girl has never told a lie in her life. There, does that satisfy you?'

`Si. I am glad to hear you say it.'

`Think of it. What purpose would there be in getting her involved? Wide-eyed, totally honest, totally innocent. Her job, as she says, is to keep everybody happy — and who could be better at it? She's perfect. And, yes, for what it's worth, I think you might have scored there.'

Pujol grinned even more broadly. 'Do you think she will keep her word not to say anything to Vaudan about our visit?'

`I hope so. Let's just keep our fingers crossed that he doesn't ask her a direct question. I wouldn't like that to be her first lie. With any luck at all, though, Vaudan still thinks that his thing with the brick worked, and that I'm off the pitch. I'm bloody sure Garcia would do as he was told, and report mission accomplished. He'd better. He's got his testicles in a sling as it is. If he crosses me on this one, he'll have them for paperweights!'

Skinner reached into the left breast pocket of his shirt, and produced two folded sheets of fax paper. ‘But enough of him. I've got serious news on the Ainscow front. Take a look at this. You should be able to understand Edinburgh police jargon!' He handed over Mackie's fax.

Pujol scanned it quickly, then reread the second Section, his eyes widening.

`But this is incredible. You are watching this man Cocozza, and all this happens.'

`Yeah. We clock these three big dealers, then Ainscow walks slap bang into the middle of it. Arturo, if I'm reading this right, we haven't just got our link between Ainscow and Vaudan through those cheques. We know why they've been building up their cash mountain over the years. It's a bankroll for one of the biggest drugs buys ever made in Europe, enough to keep four cities high for years, and to make some people very, very rich. This is a classic deal. A straightforward supply chain leading from manufacturer to customer. Those three hooligans in the sauna, and Cocozza who'd like to be one of them, they’re the retailers. Ainscow, he and Vaudan, they're the wholesalers. And somewhere, if they haven't done it already, they're going to touch base with the manufacturers. And I don't need to tell you what the product is.'

Skinner's eyes gleamed with excitement. 'If I can find out from the man in Amsterdam where that money is, and keep a track of it, wherever it goes, then follow what it buys to its destination, then there's a chance that we can wrap up the whole supply chain in one go. And that would be some outcome, from a minor property fraud.

I wish I was going to Amsterdam first tomorrow. Fuck it, I wish I was going today!' `Can't you change your plans?'

Skinner shook his head. 'No, Brian'll have lined it all up by now. But what I can and will do, once I've seen the girl, is get to that bank in Amsterdam as fast as I can, even if the local law has to drive us.'

`Will you come back here?'

Skinner shook his head. 'No, I think this investigation's moving back towards my patch. You've still got to tie Inch's accident, and Alberni's dodgy suicide, to Vaudan, if you can. But me, I'm off down another trail!'

Sixty-one

It was a very smart hotel located in the heart of Hamburg's main business district, with the well-polished look of private ownership rather than the glitz of a major chain. Its furnishings were opulent, and its staff had the air of people who knew that they were there not simply to serve, but to care.

Skinner and Mackie sat in the coffee shop and waited for Hilda Braun to join them. A German detective, who had met them at the airport, sat alongside. However, they had already discovered that his interpretative skills would not be needed. Not unexpectedly for a big-city hotel receptionist, the woman turned out to be multilingual.

They rose as she approached. She fitted the shorthand description which Skinner had been given. Busty, and with a crest of soft, well-groomed red hair, she came to the table still wearing her receptionist smile, but with curiosity and concern showing in her eyes.

The three men continued standing as she reached the table. The German moved round and drew out for her the fourth chair. As she sat down, he poured her coffee from a large chrome Thermos pot.

`Thank you for joining us, Miss Braun,' said Skinner. 'Let me explain why we are here. My colleague here on my left and I are involved in an international investigation of what could be a very big crime indeed. This gentleman,' he nodded to his right, 'is from the police in Hamburg. He is helping us today.'

'I see. And why do you need to talk to me?' Her smile had gone. Only the concern remained.

`In the course of our investigation, we are watching a number of people. A couple of days ago, one of them made a trip to Hamburg: a very short trip. He flew here, he met with you, and then he flew away again. His name is Serge Lucan. We'd like you to tell us what you talked about.'

The girl took a sip of coffee. Skinner noticed that her hand was trembling slightly. She sat silent for a few seconds, as if considering her reply. Then she looked up and across at Skinner.

`I have a boyfriend,' she began hesitantly. 'His name is Hansi. We have known each other for many years. We are both from Bremerhaven, quite near here. Hansi was . . . had a little trouble a few years ago. When it was over, he decided that there was no future for him in Germany, and we agreed that he should go somewhere else to try to make a new start. We agreed that when he was established I would join him. Hansi was a sailor, on inshore boats mostly, so he decided to go to the south of France to look for work crewing on private yachts. He was only there for a few weeks when he called me to say that he had found a job with a man named Vaudan, as a crewman on yacht and cruiser charters around the Mediterranean. The pay was good, and he said that Vaudan had told him that there might be opportunities later for other work, with even better money. That was a few months ago. He has written regularly, but I have not seen him since then.'

She took another sip of coffee. The tremor was still there. The man you are talking about — Lucan. He called me one morning earlier this week. From the airport, he said. He said that he too worked for Monsieur Vaudan, and that he had a message for me from Hansi. I told him to come to the hotel. We met here. He said that Hansi had asked him to come. He gave me a letter from him, and he gave me twenty thousand Deutschmarks.

`Hansi's letter said that he had been given an even better job by Vaudan as a crewman on a big yacht which some man from the Middle East had chartered, but that the cruise was not just the Mediterranean; it was around the world, and could take up to two years. He said that the man from the Middle East was paying the crew directly, and that the money was crazy. Hansi asked me if I would bank some of it for him, and use any I needed for myself. He said that, as well as the twenty thousand, every six months while he was away I would receive another fifteen thousand. It would come through Monsieur Vaudan, by bank draft. Hansi asked me to give this man Lucan a note confirming that I had received the money. So I did. He said that I could write to him through Vaudan's office in Monaco.'

She took a third sip of coffee. Her hand was now steady. `That's all there was. Lucan finished his coffee and his strudel, and left. Does that help you?'

Skinner nodded. 'Yes, it helps me a lot. Do you still have Hansi's letter?'

She held up her handbag. 'Yes, in here.'

And what did you do with the money?'

'I opened a bank account the same day. Now, what is this about, please?'

Skinner held up a hand. 'I'll tell you, Miss Braun, but first I want you to give me Hansi's letter. My German colleague here will give you a receipt if you wish one.'

She looked at him with a touch of fear in her eyes, seeming to clutch her bag tighter than before.

`Miss Braun, you haven't told us Hansi's surname. So I'll tell you: it's Gruber. I've met him. In a prison in Barcelona. He's being held there in connection with the death of a man in Spain. I expect that he will be charged with murder. The money that he is being paid is to keep him quiet while he's inside. But I don't imagine they'll pay it for too long. It'll be cheaper to arrange for him to have an accident in jail, or to commit suicide in his cell. I know Vaudan, too. He's very good at arranging accidents and suicides.'

Hilda Braun seemed to sag back in her chair. Tears ran down her face. She held a hand to her mouth, shaking her head slightly as if to deny the truth of what Skinner was saying.

`I'm sorry to have to hit you with this, but there was no way I could edge up to it. Look, do you want to help Hansi?'

She nodded.

`Well, there might be a chance. But ,I want you to give me that letter, and to write me another one.'

Sixty-two

The oriental girl spread herself against the window, beckoning to Skinner and Mackie as they walked past. Her tiny bra and G-string were almost the same yellowish colour as her skin. Mackie, in spite of himself, looked towards her. The beckoning grew even more insistent.

`Want me to wait for you, Brian?' Skinner asked with a grin.

The slim detective shook himself theatrically and forced himself to move on. 'Christ, sir, are they all like that?'

`From what I remember, most of them just sit there in their Marks & Spencer bras and knickers, looking bored. That lass must have been working on her sales technique.'

`I once had a girlfriend,' said Mackie, 'who had one of those big Garfield cats stuck halfway up her bedroom window. That's what that one there reminds me of, pressed against the glass like that'

`You'd be a lot safer shaggin' Garfield than her,' Skinner muttered grimly.

`You been to Amsterdam often, boss?' Mackie asked.

`Once,' said Skinner. 'About fifteen years ago. I'd been a good boy or something, and my boss fixed it for me to be liaison man with the local police on a football trip. The local lads gave me the grand tour of the canal district. And before you ask, the answer's "Mind your own business".' He grinned at a sudden memory. 'Actually, to tell the truth, there was this Dutch lady detective in their squad. I really fancied her, so the last thing I was going to do was let her see me taking any interest in the women in the windows!'

`How did you do there, then?' asked Mackie, amused by this sudden burst of frankness from his boss.

Skinner smiled again. 'The answer's still "Mind your own business". It was a long time ago. Don't know what I'd do if I met her here today, though.'

They walked on down the narrow street, which at the end opened out into the first of the notorious canals of Europe's legal red-light capital.

The German police helicopter which had flown them from Hamburg to Schiphol had made excellent time. Mackie, having ascertained that there would be no language difficulty at the Nederland Property Investment Bank, had declined the offer of an official reception. Instead they had taken the short taxi trip from the airport to central Amsterdam, where their driver had been disinclined to drive through the narrow canal-side streets, and had dropped them off to walk the remaining half mile to their destination. Even in mid-afternoon, the city's most famous industry was in full swing. As Skinner had recalled, the canals were lined with window after window of bored prostitutes, largely ignoring their potential clientele. Some were smoking, others renewing their heavy make-up. One or two were knitting. Eventually they left the canals behind and turned into another narrow street, where every business establishment was either a bar or a sex-shop.

Mackie stared at the implements on sale and shook his head. 'What in Christ's name would anyone want with one of those?' His Calvinist upbringing asserted itself. 'I can't be doing with all that. I don't know if I've ever told you, sir, but my lifetime hobby is model railways. Everywhere I go I like to buy a set for my collection.'

Skinner's shoulders shook with sudden laughter. 'You could probably do that here, too, Brian. Only thing is, the engine would be a funny shape!'

Less than a minute later, they emerged from their seedy surroundings into the wide pedestrianised courtyard towards which they had been heading. Skinner looked around and saw, on a building on the far side, a large brass plate bearing the letters `NPIB'. He tapped Mackie on the shoulder and led him across the paved central area, between tubs of multicoloured flowers. He opened the high, heavy, half-glazed door. The name of the bank was spelled out in gold leaf on the opaque glass panel. Inside, a stern, tweed-clad receptionist-secretary was stationed in the centre of the walnut-panelled entrance hall, barring the progress of visitors. Her eyebrows were pencilled on, and her grey-flecked black hair was pulled back in a bun. She reminded Skinner of a memorably intimidating primary school teacher of his childhood.

Mackie introduced Skinner and himself. 'We are here to see Mr van Troost,' he added.

Wait here, please,' said the forbidding woman. She withdrew through a door at the end of the hall. A few seconds later it opened once more, and her head and shoulders reappeared. 'Come this way,' she ordered. The two detectives obeyed without a word. She led them into a room panelled in the same style as the hall, with a desk in matching wood behind which sat a trim man with a narrow face and a long nose, crested by gold-framed spectacles. He wore a grey suit made of a shiny fabric, and a white shirt with a 'fresh from the wrapper' look.

Van Troost did not rise as they approached, nor did he smile. The secretary-guardian beckoned them to two uncomfortable wooden chairs, then retreated from the room.

`So,' said van Troost without preamble. 'What is the purpose of this mysterious visit?' His clipped tones seemed laden with hostility. 'You said that your enquiries relate to a fraud investigation, but not more than that. I must tell you that, as Director of this bank, I recoil from the very mention of the word fraud. Our reputation in Europe is impeccable.'

`I don't doubt that for a second, sir,' said Skinner, `and no one is impugning it. We know that the transactions which we want to discuss are quite legitimate — on your part at least. We are looking into a certain loan, and most probably a second, which we believe you have made against the security of some properties in Spain. We know of one loan of around seven hundred and fifty thousand US dollars, arranged by or on behalf of a French national named Vaudan, possibly in association with a UK national named Ainscow. The loan of which we are sure is secured against a number of shop properties in the Spanish province of Girona. The second, if it exists, will be covered by a residential portfolio in the same area.'

Van Troost knitted his fingers together, and stared across the desk at Skinner over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses.

`Suppose I knew of such loans. Why should I break the trust of my clients by telling you about them?'

Skinner smiled. 'To help us with our inquiries, of course.' ‘but if I do not choose to do so?' said Van Troost evenly, looking Skinner straight in the eye.

The big policeman's smile did not waver for a second as he returned the banker's stare. 'Mr van Troost, you will tell me, please believe that, if not on this visit, then on the next. I have the power to ensure that you do. That is not a threat; it is a simple statement of fact.'

Van Troost looked at him for several seconds more, as if weighing his words. Eventually he unclasped his hands and leaned back in his chair. 'I believe you, sir. You are not a man to say such a thing without meaning it, or being able to bring it about. Very well. There are two loans. Each is for seven hundred and fifty thousand US dollars. One is to Nicolas Vaudan and the other is to Paul Ainscow. They are secured in the way you described.'

When were they negotiated?'

Van Troost thought for a second. 'Arrangements were completed around six weeks ago. We took some care over verification of title to the security. It was impeccable in every case.'

`What are the terms?'

The loans are repayable in full within one year, although Monsieur Vaudan did say that he expected them to be cleared within six months. Interest is at two per cent over base rate per annum. Very generous of us, I believe. Of course, if the loans are not repaid as agreed, the rate will increase retrospectively to ten per cent over base.'

Skinner smiled. 'Can't expect you to be too generous.' Van Troost grinned in turn and nodded.

`Have the loans been drawn down?'

`Yes, that was done two weeks ago, on joint instructions. All of the money was transferred to a numbered account in a bank in Monaco: an obscure private concern named Sneyder et

Fils.' Van Troost leaned forward once more. That is all I can tell you. The loans were granted in good faith, against sound security which we now hold. I have no idea what the money was for. If every bank such as ours asked the purpose of loans such as these, we, would do little business. There must be a place for trust in this world, no?'

Skinner nodded. 'Of course there must. You've been a great help to us. I will make sure that is known here. If I can give you some advice in return, this is it. Don't let the deeds to your security out of your sight. You may need them.'

Sixty-three

‘Arturo? Hello, it's Bob here. I'm at Schiphol. Sorry, Amsterdam Airport. Listen, I've just put a package on the 19.10 KLM flight to Barcelona. It's marked for you, strictly personal, so have one of your lads pick it up from the purser. The flight's due in at 21.20, so you've got plenty of time to get someone down there.'

Pujol's voice echoed back up the line. 'What is in this package of mystery?'

`Two letters. They're in German — so set up a translator. It'll be worth it, I promise you. The girl we went to see was Hansi's girlfriend. Lucan visited her to pay her off. One letter's from him to her, spinning her some bullshit about a long sea voyage. The other one she wrote to Gruber after we put her wise. You're going to love it. She's got a fertile imagination, that girl. Once you've read them both, you'll know what to do. Have fun.'

`You seem to have done well in Hamburg. How about your other visit?'

`There, too. At first I thought we might have trouble, but fortunately Mr Van Troost was a realist. We were right. There are two loans, for one and a half million dollars in total, transferred already to a very secretive-sounding private bank in Monaco — not the sort of place where we'll be able to walk in and demand information. We must keep track of that money, though — assuming that it isn't too late already. I've got an idea on that score.'

Pujol laughed. 'I'll bet you have. So where do you go now, my friend? Monaco?'

`Sod that for a game. So far I've been in three countries today, with a fourth to come when we touch down in Edinburgh. That'll do me for this week. If I got home, then buggered off straight away to Monaco, Sarah'd kill me. Anyway, I couldn't take the slightest chance of Nick Vaudan spotting me, of him hearing I was there. He thinks he's free and clear, remember, and that I've been scared off and run back to Scotland. If your girlfriend and Paco Garcia did as they were asked — and they will have, each for a different reason —he thinks he's in the clear. That's what gives us our chance of closing down this whole operation.'

'Si, I know. Good luck, my friend.'

`Good luck to you too, when you have your talk with Gruber. Somehow I don't think he'll gob on you this time.'

Skinner hung up and left his booth, which was one of a semicircle of twenty, and went to the cash desk to settle up for his call. As he signed his credit-card slip, Brian Mackie stepped up to his shoulder. 'Get through okay, sir?'

`Okay. My Spanish mate'll send someone to meet the plane and pick up those letters. It's up to him after that. How d'you get on?'

`Fine. There's a fax waiting for me, reporting something from the Vaudan surveillance. Seems he had a visitor from Scotland yesterday. I thought you'd want to see it as soon as we got back, so I've asked for it to be sent down to your house. I didn't think you'd want to go into the office tonight.'

`Too bloody right! D'you arrange for a car to pick us up?' `No need. Mine's at the airport.'

`Good. Drop me off and come in for some supper, so we can have a look at it together. When do we land?'

`Quarter to eight. We board in ten minutes.'

`Right. Gives us time to hit the shops. I've got to buy an Amsterdam T-shirt for Sarah. We've got this deal. If I get to go somewhere on my own, I bring her back something to prove I've been there. She's done okay today, and that's for sure!'

Sixty-four

Jazz’s windy howl came to an abrupt halt the moment that Bob appeared in the nursery doorway.

He gave one loud burp and forgot his discomfort as recognition showed in his tiny eyes. Sarah stood up from her chair and held the baby out to his father.

Bob took him, arms outstretched, and raised him high above his head. 'Hello there, wee man. If you've missed me one-tenth as much as I've missed you these last couple of days, then you've still missed me a lot.' Jazz smiled down at him, a dribble starting at the corner of his mouth. Bob cradled him to his shoulder, leaned over and kissed Sarah.

`Hello, love. The same goes for you, too.

She squeezed his arm. `Hmm. I'm just glad you're back so soon. How were Hamburg and Amsterdam?'

`Interesting and very useful. We're hot on Ainscow now. He's tied right into Vaudan through that money.'

`Where does that put Gloria? Does it help you prove that Santi's death wasn't suicide?'

Not yet. Paco Garcia's statement still gives us a big problem there. If it were discounted, Gloria would probably have enough doubt on her side now to challenge the insurance company in the civil courts. But with that on the record, she's stuffed.'

`But couldn't Garcia be lying?'

Skinner shook his head. 'No chance, love. Garcia would have given me the PIN number to his granny's cash card if I'd asked him. He was telling the truth, no doubt about it. It looks as if I was wrong about Santi. That dog theory was just the great detective's imagination running away with him. The guy must have had a brainstorm. Suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed; that's how it goes. The fact that Vaudan was going to kill him won't soften the insurers' hearts.'

Dammit!' said Sarah. 'I feel so sorry for that woman.'

`Yeah, so do I, but we've done all we can. Anyway, enough of that. Brian's downstairs. He's stopping for supper . . . if that's okay. Has Fettes dropped off a paper for me?'

Sarah gave him a longish look. 'Of course it's all right for Brian to stay. I was half expecting him anyway. As for the fax, couldn't it wait until tomorrow morning?'

`Maybe not. Things are moving fast on this one.'

They walked downstairs — Jazz still nestled happily on Bob's shoulder, drooling quietly on to his shirt — and joined Brian Mackie in the living room. 'Your envelope's on the coffee table,' said Sarah. 'I'll get supper under way while you two see what's in it.'

Skinner nodded toward the brown manila envelope. 'Open that, Brian, will you.'

The Chief Inspector picked it up and tore it open with his index finger. He took out a sheet of paper, scanned it and passed it to Skinner, who took it from him, left-handed.

The report was a day in the life of Nicolas Vaudan, compiled in secret by his watchers. It listed everyone with whom he had been in contact while Skinner and Mackie had been in Hamburg and Amsterdam: some by name, others unidentified and simply by description. One section was underlined.

Skinner read aloud. "'Caller arrived at Vaudan's waterfront office just before midday. White male, aged around fifty, stocky, of medium height wearing denims. Heavy moustache, black-framed spectacles. Drove a Ford Transit van, UK registration L 254 DQT, with trailer attached. Spent twenty minutes in Vaudan's office before Vaudan himself showed him to the door. Left his vehicle parked in Vaudan's yard and left in a taxi."'

He looked across at Mackie. 'Has anyone . . .' The question was answered with a nod before it was complete.

`Yes, sir. This was in the envelope too.'

He handed across a second sheet of A4 paper. Skinner read once more. "'Caller subsequently identified provisionally from van registration as Norman Melville Monklands, age forty-nine, of 7 Dalziel Terrace, Whitburn, West Lothian. Monklands has no record of convictions or arrests. He is DSS registered as a self-employed delivery driver, specialising in the transportation of light motorboats between Spain, Portugal, France, Italy and the UK. He maintains a small office at Inverkip Marina, near Gourock, and employs two other drivers on a casual basis. Monklands is known, on a social and business basis, to the police in Whitburn, where he and his wife also operate a small fleet of vehicles as licensed taxis. Whitburn officers provided the information that his main social interest is golf, and that he is a member of Dalmahoy Golf Club."'

The note was signed by Maggie Rose.

`Interesting,' said Skinner. 'Maybe this guy is a complete innocent. Maybe he's in Monaco to pick up a boat.' He paused to shift position in his chair as Jazz, falling asleep, slumped against his neck. in a deal like this one — if we are on the right trail — there has to be a courier. And if you didn't have someone like Mr Norman Melville Monklands, you'd have to invent him. Tomorrow, Brian, while I'm arranging to have a look in that Monaco bank account without anyone knowing about it, you do some more checking. Find out everything there is to know about this guy. What kind of perfume his mistress likes, the whole damn lot. But that is for tomorrow. For now, I am going to put my son to bed. Then you, his mother and I are going to eat. So far today, I've had a Spanish breakfast, a German lunch, and a Dutch tea. It'll be nice to end it with a plain Scottish supper!'

Sixty-five

‘You need to get details of a numbered account in a small private bank without anyone knowing you've done it?'

`That's right, Maggie, and I need them today if possible. See to it, will you.

Maggie Rose shook her red locks and smiled. 'Too tall an order for me, sir. I think I'll have to decline.'

`I was afraid you would. Looks like I'll have to get on my Superman cape. And I'm knackered after yesterday, too. Okay, Mags, sit down and learn something. What I'm going to do is cheat a bit and call in the resources of my other job.'

The young inspector nodded and sat down. By virtue of his `other job' as part-time Security Adviser to the Secretary of State for Scotland, Skinner was recognised as a senior member of a service which, while it had become less 'secret' over the years, could still call on facilities and cut corners in a way of which no police force could dream. Now, he picked up a black scrambled telephone on his desk and punched in a short-coded number. The telephonist answered with a number, not a name.

`Morning. This is Skinner in Scotland. I know it's Saturday, but is Angie Dickson in? Good. Let me speak to her, please.'

The extension rang twice, before a bubbly voice answered: `Dickson.'

`Ms Dickson? This is Bob Skinner, the Five man in Scotland.

`Good morning, Mr Skinner. How can I help you?'

`By showing off your skills. Remember the lecture you gave at that seminar in Yorkshire last winter? "Armchair Spying" you called it. I found it fascinating, but I have to admit I was sceptical at times. Can you really do all those things?'

`Sure. Given a fair wind, I can do everything I told you. I even managed to hack into the CIA last week. We thought they were holding out on us over a deal in the Middle East. We were right. Now the negotiations have taken a whole new turn, and the Americans can't figure out why.'

Skinner laughed. 'Then what I've got for you should be plain sailing. I'm involved in an international investigation. It's a police matter rather than a security job, but something's come up which calls for skills that simply don't exist in that network. I need to know details of a numbered account in a small private bank in Monaco, called Sneyder et Fils. But I have to tap in with absolute secrecy, and leave no trace. You said in Yorkshire that you can do that.'

`That's right, I can, in theory. Assuming that Mr Sneyder and his son have computerised records and a modem in their system.'

`Yes,' said Skinner, 'that's the chance I'm taking. But I'm pretty certain they will have, though, for transferring credit. What do you need, to get in?'

`Nothing other than the number of the modem. Once I've got that, I'll squirt my little gizmo down the line, and it will persuade Sneyder's system to cough up its access code. Once I'm in, I can go where I like, get what I'm after, and get out again. Then another little gizmo will persuade their computer not to log the search — and that's that.'

`So will you do it?'

Natch. Anything for a brother officer. What's the account number?'

Skinner dug a small piece of paper from his pocket. `C 159480'

‘Got it. Leave it with me. I'll be quick as I can. I'll get you all the info I can. Balance, account owners, signatories — all that sort of stuff.'

`That's the game. When will you be able to do it?' `Right now, I should think.'

`Although it's Saturday?'

`Yes. If they have a system, it'll be accessible to receive electronic transfers even when the bank is closed.'

`How long'll it take?'

`Will you be there all morning?'

‘For you, as long as it takes.' He gave her his direct number. `Thanks in advance.'

He replaced the receiver. 'There you are, Maggie. Did you pick up enough from one side of the conversation?'

`Yes, sir, I get it. I'm going to have to start calling you God. You surely move in mysterious ways!'

Skinner snorted. ‘Hmph, d'you think God's got an intray as big as that one?' He pointed to the small mountain of files, memos and letters heaped on the big desk, close to his left hand. 'If I was the Almighty, you'd see a miracle done right here and now and that lot'd disappear. I take it this is what's left after you've filtered out the nonessential stuff.'

`That's right, sir. I spared you as much as I could. I even farmed some of the punter correspondence out to Alan Royston, and told him to sign himself "Head of Public Affairs" instead of Media Relations Manager.'

`Hope he doesn't come after me for a rise! Right, then. Let's get to it.'

His hand was almost on a memo, balanced precariously on top of the heap, when there was a knock on the door and Brian Mackie burst into the room. 'Can I have a minute, sir?' The thin detective could barely contain his smile. Even the top of his head, which during the previous few months had moved beyond its balding phase and now could be described only as dome-like, shone red with excitement.

`You can have as many minutes as you need, Brian. Grab yourself a coffee.'

Mackie filled a mug from the pot in the corner, then took a seat beside Maggie Rose. He was still smiling. 'Took a detour on the way in, this morning, boss. I dropped into Dalmahoy Golf and Country Club, just for a look around. I went into the club-house. I found a bloody great notice-board covered with competition charts and results. One of them was the club foursomes. Mr Norrie Monklands is doing very well this year. He's in the semi-finals. Know who his partner is?'

Mackie's grin broadened, until it infected Skinner. A smile spread across his face.

'So tell me, Brian. You've earned the pleasure.'

`Only Mr P. Ainscow, that's all. D'you think there's more than one?'

Behind his desk, Skinner punched the air with his right fist. 'You — pardon my French, Maggie — fucking beauty! The whole thing fits. Vaudan, buyer; Monklands, courier; Ainscow, distributor. We've got them by the jewels. We follow Monklands home, let Ainscow make his contacts, and there won't be a court in Edinburgh that's big enough to hold all the drug-dealing bastards we'll pull in. Too bad for Monklands and Ainscow. Somehow, I don't see them making the foursomes final!'

Sixty-six

They were in the same small room in the Barcelona prison.

Two guards stood in the corner, only a small step away from Gruber. The German's left eye was puffed and blackened. Pujol wondered if his escorts, after their previous meeting, had taken it upon themselves to instil in their prisoner a little respect for the Guardia Civil uniform. If that was the case, it seemed to have worked. Hansi Gruber seemed altogether more circumspect as he looked across the small table.

The Commandante enjoyed his advantage. 'You are surprised to see me again?' he asked in French. 'Don't be. It's just that I was asked to deliver something to you, and being an obliging fellow by nature, well, I said "of course." Actually, I was asked to deliver two things to you. The first, you have seen before.'

He took from his right breast pocket the German's letter to Hilda Braun, and threw it on the table. 'Sure, you have seen it before. In fact you wrote it, didn't you? When you did, you never thought it would need to be delivered. You didn't imagine you'd be so stupid as to foul your engine on Mr Inch and his sailboard. That letter, it was just to cover you against a million-to-one chance. You left it with Vaudan, to be delivered only if you were caught.'

Gruber grunted. 'No, everything in that letter is true. I was going away on that cruise, but I had the accident with that poor man, and now I am here'

`That accident, after you planned your escape, then stole a boat.'

Gruber spread his hands wide in a theatrical gesture. 'I do crazy things sometimes, when I am drunk.

`Okay,' said Pujol. 'That is of little importance for now. The second thing I have for you, here it is.' He produced a second letter, folded, from his left breast pocket and waved it in the air. As he did so, he fished in the same pocket with his left hand, and found a further piece of paper. He threw the letter on to the table with a broad smile.

`That is for you, from Hilda. It is written in German, but I have had it translated into Spanish. Let me read it to you. Our friends in the corner will enjoy it too. She says:

Dear Hansi

How big a fool can you be? Your friend Lucan came to me with your letter, your story, and your money. Then two policemen arrived and told me the truth, that you are lying in a stinking jail in Spain on a murder charge. What have you done? You went away to find a new life for us, one free of trouble, and all you have done is throw away the little that we had. Your friend Lucan, some friend he is. He told to me that your trip might last much longer than you thought, and that the money might not be as good as you had been led to expect. He even said that if I needed comfort while you were away, then all I had to do was call him and he would come back to Germany just for me. Your friend is a pig, Hansi.

The two policemen who came to see me said that, the way things are for you, you will go to jail for ever. But they also said that if you were to tell the truth — that you were paid to kill this man — and that if you gave evidence against the man who paid you, then you could go free. Be sure of this, Hansi, I will not grow old waiting for you. If you continue to protect these people, I will not be outside the prison gates when you come out, old and bent and leaning on a stick. If you ever want to see me again, and to feel free air in your lungs while you have the strength to enjoy it, then, for the first time in your stupid life, do something sensible. Tell the Spanish police what they want to know, and give evidence against this man. Otherwise, rot in there; at least until they eliminate you as a risk to them by arranging another accident — for you this time.

"Hilda" '

Some love letter, eh, Hansi.'

As Pujol had read aloud, Gruber had been following Hilda's words in her original letter. He now re-read it in silence, then dropped it on the table and buried his face in his hands.

`Nice man, that Lucan, isn't he, Hansi; said Pujol sympathetically, 'offering to look after your girlfriend for you while you're inside. He could get to look after her for a long time. Now, are you going to do the sensible thing? Here is the deal. You give evidence, and when Vaudan is convicted you walk free. Otherwise . . . well, you can forget about the sound of birdsong, the surge of the sea, and the smell of a woman for a long time, maybe forever. You going to do it?'

Gruber's eyes seemed beaten as they looked up and across the table. He nodded briefly.

`Good,' said Pujol. 'Now I want to hear you say it. You were paid to stage Inch's accident, yes?'

`Yes,' said the German hoarsely.

`By whom?'

`By Nick Vaudan.'

`He gave you your orders in person, yes?'

`Yes.'

Was anyone else there?'

`Yes. That filthy bastard Serge Lucan.'

`All very good. Now I am going to bring in a secretary who is fluent in German. You will dictate your story to her, she will type it up, and you will sign it. Then we will have copies made in Spanish, French and English. In whatever language you say it, Senor Vaudan will be cooked!'

Sixty-seven

‘Nice little bank, Sneyder et Fils. I had a good rummage while I was there. I looked at a dozen numbered accounts, as well as the one you gave me. Two were held by terrorist organisations, one by a Mafia don, and a third by a company which is known to us as a CIA front. Once I can set aside some more time, I'm going to take a longer look. Congratulations, Mr Skinner, you're a hero of the Service.' Angie Dickson's voice sounded even more effervescent than before.

`Don't think I really want to be,' said Skinner. 'Don't think I want to know too much, either, about what you can do to banks. As a policeman, it'd make me feel too uncomfortable. Apart from that rogues' gallery, what have you got on the account you went in to look for?'

`All there was to know. Opened a couple of weeks ago. Joint holders: Nicolas Vaudan, French national, and Paul Ainscow, British. The day after the account was opened, a deposit of one and a half million US dollars was made by EFT from a lending bank in Holland.'

`And it's still there?'

`No, I just missed it. It was pulled at eight thirty this morning. French time.'

Bugger!' Skinner snapped. 'All of it?'

The lot,' said Angie Dickson. 'One-point-five mil. In greenbacks. It would have to be on the signatures of the joint holders.'

`Would both need to be there?'

`I don't know. I wouldn't have thought so, though. The Red Brigade are hardly going to turn up in person to pick up their cash.

Skinner grunted. `No. Silly question really. I know that one of the signatories is in Scotland. Anything more to tell me?'

`No, that's it. Glad to have been of help, though.' She added, 'That's assuming I have been'

`Oh yes, Ms Dickson,' said Skinner. 'You surely have' `Good. I love being given the chance to show off! Bye'

There was a click and the scrambled line went dead.

Skinner replaced the black phone in its cradle. He looked across at Maggie Rose. 'There you are, Mags. An electronic bank job, by request, and it isn't even lunchtime yet.' `What did she have to say?'

`Enough. Let's go see DCI Mackie, international liaison officer.'

As they walked the short distance from the Command Suite to the Special Branch office, Skinner briefed his assistant on Angie Dickson's report. 'That money's on the move, Mags. I want to follow it to wherever it's going.'

He threw open the door of the DCI's office, calling out as he did. 'Brian, get on to your French friends and—' He stopped short when he noticed Mackie was hunched over his desk with the phone pressed to his ear.

He looked up and cupped a hand over the receiver. `They're on to me, sir.'

As Skinner and Rose watched, he nodded, grunted, muttered the odd `Oui' into the phone. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, he sat upright in his chair, and slapped his palm on the desk in frustration. `Oui, oui, oui, je comprends. Au revoir á vous aussi.'

Mackie put the phone down and looked up at Skinner. 'Go on, Brian,' said the big ACC. 'Tell me whatever it is. I know all this was too good to last’

Mackie stood up. ‘The French have lost them. Vaudan and Lucan. They're off’

`How?'

`It went like this. Vaudan's in his office around nine. Then Norrie Monklands shows up, carrying a hold-all, and goes inside. Meanwhile the guys watching Lucan see him playing about with a big, fast, sea-going cruiser. They think he's just turning the motor over, when he slips the cable and eases out of the berth. He's on his own, and they don't think for a minute that he's gong to take the thing out to sea, but he does. He drifts out of the marina, and he guns the bugger.

`Back at Vaudan's place, the watchers suddenly see Monklands and Vaudan in a speedboat. They can't see the boathouse exit from where they are, and you can enter it from the office, they said, so they didn't see them getting in. It was just a wee boat, they said, like you'd use to tow a water-skier. They know it can't go far, so they're not too worried. In fact they decide that they're probably test-driving the boat Monklands will be taking back' on his trailer. But half an hour later Norrie Monklands comes back alone.'

'So he must have transferred Vaudan to Lucan's cruiser?' `Yes. D'you think they've twigged they were being watched?' `Shouldn't think so. They've got one and a half million dollars with them. They're just being extra careful.'

Mackie looked at Skinner in surprise. He nodded, 'Yes, pulled from the bank at sparrow-fart this morning. That's what would have been in Monklands' bag. So what did the French do?'

`They called in the coastguard. Or they tried to. The coastguard told them to go through channels. They wouldn't even put a single helicopter up without an order from Paris. But by that time ..

Skinner finished the sentence,`. . . they'd have been long bloody gone.'

`I asked the French what the range would be of a boat that size,' said Mackie. 'They said it could go anywhere in the Mediterranean with maybe just one refuelling stop.'

`Yeah,' said Skinner. 'They're off with their cash pile to meet their supplier, and we can only guess where he might be. Sicily, Morocco, the Lebanon — any-bloody-where. Bang goes our chance of shutting down the whole supply chain.'

He looked up and grinned. 'Still, the ball's not burst yet.,. That's only part of it. We've still got Vaudan and Ainscow by the nuts. As long as we don't lose sight of Monklands, we're still in play. We can assume that he brought down Ainscow's signed authority for the dollar withdrawal. But he's still there, with his empty trailer, so let's add the assumption that he's taking a delivery back with him. Brian, you're on your travels again. I want you to get out there now, or maybe sooner. Join up with the French watchers, and wait for Vaudan and Lucan to get back from wherever they've been with whatever they've bought. Then, once Monklands leaves, tail him every centimetre of the way. As soon as you see which channel . crossing he's going to take, call ahead so that I can fix it with the customs at his landing port.'

Maggie Rose looked at her boss in surprise. 'I thought we'd follow him all the way home.'

Skinner nodded. 'We will. I want to make sure that he doesn't get stopped by the customs.' He turned back towards Mackie. 'You all right with that, Brian?'

A shaft of sunlight shone through the window and glistened on Mackie's bald head, as he smiled back at him. 'Sure, boss. But don't you want to go. I mean, Sarah could always use another T-shirt. You only brought her back three last night!'

Skinner laughed. 'No, you just be a good boss, and bring back the duty-free for your squad! Right, Detective Inspector Rose. Let's go up and see how Mr Martin's getting on, keeping tabs on Ainscow and that wee shit Cocozza.'

He led the way from the Special Branch suite up the single flight of stairs to Andy Martin's Drugs and Vice team. The outer office was empty save for a typist, hard at work. She was wearing transcription headphones.

Andy Martin, seated at his desk signing correspondence, looked up as they entered. His blond hair was tousled, and his green eyes shone. The breadth of his shoulders stood out beneath his tight-fitting, short-sleeved shirt. His tie was loosened and the top button was open. Skinner noticed that he had a fresh red scratch on his neck, but before he could comment Martin greeted them, brightly. 'Hello, sir; Maggie. I thought you two would be up to your fetlocks in paper today.'

`Aye, we were, but we found an excuse to drag ourselves away.' Quickly, Skinner explained the events of the previous twenty-four hours: the discovery of the cash-pile and the Monaco bank, Angie Dickson's electronic break-in, the withdrawal and, finally, the evasion of surveillance by Vaudan and Lucan.

'Christ,' said Martin, 'that makes my poor life seem dull and humdrum. I've just spent the last few days supervising a team watching two guys do sweet eff-all out of the ordinary:

'All quiet on the Ainscow front, then?'

'Yes. Church-mouse. And Cocozza too. He's been doing the rounds of the former Manson Empire. He's spending a lot more time there than in his law practice.'

'He never really had one,' said Skinner. 'Tony Manson was always his biggest client. I heard that Tony knew Cocozza's old man, and that he more or less set the son up in practice.'

Martin leaned back in his chair. 'There is one thing on Ainscow, boss. I asked Alison Higgins' guy, Ogilvie, to pull the record of his old estate agency from the back files in Companies House — remember, the one he cashed back in the Eighties — and have a look at them. He gave me his report last night. He said that anyone who paid big money for that business must have been off his head. He said the last couple of years' accounts were bloody ropy. I've arranged to see the managing director of the current parent company first thing on Monday morning, through in Glasgow. Want to come?’

Skinner thought for a moment. 'Yes, I think I will. l want to know as much as I can about Mr Ainscow, even if I have to go to Glasgow to find out. Will you pick me up from home?'

Before Martin could reply, Ruth appeared in the doorway, clutching a fax. 'Excuse me, sir. I thought you'd want to see this right away. It's just come in, from Barcelona.'

Skinner took the paper from her. As he read Pujol's account of his second meeting with Hansi Gruber, then the English translation of the German's statement, a broad smile spread over his face. 'Good news?' asked Martin.

Skinner nodded. `Mmm. But very bad news for Nick Vaudan. A life sentence, I'd say, on top of what he gets for complicity in fraud and for drug dealing.' He chuckled. `That'll teach the bastard to proposition my wife!'

Sixty-eight

Bob Skinner never visited Glasgow without being struck by the differences, architectural, climatic, cultural, social and emotional, between the former Second City of the Empire and Edinburgh, Scotland's capital.

There exists in many ordinary Glaswegians a bitter contempt for their compatriots forty-five miles to the east. Skinner, brought up on the city's outskirts, had managed to escape its influence, but could feel it hanging, almost palpable in the air as soon as he set foot in the city.

`It's like another world, Andy, isn't it?' he said to Martin as the younger man locked his red sports hatch, parked in a bay found unexpectedly in Blythswood Square, where the solemn classic frontage of the staid and ultra-conservative Royal Scottish Automobile Club — 'Jurassic Park' as Skinner had Once christened it — looked out across a leafy garden which once upon a time had turned after dark into a red-light district of national renown.

`Yes, I suppose it is. Nothing wrong with it, though,' said Martin defensively.

`No, but the Glasgow folk think there is. They don't just have a chip on their shoulder, they've got a whole bagful — with salt and vinegar. They're jealous of Edinburgh, and they feel inferior to it, so instead of just being content to be different they go in for all these daft civic slogans that cost big money and don't mean a fucking thing. Glasgow's got some of the most distinctive architecture of any city in Europe. It's got its galleries, its concert hall, three universities, two of the biggest football clubs in Britain, all sorts of things going for it, yet it's still got this inferiority that makes it stick out its chest and shout challenges along the M8.

People in Edinburgh don't understand Glaswegians, because they don't have that aggression in their blood, but they don't resent them either.' He paused. 'At least that's how I see it. What about you?'

`I don't know,' said Martin. 'You're right about the differences, and about the aggressive streak through here. That's probably the effect of the Scots-Irish element in Glasgow. But this place, it's got far more life to it than Edinburgh. Some of the people I know through there -- I don't mean in the job. Other people . .

'You mean women?'

Martin smiled, 'Aye, okay, women. They're very shallow. They're only enjoying life up to a point. Whereas, through here, people are more, more . . . I don't know how to say it really. Well, look, take Alex as a classic example. She's lived in Glasgow for the last four years, virtually all her adult life you could say. And she's the most alive person I know. I realise she was only a youngster when she went through, but she's blossomed and taken on a depth to her personality that I've never encountered in anyone else. Not even . .

The name died on Andy's lips as the memory flooded back. A memory which, even close on a year after the event, still thrust a pain like a red-hot spear into the pit of his soul. As they turned the corner from Blythswood Square into West George Street, Skinner decided that it was time to change the subject.

`To business, Andy,' he said gently. 'Remind me, this guy we're going to see. Who is he again?'

`Bernard McGirk. He's the head of the estate-agency division of the General Alliance insurance company. He's the bloke who bought Paul Ainscow's business. I've told him that I want to ask him about it purely as background, but that our investigation doesn't touch him or the business in any way.'

`As far as we know.'

`True.' They crossed West George Street and headed down a steep hill into St Vincent Street. The General Alliance headquarters was a tall marble and glass edifice built during the property boom of the 1980s, a modern structure which blended well, for all that, with its refurbished sandstone neighbours. A uniformed commissionaire greeted them with impressive formality, snapping to attention even more rigidly at the mention of Skinner's rank. He directed them to a lift.

`Mr McGirk's office is on the second floor, gentlemen.'

Bernard McGirk was a small, friendly man, with an efficient secretary who brought in a tray laden with coffee and biscuits almost before Skinner and Martin had settled into their seats-at a low, round table. While the coffee was being poured and handed round, they made small talk about the depth of Skinner's tan and the unpredictability of the weather, leading inevitably to the weekend's golf.

Eventually, McGirk looked across at Martin. 'Well Superintendent. You wanted to ask me about my purchase a few years back?'

Martin glanced sideways at Skinner, who nodded, happy that his subordinate should ask the questions.

`Before I do that, I ought to tell you why we're here. We are involved in another investigation, in which Mr Paul Ainscow may be caught up. We're building up as much information about him as we can and that includes his financial health. We've been led to believe that he did well out of the sale to you of his estate-agency chain.'

McGirk smiled. 'I suppose you could say that.'

`On the other hand,' Martin continued, 'we've pulled some back accounts which don't look too clever. We hope that you'll be prepared to tell us how much General Alliance paid for the business, and how much of that would go to Ainscow.'

`Do either of you have a General Alliance policy?' McGirk asked, looking from Martin to Skinner and back again.

`Yes,' said Skinner, 'I have an endowment policy, and I've just taken one out for my son.'

`Fine. In that case, since we're a mutual, you're a member of the company, and as far as I'm concerned reasonably entitled to information on its business. So, where do I begin? At the end I suppose. Ainscow didn't pocket a hell of a lot from the sale. AREA, it was called. That stood for Ainscow Residential Estate Agency. It had high-street shop-front outlets in Stirling, Perth, Falkirk, Dundee and Edinburgh, opened in that order. Ainscow founded the business when he was in his mid-twenties. In those days any idiot could sell a house, and so he did well. Stirling prospered, he went to Perth. That did well — and so on. He lived a very full life, did the young Mr Ainscow. Bought himself his Porsche, obligatory in those days, a very nice house in Dunblane, and eventually a villa in Spain, and a couple of apartments for rental. He stuffed his pension fund too, for all he could'

McGirk paused. 'Terrific while it lasted. The man was one of Thatcher's children, a youthful entrepreneur. Something of a business celebrity for a while, in a small way. The trouble was, like many of these boys, while he could sell in a boom market, when things turned down he didn't know what to do. Actually he was in trouble even before the slump. He could afford his various premises while things were rosy, but when the market began to edge south, his overhead caught up with him very quickly. He was tied to very long, very expensive leases, with no breakers, and he had ripped out so much of the profit in the boom years, without leaving anything for a rainy day.

`He went from boom to potentially bust in two years, as you no doubt saw from those accounts. Eventually he approached us. We were diversifying into estate agency at the time, and we were his landlords in Dundee and Perth. The location of his premises fitted our expanding portfolio, so we did a deal. We bought AREA's goodwill, basically, and its debt, and that, believe me, more or less cancelled out the cash value of the goodwill'

`So what did he walk away with?' asked Martin.

`In cash terms? Virtually nothing. Maybe twenty thousand out of the net fifty we paid him for goodwill. His properties, and the Porsche, were all owned through a subsidiary of the main business. He separated that company out and kept it. There was about thirty thousand in borrowing there, which he flattened. He asked for a consultancy as part of the deal, but I didn't see that he had anything to offer, so I said no. However, I did tie him to a restrictive covenant which kept him out of business in the UK for three years. I heard that he had gone into the Spanish property market, and that didn't surprise me. Presumably he's an agent for a promoter-developer over there.'

`No,' said Skinner. 'He's the principal shareholder of a solidly capitalised business. We were told that he had funded the start-up with some of the money he got from you.'

McGirk shook his head. 'No way. His lifestyle wouldn't have left him with the cash to do that. I'm not saying he was broke after he sold out, but he wouldn't have any investment capital. Unless he borrowed on his house.'

Martin shook his head. 'No, we've checked. There's nothing secured on it. What about his pension fund?'

`Locked up tight, and can't be used against borrowing.'

`And he didn't win the pools as far as we know. So, yet another mystery. Where the hell did he find the fifty grand it took to start InterCosta?'

Sixty-nine

At first the ringing of the telephone was part of Skinner's dream. He was in L'Escala on the terrace, with Sarah on the sun-bed beside him, and he was dreaming of home. In the living room, the phone was sounding . . . except that its ring was different from the usual Spanish single tone.

His mind was fuzzy with confusion as the dreamscape blurred. Then suddenly the sound from the bedside table snapped him into wakefulness. As he snatched the phone from its cradle, Sarah lay beside him, oblivious.

`Skinner:

`Boss, it's Brian. Sorry, did I wake you?'

`Mmm. It was my turn on the early shift with Jazz. Never mind.'

`Sorry to call so early, your time. I realise it's only seven forty with you, but I thought you'd want to know: they're back. Docked an hour ago. They sailed the big cruiser right into Vaudan's boathouse. Monklands just turned up, too.'

Skinner sat upright in bed. 'Any guesses as to where they've been? That's how long? This is Tuesday, so just under three days for the trip. Where could they have reached in that time?'

`The boys who know here say possibly halfway down the Italian coast, to one of the small islands offshore, maybe Elba. Definitely not Sicily. The best guess they're giving me is the

north-west coast of Sardinia. There's some pretty wild stuff there, and no Coastguard cover, so it would have made a good meeting point.'

`Right. Maybe we'll let the Italian police know later but, for now, are you ready for action?'

`Yes, the French are being very helpful. Their national drugs agency has put two cars on the job. The drivers sound as if they know what they're doing. They have a lot of this type of surveillance over here. Wherever Monklands goes, and whenever he sets off, we'll be after him.'

`Where are you now?'

`In an apartment straight across the road, about two hundred yards away. I can see the yard . . . Hey, there's some action right now. Norrie Monklands and another bloke—' He broke off for a second. The lads here say it's Lucan. They've unhitched the trailer from Monklands' Transit, and they're wheeling it into the boathouse, out of our sight.'

`Okay, Brian, that's good work. You stick to it. Let me know once he leaves, then check in whenever you can, on the road. Speak to you later.'

Beside him, Sarah rubbed her bleary eyes. Whwsat?' she murmured.

`Brian Clouseau calling in from France. I think our game's about to kick off!'

She reached up and pulled him down beside her. 'Well, before it does,' she yawned, 'how about one final training session?'

Seventy

As Skinner's morning unfurled and moved towards midday, his mood grew more and more tetchy. He had given Ruth instructions that he would take no calls other than from Brian Mackie, but as time passed the silent telephone on his desk disrupted his concentration. He could barely read a single page without his attention wandering as he eyed the receiver, urging it to ring.

The mountainous in-tray which he had faced on the Saturday morning of his return had been largely weeded out. He was reduced to reading routine reports from the various divisions on the containment of petty crime, when Ruth buzzed him through. He flicked the intercom switch.

`Sir, if you've got a few minutes, the Chief wonders if you'd join him for coffee. He's just back from his conference in Birmingham.'

`Aye, sure. I'd welcome it. Can't get used to having my backside stuck in a chair again.'

Sir James Proud's office was on the opposite side of the Command Corridor from his own. Skinner preferred his perch over the main driveway, from which he could keep an eye on the traffic to and from the headquarters, to his boss's outlook over the force's modest playing fields.

Mary, the Chief's new secretary, was arranging three cups and a jug on a tray. 'Morning, sir. Go right in, please.'

The unspoken question prompted by the third cup was answered as soon as he stepped into the long, spacious office. Proud Jimmy was sitting in an armchair facing his coffee table. Beside him was Chris Whitlow, the force's Management Services Director. Whitlow was a professional administrator who had been recruited from local government to take responsibility for establishment tasks, and to manage the force's budgets. To make way for him, one of the authorised Assistant Chief Constable posts had been removed from the establishment. Before the appointment had been made, Skinner had expressed private reservations over the principle of appointing a civilian to such a senior post in a disciplined service. 'Theory's great, Chief, but what about the practice? How long will it be before a guy like this starts questioning command decisions and policy on grounds of cost? It could be the thin end of a wedge. Before you know it we could have a chief executive, with powers, slotted in between us and the police board.' Nevertheless he had welcomed Whitlow to the team on his appointment, and had co-operated with him in every way, even suppressing slight feelings of alarm when the new broom had taken over the office next to Proud's own, made vacant by the retirement of Eddie McGuinness, the former Deputy Chief.

Sir James jumped to his feet as Skinner entered the room.

`Bob, good to see you. My, you're looking brown!'

The ACC grinned at his boss. 'So they tell me. I'm thinking about putting in for a transfer to the Guardia Civil. After the last few days I feel like an honorary member anyway.'

`Yes. Some holiday you've had. Roy Old told me about that business with Sarah and the man with the brick. That was bad. Did they get him?'

Skinner nodded, a gleam in his eye. 'Oh yes, I got him,' he said quietly. 'He said he was sorry and he won't do it again. Now I'm going to get the guy who sent him. He's going to be sorry too.'

`Sounds a mite personal, Bob.' If Whitlow's tone was jocular, it was lost on Skinner.

`It is fucking personal, Chris, but it's professional too.' He turned back to Proud. So how was the ACPO conference, Jimmy?'

The Chief pulled a face. 'Ponderous as usual. A sea of silver braid gathered together for the sole purpose of being lectured by civil servants and politicians. Here, sit down while I pour.' Mary had followed Skinner into the room with her tray. Proud Jimmy thanked her, picked up the jug and poured coffee into the three cups. They faced each other around the low table.

So tell me about this business, Bob. Maggie Rose has been keeping me broadly up to date. Your simple fraud investigation seems to have taken wings.'

`Wings and jet engines, Chief.' Quickly, Skinner explained the sequence of events which had stretched the investigation over five countries and half a continent.

So where are things now?' asked Proud.

`Waiting for the phone to ring. Something's happening in Monte Carlo. Our target's getting ready to leave, and it's our bet that he's bringing more than a boat back with him.'

`But it is no more than a bet, Bob, isn't it?' said Whitlow.

Skinner looked at him coldly. 'Maybe, but it's odds on. We've got a million-odd quid in laundered cash disappearing into the Mediterranean. That cash isn't a fucking donation to

Oxfam. We know it's been used to buy something, and given Ainscow's encounter with Cocozza and the three wise men in the Powderhall sauna, our belief is that it's drugs.'

‘But what if you're wrong? What if it's not? What if this man Monklands isn't bringing anything back with him. What if Skinner's trail goes cold? You've had Mackie flying all over Europe . . . and you yourself for that matter. At the end of the day, if there's nothing to show for it, how am I going to explain those costs to the police board?'

Skinner flashed a look at Proud. 'What is this, sir? Am I on the carpet here?'

The Chief shook his head emphatically. 'Chris voiced some concerns to me. I told him he'd better put them to you directly.'

`Okay.' Skinner, mollified, turned back to Whitlow. 'Right, Chris. I think it's time I spelled out the rules of engagement around here, because you seem to have misunderstood them. This is an active operation, and I'm in charge. I've been taking command decisions in this force for years and I back my own judgement on what is reasonable and what is not. If I think I'm into major cost, I'll tell you; otherwise I won't.

`As for this so-called bet of mine, we have reason to believe that smack worth one and a half million dollars net is about to be imported into this country. Do you know what that will be worth on the street? Easily over ten million sterling, maybe much more, depending on how it's cut. Do you know something else? It'll sell like hot-cross buns at Easter. Get your accountant's mind round this. Try putting out a rights issue for ten million to private shareholders in your average public company. The odds are that the underwriters will be left with a good chunk. Not with this issue. It'll be fully subscribed within weeks of going on offer. Thousands of people with dependencies will be exploited. Their addictions will be fed and prolonged. Some will overdose and die. Few of these people earn enough to feed their habits. So as soon as this stuff becomes available in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and wherever else it goes, there will be an outbreak, in each of those cities, of petty and not-so-petty crime: burglaries, muggings, the odd armed robbery and so on. All the work of junkies needing readies. The public will be added to the list of victims and police resources everywhere will be stretched. Now, you weigh all of that against a couple of plane fares.

`Through all of this, a few people will get very rich. Vaudan and Ainscow will pick up maybe half the total take. They'll be able to pay off their seed capital loan, set aside more cash for the next buy, and still split a couple of million sterling in profit. The dealers will be awash with surplus cash, ready to invest in whatever other villainy they're into. You follow that, and do you appreciate all the consequences?'

Whitlow nodded, but said nothing.

`That's good. Because it's important that we all operate in harmony along this corridor. So that we can do that, let me spell out a couple more of Skinner's rules for you. The first is that you don't answer to the police board for my actions. I do. You're here to service the force, not run it. The second is that if you've got a concern over any aspect of my operations, the first person you speak to about it had better be me.'

Whitlow nodded again. He coughed. 'Yes, Bob, I hear what you say. I should have come to you first, and I will in future.' He stood up. 'Now, if you will excuse me, Sir James.'

`Of course, Chris. Glad we've cleared the air.'

Skinner was still fuming quietly as the door closed. Proud Jimmy smiled at him. 'Thought it was better to handle things that way than simply come across the corridor and tell you about it. I know you. You'd have kicked his bloody door in! Anyway, that's him calmed down now. Wish I could sort people out the way you can.'

`Aye, maybe,' growled Skinner. 'We'd still better tell Ruth and Mary to keep a running tally of the paper-clips, though.'

Proud laughed. 'That's the future, Bob. It'll all be yours when you're behind my desk.'

`You're forgetting the regulation, Jimmy. No promotion to Chief without experience of command rank in another force.'

Proud's smile grew even wider. 'Didn't I tell you? I've fixed that with ACPO and the Scottish Office. That other job of yours — Secretary of State's security adviser? That'll be counted as outside experience when the time comes. I've told you before, even if you're kicking and screaming, Bob, I'm going to make certain that you succeed me.'

The surprise was still on Skinner's face when the phone rang.

Proud moved to his desk and picked it up. 'Yes. Put him through.' He held out the receiver. ‘For you. Mackie.'

Skinner took one long step across to take the call. 'Brian, yes.'

`They're on the move sir. Two of them. Norman Monklands and Lucan. They've just pulled out of the yard. My first car's gone with them, and I'm off next. There's a speedboat on the trailer. Quite a big thing, it is, with two heavy outboard engines on the back.'

'So Lucan's gone as well. Not surprised. If they're carrying what we think, Vaudan'll want his man there all the way. There's neither honour nor trust among criminals, is there, Brian? Okay, you get on your way, and let me know progress as you can. Meantime I'll start to set things up this end.'

He hung up. 'That's it, Chief. Our courier's on the move. With a minder, and, though he doesn't know it, a police escort.'

`What do you do now? Sit and wait?'

`More or less, once I've briefed the Customs, to make sure that those people are waved through, wherever they land. I want them filmed, too. I want to be able to show the court a video of every stop that consignment makes in the UK, from the docks to the dealers. If you'll excuse me, I'll go and take care of that. Then I think I'll check on the surveillance of Ainscow and Cocozza.'

Seventy-one

Skinner opened the door of Andy Martin's office, and collided heavily with the detective superintendent as he stepped into the room. Martin was zipping up his brown leather jacket.

`You off, Andy?'

`Yes, boss. We've got action from our targets. I've got Neil Mcllhenney tailing Cocozza, and McGuire watching Ainscow. Mario called in nearly an hour ago to say that Ainscow had left his office in Stirling. He followed, and phoned in to say that he's heading for Glasgow. Meantime, Neil called in to say that Cocozza seems to be on a pub crawl. He's been to three of the Manson places so far. Stopped for about twenty minutes at each one. That's unusual behaviour for him. He checks up on them, sure, but we've never found him making a round of visits like this before. At one stop, a bloke arrived at the same time as him. They started talking on the street and went inside. Neil thought he recognised the guy as someone known to us. He took a couple of photos of the two of them together. I'm off out now to meet up with him. Neil's last call put him at the top of Leith Walk, probably heading for that pub near the foot, where big Lennie used to work.'

What's your guess about what he's doing?' asked Skinner.

`Same as yours, I reckon. That he could be putting word around the network that there's a ship coming in. Fucking idiot if he is, getting personally involved in it like that.'

`Aye, you're right there. In Manson's day, if you saw signs on the street that there was a new supply around, you could bet that Tony would be on holiday at the time, somewhere far away. He was brilliant at distancing himself. He ran his show on the basis of one word to one person, and letting his orders filter out from there. Wee Cocozza doesn't have that authority, y'see. A message from Tony, even at third or fourth hand, and it was as if it had come from the Burning Bush. This wee chap, he'll be having to say "Please". Out of his depth. What about Ainscow, then Andy? What's your guess there?'

Martin shrugged his shoulders. 'He could be going to Ralph Slater's for a new suit. But given what Cocozza's doing, I wouldn't be surprised if he's off to Glasgow to see Eddie Gilhooley, then to Manchester and Newcastle, and the other two Wise Men, to let them all know that the buy's made, and the stuff's on the way.'

Skinner nodded. 'Yes. Ainscow didn't strike me as the Ralph Slater type. Hope big McGuire's got plenty of petrol and film in his camera. I think he's in for a long day. Make sure he keeps me informed as it goes on.'

Skinner paused. 'As for you, don't bother teaming up with Mcllhenney. Get on the line and tell him to get back in here. I want you two to draw a diesel-engined vehicle with a big fuel tank — the sort that'll let you go at least five hundred miles without having to fill up — and head off down south. Make for somewhere on the M25 south of London, from where you can reach any port or terminal within two hours, and wait for further instructions. Wherever Monklands and Lucan make landfall, they're going to have a reception committee: you, big

Neil and me. Then, once the Customs boys have closed their eyes and waved them through, you and Mcllhenney are going to stick to them like glue all the way home. Okay?'

`Yes, boss.' As Martin nodded in response, Skinner caught a pensive gleam in his eye.

`Am I buggering up your social diary, Andy? You got a new lady?'

Martin smiled softly. He opened his mouth as if to reply, then changed his mind. He shook his head. 'That's okay Bob. She understands all about the job.' The distant look came back into his green eyes.

Seventy-two

This time, Skinner was wide awake when the bedside phone rang, ten minutes before eleven p.m.

He was propped up on his pillows, holding Jazz as the baby settled to sleep. He smiled and winced simultaneously as tiny but strong fingers wound round his chest hairs and tugged. The muted ringing of the phone did not disturb the child, nor did Skinner's whispered 'Hello'.

`Boss, sorry again, but this is the first chance I've had. Our targets have been sharing the driving, and making good time, sticking to autoroutes all the way. These French police drivers are very good. They've been doing a team job, keeping in touch by radio. The Transit's pulled into a service area for now. It looks as if they might be bedding down for the night.'

`Where are you bound? D'you know yet?'

`All I can tell for now is that we're headed for Paris. We just passed the fork in the road that leads to Reims and directly to Calais, but they took the other option. That means we still could be heading for any port in France. There is one clue, though. Monkland's van has a Brittany Ferries sticker on the back. That doesn't tell you much either. They have four terminals in France and three in Britain.

The line was silent for a moment. When Mackie spoke again it was with a question. 'Which route would you choose boss, in their shoes?'

Skinner paused as the baby sighed and moved on his chest.

`I've been thinking about that,' he said quietly. 'I'd avoid Calais, Dunkerque, or the Channel Tunnel. The Customs there are always on the look-out for vans with big quantities of booze. They tail some too, to see if they can catch the owners selling their cargo. Other than that, getting on board a vessel is no problem. The danger is at the other end. Plymouth, Poole, Newhaven are all small. You'd be more obvious there, with a higher percentage change of a random pull-over. On balance, I'd go for Portsmouth or Southampton. With a bit of luck, you'll be having supper in Cherbourg tomorrow.'

`With a bit of luck, boss, I'll be having a shower and a shave! I'll call you again soon as I can.'

Seventy-three

‘Morning, Maggie. What time did big McGuire get in, then? Or is he still out on the tiles?'

DI Rose scowled. 'Don't ask, sir! He followed Ainscow all the way, like you guessed, from Glasgow to Manchester, then to Newcastle. Finally he tailed him back up the Al to Edinburgh. But does Mr Ainscow go home? Oh no. He goes to the Powderhall sauna for an hour and a half. Mario, thoughtful as ever, called me — woke me from a sound sleep — at one o'clock in the morning to tell me he was sitting in Powderhall Road, waiting while the guy got his executive relief. By the time he had seen him home to Dunblane, as per standing orders, it was five o'clock when he got in.'

Skinner smiled. 'Very quietly, I hope.'

`Not bloody quietly enough.'

`Ouch!' He paused. 'Who's picking up Ainscow and Cocozza this morning?'

`Superintendent Higgins' people are handling it.'

`That's good, 'cause we're getting to crunch time. Once the consignment gets to wherever it's going, we mustn't let either of those bastards out of our sight. We've got to catch them up to their elbows in the stuff.'

Skinner hung up his overcoat, still wet with the heavy morning rain, and went to sit behind his desk.

'Do you want me back on surveillance duty, sir?' asked Rose.

`Yes. When it gets vital, I want all my best involved. But for now I've got a few tasks for you. I want you to make contact with the chief regional officer of HM Customs and Excise in the south of England, and brief him on what we're involved with. Tell him that we expect our subjects to make landfall in the UK within the next twenty-four hours, at a port as yet unknown, but possibly Portsmouth or Southampton. Give him details of Monklands' van and trailer, and ask him to make absolutely certain it gets clearance without trouble. No one is to stop it, or do the slightest thing to arouse suspicion.'

Skinner paused. 'That's top priority. Eventually Brian Mackie will confirm the destination. Once he does, contact the local police force, and tell them what's happening. Make sure that, whatever reason might arise — dodgy brake lights or anything else — no one approaches the van. Then put the word around all the forces on all routes back to Scotland. Find out the number of the car that Andy Martin's in too, and circulate that. I don't want this operation blown through him and Mcllhenney being pulled for speeding by some over-zealous plod in a motorway car. Finally, get me a return ticket on the shuffle. Leave the flight details for now. I'll wait as long as I can for Brian Mackie to call in.'