Skinner's Trail

Seventy-four

‘Sorry if I startled you.'

He had been walking through the security gate at Edinburgh Airport when the sound rang out. The strange tone threw the duty officer into a state of sudden confusion, until Skinner produced his mobile phone from his pocket, apologising at the same time. He stepped to one side and pushed the receive button.

`Boss, it's Brian. They're crossing Caen to Portsmouth, Brittany Ferries, midnight sailing. They just got here. Monklands bought a ticket at the gate. It's not their biggest vessel, but it seems quiet. He must have known there'd be no problem getting on a night sailing.

`Good lad. You book yourself on, too. Check that they board, then your job's done. Get yourself a cabin and crash out. We'll handle things from the landing point on.'

`Where are you just now, sir?'

`Edinburgh Airport, about to board the eight o'clock shuttle. Andy and Mcllhenney are picking me up at Heathrow. We'll head straight down to Portsmouth from there. What time do they dock?'

`Six a.m. UK time.'

`Okay. We'll be there to see them through safely, then Andy and Neil will tail them up the road. You and I'll fly back. I'm going to board this plane now, so you call Fettes and get Maggie or someone to pass on the details to Kevin Cochran, my contact in the Customs. This has got to go like clockwork, and at the moment they're the mainspring of the operation.'

Seventy-five

There is something a inherently unattractive about all customs halls. None are beautiful, thought Skinner, but the building at the Portsmouth ferry terminal, was exceptional in its drabness.

Skinner, Martin and Mcllhenney were seated along one side of a long refectory table, in a long narrow room lit by neon tubes. A series of windows ran along the wall behind them. The glass in each was one-way, allowing a clear view of all of the arrivals hall, but allowing nothing, not even the faintest glimmer of light, to show from the observation room.

Facing them across the table was a group of eight men and women. Seven were wearing white short-sleeved shirts with epaulettes. The eighth, like the three policemen, wore a lounge suit. The table was strewn with white mugs and the scraps from a large platter which, only a few minutes earlier, had been piled high with bacon rolls.

The customs officer in the lounge suit turned to a colleague. 'Is the Duc de Normandie making good time?'

`Yes, sir,' one of the women replied. 'In fact it was well ahead of schedule, so it laid up for a while. It'll be docking in ten minutes.'

`Right, you'd better all think about taking up position. You've all heard Mr Skinner, and so you know the form. For once we don't want to catch someone. This is a quite unique situation, in that not only do the police know of a suspected shipment coming in, but they believe they know also where it's heading. If our colleagues here can follow this consignment all the way, they can do some real damage. So no slip-ups. Normal treatment for these two, quick passport check, and wave them on.

Skinner broke in. 'Kevin, there is one other thing you might be able to do for us. We're going on the strongest supposition that this is a drugs deal, but we failed to track the French end of the operation to the buy, and so we haven't seen the stuff yet. How good is your sniffer dog?'

`Harry,' Kevin Cochran called to a man at the back of the room. He was holding, on a short leash, the biggest golden Labrador bitch that any of the policemen had ever seen. 'How good is Thatcher there?'

`She's brilliant, sir. Old Mags could sniff out a spoonful of heroin in a hundredweight of sugar.'

`In that case,' Skinner asked, 'would it be possible to walk her past the Transit and trailer while Monklands and Lucan are in the passport queue, to see if she reacts?'

`Sure.'

`We mustn't alert the suspects, though.'

`No problem, sir. Just you leave it to me.'

`Okay,' said Cochran. 'Places, everyone.'

The white-shirted officers left the room, and reappeared a few seconds later on the other side of the viewing windows. Cochran and the three policemen gathered around one window. 'What's the normal route north out of Portsmouth, Kevin?' asked Martin.

'If you're going north, the usual way is to head towards Southampton, then pick up the A34 and head on up through Newbury, towards Oxford. You take the M40 from there, and then choose whether to go up the Ml or the M6.'

`Good. Neil, you and I had better get to the car. Will you call me on the mobile, boss, once they're about to clear?' Skinner nodded.

`Okay, then. See you in Scotland. Come on, Neil.'

The two detectives left through the door at the other end of the long room.

`How are we doing, Kevin?' asked Skinner.

The Waterguard chief-regional officer glanced at his watch. `Any minute now. The Brittany Ferries crews are very slick.' Will we have a good view from here?'

‘The best. I'm only opening one passport-control channel. They'll pass by right under our noses.'

The first vehicle, a Renault Twingo with French plates, swung into the long hall less than two minutes later, leading a line of assorted cars and vans. The lady in the passport booth was a model of efficiency, checking each document without appearing to rush, but clearing the line in double-quick time.

Eventually the first of a series of caravans joined the end of the queue. 'Your guys, with their trailer, ought to be in this lot.' Cochran pressed against the window, looking to his left to see as far as possible down the line. 'Yes. That's got to be them. Navy blue Transit, UK plates; and there's a boat on the back.'

He took a two-way radio set from the pocket of his jacket, and pressed the send switch. 'Okay, Sandra, they're in the line now. Two cars, four vans, then our target. Skinner saw the woman in the booth acknowledge the message with a brief nod of her head. He took out his mobile phone and dialled Andy Martin's number. It was answered on the first ring. 'Okay, lads, ready for the off. Three or four minutes, no more.'

One by one, at the same brisk pace, the officer in the booth cleared the vehicles in the line, sending each on its way with a smile, until at last the Transit drew to a halt at her window, and Skinner had his first clear view of Norrie Monklands and Serge Lucan. Monklands, in the driver's seat, leaned down and handed two passports to the woman. She accepted them with a broad smile, responding — Skinner assumed — to a casual piece of small-talk. She glanced at the first passport, then looked up at Monklands in the Transit. As they chatted, Skinner saw the dog-handler walk the huge Labrador behind the boat trailer, to the far side of the line. He could not be sure but he thought that, as the dog passed the boat, its handler gave a sharp tug on the short lead to keep the animal moving.

As the handler passed out of sight behind the boat, the woman glanced at the second passport in her hand. She spoke up towards the van, and Lucan leaned forward suddenly in the passenger seat, into her line of vision. As he did, the handler walked his dog briskly back across the line and back down the shed, away from the Transit. Still holding the passports the woman smiled and said something else to the two men. Whether she spoke in French or English, both Monklands and Lucan threw back their heads in laughter.

`Come on, now girl,' the big policeman muttered to himself. 'That's great, but don't drag it out. Get them to hell out of there.'

As if she had heard him, the woman, with a last smile, handed the two passports back to Monklands. The man, stocky even in the driving seat, accepted them with a nod, wound up his window, and drove off slowly and carefully to the exit from the shed. He took a sharp left turn and, in a second, Transit and trailer had passed out of sight.

`Okay, Andy and Neil,' said Skinner, once again to no one in particular. 'You've caught the pass. Now run with the ball.' He turned to Kevin Cochran. 'That was excellent. Your lady out there is a star.'

The man smiled. 'She's well used to it, is our Sandra. She's a specialist. I get a job like this every so often. Whenever I do, I bring her along. She doesn't panic, and she never gives a flicker of what's going on.'

`How about Harry and Thatcher?'

Cochran nodded. 'Yes, they're on my flying squad, too. Terrific dog, that. She's the best in the business . . . and Harry Garden's not too bad either. Let's go and find them.'

He led the way out into the main shed. Sandra had been relieved by one of the regular officers, and a second line had been opened up. She and Harry stood chatting; Thatcher lay idly at her handler's feet.

`Well done, you lot,' shouted Cochran as he and Skinner approached. 'No problems that we couldn't see?'

Sandra shook her head. 'No. That Monklands thinks he's made another conquest. He's the god's-gift type.' She had a mellow voice with a slight West Country accent. Listening to her reassuring tones, Skinner understood at least one reason why she was so good at her specialist role. She went on, lucan, the Frenchman, doesn't seem to speak much English, but Monklands' French is very good. I cracked a joke for Lucan, and the Scots fellow picked it up even before he did.'

`Good,' said Cochran. 'Harry, how about you? Did Thatcher have anything to tell you?'

Did she just, sir. Did she just.' The big man smiled broadly.

`First time I walked her behind the boat, she nearly took my arm out its socket. Had a hell of a job keeping her going on past. I took her back again to make sure, and it was the same. Even on the trot, she was wanting to climb on that trailer.' He looked at Skinner. 'When you nick 'em, sir, don't waste time with the boat. Just go straight to those outboard motors. It's in there and, judging by the way Old Mags acted, there's a hell of a lot. You got a bonanza there. Bloody good work by whoever tailed 'em.'

Skinner looked past the dog-handler. 'Speak of the devil. Here's that very guy.'

Even after a night on the Duc de Normandie, Brian Mackie still looked worn and dishevelled. He carried bags of tiredness under both eyes, and his few remaining wisps of hair were flying about untidily.

Skinner smiled as he approached. 'Brian, you look bloody awful. I send you off to France on a cushy job and you come back like a death's head. Didn't you get a cabin?'

Mackie nodded. 'Sure. Right over the engine, I think. I've had better nights sleeping on the floor! Please, boss. Can we go back to plain, boring old Edinburgh? And can I get to stay there for a while?'

Seventy-six

‘Sir, have these boys got a toilet in that Transit, d'ye think? It's been four hours since we had those mugs of coffee. Don't know about you, but my bladder's beginning to get annoyed. A bit pissed off, y'might say.'

Andy Martin, in the passenger seat of the Peugeot, laughed softly. 'That's what they teach us on the Senior Command course, Neil. Self-discipline and iron-hard bladder control. But, seriously, they'll have to stop soon. The Transit must be eating up the fuel, with that trailer on the back. They have to be due a fill-up.'

They had made steady progress since leaving Portsmouth. Kevin Cochran's prediction of Monklands' route had been accurate. They had followed their quarry westward to Southampton, before striking north towards, and through the centre of the pretty town of Newbury. Even at that hour of the morning, the traffic had been sufficiently heavy for their pursuit to be unobtrusive, while keeping the target always in sight. From the start, Monklands had driven steadily, and within the speed limit, as concerned, possibly, that he give the trailer a smooth ride as with ensuring that he did not attract the attention of the motorway patrols.

Eventually, around three and a half hours after setting out, and with McIlhenney’s fidgets behind the wheel becoming more and more frequent, the van's orange indicator flashed at the approach of the Leicester Forest East service area. 'Thank Christ for that,' the detective sergeant muttered. 'Look, sir, if they're only stopping for petrol, will you take the wheel and let me nip off for a Jimmy Riddle?'

Martin nodded. But in fact, rather than heading directly for the pumps, the Transit pulled into the main car park. Keeping two cars between them, Mcllhenney followed. He parked several rows away, and turned to look at Martin with an unspoken appeal. Smiling, the detective superintendent nodded; the big man jumped from the car and headed off briskly towards the single-storey service building.

Alone in the Peugeot, Martin eased down in his seat. While keeping his eyes on the van, he became aware, for the first time, that the forecourt was unusually crowded. Several coaches were parked in their designated spaces, and throngs of Asian men were milling about, many carrying brightly coloured flags which fluttered in the fresh morning breeze. For a moment he was puzzled, until he remembered the Test Match, due to begin that morning. The crowds were boisterous almost to the point of rowdiness. He glanced around, and took in a heavy presence of uniformed policemen, with several dog-handlers among their number.

`More like football supporters every year,' he whispered to himself. 'It's an all-year-round job for the crowd-control squads now.'

Movement from the Transit reclaimed his attention. The driver's door opened, and Monklands jumped out. He emptied the remaining contents of a plastic cup on to the ground, then looked back into the van and spoke to his passenger, before heading off towards the shops and toilets.

Must be peeing in turn, one on guard all the time, thought Martin; just like us, if they only knew. He settled down again, to await McIlhenney’s return.

At first he thought little of the dog's insistent bark. There's always some idiot who gets brave when he sees a dog safely on the lead, he mused. But then it barked once more, the sound turning this time into something approaching a howl. He looked round, and saw the animal at once. Even by German Shepherd standards, this was a powerful dog. It was pulling its puzzled handler along gradually, inexorably, in the direction of the blue van and the trailer.

'Oh shit!' Martin cried aloud this time. 'It's a sniffer!'

As he watched, the handler loosed his grip on the leash, allowing the dog to follow its nose. It pulled him at a trot across the last few yards, straight to the twin outboard engines, canted up at the back of the boat, jumping up as it reached them and pawing at the engine casing.

Martin could not see inside the van, but he knew inevitably what would happen. He did not have to wait long. The passenger door of the Transit slid open, and Serge Lucan jumped out, running full-tilt away from the dog.

'Oh shit!' Martin roared once more, as he threw open the door of the Peugeot and sprinted towards the Frenchman. Lucan recognised this new threat almost at once, and veered away from his approach. But he was too late. Martin was already too close, and had an edge in speed which enabled him to run the man down in only a few strides. He launched himself in a rugby tackle, taking the man around the knees and bringing him down, heavily. Lucan kicked out fiercely, in his grip, and made to rise. He swung a punch at his pursuer's blond head, but his arm was trapped expertly and twisted up behind his back. Swiftly, brutally, Martin kicked his legs out from under him slamming him once more into the tarmac, face-down and helpless.

He looked over his shoulder, and saw Mcllhenney returning with a look of pure bewilderment on his face.

`Neil!' he shouted. 'Monklands is in the building. somewhere! Nail him!' He glared across at the dog-handler, who was approaching uncertainly. 'Police! Drugs Squad. Don't ask, just give my sergeant assistance!' The helmeted constable, who recognised authority when he heard it, obeyed at once.

The bulky Mcllhenney was halfway across the car park when Monklands appeared in the wide doorway. Panic flooded his features as he saw Lucan on the ground with Martin on top of him, his knee driven into his back. Then he, too, took to his heels. Mcllhenney, who was built for endurance rather than speed, began to give chase, but stopped in almost palpable relief as the dog, unleashed, shot past him. It caught Monklands in eight strides. Launching itself, it seized the man's forearm and knocked him to the ground. The man screamed. 'Get it off me, for Christ's sake!' Detective and handler arrived together. As the dog obeyed a command to release and come to heel, Mcllhenney took his prisoner by the collar and belt, hauled him to his feet and marched him off to join Martin and Lucan.

As the two pursuers stood beside the Transit, their captives restrained firmly, a uniformed inspector marched across, bristling with indignation.

`What are you people? What is this? 'Why wasn't I told?'

Piercing green eyes fixed upon him and silenced his outburst. 'Superintendent Martin and Sergeant Mcllhenney, Edinburgh Drugs Squad. We'd show you our warrant cards, but we've sort of got our hands full.'

The uniformed man stiffened with respect for rank. 'Yes, sir.'

Martin gave him a resigned smile. 'It's not your fault, Inspector, but I've got some bad news for you — then some worse news. The bad news is that RinTinTin here has just fucked up the biggest drugs round-up in the history of British policing. The worse news is that, until I can calm him down, there's a certain Assistant Chief Constable who's going to want to tear your heart out with his bare hands, and probably the dog's too!'

Seventy-seven

I'd like to tear their fucking hearts out, Andy — with my bare hands!'

On the other end of the line, Martin winced. 'Aye, sir, I know. But it wasn't their fault. These guys had their own operation on, and our target just landed in the middle of it. We briefed all the traffic departments to keep out of our road, but we couldn't warn every copper in Britain. It was luck, sir. Rank bad luck.'

There was a long silence. Eventually Skinner sighed. 'Yes, I suppose so. Where did you say you were now?'

`Back in Leicester, boss. The Transit and the boat have been brought here, and the local drugs boys are about to take the engines apart. Monklands and Lucan have been cautioned and detained. We've got no claim on them either.'

`No,' said Skinner, 'we won't have. They never made it north of the Border, so it'll be an English prosecution. What a bastard! There's no way now we'll lay a finger on Gilhooley and his two mates: probably not on Cocozza either. We can only hope to lean on Monklands and Lucan, and get them to incriminate Ainscow and Vaudan. That'll still be quite a score, but when I think of what we might have done . . . Bugger!'

Silence returned to the line until it was broken by Martin. `There is one bright spot. Since I told them what they'd blown, the boys down here are being very co-operative. While you're right about this being an English prosecution, they've said that, if it helps tie in Ainscow to a conspiracy charge in England, we can borrow Monklands and Lucan for questioning if we like. What d'you think?'

`No!' Skinner's response was swift and vehement. 'Don't do that. If we're going to salvage anything from this, Ainscow and Vaudan have got to think that this has been a pure accident. On the face of it, that shipment could have been going anywhere. They don't know we were tailing it, but as soon as I take those guys over the Border, then, in effect, we've told them. Surprise is the only small advantage we have left, so let's keep it if we can. I want to interrogate Monklands, sure, but I'll come down there to do it. And, one other thing, when they go public on the seizure, I want no mention made of you and Mcllhenney, or your parts in it.'

`Okay, that's how it'll be. When'll you be down?'

`I'll get a flight to Birmingham or East Midlands tomorrow morning. You wait for me there — even if it does screw up your love life. I tell you, Andy. Once this lot's over, suppose I never see another aeroplane ..

Seventy-eight

‘Aye, so what if I know Paul Ainscow? Paul's got fuck all tae do with this. He just gave me an intro tae Vaudan. Towin' boats is what I do for a livin', and that's what the job was — towing a fuckin' boat.'

Police interview rooms have the same uniform drabness wherever they are, thought Skinner, recalling Pujol's hospitality suite in L'Escala, with its single chair bolted to the floor. The Leicester model had movable furniture, but the paint on the walls had a depressing similarity.

Local officers had begun the interview with Monklands, who had received their insistent questions with a stoic silence. After half an hour, Skinner, frustrated beyond endurance by the man's lack of response, had driven his rank through the formalities of territorial jurisdiction and had taken over.

`Look, pal. This is the scene. Paul Ainscow's your golf pal. He has a drug deal with Vaudan in France. He sends you down with a piece of paper to unlock the funds, and a trailer for smuggling back the stuff that it buys. I know that, as sure as you've got a hole in your arse. Now you make a statement confirming it, and it'll save you a right few years in Parkhurst, or Dartmoor, or some other nice hotel down here.'

Monklands' reply was accompanied by a defiant stare. At once, Skinner knew in his heart that the man would not be broken.

`Interview suspended.' He glanced down at his watch. `Eleven twenty-two.' He reached over and switched off the tape-recorder, then leaned across the table. 'Okay, Norrie, we've nailed you fair and square with the narcotics equivalent of Santa's sledge on Christmas Eve. Not even the stupidest jury in England is going to let you off. You're going down for fifteen years, yet you won't give us Ainscow and Vaudan even though it would take ten years off that stretch, maybe more. I'm not going to lose my voice or bloody my knuckles trying to make you, 'cause I know I can't. So, tell me off the record. Satisfy my inquisitive mind. Is it money, or is it fear?'

Monklands glanced across at the tape-recorder, as if to verify that it really was switched off. He looked up at Skinner. `If I did what you ask, how long d'you think I'd last. See that man in Glasgow? Any jail you like to name, he's got someone in it that would do me in for five hundred quid tae his wife on the outside. So you're right, mister. You and these Brummies can kick the shit out of me all day, and all I'll tell you is that Serge and I did the deal ourselves, off our own bats. The same goes for Lucan too. Bet on it.'

Skinner stood up and shrugged his shoulders. He looked across at the detective who had begun the interrogation. 'You lads might as well charge them and take the rest of the day off. You heard what he said, and he's not kidding. Come on, Andy, Neil.

Martin and Mcllhenney stood up from their seats in the corner of the room. Mcllhenney held the door open for Skinner. As the ACC left the room, he beckoned for the local officer to follow.

The man obeyed. Looking to see that the door was securely closed, Skinner leaned close to him. 'Listen, I don't care how you do it, but I want those two kept incommunicado. Use the Prevention of Terrorism Act, rabies regulations, anything you need, but keep them under wraps for as long as you can. When you do have to let them see lawyers, make sure that you hear every word of the conversation. I don't want any messages sent anywhere by either of them.'

He turned back to Martin and Mcllhenney. 'Come on, lads. Let's drive on up the road.'

Seventy-nine

‘No, Arturo, believe me, there's no way these boys are going to cough. The Leicester fellas did their best. They went at them all weekend. No contact with the outside or with each other, sleep deprivation, the whole works. No use at all.'

Skinner paused to take a sip from the coffee on his desk.

`Each of them trotted out the same story, word-perfect, over and over again. Paul Ainscow told Monklands about Vaudan's business, then he got a few jobs from him. He got to know Lucan, and between them they cooked up the drugs idea. Vaudan knew nothing about it, they say, and Ainscow, he knew even less. They questioned them all through Friday and Saturday, right up to last night. Eventually they gave up. They charged them last night and released the story to the press. They said that it was pure luck that a police dog, at the service area on other business, was alerted by the scent of heroin from the boat. It's all over the English press today.'

Pujol's voice echoed down the line. 'So what about Vaudan and Ainscow? What can you do there?'

`The French police have already done it. They went to see Vaudan yesterday, and told him that Lucan and Monklands had been arrested. He must have known by then, of course, but he kept a straight face, apparently. He looked shocked, and of course he denied all knowledge of the stuff. He even said that he knew Lucan was a bit of a suspect character, but he was good at his job, so he had kept him on. As far as Ainscow's concerned, we've got nothing to gain by going anywhere near him, so we've left him alone. He's still under close surveillance, although he hasn't twigged.'

`What about the joint bank account, and the cash withdrawal? Does not that give you grounds to arrest them?'

Skinner hesitated. 'It would, except we've got a wee problem there. That bank is not going to say a bloody word to the police about the ownership or the business of a numbered account. If it did, given the nature of its clientele, it would lose all its best accounts overnight, and its owners would probably wind up face-down in the Med. And without their cooperation, we're stuffed.'

Pujol was puzzled. 'But how did you know about the account?'

`That I can't tell you, my friend, on an open telephone line, and I most certainly couldn't discuss it in open court. If I did, a life would be at risk. I'm afraid that's the way things stand. All we've got from that shipment, and from all that work, are the two humphers — that's carriers to you. The thinkers, the planners, the money men are all in the clear. It's a bastard, and I hate it, but that clever fucking dog in Leicester blew the lot.'

Pujol sighed. 'That is too bad, Bob. I know how much it all meant to you.'

`Maybe it meant too much. Maybe I was getting too wrapped up for my own good in that one investigation, big as it was. It didn't help when Vaudan made it personal. You know, I've been tied up all weekend by a nice juicy axe murder on my patch. Blood, bone and brains all over the place. It was almost a pleasant relief to be investigating a nice simple uncomplicated crime again.'

Did you solve it?'

`Yeah, no problem. My deputy led the team; he wrapped it up in a day and a half. It was a fall-out among thieves. There are two of them up in the Sheriff Court this morning.'

`You make it sound like a second prize.' Pujol's laughter echoed down the line.

Skinner interrupted. 'Hold on a minute, mate. I haven't given up on the other yet! You're forgetting something. We can't do Vaudan for the drugs, but we do have him bang to rights for Alan Inch's killing. You've still got Hansi Gruber shut up tight, haven't you?'

`Yes,' said Pujol hesitantly. 'But that would mean extradition from France. That would be very difficult, maybe impossible. For sure it would take a long time.'

`That's right,' said Skinner. 'That's why you've got to arrest him in Spain. And I'm going to be there. There's a cheap flight from Newcastle to Girona tomorrow night, and I'm coming over on it to pick up my car. It's the last time I'll be on a plane this year, I swear. But while I'm there I'd like nothing better than to be around for the arrest of Mr Nicolas fucking Vaudan.' He paused. 'Now this is what I suggest you do.'

Eighty

‘Oh honey, did it have to be this week?'

Bob saw the depth of Sarah's disappointment, and hung his head, feeling as guilty as Roy Old's two axe-murderers. 'I'm sorry, love, but I really find it awkward being without the car. The flight costs peanuts, and it ties in with this ploy that Arturo and I have got on the go.'

`What's so important about that?' she asked.

`I'll tell you once it works out. I know we've been living like gypsies lately, but I'll only be away for a few days, and then we'll be back to normal. Why the long face, anyway, as the barman asked the horse?

`Is it just that you'll miss me, or did you have something planned?'

Coyness sat uncomfortably on Sarah. 'We—ell. It's a bit of both, actually. I've invited these people for dinner on Friday. Nice couple. They've only just got together, and I thought it'll be nice for you to meet them and have dinner with them. With one thing and another, Friday was the only day we could fix up over the next few weeks.

Bob took her in his arms and pressed her to his chest. 'I'm really sorry, love. But the ticket's bought and paid for, and Arturo's plans are laid. You'll just have to go ahead with it, and be host and hostess in one. Or maybe Andy could come along.'

`Mmm. Maybe. So when do you expect to be back?'

The flight leaves Newcastle just after midnight, and gets to Girona at about half-three. Arturo's having one of his lads pick me up, but even at that it'll be half-four by the time I get to the villa. So Wednesday'll be a "sleep on the terrace" day. Arturo's arrangements could fall into place either Thursday or Friday. Once the business is over with, I'll drive up to Cherbourg. So look for me Sunday at the latest. Promise. And that'll be the last time. So you can rearrange your dinner party.'

`Copper, it had better be! As for the party, that might not wait.'

Eighty-one

‘She sent it exactly as we discussed?'

`Precisely. Word for word.'

It was almost six p.m. but it was still hot on the Town Beach. Skinner had been true to his word to Sarah, and had slept away most of Wednesday on a lounger on the terrace. Now he sat, wearing only shorts and trainers, on the low wall at the edge of the sand. Arturo Pujol sweltered uncomfortably beside him, even though clad in light slacks and a cotton shirt. Each man drank from a can of Seven-Up acquired from one of several dispensers around the promenade.

`I have a copy here,' said the Commandante. He fished in his shirt pocket and handed a folded piece of paper to Skinner.

The photocopied fax was printed on Montgo SA letterhead. Skinner read through it, translating the French laboriously. `Senora Alberni has asked me to contact you. She is forced to sell her villa because of problems with her late husband's insurance, and she wonders whether Montgo SA would consider acquiring it as an investment, at no more than she and Senor Alberni paid for it. The matter is urgent, since she is being pressed by her husband's bank. She asks if you will come to L'Escala this week, on Thursday or Friday, to discuss it with her. She decided to contact you through me, rather than directly, since she felt that Madame Vaudan might not appreciate your having calls from strange women.'

Skinner handed the creased paper back to Pujol. 'You told Gloria, I take it, in case he decided to phone her.'

`Si. But he has not.'

`Has Veronica had an acknowledgement?'

`Yesterday. Vaudan says that he will arrive on Friday afternoon, that he will go straight to his villa, and that he will see Senora Alberni once she has finished work, at six p.m. at his office.'

`Ace! One minute past six and he's nicked.'

Pujol shook his head. 'No. If he goes to his villa, we will arrest him there.'

Skinner frowned. 'What d'you want to do that for? The villa's built on the hillside up in Punta Montgo. He knows its layout — you don't. Wait till he gets to the office, and arrest him there. Much easier. You don't want to underrate this guy, Arturo. You're going to arrest him for ordering at least one murder, and maybe two. Don't assume that he'll just hold out his hands for the cuffs. And never give a man like that anything that might be an edge.'

`Si, Bob. I understand that, but if we go into the office . . Skinner nodded. 'I get it. The lovely Veronica'll be right in the middle of it!'

Pujol flushed.

`Get her out of there. Tell her to go to the ladies at two minutes to six, and lock herself in! When you go in, don't advertise yourselves. Your guys don't have to wear their green suits and their funny hats. You have heard of plain clothes, haven't you?'

`No, Bob. That is not the way we do it. We will take him in uniform, at his villa.'

‘Fuckin"ell, I don't know! Just as well that you'll have me along.'

Pujol looked at him sideways and shook his head. 'No, I am sorry. I am grateful, Bob, for all your help, but I think that now I have to follow the rules. This is a murder case in my jurisdiction. If I allowed you to take part in the arrest, my superiors would take — what is it you say? — a dark view.'

Skinner sat upright on the wall. 'Come on, man. You can't keep me out of it now!'

The Commandante's round, sallow face wore a pained expression. 'I am sorry, but if you were there and there was an . . . accident. No, it is not possible.'

`Arturo, this probably will be a straightforward arrest. But on the off-chance that it isn't, I've got experience you haven't. I've dealt with people who'd make Vaudan piss his pants.'

Pujol shook his head. 'Much as I would be comforted by having you at my side, I cannot allow it.'

Skinner saw that he would not win the argument. 'All right. Let me be a spectator. Give me field-glasses and a radio, and I'll keep watch on the villa and call you once he's inside.'

The Commandante considered this request for a few moments in silence. Eventually he smiled. 'Okay. That I will allow. After all, I cannot keep you from going to the top of the Garbinell, can I? But, to be proper, one of my men will go with you. He will have the radio and the binoculars. I will do things by the rules.'

Eighty-two

There can't be many finer views than this in Europe,' said Skinner in faltering Spanish, to his uniformed companion. He added in English, 'The seventh tee of my golf course maybe, but damn few others.'

It was just after three on a shimmering afternoon. He stood on the flattened top of the Garbinell, the crest of Punta Montgo, and looked across the Golfe de Rosas, to the north. The Pyrenean skyline, fringed with wispy cloud and, incredibly, with traces of snow still clinging to the peak of Canigou, was much the same as that which faced his own terrace, but below him the whole bay stretched out in a wide circle, from the wooded Montgo campsites, to the sprawling town of L'Escala and beyond. Kilometres of beach extended like a thin golden smile all the way to Ampuriabrava, tapering off only shortly before the rise of the northern headland. It was dotted with white houses built into the hillside above Rosas, the town with which the great bight shared its name. The `Stormy Bay' was almost still, too calm for windsurfers or sailboats. The water shimmered and glistened under the high sun.

Skinner hauled his attention back to the business of the afternoon. Their vantage point was little more than a hundred yards away from Nick Vaudan's sugar-white, castellated villa, but thick foliage growing from the rocks offered complete cover. The house was built into the steep hillside on three levels, topped by a wide three-sided terrace with stylised mock battlements, which surrounded the shuttered upper apartments. Skinner guessed that these would be the main reception rooms, with sleeping accommodation on the lower floors.

He unrolled a rush mat and threw it on the ground, handing a second to the young Guardia private. They settled down into their hide, looking down towards the villa and the twisting approach road. The young man placed his machine-carbine between them and handed the field-glasses to Skinner.

`Gracias’. The big Scot spun the focus wheel and took a closer look at Vaudan's mock castle. An impressive alarm box, with an orange light above, was fixed to the wall above the window on the east side of the terrace. The shutters were of steel, and Skinner guessed that they were motorised. To the rear of the house, a short concrete driveway led from black-painted, wrought-metal gates to a single garage. `I'm surprised he doesn't have a fucking drawbridge!' muttered Skinner.

The young policeman at his side looked at him, bewildered.

They had been in position for a little less than an hour when they heard the throb of a big engine labouring up the hill. Seconds later, a red Jaguar XJS convertible, its top down, swung awkwardly round the bend. Skinner recognised Vaudan at once. The Frenchman drew the car to a halt, and pointed a small black box at the gate. Moments later it began to slide open, disappearing from sight behind the perimeter wall. Vaudan parked on the driveway, jumped from the car and, carrying a briefcase, trotted down a stairway which led from the drive, passing out of sight.

Less than two minutes later, the steel shutters on the terrace level of the villa began to roll up slowly. As the light flooded in, Skinner could see that the upper floor comprised one large sitting room, furnished with leather sofas and armchairs and a long coffee table. In one corner of the room stood a huge television set, near which, silhouetted against the western window, were a twin-pedestal desk and low-backed chair. Vaudan sat down in the chair, his briefcase on the desk before him with lid upraised. Then, flipping it closed, he moved across to the north-facing patio doors and threw them wide, allowing him to roll out two white plastic loungers and a matching refectory table. With the terrace furniture arranged to his evident satisfaction, the Frenchman stripped off his shirt and settled on a lounger.

Skinner lowered the field-glasses and nodded to the man at his side. The young policeman picked up his radio and muttered a few words of Spanish into the mouthpiece.

The green Nissan Patrol made even more noise than the V12 Jaguar, as it hauled itself up the steep hill. As it approached and swung round the bend, Skinner trained the binoculars on Vaudan on the terrace. At first, the man did not react to the sound. Then, as it drew closer, he propped himself on an elbow to look over the mock battlements and the perimeter wall. As the vehicle drew to a halt, Skinner saw a frown crease the Frenchman's forehead. The man stood up, grabbed his shirt, and slipped it on.

Pujol, in full uniform, his gun in its holster by his side, stepped from the front passenger seat. Three other officers each carrying a machine-carbine identical to that which lay beside Skinner, followed his lead. The Commandante spoke to one of the three men, who remained beside the vehicle. Then he led the other two down the driveway and through the small gate to the terrace.

Vaudan stood waiting for them, the frown still lining his face. Although Pujol had his back to Skinner, the latter knew at once when he had spoken and, from the sudden widening of the Frenchman's eyes, what he had said. Through the glasses, the scene was that of a silent movie. He saw Vaudan's lips move, but caught not even the faintest sound. Then the Frenchman threw his hands wide, as if in appeal. A few seconds later he saw Pujol nod his head briefly. The Frenchman turned and walked back into the villa, moving across to the desk.

Skinner focused the glasses as sharply as he could. As he watched, Vaudan raised the lid of the briefcase very slightly and very swiftly, and took out a small dark object. Then he closed the case, spun its locks, and picked it up . . . with his left hand.

Instinct made Skinner call out. 'Arturo! Gun!'

For an instant, Pujol looked back over his shoulder. Then, trusting what he had heard, he reached for the safety buckle on his holster. His gun was drawn as Vaudan stepped back on to the terrace. Skinner saw it move up to cover the Frenchman, but realised at once that it was too late. From the doorway, Vaudan fired a quick shot from a small automatic pistol.

`No!' Skinner shouted in anguish as Pujol fell backwards.

The Frenchman gestured urgently with his gun to the two other officers on the terrace. At once they threw their carbines over the mock battlements, and clasped their hands together, behind their heads. Vaudan gestured again, and they retreated into a corner of the terrace. As they did, he turned and sprinted through the gate to the driveway. Pujol's third officer was waiting, his gun raised, but stiff and frozen. Vaudan snapped off two shots. The young man spun round and fell face-down.

Skinner looked at the private by his side, and saw the boy's face transfixed and white with shock. He grabbed the machine-carbine, and looked quickly at its mechanism. He found the safety and flicked it off.

The Frenchman had reached the Jaguar. He tossed his case into the back and reached awkwardly, left-handed, for his keys.

The bellow from the hilltop froze him in his tracks. Vaudan! Drop the gun on the ground now, and raise your hands.'

The Frenchman looked up towards the sound of the voice and, as he did, Skinner realised that the sun was shining on the barrel of the carbine he held. Vaudan did not drop his pistol. Instead he swung it up towards the glint of light.

Skinner's single shot took him square in the forehead. For a second he stood stock-still; then, like a discarded marionette, he collapsed sideways against the car, his left shoulder wedging between the side mirror and the sloping windscreen. Thus jammed, he hung there, head lolling, eyes glazed, and blood trickling slowly down his nose from the hole just above its bridge.

The carbine hung loosely in Skinner's hands. He lay still on his mat, his face suddenly as bloodless as that of his young companion.

Eventually the green-uniformed private prodded him, gently. `Senor?' He pointed towards the grotesquely trapped Vaudan. 'Es morte?'

Skinner looked at him in silence for a few seconds, feeling his colour return. 'Oh yes, son. He's dead. He points a gun at me and he's fucking dead all right. That's the way it is.'

A slow smile crept over his face. He patted the young man on the shoulder, and pressed the carbine into his hands. 'That was a fine shot of yours,' he said in pidgin Spanish. He patted him again. 'Hero.'

The private looked back at him blankly.

The smile left Skinner's face. He stood up and motioned to the man to follow him down the hillside towards the villa, where nothing moved and a funereal silence hung in the air.

Eighty-three

‘The Commandante will be okay, si?'

‘Yes, Carlos. He'll be fine, thank Christ. It was a flesh wound. The bullet went through his side but missed all the organs. An inch or so to the left and it would have taken a kidney out. He's a lucky fellow, Arturo is. He's not cut out to be a gunfighter, though.'

`How about the other Guardia? How is he? Alive too, I hear.'

Skinner nodded. 'Yes, but not so lucky. He's paralysed. One of the bullets is lodged in his spine. The surgeons hope to remove it once he builds up some strength. He lost a lot of blood'

The two friends sat side-by-side on high stools at the end of the bar in La Clota. Carlos looked at Skinner's reflection in the big mirror which formed virtually the whole back wall.,

`You know, Bob,' he said softly, 'That must have been some shot by young Joaquim. Hit him bang in the forehead, yes?' He made a sign with his extended index finger touching the bridge of his nose.

Skinner nodded silently towards the mirror.

`It's a funny thing,' said Carlos. 'My sons, they know Joaquim. In fact sometimes they go rabbit shooting, in a crowd. Only Joaquim, he never takes a rifle. He says it's because he

doesn't want to shoot anything, not even a rabbit for the kitchen. My sons, they say that the other reason is that he is a lousy shot.' He looked sideways at Skinner. 'I guess they were wrong, eh.'

`Si, mi amigo. I guess they were.' As Bob picked up his beer and drained it in a single swallow, Carlos thought he saw a very slight tremor in his hand.

He slapped him on the shoulder. 'So what's it to be? You come here just to drink, or you eat? I get you a menu?'

`Don't bother with the menu. I'll have the duck. In honour of old Arturo — who forgot to. Meantime, Paquita, another beer, please.'

The duckling and the telephone arrived at the table at the same time. As the elegant waiter was serving Skinner's meal, Kathleen appeared at his side, holding out a small black cordless telephone.

`Bob, this is for you. It's Maggie somebody.' She smiled. `Who's this we don't know about?'

Skinner took the phone with a smile. 'Maggie, hi. What's up?'

`Nothing vital, sir, but it's the sort of thing I thought you'd like to know about, so hope you don't mind. Sarah gave me the number. She said it'd be all right to call.'

`Mmm. No problem, but make it quick or my meal'll get cold.'

`Okay. Leicester called this evening. There's trouble between Monklands and Lucan apparently. It seems they were allowed exercise today, and Lucan attacked Monklands. Took a punch at him and broke his nose. They've had to separate them. They're due in court tomorrow, so apparently they're going to send them in separate vans.'

`Do they know what it was about?'

`No, sir. Apparently, when they ask him, Lucan just swears in French. And when they ask Monklands, he just holds his nose and says it was an accident. Any idea what the problem could be?'

`No ideas, only guesses. Has anyone told them about Vaudan yet?'

Not as far as I know.'

`Well, get back on to Leicester and ask them to break the bad news to Lucan, then watch his reaction. They should be sure to have a French speaker handy when they do, just in case he lets something slip that we can use. And now, if you'll excuse me, this duckling needs my full attention. See you Monday.'

Eighty-four

He was cruising around the western outskirts of the city of Bordeaux when the shrill tone of his car phone mingled with the Latin rhythms of the David Byrne CD.

‘Bloody hell! Is there no peace?'

He stopped the player and pushed the phone's receive button. Brian Mackie's voice boomed out of the hands-free speaker. 'Hello, boss. How's the drive going?'

`Fine, until about five seconds ago. Making these things international was the worst telecommunications advance ever. What is it this time?'

`It's Lucan, chief.'

'Yes, I know,' said Skinner impatiently. 'Maggie called me last night'

`No, sir. This is today. Lucan's escaped. We've just had a flash from Leicester. They were taking him to court. Apparently the van was stopped at traffic lights, when he banjoed his guard and kicked the back door open.'

"Kin' ell!' Skinner shouted into the small microphone clipped above the sun visor, let me know developments'

He pushed the cancel button and drove on in the sunshine, across the bridge over the wide river and on towards the north. As the kilometres unrolled, he recalled his outward journey with Sarah and Jazz. It seemed as if months had gone by, yet he knew that his son was still a day under seven weeks old.

He was striking out along the N175, at the base of the Cherbourg peninsula and with the Autoroute network far behind him, when the phone rang again.

`Boss, it's Brian. No sign of Lucan, I'm afraid. He was in his own clothes, and he made it into a busy shopping centre, so they just lost him in the crowd. There was a report of a mugging in the area not long afterwards by someone answering his description, so they think he's now got some cash for the road.'

`Aye, but which road? He doesn't speak the language. His best chance would be to hitch a lift on a French lorry, I suppose. Did the Leicester people break the news about Vaudan?'

`Yes, first thing this morning. Lucan went ape-shit apparently. Burst into tears, but all he would say was "Bastards!" in French, over and over again.'

`Wonder which bastards he meant. Do we know any more about his dust-up with Monklands?'

`I was coming to that. The Leicester guys had another go at Monklands this afternoon. He told them to get stuffed. Said he would only speak to you, no one else.'

Behind the wheel, Skinner frowned. 'Didn't think I'd made that much of an impression. Okay, Brian. Ask them to have him ready to see me at police headquarters in Leicester tomorrow morning. I'll call in on my way up from Southampton. I'll bet he just wants to sell me a deal, though!'

Eighty-five

I hope Lucan did that, and not one of the boys here.'

Norrie Monklands sat at the table in an airless interview room in the main police station in Leicester. The left side of his face was disfigured by a huge yellow and purple swelling around the eye, which was closed to a slit. He nodded, wincing as he did.

`Aye, it was him, all right. Fuckin' nutter that he is. They brought us out of our cells in that remand unit, and as soon as we were alone in the exercise yard he wallops me. Down I go and he starts kickin' the shit out of me, till the warders came and hauled him off — eventually. They didna' seem too bothered, I have to say.'

`They've seen it all before, pal. You don't like the jail much, do you?' Monklands and Skinner were alone in the room. The tape-recorder on the desk was switched off.

`So come on then,' continued Skinner. 'What's so important that you hauled me all the way here? If it turns out that all you wanted to do was to show me your black eye, you'll be lucky not to wind up with a matching pair. Why did Lucan whack you? When I was here last you were all pals together?'

Monklands leaned back in his chair. 'Aye, that's right. But he's got a slow-burning, suspicious, vindictive mind, that bastard. Typical fuckin' anglophobic Frenchman. When he

was layin' into me on the ground, he was shouting in French. What he was saying was that we'd been set up by, Monklands paused. 'Here, before I go any further, I'm talking off the record here, right? I'm not admitting that anyone else was involved in this. I'm just telling you what Lucan thinks.'

Skinner shrugged. 'Sure, if that's how you want it. I know who was involved, anyway. I probably know a lot more than you do. You're just a poor fucking gopher who's going to jail, without being able to do anything about it. If you're thinking that there's a deal here, on the basis of no evidence offered, you can forget that.'

`No, I'm not looking for anything. I've got a good lawyer. He reckons he can get me off with three or four years.'

Skinner smiled. 'He'll need to be the bloody goods to do that, Norrie. But never mind that. Go on with what you were saying.'

`Okay. So Lucan's locked up by himself, away from me. And his suspicious French mind starts to work. Even though his spoken English is shite, he knows accents, and he understands words. He realises that the guy that flattened him, and the one that collared me, were Scottish, and that they'd been following us all the way up from Portsmouth, and maybe further. So he figures out that the operation's sprung a leak, and that it happened in Scotland. He convinces himself that Paul and I got cold feet and tipped you guys off.'

`Oh aye,' said Skinner, 'and in the process you get arrested and half eaten by a police dog!'

Monklands shook his head. 'No, he'd worked out that we were supposed to get to Scotland, and that once we were there he'd get nicked and I'd give evidence. He thought that Paul and I were working for you lot, to nail him and Vaudan. Now he's escaped, he can hardly get at me again. But Paul could be in real bother, if he can find him.'

Skinner looked long at the man with the yellow-and-purple eye. 'Got some news for you, Norrie. Nick Vaudan's dead. He was killed on Friday in a shoot-out with the Spanish police.

Lucan was told not long after it happened. How'd you think he'd react?'

Monklands stared back at him in disbelief through one and a half eyes. 'Serge? He'd go crazy. You do know that Vaudan was his brother?'

It was Skinner's turn to show surprise.

`That's right. Half-brother, to be accurate. Apparently, Vaudan's old man had a few mistresses around the Clite d'Azur. One of them got pregnant, and Serge was the result.

He was a secret for years, until Nick's father got cancer. Just before he died, he told Nick about Serge, and where to find him. He made him promise to look after him — and he did. If

somebody killed Nick, then Serge'll kill somebody else. Where did it happen?'

`Where Paul had his Spanish business? Then he's got to be bookie's favourite. Look out for him, will you. He's my mate.'

`Man, we haven't taken our eyes off him in weeks. Have you tried to get a message to him?'

Monklands shook his head. 'No.'

`Good. Don't, otherwise we'll let Serge — if he shows up — walk right through the front door.' He paused. 'What's your theory, Norrie? D'you think you were set up?'

`I haven't a fuckin' clue. My best guess is that you guys got lucky, found out about the buy, and were trying to follow us all the way home, so that you could tie in . . . whoever was waiting at the other end.

`That's not a bad guess, except we know who was waiting. What d'you know about Cocozza?'

`Who's fuckin' Cocozza? Wait a minute. Lucan did shout something that I didn't understand when he was kicking my ribs in. It could have been something about someone called Cocozza.'

Skinner paused. 'Okay, if you've never heard of Cocozza, what d'you know about Tony Manson?'

`Only two things for sure. One, that he's dead; and, two, that he bank-rolled Paul when he started his Spanish business.'

A fist of excitement gripped Skinner's stomach, but he managed to keep his reaction from showing on his face.

`I thought Ainscow made a few quid when he sold his estate agency.'

Monklands smiled. 'That's what he let people think. He was a wee bit of a gambler in his early days. That's how he met Tony Manson. He didn't get a hell of a lot when he sold out, the casinos had had a lot before that.'

Did he and Manson keep in touch?'

`Aye, as far as I know. Paul cut out the casinos a while back, but he was partial to a sauna — if you know what I mean. In fact there's a bird in one of Manson's saunas that he fancies. He sees her quite a bit. He's got a stake in a couple of pubs around Stirling. He's never said as much, but I think Manson's got — or rather had — money in them, too.'

Skinner shrugged. 'That's history now. Okay, Norrie, we'll keep an eye out for your mate, as best we can. And when we get Lucan back, we'll try and arrange for him to be in the next cell to you. Would you like that?'

Monklands fingered his swollen eye. 'I'd like never to see that crazy bastard again as long as I live.'

Skinner laughed. ‘I’ll see if I can help there. Meantime, I hope this lawyer of yours is as good as you think. But if you can summon up a few remorseful tears for the judge and jury, that might come in handy too!'

Eighty-six

‘God, Jazz, but you're getting bigger by the day!'

`Bigger every time you see him, you mean,' said Sarah with a sideways glance along the top of the living-room sofa to where he sat holding his smiling son high in his outstretched arms.

`Yes, okay, don't rub it in. I missed you two every moment —most of all sitting on that hilltop.'

She slid along the leather couch and nestled beside him as he lowered the baby to his shoulder. 'Want to tell me about it?'

He shook his head, as much to clear his mind of a sudden vision of Vaudan's dying eyes, as to answer her question. `You're sure Arturo's going to be okay, though?'

`Yes, absolutely. He'll be home by now, maybe even in the care of the fair Veronica. As bullet wounds go, I've done worse while shaving.'

Not Vaudan's though,' she said softly. 'Just as well that kid was a crack shot.' She looked at him: their eyes met, and she knew for certain what she had really known all along. She squeezed his arm. He nodded. They were silent for a time as the room lost the sudden chill that had crept in.

Eventually Bob looked down at her once more. `You rescheduled that dinner party yet?'

'No. There's no chance for weeks. They're going off on holiday next Sunday night.'

`Sometime, though?'

`Yes, sometime.' Skinner nuzzled Jazz. 'How about our other kid? How's she been?'

`I've never seen her happier. She wants to see you.' `What's this? A new guy in her life?'

`That's for Alex to tell you.'

'I tried to call her from the road, in Glasgow, but all I got was the answering machine.'

`Yeah, you would. She isn't in Glasgow. She's staying through here for a while, with a friend.'

Skinner gave his wife a curious look. She held up a hand. `Don't ask. Alex's business.'

`Christ, you women. Samson had no bloody chance, had he?'

Eighty-seven

Okay, troops. It's good to be back together with so many of you.'

Skinner stood in the main briefing room at Fettes Avenue. He smiled around the assembled faces. They included Roy Old, Alison Higgins, Andy Martin, Brian Mackie, Maggie Rose and a number of junior officers from the Drugs and Vice Squad, and from Alison Higgins' divisional team.

He looked at Martin. 'Who's baby-sitting?'

'McGuire's got Cocozza, and McIlhenney’s with Ainscow.'

`Good. I want our most experienced people covering them from now on. I had an interesting visit yesterday. It seems that there might be a new prayer in the game.'

He described in detail his detour to Leicester, his meeting with Norrie Monklands, and the story of Lucan's paranoid rage.

`This guy is not to be pissed about with. He and his late half-brother were peas from the same pod. Killers. Sometimes they hired help, like the German in L'Escala, but Nick was capable of doing the job himself, and we can assume that Lucan is too. So, if this guy is headed up here, then we aren't simply keeping Ainscow and Cocozza under surveillance. We could be keeping them alive.

Roy Old raised a hand. 'Couldn't we just lift them, Bob?'

Skinner shook his head. `That'd be the easy answer. But what grounds do we have? Monklands is too scared to go on the record, so we've nothing, but our assumptions to rely on. Listen, I still want these guys — don't be in any doubt. If it hadn't been for that bloody dog in Leicester, we'd have them right now. We'll keep watching them in the faint hope that they make a wrong move, and that we can save something from that wreckage. They've ridden their luck so far, and as far as Lucan's concerned they can ride it some more. If we see him, we nick him. If not, then we keep Monklands' information to ourselves.'

'Do you think Ainscow knows about Vaudan yet?' asked Andy Martin.

`It's possible. The way he's most likely to find out is by calling his secretary in InterCosta — it's still trading — or if he contacts Gloria Alberni for any reason. If he does, then he'll get the official version, which is that the Guardia Civil went up to question Vaudan about a series of thefts of high-value boats along the Costa Brava, and that he panicked, pulled out a gun and started shooting. Nobody down there, other than my friend Pujol, knows what the real story is.'

Skinner looked around the room. 'All sorts of things could happen in this one yet. I think that our best chance of getting a result is through Cocozza. He's out of his league. He's a wee man who's suddenly got big ambitious. If we can find a reason to put the pressure on him, he might crack and give us the extra witness we need to wrap up Ainscow. So let's just carry on with what we're doing, and see what turns up. Andy, this is a drugs operation, so you carry on co-ordinating operations. Keep me informed if the cork pops out of the bottle.

He glanced across at his personal assistant. 'Come on Maggie. Let's get back to that bloody in-tray.'

The gathering stood up as he did. He preceded Maggie Rose from the room and along the corridor which led to the stairs to the Command Suite. As they turned the corner, they barely avoided collision with a young woman officer who had come rushing down the steps.

She looked up and flushed bright scarlet. 'Sorry, sir. Excuse me, but is Mr Martin still along there.'

Skinner nodded. 'Yes, he is. And he can only get out this way, so you've got him cornered. You can take it a bit easier from now on.

Back in his office, Skinner and Rose sat on either side of the desk and began to work their way through the great pile of folders, reports and correspondence that had accumulated in Skinner's short absence. They were only on the third item, a report from the Borders division on a recent increase in cattle-rustling, when there was a heavy knock on the door.

`Yes!'

The door swung open and Andy Martin came into the room. A slight frown line creased his forehead.

`Could be the cork's out the bottle already, boss. I've just spoken to Neil Mcllhenney. It looks as if Ainscow's disappeared'

`What! How the hell did that happen?'

`Sounds like the night-shift. Neil took over at half-eight as usual. Ainscow's car was still in the driveway, so he didn't think anything of the curtains being closed. But then the postwoman turned up with a parcel that was too big for the letter-box. She rang the bell for two or three minutes, but there was no answer. So Neil called Ainscow's telephone, meaning to say "Wrong number" if the call was picked up. Still no reply. So he went in. He hadn't heard about Lucan, remember. He just didn't fancy the feel of things. Anyway, he went round and tried the back door. It was unlocked, so he went in and searched the house. There was no sign of Ainscow, but in the main bedroom the shirt drawer and wardrobe were lying open, as if someone had packed some kit in a hurry. The bed hadn't been slept in.

`He went back outside and looked in the garden. There's a back gate from the property that we didn't know about, which leads to a lane. It looked as if the gate wasn't used very much, because leaves and stuff had gathered around it. They were scraped back, as if the gate had been opened recently. Neil looked at the lane. It leads down to the main street, and right there is a twenty-four-hour taxi office. He checked. A man with a small suitcase walked in last night around ten thirty and took a taxi to Stirling station. There are still four trains after then, including one that feeds a London overnight service, with seating accommodation. So he could be anywhere!'

Skinner stared at Martin, stone-faced. 'Magic. A back gate and we didn't know about it!'

`Boss, it was overgrown.'

`So bloody what. We're policemen Andy, not spectators.' He slapped his hand, palm down, on the table.

'What d'you think might have happened? Did he call L'Escala and get the wrong story about Vaudan?'

'I told you, no one knows the truth there except Arturo. Anyway, he'll still be recovering. No, there's a likelier explanation.' Skinner pressed his hands-free intercom. 'Ruth, get me the Leicester remand centre. I want to speak to the guy who was in charge, yesterday afternoon and last night, of the floor Monklands is on.'

Skinner, Martin and Rose sat in heavy silence for just under three minutes. When the phone sounded, Skinner snatched it up on the first ring. 'Yes.'

`Senior Officer Morgan is on the line, sir.'

`Thanks.'

Ruth switched the call through.

`Mr Morgan, you had Norman Monklands under your care yesterday. Did he make a phone-call?'

The voice on the other end had a heavy Welsh accent, 'Yes, sir, I'm afraid he did. I know he was supposed to be denied access to the pay-phone but, with it being Sunday and all, I had a couple of probationers on duty with me. One of them made a mistake, and let him make a call. I gave the lad a bollocking when I found out, mind you.'

`What time did he make this call?'

`Oh, t'would be about nine thirty in the evening.' `I don't suppose your lad checked the number.'

- 'No, sir. Well, we can't, see.'

`Right. Have someone check with BT now, and get the number that he called, just to confirm our suspicions.'

`Very good, sir.'

Skinner hung up. 'That's the answer. Norrie Monklands couldn't stop himself. He had to warn his mate about Lucan. Christ, we'll be lucky if we ever see Ainscow again.'

Martin looked crestfallen. 'I'm sorry, boss. I've blown it. I'll take the flak.

Skinner shook his head. 'Not alone, you won't. I'm to blame too. I should have put the fear of Jehovah into Monklands about what would happen to him if he made a call. And to make double certain, I should have repeated my instruction to the remand unit that he was to be kept away from the phone.'

He stood up. Only three things to do, Andy. Tell Neil to make sure that he hasn't left a trace of his presence in Ainscow's house, keep watching it — front and back — in case he comes back after a couple of days; and keep tabs on Cocozza everywhere he goes. I want a report on every step that wee man takes.'

Eighty-eight

Skinner hated the feeling of being becalmed. In his early days as a detective, a senior colleague had nicknamed him ‘jaws', not because of the voracity of his appetite but because, like a hunting fish, it seemed that he could only live if he were moving perpetually forward.

Now, as Monday stretched into Tuesday, and on into Wednesday, without a sighting of Paul Ainscow or a wrong move by Richard Cocozza, he felt a mounting frustration based on every detective's dread that an investigation, in which he requires only a single piece of evidence, had stalled. Skinner's trail had gone cold, and he hated the feeling.

He countered that by throwing himself into other work, at the office and at home. His in-tray was flattened in record time during what remained of Monday, and on Tuesday he went to Leith to begin what he intended would be a week-long tour of unannounced inspections of divisional CID offices. At home he joined Sarah in her tending of their minimum maintenance garden, where he began to build the walls of a sand-pit for Jazz.

On Wednesday morning, he had been about to leave for Hawick, when Ruth came into his office. 'Sir, the Chief called. He has a doctor's appointment this morning, and it's just been delayed by two hours. He's due to go to a civic lunch today as the guest of the Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, and he wonders if you would take his place.'

`Yes, sure. I've got nothing better to do. Where is it?'

`The Balmoral. Drinks at twelve forty-five.'

The Balmoral Hotel, which is still known to most of Edinburgh by its former name, the North British, is one of two great hotels which stand like bookends at either end of Princes Street, vying with each other constantly for the accolade of being Number One in the public perception. After a period of neglect, a multi-million-pound refit and a high-powered management team led by a Scots trouble-shooter with international experience, had restored the Balmoral to the point at which it could compete with its rival, the Caledonian, on equal terms. Its kilted doorman greeted Skinner with a professional smile, and directed him to the hotel's main banqueting hall, a long room with windows which looked westward along the length of Princes Street. He was still looking around the throng for his host, when he heard him call out, 'Bob! Over here.'

Archie Nelson was standing by the window with a glass of white wine in his hand. Skinner accepted a glass of red from the waiter at the door, and walked across the room to join him.

`Hi, Archie. Sorry Jimmy had to drop out. It's his six-monthly at the Murrayfield, and his doc was delayed. So I'm afraid you've got me instead.'

Nelson smiled. 'I suppose I can make do.' The Dean of the Faculty of Advocates, Scotland's senior practising lawyer, was a round, jolly man with prematurely grey hair and twinkling eyes which had beguiled many a witness, only to turn to gimlets as the serious cross-examination began. He had been in post for almost a year, elected in the wake of the elevation to judicial office of his predecessor, David Murray. He and Skinner were old friends, having been allies during Nelson's successful spell as a High Court prosecutor.

`I should know, Archie,' said the Assistant Chief Constable quietly, 'but what's the reason for this beanfeast?'

`Football, would you believe: The City Fathers, whom I represent on occasion, thought it would be a good idea to hold a lunch in honour of Heart of Midlothian winning the Scottish Cup. Thereby they caused outrage and alienated the two-thirds of the population who support Hibernian, Rangers or Celtic. The row gave the Evening News front-page banner headlines for three days on the trot. I'm surprised you didn't know.'

`I've been away a lot recently. Sarah and I went off on a holiday of sorts after the baby was born.'

Nelson's face was wreathed in a sudden smile. 'Oh, yes, I heard about that. A son, I heard. Congratulations. How's he doing?'

`Absolutely great. Sleeps a lot, smiles a lot, shits a lot. That just about sums up the boy's life at the moment.'

`That's quite a gap between your offspring. How is Alex, by the way?'

`Fine as far as I know. I've been trying to catch up with her all week. Haven't succeeded yet. She's got a new man, I think.' `Yes, I heard a rumour. Was it a surprise to you?'

Skinner looked at him, slightly puzzled, but before he could respond he was interrupted by a diffident cough and a quiet familiar voice. 'Hello, Mr Skinner. Remember me?'

He turned to find Greg Pitkeathly at his shoulder.

`I haven't had a chance to thank you for sorting that matter out for me. Paul Ainscow sent me a cheque and a note of explanation. I'm glad I've got my money back, but that was a terrible thing about Santi Alberni. A major fraud, Ainscow said. How big was it, can you tell me?'

`About a million sterling.'

`Good God! No wonder he hung himself rather than face that.'

`Mmm,' Skinner muttered. 'Convenient all round.

`You know, it was a bit macabre for me, that time,' said Pitkeathly. 'Death seemed to be following me around. I spoke to Tony Manson only a few days before I saw you, and then he was murdered. I go looking for Alberni,, and he dies. They say that death comes in threes. I'm glad that hasn't been true in this case.'

`Don't be so sure,' said Skinner. 'You say you spoke to Tony Manson. How well did you know him?'

`Not very. I'm a curler. A member of his club. We used to pass the time of day, but I'd heard too much talk about him to want to be a close friend.'

`When you spoke to him,' asked Skinner, 'did you mention your Spanish problem?'

`As a matter of fact, I did.'

`Did he seem interested?'

`As a matter of fact, he did.'

`Did you tell him you were coming to see me?'

Pitkeathly thought for a second. 'Yes, I did. He asked if I wasn't going a bit over the top. I remember saying he should try telling that to my wife! Poor man. Whatever he may or may not have been, that was a brutal way to die.'

At the far end of the room, the toastmaster's gavel called the gathering to order.

`Must go,' said Pitkeathly. 'Thanks again for sorting it all out.' He slipped away into the throng.

`What was all that about?' asked Archie Nelson.

`I'm not sure,' said Skinner softly, as if he had been asking himself the same question. 'Maybe nothing at all. Maybe a hell of a lot. Either way, I'm going to have to find out.'

Eighty-nine

‘Now isn't that interesting, boys?’.

Skinner looked at Andy Martin and Brian Mackie across the low coffee table. He had fidgeted his way through the excellent Balmoral lunch, through the diffident speech by the Heart of Midlothian manager, and through the rather more fulsome address by the club chairman. But even before the applause had died away, he had called headquarters for a pickup car.

Now, back in his office, Andy Martin caught his mood at once. 'Isn't it just, boss. It's just a wee thread, but who knows what it's tied into. Alberni and Inch, two of the very few people who either knew about the InterCosta fraud or were linked into it, have both wound up dead. Now we find out that Tony Manson, who bank-rolled the company in the first place, was told about it too — just before he died a violent death.'

`Spot on,' said Skinner, 'Maybe a pure coincidence, but it's something that makes alarm bells go off in our policemen's minds. So what are we going to do about it?' He glanced at Brian Mackie.

`There's only one thing left for us to do, sir, as I see it anyway, and that's to pull in Richard Cocozza. Ainscow's done his runner: we may never see him again. We've been waiting either for Lucan to show, or for some lucky break that might kick-start the investigation again. This may be all the luck we're going to get. We've found out that Manson knew about the fraud. Did it come as a surprise to him? Was he bothered about it? Did he talk to anyone about it? Wee Cocozza's the only person left for us to ask. Let's have him in.'

Skinner looked at Andy Martin. The blond head nodded.

`Right. I agree. Go and get him, lads. Bring him here, rather than taking him to Torphichen Place. Let's make the wee bugger feel important. Let's give him the Head Office treatment.'

Ninety

‘You are certain that he's in there, Mario?'

Abso-bloody-lutely, sir. He left here at eight thirty-two, and walked to his office in Queen Street. I tailed him myself, and young John brought the car round. He left again at eleven fifty-three and walked back here. I tailed him again. Here he's been ever since; that's, what, three hours and a quarter. All that time I've been watching the front door, and John's been watching the garden gate.'

'Is there a Mrs Cocozza?'

Not here, sir. They separated a year ago.'

Richard Cocozza's flat was on the ground floor of a converted grey stone mill-house on the banks of the Water of Leith, where the river wound its way through Dean Village, a city-centre enclave whose quaintness had been eroded by the attempts of various property developers to make it exclusive. The entry-phone system seemed to be in working order, but repeated pressing of the button alongside the name `Cocozza' had produced not a sound from the intercom.

`Try another,' said Martin.

Mario McGuire began to press other buttons in turn, beginning with the other ground-floor flats, and working up the building. On the fourth attempt there was a response.

`Yes?' A male voice answered, sleep-sodden even through the tinniness of the speaker.

`Sorry to disturb you, sir, but this is the police. We have to call on one of the flats in this building. Could you come down and let us in, please.'

`Yeah, sure.'

Less than a minute later, a dishevelled young man in a blue towelling robe emerged from the lift, which faced the glass entry door. He walked barefoot across the hall, and turned the wheel of the Yale lock. 'I suppose I should ask to see—'

Before he could finish his sentence, McGuire held up his warrant card.

`Of course you should, sir. Sorry we had to wake you. Nightshift, are you?'

The man nodded. 'This week anyway. I work in the bakery in Leith.'

`Okay, you get back to sleep, then. We'll make as little noise as we can.

`Which may have to be quite a lot,' muttered Martin, as the steel lift doors closed.

The entrance to Cocozza's flat was set back in an alcove off the hall. There was a second bell-push in the centre of the door. Martin pressed it for a good twenty seconds, but its buzz was the only sound from within the apartment. He took his finger from the button. 'Okay, I have reason to believe that there may be a person in this flat who is involved in the commission of crime. Mario, see if you can do it the quick way. If the thing's mortised we may have to send for the locksmith, but try the size elevens first.'

Obediently, McGuire kicked out with his right heel, once, twice, three times. With the third blow, they heard the keeper of the lock tear loose, and the oak door swung open.

Four doors opened off a central corridor. One, at the end, lay ajar. Martin led the way along the hall and stepped into the room.

'Oh Jesus. Not another.'

Cocozza was sitting slumped in a dining chair, with his back to the door. He was held in his awkward position by black insulating tape which secured his forearms and ankles to the frame of the chair. He was naked, save for a pair of badly soiled white underpants. On his back, shoulders and upper arms, large angry bruises stood out against the yellowness of his skin. The back of his head was a mass of hair, bone and gristle matted together by blood and brain tissue.

Slowly and hesitantly, the three detectives stepped around the body, being careful not to bump against it, or touch anything in the room. Martin crouched on one knee and looked up into Cocozza's face. It was covered in blood, not only from the cranial wounds, but from the nose and from a cut over the right eye, which was bruised and swollen. A facecloth or small hand towel had been stuffed into the mouth, making the cheeks puff grotesquely.

`Look there, sir.'

Martin followed McGuire's pointing finger. A line of blue circular indentations ran up each shin. Each knee was swollen and distorted. On the stained wooden floor, between Cocozza's feet, a heavy metal-shafted hammer with a black rubber grip lay in a pool of blood and urine.

Martin shuddered as he stood up. 'Mario, did you see anyone go out — anyone at all?'

McGuire shook his head vigorously. 'No, sir. And John was told to call me on the radio if he spotted anyone.'

`Right,' said Martin assertively. 'Guard that front door. Brian, you and I'll search this place carefully.'

Splitting up, they moved swiftly through the flat, checking behind every door, in every wardrobe, in every cupboard, even in the shower compartment and the kitchen cabinets, but the house was empty.

`Andy.' Brian Mackie's call drew Martin back to the living room. The tall, thin man was leaning out of the window. For a second Martin thought that he was being sick, until he stood upright once more. 'I think this is how he got away. This window was open. From here he could have dropped down towards the river, and on to the walkway, without being seen by either Mario or young John.'

`How would he have got in?'

With the postman, maybe. It must have been while Cocozza was at his office, and our two weren't here. There were stairs back in the hall leading to basement storage. He could have hidden there till everything was quiet, then picked Cocozza's Yale. From what the boss was saying, it looks like Lucan.'

`Maybe. Let's see-what he thinks. I'll call him now. When he sees this mess he'll wish he hadn't eaten that lunch at the Balmoral!'

Ninety-one

‘Poor little guy. The last half-hour of his life doesn't bear imagining. Tied up and systematically tortured, then finally dispatched like an animal in a badly-run slaughterhouse.'

Sarah turned to the ambulance crew. 'Okay. If the photographers and technicians are finished, you can take him away now.' At a nod from Skinner, they set to work, noisily ripping off the tape which bound Cocozza's body to the chair.

He put an arm around Sarah's shoulders and, led her from the flat, away from the scene and from its smell, which had grown overpowering. 'Thanks, love, for coming down. Let's get back.' As soon as he had digested Martin's call, he had rushed to Dean Village, calling at home to pick up Sarah and to drop off his beaming secretary as a very willing baby-sitter for Jazz.

They climbed back into Skinner's car. As he drove up the steep incline of Bell's Brae, out of the Village, he glanced towards her. 'Any idea from that back there as to whether our man was waiting for Cocozza inside the flat, or whether the wee chap answered the door?'

`It is essential that you know?'

`No. It's just a small detail but, if I can, I like to know all the answers.'

Sarah was silent for a few seconds. 'Well, don't stand me up in court and ask me to say this, but there was a single bruise behind the right ear that didn't look like all the rest. It was a different shape. I'd say that whoever it was had been waiting inside the flat already. When Cocozza came in, he stepped up behind him, slugged him, stuffed the towel in his mouth, ripped off his clothing and trussed him up. Then he picked up the hammer, and began to give him tender loving care. So do you think it was your runaway Frenchman taking revenge for his brother?'

As the BMW crossed the high Dean Bridge, Skinner gestured with his left hand. 'The picture fits the frame. Norrie Monklands said Lucan blamed the Scottish end for their being nicked. If Vaudan told him all the detail, who was who, and so on, he'd know who to look for, and probably where to go.'

Sarah looked across at him doubtfully. 'Even down to the address?'

He smiled. 'Research document number one: the telephone directory. There aren't too many Cocozzas in the phone-book. Once he got to Edinburgh, he'd have had no problem pinning down the address.

She leaned back in her seat. Her smile was teasing. 'So why don't you believe it was him?'

He grinned back. 'Who says I don't? All the evidence points to Lucan, and I have to go on evidence, not hunches, don't I?' He gripped the steering wheel. 'Tell you one thing. I'm going to find Mr Ainscow, come hell or high tide, and, when I do, he'll sing his heart out just to stay alive. Otherwise I might just let him go — to take his chances with Cocozza's unexpected caller.'

Ninety-two

‘Boss, since yesterday we've interviewed everyone we can find who knows Ainscow, his other golfing buddies apart from Norrie Monklands, the people in his business, both here and in Spain, bankers, lawyers, everyone. Since he disappeared, there hasn't been a trace of the man, not even a withdrawal from a cash machine. We've got nothing else to go on. There were no address books in his house or his office.'

Skinner and Martin, with Maggie Rose as their guest, were lunching in the senior officers' small dining room in the Fettes Avenue Command corridor.

`What about Lucan? What are we doing there?'

Maggie Rose leaned forward to answer Skinner's question. `Just before we came here, I had a call from Crown Office giving us the go-ahead to release a photograph of Lucan to press and television, and to issue a "Do not approach" warning to the public. The ACC Operations has put every one of our traffic cars and pandas on the look-out, and he's arranged for every other force in the UK to do the same. We're watching ports and oil terminals and we're trying to contact every major haulier in the UK, including companies with big in-house lorry fleets, to get them to warn their drivers. Once Alan Royston's press release appears, then the sightings are bound to come rolling in, although you know there's only a slim chance of a result there. Can't think of anything else that can be done

Skinner nodded in agreement. 'Yes, that covers it, all right He paused as a waitress served his salad. 'Thanks, Jessie.'

He waited till his companions had their main course before them, then looked at Martin. 'About Ainscow, Andy, you said we'd covered all his contacts. Does that include the Powderhall Sauna?'

The detective superintendent looked up sharply. 'God, no it doesn't. Of course, we followed him there twice, and we’ve heard that he has a liking for rough trade, in the female department. I'll have it checked out this afternoon.'

`Do it yourself, Andy. Lean on the guy with your rank. And take Maggie along with you. You might find that some of the girls are more likely to talk about a punter to another woman It's probably just another piece of routine, but you never know’

Martin nodded. He took a mouthful of steak and kidney pie, then glanced up at Skinner. 'How are we doing on formal identification of Cocozza?'

Not too well. He didn't have any partners in his practice only a qualified assistant and a secretary. As far as we can find out, there's only one relative, a brother. He's an on-course bookie in the south of England. All the race meetings down there are being covered this afternoon. Once we find him we'll fly him up to complete the formalities. Until then all can say is that we're investigating the murder of an unnamed man. Officially, no one knows yet that Cocozza's dead!'

Ninety-three

You know how it is, Mr Martin. Punters come, and punters go—'

`So they say,' Martin interjected, with a slight grin. The manager acknowledged, feebly, his slip of the tongue.

`Aye, but the last thing you're going to do is ask their name, if you want them to come back. Paul Ainscow, you said? Means nothing to me.

Martin shook his head. 'I don't buy that. This guy had a business connection with Tony Manson. We're certain he knew Cocozza. We followed him here twice, and on the first occasion Cocozza was here too. So were some other people whose names you sure wouldn't want to know. This wasn't any other punter, mate. This was one of the home team. Just to jog your memory, take a look at this.'

He handed over a blown-up photograph of Ainscow in a dinner jacket, copied from a group shot which Mcllhenney had found in Ainscow's empty house. The manager took it from him, and nodded after barely a glance. 'Aye, okay. He's been here. Has he done a runner, then?'

'Never you mind. You just keep your mouth shut about this visit. Did he use the girls here, or was he only here for meetings?'

The manager glanced nervously at Maggie Rose, then back towards Martin. 'He spent time with the ladies.'

`Any favourites?'

`He used to like Linda.'

'Hall,' said Martin. 'You mean the one you told us you'd never heard of!'

The man flushed. 'What else could ah say? You know the score.'

`Forget it. Was it only Linda?'

`No. Sometimes he'd take on two or three at a time. A beast for his executive relief is Mr Ainscow.'

`Any of those girls here now?'

`Aye, most of them.

`Right, send them in.'

‘But what if they're workin'?'

`Then they'd better finish up whatever they're doing now, or we'll go and fetch them. I don't think their punters would like that.'

Five minutes later three sullen, dishevelled, stale-smelling women filed into the room. Martin felt Maggie Rose, seated beside him at the manager's desk, give a small shudder of distaste. The women pulled up chairs and sat opposite them.

`Good afternoon, ladies.' Martin introduced himself and Detective Inspector Rose. 'We're told that you've all — how do I put it? — provided services at one time or another to Mr Paul Ainscow. We're very anxious to speak with him on a number of matters, but we can't find him. He's vanished from his home and from his business, without trace. How well did you ladies know Mr Ainscow? We gather he was a fairly regular visitor.'

The three sat, heads bowed and impassive.

`Come on,' snapped Maggie Rose. 'This isn't for the record. Did Ainscow ever say anything about himself to any of you? Did he tell you anything about his life, his haunts?'

The biggest of the three hostesses, a redhead like Detective Inspector Rose, looked up from her contemplation of the centre of the desk. Slowly she shook her head. 'The only things that Ainscow ever says tae us is things that you wouldna want tae hear, miss. He's nobody's favourite punter, that man. Tells ye what he wants, does it, and he's away. Definitely no one for the chat.'

`When did you see him last?' asked Martin.

'A wee while back. Ah cannae really remember.'

`And you three ladies were his regulars.

All three nodded. 'Aye,' said the self-appointed spokes-woman. 'Apart from poor wee Linda that is. Damn shame that. `See men!' she added, with a sudden blazing vehemence.

'So that's all you can tell us? Nothing else, nothing personal?'

The redhead and the woman on her left shook their heads. But the third, a short fat peroxide blonde, looked across the table, hesitantly chewing on her lip.

`Yes?' said Maggie Rose.

`Well , ah don't think he jist came here.'

`Why d'you say that?'

The phony blonde hesitated again, glancing at her companions for signs of approval or disapproval, but seeing neither. 'Well,' she said, almost in a whisper. 'Once he was givin' me a hard time. He was hurtin' me and ah told him, but he said that he didna have this problem wi' big Jo down in Leith.'

Big Jo?' echoed Martin, the green eyes flashing suddenly.

`Aye, there's a wumman works in the Leith place. Big girl fae Glasgow, name o' Joanne. Ainscow seemed tae think that she could dae it every way he ever heard of.'

Martin smiled softly. Now, there's a thing. Maggie, I think we'll make it Leith next stop, to look up my old friend Big Joanne. From what I remember of her, she liked to know all about her punters. And if the big lass asked, they tended to answer. Let's head on down. Thanks for your help, ladies. You deserve the night off. Can't see you getting it, though. Must be tough being in a recession-proof business!'

Ninety-four

‘Closed Thursday." Bloody magic! Imagine a knocking shop taking a day off.'

Martin's red sports hatch was pulled up at the door of the drab shop-front in Constitution Street, finished in the same livery as its stable-mate in Powderhall. The front door was secured with a bar and heavy padlock, emphasising the clumsily printed message which was taped to the door.

He pressed the accelerator in his impatience, revving the throaty engine. 'Let's dig the manager out, wherever he is. He dialled a short coded number on the mobile phone, resting in its car cradle by his side. The Fettes switchboard answered with its usual speed.

`This is Mr Martin. Sergeant Mcllhenney, please.'

A few seconds later, McIlhenney's voice boomed out of the car-phone's speaker. 'Yes, sir. 'What can I do for you?'

`Neil, can you dig me out, from our list, the name and address of the manager of the Hot Spot sauna in Constitution Street.'

`Aye, sir. Hold on a minute.' The speaker made a rattling sound, as Mcllhenney laid his phone down. His search took only a few seconds. 'Here it is, sir. His name's Ricky Barratt. He lives more or less over the shop, round in Queen Charlotte Street, number 279a.'

`Thanks, Neil.' Martin pressed the end button and, slipping the car into gear, drove the few hundred yards to Queen Charlotte Street.

Although a light showed through the glass front door to Number 279a, it was opened only on the fourth ring of the , bell, by a sour-faced woman dressed in a dirty off-white top and faded denims.

`Mrs Barratt?' asked Martin.

She eyed him suspiciously, but eventually snapped, 'Aye!' `Police. We'd like to speak to your husband, please.' Ye're in the wrang place, then.'

`Why's that, then?' said Martin, irritation in his voice.

`It's Thursday, 's it no'? Well the fat bastard'll be in Noble's round the corner as usual, fillin' himself up wi' beer. If he's no there, he's fuckin' deid.' Abruptly she slammed the door in Martin's face.

He glanced at Maggie Rose, a smile wreathing his face. `Hardly blame the bastard, can you? Come on, let's see if Ricky's running true to form.'

They returned to the car. Martin spun it in a tight U-turn, and drove back to Constitution Street. Noble's Bar, one of Leith's most celebrated, was less than one hundred yards away from the silent sauna, on the same side of the street. They parked, and Martin shouldered open the swing doors, Rose following close behind him. Within seconds the detective inspector realised two things: she was the only woman on the premises, and Martin was the only man wearing a tie. The thronged saloon paid no attention to the new arrivals.

Martin pressed up to the bar, and beckoned to its middle-aged manager. 'Police,' he said softly. 'We want a word with Ricky Barratt.'

The manager nodded briefly towards a gross man of medium height standing near the door of the gents' toilet. No one else in the pub observed this exchange.

Martin and Rose stepped across the pub. Barratt was deep in conversation with three other men, holding court, the centre of attraction. Martin tapped his shoulder and he turned towards him, an imperious look on his face.

`Who the fuck 'r you?'

The detective superintendent smiled. 'We're the fuckin' polis,' he said, 'and we want a word with you about one of your ladies.'

The man gave him the sneer of a barrack-room lawyer. `Ah don't have to talk to you, or the bird. Piss off, the pair of ye.'

Maggie Rose saw the sudden tensing of muscles at the base of Andy Martin's short neck. For a moment she thought that, for the first time in her life, she would see him lose his temper. She recalled a remark by Bob Skinner that he and Martin made a great team, not least because his occasionally short fuse was counterbalanced by the younger man's impenetrable calm. And, now, in the crowded bar, Martin continued to smile at his insolent, fat protagonist.

`Wrong, Mr Barratt. We are involved in a murder investigation and you will talk to us. We can either do it quietly outside, or loudly, very loudly, right here. By the time I'm finished, everyone in this pub will think you're our best friend in these parts. Fancy that, fat man, do you? If not then get your arse outside, now!'

Barratt's three companions were looking awkwardly at their feet, each one desperate to be somewhere else. The man struggled for a few seconds more to maintain his truculence, but finally his head dropped, and he rolled his great both in short strides towards the door.

Outside they stood on the pavement, as if they were three acquaintances having a casual conversation.

`Right, Ricky. To complete the formalities, I'm DS Martin, head of the Drugs and Vice team, and this is Inspector Rose. We know what your job is, and what sort of a place you run, so I don't let's have any more theatricals. What can you tell us about a man called Paul Ainscow and one of your ladies, Joanne?'

Barratt stared downwards, at the endless folds of his ' stomach. `Ainscow? He was some sort of pal of Tony's. He'd been gettin' too keen on a lassie up at Powderhall — one of Tony's favourites, I think — and Tony sent him down here tae see Big Joanne, tae sort of take his mind off her, ken. Big Joanne's good at that. She's heid girl in there.' He glanced, seedily at Martin. 'In every way.'

`When was this?'

`A right few months ago now.'

`How did they get on?' -

`Like Tony meant them to. I told you, she's good, is Big Joanne.'

`How often does he come to your place?'

`He doesnae, any more. That place isnae one of the nicest, One night when he was in, his car was damaged. He kicked up hell's delight. Since then he's phoned up, and the big yin's seen him at her place. She's got a wee flat in King's Landing, round by the Waterfront pub.'

`That's an unusual thing for a working girl to do, isn't it?' Barratt nodded. 'Aye. But the big beast was quite keen on the boy, too. The rougher they are, the better she likes them and, from what I can gather, Ainscow s a rough type. Pleasant on the surface, but once the doors were closed, a cold hard bastard. Right up her street.'

`Has he called in for her lately — like this week?'

The man shook his great head slowly. Naw, No' this week. He'd have been wasting his time, onyway. The big yin phoned in sick on Monday. Havnae seen her since then.'

Ninety-five

‘You've checked out the address?'

`Yes, sir,' said Maggie Rose. 'It's a one-bedroom flat on the top floor. She's on the board at the door — and you won't believe what her surname is.'

`Try me,' said Skinner.

`Virtue.'

He grinned. 'What's so odd about that? I 'know at least two traffic wardens called Good!'

The Fettes Avenue building wore the quiet feel of evening. Skinner, Rose and Martin sat in the detective superintendent's office.

Did you have a look at the place?'

`Yes, for a while,' said Martin. 'No sign of movement.'

`Okay, let's pay the lady a call, and see if she's got a house guest. I want it done by the book. Maggie, dig up a Sheriff and get a proper search warrant, in case it's needed. Take someone else with you when you go, a bit of extra muscle in case he is there and doesn't feel like being reasonable. Big McIlhenney’s' wife can always use the overtime pay. Take him.'

Rose nodded. 'Yes, sir, I'll tell him. Aren't you coming though?'

Skinner smiled. 'Maggie, I'm a family man again, and I’ve missed too many of my small son's bathtimes lately. I intend to spend my evenings at home from now on, whenever I can.

Privileges of rank, and all that, as both of you will find out some day.'

`Does that mean,' asked Martin, with a show of innocence, `that if we nick Ainscow we don't phone to tell you, but wait till you come in tomorrow?'

`No, son, if that happens, you phone me, but if Sarah answers you'd better disguise your voice!'

`What do I put down as the purpose of the search warrant?' asked Rose.

`Investigation of a conspiracy to import controlled substances. It's all we've got that's solid enough. Although, maybe — ' Skinner paused. 'No, forget it. That's enough, lets us nick him. Once we've done that, we'll just have to catch our man and persuade him to talk, to make it stand up in court.'

`When do we go in?' asked Martin.

`Normally you'd say dawn, wouldn't you. But this time let's make it late evening. Let them get settled down for the night, then go up and thump the door. Say eleven o'clock. If Ainscow's there, it'll be all the easier if his pants are hanging over the bedroom chair!'

Ninety-six

King's Landing was peaceful in the Scottish summer gloaming. The block, one of the first built during the revival of Leith as a living community, was framed against the deepening blue of the northern sky.

`Thank Christ, there's no entry phone this time,' muttered Martin as they approached the entrance. He pushed the door open and led the way up the twisting stairs. On the top landing there were two doors, facing each other. He glanced at each, and on the one on the left, read the name 'Virtue' on a small brass plate set just above a glass spyhole. Beckoning to Rose and Mcllhenney, he strode towards it. There was a bell push, but Martin ignored it, and thumped the surface with the side of his closed fist.

`Joanne he called. 'It's the police. Mr Martin. Open up, please.

He stepped back so that he, and his companions, could be seen clearly through the viewing glass. He listened, and eventually he heard the creak of a floorboard from within the flat. The door swung open slightly, as far as its safety chain would allow. Joanne Virtue peered around its edge. Her blond, hair was tousled, and held back by a band, and she wore no make-up, yet she was still striking. But there was something in her eyes that Martin had not seen before, an expression that was far from her usual cheerful self-confidence – something that he would not expect to see on a woman of her profession, even when receiving a visit from the police. Martin looked at her and saw fear in her face.

Nevertheless, she tried to stick to type. 'What is it, Mr Martin? Some bloody time this! An' three of yis, an' all!'

`Is he here, Joanne?'

There was a flicker, a momentary tensing around those eyes. 'Who?'

`You know who. Paul Ainscow?'

`Naw! Paul's no here. Why should he be?'

`Because he's been missing for about the same time that you've been away from the sauna. Your spell off must have done you good. You look pretty healthy to me. Now open up and let us in. We want to interview Ainscow in connection with serious offences, and we've got reason to believe that he might be here. We've got a Sheriff's warrant to come in, so let that chain off the door.'

`Look, he's no' here. Why don't y'all just fuck off!'

Martin's jaw tightened. 'Sorry, Joanne, I'm not kidding. Either you let us in or that door comes off its hinges.'

The woman opened her mouth as if to argue, then all at once gave in. The door closed, its chain rattled as it was released, and then it swung open fully.

`Right,' said Martin. 'That's sensible. Listen, we're not here to hurt you or lift you or anything else. It's Ainscow we want.' ‘But ah tell ye—'

`We have to see for ourselves. Now, you wait out here with DI Rose, while Neil and I search the place.' He brushed past her into the flat, Mcllhenney on his heels.

`Careful, Neil,' he warned. The first of the three doors off the hall was ajar. He turned back to Joanne Virtue. 'Bedroom?'

She nodded reluctantly. 'Aye. And the bog on the right, and the living room at the far end. The kitchen's off that. Mind ye don't break anything.

Martin pushed the door open and stepped quickly inside, tensed and ready for action. The room was empty, yet full of signs of recent occupancy. The musky smell of sex hung in the air. The bed was rumpled, and both pillows were crushed. There were night tables on either side, and on each lay a mug. Martin picked one up. It was half full of what looked like coffee, and it was still slightly warm. He checked the other. It was almost drained, but the dregs had not yet dried to a stain. He stepped back into the hall, signalling to Mcllhenney to open the bathroom door. An aerosol can of shaving gel and a razor lay on the shelf above the basin. Quickly they checked the living room and kitchen. They too were empty, but further signs of a guest were strewn all around.

`Okay, ladies,' Martin called. 'You can come in now.'

A few seconds later, Joanne Virtue stepped hesitantly into the room, with Maggie Rose close behind her.

`Okay, Joanne,' snapped Martin. 'No crap. How long has he been here? Since Monday?'

`Sunday night, late,' she said softly.

`And when did he go?'

`About twenty minutes ago.'

`It must have been a sudden decision, judging from those mugs in the bedroom. What happened? Did that fat bastard Barratt tip you off? I promised him that if he did, I would rip his balls off. He should have believed me.'

Big Joanne shook her head. Naw, it wisnae Ricky. We ha this call a wee while ago. Just after ten. We've been screenin all the phone-calls — no' that there've been many — leaving the answer machine on all the time. So we taped it.'

`That makes a change,' said Martin. 'A wee bit of luck for once. Play it back for us.'

She stepped over to a low sideboard on which the combination phone and answering machine sat, and pressed the replay button. There was a whirr as the tape rewound. Joanne turned up the volume.

Suddenly the rewind stopped and replay began. After four or five seconds, there was an intake of breath and a voice filled the room: a strange, strained voice, as if the speaker was concentrating very hard on something very important. 'Don't say anything. Just listen. I need to see you right away. It's about Tony's will. It's turned up. Go to the Botanics now, get in the back gate, and meet me at the entrance to the big glasshouse at eleven. Get moving.'

The line clicked as the phone at the other end was replaced. There was a whistle for a few seconds, before the machine switched itself off.

Martin and Mcllhenney looked at each other in astonishment. 'Jesus!' whispered the detective sergeant.

`Do you know who that is?' Martin asked Joanne.

It sounded like that wee lawyer chap, Cocozza — him that was Tony Manson's message boy. Paul knows him. He sounded funny,

'No bloody wonder, Joanne. He's been dead for a day and a half!’

Ninety-seven

Skinner leapt to the phone and picked it up on the first ring. For one of the few times in his short life, Jazz had been difficult about sleep. Eventually he had succumbed to the cajoling of his parents, and now lay upstairs, fitfully, in his cot.

`Hello: Skinner was unusually curt.

`Bob, sorry, did I wake you?'

`No, but you'd better not have wakened the baby. What's the score?'

`I'm calling from Joanne's. Ainscow was here, but he's gone. Called by telephone, half an hour ago, to a meeting at the big glasshouse in the Botanics at eleven. Right this minute, in fact.'

`Who called him?'

'Would you believe, Richard Cocozza?'

`That's a bloody good trick. A tape.'

`Yes. That must have been why he was tortured. To force him to tape a message setting up Ainscow, and to get Joanne's telephone number out of him.'

`Clever bastard, right enough,' said Skinner, almost to himself.

`Yes,' agreed Martin. Lucan’s English must have been a lot better than he let on. And his brother must have given him chapter and verse on everyone involved at this end. We’re heading off there now, boss. Will you call in back-up?'

`Bugger that! I'm your back-up.'

Martin laughed. 'So much for the family man. See you at the Inverleith Row gate.'

Skinner hung up. He turned, to find Sarah standing in the doorway.

`What was that?'

`Andy.'

`What's up?'

‘Ainscow. Someone's got to him before we did. He's walking into a trap. I've got to go — and I could be a while.'

She crossed the room and kissed him. 'Okay, but be safe.' `Don't worry, love. This one's just a walk in the park. Literally.'

He picked up the sweater which he had discarded earlier while cradling Jazz, and pulled it on as he went out into the cool night air. The garden was flooded by the light of a full moon as he walked to his car, reversed out into Fairyhouse Avenue, and headed towards Inverleith, and Edinburgh's famous Royal Botanic Garden. He was driving fast up East Fettes Avenue, past the headquarters building, when his car-phone rang. He pushed the receive button.

`Bob, my friend. It is Arturo Pujol. I know it is late, but Sarah said it was okay to call you with my news. We have had a great excitement again in L'Escala. The man you are looking for in Britain, Lucan, the brother of Vaudan. He is here in Spain, in jail.'

Skinner smiled to himself in the dark of the car, a satisfied smile — the sort that comes with the final piece of the jigsaw. What happened?' he asked.

It was this afternoon. Young Joaquim — the officer who was with you and whose shot killed Vaudan — he was leaving the Gala, the bar across from my barracks, when he was attacked

by a wild-eyed man with a knife. The man was dirty and had been days needing a shave. It was Lucan, and he had in his pocket a page torn from our local newspaper, the Empordan, describing Vaudan's death, and with a photograph of the man who shot him. Joaquim was cut, but he fought him off, and was able to stop him with two shots in the leg. He said later that he had been aiming for his head.' Pujol paused. 'It seems that. Joaquim's shooting has returned to its normal form. Does all that interest you?'

As Pujol finished his tale, Skinner drew his car to a halt beside the side entrance to the Botanic Garden. 'Arturo,' he said, 'it's fascinating. I'm a bit busy right now, but I'll call you back tomorrow. We'll talk further and, who knows, I may have an even stranger story for you.'

Ninety-eight

Martin took the roundabout at high speed, and swung back towards Ferry Road, the shortest route from Leith to the Botanic Garden.

The colourful sparkling of the moonlight on the petrol spill gave him advance warning of the hazard, but far too late for him to take any evasive action. He hit the slick as he exited from the roundabout, and the car went into an uncontrollable spin. He steered into it, but with absolutely no effect. Mcllhenney, in the front passenger seat, braced himself for the impact which he saw coming, but which Martin did not, as he fought for control.

The off-side of the car slammed into the base of the solid iron lamp-standard, wrapping itself around it like a sleeping lover in the night. Maggie Rose, in the back seat, was held in place by her retaining strap. Mcllhenney was pulled up short by his belt, as it cut into his chest and side. But Andy Martin, taken unawares, slammed sideways into the arch of the driver's door, his head hitting the tightly padded metal with a definitive thud. He rebounded back against Mcllhenney, unconscious, and with blood beginning to trickle from a cut above his right

eye.

The engine stalled. Rose and Mcllhenney sat in the shocked silence, until Martin's weight against him triggered the sergeant into action. Gently he straightened the other man on his seat, with his head against its restraint.

`Sir,' he said urgently. 'Andy?'

Martin gave a faint groan, but that was all.

`He's spark out,' said Mcllhenney to Rose, over his shoulder. 'See if the phone's still working.'

The inspector obeyed her subordinate's order and took the instrument from its cradle between the front seats. Its dial showed that it was still operational. She keyed in the Fettes number. 'This is DI Rose. I'm at the foot of Ferry Road at the Leith end, in DS Martin's car. There's been an accident. One injured: unconscious. Get an ambulance here fast.' She ended the call and searched her diary for Skinner's car-phone number. She dialled it in and waited.

`I don't believe it,' she said to Mcllhenney. The boss's car-phone is engaged!'

She dialled another number: her own. A sleepy-voiced Mario McGuire answered. Thirty seconds later he was wide awake and calling Brian Mackie.

Ninety-nine

‘Come on, people, you should have been here first!'

Skinner voiced his exasperation in the darkness of his car as he sat at the end of the short roadway off Inverleith Row, which led to the smaller of the two gates into the Royal Botanic Garden. He glanced at the computer-set time display on the LCD panel of his cassette player. It showed seven minutes past eleven.

He shook his head. 'Can't wait any longer,' he muttered to himself. He stepped out of the car, and clambered over the gate with surprising agility for a man in his mid-forties.

The Botanics, as the people of Edinburgh know it, is one of the world's great gardens, set in seventy acres in the heart of Scotland's capital. Every day, save Christmas and New Year, it offers free access to thousands of visitors who walk its leafy paths among the trees, plants and shrubs, admiring and sometimes feeding the pigeons, ducks and impertinent squirrels who animate the scene.

The centrepiece of the Botanics is its great glasshouse. As Skinner emerged into the wide open space of the garden, he saw it three hundred yards away, silhouetted massively against the northern skyline. To prevent any chance of his being spotted in the moonlight, he hugged the trees to his right as he ran towards the building, taking extra cover from their darkness, but occasionally leaving the grass and cutting through the planted beds. Soon, he had reached the steps which led up towards the scientific study centre. He looked along the length of the Glasshouse, but saw no figures, no shapes, no movement. Pressing himself against the glass wall, he crept silently along towards the main entrance.

The flash of moonlight from the slivers of glass on the ground caught his eye before he reached the doorway. He froze for a second, listening, but heard nothing. Very slowly he advanced towards the entrance, moving lightly on his feet. When he had almost reached it, he broke away from the wall in a wide sweep and flattened himself against a tree opposite the doorway. One of the double doors was wide open, allowing him a clear view into the reception area. It was empty. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself off from his tree and reached the door in a few strides, taking care not to step on the broken glass lest he make a sound. Inside the small hallway, a corridor led off to the right towards offices and to the scientific centre. To the left, another door led to the glasshouse itself. He stepped past the reception desk and tried its handle. It opened silently, and Skinner slipped into the first gallery of the great glass structure.

The door closed automatically behind him and, as it did, he looked around. Moonbeams shone through the higher branches of the trees and bushes, casting weird shadows on the paved walkways which led visitors through each section of the exhibition. He listened again, but still the silence was total. Then, through the foliage, he caught a flash of artificial light. He moved towards the source, almost on tiptoe, until he came to a second door. Through its glass, he could make out, to his left, a series of illuminated panels in which floated an assortment of aquatic plants, their fronds moving in the tanks' continuous aeration. He opened the door and stepped into the expected darkness beyond.

At once, he knew that he had arrived too late for Paul Ainscow.

The thick glass panel on his right was around ten feet wide and five feet high. It was back-lit and offered a view of the lily-pond which was the centrepiece of the upper area of the glasshouse. Ainscow's body was still settling on to the round stones and pebbles which made up the bed of the lily-pond —settling down to an eternal sleep. The corpse lay close to the glass, facing Skinner as he looked on in resigned horror. The eyes stared, wide and round. The normally sleek hair drifted, Afro-style, in the water. The head lay at an odd angle, strange enough to tell Skinner at once that drowning would not feature on the death certificate. The body lay on its side, the right arm thrown up and over the head, palm and wrist pressed against the glass. Skinner stepped forward and looked at the wrist. There, at the base of the thumb, vivid against the whiteness of death, he saw three small, pink semicircular scars.

`Knew it,' he whispered, softly, to himself.

Suddenly, his eye was caught by movement above and beyond the body, above the moonlit surface of the pond. There was a figure framed there, bent over as if peering into the pond to make sure that Ainscow was not about to resurface.

Moving as if his life depended on his silence, and imagining that it might, Skinner slipped back out of the aquarium room and looked up. The pathway to the lily-pond gallery was ten feet above his head. The steps leading up to it were at the far end of the area in which he stood. He paused for a moment and looked around, until his eye lit upon a strange, long tree-trunk, similar to a palm, but with deciduous leaves. It reached up to and over the path above his head. He grasped it and began to climb, monkey-style, hands and feet digging for purchase into the rough, thick bark, sweeping small twiglet branches aside, scrambling up and up until the trunk began to curve and he was straddling it, perched above the walkway.

He sat and stared at the door to the lily-pond gallery, trying to decide his next move. But it was decided for him.

The glass door opened, framing a figure, silhouetted black in the moonlight — a huge figure.

Skinner jumped down from the tree. The man froze, then moved back into the pool gallery. Skinner followed, watching him through the glass panel as he backed away. He opened the door and stepped through. The gallery was lit by the moon, and by its reflection from the surface of the pool.

The man had stopped his retreat. He stood there waiting, a great dark slab, towering and vast. Skinner was six-two himself, but this giant stood almost a full head taller, straight-backed, wide-shouldered, and built like a bulldozer.

Oh shit, Skinner thought, of all the times for the cavalry to go missing!

`Hello, Lennie.

He had forgotten just how big Lennie Plenderleith was. He felt eyes boring into him, even in the dark. Eventually the mountain spoke.

`It's Mr Skinner, isn't it?'

It was possibly the most incongruous voice that he had ever heard. While its owner was huge and threatening, the voice was soft, slow and gentle, almost soothing in its tone. It struck Skinner that it might just have been that of a telephone Samaritan. 'You sound as if you were expecting me.'

‘I was. Officially we've been setting traps for a Frenchman, but I was pretty certain that it would be you who turned up. I did some private research on you, Lennie. You're not the big thick muscleman that you and Tony wanted us to see, are you? You were going to night-school classes even when you were working in that pub in Leith Walk. And while you were inside you were never out of the library. Correspondence courses in — what were they? — business admin, economics and Spanish. Who paid for them? Linda?'

Plenderleith shook his massive head. 'You're joking. No, Tony did.'

'He was grooming you, Lennie, wasn't he? You were going to be his right-hand man when you got out, weren't you? His adopted heir? What was that about a will in Cocozza's message? He had told us he couldn't find one. Was that just a way to get Ainscow here, or does it exist?'

There was a gleam in the dark as the big man smiled. 'Oh yes, Tony left a will all right. He gave it to me when he visited me in Shotts just before I got out. He thought it would be a long time before it was needed, though. He didn't think anyone could touch him.' Lennie gave a soft tinkling chuckle. `He reckoned even God would think twice about having a go at him. Tony took me under his wing years ago. I was giving some trouble to the manager of one of his launderettes. Back then, I thought I could make it big in the protection racket. I read The Godfather and thought that was for me. So I went into this launderette, and told the manager it was ten quid a week or his windows were in, and after that his face. And then the real Godfather came to the launderette to see me: Tony Manson. He was younger then, and not quite as smooth as he was later on. The hardest man I'd ever seen. It just radiated off him. He never said a word, just looked at me, and I knew that this man could kill me, and would if it came to it. So I said, "Sorry, I didn't understand. I won't bother this place again," and Tony said, "That's good. I like a quick learner. Sit down." And he talked to me. He asked me about myself, and I told him. We sat there for about three hours, cracking a few beers and talking, and at the end of it Tony offered me a job. He said he fancied making me his secret weapon.

`Most folk, aye even someone like you, look at a big guy like me, and all they see is size and muscle.' Lennie tapped the side of his head. 'They can't cope with the idea that there's anything going on in here. Tony wasn't like that. He realised that I could think as well as punch people's lights out, but he knew that I needed control. So he put me to work where he could keep an eye on me, and he began to teach me. Gradually he told me more and more, till I knew almost everything about his business. He even began to ask what I thought about things. It was a sort of test, I suppose, but once or twice I'd suggest ideas that he hadn't thought of, and he'd accept them. When you folk got lucky and I went to jail, he was gutted, but I said "What the hell. I'll put the time to good use." And I did.'

Did he tell you about Ainscow's operation?' Skinner queried. The great head nodded in the dark. 'Aye. He asked me what I thought.'

`What did you tell him?'

`I said "Do it. It sounds okay." I said that it was a clever way of generating a pile of black money from a clean source, and that if Ainscow wanted a few quid to get started, he should give it to him. But I told him that, if it was ever tumbled, he should cut his losses and get his dough back. Tony's great secret was in keeping the money separate. Too many guys like him pump money from legit business’, again, the giant laughed softly in the dark, taking Skinner by surprise, ‘or more or less legit, like knocking-shop saunas — straight into the other side. He never did that. He lived well from the pubs and the casinos and the rest, and he put the profits back into that side of the business, or into the stock market. If he'd used a penny of it on a drugs buy, you guys would have had a chance of tracking it down. All the drugs money was black, from armed robbery, extortion, stuff like that. When Ainscow came along with a long-term scheme for generating a million in funny money, it was a natural for him.'

Skinner shifted from one foot to the other. 'How did Ainscow know to come to Tony?'

'He was a casino punter. And he used to deal in a small way. Tony's organisation supplied him.

`Mmmm. Did Tony have anything to do with the Spanish business?'

`Absolutely not. He gave Ainscow the money and told him to get on with it. Dick Cocozza was the only link. He was supposed to check on it occasionally. But there was never anything on paper. No correspondence. The cash that Tony gave him came from the black side.'

`Where did he keep that sort of money?'

`Switzerland. Tony used to go there every year, with a party from the curling club. He'd run a bus, and every year he'd just take it out in a suitcase and stick it in a bank account. Then, after a couple of years, he'd move it into a private investment trust in Liechtenstein. Guess who owns that trust now?'

`So that's what was in the will,' said Skinner. 'That's your legacy, Lennie?'

`That was the will, Mr Skinner. A document transferring the trust to me in the event of Tony's death. It's worth millions. The pubs, and all the other stuff over here, they didn't matter. As far as we were concerned, they could pass to the Crown, like with any death where the estate's unclaimed. Wonder how the Queen'll take to living off the earnings of a string of dodgy saunas?' The big man chuckled again. 'My name's not Plenderleith any more, of course. I'm somebody else now, and now that I've tied off all the loose ends here, that's who I'll be from now on.

`There's one big obstacle to that, Lennie.

`Not too big, though, Mr Skinner. There's room in that pond for two.'

They stood there in silence in the silver moonlight, for several seconds. And then the giant took a pace forward. `Why did you kill Alberni?'

The question stopped Plenderleith in his tracks. He seemed to stand even taller in the dark. 'How did you know about that? I thought it was perfect.'

Skinner chuckled. 'You might be bright, Lennie, but nothing planned by the human mind is ever perfect. Remember Alberni's dog, in the garden?'

Lennie nodded. 'Yes, I was going to feed it, only I couldn't find anything to give it. Then I heard a car coming, so I got off my mark.

`Christ,' said Skinner, life's full of it. If you had fed that dog, I'd have bought the suicide. The investigation would have stopped right there and we wouldn't have linked Cocozza and Ainscow, at least not until far too late. You'd have been free and clear — if you'd just found a can of dog-food!'

He saw the big man smile and shrug his shoulders.

`But that's history. What happened? How did you wind up in L'Escala?'

`Tony came to see me in Shotts. We'd already set up the trip to Spain to look over that Rancho place. I was going out first —then Linda.' He paused. 'She was going to join me. But Tony said that there'd been a change of plan. He told me that he had found out, by accident, from a guy at the curling club, that the InterCosta thing was going to be rumbled. He said that he'd sent Cocozza to tell Ainscow to wind up the show and give him his dough back — plus profits, of course. He told me to pull my cash out of the bank as soon as I got to Spain, then go to L'Escala and tie off the loose end. Tony told Ainscow at the start that he should cut the guy in on the deal, but he wouldn't. He was greedy. So the wee Spaniard had to go. Shame, but there it was.'

`How did you do it?'

`It was easy. I'd already decided how I would do it. I just watched and waited. Then, when the guy's wife went to work, I nipped into the garage, set things up, and kicked over an oilcan to make a noise. When he came in to investigate, he was a goner. I didn't like killing him, but Tony was right. If he'd been left to talk to the police, the whole thing could have come back on Ainscow, and God knows where it would have gone from there. And, after Linda, it wasn't difficult at all.'

`Funny thing, though,' said Skinner. 'You needn't have bothered. The bloke at the other end of the chain, Vaudan —he was going to do it as well. You just beat him to it.

`Tell me about Linda. That's the bit that I don't understand. You go to jail and your boss shags your wife — not just that, he puts her on the game. When you come out you butcher her, then he's done in. You're the obvious choice for that one too, yet here you are telling me that Tony was like a father to you. Does that mean that you sold Linda to him, like a piece of meat?'

For the first time, the gentle voice hardened. 'No, Skinner. You've got that all wrong. Linda was a tart, before I married her, and she stayed that way. She was a nympho: she couldn't get enough of it. She was always flashing her eyes around, and sometimes other bits as well. Of course, when I was about, no one would even look in her direction, but once I was sent up, she was off the leash. Tony gave her the flat, and he would have paid the housekeeping, but she told him that she wasn't being kept by him. She said she was going back to her old career. He offered to get her a job in Cocozza's office, but she'd have none of it. So he decided that if he couldn't persuade her, the next best thing was to control her. So he took her into the Powderhall place, and vetted the punters she saw. If anyone got too keen, he moved them on. He never laid a finger on her. When he took her out to the house, it was for a night off, nothing else. Tony couldn't stand her. If it hadn't been for me, she'd have been in the Water of Leith. Tony said that everyone has to have a weakness or they'd be too dangerous to let live. He said that she was mine.'

`All that time you were inside,' said Skinner quietly, 'did you plan to kill her?'

Big Lennie's shoulders slumped; he shook his head. 'No.' It was a whisper. 'I was tormented by the idea of leaving her again. I took the knife into the bedroom to cut her. I was going to mark her face. Not to get even; but to spoil her for the punters. Not for the sake of making her ugly, but as a sign to other guys: one that said "Be very careful of the man who did this." I took the knife in with me, tucked into the back of my jeans, and there she was, lying back wide open, saying "Come on, gimme." And so I did. And even as we were doing it, she was taunting me. She had her ways to torture you. I had forgotten how much they hurt. Then she talked about Ainscow, and how she loved it when he fucked her because he was so rough. She said that, beside him, I was just a big pussy. That was the last thing she ever said. I lost it. I snapped. Only one time in my life have I ever done violence in hot blood, and when I did — oh Christ, it had to be hers! Another reason for killing Ainscow.'

He began to move towards Skinner once more.

`Come on, Lennie, the whole story, then you can try your luck. You're right. My boys aren't backing me up tonight. So tell me, then we'll go at it. When did you hear about Tony?'

`I read about it in Spain. I bought a copy of the Daily Record, and there it was. And I knew. I knew straight away.'

`You knew that when Tony sent Cocozza to tell Ainscow to shut the InterCosta operation down, Ainscow decided to do something completely different.'

Big Lennie nodded. 'That was Tony's one great weakness, you see. He trusted people. Part of it was because he couldn't imagine anyone ever having the balls to cross him, but most of it was just plain gullibility. Tony was a savage guy at times, but he had standards. If Tony' said you had a deal, you could take it to the bank, and if he said you were dead, you could book Warriston Crematorium. The last true man of his word.'

`Do you know how they did it?'

`Oh yes. That was one of the things Cocozza told me when we had our chat — when he didn't have that towel stuffed in his mouth to stop him screaming. Cocozza — Tony's good friend Cocozza — had keys to the house. He let Ainscow in. They fixed the alarm later to make it look like a break-in. They both waited in the bedroom for Tony to get in. The wee shit Cocozza hid in the wardrobe. Tony switched on the light and Ainscow was on him with the knife. He never had a chance.'

Lennie Plenderleith paused, with a smile of satisfaction. `Neither did they. You should have seen Cocozza's face when he saw me. He looked like a spectator at his own funeral. As for Ainscow, he didn't even know who I was. I told him that Dick had sent me, and he followed me up here. He was a strong guy — but nowhere near strong enough to stay alive. Treacherous bastards,' added Lennie quietly. 'No way were they going to do that to him and live.

`I could have been off for good, Mr Skinner. I was free and clear, with a new identity and the income from that trust. The whole world was my bloody oyster, but it would always have tasted sour if I hadn't come back to pay my debt to my friend, and finish with these people.

`So after I did the business in Spain, I went to Liechtenstein with Tony's document, Tony's will, and took possession of his trust, my inheritance. Then, with my new passport and my new, genuine, Liechtenstein licence, I bought a car and made my way home. And now I've done the business here, almost. With you out of the way, I'll be free and clear again. So, Mr Skinner, it's time, as you said, to try our luck — and it's yours that's run out.'

Big Lennie moved forward with a speed and balance which were as unexpected as his voice. Skinner knew that the talking was over, and that he faced a fight for his life. The light was bad, and the path was narrow, with the pool on his left, and foliage on his right. He backed off before the giant's advance, weighing him up as best as he could. Muscles bulged beneath his attacker's black top, and his jeans were tight around massive thighs.

Skinner broke his retreat, and feinted a karate kick, but Lennie reacted lightning-fast, swaying back and ready with a strike of his own. Skinner could tell that the man had no martial-arts training, yet realised that he was as deadly as any black belt, a natural fighter with enormous strength.

He backed off once more, then came in again with a second feint — a kick to the head. Once more Lennie leaned back instinctively, his hands up to catch the blow he thought was coming. But, instead, Skinner's foot changed direction and slammed into the side of his left knee. Lennie grunted, and sagged slightly, but he stayed upright and balanced. Skinner's momentum committed him to his next move: a sweeping chop to the throat with the cutting edge of his right hand. It would have been a finisher, even against such a formidable opponent, but his wrist was caught in mid-air, just short of the target. The big man jerked him up and towards him. Skinner knew what was coming, but he could only begin to pull back as Lennie's broad forehead crunched into the bridge of his nose. He heard a thunderous crack inside his head, and felt the hot blood flowing.

The fingers of a huge right hand clamped around his throat, and his wrist was suddenly released. Instinctively, skill and technique forgotten, he clawed at Lennie's face, digging for the eyes with his thumbs, luck more than judgement guiding him to his target. The big man snarled as pain made him release his death grip to push Skinner away. He shook his head, blinking. Skinner hit him: a straight right-hand punch square on the chin. It was a blow that might have stunned a horse, but it seemed only to renew the giant's strength and determination. He closed again.

`You're tough, all right,' Lennie said softly. 'But it won't be enough.'

Skinner tasted blood in his mouth. And then he tasted something else. An icy coldness flowed through him: a feeling that he had known before, one that he feared; a presence in him that very few had seen. He had wished him gone for ever, but now, when he needed him, his other self was back. He heard himself hiss in the darkness. 'I don't see a gun, Lennie. And without one, you'll be carried out of here, big and all as you are.'

For a second the giant looked at him, and something in his adversary's eyes made him pause. If there had been an escape route, that expression might have persuaded him to take it, but finally the knowledge that there was nowhere else to go made him close in once more.

This time Skinner did not back off. This time he stepped, lightning-fast, inside the outreaching arms. His cupped right hand smashed against the side of the great head. Lennie screamed as his eardrum burst, but the sound was choked off as steel-hard fingers slammed into his diaphragm. He doubled over slightly, head leaning forward, chin stuck out.

Skinner pivoted on his right foot. The heel of his right hand sped upwards toward its target, aimed in the final blow. But in that very second, the sole of his moccasin found a pool of water on the pathway. He slipped off-balance.

Now it was the wounded giant who was fighting for his life. He grabbed the smaller man, and used his brute force and bulk to bear him backwards towards the pool. Skinner gasped as the small of his back hit the concrete, and as the breath was forced from him by Lennie's weight. Then the thick fingers were round his throat once more, and his head and shoulders were forced under the surface. He was helpless. There was a roaring in his ears. His eyes felt as if they were popping from their sockets. Somewhere in the depths of the pool he fancied he saw Ainscow, beckoning to him. And then another vision swam into his drowning mind. Jazz, his son, cradled by Sarah. She was dressed in black.

No! he roared in his mind. And he kicked upwards, with both knees and thighs, upwards with more strength than he had ever dreamed he possessed.

The great bulk of Lennie flew over him, and landed in the pool with a splash which sounded to Skinner, with his head still submerged, like an explosion. Again the fingers had left his throat. He swung himself up and out of the water, choking and gasping for breath. Seconds later, a huge hand slapped on to the concrete beside him, reaching for him. He scrambled to his feet, icy anger still coursing through him. He turned round to see both of Lennie's hands on the poolside, arms straightening as he hauled himself upright, like a great black creature emerging from an ocean.

Skinner stood facing him. He waited until both arms were straight, then kicked him with the outside edge of his right foot, with savage force, just above the right elbow. Then as the great trunk hung there helpless, he kicked him again without finesse, without technique, but as hard as he could, with his right instep, on the base of the jaw below the left ear. Big Lennie's desperate eyes glazed over and the huge arms lost all their strength. He slipped back into the water, unconscious, and disappeared beneath the surface.

Skinner slumped to his knees beside the pool, faint suddenly with exhaustion. A few feet away, Lennie Plenderleith's head and shoulders broke the surface once more. Skinner reached out weakly for him, but he had floated to the centre of the pool. He crouched there, wondering if he had strength left to dive in and pull the giant out, and if he had the will to subdue him once again, should he revive. He hauled himself painfully upright — and, as he did, the chamber was suddenly illuminated by the beam of a flashlight.

Are you all right, sir?'

Skinner looked around. He stood in the spread of the light, his shirt soaked, his steel-grey hair plastered to his head, blood trickling from his broken nose, and from an angled cut over his left eye. His right foot was throbbing from the force of his last kick, and he stood awkwardly, trying to keep as much weight as possible on his left side.

Brian Mackie and Mario McGuire stood in the doorway, gazing at him in naked astonishment.

`Don't be flicking stupid, Brian. Of course I'm not all right! But I'm a fucking sight better than that guy in there — and better still than the one on the bottom. Now, fish Big Lennie out before he drowns, and handcuff him before he wakes up. I'd help but, quite frankly, I'm knackered!'

One Hundred

They brought us here in the same ambulance, would you believe. Big Lennie's still badly concussed, but he's conscious and talking. His right arm's broken and they've just taken him off to set it. Otherwise he's not too bad. I kicked him hard enough to take a normal man's head right off, but they say all he'll have is a headache and a stiff neck for a couple of days, and that'll be it. I had another talk with him once he'd come round. He said that he'd make a statement to the Guardia Civil, admitting to killing Santi Alberni. So tomorrow morning you can call Gloria and tell her she can begin to look forward to sticking it up her insurance company.'

`That's great,' said Sarah, on the other end of the telephone. `But what about you? You aren't kidding me, are you? You are fine?'

He glanced at his face in a mirror on the wall of the Royal Infirmary's Accident and Emergency Unit, from where he had been allowed to telephone his wife. He chuckled. 'I've been better looking, but, yes, love, I'm okay. Honest. They've straightened my nose and put a couple of stitches in my forehead. And they've taken pictures of my foot and satisfied themselves that it isn't broken. So I'll be limping home in a few hours.'

`A few hours! Why so long?'

`Because I'm going into the office to dictate a statement, while it's all still crystal clear in my head, for Ruth to type up in the morning.'

`Okay, I'll see you whenever. Just wear a paper bag over your head, if you think you might frighten the baby! He's with me just now and, as you can possibly hear, he's not best pleased at being wakened in the middle of the night!'

Bob laughed, a mixture of amusement and — though Sarah could not and, if he could avoid it, would never realise it —sudden relief at being alive to enjoy more moments with his wife and son.

'Oh,' said Sarah urgently. 'I almost forgot. How's Andy?'

`No problem. He's got a hard head, too. He was only out for a few minutes. It looked worse than it was. They've X-rayed him and stitched him up, and he's signed himself out. The doctor here offered him a bed for the night, but he said he'd rather sleep it off at home. I'd forgotten: he's signed off on two weeks' holiday. Now I'm off too. There's a driver waiting at the door for me. I had my car taken to Fettes in case I did wind up with my foot in plaster. Go back to sleep now, you and wee Jazz. I'll see you both in the morning.'

He hung up, wondering for that moment how Sarah had known of Andy Martin's accident. Then he shook his head and limped towards his driver at the door.

One Hundred and One

‘So that's the story, Ruth,' said Skinner to his tape-recorder, as the early-shift staff began to wind their way up the drive below his office window in the early morning sunshine. 'That's Skinner's trail. It started in Edinburgh, wound through half a dozen countries, and ended back on our own doorstep. The story's full of greed and violence and death. But it's about honour, too. Big Lennie Plenderleith, or Dominic Jackson as he would have been for the rest of his life, is in a strange way one of the most honourable men I have ever met. He had his legacy, the sort of fortune the rest of us can only dream about, and he had a whole new life in front of him. As he said, he was free and clear. And yet he gambled it all, and he lost it all, to repay his debt of honour to Tony Manson. I tell you, Ruth, Big Lennie is certainly the toughest man I've ever come up against, but he sure as hell isn't the worst.'

The recorder whined a warning that its micro-cassette was about to run out.

`Right,' said Skinner as he switched it off and took out the tape, putting it beside two others in his typing tray. 'That's it. Home, Robert — but on the way let's call in to compare stitches with young Martin.'

He drove the BMW carefully through the morning rush hour, saving his still-aching foot as best he could, enduring the traffic queues which he normally hated, until he arrived outside the grey Victorian terrace just behind Haymarket where Andy Martin lived. He parked, glancing in the driver's mirror as he climbed out of the car. He smiled, wincing, as he saw the swelling across the bridge of his nose, and the bruised bump around the cut.

`Let's see if you can beat that lot, boy,' he said to the sunny morning.

Martin's flat was on the second floor, and his injured foot made the climb awkward, but eventually he reached the blue-painted front door. He pressed the bell-push and waited. Thirty seconds passed without an answer. He pressed again, and waited for another minute. He smiled and shook his head.

`Dozy bastard,' he said. He pressed the bell for a third time and thumped the door with his fist. ‘Polis’ he shouted, disguising his voice, 'Open up in there!'

There was a muffled response from within. At last the door swung open. There stood a young woman. She was wearing a man's satin robe, in blue, with the monogram 'AM' on the breast pocket. She was rubbing her hair vigorously with a huge peach-coloured towel. One of its corners had fallen across her face.

`I'm sorry,' said the hooded woman, her speech muffled by the towel. 'I was in the shower. Andy's just nipped down to the shops to buy a paper and some—'

As she spoke she looked up and, as she did so, her voice grew more distinct, and the towel fell from her face. The sentence tailed off unfinished as she stared at Skinner. Her eyes were wide, mirroring the blank astonishment in his. Her mouth, like his, hung open slightly.

Time stopped. Afterwards, neither would be able to say for how long they stood there in their frozen tableau. But in whatever time it was, in that time worlds moved and lives changed.

Eventually the woman recovered her voice, or at least a vestige of it. She smiled, tentatively. `Hi, Pops.'