Skinner's Trail (19 page)

`Who does Inch work for in Torroella?'

'A general agency called Immobiliara Brava. It has an office in the old town near the square.'

Skinner nodded, noting the name mentally. 'How well d'you know Paul Ainscow?'

`Not at all. Earlier you called him Santi's partner. That is not what Santi told me. He said that Ainscow was not more than an employee, or an agent, working on salary and commission, and that all of the profit that he was diverting from InterCosta belonged to Santi.'

`You believed that?'

`Why not? Santi was my friend. Why should I think him a liar?'

And you didn't have any scruples about being involved in a scheme that you knew was set up for tax-evasion purposes?'

`Monsieur Skinner, this is Spain. One of the blackest economies in Europe. Tax evasion in business is a way of life.

As for me, I do not do business in Monaco so that I can pa
y
high taxes. Rather the opposite. Think of it, man, I am not a burden to anyone else in this world, therefore why should I work to pay the salaries of people like you, and the millions like you on the public payroll.' The suddenness of Vaudan's contempt took Skinner by surprise.

His eyes flashed in anger, but he checked himself. 'What makes you so fucking special that you shouldn't?'

Vaudan laughed softly. 'Friend, I pay my dues. I simply make sure that they are as low as possible. Check me out. You won't get your hands dirty.'

`I may take you up on that,' Skinner said evenly.

`Now, about Ainscow. You're telling me you didn't know he was the major partner in InterCosta?'

‘
O
ui
. As I said, I've never met the man. He means nothing to me.'

`Now that you do know, what will you do with Montgo SA?' `Why should I do anything?'

`Because what you've told me means that seventy-five per cent of it belongs to Ainscow, and the other quarter to Gloria Alberni.'

Vaudan shook his head. 'Oh no, monsieur. The record says that I am the owner and administrator of Montgo SA and all its assets.'

`What about the letter you mentioned earlier? The one which confirms Santi's legal ownership?'

Vaudan's smile was at its widest, stretching the moustache and revealing an expanse of white teeth. Did the Guardia find a copy among his papers?'

No, not that I know of What about your copy?'

`Hah. Life is strange. A few weeks ago, on my last visit here,
I was arranging some papers on my terrace. My copy of the letter was among them. I have never known a
tramuntana
to spring up so quickly. A few seconds, that was all it took, and they were gone on the wind, all of them, the Montgo SA letter among them. Gone and never seen again.'

Skinner looked at him. Now he understood his air of confidence. 'Let me guess, because of the nature of the thing, it was a private letter prepared by a lawyer, but not signed before the notary.'

'
Exactement
. And so, my friend the policeman, if Ainscow
or anyone else wants to talk to me about the legal ownership of Montgo SA, they had better come with Santi's copy of that letter.'

He picked up his glass from the table and drained it. 'But what letter would that be, anyway? One of which I have never heard. I meant what I said earlier. I will never speak of this again, to you or anyone else. Poor Santi, I am sorry that he chose that way out of his problem with Monsieur Ainscow. But that is life's way: it is filled with winners and losers. Santi lost, but out of it Nick Vaudan seems to have won.'

He made to rise, but Skinner grabbed his arm, and held him in his chair.

'Sit down, pal. If what you've told me is true, it also says to
m
e that Nick Vaudan had a first-class motive for helping Santi proactively, you might say — to commit suicide.' Vaudan shook his hand away. If you check you will find that at the time of Santi's death I was in Monaco selling a very large yacht to a very well-known oil sheikh.'

Skinner nodded. 'Maybe, but some people have long arms.'
'Not me, my friend.' Vaudan looked him coolly,
di
sturbingly, in the eye as he spoke. 'If you think that someone
killed Alberni, you'd better look some place else. I didn't do it. That is my word on it, and you can take it to the bank. Now I have no more to say to you. Ever.'

Skinner stood up. `I'm all talked out too, Vaudan. There is just one other thing, though.' He picked up his beer which lay untouched on the table. 'A poor public servant like me couldn't be seen taking a drink from a guy like you. Corruption is all too easily alleged.' With a flick of the wrist, he emptied the contents of the glass into Vaudan's lap.

The man started from his seat, his expression suddenly twisted into one of anger. He seemed ready to spring.

`Yes?' Skinner hissed the word as he stood waiting for him, a smile on his face and an invitation in his eyes; an invitation which Vaudan decided it would be much better not to accept. Lazily Skinner reached out with his left hand and pushed him back into his chair. 'Stay cool, Nick. And, by the way, if you ever make a pass at my wife again, your interest in sex will become academic, very suddenly. See you again.'

Forty-four

‘B
rian? Skinner here. I've got a job for you. I want you to run a check with the French police on a man named Nicolas Vaudan.' He spelled out the name. 'He lives on the Riviera with his wife. They also own an apartment in Rome, possibly in her name. He's in the boat business. Deals in high-value yachts and cruisers, and also runs charters. I want to know everything about him and about his business. Has he any convictions, has he ever been arrested, has he ever been investigated for any crime, does he pay his parking tickets quickly . . . ? Everything they can dig up on him. I want to know about his business too. Ask them to check all filed accounts, and to look in particular at his tax affairs.'

He paused to listen. 'Yes, the Guardia could do this, Brian, but they have their reasons for not wanting to get involved. So you use your international contacts to get it moving, and fax me a report as soon as you can . . . Yes, I said fax. The way things are going here, it'll be an asset. I'm taking Sarah and the baby to Girona this afternoon to buy one.'

`Bob?' Sarah's voice sounded from the living room as Skinner replaced the phone in the hall.

`Yes, honey, it's me.'

`I didn't hear you come in. I was dozing on the terrace. Who were you talking to? What were you saying about a fax?

What's the time? God, you've been ages.'

`Question one, Brian Mackie — and question two, get ready for Hipercort. We're going shopping.'

`Okay, but first tell me what you've been up to. Did you see Arturo?'

`Yes, and then I had a long talk with your admirer, Vaudan. Smart bastard — or he thinks he is.'

Quickly he related Vaudan's account of Santi's involvement with Montgo SA, and of the missing letters.

`He's a cute operator, is our Nick. And very confident. I need to talk to Gloria about that document.'

`Then you'll get your chance tonight. You and I are going to La Clota for dinner,
á
deux
, and Gloria's baby-sitting. Now, if we're going to Girona, let's get ready.'

Forty-five

T
he Panasonic tele/fax with integral answerphone was installed and tested by eight p.m. when Gloria arrived to baby-sit. It stood, white and gleaming, on a table in the living room. Gloria looked at it in surprise.

`Keeps me in touch with the office,' offered Bob. 'Come on through, why don't you.' He led the way through the living room to the terrace. 'Sarah's got the wee fella plugged in
,
in the bedroom. He's all groomed and ready for bed, so with a touch of luck you won't see any action. Have a seat. While
we’re
waiting, there are a couple of things I'd like to ask you.'

Gloria turned a chair round to face the sun, and sat down. It was just after seven-thirty. The customary evening clouds were building on the horizon, but the day was still warm. Bob handed his guest a glass of white wine from a bottle in the ice-bucket and offered her olives from a wide, flat dish.

Forty-six

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Could Vaudan have . . .?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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