Skinner's Trail (26 page)

Sixty-three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sixty-four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`But couldn't Garcia be lying?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The note was signed by Maggie Rose.

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

Sixty-five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

`So will you do it?'

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

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

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

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

`Although it's Saturday?'

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

`How long'
ll
it take?'

`Will you be there all morning?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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