Last Resort (21 page)

She paused. ‘Is that why you’re talking about extortion? Are you shagging her and is Baillie blackmailing you? Is that it?’

‘No to both of those,’ I retorted. She’d put her questions in the present tense, so I didn’t have to lie. ‘Did you photograph us? I didn’t see anything like that on your memory card.’

‘I used another camera. Come on,’ she said, suddenly urgent, ‘I’m trying to be upfront with you. Give me something back. Just between the two of us,’ she added, hopefully.

‘I’ve got nothing to give.’

‘Who was the woman?’

‘She’s an old acquaintance, and that’s all I’m telling you.’

Carrie shot me a quick smile. ‘I could find out. I know where she lives.’

‘And how would you know that?’ I murmured, letting my eyes burn into her.

‘While you were in the coffee shop, I called Baillie. He told me to follow the woman if the two of you split up. I did. After you left, she caught a taxi in Bank Street, and I got into the one behind and followed it, all the way to a big house at the foot of Blackford Hill. I photographed it and sent it off to Mr Baillie with the other stuff.’

If Baillie was any sort of an investigator it wouldn’t have taken him long to find out who owns that house: Alafair Drysalter, daughter of the late and very unlamented gangster Perry Holmes. She’s Mia’s foster-sister; yes, I reckon that’s the best way to describe her. If Baillie was any sort of an investigator he’d have made the jump to . . .

‘A few weeks before that,’ I said, ‘I went to Spain, at short notice. Did Baillie know about that?’

‘Yes. I was supposed to follow you one day, but he called me the night before and said not to bother because he’d seen you board a flight for Barcelona that afternoon. He told me that you had a house here.’

And two days later, a young man named Ignacio Centelleos had been extradited from Spain to Scotland to be charged with the murder of Bella Watson, his grandmother, labelled ‘Cramond Island Woman’ in an investigation that had made headlines way beyond Edinburgh. The press had reported that he had been arrested in L’Escala.

Baillie might not have been able to prove conclusively that I’m Ignacio’s dad, but he’d observed a set of circumstances leading up to my incognito appearance at the High Court and my meeting with Mia that had made him confident enough to speculate, accurately.

As I saw it, only one question remained. How much did he want?

‘Why did he send you out here?’ I asked. ‘He couldn’t have known I was coming.’

‘He wanted me to photograph your house, places around the town, and a restaurant in the Marina called La Clota. I tried,’ she volunteered, ‘but it’s closed for the winter. When you turned up here yourself two days ago, I couldn’t believe it.’

‘Why did you tip your hand to me?’ That puzzled me.

‘I didn’t think I had a choice. Like I said, I was taken by surprise. I was less careful than I usually am, and I was sure you’d seen me photographing you while you were eating. I realised, when I took those pics as you were passing by, that you hadn’t, but it was too late by then. As for those idiots that I’d hired . . . I’m sorry about that.’

I shrugged my shoulders, and cleared away our empty plates. ‘Not as sorry as them.’ My face twisted as I recalled the man with the knife. ‘A few years ago, I was stabbed, and nearly died. When that geezer pulled his blade on me . . . he’s lucky I didn’t dislocate his fucking neck.’

‘I know about that,’ she said. ‘Mr Baillie mentioned it once in an email. He told me lots of stuff about you, going way back. He said that he’s the world expert on the career of Bob Skinner.’

‘I doubt it. The world expert would be me.’ I frowned. ‘I thought you said you’ve never met him.’

‘I haven’t, but we had long talks on the phone. He has a nickname for you: he calls you “The Secret Policeman”. That would be a good book title, wouldn’t it?’

‘It would, if it was ever published.’

‘Do you think you can stop him? I read his last book, about MI5. I don’t imagine they’re too pleased about it, but it’s still out there.’

‘Probably because it’s bullshit; if he was spilling any classified information it would never have seen the light of day.’

I went into the fridge, produced two cans of Coke Zero and handed one to her. ‘You’ve had your fun, Carrie,’ I told her, ‘and you’ve made some money. If I give you some advice, will you listen to it?’

‘If it’s good advice, yes.’

‘It is, and it’s this. You’ve had as much out of this place as you’re going to get, so you should go home. Go back to Edinburgh, send your client an invoice, as quickly as you can, and ask for immediate payment. I have private business here that’ll keep me occupied for the next few days, but when I’m done, I’m going to turn my full attention to your Mr Baillie, and I’m going to put him out the game.’

‘Will I tell him that?’

‘You can if you like, but if he hasn’t worked it out for himself he’s not nearly as smart as you think he is.’

Twenty-Two

A
s I headed for Girona, with enough clothes for three days packed in a cabin bag, I didn’t bother to check whether Carrie had taken my advice, or whether she was still there in my rear-view, following me.

Truthfully, I didn’t care about her any more. She’d told me enough to confirm my suspicions about Linton Baillie, and about the motivation for those calls to Mia. I was confident that I’d find out in due course how much money he hoped to extort from us as his price for keeping the secret that he’d stumbled across.

Shortly after that I’d nail his hide to the nearest available wall.

Xavi was waiting for me in the concourse of Girona railway station, with two AVE tickets clutched in his hand, and a case of similar size to mine by his side. He didn’t look too happy.

‘Have you seen Valencia’s press conference on telly?’ he asked, as I approached.

I shook my head. ‘No, I didn’t have time. Another part of my life intervened.’

Instantly he was contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Bob. I keep forgetting that you’ve put a lot of stuff aside to help me in this.’

‘I’m happy to do it, so don’t be bloody sorry. What did he have to say?’

‘Not as much as the fucking judge,’ the big guy growled. ‘Valencia was fairly circumspect, but Gonzalez, the
juez
, made it clear that he was at the head of the investigation and that he was happy to charge Hector with murder as soon as he’s caught. The deputy interior minister was there too, promising the Italians that Battaglia’s killer will be in jail before the week’s out.’

‘That’s brave of him, given that he doesn’t have a clue who or where he is. What did they say about Hector, and about InterMedia?’

‘Oh, we were named right up front. There was even an implication by the judge, in answer to a question by a reporter who used to work for us until Pilar fired him a couple of years ago, that the murder might be a falling out between business rivals.’

‘Ouch!’

‘Indeed,’ Xavi muttered. ‘I’m not having that, Bob.’

‘What can you do about it?’

‘Joe’s issued a public statement, as group chairman. It points out that there’s no physical evidence that Hector shot Battaglia, but there are indications that a third person was in the apartment. He’s also said that there’s no business rivalry between InterMedia and the BeBe group, and demanded that the interior minister remove Miguel-Angel Gonzalez as presiding judge, on the grounds that he’s demonstrated bias against Hector Sureda.’

‘Will the minister do that?’ I asked.

‘Probably not,’ he admitted, ‘but I’ll be surprised if Gonzalez isn’t reprimanded.’

‘How’s Pilar taking it?’

‘She’s in shock. When you told her what had happened she didn’t really take it in, but the press conference absolutely floored her. She’s locked in her office, and her secretary’s guarding her, savaging any poor bastard from another newspaper that tries to get through to her on the phone.’

‘And Simon?’

‘He’s okay. He’s going into hospital in Barcelona this afternoon to prepare for his op. I managed to persuade his surgeon that with everything that’s going on, and the possibility of an unfriendly media besieging the house in Begur, that was the best place for him. They’re bringing his operation forward to tomorrow.’

‘Was there any hint given at the press briefing,’ I asked, ‘of Hector heading for Madrid?’

‘No, thank Christ. Valencia was able to keep that under wraps. I have to assume he didn’t tell Gonzalez about it, or it would be public knowledge.’

He was still grumbling as the train came into the station, fifteen minutes behind schedule. ‘Spanish trains are never late,’ he moaned. ‘This one started in fucking France and look at the difference.’

I smiled as we boarded. Clearly he hadn’t been on a British train in a while.

Our
preferente
coach was furnished as well as first class on any airline, although the seats didn’t convert into beds as far as I could see. We had barely left Girona when we were offered a drink. With a three-hour journey ahead of us, I couldn’t think of a single reason to refuse, so I chose a Mahou from the beers on offer.

There was a movie showing on the carriage screen and Xavi seemed focused on it, so I rang Sarah. It seemed like an age since I’d spoken to her.

‘Hi, lover,’ she said cheerily, as she answered, ‘have you called to gloat?’

‘Me? No, why should I?’

‘Remember the autopsy I told you about last time we spoke?’

I hadn’t, until she mentioned it. ‘Go on,’ I said, interested.

‘I ran the tests you suggested, on the stomach contents and blood. It was Zopiclone, not Zolpidem, but otherwise you were right. The victim’s food was drugged then he was given an emetic as he slept. Ingenious. His partner’s a nurse; she’s under arrest for his murder.’

‘And the insurance company’s delighted, I’ll bet.’

‘So delighted that I’ve got you a consultancy fee. One per cent of the policy’s payout for accidental death: five grand. Is that okay?’

‘Okay?’ I laughed. ‘It’s bloody magic.’

‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘That’s an odd background noise.’

‘Odd but pretty quiet, considering we’re travelling on rails at damn near three hundred kph. I’m still with Xavi.’

‘So his problem hasn’t gone away?’

‘Hell, no, it’s grown teeth.’

‘In that case, don’t let it bite you.’

‘I won’t, I promise. The chances are it’ll be out of our hands soon.’

‘Will you find his missing person?’

‘If we don’t, someone else will. Then I’ll come home; the future’s a lot clearer now.’

‘Good. Your younger daughter’s missing you.’

I smiled at the thought of my wee Seonaid. ‘That is mutual. I think my older daughter is as well.’ I told her about Andy’s call.

‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘It sounds like curtains this time. What are you going to do?’

‘About Andy and Alex? Nothing. About me? When I get back, I’m going to issue a press release, and then we’re going to have a party.’

I was mentally drafting that press release an hour and a half later, with the remains of a meal on a tray before me, when Alex called me. If I’d expected her to be despondent, I’d have been disappointed. She was indignant when she found out I knew about her break-up, but there wasn’t a single note of regret in her voice.

Still, I told her that she’d done the right thing, thinking that if I felt that way, maybe I should have said something before. Then I dug her up slightly about the career change that she’d kept secret from me. I was slightly concerned by the gamble she was taking, but she put my mind at rest with a crazy story about her first criminal case, involving an advocate’s son, a line of cocaine in a nightclub toilet, and Detective Sergeant Griff Montell.

That put a smile on my face, one she wiped off straight away by telling me she had traced Linton Baillie, and had arranged to see him that evening. I was worried about that, but I couldn’t talk her out of it.

She’d done good work on Baillie, even discovering that he’d had me watched in Glasgow. I was surprised when she said that McGrane had seen two people in the car that had been observing me. I told her I’d arrange for Sauce Haddock to send her the images from the beach, for her to run past him. I did so, without hoping for much, but if McGrane could identify the guy as having been in the car as well, that might have interested me.

I’d expected a call back fairly soon but it wasn’t until we were approaching Madrid that my phone told me I had a voicemail message. I checked it, to hear Alex telling me that while McGrane had identified Carrie, he hadn’t seen enough of her companion to make any judgement.

On Xavi’s advice, I’d worn my heaviest jacket for the trip; I was glad of it when I stepped off the train. The Spanish capital is more than two thousand feet above sea level, and is significantly colder there in winter than on the Costas.

He had booked us into a hotel on Calle Atocha, which he said would leave us only a short walk to Jacob Ireland’s place. We checked in, dropped our bags and then set off to find him.

I’d been in Madrid once before in my life, and my memory of the place was vague. I recognised Plaza Mayor when we came to it, though, a huge open rectangle surrounded by restaurants. Most of them had tables outside, with a forest of gas-fuelled space heaters among them. Very few were occupied, but Xavi assured me that it would be much busier later.

He had a hand-held navigation app on his phone, but didn’t switch it on until we reached the plaza. That proved to have been an oversight, for it took us back in the direction from which we had come, then across a much smaller square, called Jacinto Benavente. Calle de la Cruz opened off that, sloping down towards what my friend told me was the true heart of Madrid, Puerto de la Sol.

We headed in that direction, counting off the numbers until we reached two hundred and forty-two. It was about halfway down, an entrance door alongside a restaurant that was distinguished by an absence of open-air tables.

The stairwell was lit by a series of wall lights on timer switches. They seemed to be on minimum setting, for we were plunged into virtual darkness twice before we reached a door on the third floor with the name ‘Jacob Ireland’ on a card in a brass holder.

Alongside it was a scribbled note. Xavi peered at it.

‘According to this, he’s out,’ he announced. ‘It says, “Sorry, Thais, I’m on a night tour. Won’t be back till midnight.”’

I rang the bell anyway, in case he’d posted his notice the day before and forgotten to take it down, but it seemed he wasn’t kidding. Xavi even called out, ‘Hector, it’s me. Open up if you’re in there,’ but he was wasting his breath.

We went back downstairs more quickly than we had come up. Outside, in the street, Xavi cast an eye over the restaurant. ‘I fancy this place,’ he announced. ‘No outside tables means they don’t hawk for tourists; that’s usually a good sign.’

It was called Fatigas del Querer. I asked him what that meant in English.

‘It’s hard to translate,’ he replied. ‘The closest I can get is “The tiredness of desire” . . . or something along those lines.’

‘Sounds familiar,’ I murmured. ‘Let’s give it a go.’

Anybody who is two metres tall always attracts instant attention, and so it was when we stepped inside. Not for the first time on our travels together, I felt invisible beside Xavi as the guy I took to be the head waiter, by the sash around his waist, headed towards us.

‘
Bienvenido, señores
,’ he greeted us. ‘
Una mesa para dos?
’

We were spoiled for choice, because the restaurant was very quiet. Looking around the empty tables I began to doubt the place, and whispered as much to Xavi.

‘Trust me, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s early yet, by Madrid standards. In an hour you won’t be able to move in here, you wait and see.’

An hour later he looked around, then grinned at me, across the table. ‘Well?’

By that time there wasn’t a single unoccupied table, and people were sitting up at the bar, waiting in hope. That was no wonder, for the food . . . mine was a Caesar salad starter followed by pig’s cheek . . . was excellent, the portions were vast, the wine list was extensive and everything was reasonably priced. I remarked on all of it to my friend.

‘I was thinking exactly the same thing,’ he conceded. ‘If we were sitting under one of those space heaters up in Plaza Mayor, we’d be eating mediocre pizza, drinking wine that tasted like vinegar, freezing our nuts off and paying through the nose for the privilege. Hector’s friend Ireland is a lucky lad to be living above a place like this.’

Nobody pushed us for our table, and so we had a second coffee (don’t tell Sarah) and a half-bottle of a very decent red called Alion, from Ribera del Duero. We were still there when the place began to thin out.

Eventually, I made the ‘Bill, please’ sign to the head waiter. He nodded and brought it across, on a tray with a bottle of Torres Gran Reserva brandy, and two shot glasses. I grabbed the slip while he poured, waving off my friend’s protests. He’d paid for everything else, so no way was he buying me dinner as well.

‘Was good?’ the waiter asked me in English, as I punched my PIN into the card terminal.

‘Was excellent,’ I replied.

‘How you hear of us?’

‘We didn’t,’ I confessed. ‘It was pure luck. We came here looking for a man who lives above.’ I pointed to the ceiling. ‘He wasn’t at home. I’m glad about that. If he’d been in we might not have eaten here.’

‘Ah,’ he exclaimed. ‘You mean Jacob, the English guy? He eats here, mos’ days.’ He smiled. ‘He’s crazy, Jacob.’

On impulse I reached into my pocket and took out the photo of Hector that I’d been carrying for two days. ‘Do you ever see this guy with him?’

He seized it from me and peered at it. ‘Sure, is his amigo. He come here sometimes with Jacob. He as crazy as Jacob.’ He returned the image. ‘He very well dressed in that,’ he observed. ‘Here he dress like, like . . .’ He grinned. ‘Like Che Guevara. Usually he wear this shirt with Che’s face on it.’

‘When was the last time you saw him? Can you remember?’

‘Sure I can remember, señor. It was two days ago; it was . . .’ he searched his English vocabulary, but gave up. ‘It was
Martes
, in the afternoon. Jacob, him and a
mujer
; I’d never seen her before. Don’ know who she was.
Guapa
, she was. Blond hair, short, pointy, and she wore big
gafas de sol
, even in here.’

‘Did she seem to be with either of them?’

He frowned at me. ‘Sorry, señor, I don’ understand.’

Xavi repeated my question, in Spanish.

The waiter shrugged. ‘I dunno. I couldn’ tell. She didn’ kiss either of them if tha’s what you mean.’

I thanked him and downed the brandy shot . . . out of politeness, and doing my best to miss my taste buds, for I’ve never cared for the stuff.

My throat was still burning as Xavi and I stood outside. ‘That was a bonus,’ he said. ‘I really am slipping. I’ve always believed that a good reporter and a good cop should be asking the same questions, but it never occurred to me to ask what you did, or to show him that picture. I’ve gone soft, Bob. All these years in the fucking boardroom . . .’