Skinner's trail

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

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

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

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

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

`Paco Garcia.'

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

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

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

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

Fifty-three

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

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

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

Not much. His French is okay.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Por que?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

`Well?' asked Skinner.

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