‘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
