‘Must have been some man, that Wallace, for them to have built that erection in his memory.'
The Wallace Monument glowered over Stirling, its phallic presence a permanent reminder of the great Scottish patriot. The morning's breeze had dropped, and the town seemed to shimmer in the early summer heat as the two detectives drew closer, following the line of the M9 motorway into Scotland's rural heart, leaving behind them the ugly, skeletal steel sprawl of the Grangemouth Refinery, the flat drabness of Falkirk, and the dirty River Carron.
A succession of five roundabouts led them from the motorway into the centre of the historic old town, a scaled-down Edinburgh with its castle on the hill.
The Stirling Business Centre was as easy to find as the local CID had promised. Following their directions Skinner drove past an imposing bank, and took the first turn on the left. He negotiated a security barrier and parked his white BMW in front of an attractive, wide, two-storey, brick office building. Over twenty tenant companies were listed on a big notice board in the Centre's foyer.
`How can I help you, gentlemen?' The receptionist's manner was as pleasant as her gleaming smile.
`Could you tell us where we'll find InterCosta?' asked Mackie.
`Certainly, sir. Through that door to your right, and along the corridor. It's the — let me see, one, two, three — yes, it's the fourth door on the left. The name's on it.'
`Thanks very much.' The normally diffident Brian Mackie smiled at the girl, struck by her resemblance to his wife. He led the way to the door to which she pointed with her right fore shy;finger, and pushed it open. As he and Skinner proceeded, they read the names on each of the first three doors on the left.
`Accountant, lawyer, design company,' said Skinner. 'All they need's a sandwich shop and you'd never have to leave here!'
`This is us, boss,' said Mackie. He read aloud the name on the door: `"InterCosta Limited. Spanish Property Consultancy. AIPC Registered." What's AIPC?'
`Christ knows. Probably meant to be some sort of governing body. If it is, it's doing a rotten job. Come on. Let's beard friend Ainscow.'
Mackie rapped on the door, and opened it without waiting for an acknowledgement. A plump, middle-aged woman with dyed auburn hair and ornately framed spectacles sat behind a desktop computer. She looked up at the two newcomers.
'Yes?' she said, slightly querulously, looking from one to the other.
Brian Mackie stepped towards the desk. 'Afternoon. I've an appointment with Mr Ainscow around now. The name's Mackie.'
`And you're dead on time.' The woman's reply was anticipated by the booming voice which said it. In the same second its owner stepped into the main office from behind two screens which partitioned off its left-hand corner. He was a tall, well-built man wearing a salesman's professional smile and with his hand outstretched in greeting. Gold links shone in the long shirt cuffs. He advanced towards Mackie, moving with an easy grace. Then all of a sudden he caught sight of Skinner sanding by the door, as it was swung shut by its auto-closer.
The smile faded, and was replaced by a puzzled look.
`Hello, Mr Ainscow. Good to see you in Scotland for a change. I'm sorry to spring this on you, but something's been brought to our attention and we'd like a wee chat with you bout it. Nothing serious, now. I'm sure you'll clear it up in a second. That's the reason for the discreet approach.'
Skinner kept his face absolutely impassive as he spoke, belying deliberately with his expression the reassurance in his words. He kept his eyes fixed on Ainscow, reading him — looking for any sign to counter the first impression that his arrival had taken the man completely by surprise. But he found none. Ainscow's smile returned, but this time it was one at Skinner had seen on a thousand faces in similar circumstances: puzzled and uncertain, wondering what would come next.
`Well, Mr Skinner. You'd better come through here and tell me about it. Nessie, could you rustle up some coffee, please, unless you'd prefer tea, gentlemen?'
Skinner shook his head. As Ainscow disappeared behind the partition, he glanced around the room. Its walls were covered with posters of Spain, many of them showing familiar views of L'Escala and its bay.
Behind the screen, Ainscow took his place behind a table which served as a desk, offering chairs to his visitors. Skinner sat down and placed his briefcase on his knees. He opened it and took out Greg Pitkeathly's file.
`Before we begin,' said Ainscow, 'would you prefer it if Nessie stepped outside?'
Skinner shook his head. Not at all. In fact it may be useful for you to have her here.' As he spoke, the woman reappeared, carrying a tray laden with three mugs of coffee and a plate of chocolate sandwich biscuits, which Skinner recognised as his favourites from Spain. He smiled his thanks to the secretary.
`Mr Ainscow, we know each other, but I should introduce DCI Brian Mackie, the head of my international liaison unit.'
Ainscow, serious now, nodded towards Mackie.
`I'm sorry about the surprise, as I said, but we thought it best not to alarm you unnecessarily. Mr Ainscow, I think you know Greg Pitkeathly.'
`Greg and Jean, yes'
`John and Claire Comfort?'
`Yes.' Ainscow's tone took on a note of anticipation, almost intrigue. He leaned forward in his chair, anxious, Skinner assumed, to hear what was coming next.
`Have you had any recent contact with Santi Alberni, your partner?'
Ainscow shook his head. 'No. I've been away for a while. I had a couple of weeks in the States, then spent another fortnight just farting about in Scotland. This is my first day back in this office. So why do you ask about Santi? What's he been up to?'
`Why do you ask that?'
`No reason. A joke really.'
`Mr Ainscow, where do you bank your UK clients' funds?' `Here initially, then we transfer the money to a convertible peseta account in Spain.'
`How. Banker's transfer?'
`No. That costs an arm and a leg. We just write sterling cheques on the Scottish account, and pay them into Banca Catalana.'
`Who are the signatories on the Scottish account?'
`Just me. Santi and I have a very simple system. I leave him a supply of blank, signed cheques. When we need to transfer dough across, I just give him a call and he completes a cheque and pays it in. It's a bit unorthodox, but it's practical. It keeps costs down and it's perfectly legal. . isn't it?'
`Let's give you the benefit of the doubt on that last point. . for now. Don't you think it's a kind of slapdash way to treat clients' money? D'you never worry about security?'
`Mr Skinner, I trust Santi Alberni like a brother.'
Skinner snorted. 'A bloke called Abel said something similar. Mr Ainscow, take a look at this.' He took a document from the folder and passed it across the table. 'Can you confirm that it's a copy of your receipt to Mr and Mrs Comfort for their deposit on the Pitkeathly apartment?' Ainscow accepted the paper, looked at it for a few seconds, and nodded. `Yes, it is.
`And all that money was transferred to Spain?'
`Yes. So?'
`Okay, look at this one. It's Santi Alberni's receipt to the Pitkeathlys. And remember, this was a no-commission deal. He took a second page from the file, and handed it across the table.
Ainscow studied it, his brow furrowing as he did. He looked up. 'Jesus.'
`That's what Pitkeathly said, too. Alberni said that one million pesetas was all he got. What's your version? Was all the Comfort money sent to Spain?'
‘For sure! Look, I have to give detailed monthly management accounts to my bank. The guy along the corridor does them for me, and he's shit hot. If there was an anomaly of that size, he'd have picked it up.'
A nervous twitch fluttered in the corner of Ainscow's right eye. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, then sighed. `Oh, look. I have to tell you this. I said I trusted Santi like a brother. That's always been true, but just recently — since he bought that new house, in fact — I've been getting a bit worried about him. He's borrowed up to here.' Ainscow drew a finger across his throat. 'I just hope he hasn't been a silly bugger.'
`You maintain that you're certain that the Comfort money all went to Spain? There's no possibility of error?'
`I wish there were. Then I could just say "Sorry, it's all a mistake!", pay Pitkeathly, and clean the mess up. But my accountant hasn't given me that option. It's all gone, and I can prove it.' He paused. 'There'd be two cheques. Five grand is the maximum we put on a single cheque, so it'd be one for that value, in pesetas, and another for the balance. Just over seven grand in total at current rates. Hold on a sec.'
Ainscow jumped up and stepped across to a filing cabinet against the back wall. He pulled open a drawer, and took out a sheaf of bank statements.
`Look, there you are. That's the Comfort money.' He brought the statements across and held them out.
Brian Mackie, who was closer than Skinner, followed Ainscow's pointing finger, examined the paper for a few seconds, then nodded his head. 'The amounts seem to tally, sir. Looks like it is.'
`Bugger,' said Skinner. 'Seems like I'll be taking some police work on holiday with me after all!'