Skinner almost walked past the man. He was seated on the terrace of the Cafe Navili, in a cane chair in the shade, looking out across Riells Bay as it glistened in the morning sun. He was alone; a black Americano coffee and a croissant lay before him on the marble-topped table.
The tall policeman glanced at him, then looked ahead, searching for the Montgo SA office. He saw what he thought might be it, just before the walkway took a right turn, and was about to lengthen his stride when the memory came back to him. A slim, sleek man, immaculately suited, with gold-framed spectacles, jet-black hair and a neatly-trimmed moustache, standing a little way from him at Santi's funeral, quite close to Carlos.
Skinner stopped and turned towards the figure and, as he did so, the man picked up a newspaper from beside his chair. Skinner saw that it was French. He stepped up to the table.
`Monsieur Vaudan?'
Surprised, the man looked up. Skinner had a flashing impression of cold, cruel, dark eyes — threatening eyes, dangerous eyes — but then they blinked and, in that instant, softened.
`Oui.' The response was cautious.
`I thought I recognised you from Santi Alberni's funeral. I'm Bob Skinner.'
Vaudan sprang lithely to his feet, extending his hand.
Skinner shook it and felt a strong grip testing his own. He returned it with equal, but no greater, force. The man was, he guessed, around forty, but he moved with the ease of one who made a point of maintaining maximum fitness. He stood around six feet tall. He wore tan slacks and a tailored cotton shirt which gave emphasis to powerful shoulders.
`Monsieur Skinner, I am pleased to meet you. I spoke with your wife after Santi's funeral, at the villa.' His expression seemed to be probing, trying to establish whether his new acquaintance might have intentions which were other than friendly. 'Perhaps she told you.'
Skinner smiled and looked the man straight in his dark eyes. He nodded. 'Yes, she told me.'
A silence hung between the two men for a few seconds. Skinner supposed that Vaudan was trying to guess whether Sarah had told him of his clumsy pass, and whether he should offer an apology. Bob decided to let him off that hook. 'You're from the Cote d'Azur, she said.'
Vaudan relaxed appreciably. 'Yes, that is my home now. But I have lived in other parts of France — and in Greece. My mother was from Athens. Come, sit down, please.' He pulled one of the cane chairs up to his table. 'You will have coffee? Croissants?'
`Coffee, yes, thank you. Cortado, Croissants, no. I make it a rule to eat only one breakfast a day.' He sat down at the table as Vaudan leaned through the service hatch to the bar and called for the waiter. Skinner's Cortado ordered, he returned to join him.
`I understand that you had the misfortune to find poor Santi hanging in his garage. I know from your wife that you are a policeman, but that must have given even you a great shock.'
Skinner nodded his grey mane. 'Normally, when you walk into a garage, you expect to find a car. But in my time I've seen a few people end up like that, and in other violent ways. It's always ugly.'
Vaudan nodded. 'It is not something in which I am experienced, but I can imagine. Did you know Santi well?'
`No, I'd never met him. I went looking for him on business that same morning. Gloria tells me that you were a good friend of theirs, though. She told me how you helped them with their villa.'
Vaudan's smile seemed genuinely self-deprecating. 'One does what one can to help a friend.'
`You were that close?'
`I'm a nice guy.' Vaudan smiled, but Skinner this time did not return it.
`You have a company here, don't you?'
'Oui. Montgo SA. Just a little property investment. It brings me some nice rental income.'
`Is that your main interest?'
Vaudan shook his head. 'Oh no. Far from it. This is just a sideline, something to cover the cost of maintaining my villa here. In everything I do, Mr Skinner, I am a businessman. My main activity is in boats, luxury vessels. I am a broker: I buy and sell yachts and cruisers of all sorts. I have a number of dealerships in Monaco for major manufacturers. Big, big, money — international money. For such an operation, Monaco is the ideal base. As well as buying and selling, I have a number of cruisers which are available for charter.'
`Around here?'
`No. Frankly there is not enough money here to make such an operation pay. I do some brokerage in Spain, but my chartering is done out of Monte Carlo, and in the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean.'
`That's very interesting.' A white-coated waiter arrived with Skinner's cortado, always served at the Navili in a cup rather than in the usual small glass. He took a sip, and tasted its sharp bite.
‘Did you know much about Santi's business?'
'InterCosta? No. Why do you ask?'
`Gloria hasn't said anything to you?'
`No. What would she say?'
Skinner looked the man in the eye once more. 'In confidence, yes?' Vaudan nodded. 'The thing I went to see Santi about wasn't just a property matter; it was police business as well. A man came to see me in Scotland, complaining that he had been involved in a deal with InterCosta, and that some of the money had disappeared. It looked like a clear case of fraud by the company. I interviewed Santi's partner, Ainscow. He showed me certain evidence which pointed to Santi, and I was going to interview him, with the approval of the Guardia, when I found him dead.
`Since then the InterCosta accounts have been examined and it seems clear that Santi was ripping it off for years. The trouble is, it was done very simply but very cleverly. We found some money, but we don't know where the rest is. My continuing interest, as a policeman, is that this business is half-British, and that a British subject has been defrauded. Maybe there are others. Ainscow's prepared to forget about it but, as a policeman, if I see a crime I have a duty to investigate.'
Vaudan nodded. 'Of course, of course.' Skinner felt an edge of concern in his companion. He decided to turn on a little heat. 'Apart from your friendship with Alberni, how strong were your business links?'
`Monsieur, what business links? We were friends.'
`That's not what Gloria told me.' He leaned towards Vaudan, his right forearm resting on the table. 'Look, I'll be frank. I didn't just happen past here this morning. I was on my way to your office. I'm the sort of copper who doesn't put an investigation to bed with lots of questions still unanswered. And, believe me, there are many questions unanswered about the death of Santi Alberni. For example, I'd like to know how come, if Alberni had ripped off a couple of hundred million pesetas from InterCosta, he still died heavily in debt. I'd like to know where all that money went to, because no one has a fucking clue. And, Monsieur Vaudan, I'd like to know, without being fed any more nice-guy crap, what sort of a link there was between you and Alberni to make you risk, I'd guess, around twenty million pesetas of your own to help him buy his new house. Why, for God's sake, if he had stolen all that cash, did he need your help in the first place?
`When I have good answers to all these questions, and a few more, I may start to believe that Santi Alberni strung himself up in his garage. Until I do, I'm inclined to the view that he had some help. Now, my new friend, what do you have to tell me to ease my troubled mind?'
For almost half a minute the Frenchman sat silent, staring out across the sunlit bay towards the high-rise blocks of the Passeig Maritim. And then he turned to face Skinner, and in the dark eyes the coldness and the danger showed once more, with something new: a strange smugness emphasised by the man's confident smile.
‘All right, Skinner. All right. I could make you jump through a few hoops for your answers but, hell, it's a nice day and I have better things to do. I'll give you some answers. But I do not think you will like them. I'm going to say all these things just once, with no one but you and me to hear them, and then I will never repeat them. Have a beer while you listen. You may need it.'
He rose and walked back over to the hatch. 'Juan, deux bieres, si'l vows plait. Pression.' He waited while the barman poured two glasses of St Miguel from its ornate tap, and carried them back to the table, one cupped in each hand.
`This is a wonderful place, L'Escala, is it not?' He settled back into his chair and took a generous mouthful of St Miguel. The creamy head left a white shadow on his moustache. He wiped it off with the back of his hand.
`I came here for the first time around ten years ago. I had sold a cruiser to a man in Monaco, and had agreed to deliver it to L'Escala, where his brother would berth it and look after it for him. I brought it across myself, and spent a day or two training the brother in its ways. I took to the place at once. I had been looking for a second home — somewhere outside France, and when my client told me of a building plot for sale at Punta Montgo, I was interested in it.
Santi Alberni was the agent for the owner. He was very young. It was a prime site, perched on the hill, but difficult to build on. Because of that I was able to beat Santi down on the price. I bought it there and then for cash, for less than half the profit on that one cruiser deal. I was paid for the boat on delivery, in dollars, and I gave the rest of the money to Santi to find me an architect and builder. He did a good job, and less than a year later my wife and I took over my new villa. I have to say that she hated L'Escala as much as I love it. However, I bought her an apartment in Rome, and she was happy. Now she has hers, I have mine, and we have ours near Cannes.'
He paused for another swig of beer. `Santi and I would bump into each other when I was here, but we were not what you would call close friends. Then one day, around seven years ago, he came up to the villa and put a business proposition to me. He told me that InterCosta was making very good profits, and that it tore at his heart to have to give any of them to the taxman. He said that his accountant had advised him that if he converted his share into cash and reinvested it somewhere else, the taxman would never catch up with the money. It would simply be written through the company books as disbursements, and both company tax and. income tax would be avoided.
`He asked me if I would act as the front man in a new company through which this cash profit from InterCosta would be laundered and turned into long-term investments in property. He said that, as a foreign national, I would be less likely to be asked to explain where the cash had come from. I asked him who would own the new company. He said that officially it would be in my name, but that there would be a letter of agreement between us confirming Santi's ownership of the shares. I asked him what would be in it for me, and we settled on half the net rental income. The idea was that the properties would be held for not less than ten years from the date of acquisition, and indefinitely if they were good enough
`We shook hands on the deal, and Montgo SA was formed, in my name, with no traceable link to Santi. Straight away Santi began to deposit large chunks of cash in the company safe. He would bank them at intervals, or sometimes he would buy properties for straight cash. Gradually, as Montgo SA's portfolio built up, so did its income. We took office costs out of
that, and kept back an amount for property maintenance and other contingencies. The rest we split between us.'
`How much?' asked Skinner.
`At first, hardly anything. Then it began to build up. It has never been big money though. Montgo SA is a good landlord. We charge on average around eighty thousand pesetas per month in rent for good-quality accommodation — no rubbish. In the summer people will pay more than that here for a week's rental. Take off office costs, which are peanuts, and our contingency funding, and I would say that over the years Santi and I have split around twelve million pesetas between us.'
`What did you do with your slice?'
`I kept it in cash, and used it to pay for the maintenance of my villa here.'
`How big is the contingency fund?'
`Eighteen million. We used the contingency money to do the deal on Santi's villa.' Vaudan grinned. 'Well I was a nice guy. I agreed to it, and half that cash was mine! What if his mortgage had fallen through?'
`How much has been laundered through Montgo in those seven years?'
`Roughly around one hundred million pesetas.'
`Half a million sterling. Are you sure?'
Vaudan nodded. 'Certain. I don't make mistakes about money. Why?'
`Because that's maybe half of the cash that's been stripped out of InterCosta. Are you involved in any other companies with Alberni?'
`No, thank you. One was quite enough; an amusement, and a neat source of peseta cash-flow. Two would begin to resemble hard work.'
Did you know of any other money laundries that he might have set up?'
Vaudan hesitated. 'Once or twice he mentioned an Englishman named Eensh.'
What?'
Eensh. I-N-C-H. Alan Eensh. I believe he works in Torroella as a property salesman. Santi spoke of him once and said that he had another interest, a company called Torroella Locals. It was like Montgo, only it didn't buy houses. It bought shops along the Costa at knock-down prices, and let them for high rents to short-term businesses — ice-cream parlours, video arcades, sports clothing, fashion. Santi never said, but I always suspected that he might have been funding Monsieur Eensh also.'
`Who does Inch work for in Torroella?'
'A general agency called Immobiliara Brava. It has an office in the old town near the square.'
Skinner nodded, noting the name mentally. 'How well d'you know Paul Ainscow?'
`Not at all. Earlier you called him Santi's partner. That is not what Santi told me. He said that Ainscow was not more than an employee, or an agent, working on salary and commission, and that all of the profit that he was diverting from InterCosta belonged to Santi.'
`You believed that?'
`Why not? Santi was my friend. Why should I think him a liar?'
And you didn't have any scruples about being involved in a scheme that you knew was set up for tax-evasion purposes?'
`Monsieur Skinner, this is Spain. One of the blackest economies in Europe. Tax evasion in business is a way of life.
As for me, I do not do business in Monaco so that I can pay high taxes. Rather the opposite. Think of it, man, I am not a burden to anyone else in this world, therefore why should I work to pay the salaries of people like you, and the millions like you on the public payroll.' The suddenness of Vaudan's contempt took Skinner by surprise.
His eyes flashed in anger, but he checked himself. 'What makes you so fucking special that you shouldn't?'
Vaudan laughed softly. 'Friend, I pay my dues. I simply make sure that they are as low as possible. Check me out. You won't get your hands dirty.'
`I may take you up on that,' Skinner said evenly.
`Now, about Ainscow. You're telling me you didn't know he was the major partner in InterCosta?'
‘Oui. As I said, I've never met the man. He means nothing to me.'
`Now that you do know, what will you do with Montgo SA?' `Why should I do anything?'
`Because what you've told me means that seventy-five per cent of it belongs to Ainscow, and the other quarter to Gloria Alberni.'
Vaudan shook his head. 'Oh no, monsieur. The record says that I am the owner and administrator of Montgo SA and all its assets.'
`What about the letter you mentioned earlier? The one which confirms Santi's legal ownership?'
Vaudan's smile was at its widest, stretching the moustache and revealing an expanse of white teeth. Did the Guardia find a copy among his papers?'
No, not that I know of What about your copy?'
`Hah. Life is strange. A few weeks ago, on my last visit here, I was arranging some papers on my terrace. My copy of the letter was among them. I have never known a tramuntana to spring up so quickly. A few seconds, that was all it took, and they were gone on the wind, all of them, the Montgo SA letter among them. Gone and never seen again.'
Skinner looked at him. Now he understood his air of confidence. 'Let me guess, because of the nature of the thing, it was a private letter prepared by a lawyer, but not signed before the notary.'
'Exactement. And so, my friend the policeman, if Ainscow or anyone else wants to talk to me about the legal ownership of Montgo SA, they had better come with Santi's copy of that letter.'
He picked up his glass from the table and drained it. 'But what letter would that be, anyway? One of which I have never heard. I meant what I said earlier. I will never speak of this again, to you or anyone else. Poor Santi, I am sorry that he chose that way out of his problem with Monsieur Ainscow. But that is life's way: it is filled with winners and losers. Santi lost, but out of it Nick Vaudan seems to have won.'
He made to rise, but Skinner grabbed his arm, and held him in his chair.
'Sit down, pal. If what you've told me is true, it also says to me that Nick Vaudan had a first-class motive for helping Santi proactively, you might say — to commit suicide.' Vaudan shook his hand away. If you check you will find that at the time of Santi's death I was in Monaco selling a very large yacht to a very well-known oil sheikh.'
Skinner nodded. 'Maybe, but some people have long arms.'
'Not me, my friend.' Vaudan looked him coolly, disturbingly, in the eye as he spoke. 'If you think that someone killed Alberni, you'd better look some place else. I didn't do it. That is my word on it, and you can take it to the bank. Now I have no more to say to you. Ever.'
Skinner stood up. `I'm all talked out too, Vaudan. There is just one other thing, though.' He picked up his beer which lay untouched on the table. 'A poor public servant like me couldn't be seen taking a drink from a guy like you. Corruption is all too easily alleged.' With a flick of the wrist, he emptied the contents of the glass into Vaudan's lap.
The man started from his seat, his expression suddenly twisted into one of anger. He seemed ready to spring.
`Yes?' Skinner hissed the word as he stood waiting for him, a smile on his face and an invitation in his eyes; an invitation which Vaudan decided it would be much better not to accept. Lazily Skinner reached out with his left hand and pushed him back into his chair. 'Stay cool, Nick. And, by the way, if you ever make a pass at my wife again, your interest in sex will become academic, very suddenly. See you again.'