They sat in the sun, on the new white plastic chairs outside Bar Isidre, in Torroella's town square, oblivious of the Sunday bustle around them, as they watched the sun creep westward to flood the old street at the foot of the sloping quadrangle. Outside a watchmaker's shop in the narrow thoroughfare, an LCD readout displayed time and temperature alternately.
They sat patiently waiting for the sun to have its effect on the device, to see how high the temperature would climb from its shade level of twenty-three degrees. 'Five hundred pesetas says it tops thirty-three,' said Sarah.
Bob licked a finger and held it up. He shook his head. 'No, there's a breeze. My five hundred says thirty-one.'
The thermometer soared. Each time the clock gave way to the centigrade reading, it had risen by another degree. Five minutes after the bet was struck, Bob fished a five-hundred shy; peseta piece from his pocket and slapped it on the table in front of Sarah. She punched the air, and cheered as the figure rose. Eventually it topped out at thirty-six degrees.
`Okay,' said Bob. 'Now that you've cleaned me out, I'm off to find Inch. Coming?'
Sarah shook her head. 'No. I like it here, and Jazz is fine in the shade of this awning.'
`Okay. I'll be as quick as I can.' Skinner headed off down the narrow street, passing under the temperature sign as it dropped to thirty-four degrees with the passage of the sun. He took the first turning to his right and found, much sooner than he had hoped, the office of Immobiliara Brava. He looked through the glass and saw three people inside: two women, one sitting at a desk and the other behind a counter, and a wiry, balding man with a deep walnut tan.
Skinner pushed the door open and stepped inside. Habla usted ingles?' he asked, tentatively.
The little man turned, a professional smile settling on his face. 'You're in luck, sir. I don't just speak English, I am English. How can we help you?'
`Well, it's about property.'
`You've come to the right place. We have the finest register around here, and it's all on our wonderful computer programme. Complete details on two hundred villas and apartments at the push of a button. Fantastic technology.'
`Actually,' said Skinner quietly, 'I was more interested in shop properties. Owned by a company called Torroella Locals. It is Mr Inch, isn't it?'
The smile lost its warmth in an instant — it stayed in place, but seemed to freeze on the little man's face. Skinner had seen fear in another human ten thousand times before; it was unmistakable. Inch went pale beneath the tan as he nodded dumbly.
`That's good. I was told I would find you here. Can we speak in private?'
Inch nodded again and led the way behind the counter and into a small office. The smile was gone completely as he closed the door. 'How can I help you?'
The big detective looked down at him. 'First, let me introduce myself. My name's Bob Skinner. I'm a policeman, from Scotland. I've been investigating an allegation of financial impropriety made against a company called InterCosta by one of its clients. In the line of that, I'm talking to all known associates of the late Santiago Alberni. I'm led to believe that you may have been acquainted with him, and that you may have had common interest in an investment company called Torroella Locals. Before I ask you anything, I must emphasise that I am acting entirely unofficially. On that basis, are you prepared to talk to me?'
Inch nodded again.
`Good. Can I begin by asking if my information is correct, and that you are the owner of record of a company called Torroella Locals?'
Inch looked at him sidelong. 'Yes.' It was scarcely more than a whisper.
`And was Santi Alberni a sleeping partner?'
`Yes, he was.'
`When was the company set up?'
`Six or seven years ago.'
`To do what?'
Inch coughed, and his voice seemed to strengthen slightly. `To reinvest profits from InterCosta in empty shop properties in good locations.'
`Around here?'
`No. Further south, in the busier resorts. They were the sort of properties where we could pull in high rents through the summer season from short-term operators.'
`Whose idea was it to set up the company?'
`Who owns it?'
`Officially I do, but Alberni has a lawyer's letter signed by me confirming that he is the legal owner.'
`You don't have a copy?'
Inch shook his head vigorously enough to make his remaining hair fly up.
`How much in total did Alberni salt away in Torroella Locals?'
`About ninety million pesetas. Four-fifty grand.'
`And you assumed it was kosher money.'
`That's what he said.'
`What about Ainscow? Didn't he have any say in it?' `I don't know Ainscow. Who's he?'
Skinner looked at him. 'Come on, you're in the agency business, aren't you? For how long?'
Inch nodded again, alarmed by the new toughness in Skinner's tone. 'For ten years.'
`All you boys know each other around here. You're telling me you've been here since the mid-Eighties, as Paul Ainscow has, and you've never heard of him?'
`I haven't!'
Skinner stared hard at him for several seconds. Eventually he grinned. 'Okay, so you haven't. Let me ask you something else. What's the current valuation of the shops?'
`They're in the books at one hundred and thirty million. That's a professional valuation,' Inch added hurriedly.
`And who holds the deeds?'
Inch looked up at Skinner leaning relaxed against the wall. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he stayed silent.
`Come on, Inch. It's an easy question. Who holds the deeds?'
The little man shook his head, 'No, I'm not saying any more — not without legal advice. You said you were unofficial. I don't have to talk to you at all.'
Skinner straightened up. 'That's right, you don't. . yet. But you take that legal advice, and make sure that it's sound. This is one step away from being a murder investigation, and you could be bang in the middle of it.'
Terror flared in Inch's eyes. 'Murder! What do you mean murder? I had nothing to do with any of it!'
Any of what, wee man?' asked Skinner quietly. Leaving Inch standing, mouth slightly agape, in the middle of the small room, he turned on his heel and walked out of the shop.
He found Sarah still at her table outside Bar Isidre. She was rocking Jazz gently back and forward in his buggy, making soft shushing noises as she did.
She looked up as Bob approached. 'Well, find him?' `Sure did.'
`And?'
`He was primed, for certain, warned that I was on my way. The wee bugger didn't even ask my name. He knew exactly who I was and what I was there for. I'm bloody certain that he was following a script. I know, because eventually we got to a bit that wasn't in it, and he was lost. Come on, love. Let's get back to L'Escala. I've got a fax to send.'