The instant Bob stepped into the hall, he sensed that something was wrong. He paused, listening for alien sounds, only to realise that it was the absence of noise that was unusual. Normally, during the day, the cries of gulls and the breaking of waves drifted in from the terrace. But on this blazing afternoon, the patio doors were closed.
`Sarah?' He called from the hallway, fearful.
`Bob! I'm in here.' She called to him from the living room, her voice edged with tension. He found her sitting at one end of their long sofa, facing the glass doors, with the sleeping Jazz cradled in her arms. As he came into the room she looked over her shoulder towards him, and he saw a small cut on the right side of her forehead, just below the hair shy;line. Lying on the coffee table, within her reach, was the long, sharp-pointed, jagged-edged carving knife from their kitchen set.
`Honey, what the hell.?'
`It's all right. We're all right. Stay cool. just go and look in the kitchen.' She sounded calmer than before.
Skinner did as she asked. He crossed the hall, and opened the kitchen door. 'Bloody hell!' he hissed. Of the room's single window only a few wicked shards of glass remained in the frame. The rest, shattered, was spread all over the work surface and all over the floor. In the midst lay a large red building brick. A huge boiling rage welled up in Skinner as he remembered words he had heard only an hour before. Too dangerous for my own good,' he snarled into the room. Vaudan, if this was your doing..
Mastering his fury he returned to Sarah. 'Are you sure you're okay?'
`Yes, I'm fine, and Jazz is oblivious to it all.'
`So tell me what happened. But can I get you a drink first?' She looked up at him and shook her head. He noticed that the blood on her forehead was dried and crusted.
`It was just after you left. Oh, only a couple of minutes. I went into the kitchen and there was this man. He was standing outside the kitchen window and he was holding a brick. I don't think he was waiting for me, or anything like that. For a second or two we both just stood and stared at each other. And then he threw the brick. I flung my arms up in front of my face. But I got this. .' she pointed to her forehead 'and this. .' she held up her right forearm to show another small cut 'and my hair was full of glass, but otherwise I was all right. But, Bob,' she whispered, 'suppose I'd been holding the baby.'
`Don't. Just tell yourself, for ever more, that he wouldn't have thrown the brick. What happened after that?' -
`Well, when I looked again he seemed to be edging towards the window, as if he was going to climb in. So I picked up the biggest knife I could find, and I said to him, in Spanish, "Come here, motherfucker and I'll stick this right in your guts." And, boy, did I mean it. My baby was in this house. If that man had come in here, I'd have put that knife right through him and worried about the Hippocratic Oath later. So he stayed outside, and eventually he ran off.
But before he did, he said something in bad English, something all jumbled up and confused, about it being a message, and him being a messenger to you.'
Bob nodded his head. 'I understand. Describe this guy for me.'
She thought for a second or two. 'He looked to be late thirties or early forties, and quite tall for a Spanish man of that age. Heavily built, with black curly hair and dark eyes. Hadn't shaved for a couple of days. He wore a dirty check shirt, and jeans, and I could see workboots when he ran.
Bob sat down beside her and put his arms around her. 'You are a very brave lady. I am so glad for that guy that he didn't climb through the window.' He gave her a gentle hug. She laid her head on his shoulder and began to cry. He comforted her until she quietened down.
`Did you call the police?'
`No. I decided to wait for you. I was pretty sure he wouldn't be back, but I kept that thing close just in case.' She nodded towards the knife on the coffee table. 'What did he mean, about being a messenger? You said you understood.'
`He meant that he had been sent to warn me off.'
`Who would send him?'
`Nick Vaudan, or Ainscow, or both. I'm starting to ask the wrong questions. There's a big operation of some 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.'