The blonde girl's pale blue eyes sparkled a welcome as Pujol — with Skinner following behind — walked into the offices of Montgo SA.
`Buenos Dias, senores.'
`Habla Ingles, por favor?' asked the Commandante, explaining, ‘Por mi amigo.' He was dressed as casually as Skinner, in light slacks and a pale blue shirt.
She smiled. 'Yes, and French also.
Pujol was charmed. But he began to feel a pang of concern over the purpose of their visit.
Skinner had received his call on the heels of Mackie's fax advising him of his flight and arrival times, and briefing him on the merging at Powderhall of Mackie's surveillance with that conducted by Andy Martin. As he read the message, a long slow grin of satisfaction had spread over Skinner's face, as he had grasped the possible implications of Ainscow's presence at the meeting. But before he could dwell on the message any further, the phone had sounded its single repeating tone.
`Bob? This is Arturo. My people have reported something positive from the check on the Torroella Locals bank. They have found the pay-in records from the account. Some are rents, but there are many others. The Director of the bank remembered that they were large amounts in sterling paid directly into that account, by a special arrangement agreed with Senor Inch. The records show that on each occasion the cheques were paid in by one Veronica Chaumont.'
`And she is?'
`The secretary of Nicolas Vaudan. You now have your first link between him and Ainscow. Meet me at the Montgo SA office in ten minutes, and we will talk to this lady.'
The girl was utterly charming. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. The pale eyes were set in an oval face with a light golden tan. Only slightly irregular teeth stopped her short of cover-girl perfection. She smiled up at Pujol and Skinner like someone with nothing in the world to hide.
Forcing himself to the business at hand, Pujol coughed, and introduced first himself, then Skinner. She nodded to each in turn, not appearing flustered in the slightest. 'Veronica Chaumont,' she responded, offering each a chair.
`You are Belgian, yes?' Pujol asked, as he sat down. She nodded her head. `Oui’
'How-long have you worked for Senor Vaudan?'
She shrugged. 'Since the company was started.'
`This company, Montgo SA?'
`Yes. I do not work for any other.'
`No?' Pujol paused and looked at her a little less kindly than before. 'Are you not involved also with a company called Torroella Locals?'
She shook her head. 'No, I am not. I know of it, of course, but I don't work for it.'
`But we know that you have made payments into its bank account.'
She paused. 'Yes, that is true, but only on the instructions of Nicolas.'
`Can you describe how the payments were made?'
`Yes. Every little while, Nicolas would give me a number of blank cheques. They were made out for cash, and they were for a bank in Scotland. It was called the Clydesdale.' She pronounced the name slowly and with difficulty.
Skinner spoke for the first time. 'Do you remember the name of the account?'
Veronica nodded. 'Yes, it was InterCosta UK.'
`Were you told when to pay each one in?'
`Yes. Nicolas would call me and give me instructions. He would tell me the amount in sterling that the cheque should be made out for, and where it should be paid.'
`Where?' said Pujol, surprised.
`Yes. Sometimes I would pay into the Torroella Locals account; and other times into our own account here.' Did the cheques always have the same signature?' `Yes. Mr Paul Ainscow.'
`Never Santi Alberni?' asked Skinner.
It was Veronica's turn to look surprised. `Santi? No never. Why would he sign? He only worked for InterCosta, didn't he? That's what Nick said.'
Skinner shook his head. 'No, he had a piece of it. How well did you know Santi Alberni?'
`Not very well. He was a friend of Nick's. Occasionally the three of us would have coffee in the Cafe Navili, but other than that he didn't come around here much.'
Did you know much about him as a businessman?'
`He was a great salesman. The best in L'Escala, everyone said. InterCosta did very well, thanks to him. Sold a lot of properties, and some of them were very big ones. But he used to make jokes about how bad he was with money. I remember him saying once that it was just as well that he did not have to do the accounts for InterCosta, otherwise they would be in trouble.'
`Were you surprised when he killed himself?'
`I couldn't believe it. He never seemed like a sad guy.' `What about Paul Ainscow? Did he come around here much?'
`Never. I have never met Mr Ainscow. I have never even spoken to him on the telephone.'
`Have you ever seen him at all, with Nick Vaudan for example?'
`No. I often think that it is odd. Sometimes I wonder if he exists.'
`Is there any correspondence anywhere between him and Vaudan.'
Again, Veronica shook her head. 'No, there is nothing I can think of. The only time I have ever seen Mr Ainscow's signature is on those blank cheques.'
`Tell me, senorita,' said Pujol. Did it not strike you as strange, to be paying this money from one company to others in this way?'
`Why should it? Many things much stranger than that happen in Spain, as you must know, Commandante. Nicolas told me that Paul Ainscow wished to invest money in two businesses: Montgo SA and Torroella Locals. He had agreed to run Montgo, and that Alan Inch — poor man — was looking after the other one. He said that Ainscow was never quite sure until the last moment how much each investment would be, and that blank cheques were the simplest way of going about it.'
`Were you surprised by the amounts of money being transferred?'
`Not when I saw how good a salesman Santi Alberni was. The other parts of the business — property management and holiday rentals — seemed to do well also.'
Skinner shifted in his chair. The Montgo properties, Miss Chaumont. Do you know where the deeds are?'
`The escrituras? Nicolas keeps them himself. I never see them. There is no need. My job is to collect the rents, fix the problems, keep the books, and make sure that everyone is happy. That's all.
Pujol coughed again. 'Senorita Veronica, there is one other thing I must ask you. Your relationship with Nicolas Vaudan. Is it purely one of business?'
A light pink flush showed beneath the girl's tan. 'Certainly! Senor Commandante, you must know that Nicolas is a happily married man.' She stared boldly across the desk, a sparkle still in the pale eyes and a smile toying with the corners of her mouth. 'So what possible reason could you have for asking me such a question?'
Beneath his tan, Arturo Pujol blushed bright red.