Skinner leapt to the phone and picked it up on the first ring. For one of the few times in his short life, Jazz had been difficult about sleep. Eventually he had succumbed to the cajoling of his parents, and now lay upstairs, fitfully, in his cot.
`Hello: Skinner was unusually curt.
`Bob, sorry, did I wake you?'
`No, but you'd better not have wakened the baby. What's the score?'
`I'm calling from Joanne's. Ainscow was here, but he's gone. Called by telephone, half an hour ago, to a meeting at the big glasshouse in the Botanics at eleven. Right this minute, in fact.'
`Who called him?'
'Would you believe, Richard Cocozza?'
`That's a bloody good trick. A tape.'
`Yes. That must have been why he was tortured. To force him to tape a message setting up Ainscow, and to get Joanne's telephone number out of him.'
`Clever bastard, right enough,' said Skinner, almost to himself.
`Yes,' agreed Martin. Lucan’s English must have been a lot better than he let on. And his brother must have given him chapter and verse on everyone involved at this end. We’re heading off there now, boss. Will you call in back-up?'
`Bugger that! I'm your back-up.'
Martin laughed. 'So much for the family man. See you at the Inverleith Row gate.'
Skinner hung up. He turned, to find Sarah standing in the doorway.
`What was that?'
`Andy.'
`What's up?'
‘Ainscow. Someone's got to him before we did. He's walking into a trap. I've got to go — and I could be a while.'
She crossed the room and kissed him. 'Okay, but be safe.' `Don't worry, love. This one's just a walk in the park. Literally.'
He picked up the sweater which he had discarded earlier while cradling Jazz, and pulled it on as he went out into the cool night air. The garden was flooded by the light of a full moon as he walked to his car, reversed out into Fairyhouse Avenue, and headed towards Inverleith, and Edinburgh's famous Royal Botanic Garden. He was driving fast up East Fettes Avenue, past the headquarters building, when his car-phone rang. He pushed the receive button.
`Bob, my friend. It is Arturo Pujol. I know it is late, but Sarah said it was okay to call you with my news. We have had a great excitement again in L'Escala. The man you are looking for in Britain, Lucan, the brother of Vaudan. He is here in Spain, in jail.'
Skinner smiled to himself in the dark of the car, a satisfied smile — the sort that comes with the final piece of the jigsaw. What happened?' he asked.
It was this afternoon. Young Joaquim — the officer who was with you and whose shot killed Vaudan — he was leaving the Gala, the bar across from my barracks, when he was attacked
by a wild-eyed man with a knife. The man was dirty and had been days needing a shave. It was Lucan, and he had in his pocket a page torn from our local newspaper, the Empordan, describing Vaudan's death, and with a photograph of the man who shot him. Joaquim was cut, but he fought him off, and was able to stop him with two shots in the leg. He said later that he had been aiming for his head.' Pujol paused. 'It seems that. Joaquim's shooting has returned to its normal form. Does all that interest you?'
As Pujol finished his tale, Skinner drew his car to a halt beside the side entrance to the Botanic Garden. 'Arturo,' he said, 'it's fascinating. I'm a bit busy right now, but I'll call you back tomorrow. We'll talk further and, who knows, I may have an even stranger story for you.'