‘Is there anyone else named on the account?’

  ‘Do you mean does he have a partner? No, he is the only account holder, and the documents for the facturas are all in his name alone. What else can I tell you?’ Alabau wondered. ‘The account has been open since January, two weeks before he bought the property for two million euro. It was opened with a transfer of four million, from a bank in the Cayman Islands, and since then there have been further deposits totalling three million. The current balance is just over one and a half. But, Detective, none of this makes you any the wiser about your murdered man. All it tells you is that someone else paid one of his bills.’

  ‘Maybe,’ McClair conceded, ‘but it does give us somewhere else to look. Senora Alabau, are there any other payments or transfers that might be significant?’

  ‘None that I can see.’

  ‘When was the last activity on the account?’

  ‘The payment to Lloyd and Price,’ the banker replied. ‘That is on the account itself,’ she added, ‘but there was a small transaction on the credit card, two weeks ago.’

  ‘Do you have a location for that?’

  ‘Yes, it was a purchase in a shop called Bershka, in a place called Espai Girona.’ McClair heard a soft gasp. ‘That is funny,’ Alabau murmured. ‘I am looking at the activity on the credit card account and I see that someone else has been trying to track down the holder details.’

  ‘They have?’ McClair exclaimed. ‘When?’

  ‘Twelve minutes ago; but they did not get very far. The store requested more detail on the holder from the card management centre, but it’s not clear why they did this. It may be the card was stolen and misused. Senor Land may have asked for details of the transaction. Who knows? You have competition, Detective, or you have another mystery on your hands.’

  Thirty

  ‘I didn’t get far, I’m afraid,’ Bob Skinner confessed. ‘The store manager was very helpful, but all she could do was feed a request into the issuing bank’s credit card department, but there’s no guarantee it’ll get a result.’

  Sauce Haddock grinned at the frustration in his eyes, apparent even on the tablet screen. ‘You couldn’t expect anything else, Gaffer, not really. I mean some bloke walking in off the street speaking pigeon Spanish . . .’

  ‘Fuck off, boy,’ Skinner growled. ‘My Spanish is better than your English. I did ask her if store security included video cover of the payment point. She said it does but she doesn’t know how long it’s kept. But, it’s done by a contractor company, Servidor. As it happens, Servidor also provides perimeter security to the InterMedia office building. I’ll have someone talk to them tomorrow and see if they can help you out.’

  The superintendent nodded. ‘A happy coincidence, hopefully. And here’s another. As for the holder of the credit card, I know that already.’

  ‘How, in God’s name?’

  ‘Through Noele McClair. She pleaded with me to let her work on the investigation. She’s been running checks from home and one of them threw up a lead, to another account used by Ayre to pay his architect. It’s the same one that the Bershka credit card goes back to.’

  ‘Well done, DI McClair,’ Skinner exclaimed. ‘How did she make that link so quickly?’

  ‘Through the Madrid embassy and a very helpful banker. But,’ he continued with a pause for emphasis, ‘it’s not Ayre’s account. It belongs to a Canadian ex-pat called Gilbert Land, whoever the fuck he is. He lives in a big house in an area called La Garrotxa, close to a city called Olot.’

  ‘I know it; it’s out beyond Figueres. High country, quite spectacular.’

  ‘Tomorrow, I’ll have someone speak with the Canadian High Commission in London to see what they can tell us about him. And one other thing,’ he added, ‘a slight digression but one that might interest you. I told you about the clothing we recovered in Ayre’s bedroom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that indicates a close personal relationship between Ayre and its owner in more ways than one.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That there’s nothing like keeping it in the family!’

  ‘Fuck! This case is full of surprises.’

  ‘Too right. Anyway, Noele got a lot of info about Land’s bank account. There’s a few million in it, the source being a Cayman Islands bank. Tomorrow we’ll talk to its manager as well as the Canadians.’

  Skinner laughed. ‘Who will tell you they’ve never heard of him. Sauce, pause and think about what you’ve told me. Gavin Ayre, the dead man with the false passport nobody knows anything about. Gilbert Land, who paid one of Ayre’s bills. Ayre, Land, both first initial G. I wonder if there’s a George Ocean out there as well.’

  ‘Billy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Billy Ocean. There’s a singer called Billy Ocean. Forget the G and maybe he’s the link. After all, when the going gets tough . . .’

  ‘Fuck off, Sauce,’ Skinner repeated. ‘Red light spells danger.’

  Thirty-One

  ‘Is my dad going native in his new Girona apartment?’ Alexis Skinner asked her stepmother.

  Sarah Grace Skinner laughed. ‘You might say that. He’s becoming more Catalan by the week. You’re right, he likes it there. L’Escala’s too busy for him in the summer months. When we were there with the kids in July he spent most of his time on the golf course, because the town, he says, makes him claustrophobic. Plus, the rowdier element of the tourist population can push his buttons.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Alex said. ‘When I was about twelve, he and I were down in the marina in a café, when a loud-mouthed English yob in a bunch of the same came out with some language. Pops told him to wind it down. The idiot got up, puffed out his chest and came out with “What you going to do about it, mate?” I remember looking at him, and actually feeling sorry for him.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ Sarah murmured. ‘I haven’t heard this one. What happened?’

  ‘Pops picked him up and threw him off the jetty that we were on, into the sea. Quite far, too. Then he chucked a lifebelt in after him, turned to his three mates and asked if any of them could swim.’

  ‘He hasn’t changed,’ her stepmother sighed. ‘Worse, I think he’s raising his son in his image. I’m trying to exercise a little influence. Jazz is his own man, well, he’s his own boy, but I’m trying to teach him to take an extra second to consider his options, trying to lengthen his fuse.’

  ‘And how’s that going so far? Pops told me about the Yellowcraig incident.’

  ‘Let’s say it’s a work in progress,’ Sarah sighed. ‘But,’ she continued, ‘speaking of men with slow fuses, how are you and Dr Jackson getting along on your first trip as a couple?’

  ‘We’re not a couple, Sarah,’ Alex retorted. ‘I know that everyone’s too polite or too scared to ask me but, for the record, we are not shagging. I may post that on Facebook. He’s my best friend and I’m his; we agreed a long time ago that it’s not worth putting that at risk. Dominick is celibate by choice. At the moment so am I. If I want to change that I will make other arrangements, if you get my drift. As we are, when I get my tits out by the pool it doesn’t bother him at all. I think I’d notice if it did.’

  ‘I get it. I’ll rephrase my question. How are you two friends getting along?’

  ‘Very well, thanks. It’s been good for us both. For Dominick especially. He’s been to L’Escala before, remember, in another life when he was literally someone else. It’s made him confront the man he used to be, and lay any last vestiges to rest.’

  ‘That’s good. I’m happy for you both.’

  ‘Is that why you called?’ Alex challenged, lightly. ‘To satisfy your step-maternal curiosity?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Sarah replied. ‘I was wondering if you’d heard from your father.’

  ‘Not recently, no. Why?’

  ‘He called me a few minutes ago, asking if it was okay for him to spend another couple of days in Spain. He said he wanted to call in on you and Dominick. He said something about planning a trip in-country and wondering if you’d like to go with him.’

  ‘How intriguing.’ She paused, as her phone sounded an alert. ‘Incoming call,’ she exclaimed, ‘and guess who it is? I’d better take it. Bye Sarah.’

  Thirty-Two

  ‘What does it mean,’ Chief Constable Neil McIlhenney asked, ‘this second identity that the man Ayre seems to have had?’

  ‘As the late great David Francey may or may not have said during a Radio Scotland football commentary,’ Mario McGuire, his deputy, replied, ‘Fuktifano. But the first task is to prove for the purposes of the investigation that they are one and the same.’

  ‘How are they going to do that?’

  ‘We need a facial of Land to see if it matches with the body we have in the morgue. As a first step DI Noele McClair’s been tasked with contacting the Canadian High Commission to see what they can tell us about Gilbert Land. Lowell Payne’s people managed to establish that Ayre created his identity in the classic manner, by stealing it from a real child who died in infancy, through his birth certificate. It may be that the Land profile was done in the same way.’

  ‘We don’t actually have a Canadian passport in our hands?’

  ‘Not yet. That’s McClair’s job. The link to Canada came through the Spanish bank. Noele’s informant also said that he had residency in Spain, which obviously he couldn’t get without showing proof of identity. Unless the banker was mistaken, he’ll have a Spanish identity card too.’

  ‘How easy will it be for McClair to access that?’ McIlhenney wondered.

  ‘A fucking sight harder than it will be for an InterMedia journalist making inquiries about a possible link between the holder and a murder in Scotland. If there’s a photo on record, it’ll do the same as the passport. It’ll show us whether he’s our man Ayre or not.’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph and the wee donkey too!’ the chief exclaimed. ‘Are you telling me that Bob Skinner’s involved in a criminal investigation?’

  McGuire nodded. ‘What did he teach us about doing what was expedient rather than just doing what the rule book says?’

  ‘. . . as long as it’s legal and won’t land you knee deep in shit in the witness box. I seem to remember him adding that.’

  ‘True, and this is. Look he’s there, and he’s got resources that we don’t. I know you’re hesitant about us being seen as too close to him, but remember another of his buzz words . . . pragmatic.’

  ‘I never quite worked out what that meant.’

  ‘It means, in Bobspeak, if it works it’s okay. So let’s thank him for his journalist’s time, and for the access he’s getting for us to the security footage of the store where that garment was bought, the one in Ayre’s house.’

  McIlhenney sighed. ‘Aye okay. Thanks, Bob.’

  ‘And for the other thing he says he’s going to do.’

  ‘What other thing? No, don’t tell me! Here’s one of my buzz words, mate . . . deniability.’

  Thirty-Three

  ‘Pops,’ Alex said. ‘Should I be worried about you?’

  Her father stared back at her. ‘No, why would you be?’

  ‘You’re not impulsive, normally. Your life’s all planned out. It’s not like you to turn up anywhere with only an hour’s warning. You’re not having a mid-life crisis, are you? You’re spending more and more time in Spain with your job. Now, with buying the penthouse and everything, I’m wondering . . .’

  ‘You’re wondering whether I’ve got a bit on the side in Girona? Granted, I’ve got form in that respect, but no I haven’t. I’m absolutely devoted to Sarah, having learned that I can’t function properly without her. You’re wondering whether I prefer living alone rather than in a house with a workaholic wife, four growing kids, a nanny and a dog? No, I don’t; I love being surrounded by them. Darlin’,’ he drawled, ‘I know guys in Gullane who catch the Heathrow shuttle on a Monday morning and fly back on Friday after working in the City all week. I do the same, only I’m away for a few days as a rule, plus I travel in much greater comfort. As for buying the apartment, everyone in the business got a commensurate performance bonus last year; I wasn’t going to take mine, but Xavi insisted. I’ve always believed that property is the best long-term investment, so . . .’ He turned to the third person at the poolside table. ‘What do you think, Dominick? You’re an eminent psychologist. Am I starting to unhinge?’

  Dominick Jackson leaned back, his bulk straining the chair in which he sat. ‘Mid-fifties,’ he murmured. ‘High pressure job in an industry that’s still new to you, unexpectedly wealthy, naturally volatile; all the ingredients of a classic crisis profile. Only,’ he added, ‘I don’t see any sign of it. You’d be having your crisis if you weren’t doing all these things, if you were a retired senior police officer with nothing to do but play golf and read the Scotsman in the clubhouse.’

  ‘I never read that fucking paper!’ Bob interjected. ‘Not since the independence referendum.’

  ‘Okay, make it the Saltire, but you hear what I’m saying, and so do you, Alex. Your lifestyle gives you stability. Yes, it’s perpetual motion, but that’s what you’ve always known and it’s what comes naturally to you.’

  ‘See?’ Bob turned to his daughter. ‘Vindication.’

  ‘You’re still frustrated,’ she insisted. ‘This exercise, for example. You pitch up here with hardly any notice, demanding that we come with you on an expedition. But you haven’t told us what it’s about.’

  ‘I was getting to that. Tomorrow morning I want to check out a property, an address that might be linked to the murder investigation that’s going on back home.’

  ‘You see?’ Alex exclaimed, to the skies. ‘Frustrated! You can’t let go! You’re still coming to terms with not being a cop any longer, and failing most of the time. Isn’t that right, Dominick?’

  ‘That’s one interpretation,’ the seated giant replied diplomatically.

  ‘Fine,’ Skinner declared. ‘Are you coming with me or not?’

  ‘Of course, we are,’ she shouted back at him, then looked at Jackson. ‘Aren’t we, Dominick?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, slowly. ‘I think it might be better as a father and daughter outing. You’re a lawyer so you can advise him against doing anything that might be a shade illegal when you get there. If you fail and he goes ahead with it anyway, I couldn’t be anywhere near, for reasons I need not spell out. I’ll have dinner ready for you when you get back . . . if you get back.’

  Thirty-Four

  Noele McClair was in Tesco, pushing Matilda in an adapted shopping cart, when her phone sounded. She thought about letting voicemail take it, then remembered how long it had taken her simply to leave a message at the Canadian High Commission. Tapping her earpiece, she accepted; at once she knew she had made the correct decision.

  ‘Is that Detective Inspector McClair?’ a crisp female voice asked. ‘My name is Nadine Markle, vice-consul. You left a message asking for assistance with an on-going investigation, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, it is. We’re trying to trace a Canadian citizen by the name of Gilbert Land. He overlaps an investigation into the murder of another man.’

  ‘You mean he’s a suspect?’ Markle asked, caution in her tone.

  ‘No, I don’t, not at all. He’s the holder of a bank account in Spain and he’s said to be a Canadian citizen officially resident there. That’s all we know about him for now. We’re checking the Spanish end, but we also need to confirm his citizenship with you.’

  ‘How much can you tell me?’

  ‘Little more than the name. However, we’re operating on the assumption that he would be in his early thirties.’

  ‘That’s all? A thirty-something male and you want us to find him among thirty-seven million people?’

  ‘That’s right,’ McClair confirmed. ‘But I should tell you that we believe the likelihood is that you won’t.’

  Thirty-Five

  ‘Detective Superintendent Haddock?’ the caller began.

  Sauce frowned. ‘Yes, but how did you get this number?’

  ‘I was given it by my colleague, my boss really, Sir Robert Skinner. My name is Hector Sureda and I am the chief executive of InterMedia. Bob asked me to have one of our reporters check something out, and to pass the information straight to you when we got it.’

  ‘Okay, thanks,’ Haddock said. ‘Understood and I appreciate it. What do you have for me?’

  ‘Just this; confirmation that a man named Gilbert Land, a Canadian national, has been officially resident in Spain since October last year.’

  ‘That helps, but . . . does his residency card include photo identification?’

  ‘For etranjeros, no it does not. My reporter also tried to establish whether he had a Spanish driving licence. Legally he can drive in Spain with a Canadian licence and an international permit, but after that he would need the Spanish licence. That would have a photograph on it, but there’s no record of him having applied for one. However,’ Sureda added, ‘he does own a vehicle. In Spain we pay our car taxes not to the State but to the community in which we live. In his case that would be the Ajuntament de Ruidaura, and there we found one listed to Land’s address. The people there gave my reporter the number and she was able to match it with an SUV, a Nissan X-trail, bought from a dealer in Olot in April. That’s as much as I can tell you for now, Senor Haddock. If you need anything else, let Bob know. However,’ he paused for a second, ‘you know him. It may be that he’ll come up with some answers himself. Adios.’