He had driven for little more than half a kilometre when he came upon another building. He slowed, stopping in front of closed gates flanked on either side by a waist-high stone wall. The property was set a little off the road; the ground in front was a mix of gravel and scruffy grass, but the facade was presentable.

  ‘A bit of a barn,’ Skinner murmured as he recalled Reid’s words. That was a reasonable description. The place seemed to have been built in stages. The section to the right, as he looked at it, was yellow brick with high double wooden doors, and narrow windows on either side. Alongside it, but attached, there was a two-storey dwelling, plastered and painted a dull ochre colour.

  The gates were a metre high; he assumed that they would be locked, but when he tried the handle on the right, it swung open easily. He was about to enter when he noticed a box bolted on to a post to the left of the gate; protruding mail told him that it had not been emptied in a while. There was a name card in a slot, faded but just legible. He leaned close enough to make out one word: ‘Reid’.

  ‘Gotcha, Matthew,’ he murmured.

  Skinner stepped into the grounds, closing the gate behind him. He approached the building on the right, looking for lights or other signs of life but seeing none. He tried its double doors, but they were locked. Frustrated, he moved to the house. Its windows were shuttered and a security grille protected the front entrance. Nevertheless, he pressed the doorbell and waited, without expectation. From that position he could see a section of the plot that had not been visible from the road. In its centre there was a cubic shape, covered by a tarpaulin. Garden furniture, he imagined, four chairs stored under the table as he and Sarah had in L’Escala. How often does Matthew have guests? he wondered.

  He pressed the bell one more time for luck, but waited for only a second or two before moving to the back of the house. There he found its only uncovered window, two panes of glass on either side of a corner. It was covered by stainless steel bars; for security no doubt, but in the early days of his career in Scotland Skinner had seen a dozen cases that demonstrated the inadequacy of such protection against determined burglars with a crowbar. He leaned as close as he could and looked into what appeared to be a kitchen. There was a mug, a plate and cutlery in the sink and, on the work surface alongside, a milk carton, Carrefour UHT, the same brand he had in his fridge in L’Escala. It was a sign of occupancy, but how recent?

  Beyond the similarly guarded back door, and another shuttered window, the structure changed again as if the barn, as Reid had described it, was L-shaped, with another set of high double doors, although these had no windows on either side. He tried them also; against his expectation they swung open inwards. The sun was low in the sky and flooded the space with light. It was a garage, housing an ugly red vehicle that he recognised as a Citroen Cactus. Its registration number began with the letter ‘H’ telling him that it was a few years older than his Skoda. He tried the driver’s door and found it unlocked, but the courtesy light was weak, the console and steering wheel were thick with dust. He checked the back, but saw only a beach towel, a pair of sandals and the yellow high-viz jacket that was required by Spanish law.

  ‘Mmm,’ he murmured, recalling another legal requirement. Going back to the front, he checked the glove compartment. There as he had expected he found the Cactus’s ownership papers and insurance document. The latter was three years out of date, but the registration document listed the owner as ‘Sr Matthew Reid’.

  Skinner replaced the papers and looked around the rest of the space. He saw golf clubs, a stepladder, a wet-suit hanging from a hook, a couple of paintings leaning against the wall, a folding bed and, beside a door that he surmised connected to the rest of the barn, an enormous chest freezer. A red light shone on the casing, indicating that it was active. Casually he walked across, thinking to check the ‘use by’ dates on anything inside. He grasped the handle and raised the lid, then recoiled instinctively, letting it go.

  ‘Fuuuuuck!’ he whispered.

  He opened the freezer again, as if he doubted what he had seen, staring into the great icy trunk, studying its contents as dispassionately as he could. When he was finished, he closed it once more and stepped outside into the fading light of a day that had become cloudy.

  He leaned against the wall and thought about what he had seen, and about the events that had led him to that spot, not only those of the day, but others that had taken place months before. When he had considered and analysed everything, and it was clear in his mind, he took out his phone, retrieved a number from his directory and pressed the blue ‘Call’ button. He waited for twenty seconds for a ring tone, but eventually it came. He heard it pulse three times and then it was answered.

  ‘Mann,’ a voice boomed, deep but definitely female.

  ‘Lottie,’ he said, ‘it’s Bob Skinner.’

  ‘So my screen told me,’ the detective chief inspector replied. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘Your inquiry into the Calder Bryant homicide. Is it still open? Have you detained any suspects yet?’

  ‘Yes sir, it’s still open,’ she confirmed. ‘You must know who our main person of interest is, Matthew Reid, your friend the author, currently missing but not quite presumed dead.’

  ‘I’d heard,’ he confirmed. ‘I assume you’ve discovered that Reid has a property in Spain, although his name won’t be on the escritura, the deeds.’

  ‘Yes, that popped up when we looked into his business life. I asked the local police, the Mossos d’ Esquadra, to check it out for me. They did, but they reported back that there’s no sign of him having been there recently.’

  ‘When did they do that?’

  ‘Before the new year: mid-December. Why do you ask, sir?’

  ‘Did they gain entry to the property?’

  ‘I didn’t ask. I assumed they’d done everything necessary.’

  ‘I think you should ask them to check again. Maybe they did a thorough job last time, maybe they didn’t. It’s hard to tell how long a body’s been in a freezer.’

  Forty-Four

  ‘This must be a few steps up in comfort after Perth Prison,’ Jackie Wright observed as she unbuckled her seat belt. Aberlord Nursing Home was new and purpose built, situated on top of a hill on the edge of Carnoustie, a mecca for golfers. It enjoyed a view of the world-famous links course extending across the mouth of the River Tay to Fife. ‘My granny ended her days in a home in Dalkeith. It was nice, but not as nice as this.’

  ‘These places are only as good as the staff.’ Benjamin’s solemn tone took her colleagues by surprise. ‘When I was at uni, I had a summer job as a care assistant. The manager was all right, but his deputy treated us like slaves. As for the residents, they might as well have been in Perth Prison.’

  ‘Maybe you should stay in the car,’ McClair said, sharply. ‘Normally we wouldn’t have three officers at an interview, so I was thinking of letting DS Wright sit this one out, but if you’ve got an attitude issue, Tiggy . . .’

  ‘I don’t, ma’am, honestly,’ the young DC exclaimed. ‘I was just . . .’

  The DI grinned. ‘It’s okay I was just yanking your chain. You’ve had lunch and Jackie hasn’t. We’ll go and see Mr Trott and she can eat her sandwiches. Come on.’

  She stepped out of the car and walked the short distance to the building, with Benjamin following. As she had expected, the entrance was secure. She pressed the buzzer and held up her police credentials, showing them to the camera. ‘Detective Inspector McClair and DC Benjamin, calling to interview Mr Moses Trott, as arranged.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ a crackly voice advised. They heard a click as the door was released. ‘Step inside, then please take a mask each from the reception desk. We like visitors to wear ours rather than their own.’

  They did as they were asked. Their masks were barely in place when a dark-haired middle-aged woman strode towards them. ‘I’m Honey Fields, the house manager,’ she said. Her accent was transatlantic. Canadian, McClair guessed. ‘You want to see Moses Trott, yes?’

  The DI nodded. ‘We need to speak with him.’

  ‘On police business?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ she confirmed.

  ‘Does this relate to something he might have done in the past, because if it does . . .’

  ‘It’s a family matter,’ McClair volunteered. ‘We haven’t come to lift him, don’t worry about that.’

  Fields’s eyes registered surprise. ‘I didn’t think he had any family. Look, I’ve told him you’re coming, and made arrangements for you to see him in his room. But I have to insist that I sit in, and that we’re joined by a male staff member. Moses’s dementia is fairly advanced, and his behaviour can be unpredictable. Sometimes he has to be restrained. Also, and to be frank, the man’s in my care; I need to be able to stop the interview if I think he’s being distressed.’ She paused. ‘I say interview, but if you’re looking for responses from him, you’ll find that difficult.’

  ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ the DI said. ‘Take us to him please. I’ve no problem with you and your colleague sitting in.’

  Honey Fields led them to an elevator. As the doors closed behind them she pressed the button for the second floor. As they emerged and walked towards the door that the manager indicated, McClair realised from the layout of the building that Moses Trott did not rate a sea view.

  ‘Who funds him?’ she asked.

  ‘Tayside Council Social Work,’ Fields replied. ‘Before you ask, this is one of our basic rooms. The premium accommodation is for self-funding residents. It’s the way of the world but, to be brutal, Moses is bloody lucky to be here at all.’

  ‘There’s a keypad control on his door?’ Benjamin exclaimed as they reached his room.

  ‘There has to be,’ the manager said. ‘For his sake and that of the other residents we just can’t have him wandering. He has everything he needs in there, and a buzzer for attention, not that he ever uses it.’

  ‘That means that effectively he’s still in prison.’

  ‘You can look at it that way if you choose, Detective, but in reality it’s not so bad. A guy who’s lived the life that this man has, he probably prefers it that way. Moses Trott took his last rational decision some time ago. The parole board released him on compassionate grounds, not because he’d seen the light.’

  Fields reached out and keyed four digits on the entry panel. She opened the door and held it for the detectives.

  Moses Trott was seated in a high-backed armchair. A male staff member stood behind him in a corner of the room, close enough to react should it prove necessary. The man was no giant, but the detectives knew that he did not have to be. McClair glanced at him and guessed that he had a second job, on nightclub doors at weekends.

  ‘Mr Trott,’ she began. ‘We’re police officers.’

  He glared at her, as if he was just registering her presence. She thought that the eyes that blazed above his mask were the angriest she had ever seen, and was suddenly thankful for the man behind the chair.

  Trott’s hair was flowing, thick and white; he had a long beard which confirmed the impression of his biblical namesake. But it was his forehead that seized and held the detectives’ attention. The scar that dominated it was four inches high and a little more in width; it was old, but still vivid, a great ‘X’ with which the man had been branded.

  Benjamin let out a small involuntary squeal. Her senior companion gulped also, but recovered herself. ‘Mr Trott,’ she began, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Noele McClair, and this is my colleague DC Benjamin. We have some bad news for you, I’m afraid. Last Sunday a skeleton was discovered in Perthshire beneath a tree that had been blown down by the storm. We’ve been able to extract genetic material from the remains, and we believe that they’re those of your son, Samuel.’

  The fire went out of the eyes and was replaced by something else, confusion, she thought, or possibly even fear. ‘When did you last see your son, Mr Trott?’ she asked.

  The old man started to push himself out of his chair. The nurse behind him reacted, and so did Fields, but before they could intervene he slumped back down, and began to scream. The sound was awful, terrible, and the expression, as much as they could see, matched it. The veins on his neck stood out as he ripped off his mask. What it revealed chilled McClair. His mouth was wide open as the caterwauling continued; it was a cavern, a dark empty cavern with no sign of a tongue.

  ‘Anwar,’ the manager shouted, ‘restrain Moses while I get sedation. Officers, you need to get out of here, now.’

  Neither needed urging. They followed Fields out of the room. She turned the nearest corner, leaving them in the corridor, but returned almost immediately with a syringe and a phial.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Benjamin whispered. She was trembling.

  McClair took out her phone, scrolled through her call list and found a number she knew had to belong to Tina Byrne. ‘Thanks,’ she blazed as her return call was answered. ‘Thanks a fucking million, not! “Let us find out for ourselves,” you said. I’ve got a young officer here who’s wetting her pants, literally, that could be, and I’m not too happy either.’

  ‘Sorry,’ the probation officer said, lightly. ‘My sense of fun makes me do mischievous things sometimes.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, so does mine, so be looking over your shoulder from now on. What the fuck happened to the man? Does he have oral cancer? And that scar on his forehead, what was that about?’

  ‘No, as I understand it, it was worse than cancer, if you can imagine it. They’re both connected, the scar and his mouth. I was told that, must be about thirty years ago, Moses walked into the A and E department in Ninewells hospital in Dundee with that big X carved into his forehead and with a blood-soaked towel stuffed in his mouth. When they removed it they found that most of his tongue was missing. The doctors who attended him thought at first that it was extreme self-mutilation, but when they took a close look they realised that nobody could actually have done that to themselves. He must have upset someone, that’s for certain. I’m often glad that I don’t know who it was. You won’t find out either. Moses has never said, or rather written, a single word about what happened to him, not to this day.’

  Forty-Five

  ‘No, I didn’t phone the cops,’ Skinner said. ‘I called Hector Sureda, the Intermedia CEO, and asked him to report it to the commanding officer of the Mossos d’ Esquadra. If I’d phoned the Figueres station myself the nearest patrol car would have responded and probably arrested me. Hector made sure that the responders knew who I was and that I used to be in the job myself. They know what they’re doing, these people. They’ve roped off the entire property and we’re all outside now, waiting for the equivalent of Arthur Dorward and his team to arrive from Barcelona. Their most senior criminal investigator’s on his way up too. I’m waiting for him to arrive. When he does, I can give a formal statement, and send them in your direction.’

  He peered at his phone and two small faces on the split screen, participants in the FaceTime call that he had initiated. ‘Are they going to be interested in us?’ Sauce Haddock asked. ‘The body’s on their territory, so their own investigation will have primacy.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Lottie Mann agreed.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, guys, but you’ve still got to get yourselves in the queue. The Spanish criminal investigation will be thorough. They won’t close their minds to events that have happened outside Spain.’

  ‘It really is Reid, Gaffer, is it? If he’s deep frozen is he recognisable?’

  Skinner shook his head, smiling. ‘That’s like asking me if I can tell a Cornetto from a Magnum, Sauce. It’s him. There’s no question about it.’

  ‘How long’s he been dead?’ Mann asked. ‘Could he have sent the texts to McClair and Aislado before he died?’

  ‘Pass on that, but I can tell you that he didn’t have time to send me a message this morning, then jump into the freezer and pull it shut.’

  ‘He sent you one?’ Haddock exclaimed. ‘What did it say?’

  ‘He asked me how his dog was. And that, boys and girls, is a real puzzle. Hardly anyone outside my family knows I’ve taken in his dog, but Matthew’s likely to have guessed that I would. I suggest that you get your techies to work trying to figure out how you might set up three phones to send texts post-mortem. If it’s impossible, as I suspect the answer will be, who did he tell about Sunny, and about the detail in Xavi’s message, and about his relationship with Noele? I don’t have an answer to any of those, but I don’t think they’re going to be found in Spain. Be patient, let the Mossos do what they have to. While they’re about it see how everything that’s happened in the last few days impacts on your separate inquiries. Agreed?’