‘I understand too,’ the politician admitted. ‘In fact that policy comes from me.’ He stood. ‘Time for me to go. My guys downstairs have homes to go to.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They moved towards the door; as they did, Skinner said quietly, ‘Manuel, it occurs to me. DCI Mann speaks fairly broad Glaswegian, but neither Catalan nor Spanish. You’ll need two interpreters, not just one . . . unless . . . I could spend another couple of days in Girona. I’m good in both your languages, and I went to school in Glasgow. I could do the job, if you want.’

  The security minister looked up at him. ‘You old cops,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll tell the Mossos that you’re available . . . but not to mention it to Scotland!’

  Forty-Two

  ‘Are you packing your bikini?’ Dan Provan asked.

  The force of Charlotte Mann’s glare threatened to set the curtains on fire.

  ‘Maybe not then,’ her partner laughed.

  It was generally agreed that Dan and Lottie were the unlikeliest couple out of many whose lives had come together through their police service. He had been her detective sergeant, her supervisor, during her early years in CID. With no wish to rise above that rank he had stood aside, watching her pass him on the promotion ladder, then spending the final years of his career as her back-up. For most of that time, the years after his wife’s departure and their divorce, he had been viewed as a dishevelled and slightly disreputable character and had been prepared to live down to that image. Then an extended break to visit his daughter in Australia had seen him taken to a clothing store other than Marks and Spencer, to a proper hairdresser and finally to her gym, where he had surprised himself and her by the underlying level of his fitness. The transformation in him was such that Lottie had not recognised him at first, when she met him at Glasgow Airport. Within a fairly short time she had realised that she liked the new model Provan in a way she had never imagined. A few months later, she and her son Jakey had moved in with her newly retired sergeant and the Glasgow policing world had tilted on its axis.

  He watched her as she folded her summer-weight uniform and laid it on the bottom of her case. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  She shrugged and made a wry face. ‘Because Sauce asked me to. He said the Spanish don’t do plainclothes. Everybody’s got to know who’s a cop.’

  ‘I know a couple of Rangers fans who found that out the hard way in Osasuna a few years back. Are you taking your equipment belt too?’

  ‘He didn’t say, so I’ll take that as a “no”. I doubt that I’ll be pepper spraying anyone.’

  ‘Aerosol de pimiento,’ Dan exclaimed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Spanish for pepper spray.’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’

  ‘I’ve been studying Spanish on the QT,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve had this thought that when you’ve retired and Jakey’s off to university we might move out there . . . that’s assuming I’ve still got some mileage left by then.’

  ‘Thanks for sharing,’ Lottie said.

  ‘I’m sharing now. What do you think?’

  ‘Honestly? I’ve never thought about retirement. In my head, I haven’t got beyond getting Jakey through university.’

  ‘I can help with that.’

  ‘His dad will help with that, or his rich parents will, the cu . . .’

  Her partner looked at her from the bedroom doorway. ‘It’s none of my business,’ he said, ‘but . . . would it be in Jakey’s interests to take a penny from those bastards?’

  ‘Fair point,’ she conceded. ‘He’d probably be better off without their hooks in him. Anyway, they’ve got another grandkid now, thanks to Scott and his new woman; their pride and joy, I heard. Jakey never even got a card from them on his last birthday.’ She closed her case and secured it, using the combination lock. ‘That’s me,’ she announced. ‘Y viva Espana.’

  ‘What time’s your plane take off? You never said.’

  ‘I’ll be leaving early doors,’ she sighed, wincing. ‘Sauce promised to send a car for me, one way or another. It could be a taxi or it could be a patrol car, but whatever, I have to be ready for an eight o’clock pickup. They’ve got me on an EasyJet from Glasgow to Barcelona. I’ll need to be at the airport for nine to check in the suitcase, even though the flight’s not until eleven. That’ll mean I’ll be in Barcelona between two and three with the time difference. They’ll meet me there; take me to the scene, I suppose.’

  ‘To do what?’ Provan asked. ‘This has all happened so fast. What the fuck’s it about?’

  ‘There’s an investigation in Edinburgh that Sauce has been overseeing,’ Lottie replied. ‘Dead guy on a beach, shot in the head: you might have read about it in the red tops.’

  He nodded. ‘I did, but there was precious little information there, not even a name. What have you been told?’

  ‘Only that there’s a possibility it links to an incident in northern Spain. Sauce said that’s liable to be major and that we need a senior presence there from the start. He’s sending me the file on his investigation; I’ll read up on it on the flight.’

  ‘Not tonight?’

  ‘No, my love,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know how long I’m going to be away, so the rest of today is ours. Are you sure you’ll be all right looking after Jakey? This is going to be a surprise for him when he gets in from football training.’

  He smiled as he lifted her case from the bed. ‘Why would I not be? We’ll be fine, the pair of us. If you’re still there come the October holiday week we’ll maybe come out and join you.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ she cried out. ‘It won’t be that long, surely not.’

  ‘I had that in mind,’ he said, his grin widening, ‘just in case. You never know with these international inquiries . . . especially now we’re not in the EU. They can drag on.’

  Lottie frowned. ‘Sauce told me to pack for a week,’ she admitted, ‘but he did say he couldn’t be sure how long the gig would last. Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get downstairs and eat.’ At the foot of the stair, she added, ‘By the way, when I’m away, the two of you, you have to eat right. No Chinese takeaways; no pizza boxes in the recycling when I get back. No Tesco ready meals. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ Dan agreed, his fingers crossed behind his back as she led them into the kitchen. ‘You’d better show me how it’s done.’

  She shook her head. ‘Oh no,’ she declared. ‘It’s your turn. Tuna steaks I believe, with broccoli. No garlic though,’ she warned. ‘Given your promise earlier on, I don’t need that on your breath.’

  He opened the fridge and selected the ingredients. ‘I suppose,’ he said, as he laid them on the work surface, ‘el elefante en el cuarto is you not speaking Spanish. How will you all cope with that?’

  ‘Sauce said the Mossos would provide a translator. Their schools are still on holiday, so he guessed they might hire an English teacher.’

  ‘Let’s hope he or she can understand a fucking word you say. You can take the girl out of Maryhill and all that . . . What about accommodation?’ he asked. ‘Where are they putting you up?’

  ‘I don’t know that either,’ Lottie admitted. ‘In a hotel I suppose.’

  ‘Won’t they still be rammed in August?’

  ‘I’ll find out when I get there. As long as it’s not a police barracks. I’d draw the line at that!’

  Forty-Three

  ‘Gracias por venir, senor,’ the Servidor manager said.

  ‘De nada,’ Skinner replied. ‘I realise that you’re doing me a favour. It wouldn’t have been reasonable to expect you to come to me. What do you have to show me?’

  Linda Andreas frowned. ‘Poco. Very little. At the tiempo, the time, you gave, la tienda, the shop, estaba muy occupada, pero . . .’

  Looking over her shoulder at the screen, he could see that it was indeed very busy. The throng was made up almost exclusively of teenage girls. Almost. There was one at the till who was older by at least ten years, probably more. The footage, which was monochrome and jerky, showed her proffering a card and touching it to a contactless terminal. The angle of the camera did not provide a full-face image; he could not judge whether there was enough to be run through facial recognition software, but she appeared to be fair, both of hair and skin tone.

  ‘Es todo,’ Andreas said. ‘Is all. I can send to your phone, Senor, si lo desea, if you . . .’

  ‘Si, por favor,’ he said, nodding. ‘Mi numero es quatro quatro . . .’ He recited the number slowly, then waited. A few seconds later successive beep tones told him that a WhatsApp message had arrived. He nodded. ‘Muchas gracias. I’ll find my own way out.’

  Rather than call Haddock from his car, he waited until he was back in his office. They were connected at the second attempt, by which time Skinner had forwarded the Servidor footage clip.

  ‘How close is Girona from Riudaura?’ the superintendent asked him.

  ‘You wouldn’t go there to buy groceries,’ he replied, ‘but if you were clothes shopping and were fussy, it’s probably your nearest option. I know there was a woman living in the house; the one in that image is shopping with Land’s bank card, so there’s a reasonable assumption that it’s her. You’ll need to share it with the Mossos, but do it tactfully.’

  ‘I know that much, Gaffer,’ Haddock said. ‘I don’t want to come across as a smartarse, that’s what you’re saying. I’ve got Lottie on the way there as we speak; last time I checked there was a short flight delay but she should be in the air by now. What I don’t need is to antagonise the Mossos before she’s even touched down. So far we’re good. I had a call from the commander, Major something. He expects the judge to give them authority to enter this afternoon. The plan is they open the place tomorrow morning. I’ve sent him an image of the entry system in East Lothian, and Ayre’s entry code.’

  ‘He’ll be your friend if he finds it works.’

  ‘If, Gaffer?’

  ‘Of course. How would I know whether it does or not?’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Haddock sighed. ‘Do you know if they’ve found an interpreter for Lottie yet?’ he asked.’

  ‘Yes, they have,’ Skinner confirmed. ‘Not just that; he’s going to meet her at the airport.’

  Forty-Four

  DCI Lottie Mann’s suitcase was bright yellow and emblazoned with a large Saltire; unlikely to be taken by mistake from the carousel, even by a totally colourblind passenger. However, that carried no protection against it being the last to appear through the hatch. Border control had taken fifteen minutes, followed by twenty-five in the baggage hall before the canary case appeared. By that time, she was hot, irritable, and sending evil thoughts in the direction of Sauce Haddock.

  She wheeled her bag into the toilet and freshened up before the mirror, wondering whether two uniform shirts would be enough for her stay, as she slipped on her light cotton jacket, covering the sweat patches beneath her armpits. When she felt ready to make an appearance, she stepped through the exit doors into the sunny concourse.

  Until that moment she had given no detailed thought to the manner of her reception. Her assumption had been that she would see a person in Mossos uniform, and had familiarised herself with its form by studying the website of the Catalan force; she had not considered that she might be met by a taxi. There were perhaps twenty people facing the doorway through which she had emerged. She scanned them, looking for her name on a sign, but saw nothing. She checked her watch. Her flight had landed ten minutes behind schedule. That, added to the delay in the baggage hall, meant that she was running an hour late, enough, she conceded, for her pick-up to have gone for a coffee or a comfort break, or possibly to have lost patience completely and given up.

  Her forehead was ridged as she decided that the last of these possibilities was most likely. She reached for her phone, where she had stored an emergency contact number, and was about to locate it when she became aware of movement to her left, of a tall figure in shorts and a collarless shirt, with a takeaway coffee in each hand.

  ‘Hello, Lottie,’ Bob Skinner said. ‘Welcome to Catalunya.’

  Her frown disappeared as she gasped. ‘Sir,’ she murmured, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’

  He shrugged, handing her one of the coffee beakers. ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ he replied. ‘I’m picking you up. This way.’ He took her suitcase, extending its handle and wheeling it behind him as he set off.

  ‘That’s good of you,’ she acknowledged, feeling the heat instantly as she followed him out of the cool covered concourse, walking towards a small parking area around fifty metres away, ‘but why? Are the Mossos that short-staffed?’

  ‘Call me a civilian volunteer,’ he told her as they walked. ‘They’re not short-staffed, but they’re not rich in English speakers either. I said I’d be your interpreter and Major Teijero thought it was a good idea.’ Actually, Skinner had no indication that was true, but he did know that a suggestion by Manuel Mateu was invariably taken as a directive.

  Mann smiled. ‘So do I,’ she confessed. ‘For how long?’ she asked.

  ‘A couple of days,’ he replied. ‘We’ll see where we are after that.’

  ‘Well, thanks but, sir . . .’

  Skinner held up the hand holding his coffee, cutting her off. ‘Look, you’ve got to get over that. I’ve given up trying to get Sauce Haddock to call me Bob, but I won’t with you. I’m not a cop any longer: also I’ll be helping you informally so let’s keep it that way.’

  ‘What does Sauce call you?’ she asked. ‘He’s my boss now, so . . .’

  ‘He calls me Gaffer. He reckons its Scottish for Guv’nor.’

  ‘I like that,’ Mann said. ‘It works for me too.’

  ‘Okay,’ he conceded, ‘but I don’t know why it needs to work for either of you.’

  ‘The fact that you don’t makes it even more appropriate. Anyway . . . Gaffer . . . what I was going to ask was how you came to be involved in this?’

  ‘Who says I am?’ Skinner protested. ‘I’m just doing a friend a favour.’

  ‘Come on, I’m not buying that.’

  ‘Okay, I offered Sauce a bit of informal help. It was mutual; my paper’s getting a story out of it.’

  ‘And the place we’re going to?’ Mann asked.

  He replied with another question, ‘You’ve been briefed about Gavin Ayre?’

  ‘I read the file on the flight. It didn’t tell me anything about a Spanish connection.’

  He stopped beside a Tesla. She recognised it as a Model X; her son Jakey was a Tesla expert. ‘The connection is a Spanish bank account that was used to pay one of Ayre’s bills for his East Lothian house. The holder’s a man named Gilbert Land. Before the Mossos got involved I had one of my reporters look into him. The name connection is obvious, and the more we found out about him the less likely it became that it’s a coincidence.’

  ‘And this house that I’ve been told about?’

  ‘We’re going there tomorrow; you need to be there when the Mossos open it up.’

  ‘So I’ve been told, but that’s all. Why?’

  ‘Officially? You’re looking for photographic evidence, probably a Canadian passport, maybe a driving licence. Something that’ll prove Gilbert Land and the late Gavin Ayre are one and the same.’

  ‘And if they are? What’s it all about, Gaffer?’

  ‘That’s anyone’s guess at this stage, but mine is that it’s about money. The best way to hide it as well as the best way to invest it is by turning it into property. If that’s the case, the underlying question will be, what’s the source?’

  ‘Drugs?’ Mann suggested.

  ‘That would be the likeliest answer,’ Skinner agreed opening the boot of the Tesla and stowing her suitcase one-handed.

  ‘Where am I staying while I’m here?’ she asked.

  ‘Tomorrow we’ll probably find you a hotel. Right now, we’re heading for my place in L’Escala. My daughter and her friend are there, and she’s expecting us.’

  ‘Alex?’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s great. It’ll be good to see her again. I’m still grateful for the way she helped me when Scott and his parents tried to get custody of Jakey. “Her friend”, you said?’

  ‘Dominick Jackson.’

  ‘The psychologist?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Friend,’ she repeated but with a question in her tone.

  ‘That’s what she tells me. If there are benefits involved, well . . .’

  Mann smiled, eyebrow raised. Then her expression changed. ‘You said “officially” about the place we’re going tomorrow,’ she observed. ‘What about “unofficially”?’

  He returned her gaze with a faint smile. ‘Unofficially? You should stand well back when they get the door open.’

  Forty-Five

  ‘Is that the best they can do?’ Jackie Wright asked as she looked at the printed image. ‘It looks almost like an Identikit.’

  ‘Compared with what I was sent,’ Sauce Haddock told her, ‘it’s a portrait. It was taken off security footage from a camera that was a few years old. It’s a bonus that we’ve got anything at all.’

  The original had been digitally enhanced, with colour added, to produce a photograph of a woman, halfway between full face and profile, with a fair complexion and lustrous blonde hair; she was around thirty, the superintendent guessed, with a couple of years’ margin for error in either direction.

  ‘What do you want me to do with it?’

  ‘Identify her,’ he said.

  The DS stared back at him, restraining laughter. ‘That simple?’

  ‘If possible,’ he added. ‘We have her in Girona, using the credit card from the account that links to Gavin Ayre. We see her buying a garment that was found in Scotland, but we don’t have her wearing it. She may be an employee, sent to buy it for the woman who actually wore it, who we believe has a half-sibling relationship to Gavin Ayre. Or she may be that woman. If she is, she was in Scotland, leaving a DNA sample in Ayre’s wardrobe. All we can do is show the photo around Gullane, Dirleton, North Berwick, see if anyone recognises her. You and Tiggy, you do that.’