to find out as much as she can about the place, and its owner. If he's doing time for drug offences, it may be that he connects into Manson's operation. If he does, maybe we can identify some of the other points in the supply chain.
`Got all that?' Ruth nodded. 'Good. Knock something out along those lines and I'll sign it. Before you do that, ask Alan Royston to step up and see me. Tell him I want to issue a press release on the basis of Maggie's report.'
`Very good. By the way, did you see the note in your diary about Mr Pitkeathly?'
For a second, Skinner looked puzzled; then the conversation in the Barnton Hotel came back to him. 'I missed that. What have you fixed up?'
`Lunchtime. He suggested it, and I decided that would be best for you, too. He's booked a table at Ladolcevito for one o'clock. He said he thought that would be fairly discreet.' `That's nice of him. I hope I can help him.'
Nineteen
The diminutive Mr V welcomed Skinner like a long-lost brother to his smart bistro restaurant in Hanover Street, and showed him to a table in the small downstairs bar, where Greg Pitkeathly was waiting.
The thin man stood up, hand outstretched. 'Good of you to see me, Mr Skinner. I hope this lunchtime arrangement is all right for you.'
`Mmm. Sure. But I'd have been happy to fit you in at Fettes in the course of the day.'
Not at all. This is the least I can do. I thought I'd be lucky to get to see a constable, and here I am telling my story to Scotland's most famous detective.'
Their opening exchange was interrupted by Mr V, as he handed them leather-bound menus. 'I have given you the table in the far corner, Mr Pitkeathly. You won't be disturbed there. You want to go up now, yes?'
They rose and followed the little restaurateur, carrying their menus as they climbed the narrow staircase in single file. As he surveyed the long dining room lit by the May sunshine flooding through its south-facing windows, Skinner smiled inwardly at Pitkeathly's notion of discretion. He knew that, while Ladolcevito might not be the largest restaurant in Edinburgh, it was one of the most popular with the city's chattering classes.
As he followed his host across to the table in the far left-hand corner, he recognised and nodded to a Sunday newspaper editor, two business journalists and four chartered surveyors, all assiduous grinders of the rumour mill. He wondered what would be made of his lunchtime meeting.
They chose identical items from the á la carte menu , stracciatella followed by pan-fried steak, and Pitkeathly ordered a bottle of red Caruso, the meaty house wine. As the proprietor strolled off to the kitchen, the thin man picked up the tan leather briefcase which he had been carrying, rolled the combinations into place and flicked it open. He withdrew a yellow folder and placed it on the table.
`How long have you owned property in L'Escala, Mr Skinner?' he asked.
`Bob, please. It'll be around ten years now. I went there first on holiday with my daughter to a rented apartment up behind Montgo Bay. We both loved the place. I had some spare cash at the time, and so I bought a two-bed in a block which was being finished off in the same development. The peseta was dirt cheap then, and I was able to forward-buy currency, which made it an even better deal.
Pitkeathly's brow furrowed for a second. 'I thought Peter Payne said you had a villa.'
Skinner nodded. 'That's right. A couple of years after we bought, an old aunt died and left me her house . . . I always think of old Auntie Jessie with great affection. I didn't need another house at the time, and certainly not a huge bloody thing in Aberfeldy with two and a half acres attached. So I sold the land to a builder, and the house to a couple who wanted to turn it into a nursing home, put half the proceeds into an investment trust with a Japanese portfolio, and the other half into a really nice three-bedroom villa up on Puig Pedro, overlooking the bay. It has a sort of pool, more of a
`Got all that?' Ruth nodded. 'Good. Knock something out along those lines and I'll sign it. Before you do that, ask Alan Royston to step up and see me. Tell him I want to issue a press release on the basis of Maggie's report.'
`Very good. By the way, did you see the note in your diary about Mr Pitkeathly?'
For a second, Skinner looked puzzled; then the conversation in the Barnton Hotel came back to him. 'I missed that. What have you fixed up?'
`Lunchtime. He suggested it, and I decided that would be best for you, too. He's booked a table at Ladolcevito for one o'clock. He said he thought that would be fairly discreet.' `That's nice of him. I hope I can help him.'
Nineteen
The diminutive Mr V welcomed Skinner like a long-lost brother to his smart bistro restaurant in Hanover Street, and showed him to a table in the small downstairs bar, where Greg Pitkeathly was waiting.
The thin man stood up, hand outstretched. 'Good of you to see me, Mr Skinner. I hope this lunchtime arrangement is all right for you.'
`Mmm. Sure. But I'd have been happy to fit you in at Fettes in the course of the day.'
Not at all. This is the least I can do. I thought I'd be lucky to get to see a constable, and here I am telling my story to Scotland's most famous detective.'
Their opening exchange was interrupted by Mr V, as he handed them leather-bound menus. 'I have given you the table in the far corner, Mr Pitkeathly. You won't be disturbed there. You want to go up now, yes?'
They rose and followed the little restaurateur, carrying their menus as they climbed the narrow staircase in single file. As he surveyed the long dining room lit by the May sunshine flooding through its south-facing windows, Skinner smiled inwardly at Pitkeathly's notion of discretion. He knew that, while Ladolcevito might not be the largest restaurant in Edinburgh, it was one of the most popular with the city's chattering classes.
As he followed his host across to the table in the far left-hand corner, he recognised and nodded to a Sunday newspaper editor, two business journalists and four chartered surveyors, all assiduous grinders of the rumour mill. He wondered what would be made of his lunchtime meeting.
They chose identical items from the á la carte menu , stracciatella followed by pan-fried steak, and Pitkeathly ordered a bottle of red Caruso, the meaty house wine. As the proprietor strolled off to the kitchen, the thin man picked up the tan leather briefcase which he had been carrying, rolled the combinations into place and flicked it open. He withdrew a yellow folder and placed it on the table.
`How long have you owned property in L'Escala, Mr Skinner?' he asked.
`Bob, please. It'll be around ten years now. I went there first on holiday with my daughter to a rented apartment up behind Montgo Bay. We both loved the place. I had some spare cash at the time, and so I bought a two-bed in a block which was being finished off in the same development. The peseta was dirt cheap then, and I was able to forward-buy currency, which made it an even better deal.
Pitkeathly's brow furrowed for a second. 'I thought Peter Payne said you had a villa.'
Skinner nodded. 'That's right. A couple of years after we bought, an old aunt died and left me her house . . . I always think of old Auntie Jessie with great affection. I didn't need another house at the time, and certainly not a huge bloody thing in Aberfeldy with two and a half acres attached. So I sold the land to a builder, and the house to a couple who wanted to turn it into a nursing home, put half the proceeds into an investment trust with a Japanese portfolio, and the other half into a really nice three-bedroom villa up on Puig Pedro, overlooking the bay. It has a sort of pool, more of a
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