Inhuman Remains

by Quintin Jardine

  But he was fine. It was as if he was looking forward to being shot of me for a few days. I backed the still-new Jeep carefully out of the garage, then saw him waving a brief goodbye before he stepped back inside to let me close the door with the remote.

  I had been slightly wary of the airline called Clickair, but it was okay. I’ve never been a fan of on-board catering, so its absence didn’t bother me. The aircraft was clean, the flight was on time and that was all I cared about. My sister had asked me recently whether my near-death experience in New Jersey had made me a nervous flier. I told her that the opposite is true. The odds against being involved in a major incident (and that’s the bet we all make when the wheels leave the ground) are long enough to make us all feel secure, so the odds against one person being involved in two of them must be astronomical.

  The airport in Sevilla is pretty compact for a major city, but I only had cabin baggage so I didn’t have to get involved with the carousel. Instead I walked straight out and found a line of taxis waiting. I climbed into the leader. The driver’s name was Tony; he made a point of telling me that all the cabs charged a flat fare from the airport to anywhere in the city, and that it was thirty-five euros. There was a notice in his cab that contradicted him by about ten euros on my side of the deal, but he was chatty and friendly as he drove me, through some very narrow streets, right to the door of Hotel Las Casas de los Mercaderes, so I handed over two twenties without a murmur.

  I’d picked the place on the basis of its location, not stars, but it was central and pretty well appointed, even if there was a steel pillar in the middle of the room. (A design feature, I hoped, rather than a structural necessity.) I put thoughts of pole dancing to the back of my mind as I unpacked.

  It was early afternoon, almost a full twenty-four hours before I was due to meet Lidia Bromberg, and I had a couple of things to do. The first involved a short stroll along the narrow Calle Alvarez Quintero, which was signed ‘For pedestrians only’, from the hotel on, although local rules seemed to extend that definition to take in cyclists and kids on roller-blades and skateboards. The number forty-seven wasn’t hard to find. It was above a double wooden door, painted a dark green. I rapped on it with my knuckles, and heard a hollow sound, but nobody came to answer. I tried the handle, but it was locked: a layer of dust gave me the impression that it wasn’t opened all that regularly. I looked, but saw neither bell-push nor knocker. There was a small brass rectangle that might have displayed the occupier’s name, but it was empty; no mention of anyone called Benitez. A letter slot was set into the door to the left: I knelt, raised its flap and peered through, into the total darkness of what I assumed was a mailbox.

  Undeterred, I glanced around and saw a shop directly across the street, offering the usual tourist stuff that you find in the heart of every city. It was open and devoid of customers so I stepped inside. The man behind the counter was in his forties, not too clean, and with an appearance that was generally . . . well, ‘crumpled’ is the kindest description that comes to mind. He gave me a bold, curious look, the kind that a certain type of man might direct at a lady, the one that starts at the legs and works its way up.

  ‘I wonder if you can help me,’ I began. ‘I have an appointment to meet someone this afternoon, and the address I was given is that one over there.’ I pointed at the dirty green door. ‘But it’s locked and it’s pretty clear there’s nobody in.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ he said. ‘That door is always locked when I am here. I guess the people who live there work during the day.’

  ‘So you don’t know them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s too bad. Thing is, I’ve never met the people I’m supposed to see. But I was given photographs.’ I took the images of Frank and George Macela from my bag and showed them to him. ‘I don’t suppose you recognise either of them.’

  He looked at them, then shook his head firmly. ‘No, I don’t.’ He paused, then grinned, unexpectedly and lasciviously. ‘But don’t be too upset. I’m about to close. Maybe you could spend some time with me instead.’

  Bloody hell! The guy thought I was a hooker. I said nothing, but stared at him long enough and hard enough for him to realise that he had made a big mistake. ‘No,’ he said again, a lot less comfortably. ‘But I have seen another man go in there once or twice. He never stays long, though.’

  ‘I guess I’ve been set up.’ I sighed. I turned to go, but paused as I opened the door. ‘Incidentally,’ I told him, ‘you couldn’t afford five minutes with me.’ He called me a rude name as I left.

  There was a tapas bar two doors further on, with an empty window table that offered a clear view back towards number forty-seven; I occupied it and ordered coffee, with some croquettes and a little octopus salad. I had no real expectation that Frank might put in an appearance, but I had some thinking to do, and that was as good a place to do it as any.

  I was toying with a piece of tentacle when a dark-haired man, dressed in a lightweight cream suit, and carrying a plastic supermarket bag, walked past the window, coming from behind so that his back was always towards me. He stopped, then stepped up to the drab door. I watched him as he unlocked it: he was about to open it when he looked over his shoulder, as if in response to a call. The creep from the shop sidled alongside him. As he spoke, I saw the newcomer’s right eyebrow rise, in profile, and then he shrugged. I still couldn’t see all of his face, but he was too tall to be Frank and looked about ten years too young to be George Macela.

  I was trapped at my table, in clear view if the shop-owning lecher had glanced my way, but he didn’t. Instead, the visitor to number forty-seven patted him on the shoulder, as if he was thanking him, then watched as he went on his way in the opposite direction, mission accomplished. I had no doubt that he had been cliping on me. (That’s Scottish for ‘grassing me up’.)

  Left on his own, the newcomer opened the right half of the double door and stepped into the building. I was in a bit of a quandary. I had no idea how long he’d be staying, but if Shopman had described me, and he saw me on the way out, I’d be well exposed, there in my goldfish bowl. On the other hand, I still hadn’t seen his face.

  I had a sun-hat in my bag. I put it on, and my shades for good measure. There was a newspaper on the table, a Herald Tribune, discarded by a previous Anglo customer. I picked it up and gave a fair imitation of reading.

  I hadn’t got past the first page before he reappeared, closing the door behind him and locking it once more. As he did so I noticed that he was no longer carrying the supermarket bag. He turned, and I had my first clear look at his face: he was cleanshaven, with high cheekbones and dark eyebrows, and a look about him that reminded me faintly of my late ex-husband. He glanced at the tapas bar . . . although not at me . . . and seemed to hesitate in his stride, as if he was considering coming in. I stared intently at the Herald Tribune, and breathed a sigh of relief when he carried on his way.

  ‘So who was he?’ I wondered softly. ‘Which of the mystery men might that have been?’

  Ten

  As soon as the visitor to number forty-seven was out of sight, I paid my modest bill and went back to the hotel. There was a lounge just behind the reception area; I took a seat there, had another coffee and read another newspaper . . . El Mundo this time . . . but I found I couldn’t settle, and that I was on edge.

  I knew what the problem was, of course. My head was back in St Martí, with my son. I had been gone for just a few hours and I was missing him. That’s how it is with Tom and me. That’s how it was with his dad and me. Oh, shit, there I go again! Stop it, Primavera!

  I decided that the best thing I could do was to keep active. But how? After a couple of minutes spent glancing at a town map, it came to me. Not far from the hotel was a square called Plaza Nueva, and taking up one side of it a building labelled ‘ayuntamiento’; that means ‘town hall’, in English. Lidia Bromberg had promised to take me there, but it wouldn’t do any harm to pay it a visit in advance. Would i
t? I checked my watch; it was ten to four and odds on they’d be closed, but you never know.

  I strode out of the hotel, more in hope than anticipation, map in hand. I followed its directions, round a corner then down a slope. Within two minutes I found myself in Plaza Nueva . . . actually, it was more rectangle than square . . . a paved area with the traditional equestrian statue in the middle, this one on an ornate plinth that was three times the size of the king on the horse, and with big modern sculptures decorating its perimeter.

  The town hall was easy to spot: the flags of Spain, Andalusia and Europe flew . . . or, rather, hung limply . . . from three poles set on a balcony above its main entrance. As I approached, I saw that the place was still open, and so I strolled casually inside. There was a dark-haired, late-twenties man behind the reception desk, upon which I spotted a sign that told me his name was Ignacio Gallardo i Blazquez. (Why do Spanish people often use two surnames? First one’s Dad’s, the second is Mum’s. Women don’t change their names on marriage.) He was dressed in a grey suit, and he wore a tie, a clear indicator in Spain of a public official: no other bugger wears one. As I approached, I realised I had no idea of what I was going to say to him, and so I settled on the truth.

  ‘I’m trying to find someone,’ I began, in my accented Spanish, after we’d exchanged courtesies and he had welcomed me to Sevilla. ‘He’s my cousin, we’ve lost touch, and I need to find him because his mother is anxious. He’s English, although he doesn’t look it, and he’s involved with a project in this area: the Hotel Casino d’Amuseo. I’m wondering if he’s known here.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve heard of that development,’ he told me.

  ‘Could one of your colleagues help me?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’ He glanced up at a wall clock. ‘Unfortunately, our planning department is just about to close. Maybe you could come back tomorrow?’

  ‘I suppose.’ I frowned, and he took pity on me.

  ‘Look,’ he continued, ‘everyone who comes into this building has to pass me. Do you have a photograph?’

  I found it in my bag, and showed it to him.

  He studied it for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘Yes, I have seen him here. Mr Urquhart, yes?’ He stumbled over the name, but I got his meaning: some Scottish names are impossible for Spanish people to pronounce . . . for that matter, few English people get close.

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Mr Roy Urquhart.’ The second try was no better. ‘Yes, he’s been here.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen him for a while.’

  ‘Weeks? Months?’

  ‘Weeks, certainly. Maybe two months.’

  ‘Do you know any other people from the project who come in here?’

  He mused for a moment. ‘I can’t think of any.’

  ‘How about this man?’ I showed him the Macela print. ‘He’s my cousin’s colleague.’

  ‘Mr Macela? Yes, he’s been here, but not for a while now.’

  ‘Have they visited here often?’

  ‘Yes, but they don’t need to any more. They have all the permissions.’

  Just as Lidia Bromberg told me they had, I thought. That much was true, at any rate. Maybe I was damning the whole operation out of sheer mistrust of my cousin.

  ‘So they’re building?’ I probed.

  ‘No, I don’t think so. A friend of mine in the licensing section told me they haven’t started construction yet, although everything’s been approved since May.’

  ‘Maybe they’re waiting for their contractor to be ready. Do you know where I can find them?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ignacio, shaking his head. ‘You’ll need to ask my colleagues.’ He paused, looking towards the main door. ‘Ah, too bad,’ he exclaimed. ‘The co-ordinator of planning, Mr Caballero, would have been able to help you . . . that’s him . . . but he looks as if he’s in a hurry, and I’m afraid he’s too important for me to interrupt. You should come back tomorrow, and ask to speak to him.’

  I followed his gaze, and saw a tall, dark-haired man, with high cheekbones, in a lightweight cream suit. Now there’s a coincidence, I thought.

  Eleven

  Why was a council planner calling in at a sleeper address for Hotel Casino d’Amuseo? Damn good question, I reckoned, as I wandered idly along the narrow shopping streets off the Plaza, and it was one that I couldn’t answer. When it came to it, there was precious little I knew for certain at that point.

  But I was learning. Frank McGowan was known locally as Roy Urquhart. That would explain why he hadn’t given his mother a business card, but why would he need a false identity? And what about George Macela? Was that his real name, or was it phoney too?

  No, the only thing I had established was that the whole project was well thought of in the town hall and that there was nothing to back up my instinctive suspicion. The friendly Ignacio at the town hall had told me they had all the permission they needed to start construction. I’d be interested to hear what Lidia Bromberg had to say about the timetable when we met. I was going to see her as a potential investor. How many others had they drawn into their project and where had their money gone? But should I meet her, or should I call a halt there and then and report my cousin’s disappearance, and his use of a false name, to the Guardia Civil?

  I suppose that was the first real test of the new Primavera, the one I’d set out to be. Maybe I failed it. Maybe that’s exactly what I should have done, report it to the authorities. But I didn’t: I decided against it, for reasons I believed were legitimate. For a start, I’d have been shopping Frank, putting my cousin in the frame as a convicted criminal operating in Spain under an alias, and raising large sums of money into the bargain. That didn’t bother me of itself, but it would have bothered my aunt, and I had to consider her feelings. The clincher, though, the possibility that stopped me from trotting off to the Guardia Civil, was a real fear that I might be held myself, not as a suspect, but as a witness, and that I might find myself stuck in Sevilla, cut off from my son.

  I felt exposed, though, no mistake about that, and just a little bit nervous about my meeting with Lidia Bromberg . . . if that was her real name. I’ve become pretty self-reliant, in all things, over the years, and I’ve got out of the habit of turning to others, even my dad, for help and advice. That’s not to say that I don’t have a Mr Fix-it. Miles Grayson, my brother-in-law, is a very influential man. Trouble is, he’s also straight as a die and I knew that any advice he gave me would involve the police, and might even be conditional upon it.

  And then I thought of Mark.

  Back in the old days, Oz had a . . . How best to describe him? Let’s call him an associate. His name is Mark Kravitz, and he describes himself as a security consultant. But he’s one of the very few consultants I know who doesn’t have a website, and if you Google his name the only hits you’ll make will be a rock musician and an American judge, neither of whom are related to him in any way.

  I paused in my stroll. ‘Lady,’ a voice called to me.

  I turned, to see a café called the Gallego, and a white-shirted waiter beckoning me towards an empty table. Why not? I thought. It was hot as the approach roads to hell, and I was beginning to feel parched. I thanked him as I sat down; a badge on his chest told me that his name was Carlos.

  ‘You’re not Spanish,’ he said. (I’ll never pass for one, no matter how fluent I become.) ‘English?’

  ‘Not quite,’ I told him. ‘Try Scottish.’

  ‘Ah, Scotland.’ He sighed. ‘Football. Rangers, Celtic?’

  A thousand years of history, and that’s all they know about us, but I went along with it. ‘In my case, St Johnstone,’ I confessed.

  He smiled, then extended his left hand towards me, displaying an embossed signet ring. ‘What is that, do you think?’

  I peered at the crest: it was familiar, but out of place. ‘Barcelona?’ I suggested.

  He nodded, in a way that told me I had made his day, and made a friend too. ‘I am th
e only Barca supporter in Sevilla. I never speak of it at home. You like some tapas? For you I have a special selection.’

  I thanked him, but settled simply for a beer. When it arrived it was full to the brim, with a normal head, not the usual kind they give you, with a layer of foam so deep that a bloke could shave with it. I took a mouthful and went back to my thoughts.

  Some years ago, I acquired a PDA, a personal organiser, and it’s been one of my best buddies ever since. Among other things it holds just about every phone number I’ve ever known, including two for Mark Kravitz. I found his mobile and dialled it.

  He answered curtly: ‘Yes.’ His tone was all business, making me guess that he had a second number for personal calls. I realised that I had no idea if he had a personal life or if he was consumed by his round-the clock job.

  ‘Mark, this is Primavera Blackstone. Do you remember me?’

  His reply was instantaneous, without a pause for thought. ‘Yes, Prim, of course I do. Still alive, I’m glad to hear.’ That was as close to a joke as I’d ever heard him come. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘A favour?’

  ‘I don’t normally do those,’ he shot back, then continued, ‘but just this once, for old times’ sake. In memoriam, let’s say. What is it?’

  ‘I’m on the hunt for a missing person, my cousin, Frank McGowan. Recently he’s been in Seville, calling himself Roy Urquhart, and involved with an enterprise called Hotel Casino d’Amuseo; his title was director and sales manager and he was responsible for recruiting investors for the project. He has an associate, George Macela. There are two others involved. They are listed on the company website as Alastair Rowland and Lidia Bromberg.’

  ‘This is the same cousin who did time for illegal dealing?’ he asked.

  I was taken aback. ‘Yes, that’s the boy. You must have a hell of a memory for names. That was a while back.’