Inhuman Remains

by Quintin Jardine

  As they reached the door I saw that the two officers had become three. The new arrival was older than they were and wore what looked like significant braid on his shoulders. The door guards had stubbed out their cigarettes and were standing to something that might have been attention, so I assumed that he was the brass.

  He greeted Ponytail with a handshake and a smile. I heard her call him something that might have been Pablo, but as she had her back to me I couldn’t be sure. He led her inside. As soon as they had gone, the male paramedic produced a pack of cigarettes and offered them to the three remaining cops. I watched, unobserved, as all four guys smoked; they chatted quietly among themselves. Suddenly the youngest, my informant, glanced round in my direction, grinning. The phrase ‘her right tittie falling out’ floated up to me. I must have been leaning further over than I’d thought. Happily, he added, ‘It looked like a pretty nice tittie, too.’ The night was getting better.

  But not for long. After less time than it took to finish the fags, the doctor’s head reappeared in the doorway, together with a hand, beckoning. Her team took the stretcher from the trolley and followed her inside.

  It took no time at all to load up, and I saw why as soon as they arrived. I’ve heard it said that the Spanish are less hot on dignity than us Brits. In general terms I don’t believe it, but in the middle of that night in Sevilla it was certainly the case. There was no sheet on the body as they rolled it past under my window. They took him out as they had found him, dressed in a shirt that was as grey as his face, and crumpled cream trousers that might have been linen. From the way the body was lying I could tell he had been dead for a few hours, as rigor mortis had set in.

  One of his eyes was half open, staring up at the night sky. His face was a couple of days short of a shave, and his greying hair hung lankly. He was middle-aged, northern-European in appearance, and he was the spitting image of one of the pictures that still lay in my bag, that of George Macela, or whoever the hell he really was.

  Fourteen

  At first I wasn’t going to call Mark: it was still the middle of the night and an hour earlier where he was. I had no idea of his domestic situation, but I knew that if he was married with kids, he wouldn’t appreciate having them roused.

  I lay there, my resolution firm and my toe throbbing, until four o’clock. That was when I picked up my mobile and called his number; I supposed there was a fair chance he’d be switched off and that all I’d be able to do was leave a message. But he wasn’t. He picked up after five rings and he sounded just as sharp and business-like as ever.

  ‘Prim,’ he said, before I’d had a chance to announce myself. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I am,’ I told him, ‘but someone isn’t. Did you have anything to do with the Sevilla cops breaking down the door of Calle Alvarez Quintero forty-seven an hour or so back?’

  I heard a light chuckle. ‘They bought it, did they?’ He paused. ‘Yes, that was me. I have an associate in Madrid. I had him make an anonymous call.’

  ‘Not only did they buy it, they woke me in the process of following it up. Did you get that pic of Macela?’

  ‘Yes, I surely did, and it got results. His real name’s Hermann Gresch, German, not Lithuanian, with a distinguished past in the fraud business.’

  ‘A past is all he’s got now, I’m afraid. I’ve just seen them carting him out of number forty-seven, stone ginger.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Mark shouted. ‘Prim, I really must urge you not to go any further with this.’

  ‘It may have been a heart-attack, nothing more sinister than that. They were kind enough to wheel him under my balcony, so I had a good look; there wasn’t a mark on him.’

  ‘That means nothing, and you know it. I need to find out how he died, but I don’t buy natural causes or misadventure, given the circumstances.’

  I was touched by his urgency. ‘You’ve done enough already. Look, I’ll meet Bromberg tomorrow, and if she doesn’t give me what I need I’ll go to the police.’

  ‘Prim,’ he countered, ‘I’m not leaving you in the middle of this situation. If this is a multi-million-euro scam, as it might be, you could put yourself in danger. You told me you saw a man go into that house this afternoon, and now Gresch has been carried out of it dead. Think about it.’

  ‘But that guy’s a public official.’

  ‘So was Saddam Hussein.’

  ‘Mark, I’m going to meet Bromberg.’

  I heard him sigh. ‘If you insist. If you’re that reckless. We still have a few hours till your meeting. I’ll use them as best I can.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Finding out as much as I can about Hermann Gresch; past known associates, see if a woman shows up among them. Also, I’ll do some digging into Señor Caballero. What did you say his job was?’

  ‘The lad at the city hall described him as the planning co-ordinator. ’

  ‘Okay. Let’s see what that means, and how important it makes him.’

  ‘He’s too important for Ignacio to interrupt when he was leaving; he sounded very deferential.’

  ‘In that case, I’m even more worried about him. Once more, I’m going to ask you, get on a plane and go home.’

  ‘As soon as I’ve seen Bromberg and got a lead to Frank.’

  I heard him draw a breath. ‘I didn’t want to say this,’ he murmured, ‘but given what’s just happened to his associate, there’s every chance that by now Frank’s helping to fertilise a small part of Andalucía.’

  ‘You didn’t have to say it either. I’d worked that out for myself. But one way or another, I need to know.’

  ‘Then take care for the next few hours. Don’t hang around your hotel. If Gresch was murdered, the police will start asking questions in the area. Chances are the guy you told me about, in the shop, will tell them about you asking questions yesterday. As soon as you decently can, get out of there. Do one of two things: go somewhere very noisy, where you’ll be lost in the crowd, or somewhere very quiet, where nobody’s likely to find you.’

  Fifteen

  I considered Mark’s two options and chose the second. My time in Las Vegas had been my version of hiding out in a crowd and, to be honest, it never made me feel entirely comfortable. Although I tried not to, I always found myself looking over my shoulder, or trying to be aware of every face, just in case there was one who might remember me from the old days. Once or twice I convinced myself that I recognised someone, and found myself taking evasive action.

  Having decided on the quiet approach, I sneaked out of the hotel just after nine. My toe hadn’t got any better, but I could walk, after a fashion. I headed down towards Plaza Nueva, then along the Avenue of the Constitution towards the Cathedral of Sevilla.

  Maybe I had the romantic thought that I might find sanctuary there; I can’t remember now. What I do recall is seeing the queues at the admissions desk (yes, in Sevilla you have to pay to get into a church), and realising that I was back at option one. So I turned my back on what they say is the biggest cathedral in Spain and looked around for a better idea.

  Across the square, I saw a sign pointing to the entrance to the Real Alcázar, the royal palace. Surprisingly there was nobody waiting. I strolled across, paid my money and, after one last glance over my shoulder, stepped inside. There was hardly anyone there, just me and a few security people. The downside to that was that I had all their attention focused upon me, and in what I now recognise as my increasing paranoia, it dawned on me that they’d be bound to remember me if the police, or anyone else, decided to trawl the tourist spots in search of the suspicious woman who had been trying to gain entrance to Calle Alvarez Quintero forty-seven the day before.

  Eventually I limped into an empty gallery, empty, that is, but for a display of wall tiles. (People go to Sevilla to look at wall tiles?) On the far side, there was an open door. I stepped through it and into a vast, spectacular garden. Trees towered on both sides of long pathways that seemed to be set out in a grid. Walls that seemed to be boundaries
in fact divided sections with different themes. As I stepped into it, a jet of water arced from a pipe on my left into a pond below; Mercury’s Pool, I learned, when I was close enough to read the sign.

  As I made my steady way towards its heart, I passed several gardeners, none of whom, I was delighted to see, displayed the slightest interest in me, or even looked my way. I began to relax, strolling around, exploring and enjoying my surroundings, in spite of everything that had happened, and was, perhaps, still to happen.

  After half an hour, during which I had seen only a handful of visitors, I came upon a small arch, set against a wall, with a single seat beneath, placed before a water feature upon which a few ducks swam. I sat; the stone was cold beneath my bum, as the morning sun had still to reach the spot, but the weight was off my feet so I didn’t mind that. I had found the solitude I had been after in the middle of one of the busiest tourist cities in Europe.

  I had brought my book with me. I dug it out of my bag and started to read, finding my way back into a story that made my situation seem nothing at all.

  I had gone through four chapters and was starting the next when my mobile sounded in the pocket of my shorts. I took it out and looked at the number displayed: my own, in St Martí.

  ‘Adrienne?’ I began.

  ‘No, Mum, it’s me.’

  My heart seemed to swell at the sound of his voice; at the same time I felt very lonely, and very far away. ‘Hello, Tom,’ I said. ‘Are you checking up on me?’

  ‘No, Mum.’ Even in those two words, I sensed from his tone that something was wrong. ‘I can’t find Auntie Ade,’ he continued.

  ‘What do you mean, love?’

  ‘She’s not here. I took Charlie for a walk, down along the beach path before it got busy with people. Auntie Ade said she’d make the breakfast, but when I got back there was nothing, and she’s not here. The cereal box is on the table, and the kettle’s boiled. I’ve looked all through the house and so has Charlie, and we can’t find her. The door was open, though.’

  I didn’t like the sound of any of that, especially not the open-door bit. Tom knew very well, and I’d told Adrienne specifically, that that was a no-no, with all the strangers in the village through the summer. ‘Are you sure she’s not in the bathroom?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. And she’s not in her bedroom either, or in the laundry room, or watching television, or on the computer.’

  ‘She’s probably gone to get bread, or fruit.’

  ‘I got toastie bread from the freezer before Charlie and I went out, and there’s plenty of fruit.’

  I felt myself start to shake, and had to make damn sure that my voice stayed calm. ‘She’ll have gone somewhere for something, love. You get your own cereal and juice and wait for her to come back. Or if you’d rather, if you want more to eat than that, take some money from my dressing-table drawer,’ I always keep a few hundred euros about the house, ‘go to one of the cafés and get something there.’

  ‘Don’t want to go on my own,’ he grumbled, giving me a major guilt spasm. ‘I’ll have something here and wait for her to get back.’

  ‘Okay,’ I replied, as casually as I could manage. ‘Whatever you want. But when Auntie Ade gets back, you tell her to phone me right away.’

  ‘Yes, Mum. Have you found Frank yet?’

  ‘No, but I expect to today. Either way I’ll try to get home tomorrow.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise. Now go and feed yourself. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too, Mum,’ he said. As he hung up I suspected that he was trying as hard as I was to sound cool.

  I felt my heart thump as I leaned against the wall. However positive I might have sounded, I did not like what Tom had told me. I looked at my phone. I’d forgotten Mark’s stricture, and the battery level was down a couple of notches; I’d have to use it carefully. That said . . .

  I went into my phonebook and called Adrienne’s office. Fanette, her middle-aged assistant, picked up on the fifth ring, just as the answer-machine kicked in. I introduced myself. ‘I’m looking for my aunt’s mobile number,’ I told her.

  ‘Sure,’ she replied, with a trace of a French accent, and recited it. I made her do it again, more slowly, and noted it on the title page of my book. ‘You haven’t heard from Adrienne this morning, have you?’

  ‘No, but I’m only just in. I haven’t heard from her since she left for Spain. But,’ she continued, ‘I was going to phone her myself this morning. Someone called last night, asking for her. It was a woman, Swiss or German accent, I’d say, and she said that she was ringing on Frank’s behalf, trying to locate his mother.’

  ‘Frank?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘That’s what she said. I told her that Adrienne was with you in Spain, and suggested that she call her mobile. She said that Frank hadn’t given her the number, so I did. The woman knows where he is. That’s good news, isn’t it?’

  Not to me it wasn’t. ‘You told this woman where Adrienne is,’ I said. ‘You had no idea who she was, but you gave her my address. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes. What’s the harm in that?’

  ‘Maybe there’s none,’ I snapped, ‘but if there is, then heaven help you. Frank’s been missing for weeks, in God knows what circumstances, you get a call out of the blue and you give a stranger my home address, my son’s home address. And now Tom says that Adrienne’s vanished while he was out. If you put them in danger . . .’ I slapped the phone shut, ending the call before I got round to telling her what I was going to do to her.

  I waited for a few seconds, until my temper and my breathing were back under control, then called the number the woman had given me. It rang four times, and . . .

  ‘Hello?’ said a young voice.

  ‘Tom. It’s Mum. You’re on Auntie Ade’s mobile. Where was it?’

  ‘On the kitchen table. And so’s her bag. And she’s not back yet.’

  ‘Okay, love. Switch it off and it won’t bother you again.’ I paused. ‘But . . .’ I continued. ‘Listen, son, I’m going to phone Alex Guinart.’

  ‘The policeman?’

  ‘Yes. She might not look it, but Auntie Ade’s an old lady, and sometimes old people can do . . . funny things. I shouldn’t have left you with her; I’m sorry.’

  ‘Auntie Ade’s nice, Mum. And she’s not that old.’

  In spite of it all, I laughed at his protest. ‘You’re a gentleman, no question. But I’m still going to call Alex. Then I’m going to figure out what to do about you . . . and Charlie, of course.’

  My cop friend’s number was the first entry in my book. I must have sounded tense because he was business-like from the very start. I told him where I was, gave him a potted version of why I was there, and explained what had happened at home. ‘I don’t like it, Alex. Either she’s got far fewer marbles than I thought and she’s wandered off, or . . .’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or she’s been taken. Her son’s involved in a business scene, with some other people. One of them died here last night, and now Adrienne’s gone missing. That’s a big coincidence. I’m concerned about the whole operation, but most of all, I’m concerned about them.’

  ‘I agree,’ he said, firmly. ‘Give me a description and I’ll have our people look out for her, maybe stop cars at roundabouts, like we do often as routine.’

  I did the best I could with the description: tall, dyed auburn hair, busty, looks early sixties although she’s not. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What about Tom?’

  ‘Can you look out for him?’

  ‘Of course, Gloria will look after him. Tell him to go and sit in Esculapi. I’ll call and ask Pep to keep an eye on him. As soon as I can I’ll get up there and take him to our place. When will you be home?’

  ‘Soon as I can. If I can get a flight this afternoon, I will, but . . .’ I paused as I thought. ‘I may be able to make another arrangement for the wee man. I’ll let you know.’

  I phoned Tom again, told him to go down to t
he pizzeria, and to treat himself, then found another mobile number in my directory, almost at the other end of the alphabetical list. I hit the green button and heard a familiar Scots voice. ‘Hi, Prim,’ said Susie. ‘Que tal in Spain?’

  ‘Dodgy at the moment. Where are you?’

  In Oz’s final years, he and Susie had become tax nomads; it wasn’t just to shelter his money either. Before he got his lucky breaks, she was an established businesswoman, running the family building and property empire with considerable success. She had backed off a little after having her two kids, but after his death she had taken the reins again, albeit mostly from a distance. She had sold one of their three homes, in Los Angeles, but had kept the other two.

  ‘I’m in Monaco,’ she replied. ‘What’s up?’

  I gave her the bones of the story, speaking as quickly as I could for fear that my battery would give out on me. She whistled as I finished. ‘Trouble still comes looking for you, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t, Susie,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ve managed to keep my head down for the last couple of years.’

  ‘I suppose it’s the old story. We can pick our friends, but not our relatives.’ I heard her take a deep breath. ‘Right, this is what’s going to happen. I’m going to get Conrad Kent into a car right now, and on the road to L’Escala. He can do it in five hours, easy. He’ll pick up Tom and bring him here. Janet and Jonathan are looking forward to him coming to visit in August, so this will be an extra treat for them. Once he’s here, you don’t have to worry about him.’

  I sighed my relief, for that was very true. Conrad is ex-military, and not the man you mess with. ‘Thanks, Susie, thanks a million. I’ll make sure he’s ready to go.’ A further thought struck me. ‘This is pushing it,’ I added, ‘but could you take the dog as well?’

  Susie laughed out loud, lightening my mood. ‘For Tom, anything. I’ll tell Conrad to take the SUV. I know what’s going to happen, mind. My kids will want a bloody mutt too!’