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Authors: Quintin Jardine

Tags: #Fiction, #Crime, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Scotland

Inhuman Remains (7 page)

BOOK: Inhuman Remains
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Maybe that disclosure should have taken me by surprise, but it didn’t: I was beginning to catch a faint scent of fish. ‘Thanks, Alex. Give me a call next time you’re heading this way and I’ll buy you lunch . . . but not for a few days. I’m off to Sevilla.’
I was frowning as I ended the call. A multi-million-euro rural complex operating from a city-centre house? That didn’t sit right with me. I decided to dig a little deeper, and to set up a reason for my visit.
I can hear you asking something. Since I have a friend in the police, why didn’t I report Frank as a missing person and leave it to them? Good question. Right now, I wish I had, but then I didn’t because, given Frank’s record, I was concerned that criminality lay behind his disappearance, and I reckoned that my aunt had suffered enough public embarrassment at his hapless hands.
Instead, I went to the final section of the d’Amuseo website, ‘Investment Opportunities’, and clicked on it. I was greeted by a short, encouraging statement.
While the bulk of the equity in Hotel Casino d’Amuseo will be held by leading financial institutions, a number of shares in the holding company have been reserved for private investors. In addition to unrivalled growth potential, these carry with them the benefits of discounted rates in the hotel and ski-lodge and membership of the golf club. For further information, contact Lidia Bromberg, director and sales manager.
‘Why not?’ I said, and dialled the number Alex had checked out for me. It rang four times, then a solicitous automated voice told me, in Spanish, that my call was being diverted. The sound changed to a double tone, which I heard a further six times until finally, in a lousy accent, ‘
Sí
?’
‘Is that Lidia Bromberg?’
‘Yes?’ She switched to English; there was a degree of caution in her voice.
‘The same Lidia Bromberg who’s marketing director of Hotel Casino d’Amuseo?’
‘Yes.’ Instantly, she sounded more comfortable and more confident. ‘And you are?’
‘A potential investor in your complex,’ I replied. ‘My name is Janet More.’ The decision to use my previously borrowed identity was made on the spur of the moment. If Frank had let slip the celebrity names in his family when he was in Switzerland, there was a better than even chance he’d done it in Spain.
‘What level of investment did you have in mind, Mrs More?’ Her accent was definitely not British; if I’d had to name it on the spot I’d have said middle rather than eastern European, German probably.
‘It’s Ms More, and that’s not something I care to discuss over the phone. Let’s just say that I have access to substantial funds.’
‘Our starter level is around two hundred thousand US.’
‘Is that all?’ I asked. ‘Your club doesn’t sound too exclusive.’
‘Ah,’ she said, a little too quickly, ‘but that is only our starter level.
Once potential investors take a look at what we have to offer, in terms of benefits and capital growth, invariably they go way above that.’
‘And what do you have to offer?’
‘A piece of the biggest and most exciting leisure development ever undertaken in Europe.’
‘I thought that was Disneyland Paris.’
‘Kids’ stuff, literally. Let me send you our prospectus. I’ll include a share application form because you’ll be hooked as soon as you see it.’
‘Let me tell you something, dear.’ I laid on the Scottish accent. ‘I’ve never bought anything off the page in my life, not so much as a pair of knickers. Your website’s full of nice pictures but, with respect, it tells me little more than bugger-all.’
I could almost hear the wheels as the sales pitch was cranked up. ‘We don’t have anything on the ground yet, Ms More, but I can assure you that the authorities in Sevilla are co-operating with us fully. As of last month, we have all the necessary licences and permissions in place and we’ll be ready to begin the construction phase soon.’ She paused. ‘Of course, once that’s under way, the investment opportunities will either dry up or become much more expensive.’
‘I told you before; cost isn’t an issue, but timing might be. My partner and I have money we need to get invested soon, if you get my drift. The UK isn’t an option for us; your operation might be, but I need to see something more attractive than a pile of bullshit.’
My obvious hint at money-laundering didn’t faze her in the slightest. ‘Then come to Seville,’ she invited. ‘I’ll show you models, I’ll show you the ground where the complex will stand, and I’ll take you up to the mountains and show you where the ski-lodge will be. I’ll even take you to the town hall and introduce you to the people we’re working with there.’
‘Okay. Now you’re saying what I want to hear. I’ll be there the day after tomorrow. Where’s your office?’
‘Let’s meet somewhere more interesting than that,’ she proposed. ‘Let’s say the San Fernando Bar, in the Hotel Alfonso Thirteen. Two thirty in the afternoon, yes?’
‘Fine.’
‘Dress light when you come. It’s very hot here at this time of year.’
‘I’m used to heat. I’ve lived in Vegas.’ I hung up on her, leaving her pondering, no doubt, about a Scotswoman with a Las Vegas background, a partner and a pot of money that needed investing in a hurry.
That left me with two things to do, before I was ready for my trip. The first was to find a hotel. That was easy: I logged on to a travel site, searched for hotels in Sevilla and found one called Las Casas de los Mercaderes, in Calle Alvarez Quintero itself, and so not far from the house where Lidia Bromberg’s land-line phone was located. I booked myself in for three nights, Monday through Wednesday, as Primavera Blackstone, not Jan. I had - still have - an unexpired MasterCard in that name, but the hotel would almost certainly have wanted to see some back-up ID.
My second task took me back to Google, where I entered the name ‘George Macela’. I came up with two footballers, nothing more.
Another faceless mystery man . . . but maybe not quite.
I called Cinq Pistes again, and was put through to Susannah. ‘When your guests check in do you ask for their passports?’
‘Of course.’
‘By any chance, do you photocopy them?’
‘No, but we scan them.’
‘Do you still have an image of George Macela’s passport?’
‘Sure. That’s where I checked the spelling of his name.’
‘In that case, would you be breaking any Swiss laws if you sent me a copy as an email attachment?’
‘Probably, but I’ll do it anyway, for Frank’s sake.’
I gave her my email address, and four minutes later it hit my in-box. I can’t read Lithuanian, but the numbers are the same. George Macela was forty-eight years old, and one metre seventy-four tall. The photo showed a man with an oval face, a sallow complexion and brown hair that was either greying, or so greasy that it had reflected the flash. I opened some software and edited Susannah’s scanned image, isolating the picture and blowing it up as much as it would take without losing clarity. When I was done I printed myself half a dozen copies, to go with those of Frank I had done earlier.
At least I knew what one of my potential targets looked like. Maybe some other people in Sevilla would too, once I’d showed them around.
Eight
S
o there I was, all my meticulous groundwork done, and ready to go in search of my disappeared cousin, ready to step back into some of the excitement of my past life . . . only to discover that I wasn’t.
As soon as I heard the front door open, and went through to find Tom fetching an isotonic drink from the fridge for a distinctly frazzled Auntie Ade, who was slumped in one of the kitchen chairs, all my resolve seemed to drain out through the soles of my bare feet. ‘Are you all right, Adrienne?’ I asked, anxiously.
‘Fine,’ she replied, unconvincingly. ‘Those ruins are more exposed than I realised. I must have become a little dehydrated. I felt a little faint, that’s all. Luckily, Tom knew one of the people there, a very nice young man called Jordi. He put us in his van and ran us home.’
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ said my son, frowning anxiously. ‘I should have taken more water with us.’
I looked down at them. The trip to Sevilla was predicated on Adrienne looking after my seven year old; what I could see at that moment was him looking after her. As I’ve told you, he’s a very sensible, resourceful lad for his age, but . . .
‘This won’t do, Auntie Ade,’ I declared. ‘You take Tom for an outing and you come back a basket case. I can’t leave you.’
I stalked back to my office, picked up Frank’s old Swiss business card and dialled the mobile number, which his mother had told me was still active. I had called it earlier, to find it on voicemail, as Adrienne had said. This time I left a message: you could say it was a little terse. ‘Frank,’ I began, ‘this is your cousin Primavera. I have your mother with me, here in St Martí, worried out of her skull because you’ve disappeared from your so-called job and aren’t answering her calls. If you pick this up, then ring me at once. Otherwise tomorrow I’m on my way down to Sevilla to find you. I have a strong feeling that you’re messing her around, you little sod. If you do not stop, then I will personally give you a double orchidectomy, and if you don’t know what that means, look it up!’ I recited my mobile number, then slammed the phone down.
When I turned, I saw my aunt standing in the doorway. ‘What have you just threatened to do to my son?’ she asked, with a weak smile.
‘Rip his balls off.’
‘This may sound unmaternal, but I really hope you have the opportunity to do that soon. I fear you won’t, though. I fear . . .’ Her voice broke, her shoulders slumped and she started to cry. To say that it took me aback is putting it mildly: in all my life I never saw my mother shed a tear, and her sister’s a pea from the same pod.
I held her to me and let her dampen my shoulder for a while. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she whispered, when she had composed herself.
‘What the hell for?’
‘For being so soppy, for making a complete tit of myself in front of my nephew at those ruins, but most of all for being so damn presumptuous. It was outrageous of me to ask you to get involved in this. I’ll go to Seville myself, and find out what’s happened to Frank.’
It was as if her weakness had restored my strength. ‘Auntie Ade,’ I reminded her, ‘you’re that number you never use plus two years old, and if the heat gets to you here, it will kill you in Sevilla. My arrangements are made. I’ll go, and I’ll trust you not to do anything silly. If you do need anything, you can go to any of the people in the restaurants or shops: they’re all chums of ours. If something comes up when they’re closed, I have a friend called Alex Guinart. He’s a police officer, and you can rely on him.’
When she smiled again, the mischief was back. ‘A friend, eh. How close?’
‘Fairly. I’m godmother to his baby daughter, Marte.’
Nine
I
had another blip in my resolve early next morning, when the time came to set out. If I had seen the slightest hint of a wobble in Tom’s chin when I told him to be a good boy and to look after his aunt as carefully as he looked after me, I swear I wouldn’t have gone.
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.
BOOK: Inhuman Remains
6.85Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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