The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman

CHAPTER 1

I
nspector Manchego's office wasn't, strictly speaking, an office. Rather, it was an open room divided into several square cubicles by thin plasterboard panels, which were of course themselves very practical: Occupants were free to arrange their own collages of clippings, photographs, urgent messages, Christmas cards, police reports, and lists of restaurants that delivered. The layout was reminiscent of the dressing rooms in certain shopping centers where, owing to a lack of ceilings or any kind of soundproofing, one inevitably hears tremendously indiscreet comments about the different types of fruit and salami that the female anatomy might resemble when squeezed into overtight trousers. The difference was that here in the office, instead of fashion disasters, other kinds of issues were aired, more along the lines of violence and abuse, armed robbery, thefts from ATMs, or street brawls. Words like “allegation,” “prosecution,” “court case,” and “prison sentence” jumped from one cubicle to another like fleas in an infested mattress.

He wasn't called Manchego either. The inspector, whose real name was Alonso Jandalillo, fancied that he might share the immortality of Don Quixote de la Mancha's heroic deeds as well
as his name—despite the fact that to date his résumé contained nothing of note. To this end he had adopted Manchego as an alias for the two or three field operations he had taken part in. Those three syllables sounded particularly like goo accompanied by the background noise of a walkie-talkie.

Sometimes, for he was a man of action in spite of the belly he had been cultivating of late, he lamented the sedentary lifestyle he now led. On turning fifty, he had retired from patrolling the streets of Madrid and had been given a cushy desk job in a neighborhood police station. But he missed the adrenaline rush he used to get from driving his police car, blasting the siren, and intimidating other drivers over the loudspeaker: “Move aside, lady, chop-chop, get that van out of the way, we're on a top secret mission.”

So when Mr. Marlow Craftsman and his interpreter, Mr. Bestman, dared to invade the thirty square meters of which Manchego was lord and master, both wearing tweed jackets and vests, expensive shoes, and gray overcoats, and carrying black leather briefcases, they renewed his faith in his profession. A profession he loved even though most of the time it caused him nothing but stress.

He felt the urge to get up and greet them but stopped himself just in time. A police inspector isn't a businessman, he reminded himself, he doesn't shake hands, doesn't smile, doesn't even interrupt the mechanical rhythm of his typing. He might, as a maximum gesture of courtesy, remove the cigarette from his mouth, tap it a couple of times on the edge of the ashtray, clear his throat, and say, “Please, take a seat.” Then, only once his visitors' eyes are at the same level as his and there is no way they can intimidate him by looking him up and down, he might lift his head and say, “How can I help you?”

Marlow Craftsman was about sixty years old, judging by the wrinkles around his ratty little eyes. He was as pasty as cold meat, had skin the exact color of cooked ham, and his lips were so thin that they seemed to have been drawn on with a pen.

The interpreter was somewhat younger but equally pink. He had more hair, of the salt-and-pepper variety, and he wore reading glasses.

“Allow me to introduce my employer,” said Bestman in grammatically flawless but acoustically horrendous Spanish. “Mr. Marlow Craftsman, of Craftsman & Co.”

The inspector put on his best blank face. He got it just right. Judging by the dramatic emphasis that Bestman had placed on the name, followed by a lengthy pause to give it time to sink in, the man sitting across from him was in all probability a bank baron. The firm sounded like a bank. One of those banks that have been in the hands of the same family of English aristocrats for more than 150 years. For there could be no doubt that those two specimens were Sons of the Perfidious Albion; hence their air of superiority and their Hamilton watches, a sharp observation that later, when Manchego looked back on the scene, he would have occasion to feel rather proud of.

“Aha,” he replied without saying more, given that he didn't have the faintest idea what that name meant.

“Mr. Craftsman has come from London to report the disappearance of his son Atticus. Since the young man's last-known residence is number 5, Calle del Alamillo, we have been sent by Scotland Yard to initiate proceedings here, at your station, which is the closest to his address.”

“Scotland Yard sent you?” This sounded promising.

“Not exactly, Mr. Jandalillo—”

“Inspector Manchego,” interrupted the policeman.

“Not exactly, Inspector Manchego,” repeated Bestman. “They simply advised us to come here.”

“I see.”

“The situation is that Atticus Craftsman has shown no signs of life for three months. The last time he made contact with his father was via a telephone message on the tenth of August.”

“Could I hear the message?” asked Manchego.

“It's in English,” replied the interpreter as he opened his briefcase and took out a state-of-the-art smartphone.

He pressed various buttons, then lifted the device to the inspector's ear and held his breath. Manchego heard a nasal voice, as if the speaker had a cold, and a rhythmic sound in the background, a kind of lament or prayer, and the strumming of a guitar. Of course, he didn't understand a word of what the speaker was saying, but he could tell that it wasn't a call for help because there was no distress in the tone of voice. That evening, on remembering this detail, he would congratulate himself once more for being such a gifted investigator.

“What's he saying?” Manchego had to admit that his lack of English was an issue he really had to address.

“He says, word for word, ‘Leave it to me, Dad. I've got it all under control.' ”

The inspector automatically shot an inquisitive glance at Mr. Craftsman. He, in turn, had his pink ratty eyes fixed on the inspector's.

“So,” Manchego asked, “what's he referring to?”

The interpreter translated. Mr. Craftsman replied.

“My employer says that he is probably referring to the work he was undertaking in Madrid.”

Manchego leaned back. After all that, this was just another case like all the others. Dirty dealings with drugs and the settling of scores.

“
Míster Crasman
,” he reprimanded, with the best English pronunciation he could muster, “is your son involved in drug trafficking?”

“No, God no!” responded Bestman without even translating. “The young Mr. Craftsman, like his father here, his late grandfather, and all his paternal ancestors dating back to the eighteenth century, is in the publishing business.”

“I see,” said Manchego.

“He is a respectable young man, educated at Exeter College, Oxford, with an outstanding academic record and an impeccable career. He has never been involved in any kind of shady business whatsoever. He is the victim here, not the suspect.”

Inspector Manchego took a long drag on his cigarette. Yes, he had made a wrong move, but, as he explained to the Englishmen, it was important to explore each and every possible cause of a disappearance, even the most unlikely.

“We have to proceed by ruling out options,” he declared.

“Mr. Craftsman is leaning toward the possibility of a kidnapping,” replied the translator.

“Why?” Manchego wanted to know. “Have you received any calls demanding a ransom? Do you have any proof that the young man has been restrained against his will?”

“The truth is, no, we haven't.”

“In that case, let's stick to the facts and not get sidetracked, gentlemen.”

It was important to always maintain a dominant position over the Englishmen, Manchego said to himself. He opened a
program that contained the templates for reports, selected the Open New Document tab, and wrote “Crasman Case,” although he later changed this to “Craftsman” at the translator's insistence:

The complainant, Marlow Craftsman, reports the disappearance of his son, Atticus Craftsman, thirty years of age, height of six foot one inch, well built, blond hair, green eyes, slight limp from an old rowing injury . . .

He stopped and frowned. “Rowing?”

“Precisely. A snapped tendon.”

Manchego imagined the young man in a rowboat on the River Thames. Muscular back, strong shoulders, brawny arms, but what about his legs?
You hardly used your legs
, he thought. He made a mental note:
Investigate the function of the legs in rowing.

The young Mr. Craftsman's last-known address was right-hand flat, second floor, number 5, Calle del Alamillo, Madrid, and he last made contact with his father on August 10, 2012, at 8 p.m., London time.

He hesitated for a moment, then typed a final sentence: “There are no indications that this case is connected to drug trafficking.”

“Very good, gentlemen,” he said after drawing a breath. “I'll process the report today and the investigation will get under way as soon as possible. You can expect to hear from me in due course.”

He made a move to get up and see them out, but on seeing that the two men remained seated, he returned to his chair. Mr. Craftsman was giving instructions to his translator. A lot of instructions.

“My employer is surprised that you don't require any further information.”

Manchego raised an eyebrow.

“Here we do things straight down the line. It takes as long as it takes. We don't accept payments, or bribes, or anything like that to speed things along, as you will surely appreciate.”