Last Resort (13 page)

Hector kept it immaculate, no question about that; there was hardly a speck of dust on the dashboard, and no grit in the floor well, only a small heel print beneath the pedals to indicate that it had ever been driven. The passenger seat was pristine. There was a water bottle, half-empty, in a socket in the central console, and a small tray close to it that was filled with coins, ready no doubt for parking machines or motorway tolls.

I played with the remote until I found the button that lit up the dashboard, and the satellite system. It was broadly similar to the one in the Range Rover, so I was able to search its memory for previous journeys. It was empty; young Señor Sureda was a man who knew where he was going and didn’t need help to get there.

I flipped open the central console cover and leaned over to peer inside; driving gloves, small box of peppermints, a Spanish brand I didn’t recognise, and some scraps of paper that turned out to be credit card slips when I took them out. There were four; three were for petrol and the other was from a very famous restaurant in Girona.

There was no bill with it, only the card slip. I know that place is expensive, but if Hector had been dining on his own, he must have had a hell of a lot to drink, or made a very top-end choice from the wine list. I checked the date, and raised an eyebrow. It was timed at half an hour before midnight on the previous Thursday, the day before his disappearance, the day before the Porsche had been left in the car park.

I called Xavi. He took the call, but I could hear a buzz of noise in the background. ‘Bob, what’s up?’ he asked.

I told him what I’d found. ‘I’d like you to call the restaurant,’ I said, ‘and ask them if they recall who he was with. The bill’s over four hundred euro; it could be that there was more than one person at the table, or that he was out to impress someone in particular. I could make the call myself, but I doubt if they’d talk to me, even if they understood me. You, on the other hand, have got some clout around here.’

‘I will do, as soon as I get a chance. We’re still at the warm-up stage here. The club president’s a very cautious man, until he settles into his surroundings.’

‘Going by the stories I’ve heard about that restaurant,’ I continued, ‘it couldn’t have been a spur-of-the-moment dinner date. Don’t you have to book months in advance?’

‘Normal mortals do,’ he agreed, ‘but InterMedia has an option on a table there; we have a business relationship with them. Why?’

‘I dunno, really. I’m just trying to establish a picture, to assess possibilities.’ As I spoke, my eye hit on something I’d overlooked; more paper, crumpled on the floor of the car almost out of sight beneath the driving seat. I reached down, picked it up and smoothed it out between my fingers; not a card slip this time, but a bill.

‘Hey,’ I exclaimed, feeling a sudden smile cross my face, ‘the woman theory has definitely moved up a gear. Just before he parked on Friday morning, Hector stopped off at a place called Flores Elena, and spent sixty euro on roses.’

‘Eh? Hector? Flowers? This is not the man I know. Bob, you’re right and I was very wrong. This has nothing to do with business sabotage, it’s a guy following his dick, as simple as that.’

‘It looks that way, but I’m even more curious now; I’d like to know where it’s taking him. While you’re tucking into the Serrano ham and the beef filet, I’m going to see if I can find out. Give me a call when you can, if you get anything from the restaurant that helps us.’

I left him to his football schmoozing and secured the Boxster, then went back up to the Range Rover. I was focused on my next task and about to pull out of my parking slot when my other situation forced its way into my consciousness. I smiled grimly at a vision of Carrie McDaniels trying to find the jack on her hired Skoda. Then I thought of Alex and the things I’d asked her to do.

I’d been worrying about my daughter, in the midst of my own self-absorption. She’d seemed unsettled ever since I’d given her the task of putting together a criminal defence, in which she had no experience, for a half-brother she’d never met before or even imagined his existence. That had been a lot to ask of her, but she’d handled it as professionally as I’d known she would.

Yet there had been no triumph about it, and that had surprised me. When Alex gets a result, usually the world knows about it and she celebrates, but not that time; maybe the new sibling thing had gone badly with her after all, or maybe it was that mysterious training course she was on. Or could it have been something else, something away from work and family, something personal?

In the midst of my own relationship upheaval, it had become clear to me that while she and Andy Martin were very comfortable together and, on the face of it, happy, they weren’t actually going anywhere. What they had was how it would be, for neither of them had time for one hundred per cent of the other.

I dug out my phone again and called her. There was background noise when she answered, but it would be lunchtime with her so I wasn’t surprised. I asked her how she was getting along with the things I’d asked her to do.

I’d forgotten that an old adversary of mine, Christopher Kemp, was Governor of the Polmont YOI. From what Alex said he still carried a grudge, but she said that she’d sorted him out, and that Ignacio wasn’t at risk.

With no one knowing of our connection, I hadn’t been worried about him being picked on in there. He’s a big lad, and charming with it, the sort who doesn’t invite aggression but looks as though he could deal with it should the need arise. But after what the creepy caller had said to Mia, I had been just a little concerned that he might have contacts in there, the sneaky kind who don’t believe in what we from the west of Scotland like to call ‘a square go’.

I was pleased that she’d visited the Glasgow lab too. Again, I hadn’t expected any leak to have originated there, but that had to be confirmed.

Something else I hadn’t expected was her having lunch with Roger McGrane. I was his age once. Back then, I was a ladies’ man too, and so I can spot one a mile off . . . or even a thousand miles off, as I was then . . . especially when he’s focusing on my daughter.

She was being quietly impressed; it wasn’t anything she said that made me certain, it was the change in her voice when she told me she was with him, and her subtly defensive tone when she told me they were having lunch.

I told her, casually, to take care, and she put me in my place. I accused her of winding me up, but Alex doesn’t defend on the back foot, so I didn’t win there either.

I changed the subject, and floated the notion that perhaps there had been no leak. Was it possible that Baillie had done some thorough background research and had put two and two together, coming up with a remarkably lucky total of four, which he was tossing at Mia like a baited hook, to see if she would bite?

If I’d been in Scotland at that point, I’d have found Baillie within a few hours, but I wasn’t, so I let it lie until I did have time to attend to him. Instead I thanked Alex and asked her to keep Mia calm, then got on with my own day, and with my business in hand.

The Porsche had been in the car park for five days, during which time there had been no sign of Hector. That meant that he was either holed up with a chica somewhere in Girona, in a hotel or possibly an apartment, or that he and she had left town.

Of those choices the hotel option seemed least likely; they all have private car parks, so why would he have dumped his very expensive motor in a public multi-storey if he was staying in one of them?

On the basis of the information I had, which was none, checking the apartment option wasn’t possible, and so I did the only thing left open to me. I fired up the Range Rover and headed for the railway station. I knew that it was a long shot, but if they didn’t come up from time to time, nobody would bother gambling and bookies would be poor.

I found a vacant meter bay a few hundred yards from the station, in a wide avenue. It was lined with trees that would offer shade in the hottest months, but they had been cropped right back for the winter, and so the low sun shone brightly and unimpeded.

As soon as I stepped into the booking hall, I sensed that I really was wasting my time. There were a dozen people there and all but a couple were queuing at a bay of ticket machines.

Fuck
, I thought.
If only I had a warrant card here; I could check this guy’s credit card transactions and waste no more bloody time
.

But I didn’t, so I went up to the only booking window that was attended, by a dour, bespectacled man with a black moustache that seemed to emphasise the sourness of his expression. The first two fingers of his left hand were stained a rich nicotine brown.

‘
Hablar Ingles
?’ I asked.

‘A leetle.’

That was a start.

I showed him Hector’s photograph. ‘This man,’ I said. ‘I need to find him. Have you seen him here? Probably last Friday,’

He looked at me as if I’d caused him physical pain. ‘Señor,’ he sighed, ‘so many people’s
aqui
.’

I nodded. ‘
Si, intiendo
. But please, look.’

I pressed the image hard against the glass that separated us. His shoulders sagged in a half-shrug, but he did as I asked, frowning wearily.

He gazed for at least ten seconds before his expression began to change, and for as long again before the light went on finally in his eyes.

‘
Si!
’ he exclaimed, underlining the affirmative with a nod. ‘
Este hombre, si
. I remember, señor. He is the crazy man who ask if there is Club Class on the AVE to Barcelona. I tell him no, the train takes only
quarante minutos
. So he buy tickets
Preferente
.’

‘Was he travelling alone?’

‘No, no.’ My new friend was in full flow, pleased to be of service to someone, to anyone. ‘He had a lady. I remember her, she had flowers, rosas. And she was
guapa, muy guapa
.’

‘Did he buy return tickets?’

‘
Ida y vuelta?
No, only the one way.’

I pocketed the picture and dropped a ten euro note on to the tray in the service opening.

‘Where you want to go, señor?’ he asked. ‘Barcelona be more than that.’

‘I don’t want to go anywhere, not yet. Have a drink and a cigar on me.’

Finally, he showed me that he could smile.

Fourteen

W
hen a Catalan invites you to lunch, it is not advisable to have any other appointments for that afternoon. The midibus that had brought the FC Barcelona contingent was still outside as I eased the Range Rover, still pristine, into its parking place.

Reception had been briefed to send me straight to the third floor, but I had to wait in Xavi’s office for another half-hour before he reappeared, with a smile that seemed to belong in another place.

‘Good lunch?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘Interesting. When I think of my own football career, such as it was, and the world those guys live in . . .’

‘In that world, you could have been the Barça goalie.’

‘Not a prayer,’ he chuckled. ‘I’d have been okay with the catching and the punching stuff, but I’d never have been quick enough on my feet, or skilful enough with the ball. The modern keeper has to play sweeper as well. I did think about going back to rugby, before I turned fifty . . . there are a few clubs around here, and I’d have got a game, no worries . . . but Sheila put the kybosh on that.’

As he lowered himself into his chair, I caught his eye. ‘Speaking of Barcelona,’ I said, ‘that’s where Hector’s gone.’ I told him of my lucky strike with the ticket seller at the station.

‘The woman he was with was very beautiful, he said. He remembered the flowers as well. You told me you called his apartment, but it may be that he had the phone off the hook.’

‘I’d understand that for a couple of days, Bob, but . . .’

I was on the point of asking him if he’d forgotten what it was like to be young but I stopped myself. In truth, Xavi never really knew. He was with Grace from his earliest adult days, until it all went horribly, horribly wrong, and she died: youth passed the poor bloke by.

‘Did you have a chance to call that restaurant?’ I asked.

‘Yes, he dined there all right, and with a woman. They didn’t arrive together, though; she arrived after Hector, by taxi. The owner said he’d never seen her before. He’s sure she wasn’t Spanish, but that’s what she spoke.’

‘Who made the booking?’

‘Oh, Hector did. As we know, he paid, and then they left together, in his car.’

‘And he dropped her somewhere,’ I said, ‘with an arrangement to meet next day, and go to Barcelona. He goes home to pick up some stuff, leaves on Friday morning, and the rest we know.’

‘It sounds like a blind date,’ Xavi observed, ‘like two people who met online or through a dating agency. They had dinner, fancied each other . . .’

I picked up the thread. ‘. . . and Hector says, “Fancy getting to know each other better in my place in Barcelona?” Yes, I can see that. Maybe they only went down for the weekend but they’ve been eating each other ever since.’ I looked at my friend. ‘So what do you want to do?’

‘Let’s go down there and pound his fucking door down if we have to. Are you up for that?’

‘Sure. Now?’

‘Now. We can be there in an hour and a half.’

That suited me; as soon as we’d solved the Hector mystery, I could concentrate on my other problem.

We had just joined the autopista when my phone sounded. I checked the caller and saw that it was Amanda. ‘Your question,’ she began. ‘As to Battaglia’s current whereabouts, she seems to have dropped off the radar. She hasn’t been seen in her office for a week, and she doesn’t appear to be at home. Her PA is fielding all her calls. Whenever she leaves Italy, she uses her private jet, but it’s parked at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, and no future flight plan has been filed.

‘Let me know if you find her,’ she concluded, with a laugh in her voice. ‘I’d have fun telling the Italians.’

‘Who was that?’ Xavi asked, as I thanked her and disconnected.

‘A friend,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been doing some checking up on the Warrior.’

I gave him a quick précis of Amanda’s information, without naming the source.

‘And this is reliable?’ he asked, knowing better than to pry.

‘Rock solid. Although she had nothing to do with the Durante assassination, Battaglia’s been living off the rumour ever since, and using her dark reputation to intimidate guys like you.’

‘I wasn’t fucking intimidated!’ he protested.

‘You were impressed, though; she left her mark on you.’

‘Maybe, but she didn’t scare me,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m an Aislado, the son of a man who had to leave Spain in the thirties because he killed one of Franco’s men who threatened him and his family. Anyway, fuck her; she’s an irrelevance. She may have enough stock market leverage to let her take over her French and German targets but she can’t lay a finger on me because my family owns ninety per cent of InterMedia.’

‘All of that’s true,’ I conceded, ‘but twenty-four hours ago you were suggesting to me that she might be behind Hector’s disappearance.’

‘And now you’ve persuaded me otherwise,’ he countered. ‘Thanks to what you’ve discovered, the likelihood is that Hector is entrapped by the power of the furry purse, to borrow one of Joe’s more colourful phrases.’

‘In which case, what are we going to do when we find him?’

‘I told you. We’re going to knock until he lets us in.’

‘And after that?’

‘That will depend on how contrite he is.’

‘Suppose he isn’t; what then, will you sack him?’

‘Hell no, he’s too valuable to the company . . . and besides, he’s like family. Och,’ he exclaimed in a burst of Scottishness, ‘I suppose I’ll just give him a bollocking for worrying all of us, then tell him to take as long as he needs.’ He glanced at me. ‘I suppose also that there’s no need for you to be here for that. I’m really imposing on you, pal.’

‘No, you’re not. I offered you my help, remember; you didn’t ask me. Once we get to Barcelona we’ll see whether I’m needed or not. We might have to kick the door in, and that used to be one of my specialities as a young cop.’

‘There’ll be no need. Pilar has a key to the apartment; she gave it to me.’

For the rest of the journey we talked mostly football. Xavi’s a big Barça fan, and although he’d never admit it, he’d been star-struck by his lunchtime guests. I am a big Motherwell fan. Since we won the Scottish Cup for the second time, I’ve ceded bragging rights to nobody . . . nobody from Dundee, that is.

Although I’ve been a regular visitor to Spain for almost thirty years, I’m not very familiar with the layout of Barcelona. However, I do know that it’s bisected by two great avenues, the Meridiana and the Diagonal. We entered the city by the former then joined the latter, but not for long, before we turned left. After two more turns Xavi announced, ‘This is it,’ as he pulled up and parked in a bay that was miraculously empty, in the busy Wednesday evening traffic.

I glanced up at a street sign that was only just visible in the deepening darkness and was mildly amused to see that we were in Carrer de Trafalgar. I suspect that a Catalan mayor of another era had enjoyed naming a street after a Spanish naval defeat.

Hector’s apartment was on the top floor, the fifth of a classic city block; not a Gaudi building, but one of a similar vintage, which meant, no lift. By the time we reached the top we were going slowly, as Xavi’s old football injury took its toll.

‘One day,’ he said, as we reached the top landing, ‘I will need a knee replacement. When my consultant told me that, I didn’t believe him, but now I do.’

He pointed to a door that opened almost directly on to the stairs, then stepped forward and pushed the bell button. We heard it ring inside and listened for the sound of feet approaching; there was only silence. Xavi rang again then thumped the door with the side of his huge fist.

‘Hector,’ he boomed, ‘don’t piss me about, let me in.’

He waited for another half-minute, before muttering, ‘Fuck it,’ then reaching into his pocket.

He found the brass key that Pilar had given him, slipped it into the lock and twisted it; nothing happened. He frowned. ‘Bloody thing’s . . .’ he muttered as he turned the handle and opened the door.

I can no longer remember the number of times in my police career that I’ve opened a door without knowing what was behind it, only for my copper’s instinct to kick in.

Xavi was about to step inside when I put a hand on his sleeve.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Wait. This is for me; it’s why I’m here.’

The hallway was dark, but I didn’t feel for a light switch; I knew where I was going. Another door faced me and it was ajar, letting in enough light from the street outside and beyond to guide my way, as I followed my nose.

It doesn’t take long for the smell of death to gather, but after a couple of days in a centrally heated apartment it’s unmistakeable.

The light in the big reception room had an orange tinge, from the street lamp that was fixed to the wall not too far from the window and the balcony outside. There was enough of it to let me see that the figure lying face down in the centre of the room was not Hector Sureda.

No, it was a woman, elegantly dressed, dark-haired, face down in a pool of dried blood that was big enough for me to know I didn’t want to see the exit wound left by the bullet that had killed her. Splatters of red, streaked with brain matter, spread outwards and across the room, in a pattern that almost matched the roses that were scattered on the floor.

It took me back six months, to another place, another time, and another dead female.

The central chandelier exploded into light; Xavi, behind me, had hit the switch.

‘Who the hell . . .’ I murmured.

‘I can tell you,’ he said, softly. ‘You don’t even have to turn her over. That’s Bernicia Battaglia.’

I don’t know why but I remembered a promise made. I took out my phone and made a call.

‘Amanda,’ I murmured as it was answered, ‘you are going to have such news to pass on to your Italian.’