Inhuman Remains (11 page)

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Authors: Quintin Jardine

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

BOOK: Inhuman Remains
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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 the 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!’
Sixteen
M
y battery life didn’t look good as I called Alex Guinart, and told him of the arrangements I had made for my boy and his dog. He promised that he would help them both pack: clothes and Game Boy for Tom, harness, lead and food for Charlie, and passports for them both.
I asked him to tell Tom that I would come to Monaco for him as soon as I could, although I had no idea of what that meant in real terms.
‘There is no sign of your aunt, I’m afraid,’ he said, as I was about to hang up. I hadn’t even thought to ask him: if there had been, that would have been the first thing he’d have told me. I could feel no optimism on that front. Adrienne would not have walked off on an errand without her bag or her phone, far less her great-nephew, and if she’d had an accident or a stroke anywhere about the house, Tom or Charlie would have found her.
I’d neglected to tell him before about Fanette’s mystery caller; I filled in that gap in his knowledge.
‘A woman, she said?’
‘Yes. German or Swiss accent. But if it was who I think it might have been, don’t go looking for her in your neighbourhood. I’m supposed to be meeting her here in a few hours.’
‘And you’re still going to?’
‘That’s my plan.’
‘Primavera . . .’

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