Quintin Jardine - Inhuman Remains

‘I guess I’ve been set up.’ I sighed. I turned to go, but paused as I opened the door. ‘Incidentally,’ I told him, ‘you couldn’t afford five minutes with me.’ He called me a rude name as I left.

There was a tapas bar two doors further on, with an empty window table that offered a clear view back towards number forty-seven; I occupied it and ordered coffee, with some croquettes and a little octopus salad. I had no real expectation that Frank might put in an appearance, but I had some thinking to do, and that was as good a place to do it as any.

I was toying with a piece of tentacle when a dark-haired man, dressed in a lightweight cream suit, and carrying a plastic supermarket bag, walked past the window, coming from behind so that his back was always towards me. He stopped, then stepped up to the drab door. I watched him as he unlocked it: he was about to open it when he looked over his shoulder, as if in response to a call. The creep from the shop sidled alongside him. As he spoke, I saw the newcomer’s right eyebrow rise, in profile, and then he shrugged. I still couldn’t see all of his face, but he was too tall to be Frank and looked about ten years too young to be George Macela.

I was trapped at my table, in clear view if the shop-owning lecher had glanced my way, but he didn’t. Instead, the visitor to number forty-seven patted him on the shoulder, as if he was thanking him, then watched as he went on his way in the opposite direction, mission accomplished. I had no doubt that he had been cliping on me. (That’s Scottish for ‘grassing me up’.)

Left on his own, the newcomer opened the right half of the double door and stepped into the building. I was in a bit of a quandary. I had no idea how long he’d be staying, but if Shopman had described me, and he saw me on the way out, I’d be well exposed, there in my goldfish bowl. On the other hand, I still hadn’t seen his face.

I had a sun-hat in my bag. I put it on, and my shades for good measure. There was a newspaper on the table, a Herald Tribune , discarded by a previous Anglo customer. I picked it up and gave a fair imitation of reading.

I hadn’t got past the first page before he reappeared, closing the door behind him and locking it once more. As he did so I noticed that he was no longer carrying the supermarket bag. He turned, and I had my first clear look at his face: he was cleanshaven, with high cheekbones and dark eyebrows, and a look about him that reminded me faintly of my late ex-husband. He glanced at the tapas bar. . although not at me. . and seemed to hesitate in his stride, as if he was considering coming in. I stared intently at the Herald Tribune , and breathed a sigh of relief when he carried on his way.

‘So who was he?’ I wondered softly. ‘Which of the mystery men might that have been?’

As soon as the visitor to number forty-seven was out of sight, I paid my modest bill and went back to the hotel. There was a lounge just behind the reception area; I took a seat there, had another coffee and read another newspaper. . El Mundo this time. . but I found I couldn’t settle, and that I was on edge.

I knew what the problem was, of course. My head was back in St Martí, with my son. I had been gone for just a few hours and I was missing him. That’s how it is with Tom and me. That’s how it was with his dad and me. Oh, shit, there I go again! Stop it, Primavera!

I decided that the best thing I could do was to keep active. But how? After a couple of minutes spent glancing at a town map, it came to me. Not far from the hotel was a square called Plaza Nueva, and taking up one side of it a building labelled ‘ ayuntamiento’ ; that means ‘town hall’, in English. Lidia Bromberg had promised to take me there, but it wouldn’t do any harm to pay it a visit in advance. Would it? I checked my watch; it was ten to four and odds on they’d be closed, but you never know.

I strode out of the hotel, more in hope than anticipation, map in hand. I followed its directions, round a corner then down a slope. Within two minutes I found myself in Plaza Nueva. . actually, it was more rectangle than square. . a paved area with the traditional equestrian statue in the middle, this one on an ornate plinth that was three times the size of the king on the horse, and with big modern sculptures decorating its perimeter.

The town hall was easy to spot: the flags of Spain, Andalusia and Europe flew. . or, rather, hung limply. . from three poles set on a balcony above its main entrance. As I approached, I saw that the place was still open, and so I strolled casually inside. There was a dark-haired, late-twenties man behind the reception desk, upon which I spotted a sign that told me his name was Ignacio Gallardo i Blazquez. (Why do Spanish people often use two surnames? First one’s Dad’s, the second is Mum’s. Women don’t change their names on marriage.) He was dressed in a grey suit, and he wore a tie, a clear indicator in Spain of a public official: no other bugger wears one. As I approached, I realised I had no idea of what I was going to say to him, and so I settled on the truth.

‘I’m trying to find someone,’ I began, in my accented Spanish, after we’d exchanged courtesies and he had welcomed me to Sevilla. ‘He’s my cousin, we’ve lost touch, and I need to find him because his mother is anxious. He’s English, although he doesn’t look it, and he’s involved with a project in this area: the Hotel Casino d’Amuseo. I’m wondering if he’s known here.’

He nodded. ‘I’ve heard of that development,’ he told me.

‘Could one of your colleagues help me?’

‘I’m sure of it.’ He glanced up at a wall clock. ‘Unfortunately, our planning department is just about to close. Maybe you could come back tomorrow?’

‘I suppose.’ I frowned, and he took pity on me.

‘Look,’ he continued, ‘everyone who comes into this building has to pass me. Do you have a photograph?’

I found it in my bag, and showed it to him.

He studied it for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘Yes, I have seen him here. Mr Urquhart, yes?’ He stumbled over the name, but I got his meaning: some Scottish names are impossible for Spanish people to pronounce. . for that matter, few English people get close.

‘That’s him.’

‘Mr Roy Urquhart.’ The second try was no better. ‘Yes, he’s been here.’

‘Recently?’

‘No. I haven’t seen him for a while.’

‘Weeks? Months?’

‘Weeks, certainly. Maybe two months.’

‘Do you know any other people from the project who come in here?’

He mused for a moment. ‘I can’t think of any.’

‘How about this man?’ I showed him the Macela print. ‘He’s my cousin’s colleague.’

‘Mr Macela? Yes, he’s been here, but not for a while now.’

‘Have they visited here often?’

‘Yes, but they don’t need to any more. They have all the permissions.’

Just as Lidia Bromberg told me they had , I thought. That much was true, at any rate. Maybe I was damning the whole operation out of sheer mistrust of my cousin.

‘So they’re building?’ I probed.

‘No, I don’t think so. A friend of mine in the licensing section told me they haven’t started construction yet, although everything’s been approved since May.’

‘Maybe they’re waiting for their contractor to be ready. Do you know where I can find them?’

‘Sorry,’ said Ignacio, shaking his head. ‘You’ll need to ask my colleagues.’ He paused, looking towards the main door. ‘Ah, too bad,’ he exclaimed. ‘The co-ordinator of planning, Mr Caballero, would have been able to help you. . that’s him. . but he looks as if he’s in a hurry, and I’m afraid he’s too important for me to interrupt. You should come back tomorrow, and ask to speak to him.’