Quintin Jardine - Inhuman Remains

There was something about his tirade that was beginning to convince me. ‘The man you call Urquhart,’ I said. ‘You described him as a thief.’

‘That’s what Bromberg told me, and Macela, when he could see straight. They said he’d been stealing money from the company, and they kicked him out.’

‘Then they lied to you, or she did. And what did you mean about Macela seeing straight?’

‘The man was a morphine addict, hopeless. All the time he was here, he lay in my mother’s old house in Alvarez Quintero, shooting up.’

‘Yes, because you kept him there, doped up, until you killed him.’

‘Killed him? I never killed him.’

‘Caballero, I saw you go into the house. I watched you. You came in with a bag and you came out empty-handed, and that same afternoon he died of an overdose.’

‘I took him food!’ he shouted. ‘I fed the poor bastard. I didn’t kill him, I kept him alive. Yes, he did die of an overdose, and that’s the truth, but he did it himself. I checked very carefully with the police, believe me.’

‘So where did he get his dope?’

‘I have no idea, no idea at all. It must have been Bromberg.’

‘I think you may be right,’ I conceded. ‘How much do you know about her?’

‘I thought I knew everything. Now it seems I knew nothing. She came to see me, almost two years ago. She said she was a Swiss businesswoman, and that she had a project, a huge project, for which my property would be perfect. She offered me shares in the new company in return for my land, and for my services in securing all the necessary permissions to build and licences to operate. I agreed, we signed papers. Then Urquhart and Macela came to Sevilla to sell the project to investors. I never saw Bromberg again until a few weeks ago. She turned up and told me that Urquhart had gone bad on us, and that she would take over his role in the company until we were ready to start. We were supposed to begin in September, after the height of the summer was over. We had enough money to fund construction, she said. And that was all, until you turned up.’

‘I came to find Frank,’ I said quietly.

‘Who the fuck is Frank?’

‘The man you knew as Urquhart was my cousin; his name was Frank McGowan.’ I thought of Moira’s warning, but decided to chance it. ‘He was a cop, undercover, working to expose the fraud. So was Macela. They were sold out; that’s why Frank disappeared.’

Caballero frowned at me. We had stopped threatening each other; instead, we were having a conversation. ‘So where is he now, this Frank?’

‘He’s dead, he and his mother, my aunt. They caught up with him.’

‘Bromberg?’

‘Not directly. Two men, North Americans, blond, smooth looking.’

‘I’ve seen them,’ he declared. ‘Once when I met Bromberg in Hotel Alfonso Thirteen, she had two guys minding her. Sounds like them.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘Last time I saw her she was rolling on the ground, screaming and holding her ass. After I escaped from the Chrysler, where you left me, I called her. But there was no reply. I haven’t heard from her since. Beginning of last week, I called the company lawyer in Luxembourg. I told them that I needed Bromberg as we’d have to pay contractors some up-front money soon. They told me they had no means of contacting her, or the man Rowland, the chairman. They said also that the money had been moved beyond their control.’

‘Have you ever met Rowland?’

‘No, only her and Macela, and the man you say was really called Frank.’ He looked at me. ‘Christ, we’ve all been set up, eh?’ He sighed. ‘Look, I’m sorry for what I tried to do to you. I’m sorry about your cousin and your aunt.’

There wasn’t much I could do other than accept his apology. ‘Where does this leave you?’ I asked.

‘Financially, not too bad. Politically, my party colleagues don’t want to know me. Fuck ’em, I’ll be all right. My barn was insured, and all my toys: I’ll get new ones.’

‘What’s your business? Your main business?’

‘I sell bridal outfits, for men and women. And religious robes, for priests and altar boys.’

‘If I were you,’ I told him, ‘I’d go to confession.’

And that was it. I caught an evening flight back to Barcelona, and was home in time to have supper in Mesón del Conde with Alex and Gloria, with Marte in a pram beside the table. In Spain babysitters aren’t in great demand: in our culture we tend to take the kids with us, from infancy, when we go out to eat.

Next morning, I awoke feeling completely drained, empty, devoid of purpose and alone. I hate being idle, and usually fight against it by doing something constructive with Tom or by getting involved with local projects, like the annual St Martí wine fair. But that Sunday I couldn’t think of a single thing to do.

So I took the advice I’d given to Caballero. I went to midday Mass, even though I was baptised in the Church of Scotland, a country not famed for its ecumenism. Once the service was over, and as Father Gerard saw the congregation off the premises, I slipped into the confessional, remembering what he had said about never turning away sinners. When he took his place on the other side of the divide, I told him all that had happened to me, from Adrienne’s first phone call. I left nothing out. I described my meetings in London and Sevilla, and I told him of my encounters with Frank, on the train and in the pool. When I was done, I waited.

‘I suppose you expect a penance,’ he said. ‘You’re not getting one.

I absolve you from the sins of fornication and taking the Lord’s name in vain. You’re clear on arson, since it was your cousin who burned those bikes, and in the circumstances the least Caballero could have done was lend you his Suzuki. As for the rest, soon the memories will not be so sharp.’

I settled for that and invited him to lunch.

The story broke in London next day, thanks to a press release issued by the Foreign Office. I had advance warning, courtesy of a guy in the Barcelona consulate who had been advised of my interest, presumably by Gomez. He sent me a copy by email. It seemed to me when I read it that the party line had been agreed between Whitehall and the Catalan tourist ministry. It said that Adrienne and Frank had died after being engulfed by a wildfire on hillside overlooking the Mediterranean. There was no hint that they had been used as kindling.

The animal that was once called Fleet Street was on to it in a flash. I had one or two calls, which I fended off, but I was small fry in story terms alongside my famous sister, who drew top billing in most of the red-tops, and whose grief was expressed in a statement issued, and probably written, by her husband’s media spokesman. It did not hint at the truth, that she had barely known either victim, family members or not, but that wouldn’t have looked too good. I read as much as I could on-line next day: Adrienne rated respectable obituaries in the Telegraph and Times , but not in the Guardian: I don’t believe she’d have minded that at all.

For the rest of the week I was like a solitary black cloud in a clear blue sky. I moped around the house. When I couldn’t stand that any more, I hung about the cafés, in turn, drinking coffee and frowning at any tourists who tried to make polite conversation. On the Thursday morning, I went up to Shirley’s for some peace and wisdom, but I didn’t feel comfortable there. The memory of that waterborne knee-trembler, and the promise I’d made to Frank in the summer-house, Tonight, then , were still too fresh in my mind. Finally, I found something to occupy me: driven by a force I still can’t explain, I sat down at my computer and sketched out a synopsis of what had happened to me; it was the start of a process that led in time to what you’re reading now.