Inhuman Remains

Twenty-eight

I almost ran out into the village brandishing the taser, but stopped myself just in time. Instead, I checked the rest of the house, thoroughly, in case I’d interrupted the intruder and he was holding Frank somewhere within.

It was clean. There was no sign of anyone, or that anyone had ever been there, apart from the blood. I did go out into the square then, just as the first of the holiday-makers were making their way up from the beach to grab open-air lunch tables at the cafés before they all filled up, as they do every day in the high season. It was busy already: I scanned the faces seated under the big waterproof umbrellas, deployed against the sun and against the odd shower, which can sometimes sneak down from the Pyrenees when no one is looking in that direction. Not that I expected to see Frank there, tucking into a beer with the Canadian: it was a reflex, that was all, born of the need to be doing something. I looked at Esculapi, Can Coll, Mesón del Conde, Can Roura, drawing waves at all of them from their friendly staff, but no chat, since everyone was busy.

I headed down the slope, out of Plaça Major, towards El Celler Petit, the local wine shop. Its owner, who was English before he settled in Catalunya and went native, was standing in the doorway, talking to a Belgian who lives nearby. They greeted me as I approached, turning serious as they saw from my face that something was wrong. ‘Has either of you seen two men?’ I asked them. ‘One about my height, slim dark hair, Asiatic, the other taller, blond maybe. They’d have been heading out of the village.’

The Belgian nodded. ‘I saw them,’ he said, ‘about fifteen minutes ago. They were moving quite fast, too fast for the heat of the day; that’s why I noticed them. The little guy, he was in front. He had a mark on his face. Why, Primavera? What’s up?’

‘They’ve been in my house,’ I told him. ‘They came to the door, asking for directions to L’Escala. I went inside for a second to get them one of the maps I keep in the kitchen. When I came back, they were gone, and so was the cash I keep in a drawer by the door.’

‘Bastards!’ He frowned. ‘I thought you’d have known by now, though.’

‘Don’t say any more. I’m usually very careful about opening the door to strangers, but Tom’s away just now, and. . if he’d been there, I wouldn’t have.’

The ex-Englishman chuckled. ‘If he’d been there he’d have chased after them, him and Charlie.’

‘Where did they go?’ I asked his pal.

‘To the car park, I think. I’ll go and ask if they’re still there, but like I said, it’s been fifteen minutes.’

‘Yeah, they’ll be gone. I’ll have to put it down to experience, I reckon.’ To make myself seem otherwise normal, I ordered a case of cava, and another of Riogenc, my favourite rosado, then headed back to the house.

Inside, I went through to the kitchen, picking up the taser as I passed the hall table. Realising that my mouth was horribly parched, I took an isotonic drink from the fridge and drained it in one go. Then I sat down on a bench, and began to think.

Frank was gone. They had him. They had been waiting inside for us, all along. So why not take me as well? Because Sebastian, the Canadian, must have been on his own and couldn’t handle both of us. I gripped the butt of my weapon. I wish he’d tried, I thought. But he hadn’t. Would they come back for me? That was the question uppermost in my mind. My guess was that they wouldn’t. They had the guy they were really after, the other Interpol plant in the organisation. I was nothing to them, really, once they were free and clear.

But they had Adrienne too.

Their messages had been very specific about the danger of police involvement, but in the changed situation, what I had to ask myself was, which posed the greater threat to her? Telling the police all I knew, or keeping quiet and hoping that, now they had her son, they’d cut her loose?

I couldn’t decide. As I wrestled with the options, I went back down to the garage, to recover my bag, and the key from the Jeep. As I drew it from the ignition, I saw Frank’s rucksack, lying on the passenger seat where I’d chucked it as I prepared to escape. I slung it over my shoulder and carried it back up to the kitchen with the rest, noticing idly that it didn’t seem as heavy as it had in Sevilla.

Seated at the kitchen table, I opened it, the mystery luggage, and looked inside. It had two compartments. The larger, at the rear, was full of clothes; the used items were in a polythene bag, to keep them from the little fresh stuff he had left, a new black T-shirt, a pair of white socks and a pair of pants. There was also a travel pack containing toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, razor, shaving foam and a small deodorant spray, the brand, guys, that’s supposed to make women rip your clothes off.

I opened the front compartment. All it held was his mobile phone (no signal), his passport, a UK driving licence (photographic version), a leather Gucci billfold with a couple of fifties inside and four bank cards in slots, and a roll of notes secured by an elastic band. I counted them (he was down to his last thirteen hundred euros), then took out the plastic and studied it. There were MBNA cards, Visa and MasterCard, in his name, a debit card from an Andalucían savings bank in the name Roy Urquhart, and an Amex gold card, bearing the holder name, Jason Lee. I tapped it with my index finger. ‘Frank’s hoard, I’ll bet,’ I whispered. I was in the process of putting everything back, when I found something I’d missed, in the rear pocket: the Swiss Army knife.

I took it out, opened the main blade and tested it, carefully, on my thumb. The point had been sharpened, and indeed he could have shaved with the cutting edge. But there, in my hand, it was of absolutely no use to him. The poor little sod really was on his own.