Inhuman Remains

Twenty-five

I didn’t put the hammer down, but the A7 is a three-lane highway up to the Palamós exit, and so we made decent time, even though it was busy. It was ten past two as we reached the next turn-off. ‘We’ll jump off here,’ I told Frank.

‘Are we there?’ he asked.

‘No, but we need to discuss what we do next, and there’s a good restaurant half a kilometre away.’

La Roca Petita is all that: it’s near the airport, but unknown to the travelling punters. Most of its clients are business people from Girona. We didn’t need or want much, just a selection. . escalivada, anchovies, Jabugo ham and toasted bread, some Vichy Catalan to wash it down. . and they were happy to provide it, with no sales pitch for the full menu.

As we ate, Frank was fidgety, all the way through. I could understand why: indeed, I was as anxious as him to be getting Auntie Ade out of her captors’ hands. But I knew that we couldn’t just go charging into Masia Josanto like a SWAT team. If Willie was holding her there, and we spooked him, there was no telling what he might do. Our approach required just a little subtlety, and it was best made at a time when, on a hot Spanish day in July, even elderly ladies and their kidnappers were likely to be having a siesta. I persuaded my cousin of the sense in this, but that didn’t stop him squirming around in his chair as if his arse was hoaching with red ants.

‘What about the money?’ I asked, to distract him as much as anything else.

‘What money?’ He looked at me blankly.

‘The investors’ money, you idiot. A little over seventy-seven million euros at the last count.’

He blinked. ‘Where did you get that figure?’

‘I told you. I did some research before I set off in search of you.’

‘What, all on your own, from St Martí?’

‘No, I had help, from one of those people I told you about, Oz’s people. So what about the money? Will it still be accessible in the Luxembourg bank, or will it have been transferred by now?’

‘If it hasn’t been,’ he told me soberly, ‘I suspect that’ll happen very soon. And that will make it all the more important that they get us out of the way, so they can disappear, free and clear.’

I recalled something that Mark Kravitz had told me. ‘Alastair Rowland: he’ll have to surface.’

‘Come again?’

‘Funds can only be transferred out of the company’s account on the written instruction of the chairman, signed over the company’s seal. So he’ll have to surface in Luxembourg.’ A blinding possibility occurred. ‘Maybe we should be there. Adrienne’s going to be all right for another day at least. If we can intercept him, we could blow the whole operation.’

As swiftly as the flame had arisen, Frank extinguished it. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t: the chairman can send a signed authority to the bank from anywhere in the world. The company seal is held by one of the directors, as an insurance against Rowland, or anyone else, bolting with all the swag. Gresch had it; no prizes for guessing who’s got it now.’

‘Bromberg,’ I concluded. ‘Yet she would still have to get it to him. And yesterday, if you remember, she was planning to meet me with a view to taking my money. Okay, now they’re cutting and running, but she’s had precious little time to get the seal to Rowland.’ I stopped, as the obvious dawned. ‘Unless. .’ I whispered.

‘What?’

‘Unless, all along, Alastair Rowland and Emil Caballero have been one and the same person. You said yourself you’ve never met Rowland. Is it possible?’

He nodded reluctantly. ‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘In fact, now I think about it, it might even be likely.’ He looked at me. ‘But with respect, Prim, you’re taking your eye off the ball here. Fuck the money, all seventy-seven million of it. I’m not having my mum in that guy’s hands for a moment longer than necessary. That’s my only objective.’

I felt guilty. ‘I’m sorry, Frank. You’re quite right. So let’s get on up the road and follow our only lead.’

He paid the bill, from his roll of cash, and was waiting for me outside after I’d fitted in a pit stop. ‘Is it much further?’ he asked, as I popped the locks on the Jeep.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘We can stay off the motorway from here.’

The car park led almost immediately on to a roundabout, which fed on to the N11, heading north. We stayed on it as it passed to the east of Girona, then into a complicated junction, which set us on course for Palafrugell and Palamós. We didn’t go that far, though. Just past Púbol, where Dalí created a castle for his Gala, we took a turn that set us on a long, straight road. I guessed that we were about twenty kilometres from our objective.

As we crested a hill a broad horizon was revealed; I knew it well, but it always impresses first-time viewers. ‘What are those islands?’ Frank asked.

‘Isles Medes; they’re a marine conservation zone, and a haven for divers.’

‘And that building?’ He pointed to a structure that from that distance showed as not much more than a dot on top of a perfectly rounded summit.

‘Castell del Montgri. The English ex-pats call it Tit Hill. I imagine that the Belgians and the Germans call it something similar. It’s an impressive landmark, and no mistake.’

‘I can see where the name comes from,’ he conceded. ‘Speaking of such things,’ he murmured, suddenly hesitant, ‘yours are very impressive too. I should have told you that last night. I’m sorry I wasn’t more gallant.’

‘Frank,’ I snapped. (I was pleased though: at forty-plus such comments are rare, and so all the more welcome.)

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t more impressive too.’

‘Frank,’ I said, more quietly, ‘let’s not talk about it any more. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did; my fault, not yours. You were fine, you were tender, and that impresses me more than anything else, so don’t worry about it. But it’s history now, and it stays between us. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ he agreed, and I was satisfied with that.

‘By the way,’ I added, ‘that means that if and when I meet Susannah, I certainly don’t breathe a word to her.’

He smiled ruefully. ‘Thanks. I hope you get the chance to say nothing.’

That sensitive subject dealt with, we drove on. Tit Hill grew larger and larger on our left, and the Isles Medes before us, until finally I spotted a sign advising me that Gualta Golf Course was coming up, but before it, the village itself. I turned right, drove the few hundred metres that led to it, then carried on through until I found myself on a road I didn’t know. It was a dirt track, literally, but that is still not unusual in Spain. I slipped the Jeep into four-by-four mode. . it’s a politically correct SUV, using the facility only when necessary. . and drove on through fields on either side.

‘What are those?’ Frank asked.

I risked a glance. ‘Rice paddies, I think.’

‘Rice?’

Newcomers always react that way. ‘It’s a big crop around here. Think paella; then think of its basic ingredient.’

I had very little warning of the sign that read ‘Masia Josanto’: I took a curve and I was upon it, so close that I overshot and had to reverse. We found ourselves on an even narrower track, with room for nothing bigger than a single tractor but with passing places every so often. We couldn’t have gone more than half a klick, although it felt more, before it opened out and we found ourselves facing a high, wide gate. It was set in a formidable wall, between two stone pillars, on the right of which there was a sign confirming that we had reached our destination, and a box, with a buzzer, a speaker and a glass insert that I took to be a camera.

The sun was as high as it was going to get, and it was baking hot outside, but there was no way I could manoeuvre the Jeep close enough to push the button. I’d have sent Frank, but I reckoned I’d a better chance of getting that gate opened. I always keep a folding umbrella in the driver’s door pocket: I took it with me as I stepped out of the car and used it as a parasol.

I pressed the buzzer, stood back to allow the camera a proper view, and waited. Just as I began to reckon that I’d have to sound the car horn as well, a male voice came from the speaker asking if its owner could help me.

‘My companion and I are looking for a place to stay for a couple of nights. Not necessarily right now, but soon. We need a little solitude.’

‘That might be possible,’ the disembodied man said cautiously. ‘But do you know we’re gay-friendly?’

‘Yes, I know that. Actually, I’m travelling with my half-brother.’ Since I was busking it, including the ‘half — ’ was a stroke of genius. One look at Frank, and he’ll never pass for my full sibling. ‘He’s gay, and just coming off a failed relationship.’ I added what I hoped would be the clincher: ‘Shirley Gash told me about you.’

It worked. ‘Ah,’ the voice exclaimed. ‘The lady Shirley. In that case, drive in and up to the house. Honk a couple of times when you’re inside. The car park’s at the side. My name’s Antonio; I’ll be waiting for you.’

He was, a middle-aged man of medium height, wearing cream cargo pants and a T-shirt with a Gaudíesque illustration of a lizard on the front As I introduced us. . real names, having played the Shirley card. . there was nothing about him that said, ‘I’m gay,’ as he shook my hand, although his fingers may have lingered just a little longer with Frank, and he may have looked into his eyes a little more deeply. ‘I’m on my own today,’ he told us. ‘José, my partner, is in Figueras taking care of some legal business, but things are quiet after lunch, so I have time to show you round.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I mentioned Shirley just now, but we know someone else who’s a client of yours. His name’s Willie; he’s American.’

Antonio gasped, then laughed. ‘American, yes, but with an English mother. Coincidence is such a devil, isn’t it? You’ve just missed the two of them.’

My heart fell, but I gave what I hoped was an appropriate response. ‘No!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re kidding. What a bitch! We’d have loved to catch him unawares.’

‘Too bad.’ Our host shrugged. ‘I may as well show you the suite they had on the way round. It would suit your purposes, I’m sure.’

We agreed and he set off. ‘Let’s start with the pool. There’s a covered walkway leading to it; on days like this it’s worth every cent it cost to build.’

We had no interest in seeing his pool but we had to smile and go along with it. It was surrounded by decking and by a dozen sun-beds, eight of them occupied by slumbering same-sex couples, half of them holding hands, and one bold pair holding something else. Happily Antonio didn’t linger in the heat, but led us back to the shelter of the hotel’s controlled climate, to the dining room, to the guest lounge and to the spa, which he described as ‘the pampering centre’.

We had been there for around three quarters of an hour before he led us upstairs and into the suite that Willie and his ‘mother’ had occupied. It was lavish, no mistake, with one bedroom, a very private terrace, overlooked by nothing save the sky, and a convertible couch in the sitting room that could have slept a family of four. Nearby, there was a single chair; I knew who had occupied it, not that long before, and what she had done there.

I took out my mobile. ‘Mind if I take a picture?’ I asked.

‘Not at all.’ Antonio laughed. ‘Can I be in it?’

‘Of course, sit in the chair.’ He did. I snapped him and stored the image.

‘I’ve never met Willie’s mother,’ said Frank. ‘Is she nice?’

‘Very grand. She looks early sixties, so she must have been over thirty when she had him, but she carries it well. She had very little to say for herself, though. Nor did he, for that matter, unusually for him. Maybe he was missing Sebastian. They stayed here throughout their visit, and had all their meals room service.’

‘How long did they stay?’

‘Just one day. They checked in for lunch yesterday, then out again mid-morning.’

‘They didn’t happen to say where they were going, did they?’ I quizzed him. ‘It would be nice if we could bump into them, as a surprise.’ ›

‘No, I’m afraid not; they didn’t mention it.’ He ushered us out, back into the corridor and downstairs to Reception. ‘So,’ he asked, ‘were you impressed enough to come and stay with us? I think you’ll find our atmosphere restful, whatever your sexual orientation.’ I had the fleeting impression that maybe he hadn’t bought our cover story, but that maybe he didn’t care either.

‘Absolutely,’ I assured him. ‘Give me a card and we’ll be in touch as soon as we can define our available days.’

He seemed happy with that, and gave me not only a card, but a glossy brochure. He waved us off as I drove out of the car park. I’d found some Shirley Bassey to play on the stereo. He seemed to like that. ‘Remember,’ he called out, ‘honk again when you’re clear of the gate.’

I honked. And then I stopped. ‘The video of Adrienne,’ I said. ‘Do you have the number it came from?’

Frank slid his phone open. ‘Yes.’ He called it up and handed it to me. I recovered the image of Antonio in the chair, selected ‘send in message’, keyed in the number and gave the transmit command.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ my companion exclaimed.

I looked at him, right eyebrow raised. ‘As my late former husband would have said,’ I announced, ‘I’m rattling our Willie’s bloody cage.’