Inhuman Remains

Twenty-nine

That was when I made my decision. My thinking came together, and I reckoned that even if the police found him, they have no record of subtlety and would certainly turn up noisily and mob handed, thereby getting Adrienne killed, and Frank, although I really did fear that the worst might have happened to him, even then.

So I decided against involving Alex. Instead, I secured the doors, put the alarm on night setting and went into the sleep zone, which includes our bedrooms, mine, Tom’s and the one Ade had been using, and my east-facing terrace. I took with me my bag, Frank’s stuff and a litre of fizzy water. In my room, my bed looked so inviting I almost got in, but instead I stripped off, sprayed myself with Piz Buin, and went outside to lie on my sun-bed. That may sound uncaring to you, given all that had just happened, but I do some of my best thinking out there.

The question that was troubling me as I closed my eyes was how Sebastian, the Canadian, had got into the house, and past the alarm. I could have called Tom to confirm that he had set it, but that would have upset him, for the certain answer would have been ‘Yes, Mum’, with unspoken resentment because apparently I didn’t trust him to do so.

My eyes had barely closed against the sun, when the simple answer came to me. I’d given Adrienne the third key when she had taken Tom to the ruins and got herself into dehydration trouble, and I’d told her what the alarm code was: I’d even done what I’d never done before, and written it down for her on a slip of paper from the phone pad. When she’d been abducted both must have been in her pocket. Sebastian and Willie’s lucky day: they’d found the key and they hadn’t even had to torture her to extract the number.

I propped myself upon my elbows, and was contemplating what a total arse I’d made of everything when a ring-tone broke the silence, a strange ring-tone, not one of mine. It came from Frank’s rucksack, which I’d tossed, with my stuff, into the shade offered by the terrace table. I leaned across and grabbed it, then fished out his phone, just as the sound stopped.

There’s an odd fact about St Martí. It has so many solid stone walls that mobile signals are practically non-existent within buildings and hard to pick up even on the square. But on my terrace, facing L’Escala and its forest of masts, there’s no problem. My missing cousin’s phone had come back on-line.

I peered at the screen, but the sun was too bright for me to make it out, so I jumped up and stepped just inside the door, not too far to kill reception, drawing the curtains behind me so that I couldn’t be seen from the top of the nearby slope.

It told me there was one message waiting, and an option below invited me to ‘read’; I accepted.

The message was another video of Adrienne, sent, according to the screen, around the time that Frank and I were leaving Shirley’s place. I hit the view button. This time, my aunt’s face was in close-up, giving no clue to where it had been shot. She spoke quickly, as if she knew that the time limit on these things was only around twenty seconds.

‘I’ve been moved,’ she began. ‘We’ve come to the crossroads of this affair. I’ve to tell you that time is drawing short and they will kill me tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. You know what I want you to do, son. I’m praying you make the right choice.’ Her face froze on screen as the video clip ended.

I played it again, then a third time. There was something about her expression, something in her eyes, something imploring. The more I played it, the more I looked at her, the more I was convinced she was telling me something, giving me a message she’d intended for Frank.

But what the hell was it? When I was in my teens I won a pen from the Scotsman prize crossword, but I couldn’t begin to crack that clue. Nor had I any idea of how to go about solving it. Life and bloody death, Auntie Ade was trying to tell me something, and I didn’t get it. I stood there behind the curtains, my face screwed up in concentration, thinking, thinking, thinking, achieving nothing, nothing, nothing, until I felt tears of frustration run down my face.

And then the church bell rang. As I’ve told you, my son and I live next door to the medieval church; a few years back, the parishioners raised money for a new set of bells, and they’ve been active ever since, striking the quarters and the hours, then striking the hour again at two minutes past, in case you lost count the first time. . a quaint but useful local custom. They are loud, yet Tom and I no longer notice them. Like farmyard smells, they have become our norm, and while others may feel their teeth jar with the sound, we sleep through them.

That one, though, it smashed its way right into my consciousness. It rang once signalling the hour, but then began to peal again, not just the big bell but all its brothers and sisters, calling the faithful to mass.

I’m not one of those faithful, but I know the parish priest. I threw an ankle-length day-dress over my head, and ran downstairs, holding the mobile. On the way out of the door, I grabbed a sun-hat, in case a bare-headed woman in church upset any traditionalists.

I felt myself beam when I saw he was there, in the doorway. Tall, black robed, handsome: it’s a bugger but the few men I do fancy in my village are either happily married or celibate. Still, he and I enjoy the odd drink together. I looked inside; there were so few worshippers that I reckoned he’d better ring the bells again. ‘Father Gerard,’ I said.

He smiled. ‘Come to seek absolution, my child?’ he asked.

‘First of all,’ I told him, ‘I’m older than you, so “my child” sounds a bit silly. Second, I doubt that you’d want to hear my sins.’

‘I never turn away a sinner, Prim.’

‘In that case, I want you to listen to something. When you’ve heard it, you might be alarmed, but I need to know what she’s trying to say. At the moment, it’s beyond me.’

‘I’ll try,’ he replied. ‘Come back here a little nearer the altar.’

I followed him; we stood to the side of the church, our backs to the tiny congregation, and I played him the video. I saw his face darken as he listened. I played it again. ‘Primavera,’ he hissed, ‘the police. Tell Alex Guinart.’

‘They’ve promised to kill her at the first sight of a police car or uniform. I’ve got no time left for specialists. Things have moved on since that was sent. They have my cousin too. Gerard, can you help? What does she mean?’

‘Yes, I think I know.’ I sighed with relief. He leaned closer to me. ‘Across Spain there are many old pilgrim trails. People still walk them today. In the old times, where these trails crossed, it was the custom to set up a shrine, for the travellers to pray and to make offerings. Many of them still exist. For example, there’s one near Camallera. You can see it from the road. There’s another near St Jordi des Vallès. But the nearest, it’s close to Bellcaire. You turn left at the crossroads, go along until you see a sign that says “Santa Caterina”. Follow that track and it will take you there. If she’s around here, and I read her right, that’s the one you want.’

‘Why are you so sure she’s there, not near one of the others?’

‘Because there’s an old building up there. It used to be a retreat, used by nuns mostly, but it’s been deserted for many years.’

I kissed him on the cheek, in front of his small flock. ‘Thanks, Gerard.’

He held my arm as I made to leave. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘If you won’t call the police, wait until after the service and I’ll come with you.’

‘No time,’ I told him. ‘But you’re a love for offering. You could pray for me, though. Every little helps.’

He smiled. ‘That’s not a little. Often it’s everything you need.’

‘You’re a wise man, Father Gerard.’

‘Me? No, I’m only a priest. You’ll find wisdom, and courage too, where you least expect it.’