Inhuman Remains

Thirty-seven

Although I couldn’t help wondering what my mystery meeting in London was about, I put it to the back of my mind during the rest of my stay with Dad, trying to concentrate on him and on him alone. The night before I left, my sister rang from California, as she does at least twice a week. She was surprised to find me there, but pleased too. She’s never said so, but I suspect that she’d hoped I’d raise my son in Auchterarder, and look after our father at the same time.

We had a chat and she agreed that Tom and I should visit her the following month. I said nothing about the situation, deciding to leave that until I saw her. Dawn’s excitable: she deals with things better when she hears them face to face.

When Thursday came around, I found myself regretting that I was leaving so soon. Being back in Scotland had done me good, and I had no valid reason for rushing back to Spain, but my arrangements were made and by that time I couldn’t cancel them. Dad and I were up at six and on the road half an hour later so that I could catch an early flight to London. Before we left, I humoured my father by taking some of his unwanted gifts from Adrienne: half a dozen children’s books for Tom and a small adult selection for myself.

I’d told Mark to expect me at eleven, but the Heathrow Express ran more frequently than I’d thought and I found myself with time to kill at Paddington, before I could pick up a taxi at the rank and head for the address he had given me. It turned out to be a block of art-deco apartments, not unlike the place where Poirot lives in the television series. I was impressed: having been a Londoner myself, when Tom was very young, I know how much such a place, in such a location, is likely to cost. There was a concierge on duty. I told him who I was visiting and he directed me to the lift. ‘Ninth floor,’ he said. ‘I’ll call Mr Kravitz. He asked me to let him know when you arrived.’

If I wasn’t surprised by the style in which Mark lives, I was when he opened the door. In truth, I was shocked. He was in a wheelchair, his hair was mostly grey, and he seemed to have lost about twenty pounds in weight. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been a strong, athletic, dark-haired guy. My thoughts must have been written on my face, for as he reached up to shake my hand, he murmured, ‘Tell you later. Come on through. And be serious, please.’

I wondered about his remark as I followed him into a big reception room. There was no carpeting anywhere that I could see, not even a rug. The floors were polished wood, streaked in places by the rubber wheels of the chair. The space was brightly lit, by two windows, and by the french doors they framed. They were open, and a light, cooling breeze fluttered the curtains. There was a massive plasma screen on the wall to my left, above a desk, its surface lower than normal, upon which sat a computer and every electronic toy imaginable. Heaven for Tom, I thought.

There was a third person present; a woman, blonde (not real; I am, and I can tell the dye jobs), power dressed, maybe ten years younger than me. She wasn’t pretty, she had rat-like features that made me think of a plague carrier: I didn’t take to her. She sat on a black-leather sofa, stiffly upright; I read her posture as a sign that this was not an informal gathering. Mark wheeled himself over to a table, poured me coffee from a cafetière, added a little milk and brought it to me. ‘This is Moira,’ he said, as I took it from him, ‘the person who wants to talk to you.’

‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘Nice to meet you, Moira, but it had better be interesting, given the cost of changing my plans.’

‘Frankly,’ she drawled coolly, in a crusty accent that made me remember how much I dislike Trinny and what’s-her-name, ‘I don’t care whether what I have to say interests you or not, as long as you get the message and act appropriately thereafter.’

All of a sudden those two fashion gurus weren’t so bad after all. ‘Better try me,’ I told her. ‘But first, maybe you’ll begin by telling me who the hell you are.’

‘That’s not important. What you need to know is that I have the authority to be here. Word has reached the ears of my service that you have been telling a story about us.’ As she spoke, I had a flashback, to Frank, in the Conquistador. I thought of him telling me of his recruitment to MI5 by an unnamed woman. Moira fitted his description pretty well.

‘And how has it reached your shell-likes?’ I murmured.

‘Through one of Mark’s friends, who’s a junior colleague of mine.’

‘And the story was?’

‘That convicted felons are being recruited and trained to infiltrate organised crime.’

‘Are you saying that’s not true?’

‘I’m not authorised to discuss the methods of my service, or give you any operational information. All I’m here to do is to tell you to stop; no, to order you.’

I almost pitched my coffee at her, but it would have made a mess of Mark’s pricey sofa. ‘Hold on a minute, sister,’ I snapped. ‘You will give me no damn orders.’

‘I just did. You will not repeat the story you told Mr Kravitz, or there will be consequences.’

‘Such as? Will I be found in the Thames?’

‘Nothing so extreme; that won’t be necessary. Instead, you’ll be treated as a security risk. Let me assure you the consequences of that might make you want to jump into the Thames. I’ll give you a small example. You have a criminal conviction, Mrs Blackstone. At the moment, you are able to enter the United States unhindered only because your well-connected brother-in-law, Miles Grayson, vouched for you and obtained you an entry visa. That can and will be cancelled at once, and your visit to California next month, with your son, will be off.’

For the first time, apprehension overcame my anger. ‘How did you know about that?’ I asked.

‘We tapped your father’s telephone,’ she said bluntly. ‘Call it a small demonstration of our power. When you go back to Spain, we can arrange for yours to be tapped also. We can monitor your mobile communications and your email. We can arrange for your residency in Spain to be brought into question. We can even arrange for your custody of your son to be reviewed.’

‘Enough,’ Mark shouted, taking both of us by surprise. ‘You’ve made your point, and I’ll make sure that Primavera takes it. Now get the fuck out of here!’

She smiled. ‘Mark, calm down. You know that we have enough on you to close down your business, and even to put you away, if we choose, so cut the histrionics.’ She turned back to me. ‘Do you get the point, Mrs Blackstone?’

I wanted to punch her lights out, but I suspected that her martial-arts skills were better than mine. Also, her last threat had really scared me. ‘Yes,’ I admitted quietly. ‘For what it’s worth, the story’s lost its relevance as far as I’m concerned, but you probably know that too.’

‘As it happens, I don’t. But we understand each other, yes?’

‘Yes,’ I repeated, like a good girl.

Moira, although I doubt that was her name (my world had become filled with aliases), stood to leave. ‘Once thing I can tell you,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard of Frank McGowan. Not that anything should be read into that, of course. I’ll let myself out, Mr Kravitz.’

We watched her leave. When she was gone, Mark spun his chair round to face me. ‘Primavera, I’m sorry. I couldn’t warn you in advance. She wasn’t kidding when she said that about me. I do need their goodwill or I’m out of business.’

‘Who was she? Interpol? Frank said his controller was a woman.’

‘No. She’s MI5, but they do overlap and my guess is that when I tried to check your story about Frank it touched a very raw nerve somewhere.’

‘Because he was set up? Because they have a mole?’

‘Quite possibly. Whatever, do what they say. Don’t cross them.’

‘I won’t. I may be crazy, but not that much.’ I paused. ‘Mark, the chair?’

‘Multiple sclerosis. I’ve had it for a year and a half, and it’s been pretty aggressive. I can still get around on sticks, just about, but this way is easier.’ I felt hugely sorry for him, and told him so, but he brushed it off. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m lucky to be alive, given the life I’ve had, in the army and afterwards, and the things I’ve done. They say it may well stabilise, and that I could have years with this much mobility. I can handle that.’

‘That’s some consolation.’

‘That’s good, because this won’t be. Two nights ago, there was a breakin at the offices of Pintore, in Luxembourg, where the d’Amuseo company was registered. All of its records were stolen, every single piece of paper, including all of Alastair Rowland’s signatures.’

‘Shit.’

‘That’s what the investors will be saying. Yesterday there was a formal complaint to the Luxembourg police, and guess who made it? Emil Caballero. He’s asked for a full investigation of the company. Looks like it’s crunch time.’

‘What? That man held me up with a gun. Mark, I’m feeling crazy again. I’m going to face him up. Will that get your friend Moira excited?’

‘No, their interest is very specific.’ He sighed. ‘But, Primavera, please. .’