Inhuman Remains (32 page)

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Authors: Quintin Jardine

Tags: #Fiction, #Crime, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Scotland

BOOK: Inhuman Remains
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‘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.’
Forty
A
nd 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.
The outline was pretty much finished on Sunday afternoon, when Conrad Kent arrived with Tom and Charlie. In front of the whole village I gave my son a hug of embarrassing proportions, which he tolerated before dashing indoors to fill a water-bowl for the dog, and probably to check that I hadn’t damaged or pawned any of his possessions in his absence.
Conrad would have driven straight back, but I had prepared lunch and made him stay to share it with us. He didn’t say much, but I could tell he wanted to. ‘Spit it out,’ I told him, in the end, as I poured him coffee on the front terrace, after Tom had been cleared for beach duty.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine.’
‘I read all the reports: a real official stitch-up.’
‘Very true.’
‘What does Kravitz think about it? Have you asked him?’
‘He’s not thinking anything.’ I lowered my voice. ‘He’s been told not to, like me.’
‘Leaned on?’
‘Hard.’
‘Can I help?’
‘If you could find a security-service operative who goes by the name Moira, and do something painful to her, I’d appreciate it. Otherwise, no, but thanks for the offer.’
‘If Kravitz can’t do that, neither can I, I’m afraid. The best you can do is forget about it, and concentrate on that lad of yours. He’s looking more like his father every day; that means he’ll be a handful.’
‘Any advice?’
‘Make sure you teach him the difference between right and wrong in black and white,’ he replied. ‘It was a grey area to Oz.’
I looked at him. ‘I know that better than anyone in the world.’
‘Of course you do,’ he conceded. ‘But he didn’t do what you think he did.’ After he had gone, I found myself wondering whether Susie had put him up to saying that, but decided he was sincere, and that he believed it. I wish I did.
Tom’s return brought Planet Primavera back into its usual orbit: around him. I put the writing aside for a bit and asked him to draw me up a list of things he’d like to do. The water-park at Ampuriabrava featured high upon it. We went there a couple of times, we did some bird-watching at Aiguamols nature reserve, we hit a lot of golf balls on the practice ground at Gualta and we fished, morning and evening, off the long jetty that stretches out from the rocks below the village.
After a few days of that, I was happy again and the bad memories were fading, as my confessor had promised they would. And then, in all his wide-eyed innocence, my lovely son knocked the lid right off the can of worms.
Forty-one
W
e had just returned from the beach at Montgó, where we’d gone to escape the strong afternoon breeze that was stirring up the sand at St Martí. We were in the living room, drinking carrot and orange juice and Coronita beer respectively, and Sky News was on the box. I allow one telly in the house, and that’s all, although sometimes I cheat by watching on-line.
I wasn’t paying much attention as the evening bulletin began. The main story of the day came from Westminster, where the dour and unloved Prime Minister had attempted to freshen up his image by freshening up his cabinet.
One by one, the losers appeared, one or two with brave smiles, the rest about to trip over their long faces. And then the winners were paraded, in no obvious pecking order: third in line, the new Home Secretary, was . . . Justin Mayfield, MP.
An official photograph appeared on screen, and then the programme cut to live footage from the doorstep of a posh terraced house, a red-brick job in a
nouveau riche
suburb like Fulham or Herne Hill. There he was, the man I’d last seen being given a one-finger salute by Frank as we wished him goodbye, smiling haughtily alongside his smug-looking little wife, a stumpy blondette.
‘I know her,’ Tom exclaimed.
‘Yes, I know him too. He’s on the telly a lot, but I met him a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Not him.’ Tom sighed, in his be-patient-with-her voice. ‘Her. I’ve seen her.’
I stared at him. ‘You must be mixing her up with somebody else.’
‘I’m not,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve seen her.’
‘Where?’
‘Here, in the village. It was her, I know it.’
Tom is brilliant with faces. I decided not to argue. ‘When was this?’
‘A few months ago. April, just after school started again. Remember the day the old car broke down when you were coming to pick me up, and I had to come home on my bike and wait for you in Can Coll?’
‘Yes, I remember that.’
‘It was then. I saw her then, and I spoke to her.’
‘You mean she spoke to you?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I spoke to her. I asked her why she was videoing our house.’
‘She was doing what?’
‘I told you, Mum.’ I was trying his patience.
‘As in, she was filming the whole village?’
‘No, just here, so I asked her why, and she just laughed at me and told me not to be nosy, so I told her it was our house, and that you wouldn’t like it.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then she went away, out of the square, just as the man at Can Coll came over to see what was happening.’
‘Well, isn’t that something?’ I murmured.
My telly is fed through a very clever little box. Among other things it lets you rewind programmes, and that was what I did with the
Sky News
bulletin, running it back until I saw that upwardly mobile house and its self-satisfied occupants. The box also lets me freeze frames. I’d never used the facility until then, but when I did I saw that it gave a clean, sharp image. I went right up to the screen and peered at Mrs Mayfield.
It took a second or two, but I realised I’d seen her before too. She hadn’t been blonde then. She’d been dark-haired, and she’d been calling herself Lidia Bromberg.
I tossed the remote to Tom so he could watch what he liked, and dashed into the hall. I was about to pick up the phone, when I remembered Moira and thought better of it. I had reported my mobile lost and they’d given me another, but I still had Adrienne’s. I used that to call Mark Kravitz on his.
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked him. Even as I spoke, my mind was working, adding pieces to a jigsaw.
‘Perfectly all right. I have a condition, Primavera; I’m not an invalid. I’ve had an okay day, in fact.’
‘Then I’m about to upgrade it to brilliant. Would you like to shove one up that Moira woman?’
‘In the sense of retribution, yes.’
‘Then dig up all you can for me about the wife of the new Home Secretary. I think my son has just made her day as bad as yours has been good.’
Forty-two
‘
Y
ou realise we have to be careful here,’ said Mark, as he reversed his car into one of the parking spaces that had been cleared in front of the Mayfield house. ‘We may know what we know, and you may suspect what you suspect, but this man is now the Home Secretary, not the middle-ranking ministerial wanker you met in Barcelona.’
‘Yes, and that’s good. But remember, the higher you climb . . . and all the rest of that metaphoric stuff.’ I looked at him and saw his anxiety. ‘I’ll behave myself appropriately,’ I promised him, ‘but what about you? You were threatened along with me, and so was your business. If you want to stay in the car with Tom and let me do this, I’ll be perfectly happy about it.’
He grinned, and I saw that his concern had been about me alone. ‘You know what?’ He chuckled. ‘After you left I started thinking about Moira and what she’d said, and I realised that I don’t give a toss about her and her crew. I’m comfortably off, I’m well insured against incapacity, and I don’t have any dependants they can threaten. Anyway, what are they going to do? Sabotage my wheelchair? ’
‘In that case, let’s go.’ I turned to my son, in the back seat. ‘We won’t be long, love,’ I told him. Don’t worry, I had no intention of taking him in there to confront Mrs Mayfield. But when I’d known I had to go back to London, I’d realised I couldn’t leave him in St Martí, not so soon after bundling him off to Monaco, so I’d decided to take him with me and make it a holiday for him. (We left Charlie with the guy in El Celler Petit; he has dogs and said that one more wouldn’t make that much difference to him.) We’d done the Tower that morning, and Madame Tussaud’s in the afternoon. He was quite happy to sit in the car and play with his Game Boy, while Mum did a bit of business.

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