Last Resort (10 page)

Eleven

W
hile I cleared away the breakfast dishes, Xavi made the call to Señora Roca.

‘We’re on,’ he announced as he came back into the kitchen.

He said that he would drive to Begur. That was sensible on two grounds: he knew where we were going and he’s so damn tall he wouldn’t have been comfortable in my car.

I insisted on packing my overnight bag before we left, as I had to go home that evening, whatever happened during the day, but I had another reason for wanting a little privacy.

Back in my room, I took out my phone and called a number that was listed simply as ‘Amanda’. Mrs Dennis is an old friend of mine; she’s a middle-aged divorcee who is listed in public files as a Grade Two civil servant. In fact, she’s the head of the security service, and I’m one of the very few people outside her circle in Whitehall to have her mobile number.

It was ten minutes to nine in London when I called her, but I knew she’d be at work.

‘Bob,’ she greeted me brightly. ‘This is a surprise; I didn’t expect you to call me back so soon. You said you wanted some time to think about my offer . . . or have you decided to say “no” already?’

As I’ve said, I had a few career options to consider, and one of them was a role that she had offered me, with her beloved service. ‘Think about the principle,’ Amanda had said when we had lunch during what was ostensibly a routine visit to the Glasgow out-station. ‘If the idea of working in Five is attractive to you, we can work out a precise role later . . . or possibly an imprecise role.’

‘I haven’t decided anything yet, Amanda,’ I told her. ‘I’m calling because I’m helping a pal in Spain with a situation that he has in his business, and a name’s come up.’

‘British?’

‘No, but I know that you talk to your counterparts in other countries so I thought I’d try it on you. Ever heard of Bernicia Battaglia?’

‘The Italian media person, the one they call the “Warrior”? Not quite in the Berlusconi class yet, but with ambitions of getting there?’

‘That’s the lady. She has her sights on my friend’s business; he doesn’t want to sell, but “No, thank you” isn’t a phrase she’s used to hearing, or understands when she does. There have been rumours about her ruthless way of dealing with people who oppose her. I’d like to test the strength of them, if possible.’

‘I’ll see what I can discover. Mind, if I do come up with something useful, I’ll be looking for something in return.’

I laughed. ‘I thought I had a credit balance in favours between the two of us.’

‘This one might wipe it out; my opposite number in Rome doesn’t give things away either. Somewhere along the line there’s always a trade involved. We’ll speak again, when I have something for you . . . or when you have some good news for me.’

I went downstairs and slung my bag into the boot of the Suzuki, just as Sheila arrived back from her school run. Xavi was waiting as she parked beside his car. She looked around as she stepped out of her Evoque.

‘Is that son of mine not home yet?’ I heard her say as she reached up to kiss him. ‘Dirty little stop-out; wait till I see him.’

‘Come on,’ her husband laughed. ‘He’s a grown man.’

‘So what? Wait till your daughter’s grown up, and see how you feel about her.’

‘D’you hear that, Bob?’ he called to me. ‘You’ve got a daughter Ben’s age. How am I gonna feel?’

‘Do you want the flip answer or the honest answer?’ I asked.

‘Let’s try honest.’

‘You’re going to feel the same way you feel now, but you’ll realise she’s what you made her, so you’ll stand back and let her get on with her life, however she wants to live it . . . up to a point, that point being, if you know that she’s making a huge mistake or worse, being abused or exploited, you will do something about it.’

‘And that something being?’

I thought back to a very dangerous time in Alex’s young life and how I’d handled that. ‘Whatever’s necessary.’

‘Hey,’ Sheila exclaimed, gazing at me, ‘you look as though someone’s walked over your grave.’

Actually it was the other way around, but I didn’t tell her that. Instead I told her, ‘Nobody’s exploiting or abusing your Ben, and he’s not doing anything unseemly under your roof. In fact, he sounds a lot like me when I was his age.

‘The best thing you can do for him is dig out a couple of cans of Red Bull. He’ll probably need them when he gets home.’

I climbed into Xavi’s Range Rover and we set off for Begur. His chosen route wasn’t the one I’d have taken, south towards the port of Palamos, then veering north past Palafrugell, but the highway was good and it was quick.

Like many old Catalan towns, Begur is built on a hill. Normally the church will be the highest point, but Begur is dominated by the ruins of a castle. I’d been there before with Alex, in her childhood, and been impressed by the views from the old battlements. No enemy was ever going to take its occupants by surprise, unless they were brave enough to climb steep and stony slopes on a very dark night.

‘We’ll leave the car here,’ Xavi announced, pulling into a parking area beside a road junction. ‘The village roads are too narrow for this thing.’

He wasn’t kidding, I realised, as we left the main drag and turned into a street called Carrer de Santa Reparada. (I’ve researched the saint’s story since then: I don’t believe a word of it.) Not very far up, Xavi stopped at what looked at first like no more than a big yellow stone wall with a few slit windows and a double garage entrance, until I saw, slightly inset, a polished oak door, with a buzzer beside it and a name tag, ‘Sureda/Roca’.

We had to wait for a full minute before the call was answered. No one asked who we were but that’s what video cameras are for. ‘Xavi,
cariño
,’ a woman said, as the door swung open, squeaking slightly as it caught on a raised tile beneath.

I knew that Pilar Roca was pushing seventy, but no way did she look it. She’s a tall, grand lady who managed that morning to maintain her elegance in a housecoat that might have been bought in the Palafrugfell market . . . and probably was, given the famous thriftiness of the Catalan people.

She greeted me with a polite smile and an appraising look. If I’d been sold as the man who’d find her son, as I was sure I had been, that was something she wanted to decide for herself.

‘
Bienvenido, señor
,’ she said, and I thought,
Oh shit, a translation job
, but mercifully she switched to English. ‘Welcome. It’s fitting that the two words mean exactly the same in each language, Castellano and English. You will be even more welcome if you can help find our son.’

Her anxiety was written all over her face, in lines and in the dark bags under her eyes.

‘If I can, I will,’ I replied. ‘That’s all I can offer, or say.’

‘How is Simon?’ Xavi asked.

‘He’s asleep. He’s turning night into day; even with his sedatives, he is always awake in the
madrugada
hours, even though he hates the darkness. It has got to the stage when he does not try to go back to sleep any more. Instead he gets up and he watches television; anything, movies or yesterday’s sport on Canal Plus, even the rolling bulletins on the twenty-four-hour news channel, the same stories over and over again. As soon as the sun rises he goes back to bed and sleeps until midday at least. I tell you, his operation cannot be soon enough, for either of us.’

‘Is it possible, señora,’ I asked, ‘that Hector’s having difficulty dealing with his father’s condition?’

I knew that I was taking a chance with the question, so I wasn’t surprised when she flared up.

‘Are you suggesting that my son is a
pollo
?’ she snapped. ‘That’s he’s too chicken to support his father. It’s the opposite that is the truth. When Simon began to be ill we were both ignoring it, he and I. It was Hector who said, “Papa, something is wrong here and you must deal with it.” He made all the appointments with the doctors and he went with Simon to every one. I didn’t have the cojones to do that; he did.’

I smiled. ‘I’ll take that as a “no”, then,’ I said. ‘I apologise for upsetting you. I wasn’t implying anything, only asking what any investigator would.’

She softened immediately. ‘No, I say sorry to you. A good journalist would ask the same question also.’

‘Xavi says that Hector has his own rooms in this house. Can I see them?’

‘Of course.’

She led the way up a flight of stairs that opened into a hallway, on what seemed to be the ground floor of the house, and then another. On that level, there was a door with a barrel lock which she opened.

‘More steps,’ she said. ‘They are bad for Simon; he can’t take them any more. He sleeps on the garden level, the first one that we came to. Hector’s place is in the
atico
.’

When finally we reached it, Hector’s place was pretty damn impressive. It had only one bedroom, with an en suite bathroom, but the rest of the living area covered the whole width of the house below. It was open-plan, with a terrace that had a view across the neighbouring beachfront town of Sa Riera, and all the way up to the Islas Medas.

It was a young man’s apartment, no mistake. The furniture was modern and expensive. The kitchen area was state of the art, with an induction hob and twin fan ovens, an American-style fridge freezer, and Miele white goods. In the rest of the living space there were the inevitable toys, a wall-mounted fifty-inch flat screen TV, an X-Box One, and some hi-fi equipment that I recognised as Cyrus, because I have some myself, although not nearly as new as Hector’s.

There were only two photographs on show. One showed Pilar flanked by two men, one young, the other older, their likeness marking them out as father and son, as clearly as Ignacio and I are, once you’ve seen the right shot of me at his age.

The other showed the man I took to be Hector, with a woman. She was in the same age group as him, and she was beautiful, a real traffic hazard on any pavement, in any city; she had an oval face, dark hair and brown eyes that seemed to reach out and grab me. The pair were both clad for the ski slopes, and they were standing against a background of deep snow.

‘That was taken in Andorra, in January of last year,’ Pilar volunteered.

‘Who’s the girl?’

‘Her name is Valentina; she’s a Russian girl. She was his big romance at the time, but he broke it off.’

He did?
I thought.
What a mug
.

‘Would you mind if I looked around, señora?’ I asked, when I had finished being impressed.

‘Of course not; that’s what you’re here for.’

I thanked her and headed straight for the bedroom. The only furniture was a bed and two side tables. All the wardrobes and storage had been built in when the attic apartment was created, and was hidden behind three large mirrored doors. I slid them along to reveal as much as I could.

His shirts were folded and stacked on a shelved area. They were quality, real designer labels, not market copies. His socks and underpants were stored in drawers, all laid flat, not scrunched into balls as all of mine are. ‘Very neat, Hector,’ I murmured.

Jackets, trousers and suits, including the ski costume I’d seen in the photograph, and one other, same brand different colour, all hung on a rail. There were three spare coat hangers, and two of the trouser clips that I always ask the Marks and Spencer assistants to put into the bag. Hector bought his own, it seemed; they were metal, with padded grips to make them easy on the garments.

‘For sure,’ I murmured, ‘this is a very well-organised guy; a place for everything and everything in its place. The clothes he wore to work, fair enough. That accounts for a couple of empty hangers, but the others?’

I looked at the shirts once more. A dozen were short-sleeved, summer wear, four were heavier, long-sleeved, and ten were formal business shirts. ‘Should there be twelve of those?’ I wondered.

I slid the doors along to reveal the rest of the long wardrobe. It was split between shoes and storage. Again the footwear had been placed carefully in a fold-down rack, left foot, right foot, side by side, each in its proper place, even the ski boots. Two slots were empty.

Alongside there was a rack holding five ties, all silk, all plain colour, no stripes or patterns; three shades of red, pale green and yellow.

In the storage area two pairs of skis stood on end, beside two matching four-wheeled cases. One was the size of a cabin bag, the other much larger, the size that few people use these days because of weight restrictions. Had there been a third in the set?

I was in Hector’s bathroom when Xavi’s voice came from the doorway.

‘How are you doing? Pilar’s gone downstairs to check on Simon,’ he said, then added, ‘I’m worried about her, Bob. The very fact that she’s dressed like a bag lady tells you how strung out she is.’

I made the appropriate reassuring noises. ‘She’ll be fine. We’ll find her boy, her husband will have his dodgy heart valve replaced, and she’ll be back to normal.’

‘Simon’s operation is high risk,’ he countered. ‘And as for Hector, we’ll find him, but in what condition?’

‘Hey!’ I said, sharply. ‘Don’t go all fatalistic on me. You’re assuming the worst, that the guy’s been taken, or simply taken out. It’s not as easy as that. He left here in his high-performance sports car as if he was going to your office in Girona.

‘We’ve just covered the same road that he would have taken; it’s wide open and there appears to be constant traffic. Suppose someone was targeting him, how would they get him to stop?

‘I say they, because the scenario needs at least three people: one to keep him subdued and under control in a getaway vehicle, one to drive it and one to get Hector’s car off the road. Even then, how exactly do you hide a canary-yellow Porsche?’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but I do know that your abduction theory is wild, fanciful and plain fucking wrong. Mostly, my friend, I deal in evidence, as you do as a journalist. Instinct can come into my work, but I’ve never been able to arrest and charge someone on that basis alone. I’ve always had to prove it. I’ve found no evidence here, so far, that we’re looking for a victim.’