Inhuman Remains Page 5

  I was thinking as she was speaking. ‘He actually said that it was his venture?’

  ‘Yes. I asked him about that, and he said that he’d have “significant equity”. Those were the words he used. When I asked him if the Lithuanian was involved, he said he couldn’t name his associates in an insecure message, but I’m sure he is.’

  ‘Did he ever mention the name Lidia Bromberg?’

  ‘Mmm? No, not that I can recall. But then again, he probably wouldn’t. I’m not sure Frank ever gave up on the idea that I might leave Hector and join him.’

  ‘But my aunt said you thought he might be seeing someone else.’

  ‘I said I assumed he was. I’d be surprised if he isn’t; I don’t see him staying celibate for too long. He’s a horny guy.’

  ‘Have you seen him since he left Davos?’ I asked.

  ‘Once,’ Susannah admitted. ‘Last September. I had to go to Paris, on a computer course. I told Frank about it and he met me there.’

  ‘Did he say much about his project?’

  ‘It wasn’t at the top of our agenda, Mrs Blackstone. He mentioned it, though. He said that everything was going well and the civic authorities were eating out of their hands.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re really worried about him, aren’t you?’

  ‘His mother is,’ I confessed. ‘I’m worried for her. I don’t know my cousin very well, but I do know that he has an eye for trouble.’

  Seven

  I left all my contact details with Susannah . . . after she’d checked her records for the spelling of ‘Macela’. She promised to get in touch with me the moment she heard from Frank . . . or of him, for that matter . . . just as I promised I would keep her informed.

  I turned back to my computer. The Hotel Casino d’Amuseo website was still on screen: apart from the description of the project, its menu was short and sweet. There were only four items, the normal ‘About Us’, ‘Our People’ and ‘Contact Us’, plus another ‘Investment Opportunities’. I hit the first, and waited as the page loaded.

  The Hotel Casino d’Amuseo [I read silently] will be the new heartbeat of Andalusian culture, offering the classic mix of twenty-four-hour gambling and high-quality year-round entertainment. Our highlights include

  • A state-of-the-art American no-limit gaming hall, featuring roulette, blackjack, craps and slots.

  • Two theatres featuring spectacular shows and concert appearances by global entertainment stars.

  • A championship golf complex designed by Ryder Cup legend Syd Hoylake.

  • An associated ski-lodge in the Sierra Nevada with a private transport link for our winter guests.

  • A five-star, two-thousand-bedroom hotel with a hundred opulent suites, and restaurant options to suit all tastes.

  Your pleasure is our only concern.

  ‘I’ll bet it is,’ I murmured, as I clicked on ‘Our People’, ‘but there’s more to it than that.’

  We are an international team of professionals in the leisure industry, with almost a century of combined experience. Our principals are

  • Alastair Rowland, chairman of the board. An internationally renowned hotel impresario, who has led successful ventures in Italy, France and the US.

  • George Macela, chief executive officer, with experience of similar ventures in Reno and Florida.

  • Lidia Bromberg, director and sales manager.

  Doesn’t tell you much about the last two, I thought. Come to think of it, it doesn’t tell you much about any of them.

  I switched from the website to a search engine, and keyed in each name in turn. How many hits did I have? None. Not one of these leading professionals in the leisure industry had left a single footprint on the Internet. On the trail of George Macela, I visited sites in Reno and in Florida, where the Seminole Indian tribe have casino interests. The name drew no results on either of them. Then I realised something else: the searches didn’t even lead me back to my starting point. The ‘new heartbeat of Andalusian culture’ had yet to be detected by the worldwide web.

  I returned to the d’Amuseo site and clicked on ‘Contact Us’. I found no more than the details on the slip that Adrienne had given me: no street address, only the post-office box and telephone numbers. Nothing, except . . .

  The phone was a land-line and so it had to be sitting on a desk somewhere. I went back in my mind to the days when Oz and I were in the investigations business, when we were at our happiest and when our lives were at their least complicated, and I recalled finding out then that while reverse telephone directories did exist, they were restricted, and that their use was even illegal in some countries . . . unless you were a cop.

  Once upon a time I knew a policeman whose territory took in St Martí d’Empúries. His name was Ramón Fortunato, and I use the past tense deliberately. Like too many men in my past, he wasn’t altogether nice, but he did have a sergeant, Alex Guinart, whom I’d met on occasion and whom I do like and trust. He’s a sub-inspector now, and since I’ve been back in town, our paths have crossed: we started by having a beer or two together . . . when he was off duty, since the restaurants don’t like people in uniform sitting at their tables . . . and soon I grew close to him, and his new family, his wife Gloria and their baby, Marte. I can turn to Alex for advice when I need it, and I did.

  I called him on his mobile: from the background noise I guessed that he was in the small Mossos d’Esquadra station in L’Escala. ‘Primavera,’ he answered, having read my number as he took the call, ‘how goes it?’ He and I converse in Catalan. (I don’t use English unless I have to; for example, with another Brit. We move to Spain in our thousands, but we’re so damn clannish that most of us don’t bother to learn the languages.)

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Alex,’ I replied. ‘Can you do me a favour? I’ve got a phone number, and I need to tie an address to it. It’s a business in Sevilla that my cousin’s involved with, but I only have a poste restante address. No problem if you can’t do it.’

  ‘For you I can do it. You got me your sister’s signed photograph: you’re my heroine.’ That’s true. Alex is a movie fan: he keeps the photo in his office, and makes damn sure that all his colleagues know of my family connection, even if Dawn’s career has been on hold since she and Miles had their second kid, Eilidh, a wee sister for Bruce. It does no harm to have every cop in town keeping a special eye on my son.

  It didn’t take him long. ‘The address is Calle Alvarez Quintero forty-seven. I checked the local property register. But it’s not a business, it’s a residence, right in the city centre, near the town hall. It’s listed as belonging to a lady named Benitez.’

  Maybe that disclosure should have taken me by surprise, but it didn’t: I was beginning to catch a faint scent of fish. ‘Thanks, Alex. Give me a call next time you’re heading this way and I’ll buy you lunch . . . but not for a few days. I’m off to Sevilla.’

  I was frowning as I ended the call. A multi-million-euro rural complex operating from a city-centre house? That didn’t sit right with me. I decided to dig a little deeper, and to set up a reason for my visit.

  I can hear you asking something. Since I have a friend in the police, why didn’t I report Frank as a missing person and leave it to them? Good question. Right now, I wish I had, but then I didn’t because, given Frank’s record, I was concerned that criminality lay behind his disappearance, and I reckoned that my aunt had suffered enough public embarrassment at his hapless hands.

  Instead, I went to the final section of the d’Amuseo website, ‘Investment Opportunities’, and clicked on it. I was greeted by a short, encouraging statement.

  While the bulk of the equity in Hotel Casino d’Amuseo will be held by leading financial institutions, a number of shares in the holding company have been reserved for private investors. In addition to unrivalled growth potential, these carry with them the benefits of discounted rates in the hotel and ski-lodge and membership of the golf club. For further information, contact Lidia Bromberg, director and sales manager
.

  ‘Why not?’ I said, and dialled the number Alex had checked out for me. It rang four times, then a solicitous automated voice told me, in Spanish, that my call was being diverted. The sound changed to a double tone, which I heard a further six times until finally, in a lousy accent, ‘Sí?’

  ‘Is that Lidia Bromberg?’

  ‘Yes?’ She switched to English; there was a degree of caution in her voice.

  ‘The same Lidia Bromberg who’s marketing director of Hotel Casino d’Amuseo?’

  ‘Yes.’ Instantly, she sounded more comfortable and more confident. ‘And you are?’

  ‘A potential investor in your complex,’ I replied. ‘My name is Janet More.’ The decision to use my previously borrowed identity was made on the spur of the moment. If Frank had let slip the celebrity names in his family when he was in Switzerland, there was a better than even chance he’d done it in Spain.

  ‘What level of investment did you have in mind, Mrs More?’ Her accent was definitely not British; if I’d had to name it on the spot I’d have said middle rather than eastern European, German probably.

  ‘It’s Ms More, and that’s not something I care to discuss over the phone. Let’s just say that I have access to substantial funds.’

  ‘Our starter level is around two hundred thousand US.’

  ‘Is that all?’ I asked. ‘Your club doesn’t sound too exclusive.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, a little too quickly, ‘but that is only our starter level.

  Once potential investors take a look at what we have to offer, in terms of benefits and capital growth, invariably they go way above that.’

  ‘And what do you have to offer?’

  ‘A piece of the biggest and most exciting leisure development ever undertaken in Europe.’

  ‘I thought that was Disneyland Paris.’

  ‘Kids’ stuff, literally. Let me send you our prospectus. I’ll include a share application form because you’ll be hooked as soon as you see it.’

  ‘Let me tell you something, dear.’ I laid on the Scottish accent. ‘I’ve never bought anything off the page in my life, not so much as a pair of knickers. Your website’s full of nice pictures but, with respect, it tells me little more than bugger-all.’

  I could almost hear the wheels as the sales pitch was cranked up. ‘We don’t have anything on the ground yet, Ms More, but I can assure you that the authorities in Sevilla are co-operating with us fully. As of last month, we have all the necessary licences and permissions in place and we’ll be ready to begin the construction phase soon.’ She paused. ‘Of course, once that’s under way, the investment opportunities will either dry up or become much more expensive.’

  ‘I told you before; cost isn’t an issue, but timing might be. My partner and I have money we need to get invested soon, if you get my drift. The UK isn’t an option for us; your operation might be, but I need to see something more attractive than a pile of bullshit.’

  My obvious hint at money-laundering didn’t faze her in the slightest. ‘Then come to Seville,’ she invited. ‘I’ll show you models, I’ll show you the ground where the complex will stand, and I’ll take you up to the mountains and show you where the ski-lodge will be. I’ll even take you to the town hall and introduce you to the people we’re working with there.’

  ‘Okay. Now you’re saying what I want to hear. I’ll be there the day after tomorrow. Where’s your office?’

  ‘Let’s meet somewhere more interesting than that,’ she proposed. ‘Let’s say the San Fernando Bar, in the Hotel Alfonso Thirteen. Two thirty in the afternoon, yes?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Dress light when you come. It’s very hot here at this time of year.’

  ‘I’m used to heat. I’ve lived in Vegas.’ I hung up on her, leaving her pondering, no doubt, about a Scotswoman with a Las Vegas background, a partner and a pot of money that needed investing in a hurry.

  That left me with two things to do, before I was ready for my trip. The first was to find a hotel. That was easy: I logged on to a travel site, searched for hotels in Sevilla and found one called Las Casas de los Mercaderes, in Calle Alvarez Quintero itself, and so not far from the house where Lidia Bromberg’s land-line phone was located. I booked myself in for three nights, Monday through Wednesday, as Primavera Blackstone, not Jan. I had - still have - an unexpired MasterCard in that name, but the hotel would almost certainly have wanted to see some back-up ID.

  My second task took me back to Google, where I entered the name ‘George Macela’. I came up with two footballers, nothing more.

  Another faceless mystery man . . . but maybe not quite.

  I called Cinq Pistes again, and was put through to Susannah. ‘When your guests check in do you ask for their passports?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘By any chance, do you photocopy them?’

  ‘No, but we scan them.’

  ‘Do you still have an image of George Macela’s passport?’

  ‘Sure. That’s where I checked the spelling of his name.’

  ‘In that case, would you be breaking any Swiss laws if you sent me a copy as an email attachment?’

  ‘Probably, but I’ll do it anyway, for Frank’s sake.’

  I gave her my email address, and four minutes later it hit my in-box. I can’t read Lithuanian, but the numbers are the same. George Macela was forty-eight years old, and one metre seventy-four tall. The photo showed a man with an oval face, a sallow complexion and brown hair that was either greying, or so greasy that it had reflected the flash. I opened some software and edited Susannah’s scanned image, isolating the picture and blowing it up as much as it would take without losing clarity. When I was done I printed myself half a dozen copies, to go with those of Frank I had done earlier.

  At least I knew what one of my potential targets looked like. Maybe some other people in Sevilla would too, once I’d showed them around.

  Eight

  So there I was, all my meticulous groundwork done, and ready to go in search of my disappeared cousin, ready to step back into some of the excitement of my past life . . . only to discover that I wasn’t.

  As soon as I heard the front door open, and went through to find Tom fetching an isotonic drink from the fridge for a distinctly frazzled Auntie Ade, who was slumped in one of the kitchen chairs, all my resolve seemed to drain out through the soles of my bare feet. ‘Are you all right, Adrienne?’ I asked, anxiously.

  ‘Fine,’ she replied, unconvincingly. ‘Those ruins are more exposed than I realised. I must have become a little dehydrated. I felt a little faint, that’s all. Luckily, Tom knew one of the people there, a very nice young man called Jordi. He put us in his van and ran us home.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ said my son, frowning anxiously. ‘I should have taken more water with us.’

  I looked down at them. The trip to Sevilla was predicated on Adrienne looking after my seven year old; what I could see at that moment was him looking after her. As I’ve told you, he’s a very sensible, resourceful lad for his age, but . . .

  ‘This won’t do, Auntie Ade,’ I declared. ‘You take Tom for an outing and you come back a basket case. I can’t leave you.’

  I stalked back to my office, picked up Frank’s old Swiss business card and dialled the mobile number, which his mother had told me was still active. I had called it earlier, to find it on voicemail, as Adrienne had said. This time I left a message: you could say it was a little terse. ‘Frank,’ I began, ‘this is your cousin Primavera. I have your mother with me, here in St Martí, worried out of her skull because you’ve disappeared from your so-called job and aren’t answering her calls. If you pick this up, then ring me at once. Otherwise tomorrow I’m on my way down to Sevilla to find you. I have a strong feeling that you’re messing her around, you little sod. If you do not stop, then I will personally give you a double orchidectomy, and if you don’t know what that means, look it up!’ I recited my mobile number, then slammed the phone down.

  When
I turned, I saw my aunt standing in the doorway. ‘What have you just threatened to do to my son?’ she asked, with a weak smile.

  ‘Rip his balls off.’

  ‘This may sound unmaternal, but I really hope you have the opportunity to do that soon. I fear you won’t, though. I fear . . .’ Her voice broke, her shoulders slumped and she started to cry. To say that it took me aback is putting it mildly: in all my life I never saw my mother shed a tear, and her sister’s a pea from the same pod.

  I held her to me and let her dampen my shoulder for a while. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she whispered, when she had composed herself.

  ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘For being so soppy, for making a complete tit of myself in front of my nephew at those ruins, but most of all for being so damn presumptuous. It was outrageous of me to ask you to get involved in this. I’ll go to Seville myself, and find out what’s happened to Frank.’

  It was as if her weakness had restored my strength. ‘Auntie Ade,’ I reminded her, ‘you’re that number you never use plus two years old, and if the heat gets to you here, it will kill you in Sevilla. My arrangements are made. I’ll go, and I’ll trust you not to do anything silly. If you do need anything, you can go to any of the people in the restaurants or shops: they’re all chums of ours. If something comes up when they’re closed, I have a friend called Alex Guinart. He’s a police officer, and you can rely on him.’

  When she smiled again, the mischief was back. ‘A friend, eh. How close?’

  ‘Fairly. I’m godmother to his baby daughter, Marte.’

  Nine

  I had another blip in my resolve early next morning, when the time came to set out. If I had seen the slightest hint of a wobble in Tom’s chin when I told him to be a good boy and to look after his aunt as carefully as he looked after me, I swear I wouldn’t have gone.