Free Inhuman Remains by Quintin Jardine

area; I took a seat there, had another coffee and read another newspaper . . . El Mundo this time . . . but I found I couldn’t settle, and that I was on edge.
    I knew what the problem was, of course. My head was back in St Martí, with my son. I had been gone for just a few hours and I was missing him. That’s how it is with Tom and me. That’s how it was with his dad and me. Oh, shit, there I go again! Stop it, Primavera!
    I decided that the best thing I could do was to keep active. But how? After a couple of minutes spent glancing at a town map, it came to me. Not far from the hotel was a square called Plaza Nueva, and taking up one side of it a building labelled ‘ ayuntamiento’ ; that means ‘town hall’, in English. Lidia Bromberg had promised to take me there, but it wouldn’t do any harm to pay it a visit in advance. Would it? I checked my watch; it was ten to four and odds on they’d be closed, but you never know.
    I strode out of the hotel, more in hope than anticipation, map in hand. I followed its directions, round a corner then down a slope. Within two minutes I found myself in Plaza Nueva . . . actually, it was more rectangle than square . . . a paved area with the traditional equestrian statue in the middle, this one on an ornate plinth that was three times the size of the king on the horse, and with big modern sculptures decorating its perimeter.
    The town hall was easy to spot: the flags of Spain, Andalusia and Europe flew . . . or, rather, hung limply . . . from three poles set on a balcony above its main entrance. As I approached, I saw that the place was still open, and so I strolled casually inside. There was a dark-haired, late-twenties man behind the reception desk, upon which I spotted a sign that told me his name was Ignacio Gallardo i Blazquez. (Why do Spanish people often use two surnames? First one’s Dad’s, the second is Mum’s. Women don’t change their names on marriage.) He was dressed in a grey suit, and he wore a tie, a clear indicator in Spain of a public official: no other bugger wears one. As I approached, I realised I had no idea of what I was going to say to him, and so I settled on the truth.
    ‘I’m trying to find someone,’ I began, in my accented Spanish, after we’d exchanged courtesies and he had welcomed me to Sevilla. ‘He’s my cousin, we’ve lost touch, and I need to find him because his mother is anxious. He’s English, although he doesn’t look it, and he’s involved with a project in this area: the Hotel Casino d’Amuseo. I’m wondering if he’s known here.’
    He nodded. ‘I’ve heard of that development,’ he told me.
    ‘Could one of your colleagues help me?’
    ‘I’m sure of it.’ He glanced up at a wall clock. ‘Unfortunately, our planning department is just about to close. Maybe you could come back tomorrow?’
    ‘I suppose.’ I frowned, and he took pity on me.
    ‘Look,’ he continued, ‘everyone who comes into this building has to pass me. Do you have a photograph?’
    I found it in my bag, and showed it to him.
    He studied it for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘Yes, I have seen him here. Mr Urquhart, yes?’ He stumbled over the name, but I got his meaning: some Scottish names are impossible for Spanish people to pronounce . . . for that matter, few English people get close.
    ‘That’s him.’
    ‘Mr Roy Urquhart.’ The second try was no better. ‘Yes, he’s been here.’
    ‘Recently?’
    ‘No. I haven’t seen him for a while.’
    ‘Weeks? Months?’
    ‘Weeks, certainly. Maybe two months.’
    ‘Do you know any other people from the project who come in here?’
    He mused for a moment. ‘I can’t think of any.’
    ‘How about this man?’ I showed him the Macela print. ‘He’s my cousin’s colleague.’
    ‘Mr Macela? Yes, he’s been here, but not for a while now.’
    ‘Have they visited here often?’
    ‘Yes, but they don’t need to any more. They have all the permissions.’
    Just as Lidia Bromberg told me