Free Inhuman Remains by Quintin Jardine Page B

are related to him in any way.
    I paused in my stroll. ‘Lady,’ a voice called to me.
    I turned, to see a café called the Gallego, and a white-shirted waiter beckoning me towards an empty table. Why not ? I thought. It was hot as the approach roads to hell, and I was beginning to feel parched. I thanked him as I sat down; a badge on his chest told me that his name was Carlos.
    ‘You’re not Spanish,’ he said. (I’ll never pass for one, no matter how fluent I become.) ‘English?’
    ‘Not quite,’ I told him. ‘Try Scottish.’
    ‘Ah, Scotland.’ He sighed. ‘Football. Rangers, Celtic?’
    A thousand years of history, and that’s all they know about us, but I went along with it. ‘In my case, St Johnstone,’ I confessed.
    He smiled, then extended his left hand towards me, displaying an embossed signet ring. ‘What is that, do you think?’
    I peered at the crest: it was familiar, but out of place. ‘Barcelona?’ I suggested.
    He nodded, in a way that told me I had made his day, and made a friend too. ‘I am the only Barca supporter in Sevilla. I never speak of it at home. You like some tapas? For you I have a special selection.’
    I thanked him, but settled simply for a beer. When it arrived it was full to the brim, with a normal head, not the usual kind they give you, with a layer of foam so deep that a bloke could shave with it. I took a mouthful and went back to my thoughts.
    Some years ago, I acquired a PDA, a personal organiser, and it’s been one of my best buddies ever since. Among other things it holds just about every phone number I’ve ever known, including two for Mark Kravitz. I found his mobile and dialled it.
    He answered curtly: ‘Yes.’ His tone was all business, making me guess that he had a second number for personal calls. I realised that I had no idea if he had a personal life or if he was consumed by his round-the clock job.
    ‘Mark, this is Primavera Blackstone. Do you remember me?’
    His reply was instantaneous, without a pause for thought. ‘Yes, Prim, of course I do. Still alive, I’m glad to hear.’ That was as close to a joke as I’d ever heard him come. ‘What can I do for you?’
    ‘A favour?’
    ‘I don’t normally do those,’ he shot back, then continued, ‘but just this once, for old times’ sake. In memoriam , let’s say. What is it?’
    ‘I’m on the hunt for a missing person, my cousin, Frank McGowan. Recently he’s been in Seville, calling himself Roy Urquhart, and involved with an enterprise called Hotel Casino d’Amuseo; his title was director and sales manager and he was responsible for recruiting investors for the project. He has an associate, George Macela. There are two others involved. They are listed on the company website as Alastair Rowland and Lidia Bromberg.’
    ‘This is the same cousin who did time for illegal dealing?’ he asked.
    I was taken aback. ‘Yes, that’s the boy. You must have a hell of a memory for names. That was a while back.’
    ‘Oz called me when he was released. He asked me to make sure that he wasn’t going to be a problem for you or Tom.’
    Even in the heat of the afternoon, I felt a shiver run through me. ‘Did he give you any specific instructions?’ I asked.
    ‘He asked me to talk to him, that’s all, to make it clear he was very protective of your interests.’
    ‘You mean Tom’s?’
    ‘No, both of you; he was quite specific. He was really broken up when you disappeared, Prim. He never really accepted that you were dead. He spent a lot of money having me try to find you,’ yes, and I could guess why, ‘but I couldn’t.’ He paused. ‘As a matter of professional interest,’ he went on, ‘where did you go?’
    ‘Las Vegas, via Vancouver.’
    He whistled. ‘Then you can really trust your Canadian lawyer. I went to see him and he flat out denied any knowledge of you. I asked him what would happen to your investments. He told me that was between him and your son, and Oz, as his legal