Last Resort

by Quintin Jardine

  As she left, I asked him what they had said.

  ‘I asked her how she did it so fast,’ he replied. ‘She told me it was no magic; that she made Hector give her his password, just in case he was involved in an accident and she needed access to his files. She added that I shouldn’t worry, that she only has his. Getting into my computer or the finance director’s would take her much longer. She could do it, though,’ he added.

  I looked at the screen, and at the desktop wallpaper. ‘Does that remind you of anything?’ I murmured.

  ‘Should it?’ he replied.

  ‘It’s a snow scene; the same as in the photo of his Russian girlfriend in his apartment. The same place, I’d say.’

  ‘Is that significant?’

  ‘Only in that it must represent a happy memory for him.’

  ‘You still think he’s gone off with a woman?’

  ‘As I said, it’s the most obvious answer. But I’m still wondering why he hasn’t come back, and why he hasn’t switched on his phone at the very least. There could be one good reason for that. You can pinpoint someone through a mobile, but only when it’s active. Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s see what the iMac tells us.’

  Xavi pulled up a chair, reached for the mouse on the keyboard and clicked on a compass icon at the foot of the screen. Instantly a window opened, showing what I realised almost at once was the homepage on the InterMedia website. ‘We use Safari as the search engine because it’s built into the system. Julia won’t let us download any other in case it causes conflicts. She’s a bit of a control freak.’

  He clicked on another icon and the screen changed to show a selection of windows. ‘These are his top sites,’ he said. ‘They’re very straightforward, only the web pages of our own electronic newspapers. This feature monitors your usage and tells you where you go most often.’ He moved the mouse again and the windows became smaller, showing more, with five blanks at the foot of the screen.

  ‘This should open his diary,’ he murmured as he clicked another icon. It did; the whole of December was set out.

  ‘Look at that!’ Xavi exclaimed, instantly animated as he pointed at the screen. ‘Last Thursday.’

  I followed his pointing finger and saw an entry, an evening engagement timed at eight. ‘Sopar: B.’ Supper; no venue, no companion named, only that initial.

  ‘Now look at today,’ I said. There was one entry; the same lunch with FC Barcelona that Joe had mentioned. ‘That means he was expecting to be back. Who’s B?’ I asked.

  ‘I haven’t a fucking clue,’ my friend admitted. ‘Let me look at his history, see what he’s been looking at, see if there’s a clue in that.’ He moved to the top of the main window and clicked again. All the icons disappeared.

  ‘Eh? He’s cleared his bloody history. Now why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he’s a good housekeeper?’ I suggested.

  ‘Or because he doesn’t want Julia, or anyone else, to see where he’s been looking. She can override this system if she’s asked, and get into his programme. Wait a minute, let’s look at his email.’

  He moved to the menu bar and hit ‘Yahoo’. A new page opened: top right, he selected ‘Correu’, and a mail folder opened. He leaned forward and worked though a series of sub-folders, one by one. ‘It’s all business. There’s nothing personal on here, nothing at all.’

  ‘Should there be?’

  ‘For staff, no, it’s forbidden, but the directors exchange personal emails.’

  ‘But don’t necessarily store them.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But hold on.’

  He picked up the phone on the desk and hit a single button. ‘Xavi,’ he said as his call was answered, then spoke in Catalan.

  ‘That was his assistant,’ he told me as he hung up. ‘I asked him whether he makes Hector’s travel arrangements. He told me no, he does it himself, and that his trips should be kept somewhere on his computer, so that Susannah, the auditor, can compare them with his expense claims if she wants to make a snap inspection. Mmm, let me check something.’

  He went back into the list of folders, muttered, ‘Ah!’ then clicked on an icon.

  ‘There was something I’d overlooked,’ he said. ‘A sub-folder in a file called “Regional offices”; it’s called “Viajes”, that’s journeys in English. I’m looking at it now, and it’s odd. It shows his travel and hotel booking on business trips, but there’s nothing there that’s less than three months old. Hector goes away quite often, at least once a month.’

  He opened one more folder, then whistled. ‘Look at this.’ I did. The folder had no heading, only a familiar ‘Trash’ icon, and it was empty.

  ‘He cleared the history,’ Xavi murmured, ‘and here he’s emptied his trash bin too.’ He turned and looked at me. ‘Bob, this isn’t normal behaviour for Hector. I’m beginning to wonder . . . is he coming back at all?’

  Thirteen

  For all the anomalies in Hector’s computer, I remained unconvinced that there was anything sinister in his disappearance. He hadn’t been kidnapped and buried in a shallow grave, as Xavi had imagined in his worst nightmare; I couldn’t imagine that, not at all.

  Wherever he had gone, it was of his own free will. Why he had gone there, that was the mystery, but I didn’t really see it as one that concerned me. His motive was either personal, in which case it was none of my concern, or it was business . . . in which case I wasn’t too bothered either.

  But, bugger it, I’d volunteered my help in a fit of enthusiasm and although I was beginning to regret it, I felt honour bound to see it through, or to carry on until my friend told me not to bother any longer.

  I gave Hector’s desk and filing cabinets a full professional search but found nothing that took us any further forward. While I did that Xavi went to see Susannah Gardner, to be told that she had done a check for financial discrepancies in the digital media department, and found everything as it should be, no cash shortfalls.

  He was pretty deflated when I met him back in his office. ‘Have I misjudged this man completely, Bob?’ he asked. ‘I can’t believe that I would. I’ve known him for most of his life.’

  ‘I don’t know, chum,’ I replied, ‘but look at it this way. We’re a long way from the black scenario that you painted for me last night. We know that he didn’t disappear between his home and the office, but drove into Girona, with a suitcase in his Porsche.’

  I asked him a straight question.

  ‘Do you want to look any further, or will you wait for him to resurface, and in the meantime take what precautions you can against the chance that Hector might have sold you down the river?’

  ‘Sold us to whom?’

  ‘You’re fixated by the Italian woman, but if not her, then to the highest bidder.’

  My large friend’s face darkened. ‘If that’s happened, I want to know,’ he said in a voice like distant thunder. ‘I’ve been betrayed once in my life, Bob. If it’s happened again, I think I might do something drastic about it.’

  ‘That’s not something you should be saying to me, buddy. If he’s done something criminal, I’ll help you hand him to the police, but nothing else.’

  ‘Understood,’ he said, softening. ‘Don’t mind me. I haven’t lost faith in Hector; I respect his parents too much and as I said, I’ve known him since he was a kid. Carry on with this for a little longer, Bob, please. I must find out what he’s up to, for Pilar’s sake, and Simon’s.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll stay with it. First up, we should take a look at his car, and see if that tells us anything.’

  ‘Could you do that alone?’ Xavi asked. ‘Joe’s right; I can’t miss this football lunch, so I can’t chance being held up in Girona.’

  ‘Sure, but how am I going to get there?’

  ‘Take my car.’ He tossed me the keys. ‘You won’t find it complicated.’

  ‘Here, mate,’ I retorted, ‘I passed the police advanced driving course in a Range Rover.’

  ‘That does not fill me with conf
idence,’ he chuckled. ‘I’ve seen you guys on the skid pan.’

  ‘Me neither; it was about a hundred years ago. By the way,’ I added, ‘I’d like a photo of Hector as well. I might do some nosing around while I’m there.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll have one printed out for you.’

  As soon as he left to make that happen, I took my mobile from my pocket. I’d set it to silent earlier and it had vibrated while we were searching Hector’s computer. It showed one missed call, and I chose the ring-back option.

  ‘Bob,’ Amanda Dennis said, briskly, ‘this will have to be quick. I’m alone at the moment but I have a section heads meeting in two minutes. I spoke to my equivalent in Italian domestic security, the AISI. As I’d suspected he takes a healthy interest in Bernicia Battaglia, and her doings. She’s attracted a lot of attention in recent years, and a macabre mythology has grown around her.’

  She paused. ‘Do you remember the Durante assassination? An Italian MP, the son of one of her business targets?’

  ‘Yes.’ I did, only too well after hearing Xavi on the subject the night before.

  ‘She didn’t do it,’ Amanda said abruptly. ‘The son was a member of a parliamentary security committee investigating the influence of organised crime in the industrial cities of the north. In fact, he was its driving force; he made a real nuisance of himself, and for that reason he was removed.

  ‘Battaglia was seen as a useful means of distracting attention from the people who ordered his death, and the rumour of her involvement was spread . . . to her great delight. She used her own newspapers and TV outlets to publicise the stories, obliquely, and she even issued an oddly worded denial that did nothing to deflect them. But the fact is she was never suspected of having Durante killed, and she was never investigated over it or in connection with anything else. She’s mostly a myth of her own creation.’

  ‘So why’s your Italian spook friend so interested in her?’

  ‘Because he’s concerned that the myth may have just a little substance to it. Her editorial line against the Sicilian Mafia and the Neapolitan Camorra has been less than robust at times. It’s very cynical about the state’s efforts to curtail them, and on occasion her editors have been allowed to ask whether they might actually be economically useful to the Italian state.

  ‘Successive Italian governments have thought she might be a mouthpiece of the Dons. However their biggest fear is that she might go into politics, and if she did, that Italy’s big but slumbering fascist vote might unite behind her. Ideally, they’d like her out of the way, but they certainly don’t want her getting any bigger.’

  ‘Can’t they stop that?’

  ‘At home, yes. Italian and European competition law won’t let her expand further in her own country. However, she’s looking abroad. She’s stake-building in medium-sized media companies in France and Germany, getting ready, it’s said, to launch takeover bids. She has a target in Spain too, but that’s not so easy, because it’s family-owned. I think you know the company I’m talking about, Bob. That’s right, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I murmured.

  ‘And that your interest might be sharpened by the fact that your mobile phone shows up on our tracing as being in Girona?’

  ‘That’s not impossible either.’

  I heard her chuckle. ‘I might have known you wouldn’t sit on your hands for long. I have to go now,’ she said, ‘but I’ll tell you this. If you do happen to come up against this woman, you’ll have friends in Italy if you need them.’

  ‘In that case,’ I replied, ‘you might ask them a question from me. Do they know where she is now?’

  ‘I’ll run it by them. You really should join us, Bob,’ she added. ‘It would be such fun.’

  And what would Sarah say to that? I asked myself as I ended the call, and as Xavi returned, photograph in hand.

  ‘That’s the most recent we have,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘I’m going to show it to some people,’ I replied, as I took it from him. ‘Enjoy your lunch. If you can get the players’ autographs for me, my son James Andrew will be forever in your debt. I’ll bring your car back in one piece, I promise.’

  I headed for the door, then stopped. ‘Is there a back way out of this place?’ I asked.

  He frowned, puzzled. ‘Yes. Just along from the lift, there’s a doorway with a red “Emergency Exit” sign above it. It’s a fire escape. But why?’

  ‘Call it a fire drill,’ I replied.

  I followed his directions; the exit door opened on to a spiral staircase alongside the lift shaft. I jogged down, feeling bulky and aware of the weight I’d gained since I didn’t have an office to go to every day. The door at the foot opened with a crash bar; there was no handle on the outside, but it closed itself automatically.

  The estate was laid out like a small town, with proper roads and pavements. I took a look around, working out the geography of the site, and planning my moves. When I’d decided, I headed to my left, still jogging. I crossed the road at the first junction then turned left at the second. Two hundred yards later I found myself, as I’d calculated, at the edge of the general car park.

  I looked back towards the InterMedia building. That silver Skoda Rapid was still there, pointing at a slight angle away from me. You couldn’t miss its distinctive panoramic sunroof. I approached it indirectly, two or three car widths away so that I couldn’t be spotted in any of its mirrors. The rear windows were dark glass, so I couldn’t get a clear view inside until I was almost level with the front doors. When I could, I saw, as I’d expected, the back of a blond head. I closed on the car quickly, opened the passenger door and slid inside.

  Carrie McDaniels jumped in the driver’s seat, spinning round to face me. ‘Hello again,’ I said, laughing at the shocked look on her face. It gave way to anger almost at once.

  ‘What do you think—’ she began, but I cut her off.

  ‘I don’t think, lassie, I know; I know who you are, what you are. Did you think I wouldn’t be curious after I’d had a look at that photo album of yours? I might not be attached to the force any more, but I’ll always have clout there. It took me one phone call to find out about you and about Mr Linton fucking Baillie. What’s his game, Carrie?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ she snapped. ‘He’s my client and it’s confidential.’

  ‘You don’t have that sort of privilege,’ I told her. ‘You’re a licensed investigator, that’s all. I could make one more phone call and have that licence suspended, so don’t push your luck.

  ‘As of now, you’re only a nuisance to me, but your client, he’s something else. He’s been making oblique threats to someone I know, and I won’t let that go unanswered. Next time you report to him you tell him that. We may be sitting here having a nice wee chat, but that doesn’t mean to say I’m helpless in Scotland. I’ve got someone on Baillie’s tail, and if he doesn’t stop what he’s doing, she will.’

  ‘You’re pretty good at threats yourself, Mr Skinner,’ she hissed.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I retorted. ‘In fact, I never make a threat; all I do is tell the future, and spell out consequences. You think on that when you’re sitting here, after I’ve gone. Before I do go, I really have to tell you that you’re not very good at your job, whatever your experience was in the part-time Military Police.

  ‘If you’re going to tail somebody in Spain, the car of choice is an old white Seat Ibiza, not something as bloody obvious as this. You should keep a change of clothes handy, too, and some deodorant. This is a pretty stuffy car, which tells me that you slept in it last night, somewhere near the Aislado estate, I’d guess.’

  I said that only to wind her up: it wasn’t really true. She looked a little crumpled, but she smelled okay, and my crack about her sleeping in the car had been no more than an educated guess. She’d followed me all the way to Xavi’s, and she must have stayed close to see us leave in the morning.

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ she
said, grimly. ‘I’ll take it on board. But what makes you think I’ll be sitting here after you’ve gone?’

  ‘This does,’ I replied, as I opened the door and stepped out. In the pocket of my jacket, I still had the knife that I’d taken from Carrie’s Moroccan minder the day before. I opened it and stuck the blade into the right-hand front tyre.

  ‘Hey!’ she screamed, as it deflated. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘That’s obviously wrong,’ I remarked, affably, leaning back into the car. ‘I just did.’

  ‘I’ll call the police!’

  ‘That would be a mistake, Carrie, even if you could get over the language difficulty. Your front-line investigator’s licence is worth sod all in Spain. What you’re doing constitutes stalking and it’s illegal. I’m saving you all sorts of bother, really.’

  I smiled. ‘I don’t know if this thing has a spare wheel or not. If it does, I’m sure it won’t be too hard to change. Alternatively you could flutter your eyelashes at the security guy in the InterMedia building and he might help you. Failing all that, you can put the rescue call-out charge on Linton Baillie’s bill, with my compliments. Either way, don’t let me see you again, lass.’

  I left her to contemplate the unfairness of the world, and the inadequacy of her surveillance techniques, and walked across to the waiting Range Rover, giving her a farewell wave as I climbed in and drove away.

  Along with the photograph, Xavi had given me a note of the address of the car park in Girona. I stopped at the exit from the estate, programmed his satnav system, without too much difficulty, and set off.

  The route I was given took me into the city by a road I’d never used before, close by the thousand-year-old Romanesque cathedral and then across the river to my destination. The car park was on a big broad avenue, and unlike most in Girona it was above ground, with six levels.

  I took a ticket and eased the wide four-by-four through the entrance barrier, then began to cruise slowly through the first aisles, looking out for anything yellow.