‘Not even. You take that course of action and you’ll be on your own.’
‘So what you’re saying is that you can save us, but that Adrienne’s probably had it. Am I correct?’
‘I’m trying desperately not to say that,’ the minister admitted. ‘Do what I say: lie low and wait. We’ll do all we can to rescue Ms McGowan.’
Frank jumped to his feet, taking me completely by surprise. ‘Fuck off, Justin,’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s not good enough. If push comes to shove, we can look after ourselves. I’m going to do all I can to rescue my mother. Come on, Prim.’
I could have stayed there. I could have let him go on his own and taken a room in the Hotel Arts for as long as proved necessary, or I could have gone back to my earlier plan, pick up the car and leave at full speed. But I didn’t. I owed the little guy, didn’t I? Someone had to watch his back. So I stood up and limped after him, still favouring my cracked toe as we headed for the door.
‘You’ll be on your own,’ Mayfield called after us.
‘So what’s new?’ Frank yelled back at him, holding up his right middle finger as a parting gesture of friendship.
Twenty-four
As the lift descended I had a fleeting concern that Mayfield might have us stopped and held for our own protection, but either the thought didn’t occur to him, or he didn’t have the clout in Spain, for the lobby was clear as we stepped out.
As we crossed it, a large white Mercedes pulled up at the doorway and a middle-aged guy got out. His face was familiar: The ex-mayor, I thought. It looked as if the minister’s meeting was about to begin, getting in the way of any further concern about us.
We didn’t wait for a taxi. There’s a metro station adjacent to the Hotel Arts. I led us to it. We bought tickets and boarded the first train. By this time I was thinking clearly, if not too far ahead. We changed lines after two stops and surfaced again in Plaça Catalunya. I pointed to El Corte Inglés. ‘In there,’ I said.
As always, the place was busy. If a pandemic hit the city, wiping out most of the population, Corte Inglés would still be full of shoppers. I found the lifts and we rode to the top-floor cafeteria, where I found a window table. I ordered two American coffees with a little milk on the side, and a sticky bun for me (I hadn’t touched anything in the Hotel Arts clubroom), and we sat in silence until they arrived, and for a while after that.
‘I’m out of ideas,’ Frank confessed, at last. ‘I’ve just told Justin that I’d save my mum without his help, but I don’t know how to do it. We don’t even know where she is.’
‘No, but I do know who she’s with,’ I told him, then related Alex Guinart’s story about the inquisitive, homophobic French ex-cop. My cousin’s face fell. I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. ‘Frank,’ I said briskly, to convince myself as much as him, ‘for the last twenty-four hours we’ve been fearing the worst and acting accordingly. It’s time we changed that, and assumed the best. You reckon these people might have technical and other resources behind them, and that they could be tracking us. If that’s so they know we’re in Barcelona, for I used my mobile to call Alex and Susie.’
‘Aw, Prim,’ he protested.
‘Bugger it. Let them follow us here if they can. This may not be the vindictive enemy you reckon.’ (I wasn’t sure where that phrase had come from. I didn’t work it out until much later.) ‘Who do we know that’s against us, for sure? There’s Caballero, who was in a lot of difficulty when we left him. There’s Lidia Bromberg, who won’t have sat down since yesterday. There’s your Canadian chum, Sebastian Loman, whom we avoided in Córdoba, and there’s his chum Willie.’
‘Alastair Rowland?’
‘I’m not sure that he exists.’
‘Oh, he does, although I’ve never had a sniff of him. He’s somebody who’s only wheeled out to tie up the biggest investors, someone with real clout.’
‘But would he be involved in the nasty side of things?’
‘Personally? No.’ Frank nodded. ‘Your timetable fits, I admit. Those two guys quizzed you on Monday night, with their friendly-Yanks act, you told them where Mum was, and we haven’t seen the Willie character since. I’ll grant you, he’d have had enough time to drive north and be in your village by yesterday morning, to snatch her.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But would she have gone without a struggle?’ He mused. ‘That wouldn’t be like her.’
‘I don’t believe she had any choice. From the Frenchman’s description he could have had a hidden gun on her, but he might not have needed that. Or. . Tom was on the beach with Charlie the dog when she was taken. She may have decided to go quietly before he got back and was caught up in it. Or Venable could have pulled the reverse of what they’re doing with us, “You come or they die.” Any of those scenarios, plus the fact that she is seventy-two years old, would have pretty much forced her to co-operate. Whatever, Willie has her. So what’s he done with her? He could hardly dump her in a hotel and tell her to behave herself till he got back, could he?’
‘Granted, no.’ He glanced out of the window, across the square. ‘Maybe he’s killed her already,’ he whispered, ‘to save himself any trouble.’
‘We’re not even going to imagine that possibility,’ I told him.
‘You’re right.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Maybe he has her in a safe-house, like I had in Seville.’
‘There’s plenty of property for holiday rental in and around St Martí,’ I conceded. ‘But. . mostly it’s apartments or villas all stuck cheek by jowl, and just now, nearly all of them are occupied.’
‘Maybe he’s hiding out in a gay club,’ Frank said bitterly.
I was about to scold him for being flippant, but stopped myself. ‘That’s not as crazy as it sounds. There are plenty of gay-friendly hotels in Barcelona, and just down the coast there’s Sitges; that has the most famous gay community in Spain.’ I paused. ‘Hey, Sebastian and Willie told me they were heading north for a spell, to a place they’d heard of near Girona; a retreat, was what they called it. Could it be that they let a bit of the truth slip out?’
‘It’s worth checking out, I suppose. But how?’
‘Leave that to me. We’re in my territory now.’
I reached for my phone. ‘Hey!’ Frank exclaimed.
I held up a hand to cut him off. ‘I’ve used it already this morning, and I don’t see any bad guys around. Besides, we’re in the middle of a big city and we’ll be on the move soon. When we do, we need somewhere to go. I’m going to try to take care of that. You want to do something useful, check your phone for messages.’
Among my circle of friends in St Martí is a lady named Shirley Gash. She and I go back at least ten years, to my first visit to the area with Oz. You either hit it off with her or forget it, but Shirl and I clicked. Her life hasn’t been plain sailing since then; she had family and business trouble all at the same time, but she’s back in calm waters now, and in virtual retirement. She adores Tom and Charlie, so I see quite a lot of her. Mind you, there’s quite a lot of her to see: she’s a large and elegant lady, tall, blonde and buxom. I called her home number. It rang a few times, and I was about to give up when she answered. ‘Hello.’ She’s lived in Spain, mostly, for decades now, but she still speaks English when she picks up the phone.
‘Shirley, it’s Prim.’
‘Hi, gal,’ she said breezily. ‘What you up to? You at home? I was just heading up to St Martí, for coffee in Can Coll. You and your small tribe want to join me?’
‘Love to, but we’re not at home. Tom and the dog are in Monaco, with the other family. .’
‘Fuckin’ little tart,’ she growled. Shirley does not approve of Susie for the way she and Oz got together, and for all I tell her we’re fine now, she never will.
I let it pass, as I always do. ‘I’m out of town too,’ I told her, ‘but I’m planning to head back today. Thing is, there’s a small problem with my place just now. I was wondering, have you got anybody in your summer-house just now?’