Inhuman Remains by Quintin Jardine Read Free Book Online

to me, and I didn’t want him to form the impression that history might be repeating itself.
    Once I was fully committed, mentally, I booked myself a flight on-line, from Barcelona to Sevilla for the next day, Monday: the regular schedules were full, but I found a seat on a budget operation called Clickair. That done, and having despatched Tom and Charlie to give the great-aunt a guided tour of the nearby Greco-Roman ruins of the city of Empuries, I sat down to review the situation.
    Ade had given me a small glossy strip of paper with the logo of the Hotel and Casino d’Amuseo, Sevilla, a telephone number and a web address. I turned back to my computer and keyed it into the address bar, then sat back, impressed.
    The home page showed a complex that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the Las Vegas Strip, with a Y-shaped, ten-storey building sitting on top of what I took to be a vast gaming area, an assumption confirmed when I read the detailed description. A lake guarded the front of the building, while the rear opened out on to an eighteen-hole golf course. It was impressive, but it would have been even more so if it had been a photograph. What I was looking at was all artwork, apart from photography of the Andalucían countryside and the Sierra Nevada.
    I scratched my head absent-mindedly as I studied it, feeling myself frown. There was something about the place that I couldn’t put my finger on. I thought about my time in Vegas, and as I did it came to me. I was looking at an amalgam, a blend of things I’d seen there; it was as if the architect, or artist, or whoever, had looked at an aerial shot of the place and had nicked pieces from it to form his grand design. Yes, for sure, the lake had been taken straight from the Bellagio, and the golf course from the Wynn. The building itself was more or less identical in shape to the Mirage.
    That said, I had to admit that the presentation was first class. Okay, the design might not have been original, but imitation is the sincerest form of whatever, and if you’re imitating the best, that’s not so daft. Still, I found myself wishing that I’d asked more questions about the people behind Frank’s big job. My aunt was no fool, but her son was her blind spot.
    The d’Amuseo project might still be at the planning stage, but one thing did exist: the ski resort where my cousin had worked his way through the ranks, in short order. Its number was there, on a business card of Frank’s that Adrienne had given me. I picked up the phone and keyed it in, then paused as two truths struck me: one, it was Sunday, and two, it was July, hardly the time to be calling a winter-sports complex. I almost hung up, but it was ringing so I let it, and was surprised when it was answered.
    ‘Bonjour, Cinq Pistes,’ a male voice announced.
    ‘Hello,’ I replied. ‘I don’t suppose Susannah’s working today, is she?’
    ‘Susannah Gilpin? I imagine so, but let me try Reception. Who shall I say is calling?’
    ‘Tell her it’s Primavera Blackstone, Frank McGowan’s cousin.’
    ‘Hold on.’
    I held on, for around a minute, listening to the theme from Ski Sunday , until a female voice broke in. ‘You’re for real,’ it exclaimed. ‘So Frank didn’t make you up. He told me he’d two glamorous cousins, that one had been married to a movie star, and the other still was, but he wouldn’t tell me any names, so I assumed it was a touch of bullshit, the same as the stuff about the big-name authors he said his mother represents. He wouldn’t say who they were either. But if your name’s Blackstone . . .’
    ‘That’s right,’ I confirmed, ‘and it’s true about his mum as well.’ It’s nice to know , I thought, that Frank has a little discretion after all .
    ‘How can I help you?’ Susannah Gilpin asked, then paused. ‘You’re not calling to give me bad news, are you?’
    ‘No, I’m not. You had a call from my aunt a few weeks ago.’
    ‘Yes, that’s right. But I