The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman (10 page)

A
week and two days had passed since Marlow Craftsman's visit to Manchego's office, and the inspector had to admit that the investigation had ground to a halt. After ruling out hospitals, prisons, hotels, and all other logical possibilities, the matter was starting to acquire an air of mystery. He had interrogated all five members of
Librarte
's editorial team, but this had proved fruitless. They had all corroborated Berta's version of events. They said they hadn't heard anything from Atticus Craftsman for three months, and although this was somewhat puzzling, it was a real relief because the company director's son had apparently come to Spain with the intention of closing the magazine down.

“As I'm sure you'll understand,” Berta Quiñones had explained, “we've kept as quiet as mice these last few months. The truth is, Inspector, that while they're still paying our salaries we'd rather not investigate Mr. Craftsman's whereabouts too closely. He's a grown man, after all, and perfectly free to do what he likes.”

Manchego opted to call Bestman this time, instead of Marlow, so he could speak in Spanish. Explaining the disappointing results of his search was going to be rather complicated and would require a good deal of diplomacy.

He got through to Bestman at his London office, where he was sheltered behind several bilingual receptionists, to all of whom Manchego informed who he was, what he was investigating, and the difficulties he was having in tracking down Mr. Craftsman.

“Mr. Manchego,” said Bestman finally.

“Inspector.”

“As you like.”

Bestman didn't seem to be in a good mood.

“I'm sure I don't need to reiterate how crucial it is that our conversations remain confidential. The fact that we are unsure of the whereabouts of one of Mr. Craftsman's sons is a delicate matter that we must handle with the utmost discretion.”

“Of course,” replied Manchego. “My lips are sealed.”

“In that case,” Bestman clenched his jaw slightly, “I would appreciate it if you would refrain from sharing your professional concerns with all of Craftsman & Co.'s receptionists. It would not be entirely advantageous for this matter to become the talk of the office or to go beyond its walls and enter the public arena. It would not be good for the business.”

“I understand,” said the inspector, backing down.

There followed his ineloquent presentation of the facts: no news, no leads, no line of investigation . . .

“Trying to find
Crasman
in Spain is like looking for a needle in a haystack,” concluded Manchego. “That's what it is.”

On the other end of the line, Bestman was cringing at the mere thought of having to pass on that information to Marlow. He made a mental note of the phrase “a needle in a haystack.”

•  •  •

When he hung up, Manchego acknowledged that he was at a dead end. The next stage should be to look for evidence in the flat on Calle del Alamillo. He would ask for a warrant, but he knew that the judge was unlikely to give him permission to bash the door down without a weighty reason. Not to mention that with Christmas, New Year, and Three Kings Day coming up, there was little chance of his request being dealt with until the middle of January.

Perhaps the moment had come to skirt around the edges of legality, he said to himself. In films, when the state machine moves too slowly and danger is imminent, the hero usually takes justice into his own hands.

The greatest danger, he understood, was precisely that he might get taken off the case. Christ on a bike, if Bestman and Craftsman's patience ran out, they might take the case out of his hands and hire a firm of private detectives instead.

He couldn't let that happen. He hadn't waited half his life for a case like this to come his way only to screw up now thanks to a sluggish, overloaded legal system and the haste of a couple of Brits who lacked the requisite stiff upper lip.

While he was contemplating this, adrenaline set his mind racing and merged the nebulous image of Bestman with that of a stranger, a flimsy tree, and a couple of cigarettes. He remembered having had an odd conversation about the Craftsman case with a man who claimed to be a locksmith. He put his hand in his pocket. He still had the scrap of paper with a phone number and a name: Lucas.

He dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Lucas,” he said authoritatively. “We need to meet.”

CHAPTER 16

W
hen Soleá wanted to make someone fall for her, she wore her short floral skirt, her close-fitting shirt, and her high-heeled espadrilles. She let her black hair hang long and smooth down her back, with a natural wave on either side of her face. She put lengthening mascara on her eyelashes and applied lipstick that was midway between the color of blood and red wine.

She knew her assets and defects like the back of her hand: She would have liked to have been taller, with wider hips and a fuller bust, and been able to dance like her grandmother Remedios and sing like her brother Tomás. But she recognized that her blue eyes and her plump lips, inherited from her mother, and the golden skin of the Montoya family mixed with the perfect oval of her Heredia face were God's gift to her. Soleá knew that she could dance and sing well, at least well enough to attract attention outside Granada's El Albaicín neighborhood.

In the past, women like Soleá used to get married very young, then have a handful of beautiful children and spend their lives surrounded by cooking pots and guitars. That was enough to make them happy. Now, however, thanks to television, the Internet, and the foreign students who had moved into the new
part of the city, with their sandals and hairy legs, their accents and modern ideas, things had changed significantly. Girls went to school, had dreams, wanted to see the world.

Grandmothers crossed themselves when one of their granddaughters started talking about university and languages, career opportunities and economic independence.

“And when are you going to get married?” they would invariably ask.

That said, the women were still more understanding than the men. Most of the men tried to squeeze girls' desire for freedom out of them with kisses and promises of undying love. A lot of young women succumbed to the onslaught, fell in love, capitulated, and delegated the fulfillment of their own dreams to their daughters.

However, it was Soleá's father, Pedro Abad, who had most encouraged her to fly the nest.

“Study. Train. Get out into the world.”

He knew from the start that his daughter had itchy feet and had set her sights high. He walked her to school every day, then to the Faculty of Philosophy and Arts, and then he accompanied her to Madrid, for her MA in journalism. They looked for a nice place for her to live, in an old neighborhood with steep narrow streets. They rented a tiny flat, filled it with geraniums, assured themselves that it was a respectable area, and parted with floods of tears.

When Soleá got her first job as staff writer for an arts magazine, Pedro Abad went back to Granada and told everyone. Grandmothers fanned and crossed themselves, but that night, by way of a celebration, the youngest women in El Albaicín doubled the ingredients in their stews.

They never openly admitted it, but Soleá's success was the success of all the Heredias and the Montoyas, and the Amayas and the Cortéses; it was shared by their daughters and granddaughters. This was perfectly clear to Soleá when she saw the hope shining in their eyes every time she went home. Which is why the prospect of losing her job filled her with such dread. She wasn't worried for herself, because she was young and clever and would surely find another job before long, but she felt bad for those girls who would be angry and hurt. Because, as Soleá was only too aware, drama was a permanent resident of El Albaicín. Joys and sorrows were shouted to the four winds. There were no secrets there. They were carried far and wide.

•  •  •

“
Mamá
, I've got to tell you a big secret.”

Manuela was in the courtyard of her house in Granada when her phone rang that May Sunday. Soleá's father was a
payo
, meaning he wasn't a Gypsy, but the Gypsies thought he was all right. He had been born in Granada and worked his whole life in the fruit business, and made a reasonable living from selling oranges. He had inherited the business and his parents' house, and had fallen in love with Manuela when he was a boy, playing chase with her and her cousins through the streets and squares.

“Oh, my Soleá!” Manuela replied, covering her face with her hands. “You're not pregnant, are you?”

Soleá really hated getting her mother and grandmother involved in
Librarte
's business. She had always preferred to keep them at a distance from the life she led in Madrid, from her investigative articles and her desire to write a serious novel one day. However, circumstances had changed, and she knew that if
she wanted to keep her job, at least for a few months until Berta found a more permanent solution, she had no choice but to tell the two most important women in her life about the idea she'd been pondering for years.

“Do you remember Granny Remedios's old chest?”

“The one where she keeps your grandfather's things?”

“That's the one.”

“Of course.”

“Well, we're going to have to open it,
Mamá
. It's a matter of life or death.”

•  •  •

Wearing her short floral skirt, her close-fitting shirt, and her high-heeled espadrilles, Soleá looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She took a deep breath and crossed herself. She ran out of the house. The others were waiting for her at the office on Calle Mayor, all shaking with fear.

“Did you speak to your mother?” Berta asked as soon as she opened the door.

“She's with us,” Soleá replied. “She's going to help us.”

Relief spread like wildfire through the other women. The plan was in action. All they had to do was wait, feigning innocence, for the unsuspecting Atticus Craftsman, who would arrive any moment with his air of superiority, his leather briefcase, and his termination letters, ready to give them their settlement, their severance pay, a slap on the back, and then, definitively, the boot.

CHAPTER 17