From the Dead

From where Thorne was standing, it looked better than good. 'Can't you get up there tonight?'

'We tried, but she's not around until tomorrow.'

'Well, call me as soon as you've seen her.'

'Listen, I haven't got to the best bit yet. You know we talked about the victim being someone Langford wanted out of the way. The whole two-birds-with-one-stone thing?'

'I'm listening…'

'Chris Talbot was a copper,' Kitson said. 'Serious and Organised.'

THIRTY-EIGHT

By the time it had begun to get dark, the rush of optimism that Thorne had felt after speaking to Kitson had faded. Sitting in his hotel room, with the now familiar sound of trumpets and applause drifting up from the town square, he felt restless and oddly disconnected. He couldn't decide whether he needed reassurance or company.

He flicked through the TV channels, but it was too early for the easy distraction of porn. He picked up the thriller from his bedside table, read the first few pages then put it down again.

The fictional detective was way too bloody miserable.

He called Samarez and asked him if he wanted to have dinner. Samarez lived a good hour away on the far side of Malaga and said that it would be difficult for him to get there. He said that his wife was cooking and Thorne told him that sounded like a far more attractive proposition.

He called Phil Hendricks.

'Have you bought my sombrero yet?' Hendricks asked. 'I want a great big, fuck-off one, OK? I also want one of those bullfighting posters with my name on it.'

'No problem at all. It's not like I'm busy or anything.'

'Just put " El Magnifico ".'

'I was thinking " El Poofo ",' Thorne said.

'Yeah, that'll work.'

The conversation cheered Thorne up, but only slightly. 'I'm out of my bloody depth here, Phil.'

'They're only Spaniards, for God's sake.'

'I don't mean Spain, you tosser. The case. Langford…'

Thorne told him about the meeting in Ronda. He was used to villains fronting it out. Sometimes it was the only option they had left. But Langford had seemed genuinely confident and relaxed, even when Thorne had made his feelings about Anna Carpenter's murder abundantly clear.

Thorne was the one who had walked away shaken.

'Cocky's good,' Hendricks said. 'It's the cocky ones that fuck up.'

'As long as I don't fuck up first.'

'There's nothing wrong with being a bit… jumpy, all right?'

'Even if this missing copper does turn out to be our mystery body, I'm not sure where that leaves us.'

'Don't worry, it'll pan out, mate.'

'I hope so.'

'I reckon you're owed one anyway.'

'After Adam Chambers, you mean?'

'Listen, Tom. Langford's the one who's out of his depth, because he doesn't know you. If he did, there's no way he'd think he could wind you up and walk away.'

Thorne just grunted, non-committal. Praying his friend was right.

'You listening?'

'Yeah…'

'It's not just the case, is it?'

The music was getting louder, and there was a bell ringing, sombre and sudden, every few minutes.

'It's ridiculous,' Thorne said. 'I'm three hours from home, but it feels like the other side of the world. Like I'm thousands of miles away.'

'It must be heartbreaking, being away from me,' Hendricks said. 'I understand that.'

'Yeah, I don't know how I'm getting through the day.'

'I was sorry to hear about Elvis, by the way.'

'You spoke to Lou…?'

'Not that the furry little bastard ever wanted much to do with me.'

Thorne swallowed hard, smiled at the memory of the cat assiduously avoiding Hendricks at every opportunity. 'She was a good judge of character.'

'Lou was upset, so I went round.'

'Thanks, Phil.'

'Not a problem.'

'Was she OK?'

'I don't think it was just about the cat. You know?'

Thorne grunted again and this time Hendricks didn't press it. 'How did Spurs get on last night?'

'Lost two – one at home to Villa,' Hendricks said, gleefully. 'Now they really are out of their depth.' There was a blare of trumpets as if to acknowledge the joke that Thorne had just ignored. 'What's that racket?'

Thorne told him about the feria, the celebrations on the village's big night.

'So, why the hell are you sitting there and moaning at me?'

When he and Hendricks had finished, Thorne tried to call Louise. There was no reply from either Kentish Town or Pimlico and her mobile went straight to voicemail. Thorne left a brief message, told Louise that he missed her.

Then he grabbed his jacket, left the hotel and walked towards the noise.

THIRTY-NINE

It did not take her long to pack.

Candela Bernal felt a little depressed that she had so little to take, so few possessions she could not leave behind, but she knew she needed to move fast and that this was not the time for sentiment. She took clothes mostly – shoved roughly into a pair of Louis Vuitton suitcases – some silly knick-knacks she had kept since childhood and half a dozen family photographs. She would also take the jewellery David had given her, of course. She was many things, but she was not stupid. She had earned it, after all. Besides, she knew that the time might come when she would need to sell some of it. Bracelets and fancy wristwatches were only things at the end of the day, to be admired rather than cared about. Staying safe was far more important; safe and well, assuming she could finally kick the cocaine habit.

Another thing David had given her. Another good reason to get as far away as possible.

They had talked about protecting her – that animal Samarez and the English cop – but Candela knew that it was just talk. They said she would be looked after in return for her cooperation, but she could see very well what they thought of her, that they had more important things to worry about than some mobster's girlfriend. Some druggie slut. They were like most of the men she had known, David Mackenzie included. Happy to promise you anything, to tell you whatever you needed to hear until they had got what they wanted.

When she had finished packing, she stood waiting at the window with a cigarette and her third glass of wine. She blew smoke against the glass and stared through it at the lights of the marina far below. She would not miss much about the place, certainly not the richer-than-you-are bullshit, but she would be sorry not to see the ocean every day, and the girls in the office. She had told them that she would need to skip the usual drink after work today. She had given each one an extra-long hug when she had left, and told them hay fever was making her eyes water.

She looked at her watch: the taxi was a few minutes late.

She had worked out the schedule to allow for traffic, leaving at least fifteen minutes to catch the train from Malaga to Cordoba, where she would be spending the night with an old school friend she had called the night before. Just one night, to be safe, then north from there – to Toledo or Madrid. She would decide later, once she was on her way, although perhaps somewhere smaller would be a better idea. In the cities, where David Mackenzie did so much business, where there were so many people keen to get into his good books, someone always knew someone.

And she knew he would be looking.

When the bell went, Candela turned from the window and walked to the intercom. She spoke briefly to the taxi driver, then buzzed him up to collect the cases. She took a last look around the apartment. Thought that, once she felt a little less terrified, it might even be fun to start again.

She had been pretending to be someone she was not for far too long anyway.

It took Thorne fifteen minutes to squeeze around the edge of the square until he found a space on some steps leading up to a bar. But he still had trouble seeing much, and had never been particularly happy crammed up against other people. He put his hands in his pockets, wary of thieves.