Thorne queued for a beer, then found a seat outside one of the bars a dozen steps up from the square. He shouted above the noise to ask a man at the next table what was going on.
The man struggled to hear, then to understand. ‘
Feria
,’ he said, eventually. He pointed to a poster in the bar’s window and Thorne went to take a look.
Feria Virgen de la Pena.
He guessed that ‘
feria’
was ‘fair’ or ‘festival’
.
Did ‘
pena
‘ mean ‘pain’?
There was an effigy of the Virgin, and some details of the ongoing festivities that Thorne could not understand. The dates were clear enough, though. Thorne had arrived in Mijas during its biggest festival of the year. Four days of it.
He took another beer back to his table. Walking across the bar, he noticed a man reading a Spanish newspaper; the same man he had seen the night before in the restaurant when he had been discussing the case with Samarez and Fraser. Mijas was not the biggest place in the world, but Thorne still doubted that it was a coincidence. When the man glanced across at him, Thorne raised his glass.
Give my best to Alan . . .
Five minutes later, when he turned to look again, the man had gone.
Thorne watched and listened and let an hour drift by. The bands primarily played traditional Spanish tunes, although, for reasons Thorne could not fathom, one broke briefly into the theme from
The Flintstones
, and the biggest cheer of all was reserved for a stirring rendition of ‘Y Viva Espana’. Presumably ignorant of the song’s crass English lyrics, the crowd joined in noisily with the hook and men hugged unashamedly each time the chorus rolled around. Women moved among the crowd in flamenco-style polka-dot dresses, bright purples and pinks to coordinate with the flowers in their hair. They wore high stilettos in matching colours and Thorne was amazed at how easily they moved across the large cobbles, handing out carnations from baskets that bounced against their hips.
‘Sir, you want to eat something?’
Thorne looked up at the waiter, wondering if it was really
that
obvious he was English. He supposed it was, and decided that an early dinner, followed by an early night, was probably no bad idea.
Donna was in the kitchen when she heard the key in the front door. She ran into the hallway, began speaking before Kate had even unbuttoned her coat.
‘Ellie’s in Spain,’ she said. ‘Alan’s got her.’
‘You sure?’
Donna nodded, smiling stupidly. ‘She’s OK.’
Kate said, ‘Thank God,’ and moved to take Donna in her arms. ‘It’s what we always thought, right?’
Donna squeezed, then stepped away. The smile was still there, but it wavered a little. ‘It’s what
I
thought, but for a while I wasn’t sure what was going on inside
your
head.’
‘I never thought she was dead,’ Kate said. ‘I promise you.’
Donna took Kate’s coat from her and hung it up carefully. ‘I wasn’t sure if I believed you.’ She picked a few stray hairs from the sleeves. ‘You can hardly blame me for that.’
‘No.’
A few seconds later, when Kate raised her eyes again, Donna had already turned away and was walking back to the kitchen. Kate followed her and sat down. Donna flicked on the kettle.
‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘What do you mean?’ Donna snapped.
‘Nothing . . . Christ, Don.’
‘What
can
I do?’
Kate shrugged. ‘Just have to wait for more news, I suppose.’
‘I suppose.’
When the tea was ready, Donna carried the mugs to the table and sat down. The smile had returned, her good mood peaking again, while Kate’s wariness cranked up a notch or two in response.
‘When Ellie comes back, it’s really going to be all right, you know.’ Donna was nodding through the steam from her tea. ‘The three of us can live together and it’ll be great, I know it will. Here or somewhere else, whatever. Is that OK with you?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘I want to know I can count on you for this,’ Donna said. ‘I want to trust you again. Because—’
‘We should go out,’ Kate said, suddenly enthusiastic. Desperate. ‘We should go somewhere and celebrate.’
‘I’m tired.’
‘Just a quick drink, then. Come
on
. . .’
‘What did you say to Ellie?’
Kate let out a long breath. ‘Please, let’s not start that again. Not now.’
‘That day in the cafe.’ Donna sat very still, blew on her tea. ‘Just tell me.’
‘I said nothing bad, OK?’ Kate leaned forward and reached across the table, but Donna’s hands stayed wrapped around her mug. ‘On my life, Don. On
Ellie
‘s life . . .’
There had been no shortage of things to look at, but still it had felt a little odd to be eating alone and Thorne had wished he had something to read. Anything to make him look a little less . . . sad. Before flying out, he had gone back to the sex-shop where he had met Dennis Bethell and picked up one of the thrillers he had been looking at. He had not so much as opened it yet, but had decided against walking back to the hotel to pick it up.
He had felt a little less awkward by the time he had finished.
After dinner, he moved to sit halfway down the steps with what was left of his beer. He had not previously noticed the arrangements of multi-coloured lights that now glittered above every street, strung between balconies where families gathered to watch the crowds below.
With a crash of cymbals, one of the bands launched into ‘La Bamba’.
The waiter had brought olives before his meal arrived, and Thorne had remembered Anna devouring a plateful at that bar in Victoria. She would have loved it here, he thought now. Stupidly excited at the idea of the two of them working the case together. She would have gibbered non-stop on the plane and joked about separate rooms.
She would have danced and looked a damn sight less English than he did.
She would have thought Call-Me-Pete was a tit.
He felt, rather than heard, his phone ring and when he saw the screen he caught his breath. He had forgotten to call Louise.
‘God, I’m really sorry, Lou. It’s been non-stop.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said.
Thorne said nothing, wondering why people said ‘fine’ when things were anything but. Why he and Louise said it quite so much these days.
‘It sounds noisy there.’
‘Some kind of festival going on,’ he said.
‘Elvis had a tumour in her stomach.’
‘Oh shit. What did the vet say?’
Louise said something, but Thorne was struggling to hear. He put a hand over his free ear and repeated the question.
‘The vet put her to sleep this afternoon.’ Raising her voice, she suddenly sounded angry as well as upset. ‘He said it was the best thing to do.’
Thorne took a deep breath. A few feet from him a girl began squealing with delight as a man lifted her off her feet and swung her around.
‘What was that?’
‘Sorry, there are people everywhere, it’s—’
‘This is pointless,’ Louise said. ‘Can you call me back from somewhere quieter?’
Once he’d hung up, Thorne sat where he was for a while. He was cold suddenly and, as the minutes passed, a wash of loneliness settled over him that no page-turner, no amount of company, could relieve. He raised his glass then quickly dropped his hand as he felt a sob rise up fast into his throat and break. Then another. He lowered his head and let them come, the sound barely audible, even to him, above the drums and blaring trumpets.
‘You OK?’
He looked up to see a large woman in a red polka-dot dress standing above him. She smiled and asked again.
He nodded.
The woman reached out and handed Thorne a carnation. Then she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek.
He woke just after 2 a.m. to what sounded like a war outside.
The explosions rattled the glass in the window frames, and for a few seconds Thorne was genuinely alarmed, until he saw the flashes of red and green through a gap in the shutters and heard the mournful whistles as the fireworks began falling to earth. Between each
crack
and
whoosh
he could hear the trumpets somewhere nearby, but now the cheerful music of earlier had been replaced by something far slower and altogether more ominous. A tumbling, minor cadence that rose from the street and prickled against his skin.
It sounded like misery.
Thorne closed his eyes and lay there, shaken and sweating, the sheets pasted to his chest and each explosion sudden and terrible, like a fresh blow to his heart.
Just a pop, no louder than the scooter backfiring.
Candela had shown more than enough people like this around properties to know that being overly inquisitive was not a good idea. Many of her clients described themselves as ‘businessmen’, and if that’s what the Englishman chose to call himself, she was far too smart to ask any other questions.
Far smarter than most people took her for.
He looked rather more thuggish than his friend, she thought. The type who would not think twice about screwing someone in any way possible to get what he wanted. Probably had a vicious temper on him, too. She wondered if the tall Spaniard was his minder. He didn’t smile or say a great deal, but she knew that sort were rarely employed for their personality or intelligence.
Not that she was under any illusions herself. She knew exactly why David kept
her
around.
In truth, Candela didn’t care too much what either of them did. Any of them. Commission was commission, and although she was well taken care of, she enjoyed making her own money. This one would keep her in D&G for a long time.
‘Here is the master bedroom suite,’ she said. She waited for the two men to follow her through the door. ‘Very nice, as you can see. The view is very beautiful, like in the other rooms.’ She smiled and corrected herself. ‘
From
the other rooms.’
The Spaniard nodded.
‘Lovely,’ the Englishman said.
The block was a new build, and the penthouse apartment was the most spectacular and expensive property of the lot. Three beds, three baths and a huge living space, with private security and use of the gymnasium and pool complex.
‘The whole place is lovely.’
Candela smiled, pleased with the way things seemed to be going. ‘If you wish, you can keep the furniture that is already here, but of course that will cost a little extra.’
‘Of course.’
‘Or you can take it empty and choose things for yourself. Perhaps your wife might prefer to do that . . .’
‘I’ll ask her.’
‘Women like to choose their own things.’ She fingered a button on her ivory blouse. ‘I know that
I
would prefer it.’
The Englishman flicked once more through the brochure she had given him, then walked across to the huge window. ‘We’ll need to talk about the price, though.’
‘We can talk,’ Candela said, laughing. ‘But not too much. There is a waiting list already and offers have been turned down three times.’ She walked across to join him and stood close. ‘You can almost see Africa if the day is nice and this does not come cheaply. This block is ideal for getting anywhere on the coast, too, near to the motorway and the airport. What is it you say in England? The location, the location, the location?’
‘Something like that.’
‘There is a TV show also, yes? I saw it when I came to London.’
‘You’ve been to London?’
‘Of course. I went last year with a boyfriend.’
‘This would be Dave Mackenzie, would it?’
Candela felt the colour leave her face and stepped quickly away from the window. ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Not . . . Why are you asking me about this?’
‘I thought we were friends,’ the Englishman said.
The Spaniard stepped towards her then, reaching into his pocket, and she felt the flutter of panic expand and take hold. She had heard several horror stories during the two years she had been doing the job. Most of the agencies employed a few girls like her; girls who could show off a property well enough and give just a hint of something extra at the same time . . . as long as an offer was made quickly. It made them valued employees, but also easy targets for the odd lunatic.
She tried to control herself, managed to smile. Then began to panic even more when she saw what the Spaniard had been reaching for.
Russell Brigstocke stuck his head around the door of the small office that Holland and Kitson were sharing while Thorne was away.
‘He called again,’ Brigstocke said. ‘First thing this morning.’
Holland looked over at Kitson and raised his hands in despair. ‘Jesus, it’s not like we’re sitting on our backsides.’
‘I know that.’
‘We’re doing everything we can,’ Kitson said.
Holland sighed. ‘We’ve
done
everything we can.’
‘Just letting you know,’ Brigstocke said, before he left.
The two of them had been working flat out since Thorne had left, checking and rechecking the same missing persons reports from ten years earlier that they had examined back in February. They had worked long hours, poring over the mispers files, cross-referencing them with the PM report on the body in the Jag; eliminating many but following up any that looked even remotely likely, including some that had been discounted during the previous search.
The day before there had been a result of sorts, though not one that would interest Thorne.
They had not been looking for bodies, of course, but the discovery of a simple clerical error had given them all they needed to match a missing junkie – reported as such one week after the Epping Forest Barbecue – with a previously unidentified corpse that had been found in a park in Kingston. The ‘Celtic ring’ listed under the body’s personal effects had actually been a tattoo, described in the Distinguishing Marks section of the original mispers report. So they had been able to give the Kingston corpse a name, and were now in a position to inform the next of kin, but Holland had not yet called the dead man’s mother.
‘Come on, Dave, it’s not like she doesn’t already know he’s dead,’ Kitson had said.