From the Dead (2010)

by Mark Billingham

  Not so much 'shit-hot', Thorne decided, as 'lukewarm'.

  Within a few minutes of meeting DI Peter - 'call me Pete' - Fraser, Thorne was convinced that the agent assigned by Silcox and Mullenger as his guide and liaison for the Spanish leg of the inquiry was probably not one of SOCA's finest.

  'Welcome to the madhouse,' Fraser said as they walked towards the airport car park. He grinned and lowered his head, peered at Thorne over wraparound sunglasses. 'From what I've heard, you should slot in quite nicely.'

  He was not much taller than Thorne, but looked a good deal fitter. His hair had the kind of blond streaks that Louise called 'bird-shit highlights', while the three-quarter-length shorts, beaded necklace and salmon-pink shirt made him look more like a small-time drug dealer than a big-time secret squirrel. Perhaps that was the idea, Thorne thought. He pictured his own, more conservative collection of shorts and polo shirts, bought a few days earlier with his warm-weather allowance of M&S vouchers. He guessed that anyone with an eye for such things would mark him out for what he was straight away.

  He decided that he didn't much care.

  'Good flight?' Fraser asked.

  'It was easyJet,' Thorne said.

  They sat in Fraser's Punto for a few minutes, waiting for the air conditioning to kick in before heading away. Listening to the agent's easy chatter, Thorne wondered if, first impressions aside, he should perhaps give the man the benefit of the doubt. Hadn't he taken an instant dislike to Andy Boyle? Hadn't he thought that Anna Carpenter was a pain in the neck when he had first been lumbered with her?

  Perhaps Fraser would surprise him, too.

  The SOCA man watched as Thorne held sticky palms towards the air vents. 'This is chilly, mate,' he said. 'You want to try being here in August. I promise you, you'd be sweating like a rapist.'

  Perhaps not . . .

  The road from the airport was clogged with traffic, squeezing between building works every quarter-mile or so that narrowed the lanes. The carriageways were separated by a seemingly endless line of palm trees and, for the first twenty minutes, snaking slowly through the built-up outskirts of Malaga, drab-looking apartment blocks and retail strips crowded in from both sides. Furniture stores, DIY warehouses and restaurants, with as many English signs as Spanish.

  Fraser took a call and, in a London accent that was sounding increasingly affected, told whoever he was talking to that Thorne was in the car with him. He said his passenger was clearly feeling the heat and laughed at the response. He hummed his agreement to a few things and promised to call back later. After hanging up, he turned the radio on and found an English station; some Radio Essex reject proudly announcing a programme of back-to-back eighties classics.

  Spandau Ballet gave way to Kajagoogoo.

  'We should probably give you a day or two to get settled.'

  'I don't need a day or two,' Thorne said.

  Fraser shrugged. 'You might want to feel your way into things is all I'm saying. There's not much on today, anyway.'

  'You got more stuff for me to read?'

  'Oh yeah, we'll go through everything tonight over dinner. But you know, softly-softly-catchee-monkey, all that.'

  'Way past that with Alan Langford,' Thorne said.

  Fraser looked at him, placed a finger to his lips. 'If he's who we think he is, you start saying that name too loudly and we might just as well be wearing pointed hats.'

  Thorne nodded. As Brigstocke had guessed might be the case, SOCA suspected that Alan Langford was a man they had been observing for some time, and information about him had been faxed through piecemeal in the weeks since the shooting. Details of the new life Langford had made for himself in Spain. Some of his nice new friends and not so nice business associates.

  His new name.

  The traffic had eased and, despite the high-rise sprawl of Torremolinos in the distance, their clear view of the coast - arcing south-west towards Gibraltar - was spectacular. The sea was shining to the left of them, crashing against the beaches in waves far bigger than Thorne had expected.

  'Nice, isn't it?' Fraser asked.

  'Looks nice,' Thorne said.

  Five minutes later, Fraser drifted across to the right-hand lane and Thorne clocked the sign for the turn-off.

  Benalmadena.

  'Where the photographs were taken,' Thorne said.

  Fraser nodded, said, 'Seems as good a place as any for some lunch. You hungry?'

  Thorne had found it easy to resist the lure of easyJet's in-flight catering service. But even if he had fancied something on the plane, he could not have justified using up a fortnight's expenses on one cup of coffee and a sandwich.

  'Yeah, I could eat,' he said.

  They found a small restaurant in a parade of shops and bars just across from the beach, where people were sharing tapas around large upturned barrels. Fraser told Thorne that he'd do the honours and, having put away one small beer and asked for another, ordered food for both of them in fluent Spanish. Thorne let him get on with it. He was happy enough, for the time being at least, to let the SOCA agent play his games, as well as a little relieved at having been spared giving a demonstration of his own ignorance.

  Waiting for the food, Thorne watched an old man a few feet away pulling a large octopus from a vat of boiling water. He snipped off pieces with large scissors, laid them on a wooden plate alongside slices of waxy-looking potatoes and, after a liberal sprinkling of salt and paprika, drizzled the dish with olive oil.

  Pulpo a feira.

  The reason why the boat in the picture had been in Benalmadena. The one clue that had helped them find Alan Langford. If they had found him . . .

  Thorne nodded towards the old man. 'Can we try some of that?'

  'We've got plenty coming, trust me.' Fraser noticed Thorne watching him as he finished his second beer, said, 'It's not even a third of a pint.' He winked. 'It's all about fitting in, right? Looking the part.'

  Thorne shrugged and went back to his sparkling water.

  'Listen, don't think this isn't hard graft,' Fraser said. 'Trust me, mate, I'd rather be in Tottenham.'

  'Right.'

  'Straight up. It's mental here, I'm telling you.' He stabbed at the top of the barrel with a finger, counting off a predictable list of the criminal fraternities. 'We've got the Albanians, the Russians, the Irish, the Brits . . . and the locals aren't exactly Boy Scouts, either. Gun-running, vice like you wouldn't believe and multi-million-pound property scams in every resort you can name. The armed robbers could teach the lads back home a thing or two, and I don't need to tell you about the drugs.'

  He didn't, but he proceeded to anyway. Thorne was given more or less the same lesson he'd received from Silcox and Mullenger, but he sat and listened politely. He'd already decided that 'innocent abroad' might be a useful persona to hide behind.

  Fraser pointed out to sea. 'Ninety miles up the coast, Africa's so close you can almost swim across. They usually drown, so who cares, but we've caught a few with lifejackets stuffed full of all sorts.'

  'Jesus.'

  'I swear.'

  Thorne could easily believe it. He knew the lengths people would go to for drug money, and he couldn't help wondering if some of those who risked their lives in such a way might be working for Alan Langford. He knew that those further down the chain recruited their mules and dealers from the streets of British cities: no-hopers in Nottingham or Sheffield peddling wraps of coke outside downmarket nightclubs who would jump at the chance of a free plane ticket and a few months in the sun. Who wouldn't think it strange to be asked if they were strong swimmers.

  The food came and they both got stuck in. Thin and crispy shrimp tortillas and fiery Padron peppers. Deep-fried anchovies and huge clams eaten straight from the shell with lemon and salt.

  A hundred yards away, on a corner, Thorne could see the sign for a Burger King. He sucked down another clam and nodded across. 'Why the hell would anyone want to go there when you've got this?'

  'To be honest, you can
get a bit sick of the local stuff,' Fraser said. 'Sometimes you just want a decent bit of stodge.'

  'Right, like a nice kebab back in Tottenham.'

  Fraser took off his sunglasses and stared. He was clearly unsure if Thorne was taking the piss and, despite the smile that eventually appeared, Thorne could see that, whatever else Call-Me-Pete might be, he certainly wasn't soft. As soon as the shades went back on, Thorne looked away, and Fraser followed his eye-line to where two women were standing topless at the edge of the beach.

  Fraser broke into a grin. 'OK, forget what I said about Tottenham . . .'

  Once they had split the bill and Thorne had tucked the receipt for his half into his wallet, they walked slowly back towards the car. Having shown off his mastery of the language, Fraser was now keen to play the know-it-all tourist guide. He pointed out the town's fourteenth-century tower and the remains of its ancient sea fortifications. Thorne made a fine job of feigning interest, but he was far more interested in the familiar line of hills running down to the coast that he recognised from the pictures sent to Donna Langford.

  Fraser pointed to a bar called Hemingway's. 'You know, the writer? He loved all this Spanish stuff - seafood and bullfights and what have you. Ever seen a bullfight, Tom?'

  Thorne said he hadn't.

  'You should go to Ronda,' Fraser announced. 'Definitely.'

  'What, in Wales?'

  Again Fraser hesitated, uncertain whether Thorne was winding him up. 'It's an old town up in the hills. Everyone raves about it.'

  'Not been yourself, then?'

  'Not had time, mate, but it's supposed to be fabulous. Oldest bullring in Spain, something like that. Orson Welles was mad about the place, had his ashes scattered there, by all accounts. You know, the fat bloke who advertised sherry?'

  'Yes, I know.'

  'Seriously, you should go.'

  'I'm not here to go sightseeing,' Thorne said.

  Fraser nodded a 'whatever'. 'Look, it's like I was trying to say in the car, right? Nothing's going to happen very quickly. Never does here. All I'm saying is don't be surprised if you find yourself with a bit of time on your hands, OK?'

  Thorne looked hard at him. 'I'm really hoping that doesn't happen.'

  If Fraser got the message, he showed no sign of it. 'Anyway, you're waiting on stuff happening at home, right? Even if he is your man, you've got sod all on him until then, so . . . Where are you . . .?'

  Thorne was already stepping off the pavement and walking back towards the beach.

  Fraser went after him, pointing back towards the street where they'd left the Punto. 'We're up there, mate.'

  'I want to find the place where the photos were taken.'

  'What's the point of that?'

  Thorne had no good answer, but he kept on walking. Behind him, he heard Fraser say, 'I'll wait in the car.'

  After ten minutes, Thorne had walked the length of the beach without success. The line of hills stayed ahead of him, but it was impossible to pinpoint the location he was after. The place where Langford had posed for the photographs could have been any one of half a dozen beach bars and restaurants.

  Thorne stopped and breathed in the sea, stared out across a small bay towards the hills. Although he had exiled himself through necessity rather than choice, it was not hard to see why Langford liked it here. It was clear in the shark-smile he had turned on for the camera, the glass raised in a toast to his new life.

  Enjoy it while you can, Thorne thought.

  Sweating, he walked back to the road and kicked the sand off his shoes against the kerb. He bought himself an ice-cream from a cafe near the place where they'd had lunch, then ambled back past the tower to the car park. Fraser was waiting with the engine running, drumming his hands impatiently on the wheel.

  Thorne climbed in. 'Sorry for keeping you waiting, Peter.'

  Fraser yanked the gearstick into reverse. 'Pete,' he said.

  Kate was having lunch in town with a friend, and that suited Donna perfectly well. Things between them were a damn sight better than they had been for weeks, but they still kept out of each other's way as much as possible, eating separately more often than not and sometimes going for a day or two without speaking a word.

  They hadn't touched one another in almost two months.

  Donna drank tea in the kitchen, flicking through a magazine without taking in a word. She glanced towards the hall every few minutes. She turned on the radio, then switched it off a minute later, scared she might not hear the phone ringing.

  Definitely better that Kate wasn't here, she decided. There would only be a row if she overheard, or disapproving looks at the very least.

  Fine one she was to talk about secrets, mind you.

  They were both silly, stubborn bitches, that was the problem. That, and the fact that one of the things they had both learned inside, learned together, was that you never gave an inch.

  There was very little shouting any more, not since the big blow-up when Thorne had come marching in like God Almighty and dropped his bombshell. When it had all come out about Kate meeting up with Ellie after she'd left prison. For a day or two back then, Donna had really lost it, had been steaming with rage in a way she had not been for a good many years. Maybe not since Alan. But then she'd noticed the change in Kate and the anger towards her partner had slowly begun to cool. Donna had stopped feeling as though she could hurt her when she'd seen how damaged Kate had been.

  Thorne had thrown Kate's past in her face like boiling water laced with sugar. A 'wet-up', they called it in prison, and it was designed to scar. He had made snide suggestions, accusations, and, since then, Kate had seemed wary and reserved. Donna had never seen that before. One of the things she had loved about Kate when they'd first met had been a fearlessness, a 'bring it on' attitude that was impossible to resist.

  She missed that. She missed her. And she hoped the day would come when she felt able to tell her, and to forgive her for lying about Ellie. As it was, anger towards Kate had given way to the acid of resentment coupled with something close to pity.

  The rage was still in there somewhere, though. A few days earlier in the supermarket, a woman had barged in front of Donna at the checkout as if she did not exist. The snotty cow had her daughter with her, eight or nine, and the little brat had looked up at Donna with the same tight-arsed expression as her mother. Then she had smiled, like she wanted to know what Donna was going to do about it.

  That hadn't helped.

  Donna had forced herself to look away, then breathed and breathed until she was sure she would not scream and smash the woman's perfectly made-up face down on to the conveyor belt.

  Sometimes that inch had to be given, to save you from yourself.

  She was thinking there was nothing she would not give to save Ellie, to get her girl back, when the phone rang. She put down her cup too fast, spilling tea across the work surface, then walked into the hall, praying it was the call she was expecting from Spain.

  THIRTY

  Fifteen minutes west of Benalmadena, Fraser turned off the main road and they began to drive up into the hills.

  'We'll get you settled into your hotel,' Fraser said. 'Then we can meet up later and get the ball rolling.'

  'Where am I staying?' Thorne asked.

  'It's a nice place. They don't do food, so you'll need to find somewhere to have breakfast, but aside from that--'

  'Where?'

  'Mijas,' Fraser said. 'Mijas Pueblo, as opposed to Mijas Costa. It's a really gorgeous village. Proper old Spain, you know?'

  'How far?'

  'Fifteen minutes or so. It's a nice drive.'

  'I thought I'd be in Malaga.'

  Fraser glanced across.

  'That's where you're based, right?'

  'We decided you might prefer to be somewhere quieter. A bit less conspicuous . . .'

  'Would have been nice to be consulted.'

  'Look, it's no more than half an hour from anywhere we're interested in. Puerto Banus, Torremolino
s, Malaga, at least two of the golf resorts our man's got his fingers in. Trust me, it's a good location, so don't start feeling left out or whatever.'

  'Who said I was?'

  'Anyway, you might prefer being somewhere that isn't wall-to-wall full English breakfasts and live Premiership football.'

  'Nothing wrong with either of them,' Thorne said.

  'You're Spurs, right?'

  Thorne held Fraser's look for a second longer than he might otherwise have done, acknowledging that the agent had done his homework. Not long enough to let him feel like he'd scored any points, though.