From the Dead

by Mark Billingham

  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 café 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 Benalmádena, 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, Torremolinos, 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 fo
otball.’

  ‘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.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Man U, mate, who else?’

  ‘You’re a Londoner.’

  Fraser nodded, as though that were perfectly acceptable. ‘Still the team to beat,’ he said.

  Thorne blinked, remembered the rain coming down as he and Anna had walked back from the river. When she had revealed her affiliation and sung Wayne Rooney’s praises, laughing as Thorne grew increasingly exasperated.

  ‘You’re just jealous because your lot never win anything.’

  ‘At least the people who support “my lot” live in the city where they play.’

  ‘Right. We are definitely going to the next Man United – Spurs game. A tenner says we stuff you.’

  ‘Only another five minutes,’ Fraser said.

  The climb had not felt particularly steep, but looking to his right as they swept around a corner, Thorne could see the sea far below them. The landscape fell away gently towards it on either side, rocky and dotted with trees then getting greener, dip by dip, as it neared the coast. They passed several signs warning of bulls in the road and then finally Thorne saw a field of them. Eight or nine: big and black and looking well capable of breaking through the fence and taking on a Punto.

  ‘So, whose ashes are scattered in Mijas, then?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘The Milk Tray man? That bloke off the Mr Muscle adverts?’

  ‘That’s funny,’ Fraser said. He laughed, but it sounded like something he’d learned.

  In reply, Thorne’s modest snort of laughter was genuine enough, as he imagined Fraser being casually tossed into the air by one of the bulls they had just driven past. The wraparound sunglasses stomped into the ground and the beads flying off his ponce’s necklace.

  Olé . . .

  The main road was closed just before it entered Mijas, and a police officer on a motorbike waved them towards a diversion that ran downhill and around, into the newer part of town. Thorne asked what was going on and Fraser said that he had no idea. With all available parking space taken by a fleet of tourist coaches, they had little choice but to leave the car in a grim-looking multi-storey. Then Thorne followed Fraser back towards the cluster of white buildings high above them. He hauled his suitcase up a long, steep flight of steps and through a warren of cobbled streets until they finally emerged into the main square.

  ‘Nice, right?’ Fraser said.

  Thorne just nodded, happy to stand and take the place in for a minute or two. He was sweating again and needed the time to catch his breath. A large, covered food market took up most of the square, and crowds were flocking up and down row after row of stalls selling fruit and vegetables, fish, dried meats and cheeses. A large and equally crowded bar ran down one side and those not shopping seemed content to stand around, talking and drinking. A few were dancing unselfconsciously to what sounded like live music, though Thorne could see no sign of the musicians.

  ‘Market day,’ Fraser said, as though Thorne needed an explanation. ‘That’s a bit of luck.’

  Thorne looked at him.

  ‘I don’t know, you might want a bit of fruit for your room or something . . .’

  Despite the number of coaches they had seen down by the car park, Thorne couldn’t hear any language being spoken but Spanish. One or two people were pointing cameras, but they had not passed any tacky souvenir shops and the place felt nothing like a standard tourist trap. No football shirts were being worn either, so Thorne guessed there were not too many Brits around and regardless of what he’d said to Fraser on the way up, he was not unhappy about it.

  The ones he was interested in had not come to Spain to buy castanets and get sunburned.

  ‘We should get you sorted, mate.’

  Though Thorne thought it had come a little late, he accepted Fraser’s offer to take the suitcase and followed him, the wheels clattering across the cobbles as they walked through the crowds, around the square and up another short flight of steps at the far corner. Fifty yards or so on, after three or four tight turnings, Fraser stopped at a pair of dark wooden doors behind a trellis wound with ivy and bougainvillea. He pushed at the door and shook his head. Said, ‘Don’t worry.’

  Thorne watched as Fraser pressed a button on the intercom then leaned down to begin a conversation in Spanish with the woman on the other end. Thorne heard his name mentioned several times.

  When Fraser had finished, he looked up. ‘Siesta time.’ He winked. ‘Spanish yoga. Don’t worry, though.’ There was a buzz from the intercom and Fraser pushed open the door.

  Thorne followed him into a tiny and dimly lit reception area with the outline of a staircase beyond. The place was deserted and Thorne’s voice echoed slightly when he spoke. ‘Where are they?’ he asked.

  ‘Not the faintest idea, but it’s fine. Here you go . . .’

  An envelope with Thorne’s name and a room number written across it lay waiting on the reception desk. Thorne shook it and felt a key rattle inside. He nodded and stepped towards the stairs. An automatic light came on.

  ‘You should do what the locals do,’ Fraser said. ‘Try and get your head down for a couple of hours.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Oh, I need to get back to the office. Tell them I got you here in one piece.’

  ‘Expecting snipers, were we?’

  Fraser looked at his watch. ‘Three hours. How’s that?’ Without waiting for Thorne to answer, he backed away to the front door and said, ‘So, I’ll pick you up at half seven.’

  Thorne took a few steps up, then lowered his case and turned. ‘What about the villains?’ he asked. ‘Do they bother with siesta time? When in Rome, all that?’

  ‘Yeah, I should imagine,’ Fraser said. ‘But they probably sleep with one eye open . . .’

  The room was on the third floor, with further lights coming on as Thorne climbed higher. It was fairly basic: two single beds pushed together, a small bathroom, a portable TV, metal shutters over full-length windows and a balcony not quite big enough to step on to. Thorne reckoned it was good enough, or at least was not in the right frame of mind to care.

  He opened the shutters, then unpacked quickly and was surprised to find a mini-bar in the cupboard beneath the TV. With beer only three euros a pop, his mood improved a little. He opened a bottle and checked for new messages on his phone.

  Nothing.

  He set the handset’s alarm for 6.15 p.m., then showered. It was the usual hotel dribble, but it was hot and it felt good to wash the dried sweat away. Afterwards, he wrapped a towel around his waist, turned up the air conditioning and lay down on the bed. He rolled on to his side and looked across at the grey net curtain moving gently back and forth at the window.

  Next thing he knew, he was scrabbling across the bed to answer his phone.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’

  Thorne looked at the small screen, struggling to focus. It was not a call. It was six-fifteen and all he had done was switch off the alarm.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Twenty minutes later than promised, Fraser arrived to pick Thorne up with a plain-clothes Guardia Civil officer named Samarez in tow. The Spaniard mumbled a greeting, then hung back a little as they walked away from the hotel, his expression non-committal as Fraser explained that the two of them had been working together for the last few months. That Samarez was ‘a top bloke’ and ‘a good copper’ but most importantly ‘a right laugh, once you get to know him’.

  ‘Something to look forward to,’ Thorne said.

  Judging by his reaction, Samarez wasn’t as good with languages as Fraser, just cocking his head a little when Thorne turned to look at him. He was taller than both Thorne and Fraser
, with dark hair cut very short and a five o’clock shadow that suggested he probably needed to shave a couple of times a day. He did not look the sort who smiled a great deal, but perhaps that came from working with Fraser. Or perhaps, Thorne thought, he just had bad teeth.

  ‘There’s some business to go through later,’ Fraser said. ‘But a bit of bonding wouldn’t hurt, would it?’

  Thorne and Samarez shrugged in unison.

  ‘I reckon a few beers is a good idea if we’re going to be working together. Three fucking musketeers, yes?’

  They found a restaurant in a small square a few minutes’ walk from the market place. Thorne ordered for himself this time, or at least made his choice known, then sat back as Fraser did the talking. He wondered if the waiter found Fraser’s expansive mateyness as irritating as he did, and if the SOCA man spoke Spanish with a mockney accent.

  They were sitting close to a large pair of open doors, and Thorne was glad he had brought along a jacket. He pulled it on, looked around the dining room. ‘Not very busy in here,’ he said.

  It was gone eight-fifteen and the place was almost empty. Aside from a man with a newspaper a few tables away and an elderly couple talking in hushed voices near the kitchen, they had the restaurant to themselves.

  ‘The locals don’t eat until much later,’ Fraser said. ‘Stupid, if you ask me. I mean, I know a lot of them had their heads down in the afternoon, but even so. Bad for the digestion, apart from anything else, not to mention putting the weight on.’ He grinned and prodded at the small roll of fat falling across his belt. ‘This is just a few too many San Miguels, mate, don’t worry. Get that shifted easy enough.’

  Over a few more beers they talked, or at least Fraser did, about Job background and families. About the ups and downs of working away from home. For much of the time, Fraser spoke to Samarez in Spanish and Samarez nodded as he listened, his eyes on Thorne until he leaned in towards Fraser to say something himself.