'Normally I'd accept like a shot, but given the extent of your injuries I've decided to be generous. No arguments, Temple,
OK?'
Alex inclined his head and climbed into the bed. Dawn went into the bathroom. When she returned to the quilt on the floor she paused for a moment in front of the window, a slight and entirely feminine figure in her white T-shirt and knickers.
Alex groaned. For the first time that day he found himself in severe physical pain.
TWENTY-TWO.
'You're not going to throw up again, are you?' Dawn enquired.
'I don't think so,' whispered Alex.
'But you couldn't just ask that waiter for a half of lager, could you?'
'Are you insane?'
'No, I know it sounds bad but it works. And since it seems to be impossible to get a decent fried breakfast in this hotel ..
'This is Spain, Alex, not the Mile End Road. Why don't you just lie back and get some sun, and stop being so scratchy?'
It was 10.30 and they were on adjoining sun loungers by the hotel pool. Dawn was wearing the red bikini they had bought at Heathrow, but not even this could raise Alex's spirits. A bad hangover had coincided with an acute bout of guilt and depression concerning George Widdowes.
The day before had been enjoyable and there had been an air of promise about things a sense that the mistakes of the past might somehow be redeemed by a little energetic detective work.
Now, everything seemed curiously pointless. If he weighed up his career and balanced the harm he had done and the deaths he'd caused against the long-term good, he was unable to state as he'd once been able to that on balance the good came out on top. It didn't. The bad came out on top.
Den Connolly had clearly felt that moving from unattributable operations for the RWW to boosting security vans on the North Circular Road was little more than a side shuffle. It wasn't a question of going into crime you were already there. You had already spent so much of your career so far outside the normal boundaries of behaviour that almost anything seemed logical and reasonable.
The trouble with crime, though, was criminals. They were stupid, for the most part, and greedy. And boastful, judging by last night, and sentimental, and seriously lacking in taste. No, he decided, you'd have to put your own outfit together. A few good, reliable blokes. Apply military standards of security, planning and execution.
And then what, assuming you did the bank and made your wad?
Buy a bar and a big telly, and listen to war stories and get fat? Dawn raised her head from the sun lounger and peered at him irritably. Her face was shining with sunscreen.
'What was it you said yesterday? Cheer up? Get a life? The sun's shining?'
Alex turned to face her and felt the day's first pale flicker of lust. The red lycra strap of the bikini top hung undone on either side of her and a single pearl of sweat lay in the small of her back. For a moment he stared at it, wondering how her skin would taste, then a waiter with a tray approached.
'Una cerveza para el Senor, por favor,' murmured Dawn.
'Y un naranjafresca para mi, gracias.'
'Si, Senora.' The waiter nodded and disappeared.
'That sounded very fluent,' said Alex.
'Yes, I told him you needed an enema for your bad mood.'
'What I need is not to have drunk so bloody much last night.'
'I expect you've done worse in the service of your country.'
He grunted. The knife wounds were beginning to heal, and in consequence to itch like crazy.
'I
forgot to ask did you manage to rescue my weapon from the river?'
'The Glock? Yes. Plus your knife and a silenced Sig Sauer that Meehan must have been carrying. And while you were out for the count, by the way, we managed to get tissue scrapings and a couple of hairs from under your fingernails.'
'Well, I certainly held on tight. But surely you don't need any proof of who you're dealing with?'
'Every confirmation helps. But our main hope is that we might be able to learn something about his whereabouts. The Forensic Science Service can tell you a hell of a lot from a hair.'
Alex looked at her doubtfully.
'Good luck with that. The hair may well turn out to be more helpful than laughing boy down the road.'
'If he's not going to tell us anything, why ask us to come back?'
'He'll probably produce something just to swing the immunity deal I promised him. The question is whether we'll be able to rely on what he produces.'
Dawn frowned at him.
'Look, about this immunity deal...?'
'Dawn, the chances are that if you've got nothing on him now then nothing's going to come up in the future. And you can swing it, can't you, if he leads us to the Watchman?'
'It's a hell of a big 'if'.'
The drinks arrived. Alex drank down his beer in three long swallows, thought it probable for several minutes that he was going to vomit, then suddenly felt better.
Dressed, they strolled through the port, where Dawn bought herself a scoopneck top and a pair of skin-tight white jeans, and high-heeled mules. To look the part, she explained. Basic tradecraft.
Back at the hotel she changed into it all, adding a Wonderbra.
'Blimey!' said Alex, impressed.
'All you need now is a forty-a-day Rothman's habit and a boyfriend on Crimestoppers!'
'If we hang around at Pablito's long enough I'll probably end up with both.'
Alex raised an eyebrow.
'I thought you were already taken. Mr. Lucky-boy in London.'
Dawn rolled her eyes and swung her bag over her shoulder.
'Let's go.'
Pablito's appeared deserted. The swing doors were locked, the tables untenanted and wasps swung threateningly around an overflowing litter bin.
Checking his watch, Alex knocked at the entrance. The door was opened by Marie, who was wearing a pink velour tracksuit.
'Come in.
'Fraid Den's still sleeping it off. You look a treat, my love. Cup of Nes?'
'Lovely,' said Dawn.
When the coffee was ready they carried it upstairs. Above the bar was a small landing giving on to a bedroom and bathroom, and a sun-baked roof terrace. On a large rectangle of plastic matting at one end of this, naked but for a faded pair of Union Jack underpants, lay Denzil Connolly, snoring. An ashtray had overturned at his side and a nine-tenths-empty bottle of Bell's whisky lay just beyond the reach of his outstretched arm.
'He likes to sleep under the stars,' said Marie.
'I had to put down the matting 'cause the bottles kept smashing and then he'd roll on the pieces in the night. He's a big feller, as you can see.' She folded her arms in a long-suffering gesture.
'Den, love, we've got company.
The sleeping figure stirred and the eyes half opened in pull~ suspicion.
'Wha' the fuck you...' Seeing Alex and Dawn, he closed his eyes again, groaned and writhed like a hippopotamus.
'Wha's fuckin' time?'
'Twelve. And Alex and Dawn are here.'
'Who? Oh, yeah, right. Give us a hand up.'
