As Donna watched, the pillars on either side of the porch began to blur and swim as her eyes filled with water.
Silly cow. Stop it!
The photographs had helped, just a little. At least she knew what Ellie looked like, could see the ways in which her little girl's face had changed and how it had stayed the same. But so many other things left her distraught.
She could no longer remember what her daughter smelled like.
Thorne asked himself, as he had done many times before, if there ever came a time when men stopped sizing one another up like dogs fighting over a bitch. It was usually for no more than a moment, but it almost always happened when men first met. As well as taking in the superficial stuff – the clothes, the haircut, the approximate values of the watch and shoes – it often came down to the handshake, firm or otherwise, and those few awkward seconds of eye contact, and the simple, stupid, childish question of whether you could take them if it ever came down to a good, old-fashioned punch-up.
He had decided that the urge to compete in that way probably stopped at the same time a man stopped sizing up the women he met and wondering altogether different but equally stupid things.
It was ridiculous, Thorne accepted that, but it was also as natural as breathing and harmless enough for the most part. For those who knew where to draw the line, anyway. At that morning's briefing, he had looked at the new woman on the team for a little longer than was strictly necessary. Now he sized up the two SOCA agents who greeted him when he stepped out of the lift on the fourth floor, and as they led him along a corridor to a meeting room that smelled of new carpets and wax polish.
'There's coffee on the way,' one of them said.
'Biscuits?'
'I'll see what we can do…'
The three of them sat around a large blond-wood conference table. There was a jug of water and half a dozen glasses, notebooks in front of every chair. The taller of the two SOCA men, who had introduced himself as Nick Mullenger, began to spread an assortment of photographs, charts and blown-up map fragments across the table. He was in his early thirties, with thick, dark hair and acne scars, and a voice that sounded perfect for cheaply made radio adverts. His colleague had not bothered with the pleasantry of a Christian name, so Thorne could only guess that he was either short of time or simply trying to appear more enigmatic than he seemed. Silcox was shorter than Thorne but in the same ballpark, age-wise. He wore a suit and tie, as did Mullenger, but filled his out a little better than his colleague. He had less hair than Mullenger and rather less to say for himself and when he did speak, it was barely above a whisper, as though there were something badly wrong with his throat. It might have been a heavy cold or it might have been cancer, so Thorne did not bother asking.
'Right, Spain,' Mullenger said. He spoke cheerfully, as though they were a family who had finally settled on a holiday destination after a long discussion.
'It was always our best guess,' Thorne said. 'Even if it seemed a bit obvious.'
'There's a good reason for that.'
'Drugs?'
'Definitely,' Silcox said.
Mullenger pointed to a spot on one of the maps. 'The south coast of Spain.' He moved his finger slightly. 'The north coast of Africa. ..'
Thorne nodded and remembered what Gary Brand had said about being talked down to. But Mullenger seemed pleasant enough, so Thorne bit his tongue and wondered what else the SOCA man might deem it necessary to point out.
Notebook. Pencil. Water jug.
'Morocco's only forty miles away,' Mullenger said. He turned his palms up as though no further explanation were necessary, then proceeded to give one anyway. 'Started out with a few hippies bringing hash across on fishing boats and now it's a multi-million-dollar industry.'
'Billion,' Silcox said.
'Once upon a time, old-fashioned villains like your Mr Langford fought shy of the drugs trade, but that was before they saw how much money could be made. Now, almost every ounce of cannabis and cocaine that arrives in the UK has to come through Spain, so it's the perfect place to base a drugs empire. They use the marinas as cover and the authorities haven't got the manpower or the inclination to search all the yachts.' He sat back in his chair. 'It's a drug-smuggler's paradise.'
'It's not just about the beaches and the sangria,' Silcox said.
Thorne pulled one of the pictures of Langford towards him. 'Don't suppose that hurts, though.'
Mullenger laughed, said, 'No, indeed.'
'So, Langford's got a decent business going out there, you reckon?'
'Almost certainly,' Mullenger said. 'And it's not really a surprise that he's been reacting the way he has, now he knows these enquiries are being made. So violently, I mean.'
'It's how he does things,' Thorne said.
'How they all do things.'
Silcox tapped a pencil on the table. 'Wild West over there,' he said.
Mullenger nodded, reaching for a list of facts and figures. 'You've got the Brits, the Irish, the Russians, the Albanians, whatever, all fighting for a bigger slice of the action, so it's pretty much become a war zone. They set up a special unit in the late nineties to try to get to grips with it, and for a while things calmed down a bit.'
''Marbella Vice',' Thorne said. 'I remember. I knew a few people who tried to swing a transfer over there.'
'Right, and for a year or two there was an unwritten agreement among the residents to tone things down, so as not to attract any more attention. They spent their time settling scores elsewhere. But once the Colombians started laundering drug money there, it all kicked off again, big time, and now there are shoot-outs on the streets every other week.'
' Costa del Plomo,' Silcox said.
Thorne looked to Mullenger for an explanation.
'That's the new nickname for the place,' Mullenger said. 'Spanish for 'lead'.' He made a gun with his fingers. 'Because of-'
'I get it,' Thorne said.
Mullenger had the good grace to look embarrassed, but Thorne caught the trace of a smirk from Silcox. Thorne stared across the table and Silcox stared back, his doughy features a picture of innocence.
'We've been working with the local police in southern Spain for the last few years,' Mullenger said. 'Trying to disrupt a few of the criminal networks and round up as many fugitives as we can. It's tricky, though, because some of the people who are supposed to be on our side aren't really on our side, if you know what I mean.'
'Corruption in high places?'
Silcox was still staring. 'High places, low places.'
'Last year, three local mayors and a couple of high-ranking officers in the Guardia Civil were prosecuted for laundering drug money.' Mullenger shrugged and picked up another piece of paper. 'We're making some progress, but just to give you an idea of the scale of what's going on over there…' He glanced down and read from the sheet. 'Last year, Operacion Captura led to the arrest of forty-one people and the seizure of four hundred million euros' worth of funds, as well as over twenty yachts and private planes, forty-two cars and two hundred and fifty houses.'
'Pretty impressive,' Thorne said.
Silcox smiled. 'Us or them?'
'And that's in Marbella alone.' Mullenger laid down his list. 'So
…'
There was a knock on the door and a man brought in the coffee: a Thermos jug and three cups on a tray. Mullenger did the honours while Thorne stood and walked to the window. He was still feeling fractious and fidgety, and decided that both he and the double-act assigned to brief him would be a lot happier were he to be nodding off aboard one of the pleasure boats he could see moving up and down the river two storeys below.
'We managed to get you your biscuits,' Mullenger said.
