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.
