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, 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 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.
'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.
Ole…
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
