question.
'The vet put her to sleep this afternoon.' Raising her voice, she suddenly sounded angry as well as upset. 'He said it was the best thing to do.'
Thorne took a deep breath. A few feet from him a girl began squealing with delight as a man lifted her off her feet and swung her around.
'What was that?'
'Sorry, there are people everywhere, it's-'
'This is pointless,' Louise said. 'Can you call me back from somewhere quieter?'
Once he'd hung up, Thorne sat where he was for a while. He was cold suddenly and, as the minutes passed, a wash of loneliness settled over him that no page-turner, no amount of company, could relieve. He raised his glass then quickly dropped his hand as he felt a sob rise up fast into his throat and break. Then another. He lowered his head and let them come, the sound barely audible, even to him, above the drums and blaring trumpets.
'You OK?'
He looked up to see a large woman in a red polka-dot dress standing above him. She smiled and asked again.
He nodded.
The woman reached out and handed Thorne a carnation. Then she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek.
He woke just after 2 a.m. to what sounded like a war outside.
The explosions rattled the glass in the window frames, and for a few seconds Thorne was genuinely alarmed, until he saw the flashes of red and green through a gap in the shutters and heard the mournful whistles as the fireworks began falling to earth. Between each crack and whoosh he could hear the trumpets somewhere nearby, but now the cheerful music of earlier had been replaced by something far slower and altogether more ominous. A tumbling, minor cadence that rose from the street and prickled against his skin.
It sounded like misery.
Thorne closed his eyes and lay there, shaken and sweating, the sheets pasted to his chest and each explosion sudden and terrible, like a fresh blow to his heart.
Just a pop, no louder than the scooter backfiring.
THIRTY-FOUR
Candela had shown more than enough people like this around properties to know that being overly inquisitive was not a good idea. Many of her clients described themselves as 'businessmen', and if that's what the Englishman chose to call himself, she was far too smart to ask any other questions.
Far smarter than most people took her for.
He looked rather more thuggish than his friend, she thought. The type who would not think twice about screwing someone in any way possible to get what he wanted. Probably had a vicious temper on him, too. She wondered if the tall Spaniard was his minder. He didn't smile or say a great deal, but she knew that sort were rarely employed for their personality or intelligence.
Not that she was under any illusions herself. She knew exactly why David kept her around.
In truth, Candela didn't care too much what either of them did. Any of them. Commission was commission, and although she was well taken care of, she enjoyed making her own money. This one would keep her in D amp;G for a long time.
'Here is the master bedroom suite,' she said. She waited for the two men to follow her through the door. 'Very nice, as you can see. The view is very beautiful, like in the other rooms.' She smiled and corrected herself. ' From the other rooms.'
The Spaniard nodded.
'Lovely,' the Englishman said.
The block was a new build, and the penthouse apartment was the most spectacular and expensive property of the lot. Three beds, three baths and a huge living space, with private security and use of the gymnasium and pool complex.
'The whole place is lovely.'
Candela smiled, pleased with the way things seemed to be going. 'If you wish, you can keep the furniture that is already here, but of course that will cost a little extra.'
'Of course.'
'Or you can take it empty and choose things for yourself. Perhaps your wife might prefer to do that…'
'I'll ask her.'
'Women like to choose their own things.' She fingered a button on her ivory blouse. 'I know that I would prefer it.'
The Englishman flicked once more through the brochure she had given him, then walked across to the huge window. 'We'll need to talk about the price, though.'
'We can talk,' Candela said, laughing. 'But not too much. There is a waiting list already and offers have been turned down three times.' She walked across to join him and stood close. 'You can almost see Africa if the day is nice and this does not come cheaply. This block is ideal for getting anywhere on the coast, too, near to the motorway and the airport. What is it you say in England? The location, the location, the location?'
'Something like that.'
'There is a TV show also, yes? I saw it when I came to London.'
'You've been to London?'
'Of course. I went last year with a boyfriend.'
'This would be Dave Mackenzie, would it?'
Candela felt the colour leave her face and stepped quickly away from the window. 'No.' She shook her head. 'Not… Why are you asking me about this?'
'I thought we were friends,' the Englishman said.
The Spaniard stepped towards her then, reaching into his pocket, and she felt the flutter of panic expand and take hold. She had heard several horror stories during the two years she had been doing the job. Most of the agencies employed a few girls like her; girls who could show off a property well enough and give just a hint of something extra at the same time… as long as an offer was made quickly. It made them valued employees, but also easy targets for the odd lunatic.
She tried to control herself, managed to smile. Then began to panic even more when she saw what the Spaniard had been reaching for.
Russell Brigstocke stuck his head around the door of the small office that Holland and Kitson were sharing while Thorne was away.
'He called again,' Brigstocke said. 'First thing this morning.'
Holland looked over at Kitson and raised his hands in despair. 'Jesus, it's not like we're sitting on our backsides.'
'I know that.'
'We're doing everything we can,' Kitson said.
Holland sighed. 'We've done everything we can.'
'Just letting you know,' Brigstocke said, before he left.
The two of them had been working flat out since Thorne had left, checking and rechecking the same missing persons reports from ten years earlier that they had examined back in February. They had worked long hours, poring over the mispers files, cross-referencing them with the PM report on the body in the Jag; eliminating many but following up any that looked even remotely likely, including some that had been discounted during the previous search.
The day before there had been a result of sorts, though not one that would interest Thorne.
They had not been looking for bodies, of course, but the discovery of a simple clerical error had given them
