and cradled an even more doll-like infant. Her long, brown hair seemed too modern, though, falling in curls across her shoulders and Thorne thought the wig looked a little out of place beneath the sunburst of a huge golden crown.
But her expression was simple enough, and dazzling.
Thorne put his phone away and stared as the bell was rung again and the platform was hoisted back on to the police officers' shoulders.
A young girl's face, trusting and content. But with eyes cast down in understanding, or perhaps in expectation of the suffering that was so many people's lot in life, and the cruelty that seemed so much a part of others'.
As the platform moved, swaying its way out of the square on its journey around the village, the statue began to wobble, but Thorne kept his eyes on the face.
Andrea Keane's face and Anna Carpenter's.
A live band started to play, although Thorne could not see them, and those who had not already begun to move away sang along. Thorne felt cold suddenly. It was not a slow song, but the voices sounded sorrowful, as though the Virgin's expectations had been fulfilled.
For those few, terrible seconds before he reached her and clamped his hands around her neck, Candela understood what was happening. She knew how stupid she had been to give the police what they had asked for. How naive she had been to think that she could run.
His face showed nothing. He did not speak as he pushed her back hard against the window. He calmly moved one hand from her throat to reach for the handle on the sliding door, and she knew that there was little point in struggling.
But instinct made her fight anyway.
She kicked at his legs and ripped her nails across his arms. She desperately tried to move her head so that she could bite him, but then she heard the hiss of the door gliding open behind her and felt the wind move into the room.
Her bladder went at the same time as she staggered back, on to the balcony.
A jumble of thoughts and pictures in those last few moments. It was cold and she was only twenty-two and there was blood in her mouth where she had bitten through her tongue. She thought about her mother and said, ' Perdoname, Mama, ' in her head, or perhaps it was out loud when she felt the metal rail pressing hard into the small of her back.
She was over then – tumbling and gone. Those lights in the marina rushing up at her and the wind like icy water.
She screamed all the way down.
FORTY
'We're gonna chase these fellas clear down to Texas…'
It was late and Langford was in his cinema room, sprawled out in one of the leather recliners, the volume almost as high as it would go. He'd installed top-of-the-range speakers and he liked it good and loud, liked to feel each punch and gunshot go through him. He reckoned Unforgiven was the last great Western ever made. He had lost count of how many times he'd watched it and now it was just getting to the big shoot-out at the end which was hands down his favourite part. Where it's pissing with rain and Clint walks into the bar to sort everyone out for killing Morgan Freeman.
He reached down to the cool-box and took out a bottle of Mahou. He was still sweating, still rushing from what had been an eventful day.
He'd had a couple more beers up in Ronda after his chat with Thorne, had enjoyed the afternoon and driven home a little pissed. It wasn't something he worried about a great deal. He'd been stopped twice in the past and both times the mention of a high-ranking local cop had seen him waved on his way.
A nice quiet life, that was what he'd said to Thorne, and Thorne had been right when he'd come back at him. Sometimes you had to do whatever was necessary to keep it that way.
Some things went beyond business, hurt you in all sorts of places.
In the bar, Clint cocks the rifle and everybody turns to look at him. He tells them he's there to kill Little Bill, that he's killed just about everything that walks or crawls at one time or another. That gets their attention all right.
What had Thorne expected him to say when he'd reeled off those names? Monahan, the bent screw and the girl Thorne obviously had a thing for. 'Fair enough, mate, we'll finish our drinks and then you can pop me on a plane back home to face the music'?
Probably just looking for a reaction, for a weak spot or whatever.
Well, he'd be looking a bloody long time, same as everyone else.
Clint shoots the owner of the place, but Gene Hackman knows he's only got one round left, so he isn't that worried. Then the classic misfire and all hell breaks loose and after he's shot Gene, Clint just gets himself a drink, cool as fuck. Says he's always been lucky when it comes to killing folks. And Clint hadn't even wanted to get involved, that was the thing. He had his own nice, quiet life, didn't he?
He hadn't started it…
Those fucking photos, it all came down to them, and whichever spineless ponce had stuck them in the post.
He was only reacting to the situation he'd been put in, after all. He hadn't asked for any of it, done anything to warrant all the aggravation. But now the shit was flying at him from every direction and all sorts of people had to be sorted out.
Only Gene Hackman isn't really sorted out, not yet. Says he doesn't deserve to die. Clint tells him that 'deserves' has got nothing to do with it before he finishes him off, up nice and close. He walks slowly into the rain then, past his mate's body, and one by one all the hookers come out too, the whores like Candela who started it all. They all stand there and watch him ride away, even the one with the messed-up face.
Fucking priceless.
Langford waited and let the credits run, because he believed it was rude not to. Then he reached for another beer and pointed the remote so he could watch the scene one more time.
FORTY-ONE
Alison Hobbs, who used to be Alison Talbot, had remarried three years earlier. Six months after her first husband Chris had finally been declared legally dead. When she answered the door, there was a toddler peering from behind her legs, and her new husband was waiting for them when Holland and Kitson were shown into the living room.
Stuart Hobbs had a firm handshake and gave a suitably solemn nod.
Alison went to make tea, leaving Holland and Kitson to fill an awkward few minutes with small talk while her husband wrestled his small son on his lap. The drive up from London had been pretty good, despite the average speed checks on the M1. The toddler's name was Gabriel, and the 'terrible twos' were kicking in. They were waiting on a quote to have the kitchen extended.
Everyone looked happy when the tea arrived.
'It'll be a relief, actually,' Stuart Hobbs said, 'if you have found Chris. It's not been particularly easy for either of us.'
Holland said he could understand that. 'Like I said on the phone, though, we can't make a positive identification at the moment. That's why we're hoping you can answer a couple of questions that might help.'
Alison sat down next to her husband. He took her hand. 'Fire away,' she said.
'Did you know much about what Chris was working on?' Kitson asked.
