From the Dead (2010)

by Mark Billingham

  Back at the hotel, Thorne called Louise. She sounded as though she had just woken up. Thorne looked at his watch, saw that it was not yet 10.15, 9.15 in the UK, but he said sorry anyway, that he hadn't realised it was so late.

  'It's OK, I was waiting for you to call.'

  'What's up?'

  'I had to take Elvis to the vet.'

  'What's the matter with her?'

  'I don't know, but it's not good. She wouldn't even get up when I came in and she'd been horribly sick again. There was blood round her mouth as well, so . . .'

  'Shit.'

  'I've left her in overnight, but the vet didn't look very hopeful.' After a few moments' silence, she said, 'Are you still there?'

  'I'm sorry that you've been lumbered with this.'

  'It's fine. How was your day?'

  'You know. Long. Flying anywhere's a pain in the arse.'

  'I'll leave you to it, then,' she said. 'Those roaming charges are such a rip-off anyway.'

  They both knew that calls home were not covered by Met expenses, so it was a useful get-out when neither had a great deal to say. Thorne said he would phone the following day to find out how the cat was doing. Louise told him she'd sort things out, one way or another, and said goodnight.

  Thorne lay on the bed and searched for something to watch on TV, but the only thing in English was a BBC World financial report. Then he found a channel showing hardcore pornography, the screen divided into four quarters featuring a variety of clips to suit every taste. There was a quick-fire voiceover and a number for anyone who wanted to hire one of the movies, though try as he might, Thorne could not figure out why anyone would need to pay anything.

  He was too tired to take even the most perfunctory advantage of the free entertainment. But once the lights were off, he still found it a lot harder to sleep than he had just a few hours before.

  THIRTY-TWO

  For almost forty years, since its lavish opening, the well connected, the super rich and the showbiz elite had flocked to the marina complex at Puerto Banus. These days, the surrounding streets were more likely to be filled with pissed-up stags and hens than movie stars, and the hookers outnumbered the millionaires . . . just. But the marina itself remained as astounding a display of conspicuous wealth as Thorne had ever seen.

  Upwards of five hundred yachts were moored. Line after line of dazzling white Sunseekers, many with smaller boats attached or a brace of jet-skis, and a few the size of small cruise-ships, complete with helipads, gymnasiums and swimming pools.

  'How the other half lives,' Fraser said.

  'Half?'

  They walked the length of the marina and back. Fraser pointed out the yacht belonging to the King of Saudi Arabia. Said, 'Bit over the top, though.'

  Thorne wondered what might constitute way over the top. A diamond-encrusted toilet-roll holder? Panda-skin cushions?

  The cars parked alongside were as high end as the shops that lined the surrounding streets. Though there seemed to be nowhere anyone could buy anything as basic as boating supplies, there was no shortage of designer outlets from where shoppers in need could pick up those essential four-figure handbags, five-figure stereo systems and sunglasses that cost more than Thorne's monthly mortgage repayment.

  The villas and apartments available in SuperSmart Homes reflected the lifestyles of those who would not need to bother with mortgages. Those who could probably pay with cash and would certainly appreciate being shown round a property by someone as beautifully refurbished and well-appointed as Candela Bernal.

  'I don't actually care if a woman's had her tits done,' Fraser said. 'Doesn't bother me.'

  'Thanks for sharing,' Thorne said.

  Sitting in a car across from the estate agent's where she was based, they were now waiting for Langford's girlfriend to arrive for work. Fraser held up the picture of a bikini-clad Candela Bernal he had been examining. 'I mean, people go on about plastic surgery, but it's no different from wearing glasses when you think about it.'

  Thorne thought about it.

  'I don't understand.' Samarez leaned forward from the back seat. 'Are you saying that if a woman has her breasts enlarged, it will improve her eyesight?'

  'No, don't be daft, I'm. . .' Fraser caught the look on Thorne's face and realised that Samarez was mocking him. 'Oh, piss off.'

  'You're going to need glasses if you're not careful.' Thorne snatched the picture and turned to continue looking across the street. SuperSmart Homes sat between Tod's and Versace. The window was filled with ads for the kind of place David Mackenzie lived in, that in another life he had lived in when he was still Alan Langford.

  That he once shared with the woman who had tried to have him killed.

  Thorne thought about his early morning call to Donna Langford. He had told her that he had seen Ellie, or at least pictures of her and that, as far as anyone could tell, she was fine. The news had not elicited quite the reaction Thorne had been expecting. The relief was there somewhere, but surprisingly muted, and the barrage of questions, of demands, had not been forthcoming.

  'She's fine, Donna,' Thorne had said again.

  Nothing for a few seconds. Then, 'No thanks to the likes of you . . .'

  'Well, I've not got a problem with plastic surgery,' Fraser said. 'That's all. I mean I desperately need a penis reduction, but if something needs doing, you--'

  'There she is,' Thorne said.

  'Half-past ten,' Fraser said, looking at his watch. 'Nice work if you can get it.'

  They watched as Candela Bernal stepped out of a white, soft-top Mini and stood on the pavement, pulling her long blonde hair back into a ponytail. She was somewhere in her early twenties and, for a moment or two, Thorne felt a tug of sympathy for her. For the life she had fallen into. For the trouble he knew was coming her way.

  Samarez had explained earlier that morning how they were planning to use David Mackenzie's girlfriend to establish his real identity. How her bad habits had given them what he hoped would be sufficient leverage to ensure her cooperation. 'I'm sure we can persuade her,' he had said.

  'She's going to be very scared.'

  Samarez agreed, but assured Thorne that she had plenty to lose either way. 'We have made the arrangements for tomorrow,' he had said.

  Now she was talking to a woman outside Tod's. Her smile reminded Thorne of someone else's, and he remembered why he was there.

  His sympathy quickly evaporated.

  Her conversation finished, Candela walked to SuperSmart Homes' door. A banner was hanging in the window beneath the agency's sign: Paraiso de los sentidos.

  Paradise for the senses.

  'Bloody hell, you're not kidding,' Fraser said. 'No wonder Langford's smiling in most of those pictures.'

  Samarez nodded, unable to argue.

  'One more reason to hate the fucker.'

  Thorne said nothing, simply watched as the girl disappeared inside.

  He had plenty of reasons already.

  'No pressure, Dave.'

  Langford looked up and smiled at the man who would be about ninety quid poorer any moment. 'Wanker.'

  You think this is pressure?

  He sniffed and bent over his ball again. He had three putts to win the match on the sixteenth.

  He needed only two.

  'Played, mate . . .'

  Langford shook his friend's hand and gratefully pocketed the hundred-euro note. He would get a decent bottle of something with it later at the club. Do some sniffing around while he was there.

  Get some feedback.

  The big step he had needed to take a couple of months earlier - needed rather than wanted - had gone seriously pear-shaped, and now the trouble had come a little closer to home. Now, it was all but knocking on his bloody door. Not that it would get that far, obviously, but to nip it in the bud, to regain some control over the situation, it would help at least to get the measure of the man who was making such a nuisance of himself.

  A man who seemed to enjoy chasing lost causes a
nd now had a very good reason to be taking things personally.

  'Staying for a quick one?'

  His friend - a fat builder who was less adept at cutting corners on the golf course than he was where it really counted - hoisted his clubs on to the back of his buggy and climbed aboard.

  Langford climbed on to his. 'Can't do it,' he said. 'Got a lunch meeting.'

  They began to drive back towards the clubhouse.

  He had been monitoring developments back in the UK via the usual channels, so had known Thorne was coming for a week or so. Having another crack at him so soon after botching the last one was not a viable option, so he had been unable to do anything to stop him. Taking out a copper was not something anybody but an idiot did without a very good reason, and certainly not once the copper in question knew he was a target. It was not something you did at all, not unless you wanted it raining shit for the foreseeable future, so Langford had done some hard thinking before giving the nod. Prior to Thorne, he'd done it only once before, when it was the best option available to him. But for a businessman who was as careful and as far-sighted as he prided himself on being, it was the last of all last resorts.

  Now, thanks to some useless twat who couldn't shoot straight, he would have to think again. Reassess the situation; reorganise. Above all, he would need to stay calm.

  'That hundred euros,' the fat builder said. 'Double or quits. First one back to the clubhouse.'

  'Well, we already know you're not Tiger Woods,' Langford said. 'But now you think you're Lewis fucking Hamilton.'

  'Up to you, mate.'

  Langford put his foot down.

  They watched the estate agent's for a little over an hour before Candela Bernal re-emerged. Fraser started the car, ready to follow, but instead of heading for her Mini, the girl turned towards them, then walked all the way to the far end of the marina, across the road and on to the beach.

  'All right for some,' Fraser said. 'A cup of coffee, an hour gossiping with the other girls, then a quick dip before lunch.' All three climbed out of the Punto. 'I think I'm in the wrong job.'

  Thorne glanced at Samarez and told Fraser he couldn't disagree.

  As Samarez was due to be involved in the following day's business with Thorne, he drove his own car back to Malaga to ensure that everything was being set up properly. Thorne and Fraser followed Candela to the beach and took up a position in a bar thirty feet or so from the water's edge. Fraser ordered a bottle of water. 'Don't want any more of your dirty looks,' he said.

  It had been overcast first thing, but the cloud had quickly burned away and now Thorne was sweating again. Fraser was wearing a different combination of shorts and loud shirt while Thorne - even though he'd left his jacket in the car - still felt overdressed in a polo top and chinos. As he'd been packing, Louise had told him that he would probably need no more than a single pair of long trousers, but he had not listened.

  Whenever he imagined himself standing in front of Alan Langford, he wasn't wearing shorts.

  'So, you didn't give much away last night,' Fraser said. 'About your set-up back at home.'

  Call-Me-Pete, on the other hand, had babbled all the way through dinner about his wife and three kids; about the place they might buy in Estepona one day if she didn't piss it all away in TK Maxx before they got the chance. 'Maybe this Spanish piece we're going to watch tomorrow could give me a few property tips,' he had said.

  Samarez had smiled and said, 'I think you will need to do a little more overtime.'

  The arrangements on the beach were as high end as everything else in Puerto Banus, and after slipping off her thin dress and sandals, Candela settled down on a thickly cushioned, rattan sunlounger. She removed the bikini top and lay down on her front with a magazine. It made Thorne feel sleepy just watching her.

  He closed his eyes for a few seconds, enjoying the sensation of the sun on his skin, the rumble and shush of the water. He remembered what the woman on the plane had said about him needing a holiday and thought she was probably right. His last time abroad had been when he and Louise had gone to Greece the year before. When the baby she went on to miscarry eight weeks into a pregnancy had been conceived.

  They had not discussed holidays since.

  'I meant what I said about the fake tits.' Fraser wiped the lenses of his sunglasses, replaced them, then continued staring appreciatively at Candela. 'They really don't bother me.'

  'I'm sure she'll be very pleased,' Thorne said, not bothering to open his eyes.

  Fraser looked across at him. 'Come on, you can't be that disinterested. I don't see a wedding ring, so I'm guessing you've been spared that particular nightmare.'

  'You should be a detective.'

  'Girlfriend? Boyfriend?'

  'One of those,' Thorne said.

  After fifteen minutes or so, a waiter walked down to the sunbed with a glass of wine and some kind of salad. Candela sat up, covering her breasts with one arm as he laid the tray down on a low table. She reached into her bag for some cash and he nodded, smiling, clearly grateful at being told to keep the change.

  'You've obviously got a bit of a hard-on for our friend David Mackenzie,' Fraser said.

  Thorne looked at him.

  'I'm not surprised, mate.'

  'No?'

  'If somebody took a pot-shot at me I'd not be best pleased either.'

  'A pot-shot?'

  'I'm just saying . . .'

  'A girl died,' Thorne said.

  'Yeah.' Fraser nodded and left what he obviously thought was a suitable pause. 'You knew her a bit, then?'

  Thorne pictured the flush in Sylvia Carpenter's face as she talked about his damaged shoulder and the tremble in her hand as she reached out towards his chest.

  'Yeah, I knew her.'

  Thorne turned away and watched Candela as she picked at her food, placing what was left back on the tray when she'd finished and waving to the waiter, who quickly came across with a second glass of wine. After another ten minutes of sun, she stood up and tied her bikini top back on, then walked gingerly across the hot sand and into the sea until it was up to her waist. She stood facing the beach, staring almost directly at Thorne and spreading her arms out wide. She gave a little jump and a yelp of excitement each time one of the big waves broke across her back.

  She looked as though she did not have a care in the world.

  Thorne thought: She soon will have.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The roads into Mijas Pueblo were still blocked, so Fraser dropped Thorne off by the car park just after five-thirty. His own place, like those of most of the SOCA agents, was in an apartment block in Malaga, though he told Thorne that if things went the way he was planning, he'd end up getting somewhere far better.

  'If I can swing a permanent job over here, then the wife and kids can come out for good. You get a nice house, private education for the kids, top-notch health insurance, the lot. Knocks the Met into a cocked hat, I'm telling you.'

  He told Thorne he would pick him up at nine the following morning.

  'I want to hire a car,' Thorne said.

  'There's no need, mate. I'm perfectly happy to run you around.'

  'I'd be happier looking after myself.'

  Fraser seemed uncomfortable.

  'What's the problem?'

  'Well, really, I'm supposed to . . .'

  'Keep an eye on me?'

  'It's a joint operation, that's all. I mean, when you get down to it, the Met doesn't actually have any jurisdiction here.'

  'What about all this free time I'm going to have? If I'm going to visit these fantastic places you keep telling me about, I can't keep expecting you to chauffeur me about.'

  'OK, let me see what I can organise.'

  'I can sort it out myself, Peter,' Thorne said. 'I'm a big boy.'

  Fraser unconsciously felt for the phone he kept clipped to his belt. Before he drove away, he told Thorne it would be a good idea to wear something smart the following day. To look like he had a few quid.

>   Thorne walked up towards the newer part of town and saw immediately why the traffic had been diverted. A carnival was in full swing, with stalls running the length of the main street and an enormous carousel in the park. At first, it looked like the kind of funfair Thorne was used to back at home. The same tawdry gathering of old rides and dodgy stalls he went to as a kid in Finsbury Park; where he would drink cheap cider with his mates and fail to meet girls. Then he saw that, as well as the candy-floss and the toffee-apples, the stall-holders were selling spooky-looking Mexican wrestling masks and small guitars, and that people seemed to be enjoying themselves. Crucially - despite the fact that every shop he passed seemed to be selling a bewildering array of knives - there did not appear to be a better than average chance of someone getting stabbed.