From the Dead

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.

He watched as three different marching bands in handsomely decorated uniforms gathered around the edge of the park. Dozens of men, women and children were arranging themselves into lines, the sun bouncing off the rims of the drums and the highly polished brass. Thorne bought a bottle of water and sat down for a while. Then, when the music struck up and the bands began to move, he fell in step and followed the first one as it wound its way towards the market place.

The Plaza de la Constitucion was even busier than it had been the previous day. Hundreds of people were dancing in the shadow of the huge awning across the market and the bar was four or five people deep. The group on stage stopped as the procession snaked into the square, their up-tempo sing-along replaced by the drums and blaring brass of the marching bands, whose arrival was greeted with tumultuous applause.

Thorne queued for a beer, then found a seat outside one of the bars a dozen steps up from the square. He shouted above the noise to ask a man at the next table what was going on.

The man struggled to hear, then to understand. ' Feria,' he said, eventually. He pointed to a poster in the bar's window and Thorne went to take a look.

Feria Virgen de la Pena.

He guessed that ' feria' was 'fair' or 'festival'. Did ' pena ' mean 'pain'?

There was an effigy of the Virgin, and some details of the ongoing festivities that Thorne could not understand. The dates were clear enough, though. Thorne had arrived in Mijas during its biggest festival of the year. Four days of it.

He took another beer back to his table. Walking across the bar, he noticed a man reading a Spanish newspaper; the same man he had seen the night before in the restaurant when he had been discussing the case with Samarez and Fraser. Mijas was not the biggest place in the world, but Thorne still doubted that it was a coincidence. When the man glanced across at him, Thorne raised his glass.

Give my best to Alan…

Five minutes later, when he turned to look again, the man had gone.

Thorne watched and listened and let an hour drift by. The bands primarily played traditional Spanish tunes, although, for reasons Thorne could not fathom, one broke briefly into the theme from The Flintstones, and the biggest cheer of all was reserved for a stirring rendition of 'Y Viva Espana'. Presumably ignorant of the song's crass English lyrics, the crowd joined in noisily with the hook and men hugged unashamedly each time the chorus rolled around. Women moved among the crowd in flamenco-style polka-dot dresses, bright purples and pinks to coordinate with the flowers in their hair. They wore high stilettos in matching colours and Thorne was amazed at how easily they moved across the large cobbles, handing out carnations from baskets that bounced against their hips.

'Sir, you want to eat something?'

Thorne looked up at the waiter, wondering if it was really that obvious he was English. He supposed it was, and decided that an early dinner, followed by an early night, was probably no bad idea.

Donna was in the kitchen when she heard the key in the front door. She ran into the hallway, began speaking before Kate had even unbuttoned her coat.

'Ellie's in Spain,' she said. 'Alan's got her.'

'You sure?'

Donna nodded, smiling stupidly. 'She's OK.'

Kate said, 'Thank God,' and moved to take Donna in her arms. 'It's what we always thought, right?'

Donna squeezed, then stepped away. The smile was still there, but it wavered a little. 'It's what I thought, but for a while I wasn't sure what was going on inside your head.'

'I never thought she was dead,' Kate said. 'I promise you.'

Donna took Kate's coat from her and hung it up carefully. 'I wasn't sure if I believed you.' She picked a few stray hairs from the sleeves. 'You can hardly blame me for that.'

'No.'

A few seconds later, when Kate raised her eyes again, Donna had already turned away and was walking back to the kitchen. Kate followed her and sat down. Donna flicked on the kettle.

'So, what are you going to do?'

'What do you mean?' Donna snapped.

'Nothing… Christ, Don.'

'What can I do?'

Kate shrugged. 'Just have to wait for more news, I suppose.'

'I suppose.'

When the tea was ready, Donna carried the mugs to the table and sat down. The smile had returned, her good mood peaking again, while Kate's wariness cranked up a notch or two in response.

'When Ellie comes back, it's really going to be all right, you know.' Donna was nodding through the steam from her tea. 'The three of us can live together and it'll be great, I know it will. Here or somewhere else, whatever. Is that OK with you?'

'Whatever you want.'

'I want to know I can count on you for this,' Donna said. 'I want to trust you again. Because-'

'We should go out,' Kate said, suddenly enthusiastic. Desperate. 'We should go somewhere and celebrate.'

'I'm tired.'

'Just a quick drink, then. Come on…'

'What did you say to Ellie?'

Kate let out a long breath. 'Please, let's not start that again. Not now.'

'That day in the cafe.' Donna sat very still, blew on her tea. 'Just tell me.'

'I said nothing bad, OK?' Kate leaned forward and reached across the table, but Donna's hands stayed wrapped around her mug. 'On my life, Don. On Ellie 's life…'