Mark Billingham - From the Dead

'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 shops and the place felt nothing like a standard tourist trap. No football shirts were being worn either, so Thorne guessed there were not too many Brits around and regardless of what he'd said to Fraser on the way up, he was not unhappy about it.

The ones he was interested in had not come to Spain to buy castanets and get sunburned.

'We should get you sorted, mate.'

Though Thorne thought it had come a little late, he accepted Fraser's offer to take the suitcase and followed him, the wheels clattering across the cobbles as they walked through the crowds, around the square and up another short flight of steps at the far corner. Fifty yards or so on, after three or four tight turnings, Fraser stopped at a pair of dark wooden doors behind a trellis wound with ivy and bougainvillea. He pushed at the door and shook his head. Said, 'Don't worry.'

Thorne watched as Fraser pressed a button on the intercom then leaned down to begin a conversation in Spanish with the woman on the other end. Thorne heard his name mentioned several times.

When Fraser had finished, he looked up. 'Siesta time.' He winked. 'Spanish yoga. Don't worry, though.' There was a buzz from the intercom and Fraser pushed open the door.

Thorne followed him into a tiny and dimly lit reception area with the outline of a staircase beyond. The place was deserted and Thorne's voice echoed slightly when he spoke. 'Where are they?' he asked.

'Not the faintest idea, but it's fine. Here you go…'

An envelope with Thorne's name and a room number written across it lay waiting on the reception desk. Thorne shook it and felt a key rattle inside. He nodded and stepped towards the stairs. An automatic light came on.

'You should do what the locals do,' Fraser said. 'Try and get your head down for a couple of hours.'

'What are you going to do?'

'Oh, I need to get back to the office. Tell them I got you here in one piece.'

'Expecting snipers, were we?'

Fraser looked at his watch. 'Three hours. How's that?' Without waiting for Thorne to answer, he backed away to the front door and said, 'So, I'll pick you up at half seven.'

Thorne took a few steps up, then lowered his case and turned. 'What about the villains?' he asked. 'Do they bother with siesta time? When in Rome, all that?'

'Yeah, I should imagine,' Fraser said. 'But they probably sleep with one eye open…'

The room was on the third floor, with further lights coming on as Thorne climbed higher. It was fairly basic: two single beds pushed together, a small bathroom, a portable TV, metal shutters over full-length windows and a balcony not quite big enough to step on to. Thorne reckoned it was good enough, or at least was not in the right frame of mind to care.

He opened the shutters, then unpacked quickly and was surprised to find a mini-bar in the cupboard beneath the TV. With beer only three euros a pop, his mood improved a little. He opened a bottle and checked for new messages on his phone.

Nothing.

He set the handset's alarm for 6.15 p.m., then showered. It was the usual hotel dribble, but it was hot and it felt good to wash the dried sweat away. Afterwards, he wrapped a towel around his waist, turned up the air conditioning and lay down on the bed. He rolled on to his side and looked across at the grey net curtain moving gently back and forth at the window.

Next thing he knew, he was scrabbling across the bed to answer his phone.

'Hello? Hello? '

Thorne looked at the small screen, struggling to focus. It was not a call. It was six-fifteen and all he had done was switch off the alarm.

Twenty minutes later than promised, Fraser arrived to pick Thorne up with a plain-clothes Guardia Civil officer named Samarez in tow. The Spaniard mumbled a greeting, then hung back a little as they walked away from the hotel, his expression non-committal as Fraser explained that the two of them had been working together for the last few months. That Samarez was 'a top bloke' and 'a good copper' but most importantly 'a right laugh, once you get to know him'.

'Something to look forward to,' Thorne said.

Judging by his reaction, Samarez wasn't as good with languages as Fraser, just cocking his head a little when Thorne turned to look at him. He was taller than both Thorne and Fraser, with dark hair cut very short and a five o'clock shadow that suggested he probably needed to shave a couple of times a day. He did not look the sort who smiled a great deal, but perhaps that came from working with Fraser. Or perhaps, Thorne thought, he just had bad teeth.

'There's some business to go through later,' Fraser said. 'But a bit of bonding wouldn't hurt, would it?'

Thorne and Samarez shrugged in unison.

'I reckon a few beers is a good idea if we're going to be working together. Three fucking musketeers, yes?'

They found a restaurant in a small square a few minutes' walk from the market place. Thorne ordered for himself this time, or at least made his choice known, then sat back as Fraser did the talking. He wondered if the waiter found Fraser's expansive mateyness as irritating as he did, and if the SOCA man spoke Spanish with a mockney accent.

They were sitting close to a large pair of open doors, and Thorne was glad he had brought along a jacket. He pulled it on, looked around the dining room. 'Not very busy in here,' he said.

It was gone eight-fifteen and the place was almost empty. Aside from a man with a newspaper a few tables away and an elderly couple talking in hushed voices near the kitchen, they had the restaurant to themselves.

'The locals don't eat until much later,' Fraser said. 'Stupid, if you ask me. I mean, I know a lot of them had their heads down in the afternoon, but even so. Bad for the digestion, apart from anything else, not to mention putting the weight on.' He grinned and prodded at the small roll of fat falling across his belt. 'This is just a few too many San Miguels, mate, don't worry. Get that shifted easy enough.'