Mark Billingham - From the Dead

'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.

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 and now had a very good reason to be taking things personally.