Mark Billingham - From the Dead

'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? Boy friend?'

'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.

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.