Mark Billingham - From the Dead

'And you made a big mistake with the girl. With Anna Carpenter.'

If Thorne's words – the way he said them – had any effect, it was well hidden. Langford did not so much as blink. Thorne slowly let his fists unclench beneath the table, but he could not bear to let Langford walk away from this thinking that he had won.

That he had scored any points at all.

'Oh, and you're not really on the ball when it comes to hiring staff, either,' Thorne said.

Langford sniffed. 'Really?'

'Really,' Thorne said. 'Whoever you had watching me made a shit job of not being spotted.'

'Well, thanks for the advice, but at the risk of repeating myself, you don't know what you're talking about.'

'Right.'

'Seriously.' Langford shook his head. 'I don't need to watch you.'

Thorne tried not to look shocked, because, for the first time since Langford had sat down, Thorne believed he was telling the truth. He stood up quickly and stepped away from the table. He watched the cats scatter, then turned back to Langford. 'You were wrong, by the way,' he said. 'I'm more than suspicious. I know exactly how dangerous you are.'

Langford looked at him for a while. He smiled and raised his hands in mock-surrender, then waved one of them dismissively. 'Listen, don't worry about the bill, I'll sort it out.'

Thorne moved quickly back to the table. He gathered up the tourist leaflets and tossed them into Langford's lap. 'Try a couple of these exhibitions if you've got some free time,' he said. 'Though I'm guessing they might be a little tame for you.'

Before Thorne was halfway back to the car, Samarez called. 'I've got the information you wanted,' he said.

'Right.' For a few seconds, Thorne had trouble recalling what he'd asked Samarez to do.

'I checked Langford's phone records, and there is a match for one of those dates and names you gave me.' He told Thorne which one. 'Same day every year for the last few years. Very clever of you, Tom.'

Thorne mumbled a 'thanks' for the information and the compliment, although he was still finding it hard to think straight, still reeling from the conversation with Langford.

Then, as if to show how clever he was, Samarez said, 'So, did the two of you have a pleasant chat?'

' What? '

Samarez laughed. 'He is still under surveillance, so obviously he was seen talking to you.'

It made sense, though if the Guardia Civil had been aware that Langford was in Ronda, or on his way there, Thorne wondered why Samarez had not seen fit to warn him. 'OK…'

'So much for your relaxing day off.'

'I guess your men are better at keeping themselves out of the way than his are,' Thorne said. But even as he spoke, he was thinking about Langford's reaction to the suggestion that he was having Thorne followed.

If Langford hadn't hired the man with the newspaper, who had?

'So, what did you talk about?'

'His retirement,' Thorne said. 'The people he's had killed, that kind of thing. It was all very friendly.'

'No nice, easy confession, then?'

'Most of it seems to have slipped his mind.'

'Of course.'

'At least he's not denying who he is, so we're halfway there.'

'You knew that anyway,' Samarez said.

Knowing was not proof, though, and an unverifiable conversation would not count for a great deal either. But the fingerprint evidence, if and when it came through, would do the job, and until then they had the phone records. The calls to the key number on a crucial date. There was something on paper.

'This trick with the dates and the phone numbers is something I need to remember,' Samarez said. 'You have tried it before?'

'No, but I'll certainly try it again.'

Thorne was grateful that in an uncertain and mostly unfair world, there were some things you could rely on. Politicians lied, British trains broke down and Germany won penalty shoot-outs.

And an old-fashioned London villain would always call his mother on her birthday.

He had little choice but to take the drive down slowly. Negotiating the sharp corners and perilous drops that were now only a few feet away on his near-side, his mind was not where it needed to be. His knuckles whitened on the wheel during some of the steeper sections as he fought to concentrate, to forget Langford's mock-innocent smirk when Thorne had mentioned Anna's name.

Some idiot in a Mercedes was on his bumper for a mile or two. Thorne feathered the brake at every opportunity, ignored each blast on the horn and gave the driver a good, hard stare when the Merc finally took the chance to overtake.

She's not that tennis player, is she?

He was still several miles up from the coast when his mobile rang on the seat next to him. On any other road, at any other time, he would not have thought twice about taking the call. Now he let it ring, listened to the alert as a message came through and waited five minutes until he had the chance to pull over.

He saw that the call was from Dave Holland and called him straight back without bothering to listen to the message. Glancing down into the valley as he waited for the call to connect, Thorne could see the lush fairways of a golf course highlighted against the surrounding browns and greys; splashes of green in an otherwise arid landscape.

Kitson answered Holland's phone. 'Dave's just nipped out, Tom.'

'I hope this is good news, Yvonne. It's not been a great day so far.'

'Dipped below seventy degrees, has it?'

'Put it this way, I'm about ready to twat the next poor sod who so much as looks at me funny.'

'You should do it, if it makes you feel better.'

'So, what's happening?'

'Chris Talbot,' Kitson said. 'Thirty-five years old, reported missing about four months before the body was found in Epping Forest. Right height, give or take the same build. His wife – ex-wife, whatever – lives up in Nottingham, so Dave and I are driving up there first thing in the morning. It looks good, Tom.'

From where Thorne was standing, it looked better than good. 'Can't you get up there tonight?'

'We tried, but she's not around until tomorrow.'

'Well, call me as soon as you've seen her.'

'Listen, I haven't got to the best bit yet. You know we talked about the victim being someone Langford wanted out of the way. The whole two-birds-with-one-stone thing?'

'I'm listening…'

'Chris Talbot was a copper,' Kitson said. 'Serious and Organised.'

By the time it had begun to get dark, the rush of optimism that Thorne had felt after speaking to Kitson had faded. Sitting in his hotel room, with the now familiar sound of trumpets and applause drifting up from the town square, he felt restless and oddly disconnected. He couldn't decide whether he needed reassurance or company.

He flicked through the TV channels, but it was too early for the easy distraction of porn. He picked up the thriller from his bedside table, read the first few pages then put it down again.

The fictional detective was way too bloody miserable.

He called Samarez and asked him if he wanted to have dinner. Samarez lived a good hour away on the far side of Malaga and said that it would be difficult for him to get there. He said that his wife was cooking and Thorne told him that sounded like a far more attractive proposition.

He called Phil Hendricks.

'Have you bought my sombrero yet?' Hendricks asked. 'I want a great big, fuck-off one, OK? I also want one of those bullfighting posters with my name on it.'

'No problem at all. It's not like I'm busy or anything.'

'Just put " El Magnifico ".'

'I was thinking " El Poofo ",' Thorne said.

'Yeah, that'll work.'

The conversation cheered Thorne up, but only slightly. 'I'm out of my bloody depth here, Phil.'

'They're only Spaniards, for God's sake.'