THIRTY-EIGHT
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.’
‘I don’t mean Spain, you tosser. The case.
Langford . . .’
Thorne told him about the meeting in Ronda. He was
used to villains fronting it out. Sometimes it was the only option
they had left. But Langford had seemed genuinely confident and
relaxed, even when Thorne had made his feelings about Anna
Carpenter’s murder abundantly clear.
Thorne was the one who had walked away
shaken.
‘Cocky’s good,’ Hendricks said. ‘It’s the cocky
ones that fuck up.’
‘As long as I don’t fuck up first.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being a bit . . .
jumpy, all right?’
‘Even if this missing copper does turn out
to be our mystery body, I’m not sure where that leaves us.’
‘Don’t worry, it’ll pan out, mate.’
‘I hope so.’
‘I reckon you’re owed one anyway.’
‘After Adam Chambers, you mean?’
‘Listen, Tom. Langford’s the one who’s out of his
depth, because he doesn’t know you. If he did, there’s no
way he’d think he could wind you up and walk away.’
Thorne just grunted, non-committal. Praying his
friend was right.
‘You listening?’
‘Yeah . . .’
‘It’s not just the case, is it?’
The music was getting louder, and there was a bell
ringing, sombre and sudden, every few minutes.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ Thorne said. ‘I’m three hours
from home, but it feels like the other side of the world. Like I’m
thousands of miles away.’
‘It must be heartbreaking, being away from me,’
Hendricks said. ‘I understand that.’
‘Yeah, I don’t know how I’m getting through the
day.’
‘I was sorry to hear about Elvis, by the
way.’
‘You spoke to Lou . . . ?’
‘Not that the furry little bastard ever wanted much
to do with me.’
Thorne swallowed hard, smiled at the memory of the
cat assiduously avoiding Hendricks at every opportunity. ‘She was a
good judge of character.’
‘Lou was upset, so I went round.’
‘Thanks, Phil.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘Was she OK?’
‘I don’t think it was just about the cat. You
know?’
Thorne grunted again and this time Hendricks didn’t
press it. ‘How did Spurs get on last night?’
‘Lost two – one at home to Villa,’ Hendricks said,
gleefully. ‘Now they really are out of their depth.’ There
was a blare of trumpets as if to acknowledge the joke that Thorne
had just ignored. ‘What’s that racket?’
Thorne told him about the feria, the
celebrations on the village’s big night.
‘So, why the hell are you sitting there and moaning
at me?’
When he and Hendricks had finished, Thorne tried to
call Louise. There was no reply from either Kentish Town or Pimlico
and her mobile went straight to voicemail. Thorne left a brief
message, told Louise that he missed her.
Then he grabbed his jacket, left the hotel and
walked towards the noise.