‘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.

Thorne walked up towards the newer part of town and saw immediately why the traffic had been diverted. A carnival was in full swing, with stalls running the length of the main street and an enormous carousel in the park. At first, it looked like the kind of funfair Thorne was used to back at home. The same tawdry gathering of old rides and dodgy stalls he went to as a kid in Finsbury Park; where he would drink cheap cider with his mates and fail to meet girls. Then he saw that, as well as the candy-floss and the toffee-apples, the stall-holders were selling spooky-looking Mexican wrestling masks and small guitars, and that people seemed to be enjoying themselves. Crucially – despite the fact that every shop he passed seemed to be selling a bewildering array of knives – there did not appear to be a better than average chance of someone getting stabbed.

He watched as three different marching bands in handsomely decorated uniforms gathered around the edge of the park. Dozens of men, women and children were arranging themselves into lines, the sun bouncing off the rims of the drums and the highly polished brass. Thorne bought a bottle of water and sat down for a while. Then, when the music struck up and the bands began to move, he fell in step and followed the first one as it wound its way towards the market place.

The Plaza de la Constitución was even busier than it had been the previous day. Hundreds of people were dancing in the shadow of the huge awning across the market and the bar was four or five people deep. The group on stage stopped as the procession snaked into the square, their up-tempo sing-along replaced by the drums and blaring brass of the marching bands, whose arrival was greeted with tumultuous applause.

Thorne queued for a beer, then found a seat outside one of the bars a dozen steps up from the square. He shouted above the noise to ask a man at the next table what was going on.

The man struggled to hear, then to understand. ‘Feria,’ he said, eventually. He pointed to a poster in the bar’s window and Thorne went to take a look.

He guessed that ‘feria’ was ‘fair’ or ‘festival’. Did ‘peña’ mean ‘pain’?

There was an effigy of the Virgin, and some details of the ongoing festivities that Thorne could not understand. The dates were clear enough, though. Thorne had arrived in Mijas during its biggest festival of the year. Four days of it.

He took another beer back to his table. Walking across the bar, he noticed a man reading a Spanish newspaper; the same man he had seen the night before in the restaurant when he had been discussing the case with Samarez and Fraser. Mijas was not the biggest place in the world, but Thorne still doubted that it was a coincidence. When the man glanced across at him, Thorne raised his glass.

Give my best to Alan . . .

Five minutes later, when he turned to look again, the man had gone.

Thorne watched and listened and let an hour drift by. The bands primarily played traditional Spanish tunes, although, for reasons Thorne could not fathom, one broke briefly into the theme from The Flintstones, and the biggest cheer of all was reserved for a stirring rendition of ‘Y Viva España’. Presumably ignorant of the song’s crass English lyrics, the crowd joined in noisily with the hook and men hugged unashamedly each time the chorus rolled around. Women moved among the crowd in flamenco-style polka-dot dresses, bright purples and pinks to coordinate with the flowers in their hair. They wore high stilettos in matching colours and Thorne was amazed at how easily they moved across the large cobbles, handing out carnations from baskets that bounced against their hips.

‘Sir, you want to eat something?’

Thorne looked up at the waiter, wondering if it was really that obvious he was English. He supposed it was, and decided that an early dinner, followed by an early night, was probably no bad idea.

‘Ellie’s in Spain,’ she said. ‘Alan’s got her.’

‘You sure?’

Donna nodded, smiling stupidly. ‘She’s OK.’

Kate said, ‘Thank God,’ and moved to take Donna in her arms. ‘It’s what we always thought, right?’

Donna squeezed, then stepped away. The smile was still there, but it wavered a little. ‘It’s what I thought, but for a while I wasn’t sure what was going on inside your head.’

‘I never thought she was dead,’ Kate said. ‘I promise you.’

Donna took Kate’s coat from her and hung it up carefully. ‘I wasn’t sure if I believed you.’ She picked a few stray hairs from the sleeves. ‘You can hardly blame me for that.’

‘No.’

A few seconds later, when Kate raised her eyes again, Donna had already turned away and was walking back to the kitchen. Kate followed her and sat down. Donna flicked on the kettle.

‘So, what are you going to do?’

‘What do you mean?’ Donna snapped.

‘Nothing . . . Christ, Don.’

‘What can I do?’

Kate shrugged. ‘Just have to wait for more news, I suppose.’

‘I suppose.’

When the tea was ready, Donna carried the mugs to the table and sat down. The smile had returned, her good mood peaking again, while Kate’s wariness cranked up a notch or two in response.

‘When Ellie comes back, it’s really going to be all right, you know.’ Donna was nodding through the steam from her tea. ‘The three of us can live together and it’ll be great, I know it will. Here or somewhere else, whatever. Is that OK with you?’

‘Whatever you want.’

‘I want to know I can count on you for this,’ Donna said. ‘I want to trust you again. Because—’

‘We should go out,’ Kate said, suddenly enthusiastic. Desperate. ‘We should go somewhere and celebrate.’

‘I’m tired.’

‘Just a quick drink, then. Come on . . .’

‘What did you say to Ellie?’

Kate let out a long breath. ‘Please, let’s not start that again. Not now.’

‘That day in the café.’ Donna sat very still, blew on her tea. ‘Just tell me.’

‘I said nothing bad, OK?’ Kate leaned forward and reached across the table, but Donna’s hands stayed wrapped around her mug. ‘On my life, Don. On Ellie’s life . . .’

He had felt a little less awkward by the time he had finished.

After dinner, he moved to sit halfway down the steps with what was left of his beer. He had not previously noticed the arrangements of multi-coloured lights that now glittered above every street, strung between balconies where families gathered to watch the crowds below.

With a crash of cymbals, one of the bands launched into ‘La Bamba’.

The waiter had brought olives before his meal arrived, and Thorne had remembered Anna devouring a plateful at that bar in Victoria. She would have loved it here, he thought now. Stupidly excited at the idea of the two of them working the case together. She would have gibbered non-stop on the plane and joked about separate rooms.

She would have danced and looked a damn sight less English than he did.

She would have thought Call-Me-Pete was a tit.

He felt, rather than heard, his phone ring and when he saw the screen he caught his breath. He had forgotten to call Louise.

‘God, I’m really sorry, Lou. It’s been non-stop.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said.

Thorne said nothing, wondering why people said ‘fine’ when things were anything but. Why he and Louise said it quite so much these days.

‘It sounds noisy there.’

‘Some kind of festival going on,’ he said.

‘Elvis had a tumour in her stomach.’

‘Oh shit. What did the vet say?’

Louise said something, but Thorne was struggling to hear. He put a hand over his free ear and repeated the question.

‘The vet put her to sleep this afternoon.’ Raising her voice, she suddenly sounded angry as well as upset. ‘He said it was the best thing to do.’

Thorne took a deep breath. A few feet from him a girl began squealing with delight as a man lifted her off her feet and swung her around.

‘What was that?’

‘Sorry, there are people everywhere, it’s—’

‘This is pointless,’ Louise said. ‘Can you call me back from somewhere quieter?’

Once he’d hung up, Thorne sat where he was for a while. He was cold suddenly and, as the minutes passed, a wash of loneliness settled over him that no page-turner, no amount of company, could relieve. He raised his glass then quickly dropped his hand as he felt a sob rise up fast into his throat and break. Then another. He lowered his head and let them come, the sound barely audible, even to him, above the drums and blaring trumpets.

‘You OK?’

He looked up to see a large woman in a red polka-dot dress standing above him. She smiled and asked again.

He nodded.

The woman reached out and handed Thorne a carnation. Then she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek.

The explosions rattled the glass in the window frames, and for a few seconds Thorne was genuinely alarmed, until he saw the flashes of red and green through a gap in the shutters and heard the mournful whistles as the fireworks began falling to earth. Between each crack and whoosh he could hear the trumpets somewhere nearby, but now the cheerful music of earlier had been replaced by something far slower and altogether more ominous. A tumbling, minor cadence that rose from the street and prickled against his skin.

It sounded like misery.

Thorne closed his eyes and lay there, shaken and sweating, the sheets pasted to his chest and each explosion sudden and terrible, like a fresh blow to his heart.