Fifteen minutes west of Benalmadena, Fraser turned off the main road and they began to drive up into the hills.
'We'll get you settled into your hotel,' Fraser said. 'Then we can meet up later and get the ball rolling.'
'Where am I staying?' Thorne asked.
'It's a nice place. They don't do food, so you'll need to find somewhere to have breakfast, but aside from that-'
' Where? '
'Mijas,' Fraser said. 'Mijas Pueblo, as opposed to Mijas Costa. It's a really gorgeous village. Proper old Spain, you know?'
'How far?'
'Fifteen minutes or so. It's a nice drive.'
'I thought I'd be in Malaga.'
Fraser glanced across.
'That's where you're based, right?'
'We decided you might prefer to be somewhere quieter. A bit less conspicuous…'
'Would have been nice to be consulted.'
'Look, it's no more than half an hour from anywhere we're interested in. Puerto Banus, Torremolinos, Malaga, at least two of the golf resorts our man's got his fingers in. Trust me, it's a good location, so don't start feeling left out or whatever.'
'Who said I was?'
'Anyway, you might prefer being somewhere that isn't wall-to-wall full English breakfasts and live Premiership football.'
'Nothing wrong with either of them,' Thorne said.
'You're Spurs, right?'
Thorne held Fraser's look for a second longer than he might otherwise have done, acknowledging that the agent had done his homework. Not long enough to let him feel like he'd scored any points, though.
'Who are you?'
'Man U, mate, who else?'
'You're a Londoner.'
Fraser nodded, as though that were perfectly acceptable. 'Still the team to beat,' he said.
Thorne blinked, remembered the rain coming down as he and Anna had walked back from the river. When she had revealed her affiliation and sung Wayne Rooney's praises, laughing as Thorne grew increasingly exasperated.
'You're just jealous because your lot never win anything.'
'At least the people who support "my lot" live in the city where they play.'
'Right. We are definitely going to the next Man United – Spurs game. A tenner says we stuff you.'
'Only another five minutes,' Fraser said.
The climb had not felt particularly steep, but looking to his right as they swept around a corner, Thorne could see the sea far below them. The landscape fell away gently towards it on either side, rocky and dotted with trees then getting greener, dip by dip, as it neared the coast. They passed several signs warning of bulls in the road and then finally Thorne saw a field of them. Eight or nine: big and black and looking well capable of breaking through the fence and taking on a Punto.
'So, whose ashes are scattered in Mijas, then?' Thorne asked.
'Come again?'
'The Milk Tray man? That bloke off the Mr Muscle adverts?'
'That's funny,' Fraser said. He laughed, but it sounded like something he'd learned.
In reply, Thorne's modest snort of laughter was genuine enough, as he imagined Fraser being casually tossed into the air by one of the bulls they had just driven past. The wraparound sunglasses stomped into the ground and the beads flying off his ponce's necklace.
Ole…
The main road was closed just before it entered Mijas, and a police officer on a motorbike waved them towards a diversion that ran downhill and around, into the newer part of town. Thorne asked what was going on and Fraser said that he had no idea. With all available parking space taken by a fleet of tourist coaches, they had little choice but to leave the car in a grim-looking multi-storey. Then Thorne followed Fraser back towards the cluster of white buildings high above them. He hauled his suitcase up a long, steep flight of steps and through a warren of cobbled streets until they finally emerged into the main square.
'Nice, right?' Fraser said.
Thorne just nodded, happy to stand and take the place in for a minute or two. He was sweating again and needed the time to catch his breath. A large, covered food market took up most of the square, and crowds were flocking up and down row after row of stalls selling fruit and vegetables, fish, dried meats and cheeses. A large and equally crowded bar ran down one side and those not shopping seemed content to stand around, talking and drinking. A few were dancing unselfconsciously to what sounded like live music, though Thorne could see no sign of the musicians.
'Market day,' Fraser said, as though Thorne needed an explanation. 'That's a bit of luck.'
Thorne looked at him.
'I don't know, you might want a bit of fruit for your room or something…'
Despite the number of coaches they had seen down by the car park, Thorne couldn't hear any language being spoken but Spanish. One or two people were pointing cameras, but they had not passed any tacky souvenir shops and the place felt nothing like a standard tourist trap. No football shirts were being worn either, so Thorne guessed there were not too many Brits around and regardless of what he'd said to Fraser on the way up, he was not unhappy about it.
The ones he was interested in had not come to Spain to buy castanets and get sunburned.
'We should get you sorted, mate.'
Though Thorne thought it had come a little late, he accepted Fraser's offer to take the suitcase and followed him, the wheels clattering across the cobbles as they walked through the crowds, around the square and up another short flight of steps at the far corner. Fifty yards or so on, after three or four tight turnings, Fraser stopped at a pair of dark wooden doors behind a trellis wound with ivy and bougainvillea. He pushed at the door and shook his head. Said, 'Don't worry.'
Thorne watched as Fraser pressed a button on the intercom then leaned down to begin a conversation in Spanish with the woman on the other end. Thorne heard his name mentioned several times.
When Fraser had finished, he looked up. 'Siesta time.' He winked. 'Spanish yoga. Don't worry, though.' There was a buzz from the intercom and Fraser pushed open the door.
Thorne followed him into a tiny and dimly lit reception area with the outline of a staircase beyond. The place was deserted and Thorne's voice echoed slightly when he spoke. 'Where are they?' he asked.
'Not the faintest idea, but it's fine. Here you go…'
An envelope with Thorne's name and a room number written across it lay waiting on the reception desk. Thorne shook it and felt a key rattle inside. He nodded and stepped towards the stairs. An automatic light came on.
'You should do what the locals do,' Fraser said. 'Try and get your head down for a couple of hours.'
'What are you going to do?'
'Oh, I need to get back to the office. Tell them I got you here in one piece.'
'Expecting snipers, were we?'
Fraser looked at his watch. 'Three hours. How's that?' Without waiting for Thorne to answer, he backed away to the front door and said, 'So, I'll pick you up at half seven.'
Thorne took a few steps up, then lowered his case and turned. 'What about the villains?' he asked. 'Do they bother with siesta time? When in Rome, all that?'
'Yeah, I should imagine,' Fraser said. 'But they probably sleep with one eye open…'
The room was on the third floor, with further lights coming on as Thorne climbed higher. It was fairly basic: two single beds pushed together, a small bathroom, a portable TV, metal shutters over full-length windows and a balcony not quite big enough to step on to. Thorne reckoned it was good enough, or at least was not in the right frame of mind to care.
He opened the shutters, then unpacked quickly and was surprised to find a mini-bar in the cupboard beneath the TV. With beer only three euros a pop, his mood improved a little. He opened a bottle and checked for new messages on his phone.
Nothing.
He set the handset's alarm for 6.15 p.m., then showered. It was the usual hotel dribble, but it was hot and it felt good to wash the dried sweat away. Afterwards, he wrapped a towel around his waist, turned up the air conditioning and lay down on the bed. He rolled on to his side and looked across at the grey net curtain moving gently back and forth at the window.
Next thing he knew, he was scrabbling across the bed to answer his phone.
'Hello? Hello? '
Thorne looked at the small screen, struggling to focus. It was not a call. It was six-fifteen and all he had done was switch off the alarm.