From the Dead

SIXTEEN

Friday was the biggest night of the week and, as usual, the club was packed. The dance floor was solid. Even though there was barely room to move, sweat glistened on tanned shoulder-blades and showed in dark patches against expensive white and cream linen. He chatted for a few minutes with the owner, a man he had known for almost as long as he had been in the country, necked a bottle of San Miguel at the bar, then took a complimentary bottle of champagne through to the VIP area.

The gorillas flanking the velvet rope smiled as they let him through and tucked the cash he'd palmed them into their pockets.

He knew most of those who were already there; exchanged smiles and a handshake or two on his way to one of the booths. There might occasionally be some lower-tier footballer knocking about with a glamour model in tow, or a mainstream comedian scrabbling for the tourist euro, but most of those deemed to be 'very important' in this neck of the woods had earned the label the same way he had.

There were all sorts of ways to be well known.

He had arranged to meet Candela here. She liked to dance and he liked to show her off. Theirs was an on/off arrangement, nothing too serious, but he enjoyed her company, loved what she got up to in bed and thought the feeling was mutual. Tonight, they would have dinner and a few drinks before heading back up to the house. They would sleep late, then, after breakfast, he would take her shopping for something nice.

It was important that some things remained uncomplicated, that a sense of normality was maintained, in spite of what was happening back at home.

One of the many gorgeous waitresses stopped at the booth to open the champagne and pour him a glass. They chatted for a minute or two. She had got down on her knees for him the previous week, earned a very good tip that night, but he could not remember her name.

Back at home…

It was funny that he still thought of the UK, of London, as home. Strange, because he wasn't one of those soppy buggers who were forever dreaming about HP Sauce and warm beer. He had happily settled down and got on with his new life, because he'd had no choice. Still, there was an attachment, of course there was, and he wouldn't be human if he didn't miss a few things.

Strangest of all, though, in spite of everything that had happened – was still happening – he continued to think fondly of Donna.

He could clearly remember the moment when everything had fallen apart. That helpful voice at the end of a phone: 'I think you should know what your old lady's up to, Alan. Who she's met up with.' At the time, fired up and raging, he had thought about dishing out the same kind of treatment to Donna that Monahan eventually received a couple of days ago, but that would only have aroused suspicion. It might have scuppered all his plans and caused some copper to start looking at things a bit harder.

He remembered the coverage in the papers after they'd found the car in the woods. The copper in charge: Thorne. He'd looked the type that might have enjoyed a bit of digging.

So, he'd let the anger go and, in the end, as far as Donna was concerned, he'd almost come to admire what the silly cow had done. To understand it, anyway. All that time dressing up and tagging along after him, playing the dutiful wife like a good girl, she had been learning…

Candela finally appeared looking suitably stunning, and they sat pressed up against each other while she told him about her day. She worked for one of the smartest independent estate agents in the region and was very excited about a Russian businessman who seemed keen on one of her luxury villas in the next town.

'Him and his friends have three viewings,' she said, holding up her fingers.

Three guesses what kind of business he was in.

When the champagne was finished, Candela went to dance and he moved to the edge of the floor to watch her. He enjoyed seeing the young men trying to get close and the older ones – all those saddos who thought they could still cut it – with their tongues hanging out. He would never dream of dancing himself, that had never been his game, but he wasn't worried about the competition. Even if some bloke didn't know who she was with and tried to make a move, she wouldn't give him the time of day.

She knew where her bread was buttered. Besides which, he reckoned he still looked pretty good for his age. He'd had a little work done – some orthodontics and a dye job, just enough to help with the new ID – but it was mostly about keeping fit. Not eating like an animal, the way some of them did. Full English breakfast like it was going out of fashion and lager with everything.

Candela closed her eyes, shook her hips and ran her hands through her long hair for him. She was gorgeous, no question, but at that age Donna had been every bit as spectacular, in her own way.

And Ellie looked a lot like her mother. Same temper on her, too, which didn't make things as easy as they might be.

Looking around, he saw a few faces he'd been wanting to get close to for a while and decided that he might do a little business before the evening was over. It was the ideal place. A few drinks, a handshake and the deal was done, which was how he preferred it. The money and the merchandise would be moved by others later, and there would be no need for him to get his hands dirty.

That had been the secret these last ten years.

It was becoming increasingly difficult, though, what with everything that needed doing back in the UK.

Candela waved and he waved back, but his thoughts were far away. Suddenly darker and more troubling than he was comfortable with.

If he wanted to stay free, it would get harder to stay clean.