20
As DCI Culverhouse blew across the top of his mug of steaming black coffee, the phone rang.
‘Culverhouse,’ he said, barking into the receiver.
‘Ah, Jack. The sun is shining high above the town of Mildenheath this morning, yes?’ came the familiar Spanish lilt of Antonio García.
‘No, it’s f*****g raining.’
‘It is? That is a shame. I must tell you, it’s very nice here. I’m walking along the beach as we speak. Must already be twenty-eight degrees.’
‘Well I hope you’re ringing me to tell me you’ve booked me a first-class ticket, otherwise you can f**k off.’
‘No ticket, but some juicy information. Juicier than the juiciest orange in Sevilla. I spoke with all the local municipal police departments in southern Spain and they have no record of your wife. Not under her real name, anyway. I
