Felt the humid air warm a degree or two.

Another day in paradise, for some.

He finished the tea, threw the dregs into a flowerbed, and went back inside.

Had a piss, and a quick shower, and then padded along the cold tiles to the study.

He booked a pair of lunchtime flights back to Heathrow for himself and Alice, and then went to pack his kit.

39.

JOHN CARR HAD just loaded Alice’s suitcase into the boot of the villa’s Range Rover, when his mobile rang.

Number withheld.

He tended not to answer unknown callers, but under the circumstances this could be a friend or a relative.

He clicked green, climbed into the driver’s seat, and turned the engine on to get the AC kicked in.

‘Yes?’ he said, looking at his daughter.

The expression on her face, he’d seen it many times: it was the vacant look of a young squaddie who’s just gone through his first real firefight.

He couldn’t help smiling, slightly.

‘John, it’s Justin Nicholls,’ said the voice on the other end of the line.

Carr said nothing.

‘We met at your flat a while back?’ said Nicholls. ‘You, me, and Guy de Vere.’

A mental image of Justin Nicholls appeared in Carr’s head: nicely cut pin-stripe suit, expensive shirt, pinkie ring, discreet silver watch.

Black shoes with a mirror shine.

Sitting, uncomfortably, in Carr’s place in Primrose Hill.

With Guy de Vere, Carr’s old platoon commander from 3 Para, turned 22 SAS CO, then DSF, and now Commander Field Army.

A meeting to offer Carr a role in a new outfit being set up, strictly on the QT, by certain people at MI6, in the British Army, and various other interested parties.

For various unspecified tasks.

‘Aye,’ said Carr. ‘I remember you.’

‘I understand you’re in Marbella,’ said Nicholls. ‘I’m sorry to hear that your daughter got caught up in it.’

Carr didn’t even bother asking how he knew.

‘She’s fine,’ he said.

‘And I’ve been reading with interest of your exploits.’

‘Oh, aye?’

‘Yes. First thing I saw this morning. We have pretty good sources in the Spanish police. Mind you, we’re not the only ones with sources in the Spanish police.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You’re all over the Daily Mail this morning.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. With a photo.’

‘Aye?’

They must have taken it as he left the cop shop – the place had still been crawling with media.

‘Yes,’ said Nicholls. ‘Not a very good one.’

‘Hard to take a bad photo of me, Justin.’

‘Low light,’ said Nicholls. ‘Taken from the side. You wouldn’t know it was you.’

‘What does the story say?’

‘“Hero Brit on beach of hell”,’ said Nicholls. ‘That’s the headline. You can look it up online.’

‘What does it say about me?’

‘It names you, and says you’re in your forties, and believed to be a former soldier.’

‘Does it mention the Regiment?’

‘No. It says you live in Hereford. I suppose people will work it out.’