Since her arrival here she had eaten seafood so fresh it practically still wriggled, swum, snorkelled and slept like the dead. All the esses, she thought idly.

And if certain faces still haunted her, at least they’d stopped crying through her dreams.

She felt rested, yes, but not yet relaxed.

Not yet.

Further offshore the swell was languid, the water therapeutic as it came and went on the beach, dragging the sand oozing from beneath her heels and between her toes. It would be so easy to stay here, where nobody knew her, to burrow in and hope the rest of the world would forget about her too.

Kelly gave a snort of self-derision. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”

She veered away from the water’s edge, trudging through the softer sand and bypassing the serried rows of empty sun loungers with their folded parasols. She headed towards the pretty little promenade with its cafés and bars. Some were already preparing to open for breakfast and the smell of cooking drifted evocatively on the morning air.

She climbed the half-dozen concrete steps and padded still barefoot towards the table of the nearest, where a man sat reading an English newspaper. He was wearing sunglasses and a pale shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal a pink explosion of freckles.

“I hope you’ve put sunblock on today,” Kelly observed as she took the seat opposite. “Otherwise they’ll be able to fry eggs on you.”

Detective Constable Ian Dempsey lowered the paper and inspected his scorched arms with a slightly sheepish expression.

“Factor fifty.” He lifted the sunglasses, wincing as the true extent of his sunburn became apparent to him.

Kelly glanced at the headline on the newspaper he’d put aside. Finally, some other disaster had relegated her to the inside pages.

“Maybe the furore has actually begun to die down,” she said without much conviction.

“At least until you get home,” Dempsey reminded her with a cheerful lack of tact. He reached for his cellphone, which lay face up on the table and waggled it at her. “Just had the call, by the way. You ready?”

She slid her feet into her sandals and rose. “I’ve been ready for six years.”

He flushed a little at that. “Um, look Kelly, you are going to let the locals handle things, aren’t you?” he said. He fumbled through the unfamiliar coinage to pay for his coffee, not quite meeting her eye. “I mean, if I’m here as a courtesy then you’re here ’cos somebody much higher up the food chain than me did some serious arm twisting. I don’t want to have to explain, through an interpreter, how justified you were in kicking this bloke’s bollocks into his throat.”

“I’ll be good,” she promised meekly.

He shot her a quick look as if suspecting derision. Then he shook his head and smiled.

“To be quite honest, I wouldn’t blame you if you did let him have it,” he admitted. “But I didn’t say that, of course.”

“Of course.”

Together they strolled along the street, stopping occasionally to read the menu boards. Kelly tried to behave casually, as if their eventual choice was entirely random. The rapid thunder of her heart made it hard to swallow.

They loitered a moment longer, then Dempsey murmured, “Shall we?” and they walked into the dim interior.

Inside, the bar was a mix of old English polished wood and splashes of local decoration, terracotta and brass. A surprisingly successful blend of two cultures that really should not have worked but somehow blended smoothly. Ceiling fans turned lazily to keep the temperature cool and pleasant as a temptation to wander in out of the pre-noon heat and stay late into the evening.

This early, though, the place was empty except for three men sitting at a table in the back. As soon as he saw them enter, one of the men got to his feet and came forward to greet them.

“We’re not quite ready to serve breakfast yet, folks,” the man said, “but can I get you coffees or a . . .” As soon as he got his first good look at the pair of them his voice shrivelled into silence.

“Hello Mr Allardice,” Kelly said in a deadly soft tone. “Remember me?”

Former Detective Chief Inspector Frank Allardice was not a stupid man. He had recognised her instantly and, having done so, it only took another moment for him to size up Ian Dempsey and make him for a copper, even burnt Brit red and in his civvies.

He had too much bottle to actually run, but Allardice shoved past the pair of them and made for the street at a brisk walk. The snarl on his face as he went dared them not to get in his way. Dempsey stepped aside and let him go.

The two men at the back of the bar were on their feet by then. The first watched Allardice make his exit and then he did run, tearing out through the rear kitchen in a flash. The last man hesitated only for a second. His eyes made fleeting contact with Kelly’s before he was sprinting too.

And if the first man was only vaguely familiar she would have known the other anywhere.

Detective Inspector Vincent O’Neill.

“Fleeing at the first sign of customers, eh?” Dempsey shook his head in mock dismay. “Now that’s no way to run a business.”

Outside there was a burst of noise—harsh shouts in Spanish and swearing in English, followed by scuffling feet and the solid thuds of subduing blows. Kelly listened, hoping for more, but it seemed the fugitives submitted with disappointing speed.

Members of the Cuerpo Nacional de Policía poured in through both front and rear entrances, hustling their three handcuffed prisoners before them like they were running bulls.

The tall slim officer who seemed to be in charge shook hands with Dempsey and the two began a brief conversation that was largely conducted in gestures and pidgin.

Kelly edged quietly around the group of cops until she was only a metre or two away from the prisoners. Allardice glared at her with all the arrogance she remembered so well from interrogation. But she saw the sweat on his forehead begin to dribble at his temples, and knew he was seriously afraid. It was only the presence of his fellow detainees that gave him any remaining spine. Like he could take it, just so long as he wasn’t taking it alone.

Her eyes passed to Vince O’Neill. He returned the stare impassively for a moment before offering a wry smile.

“Nice to see you off remand, Kelly,” he said. “Although if you hadn’t been so stubborn Matthew Lytton would have stood bail for you weeks ago.”

Kelly shrugged to hide her pleasure and surprise. “It gave me time to think,” she said, “about the massive civil action I’m going to bring for wrongful arrest, conviction, and imprisonment.”