EPILOGUE
Six months later
The spring morning was not just warm, it was hot. Shirtsleeves weather.
The flags hung limply over the burger bar in the still, humid air. Business was brisk, with regulars as well as early season holidaymakers on their way to the south coast.
Burgers and bacon sizzled on the hotplate. Dean was cooking and Frankie was pouring tea.
Two of their regulars, young Londoners called Paul and Benny, were tucking into bacon sandwiches. They were builders, recently arrived in the area with a get-rich-quick plan to buy derelict houses, do them up and sell them on for a big profit. But so far they seemed to be spending most of their time at Frankie's.
'I'm glad we found you, Frankie,' said Paul, stirring sugar into a steaming mug of tea. 'This is the only place round here where you can get a decent cuppa.'
Benny nodded. 'Yeah, and Dean's cooking is almost as good as my mum's.'
Frankie smiled. 'No hay ningún lugar como el hogar.'
Benny swallowed a mouthful of tea. 'What's that mean, then?'
'There's no place like home,' said Dean, turning over a burger on the griddle.
'True. Very true,' said Benny. His friend nodded and they bit into their sandwiches and turned to watch the traffic go by.
Elena had been true to her word. She'd helped, mainly with cash. After Joey had taken his share, much of her remaining money went into funding the escape and the setting up of the new business.
And business was booming. Elena was already getting her cash back, paid through various banks directly into her building society account.
Frankie glanced over at Dean as he refilled the brown sauce bottle on the countertop. He'd seen that distant look many times over the past six months. 'You'll see her again one day,' he said.
'So you keep telling me,' answered Dean. 'But when?'
Frankie turned away; they'd had this discussion before. 'When it's safe.'
The two builders came back to the counter as they finished their sandwiches. 'Two more of these, Dean. You are one great cook.'
Dean smiled and tossed more bacon onto the griddle. As it sizzled and spat he whispered to himself, 'No hay ningún lugar como el hogar.'
*
It was a warm day in London. George Fincham was, as always, in his office early, drinking coffee from his favourite bone-china cup and gazing out of the window, downriver.
There was a knock on the door. 'Come.'
Marcie Deveraux entered, looking as elegant as ever, her face showing no sign of the extensive dental work she'd had since her encounter with Fergus Watts.
She was holding a single sheet of paper. 'Watts and the boy, sir, there's been a possible sighting.'
Fincham remained calm, but he felt his heart quicken. The coffee cup trembled slightly in his hand. 'Where?'
Deveraux slid the sheet of paper across the desk. 'Spain.'
THE END