THIRTY-FOUR
They drove out to the promenade at New Brighton, parked the car between the press of tourists’ vehicles and wandered over to the sea wall. The tide was in and every so often the spray stung their faces and she shivered, hair lashing across her face. Johnny took off his coat and draped it around her shoulders, despite feeling the chill himself. His body had forgotten what the UK was like on a grey autumn day, how the cold bit down deep into the bones. He did his best to ignore it, and failed miserably. Too many years on the Costa del Sol had made him soft. She looked at him, said nothing, and drew his coat close.
“You have to understand some things,” he said above the sound of the waves. “Frank and I, we were like brothers. When his wife was murdered, I was down in Marbella ru
