along the curving coastline. The morning was already stifling hot and he had nearly finished the bottle of mineral water that he'd taken from the refrigerator in his room. Brogan winced as he walked along, feeling a blister begin where his toes were being rubbed by these cheap flip-flops he'd bought at the market. He glanced at a couple of older men who passed him by, bare chests showing enviable suntans; both sported sensible panama hats and each carried a large bottle of chilled water as they headed towards the miles of silver sand. His T-shirt was probably showing large patches of sweat, he thought, wiping his brow for the hundredth time as the perspiration trickled into his eyes. Not a pretty sight for any of the yachties he was hoping to cajole into giving him passage.
Brogan paused for a moment under the shade of an awning that jutted out from one of the many restaurants. Maybe he should nick around to the shopping area in the street that ran parallel to this one? Buy a clean shirt, freshen up a bit?
The thought seemed to lead his weary feet back into a shaded side street and past the blocks of apartments where women hung out of their windows talking loudly to neighbours in the street below. Brogan watched them, not understanding a single word as they called to one another, waving their hands in the air as though to emphasise whatever it was that they were discussing. The sunlight cut across the openings between the buildings, making him blink even behind the shade of his sunglasses, then a noise just behind him made Brogan turn and he stepped quickly to one side as a motorbike roared past, a pair of Spanish men on board.
Neither of them were youngsters, Brogan noticed; both of them were dressed extravagantly in cowboy gear, even sporting colourful boots with fancy patterns cut into the leather.
He looked down at his own clothes, a grey sweat-stained cotton shirt and a pair of shabby cut-off jeans. No, he thought, this wouldn't do at all. Lengthening his stride, Brogan emerged into the main shopping thoroughfare and began searching for a half-decent men's outfitters amongst all the outlets laden with tourist tat.
Twenty minutes later he was back on the esplanade and heading on to Cala Bona looking for a waste bin to ditch his old clothes.
Catching sight of his reflection in a window he saw a man wearing a fine linen shirt hanging loose over cream-coloured chinos, his bare feet thrust into a pair of comfortable tan leather sandals. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in spikes, a fashion look that made him grin in appreciation.
It was better up here, he thought, as the path twisted through high sided buildings that created some shade from the late morning sun, The two towns simply ran into one another and only a large notice proclaiming that this was now the town of Gala Bona allowed a stranger to know where one stopped and the other began. Then suddenly he was out in the sunlight once again, the path taking him straight to a picture postcard harbour where several large boats were moored.
Brogan strolled around the harbour side, glancing at the fishing boats and yachts as any tourist might, all the while taking note of the names on the hulls and the various countries of origin. Among the craft were a couple of glass-bottomed boats, their crew nowhere to be seen. But from the placards fluttering from the booms, Brogan could see that they were pleasure craft for taking tourists on trips around the area.
Retracing his steps back around the harbour, he took a path back up to the edge of the esplanade and found himself looking out at the water. It was choppy today, the waves rolling in more fiercely after the thunderstorms of previous nights. Would these pleasure boats put out to sea in conditions like this? He glanced behind him and saw a small booth set against a wall, the names of the boats displayed brightly against the desk. A bored looking lad of about eighteen lounged in the shade of the booth, gazing at the folk who constantly passed him by.
Then, as another man approached him, Brogan smiled. The furtive exchange between the two Spaniards was something Brogan had seen a thousand times on the street corners back in Glasgow. This was a wee glimpse into his own world, he told himself, moving towards the lad with increasing confidence. `Doin' the business, pal?' Brogan grinned, giving the Spanish boy a slap on his shoulder.
The way the lad gave a quick look to his left then his right told Brogan all he needed to know.
'You lookin' to score, sefior?' he asked Brogan nervously.
'Well, now I'm lookin' for something, that's true, but you can keep your weed, son. What I'm after is a bit bigger.'
Shifting from one foot to the other, the boy eyed him suspiciously.
'That your boat out there?' Brogan pointed to a large craft bobbing at anchor. `Si,' the boy answered sullenly.
'No custom today?'
The boy shook his head and nodded towards the sea. 'Too much waves. No go out today.'
'How about tomorrow?' Brogan persisted.
'No tomorrow Maybe day after,' the boy shrugged. 'You wanna book a ticket?'
Brogan grinned and sidled up to the boy. 'Maybe I want to take a private trip,' he said, slipping one hand into his pocket. 'Just me and the captain,' he continued, watching as the boy's eyes fell greedily on the bundle of folded notes he had produced. 'How about it? Where can I speak to your boss?' he whispered, lowering his sunglasses in a way that made the boy look at him more closely.
Marianne handed over the application form to the librarian, watching to see her reaction when she read the name on the piece of paper. It came, just as she had thought it would, a surprised lift of the eyebrows and a swift once-over of the red-haired woman standing on the other side of the desk. Marianne waited, unsmiling, for the card to be printed out and re-issued. If anyone were to question her…? But it was only minutes before the girl returned and handed back her renewed library card, staring at Marianne with blatant curiosity. Dropping her gaze, Marianne saw that the librarian's hands were carefully manicured, pale pink shiny polish on_perfect ovals, all the better to display the two rings, one gold, the other a single diamond that sparkled under the artificial light.
'Thanks,' Marianne mumbled, then, deliberately avoiding the girl's curious stare and pushing the card into the depths of her shoulder bag, she turned on her heel to head for the barrier that would take her into the heart of Glasgow University's library Well, she thought, letting out a sigh of relief, that was that, then. A new name and a new term ahead. Between Billy's young friend in registry and this latest twist to her life, Marianne could breathe more easily knowing that the secrets of her identity were safe.
There were more than five weeks now until the start of the session but this time she was determined to be ahead of the game. Plenty of time for all the required texts on this year's reading list. A little smile played about her mouth. She was one of the fortunate students who did not need to work at part-time bar jobs in order to fund their courses. Marianne sighed. Another couple of years, or more if she were lucky enough to make honours, then the world of work could beckon once more. A new beginning somewhere else, the States, perhaps, where a degree in psychology might be the necessary passport to a job of some kind.
Glancing behind her at the librarian who was now busy with another student, Marianne's face took on a wistful expression. She hadn't appreciated how much fun she'd had all those years ago having colleagues to gossip with, girls' nights out. The girl back there at the desk looked as though she had it all: a steady job, decent salary, nice place to work, a husband and maybe even kids… Well, times had changed and she had changed with them.
Be careful what you wish for, she told herself. It might just come true.
CHAPTER 20
Brogan. B-R-O-G-A-N. That's it. Billy Brogan. How did I get your number? Well that's for me to know and you to find out, pal.' He looked back at the notebook in his hand with its list of names and telephone numbers. 'Right now I want to find our friend, okay?'
The hit man waited, listening to a rumble of voices in the background, straining to make out what language was being spoken. It was more than a minute before the man he had called made any reply. Then it was to apologise. He was busy, had a business to run.
Not convenient to talk right now.
'So when would it be convenient, mate? I think we might have something to discuss about Billy Boy,' the hit man said slowly, his voice full of steel.
'I'll call you back,' the man replied.
'No,' he said. 'That's not possible. Arrange to meet up now Give me a time and a place and I'll be there.'
