Cala Millor was bathed in its usual sunshine, pooling the room with yellow light when William Brogan awoke. He had left the curtains of his hotel room open the previous evening to watch the streaks of lightning fork downwards into the seas. He sat up, screwing his eyes against the dazzle, stretched out his arms then sank back onto the pile of snowy pillows behind his head. `Ah,' he sighed, breathing out as his lips widened in a smile of utter contentment, 'this is the life!'
He glanced down at his arms, noting with satisfaction the tinge of bronze that had appeared over the past few days. Another week of this and he'd be ready to move on. Marrakesh, first, then maybe further east. See what pickings there were, he thought to himself. He had booked this hotel for an entire fortnight, though he had no intention of paying for it when push came to shove.
Dear me, no. Waste of good money, Billy grinned to himself. He'd just push off one fine day as though he were going to the beach, then catch a plane out of here and the hotel would be none the wiser. Wasn't as if they'd kept his passport or anything, was it?
He'd given it over for them to check but now it was secreted in that safe inside the massive wardrobe, just waiting for him to decide on his next move.
A noise outside the room made him look towards the door.
Throwing back the covers, he stepped on to the tiled floor, glad of the cool beneath his bare feet. He padded across the room, unlocked the heavy door and peeped out from behind it, careful to hide his naked body from the gaze of any passing chambermaid.
There, on the floor, was a British newspaper. Giving a quick glance to left and right, Brogan scooped it up and let the door swing shut.
'Tough luck, pal,' he said, grinning at whoever had been unlucky enough to have had his morning paper delivered to the wrong room. 'Okay, let's see how you're all getting along back home without me,' he chuckled, turning the newspaper over to see what the sports headlines might be. The footie season had begun after a summer of British clubs wrangling for the best players at a price that would keep them on the right side of solvency.
Brogan skimmed the pages, turning until he came to the one that gave the latest Scottish Premier League results. `Och, no' again!' he moaned, tossing the paper onto the bed as he read the report on his favourite Glasgow team. Anither year chasin' yer tail at the foot of the table,' he told the newspaper in disgust. Then he looked up at the glass doors that separated his room from an extensive balcony: sunshine was flooding the entire area with a brazen light. Suddenly the air-conditioned room felt too close and cramped and Brogan decided it was time to breathe some fresh air. He picked up the white bathrobe that he'd discarded the night before and shoved his arms into it, luxuriating in its soft fluffiness as he tied the belt around his waist. As he caught sight of himself in the bedroom mirror, his mouth turned up at one corner. A tanned face with several days' stubble looked back at him, the eyes narrowing speculatively. 'Aye, no sae bad, son, no sae bad,' he muttered to himself then, grabbing the newspaper, he headed towards the balcony and the beckoning sunlight.
This time Brogan began reading the newspaper from the front page, glancing briefly at the main news items before turning to other snippets inside.
It was written in a small column on the left hand side of the fifth page. Later, Brogan wondered how he'd even managed to notice it, the news item was so small. But at that moment it seemed to loom large on the page as if some magic were magnifying the words as he read them.
Men found dead in Glasgow flat, he read, not even remotely surprised by the headline.
Perhaps it was that inner parochialism that dogs so many Glasgow folk, especially those away from home, for, instead of flicking to find some more interesting stories, Brogan read on. It was his city, he told himself. And he'd see what was going on there.
But, as his eyes scanned the few lines of print, Billy Brogan realised that it wasn't just his city that was at the heart of the story but his flat. He licked his lips nervously as the final sentence glared at him.
Police would like to speak to the flat's owner, Mr William Brogan, the writer of the article informed him.
Billy dropped the paper on to the metal table. Now the sunshine seemed too bright, a menacing thing that might trap him in its beams. He picked up the paper again almost against his will to read the article once more. `Gubby and Fraz,' he whispered to himself. `Gubby and Frazl Then he read the article for the third time, still unable to believe what it was telling him. Had it been him at home, and not these two dealers he'd been trying to avoid for weeks, then one of these shots might have found its mark in Billy Brogan's skull. He'd got away just in time, it seemed.
Traz and Gubby,' he murmured once again. 'Well, youse two willnae be botherin' Billy boy ony mair, will yese?'
His lower lip jutted out, the mark of a petulant child, giving him an expression that his sister, Marianne, would easily have recognised as a prelude to a strop. If he were to go back… he could show them he'd been here all this time, prove it by the hotel register… they couldn't pin anything on him for Fraz and Gubby, surely?
Brogan turned away from the balcony to step inside the cool of the room once more. He had a good idea who'd fired that gun.
More than a good idea. And going back to Glasgow would be too much of a risk right now. He glanced at the newspaper folded in his hand. Lucky he'd seen that. Now he knew the police would be after him, he had to make a move. Checking out of here was definitely the wrong thing to do. They'd only be able to trace his movements. Check flight lists… Brogan paced back and forward, his feet making damp imprints on the tiled floor. Flying out of Palma might not be such a great idea either. Would they have alerted the Spanish police to watch all airports? Brogan felt the sweat trickle down his neck. Could they trace him from that incoming flight roster? Suddenly this island with its swathes of bougainvillea tumbling over stonewashed walls and green crested waves licking the miles of sandy shores was not the safe haven he had imagined.
But it was an island. And islands attracted thousands of yachts to their marinas. And there were loads of fishing boats as well. He scratched his head, wishing he'd not dogged off school so much.
He tried to remember the map of Europe and where he was in relation to Marrakesh. Palma was just across from that coastline, wasn't it? The remembered Fraz talking about a holiday there and nipping over to Morocco. Brogan sat down on the edge of the bed, twisting the sheet in his fingers as a plan began to form in his mind. He still had plenty of money. All he needed to do was find some willing sailor to let him buy his passage out of here.
'Love you,' Lorimer whispered, turning his head to look at Maggie. Her naked body lay close to his, her limbs languid now and her hair tumbled out upon the crumpled pillow, a disarray that made his heart swell with renewed longing. He put out his hand and touched her cheek, feeling its warmth. He'd need to be up and about, should have been up and ready for work before now, but he had lingered, sensing an unspoken need to reach out to his wife.
'Sorry to leave you, love. Must get up now,' he murmured, sighing.
'Mm,'
Maggie replied, her eyes still closed, a small cat-like smile hovering on her lips.
'You stay in bed. May as well make the most of your last day of freedom,' he told her.
Maggie put her hand on his arm and patted it gently. 'Go,' she said. 'I'll be fine.'
As the water cascaded down from the large shower head, Lorimer found his thoughts clearing and, as he washed Maggie's scent from his body, he was already thinking ahead. Today they should have more reports to help them push the case forward.
Brogan hadn't been seen anywhere near his flat either that day or for several days before the shootings. And none of his known associates admitted to having seen him around lately. So where the devil was he? As he raised his head to let the hot water flow over his face, Lorimer closed his eyes. Had they sufficient manpower on this one? Should he ask the super to put out for extra help?
Fathy's suggestion about tracing the ex-wife might not be such a bad idea, he mused, reaching out blindly and fumbling to turn off the shower.
He towelled his dark hair vigorously then glanced at the bathroom mirror, but it was quite steamed up and all he could see was a hazy reflection.
'Want to try to catch up with SoIly and Rosie later on?' he heard Maggie's voice drift through from the bedroom next door.
'If we can,' he answered shortly. 'See how today goes. Okay?'
There was no response. Maggie knew how these things panned out, she was well used to making arrangements that had to be subsequently cancelled. It went with the territory of being a policeman's wife. So the silence from the bedroom was most likely an acknowledgement of that fact. If he could be home in time to socialise with their friends then he would. She knew that.
Flinging the towel down on the top of the linen basket, Lorimer strode into the bedroom, expecting to see his wife still curled under the duvet. But she was gone and he could make out the familiar morning sounds from the kitchen downstairs; the dishwasher being emptied, Chancer, the cat, yammering for his breakfast, a kettle being filled. Lorimer frowned, the earlier joy of their coupling vanishing as he considered why Maggie had decided not to lie in on her last morning off. Were these pots and pans being banged into the cupboard with unnecessary force? He listened, wondering. What had made his wife suddenly so annoyed? Maybe the thought of going back to school without the two of them having had a break together, he decided gloomily.
He'd make an excuse to leave right away, avoid any confrontation.
Lorimer gave his tie a final tug against his collar and headed on downstairs.
'Right, I'm off. Love you,' he said, planting a kiss on Maggie's mouth before she could speak. 'See you later.'
Tut you've not had any breakfast,' he heard her protest as he made for the front door.
'You spoiled my appetite for food, wicked woman that you are!' he grinned over his shoulder, gratified to see a smile appear reluctantly on her face.
Maggie listened as the door slammed behind him. Heaving a huge sigh, she stood, clutching the back of a chair as though for support. Another day gone and still she hadn't told him. Why?
What was it that was so difficult about this?
Wearily she pulled the chair to one side and sat down, burying her head in her hands. The doctor had said it was for the best, hadn't she? And she had mentioned the consolation of being off school for several weeks. Though for Maggie it wasn't really a consolation at all. She had smiled and put on a brave face but inwardly she had been in turmoil. After all these years of failed pregnancies she was not to be allowed one more chance. The scans had shown both ovaries full of tiny cysts. Nothing cancerous, but the perpetual bleeding twice monthly had been dragging down her general health and now Doctor Reynolds was advising a hysterectomy. They'd save her ovaries if they could, she had been told. Just so she wouldn't begin an early menopause. Thirty-nine years old, Maggie told herself. Not that much older than Rosie who was to have her baby in a few weeks' time.
Was that why she hadn't mentioned a thing to her husband?
Was it the sense that she was doomed for ever to be a barren wife?
So many of her colleagues at school had wee ones to go home to.
Her best friend, Sandy, had a teenager at home. More trouble than they're worth, Sandy often grumbled. But Maggie knew that was an exaggeration put on for her own benefit.
Maybe that was the problem. There hadn't been anyone to talk to over the last few weeks. And somehow she'd been unable to confide in Bill. If only Mum… Maggie bit back the tears that threatened.
'Stop it, woman!' she said out loud. 'Feeling sorry for yourself won't solve a thing.'
He hadn't said much about these shooting incidents and Maggie was experienced enough not to ask questions, but now her thoughts turned to those who might be left behind; parents, brothers and sisters, close friends… It was like seeing ripples emanate from a pool when a stone is suddenly cast into the water, Lorimer had once explained to her: a criminal act like murder created wave upon wave of victims.
Maggie Lorimer gave herself a mental shake. What was she worried about, after all? It was only an operation. There were far worse things going on in other people's lives.
The young woman in Glasgow University's registry office sat crouched over her computer screen, one hand upon her aching belly. If only she hadn't had so much to drink last night… Joan screwed her face up at the pain. A couple of joints would have been so much nicer, but her friend, Billy, was nowhere to be found for that particular requirement. Joan bit her lip. Billy Brogan was a wanted man. Once that would have made her smile, the thought of him being one of the big men around town. But this was different. A couple of men had been found dead in Billy's flat. She'd been there plenty of times, sleeping over after parties, sometimes sharing Billy's bed.
A sudden thought came to the woman: would the police find T ::, traces of her DNA? Her stomach turned over in a moment of panic. But there wasn't anything they could do, was there? After all, Joan Frondigoun didn't have a police record, did she? Her eyes fell on to the list that she was typing out. Billy had given her loads of gear as well as nice presents to do him that favour, hadn't he?
All she'd had to do was make a few changes here and there, delete one particular name from the university records whenever it was necessary. But now it might be a little more difficult to keep up this pretence. Okay so Billy's sister had changed her surname again, but that police officer had been asking about any students from a two year period whose forenames were Marianne. Had Billy's sister done anything criminal? Was that why she'd been trying to cover her tracks?
Joan Frondigoun sat still and thought carefully. If she were to reveal the extent of her cover up then she would not only lose her job, she might lose Billy as well. But what if Billy really had shot those men? Her lip began to tremble. He'd taken off somewhere, not told her anything about his plans. So perhaps he hadn't intended to include her in his future after all? 'You all right, Joan?' her line manager looked up from an adjoining desk, a frown on her face.
'Aye, a bit of stomach cramp. Need to go to the loo,' she said and scurried out of the office, down a short corridor and into the relative cool of the ladies' toilets.
Once inside the cubicle, Joan Frondigoun sat down and stifled a sob. It was no use kidding herself any longer. Billy Brogan had made promises that he would never keep and wasn't it just like her to have believed them?
She blew her nose loudly before flushing the toilet. Stupid cow.
Stupid, stupid cow, she told herself angrily.
Then she gave herself a mental shake. Maybe it wasn't too late to get out of all this mess. Perhaps the best thing she could do now was to look for another job, leave the registry behind. She'd managed to hide Marianne Brogan from prying eyes. Now it was time she looked after herself.