Chapter Seven
The heat hit them immediately they got off the plane on Saturday afternoon. Mallorca in July was like walking into a furnace. Rafferty felt his neck sweating and his face becoming prickly. He glanced across at Llewellyn to see if he was suffering a similar discomfort. But Llewellyn, in his ultra-lightweight suit, looked debonair, calm, cool and collected. Rafferty sighed, and gazed about him.
The sky here was a brilliant blue compared to a dull grey back home, and the temperature was in the thirties, according to the pilot. The airport was a surprise. Last time he’d holidayed in Spain, years ago, it had been a small affair, with hardly any trolleys, and no shops that he could recall. But now, shops were everywhere, and they all looked expensive.
He spotted his name held up
