Jack Vettriano The Letter

Jack Vettriano The LetterJack Vettriano The Billy BoysJack Vettriano Private Dancer
eyes alone. He stood still, breathing deeply, almost afraid.
He discovered that he was still holding the bottle he'd taken from the café. He drank from it, and it tasted like what it was, ice-cold lemonade; and welcome, too, because the night air was hot.
He wandered the garn. Will made his way there. The tide was halfway in, or halfway out, and a row of pedal boats was drawn up on the soft white sand above the high-water line. Every few seconds a tiny wave folded itself over at the sea's edge before sliding back neatly under the next. Fifty yards or so out on the calm water was a diving platform.
Will sat on the side of one of the pedal boats and kicked along to the right, past hotels with awnings over brightly lit entrances and bougainvillea flowering beside them, until he came to the on the little headland. The building in the trees with its ornate façade lit by floodlights might have been an opera house. There were paths leading here and there among the lamp-hung oleander trees, but not a sound of could be heard: no night birds singing, no insects, nothing but Will's own footsteps.The only sound he could hear came from the regular, quiet breaking of delicate waves from the beach beyond the palm trees at the edge of