Lifting the Lid(22)

‘Sorry,’ Humpty said again, his already flushed cheeks reddening with contrition.

‘Anyways, looks like we have liftoff at last.’

Humpty peered in the same direction as MacFarland. ‘The guy in the grey fleece with the hood?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘But I thought it was supposed to be a woman.’

‘I know. That’s why I phoned Delia.’

‘And?’

‘Said she might have sent an errand boy. He’s oor man though, whoever he is.’ MacFarland pulled the band from his ponytail, scraped back his hair and replaced the band.

Humpty’s eyes strayed from the locker compound. ‘Bloke over there seems to be taking photographs.’

‘Special Branch probably. Hardly surprising in the circumstances,’ said MacFarland, almost exactly repeating Delia’s words. ‘My guess is that one o’ ‘em will go straight tae the locker as soon as our friend has gone, and the other’ll follow him. Ye stick wi’ the locker one and I’ll go after the fleece guy. – And keep yir bloody mobile switched on this time.’

‘Er, right. Battery must be on the blink.’

With his gaze still fixed on the locker area, MacFarland heard a faint bleep, which could only have been Humpty turning his phone back on.

‘Here we go. He’s on his way oot.’

Both of them watched as the man in the hooded fleece chatted with the security woman on the gate while her male colleague seemed to be fiddling intently with his fingernails. Moments later, he walked briskly away, a black and tan mongrel dog trotting at his heels.

‘That his dog, d’you think?’ said Humpty.

‘How should I know? Just dae what I tellt ye, okay?’ He glanced at the men with the sunglasses. As he’d expected, the taller of the two was already making his way towards the lockers while the other brushed some loose grass from his pale beige trousers and set off after the fleece guy.

MacFarland waited for a few seconds to let him get ahead. More out of habit than any real need to check it was still there, he slid his hand inside his jacket and ran his fingertips over the textured rubber grip of his gun.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN



It was official. Sandra was definitely not having a good day.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ she said to the shaven-headed steward. ‘I paid a hundred and twenty quid for that.’

‘Sorry, love. Not my problem.’ The steward grinned smugly and waved the ticket in front of her face. ‘It’s a dud.’

‘Okay, okay, so what’s it worth?’

‘Not even the paper it’s printed on, darlin’.’

In normal circumstances, Sandra would have vehemently objected to being called “darling” and “love”, but on this occasion it was essential she kept the guy sweet.

‘No, I mean how much do you want?’

‘Eh?’ His grin vanished.

‘How much do you want to let me in? Twenty cover it?’ She began to reach in her pocket for her already much-depleted purse.

‘You trying to bribe me, lady?’

‘Listen, it’s really important that I get in, and I’m willing to pay whatever you—’

‘Bugger off, will you?’ He looked over her shoulder at the next person in the queue. ‘Ticket, please.’

‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Sandra was at a loss what to say or do next and peered past the intransigent steward at the throng of people milling around beyond the barrier. She was pondering the idea of making a run for it and losing herself amongst them when she noticed a black and tan mongrel trotting in her direction from about thirty yards away.

It was the dog from the hotel, she was certain of it, and the guy it seemed to be with looked a lot like the one she had bumped into on the stairs. It was hard to tell though because much of his head was obscured by the hood of his fleece, but he was clearly in a hurry and making for the exit.

She pushed and jostled her way back through the incoming queue and reached the end just after he passed the small group of stewards who were making sure nobody sneaked in the back way. She increased her pace to catch up with him, and when she was within range she opened her mouth to call out but immediately closed it again as a shortish man in a tan-coloured leather jacket came up behind her quarry and placed a hand on his shoulder.

The guy in the fleece turned to face his assailant, and she caught a glimpse of his rabbit-in-the-headlights eyes. Trevor Hawkins. No doubt about it. She edged her way closer so she could hear what was being said.

‘…few questions,’ she heard the man in the tan jacket say when she came within earshot.

‘Er, what about?’ Trevor looked like he was about to crap his pants, and she almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite. She noticed he was holding his right arm rather awkwardly across his stomach as if he had something concealed inside his jacket and was preventing it from falling out.