Lifting the Lid(45)

‘What?’

The irritation in his colleague’s tone would have been unmistakable to most, but Statham apparently misinterpreted the question as encouragement to continue with his explanation.

‘Transport caffs,’ he said, swallowing the sausage and wafting a hand in front of his mouth. ‘You’d think they’d know how to do a decent bacon sarnie a damn sight better than somewhere like the Savoy Grill, wouldn’t you? Of course, if it was something like steak tartare or lobster au something-or-other, for instance, then you’d expect the boot to be on the other foot because they’ve—’

‘Colin?’

‘Mmm?’ said Statham, taking a slug of tea.

‘Why don’t you just shut up and pass me the HP sauce?’

‘Oh, okay.’ He picked up the plastic bottle of brown sauce at his elbow and handed it to Patterson. ‘Good idea. Smother it with enough of this stuff and you’ll never know the difference.’

‘Yes… I… will,’ said Patterson as if he were addressing a three-year-old whose first language was Swahili. ‘Because although it might disguise the taste, it’s not going to persuade me for one moment that this bacon is anywhere approaching crispy like I asked for in the first place.’

Unlike the other half dozen customers in the café, Statham seemed oblivious to the dramatic rise in volume with which this last sentence was delivered and chomped noisily on a generous slice of black pudding.

‘You know what?’ he said, leaning forward again and gesticulating with his fork at the bacon, which by now was almost entirely invisible under a blanket of sauce. ‘You could always cut out the fatty bits and just leave them on the side of the plate.’

With careful deliberation, Patterson replaced the lid on the sauce bottle and set it back down on the table. He looked up and registered the childlike enthusiasm in Statham’s eyes. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed,’ he said, ‘this is what is commonly referred to in the meat trade as streaky bacon.’

Statham sat back, deflated. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean. I suppose you wouldn’t be left with a great lot if you sort of… filleted it.’

‘Not only that, Colin, but I’d need to be a bloody neurosurgeon with a very sharp scalpel and about a couple of hours to spare.’ With that, Patterson slapped the top slice of bread back onto his sandwich and took a large bite. It took only a few moments of chewing before he realised he’d seriously overdone the HP sauce. He grabbed a paper napkin and spat most of the mouthful into it, and there was a loud clattering noise as the remainder of the sandwich connected with the plate in front of him.

‘I guess the sauce didn’t do the trick after all then,’ said Statham with what appeared to be a sympathetic smile.

Patterson drained half a mug of tea and then reached for a fresh napkin to wipe away the traces of brown sauce from his chin.

‘Bloody tea’s cold too,’ he said and looked at his watch. ‘Christ almighty, what the hell are they doing? They should have reported in twenty minutes ago.’

‘You want me to call them?’

‘No,’ said Patterson with a heavy sigh. ‘I’ll do it. You go and get me another tea – and make sure it’s hot this time. And get some crisps or biscuits or something. At least they won’t have messed those about.’



* * *



Jarvis roughly folded the sports section of The Mail on Sunday and slid it onto the top of the dashboard. He glanced across at Coleman, who had tilted the passenger seat as horizontally as it would go and was lying back with his eyes closed and his mouth open.

‘You asleep?’

There was no response.

He turned his attention to the campsite entrance and began to tap out a rhythm on the steering wheel. After a few seconds, he added an improvised melody, humming it at first and then whistling as he became more confident in the way the tune was developing.

‘Not bored, are you?’ said Coleman.

Jarvis stopped whistling but continued his tapping as he looked to his left to see that Coleman’s eyes were still shut.

‘Didn’t wake you, did I?’ he said.

‘Wasn’t asleep.’

‘Course you weren’t. That’s why you’ve been snoring your head off for the last half hour.’

Coleman’s eyes snapped open and he turned his head to fix them on his accuser. ‘I don’t snore.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The missus would have told me.’

Jarvis laughed. ‘You’ve been divorced for three years.’

‘So?’

‘So to my certain knowledge you haven’t slept with anyone since. So how do you know it’s not something you’ve developed since you were married?’