‘Aye, may as well,’ said MacFarland and turned towards the man that most people knew as Delia.
He had earned the nickname not just because his surname was Smith but because of his background in accountancy and his reputation as one of the best in the business when it came to cooking the books. He was several years older than MacFarland and, like most of his countrymen, fiercely proud of his Welsh roots. Even so, he spoke without any trace of an accent except on the few occasions when he seriously lost his temper. MacFarland had learned a long time ago that if you ever heard him utter the word “boyo”, it was time to take cover.
‘Vodka? Scotch? Gin?’ said Delia, crouching down to examine the contents of the mini-bar.
‘Giz a beer,’ said MacFarland. ‘I’d best keep a clear heid in case anyone actually turns up.’
Delia handed him a can and opened one himself. He looked at his watch and sat down on the edge of his bed. ‘She should be here any time now.’
‘Aye, well, the way things have gone the last coupla days, I’ll believe that when I see it.’ MacFarland gulped down half of his can of beer and belched loudly.
Delia winced. ‘That’s the trouble with you Scots. No finesse.’
‘At least we dinnae have sheep-shaggin’ as our national sport.’
‘No, just swilling huge amounts of booze and scoffing deep-fried Mars bars till they’re coming out of your ears.’
MacFarland laughed and was about to come back with a remark about how Offa’s Dyke got its name when there was a loud rattling sound.
Both men snapped their heads round towards the vibrating door handle. They looked back at each other as the rattling stopped and was replaced by an insistent knocking.
‘Right on cue,’ said Delia.
The knocking was repeated but with an even greater sense of urgency.
‘Bit bloody pushy, ain’t she?’ said MacFarland and took up a position to one side of the door so he wouldn’t be seen by their visitor, the butt of his gun clasped between both hands.
Delia unlocked the door and eased it open a few inches. He peered through the gap and then immediately jumped backwards. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, snatching the door open to its full extent.
MacFarland tensed both of his elbows and flicked off the gun’s safety catch with his thumb.
‘What the fuck is this for?’ Harry Vincent strode into the room, holding out a laminated “Do Not Disturb” sign. ‘You two been at it or what?’
‘He’s not my type,’ said Delia and closed the door.
MacFarland relaxed his stance as soon as he recognised the voice and reset the safety catch on his gun. Harry turned and spotted him.
‘Expecting trouble?’ he said.
‘Cannae be tae careful, boss,’ said MacFarland, lowering the weapon to his side.
‘Yeah? Well I wish you’d been a bit more bloody careful yesterday, ‘cos maybe then I wouldn’t have had to get up at the crack of sparrow fart to fly all the way over from Greece to sort out your fucking cockups.’
MacFarland tried to explain that it hadn’t been entirely his fault, that Humpty was a useless waste of space, that he’d been expecting a woman to make the pickup, and that he’d had no idea Special Branch – or whoever it was – were going to get in the way. But he knew he was wasting his breath.
Harry threw his overnight bag onto the nearest bed and flopped down beside it. ‘I s’pose they do room service in a gaff like this? Food on the plane was shite.’
Delia went over to a small desk in the corner of the room and fetched a menu.
Harry took it from him and flicked it open. ‘You tried any of this stuff yet?’
‘Had breakfast this morning, but we got an Indian takeaway last night.’
‘They let you bring a Ruby Murray into a place like this?’
Delia smiled. ‘We didn’t exactly broadcast the fact.’
Harry looked up at him and then went back to studying the menu with a slight shake of his head. Delia returned to the desk and sat in the leather covered swivel chair while MacFarland continued to hover near the door.
‘’Ello. What’s this then?’ said Harry, bringing the menu a couple of inches closer to his face. ‘Panini? That’s a minge, innit?’
‘You’re probably thinking of punani,’ said Delia.
‘That’ll do me then. Minge Special with chips and onion rings. They got any decent lager ‘ere?’
‘Dunno, boss. There’s these in the wee fridge there.’ MacFarland picked up his almost empty beer can from the bedside table and held it out for inspection.
‘Fuck me,’ said Harry. ‘I ‘ope you two ‘aven’t been layin’ into the mini-bar. Costs a bloody fortune, that does.’