Lifting the Lid(50)

Delia assured him this was their first today and they’d only had a couple last night to go with the curry. Harry pointed out that all this was coming out of his own pocket and that they’d better not be taking the piss. Then he told MacFarland to make himself useful for a change and fetch him a can while he waited for a proper pint to be sent up with the food. Taking the phone from its mounting on the wall next to the bed, he placed an order for three Panini Specials with chips and onion rings and three pints of Stella.

‘Cheers, Jock,’ he said with a leering grin and popped the ring-pull under MacFarland’s nose when he handed him a can of beer.

Harry knew how much he hated being called Jock – or, for that matter, Scotchboy or Porridge or Haggis-knob – but he apparently got some kind of kick out of humiliating him whenever and wherever possible. Oddly enough, he never once called him Jimmy, but that was probably because Jimmy happened to be his real name.

Why the man seemed to despise him quite so much had always been a mystery to MacFarland, and he often wondered why Harry had employed him in the first place or why he was still on the payroll after all these years. All right, so yesterday wasn’t the first time he’d cocked up, but he wasn’t the only one. Even Delia – Mr Efficiency himself – had dropped the odd bollock now and again, and as for Humpty Numpty, well, the man was a walking disaster area. But Harry never seemed to get on Humpty’s case like he was always getting on his.

It wasn’t as if he was particularly anti-Scottish either. There’d been other Scots on the team from time to time, and Harry had never had a problem with any of them. Nor had he ever called them Jock or Mars Bar or Glenfi-dick. Always their real names. Okay, if any of them screwed up, then he’d totally lose it and threaten them with all kinds of stuff – usually involving the removal of some body part or other – but then it’d all be over and there’d be plenty of back slapping and drinks all round.

He’d never been like that with MacFarland. Not even when he’d done a really good job on something. Christ, if it hadn’t been for him, Harry would be doing fifteen to twenty right now instead of swanning around some bloody villa in Greece necking ouzo all day long. Who was it who’d got hold of the substitute body and been mostly responsible for setting up the whole car bomb thing? Jimmy MacFarland. That’s who. But what thanks had he got? Cheers, Jock. That was it. No more and no less than if he’d handed him a can of beer from the mini-bar like he had just now. Cheers, Jock.

He snorted at the thought of it and put his own can to his mouth.

‘Jesus, Deep-fried, ain’t you got a bloody ‘andkerchief?’

‘Sorry, boss.’ MacFarland’s mind was elsewhere, and his response was as automatic and emotionless as a mind-the-gap announcement. What was it they said about dishes and revenge?

Harry’s mobile phone rang. He took it from his jacket pocket and checked the display before answering.

‘Where are you now?’ he said.

… ‘Where’s that? Italy?’

… ‘Oh, right.’

… ‘Yeah, I guessed you might. What did they say?’

… ‘Okay, send an email back and tell ‘em they’ll get the address when I’m ready to give ‘em the address. All right?’

… ‘And listen. Soon as you’ve sent it, get yerself back on the bike and put in some serious miles, yeah?’

… ‘You too. – And don’t get done for speeding, right?’

Harry clicked off the phone and returned it to his pocket. ‘At least there’s somebody I can trust not to make a complete bollocks of what I ask ‘em to do,’ he said, eyeballing MacFarland. ‘Still, he is my nephew, so I s’pose it must be in his blood.’

Delia raised a quizzical eyebrow, and Harry took the hint.

‘Some place in Italy,’ he said. ‘Been getting some rather pissed off emails from our benefactors about why we didn’t leave the address details in the locker. Good fucking question, wouldn’t you say?’

MacFarland avoided Harry’s malevolent stare and took himself off into the bathroom. He didn’t really need a piss. He just wanted out of Harry’s company for a few minutes in case the temptation to deck the bastard became too overwhelming. He unzipped and gazed blankly at the gleaming white tiles as he waited for the flow.

Then it came to him. Revenge is a dish best served cold. That was it. He wasn’t really sure what it meant, but right now it sounded pretty good.



* * *



At the first knock, MacFarland grabbed his gun and took up position beside the door again. At the second, Delia opened it by a few inches.