‘I’m Sandra Gray. I think you’re expecting me.’
‘Who’s that with you?’ said Delia.
‘My… associate. Trevor Hawkins.’
‘Let ‘em in for Christ’s sake, Delia,’ said Harry from the bed.
Delia opened the door wider and stepped back. Even from behind, MacFarland knew it was them.
‘Well well, I was kinda hoping it would be youse two,’ he said.
They turned to face him, and he relished the way both pairs of eyes popped at the sight of his gun.
Harry swung his feet onto the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Do the honours, Delia, if you would.’
Delia relieved Sandra of her shoulder bag and took out a large padded envelope. ‘Looks like it’s been opened, Harry.’
Harry took it from him and examined the seal. ‘Well?’
‘Of course not,’ said Sandra with a smile of such simpering innocence that MacFarland itched to remove it.
Harry nodded at Delia, and he emptied the rest of the shoulder bag’s contents onto the bed.
MacFarland edged closer whilst keeping his gun and one eye trained on Trevor and Sandra. He fixed his other eye on the small mountain of lipsticks, mascara, hairbrushes, pens, tampons, notepads and a variety of other items as Delia picked through them and removed a mobile phone, a dictaphone and a Heckler and Koch semi-automatic.
‘That’s mine,’ he said, taking the gun from Delia and dropping his other weapon onto the bed.
Then he spotted a small black aerosol canister which Delia’s rummaging had brought to the surface of the heap. He snatched it up and inspected the label.
‘Pepper spray?’ he said and shifted his focus back to Sandra. ‘Is this what ye damn near blinded me with?’
She held his gaze but didn’t respond.
MacFarland felt the surge of adrenaline, which in turn caused his injured hand to throb. ‘Oh am I goin’ tae have some fun with youse two,’ he said as he began a one-handed but none too gentle body search.
What was it again? Revenge is a dish best served cold. Oh yes.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Harry Vincent went over to the leather swivel chair and sat down. He flipped open the Jiffy bag and emptied six cigarette packets onto the desk. Breaking the seal on the first packet, he pulled out a small bundle of banknotes and passed it to Delia to count.
From where he sat, next to Sandra on the foot of the nearest bed, Trevor could see it was some kind of foreign currency, but he couldn’t tell which.
Harry took another roll of notes from the second packet and again handed it to Delia. Trevor leaned forward to get a better view, and he was pretty sure that each note was worth a thousand something-or-others. He tried to keep up with Delia’s counting. Thirty-five? Forty maybe? Bloody hell, if there was the same amount in each packet, all together there must be… two hundred and forty thousand whatevers.
Harry must have noticed the intensity of Trevor’s interest. ‘Quarter of a million Swiss francs,’ he said, ripping the cellophane wrapper from the next packet. ‘Thousand Swiss francs is one of the highest value notes around, so you can fit a lot of dosh into a small space, see.’ He gave a beaming smile and tapped the cigarette packet as if he was doing a commercial.
It wasn’t until he got to the fifth packet that Trevor became aware of the mattress vibrating beneath him, and he glanced down to see that Sandra’s knee was jigging up and down like a piston. Okay, so this wasn’t the most relaxing of situations to be in, but she seemed to be even more agitated than he was – and getting increasingly so. By the time Harry opened the last of the cigarette packets, her knee was almost a blur.
‘Well now,’ said Harry. ‘And what ‘ave we ‘ere?’
He pointed the open end of the packet towards them.
‘Cigarettes?’ said Sandra. ‘But no thanks. I’m trying to quit.’
‘Wiseguy, eh?’
Blimey, thought Trevor, these people really did say things like that.
Harry crushed the cigarette packet in his meaty fist and dropped the mangled mess of cardboard, tobacco and paper to the floor. ‘So where is it?’
Trevor turned to Sandra, as eager to hear her answer as Harry was, but she said nothing.
‘All right, Sporran,’ said Harry. ‘On yer go.’
The Scottish guy moved towards the bed, turning his gun to hold it by the barrel. Trevor had no idea which of them he intended to hit, but by rights it ought to be Sandra. After all, it was her that had maced the guy and smashed his hand, not him. He watched the upward trajectory of the pistol butt and then screwed his eyes tight shut.
‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he spluttered. ‘I don’t know where it is.’