Lifting the Lid(58)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO



MacFarland slumped down on a wooden bench which was almost opposite the hotel and tried to decide what the hell to do next. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath, and he massaged his throbbing right foot. All that running and the bastards had still got away. He’d been within five yards of the Peugeot when he’d heard the engine burst into life and then the shriek of tyres as they’d fought for traction on the tarmac. He’d been inches from grabbing the door handle on the passenger side when the car leapt away from him, a rear wheel jolting over his foot in the process.

He hadn’t even noticed the pain to begin with. He’d been too busy aiming his gun. But when he’d caught sight of the dog jumping about on the back seat, he’d lowered the weapon to his side. It wasn’t that he was getting soft or anything, he’d kept telling himself as he’d hobbled back up the street towards the hotel, shafts of pain blazing up his leg with every other step. Shit no. He wouldn’t have hesitated if he’d had a clear shot at either of the two people who had caused him so much grief, so why should he give a damn about some mongrel mutt? No, the thing was, he’d known he’d probably only have time to fire once, and what was the point of wasting a bullet on the dog? That wasn’t going to stop them, was it?

Of course, the dog issue wouldn’t form part of his explanation to Harry, but he felt he had to work the thing through in his head to convince himself he wasn’t losing his touch. So what was he going to say to Harry? The guy didn’t need any more reason to despise him, and this latest little incident would be more than enough to tip him over the edge completely. This wasn’t the kind of business where you could just walk in and offer an apology and a letter of resignation. Shit, it wasn’t even the kind of business where you’d just get fired. Harry had a reputation to maintain, and part of that reputation included doing some pretty unpleasant stuff to people who’d pissed him off.

He remembered one occasion when Harry’s driver was a few minutes late picking him up from some club in Soho, which made him late for an important appointment, and Harry had the poor sod’s little finger taken off with a pair of secateurs. ‘Ten bloody minutes I had to wait,’ Harry had said at the time. ‘Maybe you’ll remember that in future when you wanna count to ten and can only get up to nine.’

One thing was certain. It wouldn’t be just his little finger Harry would cut off once he knew the bitch had got away with his money. But what was the wimpy guy doing on his own in the hotel foyer? Surely Harry wouldn’t have let him go before he had the rest of the cash?

‘Mind if I have a sit?’

MacFarland barely registered that someone was talking to him but looked up to see an old man with a tanned and cracked face eyeing the vacant space on the bench beside him. His long straggling beard was almost entirely white except for the dark brown stain of his moustache, and he wore a rainbow coloured woollen hat and a filthy tweed overcoat tied at the waist with string.

‘Suit yirself, pal,’ said MacFarland. ‘Free bloody country.’

He clocked the unmistakable stink of cheap wine and stale tobacco as the old man flopped down next to him with a groan. MacFarland edged away from him slightly and tried even harder to control his rasping breath so as not to inhale too deeply.

‘Not sure you’re right about that, old boy, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘Eh?’ MacFarland was shocked into taking notice by the old man’s voice and turned towards him. The middle-class, educated tones just didn’t match up with the tramplike appearance.

‘What you were saying about this being a free country. Not if my own experience is anything to go by. Of course, it might be totally different in Scotland but, sad to relate, I have only rarely ventured further north than the delightful county of Durham.’ He pulled a half empty bottle of red wine from an inside pocket of his overcoat. ‘I take it from your accent that it is from Scotland that you yourself originally hail?’

Glesga,’ said MacFarland, wondering whether the guy really was English or from some other planet altogether.

‘Ah, Glasgow. European City of Culture 1990 and home to the Old Firm of Celtic and Rangers football clubs,’ the tramp said and took a modest sip from the wine bottle. ‘And to which of these two fine exponents of the beautiful game do you yourself pledge your allegiance?’

MacFarland took a moment to work out exactly what he was being asked. ‘Celtic,’ he said, surprised to find himself engaging at all with this pissed-up old scadge. It wasn’t that long ago that he and his mates used to patrol the streets of his hometown on the lookout for a loser exactly like this to kick seven sorts of shit out of. ‘Ye ken a bit about fitba then?’