Lifting the Lid(59)

The old man smiled. ‘You may find this hard to believe, looking at me now, but many years ago I actually had a trial for Oldham Athletic.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Not quite good enough though apparently. Story of my life in a way.’ He took a long drink from the wine bottle and then offered it to MacFarland.

He held up the palm of his bandaged hand. ‘No for me, pal.’

‘Been in the wars, I see.’

MacFarland glanced down at the bandage and flexed his fingers. ‘Aye, ye could say that. But it’s ma bloody foot that’s killin’ me right now.’

The old man watched as he bent to massage it. ‘Like me to take a look at it, dear boy?’ he said and then laughed at MacFarland’s bewildered expression. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not a foot fetishist. I used to be a doctor at one time.’

‘Oh aye?’

The tramp laughed again. ‘Only goes to show you can’t judge a book by its cover, eh?’

It was true that MacFarland had had enough trouble picturing this scruffy old wino running out onto the pitch at Oldham Athletic in full kit, but the whole white coat and stethoscope thing? Nah.

‘And in answer to your unspoken question, I was struck off in my prime, so to speak.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘The demon drink, I’m afraid,’ said the tramp and flicked the neck of the wine bottle with his fingernail. ‘Of course, I wasn’t the only one who was somewhat over-fond of the sauce. I just happened to get caught being squiffy on the job a few times too many. That and the fact that most of the top bods couldn’t bear the sight of me. Truth is, I never have got on very well with authority figures.’

MacFarland snorted. ‘Huh. Tell me about it.’

‘Spot of bother with your… employers, eh?’

‘Ye could say that, aye.’

The old man finished off the wine and dropped the empty bottle into a waste bin at his end of the bench before pulling a full one from inside his overcoat. ‘Care to share the gory details?’

‘Some other time mebbe,’ said MacFarland, wincing from the fire which shot up his leg as he levered himself up into a standing position.

‘Something I said, dear boy?’

‘Nae, yir fine. Have tae be on ma way is all.’

‘The aforementioned employer, eh?’

MacFarland’s eyes narrowed as he watched the tramp take a corkscrew from another pocket in his overcoat and open the fresh bottle of wine. There was something about this guy that bothered him. Not the stories about football or all the doctor stuff. They were harmless enough even if they were – as he suspected – a load of bollocks. No, it was more a feeling that he seemed a little too… over friendly. And why had he turned up when he did? Why hadn’t he gone to one of the other vacant benches? Hell, he thought, maybe the old bugger just liked to chat and he happened to be the nearest victim. Anyway, he’d got more important things to worry about right now, like telling Harry Vincent how he’d cocked up yet again.

‘You sure you don’t want me to take a look at that foot?’ said the tramp when MacFarland tried to put weight on it and gasped with the pain.

‘It’ll be fine. Just a wee bruise, I expect.’

The old man raised the bottle as if he were proposing a toast. ‘Oh well. Here’s to a complete and speedy recovery. Nice to meet you, Mr… Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’

‘MacFarland. Jimmy.’

‘Julian Bracewell, at your service.’

He tipped the bottle to his mouth and drank deeply. MacFarland turned and half hopped, half limped his way across the street to the hotel. He hoisted himself up the steps, relying heavily on the handrail for support, and was heading for the revolving door when he suddenly changed direction and made for the more conventional door instead. The moment he took hold of the handle, he thought he heard someone shout, ‘And don’t forget to give my regards to Harry.’

He spun round, but the tramp had vanished.





CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE



When Delia got back to the room, Harry was still sitting at the desk, munching on a panini. He swivelled his chair to face him and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, his expression negating any need to put the question into words.

Delia shrugged. ‘Sorry, Harry. He was already on his way down in the lift, and by the time I got down the stairs, he’d disappeared.’

‘Oh for f—’ Harry slammed his fist down onto the desk with such force that everything on it jumped, including the gun. ‘So where’s MacFarland?’

Delia’s shrug was even more emphatic. ‘Didn’t see him.’

Harry heaved himself out of the chair and stomped over to the window. ‘I ‘ave to say, I’m not undisappointed, Delia,’ he said, looking down at the street below. ‘I mean, I expect the Scotch git and all the other muppets to fuck up, but not you. You, I thought I could rely on.’