Lifting the Lid(68)

‘You’re not still being cranky about that bacon sandwich this morning, are you?’ Statham said eventually.

‘Oh for goodness’ sake,’ said Patterson with more than a hint of petulance. ‘It may have escaped your notice, Colin, but this whole operation has been an unmitigated bloody disaster right from the start. We’ve shelled out a hundred and fifty thousand quid of taxpayers’ money for an address we still don’t have. I’ve spent the last God knows how many hours twiddling my thumbs because two of the most incompetent agents in the Service managed to lose the pillock who actually took the money – and probably also knows what the address is. And, to cap it all, I’ve got the top brass all over me, wanting to know what the hell is going on, and some jumped-up Al Capone wannabe telling me he hasn’t got the money and the whole deal’s off until he has. And you think I’m being “cranky” because of some bloody undercooked bacon sandwich?’

Statham did his best to placate him by pointing out that they’d finally got a result from the APB and at least they were back on track again, so things could be a lot worse. But Patterson barely heard him. He was far too preoccupied with the rear end of a dark green Range Rover which loomed ever larger as they hurtled towards it.

‘Watch out!’ shouted Patterson, his knuckles glowing whiter than ever on the edges of his seat.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN



Quarter-pounders, half-pounders, cheeseburgers, chilliburgers, veggieburgers, nuggety things in batter – the pictures themselves looked almost good enough to eat. Trevor wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and steadied himself against the counter with the other.

‘Hello, sir. And what can I get you today?’

Trevor’s gaze drifted downwards from the photograph of an apple pie that was topped with a small tower of what looked like shaving foam, past the cherry red baseball cap and the enormous zit on the lad’s forehead to the slab-lensed glasses and the eager piggy eyes beyond them.

He shook his head and tried to focus. ‘Uh?’

‘What can I get you, sir?’

‘Erm, do you take Swiss francs?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Like this,’ said Trevor and painstakingly smoothed out a thousand franc note on the counter. ‘Sorry, I haven’t got anything smaller.’

Piggy Eyes’s laugh was more like a whinny. ‘It’s not that, sir. It’s just that we don’t—’

‘How much for a piggy sandwich?’

‘Sir?’

‘Bacon. – Bacon sandwich. Oink oink?’

It was as if his tongue had been taken over by some alien being. He could hear the words that came out of his mouth, but he seemed to have no control at all over what those words might be. The only drugs he’d ever taken were the sort you bought at Boots, but he would hazard a guess that this must be what it felt like when you were stoned. Not just the verbal thing but the slow motion wave machine inside your head and the feeling that someone else was operating all your limbs with lengths of floppy elastic.

Concentrate, Trevor. You need to get a grip before someone calls the manager – or the police even. He grabbed at the overhanging lip of the counter to stop himself from falling.

‘You feeling all right, sir?’

Again, Trevor shook his head in an attempt to clear his hunger-addled brain but immediately realised he’d failed when his mouth began to move and he heard the words: ‘I’ll give you a thousand Swiss francs for one BLT and a piece of apple pie. You can even skip the cream if you want. Frank won’t mind. He’s Swiss anyway. He’s got all the cream he can handle.’

Oh hell, that wasn’t really him with the braying cackle, was it?

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to—’

Before Piggy Eyes could finish the sentence, Trevor leaned towards him across the counter and, with a conspiratorial wink, whispered, ‘We’ve got a gun, you know.’

‘Ah, so this is where you’ve been hiding, is it?’

The woman’s voice was familiar and so too was the firm grip on his arm. He turned to face her.

‘Come along now,’ said Sandra. ‘The coach is waiting, and everyone wants to get back for their tea.’

Coach? What coach? What was she on about? And why was she talking to him like he was a three-year-old?

‘I do hope he hasn’t caused you any bother.’

Trevor followed the direction of her sickly grin, which appeared to be targeted on Piggy Eyes’s Vesuvius of a pimple.

‘Well, er, no. I suppose, er…’

Even from where he stood in his own not-quite-so-parallel universe, Trevor could tell that the lad was struggling to come up with the appropriate corporate-approved response, and he was struck with a sudden and largely genuine pity for the poor kid. But the ‘Have a nice day?’ Piggy Eyes eventually opted for lost him every one of the sympathy votes he’d just notched up, especially as he made it sound more like a question than an imperative. And as for the accompanying stab at a mission statement smile, well…