Rob Johnson - Lifting the Lid

by Rob Johnson

  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.

  ‘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.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Harry.

  When the anticipated burst of pain failed to materialise, Trevor slid one eye open to see Harry was holding his palm up to MacFarland, who lowered the gun to his side, his face twisted into a mixture of intense disappointment and unrelieved rage.

  Trevor nudged Sandra in the ribs. ‘Tell him, will you?’

  The pause that followed seemed interminable, but finally she spoke. ‘I kept back some of the money as a kind of… insurance.’

  ‘Against what?’ said Harry.

  ‘Against whatever it was I might walk into here.’ She looked up at MacFarland with a wry grin. ‘Turns
out I was right.’

  ‘So ‘ow did you know it wasn’t just cigs in the packets? I mean, that’s why we got ‘em to put the money in sealed fag packets in the first place. In case prying little eyes like yours got tempted to ‘ave a peek inside the Jiffy bag.’

  Sandra laughed. ‘Yeah, like I’m gonna believe you paid me two grand to pick up and deliver half a dozen packets of fags.’

  This was turning out to be even more of a nightmare than Trevor had expected. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the Scottish guy already seemed intent on inflicting some serious physical pain, she also had to go and nick a load of their money. What had possessed her to open one of the packets anyway? And when did she have the opportunity to do it without him noticing? Must have been when she’d stopped to let him out for a pee at the side of the road. But where’d she got the replacement pack from?

  ‘But you ‘ad instructions not to open the Jiffy bag, never mind what was inside it,’ said Harry and looked up at Delia as if for confirmation. Delia nodded.

  ‘Look,’ said Sandra. ‘My instructions were to pick up a package from a locker and then wait till I was told where to deliver it. Nobody said anything about handing it over to Rob Roy here.’

  Harry shot Delia a look. ‘That true?’

  ‘Covering our options, Harry,’ he said. ‘I reckoned the sooner we had hold of the money, the better. But if that didn’t work out—’

  ‘As it didn’t.’

  ‘If that didn’t work out, we’d just revert to Plan A and get her to deliver the package here.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sandra, ‘if you’d let me in on your little change of plan, I might not have had to do quite so much damage to Mr MacPsycho.’

  Trevor wondered if it was such a good idea to antagonise the Scottish guy any more than necessary, and judging by the narrowed eyes and the clenching jaw muscles, he was probably right.

  ‘Okay, I’m not gonna ask you again,’ said Harry. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’

  ‘Safe.’

  ‘In a safe or somewhere safe?’

  ‘The latter.’

  ‘Listen, sweetheart, don’t piss me about or my Scotch friend will ‘ave to show you the error of your ways.’

  MacFarland smirked, and he tapped the butt of the gun onto the palm of his bandaged hand. He seemed about to repeat the action, but the smirk was instantly transformed into a wince.

  ‘It’s in my car.’

  ‘Which is… ?’

  ‘A Peugeot 206.’

  Harry slammed his fist onto the desk. ‘You know bloody well what I mean. Where’s the fucking car?’

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘Oh for—’ He turned away and gave an imperious wave of the hand in MacFarland’s general direction. ‘All right, Porridge, get on with it.’

  The look of pleasure on MacFarland’s face was even more intense than before. He raised the gun to shoulder height once again and brought the butt crashing down towards an area just behind Sandra’s left ear. But there was no sudden halt, no sound of metal against bone. Instead, the pistol continued on its rapid arc through the air as she threw herself sideways from the bed and onto the floor.

  She rolled onto her front and hauled herself up onto her knees. ‘Outside in the street… is what I meant… Hundred yards or so…’ The fall had winded her, and her words came in staccato bursts.

  Harry stared into her eyes for several seconds, but Sandra didn’t so much as blink.

  ‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘Kiltboy will keep you company.’

  MacFarland rubbed his thigh where the butt of his gun had made enough of a connection to cause a minor bruise. He too was breathing hard, but not as the result of any physical exertion. The rise and fall of his chest were more reminiscent of the rumblings of a volcano just before it erupted.

  Sandra got to her feet, and Trevor followed suit.

  ‘And where d’you think you’re goin’?’ said Harry.

  Trevor hadn’t believed for one moment that they would let him go with them but decided it was worth a try, however half-hearted. If the sarcasm in Harry’s tone wasn’t enough, the look on his face left him in no doubt he would be staying exactly where he was for the foreseeable future.

  ‘Er… sorry. I didn’t think you needed me any more.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Trevor realised how ridiculous they sounded and wasn’t in the least surprised by the reaction. He flinched inwardly as his peripheral vision told him that even Sandra was unable to suppress a giggle.

  As for Harry, his laughter almost amounted to a guffaw as he swivelled back and forth in his chair. ‘You ‘ear that, Delia? He reckons we don’t need ‘im any more. – Feeling unwanted, are yer?’

  The laugh lines on Harry’s face, accentuated as they were by the depth of his tan, morphed into a frown as he compressed his features into an exaggerated pout. But no sooner had it appeared than this too was replaced by yet another expression. This one bore no trace of humour whatsoever.

  Trevor sank back down onto the foot of the bed.

  ‘You can be my insurance,’ said Harry. ‘Just in case your lady friend decides to do a runner or something.’

  If he hadn’t been on the verge of crapping himself, Trevor might have laughed at the absurdity of this remark. The man had clearly misinterpreted their relationship. If Sandra saw an opportunity to get the hell out of this mess, she’d grab it without a second thought. What did she care if they beat him to a pulp and left him for dead? But to be fair to her, he knew he’d do exactly the same himself. He decided, however, that there was nothing to be gained by pointing out his worthlessness as a hostage. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and watched MacFarland beckon Sandra towards the door and then follow her out of the room, snatching his jacket from a peg as he went and draping it over his gun hand.

  When they had gone, Trevor stared down at the carpet between his feet and, not for the first time, wondered how this would all end. He was certain now that some degree of physical pain was almost inevitable and could only hope that whatever damage they did to him wouldn’t be permanent. – Permanent? What was he thinking of? These were the sort of people who probably didn’t give a shit whether they put a bullet in your kneecap or in your brain. And that’s about as permanent as it gets.

  ‘Bloody Nora.’

  ‘What you say?’ said Harry.

  Trevor raised his head and met Harry’s gaze, oblivious to the fact that he had spoken out loud. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You said something.’

  ‘Did I?’ Trevor noticed the whiteness of the man’s knuckles as he gripped the arms of the swivel chair. ‘Er… bloody Nora, I think it was.’

  ‘Bloody what?’

  ‘Nora?’

  ‘You ‘ear that, Delia?’ said Harry and rotated his chair a few degrees in his direction. ‘I think our friend ‘ere must be a bit posh.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Delia, who was standing by the window, staring down at the outside world.

  ‘Bloody Nora, vicar, but it would be simply splendid if you’d care to partake of another of these rather delicious cucumber sandwiches, what.’

  It was a rubbish attempt at an upper-class accent, but Trevor decided not to mention it and resumed his detailed study of the carpet pile.

  Harry drained his can of beer. ‘Anything ‘appening out there?’

  ‘Can’t really see from here,’ said Delia without turning round.

  ‘What you lookin’ at then? Tottie, I s’pose.’

  ‘As if.’

  ‘We got this young Greek lad does odd jobs for us at the villa now and again. Cleans the pool and stuff. I might even fancy him myself if I was, you know… that way inclined. You’ll have to come out some time.’

  Trevor was too absorbed in the all-too-vivid images of his own painful and bloody demise to have registered much of what had just been said, but Harry’s sudden burst of laughter shook him back into the reality of the present.

  ‘Come out?’ he was saying. ‘Bit bloody late for that eh, Deli
a.’

  Trevor had no idea what the joke was, and if the lack of reaction was anything to go by, Delia hadn’t got it either – or at least hadn’t found it particularly funny.

  Harry’s laughter subsided like a punctured balloon, and he crushed the empty beer can in his fist. ‘Any more of these in there?’ he said, nodding in the direction of the mini-bar.

  Delia either had eyes in the back of his head or the crunching metallic sound was enough to convey what Harry was asking. ‘Dunno, Harry. Probably.’

  There was a brief pause as Harry seemed to be considering a response, but he said nothing and went over to the mini-bar to investigate for himself. He took out a can and cracked open the ring-pull.

  ‘Where’s this food then?’ he said. ‘I’m bloody starving.’

  No sooner had he spoken the words than there was a knock at the door. For the first time in several minutes, Delia turned his attention away from the window and caught Harry’s eye.

  ‘Who is it?’ Harry called out.

  ‘Room service,’ came the barely audible response.

  Harry looked down at Trevor and put a finger to his lips. He then used the same finger to make a slashing movement across his throat. ‘Got me?’ he said and picked up the gun that MacFarland had left on the bed. He sat back down on the swivel chair and placed the pistol on the desk, covering it with the room service menu.

  Delia made his way to the door and, as before, opened it a few inches and peered through the gap.

  ‘You order room service, sir?’

  The voice was clearer now, and Trevor picked up the strong foreign accent. Delia stepped back, and a two-tiered trolley entered the room followed by a sallow featured young man in a blue and grey uniform. He wheeled the trolley over to the desk, and Trevor caught a tongue-tingling whiff of onions, chips and hot bread, which gave his badly deprived stomach the gastric equivalent of a hardon.

  Harry held up his hand. ‘Just leave it all where it is.’

  The waiter looked at him and then down at the first of the three covered plates which he had begun to transfer from the trolley to the desk. ‘You no want me to—?’