by Rob Johnson
Harry stood gazing down at her with the water dripping from his body and forming a small puddle by his feet. She still looked good even now, he thought, especially in that one-piece black swimsuit with the gold plastic clasp just under the cleavage. He hawked and then turned sideways to propel the resulting phlegm into the pool.
Donna dropped the magazine onto her lap and stared up at him. ‘Harry,’ she said with obvious disgust. ‘Why do you do that?’
‘Chlorine, love. Plays ‘avoc with me sinuses.’
She picked up her magazine and snapped it open with a long-suffering sigh.
‘Besides,’ said Harry, ‘it gives the pool cleaner something to do.’
‘Did I ever tell you you have the manners of a warthog?’ she said without looking up.
‘No, but you did tell me once that I was ‘ung like a donkey.’
‘Dung beetle, I think I said.’
‘Oh really?’ Harry manoeuvred himself into a position astride Donna’s lounger.
She snatched the magazine away from the dripping water. ‘Bugger off. You’re getting my Hello all wet.’
He squatted lower over her chest.
‘Zair was a time when zair was more of you I could get wet than your ‘Ello magazine,’ he said in an accent which sounded like Arnold Schwarzenegger playing Inspector Clouseau.
As he spoke the words, he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his swimming shorts and eased it down slightly to reveal a glimpse of pubic hair. ‘Hee-haw, hee-haw?’ he said, still pretending to be a Frenchman rather than a mule.
Donna looked up at him and slowly removed her sunglasses. She lowered her eyes to his minimally exposed manhood, and a smile began to spread across her face.
Harry followed her gaze. ‘Aha, I see we eff lift-urf.’
She reached up her left hand and lightly caressed his cheek. At the same time, she rolled the magazine into a tight club with her other hand and whacked him in the area which was not quite so soft as before.
This time, Harry wasn’t faking when he rolled sideways onto the floor, clutching at the front of his shorts, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly like a beached guppy.
Donna replaced her sunglasses and unrolled the magazine. ‘Now stop being annoying and get me another drink… darling.’
‘I suppose… you think… that was… funny,’ said Harry, still gasping to catch his breath.
‘Hmm?’ She flicked over a page of her magazine. ‘What was that, love?’
‘Bloody ‘urt that did.’
‘Oh come here, you big wuss, and I’ll kiss it better.’
In the hope that this might be a genuine offer, Harry forced himself onto his knees and then onto his feet, his hand still firmly between his legs.
‘You all right, Harry?’
It was a male voice, and Harry turned towards it. A well-built man in his late thirties was standing on the veranda of the house, the short sleeves of his Hawaiian shirt rippling gently in the breeze.
‘Yeah yeah, I’m fine, Eddie. Just ‘avin’ a bit of a… laugh. Know what I mean?’
‘Right you are, boss.’
Harry picked up a towel and moved somewhat awkwardly towards the elevated veranda. ‘Something ‘appened?’
‘Just had a call from MacFarland.’
‘Oh yeah? And?’
‘You’re not going to like this, I’m afraid.’ Eddie shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again.
Harry stopped drying his hair with the towel and lowered it to his side in slow motion. He stared up at Eddie, waiting for him to continue.
‘Seems like there was a bit of a cockup.’
‘What?’ Harry felt his blood pressure beginning to rise.
‘Delia hired some woman to make the pickup apparently, but it was a bloke turned up instead. Then he gave MacFarland the slip.’
‘Oh for f…’
‘He also reckons that the pickup guy didn’t leave anything in the locker.’
‘Reckons? What do you mean “he reckons”?’
‘MacFarland said that Humpty didn’t actually check it, but from the reaction of the—’
‘Christ almighty,’ said Harry, looking up at the clear blue sky. ‘What do I pay these people for?’
The veins in his temples were throbbing like pistons. ‘Where are they now?’ he called over his shoulder as he walked back to his sun lounger and collected his half-smoked cigar from the ashtray.
‘Still at the festival. They’re waiting for your instructions.’
‘Coursh they are,’ said Harry, his teeth clamped around the cigar as he struck a match. ‘Can’t bloody think for themshelves, can they? Useless fucking twats.’
Donna lowered her magazine. ‘What’s up, love?’
He took a deep draw on the cigar and combined a dismissive wave of the hand with extinguishing the match. ‘Nothin’ I can’t deal with, darlin’. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Just watch your blood pressure, that’s all,’ she said and returned to her reading.
‘Yeah yeah, don’t fuss.’
‘You know what happened last time you got yourself into a tizz.’
‘Tizz? Huh,’ Harry muttered and retraced his steps to the veranda. ‘Anything from Carrot?’
‘Not since last night, no,’ said Eddie with a slow shake of the head.
‘Well let’s just ‘ope that part of it’s still going to plan anyway.’ Harry studied the glowing tip of his cigar for several seconds and then jabbed it in Eddie’s direction. ‘Get MacFarland back on the phone and tell the stupid Scotch git to get his lazy arse to the drop-off point. I don’t suppose anybody’ll turn up now, but I wanna be certain. And while you’re at it, tell Delia to get hold of this woman he hired and find out what the fuck she thinks she’s playin’ at.’
‘Right you are, boss.’ Eddie started back towards the house.
‘Oh yeah,’ Harry shouted after him. ‘And you can tell MacFarland that if there’s any more cockups, he’ll be singing falsetto in the heavenly fucking choir by the time I’ve done with ‘im.’
‘Language,’ said Donna and flipped over a page.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The dull ache in Sandra’s lower back had become progressively worse, and she rolled her head to try and ease the stiffness in her neck. The passenger seat of the camper van was not the most comfortable in the world, and they’d been going for almost three hours now without a break.
During the earlier part of the journey, she had continued to quiz Trevor about what his involvement was and why he had taken the index cards from the toilet cistern.
She had asked him who the guy was that had tried to stop him at the festival exit. Trevor had told her he had no idea except that he’d said his name was Patterson, and he seemed to have something to do with the police.
She had asked him who the Scottish guy with the ponytail was that had pulled the gun on them in the car park, and Trevor had said he was about to ask her the same question.
He had asked her what was in the package, and she’d told him she didn’t know, which was true. He’d been surprised she wasn’t curious to take a look inside, which wasn’t true, but she’d had strict instructions not to open it.
He had asked her where she’d got her instructions from, and she’d told him to mind his own business and that if he hadn’t poked his nose in in the first place she wouldn’t be in the mess she was now.
Since then, they’d driven on in almost complete silence apart from the occasional sound of Milly snoring peacefully from the back seat. Sandra’s mobile phone had gone off at one point, but she’d recognised the number and hadn’t picked up. She had no desire to speak to her client until they had at least shaken off the Ford Mondeo that was tailing them.
‘What’s up?’ she said, finally breaking the silence when she noticed Trevor shifting awkwardly in his seat for the umpteenth time in the last twenty minutes.
‘I’m knackered. I need a rest.’
‘Not possible, I’m afr
aid.’ She craned her neck to look into the wing mirror. ‘Our friends are still with us unfortunately.’
‘If they really are following us like you say—’
‘Of course they’re following us. Why else would they still be there after a hundred and twenty-odd miles?’
‘All I’m saying is that they don’t seem to be making any effort to hide the fact.’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps they’re not very good at their job.’
‘But who are they and what exactly is their job?’
Sandra counted to five before she replied. ‘What do you want to do? Stop and ask them? – Excuse me, gents, but we’ve noticed you’ve been behind us for quite some time now and we were wondering if you were following us and, if so, whether your intentions are honourable or otherwise.’ She ended the sentence with a contemptuous sneer.
Trevor said nothing.
She glanced across at him and saw he was chewing on his bottom lip. Even though she was seriously hacked off with the guy, Sandra realised she had offended him and felt an unaccountable twinge of guilt.
‘Look,’ she said in a stern tone of voice to disguise any trace of sympathy she might have had for him. ‘As far as I’m concerned, this was going to be a nice straightforward little earner until you came along and made a total bollocks of the whole thing. I don’t know if you’re telling me the truth or not, and I sure as hell don’t know who the good guys are and who the bad guys are. Shit, I don’t even know if there are any good guys in all this. What I do know is that I don’t intend to hang around to find out which is which. Okay?’
Trevor merely grunted in response.
God, what was it with men and sulking? She closed her eyes but opened them again immediately as she felt a wave of tiredness rolling her towards a sleep she could ill afford. She yawned and rubbed her face with both hands to try to bring some life back to her flagging consciousness. Peering at her reflection in the wing mirror, she recoiled at the dark rings under her eyes, the furrowed brow, the blotchy skin, the – Shit, what was that? Surely she wasn’t getting a double chin? She raised her head up and down a few times, closely observing the area in question and prodding the flesh with the tips of her fingers.
Right, that settles it, she thought. It’s diet time for you, my girl. But what about the baggy eyes, the lines, the strawberries and cream complexion but with all the strawberries in the wrong place? A diet wasn’t going to cure those. Maybe it was the job. She was certain she hadn’t looked this rough when she’d first set up in business. All those long nights sat in her car outside some house or other waiting to get a photograph of an errant husband or wayward wife were bound to take their toll, not to mention the endless succession of hastily grabbed burgers and doner kebabs. Stress had a big part to play in it too, and this current job was turning out to be a severe test of what little composure she had left. Hell, it should have been one of the simplest and most lucrative cases she’d had yet.
This last thought prompted her to adjust her focus in the mirror.
‘Aha,’ she said aloud and leaned forward to get a better view.
‘What?’ said Trevor.
‘I do believe they’ve finally…’ Her voice tailed off as she watched even more intently. The Mondeo seemed to be falling behind and lurching as if it was being driven by a novice who’d barely begun to master clutch control.
‘At bloody last,’ she said, seeing the reflected image of the car grow ever smaller. She sat back in her seat. ‘I was beginning to think they’d never run out.’
‘So now what?’
‘You drive me back to the festival so I can pick up my car. You drop me off. I never see you again as long as I live.’
‘The festival? But we’ve been driving for hours.’
‘Yes, but we’ve been going pretty much in a circle. I’d say it’s no more than thirty miles away.’
Trevor shifted his position and flexed his fingers.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘but I’ll have to have a break first. Everything aches, and I’ve hardly eaten a thing since yesterday lunchtime.’
‘Fair enough. We’ll stop at the next services or whatever. I’m feeling a bit peckish myself.’
There was a faint whimper from the back seat of the van. Milly was sound asleep and dreaming that she was chasing an enormous chicken nugget on legs.
* * *
Patterson was sitting bolt upright in the passenger seat of a green Skoda Octavia, rigid with fury.
‘How the hell did you manage to lose a beat-up old camper van?’ he yelled into the onboard radio.
‘Ran out of petrol, guv,’ came the crackled reply.
‘Oh terrific.’
‘Yeah, they must have seen the film about that Irish bloke – IRA I think he was. Anyway, he knew he was going to be followed by the police so he’d got a spare can of petrol in the boot of his car, and when they—’
‘For Christ’s sake, just shut up and tell us where you are.’
Radio static was the only response.
‘You still there?’ Patterson said after a few moments.
More static.
‘Sleepy? Bashful?’
This time, he heard what sounded very much like stifled laughter amongst the static, and Statham coughed and spluttered in the seat beside him.
Patterson shot him a withering look and then spoke into the radio again. ‘Right. That’s it. I’ve had enough of all this Snow White nonsense. You’re back to Jarvis and Coleman from now on. Understood?’
‘Okay, Grump— um, guv.’
‘We’ll get your location from the GPS, so just stay where you are and we’ll come and pick you up.’
The radio interference intensified, but Patterson thought he heard the words “going anywhere”, “petrol” and “duh”. He replaced the microphone in its holder on the dashboard and sat back with a sigh, rubbing the palms of his hands down his face.
‘Then what?’ said Statham, dropping down a gear and accelerating hard out of a bend.
‘Put out a trace on the camper van first, I suppose, and then report in to see what the brass has to say.’
‘Rather you than me.’
Patterson slammed his hand down onto the dashboard. ‘What a God almighty balls-up.’
‘Watch it, guv. I nearly did an emergency stop then.’
He looked across at Statham and saw that he was smiling. He was about to let fly with a stream of abuse but checked himself. What was the point? It wasn’t his fault that the operation was on the brink of disaster. Mind you, if he ever laid eyes on those bloody Cupids again…
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Trevor turned into the car park of the roadside diner and found a space at the rear of the building where the van wouldn’t be spotted from the road. He switched off the engine, and Milly stood up on the back seat and stretched herself, seemingly refreshed from her long sleep.
He waited for Sandra to finish her phone call. She’d rung someone about a lunch date the next day and told them she might not be able to make it. – A friend or maybe a relative, but not a boyfriend or husband by the sound of it. She’d started off with ‘Hi, it’s Sandra’, so at least he knew her name now even if pretty much everything else about her was a complete mystery.
She ended the call and put the mobile back in her bag. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of doing anything silly while we’re here,’ she said, picking up the gun from the dashboard and depositing it in the bag with her phone.
‘Like what exactly?’ Trevor was tired and aching from the long drive, and he made no attempt to conceal his irritability.
‘I think I’d better have those.’ She held out her hand as he took the keys from the ignition.
He dropped them into her outstretched palm and then made his way through the gap between the driver and passenger seats into the back of the van. He opened one of the small fitted cupboards above the sink and took out a box of dog biscuits. Milly leapt on the half dozen that he threw on the floor and devoured them as if she hadn�
�t had a scrap to eat in days.
‘Here,’ said Sandra. ‘You may as well stick this in there for now.’
She tossed the padded, green Jiffy bag at him, and he caught it one-handed. He placed it in the cupboard along with the box of dog biscuits and closed the door.
Five minutes later, Sandra and Trevor sat opposite each other at a red Formica-topped table, each of them studying a garishly designed, laminated menu, which gleamed under the brightness of the fluorescent lights. The restaurant was almost full, and the general hubbub of chatter mingled with the jangle and clatter of cutlery and crockery. Above all this, a baby was screaming as if determined not to be consoled.
‘I’ll have a cheeseburger and chips and a large coffee,’ said Sandra, scraping back her chair and getting to her feet. ‘I’m desperate for a pee.’
She picked up the van keys from the table and dangled them in front of Trevor’s face. ‘No tricks, eh?’
‘And what d’you reckon I’m going to do without those?’ he said, looking up from his menu.
‘Let’s just say I don’t entirely trust you,’ she said with a faint smile before turning and heading towards the toilets with apparent urgency.
Trevor watched her go, and as he did so, a girl of about sixteen in a red and black uniform arrived at his table, notepad and pen at the ready. Despite her rake-like physique, she was partially obscuring his view, and he had to lean to one side so he could continue to observe Sandra’s progress.
‘You ready to order?’ said the girl and flicked her head backwards to dislodge a lock of dyed black hair from in front of her eyes.
‘Er… yes,’ said Trevor without diverting his gaze to either her or the menu. ‘Cheeseburger and chips and a large coffee please.’
The waitress started scribbling on her notepad and then paused. ‘Chips?’ she said as if the word was completely foreign to her.
‘Oh, er, fries I mean.’
‘Regular, large, or super?’
‘Small,’ said Trevor and stood up when he saw the heavily sprung door to the ladies’ toilet swing shut behind Sandra.
