He said something, but she wasn't sure what it was, then he gave a soft pathetic smile. In his crumpled clothes, the scarf he always wore knotted round his throat, his knees showing through his ripped jeans, there was still the ghost of 'The puller' about Steve, the nickname he had because the women always fell for him. Maybe it was the sweet smile, but Susie went over and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. 'You take care of Frank, okay?'
He nodded mutely, then delved into his pockets, and brought out two crumpled ten pound notes. His Donald Duck voice burped out 'Get something for the kids, and some flowers for you.'
Susie watched them pile into Jimmy's jeep. They waved and yelled up to her from the courtyard as she leaned over the railings. Steve was sitting up in the back with Cliff who was already drinking a can of lager. They were like kids on some kind of school outing, singing at the tops of their voices, happy they were playing at soldiers again. But Susie knew they weren't really playing, Frank wasn't back in civvies, not yet… Maybe the time in Scotland would get it out of his system.
The Clyde Hotel was a solid, sturdy building of dark red sandstone that at one time might have been the residence of the local laird. Built on the crest of a small hill, it had magnificent views to the north of Loch Tummel and the Forest of Atholl, and further to the west of the Grampians, grey peaks lightly dusted with snow.
Cliff drove the old Renegade jeep up the curving driveway and halted on the gravel forecourt next to the main entrance. Too early for the hunting-shooting-fishing season, the hotel had a slumbering look about it, an impression reinforced by an ancient sit-up-and-beg bicycle with a straw pannier at the front, propped against the steps.
Climbing out, Dillon has a quick look at the tripometer which they'd set that morning on leaving London. 451. Bloody well felt like it too; his arse was as numb as a witch's frozen tit. Groaning and stretching, Jimmy and Steve jumped down from the back seat they'd had to share with the bags, personal effects and other assorted paraphernalia that Dillon reckoned they needed for the job. More gear than they'd had disembarking at Port San Carlos, Jimmy thought sourly. What were they going to do, invade Perthshire?
'What time do you call this?' Harry Travers clattered down the steps in DPM camouflage pants and army boots, big beefy grin on his chops. He'd put on a few pounds since last Dillon had seen him, but on top of a barrel-chested eighteen stone it hardly mattered, and he looked in fighting trim.
Harry stuck out his hand. 'How ya doin', Jimmy? Frank. This is Don Walker from One Para…'
A younger bloke, late twenties, with longish dark hair kept in place by a bandanna, nodded to them from the top of the steps. Harry's grin changed to a scowl as he noticed Steve Harris in the background.
'Hey, what's with Harris? You never said you were bringin' him.' Still grumbling, Harry led Dillon and Jimmy up the steps, Steve trailing after, head down. 'I got a bone to pick with him – he borrowed me mate's Honda Prelude and that was the last we saw of it. He's a prat!'
Left behind with a bag in each hand, Cliff contemplated the loaded jeep and shouted after them as they all disappeared inside, 'Oh thanks lads, thanks a bundle!'
Hamish MacFarland, the hotel's owner, was already well into double figures with the Glenlivet, by Dillon's estimation, as they came into the bar. He was balanced precariously on a bar-stool, glass in one hand, his other arm draped around a stag's head that for some mysterious reason was plonked on the counter next to the beer pumps. Harry did the introductions, and MacFarland invited them all to have a drink with him, 'a wee dram' before dinner. He had another wee dram himself to keep them company.
The mention of dinner got Dillon's gastric juices flowing: motorway coffee and sandwiches had sustained them on the trip, but he realised he was starving. But he forgot about his stomach for a minute when MacFarland's daughter came through to take their orders. And a hush fell amongst the others too, the banter dying away to silence.
Dark hair, shoulder length and naturally curled, a wide mouth that smiled easily, Sissy MacFarland had a creamy complexion that didn't need make-up, lightly sprinkled with freckles, and a figure that most women could only dream of having and every man couldn't help drooling over. She treated their admiring looks and silent whistles with good-natured amusement, not offended, not affected or preening either.
'Can I take orders for dinner?' she asked, looking around, licking the tip of her chewed pencil, using an old notepad to take their orders. She was flushed from cooking, her simple cotton dress had sweat marks under the arm pits and her apron ribbons were undone. She was a mother figure whose curves and heavy breasts encouraged a man to trust her and to want her to cradle him in her lovely strong arms. And when they felt her softness, the desire for those breasts to break free, to be cupped and kissed, made Sissy, sweet Sissy the object of every man's desire. 'Salmon, Jugged hare, roast venison?' She could have said, 'I am free, I am obtainable, I am here for each one of you, I am the woman you dream of!'
The menu received a spontaneous round of applause that set every man laughing, as if knowing each other's minds. 'I'll have that!' Jimmy laughed louder than the others, giving Sissy a wink. 'Eh! Is the rest of him on the menu Gov?' Jimmy pointed to the massive stag's head, still being embraced by MacFarland. 'If it is, I'll have the jugged hare!'
MacFarland didn't seem to get the joke, or the fact that the entire menu was obviously poached. He was getting into a drunken state over his prized stag.
'I brought him down with one shot,' he slurred, misty-eyed with nostalgia bordering on the maudlin. 'They got a big 'un up at the Estate, three grand on his head for anyone lucky enough to get him… BUT, he's not a patch on my boy. I had him mounted in Edinburgh, nineteen fifty-five
Sissy came round taking their orders, getting a lot of smiles and compliments, then she crossed to Steve sitting on the fringe of the group. Steve hadn't taken his eyes off her since the moment she had entered.
'What would you like?' Sissy asked pleasantly and all the lads gave a cheer, knowing full well what Steve would like.
Steve gulped air, trying to speak, but nothing came out. The lads were already encouraging Macfarland for another round of his special malt, only Dillon watched Steve. He saw Sissy repeat her question, saw the deep flush come over Steve's face. Sissy thought Steve was just drunk, she said, 'You want the jugged hare?' and he nodded. Sissy went out, back to the kitchens. Busy in her roles as cook, waitress and receptionist she never gave Steve a second thought, but Dillon had seen his helplessness, his deep humiliation at being unable to reply to a simple query. In the old days there could have been competition, Steve would have been in like Flynn. Then he had it down to a fine art, the shy look from his wide beautiful eyes accompanied by a slow, sexy smile, and the toss of his thick black hair, had the women within seconds. The female species couldn't resist him. Now, dirty lank hair hanging over his flushed crimson face, and drunk, befuddled eyes gave no indication of what he had once been capable of as 'The Puller'; all he could do now was stare helplessly into his whisky glass. It was empty. Dillon placed a fresh glass in front of Steve, rubbed his head, and returned to the lads at the bar. He turned back. Steve was looking at him and it was to Dillon that he gave one of his smiles, as he mouthed, 'Thanks Mate.'
Wearing her best outfit, fresh lipstick and Boots' pale peach eyeshadow, Susie Dillon stood at the waist-high counter of Marway MiniCabs, nervously clutching a Sainsbury's carrier-bag of groceries. She hadn't realised till now (Marway hadn't struck her as a foreign name, when she'd noticed the ad in the evening paper) that Mr Marway was Indian, or Sikh, or something – anyway he wore a turban, and had a small pointed beard. Not that it mattered. A job was a job.