I pointed him down. He sat, then lay on his stomach watching Mac and me as we readied ourselves. ‘Get that hammer under the front seat,’ I told him. He grabbed it off the dash, stashed it away. ‘The powder – get it over.’ He opened the glovebox, made space among the petrol receipts and empty Smints boxes Debs stored in there. I passed over the speed and gave him a nod of recognition. We opened doors, got out and started to cross the road. A cold haar blew off the sea – felt like we’d be encased in ice in seconds. I remembered Shir Shean’s advice from The Untouchables and stamped my feet: made no difference, but set Mac off. ‘What you doing?’ ‘Stamping out the cold. It’s the haar.’ ‘Hardy-haar . . . Don’t be daft, you look mental. Want us lifted?’ The smell of frying onions came wafting our way from a burger van. Bloke inside looked out and nodded. He was after the goss on the police visit, or maybe a quick sale. I fired him back a friendly wave: ‘Something smells good.’ A bloody lie, but thought he might be useful to me at some point.
