Designer Crime

by Allen Whitehead

  'No George – not surprised,' said Fraser smugly. 'We knew about it before your mate did!'

  'I don't understand?'

  'We arranged it, didn't we?'

  'Who ... how?'

  'Me and Neil and Joe. We fitted Smythe up – he's been done up like a kipper!'

  'But ... but how did you do that?'

  Fraser tapped his nose, winked and smiled. 'Well, keep it to yourself, George eh? We got hold of a packet of cocaine, stuffed some of it up his nose and, while he was high as a kite, organized a car accident and arranged for him to be found behind the wheel – not bad eh?'

  George frowned. 'Sounds very risky to me!'

  'Nah. It was a good laugh – we knew what we were doing.'

  An hour later, Paul burst into the basement studio where Joe and Fraser were working. His eyes were blazing with anger.

  'George has just told me that you two were somehow involved in Smythe getting arrested by the police! Tell me it isn't true?'

  Joe looked up in surprise and turned to Fraser who reddened.

  'Well, I'm not sorry about it,' he protested. 'We decided we'd get revenge for what he did to Keith.'

  'Why didn't you mention it to the rest of us?'

  'We didn't want anyone else to get involved. Thought you'd prefer to keep out of it.'

  George came in followed by Liz and Neil.

  'I thought we'd all agreed that the casino robbery was a one-off, and that the police probably wouldn't get to hear of it because Carlo is a crook himself?' Paul asked.

  'Yes,' butted in George. 'you've put us all at risk now!'

  'I don't see how we have,' said Neil, shaking his head. 'We've just hit back at a nasty piece of work who's now going to get his come uppance. I would have thought you'd be pleased.'

  'I'm not annoyed that Smythe's been arrested,' said Paul. 'I'm just pissed off that we weren't told what you were planning to do before you did it.'

  'Sorry, Paul,' Joe said standing up. 'We did realize there were risks that something could go wrong. We thought it would be best if no-one else was implicated.'

  'Smythe doesn't know who has stitched him up,' added Neil. 'He never got to see our faces.'

  'Well I'm not apologizing for what we did,' added Fraser. 'Smythe didn't give a damn about us, or Keith, and he'll be even more sorry soon, because we've promised Maddie and Ana that he'll be made to pay more!'

  'Who's Maddie and Ana?' asked Paul, horrified.

  'Madalina – you know – Keith's girlfriend,' Joe explained. 'She's the one who got the cocaine for us. And while we had him at our mercy, we arranged some compromising photographs of Smythe with her friend Ana. They're both illegal immigrants. They need money to get the gang who trafficked them off their backs. We think that Smythe will pay to keep the photo's from his wife.'

  George looked aghast. 'This is getting even worse. I think you are crazy! You're putting us all at risk to help a couple of hookers?'

  'We're committed,' said Joe firmly. 'I got involved in it to help Fraser get revenge for Keith's death ... but you don't know Madalina or Ana. They are not “just a couple of hookers”, they're really brave, unfortunate women who have got themselves trapped, and now I'm going to go through with what we've promised, whether you like it or not.'

  'Me too,' said Neil, 'and I can promise you we'll make sure that CAT Architects, and everyone else on the staff, don't get implicated or involved in any way if it goes pear-shaped.'

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, the postman delivered a small package to Henry Smythe's penthouse flat in Holyrood Road. Ever since he'd been released by the police on bail, he'd slept badly, and he was still dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown. As soon as he had closed the door, he tore open the plain brown paper wrapping. Inside he found a small box containing three photographs of himself and Ana, a pay-as-you-go mobile phone, a cheap daysack and a printed note.

  Smythe – You've got five days to get £50,000 in used notes.

  Put it in the rucksack and await further instructions.

  Next Friday morning take the rucksack and walk to the Grassmarket.

  We'll call you on the mobile to tell you what to do next.

  If you fail to do it, contact the police or any of your friends, mark the notes or put a tracking device in the bag – Barbara will be sent photos and a copy of the video.

  Another will be sent to Peter Stafford.

  He looked at the digital images and gulped. They left nothing to the imagination. Barbara would never believe that he wasn't a willing participant. She didn't have a forgiving nature and her father would destroy him. He sat down heavily and put his head in his hands, seeing all of his life and plans turning to dust.

  * * *

  Chapter 12 November

  On Friday morning, Smythe woke early having slept fitfully. The Court had granted him bail, in advance of an appearance in the Sheriff Court, in three weeks time, and it weighed heavily on his mind. He took a quick shower, but didn't feel like eating breakfast, and he dressed slowly, looking out of storey-height windows at Arthur's Seat looming out of the mist in the early morning darkness. He normally liked the view of the hill and Salisbury Crags, but today it seemed ominous.

  He dressed in what to him was casual clothing – chinos, a Shetland wool sweater over a white linen shirt and hand-stitched leather shoes – then he sat down and watched early morning joggers, running around the foot of Arthur's Seat, as dawn broke and the daylight increased. The note hadn't instructed him on when he was supposed to leave, so he waited until nine o'clock and then picked up the mobile phone, which had been on charge overnight. He put on a navy blue Crombie overcoat and, slinging the cheap rucksack over his shoulder, stepped out into Holyrood Road.

  It was a chilly autumn morning and he shivered as he headed uphill, towards the traffic lights at the foot of St. Mary's Street. Neil, who had a window seat in a small cafe, saw him pass and quickly put down his newspaper. He waited for several seconds then unhurriedly headed for the door. He hung back when he saw Smythe waiting for the lights to change, before crossing into Cowgate, then he followed at a distance.

  'The courier's got the package and he's on his way,' he said into a mobile phone. 'I'll let you know when he reaches the first depot.'

  'Great, I'm ready and waiting,' answered Fraser.

  Cowgate runs like a steep-sided canyon through to the Grassmarket below Edinbugh Castle. Many of the buildings on either side rise up for five or six storeys, some having their principal access on the roads that cross above – South Bridge and George IV Bridge – known collectively by the townsfolk as “the Bridges”. Neil watched Smythe walk the length of Cowgate into the Grassmarket, an area below the massive volcanic plug on which the Castle was built. It is an informal and irregular space, very popular with tourists, and it contains cafes, budget hotels, restaurants, boutique clothing and quaint specialist shops, as well as many pubs including the 'Last Drop' – a reference not to draining a glass, but the time when the Grassmarket was the city's place for public executions.

  Neil went into a cafe, ordered coffee, and sat close to the window where he had a good view of Smythe, who stood near the centre of the space, anxiously looking around. The agreement was that he would be left standing for fifteen minutes, to ramp up the pressure and check that he didn't contact anyone.

  As soon as the fifteen minutes had passed, Neil called Fraser again. 'Okay to send him on his way.'

  'Will do' said Fraser, who was sitting close by in a Pizza Express, on the ground floor of an Hotel at top of Victoria Street, which curves steeply up for a couple of hundred metres from the Grassmarket to George IV Bridge.

  On both sides of the street, shops were opening in expectation of a busy early trade, even though it was a damp Friday in November. Neil saw Smythe reach into his pocket and take out the phone. After a brief conversation, he quickly looked around him then began to walk towards Victoria Street. As he turned the corner, a man came fast from the opposite end of the squa
re. He seemed in a hurry and was carrying a camera with a large telephoto lens.

  'The courier's got support – a little guy in one of those long Australian raincoats. He's got a big camera.'

  'Okay, thanks – I'll look out for him.'

  At the top of Victoria Street is an upper level walkway – an arcade popular with visitors and frequently used by film crews using Edinburgh's Old Town as a setting for tv and cinema films. Across the road from the junction is the imposing stone facade of the National Library of Scotland. Smythe arrived at the junction then stopped, unsure what to do. The phone in his hand rang again.

  'If you've reached the top of the street, cross the road to the National Library,' Fraser said, watching him through the window close by.

  He turned his head quickly, to face back into the cafe, though, when he saw John Young hurrying up the street. He held his breath, hoping that he hadn't been noticed, but he needn't have worried. The Project Manager, red-faced and breathless from his brisk walk up the hill, had eyes only on Smythe.

  Back down in the Grassmarket, Neil had left the cafe and was standing on the pavement as Joe, who had been waiting outside the Art College in Lauriston Place, came towards him. He was on a racing bike, splendid in tight black and red lycra, and wearing a helmet and sunglasses with mirror lenses. He nodded to Neil as he passed.

  'Head towards Chambers Street and the Museum' said Fraser softly into the phone.

  Smythe turned and began walking again. John Young, across the street from Smythe, also set off, keeping his distance.

  'Stop,' instructed Fraser as Henry Smythe reached the southern corner of the Library.

  Young also immediately stopped and, pretending to be a tourist, began taking photographs of the nearby buildings.

  'Okay, now … turn and drop the rucksack over the balustrade.'

  Looking round, Smythe noticed that he was standing beside the ornate stone balustrade of George IV bridge over Cowgate. He turned and looked across the road, towards John Young, with an anguished expression on his face.

  'Do it now!' commanded Fraser.

  Smythe's face fell, but obediently he lifted the small rucksack to the top of the shoulder-height balustrade, pulled back his arms and threw it into the air. It sailed over the wide stonework and fell down the three storeys into the canyon of the street below, narrowly missing a man and his wife walking on the pavement underneath.

  'What the hell! ... ' the man exclaimed, jumping backwards. He bent forward and picked it up.

  'That's mine!' shouted Joe as he swooped towards them. He reached out for the bag.

  'Says who?' said the man, snatching it away from him.

  Joe jumped off the bike. 'It's mine,' he repeated, reaching out for it again.

  'Bugger off,' the man said, and he started to open the top of the bag.

  'I don't have time to discuss it with you,' Joe snapped. He slid forward and punched the man quickly in the chest, grabbing the bag as he staggered, slumping back against the wall.

  'Hey, what do you think you're doing!' screeched the man's wife.

  Before anyone else could react to what had happened, Joe had jumped back on the bike and pedalled away down the hill, turning quickly up Blackfriars and into Canongate. In the street above, Young raced across the road, dodging the cars and joined Smythe.

  'What happened?' he asked breathlessly. 'I thought you were going to leave the bag somewhere, and I was supposed to get a shot of whoever collected it?'

  Smythe shrugged, resignedly. 'That's what I thought was going happen. It didn't though. They told me to chuck it off the bridge!'

  Fraser smiled and ordered another coffee – his third of the morning. Then he took out the mobile phone to call Neil one more time, before he opened the back of it and removed the SIM card.

  * * *

  Seamus Cormack stretched and smiled smugly, looking like the cat that had got the cream. He got up from the table, accompanied by a man who had been sitting beside him, and scooped together the pile of chips in front of him.

  'Cash these in for me, will you, Ron?' he said with a wide grin. 'and join me in the bar.'

  He nodded to the others seated around the table, tossed a couple of chips to the croupier and headed to the bar for a final drink. A smiling Carlo sauntered over and joined him.

  'It looked like you were having a good evening, Seamus?' he said.

  'Hi Carlo. Yes, pretty good. I've been at the poker table and the cards were running well for me. I'm up on the night, and it makes a change for me to come out on top.' He laughed and punched Carlo lightly in the shoulder. 'Daylight robber so you are! Here, let me buy you a drink – out of my winnings.'

  'Ah, Seamus. It's people like you who make life difficult for me. Running a casino like this isn't as easy as you might think – we get times when we lose more than we'd like. I mean, take your friend Henry – he's done pretty well when he's been with us. Come to think of it, though, I haven't seen him in here for a couple of weeks. He's not sick, I hope?'

  'You mean Smythe? Stupid bastard. Sure, he's only got himself arrested hasn't he?'

  'Arrested?' Carlo looked amazed. 'You're joking surely. What on earth has he done?'

  'You haven't heard? He smashed his Beamer into some parked cars – not far from here. High on cocaine, so he was!'

  'Coke? I'm astonished, Seamus. He didn't look at all like a drug user to me.'

  'Nor me. He always seemed completely in control of himself. A bit old-fashioned, I thought. I never suspected a thing. Silly bugger. And he had so much stuff on him, that the cops are going to charge him with dealing. They say he had around a hundred grams on him, and they tell me that's far too much for just personal use.'

  'I'm staggered – it just goes to show. You can never tell.'

  'No – and he's bloody well let me down, too, so he has. I could still do with his help. Anyway that's my problem – what are you having?'

  'Thank you, Seamus, but these are on me – I insist ... Robert, get the usual for Seamus and Ron, and I'll have a single malt.'

  Ron Davies joined them, handing Seamus a thick bundle of notes.

  'Thanks, Ron. We'll just have this last drink and then you can call the taxi. I'm meeting a couple of people on Luffness golf course first thing tomorrow morning.'

  As soon as the two had left the casino, Carlo rushed quickly to his office and picked up the phone.

  'Frank – it's Carlo.'

  'Yeah?'

  'You said you wanted to know if anything unusual happened.'

  'Yeah. Something come up?'

  'I'm not sure, Frank, but it's this guy, Henry Smythe. Friend of a friend. Seems he's been arrested in possession of a bag of coke. Quite a lot, 'cos the cops are charging him with dealing drugs as well as dangerous driving. He'd had a car accident ... Thing is, though, I told one of my girls to offer him some stuff, a few weeks ago, and she said that he turned her down flat. Said he wouldn't touch drugs with a barge pole!'

  'Oh? That's interesting. Thanks for the tip-off, Carlo. I'll get the boys to do some ferreting around and see what we can find out about what he's been getting up to.'

  * * *

  After work, Neil, Fraser and Joe met for a drink in the Barony Bar, a traditional alehouse in Broughton Street.

  Neil bought a round and they carried their pints to a quiet corner.

  'Did he pay up the full wack?' Fraser asked Joe.

  'Yeah. We got fifty grand. I didn't find anything else in the bag either but, as a precaution, I've dumped it in a litter bin near the Parliament building. If there is a tracker in it they might suspect one of the SNP members!'

  'Seemed to go well,' said Neil, taking a deep draught of the dark beer.

  'It did, but I was getting ready to dive for cover when I saw Jan Yang coming up the street,' Fraser laughed. 'He was puffing like a wee steam engine!'

  'I knew Smythe'd try something. He's too mean to hand over fifty thousand without trying to get back at us.'

  'His face was a
picture, though, when I told him to chuck the bag over the wall. He was mouthing like a fish out of water.'

  'I'll divvy up the cash tonight,' said Joe. 'We agreed that Maddie and Ana would get half, so I'm suggesting that we let them have twenty six thousand and we keep twenty four – eight grand each.'

  'I'm cool with that. We couldn't have done it without them.'

  'I agree,' nodded Neil. 'Little Ana in particular impressed me. She was just like an actor rehearsing – did her part then went home.'

  'Except she hasn't got a proper home to go to,' Joe added.

  * * *

  Billy McPhee (better known in North Edinburgh as Dipsy) left a council flat in Pilton and ambled off along a cycle path, that the Council had created on a long abandoned railway line. It was one of the places where drug users came to find him, if they needed to score. He was ungainly, tall and borderline obese, which made him appear to be even bigger, but his size belied a gentle nature. He had been bullied unmercifully when he had attended school, which wasn't very frequent, with the result that he left the system barely able to read and write. He had never had a job, and had taken over the tenancy of the Council flat when his elderly mother died. While she was alive, they had lived a hand-to-mouth existence, getting by on benefits and whatever Dipsy could acquire, and he continued this way of existence – usually by dealing drugs, some of which he used to feed his own habit.

  He shivered, pushed his long, greasy hair back from his eyes and zipped up his thin jacket. Further along the path he saw some teenagers heading his way, and as they got closer he recognized them. There were two boys, with pinched faces and hunted expressions, and a girl that he didn't really know and had only seen before on a couple of occasions. The boys were dressed in grey hooded tops and wore their baggy jeans hanging low from non-existent hips. The girl wore black tights under a denim micro-skirt, and an embroidered waistcoat. She had a face full of piercings.

  One of the boys approached him. 'Yo, man. How's it goin'?'

  'Hi, Tosh. What's up?'