Designer Crime

by Allen Whitehead

  'He'd fucking kill me – or worse!'

  'Well, then. Get far away from here, as soon as possible.'

  Hooded and with his hands bound, Johnston was pushed out of the door and manhandled up the hill to the track, where Paul's Kia stood. He shivered as Joe opened a back door and tipped him in.

  'I'll stay here with him while you sort the hut,' said Joe.

  'No, I'll come back later and clean it up thoroughly.' Paul said, going round to the driver's door. 'I'll also make sure that he hasn't left any evidence of his stay.'

  He fired up the engine, turned the car in the entrance to a field, and headed down the icy track towards the coast. Once on the A1, Paul drove towards Edinburgh, then turned off to Tranent and from there back towards the Lammermuir Hills. They climbed out of Gifford and found that the road surface had not been gritted and, although the morning mist was starting to clear, there were thick patches in the hollows. Paul had to drive carefully, looking out for patches of black ice. Two hundred metres before they reached the Whiteadder Reservoir, he turned north on to a single track road and, a mile along it, he pulled off into a small hollow beside a stream – a place popular with families out for a picnic in the summer. Rab Johnston was dragged out of the car and Joe fixed a cable tie around his right wrist. He then used a second cable to clip the first to the top wire of a sheep fence. Finally, he cut through the ties that bound his hands together.

  'If you're lucky, someone will give you a lift when you get to the main road. It's about a mile south – turn left when you get up on to the wee road. I'm leaving a pair of wire cutters near your feet,' said Joe, dropping them on the frosty grass. 'Good luck!'

  He turned and ran to the car that Paul had left ticking over. A puzzled and panic stricken Rab Johnston tore at the hood with his left hand, managing to get it off, but only just in time to see the silver car disappearing into the thinning mist.

  * * *

  Also that morning, Detective Sergeant June Rushforth sat behind the wheel of an unmarked grey Vauxhall Insignia in Kingston upon Hull. The car was parked in King George's Dock, close to the disembarking ramp for ferries, and sitting beside her was Detective Constable Peter Fletcher. They had driven down from Edinburgh the day before,spent the night in a budget hotel, and had taken up their position at seven o'clock. The ferry from Zeebrugge was not actually due until half past eight, but they couldn't take the risk of it arriving early, and have to explain to Chief Superintendent Graham why they had missed their target.

  'You don't think it's just a wild goose chase, then Sarge?' Fletcher asked.

  'You never know, but the Chief seems convinced that the stuff on the laptop is genuine.'

  'It's almost too good to be true. That's why I think it could be a wind-up. I mean “Yoda and the Jedi” - really!'

  'Yeah, I know what you're saying,' nodded Rushforth. 'and the little old lady who dropped it off at Waverley Station – do you think she might be Yoda, or maybe she could be “the Godmother”?'

  'Head of the Edinburgh Jedi mafia?' chuckled Fletcher.

  He poured them both a mug of coffee from a flask, and they watched a watery sun as it rose, casting a flickering shaft of light over the choppy water in the dock.

  * * *

  On board the Pride of Bruges Ferry, Jimmy McNeil was feeling irritable. The night before, he had eaten a large meal and drunk more duty free alcohol than he had intended, and the crossing into the North Sea had been bumpy. He hadn't actually been seasick but he felt distinctly queasy.

  'I'll be bloody glad to get off this thing,' he said, staring out of the window at the grey waves.

  'It shouldn't be long now, Jimmy,' said Gary Bow, who always felt uneasy in McNeil's company. 'I think they'll be allowing us to go down to the hold soon.'

  The large vessel slowly eased itself into it's berth and the steel cargo door was lowered on top of the concrete ramp.

  'You drive first, Gary. My guts are still churning like a fucking cement mixer.'

  'No bother,' replied Bow, climbing up behind the wheel.

  There were a dozen more HGV's in the hold ahead of them, and it took another ten minutes before he was able to start the engine and leave the ship. The eight tons panel van rolled through the cargo door, down on to the slipway, and up the ramp towards the exit. A customs official indicated for them to move into an inspection area and walked to the driver's window.

  'Morning, Gary, how are you doing?'

  'Oh, Hi, John. Not bad, we've had a good trip this time. Spent last weekend on the piss in Bucharest.'

  'Lucky you. I spent last weekend in Grimsby! Some folks have all the luck. Not got Rab with you this time?'

  'No, he's off sick – suffering with a bad back.'

  'Poor bugger. I slipped a disc once and it was murder. Can you open up the back for us?'

  'Sure,' said Gary, climbing down from the cab. 'We've got a load of flat-pack furniture this time, and some boxes of electrical equipment – battery chargers and digiboxes, I think.'

  McNeil remained in the cab while Gary opened up the rear doors. The man from HMRC climbed inside and made his way towards the back of the van, taking a cursory look around. Following after him, Gary passed an envelope into his hand. The man slipped it inside his shirt without a word. He climbed back down to the concrete apron and nodded to Bow.

  'See you later, then.'

  'Aye, you will indeed. Bye, John,' Gary said, as he got back up behind the steering wheel. 'We'll be back down in a couple of weeks.'

  As the truck rolled out of the dock, he didn't notice the grey Vauxhall pull out from the kerb and follow, two cars back.

  In the passenger seat of the car, Detective Constable Peter Fletcher was speaking into the short wave radio. 'Target on the move and we're following. I'll keep you updated on our location, so stay alert.'

  A mile away, in a car park, Detective Constables Alastair Campbell and David Alexander were sitting in a dark blue Ford Focus. They stirred and sat up.

  'Looks like we're on, Dave,' said Campbell stretching. 'Let's hope we get a result. I think June's hoping for a promotion from this one.'

  'Inspector?'

  'Aye, it's on the cards. She's been pushing for it..'

  * * *

  The GTS truck rolled through the dock hinterland and into a large, run-down, industrial estate.

  'Come on Gary, put your foot down. We haven't got all day,' growled McNeil, his stomach still churning. 'And the fuckers in the back better not have made a mess. Once, I came over on the ferry, when it had been rough, and a wee lass had pissed, shit and puked all over herself and the rest of the bunk space. I wouldn't let her get out until she'd cleaned it all up. She had to use a tee shirt out of her bag.'

  'You're all heart, Jimmy.'

  'Well, I wasn't going to clean it up for her ... was I?'

  'I usually let them ride in the back after they've been to the bog. That's okay isn't it, Jim?'

  'Aye, I used to do the same. We'll give them the sandwiches and the bottles of water you got on the ferry. They can have a few minutes to stretch their legs – then we're off again. I want to get my head down, for a couple of hours, then I'll take over the driving for a while.'

  Bow drove through an open gate, in a rusty chain link fence, towards a dilapidated warehouse, and pulled up in front of a large roller shutter. McNeil climbed down, unlocked and opened a steel faced pass-door, and went in. Inside, the walls were covered with graffiti, and the floor was strewn with fragments of glass and debris from cables, that had their plastic covers stripped and their copper cores stolen. He switched on the electrical power and punched a button to activate the shutter. The big door slowly opened and he waved to Gary to drive the truck inside.

  Further along the street, Detective Sergeant Rushforth was starting to panic. 'Where the hell are Campbell and Alexander? They'll have the truck inside in a minute. Tell them to get here now, Fletch!'

  'Target stationary at warehouse in Ferry Road, state your position,' snapped Fle
tcher.

  'Sorry Sarge, we've been stuck behind an HGV. He missed his turn and it took him a while to turn round. We'll be with you in two minutes.'

  As the GTS truck moved past him into the warehouse, McNeil noticed, for the first time, the grey Vauxhall outside the fence.

  'Fucking hell, Gary, cops! Get them out of the van!' he shouted.

  He smacked the button again and the roller shutter began to drop.

  'Shit, they've spotted us, Fletch. We can't wait, we're going in there!'

  'The door's closing Sarge. We'll never get under it!'

  'Oh, shut up!' screamed Rushforth as she gunned the accelerator.

  Tyres spinning, the car sped towards the warehouse, where the shutter was half-way closed. She braked hard and skidded to a stop, as the shutter dropped slowly on to the bonnet. It pressed down for a second, then the safety mechanism kicked in and it began to open again.

  'You can open your eyes now, Fletcher.' Rushforth snarled. 'Get your arse inside and make an arrest!'

  The two detectives jumped out of the car and, ducking under the shutter, ran inside as the blue Focus, lights flashing, screeched to a halt outside. In the cab of the truck, Gary Bow had opened the hatch into the concealed space and the five people inside slowly clambered out. They looked puzzled, disorientated and scared – four women in their late teens or early twenties, although one looked as if she were only around sixteen, and a teenage boy.

  'Get down,' Fletcher called to Bow. 'You're under arrest!'

  'Where's the other driver?' shouted Rushforth.

  'Which other driver?' Detective Constable Campbell said, as he joined his colleagues beside the truck.

  'There were two of them ... Where's the other guy?' she screamed at Gary Bow.

  'Dunno ... I thought he was behind me,' he said, looking around.

  'He's done a runner ... find him!'

  Detectives Campbell and Alexander raced to the back of the warehouse and began searching the former offices, canteen and toilets. They soon discovered an open fire exit, but outside there was no sign of McNeil. They went back to the truck.

  'Sorry, Sergeant,' said Campbell meekly. 'There's a fire door. He got out through it. He could be anywhere, 'cos the fence at the back is all broken down.'

  'Of course there's a bloody fire door, you muppet! ... If you'd been here, you could have been covering it. We were supposed to get them all. The Chief Super will have our guts for garters!'

  * * *

  Frank Mannion was eating toast with his boiled eggs, while watching breakfast television, when he was disturbed by a loud thumping on the front door. He got up and walked into the Hall. Upstairs, Cheryl came out of the bathroom, bleary-eyed, her long blonde hair looking like a cornfield after a gale.

  She leaned over the balustrade. 'Who's making all that racket, Frank?'

  'I don't bloody know, do I? .... I'm just on my way to find out!'

  He opened the door to find four police officers standing there, and a silver Volvo estate car, with blue and yellow panels, blocking the drive. The flashing lights on top of the car blinded him for a few seconds, before one of the officers at the front of the group stepped forward, holding a sheet of paper.

  'Frank Mannion?'

  'Yeah?'

  'We'd like you to come with us down to the station at the Pleasance, sir ... You're under arrest Mr Mannion, and I have to caution you that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand, sir? … Also, this is a warrant for these two officers to search this property.'

  'Who is it, Frank?'

  'Shut up, Cheryl. And go and put some clothes on,' he shouted ... 'What the hell's this all about?'

  'We think you can help us with our enquiries, sir – into human trafficking and slavery, extortion and money laundering for starters. We may want to discuss some other serious matters, later.'

  'I don't know what the hell you're talking about.'

  'Is Mr Mark Mannion at home as well, sir.'

  'No. I don't think he came home last night.'

  'Very well. We'll catch up with him later. Now, if you'd like to get your coat?'

  Two of the officers escorted him to the car. Behind it, a small crowd of onlookers had gathered in the street.

  'You lot can fuck off, as well!' Mannion shouted, as a hand came down on his head and he was pushed into the back seat.

  * * *

  McNeil climbed over a fence into the yard of a Builders Merchant. The top edge of the chain link fence tore his hands, but he ignored the pain and ducked down behind some pallets of bricks. He waited until all of the police officers were inside the warehouse, then picked up a length of plastic drain pipe and carried it towards the road. When he was around fifty metres from the gate, he dropped the pipe, walked quickly to the road and away. He was relieved that he was wearing his jacket because, in his pocket, he still had his wallet. The chill in the morning air, together with generally feeling unwell, had persuaded him put the jacket on, so, although the bag containing his spare clothing was still in the truck, he did have money. He made his way towards the railway station, stopping only once for coffee and a doughnut as he felt his appetite return.

  As soon as he had bought a ticket, he found a seat on a quiet platform and switched on his mobile phone. There were several missed calls from Antonelli.

  He pressed reply. 'Mario, it's Jimmy,' he said quietly.

  'Jimmy, where are you man? I've been trying to get hold of you'

  'I know. I've just switched the phone on.'

  'Me and Shane – we've been down to the Granton yard. It's swarming with cops.'

  'Doesn't surprise me,' said McNeil grimly. 'They were waiting for us, when we got off the ferry, as well.'

  'I called Frank, Jim, a few minutes ago, but someone else answered it so I hung up.'

  'Listen carefully, Mario. We've got to assume it's all over ... for now. They've probably got Frank, Mark and the others, and they'll have descriptions and photo's out for us too – so cover yer tracks. I'm not coming back to Edinburgh – for a while anyway.'

  'Where are you going, man?'

  'I've got some contacts in Newcastle. I'm pretty sure they'll take me in. I'm not known to the cops there.'

  'Well good luck, Jimmy. Shane and me – we'll go back to Paisley.'

  'Aye, well, there's a couple more things, before you hang up ... First – yer still using the pay-as-you-go mobile, aren't you?'

  'Yeah.'

  'Well, after you hang up, strip out the SIM card and get rid of it. Get yerself another, and then call, to give me the number – and then don't call me again, except in an emergency. Got it?'

  'Got it, Jim.'

  'Second – That fucker Johnston took my cash and didn't turn up to do the driving. See if you can find him for me.'

  'Okay.'

  ' And last – you ken you were looking for a guy – that time when Pit Bull stuck the boot into a little woman. The one who tried to put yer eye out?'

  'Yeah, we were looking for an architect guy called Joe Sutherland.'

  'Aye, that's the one. I've got this feeling that him and his mates are at the back of all our recent fucking troubles. I'd really ... really like to get hold of him, and have a quiet fucking chat with him!'

  'Right, Jim.'

  'Aye, so, when you think things have died down a bit, see if you can find out his whereabouts. There'll be more than a drink in it for the two of yer.'

  * * *

  The pavement in George Street was full of people heading to work when the squad car pulled up outside Carlo's Casino. Four plain clothes detectives got out and the first one up the steps hammered on the door. Ross Shaw opened it and looked quizzically at the men standing there.

  'We're police officers,' said the leader holding up his warrant card. 'I'm D.I. Falconer. We're looking for Carlo Gratz – is that you?'

 
'Er, no ... He's in his office at the back.'

  'Show us, please, sir.'

  Shaw closed the door behind them, as Jonny McLean approached.

  'Who's this Ross?'

  'Cops. They want to talk to Carlo.'

  They led the way through the gaming hall to the offices at the back, passing two cleaners who watched wide-eyed as they went by. Carlo was sitting behind his desk, typing on the keyboard of a laptop. He looked up in surprise as the six big men came in.

  'Carlo Gratz?'

  'Yes ... that's me.' he replied, guardedly.

  'We'd like you to accompany us to the Police Station, sir. We're presently investigating a possible case of money laundering and we think you may be able to help us with our enquiries.'

  'I don't know what you're talking about,' Carlo said, shrugging. 'This is a perfectly legitimate business – a Casino and I can assure you that all the necessary licences are paid and up to date. Why am I under arrest?'

  'You're not under arrest, sir,' replied the detective. 'We'd just like to ask you some questions, at this time.' He paused and pulled out a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. ' I have to advise you, however, that we also have a warrant to search these premises, so we require the keys to the filing cabinets and the safe.'

  'What! No ... no … it's not possible.'

  'I assure you, sir, that it is ... Now, shall we do this the easy way – or the hard way?

  * * *

  Chapter 23 March

  Paul looked up at the sound of the car's engine. He was using a spanner to remove the bolt beside the stove that fixed the chain to the floor of the shepherd's hut.

  'Damn it,' he said to himself, recognizing the Land Rover belonging to Charles Warner, his friend who owned the hut.

  He worked feverishly to unscrew the bolt, glancing up to keep an eye on Charles, who parked his car behind Paul's, got out and began walking down the field towards the hut.