by Daly, Bill
‘Switch off your mobiles, just in case the device is radio activated. I’d hate to go through the roof because one of your wives called to say your dinner was ready.’
‘Can we use walkie-talkies?’ Renton asked.
‘No problem – different frequency entirely.’
When McAteer and Craig reached the other side of Luss village they pulled into a lay-by and swapped over, McAteer taking the wheel.
‘What the hell were you thinking about – leading the cops to the caravan?’ Craig complained as he clipped on his seatbelt. ‘The last thing we need is the fuzz on the lookout for this car.’
‘It’s nothin’ to get worked up about. It’ll be hours before anybody finds him, an’ with a bit of luck he’ll be frozen to death by the time they do.’
‘Where was his car? I didn’t see it.’
‘Probably hidden in the trees.’
‘Odds-on there was someone else with him. He wouldn’t have followed you out here on his own. The cops are probably on the lookout for this car right now.’
‘Well, if it’s botherin’ you that much …’ They were on a straight stretch of road on the approach to Arden and McAteer started flashing his headlights at the dark green Renault in front of him. When the car slowed down, McAteer pulled alongside and rolled down his window to flag down the driver.
‘You’ve got a problem, pal!’ McAteer yelled, pointing towards the rear of his vehicle. The driver looked across in confusion as McAteer accelerated in front of him and, indicating left, pulled in at the side of the road. When the Renault tucked in behind McAteer got out of his car and walked back. The driver wound down his window and stuck his head out.
‘What’s the problem, Jimmy?’ he asked.
‘Your exhaust’s hingin’ off, pal. You’re about to lose it.’
‘Bloody hell!’ The driver got out and marched round to the back of his vehicle, McAteer following him. ‘I’ve just had this bloody car serviced,’ he complained. As he bent low to examine his exhaust McAteer brought the side of his hand slamming down in a rabbit punch on the nape of his neck. Lifting the unconscious body, he dropped it over a low hedge.
‘Get your gear,’ he shouted. Craig reached over to the back seat for his briefcase and anorak and hurried towards the Renault, McAteer getting into the driver’s seat and Craig climbing into the back.
On the approach to the city, Craig took a body harness from his briefcase and strapped it around his shoulders before lifting the Semtex carefully from his case and fitting it snugly inside the harness. Having tested the harness straps he tugged on his anorak.
McAteer drove across the city centre and made his way along Duke Street as far as Parkhead Cross, then cut across the junction into Springfield Road. When he saw the green and white structure of Celtic Park loom into view he pulled up outside The Oak Bar. ‘I’ll park round the corner and wait for you there,’ he said, indicating the empty parking bay he’d spotted in West Whitby Street. ‘Walk down to the bottom of the hill and turn right into London Road. You can’t miss it.’
‘Okay. We’ll meet you back here,’ Craig said, adjusting the straps of the harness under his anorak.
‘Are you sure you’ve got your ticket?’ McAteer asked.
Craig produced a match ticket from his inside pocket and examined it. ‘Cracking seat. Pity I won’t get to see the match.’
‘You could always stay for the first half,’ McAteer grinned.
‘You’ve got a lot more confidence in the accuracy of this timing device than I have,’ Craig said, tapping his anorak pocket. Craig produced a Celtic scarf from his case and wound it round his neck.
‘Never thought I’d see the day!’ McAteer guffawed. ‘What wouldn’t I give for a photo!’
‘If word got out I wouldn’t dare show my face in the Shankill Road ever again,’ Craig said as he got out of the car and slammed the door. Heading down Springfield Road, he turned into London Road where there were already a fair number of singing, flag-waving, can-swilling supporters walking past the school and drifting up the slope, past the Celtic Superstore, towards the stadium – the Irish tricolours heavily outnumbering the Scottish saltires. He moved at a brisk pace through the crowd and joined a short queue at a turnstile in front of the main stand. When he got inside the ground he made eye contact with a security guard leaning against the wall. Archie Glen nodded in recognition as Craig walked towards him. Their hands met, thumbs probing, fingers sliding past each other. Nothing was said as Glen limped along in front, dragging his club foot. When they arrived at the West Stand toilets there were several people using the urinals. Glen went into a cubicle with an out of order sign pinned to the door. Taking a long black coat from the door peg he slipped it on over his security guard’s uniform. ‘The cistern’s empty an’ the water’s turned off,’ he whispered as he came out. Craig nodded and went into the booth, bolting the door from the inside while Glen stood guard.
A drunk-looking figure, a dirty Celtic scarf draped around his shoulders, was slouched on the stairs leading down from the main stand. He slipped a miniature walkie-talkie from his pocket and concealed it in his fist as he connected with Charlie. ‘I’ve spotted Craig, sir,’ Renton whispered into his fist. ‘He and a bloke wearing a security guard’s uniform have just gone into the loos.’
Ten minutes later Craig and Glen emerged from the toilets and headed for a wooden door set into the red-brick stadium wall. Glen glanced over his shoulder to check they weren’t being observed before using his pass key to unlock the door. They stepped outside, Glen locking the door behind them.
Charlie’s walkie-talkie connected again. ‘Craig and his accomplice have just left the stadium.’
‘We’re not going anywhere in a hurry, Archie,’ Craig said, casually pulling a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offering it to Glen. ‘It would look odd if we were to be seen hurrying away from the ground.’ Taking out a book of matches he lit both their cigarettes. ‘Bugger!’ he exclaimed in a loud voice. ‘I promised Malky a scarf for his Christmas and I forget all about it. Do we have time to get one before kick-off?’ he asked, pointing in the direction of the Supporters’ Superstore.
Glen took his cue. ‘Sure,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’ Craig led the way down the slope.
Having gazed in the shop window for a few minutes, Craig tugged at Glen’s sleeve. ‘It’s time we were making ourselves scarce,’ he whispered. Moving against the flow of supporters they edged their way down towards London Road, Craig repeatedly calling out: ‘Any spare tickets, lads?’
‘I’ve got one for the North Stand.’ The voice came from the other side of the road, a man waving a ticket above his head.
‘We’re looking for two together, pal,’ Craig called back, continuing on his way. ‘Thanks all the same.’
McAteer was waiting for them at the pick-up spot in West Whitby Street. Ripping off the Celtic scarf, Craig spat on it and threw it over a low wall before climbing into the back seat of the Renault along with Glen.
‘Where to?’ McAteer asked.
‘Drop us off somewhere near Central Station, then dump this car.’
Charlie ordered his team into position at six-thirty and as soon as the toilets had been cleared he went inside with McIntyre and his dog. On McIntrye’s command, Sheena sat down, her head cocked to one side, her eyes never leaving her master. ‘Think they’re trying to give us a hint?’ McIntyre nodded towards the out of order sign pinned to a cubicle door.
‘Might be the break we need,’ Charlie said. ‘If that’s where the device has been planted it would make sense for them to discourage anyone from trying to use that booth.’
‘I’ll have a look.’ McIntyre twisted the handle slowly and eased open the cubicle door. ‘It’s probably in here,’ he said, carefully lifting the cover from the cistern and peering inside. ‘Bingo!’ His tuneless whistling of ‘Flower of Scotland’ as he examined the device did nothing to soothe Charlie’s nerves. Replacing the cister
n cover he came out of the cubicle. ‘It looks straightforward enough,’ he said, opening up his rucksack and taking out his blast-resistant protective clothing.’
‘How will you go about disarming it?’ Charlie asked as McIntyre was getting dressed.
‘With one of these.’ McIntyre pulled a two-foot long metal tube from the side pocket of his rucksack and showed it to Charlie. ‘This is what the army boys call a pigstick. Despite what you see in the movies, I’m not about to select a wire and snip it with a pair of cutters. For a start, I’m colour blind – and even if I wasn’t, the odds on picking the right wire aren’t all that great. With this little beauty,’ he said, holding up the pigstick, ‘I position it a few inches from the device and when I press the trigger it fires an explosive jet of water into the bomb which will disrupt the circuitry before the explosive material has time to detonate. At least, I think that’s what it says in the instructions.’ He handed the pigstick to Charlie. ‘Would you check that for me?’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
McIntyre grinned. ‘I’ve defused twenty-odd bombs in my time with one of these. So far, so good.’ He took the pigstick back. ‘I won’t need Sheena for this operation,’ he said, clicking his fingers to get the Labrador’s attention. He pointed at Charlie. ‘Sheena – go with him,’ he instructed, picking up the end of the leash from the floor and handing it to Charlie.
‘I want you well out of the road before I go in,’ McIntyre said as he was pulling on his helmet. ‘Go upstairs and wait at the far end of the corridor. If the device were to explode, the walls would tend to channel the blast vertically, so whatever you do don’t stand above the toilets.’
‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘Don’t take this personally, Inspector,’ McIntryre said with a wry smile as he lowered his visor. ‘It was Sheena I was worried about.’
Charlie felt the hairs on the back of his neck crawl as he wiped the palms of his clammy hands down the sides of his trousers. Sheena sat patiently by his side, ears pricked.
Fifteen minutes elapsed before McIntyre came up the staircase and walked along the corridor towards Charlie. He had changed back into his jeans and polo-necked sweater.
‘The Semtex is in here.’ He held up his rucksack. ‘Harmless as a baby.’ When he snapped his fingers Sheena trotted across to nuzzle into his hand.
‘Well done!’ Charlie exhaled noisily.
‘We have to be alive to the possibility of secondaries, Inspector. Not much point in disarming a device only to find it was a decoy and the mother-lode’s in an adjacent cubicle.’
‘I doubt if they’ll have gone to those lengths. They didn’t have a lot of time and I’m reasonably sure they don’t suspect we’re on to them.’
‘You’re probably right – this lot feels like seven kilos.’ McIntyre weighed his rucksack in his hand ‘But it won’t do any harm to have a quick butcher’s in the other booths, just in case. I’ll go back down now and do that. You can never be too careful in this line of work.’
‘I really don’t know how you do your job.’
‘Neither does my wife.’
Charlie made his way back to the directors’ hospitality suite. ‘Looks like it was a false alarm, gentlemen. Either that or the dealers got wind of the fact that we were on to them and called the operation off.’
‘No harm done, Inspector – apart from a few crossed legs, I imagine.’
Charlie forced a smile. ‘There is one thing I’d like you to do for me,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘Could you check if any of your staff are missing? We suspect that one of your security guards might have been in cahoots with the drug dealers and he might’ve taken off in fright when he saw the police presence.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you would give me a call me as soon as you have that information,’ Charlie said, writing down his mobile number and tearing the page from his notebook.
Sleet was starting to fall as Charlie and Colin Renton made their way down the slope, away from the stadium, to where they’d parked their car. Charlie turned up his coat collar and pulled his hat tightly down on his forehead to the accompaniment of the burgeoning chant of ‘Hail! hail! The Celts are here’ drifting down the hill. He turned back and gazed up at the freezing night air, shimmering in the iridescent floodlights. Beyond the lights the clouds were low, grey and menacing. ‘We’ll have to take their word for it that the Celts are here, Colin,’ he said, ‘but I can sure as hell vouch for the hail!’ Plunging his hands deep into his coat pockets he felt for his mobile. His numb fingers fumbled to switch it on and he saw he’d missed one call. When he checked the message he recognised his brother’s cheery voice: ‘This is Hugh, Charlie. I managed to get you a ticket for the South Stand. I’ll leave it in an envelope with your name on it at the players’ entrance – and I’ll let you buy me a pint after the match.’
With a wry smile, Charlie deleted the message.
‘The first minister is delighted with the outcome, Anderson,’ Chief Constable Turnbull announced. ‘He asked me to give you his personal congratulations.’
‘It’s Warrant Officer McIntyre who deserves the plaudits, sir. He did all the work.’
‘I’ll make sure that message gets passed on.’
‘How does that leave the situation with the undercover agent?’
‘He can hardly be held responsible for the fact that Craig cocked up the timing mechanism.’
‘Won’t their tame security guard be back in the morning, looking for the Semtex?’
‘A cleaner came across it – didn’t you know?’
Charlie furrowed his brow. ‘When?’
Turnbull looked at his watch. ‘Oh, in about an hour’s time, I reckon. Cleaning the toilets after the match, he’ll see something suspicious in one of the loos and inform the Parkhead management. It’ll be reported in the papers tomorrow as an attempted atrocity that backfired because of a faulty timing device.’
An ashen-faced Tom Freer stood in front of Charlie’s desk and explained what had happened.
‘In the name of Christ! What got into O’Sullivan?’ Charlie snapped. ‘Surely he knew what McAteer was capable of?’
‘I don’t really know, sir,’ Freer said. ‘He seemed determined to bring him in.’
‘You said there was someone with McAteer?’
‘Yes, sir. A smallish, bloke – I couldn’t see much more in the dark. He was carrying a briefcase.’
‘What’s the news from the hospital?’
‘Sergeant O’Sullivan’s got a broken nose, two cracked ribs and a nasty wound to his throat. He’s lost a lot of blood, but his life’s not in danger. They’ve got him under sedation.’
‘That’s all I need!’ Charlie grunted. ‘Hospital visits to fit into my schedule. Are you on duty tomorrow, son?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Be in my office at eight o’clock sharp. I’m going over to Bearsden for a chat with Mrs Harrison and I’d like you to tag along.’
Charlie felt his mobile start to vibrate in his jacket pocket. Pulling it out he took the call.
‘Inspector Anderson?’ the caller inquired.
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Frank Collins from Celtic Park. I’ve got the information you were looking for. One of our contract security guards, a guy called Archie Glen, turned up for duty before the game but he wasn’t present at the end of the match. He didn’t tell anyone why he was leaving.’
‘Do you have his address?’
‘Yes.’
Charlie tucked his phone under his chin and unscrewed the top from his fountain pen. ‘Fire away.’ Having noted the details, he thanked the caller.
Charlie called Turnbull’s mobile. ‘I’ve got the info you were looking for about the Parkhead security guard who went AWOL.’ He read out Glen’s name and address. ‘How you want to play it?’
‘Leave it with me. I don’t want to tread on any toes on this one. I’ll pass the informatio
n on to Special Branch and they can decide how they want to handle it.’
Sue swilled down her third tomato juice in the upstairs bar at the Ubiquitous Chip and tried Tony O’Sullivan’s mobile for the umpteenth time. There was still no reply. Getting to her feet she tugged on her coat and wrapped her scarf twice round her neck as she trudged down the tiled staircase. At the foot of the stairs she popped into the restaurant and asked the waiter to cancel the table for two booked in the name of O’Sullivan. Making her way down Ashton Lane she stopped on the corner of Byres Road and took out her phone to call home. ‘Amanda, it’s Sue. I’ll be home in about twenty minutes – get the Scrabble board ready. By the way, what kind of takeaway do you prefer – Indian or Chinese?’
‘What was the score?’ Kay asked as Charlie was stripping off his overcoat.
‘The score?’
‘Don’t try to kid me you were working,’ she said with a smile. ‘I know you were at Parkhead enjoying yourself.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Hugh phoned the back of six to say he’d managed to get you a ticket. I told him to call you on your mobile. Oh, don’t tell me he didn’t manage to get in touch with you?’
‘I had my phone switched off all evening, love.’
‘What’s the point in carrying it around with you if you’re not going to switch it on?’
‘Anyway, I was busy. I wouldn’t have had time for the match. Bit of bad news, by the way,’ he added as he draped his coat over the hallstand. ‘Tony O’Sullivan got on the wrong side of Billy McAteer and ended up in hospital.’
‘That’s terrible! Is he all right?’
‘Nothing life threatening, but bad enough. A broken nose and a couple of cracked ribs. He’s in the Southern General. I’m going over to see him in the morning.’
‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ Kay asked.
‘I certainly do. And a very big hauf to go with it,’ Charlie added with a heavy sigh.
