The Purple Contract

by Robin Flett

  Hollis was a while answering. Jordan could see him playing over the permutations in his mind. Deciding just how much he could say. Even more important, deciding what he wasn’t going to say.

  Finally, and grudgingly, he said. 'I'm not sure it's possible. For anyone.'

  'If it's possible for anyone, it's possible for you, Mike. You're the best there is: the best there's ever been.'

  'Crap!' snorted Hollis.

  'You're still alive, aren't you. What about Fasaad? Or Benson, or Wichetz, or that Armenian, what was his name?'

  'I don't remember.'

  'Neither does anyone else! They weren't good enough, Mike, and they're all dead.'

  'Wichetz just disappeared one day; he's probably hiding up somewhere.'

  ‘For three years? Anyway, you know what I mean.'

  'Yeah, yeah. The thing is, whoever pulls this off will never work again. He'll be too hot to touch: too big a risk.' Hollis finished off his beer in a gulp 'I've thought about it a lot, and not just this last few days. It's about time to buy the ranch, Dave. Put an end to it while I still can.'

  'Well, I'm sure you're pretty solvent!' Jordan commented wryly. He too had a bank account in Geneva.

  'At the rate money devalues these days? I hope to live to a ripe old age, I can't really say I like the idea of looking for a job!' The two men laughed at the thought of Hollis propping up a desk or selling vacuum cleaners. They looked at each other in silence for a time.

  'I can't turn it down, Dave,’ Hollis said morosely. ‘not that amount of money. But either way; win or lose, it will be the last one.'

  'A blaze of glory, eh?'

  'Or a tombstone...’

  Dave Jordan swallowed the last of his beer, putting the glass down and pushing it away from him across the wooden table. 'Ok, Mike, I'll pass the word on to my contact; tell them the job is on. Good luck, kid.'

  Like Hollis before him, Jordan had formed his own conclusions about the subject of the contract. And like his friend, he was wildly wrong. Quite a few prominent names came to his mind, but the possibility that anyone would actually make an attempt on the life of a member of the Royal Family he would have dismissed as ridiculous. It was an understandable conclusion, and one which was destined to be repeated elsewhere more than once in the coming months.

  'Better get going, I suppose.' Hollis was reluctant to move. He was enjoying the company, and the memories of happy times past.

  'Yeah, you're right. Damn good to see ya, Mike. You take care, hear?'

  'Sure thing.'

  Outside, Hollis shrugged into his jacket, wishing he hadn't left his coat in the car. It was a chilly night and the clearing sky foretold of another late frost before daylight. The two men were approaching the corner of the side-street where they had left Jordan's car when two youths emerged from a shop doorway in front of them. The knife blade glinted oddly yellow under the powerful sodium streetlights.

  'You wanna keep yer ears, then let's see your wallet!' The taller one sneered. He looked about eighteen, gangling and with a mere fuzz of hair growing back on the recently shaved scalp. Presumably he was dressed for what he imagined was "street-cred", but Hollis thought he more resembled an anorexic scarecrow.

  Dave Jordan noted that the other kid was waving his own blade with a lot less confidence––and well he might. He exchanged a glance with Hollis and heaved a sigh. 'This is a joke, right?'

  Scarecrow took a step closer. 'It'll be a real fuckin' joke when I cut yer fuckin' dick off!'

  Jordan hadn't appeared to move but his knees were slightly flexed, bringing his centre of gravity down to generate increased stability. Imperceptibly he was moving into the Wu Shu , literally “The Art of War”, the basic preparatory stance which provided a stable platform from which to defend or attack. Hollis sidled sideways, opening up the distance between him and his friend. They would both need some room shortly, this was going to turn out badly.

  'I think we'd better call it a joke, son. And we'll all go off home and laugh about it. Now get out of my way.' He spoke slowly and quietly and his eyes never left those of the youth now facing him a metre or so away.

  First and last warning.

  The thin sneering face twisted further and then his arm moved, sweeping the knife blade up and across. It may have been just an intimidating move, but it was his last. He was genuinely astonished to actually hear the double crack of first his wrist, instantly followed by his elbow breaking. After that it was just blinding pain and a red mist over his vision while he sagged against the shopfront, gagging as his metabolism reacted to the shock and the nausea began. The knife clattered, forgotten, on the cold concrete of the pavement.

  The other boy leapt at Hollis, waving the knife in a thoroughly amateurish fashion. Hollis stood his ground, blocking first the knife and then the swinging left arm. Two short hammer-fist blows over the youth's heart left him squirming on the ground, pale faced and gasping for breath. His knife skittered away into the gutter, falling silently down through the bars of a drain cover.

  Jordan kicked the second knife over the kerb to the same fate. 'Stupid bloody kids! Give them a pig-sticker and they think they're Genghis Khan!' He spat accurately into the drain, the action emphasising more acutely than any words his disgust and contempt. 'Christ, someone should take that piece of shit home and show it's goddamned parents what a magnificent job they did!'

  She had just wriggled out of the brief black panties and was enjoying the cool air from the open window on her bare skin when the phone rang. Peter Barron was tempted to leave it, but he knew the answering machine was not switched on and the damned thing would likely ring for ever. Still holding the scrap of black lace in one hand, he leaned over to pick up the phone with the other.

  'Hello?––Jesus, this is a lousy line!’ he muttered as a voice crackled and hissed in his ear.

  'What was that again? Ah...right.' He recognised Len Harrison's voice amid the mush. 'I can't talk right now, I'm afraid––' The redhead on the bed was playing with a bra strap with one hand, while the other––

  'What? Oh, I see,' Len Harrison’s voice chuckled weakly in his ear. 'Well give her one for me too! You don't have to talk––just listen. That bit of business has been successfully concluded. Say again, successfully! The price was agreed without question and I have to say I'm very impressed with their man. He'll do what we need done, no doubt about that at all. There are some other details I’ve been thinking about, but we can go into that when I return.'

  Barron felt his mouth go dry. He was aware of his increased heartbeat and the sweat that suddenly stood out on his forehead. 'You'll be back tomorrow?' he asked, frowning as the crackling assaulted his ears once again.

  'No, no. I have some more preparations to do here first. I'll call you again in a couple of days with the flight information and you can pick me up at the airport. There's a lot to discuss. Okay?'

  'Yes, right, will do. Hear from you later, then.'

  'Three or four days. See you.'

  Barron replaced the handset and stared at it blankly while his mind raced. He had thought this enterprise was about as likely as snow in Alice Springs but now it had become very real. Terribly real. His initial feeling was one of quite natural apprehension, and his belly crawled with nerves. But under the blind response of the organism reacting to the ancient stress reflex was a quiet exultation.

  The black bra landed across his shoulder and he felt the warmth of the 36D fabric against his face. He turned to look at the red-haired girl in her early twenties sprawled across his double bed. What would Australia be like when her generation were in charge? Wouldn't that depend on what his generation did now?

  Don’t let those English bastards get away with it.

  No, indeed.

  Al Hendry lowered the bonnet of the fifteen-year-old light blue Vauxhall Astra gently and snicked it closed. The car park behind the flats was deserted, and so it should be at two o’clock in the morning, but there was nothing to be gained by causing unnec
essary noise. ‘No alarm,’ he grunted.

  His brother Paul sniggered. ‘Who the fuck is going to put an alarm on this piece of shite? We’re doing him a favour taking it off his hands.’ He was flicking a screwdriver from one hand to the other.

  Al shook his head slowly. His brother was about as subtle as a toilet seat, would have just jumped in and started the thing up without a thought. Yes, all right, few people would install a theft alarm in a vehicle as old as this one, but if a bloody siren went off then it was on top, and they would have to do it all over again somewhere else.

  ‘This ancient piece of crap will fall to bits before we even get to Largs,’ Paul groused.

  ‘Not worth fighting with a new car, the anti-theft devices are getting to damned good. It’d take us forever just to get into one of them,’ Al said. ‘These old cars are a breeze, and this one’s in pretty good shape for its age. It’ll do fine’

  The screwdriver made short work on the ignition lock and the engine fired up with only minor reluctance.

  ‘Good as gold,’ Paul Hendry commented with some satisfaction. ‘Always liked this model. I used to have a red one, remember?’ They pulled out onto the road, heading for the M8 motorway.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Paul. ‘It was shite as well.’

  The following afternoon, the blue Astra was once again on the M8, this time heading west. The owner would have presumably reported it stolen by now, so the number-plates has been changed for those of a similar vehicle just an hour before. They would be changed again for the return trip later this evening. Damned police computers, all it took was for a traffic car to paint you on the ANPR system. The Automatic Number Plate Recognition computer would identify a stolen car instantly, and they would pull you for sure.

  Al Hendry was driving, with his brother in the side seat and Con Moloney and Les Stewart in the rear. He was obeying the speed limits and driving with care and attention. He did not want to draw attention to them, not now. He had even checked the tyres for legal wear and insisted they all wore seatbelts. Nothing to cause official interest. Just four pals out for a drive on a nice afternoon.

  Largs lies about 30 miles southwest from Glasgow, on the Ayrshire coast. A small town with viking heritage. The Battle of Largs took place on a stormy night in 1263, the vikings came off worst in this one, but by then their day was mostly past.

  The town began as a small village, little more than a church and a few houses. In the 19th century the town expanded, helped by the arrival of the railway in 1895. Eventually, it became fashionable to live in Largs, attracting wealthy merchants and others who sought to leave the grime and noise of Glasgow for the quieter pastures of north Ayrshire.

  The four found a chip shop, always a favourite, and ate their greasy meals from newspaper and cardboard cartons while sitting on cold steel benches near the harbour.

  ‘Bloody good chip shop, that!’ muttered Paul Hendry round another mouthful of fish supper.

  ‘Aye, a better class o’ grease for sure.’ Les Stewart preferred sausage to fish. ‘What time does our pal finish, then?’

  Moloney scrunched up his now-empty wrapper and aimed it at a waste-paper basket.’ Coconut!’ the newspaper ball disappeared without touching the sides.

  ‘Used to be good shows here,’ said Al Hendry, referring to the travelling fairground which moved from town to town in the summer. ‘They still do that here?’

  Shrugs all round.

  ‘My cousin says he’s usually out by half-eight, nine o’clock at the latest.’ He binned his newspaper wrapper in the same basket. ‘He might go home after that, or he may just head for Glasgow. Any road, he’s spending the night in the hotel up there.’

  Paul Hendry tried for three in a row and missed, his greasy ball rolled across the pavement and fetched up against the low wall. Hoots of derision from all sides.

  ‘Your penalty for missing, my son, is to go and fetch us a new numberplate,’ grinned Al.

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Plenty of quiet streets and car parks round here. Once they’re home for tea the cars won’t move again till tomorrow, so no-one will be bleating to the law before then.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’ commented Paul again. ‘Can we no’ all go?’

  ‘Oh yeah, all four of us mooching around looking at cars in a small town!’ Maloney was scathing. ‘Get us lifted in no time, that would.’

  Paul scowled at him.’ But––’

  ‘We’ll park up as near to Edwards’ office as we can, so we can watch the place,’ cut in Al. ‘Hide the new plates in the boot when you get back, we’ll change them on the way home.’

  ‘Bunch a’ bastards!’ Paul Hendry stood up and slouched off to the Astra, where he pocketed some tools. With a final wave of two fingers he crossed the street and disappeared.

  The boot lid clunked shut and Paul Hendry slipped into the rear seat alongside Les Stewart. ‘All done.’ He was in a much more cheerful mood, thieving really pepped him up.

  ‘Good,’ his brother grunted. ‘There hasn’t been any movement for over half an hour now. Can’t be anyone still in there with him, so it won’t be long.’

  Five minutes later Con Moloney patted Al on the shoulder and pointed. Keith Edwards was closing the door to his office, an ex-shop in a side-street near the town centre. They watched him lock the door, pull down a grill and lock that too.

  ‘Christ, you’d think this was the Bronx or somethin’!’ commented Stewart.

  ‘Aye, you’d almost think there might be thieves about!’ said Al Hendry.

  They all sniggered.

  Al waited for the MP to walk round the corner. There was no car parked outside his office, so it was obviously elsewhere.

  ‘There’s a car-park round the back there,’ pointed out Paul, ‘I came through it on the way back.’

  ‘Right, we’ll move round to the main road and pick him up on the way out of town or wherever.’ Al started the car.

  They parked at the side of the road two minutes later to wait. Five minutes passed––and then ten.

  ‘Jesus! Where’s he gone then?’ Paul was getting jumpy. ‘We’ve missed him!’

  ‘We haven’t missed him,’ said Moloney. ‘He has to come this way and we were here first.’

  A dark coloured car turned on to the road behind them. ‘That’s the car-park!’ said a relieved Paul Hendry.

  ‘Here he comes, keep a low profile, all of you.’ Al slumped down in his seat and turned his head away from the road.

  The car, a steel-gray Lexus, swept past and Paul Hendry yelped, ‘There’s a copper with him!’

  And there was. The uniform quite distinct in the passenger seat, the two men in conversation.

  ‘Oh fuck!’ Moloney was really pissed, this bloody enterprise was jinxed.

  ‘Quick, follow him!’ Les Stewart pointed forward through the windscreen.

  ‘What, with a copper in there?’ Paul Hendry was horrified. ‘You ever been in Barlinnie? It’s not fuckin’ fun, I can tell ye!’

  Barlinnie was the uninspiring Victorian prison on the outskirts of Glasgow. Temporary abode of many a Scottish hooligan.

  ‘Look,’ Stewart thought this was pretty obvious, but still …‘he has to be a local plod, the Glasgow lot wouldn’t be seen dead in this dump.’

  ‘What, don’t you like Largs, then? Al turned the key and they moved off in pursuit of the gray Lexus

  ‘He’s still a copper,’ bleated Paul plaintively.

  ‘Yes, and don’t you think the local boys would know their MP?’ Stewart answered. ‘And none of them are going with him to Glasgow, that’s not their patch.’

  ‘So what’s he doin’ in the car, then?’ Paul wanted to know.

  ‘I don’t know, just follow them.’ Les sat back in his seat and they all watched the car ahead. Al kept far back, not wanting to push his luck––he had been in Barlinnie too. The edge of town was in sight, and they were all getting steamed up, when an orange turn-indicator started blinking and the Lexus slowed and disap
peared into a side-road.

  Al braked the Astra to a halt, jumped out and sprinted to the corner. He watched for a few seconds and then ran back. ‘Nice one, Les! It’s a housing estate, he must be giving the copper a ride home.’

  ‘Thank fuck for that!’ was Moloney’s heartfelt comment.

  A few minutes later, the Lexus appeared at the corner, turned right on to the main road and made its way out of town. The Astra followed at a discrete distance. The A78 crossed the river and moved on north, heading ultimately for the town of Gourock, twenty miles or so away.

  On the way down, Moloney had insisted they identify a suitable stretch of road. ‘We can’t piddle around all night hoping something will turn up,’ had been his comment. So they knew precisely where the deed would be done. The only uncertainty factor was other traffic––in either direction. That would have to be dealt with as and when.

  Eventually the houses thinned out and stopped altogether, and they were twisting and turning through rough scrub and peatland. The road pressed close against the coastline, with drops of varying heights to the stony beaches below. They had stopped at one of those drops earlier and decided it was ideal for their purpose this night.

  When Moloney saw the signpost for St Phillans he banged his hand on the dashboard in front of him. ‘Not far now, get closer.’

  Al Hendry nodded, he had already closed the gap between the two cars. ‘When we pass the layby we stopped in on the way down, I’ll come up behind him and nudge the rear wing. That’ll spin him round and over the edge.’

  Moloney grunted as he pulled something out of his jacket. ‘Too dangerous, he’ll be spinning round right in front of us, this road’s too narrow to play silly buggers. This’ll do it.’ He laid the automatic pistol on his lap.

  ‘For fuck’s sake Con! I didn’t know you were carrying!’ Al was shaken, and no wonder. Suddenly this was becoming real gangster stuff. Real life-sentence stuff to be more accurate.

  Behind them, in the rear seat, Les Stewart had turned pasty white.