by Tom Benson
“I guarantee you’ll be caught within a week.”
“Whose outfit would I be working for?”
“You wouldn’t be working for one of the Glasgow outfits. You’d be working for me, but as I said, we’ll discuss it further if you prove yourself.”
“What makes it different doing something for you, when I get paid directly doing it for myself?”
“You’ve never been in prison have you?”
“No, but—”
“You’re young, average build, and unless you’re a martial arts expert—do you want me to draw you a diagram?”
Jake reddened and looked down at the table briefly.
Phil said, “If you get caught working for me, you don’t end up with a criminal record, and you’ll stay out of prison.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“I’ve been watching you for a week, Jake,” Jake’s eyes widened at the use of his name. “You live in Fasque Place, Drumchapel, with your mother.” Phil could be convincing with minimum information.
“Jeezuz,” Jake said under his breath. “I don’t want my mother involved in this shit.”
“Okay,” Phil said, “consider it a concession.” He lifted his mug and finished his coffee. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, on the northwest corner of George Square, opposite Queen Street Station. Don’t arrive a minute before seven o’clock. Our conversation will be short.”
“Right,” Jake said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. What do I call you?”
“Hawk,” Phil said, stood up and left without looking back. He walked back to Southbank Street, considering all he’d seen and heard regarding Jake.
Three miles away on a side street off Great Western Road, twenty-five-year-old Harjit Singh was in his convenience store passing the time of day with a regular customer buying cigarettes.
“Mr Robertson, you know they are bad for you.”
“Aye, ah’ know Harjit, son,” the old man said. “When ye’ reach ma’ age in a city like this, all ye’ have left are fags and booze.” He laughed, leant on his walking stick, and bid the friendly storekeeper a good day. Mr Robertson shuffled to the exit, bent and coughing.
In the back alley behind the store, a man was using a battery-powered drill, on the wooden back door of the store’s stockroom. He grinned as he lifted a metal funnel and jammed it into the aperture he’d made. He poured a gallon of fuel through the funnel into the stockroom. When he saw fuel leaking under the door onto the cobbled alleyway, he stopped and laid the fuel can beside the door.
Beside the doorbell was a small sign which read: Deliveries—please ring.
“Well, it’s a fucking delivery,” the man said aloud and laughed. He pressed the bell to bring the storekeeper or his assistant to the back door, struck a match and dropped it on the stream of fuel.
Steve Smith stepped back a few paces after igniting the fuel, and he grinned when the door blew outward off its hinges and screams came from within. He wondered what had been behind the door. Smith walked out of the alleyway, to a green Jaguar which was parked fifty metres away. His boss was waiting in the back seat, smoking a cigar.
Smith got in behind the wheel and looked over his shoulder. “Job done, Boss.”
“Well done Stevie lad,” Martin Cameron said. “We’ll wait for the sound of the heroes, and we’ll visit another stubborn Asian bastard.”
In less time than it took Cameron to draw on his cigar, the multi-toned sirens of the Fire and Rescue Service could be heard approaching.
“Okay Stevie, let’s go and visit Mr Singh’s brother.”
“Right, Boss.” Smith chuckled as he pulled away from the kerbside.
Aleem Singh was made of sterner stuff than his brother. The big, muscular Smith marched Aleem across the street from his convenience store to the green Jaguar—a car familiar to him. The interior of the vehicle was full of smoke.
Smith opened the back door. “Get in, and listen.” He pushed the storekeeper inside.
Aleem broke into a coughing fit before the door had been closed behind him.
Already in the back seat, the enforcer puffed on a cigar, steadily increasing the layers of bluish grey smoke. After inhaling from his cigar, he blew the smoke at the storekeeper’s face and laughed. It was a mirthless sound.
“My name is Martin Cameron,” the cigar-smoker said. “When you tell my employee Mr Smith to go away and not bother you, you are telling me to go away Mr Singh.”
“I will not—” The glowing end of the cigar was brought to within a few centimetres of Aleem’s left eye. He closed his mouth.
“First of all, you Paki’ bastard,” Cameron said, “you’ll be quiet when I’m fucking talking. Second, you’ll do what you’re fucking told, and third—if you don’t want your beautiful young wife and your twins to be toasted—you’ll pay your fucking dues.”
Aleem started coughing. He was thirty and had worked hard to build his business.
Cameron laughed before he spoke. “Now, if you think it’s hard to breathe in here, imagine your darling wife and babies trying to breathe in a smoke-filled house.” Cameron pressed a button, his window lowered, and the smoke billowed out, rapidly clearing the interior of the car. “This is the atmosphere they could be in—if you stop being fucking stubborn.”
“I will report you. You cannot do this to us—” The lit cigar end was raised.
“I’ve given you fair warning, Singh. Maybe you should go and see what’s happened to your brother’s store. I heard a whisper there’s been an accident. Mr Smith will be coming to see you on Monday afternoon at two. You will pay him double the figure you were told—or there will be another nasty accident.”
“You cannot—”
“Get out of my fucking car; Singh.”
Aleem opened the door. Smith was standing outside staring at him.
“See you on Monday at two o’clock,” Smith taunted him. “Don’t do anything fucking stupid.”
It was 10:00 when a red VW Golf GTi pulled up near Mike Longhurst’s forecourt. An attractive woman in her thirties and a pretty, younger woman got out.
Annabel was wearing a white short-sleeved blouse, navy mini-skirt and tan Roman sandals. The long straps winding up her calves drew the eye to the shapely legs. Rachel was wearing her hair in a ponytail. Her pale blue T-shirt and Daisy Duke’s looked as if they’d been sprayed onto her thighs. White trainers finished her outfit.
“Hi.” Annabel walked towards the owner and glanced at his tattoo. “I take it you’re Mike?”
“I am.” He reached out a freshly wiped hand. “I got a call from Phil earlier. If he’d told me what to expect I’d have worn my cleanest overalls.”
“You’re as bad at compliments as him.” Annabel shook Mike’s hand. “My associate is Rachel.” She nodded towards the young woman who was already taking a close interest in the machines on display outside.
“Hello,” Rachel called from a short distance away. In a graceful movement, she took hold of the handlebars of the big BMW and threw her right leg over the machine. The movement stretched her left leg and pulled her shorts up tighter as she balanced on the seat.
Mike said, “She could take up advertising those things if she ever gives up her day job.”
“It’s Rachel we’re getting a bike for.”
“Okay, I’ll give her specifications if she needs help.”
Annabel smiled. She’d had a chat with Rachel on the drive to the bike store.
“Oh yes,” Rachel said, and dismounted from the BMW. She strode inside the building towards a yellow bike. “A Yellow Peril,” she said. She stopped before addressing Mike. “Is it okay if I try it for size?”
“I’ve finished tuning and cleaning her,” Mike said. “I’m surprised a young lass like you recognises it.”
“It’s a classic.” Rachel seated herself on the bike. “Norton Commando 750cc, front discs, a forward-tilted engine for balance, separated from the gearbox by rubber mountings to cut down vibration.”
&n
bsp; “Holy shit,” Mike whispered to Annabel. “I’ve changed my mind—does she want a job?”
“Is the Norton for sale?” Annabel suppressed a laugh.
“It’s ready to go when the docs are completed.”
“Could she take it out for a short run?”
“Of course,” he said. “Rachel—in the office are leathers and a helmet which would fit you.”
Rachel’s face lit up. She went out to Annabel’s car to fetch her own helmet and well-worn leathers from the boot but took advantage of changing in the office.
Mike called to the mechanic at the back who had been pretending he wasn’t staring at the two attractive customers as he worked. “Colin, get some kit on son and follow this lass on a road test, mate.”
“With pleasure,” the mechanic said. He changed into leathers and started-up his Suzuki.
The Norton sounded throaty compared to Colin’s bike, but they set off from the building together.
Mike turned to Annabel. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t give it.—It’s Annabel, but I’d prefer if it weren’t broadcast.”
“No problem,” he said and winked. “There’s more to Phil than meets the eye.” They went inside. “Rest assured there’ll be no questions asked. As long as the paperwork has a name and address, I’ll turn a blind eye to supporting docs.”
“Thanks, Mike. I appreciate it.”
While the others were away, Mike fixed Annabel a coffee. In conversation, it surfaced she too knew about two-wheeled machines.
Rachel rode onto the forecourt outside the office thirty minutes after setting off. She cut the engine, dismounted, and removed her helmet. At an enquiring glance from Annabel in the office, Rachel smiled and nodded.
It was a further five minutes before Colin arrived back. He would tell Mike about the girl’s performance later—when his nerves had calmed.
Phil never trusted arms dealers, but his suspicions about Patrick Reilly were heightened when the man phoned after lunchtime.
“Hello,” Phil said. “What do you mean the location has been compromised?” He listened, and his mind was working overtime. “Okay, I’m sure I’ll find it.” He confirmed the conditions. “Tomorrow, nobody else involved—as I said. I’ll bring cash up front. Bye.”
According to Reilly, the location he’d intended to use was to be the control area for a fishing competition. Phil thought the only fishy thing about the setup was Reilly himself. He was too eager to please. When Phil told him nobody else was to be involved—the man agreed without hesitation. He didn’t complain about the absence of a bodyguard or driver. It was a disturbing attitude in somebody who supplied illegal weapons.
Phil worked out how much daylight he had and drove out to the northern end of the Carron Valley Reservoir, near Falkirk. He parked his car inside a forest track and walked. The directions were simple enough, and within a short time, he found himself in a narrow clearing at the edge of the reservoir. It was a good location—for Reilly.
As Phil checked the view of the forest across the water, he was confident he had Reilly’s tactics worked out. He returned within the tree line and related his map to the contours of the forest opposite. In less than fifteen minutes, Phil’s car was parked at the other side of the reservoir—he was walking in the forest before it got dark.
7. Welcoming Arms
.
Friday 5th July
At 06:30 Phil was in the city centre, using a pedestrian crossing to get onto George Square. Halfway across the road a runner in a grey hooded top and dark blue jogging pants came running toward the crossing and bumped into Phil. The runner gave a mumbled apology and was gone.
It was an overcast morning, and Phil spent twenty minutes walking around the square, watching commuters come and go. He was dressed in a leather jacket and jeans and fitted in with the general build-up of folk going about their daily business. He walked across to the corner of the square where he’d asked Jake to meet him at 07:00.
At 06:58, Jake arrived opposite George Square at the Queen Street Station corner. When Phil gave the nod, Jake used the pedestrian crossing.
“Good morning Hawk,” he said in a bright tone as they approached each other. Jake was dressed as usual in suit and tie, ready for his task.
“Good morning.” Phil eyed up the thief and shook his hand. “You’re looking pleased with yourself. Have you been operating in Queen Street Station?”
“No,” Jake said as they walked across the square. “I was using the facilities.”
They passed Nelson’s Column in the centre as they strolled towards the east side, where the City Chambers faced the square.
Jake said, “Could you remind me why I’m being tested?”
“I want to set a target, because all the guys you hit at the moment are wearing suits, and they are soft targets.”
“Would you consider yourself a hard target?”
“Yeah,” Phil said. “Why?”
“I thought if you wanted to time me on my task you might need this.” He held out Phil’s distinctive black wristwatch.
Phil pulled back the sleeve of his jacket. “Well, fuck me!”
“No thanks,” Jake said. “I prefer picking pockets.” He laughed, and Phil laughed with him. Jake pushed on. “If I impressed you on this test, would you buy the coffees this time?”
“I suppose I could.”
“You’ll need this.” Jake handed over Phil’s wallet.
Phil automatically slapped his jacket to discover his inner zipped pocket was empty.
“Well done.” Phil looked at the leather wallet and wiped it on his jeans. “What the fuck was on it?”
“Vaseline.” Jake laughed. “Remember, ‘thinking outside the box’?”
Phil continued to wipe the greasy substance before replacing the wallet in his jacket pocket. It wasn’t until he’d put it away it struck him. “No fingerprints.”
“You learn fast.”
“Let’s find a coffee shop,” Phil said. “You’ve passed the test.”
As they enjoyed coffee, Phil gave Jake examples of what might be required of him. He talked for fifteen minutes, providing an overview of the experiment, and asked a few questions.
“If I’ve got this right,” Jake said, “I stop my old way of life. I work for you directly, when you have a task for me. You pay me cash on a regular basis as a retainer?”
“Correct.”
“Some of it sounds a bit fucking scary man. You are gonna’ be taking on some dangerous bastards. You realise they fucking kill people?”
“I fucking kill people, Jake.”
“Jeezuzz—fuck it, man, I’m in.” He held out his hand to shake on the deal.
“Welcome aboard.” Phil shook his hand before he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He checked it for the first time since having it returned and nodded as he gave his new team member the £200 he could have taken earlier.
“What’s this for?”Jake said, accepting the money.
“We’ll call it an advance,” Phil said. He handed over a mobile phone. “This is yours. Two numbers are already on there; Alpha, and Hawk.”
“Right, if I ring the Hawk number I’ll get you, but who is Alpha?”
“You ring Alpha’s number, and you’ll get a woman answering.”
“Got it,” Jake said. “Is Alpha your second-in-command?”
“Close enough,” Phil said. “Any questions before we go our separate ways?”
“Yeah, how many others are in the team?”
“The less you know—the better.”
“What I don’t know can’t do the team any harm, right?”
“Correct,” Phil said. “Before we part this morning, I have a question.”
“Yeah?”
“When did you get my wristwatch?”
“Your watch was easy. I took it when we shook hands opposite Queen Street at seven o’clock. I noticed the other day you wore it on the right wrist which is unusual.”Jake smile
d. “I wondered if it was to stop me getting it.”
“It was, but you couldn’t have taken my wallet at the same time?”
“Do you remember a jogger bumping into you when you crossed the road at about half past six?”
Phil nodded.
Jake grinned. “The wallet was difficult, because of the zipped pocket. I came from Queen Street Station because I’d been changing. I’d run half a bloody mile to get warm, and look the part.”
“Okay,” Phil said. “There will be briefings for individuals or the team, but they’ll be done as required. If you don’t need to know about something—you don’t attend. The rule applies to everybody. I’ll need you on standby from tomorrow onwards.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Jake patted the pocket containing his new phone. “I’ll be ready whenever you need me.” Jake walked off, looking taller as he headed for the nearest taxi rank.
Phil opened his Motorola and dialled a number. “Hi ... Annabel ... we have our team. I’d like the pair of us to meet tomorrow.” He paused and listened. “I’ll see you there. Ciao.”
1996 had been a good year for Reilly. It was bright and warm when he parked at a favourite exchange spot. The south side of Carron Valley Reservoir was overlooked from the forest on the other side of the water.
The Irishman stood beside his big BMW 4 x 4, inside the tree line, three metres from the placid waters of the loch. Reilly’s thin lips twisted into a smile, as the blue car approached and parked.
“Hawk, is it?” Reilly asked as Phil’s window wound down silently.
“Yes, and you must be Reilly, the most trusted arms dealer in the UK.”
Reilly’s smile broadened.
Phil said, “Have you got the merchandise?”
“Of course,” Reilly said, as he took a step away and flicked open the tailgate of his 4 x 4. He stood back and indicated the goods with a flourish. “Why don’t you come and check?”
“I’d prefer to do it somewhere else,” Phil said from the driver’s seat of his car. “Before we go I’d like your mobile phone.”
