Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

  .

  Monday 8th July

  At 07:45 Phil parked fifty metres from his lockup, in a parking area for local businesses. It was far enough for his car not to be associated with the building, but close enough to see one from the other. Phil stepped into the recess beside his lockup, which put him out of sight. He reached up behind the drainpipe bracket, disconnected his booby-trap, and retrieved the key on its magnet.

  Five minutes after Phil entered the small building he was preparing three brews. Phil heard a gentle tap on the side door and opened it to greet Annabel. As she stepped indoors, the throaty rumble of a powerful motorbike echoed along the usually quiet road. Phil pressed the button to raise the curtain door.

  When the motorbike was ridden inside and turned to face outward, Phil gave Annabel a nod of approval. Rachel wasted no time and removed her helmet when she’d dismounted.

  “Thank you,” she said to Phil, nodding to the bike.

  “I’m sure you’ll earn it,” he said. “Take off your leathers, and relax.”

  Rachel peeled off her black leathers. “What’s with the grin, Boss?”

  “I’m glad you didn’t opt for yellow leathers to go with the bike.”

  Rachel laughed and continued to remove her protective gear.

  At the back of the lockup, Phil had pinned a laminated street plan on the notice board. Locations were highlighted with initials and symbols. As the two women enjoyed their coffee, they listened to the proposed activities for the coming days.

  Both women asked pertinent questions and made suggestions to amend the plan. Phil had pre-warned Annabel he’d be obscure about their rendezvous (RV) and certain other points. Rachel came up with ideal solutions and passed another subtle test.

  Phil made amendments and turned to Rachel. “I’ve had a call to let me know the van is ready for collection. I’d like you to go with me to pick it up.”

  “Is it far from here?”

  “No. If we go in my car, we’ll have the van back and parked in half an hour.” He turned to Annabel. “Alpha, I’d like you to go over those plans, look for loopholes.”

  “Got it.” Annabel stood up to inspect the maps, routes, and notes.

  Phil and Rachel were back and parking the van within twenty-five minutes. While Phil parked his car, Rachel reversed the van into the lockup.

  When Phil entered the lockup, he asked Rachel why she reversed into the lockup, instead of driving in, which was easier. She said she’d expect to get out of places faster than she got into them. Phil nodded his approval.

  Rachel said, “For my initial task, I’m to conduct my reconnaissance and rehearsals, but I call you if an issue arises regarding planned routes and RV?”

  “Correct,” Phil said. “Remember, timing and route are vital ingredients.”

  Without further ado, Rachel was donning her helmet and leathers.

  Annabel said, “This morning I’ll conduct a daylight check on the buildings we discussed. I’ll do a second run after today’s mission, and I’ll do a check in darkness.”

  “Good,” Phil said. “We’ll discuss your findings and maybe recce together later.”

  Phil raised the door for Rachel when she had her bike running. She touched her visor with her right forefinger in salute, revved the bike, and was gone.

  Jake had a regular start to his day. It was normal, at least concerning his starting time and being dressed in a suit and tie. Annabel had called him on the previous evening. She instructed him to be at Blythswood Square at precisely 07:00, and commence walking around the four sides of the square. Nobody else was to know of his appointment, and he’d know his liaison when they met.

  To most Glaswegians, the centre of their city is George Square, complete with Nelson’s Column and the imposing Glasgow City Chambers building. The geographical centre is Blythswood Square, a fifteen-minute walk to the west of the accepted centre. It had originally been built to feature as the city centre, but over the years, the increased retail activity elsewhere prevented the idea from ever becoming a reality.

  The Georgian architecture of Blythswood Square was looking as good as ever, having been sandblasted more than once in its history. Jake had been sauntering around the square for twenty minutes admiring how solid and presentable the buildings were when a suited man in his fifties opened one of the magnificent front doors and called down to him.

  “Hey son, what’s your name?”

  Jake was passing the base of the stone staircase and turned. “Jake.”

  “Who sent you here?”

  “Alpha” Jake said without hesitation and as instructed, glanced over his right shoulder and pointed across the gardens of the square at nothing in particular.

  “Come on up, mate.” The man smiled as he stepped back inside. The place was like any of the high-class hotels around the small square. The iron railings which bordered the steps were painted gloss black, and the Fleur de Lys tips were painted gold. The windows were large, double-glazed, and gave no indication of the interior.

  Jake made his way up the steps and entered the building.

  The door was closed by the suited man. “Hello mate, I’m Arkwright—”

  “Arkwright ... like in the classic TV comedy—Open All Hours?”

  “Yes,” Arkwright said. “I have to give you a security briefing.” He shook his head. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t take long, but it is important.”

  Jake followed Arkwright along a corridor. There had been no sound since he’d entered the building. No phones were ringing, or typewriters clacking away, and no hubbub of conversation; nothing.

  They went through a doorway which had a combination lock. Arkwright’s fingers hit the keys fast, and Jake couldn’t register the number. They went along a short corridor and down two flights of stairs.

  The two men went into a small room with a table and two chairs. On the table was a multi-page document printed on cream paper. Beside it was a pen. Three of the room walls were plain white, and one had a large mirror. Small camera lenses were set into two corners of the ceiling and a microphone extended from the wall. It was reminiscent of the interview rooms seen in police movies.

  Arkwright pulled up a chair and indicated for Jake to sit on the other, which placed them opposite each other. “Now Jake, before you pick up the paperwork I’ll give you my version of the official briefing.” Arkwright clasped his hands and rested his arms on the table.

  Jake nodded but remained silent.

  “You’ve been selected for training, but you must sign the Official Secrets Act.” Arkwright leant forward. “In a nutshell, Jake—once you’ve signed those papers, if you say a word about your training to anybody outside these walls you will be sent down for a long time.”

  Jake had lifted the pen when he sat down, but he put it down as if it had stung him. His eyes opened wide. “What if I don’t want to do the training?”

  “I’ll see you back to the main door. Any agreement you have with Alpha is ended, but if you tell anybody about this place, our conversation, or this meeting—it wouldn’t be good.”

  Jake looked from the quietly spoken Arkwright to the forms. He lifted the first sheet.

  “Would you like tea, coffee or something else to drink?” Arkwright stood up.

  “White coffee, two sugars please,” Jake said. The door closed, and as he looked around the small room, the gravity of the situation hit him. “Fuckin’ hell,” he whispered and remembered seeing a mike. He turned to one of the cameras. “Sorry.” He dealt with the document.

  It was fifteen minutes before Arkwright returned with two coffees and sat down. He reached across and picked up the document. Arkwright stood up and reached out to shake Jake’s hand. Jake imitated the older man’s old-fashioned ways and stood up.

  “Jake, welcome to Locks, Safes and Alarms—Stage One.”

  As they enjoyed their coffee, Arkwright talked about the skills he’d be teaching Jake—and assured him it wasn’t going to be easy.

  Jake occasionally
glanced at the large mirror and the microphone. He would never be made aware the mirror was—a mirror. In the same way, he would never know the camera lenses were fake, or the table was as likely to record their conversation as the dummy microphone. The Official Secrets Act documents were real; but unnecessary.

  It was 13:55 when a green Jaguar pulled off the Great Western Road into a side street and parked opposite Aleem’s convenience store. Before leaving the driver’s seat, Smith looked over his shoulder. “This won’t take long, Boss.”

  When Smith strode confidently into the store, he scowled at one man who was shopping. The man put down his basket and left. Another customer was standing at the newspaper rack, but he was oblivious to the scar-faced collector’s presence. The man, dressed in a dark hooded tracksuit top and jeans, continued to flick through the newspapers. His hood was pulled up.

  “Good afternoon ... Mister Smith.” Aleem was trembling.

  “Forget the pleasantries, Singh,” Smith said. “Give me the fuckin’ package.”

  “Hey,” the hooded customer said. “You sounded like you were making demands with menaces.” He took a pace toward the hoodlum to meet his gaze.

  “You fuck off,” Smith said, “or I’ll break you in fuckin’ half.”

  Phil stepped closer. “You might talk about it, but you won’t do it.”

  “Who the fuck, do you think you are?” Smith squinted at his adversary.

  “Hawk is the name.”

  “Hawk,” Smith said and laughed. “What kind of fuckin’ name is that?”

  “Well, it’s better than shit-face, you ugly, big bastard.”

  Smith’s eyes narrowed, his teeth clenched, and his left fist swung at Phil’s face.

  Both of Phil’s hands flew up, gripped the thug’s wrist, twisted anti-clockwise, and pulled. The momentum of the swing carried the bigger man’s weight forward. Phil maintained the grip with his left hand, released with his right and pressed on Smith’s left elbow.

  When Smith stumbled forward, Phil reverted to using both hands to pull back on Smith’s left wrist. Gripping the wrist, Phil pressed his right foot behind the other man’s left knee, which dropped the bigger man to the ground and straightened his arm upwards.

  “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” Smith snarled and struggled against the grip.

  Phil twisted the wrist further and pulled up sharply.

  A loud crack sounded from Smith’s shoulder, and he screamed. He was hard, but his gasping breaths and watering eyes were evidence of his pain.

  “Oops.” Phil knelt on Smith’s back, holding the damaged arm upward.

  “You are gonna’ fucking regret—” Smith growled through gritted teeth.

  Phil gripped the collar of Smith’s jacket and pulled back hard before using an open hand to smash the man’s face against the tiled floor. It broke an already misshapen nose.

  “I don’t want to hear threats, Smith. I’m here to make promises.” Phil glanced at two small boys when they pushed the door open. They stared at the scene, eyes wide and mouths wider, before slowly stepping outside,

  The thug was shaking his head to clear the blood from his nose and tears from his eyes.

  “Now, Mister Smith,” Phil said in a conversational tone. “If you come back to any of the stores around here, I will break both your arms and legs.” Phil let go and stood up. He took one pace back, knowing what to expect.

  Smith used his good arm to support himself. He reached a kneeling position. Phil’s right foot was buried deep in Smith’s groin. The big man fell forward, unconscious.

  Aleem stood at his counter trembling, eyes blinking and lower jaw trembling.

  “Call for an ambulance,” Phil said. “They’ll be here by the time he’s capable of standing.”

  While Phil was dealing with Smith inside the store, a figure in hooded top and jeans wandered along and stood in a doorway a few paces back from the green Jaguar.

  Phil stepped out of the store, stopped at the kerbside and gazed at the gleaming car. He saw Smith’s boss staring at him from the rear passenger seat. Phil nodded to the hooded figure in the doorway before he set off across the road.

  Rachel arrived at the driver’s door at the same time as Phil reached the rear passenger door. They opened them simultaneously.

  The smartly dressed man in the back of the Jaguar squinted. “What the fuck—” but he was cut off in mid-sentence when a pistol barrel was aimed at his face. He was concentrating on the weapon and didn’t see who the new driver was, or the rear-view mirror being torn off and discarded.

  As Rachel burned rubber leaving the kerb, the hood of her top was kept in place. She commenced the sequence of turns to head for their destination. For the first few minutes, the car was driven as fast as the narrow streets and occasional pedestrians allowed.

  “You don’t realise who I am, do you?” the gangster said.

  “Surprise me,” Phil said.

  “I’m Martin Cameron, you fucking idiot.” He forced a laugh. “If you stop this car now you might both escape with a good fucking beating.”

  “Did you hear him, Johnny?” Phil said.

  Rachel just nodded which didn’t allow the gangster any recognition.

  Phil produced a dirty canvas hood from within his tracksuit top and dropped it on Cameron’s lap. “Put it over your head.”

  Cameron had come through the ranks. When he was fourteen and a gang member, he’d helped beat a man to death. He first shot somebody when he was nineteen. He was thirty-two, and a genuine hard-man. He stared into Phil’s eyes, and a smirk grew on his lips before he spoke.

  “How does fuck off sound?” Cameron said and shook his head. “You are such a fucking amateur?”

  “It doesn’t sound good.” Phil maintained the stare, tilted the gun barrel down, and squeezed the trigger. The shot was muffled due to the suppressor being pressed against the gangster’s thigh.

  “Bastard!” Cameron screamed as his leg burned with the pain.

  “Hood.”

  “Fuck—” Cameron’s outburst stopped when the business end of the pistol was pressed against his groin.

  “Wear it, or your car will have fucking testicle-filled upholstery.”

  Cameron stared hard at Phil, snatched the hood, and drew it down over his own head. Within the hood, he gasped and used both hands to apply pressure to the wound in his leg.

  Phil responded by binding the gangster’s wrists with a plastic cable tie. The victim was snorting and mumbling obscenities as the car continued on its course, regularly taking turns and disorientating the local underworld enforcer.

  Rachel turned off Maryhill Road at the agreed junction and headed into the notorious Blackhill district. The area was colloquially referred to as Dakota, but it was never clear whether the nickname was merely because of the connotation with the Wild West, or because plenty of outlaws roamed the streets. Like many other housing estates in and around Glasgow, it had a reputation for being lawless. Police numbers didn’t make much difference in a district like Blackhill.

  Phil knew Cameron wasn’t the top man, but he would take a long time to die before he’d give up his boss. Phil was convinced the Godfather’s name was Hartley or McGinley. Time was on his side.

  “With effect from today,” Phil said, “you will stop putting the squeeze on small businesses.”

  A snorting sound came from within the hood before Cameron spoke. “Fuckin’ idiot, you two are gonna’ be fuckin’ sorry.”

  “If I find out you are back in business, you’ll regret it.”

  “Go on, Rambo,” Cameron said. “Fuckin’ dream on—”

  Phil glanced out to see where they were and smashed the butt of the pistol into the middle of the canvas hood. He heard bone crunch. Cameron’s head slumped forward.

  “Stop where we planned, Johnny,” Phil said. He wasn’t sure if Cameron was conscious.

  The flashy car was driven slowly through the streets of the estate, and small groups of local lads watched like vultures. Phil
frisked his captive to look for a mobile phone. Few folks owned them, but this man would. He had a large wad of banknotes in an inside pocket, and they were removed.

  Phil held Cameron’s phone forward to let Rachel see it. She nodded, and one minute later stopped the car. The owner was unceremoniously ejected onto the kerbside by Phil. Before leaving him, Phil removed the hood from Cameron’s head and jumped into the front passenger seat.

  Two minutes later, around the next corner, Rachel parked up, leaving the keys in the ignition and the driver’s window open. A red VW Golf stopped beside them.

  “All okay?” Annabel asked as she pulled away.

  “Everything went according to plan.” Phil glanced over his shoulder and passed a wad of notes to his accomplice. “Well done, Rachel.”

  “What’s this for? Rachel asked. “I did what you told me to do.”

  “Exactly,” Phil said. “No gawping, no gasping, no talking—no hesitation. Doing what you’re told is your job, and it gained you a bonus.”

  Annabel glanced in her rear-view mirror at Rachel’s rapt expression and smiled.

  A ghost of a smile crossed Phil’s face. Was he beginning to thaw?

  9. Relationships

  .

  Wednesday 10th July

  Phil enjoyed a steady five-mile run in the bright, crisp morning. The freedom and tranquillity of the new day were exhilarating, and he’d seen the young blonde.

  He didn’t run every day, but he wondered if she did. They always passed each other within a particular section of Glasgow Green. As usual, they’d raised a hand briefly in silent greeting in the way runners do. Phil thought she was in her mid-twenties, but whatever age she was, she was fit.

  As they’d done on the previous day, Annabel and Rachel were to carry out observation of the ice-cream vans as they patrolled the various housing estates on the north side of the Clyde. The companies sending out the vans had designated territories and some overlapped.