Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

  Rachel was surveying the area farthest west, the sprawling Drumchapel. Like the other council estates, it had open park areas and long avenues with narrow lanes running between. Rachel also had the neighbouring regions of Blairdardie, and Knightswood, both of which were regarded as marginally more respectable than The Drum. It depended on who was asked.

  Annabel was scheduled to monitor the districts of Scotstoun, Whiteinch, and Partick which ran in line close to the River Clyde’s northern banks. She would also drive up to Great Western Road and across to Maryhill during the day.

  Phil would tackle the other infamous sprawling estate of the city; Easterhouse. It was north of the Clyde, and out to the east. Between times, Phil would drive through Dennistoun, and Springboig which were closer to the city centre.

  Near the picturesque town of Callander many miles to the north, a handful of men were on the fourth fairway of the Callander Golf Club. They played amidst scenery enjoyed by all golfers who visited the course.

  William Hartley strolled alongside his opponent for the morning. “Bobby, I’m getting the impression you’re ignoring me.”

  “I’m bloody thinking—and don’t call me Bobby.”

  “Now, that’s no way to talk to an old friend—Bobby.” Hartley came to a halt and glanced back. The two caddies stopped walking, remaining out of earshot. Davenport’s caddy was one of Hartley’s men.

  “You can’t expect all these things,” Davenport said. “It’s ... it’s unreasonable.”

  “Bobby,” Hartley said. “You are the Chief Constable, and you have the power to do anything you wish.” He placed his left hand under the other man’s chin and turned the chubby face upwards, much in the way an adult treats a child. “If you sense weakness, remember our deal.”

  “You’re a lying bastard,” Davenport said, losing his normal composure. “I don’t think you’ve got any photographs of me—it’s a ploy to keep me under your fucking control.”

  “Now, Bobby,” Hartley said, and grinned. “If we weren’t such good friends I’d wrap a fucking five-iron around your face.” He stepped close enough for his breath to be felt against Davenport’s skin. “Raise your voice to me, and I’ll ram one of these clubs up your fat arse.” He laughed aloud. “You’d enjoy it though.”

  Davenport’s eyes blinked rapidly as he met the Godfather’s gaze. Hartley was the top man of crime in the north of Glasgow, and he controlled Davenport. “You have to understand, it will stand out if I get too involved.”

  “Bobby, I think you’re getting me mixed up with somebody who gives a fuck. I simply want you to do as you’re told—or I’ll send out some pictures to the press, and trust me—you will stand out.” He laughed.

  For the next three holes, the conversation was minimal. Davenport continued playing because Hartley insisted on having an opponent. It made it a long game for the Chief Constable. Unlike some of Hartley’s other challengers on the course, Davenport was good at the game. On this day, however, he couldn’t concentrate.

  “I planted the bloody virus on the PNC.” Davenport sounded like a child trying to win favour. “You said we’d be quits—”

  “What can I say, Bobby?” Hartley laughed. “I’m a gangster—I lied.”

  Following a pathetic drive onto the tenth fairway, Davenport sighed and leant on his club as he turned to face Hartley. “I’ll do my best—”

  “No Bobby,” Hartley interrupted. “You will find this bastard and put him out of action. Find him, shoot him, and fit him up with a weapon. I don’t care how, but fucking finish him.”

  “How do you know it’s some freelance guy?”

  “You’re the policeman Bobby—think about the clues. We know it isn’t the regular opposition, because we recognise their methods. This bastard has style. He’s a loner. He’s a vigilante of the old school who knows how to plan and execute. He’s fucking good.”

  “Why don’t you leave it for somebody else to deal with him?”

  “Bobby, he humiliated Cameron, one of my top people. He left him to be robbed, and have the shit kicked out of him in a fucking housing estate.” He stepped closer. “I want this Hawk bastard wiped out—publicly.”

  Following the game, Davenport made the long drive home to Glasgow with his mind in turmoil. He’d seen Hartley angry, but he was more on edge than ever, because of this one new enemy. Davenport bluffed, but the gangster would have no qualms about sending intimidating photographs to the press. It was surprising it hadn’t happened already.

  The Chief Constable considered trying to get in touch with the vigilante himself. Maybe they could work together to deal with Hartley. Oh, how good it would be, he thought, the man who had controlled his life for such a long time; finally gone. Davenport was on a high thinking about it. He smiled until the reality hit home. If he pulled a stunt on Hartley and it failed, things would get worse.

  .

  Thursday 11th July

  It was a glorious sunny day with a light breeze. At 07:30 Phil left his apartment and set off for London Road. He strolled along in T-shirt and jeans, carrying a light jacket. A red VW Golf GTi pulled up at the kerb, Phil glanced over his shoulder before getting in. One minute later, he was talking tactics with Annabel. The pair headed for a short list of locations they wanted to see at different times of the day.

  They joined the city’s one-way circuit, and while Annabel kept a wary eye on the traffic, Phil gave her directions to make a circuit which included older tenement buildings near Charing Cross. They left the city centre via Cathedral Street and Duke Street to visit Parkhead and Fullarton.

  Rachel had called late on the previous evening and asked if it would be okay to return for another patrol around Drumchapel. She had something worth checking. Phil agreed but told her to be careful, and to check-in with either him or Annabel by noon—whatever.

  In mid-afternoon, Annabel and Phil drove out to a roadside coffee shop on the A82 west of Glasgow. It was a pleasant, warm afternoon and Annabel suggested she got the drinks and sandwiches while Phil sat outside at a table. He’d had a brief call from Rachel at 12:00 to say all was well and she’d be at the next meeting place on time.

  A deep rumbling sound was heard as a powerful yellow motorbike pulled into the small car park. Annabel glanced outside, smiled and asked for another coffee and sandwich. When she reached the table outside—the one farthest from the building, Rachel was already removing her leathers.

  “Hi,” Rachel said. “Another three miles and we’d be in bloody Dumbarton.”

  “We’re a couple of miles out of town,” Phil conceded, “but it’s a good way for us to get together instead of using the lockup every time.”

  “I hope you like cheese and onion with pickle,” Annabel said.

  “My favourite,” Rachel said and winked at Phil as she sat at the table. She turned to Annabel. “I picked up those hair-pieces yesterday. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Annabel replied.

  Phil registered the short exchange but said nothing. The three enjoyed their lunch in relative silence, and Phil got the ball rolling to give them an idea of how he wanted the information delivered.

  He spoke for ten minutes, while both Annabel and Rachel took notes. Easterhouse was a drop-off point for drugs of some description. There were far too many adults attending the ice-cream vans when they arrived in the streets. Phil said he couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was a widespread operation. He was keen to hear the other two reports.

  Annabel took less time than Phil. Maryhill was the only place on her list which had anything worth checking. Rachel made more notes and was keen to be as clued up as possible on the day’s activities.

  When Rachel related her observations regarding the ice-cream vans, she suggested a significant area of concern was Drumchapel, but she’d seen a couple of other things out of the ordinary.

  “Would it be okay if I got another drink?” Rachel asked, “I’m parched.”

  “I’ll get it,” Phil said. “What would you like?�
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  “Chilled-water if they have it. Thanks.”

  “Alpha?” Phil asked. Annabel shook her head.

  A few minutes later after quenching her thirst, Rachel added her extra information. “I’m aware we were watching for any indication the ice-cream vans were being used for distribution of drugs around the streets, but I picked up on something. In Drumchapel, a handful of taxi drivers seem to be attracted to ice-cream vans.”

  “Go on.” Phil exchanged a look of bewilderment with Annabel.

  Rachel said, “I didn’t spot it right away. It was during the afternoon session when I caught on. I parked my bike between cars in a decent street, packed away my helmet and leathers and used the lanes to wander around and observe from a distance.”

  The others listened intently.

  “Once you know the layout of The Drum, it has several viewpoints to watch for vehicles like ice-cream vans—or taxis.” Rachel looked from one to the other and continued. “In one street you wouldn’t notice, but from a high vantage point, you see it. Within ten stops in different streets, one van had three taxis pulling in, the drivers apparently buying confectionery or ice-cream.”

  “I’m impressed,” Phil said. “It was a possible taxi connection I noticed in Easterhouse, but I didn’t want to mention it right away.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I noticed something else, but I don’t know if you’d be interested.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m sure I caught a low-life loan shark doing his rounds.”

  “What made you suspicious?” Annabel asked.

  “It was a flashy car, two blokes going to the houses to visit people—no briefcase or paperwork and on most occasions coming back to the motor before the next visit.”

  “Did you see them put anything in the car when they returned?” Phil asked.

  “I’m sure they did,” she said. “A third guy stayed with the vehicle. He drove it from one stopping point to the next. It was because they went to certain streets it caught my eye.” She grinned. “It’s why I didn’t think it was Mormons or Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  Both Phil and Annabel suppressed smiles.

  “Good job,” Phil said. “Why did you want to go back to Drumchapel today?”

  “I wanted to take another look at the ice-cream van and taxi routine,” she said. “My interest was in what the cabs did after their stop near a van. I followed two, and in both cases, they pulled up at houses, somebody came out, and the cab driver passed over a package before driving away. No passengers in or out, which was strange.”

  “Okay,” Phil said. “You stand down for the rest of today Rachel, and take a day off tomorrow. I’d like you at the lockup at 07:30 on Sunday morning. We’ll be having a full team briefing for the next op.”

  “Does this mean I get to meet other team members?”

  “Yes,” he said and grinned at Annabel. “You’ll get to meet the rest of the team.”

  Five minutes later, dressed in her leathers, Rachel raised her right forefinger to her full-face visor and gave her customary salute before revving her bike and leaving.

  As the sound of the big bike faded into the distance, Phil and Annabel nodded.

  Annabel said, “Rachel is a switched-on girl.”

  At 18:00 in the bowels of a nondescript Georgian building in Blythswood Square, a weary Jake packed away his handful of specialised tools and removed his latex gloves. He was peeling off his black overalls when his instructor spoke.

  “How do you think you’re doing, mate?” Arkwright leant against a nearby table as he pulled off his overalls. He always wore a suit and tie coming to or leaving the building, but changed into overalls for training sessions.

  “I think I’m doing okay,” Jake said, “but it matters more what you think.”

  “You’ve taken in a lot of information in a few days, and you’re doing fine,” he paused. “Before you go, I’ve got a message for you.”

  “Yeah,”

  “You have Saturday to yourself. Be ready for pick up at 06:45, Sunday morning, from the bottom of Achamore Road. It will be Alpha in a red VW.” He paused. “And you’ve to switch on your phone, or charge it if needed.”

  Jake closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Do I come back here on Monday morning?”

  “No, I think it would be better to return here on Tuesday—you might need Monday free. When you come back next week, stop wearing a suit and tie. Dress casually and come to the back alley entrance. You can change here.”

  “Do you know what the Sunday—” Jake ended abruptly. “Sorry, I should know better.”

  “At least you’re getting the idea. Have a good weekend, and I’ll see you Tuesday.”

  Jake walked to a bus stop on St Vincent Street. He didn’t want to use a taxi, because he wanted to sit and observe the people around him. For the first time in his life, he was achieving something. He was worthy.

  .

  Friday 12th July

  The three members of the team who’d been observing the movements of the ice-cream vans performed the same task with one exception. Rachel was to stop at lunchtime and take a rest.

  Phil and Annabel paid an early evening visit to their proposed target locations and agreed on places they could hit as a team. Annabel drove Phil to within a few hundred metres of Southbank Street and dropped him off. He got out and leant in through the open window.

  “Thanks for today Annabel, I think we achieved a lot.”

  “I agree,” she said. “I’ll do another visit to the final contenders at around 22:00, and at around 02:00. I’ll make a note of anything relevant.”

  “Good idea,”

  “Have a pleasant evening,” she said and operated the electric window.

  The car pulled away before Phil could respond to her strange comment. He got to his apartment, showered, dressed in a shirt and smart trousers, and headed out in his car. He arrived at Eagle Drive in Bearsden by 20:00. On this occasion, he was carrying a bottle of white wine instead of flowers.

  The front door opened as Phil walked across the driveway and Stella stepped out to meet him. She was wearing her hair down, and the recent highlights worked well. Her emerald green dress provided a view of her neck and shoulders. The dress was figure-hugging, and the hemline gave a hint of her thighs.

  Black stilettos with a dark green toe completed the look, and as always, she looked stunning. She’d already learned Phil wasn’t accustomed to voicing an opinion on a woman’s appearance, but she read his expression.

  Phil said, “You look—”

  “Save it, and come into my parlour.” Stella reached out to take his free hand. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

  .

  Saturday 13th July

  Phil returned from an early visit to the bathroom, intending to get dressed to leave, but he found Stella sitting up and alert. She was naked, her hands clasped around her raised right knee. Her left leg was stretched under the duvet. She looked at Phil from under her long lashes. Dimples appeared in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled.

  “One more time before breakfast,” she said. “You lay there while I put in the effort.” The ghost of a smile passed over her face as she threw back the duvet. “Be careful. I thought I saw an attempt at emotion creeping onto your face.”

  The man’s stamina was incredible. Stella enjoyed the physical pleasure and forgave the lack of affection.

  Before climbing onto the bed, Phil held her face in both hands and kissed her softly on the lips. She moaned in ecstasy at the unexpected gesture and responded to his raw masculinity.

  They had their reasons for using each other and were content. It had been part of the original agreement when they’d asked each other for a favour.

  Phil stayed for breakfast and admitted he’d found it easier to be pleasant on this second occasion. He relaxed in Stella’s home and in her company. They had a peculiar bargain.

  On his way back across Glasgow to his apartment, Phil picked up some groceries, a
pack of beers and a Daily Record. He realised he hadn’t read the Friday evening paper. He had enjoyed an energetic workout before breakfast and allowed himself a rest from running or other exercises.

  In the afternoon, Phil took a leisurely walk around Glasgow Green. In many ways, he thought, his life had become surreal. He couldn’t remember when he’d spent a day doing nothing.

  At one point walking along one of the long paths, a football rolled towards him. Phil stopped the ball with his left foot and looked around. On the grass among the people enjoying the pleasant weather, was a boy of six, or seven years old. He was standing in his football strip staring at Phil. The boy’s mother was sitting on the grass with a book, and the father was standing nearby. The boy’s father waved to Phil as he waited for the ball to be returned.

  Phil hadn’t kicked a football since playing for his regiment, when in the Royal Engineers. He turned and pressed his right foot on the heavy plastic, rolled his toe back and under. He flicked the ball into the air and lobbed it in a fluid movement. Phil impressed himself with the forgotten skill. The ball landed beside the father who nodded in appreciation.

  “Cheers mate,” the man called.

  Phil nodded and waved at the pair before he continued his walk. He glanced back at the father and son passing the ball to each other and thought back to his happy childhood.

  By 18:00 Phil had shaken off the rare feeling of melancholy, made himself a meal and opened a can of beer. He lifted the newspaper and sat in a comfortable armchair. A glance at the minimal but reasonable furnishings left him trying to recall when he’d last relaxed. He didn’t know if he’d be capable of slowing down to this level, on a regular basis.

  In the newspaper, an editorial had been added about organised crime in the Glasgow area, and Phil read it in detail. According to the police spokesman, the Chief Constable had been made aware of the possibility of a vigilante operating in his city. In recent weeks, men had been shot and beaten.