by Tom Benson
“Yes please,” he said. “I’d appreciate it.”
Annabel lifted her phone from her handbag and dialled. “Hi, Carol. Great thanks—go ahead with the surveillance as discussed. Yes—Eagle Park.” Annabel continued. “Report direct to me. Ciao.”
Phil couldn’t remember telling Annabel his address, or Stella’s.
The pair made small talk for the next fifteen minutes, and at Annabel’s request, Phil stopped a few hundred metres from the house she rented.
“I’m pleased to see one of us has accommodation in a pleasant area.” He gazed across the nearby park.
“It’s quiet, and no prying eyes. If anything comes up regarding Kavanagh, I’ll call.”
“Thanks, Annabel,” he said as she was getting out of the car.
“A thought for you to sleep on.” She gave him an eyeful of cleavage as she leant down into the car. “If your arrangement with Stella comes to an end—call me.” She winked and gave a beaming smile before she closed the car door. As she walked away with her long elegant stride, she looked back over her shoulder and grinned at him.
13. Thoughts
.
Tuesday 16th July
Annabel went inside and stood with her back to the door. Had she made the right decision in showing her hand regarding Phil; time would tell. She shrugged off her jacket, and with it any worries about what she’d said to Phil.
Annabel took a shower to invigorate her mind and body, cooked a simple meal, and with a coffee in hand, she was ready for work.
One wall of her spare room was used for maps and a notice board, and below, was a small desk to hold her laptop. Her ops room and method of working were similar to Phil’s.
She opened her notebook to remind herself of the points Kirsten had remembered. On a pad of blank paper, she wrote in random spaces: Kirsten, Petra, Eva, Croatia, Dubrovnik, Boat - hours, Truck - one day? Boat - two days? Bearded man? Truck, Margarita? A remote building, mountains, beatings, drugs, shooting, prostitution, passports, Marie, Frank, Godfather? Well Street, Lauren, blonde, Perry Street.
On the European map, she placed a large pin on Dubrovnik, and one on Glasgow. As she sat, sipping coffee and surveying the massive area she focused for a while on the patchwork of countries which had once been Yugoslavia. Annabel pondered the circumstances and mindset of the Croatian refugees.
Kirsten and Petra had been teenage girls watching their country being destroyed in a modern war during 1991-95. Many girls had been raped or killed. It was sometimes done by soldiers or mercenaries after hostilities were meant to be over. The two girls had opted to leave their northern mountain village and head south, to Dubrovnik.
In the walled city, they felt a level of safety and security, and it was there they met and befriended another refugee, twenty-one-year-old Eva Yenkov from Split. According to Kirsten, it was the place to get a boat out; if necessary.
At the end of the war in ’95, having done menial work to earn a living, all three girls were given the opportunity to go to the United Kingdom to start a new life. They worked long hours to save enough to pay the middle-man - and their nightmare began.
Annabel made small lists under the words on her A4 sheet. Whenever an obvious connection occurred, she joined the groups or words with a line. She drew a broad line between Dubrovnik and Glasgow on the map because it would help her focus on possible routes. It was going to be a long night. Occasionally she stopped writing and studied the map.
In the basement rooms of a Georgian building in Blythswood Square, Jake was being introduced to the latest devices to aid the opening of a safe.
“Today,” Arkwright said, “we’ll be investigating non-intrusive entry into a domestic safe.”
Jake laughed.
“What’s the joke?” Arkwright asked, gazing at his solitary trainee.
“I would hardly call it non-intrusive,” Jake explained. “We’re talking about breaking into somebody’s safe.”
Arkwright laughed. The use of the phrase ‘non-intrusive’ was meant to suggest no damage or explosives, but the lad had a good point.
Jake’s youth, interest and ability made him a natural safe-cracker. The tools of the trade had altered over the years and were now smaller, but sensitive fingertips were an asset for the aspiring operative. Each new task would increase in difficulty.
Arkwright had produced some of the top lock-men for a variety of British Government departments. He could see Jake had promise and might join the list, and he pushed him hard. Jake was a personable individual, which was a bonus.
“The girl on the big yellow bike this morning,” Arkwright said. “Is she a member of your team?”
“I can’t tell you that—but when she’s unwrapped from her leathers, she’s a knockout.”
The older man laughed. “No doubt she’s aware how much you like her.”
“She is, but I’m wondering if she’s a lesbian. She’s cold, except for the job.”
“It doesn’t mean she’s attracted to women, because she doesn’t fancy you, mate. Maybe she doesn’t see you the way you see her, or perhaps she has a professional attitude.”
“Maybe,” Jake said and lifted his mug. “It doesn’t stop her being fuckin’ desirable.”
“What about your girlfriend, the hairdresser?”
“She’s a nice person, and she’s pretty, but Rachel is stunning and exciting.”
“Finish your coffee and let’s get your mind occupied with work.”
They finished their drinks and Jake commenced his next practical test.
The information panel on the side of the Mattsani ice-cream vans gave the registered office as an address on West Nile Street. Rachel arrived in the city and parked around the corner. She went into the offices in her leathers, carrying a large envelope. She told the receptionist the package was to be hand-delivered to the depot.
The girl on the desk hesitated, but Rachel said she was already in trouble because she’d misread the address, but her courier job meant everything to her. Sometimes, Rachel thought, women were easier to deceive than men.
Thirty minutes later, Rachel entered the road network of the huge Uddingston West Industrial Estate. She saw an ice-cream van pull away from a large, black building, made a mental note of the location, and continued on her way.
Her bike hidden and leathers packed away in the side panniers, Rachel walked confidently between the many buildings, now dressed in T-shirt, jeans and a denim jacket. A baseball cap kept her long tresses held out of sight as she wandered along, hands in pockets. It took her fifteen minutes to find the warehouse.
Rachel ensured she was unseen and sprinted to the high perimeter fence at the far end of the building. The mesh fence was entangled with undergrowth growing on both sides. Trees blocked most of the view on the outside. She looked along the perimeter in both directions. On the other side, beyond the trees, a short distance away were a few derelict buildings.
The undergrowth was two metres high in places, so Rachel crouched, and moved along the fence. It took a few metres before she saw the first camera and spotlight combination. The camera was mounted high, and fitted with two lights halfway up the support mast. For half an hour, Rachel investigated the area. A camera and spotlight combination was set ten metres to either side of the warehouse and every ten metres in both directions.
As she was about to climb out of the greenery, she heard a tyre screech and looked up. A Mattsani ice-cream van had turned the corner and pulled up to the curtain door of the black warehouse. Rachel ducked under cover and observed.
Five large cardboard boxes were brought out and handed in through the glass partition on the side of the van. Mattsani’s Wafers was printed on the cartons, but judging by the expression of the man carrying the packages, either they were the heaviest ice-cream wafers ever manufactured, or, the man was unfit.
Rachel stayed in her hiding place for thirty minutes and witnessed another van arrive and take on board several boxes of wafers. When she was satisfied she’d see
n enough, she moved back to the fence and followed it along fifty metres, before she stepped into the open. She strolled back to her bike.
Phil had watched his sexy sidekick Annabel walk away, and her parting comment had touched him. For the first time since his college days, a woman had stirred something deep within him. He’d had enough short term relationships to know the difference.
He pulled out his phone and dialled Stella’s office. Phil chatted to her for a few minutes. The friend she was staying with wasn’t known to her bullying ex-husband, and Stella felt safe. As he listened, Phil was forming a plan. He asked her to stay with her friend two more nights, and go home as usual on Friday evening. He suggested she tell the other people in her office she was staying with a friend until Friday. It wasn’t to be a secret.
When Phil joined the traffic to drive across town, it was busy, and it took an hour to get back to his apartment. He dropped off his jacket, went into his ops room and conducted a similar exercise to Annabel. His Glasgow street map was in the centre, with the Europe map to the left, and Scotland map to the right.
He wiped his notice board clean and used a marker pen to build his brainstorm diagram. In a few minutes, he had his groups of words written on the board in four different colours. He stood back to assess the information, before pinpointing Glasgow and Dubrovnik with large indicator pins. He drew a straight line between the two with a red marker pen.
Satisfied he had everything ready to start a long night’s work, he set his booby-trap device as usual when he closed the door and went back into Flat Three. Phil switched on the cooker to treat himself to a fried dinner. He was arranging the ingredients when his phone buzzed.
“Hello, yes this is Hawk.” He listened. “Okay my friend, calm down. No, don’t close the place, carry on as normal. Alfredo - put in a Four Cheeses pizza. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.” Phil switched off the cooker, put away his fresh food, and cursed. He had been looking forward to his fry. He wrapped his Browning in his leather jacket as he left.
On the way to the takeaway, Phil’s phone buzzed. “Hello,” he said and listened for a moment as the caller briefed him on a recent visit from the Hereford police. “Thanks, Viking, take care mate.” It was Viking whom Phil had given a heads-up after the brothel mission.
Robert Davenport pressed his intercom. “Sandra, find out if Detective Inspector Griffiths is in the building, and ask him to come up here.”
Sam Griffiths was at the Chief’s office ten minutes later.
“Good evening, Sir,” the DI said. “You wanted to see me.” Sam was a good-looking, well-built man of over six feet. He was thirty-eight, and his hair was the same shade as his dark grey suit. Sam was always immaculate, and nothing fazed him. He stood patiently in front of the Chief Constable’s desk.
Sam had been seconded to the Divisional HQ at Pitt Street when it was deemed necessary to close down the Police National Computer system. He was a member of the Scottish Crime Squad, the equivalent to the Serious Crime Squad in England.
“One moment please,” Davenport muttered, having glanced at the man he’d summoned. He lifted a report from his tray and looked up at the DI.
“I’m pleased you could join us,” Davenport said. “You have a good reputation.” He glanced at the recent report. “The rumours of a vigilante in the city are growing.” He paused. “It’s bad enough with those criminals we know—we don’t need a vigilante on our streets.”
“I was working the Bullets Barnes case, Sir,” Sam said. “I handed it over to somebody else to allow me to concentrate on the brothel murders.”
“You’re already dealing with them?”
“Yes. At first, it appeared to be a gangland hit, but it’s a professional job in both locations.”
“Could it have been the same person in both cases?”
“It wasn’t a person,” Sam said, stifling a laugh. “It was a slick, team operation.”
“Do I detect a hint of admiration?”
“Sir, we’ve seen the rapid closing of two brothels, which were illegal, plus the demise of a fistful of nasty people. Are you aware every one of the deceased was either on bail awaiting a court appearance or had been set free on a technicality?”
“No, but it sounds as if you’re viewing the whole escapade as a clean-up operation?”
“I agree the incidents have increased our crime percentage by a small margin,” Sam said. “We have to balance the facts against the amount of shit which has been cleaned from our streets, and the time required, re-processing the same criminals.”
“Detective Inspector Griffiths, the shit I want cleaning from our streets is this blood-thirsty bastard who’s set up his murderous campaign.”
“I’ll get right on it, Sir.”
“I suggest you sign out a firearm. I’d prefer to have this one man dead than any more of our citizens.”
“While we have firearms teams I would require the authority to sign out a weapon, Sir.”
“You have my authority, detective. Find this blight on our city and fucking remove it,” he half-closed his eyes. “Who is your partner?”
“DS Eddie Monroe. He’s my regular partner, and came on attachment with me.”
“I want him armed also. Get this vigilante for me.” Davenport was out of order. One of the mainstays of British police forces had always been their reticence to issue weapons except as a last resort. Sam headed back to his temporary office.
“Eddie.” Sam paused at the office door. “Would you nip in here for a minute?”
“Sure, Boss.” The Detective Sergeant closed the door behind him.
“Pull up a pew, mate.”
Eddie grabbed the other chair in the small office and dragged it to the desk. He sat facing his boss. Eddie was shorter than Sam by a few inches, and at thirty-one, was several years younger, but he was as broad. He modelled himself on Sam and had bought two more suits to maintain a good appearance.
“How long have you been a DS, Eddie?”
“Two years. I’ve been with you since my promotion.”
“How many times have you used a firearm in the line of duty?”
“Fuckin’ Hell, Sam, what’s going on? I’ve carried one three times, but never fired apart from range practice.”
“Are you happy to carry a firearm?”
“Well, because of your background you’re seen as Mr Fuckin’ Cool by the guys, but yeah, I reckon I could make the right decisions. What the fuck is going on?”
“I don’t want this to go any further,” Sam said. “The Chief wants us to carry firearms during this investigation.” Sam picked up the latest unexplained incident reports, including the brothel escape and murders. He dropped it all in front of Eddie.
“Maybe it would be a good idea,” Eddie said.
“Yes it would be mate, but we have two things to consider. First, if I carry a gun—as my partner, you would too. Secondly, we have a peculiarity in all the murders.”
“No coppers among them. All the dead people are the shit of the earth.”
“Precisely, mate. If we try to take out a man as lethal as this vigilante by tackling him head-on, there will be one result—an injured or dead fucking copper.”
“What do we do?”
“Let’s say I don’t want you carrying a gun unless I ask you. If the overweight bastard along the corridor asks, we’re both carrying firearms.”
“Okay.”
“Now find us a couple of decent coffees. We’ll go through everything we’ve got on these incidents.” He lifted several sheets of paper. “We’ll update the Murder Room with whatever information we don’t mind the other teams knowing.”
Eddie grinned and headed to the drinks machine, which dispensed shit coffee. Eddie was envied by most men in the Division - and all the women. Sam Griffiths was ‘The man’.
Phil walked past Alfredo’s takeaway and glanced inside. A teenage couple were accepting two square cardboard cartons which contained their evening meal. Phil turned at the corner
and walked back towards the glass-fronted pizza shop. No customers.
“Hawk,” Alfredo said. “It’s O’Connor. He’s coming back, and he’s angry.”
“Is this the first time he’s been back since I dealt with him?”
“Yes. His face is badly scarred, and he’s ugly.”
“No change there.” Phil looked over his shoulder as a car skidded around the corner.
“It was him,” Alfredo said. “He drives a different car, but it’s another red one. He says he’s starting his rounds with me, and he wants twice the amount of money—”
Phil was already gone—carrying the hot cheese pizza which Alfredo had placed on the counter.
O’Connor had been given a fair warning but had returned to demand protection money from small businesses. The thirty-year-old thug was still in the driver seat as he tucked his sawn-off shotgun inside his coat. His smile of satisfaction disappeared when he turned and gazed at the business end of a pistol.
“Hello dickhead,” Phil said. “What’s your boss’s name?”
“I can’t—” O’Connor swallowed hard, and his gaze lifted from the weapon to the cold blue eyes of the gunman. “Martin Cameron.”
“I want you to pass a message to him.”
“He’ll fuckin’ kill me. What is it?” O’Connor croaked through dry lips.
Phil squeezed the trigger. A small hole appeared in O’Connor’s badly scarred forehead, and his head fell over to one side. The seat belt held his body in an upright position. Phil reached into the car and dropped the hot pizza carton on the passenger seat. He left his calling card on the dashboard but didn’t oblige with a phone number.
Phil arrived back at his flat twenty minutes after dealing with O’Connor and enjoyed a fry-up. He considered pizza but figured he’d leave it for another time. After eating, he opened a beer. He would go next door to investigate the information given by Kirsten. The door-bell buzzed, and Phil peered down at the front of the block.
