by Tom Benson
“Were the girls’ regular working girls who got imprisoned or foreigners who came to our green pastures for work?”
“We believe they were mainly foreigners who’d been promised a better life. You know, they arrive in the middle of the night, and if they don’t agree to drop their knickers and make money, they get the shit kicked out of them.” Sam’s expression was serious, and he gazed at the back wall.
“One of the classic routines,” he said, “is to strap the victim down for a couple of days and make them drug-dependent. They’ll do fucking anything for their new masters.” Sam paused. “If I caught the bastards who did those things I’d cut their balls off and put them in a cellar full of rats.”
A double tap on the door was followed by DS Monroe entering. He glanced at Phil and approached DI Griffiths. He whispered in his boss’s ear.
“For fuck’s sake!” Sam’s said. “Okay, thanks, Eddie. I’ll be with you in five minutes.” DS Monroe looked down at Phil, squinted, and left the room.
“More bad news?” Phil asked.
“A young woman has been fished out of the Clyde. It looks like she’s one of the prostitutes who escaped a shithole brothel.”
“Suicide?” Phil offered.
“Not unless she learned how to tie her own hands behind her back,” Sam said. “I feel like shit asking this mate, but would you mind if we had your van picked up? You know the drill. It should take a couple of days.”
“If one of your guys gives me a lift to my lockup, you could have the van today.”
“Cheers mate. I’ll organise it, and we’ll leave you alone.” Sam squinted at Phil. “What the fuck would you want with a van anyway?”
“It’s a secret,” Phil said. “I’ll tell you if my business plan works.”
“You’ll have to come to the house for a meal sometime. Jane would be pleased to see you.” He stood up. “I take it you haven’t got a steady woman.”
“I’d need a heart transplant to hold onto a woman Sam.”
“You mean you’d need a fucking heart. Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”As they reached the front desk, Sam turned. “I wish we had you on the team, Phil. We could clean this place up good and proper.”
“Hello, Sir,” Sgt Mitchell said.
“Mitch,” Sam said. “Would you organise a car to take this gentleman to his lockup, please. We’ll also need a low-loader to go out there and bring in a van.”
The sergeant pressed a button on his intercom and was joined by Amy Hughes, the blonde constable. Sgt Mitchell delegated the personal transport task to Amy before calling the transport and forensic departments about the van.
Sam and Phil shook hands, and the DI headed upstairs.
Phil walked through the sliding doors and was joined by Amy.
“It’s Mr McKenzie, isn’t it?” She indicated the Vauxhall Astra they’d be using.
“I didn’t realise I was famous,” Phil said.
“I’m sorry,” Amy said. “I’m the Station Collator at the moment, and I’m generally good at remembering names, which helps.”
Outside the station, a woman wearing dark glasses, a hat, and a long coat was bent over, leaning on a walking stick. She observed the police officer and the man make their way to the patrol car. An approaching police officer asked if the woman required any help.
“No thank you, young man,” she mumbled. “Everything is fine.” She hobbled away from the station doorway leaning on her stick with every right step. Around the corner, she straightened, threw her hat, coat and stick into her red Golf GTi and drove off.
During the short distance across the city to his lockup, Phil controlled the conversation. By the time they arrived at the industrial estate, Phil had found out she was Woman Police Constable (WPC) Amy Hughes, age twenty-two, single, and living with her parents.
Amy had been on the force two years, and the career suited her. She enjoyed her role as the collator, and her knowledge of names and faces was the envy of her peers.
She explained there had been a virus introduced to the central computer system recently, meaning she applied paper-trail skills which most officers no longer used. It amused her to work the old-fashioned methods. In her spare time, she said she mixed distance running and going to the gym.
“I thought I’d seen you before,” Phil said. “You train around Glasgow Green don’t you?”
“I didn’t want to say anything,” Amy said. “When I saw you in the interview room, I recognised you, but at first I couldn’t remember where from.” She turned. “You wear a woolly hat sometimes.”
“Yes,” he said. “It depends if I’m taking it easy or giving myself a hard time.”
“Yeah, sometimes you want it to be hard.”
Phil turned to her and raised his eyebrows.
She blushed. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“I know.” Phil gave her a disarming smile. “It would be nice to have company occasionally on a long session,”
Amy laughed.
“I’m as bad as you,” he said, confident the seed of friendship was sown. He made a mental note to forego his workout mornings and run instead. Fortunately, he enjoyed running.
At the end of the journey, Phil thanked Amy, whom he had learned a lot about, but she had learned nothing about him, except he was a keen runner—and owned a white van.
The Transit was secured onto the low-loader, and Phil was given a receipt. He grinned when he considered what the forensic team would find.
At 14:00, Phil pulled into the car park at the roadside cafe near Renton, outside Dumbarton. He parked beside a yellow Norton, and held his open palm near the engine housing; it was hot.
Rachel was sitting at a corner table away from other diners. She was sucking an ice-cold Coke through a straw. A half-eaten baguette sat on a plate in front of her. She waved.
Phil approached, placed his sandwich and coffee on the table, and hung his jacket over the back of the chair opposite Rachel.
“Hi,” he said and sat down. “You’ve been keeping busy?”
“Hi, Boss. I hope you don’t mind, but I went beyond the brief yesterday.”
“It’s fine as long as you’re careful.” Phil sipped his hot coffee. “I’ve been looking forward to this.” He had gone from accepting anything hot and wet as nourishment, to expecting a decent brew. He lifted his sandwich. “Okay, my intrepid biker—your report?”
Rachel ate and drank while she explained her antics of the previous day.
Phil nodded. “What would you suggest we do next?”
“Am I permitted to have a plan?”
“You’re permitted if you have a decent plan.”
Rachel had picked up the remaining piece of her baguette and placed it in her mouth. As she chewed, she held up a slender forefinger. She swallowed the food and sipped Coke.
“My plan is simple,” she said, “but I’d like to borrow Jake.”
“Have you written anything down?”
“No, it’s all committed to memory for security.”
“Commendable,” Phil lifted his coffee. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
Rachel explained her idea. She used the sugar, sauce, and salt sachets to show the proximity of buildings and roads. She finished after fifteen minutes.
“With one or two refinements, it’s workable,” Phil said and went on to explain the amendments he would make and why. After his explanation, he confirmed her understanding. Rachel’s safety was paramount, and under no circumstances was she to put herself in danger. Phil agreed she should have Jake as her sidekick.
“I’ll work out a time, and we’ll meet late tonight to perform rehearsals,” Phil said. “I’d have preferred it to be the team doing the job, but I’d like to see how your observation post shapes up.”
“Will we be going by car?”
“No, I’ll be in leathers at the lockup, where you can pick me up. The difference will be one bike on the rehearsal, but two on the task.”
“How do we brief Jake?”
/> “Leave it with me. I’ll speak to him later today and make sure he has time to get in some sleep tomorrow before the op. I’ll tell him to call you, and you can arrange a rendezvous. Okay?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve got final kit preparation to do, and I should be getting some sleep before tonight?”
“You’re getting the idea.” Phil finished his coffee and stood. “See you tonight.”
“See you tonight, Boss.”
Phil had been on the dual carriageway for five minutes when he saw the headlight in his rear-view mirror. The big yellow bike roared past nudging the speed limit, and the rider’s left hand came off the grip in a low wave. Phil flashed his lights and grinned. The bike accelerated into the distance.
Phil arrived in his flat, closed the door, and his phone buzzed. It was Annabel.
“Hi,” Phil said. “It was okay. I’ll tell you about it when we meet up. How is it going with you?” He listened and nodded. “Where is our Margharita right now? … Ah, she’s a few metres away from you. Be careful Annabel—keep in touch. Ciao.”
15. Rehearsals
.
Thursday 18th July
During his morning run, Phil considered the rehearsal he’d performed with Rachel on the previous evening. He’d shown her a better location to park her bike, and gave her tips about the task. The observation post (OP) was excellent. It had been a worthwhile exercise, as rehearsals usually are. One of Phil’s concerns was for Rachel to feel confident.
Phil ran along the path which followed the River Clyde’s northern bank. Nelson’s Column loomed a few hundred metres away. The forty-four-metre high structure was the first erected in the UK in honour of Admiral Horatio Nelson. Around the base were the legendary character’s battle honours. Phil had read them several times.
In the distance, but closing fast was a woman in red and white running kit. Amy’s blonde ponytail swished from side to side as she maintained her steady pace, head erect and arms and legs pumping in a steady rhythm. As the distance between them closed, they were both reaching Nelson’s column.
When they passed each other, Amy said, “Call me tonight!”
“I will!” Phil shouted after her. He remembered she’d given him a piece of paper with her parent’s phone number. She lived with them, but they were on a cruise for a month. Phil liked Amy, but he was concerned—conscious of the age difference.
On the previous day, Arkwright had allowed Jake to finish earlier than usual. Jake told him he was ready for a proper challenge, and the trainer told him he’d get one.
“Your task,” Arkwright had said, “is to break into a safe in an office, but within twenty-four hours.” He’d given Jake the address as he was leaving Blythswood Square on Wednesday afternoon.
On Thursday morning as Jake walked around the corner from West Campbell Street into St Vincent Street, he took three deep breaths to calm himself. It was 07:30, and he hoped his rapid planning and minimal preparations would see him through. Few commuters were around, and the central office blocks were manned by security men and cleaners.
Jake was wearing a cream baseball cap, dark-framed glasses, and blue overalls which advertised in white print, Simon - the 24-hour Locksmith. In his right hand, he was carrying a small black toolbox and in his left, a clipboard with notes and diagrams on the top sheet.
While Jake covered the final few metres toward the target building, he watched the traffic further down the hill, crisscrossing at the many junctions. It amused him, having lifted the overalls through the open window of a service van belonging to a locksmith. He prayed Simon wouldn’t be walking around the city at this time of the morning.
Jake arrived at the office building situated at 172 St Vincent Street. He took his time going up the polished granite steps and took a deep breath as he pushed the glass door open. He was aware of his heart thundering in his chest. This was nothing like the good old days of brushing past somebody and taking a wallet.
“Hello mate,” the security man said. “Where are you headed?”
“Goldsmith, Findlay, and Peters,” Jake said after a glance at his clipboard. “They’re on the second floor I believe.” He made a mental note of the security man’s name from his badge. Charlie. Jake swallowed, and his mind raced. He was ready.
“Where’s your service van?” Charlie asked.
“I had to park around the corner in a lane,” Jake said. “You have too many restrictions around here, and I didn’t want to risk a fine. I’ve brought all I should need.”
“Have you got a call-out reference number?”
“Well, no,” Jake said and grimaced. He remembered the name from the company register. “I got a call from a Mr Richard Findlay early this morning. He said he’d be late—but the electrical timer on his safe has to be disarmed, or it will lock-out at 08:30.”
Charlie lifted his phone but hesitated.
Jake glanced at his clipboard. “Mr Findlay won’t get in until about 09:00. He said ‘Charlie will understand. He’s a good chap.’ Jake stared at the man’s name badge. “Are you Charlie, ‘cause it sounds like he rates you mate?”
“Yes, I’m Charlie,” the guard said. “I can’t leave my post right now—how will you get into their offices?”
Jake pointed to the logo on his overalls. “Simon—The twenty-four-hour Locksmith ....”
“Bloody Hell,” Charlie laughed.
Jake held up his house keys. “I’ve got these, and the rest should take about fifteen minutes if I’m careful.” He was perspiring. “The clock is ticking.”
“Try to get out quick Simon. It doesn’t look good having a locksmith in here.”
“You’ve got my word, Charlie.” Jake walked to the stairs and sighed with relief.
“There’s a lift,” Charlie called.
“I’m in training,” Jake said, enjoying his own humour.
It took Jake two minutes to pick the lock on the offices of Goldsmith, Findlay, and Peters, but as he eased the door open, he became aware of a movement to his left. He turned, to see a middle-aged woman in dark overalls dragging a vacuum cleaner along the corridor.
“What are you up to?” she said.
“I’ve got a couple of locks to fix in a short time.” Jake pointed to his logo.
“Have they forgotten their keys or something?”
“You would think with their money they could afford decent security.”
“Aye, but they’re all too tight with their bloody cash aren’t they?” She stopped beside him and nodded to his hands. “Why are you wearing gloves?”
“The clients insist. I got smudge marks on their desks the last time.”
“Bastards,” she said, and wandered off down the corridor, singing to herself, out of tune.
“You’re right,” Jake said and stepped inside. He closed the door, and for a moment, stood to collect his thoughts. He hoped the damn offices were unoccupied.
The first two rooms had no safe, and he tried the lock to a private office. The safe was against a wall on the left-hand side, thankfully visible and no use had been made of a painting or large bookshelf.
It was an old traditional safe and Jake was pleased to have it open in less than ten minutes. The perspiration was soaking the T-shirt and underwear under his overalls. He was experiencing a mixture of fear and excitement. He opened the door and among a load of papers was a manila envelope with red writing.
‘Hand delivery - 25th July pick-up.’ He took it out and folded it into his toolbox. He closed the safe door and spun the dials. He was sweating, and his heart pounded.
He secured the doors through to the corridor and was grateful the inquisitive cleaner was gone. Jake stood for a moment breathing deeply. He wiped his forehead with the arm of his overalls and set off down the carpeted stairs.
Jake wondered how Arkwright would judge his performance, apart from being handed the envelope. Throughout the training sessions, the older man had constantly drummed into Jake about maintaining an inner calm. It was as important
as being capable of opening any lock.
Jake left the stairs and turned towards the front desk, the front door, and freedom. “All done Charlie,” he called cheerfully.
“Before you go, Simon, could you sign-in here mate. I forgot, with you being in a hurry.”
Jake adjusted his glasses and lifted the pen beside the Visitor’s Book. He concentrated on using the name Simon as he signed. He put the pen down, nodded to Charlie and turned.
Before Jake reached the main door, it opened, and Arkwright stepped into the foyer. He was dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase.
“When did you get released, Jonah?” Arkwright said. “I thought you were doing a ten-stretch.”
Jake’s eyes widened. He swallowed, thinking fast. “Dad, you’re not funny. If you want a lift, my van is around the corner. Don’t embarrass me at work.” Jake turned to see Charlie’s concerned expression. “Bloody parents, eh Charlie?”
As Arkwright and Jake went down the front steps and turned uphill on St Vincent Street, the trainer was laughing, but Jake was silent and fuming. He felt a chill in his bones when he’d seen Arkwright at the front door, and it had hit him hard.
“You are a right bastard,” Jake said. “Was there any fucking need?”
“Yes mate.” Arkwright put a strong arm around his trainee. “Well done. We’ll check out the envelope when we get back to Blythswood for de-briefing.”
Back in the training room, Arkwright organised a brew and told Jake to open the envelope. He did and found a brief note which said, ‘Well done, have a bonus’ and attached to the note was a smaller envelope containing £100. Jake apologised for losing his cool.
Annabel had arrived in the small seaside town of Helensburgh on Wednesday at lunchtime. It had taken her ninety minutes to reach her destination, during which time she practised her questions, and rehearsed answers she might need.
She booked into The Rosslea Hall Hotel in Rhu, an attractive and pleasant place on Ferry Road, with a view of the River Clyde. It took a few minutes to drive back along the main road to park in a quiet tree-lined avenue. Annabel walked along the promenade towards the Helensburgh Yacht Club. Her target was tied at a mooring point nearby.
