by Tom Benson
Phil lifted the remote control and pressed a button. The window blind lowered, and the projector was ready. A list appeared on the white screen. Unlike records of actions, each of the items had a question mark to follow—each being a suggestion.
Annabel said, “Jake before we get too deep into our next moves, have we any word from Ian?”
“He texted me earlier,” Jake said. “He’s aiming to be here tomorrow morning.”
“I’m going to let you all look at the list for a moment,” Phil said. “If there are no immediate questions we’re going to work as individuals for half an hour. We’ll see what evolves from our efforts and then we’ll decide which way to break up the responsibilities.”
Rachel placed a laptop in front of Jake, opened it and powered up.
“Okay,” Phil said. “There’s a laptop each.” He fixed the timer they used for such occasions and set it in the centre of the table.
The keys on the four computers clacked away as the associates followed different leads and ideas. Ink flowed. Notes filled sheets on A4 pads. At various times, members of the team would stand to check a location on the map, but nobody talked.
The timer on the table buzzed for a few seconds and went silent. Within two minutes of the deadline, the four people were once again seated at the main table facing inwards.
“Worthwhile?” Phil asked and looked around to acknowledge the three nods. “Right, what I’d like to—”
Rachel’s mobile rang, and she glanced at Phil before checking the caller. “Hello there.” She avoided the use of a name. “Yes, that would be good.” She paused and held her phone up to show Phil.
He nodded.
Rachel said, “I’m free this evening. The square at 7 pm? Okay, see you there. Bye.” She placed her phone on the table and grinned back at Phil and Annabel.
Jake said, “I take it you’re not meeting whoever it is at a square?”
“No,” Rachel said. “When I say the square when I’m talking to Amy, she knows I mean Central Station.”
“Amy?” Jake said. “Wasn’t she the young police constable who was kidnapped in ’96?”
“The very same, and now she’s Detective Inspector Hughes. It looks like our anonymous tip-off and clues were recognised.”
.
Glenbrittle, Isle of Skye
Scotland
10:30 am
A bearded man stepped down onto the small wooden jetty from the fishing boat that was gently bobbing up and down in the water. The man stood still. His knees twitched, and his legs trembled. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.
He was wearing an open duffle-coat, jeans and fisherman’s boots with the tops turned over. Over his left shoulder, he carried a large black holdall, and as he limped away from the landing area, he pulled a pair of sunglasses from inside the coat and put them on.
“It’s so fucking good to be back,” he said aloud and made his way slowly up the cobbled ramp. A Jaguar was parked two hundred metres along the road. It was the latest model in his favourite finish—British Racing Green.
He walked past the vehicle on the other side of the road, glancing at the driver without making it obvious. He was desperate for a smoke, but decided to savour the thought for a few more minutes, and walked on to leave the small coastal village.
Five minutes later and a short distance away, the green Jaguar pulled up at the roadside. The bearded man looked over his shoulder before opening the rear door and throwing his holdall inside. He removed his duffle coat, and it joined the holdall before he jumped into the front passenger seat.
“Welcome to Scotland, Mr Fitzpatrick,” the woman said as she checked her rear-view and pulled onto the road again.
“Thank you, Mrs Fitzpatrick,” the man said and briefly looked his wife up and down. “It’s good to be back where I belong.”
“We’re not going far,” his wife said. “I’ve booked us into a hotel in Portree on the other side of the island. It won’t take long to get there, and you’ll have the chance to get cleaned up.” She attempted a smile, but her lips quivered.
In less than an hour and a half, the Jaguar was parked outside a small hotel, and the couple were in a room. They embraced briefly, but it was a cold gesture, and neither spoke. During the journey across the island, they’d indulged in sporadic conversation, but the woman initiated any chat. The dynamics didn’t change when they arrived at the hotel.
Mrs F lowered her head slightly as she placed her hands on his shoulders. “Would you like to get these clothes off and I’ll help you to relax?”
“No thank you, dear,” Fitzpatrick said. “I’m going to have a shower, and when I come out, I’d like a coffee and some peace and quiet for a while.” He looked at his wife as dispassionately as if she were a hired help. “I’m going to need a while to adjust. You do appreciate my position, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mart—” she paused when she saw his eyes narrowing. “Sorry, I mean yes, Gordon.” Her face burned at her mistake. “I’ll fix you a coffee before I go for a walk.”
“We can’t afford slip-ups from here on in,” Fitzpatrick said, glaring at her as he unbuttoned his shirt. “Understood?”
“Understood love,” she said. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.” She hesitated and tried changing the subject. “Will you be keeping the beard?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” he said in the same abrupt tone. He continued to undress.
The gangster’s wife strolled along the main street of Portree in the early afternoon sun. She walked in a daze, thinking back to a time when they had both been happy. He had been Martin Cameron, and she, Lorraine. They had plenty of money, a beautiful home in Scotland and their villa in Spain.
Her husband had set his sights on being much more than an enforcer for William Hartley, the Glasgow Godfather. Martin had wanted to be the Godfather, so he had started making lots of personal contacts, stashing money and drugs, and becoming very secretive. He began to increase his power as he prepared for a takeover bid, but it all went wrong.
Back in ‘96, Martin Cameron had been targeted by a bloody vigilante gang. Lorraine knew they’d been after William Hartley, but they were taking down anybody who worked for him, and so Martin was set up. His car was spot-checked, and somebody had stashed a load of hash throughout the vehicle. A connection to the Hartley case saw Cameron charged and imprisoned.
On her husband’s instructions, Lorraine had visited him twice in HMP Barlinnie, and they discussed the code they would use to communicate. Whether by letter or phone, Lorraine would memorise her instructions. She had become sick of the darker side of her life, but she knew it would go badly for her if she failed her husband.
While Cameron was in prison, Lorraine had remained in Spain for several months at a time, occasionally returning to the fancy house outside Kirkintilloch. There had been a lot of preparation done, alone. Before starting, it meant waiting until the authorities had ceased to observe the house in the UK.
It had taken Lorraine several sessions to dig up all the cash buried in the landscaped gardens of the large property. Only then was she able to prepare the house for sale. Her brief had been simple enough, and her husband had given her a timetable. She was expected to do his bidding, so she worked tirelessly.
“I don’t want to be fucking Helen Fitzpatrick,” she said aloud as she walked. “I want to be me. I want to be Lorraine Cameron.” A tear rolled down her cheek. There was a cafe up ahead, so she decided to get inside and have a coffee. She had plenty on her mind.
While sitting waiting for her drink, the woman now known as Helen Fitzpatrick, opened her bag and retouched her makeup. She was unaware of the warm summer day, or the sound of the birds or the fresh sweet smell of nature when outside.
Now as she looked at herself in her compact mirror, Helen’s mind became occupied with the things she had during the years of her husband’s incarceration and time abroad.
While his wife headed into the picturesque town of Portree, Gordo
n Fitzpatrick spent fifteen minutes in a hot shower in the hotel. As he tried to wash away the stench lingering from his forced trip on a fishing boat, his mind was buzzing with all he wanted to achieve.
There was an empire to build and several scores to settle along the way. Martin Cameron may be a familiar name to the police; he thought, but Gordon Fitzpatrick was an unknown. He would be able to establish himself off the radar—invisible to law-enforcement.
Fitzpatrick was eager to get underway with his plans. One of the areas to check was how Peter Henderson had managed with his latest tasks. It was important for Henderson to stick to the jobs, and not start getting involved in unsanctioned activities. There would lay the road to discovery, and ultimately failure.
Yes, Fitzpatrick thought, young Peter will be a useful man, just as long as I keep him under control. There is no place for a free-thinking or trigger-happy enforcer in the new organisation.
16. Welcome to Glasgow
.
Saturday 3rd July
Glasgow
Scotland
8:15 am
Ian Andrews arrived at Queen Street station in Glasgow city centre, but he already knew he had an issue to deal with before attending the BTL office. During the train journey, he made a coded call to explain his problem.
When Ian arrived, he left the station and walked out to George Square. He stopped at the nearest pedestrian crossing and gazed around, referring to the city map. He set off and took twenty minutes to wander around all four sides of the square to end up back in Queen Street. His suspicions were confirmed.
A fair-haired man with glasses was tailing him. Through habit, when Ian first boarded the train at Edinburgh, he’d gone into a carriage walked straight through, got out, and then went back to the previous carriage. The tail had stayed onboard, observed and continued through the carriages, to take a seat a few back from Ian.
Jake was leaning against a bus shelter with a newspaper held open in both hands. He was a few metres from the taxi rank exit in Queen Street Station. He was wearing a black baseball cap, a lightweight jacket and jeans.
As Ian crossed the road, he gave an imperceptible nod as he passed. He turned to look at the line of taxis, hesitated, shook his head and made his way along West George Street. Jake stayed in position, occasionally looking up from the newspaper.
When Ian reached the broad pedestrian area, he paused and looked up and down Buchanan Street, but didn’t look back. Ian turned left and opened up his pace. A few minutes later he turned right onto St Vincent Street. At the corner, he stopped, glanced down at his map and set off.
Where St Vincent Street crossed West Nile Street, Ian stopped to cross at the pedestrian crossing, and then turned right and set off at a rapid pace once again. The man following Ian missed the green light, before running to dodge the traffic. He had become so intent on his quarry; he allowed his counter-surveillance drills to suffer.
Ian walked into the narrow confines of St Mary’s Lane before he paused and stepped back. He looked along the pavement, and then glanced across the road. The fair-haired man stopped and looked into a store window. For good measure, Ian hesitated before he entered the lane again. He ran for a few metres to make some distance, before walking.
When Ian was within a few metres of the far end of the narrow lane, he paused and looked over his shoulder. The tail was walking rapidly along the narrow pathway, closely followed by a man wearing a baseball cap. Ian left the alley, turned left and stepped into a doorway.
Phil winked at Ian and passed him on his way along St Mary’s Lane. A baseball cap and shades completed a sufficient disguise for Phil. He wore a T-shirt and jeans, and over his left arm, he carried a denim jacket. When the covert agent started running towards the end of the lane to catch up with Ian, Phil pulled out a 9mm pistol.
“I’d stop right there.” Phil levelled the automatic at the man’s head.
The agent stopped and felt something cold and metallic touch the nape of his neck.
“Lift both hands away from your body.” Jake pressed his gun’s muzzle hard into the man’s neck. “Do it slowly, and I won’t kill you.”
Phil continued from the other direction, and when he was a few metres away, he nodded.
“Welcome to Glasgow,” Jake said and punched the fair-haired man in the kidneys. The agent grunted and dropped to his knees. The two BTL operatives hauled him into a doorway behind a large dump bin.
“Name?” Jake asked as he pushed the man face down onto the ground.
“I work for the government,” the man said.
“Congratulations,” Jake said and knelt on the agent’s back. “Fucking name?”
“Bradshaw,” the man said.
“Which department do you work for?” The gun pressed the neck. “Don’t fuck with us. You’re not worth the time.”
“MI5—I have a handler, so there are no contact names.”
Phil and Jake exchanged shook their heads in disbelief. Bradshaw was getting into the wrong line of work. Phil would make sure he made a call to Stuart in London later in the day.
A black canvas hood came down over the agent’s head. His hands were pulled back and secured behind him with a plastic cable tie. Hands rifled through his pockets. He felt both his wallet and weapon go from inside his jacket. The magazine was emptied before the gun and wallet were stuffed under his body.
There was a whispered conversation above the prisoner.
Jake knelt down and leant close to Bradshaw. He spoke in a broad Glasgow accent. “Get on a train and fuck off, or you’ll be dead within the hour.”
.
BTL Enterprises
Glasgow
Scotland
“These are the ladies I told you about,” Jake said and made the introductions.
Ian felt welcome, receiving a warm smile and a handshake from Annabel. As Ian took Rachel’s hand, his positive appraisal was clear to see. She responded with a raised eyebrow as she took in the sight of the swarthy complexion, black hair and designer stubble.
Apart from the dark look, at five-foot-nine tall, he was the same height as Jake, although he would be better described as athletic, rather than muscular.
While introductions were still underway, Phil arrived. He nodded as he closed the door and then slipped off his denim jacket. “Welcome, Ian.”
Ian turned and shook Phil’s hand. “Thanks for the reception.”
“It was our pleasure,” Phil said. “Grab a brew, and we’ll get to business.”
“I like the setup,” Ian said as he poured himself a strong coffee. “The crew are also more pleasant to look at than my recent colleagues.”
Jake asked, “Did you know the guy who was tailing you?”
“I don’t know his name, but I’m pretty sure he’s one of MI5’s people.” Ian smiled. “It’s sad to think how paranoid our intelligence services are in practice. We end up following each other.”
The other four laughed, both at the absurdity and the truth of the statement.
“Right people,” Phil said. “We have lots to cover, so if you’ll all take your seats.”
Ian waited to let the regular team get settled before he took a seat. “I appreciate the chance to work with you guys. I’ve read the unofficial cuttings.”
There was a nod of acknowledgement from each of the team.
Phil said, “Before we get underway, Ian, I take it Stuart and Jake have filled you in on our formation and progress.”
“Yes,” Ian said. “I have a pretty good grasp of the team’s history and success. I understand Rachel is the only one not to have had official training in any government department, apart from the safe-cracking course.”
Annabel nodded. “That’s true, but over the last few years she’s taken a lot on board and is a highly effective operative.” She smiled at her protégé. “Both Phil and I have trained Rachel on covert operation techniques, weapon training, and a host of other skills. She’s adept at making a judgement call when needed.”
/> Rachel sipped her latte to hide her smirk, and she was glowing inside.
Ian turned from Annabel to Rachel and back again. “Looks and ability,” he said. “You two ladies have a lot in common.”
Phil and Jake exchanged a glance, and they both rolled their eyes to the ceiling.
“Now,” Phil said. “I think we’ll get up to date with a report from Annabel.
Annabel said, “Since Hartley’s admission to the clinic I’ve paid regular visits. He’s had a hearing aid fitted since admission, and it transmits every conversation in his presence.”
Ian said, “I assume his only part in these conversations is his prolonged existence?”
“Yes,” Annabel confirmed. “He’s spent his time in an almost vegetative state since capture, but certain people enjoy visiting and boasting to him of their successes.” She sipped her coffee. “In recent times one particular visitor has caught our attention.”
Annabel flicked the remote. A full-colour image appeared on the wall screen. “This is Peter Henderson.” There was a click and a second photograph appeared alongside the first. “There we have our best picture of William Hartley, originally known as—”
“Billy Henderson,” Jake whispered. “The likeness is uncanny, apart from the younger guy having a beard.”
Annabel nodded. “Peter Henderson refers to Hartley as ‘Uncle’, but it isn’t a term of endearment; Hartley is Peter Henderson’s Uncle Billy.”
Ian said. “Who is the connecting relative?”
Phil explained the aftermath of the jewellery raid in Glasgow in ‘77. “When the police arrested the robbers, Billy Henderson as Hartley was known then, said it was his brother Lenny who had shot the bystanders. Lenny was prepared to do the extra time. He was a big man in comparison to Billy, and he knew he could handle a prison term.”
“So where does Peter Henderson fit into all this?” Ian asked.
