by Tom Benson
Max limped forward, having learned a vital lesson in the use of handguns. “If the lazy bastard who shot Joe had kept his weapon clean and serviceable, I wouldn’t be here now.” He lifted the old revolver from the back of his jeans and held it up. “This was his gun, and it jammed because he didn’t keep it in good condition.” He replaced the weapon in the back of his belt.
Toolkit caught on. “I suppose it’s a bit like we keep our bikes in good condition.”
The Mental Riders all nodded their appreciation of the theory. They all understood bikes and respected the need to keep them in good order. Like many men around firearms, it wasn’t because the riders were stupid—they had just never had any reason to worry about maintenance. If it fired—good. If it didn’t, it was fucked, so they’d use an alternative.
Phil allowed the guys to have a few minutes to discuss things and settle.
“Okay,” he said. “If we’re all happy about the need for a serviced weapon when we’ve done some stripping and assembling, we’ll go on to do some shooting practice.”
“Now you’re fuckin’ talkin’,” Pedro said, his gunslinger moustache twitching.
“If you’re all good boys,” Phil said and grinned as he looked along the line. “We’ll have a shooting competition to finish off, and I’m offering £100 prize money. Is everybody up for it?”
“Fuck, yeah,” was the general opinion. Everybody was happy and nodding.
“Wyatt,” Phil said. “If you like, you can help me assess the guys after I’ve shown them the basics.”
“Sure,” Wyatt said, happy to be seen to have some expertise. He got a slap on the shoulder from more than one of his brethren.
Max gave Phil a sly wink. He’d enjoyed watching his fellow riders being won over.
At the end of the session when the guys were cleaning the weapons that they’d used, Phil made a point of having a friendly chat with Sinbad. He didn’t sense bad feeling, but he wanted to be sure that all was well.
During a few minutes chatting quietly, Phil was to find his theory was correct. Sinbad was ex-Royal Navy and had served several years. While they talked, Phil told Sinbad he was impressed by his shooting, for a sailor. It brought the closest thing to a smile—and removed any remaining negativity. Phil didn’t ask why the man’s career ended so early.
As Phil strolled over to join another group he received a nod of appreciation from Max, who’d been watching the individual coaching and reassurance.
21. Routine and Recce
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Gordon Fitzpatrick started his day as he intended to continue. He had a shower, full Scottish breakfast and then went for a walk. He checked out the two tracks that led away from the rear and side of the building. The main route was easy enough to keep in mind because it was a straightforward track of around one hundred metres from the main road.
Directly to the rear, there was a track, which after a clean-up could be negotiated by a 4 x 4. Fitzpatrick had walked the length of it and made a note of several points, including where a large tree had fallen across the pathway. The track wound through the forest for about two miles before it arrived at a broader track.
The track to the left side of the building was also narrow but had several old trees lying across it which blocked vehicle access and egress. He wanted all of it cleared at the earliest opportunity, but he was happy to know both of the secondary routes led to the same main track, much further back in the forest. The main path then led out around the forest perimeter.
Fitzpatrick took a coffee and made his way upstairs and out onto the flat roof. The castle as he thought of his new home was almost cube-shaped. It was around sixty metres along each side, and twenty metres in height. According to old plans, the original building featured battlements at each corner of the roof, and along each side. He was pleased with the refurbished version.
“Surveying your kingdom, my lord?” Helen Fitzpatrick asked, in yet another effort to make light conversation.
“Aye, that’s what I’m doing, my dear,” Fitzpatrick said. He sipped his coffee and then stepped from one battlement to the next, taking in not only the distant view but also the clearance from the side of his castle out to the nearest forestry. He already knew although he could see over the treetop canopy, there was little evidence of his castle from outside.
“I’ll need a few more trees taken down to extend the cleared area around the building.”
Helen said, “The council won’t—”
He turned with brow furrowed. “Do you honestly think I give a flying fuck what the council thinks?” He turned away from her to continue his survey. He didn’t notice his wife returning to the doorway in the small round tower at the north-west corner.
Fitzpatrick made a mental note of his requirements, finished his coffee and then went downstairs. He walked from room to room on the upper floor before going down to the ground floor. He lifted a light safari jacket and a tweed cap.
“I’m going for a walk,” he called out. “I’ll see you later.”
“Right, I’ll sort out ....” Helen called, but the large oak door slammed as she was speaking. “Fuck you!” She cried out and went into the dining room with her phone. As she entered the room, she concentrated on the disguised numbers in her contact list.
She stood in the massive dining room, which was more akin to a banquet room. Helen stood with the phone to her ear and gazed down, inspecting the fingernails on her other hand while she waited impatiently for a response.
“Hello,” she said. “We need to meet soon.” She listened to the reply and closed her eyes. “I think I know the best place,” she said, “but leave it. I’ll call back to confirm.” She listened again. “I don’t know what he knows for Christ’s sake, but he’s acting fucking stranger every day.”
She heard a second voice on the other end, and then the line went dead. “Fuck it,” she said under her breath and put her phone away.
Something caught Helen’s attention, and she turned. Linda, the thirty-something, live-in maid, hired by Simpson was stepping quietly from one of the large archways of the dining room. She walked across the room, as silent as a spirit, making no eye contact with her boss’s wife. As the maid opened the door, she turned and glanced at Mrs Fitzpatrick.
Helen Fitzpatrick felt a sudden drop in her body temperature. She didn’t like the maid, or the chef, or even Simpson the bodyguard. All of the staff gave her the creeps. It usually took a lot to make her uneasy. Had she gone soft?
.
Favara
Spain
Ian drove south on the coast road as far as Cullara before he stopped for the first time on a spot where the road was high above the bay. They were on the southern outskirts of Favara.
Rachel smiled. “This is the area, partner.”
Ian turned to look out towards the holiday destination of Ibiza. The island sat several kilometres out from the Bay of Valencia. He nodded, turned and made a note of the nearest houses and then drove on a few hundred metres before parking in a tree-lined avenue away from the main coast road.
The pair lifted the camera, map, and bottled water before strolling back in the direction of Favara. They knew the house that was of interest to them, thanks to Rachel’s previous visit. By way of concealing their target, they began their enquiries a few homes previous.
“Remember the original name,” Rachel said. “Until recently they would have been known to anyone around here as Martin and Lorraine Cameron.”
“I expect they would have felt untouchable out here.”
“I got the impression the neighbours considered them to be honest, rich Brits who liked to have a second home in the sun.”
It took half an hour to approach each of the households to ask if anybody knew the whereabouts of Martin or Lorraine. Ian nodded towards Rachel each time and explained how the missing couple were her only living relatives. He told the people Rachel was his girlfriend and had alread
y been to Favara once, desperate to trace the Camerons.
The first residents were Spaniards, and two of them remembered Rachel from her earlier visit. As the covert operatives approached the house that had belonged to the Camerons, Rachel reminded Ian of the home being unoccupied when she had last called there. The place was easy to remember because of the red door and brass bull’s head knocker.
The man who answered the door was wearing a baseball cap. His stubble stood out against his pale complexion. He was thickset and stared into the eyes of the visitors when he responded. As he had been doing, Ian spoke in Spanish and introduced himself as Inigo.
“I’m trying to enjoy a sleep,” stubble said in English, “so why don’t you go and annoy somebody else. I’ve lived here for years, and I’ve never heard of a Martin or a Lorraine.” He slammed the door in their faces.
The pair walked down the pathway to the main road without looking back.
“Right,” Ian said. “It’s time to test your powers of observation. What didn’t add up with Mr Stubble in there?”
“He made no effort to respond in Spanish. The accent he tried to use was Southern English, but he wasn’t able to disguise the way he rolled the letter ‘r’, so I reckon he’s a Scotsman.”
Ian was nodding. “Was there anything else?”
“Yes. If he’s lived here for years, the place wouldn’t have been unoccupied when I came here in February. The cap disguised his face, but I’d guess he had a shaved head.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder. “I also don’t think the car looks right.”
“What about the car?” Ian glanced back. “It’s a standard Seat Ibiza hatchback.”
“The guy is a six-footer,” she said and raised an eyebrow. “He weighs in at maybe two hundred pounds. The driver’s seat is pulled close to the steering wheel, in the way a smaller, or elderly person might use it.”
“Bloody hell, Rachel,” Ian said and laughed. “If BTL Enterprises ever breaks up, make sure you get in touch with my old colleagues down in London. I’m impressed.”
Mr and Mrs Hill were the couple who had bought the house nearest to number 124, with the red door. They were delighted to be of assistance. Mr Hill was British, but Mrs Hill was Spanish. In a short conversation, Ian and Rachel had it confirmed the house next door had gone on the market a few months earlier. It had sold recently.
Although Mr and Mrs Hill had never known a Martin or Lorraine, they provided some useful information about the house with the red door, so Ian and Rachel visited two more homes simply for effect, before heading back to Valencia—and the estate agent.
During a few minutes at the office, it was confirmed the man who dealt with the contracts on number 124 on the coast road was Miquel Sanchez. He would be in Madrid until Wednesday, so Ian said they’d return to speak with Miquel.
While the visitors sat at a table outside a cafe enjoying a latte, Ian called Phil and brought him up to date on progress. Ian put his phone away and smiled at Rachel.
“Well, it looks like we’ve got tomorrow to enjoy the area because there’s not much more we can do until we speak to our man Miquel.”
“Sounds good to me,” Rachel said, her lips curling. The grin disappeared, and she lifted her camera to focus on the shops and offices fifty metres away.
“What’s wrong?” Ian asked, and followed the direction of Rachel’s shot.
“Look at the guy standing outside the estate agent’s office.”
“Now why the hell is he visiting that office?”
“Maybe he’s come to town to complain about our visit, or he doesn’t like folk disturbing his elderly parents.”
“I hate to sound negative Rachel, but where the disagreeable Mr Stubble is concerned, I don’t like the number of maybes coming to mind.”
Rachel took a few seconds longer to get good pictures at a distance. “Well, he’s had a look inside, but he’s not going in.”
“It makes his trip here even more peculiar. We’ll keep him in mind when we speak to Miquel on Thursday.”
22. Introductions
.
Thursday 8th July
Valencia
Spain
“It’s only 9:45 am,” Ian said. “We may as well walk along to the cafe we visited on Tuesday. We have plenty of time because our appointment isn’t until 10:30 am.”
“Suits me,” Rachel said. “From there we might see Miquel when he turns up for work.” The pair walked past the estate agent’s office. A few minutes later they were sitting at the same table as their previous visit. They both enjoyed a latte and croissant out in the morning sun.
The pair watched the world go by and chatted about their day out in the countryside on Wednesday. They agreed it had been pleasant, but the area was no match for the rugged, natural beauty of Scotland.
Ian checked his watch and nodded across the square towards the estate agent’s offices. Rachel followed his gaze and noted two police cars turn off into the side street to drive around behind the block. A third police car pulled up outside. Two uniformed officers went through the front doors.
The two BTL team members exchanged a glance. It was 10:15 am, and a police presence was not in their plans. For the next fifteen minutes, as they watched, nobody entered or left the office, but a police officer placed a bollard in the middle of the road to prevent access to or egress from the side street.
Miquel had not yet turned up for work as far as they could see.
“I’ve got a bad feeling Rachel,” Ian said. “And it’s got nothing to do with the croissant or coffee.” His usual humorous tone was absent.
.
BTL Enterprises
Glasgow
Scotland
“What’s wrong Phil?” Annabel asked. “Are they okay?”
“Yes, they’re both fine, but it sounds like somebody has tentacles extending way beyond where we expected.” He had been writing something on his notepad during the call.
“Go on,” Annabel said.
“We’ll get a full brief when the guys get back, but there have been a couple of strange occurrences in Spain.” He sipped his coffee. “The police attended the estate agent office that had been dealing with the place that used to be the Cameron villa.”
“What are the issues?”
“I think we’re talking about somebody tying loose ends,” Phil said, “and Miquel Sanchez might have been a loose end. Ian and Rachel were supposed to meet him today, but he was found dead in his car this morning. Apparently, he was early for work, parked in his usual space, and somebody shot him before he got out of the car.”
“That’s not a coincidence?”
“No, it’s not,” Phil said. “Our pair watched for the other agent leaving the office and had a quiet word. They produced their backup identity and said they were from Interpol. The other estate agent had been warned not to speak to outsiders. It seemed when the police asked for the property files Miquel was working on; they were all missing.”
“What are Ian and Rachel doing now?”
“They’re going to do a rapid follow-up before they leave.”
“Murder isn’t the sort of development I was hoping for.”
“Ian said they’ll be flying back tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, Jake will need a couple of days to finish the task he’s doing, and I’d like us to continue with our plans for tomorrow.”
“It’s a good reason for a team briefing on Saturday morning. We’ll get all of our information collated while it’s fresh in mind.”
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Gordon Fitzpatrick left his new home and walked to the end of the long entrance track. He paused and glanced back at the gatehouse near the edge of the forest. It was about the same size as a regular two-bedroom house, but it was old, built from locally sourced rocks, and it looked the part. A Range Rover would have spoiled the appearance, which was why it was parked around at the back.
Before he stepped onto the pavement,
Fitzpatrick checked his watch. It was 8:15 am. He was about to set off on his fifteen-minute walk to Braemar when he noticed a pretty young red-haired woman, leaning against a fence post nearby. At a glance, she looked to be in her mid-twenties.
She was wearing a red hooded sweatshirt, blue jogging bottoms and white trainers. The lack of a high heel demonstrated that the five-foot-ten or thereabouts was her actual height. Due to the baggy sportswear, it was hard to distinguish what her figure or legs might look like, but she had a pale complexion and handsome features.
Fitzpatrick’s eyes narrowed. The woman was holding a dog lead, but there was no animal. Fitzpatrick looked around at the greenery and the mountains that surrounded the location, acting as if appreciating the new day. He approached, smiling.
“Good morning to you,” she said. “You must be the owner of the castle.”
“I am,” he said and nodded to the lead in her hand. “Have you lost your dog?”
“Oh heavens no, he’s in the trees somewhere. I’m staying in a hotel in Braemar, so thought I’d walk this way to give Jasper a good run out.”
“What breed is Jasper?”
“He’s a Jack Russell; you know the little terrier?”
“Yes, I’m well-acquainted with them. My mother had one,” he lied. He was relieved there was no sign of a dog. “So where is Jasper now?”
“He disappeared along the track, which is why I wondered who lived there. I’m not surprised you didn’t see him—he’ll be chasing rabbits or something in the woodland.”
“You said you were staying in a hotel. How long will you be here?”
“I go home in a few days, but you’ll probably see me around again before I leave.”
“What brings you to such a remote place?”
“I’m a freelance researcher. I assist authors, mainly with wildlife and conservation projects. I have a meeting with a client here in the next couple of days.”
