by Tom Benson
“How interesting,” Fitzpatrick said and stepped closer to meet her gaze. “Where do you call home?”
“Nottingham,” she said, and there was a discernible twitch of her lips.
“Strange,” he said. “I’m sure I’m detecting a hint of Scottish accent there.”
“Most of the men in my family were miners including my granddad and my dad, so they moved south to the Midlands for work years ago. The whole family still have Scottish accents.”
“What’s your name?”
“Janice … Janice Hopper.”
“I’ll watch for you on my morning stroll, Janice,” he said. “I hope your dog comes back soon.” He walked away, not having given any details about himself. After walking one-hundred metres, he stopped and looked back. Janice was standing just inside the track entrance waving at something or somebody. Fitzpatrick pulled out his phone as he turned and walked on to the village.
“Norrie, have you seen a dog around the grounds this morning?” Fitzpatrick nodded when he heard the reply. “Okay, I’ve got something I’d like you to check out for me,” He turned to look over his shoulder, and although he could still see the woman at the track entrance, he still didn’t see a dog. His security man remained silent on the other end.
Fitzpatrick said, “There’s a red-haired woman of mid-twenties. She has a dog lead and standing at the track entrance. I’d like you to have a word with her.” He paused. “Ask about her and her dog.”
A few minutes later, when Fitzpatrick was out of sight, the woman started walking along the road to where she’d parked her car. She pulled out her phone.
“Hi, Alpha—it’s Eva. Property is called Braemartin House. Sighting of owner confirmed. A daily walk looks likely. We may have a problem. Target took an interest in me.” She listened to her handler’s advice. “Okay, thanks—I’ll call later. Ciao.”
She hung up and swung the dog lead in her hand as she walked towards her car, and occasionally waved to an imaginary dog in the field to her right. She had noted Fitzpatrick glancing back over his shoulder, and during her quick look along the track, she’d noticed the tailgate of a red 4 x 4 behind the old gatehouse.
.
Friday 9th July
Phil was stretched out in relative comfort within the tree line to the front of Fitzpatrick’s new base. On so many occasions in his military life, Phil had lain in an observation post or ambush position for hours, and occasionally for days.
At 6am a heavily built, bald man in his mid-forties strolled around the building, pausing at various points to gaze into the trees and undergrowth. He didn’t give the impression of a regular gangster because he didn’t let his eyes roam too quickly. He paused and chose specific areas to stare into.
Phil wondered if he could be an ex-serviceman, but he didn’t have to be ex-Special Forces to have a basic understanding of a security job. The building was a private dwelling and within woodland, and the man was taking his patrol seriously.
Professionalism for security personnel stopped at a variety of stages, and this man was no different. He reached into a pocket for his cigarettes—a habit to feed. In the simple movement of a hand going under his jacket, he uncovered a shoulder holster, complete with pistol.
After a few minutes, the big man made his way to the front of the building and set off on a walk around the other side. While he was in full view, but looking elsewhere, Phil managed to take several good pictures of him. Phil had been in the woods for a couple of hours, so the birds were chirping, and nature was at peace with his presence.
It was 8am before the front door opened and Gordon Fitzpatrick stepped out, wearing his tweed cap, blue shirt, corduroy trousers and a safari jacket. He was wearing lightweight brown boots rather than shoes, which caused Phil to wonder what he intended for his morning stroll.
Fitzpatrick stood outside the house, lit up a cigar and set off down the path towards the main road. Before he’d gone out of range, Phil took several shots of him at different angles. As Fitzpatrick walked past within ten metres of Phil’s hiding place, it was close enough to confirm his original identity. He was Martin Cameron under a new name.
Phil slipped out his mobile phone and hit the dial.
“He’s all yours,” Phil said and listened to the positive response before replying. “Okay,” he said. “Take care. Ciao.” He smiled when he found himself using ‘Ciao’ at the end of calls to Annabel. He put his phone away and leant sideways to pour himself a hot brew from his thermos.
Not for the first time, Phil was pleased he remembered about Fitzpatrick’s allergy to dogs. It made the task of getting close to his property so much less troublesome. It occurred to Phil the use of a few geese would have been a good idea for security.
Annabel glanced both ways before crossing the road from The Invercauld Arms Hotel. She was wearing a navy blazer, pale green blouse and a knee-length cream skirt. Her choice of navy high heels accentuated not only the shape of her legs but also her walk. Her auburn hair lifted from her shoulders in the light breeze.
Annabel stepped onto the opposite pavement and pretended not to notice the man striding towards the road junction from the right. Even as she had been crossing, she had been aware of Fitzpatrick’s gaze.
Although it was the main road junction in Braemar, it was a quiet area. Annabel paused as if undecided, and then made her way left, across the road to the Braemar Mews. It was a golden sandstone coloured building with an arched entrance leading into an open, square courtyard within.
Outside the building, which housed the local Tourist Information Office, Annabel stopped in front of the glass display cases. She pretended to read the notices but was observing Fitzpatrick’s reflection in the glass. He had stopped across the road behind her and was assessing her at leisure. Annabel nodded to herself and strolled through the archway.
She paused and looked around the square garden area within the complex. To the left was a gift and souvenir shop, and the tourist office. On the far side of the square, a large group of backpackers were sitting around comparing maps and leaflets before setting off on their next trek. Annabel turned left and went into the Tourist Information Office.
Annabel said, “Hi,” to the assistant. She then wandered around the modern and presentable building, lifting and reading leaflets about contemporary and historic local attractions.
It had taken five minutes before Fitzpatrick entered the establishment, so before he was able to settle on a given display, Annabel made her play. While standing in front of a large map of the Cairngorms National Park near the counter, she turned and addressed the assistant.
“Excuse me,” Annabel said. “I was wondering if you knew the whereabouts of Treasure Island Cottage?”
“Yes I do indeed,” the man responded. “If you go out of here and up to the carpark, go up the steps, and the cottage is right across the main road. There’s a small round plaque on the front wall.”
“Thank you.” As she spoke, she became aware of Fitzpatrick browsing a display stand of leaflets near the door.
The assistant said, “The cottage is rented out as holiday accommodation, so if you fancied a stay there, it wouldn’t be difficult to arrange.”
“The idea had appeal, but I’m moving around a lot right now.”
“Is there anything else, in particular, you’re looking for in the area?”
Annabel said, “I’m interested in any older buildings that have been maintained historically on the outside, but renovated, or improved on the inside.”
“Oh, you’ll be pleased to know we have a couple of buildings in such a category here in Braemar.” He smiled and shook his head. “Apart from the converted Treasure Island Cottage, one of the other buildings is a converted church. From outside it looks the same, but is unrecognisable on the inside.”
“I’m glad I asked,” Annabel gushed and treated him to a radiant smile.
“I know one of our stately homes has also been having major work done, but we haven’t had any word fr
om the new owner.”
“It sounds like the sort of thing I’m interested in,” Annabel said and approached the desk. “Would you be kind enough to list me a few buildings so I can visit them?”
“Of course,” the man said, and scribbled a short list on a pad. “There you go,” he said. “Are you doing some academic research?”
“I’m writing a book, and I’m looking at various locations.” She leant towards him but kept her voice at a normal level. “I’m meeting a researcher up here later today. You may have seen her around—a young lady with red hair.”
“She may have come when I was out if she’s been here recently. Is she investigating the buildings too?”
“Oh no, I’ve asked her to work on the wildlife and conservation angle. It’s all part of the richness of living here.”
“It is a wonderful area to live.”
She lifted the handwritten list. “Thank you very much for your help.”
“Have you got a title for your book yet?” the helpful assistant asked, eager to maintain a few more minutes in the company of such a lovely visitor.
“I’ve given it the working title of ‘Scots with Lots’, but it might change.”
The man rewarded her with a laugh and nod of the head. “I like it. Please remember to let us know when it hits the shelves.”
“I will,” she said. Annabel turned to leave, but did so quickly and caught Fitzpatrick gazing at her. She opened her eyes a little wider and flashed a smile at him. Unlike many men, Fitzpatrick didn’t turn away embarrassed. He returned her smile.
“Hello there,” Annabel said and paused briefly as she pulled the glass door open.
“Hello,” Fitzpatrick said and watched the attractive stranger step out into the bright, warm morning.
Annabel was sure to pause as she strolled two-hundred metres along the road to the presentable and new looking cafe called, Taste.... She went inside, nodded to the young woman behind the counter and then took a seat where she could look up the narrow road into the village.
An elderly couple were the only other customers. They both greeted Annabel with a nod and smile. She returned the gesture and lifted the ‘healthy’ menu.
23. Situation Reports
.
Saturday 10th July
BTL Enterprises
Glasgow
Scotland
Phil said, “I’m pleased to have us all back in one place and one piece. It’s been an eventful week in many ways from the brief notes I have in front of me.” He checked his watch and looked around at his colleagues. “It’s now 9 am, so we only have until 1 pm before this building closes down for the weekend. The great British public loves Saturday.”
Annabel said, “Our priority this week was to gather as much intelligence as we could in a variety of areas.” She turned and glanced at Phil. “I think between our small team here and a couple of our extended contacts we’ve achieved our aim.” She continued, “We’d like you to get us underway Rachel and Ian, and then we’ll move on to Jake before finishing off with what Phil and I have discovered.”
She switched on the projector. “I’ve downloaded our files into separate folders so for each part of our session we’ll have availability of photographs.”
“Well,” Ian said, “We spent a couple of days, mapping all the estate agents in Valencia who dealt with coastal properties. Our only clues were, of course, the details you guys had from back in ’96, plus the notes Rachel made in February this year. We agreed after assessing the original property and the location, if Fitzpatrick had told his wife to buy another place, then it would fit the same criteria.” He turned to Rachel.
Rachel said, “Ian did an amazing job. I think we were helped so much because people believed he was Spanish. We only had one issue.” She lifted the remote and pressed the play button. A picture of ‘Mr Stubble’ appeared on the screen. “This guy was abrupt, ignorant and importantly, pretended to be Southern English, but he pronounced some words with a faint Scottish accent. I didn’t speak so due to his ignorance and attitude he didn’t hear our cover story.”
Annabel asked, “How did you manage to get such a good picture?”
“I thought he might make an interesting addition to our album, so I took a few shots from distance when Ian went back to irritate him with some more questions. When the guy lost it with Ian, the Scottish accent was clear on our recording.”
Rachel pressed play on the digital voice recorder.
“If you don’t fuck off pal, you’ll be fuckin’ sorry ….”
Phil, Annabel and Jake all smiled.
“Well done both of you,” Annabel said.
Rachel said, “I took this picture of him on Tuesday. We were sitting outside a cafe, and he was outside the estate agent’s office. Although he stood there for a couple of minutes, he didn’t go inside.”
Ian continued. “On Thursday morning we were at the same cafe biding our time before going to visit Miquel, one of the estate agents. Over a short period, we watched the police presence build up and then we heard the bad news about Miquel. Apparently whoever shot him also carved an X into his forehead.”
Phil said, “How did you find out about the paperwork disappearing?”
Ian replied. “We didn’t want to raise any suspicions, so we waited until we saw the other agent, Felipe, leaving the office after the initial police enquiries. We coaxed him into a bar, which was easy because he was still in shock.”
Rachel said, “In keeping with our cover, I only spoke a couple of times, but laced my words with a Germanic accent.”
Ian went on. “I spoke Spanish and English, but with a Spanish accent. As soon as we had him in a quiet booth with a drink, we both produced our fake ID. I explained how we thought his colleague, Miquel might have been seeing a woman we believed to be an international drug dealer.”
“How did he react?” Annabel asked.
“He produced an unexpected result,” Rachel said. “Felipe told us Miquel was very interested in one particular British client and paid her more visits than any other on his list. He also confirmed what I’d noted in February. The woman known as Cameron had sold the villa and returned to the UK.”
Ian said, “He mentioned a big, bald guy staring into the office one day recently.”
“Was that the whole description?” Annabel asked.
“No,” Ian said. “The guy had a few days of growth, and he looked intimidating.”
Rachel said, “I showed him a picture on my camera. He nodded when he saw our Mr Stubble.” She paused. “It may not sound like much, but he had one blue eye and one brown.”
“Excellent observation Rachel,” Annabel said. “It’s the little things, sometimes.”
Phil said, “When you called us Ian, you mentioned an ambulance at one of the houses.”
“Yes, it was when we went back to the house where we met Mr Stubble. The police recovered the red hatchback. The two old folks who lived there were taken away by ambulance. Both died in hospital. According to the evening newspapers, they had been imprisoned in their home for at least two days and been badly beaten.”
“Was there anything else in the local news?”
“Yeah, according to the TV news, the whole house had been turned over. Our man was searching for something.”
“Good work you two,” Phil said. “If it were Cameron’s house I would imagine he had either cash or weapons buried there, possibly both.”
“I think we worked well together,” Ian said and glanced at Rachel.
“I’m impressed you could handle it mate,” Jake said. He got a punch to his arm from Rachel.
“My week wasn’t as glamorous,” Jake said. “The primary task as you’ll remember was to monitor, and if possible get fresh pictures of the Godfather of the area south of the Clyde.” He flicked the remote. “Mental Mickey McGinley is bald, not good looking, and has a scar running down the right side of his face, which twitches when he smiles.”
Jake continued. “McGinley is in
his late forties, but having stood in a bar not far from him, I can also tell you he is a big, muscular man. He’s known the Cameron aka Fitzpatrick couple, for many years. The whole gangland scene of our fair city may appear a bit mixed up, but the main players all know each other.”
“McGinley has an aversion to motorways,” Jake said. “It’s useful for us because I sometimes followed by car.”
“Does he have a fear of fast-moving traffic?” Ian asked.
“No,” Jake said. “I believe he has a phobia about the big brother syndrome—cameras in towns, and on main routes everywhere. He doesn’t like to have his meetings or movements traced, but I managed to get pictures of him with Helen Fitzpatrick.”
Rachel said, “What would a woman like Fitzpatrick see in a guy like him?”
“There might be several reasons,” Annabel said. “She could have been keeping the status quo by meeting up with him, and it all got very friendly, or perhaps she enjoyed the adoration he might have heaped on her or the fact he wields power.”
“You have to remember something,” Jake added. “Mrs Fitzpatrick didn’t know for sure her husband would be successful if he made a bid for freedom during his prison term.”
“How long was her husband’s sentence?” Ian asked.
Annabel said, “He was sent down for eighteen years, so he would still have been doing twelve years, even with time off for good behaviour. When he escaped, he was being taken to face more charges. An extension to his sentence looked likely. Maybe his wife had needs and enjoyed the company of a grateful gangland boss.”
Jake flicked the remote. “This is McGinley being dropped off in Blairgowrie a couple of days ago. His car continued to Braemar. When the car returned sometime later, it was bringing Mrs Fitzpatrick to McGinley.”
“There is a picture showing Mental Mickey and Helen Fitzpatrick together in a cafe. They were only together long enough to have a snack, a drink and chat.”
Rachel asked, “Do you think something is going on between them?”
