by Tom Benson
When the discussion reached the present day, Norrie was able to offer Brian a lucrative job offer. Brian had managed to avoid the clutches of the law for years, and he’d almost gone straight. He hadn’t killed anybody for three years, but for the right money, he agreed he’d still do anything to anybody. In that respect, the twins were alike.
Later in March, and happier with the direction of his new life, Norrie Simpson started renting in King’s Park on Glasgow’s south side. It was a spacious property with a garage and gardens to front and rear, similar to the property he could observe from an upstairs window. He had a clear view of the house rented by the handsome woman who drove a green Jaguar.
Simpson took great delight, knowing he could walk past Helen Fitzpatrick and she would be unaware of his identity, or who his employer was. It was fortunate for Simpson but unfortunate for his boss’s wife. Her every move was monitored, and her visitors were duly noted.
As each day passed while living in King’s Park, Simpson was able to leave aside his usually strong desire to locate, abuse, and beat up victims. The voyeuristic duties given to him by his boss inspired a new behaviour. Mrs Fitzpatrick’s activities provided plenty of scope for Simpson to observe, obtain evidence, and indulge himself.
A sparrow landed on the window ledge. Simpson chuckled as he came back to the present. He swallowed the remainder of his tea, took a pull on his cigarette and then turned to monitor the bank of four screens in his upstairs room.
Each of the sixty-centimetre monitors was set to have four views. The first screen had cameras feeding views of the main track and outer areas of Braemartin House. On the second screen were pictures of the ground floor rooms, and the third had views of the basement rooms. The fourth screen had feeds from the four bedrooms on the upper floor of the Fitzpatrick residence—unknown to the owner.
Simpson had told his boss there were no cameras fitted upstairs or on the roof, as a mark of respect for his boss’s privacy. When Fitzpatrick had finally managed to do a tour of his grounds and visited the gatehouse, he saw four screens, but only three were activated.
“The fourth screen is a spare,” Simpson had explained back then. “I thought it would be better always to have a standby in case of trouble.” The explanation had impressed Fitzpatrick and gave Simpson a secret thrill. For a good view of any bedroom, he only had to turn up the contrast control on the fourth monitor.
There are those men who go to prison and study psychology or some other topic that has always been at the back of their mind waiting for discovery. In Norrie Simpson’s time in prison, he had given the impression of being no more than a deviant and thug, so when he showed an interest in anything else, the authorities were grateful.
It was thanks to his acting ability, Simpson duped the counsellors. He spent two years studying every aspect of the installation and use of closed-circuit television and associated equipment. At one stage, he was allowed one hour per day on a computer with internet access. Yes, he thought at the time, he certainly left prison a different man.
Simpson crossed his upstairs monitor room and eased up the contrast on screen four. He flicked the screen to position one. The screen filled with a high-definition shot of Helen Fitzpatrick as she strolled across her bedroom from the en-suite. She stood for a moment, rubbing a towel through her long damp hair.
The trusted bodyguard was drinking in Helen’s naked body as he watched her wander around the large bedroom without care. When the woman turned away from the camera it might have been disappointing to some men, but not Simpson.
She bent forward away from the camera and adopted a variety of positions as she towelled her body and legs dry. At the flick of a control, Mrs Fitzpatrick’s buttocks and upper thighs filled the fourth screen in the gatehouse monitor room. It fired up a cauldron of desire in Simpson. He licked his lips, confident he would one day claim his prize.
.
Dalmuir, Dunbartonshire
Scotland
Rachel stood in the middle of the well-appointed kitchen /diner with her mobile. She dialled, and it was picked up after two rings. “Hi Annabel.” Rachel started walking around the apartment again. “Our bird has flown. No sign of a struggle, so it looks voluntary.” Rachel walked from room to room, assessing the situation as she listened to her colleague’s questions.
“I’ve only been here a few minutes,” Rachel continued. “Everything is tidy, and there is a decent stock of food in the fridge, freezer and cupboards. I’ll go around again just in case I’ve missed something, and I’ll call you back in about fifteen minutes. Ciao.”
Rachel had decided to start in the bedroom where she opened the wardrobe doors. Several items were hanging up, a few garments folded and a couple of pairs of shoes on the base shelf. She closed the wardrobe and went to the dressing table, which had four drawers, each containing a handful of items: mainly underwear, sportswear and scarves.
When Rachel returned to the wardrobe, alarm bells started ringing in her head. Two pairs of shoes? Stephanie would be wearing a pair, which made three and she wasn’t the sort of person to get by with three pairs of shoes. Rachel looked under the bed and on top of the wardrobe. No suitcase or large holdall, and they had both been there when she had last visited.
Shaking her head, Rachel walked through to the bathroom. There were shower gel, shampoo and a sponge, all set on the corner of the bath. A fluffy pink towel hung on the rail. Before she opened the bathroom cabinet, she was getting a sick feeling in her gut. The cabinet was empty.
“Damn it.” Rachel looked around for a moment longer and then decided to organise a coffee before calling Annabel with the bad news. She lifted the kettle and gave it a shake to ensure there was sufficient water inside, but her jaw dropped when steam issued from the spout. The kettle was hot.
Two minutes later, she was outside the back door and even angrier with herself. She ran along the pathway, but there was no sign of Stephanie. It was possible she may have packed and was fixing a brew before leaving, and then heard Rachel’s bike. Of course, Rachel kept in mind that a silver kettle would remain hot for at least twenty minutes after boiling.
She donned her helmet and considered the nearest options for transport. There were bus stops in two directions, but if Stephanie had called for a taxi, she could have asked to be picked up somewhere else.
Rachel eased her Kawasaki down the driveway onto the road and decided to take the main road towards Clydebank. The railway station was five hundred metres along, and there would also be taxis to hire. If there were no sign, she would continue to Clydebank and see if Stephanie had reported in sick or had been missing from work.
.
BTL Enterprises
Glasgow
Scotland
“Right,” Annabel said, as she put down her phone and finished making notes. “That was Amy, at Pitt Street. She wants to meet up so I’ll go and see her shortly. There’s a coffee shop we can both get to within a few minutes.”
Phil and Ian were waiting expectantly for the result of the two previous calls that Annabel had taken in sequence over a few minutes.
Annabel said, “The first call was Rachel. Stephanie Henderson has left the safe-house, but taken a suitcase of clothes, and her passport is missing. Rachel has gone to check the place where Stephanie got her new position.” She sipped her coffee and shook her head. “Eva was the second caller.”
Ian said, “Eva is your girl in Braemar?”
“Yes. She’s managed to maintain surveillance on Fitzpatrick’s place. She’s been keeping an eye on the gatehouse, and two interesting things have come to light.” She paused. “The description of the guy who lives in the gatehouse is a big, bald, ugly bastard with facial stubble. He’s the one we know as Norrie Simpson.”
Both Phil and Ian smiled.
“One little nugget Eva gave me,” Annabel said. “Simpson goes missing during any period Mrs Fitzpatrick is away from the house.”
Ian said, “Could they be meeting up somewhere away from the place?”
“She’s a nice looking woman,” Ian said.
“I agree,” Annabel said. “However, if she cheats on Fitzpatrick, her appearance will change. It also occurred to me that if Mrs F was picked up by McGinley’s car, then Simpson might either have seen it or perhaps lost track of her.”
Ian asked, “Was Eva able to get inside the gatehouse?”
“No,” Annabel said. “She knows when Simpson is missing because part of her surveillance equipment is a time-lapse camera in the woods. It’s the sort of device normally seen on natural history documentaries.”
“Clever girl,” Phil said. “Even if found it wouldn’t look out of place.”
Annabel nodded. “During Simpson’s absences, Eva’s camera has recorded the gatehouse lights switching on and off at various times every day.”
Phil said, “I take it she hasn’t gone in because she suspects monitoring devices?”
“Yes,” Annabel agreed. “If the interior is set up, even if she were able to bluff going up to the front door, it would compromise her cover if she got indoors by some covert means.” She paused. “Apart from those things, I’ve told her not to push her luck. She’s loaned to us from MI5 to let her gain some experience, and I don’t want her experience to end there.”
Ian said, “I’ve not been here long, but it sounds like Eva has potential.”
“She does,” Annabel said. “She also noticed something strange by checking her recordings. Simpson somehow manages to appear near his gatehouse on occasion but is not seen walking down the track.”
“How did you end up with Eva on the mission?” Ian asked.
“She completed her training for MI5, and then was used for mundane tasks for six months. Eva complained to her superiors, and two days later Stuart asked for her to transfer.”
“Is our mission her first taste of field experience?” Ian asked.
“Yes,” Annabel said, “but to test her nerve, stamina, and ability, we’ve had her performing simple tasks and added sleep deprivation into the mix.”
Ian grinned. “I take it you haven’t told her that until now it’s been assessment, but this mission is real?”
“No, but we have confidence in her. Among the contacts I’ve had her meeting, two were allies. One was Mike, who runs the motorbike repair shop, and the other is a police detective.”
Phil said. “If you want to go and meet Amy, we’ll wait here just in case Rachel or Jake report in.”
“Okay, see you shortly,” Annabel said and was gone.
Ian watched as Phil and his partner nodded to each other. He wondered if there was no demonstration of affection because of his presence, or if it was due to them treating work so seriously their private lives were to be kept separate.
25. Stirling Castle
.
Stirling Castle, Stirlingshire
Scotland
Jake followed Mental Mickey McGinley and his driver from the carpark on the vast parade ground outside the castle, Jake wandered to one side and stood beside the wall for a moment. He looked back and saw McGinley going under the raised portcullis and on into the grounds.
McGinley’s driver hesitated at the castle entrance and looked around the parade ground. His gaze took in Jake, but there was no outward indication they’d seen each other. The driver followed his boss.
Jake pulled out his phone and dialled. A response came after two rings. “Hi. Geordie has just gone into Stirling Castle with Mental and some other guy I didn’t recognise. I’ll stay outside for five minutes before I go in.” He heard a brief acknowledgement, and said, “I’ll call if there are any developments.”
Before the five minutes had run out, a green Jaguar pulled up at the bottom end of the parade ground carpark, and the passenger was a man Jake recognised.
To anybody else, the beard aided the disguise, but the gangster couldn’t alter his limp. Gordon Fitzpatrick stood beside the car and lit a cigar before he set off up the gradient to the castle entrance.
To be confident of the sighting, Jake wandered across the square from one side to the other, as if aiming to go and look at the statue of Robert the Bruce which overlooked the area. Half-way across the parade ground, Jake walked within five metres of Fitzpatrick. It took a high level of self-control for Jake not to kill the man right there in public.
The light blue sky was marred only by an occasional passing bird. Flags barely lifted to show their colours, and the temperature was somewhere between warm and perfect. Jake dressed in shirt and jeans and carried his light jacket over his arm. His shades and baseball cap took care of hiding his identity, just in case he saw anybody from his past. It took him fifteen minutes to locate the men of interest to him.
Jake had plenty of experience at taking covert pictures, but his quarry had played into his hands. If there was one place where somebody could be captured in a photo by accident it was at a tourist attraction.
It was difficult for the SAS man to hide his grin as he panned around and took a series of shots. He was able to pretend he was adjusting his compact digital camera even as he held it at waist level and snapped some more pictures.
High up in the castle grounds against a backdrop of the old church wall, Jake managed to take two pictures of Mental Mickey standing close to the tall man with grey-flecked brown hair. Mental was in polo shirt and jeans while the other man was in a smart short-sleeved shirt and cord trousers.
Geordie Lavery wandered alone about twenty metres away. He had possibly been told to stay away from the other men while they had their discussion.
Mental and his acquaintance strolled toward the large renovated church, but Jake stood back and watched. Two minutes later the bearded and limping Fitzpatrick made his way across the castle’s central square and headed for the church—a favourite with tourists.
Jake went into the massive building and ambled from one end to the other, occasionally kneeling to take what might appear to be exciting pictures. The only interesting angle was ensuring he captured the group of three men. They took turns pretending to discuss the renovated interior and the vaulted ceiling. When he was confident of the images he had, Jake left the building and headed to the restaurant for a break.
On the way, he paused two metres from where Geordie was standing. Jake focused his camera on an old building and spoke just above a whisper. He didn’t look around. “I’m going for a brew Geordie. I’ll take a seat with a view. Use the hand signals we discussed to let me know if they split up or come out together.” Jake took two more pictures, turning to aim his camera at aspects of the interior grounds.
“Roger that,” Geordie whispered without turning.
“Be careful mate. Your cover is paramount. Don’t give them an excuse to investigate.” On that note, Jake was gone and didn’t look back.
It was twenty minutes later when Jake saw McGinley and the smartly dressed man stroll past the restaurant. Five minutes later, Fitzpatrick wandered past. As he did, he stopped to take pictures, acting like a tourist.
Geordie sauntered past the restaurant fifty metres behind Fitzpatrick. As the double-agent went past, he lifted his right hand to his face and rubbed his right jaw with three fingers. He made a tiny circular movement with his forefinger. A glance towards the restaurant windows confirmed his message was clear as Jake lifted his coffee and nodded.
So, Jake thought. The meeting involves all three of them, and it’s ongoing. The hand signals Jake had given Geordie had been simple enough. He needed to know if they were all involved and if they’d finished their business, or staying to continue.
When Jake had described what he needed to know, and how to pass on the handful of signals, he made Geordie laugh. Jake had said, “We need to keep it simple because you’re not bloody Lassie—wonderdog.”
He wondered if Fitzpatrick was
touring the castle intending to implement ideas in his place in the mountains.
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Helen Fitzpatrick stood at the south-facing battlements on the flat roof of Braemartin House. From this position, it was possible to view the main road in the direction of the tiny, picturesque village of Braemar.
It had been a frustrating day in some respects for the wife of the returned gangster. She was without the keys to the second car—a dark green Range Rover. She had used it more than once and knew her husband had hidden the keys, but she couldn’t ask for them. It would raise suspicions.
She was considering whether to stay at home when she noticed a black 4 x 4 pulling from the main road onto the castle’s entry track. Helen wondered who it could be because the vehicle didn’t slow and turn in behind the gatehouse.
It’s not that muscular creep Simpson, Helen thought. At least, it’s not him, unless he’s changed his red car for a black one. The vehicle crept along the track towards the house.
Instead of going downstairs, Helen walked across the roof and looked down between the battlements. A young man with a beard got out from the driver’s side and went around the vehicle. Before opening the back, he looked around as if ensuring he was unobserved, but he didn’t look up. He opened the tailgate and reached in.
Helen gasped and placed a hand over her mouth when she saw a woman pulled from the back of the car. It was a woman with long blonde hair which hung below the canvas hood she was wearing. Her hands were behind her and bound. She struggled against the man with the beard as soon as she could stand upright. He swiped an open hand across the hood, and the prisoner stood still.
The man looked around again, leant forward and said something quietly to the prisoner. The pair then went ahead to the double doors of the garage, which were fitted into the side of the main building. He punched in the code, and the small side door opened. He stepped back and dragged the woman into the garage.
