by Tom Benson
“Go on,” Eddie said, and his brow furrowed. He poured two cups of tea as he listened. It kept him occupied.
Amy’s voice was close to a whisper. “The bad news is, we have got a new player in Scotland. It’s beginning to sound like Cameron is back, but with a new name and a new appearance. We think he’s the mysterious Mr F.”
“Shit,” Eddie said. “Whatever he looks like, or calls himself, he’s a bloody nutcase.”
Amy said, “I had a meeting with one of my contacts recently. As long as we feed the privateers some snippets of intelligence and play down the official inquiries, they’ll deal with the expected tidal wave.”
“What do you mean tidal wave?”
“If it is Cameron by another name, he’s coming back, guns blazing. This time he wants to deal hash, coke, weapons, and people trafficking.” She paused to look around. It looks like he pay-rolled the recent hits on drug dealers.”
“The bikers in black as the media called them?”
“Yes. It sounds like they were independents who had the guts and the skills.”
“Well, if your contact is accurate it clears up who organised the hits; but why?”
“The bad news is, whoever the new person is, he doesn’t want a piece of the action.” She paused. “He wants all of it.”
“So we could be looking at another Godfather scenario?”
“Exactly.”
Eddie had always liked Amy back in the days when they were both in the Strathclyde force. Back then, though, he had looked at her as no more than a sex object in a black and white uniform, but things had changed over time.
He’d been around when she returned from her kidnapping ordeal in the summer of ’96. When Amy had attended counselling sessions, Eddie had been a detective in her department. He had been a male chauvinist pig, so had been unable to get close and offer support.
His mind wandered back to those days. It was a time when he had regretted his status with her, but also found respect for her. She was a young woman who had come back from a terrifying ordeal, ready to work and fight on. He had been career-minded and typically male. Since then, apart from being promoted, Eddie had matured.
“Eddie!” Amy said with a little more urgency in her tone. “Are you ready to order?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, registering both his lunch date and the waitress looking at him, waiting patiently. “I’ll have the same as you.” He couldn’t admit he was unaware of her order.
The waitress raised her eyebrows at Amy and then headed off to place the order.
“So, big boy,” Amy said. “Where were you just now?”
“Back in the land of regrets,” he said, knowing she’d understand. “I can’t explain how much I admire you and your success.”
“Drop the personal stuff for now and get back to our reason for being here.” She paused until his eyes met hers. “Maybe when we get through this period of death and mayhem you could try asking me out to dinner when we’re off duty.”
“Really?” he said, his voice a few octaves higher than usual.
“Yes, really,” she said and treated him to a smile. “I will obviously expect to be treated to some serious ass-kissing.”
“Oh, you can count on—”
“That was a metaphor, Eddie,” she interrupted. They both burst out laughing.
“Okay, back to business,” he said, but couldn’t stop grinning. “I’ll bring you up to date on the Clydebank incident. I made some inquiries myself at the scene of the abduction.” He paused and looked around.
Amy stared at him intently as she listened.
“According to a local storekeeper, it wasn’t two regularly dressed guys. It was two guys in black overalls and ski-masks who lifted the woman and her baggage into the back of the van, but there was already a guy behind the wheel of the van. He was dark-haired and had a beard.”
“Our fears are confirmed then?” Amy said. “The van was located later, torched, so they had other transport organised?”
“Yeah, it looks like it was Stephanie Henderson, and the kidnapper was her psychopathic ex-husband. I’ve been making a few calls, and it doesn’t look good. He’s the sort of man who is out to make a name for himself with his superiors.”
“My informants in the city told me he was either working for McGinley or possibly the new guy—Mr F.”
“Mental Mickey McGinley,” Eddie said. “He’s the big bald guy who’s operated out of Govan for years?”
“The very same,” she said. “As I said, we can only guess who Mr F might be, but I’m pretty sure it’s Cameron with a new name.”
The waitress returned to the table with tuna and salad for two. Eddie winced when he set eyes on the meal, but this didn’t feel like the right time to mention his dislike for certain foods. He nodded to the waitress and then used copious quantities of salad dressing.
Amy observed the dousing of the food with sauce, and then it registered. Her lips curled as she recalled something in conversation from years before. She swallowed a mouthful of food and jabbed her fork towards Eddie. “There is another area that might concern us both.”
“Mmm,” Eddie said, as he chewed a mouthful of food and tried to swallow without choking or vomiting.
“Your theory was correct about biker involvement in the failed ambush.” She teased her salad with her utensils. “Bikers were involved, but they were the intended targets.”
“Is there any good news?” Eddie said and chased a cherry tomato with his fork before stabbing it with passion.
“It looks like the bikers might be working alongside my associates on the dark side.”
Eddie finally choked on a mouthful of food. “Well, so much for good news?”
Amy nodded, grinned, and continued to enjoy lunch. She realised she was enjoying it more because Eddie wasn’t. It would be fun to bring up the topic of seafood in the future.
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
It promised to be a pleasant day, so Fitzpatrick took his Jaguar for a leisurely drive around the region. He’d always loved being surrounded by woodland and mountains and wondered if his life would have been different if he’d been born in such an environment.
Following his morning coffee, he’d told Norrie he would be out until at least mid-afternoon. Fitzpatrick told his lieutenant he expected Mrs F to be in a more talkative frame of mind when he returned.
Fitzpatrick drove north through Crathie. It amused him to know he was living so close to Balmoral, the Queen’s residence when in Scotland. He followed the winding road before turning left up a much narrower way. It was the scenic route to Tomintoul, the highest village in the mountain range.
“I must pay a visit there one day,” he mused as he looked down into a valley on the left. The peculiar, tower-like Corgarff Castle stood amidst the folds of the countryside. At various points during the gradual climb, there were ideal locations to pull over to take a panoramic photograph, or gaze in wonder at the magnificent views.
At Grantown-on-Spey, Fitzpatrick turned left onto the A95 and headed south to Aviemore. He parked at the northern end of the small, but popular ski resort and tourist destination. Fitzpatrick sauntered down the main road amongst the tourists until he found an excellent restaurant to stop and enjoy lunch and beer.
On occasions like this when everything seemed to be in order, his mind wandered back to the man who gave him the permanent limp. Yes, Hawk, or whatever he called himself was going to be taken alive—and he would die a slow, excruciating death. If there were a woman in his life, she would be tortured and killed first, but in front of the Hawk character.
Yes, he thought, the Colombians have the right idea when it comes to causing distress using loved ones.
Fitzpatrick was particularly pleasant to the young man who took his order out on the balcony. While eating, he enjoyed his beer and watched the world go by on the main road down below. Nothing about the lone diner would indicate he was an escaped prisoner, and
already being hunted for the murder of a prison officer and others.
After a relaxing lunch, the man with delusions of underworld grandeur ambled along the road in the sunshine, enjoying a large cigar. He limped as he walked which he was aware would be a critical factor in his description, but he was relaxed. Nobody looked twice at him. He reached the Jaguar and set off south.
He drove past Kingussie and Dalwhinnie, before stopping for a few minutes to admire the beautiful white Blair Castle at Blair Atholl. It was a visit to this building that had inspired him to own a personalised castle as his home and headquarters. From there he drove on, enjoying the weather and scenery as he passed Pitlochry and Bridge of Cally. He joined the magnificent A93—the mountain road and put the car through its paces on the way back to Braemar.
Norrie Simpson was in a shirt, jeans and training shoes. He was up on the roof of the main house, standing between two of the battlements, grinning as he thought of continuing his most recent task. He noticed the green Jaguar when it was still a mile away. Spotting personal vehicles on the road through Braemar was easy.
Fitzpatrick met Simpson in the reception hall.
“How is it going, Norrie?”
“I’m taking it slow, just like you said, Boss.”
“Good,” Fitzpatrick said. “I think we’ll go down and pay her a wee visit together eh?”
“Sure, Boss,” Simpson said. He unlocked the door to the cellars and led the way to the small group of rooms beneath the main house.
Half-way down the winding stone staircase, there was another door. Fitzpatrick stopped for a moment and ran his fingers along the seams of the doorframe. He knew by the feel of the soundproofing it was as he’d asked. He nodded with satisfaction before following the big man and closing the door.
In the main cellar, a large pond took up most of the floor space. It had a small footbridge across the centre. The pool was ten metres square, and a smooth metre-wide pathway encircled the water. Fish were swimming around, and neither the fish nor the plants in the water had any idea when it was daylight or darkness in the real world.
“The lighting,” Fitzpatrick said. “Have we got it synchronised with the natural daily cycle outside?”
“Yes, Boss,” Simpson said. “When I got this area done I got the guys to fit artificial daylight tubes. By using timers, it’s set so that the darkest it gets is moonlight.”
“You’re a clever man, Norrie.” He stood beside the door they’d used to reach the cellars. Fitzpatrick had personally designed how the cellar space was to be laid out and how to furnish each room. The cellar rooms were originally empty and set aside for food and wine storage, but befitting their size and location, they were cells.
Cells One, Two and Three had fittings like normal small prison cells. Each was complete with a washbasin and toilet facility. It wasn’t the luxury associated with en-suite facilities, but it could have been worse.
Cell Four was for short detention periods. It lacked any ventilation, furnishings, facilities or light. A low stone slab against one wall served as a bed. A metal bucket stood in one corner near a hole in the floor for drainage. Outside the door of this cell were a large bottle of disinfectant and a stiff broom. Cell Four was empty and clean.
“Is my wife in Cell One, Norrie?”
“Yes, Boss. The other person is in Cell Two.”
“Have you touched the woman in Cell Two?”
“No, Boss. All I’ve done is to ensure she gets fed.”
Fitzpatrick nodded and slid back the large bolt on the door of Cell Two. He pulled the door open and looked inside. All of the cells were the same dimensions, but the fixtures were different.
Inside Cell Two, the young woman on the bed opened her eyes wide, and her lips trembled. She got up into a sitting position in the corner of the stone bed and hugged her knees to her chest. Her makeup had run with her constant crying, so she’d washed it off.
“Clean yourself up and apply some makeup,” Fitzpatrick said. “Make yourself presentable.” He stepped back and slammed the door before sliding the bolt.
Fitzpatrick gave Simpson a sideways glance as he slid the bolt and opened the door of Cell One. Instinctively, the woman inside sat up against the corner of the stone platform and hugged her legs to her chest. Her gaze travelled up, and she stopped whimpering.
“Please, Martin ... I’m sorry, I mean Gordon,” she sobbed. “Please give me a chance.”
“Shut up you fucking whore,” Fitzpatrick said. He could see bruises on her face, and her lower lip had been bleeding. There were bruises on her arms and legs, and her floral summer dress hung in tatters. Although able to see it through her damaged dress, her underwear appeared to be intact.
The woman held both hands to her face to quieten her uncontrollable sobbing.
Fitzpatrick turned to Simpson. “Well done, Norrie. It looks like you’ve controlled yourself, so far.” Fitzpatrick held out his hand. “Pictures, Norrie, if you please.”
Simpson reached into the left rear pocket of his jeans and produced two small photographs.
After a glance at the two pictures, Fitzpatrick stepped forward and dropped the first picture on the bed. “This is Miquel Sanchez at ... 9:40 am on Thursday, 8th July.” He waited until he saw his wife look down at the picture before he spoke again. “This is Miquel Sanchez at 9:42 am on the same day.” He dropped the second picture and saw the tears well up in his wife’s eyes. “Now who else was there?”
“It was only the once ... Gordon,” she cried. “Please believe me ....”
Fitzpatrick’s malevolent gaze remained on his wife as he held his hand out again. He accepted three more pictures from Simpson. Each image featured a different sexual position on different beds, but the couple were the same in each one. The man was the unfortunate and recently deceased Spanish estate agent. The woman was Helen Fitzpatrick.
“Now, my dear,” Fitzpatrick said. “There are many tortures in the ancient and modern worlds. For some reason, there are those who still enjoy the old fingernail pulling and suchlike.” He stepped forward, bent down and looked deep into his wife’s terrified, glistening eyes.
Tears poured silently down both of Helen’s cheeks, dripping onto her well-filled, exposed black satin bra.
Fitzpatrick’s lips curled. “I have a special torture weapon as you are going to find out.” He turned and painted on a false smile for his right-hand man. He turned back to his wife. “Norrie here, is a deviant of the highest, or should it be the lowest order?” He gave a little snigger at his sick humour.
Helen Fitzpatrick let out a primal scream, but her husband remained in position, unfazed, apart from squinting slightly. The howling died away, and the woman tried again to reach her angry, dangerous and unforgiving husband. “I’ll do anything Gordon.”
“You already have, you dirty, fucking bitch,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s because you did anything you’re down here. Why do you think I haven’t laid a finger on you since I came back?”
The woman stared up at her murderous husband and many days and nights of worry returned to culminate in her mind in a maelstrom of regret.
Fitzpatrick said, “Unfortunately for you, my associate here is a bit unconventional when it comes to sexual pleasure, so you’re in for a rough ride, or several rough rides, in the days and nights ahead.” He turned and stepped towards the doorway. He looked back.
“Please Gordon,” Helen sobbed. “Tell me ... I’ll do anything—”
“Don’t die,” he said. “I’ll be back to see you before you do—so don’t worry about goodbyes.” He turned to his man-Friday. “She’s all yours Norrie, but if you kill her, I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Understood, Boss,” Simpson said and started unbuckling his belt.
“Please,” Helen whimpered and then she screamed, just before she received a hard slap. Fitzpatrick slammed the door from the outside. He heard a loud, defiant scream, flesh on flesh, and a grunt.
“That’s the way,” Simpson laughed
. “Fight back.” His laughter was still ringing around the cellar when his boss closed the sound-proofed door.
Fitzpatrick asked his maid Linda to organise coffee, and then he went upstairs to the roof and lit a cigar.
.
Friday 16th July
Alexandria, Dunbartonshire
Scotland
When Des Grant left work at the end of the week, he had gotten into the habit of strolling to a pub half a mile away from The Sycamore clinic. He went to the bar and ordered a pint. When the barman returned with the beer and placed it on the bar, Grant paid for his drink and took a long sip.
“I’d like a word Des,” a man beside him said. “Be in that corner booth, in two minutes.”
Grant looked sideways. “Why the fuck would I want to listen to you?”
Gordon Fitzpatrick leant close. “Would you be interested in pictures of you and the governor’s wife?”
Grant’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. “Who the fuck—”
“In the fucking corner,” Fitzpatrick interrupted. He lifted his glass of Scotch, keeping a straight face. Some said that he could make ‘Happy Birthday’ or ‘Merry Christmas’ sound like a threat.
As suggested, two minutes later the two men were seated in a quiet corner, and Fitzpatrick kept his back half-turned to the other customers in the bar.
“Who the fuck are you?” Grant asked as he cradled his pint.
“You’ve already asked once,” Fitzpatrick whispered. “If you ask again, your next meal will be fed through a fucking tube.”
Grant sat back and concentrated to stop his hands trembling.
Fitzpatrick said, “I make it my business to know other people’s business. Now, I’d like some information about your place of work, and one of your guests.”
Grant liked to play the hard man, but he recognised a genuine hard man was sitting across the table from him. He answered the questions without hesitation.
After querying the security and other circumstances, Fitzpatrick went on to ask about regular visitors to William Hartley. He expected to hear about Peter Henderson because he knew Henderson was still learning the ropes and would visit his uncle.
