by Tom Benson
“Fucking hell,” he whispered, and his jaw dropped as he stared at the lace panties.
“Are they for Mummy?” a young voice asked from the doorway.
“Sh ... shhh,” Findlay whispered, looking up as he crushed the garment into one hand. “It’s a pressie for Mummy, darling. Will you keep it a secret? I think we should keep our superhero lady a secret too.”
“Okay,” Katy said and smiled, but continued to stare at her father.
“Now please let me have a few minutes.”
“Okay, dokey.” The child closed the study door as quietly as she’d opened it. The door opened a few inches and a little blonde head squeezed in. “Maybe I’ll get a secret pressie too, for remembering to keep a secret from Mummy.”
“I think you might, darling. Now run along and watch for … superheroes.”
The door clicked, and Findlay thrust the panties into the pocket of his robe. He stood and crossed the room to lock his study door. When Findlay returned to his desk, he reached into the left drawer and lifted out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He opened the window before lighting up. As he took a long pull, he coughed when he tried to hold down the fumes.
Findlay returned to his desk. He sat, and lifted the envelope from where he’d slammed it down on the photographs. His heart and mind were racing. He chose one image to look closer.
“Oh, fuck, no. Please God, don’t let this be happening.” He stared at the pose of a man in black panties with a tiny black ribbon on the front. The man in the picture wore a matching black bra and a long brunette wig. Findlay stared at the photo of himself from less than a week before. He dropped the photo onto the desk and lifted the next. His hands trembled, and he felt a hot flush before coldness washed over him. The man imagined headlines, the public humiliation, and reactions from his political associates.
In the second picture, the figure wore a wig and bra. The man knelt on an otherwise empty hotel bed. The panties were hanging from his mouth. Behind him kneeling between his legs, a stunning young blonde smiled in the direction of the hidden camera lens. The woman had a peculiar apparatus strapped around her hips. Her hands were firmly clasped on Findlay’s waist.
Tears rolled down Findlay’s cheeks as he lifted the third photograph.
The difference from the previous photos was, his left hand reached under his body to deal with his obvious arousal. Gregor Findlay dropped the picture and looked inside the envelope. It was empty. The tears continued to flow, and he drew deeply on his cigarette. It was the first he’d smoked in two years. Before the tiny embers reached the filter tip, Findlay sobbed. His career was over.
.
Tuesday 14th September
Glasgow Green
Findlay sat on a park bench a few yards from the statue of Horatio Nelson. The distraught politician had arrived a few minutes early, but wandered away and returned to be on time. The muffled female voice on the phone the previous day had given precise instructions, and he was following them. He sat facing his front, his trembling right hand holding a cigarette. It was eight o’clock.
“Hello Minister,” a cheerful female voice said.
Findlay didn’t speak but spun around to see a tall, attractive woman in a dark blue jacket and black skirt approaching the bench. He scowled, and turned away, lifting his cigarette to take a long pull.
Martina Crawford came around the bench and sat at the opposite end to the politician, but she turned slightly towards him. She crossed her legs and opened her jacket. Her well-filled blouse and short skirt provided a pleasant if distracting view.
“Now,” Crawford said. “One of the first things I’ll expect of you is obedience, so when I greet you, I expect a response.”
“How much do you want?” Findlay said, staring at the brave sailor’s statue to his front to avoid the woman’s mesmerising blue eyes. The politician drew on his cigarette again.
“It’s not the response I wanted, but it’s a start,” Crawford said. “One thing you have got right is, I do want something.” She paused and leant forward to look at his beaming face. “How crass of you to think I want your money.”
“Tell me what you want,” he said, staring to his front. “Let’s get this over.”
“Oh my, Mr Findlay,” she said and laughed. “You have this situation so wrong. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Crawford grinned when she saw how Findlay was unable to prevent himself from appraising her. She inclined her head, and her long dark hair fell across her bulging blouse. She caressed her thigh.
Findlay swallowed and turned away. He pulled on his cigarette again.
“Turn and look at me,” she said. Her tone had changed from endearing to demanding.
Findlay turned slowly. His gaze travelled slowly up and down the woman.
She winked.
“It was you,” he said. “You were the courier.”
“Nothing gets past you,” she said. “Has your little daughter tried winking yet? It’s funny, how children pick up some things.”
“Leave her out of this,” he said, ditching the last portion of his cigarette. He reached into his pocket for the pack and fished out a fresh smoke. He lit up with trembling hands.
“Or you’ll do what?” Crawford leant toward him with her arm resting on the back of the bench. “One of the ground rules, as you should appreciate, is to do as you’re told. An important rule is never, ever tell me what to do.”
“I’m sorry,” he muttered and turned away as he pulled on his fresh cigarette.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Crawford said. “There is an appropriate Americanism. Your arse belongs to me, Minister.”
He spun around again.
“I know,” she said. “In the photos I sent, it looks like your arse belongs to young Cindy, but now it belongs to me.” She gave a short laugh.
“Please,” he said. “Tell me what you want, and let’s get this over.”
“There you go again with the control freak attitude.” She paused until they made eye contact. “Make no mistake. Our relationship will last as long as I see fit. We’re going to take your secret submissive side to a whole new level.”
“I’ll do whatever you ask, but please leave my family out of this.”
“You seem to understand pictures,” she said and smiled. “Let me put you in the picture. I arrived back into this country under an assumed name, so presently, nobody knows I’m here. I’ve been abroad for a few years, and I’ve learned certain skills.”
The words continued to flow from the sensuous lips.
“Why would such information be important for you to know?” Crawford said. “In your position as a Member of the Scottish Parliament, I am your worst fucking nightmare.” She paused and smirked. “There are no negatives of those pictures, although there are five other excellent photos in the set. Your DNA is on the bra, and the missing piece of the panties which I have secured. If anything should happen to me, or my associate Cindy, there are several actions which will come into play and destroy your life.”
“I understand,” he said.
“Mistress,” she said.
“What?” he said and his brow furrowed.
“I understand, Mistress,” she said. “You have to call me something, and I think it’s a suitable title. Now you try.”
He swallowed hard, and his eyes closed briefly.
“Come on now,” she said. “We both know you secretly enjoy the idea.”
“I understand ... Mistress.”
“Now that wasn’t so hard,” she whispered. “Unlike a certain part of your anatomy.” She reached across and used a steady, slender hand to caress his thigh.
Findlay trembled as he pulled on his cigarette.
“I’ll explain your first mission,” Crawford said. “I don’t expect you to take notes, but I do expect results, and soon.” It took less than five minutes to tell Findlay what was required.
Crawford got up and strolled through the large public park towards the city centre
. She was confident of three things. The first was; her choice of target was right. Second; the man would stay on the bench for the twenty minutes she’d suggested. Third; he’d have been looking at her legs and arse as she walked away from their meeting place.
.
Saturday 18th September
Glasgow Airport
Martina Crawford showed her passport and boarding pass as she made her way out to an early morning shuttle flight to London.
“Thank you, Miss Rowlands,” the attendant said and handed back the documents. “Have a pleasant trip.”
“I’m, sure I will,” Crawford said, smiled and left the desk.
2. Hide and Seek
.
Monday 20th September
Dunnet, near Thurso
Northern Scotland
Brian Simpson had sat in his rental car, patiently allowing his quarry half an hour to settle in. He checked the time, buttoned the top of his shirt and put on his tie. Simpson got out of the BMW 7-Series and lifted his jacket before checking his reflection in the window.
Satisfied that he looked the part he reached into the back seat and lifted his zipped leather folder. He noticed the red van he’d seen the previous evening was still parked in the small market square. The two occupants were missing. It made Simpson smile when he considered his own activities, but found other people suspicious.
He crossed the short distance to the bar. Simpson was a big man and had to duck under the lintel as he entered the place. He knew from his visits, many of the pubs in remote coastal towns were built with small windows and doors. It was integral to the design, keeping the heat in, and the weather out. When the weather was bad on Scotland’s north coast; it was terrible.
Simpson approached the bar and glanced at his target. He looked around at the other customers before turning to the bearded, slightly-built man beside him.
“Hi there,” Simpson said.
The man nodded and turned away to stare at the upturned spirit bottles on display at the back of the bar.
“Hello, Sir,” the young barmaid said. “What can I get for you?”
“A pint of your best please,” Simpson said. “Have a wee glass of something yourself.”
“Thank you very much.” The attractive twenty-something pulled a pint of beer.
Apart from the man Simpson was interested in, there were only five other customers in the place. Of course, it was early in the evening.
He paid for his drink when placed in front of him.
“Cheers.” The barmaid lifted a glass of lemonade.
“Aye, cheers.” Simpson took a long drink. He placed the glass on the bar and licked the froth from his lips. “This was worth the wait.”
“Have you come far?”
“I’ve been all over Scotland,” Simpson lied. “I’m trying to find a fella who seems to have disappeared from the face of the Earth.”
“Is he a business acquaintance?”
“After a fashion. He’s inherited a large sum of money, but our company doesn’t think he knows.”
“You’ll be surprising him, then?” She gazed at Simpson’s two different coloured eyes.
“I will indeed,” Simpson said. “I’ve been searching for him for a few weeks.”
“Are you sure he’ll still be in the UK?” the barmaid said. “He might have gone abroad, and then you’ll have your work cut out for you.” She laughed.
“I’ve been informed that he doesn’t have a passport, and he loves Scotland, so I’m hoping he’ll surface somewhere. I’ll keep looking until I find him.”
“You sound determined.”
“They don’t come much more determined than me.” He lifted his pint.
The barmaid continually wiped surfaces, in the way bar staff do. She lifted her glass and took another sip of lemonade before going to collect glasses left on tables by recent customers.
“I know this is a long shot,” Simpson said on the barmaid’s return. “I don’t suppose you’d know a local guy called Des Grant?” Using the large mirror behind the bar, he watched the reaction of the man beside him. The other man’s eyes widened, and his lips parted.
Simpson thought, gotcha, you little bastard.
“Des Grant?” the barmaid said. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.” She addressed the man beside Simpson. “Willie, have you ever heard the name Des Grant around here?”
“No, I can’t say I have, Barbara,” Des Grant said, teasing his month-old beard.
“Of course,” Barbara said. “You only arrived here in the last month or two, haven’t you, Willie?”
“Aye,” Grant said. “I worked in Aberdeen before I came here.”
“What did you do in Aberdeen?” Simpson asked, for amusement.
“I worked in the prison service for a while,” Grant said, which was true, although he’d never worked in HMP Peterhead near Aberdeen.
“That’s a coincidence,” Simpson said. “The guy I’m looking for was with the prison service for a couple of years.”
“How much money has this mystery fella inherited?” Grant said.
“You can’t go asking something like that, Willie,” Barbara said.
“It’s okay,” Simpson said, shaking his head. “People are always interested in these things.” He turned to the man beside him. “I can’t tell you the figure, but it’s got some zeros in it.”
“Lucky bastard,” Barbara muttered and busied herself once again along the bar.
Simpson took his time with his pint, using the mirror behind the bar to observe the man beside him.
“Barbara, isn’t it?” Simpson said to the barmaid.
“Yes, would you like another?”
“No thanks, I’ve got a bit of driving ahead of me, but I’ll leave you my card. If you hear the name Des Grant, please call me.” He wrote a number on the card and handed it over.
“I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.” Barbara glanced at the card. “Goodbye, Mr Taggart.”
Simpson nodded, turned and nodded to the bearded man, and left the bar.
When Simpson arrived at his car on the market square car park, he threw the zipped folder which contained nothing more than a newspaper, onto the back seat. A movement in his peripheral vision caused him to look across the square. The red van had an occupant. Simpson looked around as he shook off his jacket and threw it into the car. He sat behind the wheel and lowered the front windows to catch the breeze.
Ten minutes after settling down to observe the bar, Simpson saw Grant come outside. The ex-prison officer looked left and right before walking to the corner. He stopped at a weather-worn public phone box, looked around and stepped inside.
Simpson’s mobile phone burst into life. The device was plugged into the dashboard, so he hit the speaker button.
“Bob Taggart,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“Hello Mr Taggart,” Grant said. “Are you the guy who was at the bar a short while ago asking about a man called Des Grant?”
“I am,” Simpson said. “To whom am I speaking, please?”
“This is Des Grant, and I wondered if we could meet.”
“Due to the nature of my business, I’ll have to see some photographic identification, Mr Grant.”
“Okay,” Grant said. “I’ll see you down by the sea wall at the cove. There’s an old stone shelter there.”
“It sounds peculiar Mr Grant. I don’t know if I want to meet in such a place.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Grant said. “I’d prefer nobody around here to know my name and what I look like.”
“Okay. How long will it take before you get there?”
“Give me twenty minutes to get my identification.”
“Okay, twenty minutes it is. Bye.” Simpson hit End Call and shook his head. He watched Grant as he left the call box and headed down a narrow cobbled street. Simpson waited a few minutes before he started the engine and eased the big car across the tiny market square to go down the road.
Under the steering column,
a button-sized transmitter relayed everything said within the car. Across the square, a motorcyclist in dark blue leathers stood beside his machine pouring a hot drink from a thermos. The man sipped his drink before capping his flask and taking a stroll away from the market square.
Halfway down the street, Simpson looked ahead at the sea wall two-hundred yards away. The North Atlantic hammered the outer wall, and the white spray lifted over the parapet. At the junction near the wall, Grant paused and turned right. Simpson let the car roll quietly down the narrow street and pulled over when he reached the wall.
Half a mile to the right was the caravan site Grant was heading for.
Simpson saw the stone shelter near to where he’d stopped the car. He turned again to watch his prey as he entered the caravan site. Grant climbed into a static caravan which stood on four sturdy supports. Two minutes later, he reappeared.
Simpson parked the Beamer out of sight. He walked to the old stone shelter near the sea wall. It resembled a small bus shelter, allowing the sunlight in, but keeping the breeze out. Simpson got comfortable on the narrow seat inside and observed the caravan site.
A few minutes later, the bearded wanderer approached.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest in the bar,” Grant said. “I’ve got a few enemies out there in the wider world.”
“How unfortunate,” Simpson said. “I think your days of running are over now.”
“Nobody should notice us here,” Grant said. “Here’s my identity documents.” He handed over a plastic photo driver’s license and a birth certificate.
“These indeed confirm you’re the man I’ve been looking for,” Simpson said.
“How did you locate me in a tiny coastal place like this?”
“When I was making enquiries I discovered you had been working in a private clinic in Dunbartonshire,” Simpson said.
“You found the clinic?” Grant said.
“Yes, and they were mystified. The guy I spoke to told me you disappeared one day without any explanation.” He paused. “The peculiar thing was, it wasn’t a private clinic, it was a secure hospital, and one of the inmates was found dead not long after you disappeared.”
