by Tom Benson
At a distance of two-hundred yards, Simpson paused beside a large tree and observed. Crawford had stopped again and sat on a bench. Simpson moved to a seat which afforded him a partial view of his associate but kept him out of sight.
A dark-haired man in a suit, carrying a briefcase approached the bench where Crawford was sitting. Simpson opened his laptop and went to the document where he’d been noting his thoughts on the present peculiar arrangements. He looked up and focused on the man in the suit. It was the guy who’d walked past earlier and turned to look at him and Crawford.
“Now then,” Simpson said aloud. “Who the fuck are you, mate?”
12. Keeping Secrets
.
Wednesday 6th October
Rachel strolled into the food market on Byres Road and lifted a basket. She walked along to the bread and morning goods section and chose a variety of items. Rachel appeared to check the ingredients of each product before replacing it.
While she was reading the labels a heavily built man in a leather jacket and jeans strode up the aisle and stood beside her. He lifted a selection of wrapped bread and checked the date labels.
Rachel whispered, “The person to be aware of is a woman. She’s probably attractive which will make it easy for her to get close to men. We have a feeling she’s between twenty-five to thirty-five years old.”
“Thanks,” Max said. “I can appreciate it’s quite a wide age range, but maybe it will help the guys to be a bit more careful on their sexual adventures for a while.”
“A couple of other things,” Rachel said. “We’re confident she’s left-handed, and she also changes names and appearance at the drop of a hat—until we have a picture, tell the gang to trust no-one, and please stress the attractive woman angle.”
“Thanks,” Max said. “Do we know who she’s working for?”
“At the moment it’s not clear if she’s with somebody else or she’s a loner, but as soon as we know—you’ll know.”
Max nodded. “I can’t think of a woman who’d have a reason for a personal vendetta against us. He placed his most recent choice of bread on the shelf and left.
Rachel stayed in the store for a few more minutes, bought a couple of items and she too left. The information had been passed, but she was left with a nagging question. The idle comment Max had made before he went etched itself into Rachel’s memory.
A vendetta? Both Jake and Rachel had considered and almost dismissed the idea.
.
Friday 8th October
Inverawe
Two plain white vans approached and turned off the main road onto the forest track. Both vans were towing trailers with generators mounted. The drivers stopped when waved down by Simpson.
His rental car had been the recognition point for the van drivers. The white Beamer was parked a few yards in from the main road, but easy to see on the final approach. Simpson approached the driver of the first van.
“Carol told us to give you this,” the driver said and handed over an envelope which had C. McGinley signed across the seal—exactly as Simpson had suggested she should.
Simpson tore open the envelope and read the single sheet before looking at the driver and passenger. “Names, and trades?”
“I’m Carl, and this is Paul, and we’re both chippies—that is; carpenters.”
“I know what a fucking chippy is—don’t get smart.” Having seen the carpenters, Simpson shook his head as he went to the other van. He didn’t need smartarses. He checked on the other two men to find that one was an electrician and the other, a plumber.
“What’s the deal?” Carl asked, leaning from his window.
Simpson said, “Follow me on, and take your time—we’ll be stopping more than once to go through gates, and the tunnel will be tight for the vans. I’ll come back to lock up before we go any further.”
.
Fort Etive
When Simpson had the team of tradesmen in the car park in the ruin, he lifted out his large flashlight and stood it on the floor pointing upwards. The light reflected around the stone walls. Simpson made his briefing simple.
“In a nutshell, we need basic lighting fitted throughout—nothing fancy. We also want to have heating arranged in each room.”
Marty, one of the electricians, said, “We didn’t bring miles of fucking cable.”
“You don’t need miles of fucking cable,” Simpson said. “The big room in which we’re standing will be used as a car parking area, which means it only needs basic lights and nothing else.” He nodded at them. “This ruin was owned by the MoD, and apart from this level, it has a network of rooms and a conference room up above, complete with furniture. There will be sufficient cable for most of the electrical fittings. On the floor below us, it has cells which have been converted into living quarters.”
“If it’s all fitted out, what do we have to do?” Carl said.
“I’m here with you from now until Monday morning. Your jobs will be to check the generator system downstairs is working, and get all the existing electrics up and running, so we’ve got light, which includes lighting through the tunnel. We also need heating and a brew kit so we can have a fucking hot meal and the occasional cup of coffee.”
Paul said, “Why do you need carpenters?”
“You guys check out and repair anything necessary in your line of work. For example, there are a couple of doors which need attention, and we don’t want to have a conference upstairs and have the fucking table and chairs collapsing.”
Paul laughed, but it was cut short when the big man turned to look at him.
Simpson said, “I’ll be here with you boys all weekend, so if you need anything, I’ll go out with one of you to fetch what’s required—and the others stay here. Understood?”
Grumbles and reluctant nodding were the only responses.
“One other thing,” Simpson said. “Just in case Mrs McGinley didn’t mention it—if anybody talks about this place after the job is done, I’ll find you, and fucking kill you.”
There were no more questions.
.
Monday 11th October
King’s Park
Glasgow
McGinley sat in her favourite spot, in the conservatory looking at the pictures on her laptop which Simpson had taken and downloaded for her. “I’m impressed, Brian.”
“It’s still a bit rough,” he said. “If we have the first meeting set up and you like what you see, we can get your guys back out there, and we’ll improve it further.”
“We might do that,” she said and flicked through the screenshots again.”
“You were saying something earlier about checking out your suspicions.”
“Aye,” McGinley said. “I’ve got a couple of people on the payroll I’d like to shake up a bit, you know, to see what falls out.”
“Apart from their teeth?”
“Aye, it might come to that, Brian. It might well come to that, but we’ll see.”
“Who is it that you have in mind for a wee chat?”
“You’ll remember I said about Renton—he was a member of the team who came to you when you had Grant in the mountains?”
“Yeah, if I remember rightly, I didn’t like Renton. There’s something about him. Who is the other one?”
“His name is Freddie. He’s an ex-soldier, who worked for Mickey a couple of times, but Freddie’s not been back with us very long. I heard a little rumour he was involved in an ambush that went to shit a while back.”
“Even if it went to shit, how did he survive?”
“You’ve spotted the problem already, Brian. I’m not an expert in tactics, but as far as I know, no victims should survive an ambush—and if the people who spring the trap fuck it up, then surely they should all be killed.”
“I’m inclined to agree, which makes our man Freddie a bit of an anomaly.” Simpson slurped his tea. “How did you find out this guy Freddie was involved in an ambush?”
“I overheard the name and th
e situation being mentioned by Renton in one of our clubs. He’d had a couple of beers and was probably trying to impress somebody.”
“I couldn’t imagine a story like that from young Renton having much credibility.”
“I’d agree, and it got me thinking—I wondered how many ex-soldiers called Freddie were working for me. I also considered if Renton knew so much about the ambush, perhaps he should be interviewed?”
“We have a lot of coincidences occurring there, Carol. Have you taken any precautions regarding those two?”
“Since I heard about the ambush story I’ve made sure both of them are kept apart, but always working with somebody else. I’m dealing with the situation the way you suggested, to make sure they don’t do a runner?”
“Continue as you’ve done so far, but let me have time to think of a plan.”
“Have you worked out an approach to deal with the gang leaders I told you about?”
“I’ve got a couple of issues to resolve, but I’ll be starting my visits this week. I’ll keep you up to speed on progress, but I don’t foresee any problems with attendance.”
“On the subject of resolving issues, have you located our missing person?”
“If you mean Mrs Fitzpatrick, I have,” Simpson said. “I’ll have to fit in a few minutes outside the usual visiting hours.”
“Where have they got her now?”
“She was in one of the leading city hospitals until recently, and for some reason, it was decided to move her.” He grinned. “She’s now in a private clinic outside Cumbernauld.”
“Do you know her condition?”
“Yes, unfortunately, she’s started talking again, and she’s scheduled for visits by a therapist next week. I’ll make sure she doesn’t have much to say.”
“Thank you, Brian. I appreciate your efficiency.”
.
Scotstoun
Glasgow
Apart from being members of the Mental Riders Motor Cycle Club, Toolkit and Wyatt had worked together for over two years to build up the business of their small back-street repair shop. The establishment wasn’t large, and the opening hours were sketchy, but basically, if either of the guys was around—the place was open.
Wheel Fix It was the first stop for any of the gang if repairs were beyond a quick fix at the roadside. Occasionally gang members called in and if capable, used the broad range of tools and equipment. Regular bikers dropped by for a repair, on the understanding that official receipts probably wouldn’t be forthcoming. The proprietors had an understanding book-keeper. He ensured all money going into the venture was reinvested—with the enterprise.
At 2 pm a black Triumph 500cc rumbled in through the large, sliding wooden door at the entrance. The rider dismounted and removed his helmet.
“Hey, Numbers,” Toolkit called. “How is it going?”
“Good, mate,” Numbers said, and the two men clasped their right hands together in a fraternal greeting. “Where’s Wyatt?”
“He nipped out to help with a chain problem on a back road near the airport.”
“I didn’t know you guys had started a recovery service.” Numbers laughed while he removed his jacket.
“We get the occasional call from riders who know our number, but this was a female who recognised the problem, but didn’t have the tools to sort it.”
“Have you got much work on at the moment?”
“We’ve got two bikes to finish off this afternoon, and we’ll close for the day.”
“Will I have about an hour to go through your paperwork?”
“Aye mate, I’ll leave you to it.”
Numbers left his bike parked at the back of the workshop and went through to the small room used as an office and staff canteen.
A few minutes after the brief conversation, a black van pulled up outside the entrance. Something was thrown in through the large doorway, and the van’s tyres screeched as it pulled away.
“What the f—” Toolkit watched the red and black item roll across the floor and thought some joker had thrown a ball into the workshop. When the object stopped moving, Toolkit’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. Visible on the sides of the mainly red helmet, a pair of silver six-guns were emblazoned.
13. Special Relationships
.
Tuesday 12th October
Glasgow
DI Amy Hughes placed the two lattes on the table and looked around at the nearby customers as she took a seat.
“Thanks,” Rachel said. “It’s good to see you again.”
“You too,” Amy said. “How are things going with you and Jake living under one roof?”
“Pretty good, and I never imagined myself saying so about any guy.” She lifted her coffee. “It must be strange for you and Eddie too, cohabiting and working together at HQ.”
“It is, and you have no idea the amount of grief we both have to take from colleagues—especially after tasks like our recent trip to Canada.”
“Have you come up with any theories on the Vancouver victims?”
“Yes, and obviously being with Eddie, we’ve had some lengthy discussions. We’ve come to the conclusion Henderson has to be a vendetta victim, but we’re thrown by the killing of Hicks.” She paused to sip her drink. “The best we can come up with so far is, wrong place—wrong time.”
“I thought it was quite a coincidence for a Glasgow gang member to be visiting the widowed wife of a former gang member—when she had disappeared under a new name.”
“Eddie had an interesting theory regarding Hicks,” Amy said. “He wondered if the bald guy was sent to locate Henderson and question her, rather than kill her.”
“If he was going to talk to her why did he have a gun?”
“It’s second nature for gang members. If they travel to a place like America, they buy a black-market gun on arrival.”
“Jake suggested you guys would typically look to family members as the primary suspects in the case of somebody like Stephanie Henderson, but that could be ruled out since her nutcase of an ex-husband was already dead.”
“Yes, Peter Henderson is dead, and his sister Nadia has been missing since she was about eighteen. Our records show she travelled to the US in 1992, but there are no traces of her. She may have moved on again. Their father, Lenny is doing time in Barlinnie.”
Rachel said, “The news earlier today about Wyatt has put a different angle on things. To happen to two bikers from the same gang sounds a bit strange, but we might have an avenue to check out.”
“What have you got?” Amy said. “I know the police force isn’t on the bikers’ Christmas card list, so they wouldn’t expect us to do much investigating. The truth is, we treat their suspicious deaths as seriously as any other.”
Rachel said, “I got a call from Max this morning. He was understandably raging and upset at the discovery of Wyatt’s body yesterday, but he gave me a snippet of information.”
The two women leant closer, which to an outsider gave the impression they were sharing a secret, but few could guess the substance of their conversation.
Rachel said, “After Snake’s murder I met up with Max and told him about our suspicions of a woman being involved in the Vancouver murders. It must have preyed on Max’s mind. Today he said, a day or two before his death, Snake had been upbeat about meeting a woman who had recently returned.”
“Recently returned from where?” Amy said.
“He couldn’t say,” Rachel said. “Max thinks it was a woman Snake had been keen on and she either left the area—”
“Or the country ....” Amy said, nodding.
“Or the country.”
“We need something solid, but what Max told you has given me an idea. When I get back to the station, I’ll chase it up.”
“Jake is waiting for word from his friend Maria in the NYPD. Apparently, she’s reducing some massive list using their filtering programme, and then she’ll forward names for us to follow up.”
“Will she send it to us at Pi
tt Street so we can investigate officially?”
“Yes, Jake has already asked her to keep you and Eddie in the loop.”
“Do you know this contact’s name, so I’ll recognise the message?”
“Yes, there will be no mistaking it. The woman is Detective Investigator Maria Delano, and she works for the NYPD.”
“Thank Jake for us,” Amy said. She looked around before reaching a hand out to touch Rachel’s arm. “I know in my line of work, it’s unprofessional, but on behalf of the two girls he killed, thank you for dealing with the scumbag, Garside. There was a lot of subdued celebration in Pitt Street when his body was found. We knew it was you who picked him up from the court, and don’t worry—we have a fair idea who tortured and killed him.”
Rachel nodded. “He was a twisted bastard, Amy, and he would have continued.”
“I needn’t tell you, the forensics boys didn’t dig too deep if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“We’re working on a two-way street.” Rachel gave her friend a weak smile.
The police detective finished her latte and left the coffee shop, followed a few minutes later by the young vigilante.
.
Wednesday 13th October
Maryhill
Glasgow
Brian Simpson stood at the bar of The Turk’s Head as he watched and listened to the locals. He pulled out his small notebook and scribbled a few more words and another name. After his chat with McGinley in her conservatory on Monday, Simpson had parked his rented car and moved around the city by taxi.
For three days he’d visited clubs and bars in a variety of districts, occasionally making idle conversation, but mainly observing and noting small details. It never ceased to amaze him how careless people were in conversation, especially after a few drinks. Unless the words were never shared, there was no such thing as a fucking secret.
