by Tom Benson
Simpson strolled along the carpeted corridor, ignoring the photographs and trophies which adorned the oak panelling. The few doors he passed were decorated with pretentious brass nameplates. He turned right at the end of the main corridor.
“Here we are.” He pushed open the door with Snooker Room 1 on its brass plate. “Mr Montgomery,” Simpson said, closing the door without turning.
Montgomery stretched over the end of the green baize table ready to strike the cue ball. His left hand formed a bridge under the cue. Montgomery’s right hand gripped the back end of the thin wooden shaft. The long piece of wood had been gently sliding back and forward but stopped.
The player looked up slowly but didn’t raise his head. “I’m fucking concentrating.” Montgomery resumed his pose, staring along the cue. A powerful hand lifted the gleaming white cue ball from the table, leaving the player with nothing to strike.
“I’m pleased to hear you’re able to concentrate.” Simpson stepped forward, grasping the ball. “I’d like your boys to give us some privacy.”
Montgomery didn’t nod but glanced to his left and right.
For a man like Simpson, the sequence was important. It stood to reason the other two men were not playing, but merely in the room as bodyguards, watching their boss practising. They’d move in order.
The first man to react came from Simpson’s right and received the cue ball firmly and with force in the centre of his forehead. He dropped silently to the floor like a wet blanket. The other man should have taken the hint, but continued around the large table in haste.
Simpson reached forward and grasped the wooden cue, which Montgomery had dropped on the snooker table. The big man spun the long stick in one hand like a professional drummer and ended the movement by grasping the thicker end. One slam against the edge of the expensive table reduced the cue to half-length, but with a splintered end.
As the bodyguard gripped Simpson’s jacket on the left side, the big man crouched, dropped his left arm back, and thrust his elbow hard up into the assailant’s solar plexus.
The man’s eyes widened, and he started to double over retching. A whistling sound was created around the chewing gum, now stuck in his throat.
Simpson stepped back, gripped the man by the throat and held the back of his head down on the polished wooden edge of the snooker table. The splintered end of the cue hovered one inch from the man’s staring right eye.
The assailant-turned-victim stared sideways wildly to his boss for help, steadying himself with both arms stretched outwards along the table edge.
Montgomery was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He’d beaten men to death, occasionally shot somebody and spent time using a blade. One of the lessons he learned early in his gangland life was to respect speed and skill in an opponent, especially if the opponent was over six feet tall, was heavily-built, and moved like greased chicken-shit.
“Now, Mr Montgomery,” Simpson said in a conversational tone. “Either you and I have a private talk, or I’ll take this fella’s eye out, and ram it up the other bloke’s arse.”
Montgomery glanced at the man on the floor, who was regaining consciousness.
“Get outside, both of you.” He paused and looked from one man to the other. “No phone calls, unless our doorman needs an ambulance.”
When Simpson left the club after a chat with Montgomery, he didn’t know whether to feel insulted or amused having had Montgomery offer him a highly-paid job. He reached the main corridor, and there was no sign of the two men from the snooker room scuffle.
The man in black pulled the door open and stood back. Simpson paused and nodded slowly, but without expression. He didn’t grin until walking towards his car.
.
Easterhouse
Glasgow
Barry Brown, better known in the large estate as ‘Barry the Bastard’ enjoyed a can of beer and a smoke. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and half an hour since he’d had the strange phone call. He strode across to the living room window of his fourth floor flat. From here he could see a large part of the infamous estate on which he lived.
“Let him fucking try,” were Brown’s final words before he slammed his mobile phone onto the coffee table. He turned to the young man waiting expectantly and briefed him on what was to be done in preparation for the possible uninvited visitor.
Brown shook his head and grinned as he flicked on the TV to watch the snooker. When the camera zoomed in on the first player, Brown chuckled, imagining the scene which had been related to him on the phone.
.
Tuesday 19th October
“Wake up,” Simpson said. “I want a word.” It didn’t matter to Simpson whether he was in Easterhouse or Beirut—he used a similar technique.
Brown’s eyes had flickered a few times. When the eyes opened properly, they went wide. Brown sat up and swept his hand across his lap before looking down. On the coffee table in front of him were an ashtray full of cigarette ends, eight empty beer cans, and a Glock 9mm automatic pistol. The pistol had been on his lap before he fell asleep.
Two things caused Brown to decide against grabbing his favourite weapon. The gun was on a coffee table, broken down into its individual working parts, as if prepared for cleaning. The other reason he stayed in his chair was ‘the elephant in the room’, but not the type referred to in the euphamism.
Although not an elephant, a real one would have had a similar effect to the visitor. A well-built, bald man of six-foot stood in the middle of the living room with an automatic pistol, but his weapon was in one piece. Fitted at the end of the barrel, was a long, black cylindrical device which had starred in many movies.
“I’m assuming somebody was making nasty phone calls about me,” Simpson said. “Now that I see you like this, I don’t know if you’re worth the conversation.”
Brown turned and squinted at the digital clock.
“Quarter to four in the morning,” Simpson obliged. “I’ve found it to be a wonderful time for opportunity, like getting to meet people who surround themselves with shit protection, and then have a few drinks.”
Brown’s eyes narrowed. “If you’ve hurt those lads out there—”
“Oh, do you mean the two I dealt with on the landing, after I’d evaded the four in cars. Those guys should have been standing on the street corners. To put your mind at rest, I didn’t kill either of your would-be bodyguards on the landing.” He grinned.
“What have you fucking done—”
“They’ll be helping each other to get down to street level for an ambulance, and the emergency team will have to be fucking careful.”
The living room door flew open, and a man in his twenties stepped in with a gun in his hand. He looked down at his weapon as he gripped and pulled back on the breech slide to chamber a round. By the time the working parts moved forward and collected a round from the magazine, a bullet from a different weapon entered the young man’s forehead.
Brown turned from the sight of the dead body on his floor and glared at Simpson. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,”
Simpson raised the automatic, and it spat another small piece of metal across the room.
“So much for the art of conversation, and fucking negotiation.” He stepped over the two bodies and left.
15. Deception
.
Wednesday 20th October
Kelvingrove
Glasgow
A wailing two-tone noise echoed from downstairs, waking Gregor Findlay. The politician turned toward his wife, Sandra, but she snored quietly beside him. Findlay glanced at the red digital figures of the alarm clock.
“Bloody three o’clock in the morning,” he muttered as he slid from the comfort of the bed. “The damn car showroom will hear from me.” He continued to grumble as he pulled on his dressing gown and stepped into his slippers. As he tiptoed along the upstairs, he considered his daughter and gently opened her door—Katy was fast asleep.
When Findlay got downstairs,
he lifted the keys from the decorative array of hooks and made his way out to the garage. At least it wasn’t raining, and it wasn’t cold. He pressed the remote control, and as he waited for the door to rise, he wondered once again about having an interior door from the garage through to the kitchen. He’d get an estimate.
The garage door reached halfway, and the piercing alarm was deafening, now being echoed around the garage and directed at the tired man. He cancelled the car alarm, and raised the small remote device to close the garage. Something caught his eye.
“What the hell is that?” He stepped into the large garage and switched on the lights. Secured by one of the wiper blades, was a small white card. Findlay stepped forward and reached for the wiper arm. He lifted the wiper to ensure the rubber blade wasn’t twisted, and he took the card in his other hand.
The words had been cut and pasted from a newspaper or magazine, in the fashion used by blackmailers in the movies. Findlay’s blood ran cold as he squinted in the bright, fluorescent glare within the garage.
‘Anniesland Cross at 9 am. No cops.’
“Anniesland Cross is a big area,” Findlay murmured with a trembling voice. This was a peculiar communication from the woman who’d been blackmailing him. As if finally awake, he spun around and looked at the high hedgerow, and the many rose bushes which decorated the front garden and bordered the long driveway. A movement among the bushes would have had most men investigating. Findlay wasn’t most men.
Findlay’s wife would be none the wiser if he returned to bed, because she slept soundly, and late. The man shook his head, switched off the garage light, closed the door, and avoided looking at the hedgerow as he went indoors to his study.
The politician sipped a strong black coffee and stared at the items on his desk. He had spread out the photos being used by the Mistress to blackmail him. Right beside the images, he had the scrunched up mound of black lace; the panties with the small square cut out. To the left was the card with the latest message.
“I have to stop this—I can’t take any more.” Tears rolled down Findlay’s cheeks as the enormity of the issue, and the futility of his position hit home. He’d used his position to open files which were covered by the Official Secrets Act, and he’d cut corners by forging signatures.
It was after he’d processed everything it occurred to Findlay—he’d used his own name and password to gain access to HM Government—Ministry of Defence; Restricted Property files. What the hell the Mistress wanted with a bloody castle ruin was a mystery, but now he was irrevocably connected to the unofficial and illegally processed paperwork.
He picked up the small card and stared at the message and deadline for today. What if this wasn’t the Mistress—it wasn’t her style to skulk around in the dark. She was brazen.
“Who the fuck are you?” Findlay stared at the card briefly before he closed his eyes and bowed his head. He felt tired.
.
BTL Enterprises
Glasgow
“Thanks for coming in earlier guys,” Jake said as Ian and Eva took their seats.
“Hi,” Rachel said, as she came from the Admin corridor with a tray of coffees.
“Hi Rachel,” the two latest arrivals said in unison and accepted a brew.
Jake said, “I know we all have our individual tasks for today, but what I’ve got is worth sharing before we continue.” He glanced at his notes. “I’ve received another email from Maria in New York.”
He picked up the printed version and read aloud:
“Hi, Jake,
I realise you and your team must be working hard with every piece of evidence you’ve gained, and things might have become more precise, but more complicated.
Larry Zimmerman was a highly respected, independent IT consultant. He had all the usual toys associated with rich playboy types, like a jet, yacht, and so on. He was known to play the field where the ladies were concerned. Six months ago, he was found with a bullet in his head in his bachelor pad in Miami, Florida. Mr Zimmerman’s death was at first listed as suicide but later amended to suspicious.
Casper Keel was a high-level hacker who had been convicted for accessing State Department files. He was given a conditional discharge from the authorities when he pleaded his case as ‘testing the system for the benefit of the country.' Mr Keel left Washington and set up home out west in Los Angeles. Three months ago, he was found in similar circumstances to Mr Zimmerman.”
Jake paused in the lengthy message and sipped his coffee. He looked in turn at each of his colleagues before he read the summary.
“I’ve no doubt you’ll be wondering what the connection is to your present case. In both cases, in their final weeks enjoying life, those two men were seen with an attractive young woman—an Englishwoman, although she could have been Scottish. Traces of female DNA were found on clothing in Miami and Los Angeles. Among the traces were positive matches to your suspect, Nadia Henderson—in both homes.
Please be extra vigilant, and pass my best regards to your team. You are all doing a job which is much appreciated by those of us who carry a badge but have our hands tied.
Your friend across the pond,
Maria.”
Jake didn’t read out the final line which said:
‘P.S. Honey sent me a card from Europe, and sends best wishes.’
A brief smile teased the corner of Jake’s lips as he considered Maria’s ex-colleague and the life she now led. He placed the message on the table and looked at the team.
Eva said, “The information confirms Henderson is callous and calculating.”
Rachel stood. “I think we may safely add computer hacker to our assassin’s skill set.”
.
Kelvingrove
Glasgow
Findlay had sat at the desk in his study until he heard his young daughter coming down the stairs. The man was exhausted through worry, and lack of sleep. He opened a desk drawer and locked the incriminating evidence away before placing the key in his dressing gown pocket.
Six-year-old Katy’s constant chattering was like an ongoing, unstoppable irritation to the man as he fixed breakfast cereal for her.
“Daddy, you’re not listening,” Katy said. “I’ve asked twice—nicely.”
“Yes, my darling,” he muttered as he placed the bowl on the table in front of her. His mind was in a different place.
“May I have the radio on, please Daddy?”
“Of course.” He flicked the switch and caught the information in his sub-conscious while he poured himself a fresh coffee.
“Well,” the DJ said. “For some of us, it might seem like a lifetime ago. That was Billy J Kramer and the Dakotas, with their hit Do You Want to Know a Secret? Here in sunny Glasgow, it’s Wednesday, Twentieth October, and the time is one minute to eight. Have any of you listeners got secrets?”
The combination of the song title and the time-check came as a double-whammy.
“Shit.” Findlay spilt coffee on the marble worktop as he ditched his cup.
“Daddy!” Katy said. “You said a naughty word—I think you owe me another surprise pressie.” She grinned, already having learned the rudiments of blackmail.
“Eat your damn breakfast, Katy,” Findlay said in a harsh tone, before rushing from the spacious kitchen diner. The door slammed closed behind him.
Katy’s young brow furrowed as she gazed along the hallway at the front door. “Maybe I’ll have to talk to Mummy about secrets.” The child continued to eat her cereal to feed her body. Her imagination had already been well-fed.
.
Anniesland Cross
Glasgow
Gregor Findlay drove west on the Great Western Road, passing a random police speed-check camera. Fortunately, the two officers were in the process of synchronising the equipment, but the shining, new dark blue Jaguar stood out as it whizzed past.
On the approach to the massive multi-junction of Anniesland Cross, Findlay assessed he couldn’t park on the main road. Double-yellow line
s were in place along both kerbsides for over a mile because it was the primary route, but there were blocks of apartments and shops, meaning cars could be parked somewhere nearby.
Half a mile from the busy junction, Findlay took a left onto Cranborne Road, a residential street with smart houses. This area too was armed with double yellow lines and permit-parking zones. He drove a few hundred yards and took a right on Hatfield Drive.
“Thank God,” he breathed when he found houses similar to his home, and most had a sizeable driveway. The big car wouldn’t look out of place parked at the kerbside. In those few seconds, as he relaxed, his mobile phone burst into life. He parked before reaching inside his jacket.
“Hello,” he gasped and checked his car clock. 08:59.
A deep male voice boomed from the speaker. “Park the car and go on foot to Dawsholm Park. In twenty minutes, sit on the bench, which is two-hundred yards from the west entrance.”
“Dawsholm Park, near Anniesland Cross?” Findlay queried to play for time. He tried to recall if he could drive there and park closer.
“Yes, Dawsholm Park,” the gruff male voice said. “Leave the car, and go to the woodland—where you take your daughter to feed the squirrels.” The call ended.
“Fuck.” Findlay put his phone away. He pushed the driver’s door open and slammed it shut again when a loud horn sounded. The near miss was by a big white van with red and blue arrows on the side. The logo boasted of rapid parcel delivery—no mention of caution.
Findlay sat in the leather seat and watched as the courier braked hard and turned left farther along the road. The politician was conscious of the perspiration oozing from his body. He had to cover one and a half miles on foot, and he was saturated with sweat now. Italian leather shoes and an expensive suit were not the best outfits for running.
Ten minutes after leaving his car, Findlay was forced to walk and loosen his tie. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t have the energy or the time. When he turned onto Bearsden Road, he tried jogging again, and the slight gradient looked like a mountain pass. By a miracle, he arrived at the appointed entrance with one minute to spare. Findlay’s breathing sounded like an enraged bull, his face was dripping, and his fancy suit and shirt were sticking to him.
