Raven, James

by Brutal Revenge

  BRUTAL REVENGE

  A THRILLER

  BY JAMES RAVEN

  Published through

  Global House Publishing

  Copyright 2012 James Raven

  All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental

  Dedicated to Mum and Dad

  By the same author

  Rollover

  Urban Myth

  Stark Warning

  Arctic Blood

  http://www.james-raven.com/

  ONE

  The urge to satisfy his own curiosity was really what made Parker come to Glasgow.

  It certainly wasn’t because he needed the money, not with the bundle from that last blag still gathering dust in a safety deposit box in London. No, it was simply that he wanted to know what that old rascal Andrew Maclean was up to.

  It had been three years since they had last worked together, and Maclean’s email, which had arrived two days ago, had come out of the blue. Being brief and to the point it had left a thousand questions unanswered.

  “If you’re still in business Parker, get in touch. I’ve something wild in mind and I’m pretty sure you’ll want in. Andrew.”

  So Parker had responded, regardless of the fact that he’d been planning to spend a few weeks at the apartment in Marbella before embarking on another caper.

  On the phone Maclean had refused to be drawn on the details of what was going down. He’d said only that it would be worth Parker’s while to make the journey north.

  “Trust me, Phil,” he’d said. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  Only now, standing in a shop doorway opposite the entrance to that dingy hotel, did Parker begin to question the wisdom of his decision. Three years is a long time and men change. Perhaps Maclean had changed. Perhaps he was no longer the impetuous young Scotsman whom Parker remembered as being sufficiently blessed with an abundance of both common sense and unquestioning nerve – truly a rare combination of qualities in a man whose chosen profession had been crime.

  Perhaps now Maclean was nothing like the man Parker had come to admire during their brief acquaintance, when they had been part of a team that had held up three security vans in London during a single summer.

  These days Maclean ran an antiques business, but Parker had heard that he was still a pretty active villain. Maybe he was having a rough time of it and had come up with some hair-brained scheme to make some serious dosh. Times were tough, after all, and it was becoming harder to steal money without taking huge risks. At thirty six Parker wasn’t keen to take too many chances for fear of ending up inside again. Life was too short to piss it away in some dingy cell.

  It began to rain, and whatever traces of ageing dignity the street had possessed were washed away with the slime. All that was left was a drab collection of dilapidated buildings, shabbily plastered with corrugated iron sheets and large wooden boards that should have displayed For Sale signs, but now issued crude threats in shiny black paint to any young thug from another district who dared to venture beyond them.

  What a shithole, Parker thought. Worse than the ugliest manors in London. Both cities had been hammered by the recession, but by the look of it Glasgow would take much longer to recover.

  The hotel was one of only three buildings in the whole street that seemed to be occupied, and light from the entrance and ground floor windows fell as carpets across the pavements.

  No light was offered by the innumerable street lamps. At some time in the past these had been rendered impotent by a proficient sniper whose grudge against light bulbs must have been pathological in its intensity.

  It was because everything here was so decrepit – like a war-torn ghetto – that Parker had begun to have second thoughts. Maybe he was wrong to satisfy curiosity merely for the sake of it. Maybe Maclean had been talking out of his arse when he’d told him it would be worth his while to come here.

  Parker took a long, resigned breath and shook his head. Frankly there was no point turning back now. He might as well have the meet and sus it out. If he didn’t like the set-up he’d just walk out and get a train back to London. It was as simple as that.

  He looked again at the hotel, an unprepossessing place that seemed to be still standing solely by virtue of the fact that it was sandwiched between two other buildings. Had it been detached at birth, Parker felt sure it would have crumbled to the ground long before now. Far beyond it, where the cloud cover ended over the Clyde, the high concrete peaks of the city merged with the molten colour of the evening sky.

  He pulled the collar of his raincoat up around his neck and hurried towards the hotel entrance. He chose an inopportune moment to do so, for just then the clouds decided to spend their lot all at once and it came down in a torrent that formed instant puddles in the road.

  He was drenched when he went into the hotel and it took only a moment for him to form a puddle of his own on the linoleum floor of the small, grubby reception area.

  The proprietor, a big man of about forty-five with a square face and an unsightly five o'clock shadow, was reading a newspaper behind the desk.

  He looked up, regarded Parker for a moment, and said, “You must be Parker.”

  “How’d you know?”

  The guy shrugged. “Because I’m not expecting anyone else and believe it or not we don’t attract much passing trade.”

  “You surprise me,” Parker said.

  The man cleared his throat. “Mac's expecting you. He’s upstairs. If you'll just wait a minute I'll call him up on the house phone and tell him you're here.”

  Parker glanced around the reception area, which didn't say much for the owner's concept of decent living. The range of types to be impressed by the peeling wallpaper, the rickety stairs and the musty smell, would be limited indeed. Whores and their horny customers probably formed the bulk of the business.

  “He's on his way down,” the proprietor said, replacing the phone and returning to his paper without another word.

  Barely a minute later Parker heard the familiar high-pitched voice behind him and, turning, saw Maclean at the bottom of the stairs, grinning.

  “Well, well,” he beamed at Parker. “Long time no see.”

  Parker noticed immediately that three years had done little to change the man. At least on the outside he was the Andrew Maclean Parker remembered. He was about thirty and looked lean and fit. He retained the confident swagger that Parker remembered so well. There was also the air of insolence and the familiar look of perpetual amusement on his thin, ruddy face. He stood roughly six feet tall – the same height as Parker - and was wearing a cardigan over polo sweater and jeans.

  He shoved out a hand. “Good to see you, Phil. I've been looking forward to working with you again. What is it now? Three years.”

  Parker returned the greeting, adding, “Don't jump the gun, Andy. I'm here to see what it's all about. That's all.”

  The ever-present grin widened into an elaborate smile that conjured up a network of laughter lines around the eyes and mouth. It occurred to Parker that this precarious profession of theirs rarely allowed a person's sense of humour to be preserved in such a fine old state of health.

  “Course,” Maclean said. “Didn't think otherwise. But as I said on the phone, I guarantee that you'll be interested.”

  “Well I fucking hope so. It’s a long way to come just for a chat.”

  Maclean dropped his voice. “Any problems getting away at such short notice?”

  Parker shook his head. “I’ve got nothing on the go right now. In fact I was on the verge of buggering off to Spain when you got in touch.”

  “What about the wife? She can’t have been too happy?”

  “We got divorced a year a
go,” Parker said. “I live alone.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. It’d been a long time coming. We pissed each other off big time and the last straw came when I found out she was shagging someone at work.”

  “Ouch! That must have been painful.”

  “Yeah, it was, but it didn’t take me long to get over it after she left.”

  “Did she move in with the other bloke?”

  “No way. He’s married with kids. She went back to live with her mum in Brighton.”

  “Life sucks,” Maclean said.

  Parker shrugged. “Enough of the small talk. Anyone else involved in this caper?”

  Maclean nodded. “Two more bodies. You might even know them.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Upstairs.”

  Maclean turned to the guy behind the desk who was still absorbed in his newspaper. “Make sure we're not disturbed for the next couple of hours, Donald,” he said.

  TWO

  Maclean led the way to a first floor room. It was pretty small and contained a round table and a lumpy leather sofa.

  A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling and emitted a dull orange glow.

  “We use this place for poker sessions,” Maclean said. “But everyone’s skint so there’s no action this week.”

  There were two men sitting at the table. One of them Parker recognised instantly as Pat Hodge. They had never met but he had been pointed out to Parker at a party once.

  Rumour had it the guy was a genuine grade-A psycho, and Parker could see why such speculation was rife.

  There was that calm, unnerving expression and those wide staring eyes that belied his boyish looks and made one wonder if it was not the devil himself looking out from behind a mask. He had the kind of deadpan face that deters women from parking themselves in the same railway carriage.

  His reputation was not unknown to Parker. Hodge once shot dead a security guard during a wages snatch in Birmingham, an achievement that had earned him the nickname The Cowboy. He was never charged with the murder even though the cops were convinced he was responsible. His alibis were watertight and there were no witnesses to finger him. It was common knowledge in the trade that he did it. But knowing it and proving it are two very different things.

  Maclean introduced Parker to Hodge first and Parker was thankful that the latter did not feel obliged to get up and shake his hand.

  Hodge simply looked up from the table, nodded almost imperceptibly, and said, “I've heard a lot about you, Parker.”

  “I've heard a lot about you, too,” Parker said.

  Hodge tried his hand at smiling, but the effort behind this gesture was fairly evident.

  “Whatever you've heard it's all lies,” he said. “I'm really a little angel at heart.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  Hodge was a Scouser and Parker judged him to be in his early thirties. He was tall and athletically built with a shock of black wavy hair. There was a two-inch scar beneath his right eye and one high up on his forehead.

  In a way he reminded Parker of himself as he was some years ago. He too had shouldered a reputation for being a hard bastard, and with each new acquaintance he struck he had sensed the other man's cold, almost scornful appraisal of him.

  It was the reason he had got involved in so many scraps. There was always some young head case on the scene who wanted to prove that he was harder and tougher. Luckily for Parker his scars weren’t visible until he bared his torso, which was why he rarely did it in public, even around the swimming pool in Spain. The damage to his stomach and chest caused by two knife attacks was not a pleasant sight.

  The other character, who Parker didn’t know, got up from his chair. He was short compared with the rest of them — not more than five foot six — with a pale, aquiline face. The beak-shaped nose was inordinately large and looked as though it had been stuck on as an after-thought.

  He was dressed in an off-the-peg suit from one of the big chain stores, but the jacket hung well enough and went a long way towards hiding up an incipient beer gut. He was almost bald and there were deep trenches around the mouth and eyes that would have made it impossible for him to get away with any white lies about being under fifty.

  His smile was bright and engaging and his dentures a tribute to whoever had made them.

  Maclean introduced them. “Robert Stewart, meet Phil Parker. An old friend.”

  Stewart extended a hand towards Parker. “Hello Parker,” he said. “I can see you don't remember me.”

  “Should I?”

  “Eight years ago. Strangeways. I was doing a stretch for burglary and you did a stretch before they shifted you out to an open prison. We mixed with the same crowd for a bit.”

  Parker nodded as if in recognition, though the truth was he could barely remember who his various cell-mates had been on that, his one and only spell inside.

  “From Glasgow are you?” Parker asked because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

  Stewart grimaced. “Now I ask you, do I really look like one of those scruffy graduates from the gangs?”

  Parker had to admit that he did not.

  “I was born and bred in Edinburgh,” Stewart said with an exaggerated roll of the `r's. “Purest and finest town in all of Scotland without a doubt.”

  “So I've heard,” Parker said. “I've never been there myself.”

  “Make it your dying wish then. If the castle is the last thing you ever see you'll die a happy man and no mistake.”

  Parker liked Stewart. The guy gave off a good vibe and he thought they could probably get on. And to Parker first impressions counted for a lot. He had always trusted his initial instincts and they had rarely let him down.

  Anxious to get down to business, Maclean said, “Come on lads. Let's be seated. We've a lot to get through.”

  Parker hung up his raincoat and took off his jacket. He ran a hand through his thick fair hair and rainwater sprinkled his face. It was warm in the room, and stuffy. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke floated above the table like a shapeless ghost attracted to the light.

  Maclean went into another room and returned a moment later carrying a tray on which he'd placed four cans of Carlsberg lager and four empty glasses.

  “Ice cold,” he announced. “And there's plenty more where it came from.”

  When they were all seated around the table, shoulders hunched forward, cigarettes lit, they gave the impression of a late night card school. Maclean handed round the drinks and each glass was filled with alacrity.

  Maclean said, “Before we start Phil, how are you fixed for accommodation?”

  “I only just arrived,” Parker said, “but if I don't want in I'll shove off back to London. If I do I'll try to get a room somewhere for tonight.”

  “Forget about a room. You can kip at my place. It’s not far from here. I’ve got a spare bedroom.”

  “Thanks,” Parker said. “You sure it won’t be a problem?”

  “Absolutely not. I live alone too. No one giving me grief. For the time being at least.”

  Maclean cleared his throat and looked at Parker. “The others know the set-up already and they want in,” he said.

  Parker nodded. “Will it be just the four of us?”

  “As far as I'm concerned four's the absolute minimum needed to pull it off,” Maclean said. “I’ve chosen you lot because I’ve worked with you before and I know you’re good at what you do. I also know I can trust you.”

  Parker nodded. “Fair enough. So what is it we'd be up against? Bank, security van, factory...”

  “It's an island,” Maclean said, and Parker stared at him like he'd just grown another head.

  Stewart guffawed. “That was my reaction too when he told me,” he said. “I thought he must be fucking bonkers.”

  Maclean went on as if he hadn't been interrupted. “The island's called Stack,” he said. “It's in the Hebrides, about forty five miles out from Oban and ten miles off the c
oast of Mull. Population about two hundred and twenty.”

  Parker was aghast. “The Hebrides! There's piss all up there but a load of half civilized crofters and bloated sheep.”

  “Do you mind?” Maclean said. “I'm from the island myself, left when I was a wee lad. Would you say I was only half civilized?” He quickly held up both hands. “No, don't answer that one. I'd rather not know.”

  Inevitably Stewart laughed and Hodge gave a little chuckle.

  “But seriously, Phil,” Maclean went on. “You can take my word for it that the Hebrideans are not all gormless crofters. Far from it. You'll see what I mean when you hear what I have to say.”

  Parker looked at his watch. “You've got a lot of convincing to do, Andy. These days I’m choosy about what I take on. It’s an age thing I guess.”

  “Then I'll give you the best bit first.”

  “Which is?”

  “Gold – and lots of it,” Maclean said slowly. “I’m talking millions.”

  Parker stared at Maclean for a long time, letting the other’s words sink in. At length, he said, “I don’t get it. How did a fortune in gold find its way onto a fucking island that few people have even heard of?”

  Maclean smiled. “It’s lost treasure from a sunken wreck. A Spanish galleon to be exact. The ship sank off the coast of Stack about four hundred years ago.”

  “You have got to be shittin’ me,” Parker said.

  Maclean shook his head. “I’m deadly serious. And let me tell you it’s fucking amazing. I didn’t believe it either until I saw it with my own eyes.”

  Parker arched his brow. “I thought treasure went out with Long John Silver.”

  “Trust me it's up there on that little island just waiting to be grabbed,” Maclean said. “All we have to do is go and help ourselves to it. I’ve already got a few dealers lined up to take it off our hands. They’ll pay top dollar.”

  Parker sat back in his chair. His mouth had gone dry, as though it had been sprayed with powder. He knew that if they told him the whole score now he'd be to some extent committed, at least in their eyes, and he wanted to avoid that. But at the same time his curiosity had been aroused. He wanted to know precisely what Maclean had up his sleeve and why he was so sure of himself.