Max went to the cupboard and grabbed his motorcycle gear. ‘Come on, Nutmeg, let’s go and see Tess and Murphy.’
29
Max parked his bike in a multi-storey car park right under the CCTV camera and chained it with the heavy lock to a post. There was no chance he was parking it in the grimy side street next to the security shop.
He pushed the door open and a bell chimed somewhere in the back of the shop. A small wiry man wearing a head torch was looking over a pair of half-moon spectacles at Max, whilst simultaneously holding a circuit board. The shop was small and grimy and stank of scorched solder, coffee and cigarettes. The glass-fronted shelves on the walls housed a variety of security and surveillance equipment. Overt and covert CCTV, and wireless alarm systems all jostled for space with a bewildering number of locks, padlocks and security lights. This was an old-school security shop, not slick or flash, but effective and operational, designed for professionals.
‘Help you, pal?’ the man asked, his voice pure Glasgow.
‘I hope so. I’m looking for a bug sweeper?’ asked Max.
‘I’ve a few. What type?’
‘I’m not sure. What do you have?’ Max said with a shrug.
‘I have fairly basic ones that will do a job as long as you can isolate all the extraneous RF or GSM transmitters. Basically, it’ll detect anything that’s emitting a signal, so you’d need to switch off your own Wi-Fi, radio, telly and phones et cetera before you scan. It’ll then pick up anything that’s transmitting a signal. That do you?’
‘That sounds good. How much?’
‘Cheap as chips, man. Fifty-four quid for this.’ He went to a display case on the counter and took out a blister pack. The unit looked like an old-fashioned walkie-talkie with a short, stubby antennae and a hand-held wand for sweeping.
‘Does it detect RF and GSM?’
‘Certainly will, whether it’s using 2G, 3G or 4G. Cameras, transmitters, whatever. If it’s transmitting on RF or GSM it’ll detect it. Key is, man, to make sure it’s searching in a silent environment. Leave your own phone on and it’ll detect that, rather than unwanted signals. You get me?’
‘Sure, great. I’ll take it. I also want covert surveillance cameras. I want it to use GSM and I need to be able to view it on my phone,’ said Max.
‘Sure, we have loads, Chief. What are you looking to achieve?’
‘I want two doors covered, and I want an interior camera in case any bad guys get in.’
‘Best plan is wireless with integrated GSM. This one here can either be initiated by a doorbell press or if the IR beam is tripped. It gives you a full screenshot of whoever’s ugly mug has just pressed the doorbell and we can set it to begin recording on up to four linked devices. You can then follow any scrote in your gaff just by the controls in the app on your phone. They all have battery backup in case some nasty bastard cuts the power. A simple battery lasts ages because it only activates if someone presses the bell, and then it only keeps recording if they cross the infrared beam. Gives you full coverage and reasonable night vision.’ He held up a shrink-wrapped box, with camera images on it.
‘How is it concealed?’
‘External cameras are pinheads – so easy to hide. Internals are small as well. You have a wired-in smoke detector in the relevant room?’
‘Aye,’ said Max.
‘Then I’d suggest one of these.’ He picked another packet from the shelf. Another blister pack containing what at first glance appeared to be a smoke detector. ‘Cameras in these bad boys will link in to the system, and can be panned and tilted remotely, even with your phone controls. A couple of these and you can cover most of your gaff. It’s even a smoke detector.’ He laughed.
‘How do they get to my phone?’
‘Via an app. They just all transmit back to the control unit, which has the SIM in and is fired off to your phone. Piece of piss, Chief,’ he said, positively buzzing with energy. Here was a man who clearly enjoyed his work.
‘Okay, how much for two smoke detectors and the camera kit?’
‘Smoke detectors are eighty quid each and the camera kit – with base unit, SIM and external cameras – is two-twenty. Tell you what, bud, four hundred for the lot and I’ll throw in the bug finder.’
‘Fine. Last thing: do you have any GSM trackers?’
‘You setting up a detective agency?’ he asked, a big smile on his face.
‘Something like that,’ replied Max.
‘I’ve a load, mate, but to be honest, you can’t do better than this. Trakmaster 900, strong magnetic connector, long battery life and accessed by a simple app on iOS or Android. Gives real-time updates with a map overlay. Only forty quid.’
‘Excellent. I’ll take the lot.’
‘Pleasure doing business with you, Chief.’
Max walked the ten minutes back to his bike, his purchases snug in a backpack. He needed to get his car back from the offices at Gartcosh at some point, but for the moment he felt secure on the KTM. Anyone wanting to follow him would have significant difficulties. The thought of being followed tripped something in his subconscious, his mind flashing back to his visitor earlier that day.
On a whim, Max went into the backpack and pulled out the bug sweeper. He ripped the packaging off and snapped the two AA batteries into the slot, clicking the cover back into place. He switched the unit on, watching the lights dance as it powered up. Max pulled out his phone and switched it to flight-safe mode. He didn’t need a false activation. He uncoiled the magnetic field probe, turning the instrument over in his hands. He adjusted the sensitivity down until the lights settled. He then pressed the scan switch and began to sweep the probe across the frame of the bike. The lights danced as it hit upon the alarm unit but settled as soon as he moved away. Nothing there. He then passed it along the seat pad. Nothing. He swept down to the engine compartment, moving the probe across to the skid-plate, a rugged piece of metal designed to guard the engine from debris when it was ridden off-road. The lights danced wildly.
Max sat back on his heels, a wry smile spreading across his face. No doubt now as to the intentions of his earlier visitor at the cottage. They were worried about him and were clearly threatened by him to the extent that they had put a tracker on his motorbike, probably on the basis that they wouldn’t be able to follow him effectively. That felt like a cop’s trick, but it also felt lazy and risky. No decent cop deploying a tracking kit would brazenly drive up to the house to plant it. Not a chance.
Max pulled out his phone and switched the torch function on, shining it behind the skid-plate. He could clearly see the small rugged plastic tracker, the dull shine of the magnet connectors visible. Max managed to slide his fingers in and pull the unit towards him until he felt the magnets give way. He turned it over in his fingers, looking at the simple design: black plastic and firm magnets. It was not too dissimilar from the one he had purchased, just a little more expensive. One thing was for sure, with the brand name “Winnes” embossed on the plastic, it was not police-issue. Max had deployed trackers on vehicles on many occasions, and they had never looked like this. This thing was a commercial, off-the-shelf piece of kit probably intended for use to help recovery of stolen cars and bikes.
He was about to smash the tracker to pieces when he had a second thought. He knew about the device, but they didn’t know he knew. That offered tactical possibilities that may become useful. He was glad that his desire for his precious motorbike not to be stolen had meant he had parked it in a secure car park rather than outside the shop.
Max slotted the tracker back onto the reverse of the skid-plate, feeling it snap as the magnets clicked into place.
Max stood and tucked the scanner back into his bag, unlocked the bike and climbed on. The time was coming for Max to turn the tables and go on the offensive. He fired the powerful thirteen hundred cc engine, and rode off feeling strangely uplifted, despite being on questionable sick leave and riding a motorbike that was being tracked. He felt like something was about
to change.
*
Arriving back home, Max was reassured to see Nutmeg waiting for him at the bottom of the track, her tail gyrating with glee as Max turned onto the rutted surface. She raced up to him and made a huge fuss when he dismounted the machine.
Max locked the KTM back in the garage and went inside the house, his mind returning to the advice of the man in the security shop. He turned his phone off and flicked the switch, killing all the electrics in the house. He figured this was the best way of isolating any extraneous magnetic fields or any other electrical signal, whether RF, Wi-Fi or GSM. Pulling out his new scanner, he swept the entire house, making sure he covered all likely hiding places for bugs or cameras. Returning to the garage, he passed the wand over the skid-plate on the KTM, the blinking lights reassuring him that the scanner was still working.
Once satisfied he returned to the house and reconnected his home to the electrical grid.
Max smiled to himself. There was some serious badness going on out there at the moment, but his house would be secure. Any visitors coming, and he’d know about it.
Resolve gripped him. He may be on sick leave, but he wasn’t stopping. He wasn’t going to stop until he’d brought the whole bloody lot of them down.
30
Jack Slattery stood outside the Saracen Head smoking a cigarette and waiting nervously for the call he had been told to expect. The pub had been busy, as one would expect on a warm Friday evening and the place was bouncing with revellers ready for a big weekend. It was the first weekend of the football season and Celtic were home the next day.
He had gone for a little livener in the historic old pub just over the road from the Barrowland Ballroom before meeting Tam Hardie. A couple of pints, each with a chaser, was just what he needed. He had barely listened to the old pisshead at the bar proudly tell him some of the history including that of the old witch’s skull in a glass case over the bar. He knew it already. Slattery knew all about the Glasgow pubs, big drinker as he was. It was his fondness for a beer or a dram that had landed him in trouble, and eventually got him slung from the police. In with the wrong crowd, or as it was now, the right crowd. The Hardie family paid him well for his information, and he was keen that this would continue now that the old man had passed on.
On the surface, Slattery was a private investigator and ex-cop, but in reality, he only worked for the Hardies. He offered a service that they needed, being the ability to get inside information on current investigations from his small stable of tame cops who were always happy to exchange for a few beers, a night with one of Hardie’s hookers, or a few quid. Slattery could be really persuasive, and his skill was the ability to exert pressure on those who had allowed themselves to be corrupted. He was still nervous, though. The late Hardie Senior was a scary bastard, but Tam Junior was even more imposing, as Turkish Joe had recently found out.
Slattery’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the message on his screen. 1 min. Davie Hardie didn’t waste words.
Slattery threw his fag on the wet pavement and ground it with his shoe. He pushed his glasses back up his nose, which was slick with a light sheen of nervous sweat.
A large Mercedes pulled up alongside the kerb, and the intimidating form of Davie Hardie jumped out of the passenger seat. Opening the rear door, he nodded at Slattery, and simply said, ‘In.’
‘Jack, how you doing?’ Tam Hardie sat on the plush white leather in the back of the big car, dressed casually but immaculately in designer jeans, polished loafers and an expensive-looking leather jacket over a tailored shirt.
‘I’m good, Tam.’ He offered his hand, which was studiously ignored as the Mercedes moved off.
‘What do you know, Jack?’
‘About?’ Slattery asked, his voice nervous.
‘What do you think, man? The investigation. What do the teams know, where are we? I know my old man would pay you a retainer every month, but I need some good reasons for paying you any more of my kids’ inheritance.’ His voice was low and even, the menace unmistakable. Tam Hardie was overpoweringly intimidating, if anything, worse than his father. His eyes were locked on Slattery’s, and they were flat and emotionless in the sodium street lights as the big car glided along the grey street.
‘All going smoothly,’ Slattery said. ‘The SIO Sally Smith has been told to wrap it up quickly and move on to the next one, as you wanted.’
‘That’s something. We wouldn’t have got justice from the police on this one, no bloody way. I want them to forget all about it, so we are free to finish it as I see fit. How about Leitch’s unfortunate passing?’
‘Again, not being linked to you. Big Graham Connolly is a damned lunatic anyway, always causing problems in Carstairs. He was delighted to make a few quid for his family on the outside, and he was never getting out anyway, so no worries there.’ Slattery was relieved that he had managed to find someone with a contact among the staff there. A simple word in the right ear, and all they had to do was point big, crazy Graham in Leitch’s direction.
‘Glad to hear it. The bastard can burn in hell, as far as I’m concerned,’ growled Hardie, hate shining in his eyes. ‘I read about the car crash that took out Ferguson. That was good work. I won’t ask how you managed it, but will there be any problems with the follow-up investigation?’ Hardie’s show of approval amounted to a small nod of his head.
‘I don’t think so, although Max Craigie nearly screwed that up by getting a bit crusader cop on us. He’s trying to convince all and sundry that the crash and the deaths are linked. We thought we’d managed to keep it from Sally Smith that Leitch and Ferguson were cousins because it was one of my people who went to see them and failed to report it back. Unfortunately, that interfering bastard, Craigie, went all rogue. I have enough influence to keep him out of the way, and I’m making arrangements about some of the physical evidence. They may find one or two key pieces going missing, if you get my drift.’ Slattery chuckled, nervously.
‘Good, you’re earning your money. Now how about the remaining family members?’
‘You still set on that? Leitch and his cousin are out of the game, now, and they were the only two involved in the death of your pa.’
‘Those bastards started this. They started it in 1830, so we are going to finish it. Any blood relatives I want to know about, and fast. I want the word out that we’re still running things and are not to be messed about. Any suggestion that we’re weakening and every bastard will be thinking they can have a pop at us.’ Hardie’s face was set firm and unmoving.
‘He has an ex-wife but no kids we know of, as yet. He has no surviving parents and only one sister. I’m not sure where she lives, probably married with a different surname, but I’ll find her.’
‘Do it and have her watched, establish a routine. You know the drill. How about Duncan Ferguson’s family?’
‘He has a Yank wife who’s still at the inn in Dunbeath. No kids.’
‘Only blood relatives. No innocents. I want this to get out, and I want folk to know that we just go after blood. Fuck with my family and I destroy your whole bloodline. That’s the Hardie way, from now. That Leitch bastard started it with his blood feud. Does Ferguson have siblings?’
‘A brother.’
‘Where?’
‘Spain, apparently. I have people over there looking for him, but he’s proving hard to find, for some reason.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Bruce Ferguson. As I say, he’s an ex-pat in Spain, probably sunning himself in the Costas.’
‘How about the funerals?’
‘Well, fiscal has released Ferguson’s body, and the funeral is very soon. Leitch’s body won’t be released for a while, yet, whilst they decide what to do with Mad Graham.’
‘Will Bruce Ferguson be at the funeral?’
‘He’s been told about it. You want us to move on him then?’ Slattery asked.
‘Let me think about that.’
‘No bother. We’ll get a look at him,
at least.’
Hardie nodded, gravely. ‘Get back to me as soon as you hear. I am going after them, but not just yet. Things need to calm down and the police need to move on to other things. Maybe have them watched for a while, sort out the routines.’
‘Well, you achieved that with Turkish Joe. That’s decimated their team strength on your pa’s murder team, so that was an unexpected benefit,’ Slattery said, smiling.
‘Not unexpected at all.’ Hardie surprised Slattery by showing his teeth in a wolfish smile. ‘Anything you perceive as a risk?’
‘Just Craigie, really, but they’ve forced him off the team and onto sick leave, pending occupational health assessment. Keeps him well out of the way, although I’m not sure he’s the type. Told the DCS to fuck off, so I heard,’ said Slattery.
‘Well watch Craigie carefully. Last thing we need is a rogue cop on our backs. Make sure you’ve something on the bastard.’
‘Already on it. I went to his place earlier to check it out. I’ve put a tracker on his bike; apparently he goes everywhere on it.’
‘Good work, man. How did you manage that?’
‘Just playing the double-glazing salesman ready with brochures in case anyone was about. Had to give his little twat of a dog a good kick up the arse, though. The little bastard wouldn’t leave me alone.’
Hardie paused a moment, as if assessing his options. ‘Find out about his family though. Just the info, no move yet. I’d like some leverage to keep the bastard at bay, okay?’
‘Sure, but if he starts getting too close?’
‘You know the answer to that question,’ said Hardie in a flat voice.
31
Janie walked into the open-plan office at Gartcosh, her eyes down, not wanting to draw any attention from her colleagues, knowing that the gossiping and rumours would be flying about Max, and, most probably her. Rumours flew around police teams like wildfire at an almost digital pace. Janie often thought that high-speed computers could barely match it, and a confrontation between a DCS and a DS during which one told the other to “fuck himself” would be halfway around the force, by now. She wanted no part of it.
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