Dead Man's Grave
Page 28
67
The early morning sun shone over the dingy industrial estate in Glasgow. The covert base was full to bursting with cops, some in uniform, some not. Some were armed, others not. There was a palpable air of excitement and anticipation at what they were about to do.
This was a major operation, planned quickly, yet meticulously. Favours had been called in, trusted cops quickly assimilated and a whole team of Met Police Territorial Support Group had travelled up, ready for the rapid-entry incursions into the listed premises. Teams had been formed, key roles assigned and objectives set.
Setting this up in less than twenty-four hours had been a major achievement, particularly as the level of mistrust necessitated that much of Police Scotland were unaware that it was occurring. It was essential that the Hardies and the bent cops knew nothing about what was about to happen, until their doors flew off their hinges and teams of rapid-entry-trained officers stormed their houses.
Chief Constable Macdonald stood at the front of the room after Ross had delivered the briefing. They were ready, and they knew their tasks.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ Macdonald spoke firmly, his voice clear. Everyone instantly hushed. ‘Thank you all for coming to assist on this task today. I appreciate that the timing is short and I am very grateful for our colleagues from London who have forgone sleep to help us this morning.’
‘As long as you sign the overtime cheques, Guvnor,’ chimed a loud cockney voice from the back. This was followed by soft chuckles and muffled guffaws. Macdonald smiled widely.
‘Despite the historic allegations of parsimony against us Scots, I can assure you that all overtime bills will be honoured. Can I just echo Ross’s comments that he so eloquently delivered, which is really unusual for DI short-hands, deep-pockets.’
There were a few muffled chuckles at this.
‘This is one of the most important operations that my force has undertaken in the last few years. We have a small, but highly damaging organised criminal network that has infiltrated Police Scotland, and I’m determined that we finish them. With your help, we will destroy this network and its corrupt police enablers today. I need you all to do your jobs, to be meticulous, to be systematic, and most of all to be professional. This network is rich, very rich, and any mistakes will be capitalised upon.’
He paused for a moment before continuing, his voice firm. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, when I joined the police, many years ago, it was to be one of the good guys. I always wanted to be the one wearing the white hat in the cowboy films when the bad guys wore black. Now that sounds a little corny and trite, but I’m convinced that all good cops serve for the same reasons. To be one of the good guys. Today, we take down those among us who secretly wear black hats. We destroy them, so that Police Scotland can re-emerge as the force for good that I know it is.’ Macdonald paused, and in that instant, somehow, he managed to catch every eye in the room.
‘Once again, thank you, and good luck.’ He paused and nodded at the room, a sense of steely determination in the air.
The groups began to dissipate, all starting to kit up and prepare. Flame-proof overalls were worn, along with NATO protective helmets, and face shields were carried. This was to be a coordinated and meticulously timed hit on a number of addresses with the prime targets being the three Hardie brothers, DCS White and Jack Slattery. The remaining bent cops would be swept up afterwards.
‘Nice touch that – from the boss,’ said Ross.
‘Aye, he can inspire a crowd, that’s for sure,’ said Max.
‘I take it the news of McGee has come your way?’
‘Yeah. How the hell did he manage to get a razor in there?’
‘Christ knows. PIRC investigators are looking at it as a death in custody and they’ll be going over every inch of the footage,’ said Ross.
‘They won’t have any for his consultation with that bent solicitor, Leo Hamilton, will they?’
Ross just shook his head, a sad look on his face.
‘The death toll keeps going up, right?’ said Max.
‘It fucking stops, today,’ said Ross, firmly. ‘You clear on what you’re doing?’
‘Yep.’
‘Any changes?’
‘No. Still home.’
‘How about Hardie?’
Max grimaced. ‘Still can’t really get eyes on his place because of the walls and gates, but we have an OP on the entrance. If he leaves in a car, we’ll know.’
‘Best we can do. The brothers are both in, as is that bent bastard White, so we are good to go. Shit, it’s been a right slog getting this together in a few hours. I’m knackered, man.’
‘Gout attack coming your way then, Ross.’ Max smiled.
Ross smiled back widely. ‘You can go and fuck yourself. Good luck, try not to chin Slattery.’ He offered his hand and they shook, warmly.
‘No promises – the bastard frightened my dog.’
Janie appeared at Max’s shoulder. ‘You ready? Transport’s outside.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Max, strapping his body armour into place.
68
The frantic buzzing of the phone on Tam Hardie’s bedside table jolted him awake with a start. Blearily he looked at the time. It was only 3.30 a.m.
Immediately recognising the number, he answered. ‘What bloody time is this to call, man? It had better be important.’
‘Are you at home?’ The voice of his senior police contact was full of panic.
‘Where else do you think I’d be?’
‘Get out. Get out now. You’ve a whole team of armed police on their way to you.’
‘What?’
‘I only just heard myself. Somehow, it’s been kept secret from the whole senior team. They have a London team with them and have only got trusted officers. It’s just fortunate that an old friend from London tipped me off, literally five minutes ago. You have to get out now. Don’t use the front gate. There’s an OP van on it. You’ll need to find another way.’
A cold rage gripped Hardie. ‘I pay you to keep me safe, man. You failed, and you’ll pay for this. Keep me informed.’ Hardie hung up.
Throwing back the bedcovers, he marched over to his wardrobe and quickly pulled on jeans and a hoodie. Opening a concealed panel at the back of the cupboard he revealed a safe with a digital keypad. He punched in the code and opened the heavy metal door. He grabbed a plain, dark shoulder bag, thankful for his careful instincts. His father had always warned him that one day he would have to run, and the bag contained everything he needed to move and get away fast. Inside was a passport bearing the name Kenneth Mulhern, ten grand in cash and a selection of credit and debit cards in the fake name. Also nestling at the bottom was a Glock 19, two spare clips of ammunition and a burner phone. Shouldering the bag, he jogged downstairs, not turning any of the lights on, and made for the back door. He pulled on a pair of trainers and headed off, at a jog towards the back wall that led onto the street behind.
Within seconds he was over the wall and walking calmly along the quiet street, powering down his normal phone, and sparking up his burner. Quickly he went to the Uber app and requested a mini-cab. He’d soon be out of the way at one of his safe houses. Straight away he dialled Davie from the burner, to warn his brothers, hoping he wasn’t too late.
Davie’s voice was panic-stricken. ‘Tam, police are here, man. Shit, bloody armed cops are here now.’ In the background of the call, he heard crashing and banging and screams.
Tam hung up and carried on walking. A dark people carrier pulled up alongside him, driven by an elderly Asian man. The window slid down, ‘Uber?’ the driver said.
‘Aye,’ said Tam, climbing in. Once sat he barked his safe house destination to the driver, who set off, wordlessly. Tam opened the back of the burner phone and pulled out the SIM card, tossing it out of the window. He quickly slotted in a new one, and powered the phone back up, his face grim. He dialled again, inwardly fuming with hate in his heart.
‘Yes?’ Leo Hamilton’s sleepy v
oice answered.
‘Davie and Frankie are getting nicked right now. You need to find out where they are and get them out, okay?’ he barked.
‘Tam, you okay? Where are you?’ said Leo, his voice clearer.
‘I’m lying low for a while. Call me on this number when you hear anything, okay?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Hardie hung up and pocketed his phone, staring straight ahead at the Glasgow streets.
This was all down to Craigie; he knew it. Max Craigie interfering in affairs that didn’t concern him.
That bastard was going to pay.
69
Max, Janie and the TSG team all walked steadily from the liveried Met Police Carrier, commonly known as a “riot van” to the semi-detached house in the Glasgow suburb where Max assumed Slattery was currently sleeping.
Officers had been outside the premises all night in a covert van, watching to ensure the private detective did not leave without their knowledge. They were an unarmed team, unlike the teams that were at this precise moment about to breach the doors at Davie and Frankie Hardie’s houses. There was no current or reliable evidence that Slattery had access to firearms.
‘I’ll take the back, guys, let you do your rapid-entry thing,’ said Max as they approached the property.
‘Watch out. You ’tecs ain’t used to getting dirty hands near suspects, right?’ said a cockney-accented officer called Chas who Max had worked with, years ago. Chas had a large, heavy-looking red enforcer door-ram slung over his shoulder, ready to breach the front door.
‘No, mate, I leave it to you knuckle-draggers,’ said Max.
Max went to the rear of the property, creeping past Slattery’s Mercedes into the back garden by an unlocked gate at the side of the house. The property was in good order, with a pebbledash façade and bay windows shrouded in total darkness. The garden was unkempt and scruffy, with bare earth and tufts of grass visible in the predawn light that was just filtering through the heavy cloud.
Max’s radio crackled in his earpiece, and he looked at his watch as the digital numbers clicked around to four-thirty.
‘Breaching now,’ was the simple message indicating that Slattery’s door was about to be propelled inwards.
There was a brief moment of complete and utter silence before the familiar, sudden and terrible rhythmic crashing as the heavy enforcer was smashed into the door. The repeated bangs indicated that the door was resisting the attention of the heavy ram, as was often the case. Max looked up at each window in turn, all of which remained in darkness.
Suddenly, the back door flew open, and Slattery appeared. His hair on end, clad in shorts and a T-shirt, he stood framed by the door, a large revolver in his hand and panic written across his features.
Slattery spotted Max immediately. ‘You bastard, Craigie,’ he spat, hate in his eyes.
‘Drop it, Slattery. You’re not stupid; you’re not going to shoot me,’ Max said, moving towards the panic-stricken private detective.
‘Stay there. I’ll shoot you,’ Slattery said, his face contorted, the gun now pointed at Max. But Max could sense the hesitation, and he knew. He just knew that Slattery didn’t have the stomach to shoot him. He was looking at an unmitigated coward. Slattery kept the revolver aimed straight at Max, the barrel quivering slightly, as he stepped from the house, onto the path. ‘Move back,’ he snarled through gritted teeth.
Max moved back half a step. ‘Drop the gun, Slattery. Drop it now and come in like a man. You haven’t got the guts to shoot me, you coward,’ Max spat.
‘You bastard. Hardie is going to gut you alive. He’ll peel the skin from your wretched body,’ he sneered, and waved the gun at Max, advancing another half a step. Max didn’t even move an inch. He stood there, stock-still, staring straight at Slattery, determination gripping him.
The main problem with a pistol is barrel length. Move it just an inch left or right and it’s off-target. An even bigger problem is when you get too close to the person you’re pointing the gun at. A simple slap is enough to throw it off, which is what Max did. His hand whipped across his body like a flash, connecting with the blued steel of the Smith and Wesson, knocking it sharply off target. The report was deafening and sparks flew out of the barrel as the bullet smashed into a plant pot to the side of Max.
Max instinctively ducked, his hands in front of his face. In an instant, Slattery had reactively swung the pistol back at Max, the butt connecting with his temple. Stars flashed with the sudden impact, knocking him down to his knees. Max felt the immediate flow of warm blood from the wound that the pistol butt had opened.
With a turn of speed, Slattery ran. He took off like a dog out of a trap, sprinting across the scrubby lawn towards the back garden fence, his bare feet covering the ground at a surprising pace.
Reaching for his radio, Max pressed the emergency button on the top. This controlled the airwaves, and sent a distress call out to all nearby officers.
‘Suspect running, rear gardens. He’s armed,’ screamed Max into the radio, as he took off in pursuit. Slattery leaped over the rickety fence at the bottom of the garden like a gymnast, such was his desire to escape.
His head still spinning, Max leaped the fence too, seeing the white-shirted Slattery sprinting along the neighbour’s garden towards the side alleyway, which would lead to the road at the end of the row of houses. Max increased his speed, his head beginning to clear, ignoring the blood that was flowing down his face, into his mouth, filling it with the taste of copper. Suddenly a blinding white light flooded the alleyway, as an automatic security light lit up the dark space. He began to gain on the older man who had reached the wrought-iron gate at the end. He reached for it and pulled.
It didn’t move. It was locked fast.
With a howl of anger, Slattery turned, almost in slow motion, the pistol swinging up in a slow arc towards the rapidly closing Max.
Max didn’t slow, didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate. All the days of tension, stress and hate rose to the surface in a surge of aggression. He screamed in utter fury and slammed his body into Slattery, driving him into the wrought-iron gate, his hands forcing the pistol away from his body and upwards. The breath rushed out of Slattery, such was the force of the impact. The pistol bucked again, the report deafening as Slattery pulled the trigger. Max pulled his head back, and drove his head forward, smashing it into the investigator’s face, crushing his nose, and shattering his spectacles. Max felt a sharp stab of pain as the metal and glass bit into his forehead. He pulled his head back again and butted Slattery once, twice, then three times. He heard the metallic clatter, as the revolver hit the ground, soon to be followed by the now limp figure of Jack Slattery, who collapsed in an unconscious heap.
Two TSG officers flew into the alley, from behind Max, batons raised and tasers drawn, the laser sights painting dots on the wall.
‘Suspect is down. He’s down,’ said Max into his radio, his voice eerily calm, before following up. ‘Might need an ambulance.’
He moved forward and kicked the pistol to one side away from the slack hand, as Slattery groaned and began to shift on the concrete, his eyes opening and looking straight at Max. He was clearly without a clue as to where he was or what had just happened.
‘That’s for upsetting my dog, you bastard,’ hissed Max. ‘Pistol is on the floor, boys, best one of you takes him in.’ Max turned, and walked away, his face now a mask of blood, almost iridescent in the harsh LED light of the security spotlight.
70
Chief Constable Chris Macdonald strode confidently into the briefing room at Tulliallan, dressed in an impeccable uniform, to find a barrage of whirring and flashing cameras from the ranks of press photographers and television camera operators. It was late for such a briefing, which probably reflected the amount of work that his officers had been undertaking since the arrests, two days ago.
He walked up to the lectern, and stood in front of the Police Scotland crest that was projected onto a large screen behind him. H
e looked tired and drawn, but his eyes were bright with vigour.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending this briefing. I will firstly make a statement to you of which copies will be made available. Unfortunately, I’ll be unable to answer any questions at the conclusion of this briefing, owing to the sensitive nature of the continuing investigation.’ He paused to look at the assembled reporters.
‘Two days ago, a covert team of officers from Police Scotland, assisted by a supporting element from the Metropolitan Police carried out a series of arrest operations at addresses across Scotland. This was part of a wider anti-corruption investigation into a small number of police officers, ex police officers and individuals believed to be responsible for obstructing live murder inquiries. Three serving police officers and three other individuals were arrested. They have now been charged with a number of offences and been remanded in custody. I will now read out the detail of the arrests and charges.’ Macdonald paused and took a sip from the glass of water in front of him before continuing.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent David White aged fifty-two, from serious and organised crime, was charged with misconduct in a public office and attempting to defeat the ends of justice. Detective Inspector Robert Beattie aged forty-nine, from the Force Intelligence Unit, was charged with attempting to defeat the ends of justice and misconduct in a public office. The final serving officer, Sergeant Michael McGee, aged fifty-one, was arrested twenty-four hours previously in connection with the death of Duncan Ferguson at Berriedale Braes last week. Sergeant Michael McGee had been charged with conspiracy to murder, misconduct in a public office and attempting to defeat the ends of justice. Tragically, Sergeant McGee took his own life on his way to Inverness Sheriff’s court, the circumstances of which are being investigated by the Police Investigations and Review Commission. Jack Slattery, aged forty-two, a private investigator and former police officer with Police Scotland has been charged with conspiracy to murder, attempted murder of a police officer, attempting to defeat the ends of justice and firearms offences. Two Glasgow brothers, David Hardie, aged thirty-seven and Frank Hardie, aged thirty-nine, were charged with the murder of Yusuf Tekin, conspiracy to murder, attempting to defeat the ends of justice and firearms and drug offences.