by Ian Simpson
Baggo’s plane moved a couple of hundred metres, but the doors did not open. Increasingly frustrated, he looked out of the window once more. This time he saw a jet, smaller than most commercial planes and without the markings of an airline. A door front left of the fuselage was open. A woman with black hair was climbing steps leading up and in. She was followed by a short, rotund man.
‘I need to get off this aircraft!’ Baggo shouted at the bird-like attendant. ‘This is very urgent. Serious criminals are escaping justice as we speak.’
The attendant stared at him as if calculating whether he might make trouble. She went to the cockpit and was admitted. She came out a minute later and nodded towards Baggo. Then the captain announced that because of difficulties in the allocation of arms, passengers would be asked to disembark using steps. Any passengers who might find this difficult should speak to one of the crew. At once the daughter of an elderly lady put up her hand, causing her mother to scowl.
It took more precious minutes for the steps to be positioned. Waving his warrant, but no longer smiling, Baggo was first down. He looked over to where the Falcon had been, but it had gone. He scanned the airport anxiously then saw the Falcon trundling towards the east end of the runway where three aircraft queued ready for take-off. He knew he was too late, but nevertheless prayed silently to the Hindu god, Shiva, who defeated demons by dancing on them.
As he pictured the god dancing on Walkinshaw and Forbes, the disabled lift vehicle approached. ‘Thank you, Shiva,’ he said aloud and stood between the vehicle and the plane, his hand held up to stop it.
‘I am a police officer on urgent business and I am commandeering this vehicle right now,’ he shouted at the startled driver as he climbed into the cab beside him. ‘Here is my warrant,’ he added, pushing it in the man’s face.
‘First, please tell me if there is anyone in the cabin that rises up,’ Baggo ordered.
The man was in his fifties, balding and though overweight, not obese. He was unshaven and his skin was pale. In a Scots accent he said, ‘My mate Jamie is there.’
‘Tell him to get out now.’
The driver hesitated.
‘Now, or serious criminals will escape.’
The driver used an intercom. ‘Jamie. There’s an emergency. Get out now.’
Baggo added, ‘And tell him to call the police. Come on, we must move.’
‘Are ye alright, Archie?’ Jamie asked.
The driver paused. ‘Aye, I’m alright. The guy with me is polis. But call some more. I think he needs help.’
Baggo heard a metal door open then shut. A younger man appeared beside the cab and looked anxiously at his colleague.
‘Come on,’ Baggo shouted. ‘Make for the middle of the runway.’
He watched carefully as Archie drove away from the clutter of planes and airport vehicles near the terminal. ‘How do you make the cabin go up and down?’ he asked.
‘You press this button.’ Archie pointed to a red button in the middle of his dashboard.
‘And you drive this like a car?’
‘Aye. You can see the gears and the wheel. The pedals are normal.’
‘Thank you. Please put on the lights and get out. You have been very helpful.’
Archie brought the hoist to a stop. There was about thirty metres of paving between them and the runway. Archie switched on the headlights then turned to Baggo. ‘I fear ye’r going to do something bloody daft,’ he said. ‘You could kill someone doing what I think ye’r going to do.’ He climbed out of the cab.
‘I know what I am doing,’ Baggo said, sliding along the bench to the controls. Shaking his head, Archie slammed the door.
A British Airways plane thundered along the runway in front of him, heading west to rise over the fields of West Lothian. The Falcon was next up for take-off. Timing would be crucial. Go too early and the pilot would harmlessly abort, too late and what followed would be too terrible to contemplate.
The Falcon turned so it faced down the runway. It began to move. Baggo pushed the red button and pressed down on the accelerator. The mechanism lifting the cabin creaked and groaned, indicating it was working. Baggo was now on the runway, just short of the broken lines down the middle. He turned right to face the Falcon and took his foot off the accelerator. The vehicle stopped. He did not think the Falcon could get up in time to fly over him and there would not be room for it to pass. If it carried on without deviating its left wing, full of fuel for the trans-Atlantic flight, would hit the disabled cabin. Baggo could see the pilot waving an arm. He closed his eyes, suddenly afraid he had made the biggest blunder of his life, and perhaps the last. He thought of his mother and father.
He heard a loud screech and a roar to his left. He looked behind him and saw the Falcon bumping across the long grass on the far side of the runway, muddy gouge marks in its wake. It came to a halt and sat, lop-sided and ridiculous, like a great bird of prey with a broken wing.
Stunned by the success of his plan, moments passed before he decided to approach the Falcon, ready to arrest anyone who emerged. Blaring sirens and flashing blue lights announced the arrival of three police cars. It was Baggo who took most of their attention and they eyed him with suspicion even after seeing his warrant and hearing his explanation. Once inside the terminal it was apparent that Baggo’s stunt had made the airport authorities incandescent and they wanted every available book thrown at him. Phone calls to Fortune, Jamieson, the Serious Fraud Office, the Federal Reserve and finally Scotland’s Chief Constable persuaded the Edinburgh police to take no action against him. After all, he had secured the arrest of serious financial criminals and no one had been hurt. Jamieson, in particular, sensed kudos from his division’s assistance in what turned out to be a highly successful operation, and perhaps even a goodwill trip to the States.
At one point, van Bilt, Forbes and Walkinshaw were led along a corridor in which Baggo was standing. When she saw him, Walkinshaw’s face remained stony. She passed him then turned and struck like a cobra, her long, purple nails raking his cheek and narrowly missing his left eye.
Once she had been restrained he went up to her and whispered in her ear, ‘Only worth five? I reckon today was worth a ten.’
21
Much later that evening, Baggo and Lance Wallace took a dram together and compared notes. In Cupar, the Eglintons had refused to answer questions and were being held before appearing in court on the Monday. After much deliberating and posturing it had been decided to regard the financial criminals as detainees of the Fife Division. They had been taken to Glenrothes where they had declined the services of local solicitors and said nothing in response to Baggo’s questioning. Other officers from the Serious Fraud Office were due to travel north and, with them, Baggo would escort the prisoners to London later on the following day.
‘Belinda Parsley was really upset when she heard Forbes had gone without her,’ Lance said.
‘She will get over it, I bet,’ Baggo said. ‘I think she will come to realise she has had a lucky escape. And she will not be poor.’
‘What about Saddlefell?’
‘He will get his knuckles rapped for not coming clean when he learned what was going on, but with Davidson and Knarston-Smith he prevented Forbes and co from transferring any bearer bonds. They tried while waiting to board in Edinburgh. Your man, di Falco, is smart.’
‘And he knows it. My spies tell me he’s made a big hit with that pretty under-manager at the hotel. What do you think will happen to the bank?’
‘Someone will take it over and make money out of it.’
‘Davidson?’
Baggo shook his head. ‘I think he is fed up and wants out. People like him are called BOBOs – Burnt Out But Opulent.’
It had been a long day. As they got up to go to bed, Lance asked, ‘Did you say anything to Alan? He was, well, a lot better this evening.’
Baggo shrugged. ‘I told him a bit about myself. And I said he should cut you some slack. As you should him. He is
a fine fellow and going through a difficult phase.’
* * *
The next day was fine and dry and crisp. As he was not due to travel south till late afternoon, Baggo took the bus into St Andrews. He wanted to buy Jeannie Wallace something good to thank her for her hospitality. The previous evening she had cooked another fine dinner and the way she had fussed over his lacerated cheek had made him feel quite heroic. Before visiting the shops he went for a walk beside the famous Old Course, its fairways silver with frost. Crossing the Swilken Burn into which Hugh Parsley’s putter had been thrown, his hands in his pockets, he felt the money clip he had kept there for the last two days. He drew it out of his pocket and re-read the inscription, SHAFTED BY HP. That would apply to a lot of people, he thought. With a satisfying plop he dropped it into the muddy water flowing towards the bleak North Sea.
* * *
On Tuesday morning Fergus Maxwell brought Flick tea in bed. Though reassured about the baby, she had nevertheless been ordered to take a week off work. The Monday papers had been full of her triumph and the sitting room was made fragrant by a large bunch of flowers from the divisional commander.
Fergus did not bring Flick the Tuesday paper. On an inside page there was an article in which former Detective Inspector Noel Osborne claimed credit for tipping off ‘his protégé’ where she might find a vital clue, ‘Needed my help, she did. So I helped her out of the kindness of my heart.’ The article went on to say that years ago he cleaned up the East End of London and finished with the quote, ‘I like St Andrews. It’s a real pukka place. I might even buy a property here.’
Flick would inevitably hear about this, but Fergus was not about to spoil things for her now. Anyway, Osborne moving to Fife was something that would never happen. He hoped.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This is a work of fiction and if any of my characters bear some resemblance to real people it is coincidental. That includes those characters I have put into the Old Course Hotel, an excellent establishment with good food, an efficient and friendly staff and a superb setting. I hope I might have captured something of its welcoming ambience, but while some details are accurate others are not, and that is deliberate. I thank for their help Sarah Middlemas, Debbie Rose and (although I did not tell him why I wanted to see the club store) my friend from boys’ golf many years ago, the professional, Neil Paton. I also thank Historic Scotland for information over the phone. I am grateful to Matador for their professionalism and understanding. Most of all I thank my wife Annie for her encouragement, criticism and constant support. All errors are of course mine.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Since retiring from a law career which included sitting as a judge in High Court murder trials, Ian Simpson has been writing crime fiction. In 2008 one of his books was shortlisted for the Debut Dagger by the Crime Writers’ Association. He has also written newspaper articles on legal topics. He was brought up in St Andrews and for a time as a youth held a handicap of three.