by R J Holligan
“But for the moment, back to the Irn Bru Brigade. It begins and ends with one word: Faslane,” said Martin taking a sip of coffee.
“The nuclear subbase?” asked Quayle picking up his empty coffee cup and studying the espresso sludge.
“Okay I can take a hint,” said Hartman getting up and setting the coffee machine going.
Martin got up and stood next to the large-scale map of the UK that adorned the wall. “Imagine this is Monopoly UK Critical Military Edition… Fighter bases, army bases, think Old Kent Road, Fylingdales and Porton Down as the Yellows and Greens. Next up the scale maybe the Blues. Whitehall and Faslane, Mayfair and Park Lane, the crème de la crème.” said Martin. The noises from the coffee machine ended and Hartman plonked down two steaming espressos. “So when it looks like some bunch of half-baked Nationalists are going to shatter the Post-Cold War defence policy of the UK and demands Mayfair for free, something needs to be done,” said Martin.
Quayle got up and to a look at the map and scrutinised just where the base was. Hartman pitched in. “A referendum to place on Thursday 18 September 2014 on Scottish independence from the United Kingdom. The referendum question was, ‘Should Scotland be an independent country?’, which voters answered with "Yes" or "No". The "No" side won with 2,001,926 (55.3%) voting against independence and 1,617,989 (44.7%) voting in favour.” Martin winced as if it had just happened.
“Which in layperson’s terms can be assessed as much too bloody close,” snapped Martin. “And despite Labour getting a drubbing, Sturgeon and the SNP are still resurgent,” said Quayle.
“Quite,” said Hartman, “Which is why we’ve got six months to resolve the situation or… the combined armed forces step in and in their words ‘do a fucking Northern Ireland Job’ on the place,” Quayle recoiled in horror. He had honeymooned in Northern Ireland and had seen the devastating legacy left by ‘The Troubles’.
“That’s the doomsday scenario anyway… The combined forces of Century House and Vauxhall Cross will organise a cassis belli. Special Forces will seize all of the devolved Government and then the Parachute Regiment and other elements will occupy Edinburgh, Glasgow and other key urban centres. This will have occurred to prevent Scotland seceding from the UK. Thankfully, the Catalans have given us a bit of a precedent,” said Martin.
“Fuck a duck,” said Quayle. “So where do we come in?”
Hartman paced up and down.
“Well, if that’s the full fat version, we’re the semi-skimmed version. Claymore’s primary role is to totally undermine and ruin the reputation and cause operational ineffectiveness of Police Scotland,” said Martin.
Laughing, Hartman sat down.
“Of course, after the merger of all their forces, it’s going to be a bit easier than we first planned for,” Martin tapped a book. “How’s your knowledge of Scottish policing?” he asked.
“I’ve read all of the Rebus books and a load of the Hamish Macbeth ones,” said Quayle smirking.
“That will chust haff to do,” then said Martin in a phoney Highlands accent. “An unmarked car will take you to the rendezvous and you can meet the other Merry Men. They’ll show you how to make the most of what’s in the rucksack. You go up North for a few days and then once you’re in the loop drop back on shift for a few weeks until we can exfiltrate you with minimum fuss said Martin.
“Okay thanks,” said Quayle hefting the rucksack about to leave the room.
“Just one more thing, said Hartman.
“Yes?” asked Quayle turning to face him.
“As part of this role you’re going to need to put aside everything you’ve learnt and leave your ethics on the other side of the Looking Glass,” he said.
“Understood,” said Quayle shutting the door behind him. A cold shudder went down his spine. “This is what you get for spouting off about Gramsci,” he thought to himself.
Chapter 23
The little boat cut through the waters of the sea loch as they made headway towing the line of rafts, which were disguised like salmon cages.
Aboard the boat were Quayle crouched in the prow, Palfreyman seated in the middle on a couple of wooden crates and Derek was at the helm. Eschewing overt life jackets, they had discreet life preservers under their chunky seaman’s sweaters. None of them wanted to be attracting the attention of Air Sea Rescue with their particular lethal cargo on board.
Quayle had arrived at the Bothy the previous evening. affecting never to have met Palfreyman, he had been given a crash course in loading, unloading, stripping and reassembling the L1A1 and several other handguns. After a hearty breakfast they had spent some time showing Quayle how to make a basic bomb from sticks of dynamite using an old-fashioned alarm clock as a timer.
“So that was the theory, this is the practice,” shouted Palfreyman over the hum of the outdoor motor. One of the things we didn’t cover was how to diffuse the things, if you balls up the timer…. I gave Derek a refresher the other day…,” laughed Palfreyman.
“Yeah so I heard… two devices on the Landy. You bastard,” he replied.
“Never seen him sweat so much… I had set up a booby trap too. He worked out I hadn’t connected it, ignored it and went straight for the main device. It’s always a case of choosing the right wire. Luckily, he got the right one,” chuckled Palfreyman.
Looking at him Quayle said, “You crazy bastard.”
Palfreyman laughed. “I’m not that psycho – I just set it up for the alarm to go off,” he replied.
The outboard motor cut out and they turned towards Derek. He dropped the mud weight and began dropping devices in biscuit tins into the miniature rafts. Palfreyman helped him. Then they spooled out cable and the rafts began to float away. Using an infrared measure Derek told them when to stop.
“Okay that’ll do ya,” said Derek. The whir of the winch stopped. Palfreyman locked it off and flipped open the lid “Lock and Load,” he said mimicking a gruff American drill sergeant. Selecting a rifle, Palfreyman grabbed a magazine slipped it home and cocked the weapon, then slipped on the safety. “Right give Number 1 a couple of three round bursts.”
Shouldering the weapon, Quayle to aim and squeezed the trigger. The gun made a brief fart of a noise, the muzzle suppressor reducing the noise. The shots went wide and chopped the water at the side of the raft.
“Remember your breathing,” said Palfreyman. Firing again, Quayle’s shot hit the raft blowing chunks of wood off the raft. “Good, again,” said Palfreyman. Squeezing the trigger, he blasted another burst and then several more. The raft to plenty of damage and began to list precariously.
“Good stuff change to single shot and see if you can set the dynamite off,” he said. Switching the Fire Selector over, Quayle aimed and fired three single shots. A second after the last shot, the raft blew up in a cloud of smoke and flame. The hot blast of air hit them.
“Fuck!” said Quayle holding the gunwale of the boat.
“Right, let’s close in with the pistols,” said Derek. On the top of the crate were a Browning Hi Power handgun and a Webley Revolver of antique age. Pulling up the mud weight they rowed a little close to the nearest raft. Over the next half hour they blasted their way through rounds of handgun ammunition and finished off blasting the raft into smithereens with sawn off shotguns. Finally they got Quayle to pitch a couple of grenades overarm at the raft, which saw it pitch over and sink to the bottom of the loch.
“Right that’s guns ‘n’ ammo 101 done, here’s a present for you,” said Palfreyman, handing over a square box. In it was a nickel plated .38 revolver with several preloaded cylinders . And a smaller automatic that held just four shots that could be clipped into an ankle holster. The later afternoon sun was dropping over the loch as they chugged back to the Bothy. A man was waiting at the Jetty. “Aha there you are. “Quayle, get in the car, I’ll drop you at the train station…
Quayle slept through most of the train journey, vaguely remembering waking up at Waverly and seeing the illuminated Scott Monu
ment. Arriving at the railway he’d taken a taxi and gotten home in the early hours. He was due to be on a couple of lates over the next few days. Waking around midday, he booted up his work computer and was soon deluged with emails that had backed up in his absence. Only a few stood out. One from the IPCC, the police watchdog requesting a preliminary interview regarding the incident. The most shocking one: Bozza was dead… He had died of complications from an infected lung.
“Fuck and bugger,” said Quayle. He had lost a good friend but also a key witness in the investigation into …. ACC Harrison. There was a bunch of post, but mostly bills and circulars. He was ripping his way through these when the doorbell rang. Quayle jumped up spilling coffee on the floor. His hand went to the .38 on the table and he jogged up the stairs to lo out of the window. A lone postman stood there, correct uniform, van parked in the road. Going back down the stairs he slipped out of the back door and stalked up behind the postman. He had the revolver in his dressing gown pocket.
“Morning,” Quayle said. “The postman spun around a letter in his hand. It was John, his regular postie.
“Morning, Special Delivery needs your autograph please,” he said.
“Sure thing,” said Quayle, releasing his hand off the gun and taking the proffered pen.
“Thanks, see you later,” said the postie walking off down the path.
“Quayle slipped the letter into his pocket and walked backwards around the corner watching carefully along the street. Safely ensconced inside, he refreshed his coffee and using a kitchen knife slit the envelope open. It was on official heavy paper. It was an invite to headquarters to meet ACC to discuss being moved to an interforce task force. In the light of his action around Marber’s death he had been rubber stamped to go out alone as an independent officer. However, they felt it pertinent that given that elements of the Crayfish Gang were still active, a significant risk to his life still existed.
The exact nature of the deployment was to be revealed at the meeting tomorrow. He reread it. It wasn’t an invite; it was a summons. Phoning headquarters he accepted the appointment. Pushing aside the pile of opened mail he picked up the final plain envelope. Opening it a wad of photographs slid out. Flicking through them he breathed a sigh of relief. They were taken by a long-distance lens but were high quality. Thankfully, they were old news. Colleen leaving her flat and getting off and on a bus. But none of her in the Custody Block or near the narrowboat. They were good, but not that good.
Showered and dressed in half blues, Quayle secured the type-up of what had happened over the last few days. Stashing the guns in his safe, he slipped the envelope containing his write up into his coat pocket and picked up his keys. “Check under the flipping car,” he said to himself, as he walked to the front door. Then he heard a noise from the back of the house. Wheelie bins being moved. Reaching into his go bag he put on his belt kit and ran up the stairs. Going into the study cum office he opened the barred window and dropped down onto the flat roof of the extension and peered over the edge of the roof. A man dressed in casual clothes was rooting through the contents of an overturned wheelie bin. Quayle crept to the edge and jumped over the edge. Connecting with the man who had his back to him, Quayle knocked the wind out of him. The man was down but not out. With a move that Quayle had seen on Northern Soul dance floors, the man snapped back up from a prone position, his fists raised and something in his right hand. Instinctively he thought about his baton, but his lizard brain worked faster.
Feinting a right haymaker punch, which made the man dodge to the left, he planted his left fist straight in the man’s face. There was a horrid crunching sound and a spurt of blood. The man collapsed to the floor and lay still. Stepping back, breathing heavily, Quayle looked down. His left hand was wrapped inside his unfolded handcuffs. Effectively he’d smashed the guy with a lump of hardened steel. Rolling him over, he checked the man’s airways and checked he was still breathing. Then he cuffed his hands in front of him and dragged him inside. Phoning the station to say he’d got car trouble he waited for the man to come around. A quick search of his clothes had revealed nothing, no wallet, no phone, nothing, but pocket fluff. The man came to, blowing snot and congealed blood from his caved in nose.
“Here take this,” said Quayle giving him a wet cloth. The man cleaned himself up a bit. Quayle gave him some water from a bottle. Picking up his baton, Quayle snicked it open making the man lo on in terror.
“Right, you were sneaking around my bins like a starving racoon, what’s the story? I found nothing on you…?” said Quayle prodding him in the chest with the baton.
“In, in my shoe…,” he said.
“Bloody hell, rookie error,” said Quayle pulling a laminated Press Card from under the liner of his shoe. “Dominic Eaves, Freelance Reporter… Now I can see why you were going through my bins… food eh?” snorted Quayle. “Right I’m off to work, off to the cellar you go,” said Quayle pulling the man to the floor by his cuffs. Opening a door in the kitchen, Quayle switched on a light with one hand and bodily pushed the hack down the short flight of stairs. Then he slammed the door and locked it.
Chapter 24
Malhaine was a sleepy village which contained a shop cum Post office, a pub and not much more. Despite its apparent isolated location, it was near several well used A roads giving multiple ingress and egress points. There was also a decadent absence of CCTV.
Despite its diminutive size, the village was well provided for in terms of services, so the shop and Post Office served a large hinterland. It was payday for pensioners and those who received benefits. Because of the looming Bank Holiday there would be a double payment being doled out. “Cash is still king in these parts, all the farmers, old crocks and even the youngsters prefer to feel their folding, holding and not have an electronic record for the DSS or the HMRC to scrutinise,” said Palfreyman to Derek as they sat in a layby a few hundred yards up the road from the Post Office. “What’s the take?” asked Derek?” Palfreyman dragged his mind back to the conversations he’d overheard in The Old Mulberry as he sat over a pint and a whisky chaser. Posing as a jobbing forester doing some work on the local estate, Palfreyman had spent a few Sunday afternoons in the local pub. The Sub Postmaster always went for a pint or two after work. “Ten grand at least, maybe more.” he said. “Right let’s go, said Derek starting the engine and bouncing along a rutted track.
Quad bikes, tractors and other machines were no stranger to being parked outside premises in the area, what with the number of forests, farms and crofts.. Palfreyman and Derek mounted up into the two-seater John Deere Alligator ATV and trundled into the village. Alan, another accomplice had been hanging around the back lane by the Post Office and saw them pull up. Stopping, they pulled down their balaclavas and picked up sawn off shotguns and crashed through the front door of the shop. Alan jumped on to the Alligator ATV and drove it to the rear of the shop, which backed onto a narrow lane. Albert McGregor knew something was up as soon as he heard the crash of the shop door. Reaching under the counter he pressed the panic button wired to alert the police.
Palfreyman and Derek’s timing was perfect. The time lock on the safe had just clicked off and the reinforced security door to the Post Office counter had been propped open with a fire extinguisher. “Right, everybody get your hands up,” shouted Palfreyman who had been designated as crowd control. Shepherding two old ladies into a corner he quartered the remainder of the shop arcing his shotgun as he went. It was all clear.
PC Tom Doyle was watching a pair of ospreys through his binoculars when his radio burst into life. “Possible false alarm again at Malhaine Post Office, 698 please could you attend.” said the controller.
“698, Control, show me as dealing,” said Doyle putting his binoculars on the seat and getting into the car.
Palfreyman had gotten the postmaster prone on the floor, with cable ties on his wrists and legs. Opening the safe door he began pulling banded wads of notes from the safe into a large black sports bag. “One ready t
o go,” said Palfreyman.
Appearing from the back door, Alex came in and grabbed the bag, hefting it over his shoulder.
“Right ladies outside please,” said Derek gesturing them towards the front door. They made their way out and he bolted it behind them.
“Second one ready to go, that’s it,” said Palfreyman.
Derek picked up the bag and stomped to the rear door. The engine of the Alligator was running and Palfreyman was in the driving seat. Alex picked up a fishing rod and disappeared back towards the nearby river. The bags of money were swiftly covered in braces of shot pheasants and they made off down the alley and turned into the High Street. They had shot over the small stone bridge when they saw the unmistakable hatchings of a police car.
“Keep going, I’ll do his tyres,” shouted Derek. The police car was just passing them when Derek fired his shotgun twice. The police car’s front passenger side tyre was shredded, the driver in shock failed to control the skid, veered off the road and ended up in a ditch. The bandits roared off and left the road heading up a rutted track where the Defender was parked. Stopping the Alligator, Derek got out and transferred the bags to the Land Rover. Palfreyman threw a camouflage net over the ATV to conceal. Then the mounted up, taking a rough route on a fire road that abutted a huge forestry plantation.