by R J Holligan
“Well, call me a cynic, but I’d say you trod on the wrong toes and paid the price,” replied Quayle, stirring a few sugars into his coffee. “In that you’d be right. As for my rebirth have you heard of Justin Freeman…?”
“On Point, the current affairs magazine and blog. He’s the Editor.” said Quayle.
Still munching on his sandwich Eaves clapped his hands together.
“I’ve had a subscription for the last year,” said Quayle, rummaging in a pile of newspapers and holding up a copy of On Point.
“After being set up I decided to get out of Dodge. I’d been flagged. My phones were tapped, and people were not making too hard to know I was being followed. Think intimidation not surveillance. I left my flat and got on a bus to Prague. I’d been there when on a gap year. I ended up teaching English and sofa surfing. After about eight months I had got myself a sort of life, but the journo bug never leaves you…. A friend of a friend I met a party got me in touch with a philanthropist who I can’t name. I was blindfolded and driven an hour or two out of town to some medieval castle. Long story short we had similar interests and he bankrolls the magazine. I hop between here and Prague with a fake Czech ID. Of course, Brexit will soon put pay to that. And so far, the lamplighters are off my trail,” said Eaves tapping the coffee table.
“Wouldn’t rely on that it’s MDF,” said Quayle. “It’s a long way from Prague to my bins, care to explain?”
Eaves finished his coffee. “Basically you’ve been snooping in the dark recesses of the web… Those six names, the fake IDs and so on. I just wondered if we had common cause, but Mr .38 seems to suggest otherwise,” replied Eaves, nodding towards the revolver.
“Don’t flatter yourself, one of my colleagues is dead and another one is a vegetable. The shooter conveniently died. This is just security,” said Quayle picking up the revolver turning it around and putting it next to Eaves.
“If you’re wondering how I found you, don’t worry, your cover is fairly good, or I hope it is as our mutual friend also covers my ass. It was him who put me onto you,” said Eaves sliding the revolver back to Quayle.
“Jay?” asked Quayle. “
The very same,” replied Eaves.
“So what are our mutual interests then?” asked Quayle.
“The man you’re going to see at the Big House tomorrow…” said Eaves.
“Well when I get back, I can see if there’s anything we can work on. But for now, it’s probably best you lie low…,” said Quayle.
“I’m out of my comfort zone here,” said Eaves.
“Don’t worry I’ve got just the place Compact and Bijou,” said Quayle, waving his hand around the allotment shed. They had stopped for a chemical camping toilet on the way.
“Good security,” said Eaves pointing to the sawn-off shotgun.
“Know how to use it?” asked Quayle.
“Yeah, I went on a few boar hunts outside Prague,” said Eaves “Good stuff. There’s a MiFi unit runs off the solar power on the roof,” said Quayle. “Quite a setup for an allotment shed, have you had someone hiding out here?” asked Eaves.
Quayle gave the hack a stare that made him feel more than a few degrees east of uneasy. “Best you don’t ask questions until we’re down the road some,” replied Quayle curtly. “Message received,” said Eaves. “How are you for money?” asked Quayle. “All set,” replied Eaves waving a bunch of cash. Quayle nodded. “I’ll catch you tomorrow night… if you’re bored those onion sets need putting in and the rest of the plot needs digging,” said Quayle.
“Some fucking Airbnb this is,” said Eaves. Both men laughed and the tension that had built up dissipated. “Ciao for now,” said Quayle exiting via the secret back door.
Chapter 26
The next morning Quayle was up early and put on what in the cutback cops amounted to ‘smart uniform’ - a white shirt with a black clip-on tie, black trousers and polished boots. There were no smart tunics anymore, only for the brass at top level. Sticking his police fleece on a hanger in the back of his car, he had a quick lo under his clunker, then started off to headquarters. The wisps of a foggy morning were still clinging to the sports field as he rolled up the drive. A dog officer was exercising his landshark on the huge expanse of grass. Despite the evisceration of the force headquarters, the dog section was still housed here.
The drive straightened and Quayle to in the vista of the house whose architect had designed to inspire. A century later his mission was holding good. Thankfully the sprawl of sixties concrete buildings that marred the site were offside of the main house. Talking of time, it felt decades ago that Quayle had left with all his kit after training for all those months. Here he was again… same rank, different circumstances.
Parking up, he headed for the main door as opposed to the ancillary door he’d entered during training. Instead of the usual admin hag hovering behind the desk, a uniformed PC was waiting. “I’m ACC Harrison’s driver. He thought it might be better if you went straight up, follow me,” said the man (close up gap )Up the stone stairs they went, past the family coats of arms from days of yore and the portraits of Chief Constables. The office was the size of a modern-day studio flat. Acres of carpet, windows with a million-dollar view over the rolling parkland. Assistant Chief Constable John Harrison stood up by a utilitarian desk containing nothing grandiose, just a desktop computer and a telephone and some piles of paper. This was a man who didn’t mean to get comfortable here. Of average height, in his early fifties with salt and pepper hair, lean and athletic. “PC Quayle, welcome,” he said offering his hand.
“Sir,” said Quayle saluting and them shaking his senior officer’s hand.
“You can call me John, Stephen. This is after all a strictly off-the-record briefing. “Coffee?” he asked proffering his hand towards an office chair.
Quayle sat. “Yes please, black,” replied Quayle.
“Williams, coffee for two, please,” he said.
The uniform officer snapped to from where he had posted himself in the doorway and disappeared.
“Right let’s get to it. You were on duty last night and a yob threw a can of piss at you, am I not right?”
Quayle looked puzzled. “Yes, that is correct,”
Pursing his hands, Harrison continued. “That lad probably saved you and your colleague’s life. ROCU surveillance were tailing you and nabbed two acolytes off Patrick Marber keen to earn their spurs. They were loaded for bear. When your colleague braked, she caused the pursuing car to hit the ROCU car. That’s how we got them. They’re in custody on weapons charges. We’re still pretty unsure if you were being specifically targeted or they were just chancing their arm. We thought you’d been kept under wraps for long enough, but we might have been wrong. Also, the fuckup by the Comms team won’t have helped.”
Williams arrived with the coffee and then disappeared silently. “Fuckup? How?” thought Quayle. Harrison seemed to relish telling him.
“After the shooting, the Comms Team thought we needed to get some positive coverage. So, they put out a release about a brave officer who helped out his wounded colleagues….,” “And named me,” snapped Quayle.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Fuck,” snorted Quayle.
“That was the very epithet which crossed my lips.” he said “But it reiterates the need to keep you away from the streets for the foreseeable. There’s a task force operating under the auspices of Special Branch up in Scotland. It’s very hush hush, but essentially we need to do something about the Scottish situation,” he said elucidating the last two words.
“I see,” said Quayle staring into his coffee, now realising why per had never been his game.
“Are you up on Scottish politics?” asked Harrison.
“Well I’m no expert but the SNP and wee Jimmy Crankie are pretty much ruling the roost. Every time the wheels come off; they ask for a referendum. Seems like every other week,” said Quayle sipping his coffee.
“Admirably put. And in a n
utshell this chaos can’t continue. A line needs drawing under this mess,” said Harrison.
“Above my pay grade, I’m a Student Officer, dealing with shoplifters and petty drug dealers,” replied Quayle.
“Precisely, Quayle, you’re wasted with all those footsloggers who’ve barely got a GCSE between them. You’re on the 04.00 hours train to Inverness, meet up with our team there and get making yourself useful. Understood?”
Acting buoyed up by the weasel words, Quayle nodded. “Perfectly,”
Harrison slid across a slim leather wallet similar to the one a waiter might bring you the bill in at a restaurant. “Here’s your Blue Peter Badge and a few other bits and pieces, Bon voyage.”
Quayle stood up, picked up the folder and stood back. “Thank you, sir,” said Quayle and stalked out of the room. Back at home, Quayle put the coffee machine on and dialled Palfreyman on his burner phone. “Things have gotten interesting. Mr Big has given me my fun pack. I’ve got a warrant card as a DS in Special Branch. I’m coming up on the sleeper. Will be with you tomorrow. And there’s a new kid on the block. A scribbler by the name of Dominic Eaves,” said Quayle.
There was a silence on the end of the line. “Eaves you say. Yeah you can trust him. He’s got a dossier a foot thick on me and the others. It was cooking nicely till he got nobbled. After this Caledonian Caper is over, we’ll get back to it, get a payoff and then he can go to town,” said Palfreyman.
“Sounds like you got all your ducks in a row. What I don’t understand is why you don’t pull the plug and walk now before someone gets hurt?” said Quayle.
“You and I swore an oath to the little old lady in the Palace, we can’t stand aside and watch a bunch of two-bit politicians pull our country apart,” he snarled.
Quayle didn’t see the point in pontificating any further. “Okay but what do I do with Eaves? I stashed him at the allotment,” Palfreyman laughed.
“Get him to house sit. See you tomorrow.” And the line went dead. Changing out of his uniform Quayle dressed in civvies and got on his bike. He had texted Colleen to meet him at the Lockkeepers’ Arms. Colleen was already there. Hugging her he smelt the scent of her shampoo and he tracked back to the nights they’d shared together.
It was Cheese Night and they ordered the sharer plate of six different cheeses and bread. Quayle stuck to Appletise. “How’s it going with Karlie?” he asked slicing a wedge of Stilton. “Not too bad as long as she gets out to puff da herb once in a while,” she laughed. “There’s a couple of things I need you to look after,” said Quayle slipping a man’s shaving bag under the table. With a piece of chalk, he wrote on the slate the cheese had been served on. Don’t freak out it’s a gun… She looked on, pretending to be indifferent. Wiping off the scrawl he wrote and a key to a mailbox and memory stick Pwd ?our first night together.
She read it. “Oh such a romantic, you” she smiled sarcastically. Moving the bag over to her side of the table she leant over and kissed him. After they had finished their meal and paid, they slipped out and walked down the towpath.
“This is a fucking mess,” said Quayle sighing. “Try me,” said Colleen ruffling his hair. “Well, where to start? The Crayfish mob have me on their hitlist. A gang of shady operators are coercing me via threatening you. My senior officer is sending me to Scotland to take part in an insurgency, and he is in turn being hunted by another group who want to hoist him by his own petard for some reason. The only people on my side are an ex-undercover cop with a dark past and a journo who no doubt has a hidden agenda. And you, of course, who are holed up with a teenage pothead on self-destruct.,” he said shoulder slumped.
She grabbed him and gave him a passionate kiss. He perked up. “On the plus side my allotment has never been so well bloody looked after,” he laughed bitterly.
“This ain’t Rio,” she said.
“No sister, it’s surely not,” he said affecting his best jaded American private eye accent.
At sparrow’s fart the next day he was on the Sleeper to Edinburgh. The attendant showed him his berth. Ordering a Full English breakfast which he thought a bit ironic, he ate then lay down on his bed and slept the rest of the journey. At Waverley he changed to the rattler and the less tender mercies of ScotRail. He dozed off to find the train had stopped at a small station. He gazed at the dramatic Highland landscape. Last time he’d no recollection of his journey. The heather bound landscape rolled away to the snow-capped mountains. It was a beautiful scene. Next to the station building a shaggy Highland coo and her equally shaggy calf regarded him from behind their fringes as they avidly demolished the hay in their trough. “At least someone’s not trying to kill me,” thought Quayle.
A couple of hours later the train pulled in at Inverness. Palfreyman was waiting with the Land Rover. “Welcome to flavour country,” said Palfreyman lighting up a rollup.
“I see things have started,” said Quayle cracking a window. He wasn’t sure which was worse the smell of the smoke or the Highland drizzle forcing its way through the crack. “You ain’t seen nothing yet baby,” laughed Palfreyman gunning the old vehicle through the rain slicked streets. After hitting the bridge onto the Black Isle, he slowed down. “So, you’re officially on the bus now?” Deciding that the fag smoke was the lesser of two evils he wound the window up. “Yes, all signed up for the duration,” said Quayle wondering how far an oath to the Queen stretched.
Finally they arrived. Derek and another man called Dave were cleaning weapons, while a pot simmered on the Aga. Over a venison stew around the kitchen table Derek updated Quayle.
“As you know we knocked over a little village post office. And we sent out our manifesto. Which was not published. So we’re going to up the game a little. Simultaneous bombs in Glasgow and Edinburgh. Something to shake Westminster out of their complacency. And you and Palfreyman are going to organise a surprise for Police Scotland. And as we’re now live to speak, we’re doing sentry shifts. Take a rifle and sit up on the hill at the back. Anything coming that we need to know about, just fire a few bursts into the air. Dave will take over at two hundred hours,” said Derek.
Without replying Quayle got up, filled a commuter mug with black coffee, grabbed a rifle and bandolier and climbed the rough track to where a wooden platform like a bird hide had been built. With a roof and a waist-high palisade on three sides it provided the sentry with some element of cover from the Scottish weather. A couple of old sleeping bags which could be worn like capes, hung on a nail. Unhooking one, Quayle slipped it over his shoulders. Toting the rifle, he paced up and down to get the blood flow back to his legs after the long train journey.
From his hilltop eyrie he could see the others gathered conspiratorially around the kitchen table, poring over what looked like a large-scale street map. They had weighed it down with the heavy tumblers of whisky they were drinking. Glad of the solitude, Quayle felt the cold night air sharpen his senses. Out here he felt much closer to nature. He made a promise to himself to come back to the Highlands in happier future times, should there be any. Perhaps with Colleen he thought. Although they’d only spent a few nights together, Quayle really felt something for. But then he realised the situation he’d dragged her into, a multi-layered clusterfuck sandwich. After all this she’d be the one running to the hills, in the opposite direction from him.
What time the detonators should have been set to, was a moot point that had many ramifications after. But at 7.30am two devices, concealed in dumpsters adjacent to both entrances exploded sending a shock wave of super-heated gas and shrapnel hundreds of yards. The reality of a bomb is quite shocking for those not inured to their devastating impact. It’s not like cartoons with sticky up hair and blackened faces. Imagine a can of beer that has been shaken and then opened. The beer finds the path of least resistance and spurts out. The effect of the pressure of a blast wave from a bomb is the same. It escapes via a person’s joints and pops then off like a cap on a beer bottle. Shrapnel and general detritus also scythe threw soft tissue lik
e a hit knife through butter. Needless to say the two bombs did their deadly work.
Blissfully unaware of the carnage in the Caledonian cites, Quayle and Palfreyman were lying in wait on a hillside above a burning Community Centre. A few minutes earlier they had pitched a pair of petrol bombs through the windows. Palfreyman had made a call from a phone box. Before he left, he changed the receiver for one containing traceable prints of a Scottish Nationalist firebrand who’d been released early from prison after being sentenced for Public Order offences. Luck was on their side and a marked police car siren wailing pulled up outside. Two officers got out and ran to the rear of the building. This was their cue. Opening up with their rifles on full automatic they hosed the car with bullets. Shouldering a Carl Gustav rocket launcher, Palfreyman gave the stricken car the coup de grace with a high explosive rocket. Already ablaze the car exploded and flipped on its roof. “Job done,” said Palfreyman. Picking up their weapons, they switched off the Go Pro cameras they had been wearing and jogged to the Land Rover. Footage of the attack would be posted on YouTube and emailed to newspapers and broadcasters.
It was mid-afternoon when they returned to the croft. The TV was on the BBC News Channel and Radio Scotland blared from a radio in the corner. Derek and Dave were seated at the table looking glum, large tumblers of whisky in front of them.
“What the fuck happened? They weren’t supposed to go off till tonight,” spat Palfreyman m as he to in the scrolling news banner THREE DEAD AND TWENTY-SIX SERIOUSLY INJURED IN SERIES OF BOMB ATTACKS.