Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

  “Hello,” he said into the intercom.

  “It’s the police, Mr McKenzie. Could we have a word please?”

  “Certainly.” Phil pressed the buzzer. He heard a click downstairs. Before going to the door, he placed his Browning 9mm in the oven. He was glad Viking had given him the ‘heads-up’ about the police enquiries in Hereford.

  Two fresh-faced police officers in uniform; one male, one female, arrived at Phil’s door. He smiled, took a sip from his first can of beer, and waved them indoors.

  “If you two are looking for an eighteenth birthday party to attend it isn’t being held here.”

  The woman giggled and got an icy stare from her partner.

  “I’m sorry,” Phil said. “You guys are young these days.”

  “I’m Constable Lennon, and this is Constable Downie,” the male officer said. “We’re making some enquiries about a van.”

  “Right,” Phil said. He caught Constable Downie appraising him, and he fixed his gaze on her. She smiled and turned away.

  “Do you own a white Ford Transit?” Lennon asked, casting a sideways glance at Downie.

  “Yes I do,” Phil said and stared at Constable Downie’s impressive chest.

  “We didn’t see it outside,” Lennon said and sighed.

  “Well, you wouldn’t, because I keep it in a lockup a short drive from here.”

  Phil kept his answers short and continued to turn his attention to the young woman. It disconcerted her and irritated PC Lennon. Phil wondered if Lennon fancied his pretty partner, but the attraction wasn’t reciprocated.

  When asked if he could attend the local station to assist with enquiries, Phil held up his beer can and suggested he’d report in the morning. He didn’t like the idea of driving or answering questions after four or five beers.

  The two police officers thanked Phil for his time and made their way to the door. PC Lennon hesitated as he passed the bedroom.

  “Go in and have a look around, son,” Phil said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “It’s okay,” Lennon said. His bluff had been called. “We’ll be on our way.”

  “Would you like to check out my bedroom Constable Downie?” Phil asked.

  The pretty officer glanced at Phil, and her face reddened. As they went out onto the landing, the girl looked back and smiled. Phil winked at her.

  “We need to have a chat, Downie,” her over-protective colleague said.

  Phil watched from the window. The two PC’s argued as they approached their car.

  At Pitt Street Police HQ in Glasgow city centre, DS Monroe went up the stairs two at a time on his way to his boss’s office.

  “Sam, we’ve got a problem.” Eddie closed the door behind him.

  “What’s up, mate?”

  “I went out to the east end to check out those brothel addresses, to see if it was feasible for one man or a small team to have done both of the jobs.”

  “Okay,” Sam said. “Pull up a pew.”

  Eddie dragged a chair across. He whispered. “On my way back I saw flashing blue lights off London Road. I carried on back here, and checked in at the front desk.” He shook his head. “Ray O’Connor has been found with a bullet in his head.”

  “He’s a collector, so I reckon it was an execution. Our vigilante is sending somebody a message.” Sam spoke in a conversational tone as he unwrapped a piece of gum.

  “What do you think the message is?”

  “The message is simple, mate—don't fuck with me’, and O’Connor was the messenger.”

  “Fuckin’ Hell. We have got one evil bastard on our patch Sam.”

  “If you’re one of the bad guys, Eddie.” Sam stood. “I’ll get the coffees.”

  14. Discoveries

  .

  Wednesday 17th July

  For four hours on Tuesday evening, Annabel had sifted through information and made notes to check out the definite from the variables. It was slow, methodical work, but she progressed. When fatigue affected her efforts, she took a nap on the sofa.

  At 04:00 she woke up, took a shower, dressed in a tracksuit and made coffee. She stood in front of the maps and brainstorming sheet.

  Kirsten, Petra, and Eva had been duped by the middleman in Croatia. It was easy to list most of the other names as being locations, members of the trafficking route or the prostitution ring.

  The girls and a couple of teenage boys had departed by boat from Dubrovnik at night and were most likely taken to Italy. Kirsten said they’d travelled overnight and were placed in the freight container on a truck. They were given minimum food and water to sustain them before travelling all day by road. Their next journey was on a boat. The trip commenced at night, and they sailed for two days. The man in charge had grey hair, a beard, and wore a peaked sailor’s cap.

  Kirsten had said when they reached land after the second boat journey it was dark. Many of them were sick because of the conditions, lack of food and proper sanitation. When they reached land, the bearded man took a keen interest in one of the younger women. He took her away when everybody else was transported by truck to remote farm buildings. They ate and drank and got cleaned up. In the morning, they saw mountains and forest to the east and the sea to the west. It reminded some of home.

  Annabel was satisfied with her notes. She reasoned the name Lauren was misheard, and it was most likely Laura, the woman who’d been shot at Perry Street. The outstanding questions were about Margarita, the bearded man, and the bargaining for a young blonde. While at the farmhouse, a boy had gone missing, and a shot was fired. Both of these incidents left Annabel with an uneasy feeling.

  “Come on Margarita,” she said. “Who are you? Where are you?” She peered at the European map to distinguish one of the small symbols. A smile crept over her face. It was time to combine initiative with the wonders of modern technology and information. She would try the newfangled World Wide Web.

  Annabel had recently visited Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ) outside Cheltenham. She had noted Web Crawler and Alta Vista as useful search programmes. She tried Web Crawler but gave up after twenty minutes. She had more luck with the Alta Vista system which was more efficient. When she was confident of the direction of her search, she contacted The Registry of Shipping and Seamen.

  At 05:15 Annabel made herself a coffee and sat at her desk, but she was grinning. “Gotcha Margharita—I’ll visit soon.”

  During his morning run, Phil saw the blonde runner with the ponytail. They acknowledged each other with a nod. When close to home, Phil went to the local newsagent and bought the Daily Record. He dropped it on the kitchen table, intending to read it after breakfast.

  Phil was pouring coffee when his phone buzzed. “Good morning, Annabel. Good news and bad news—Yeah, go on.” He listened to a brief update on her research. Phil said he’d arrived at similar conclusions regarding the immigrants’ trip, but he couldn’t work out who Margarita was.

  Annabel explained the alternative spelling, her theory, and her intentions.

  “Where is Margharita now?” He nodded. “Well done. Yes, get some rest—and please call me later today.” She asked about his situation.

  “I’ve been asked to visit the Police HQ in the city. I’ll go in today.” He lifted the newspaper and opened it onto the table. “Shit. I might have an idea what the bad news is,” he said. “No, I haven’t heard the radio news, but I’ve seen the newspaper.”

  Phil stood with the phone to his ear as he stared at the three clear photos of Kirsten Novak (22), Petra Gorsky (22) and Eva Yentov (21). “We’ll catch up later and discuss our theories. Ciao.” He was ending calls like her when they spoke on the phone.

  After breakfast, Phil read the newspaper from cover to cover. He found it peculiar for three missing European girls to be on the front page, but a Glasgow man executed in the street was relegated to a column on page two. The by-line, ‘Who is Hawk?’ was used, but the calling card wasn’t mentioned. Somebody on the inside had spoken to the media.


  At 08:30 Phil called to tell Stella he was visiting Police HQ. He said they might send an officer to chase up any history he had with her agency. She assured him all would be in order and she would call him back. Ten minutes later, Phil’s phone buzzed.

  Hi,” he said. “Is everything okay?” He grinned as he listened to what she’d done. “Thank you Stella—I owe you. Bye.”

  It was a bright, crisp morning. Phil walked into the city, and on the way to Pitt Street, he stopped briefly at Stella’s agency. She showed him the photograph she’d placed on file as his next-door neighbour. The man she used was a client who was on holiday in Turkey.

  As Phil strolled through Glasgow, he called Rachel for an update. She had news from her surveillance task. Phil gave her a time and place to meet in the afternoon.

  While Phil sat in the interview room, he kept his hands clasped on the square table in front of him. He was aware of the constable standing at the door behind him. He was also aware of the CCTV cameras in two corners of the room to his front, but he didn’t look directly at either of them.

  It was twenty minutes before the door opened and a short, dark-haired man in his early thirties entered. His light grey suit was presentable, but the man appeared tired. The plainclothes officer walked around and stood behind the other chair to look down, his gaze fixed on his interviewee.

  When Phil looked up, he gave no acknowledgement. It was like reading a book as he observed the body language of his interviewer. The man’s hair was tousled, his brow furrowed, and his eyes were dim and baggy underneath. He let out a long sigh before speaking.

  “Good morning, Mr McKenzie. I’m Detective Sergeant Monroe.” He sat on a chair opposite Phil and moved a hand to loosen his tie, but it was already loose. As he flicked open his notebook, he spoke with a hint of sarcasm. “Thank you for coming in this morning.”

  “I didn’t come in through desire,” Phil said. “I was invited.” He considered using the man’s rank and name but didn’t. It would indicate annoyance with the scenario, but Phil wanted to maintain a level of acceptance. His objective was to appear helpful.

  He didn’t want to be too compliant, because it would be unnatural. When the time came to sound irritated and unduly harassed, he would act accordingly. When guilty, but acting innocent, Phil knew it was essential to act offended; accurately.

  DS Monroe’s lack of sleep affected his interview technique. “It took us a while to find you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Your van is registered to an address in Hereford in England.” He sighed. “Our colleagues in England were asked to make enquiries before we could start.”

  Phil allowed the hint of a smile to play on his lips. He could see where this initial line of questioning was going already. He said nothing.

  “I said, it took us a while to find you.”

  “I heard you the first time.”

  “Well, why didn’t you answer?”

  “You didn’t ask me a question,” Phil said. “You made a statement.”

  “Don’t get smart with me McKenzie or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what?” Phil interrupted. “Will you arrest and charge me?” He studied the man’s face. “I doubt it because I volunteered to assist with your enquiries. In this country, I’m innocent until proven guilty—unless the law has changed since yesterday.”

  “Perhaps you’ll explain why your recently bought van was registered to an address in Hereford?”

  ‘My address in Glasgow is temporary. I could move on at any time, and I don’t know how long I’ll be here.” His expression remained impassive. “Until I’m established I’m using my mate’s address. When I’m down in England, I rent a room from him and his wife.” Phil smiled. “Please pass on my apologies to your colleagues.”

  Monroe rubbed his eyes with his forefingers before continuing. “On the subject of your van, I wondered if you’d mind us bringing it in for a once-over?”

  “If you mean a forensic inspection, and it helps you—bring it in and give it a complete servicing as well, but I want it back in good working order.”

  “Forensics examinations are thorough and relatively quick these days.”

  “Be my guest. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Somebody knocked on the door.

  “Yes,” Monroe called.

  A pretty, policewoman in a white blouse, chequered cravat and black skirt leant through the doorway. “Excuse me, DS Monroe—the DI would like a word.” As her gaze took in the man being interviewed, she stared.

  Phil turned. “Fancy seeing you here—” It was the blonde girl he often passed on his morning runs.

  “I work here,” she said, stating the obvious, and laughed. Her laughter was a pleasant sound. The male constable standing inside the room sniggered.

  “Thank you, Constable Hughes,” Monroe said. He turned to the male officer whose expression sobered, and he straightened up.

  “Sorry, Sarge,” the constable said, and mimicked PC Hughes, “I work here.”

  “Excuse me, Mr McKenzie,” Monroe said. “I’ll be right back.”

  As the DS left the room, Phil took the opportunity to turn and look at the less than menacing figure of the copper at the door. He was about twenty-three, and slightly built. He’d be good in a chase, Phil thought, but useless in a fight. As he looked at the rookie cop, the young man continued to stare straight ahead.

  Phil sat patiently, staring straight to his front.

  It was ten minutes later when the door opened, and another man in a suit entered the room. Unlike DS Monroe, this man was over six feet tall, with close-cropped grey hair. He filled his immaculate dark grey suit with the physique of a rugby player—in good shape.

  The smart man walked around the desk and pushed the chair away with his foot before leaning on the table with both hands to address Phil.

  “I apologise for the delay, Mr McKenzie,” he said. “I’m Detective Inspector Griffiths. Would you like a brew?”

  “Black coffee, with sugar please,” Phil said. He smiled at the big man.

  “Constable,” Griffiths said. “Fetch two coffees please, both black with two sugars.”

  When the door closed, the DI shook his head. “Bloody Hell, Phil, it’s great to see you, mate.” He walked around and held out his right hand. “Don’t worry, the cameras are off.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Sam,” Phil stood to shake the DI’s hand. “You’ve done well. How long have you been at this game?”

  “After the mission in the Middle East when Ken was killed I went on attachment to the Metropolitan for a couple of months as an adviser on armed operations. While I was there, Jane asked me to reconsider staying with the Regiment. Seeing Lindsey standing there at Ken’s funeral touched a nerve.”

  “Ken was a top man,” Phil said.

  “I agreed to come out of the service, but only if Jane backed my decision to join the police. I served with the London Met, had an attachment to Manchester, and came here on promotion. The promotions have come rapidly. What about you?” Sam sat down.

  “It’s a long story mate, but I got fitted-up by ‘the suits’ after a mission in Africa. Part of the deal for my freedom was to take a walk with pension.” Phil sat down.

  “Back-stabbing bastards,” Sam said. “You weren’t involved in the business in Mowhandi were you, because the operation had fucking Regiment written all over it.”

  Phil grinned.

  “It was you, wasn’t it,” the DI said, “tackling fucking mission impossible as usual?”

  Somebody knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Sam called.

  The fresh-faced constable entered carrying two black coffees in plastic cups and placed them on the table.

  “Thank you,” Sam said. “Take a break for twenty minutes.”

  The constable turned towards Phil.

  “Take a fucking break, son,” Sam said. The constable left the room. Sam shook his head and lifted his coffee. He took a sip and winced. As he looked at the dark, ste
aming liquid in the plastic cup, he considered how to deal with a man who had saved his life more than once. His tongue came out to lick his lips as he placed the coffee on the desk. “Total shit. We made a better brew in the woods with fucking nettles.”

  Phil grinned and wondered if Sam cursed as much at home. “Your DS is a bit short on patience.”

  “He’s tired, mate. We’ve had a few incidents over the last couple of weeks, and our department is being run ragged by the Chief Constable.” Sam didn’t want to say too much, but remembered, he was only alive due to Phil’s bravery. Sam’s life almost ended in a drug factory in the Colombian jungle.

  Phil said, “I’ve read a few interesting stories in the newspaper recently.”

  “Our police computer network in Scotland is down, and we’ve had shops set on fire, which we don’t believe was accidental.” Sam paused and shook his head. “In the last few days, some young foreign lasses have gone missing and were apparently spotted getting into a van, which is where you come in, mate.” He gulped coffee. “Today we’re following up some serious shit connected to brothels.”

  “Surely there can’t be anything too serious going on in a brothel?”

  “Nothing too serious mate,” Sam said, “if you don’t list a couple of murders, several cases of abduction, and captured prostitutes who might be exploited elsewhere. We found one girl who’d locked herself in a cupboard—drugged out of her tiny fucking mind. She died in hospital yesterday. The poor kid was more child than woman.”

  “Do you think it was a rival gang who took the girls and killed the others?”

  “No,” Sam said. “We found a large stash of drugs and associated paraphernalia, which as you know, is the usual method of control. I think the gear was left for our benefit.” Sam grinned. “I’d be happy if I thought the lasses were to be set free. As for the people who were killed - they were a bunch of low-life bastards. No loss.”