by Tom Benson
Annabel spent Wednesday afternoon in the local library reading up on a variety of boats. After her evening meal in the hotel, she studied her notes for two hours, had a brandy and went to bed.
On Thursday morning, she dressed in a dark blue tailored jacket and floral, summer dress with a low neckline. Her outfit for the day included tinted glasses, and shoulder-length, fair hair.
Annabel was refreshed and focused. She parked in a quiet avenue in Helensburgh once again and walked to the moorings. Getting into character, she openly used her camera to take pictures of anything and everything at, or near the marina. It was no longer a bustling seaside town, but a wide variety of boats were berthed along the coastline.
A man of sixty years with grey hair and beard came out of his cabin. “What are ye’ doin’ along this pier wi’ a camera may ah’ ask?”
“Hi there,” Annabel said, “I’m Jackie Foster from the Daily Record. I’ve been asked to do a feature on the decline of our fishing and other seagoing industries.” She stepped closer, allowing her perfume to waft towards the sailor. She let her camera hang loose on the strap around her neck. “I haven’t taken any photos of your boat,” she lied. “I wanted to see if I could get in the whole vessel from over there.”
“It’s customary tae ask the skipper afore ye’ start takin’ pictures of a vessel.”
“I’m sorry,” she gushed, pulling a Press Association card from her pocket. “This is my first interesting feature you see, I usually get tasks like, how to shop for cheap fashion.”
The man’s expression softened, and he was openly appraising her.
“My dad was a fisherman,” Annabel continued. “Previously, he was a sailor with the Royal Navy, just like my granddad.” She looked longingly at the boat. “This is a Tuna Long Liner isn’t it—at least I think it is ....”
“How many vessels have ye’ photographed this mornin’, Miss Foster?”
“This would be my first.” She removed her glasses to gaze at him from under her long lashes. “I wanted to get something interesting for my feature in tomorrow’s newspaper, but I’m here all this week.”
“Y’er here all week ye’ say. Ye’ll have a lot of time on yer hands.”
Annabel nodded and looked along the length of the twenty-one-metre vessel. “I don’t suppose you would know who the skipper was? I’d like to ask about his life and take a few pictures?”
“Aye, well it looks like yer in luck there lassie.” He was putty. “I’m the skipper.” He took a step closer and extended his right hand. “James Flannigan, Skipper of the Margharita—at your service m’dear.”
“You’re the skipper—oh wow!” She had an uneasy feeling about the man, but she had a job to do. “It would be cool to have a picture of a working vessel with an experienced skipper. What a start to a series.” She laughed. “Oh listen to me. You wouldn’t want me on your boat, or your picture appearing in tomorrow’s newspaper.”
“Aye, well ah’ don’t mind if it’s fer a good cause ye’ know.”
“Do you have one of those hats with the badge and shiny black peak? I could take a set of photos of you with and without your hat and on different parts of the vessel.”
“Gimme a minute,” he said and stepped across the gangway to the cabin.
The digital camera clicked rapidly and extensively, taking photos of every part of the vessel on view until the sound of footsteps heralded the return of the old sailor.
James Flannigan’s lecherous gaze was hard to disguise. He answered questions readily, and his answers were flowing like the Clyde itself until the questions reached the period 1994.
Annabel said, “Would it be fair to say you have to take any task these days to run your boat?”
“Aye,” he said, nodding slowly, “but within reason, ye’ know.” He continued nodding absently and his eyes misted over. “Ye’ have tae earn yer money or ye’ lose yer livelihood. It’s due tae my small jobs ah’ have a modest wee house along in Cove.”
“What would be your most profitable cargo these days?”
“Folk,” he said and looked her in the eye. “Aye, folk are the most profitable.”
“By folk,” she said. She stared wide-eyed, with lips parted. “You mean people—as cargo?”
“Aye well, ah’ mean like fer day-long fishin’ trips, ye’ know, or coastal tours.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, biting on a ruby red lip with immaculate teeth. “For a moment, I thought you meant bringing folk into the country from abroad.”
“Aye well, there’s a lot o’ money in the people smuggling business, apparently.” He smiled, showing several gold-capped teeth. “Obviously ah’ widnae be doin’ anythin’ like it. Smuggling anythin’ is illegal, isn’ it, Miss Foster.” He winked at her.
Annabel’s stomach turned as she tolerated his constant gaze, which screamed out he was mentally undressing her.
During the interview, the old sea dog was keen to show Annabel his cabin and agreed to explain how to navigate the Clyde channels. Once out of the public eye he used the opportunity to ‘guide’ his guest with a light touch on her arm, or her waist.
Annabel reminded herself of the bigger picture and wondered how far he might try to go. He was already in dangerous territory.
Flannigan bent over the nautical map table to point out something of interest, and a letter with his postal address was stealthily removed from the side cabinet to Annabel’s pocket.
The charming reporter stayed for an hour, took lots of photos and made pages of notes for her article. She lightly kissed the old pervert on the cheek to give him a good whiff of her perfume, and she heard him inhale. Discipline stopped her from kneeing him in the groin.
“I better get going before you start your chat up lines,” she said. “Thank you for all you’ve shown me.”
“This is ma’ phone number,” he said, handing her a piece of paper. “If ye’d like another wee chat while yer around here ah’ could maybe treat ye’ tae dinner.”
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the number. “I might give you a call.” She treated him to her sexiest walk as she made her way back to the promenade. It was difficult because she was feeling nauseous.
A cup of tea in a nearby cafe and some idle chat was enough to find out the Margharita was due to leave on a journey within a couple of days. Tracy, the manager of the cafe, had worked there for many years. She knew to within a day or two when certain boats came and went.
“The Margharita, aye, she’ll be heading off next weekend,” Tracy said. “He takes her out as regular as clockwork ... every two months for a week.”
“What about day-long fishing trips?” Annabel removed her unnecessary glasses to wipe them with a tissue.
“He hasn’t done fishing trips in a long time. Not enough money in it you see, and I don’t know what he’s shipping these days, but it’s worth more than a couple of anglers.”
“Your observation sounds intriguing.”
“I’ll tell you what’s intriguing,” Tracy looked around. “Whatever he’s shipping doesn’t get unloaded here. I’ve seen him tie up after a trip and all comes off the boat is him.”
While she was on a winning streak, Annabel lifted the envelope from her bag and asked about the road.
Tracy gave her directions without hesitation. “You must know some wealthy people if you’re goin’ up to visit in Cove.”
“It’s a long-lost relative—I hope she’s at home. Thank you for the help.”
Annabel walked back along the tired promenade and wondered how any of the cafes or shops could survive on the meagre customer base they shared. She reached her car, looked around, and tilted the passenger seat forward to climb into the back.
She changed in the back of the car. A close-fitting black tracksuit, white trainers, and a white baseball cap with her natural hair tucked inside was the new look.
When content, she drove along the promenade past the Margharita. Flannigan was sitting on the pier smoking his pipe. Annabel contin
ued beyond her hotel and drove on to Cove three miles along the coast road. It was 14:00.
It was fresh and bright in the evening when Jake and Rachel rode out to Uddingston. Rachel led the way around the large industrial estate and pulled over for a few seconds, as they’d discussed earlier at her briefing. Jake noted the appearance of the black warehouse.
By 17:15 they’d completed a circuit of the sprawling complex, and Rachel led the way out and along a pot-holed road to some derelict buildings. The derelicts were one hundred metres from the industrial estate’s perimeter fence. Between and around the old buildings was a large area of untamed greenery, and trees.
The pair dismounted and pushed their bikes between clumps of bushes. Rachel unhooked a roll of tarpaulin she’d had attached to her bike. She unrolled the bright blue material and flipped it over. The other side was sprayed in patches, using a variety of colours, including green, yellow, red, blue, and brown.
They walked away a few metres and looked back at the camouflaged bikes.
“Amazing,” Jake said.
“It’ll do,” Rachel said, but she was pleased with the result. She led the way through the bushes and undergrowth to the nearest derelict building and headed up to the second floor. At the appropriate apartment, Rachel pointed out the damaged floorboards to Jake.
Rachel walked across the large room with confidence. She stopped a metre in from the window and turned to see Jake trying to negotiate the dodgy flooring. She grinned as she watched him testing each step. “Come on, Jake.”
“How the Hell do we get out of here in a hurry?”
“Look at the floorboard joints,” she said. “Do you see thick black crosses?”
“Yes,” Jake said. “Are they the damaged ones?”
“No, I’ve marked the sound ones as damaged - use them and get over here, but stop with me, don’t go close to the window.”
As he made his way across the five-square-metre room, Jake shook his head. “How do we see those markings when it’s dark?”
“It’s the summer. We won’t be here when it’s dark.”
Jake arrived beside her and folded his leather jacket to kneel on it, mimicking what Rachel was doing. He accepted the binoculars from her and focused on the black warehouse. “I see everything around it clearly, but I can’t see into the tiny windows around the top.”
“Don’t worry about them. For now, we have to list every vehicle which stops there, by time, model, number of passengers and the registration number. We also have to note any other activity.”
In his flat in Southbank Street, Phil was pouring over the information gleaned from Kirsten. He was puzzled about where the smuggled people had been landed. Kirsten mentioned getting off the boat in the dark, and it wasn’t long before they reached the remote farm buildings. They had been allowed outside the next morning, and they were surrounded by mountains on three sides.
The clues were there. Phil and Annabel agreed they should first study the information independently. Comparing notes later would prove the best strategy.
Phil received a call from Annabel. She briefed him on the main points she’d discovered, and her intentions for the coming evening. He reminded her about putting herself at risk, forgetting the situations she’d survived in her past.
As they were chatting, Phil marked up Helensburgh and Cove with coloured pins on his Scotland map and made notes to the side. When the call ended, Annabel as always, said, “Ciao”, but Phil said, “Goodnight Annabel”. He used the phrase without thought.
Phil called Amy. They chatted for a few minutes and discussed when it would be good to go for a long run. They agreed to meet at 07:00 on Sunday morning beside the Nelson monument in Glasgow Green. Amy knew a running route.
Jake and Rachel were nearing the fourth hour of their shift in the derelict when a large truck turned up at the warehouse. Rachel read out the details, and Jake wrote it in the notebook.
“How unusual,” Rachel said as she watched through the binoculars. “The driver has spent five minutes manoeuvring to get the back of the vehicle touching the delivery door.”
“They don’t want anybody to see if they’re loading or unloading,” Jake said. “Or what it is they’re loading or unloading.”
“Precisely,” Rachel said. “It gives us a good reason to go and have a look through those small windows at some point unless we get good ‘intel’ from here.”
The truck was in position for twenty minutes and went through the same performance to get back out of the warehouse’s parking bay. Five minutes later, another vehicle turned up. Rachel observed for a few seconds and handed over the binoculars.
“What am I looking at?” Jake asked.
“You’ll see a new green Jaguar and two men. Note, one of them has a limp.”
“Right,” Jake said. “What’s the significance of any of those things?”
“The smartly dressed one is Martin Cameron, and the ugly one is Stevie Smith; driver, bodyguard, debt collector and all-round nasty bastard.”
“Do you mean Cameron, the gangster?”
“I mean Cameron the gangster who was found shot recently.”
Jake laughed, but it was cut short when a noise could be heard downstairs. He put down the binoculars.
Rachel turned towards the open doorway at the top of the stairs.
Jake looked from Rachel to the doorway and back.
Rachel put her right forefinger to her lips and pointed from Jake to his kit and the area near the doorway.
Jake lifted his leather jacket and watched out for the markings to choose a safe route.
Rachel picked up the binoculars, placed them in her backpack and secured the straps.
Jake had hardly reached the doorway when two lads in their late teens stepped into the room. One was the same build as Jake, while the other was much bigger and had a facial scar which made him look as if he was continually grinning. Both wore baseball caps.
Rachel was standing with her hands behind her back and moved a step to the right, away from the window. Her hair was draped down over her shoulders, and she was wearing a tight T-shirt and the bottom part of her leathers.
“Well, what have we got here, Ian?” the big newcomer said. “It looks like I’m gonna’ have a fuck tonight after all.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Keep him there and if he moves, fuckin’ stab him.”
Rachel stared into the eyes of the man advancing toward her.
Jake took a step forward, and Ian’s left hand flew up. A switchblade opened, and a six-inch blade stopped close to Jake’s throat.
“Go on, brave bastard,” Ian said. “You watch your girlfriend get fucked by us, or have your fuckin’ throat cut.” He nodded. “I’ve got this one covered Larry.” He laughed. “Give the honey a good shagging, but leave some for me mate.”
Larry undid his belt and took another step toward Rachel. “You do realise darlin’—I’ll be using this leather on you first. You know, to be sure we’re both ready.”
“Bring it on. I’m ready now.” From behind her back, Rachel brought her right arm forward. She was gripping a metre-long metal tube which she levelled at her waist. It was secure in both hands, pointing towards the antagonist. Rachel glanced at the floor and took a step to the right.
Larry grinned. “Your big tube was a silly thing to bring into play darlin’ because when we’re both finished shaggin’ you, we’ll be using the tube as well.” He laughed. “I bet you don’t have the strength to lift it, let alone swing it.”
“What do they call you on the street?” Rachel said. “Is it Larry limp-dick?” She licked her lips and winked at him.
Larry took two rapid paces forward and stumbled on a damaged floorboard. Rachel sidestepped, but instead of swinging the metal tube, she kept it at waist level and thrust it forward into Larry’s ribcage. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide and mouth gaping. His belt fell like a dead snake onto the filthy floor. He knelt there trying to breathe, which wasn’t helped by a freshly broken rib.
; “Now I swing it, Larry.” Rachel rested the metal tube on her right shoulder like a baseball bat. She swung it around with force at her would-be rapist’s head. As the metal sliced through the air, it made a whistling sound and finished the journey with a dull thud. Larry keeled over unconscious onto his right side with a fractured skull, broken jaw and five loosened teeth.
“You fuckin’ bitch!” Ian shouted.
“Come on Ian,” Rachel taunted him and rubbed her left palm on the front of her leathers. She glanced at the floor. When Ian was within three paces of her, Rachel stepped to the right two more paces. Ian turned to follow her, and his left foot went through the floor.
He screamed in agony as his leg disappeared up to the knee in the splintered wood. Ian fell forward onto his hands and right knee and dropped his blade. He didn’t see the metal tube coming down on the back of his head, which was a blessing.
“There you go, Ian,” Rachel said, her eyes blazing. “You wanted some kept for you—creepy little bastard.” She walked across to a hole in the corner of the room and dropped the metal tube into it.
“Rachel, you are bloody awesome,” Jake said. Throughout the dismantling of the two thugs, Jake had been rooted to the spot. He had stood there with his crash helmet in one hand and leather jacket in the other, his mouth gaping.
“You might not normally do violence Jake, but you’ll have to learn.” Rachel walked across to the window area, picked up her gear, and made her way across the floor with care, past the two casualties. “Let’s go, mate.”
Rachel led the way as they rode into the industrial estate, and parked around the corner from the black warehouse. They were close, but out of sight and the green Jaguar was there.
Rachel dismounted but left her bike’s engine running. She wrote something on a piece of paper. “Keep an eye in your mirrors, Jake. When you see me running back, I want you out of here.” She looked around. “I’ll catch up with you, and we’ll stop for a brew somewhere on the way, okay?”