Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

  “I’m buying,” Jake said.

  Rachel slapped his shoulder and nodded before she jogged toward the corner of the warehouse. She ran forward and tucked her message under one of the Jaguar’s wiper blades. Before leaving, she lifted a large rock from the nearby embankment and thumped it against the bumper near the number plate. Before she’d run a few paces, the piercing car alarm sounded.

  Five minutes after delivering her message, Rachel was racing up behind Jake’s bike on the way to a cafe in Glasgow.

  16. Sharing Opinions

  .

  Friday 19th July

  Jake had arrived early for training as usual. He was given his most difficult electronic safe to work on. In half an hour, he pulled the door open.

  “Well done,” Arkwright said. “Is there something on your mind mate, because you seem a bit distant, though you’re doing well?”

  “It’s hard to explain, and a bit embarrassing.”

  “Nothing is hard to explain, or embarrassing Jake. Both areas require the right attitude to approach the subject.” Arkwright placed a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “I think it’s time for an early brew and a chat.”

  They sat in silence drinking strong tea. Arkwright gazed at his trainee and grinned. One minute the lad was confident and ready for anything and the next minute appeared as vulnerable as a child.

  “Tell me, mate,” Arkwright said. “Is it a woman, or is it what you’re doing here, or is it maybe a whole host of shit?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s me being a fucking idiot.”

  Arkwright lifted his mug. He was pleased the floodgates were about to open. Jake’s concentration was paramount, and it could be badly affected by outside issues.

  “Yesterday, I was pissed off with you for the stunt in the lobby.” Jake met Arkwright’s gaze. “I’m sorry. When we had our chat afterwards I could see the sense of it - and I have to admit, it did the job. You frightened the shit out of me.” He smiled. “The cash in the envelope was a nice surprise.”

  Arkwright smiled but said nothing. He sipped his tea and waited.

  “You don’t want to hear it,” Jake said.

  “It makes no difference if I want to hear it, Jake, you have to say it out loud my friend.”

  “We have some guys who come around where I live in Drumchapel.” Jake turned away briefly. “I told you about my dad walking out a while ago. Well, I’ve been obtaining money for my mother, but I’ve got a horrible feeling she’s borrowed money from these guys. She says she’s doing okay, but—”

  “Isn’t your team doing something about those low-life bastards?”

  “I’m sure they’ll be dealt with, but it might be too late ... y’know if she has no cash when they turn up. I have to protect her from those fucking scumbags.”

  “There’s more to it, isn’t there?” Arkwright said.

  “I tell people my dad walked out on us, which is what I’ve told people for years.” He studied his tea. “My dad was a successful businessman in the city—an investment manager for a big firm. He worked hard and often had to go away for days at a time. We had a nice big house out in the suburbs and a car. I attended a posh academy.”

  Arkwright nodded.

  “One of my dad’s colleagues was charged in a massive fraud case, but he dragged my dad and another guy into it. He said they were accomplices. My dad was fired, and inside a few weeks; we lost the house, and the car—and I left the academy.”

  “Surely an investigation took place,” Arkwright said.

  “It was too late. My dad was out of work, and we moved back to Drumchapel, to the housing estate we’d left years before. I attended the local secondary school. A month after we moved back to the housing estate, my dad walked out of the front door—and half an hour later stepped in front of a train.”

  “Jesus Christ son,” Arkwright said. “I’m sorry. Was his name cleared?”

  “Yes, it was our moment of triumph. His name was cleared—the day after his funeral. The bastard who stitched him up was back in investment banking after a short prison term. He was out every morning in his pin-stripe suit, and off on a train journey to his plush office.”

  “The city and the money-men took your father, and ruined your life.”

  Jake finished his tea. “There you have it; the city, and money-men. I made it my job, to make some of them pay every day.”

  “What else is going on in your head?”

  “Fuck it,” Jake said. “One of the things is Rachel—you know the girl on the bike?”

  Arkwright nodded.

  “With everything else going on I'm just selfish,” Jake said. “I’m crazy about her. She’s beautiful, strong, confident, and she’s seen the way I look at her.”

  “Well at least you’re honest,” Arkwright said and laughed. “I like honesty.” He fixed his gaze on Jake. “Relax for a few minutes, mate. I have a call which is overdue.”

  “Hey, Arkwright,”

  “Yes mate,” the old agent said, pausing at the door.

  “Thanks.”

  Arkwright winked and closed the door as he left the room. He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled. “Hello Annabel my dear, how are you this morning?” He listened and smiled. “Before I continue, this conversation isn’t taking place.” He paused. “Perhaps you could assist with a small problem.” He made no suggestions but provided background information. When the short call was over, Arkwright stood in the corridor. He thought back to when he trained Annabel. It had been several years before, and he’d been besotted with her. It was made worse because he still was.

  Phil had been for an early morning run, before spending time in his ops room. He had a short list of tasks he wanted the team to tackle, but completed in a particular order. One job would require to be done on a Friday morning. He went through the notes he’d made from Rachel’s briefings and Annabel’s recent phone call.

  Whoever was at the top of the chain of command may be a crook, but he was smart. He wasn’t personally involved at any stage of the criminal activities. Two names had been given to Phil by accident when he was about to execute Bullets Barnes.

  McGinley and Hartley were both on Phil’s board, and he felt sure the main man was one of those two. Nobody was prepared to say either of them was the Godfather of the Glasgow underworld. It was time to raise the body count. Phil’s phone buzzed.

  “Good morning, Annabel. How are things?” He listened. “Yes, we’ll have a chat this afternoon. I’d like Rachel to be involved because she’ll be giving us both a briefing on the ice-cream warehouse. It sounds like strange occurrences over there.”

  He listened and lifted a pen to make some notes. “Unless I call to amend it, we’ll meet up at the roadside cafe near Dumbarton East. Yes, the one with the filling station next door. At 13:00, please. Would you call Rachel and give her the heads-up? Thanks. Ciao.”

  A few minutes after the call, Phil had secured his ops room and was next door. He dressed in tracksuit and trainers, lifted his small backpack, car keys, and left.

  Phil was on the M8 within five minutes and heading west towards the Clydeside Expressway. The clouds darkened during his journey and a light shower fell. At 10:00 he turned off the A82, and headed towards Hardgate. He drove through the quiet district watching for an appropriate side street. It didn’t take long.

  At 10:15 Phil jogged along the track which led through the countryside to the northwest boundary of the Drumchapel housing estate. The track was two miles long but was a favourite route for folk to walk in pleasant weather. Phil was pleased the sky was getting darker and the rainfall heavier. Along the length of the track was high hedgerow on both sides. Halfway along, a group of farm buildings stood out on the right.

  Phil passed the farm and a few minutes later, reached the junction where the dirt track arrived at the back of the sprawling housing estate. At the junction was the Lilly Burn, the small stream after which, one of the nearby streets was named.

  The trees in each direction were in full bloom an
d combined with the grey sky and rain they gave reasonable shade to the small natural junction. To continue forward would take Phil to the Bluebell Woods, frequented by children, courting couples, and occasionally more dubious characters. To take the track right and over the shallow stream was to enter the estate. Phil turned right.

  After one hundred metres, the dirt track ended with a metal swing barrier. Monymusk Place was the street name, but the first line of modernised houses didn’t start until fifty metres after the barrier. Between the gate and the housing was a dark blue 4 x 4; a Nissan Patrol. Before continuing, Phil dealt with the padlock and raised the pole barrier into the open position. He stepped into the bushes to observe the area and the vehicle.

  A few small children played in the street, and others chased each other on bikes near the houses. The children were oblivious to the wet weather, and their parents presumably oblivious to any effect the weather might have on their offspring.

  Phil maintained a regular glance back towards the track and the tree-covered junction. He was pleased to see no youngsters were playing there.

  Archie Thompson was thirty-two and had always been a thug, but was too dumb to climb the distinctive career ladder of the underworld. At six feet tall, and weighing one hundred and seventy pounds, he enjoyed the option of beating a man unconscious or forcing himself on a woman. Simpson usually collected when the unfortunate debtor was a pretty female of any age.

  Few things gave him greater pleasure than finding out a debtor had insufficient cash, except rare occasions when he could beat a husband to a pulp, and rape the wife. For Simpson, doing the double was a real result. On this particular day, he had opted to drive the car and let his two henchmen collect. Simpson was one of Hartley’s favourite enforcers because although he occasionally skimmed from the cash, he was dependable.

  Phil pulled on his black woollen hat, jogged forward, and tapped on the passenger window of the 4 x 4. The window lowered silently to the halfway position, and the big scar-faced driver turned to face his unwelcome visitor. “What the fuck do you want?” He continued to hold his girlie magazine open at the centrefold.

  Phil said, “I want you to reverse this vehicle up beyond the barrier to the stream.”

  “If you fuck off right now, I won’t get out and break every bone in your fuckin’ body.”

  “If you do as you’re told, I won’t blow your fuckin’ head off right here.” Phil rested the barrel of his 9mm on the half-open window.

  Phil reached in with his left hand to open the passenger door. Miss July slipped to the floor and was crushed and twisted under the foot pedals of the vehicle as Simpson concentrated on staying alive. The 4 x 4 reversed back under the canopy of the trees.

  It was ten minutes before the other two hoodlums appeared. Both of them were tall. One was blond and slightly built, while the other was ginger-haired and broad-shouldered. They were in smart business suits. As they walked down the path and reached the kerbside, Ginger looked up and down the street as he made a show of pulling up his zip. He looked back over his shoulder and winked at someone in the house.

  “Hey, guys!” Phil shouted and waved.

  The underworld debt collectors had no shelter from the rain. They pulled up their jacket collars, and both ran along to the end of the road. They passed the barrier and continued along the track towards the car.

  When the two thugs were within twenty metres, Phil opened the rear passenger door, stood behind it, and pulled down the front of the black woolly hat. It was a ski-mask which effectively hid his identity.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Blondie said.

  “What’s wrong with Archie?” Ginger said.

  The pair of them stopped a few paces from the vehicle, and the rain washed over them. They stared at the big man behind the wheel, sitting upright in the driver’s seat with a small hole in his forehead.

  “Archie’s fuckin’ dead,” Blondie said.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Phil said. “Now, both of you get your hands clasped behind your heads, and get into the back seats—or you’ll be joining Archie.” He stepped away to let them see the pistol. Blondie climbed in awkwardly and shuffled across. Ginger moved a hand to steady himself, and the gun touched him behind the ear. His hands were clasped behind his head rapidly.

  “Now you,” Phil said, looking at Ginger. “I want all the money, and your book dropped onto the front passenger seat.”

  “You’ll have to take it if you want it,” he replied and grinned.

  Phil said, “Did you abuse somebody in the house down there?”

  “Nah,” Ginger said, and turned to wink at Blondie. “I didn’t abuse her. I gave her a good shaggin’.” He laughed, but it was short-lived. When he turned to face Phil, the bullet didn’t register in his brain—it lodged there.

  Blondie recoiled, splattered with his colleague’s blood. He kept his hands firmly clasped behind his head. “I don’t touch them, honest. I collect the money.”

  “Now, you empty your pockets and his. I want the lists of names, all the money, and his phone.”

  It took Blondie a few seconds to locate their two books of clients. He handed both to Phil and found his dead colleague’s phone, which he dropped on the floor. When Phil looked at him, he rapidly went through every pocket and emptied handfuls of money. He returned his hands behind his head.

  Phil swung his pack from his shoulder and opened it. He flicked through one book, and the other. He found Emma Carter, Fasque Place, in the second book. She had borrowed £500. Thus far, she had paid back more than £2000.

  Blondie watched in silence. Phil lifted large bundles of £20 notes and stuffed them into his pack until it was almost full. He tore out the page for Emma Carter and dropped it into his bag. When satisfied, Phil dropped the books, the remaining money, and Ginger’s phone into the front foot-well.

  “Who’s your boss?” Phil said.

  “The dead guy in the front ... was my boss ... Archie Simpson.”

  “Who’s the man who gave Simpson his orders, and where do I find him?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “This isn’t fuckin’ Russian Roulette my friend. My gun always goes bang.” Phil aimed directly at Blondie’s head. “Simpson’s boss?”

  “I think his name is ... Hartley.”

  Phil shook his head and moved the pistol closer to its target.

  Blondie urinated. “It’s Hartley, honest, it’s fuckin’ Hartley, but I don’t know where he lives.”

  “Get your phone out, and call for the police, and an ambulance.”

  Blondie pulled out his mobile phone in a shaking hand and looked at Phil before he dialled 999. He squinted and shook his head. “They don’t need an ambulance, they’re both fucking dead.”

  “Do as you’re told ....”

  The communications centre message was patiently repeated loud and clear from Blondie’s phone, “Emergency. Which service do you require?”

  “Police,” Blondie said. He hesitated, and turned to Phil, puzzled.

  Phil lowered the pistol and shot Blondie in the thigh.

  “A fucking ambulance, I need a fucking ambulance,” Blondie screamed. “Monymusk Place, Drumchapel.”

  Phil took the phone and dropped it into the foot-well. He had Simpson’s phone. Phil produced handcuffs from his backpack and watched as Blondie whimpered while fumbling with the cuffs.

  “Clip one to the door handle,” Phil watched the man’s hands shake as he dealt with the cuffs, and tried to stem the bleeding from his leg. “How long have you done this shit?”

  “About six months, honest—” Blondie stammered.

  “Stop saying honest,” Phil said. “I’m not a fuckin’ priest.” He looked towards the houses, and children playing in the light drizzle. “I suggest when you get out of prison you take up other work. You should have died rather than give me a name.”

  Phil stepped away from the vehicle and listened. Sirens could be heard approaching. He put his pistol inside his backpack, zip
ped it and slung it over his shoulders. He pulled on the straps and turned to go. He glanced at the dead man in the back seat and looked at Blondie.

  “If anybody comes after me—I’ll come back and kill you.” He turned away, pulled his ski-mask off, and jogged up the track towards Hardgate.

  At 12:40, Phil was approaching Dumbarton on the A82 when a yellow motorbike approached at speed in the overtaking lane. The bike slowed, and the rider who was wearing black leathers and a full-face helmet glanced sideways. With a flick of a wrist, the bike’s engine roared, and the machine thundered into the distance.

  “The girl doesn’t miss anything,” Phil mused. When he pulled into the car park of the Transport Chef, he parked beside a red VW Golf GTi. Two bays along, Rachel was standing beside her Norton. Her crash helmet was on the seat, and she was unzipping her leathers.

  Phil was in his favourite attire of T-shirt and jeans. On entering the cafe, he was taken aback to see Annabel in a similar outfit, except she was wearing a chequered shirt, and looked terrific. As usual, Rachel drew admiring glances from the men and cold looks from the women as she strode into the place in her snug Daisy Dukes and white T-shirt. She sat beside Annabel.

  When all three were seated and had a coffee in front of them, Phil dropped his notebook and pen on the table. “Remind me when we leave, Rachel ... I’ve got a package I’d like you to deliver.”

  “Will do, Boss.”

  Annabel said, “Should we eat before we talk business?”

  “Good idea,” Phil said. “We’ve got a lot to cover.”

  They enjoyed their meal, made small talk, and ordered more coffees. Rachel was the catalyst when it came to developing human traits in her superiors. Without her presence, a regular conversation didn’t exist.

  Rachel reported on her surveillance task with Jake. She produced a breakdown of the number of vans which turned up to load boxes of ‘wafers’. She emphasised the truck driver’s performance—getting his vehicle close to prevent a view from any direction, and explained about Cameron and Smith visiting.