Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

During Phil’s military career he had learned it was terrific having good ideas, but equally important to have somebody who can spot possible flaws.

  When Phil left the two women on Saturday to pick up his second Transit van, he received a call from the police. The Transit taken for forensic examination was ready for collection from Police HQ. Phil didn’t wish to appear in a hurry and said he’d pick it up on Monday. It would be a good alibi—for the police to believe Phil was without a van over the weekend.

  Phil picked up Rachel in his car so they could collect what Phil called the ‘dirty’ van from Tommy’s dealership. After the brothel mission, the van had been taken to Tommy’s garage, thoroughly cleaned, and re-sprayed black. While it was being worked on, Phil bought a ‘clean’ white van, which was the vehicle the police had collected.

  When Annabel arrived at the lockup, the next briefing got underway. The day would see two different missions for the team, but Jake was left out due to his injuries. During the presentation, it was agreed Hartley was looking favourite as the mysterious Godfather. He was elusive, although each tentacle of the underworld operation pointed to him. Something conclusive was needed as proof of the theory.

  At 12:00 a silver Saab pulled up opposite Ameel’s corner shop. Two men in suits left the car and crossed to the store. The driver was Willie Wilson, an old hand at the protection racket. He kept the engine running. The briefing from Cameron to the team was, ‘Get in and out quickly, and take as much money as the Paki bastards have got’.

  Wilson watched his two colleagues cross the road and go into the store. He turned up the stereo and tapped the steering wheel in time to his CD, ‘Music of the Eighties’. A black Transit van moved forward, and parked, blocking the view of the shop entrance.

  “Hey,” Wilson called. “Move the van forward.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The female driver squinted.

  “You heard me. Move the fucking van, bitch.”

  “Fuck off.” Rachel watched closely. She had options.

  Wilson flicked the boot release, got out, and went to the back of the Saab. He unrolled a blanket and lifted out a pump-action shotgun. He grinned as he pulled back on the wooden stock to feed a round into the chamber.

  “Right, you little tart.” Wilson slammed the boot lid down, but when he turned to cross the road, he stopped. The business end of a Glock pistol was an arm’s length from his forehead. The last person he saw was an attractive woman in a one-piece black overall. She was holding the suppressed automatic.

  “Nasty bastard,” were the last words Wilson heard before he died.

  James and Matthew McDougall had been on murder charges several times and had escaped justice, usually because of loopholes in the law. Their pictures had appeared on the front pages as they gave victory salutes outside court. On one occasion, it had been a trial for killing a lone, unarmed police officer.

  As the twins strolled towards the counter in the shop, they laughed. It had been agreed to rough up Aleem after he’d paid them. They were blissfully unaware of their driver’s execution in the street.

  Matthew said, “What’s going on with the plastic sheeting on the floor?”

  “It’s for his slimy fucking customers,” James said.

  Ameel stood behind his counter, stone-faced, and trembling. A man was standing at the counter facing the shopkeeper.

  “Hey you,” James said, “fuck off out of here.”

  Phil winked at Ameel and turned with his Sig Sauer 9mm levelled at the gangsters. “I don’t think I will. Both of you clasp your hands behind your heads.”

  The twins halted two metres away from Phil but didn’t move their hands.

  “There are two of us, you sad bastard.” Matthew turned to his brother and shook his head.

  James reached inside his jacket. A muffled ‘phutt’ echoed in the small store, and the bullet entered the gangster’s forehead between his eyebrows. He crumpled with his pistol stuck in the shoulder holster. His lifeless arm fell from within his jacket.

  “Now there’s one of you.” Phil aimed at the other thug.

  Wide-eyed, raging, and not a man to learn from experience, Matthew reached inside his jacket. He fell on top of his brother, his gun also in the holster.

  Rachel slid open the side door of the Transit.

  Phil and Annabel wrapped the bodies of the twins individually in plastic sheeting and dragged them from the store to load them into the van. Wilson’s body was left in the street with his unloaded shotgun and the silver car. The shotgun and the Saab would disappear before the police arrived.

  At 13:30 a van pulled up at the front gate of Cameron’s remote home. When the vehicle pulled away, two corpses with bullet holes in their heads were lying at the roadside opposite the entrance. The van headed back to Glasgow. A mile along the road, Annabel used a public phone to make an anonymous call to the police. She mentioned a note on one of the bodies, which said Martin Cameron was the boss, and a hashish consignment was being organised for him.

  Jeff Collins left the Mattsani warehouse in Uddingston at 14:00. He was on his way to the Drumchapel housing estate to start his usual circuit. Collins had been driving the ice-cream van for the company for two months. It wasn’t the work he wanted, but he received a bonus for passing packages to taxi drivers throughout his shift.

  Carrying illegal substances and passing them on didn’t bother Collins, as long as he was paid. The greatest irritation was playing the musical jingle every time he made a stop.

  When he approached the slip road onto the Clydeside Expressway, he noticed the dark Toyota behind him. He tried to ignore the car, but when he reached Partick, his nerves were playing up. It had been behind him far too long. Collins turned off the expressway and into the nearest side street. The Toyota followed and pulled in front.

  Collins was reaching down into the passenger foot-well for his baseball bat when he saw both doors open on the dark coupe. It had to be one of those covert patrol cars because the man and woman were both in police uniform.

  “Good morning officer.” Collins slid the baseball bat down to the floor.

  “Good afternoon.” Annabel adjusted her hat. “I’d like to caution you.”

  “But what have I—”

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Annabel interrupted. “That’s it.”

  “What do you mean—that’s it?”

  “Go into your van, and pass two large cartons of Mattsani’s Wafers out to my colleague.”

  “But I can’t—”

  Annabel rested the barrel of her automatic on the open window. “Pass two cartons out, or I’ll fucking shoot you.”

  Three minutes later, Collins was sitting in the damp driver’s seat of his ice-cream van, handcuffed to the steering wheel. He watched as the Toyota pulled away with half his stock of top-grade hashish. It would be better if the police found him with the remainder. If his bosses found him first, he’d be a dead man.

  At 15:00, Phil and Annabel were parked in a side street near Anniesland Cross. Annabel received a brief call. She gestured with her left hand for Phil to continue. He pulled up to the junction with the Great Western Road, and within a few minutes, a Mattsani ice-cream van went past, closely followed by a yellow motorbike.

  The Toyota tailed the ice-cream van and motorbike along the main road and through the intersection at Anniesland Cross. When the blue and white van turned up Maryhill Road, the motorbike pulled over, and the rider touched her right forefinger to her visor.

  As the other driver had done, the Mattsani driver noticed the blue coupe and took evasive action. He turned at the next available corner, and drove into a side street, hoping the Toyota would continue its journey. The Toyota did continue its journey, by following the van into the side street.

  The scene played out similarly to the first hijacking, but with an exception. When Annabel produced her automatic, the driver urinated. It was unfortunate because he was left to sit in it when he was handcuffed to the steering wheel.

 
Phil and Annabel drove straight to Kirkintilloch and used a narrow track to detour away from Cameron’s house. They reached the back of the woodland which backed onto the remote house. Rachel was already there, standing beside her bike at the edge of the tree line.

  Rachel had prepared a spot in the woods, and it took the three operatives a few minutes to unload the cartons of hash and camouflage them within the woods. Annabel spread liberal amounts of mixed peppers and spices around the site to prevent interest from animals.

  In the evening, Phil drove to Amy’s place, in Newhouse Road, Rutherglen. He wore a dark blue shirt and black Chinos. It would be a change from jeans and look like he’d made an effort. He was unsure of a gift and opted for flowers and a bottle of wine.

  “Hello,” Amy said as she opened the door.

  “Hi,” he said and paused. Having seen her in black and white police uniform, and in running kit, he wasn’t prepared for the sight of her in regular clothes. Phil was stunned by the transformation. “If this is casual—you do casual well.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled and stepped back. “Please, come in.” Amy was wearing lightly applied, but effective make-up and her long blonde hair worn down, over her left shoulder. The hem of her red halter-neck mini-dress stopped halfway up her thighs, and her high heels gave the perfect finish.

  In the living room, she poured Phil a glass of wine. “The meal will be ready shortly, but I’m glad you arrived early.” Amy appraised him. “I’m also glad you survived our jog.”

  “It was hardly a jog.”

  Amy laughed. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come. I thought you might consider me pushy.”

  “I find you interesting, and you’re an attractive young woman.”

  “Are you uncomfortable?” The bright smile faded.

  “I’m sorry, do I appear uncomfortable,” Phil said, sitting on the sofa.

  “No, but you sound it.”

  “In what way?”

  “You’re on edge as if you were nervous being alone with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m out of practice, and you’re—”

  “Please, don’t say young.” She sat beside him. “I’m younger than you Phil, but I’m a grown woman.”

  “I was going to say, you’re attractive,” he lied. It won back her enchanting smile. “I’m sorry. I’m old-fashioned when it comes to certain things.”

  “Things like being in an intimate setting with a younger woman?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Let’s make a deal.”

  He didn’t speak, but tilted his head to one side and raised an eyebrow.

  Amy said, “We’ll enjoy our meal and a glass of wine, and afterwards we’ll chat. If I can’t keep you interested, you go home.”

  “It’s a deal.” He appreciated her candid approach and held up his glass in a toast.

  Early on during their meal, they talked about how the city had developed. Phil eased the conversation to focus on Amy. She talked about how she ended up in the police, and how she enjoyed her job.

  Phil asked about her hopes and career prospects. Amy said she wanted to be a detective. She was all for the uniform role, but she thought she’d enjoy the hard work, and long hours of the guy’s who investigated serious crime. She talked for a while about her fantasy of joining the Secret Service, MI5 or MI6.

  Phil said, “Would you seriously consider covert work?”

  “Yes,” she said, “but I’d like to make detective first, to prove myself capable.”

  “I understand.” He sipped his wine and nodded to encourage her to continue.

  Amy explained how the recent lack of a computer system had increased her credibility. She was one of a few who could use the old-school methods.

  They moved to the sofa and placed their wine glasses on the coffee table.

  Phil pointed out a fly in the ointment. “It’s made to look glamorous in movies and TV shows.”

  “I’m aware of the horror of mutilated bodies, dead children, and the appearance of other fatalities. Many aspects of the job are unpleasant, but I want to bring bad guys to justice.”

  “It’s a commendable philosophy. Do your superiors know about your hopes?”

  “Yes. DI Griffiths, y’know the guy who interviewed you? He got me attached to Pitt Street, as part of the temporary reinforcements. At the station where we usually work, he often gives me information and asks me to dig deep.”

  “How do you do in practice?”

  “I wouldn’t boast, but according to the DI, I’ve got the right mindset.” Amy leant forward to lift her glass from the coffee table, offering a generous view of her cleavage.

  “Have you uncovered any deep and dark secrets recently?”

  “I have,” she said. “What I uncovered was one of the reasons I asked you to dinner.” She bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry, I sound awful.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said and smiled. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Before I go on, do you promise not to lose your temper?”

  “Of course,” Phil said, intrigued.

  “This is embarrassing, but in your case, I took a keen interest in what you were doing in the interview room.” She sipped her wine and took a deep breath.

  “I promise I’ll stay calm, whatever you say.”

  “I’d seen you out running,” she said, “and a couple of times you were in shorts and a vest.” She turned away briefly, before meeting his gaze. “I thought you were pretty hot, y’know—”

  “For a slightly older guy,” Phil prompted, and grinned. He lifted his wine.

  “Exactly,” she said. “Anyway, when I saw you in the station, I thought, what a coincidence - the new runner in here, helping with enquiries.”

  Phil lifted the bottle to pour them both more wine. He placed the bottle and his glass on the table and sat back to study his companion as she continued.

  Amy said, “I checked the case your interview was related to, and to cut a long story short, I did some digging. I held a secret hope you were involved.”

  “You hoped I was the man they were looking for?”

  “It sounds terrible. I know, as a police officer I should condemn the actions of a vigilante. I’ve always had an admiration for somebody who puts themselves in danger to achieve justice.”

  “Would you expect me to admit to being the vigilante?”

  Amy’s eyes opened wider, and her lips parted. The reactions were natural because they were too rapid in response to his question. “You don’t have to lie to impress me.” Her beaming smile returned. “It’s fine if you genuinely reported to help with enquiries.”

  “I’m sorry,” Phil said, avoiding a direct answer. “I stopped you revealing what you found out. You did some digging ....”

  “Since I’ve been in the job, most gangland crimes have had a suspect, or suspects known to us. They kill, maim, or do unspeakable things, and they might show mutual respect or honour, but chivalry isn’t their style.”

  Phil nodded but remained silent.

  Amy said, “I read the reports about recent incidents, and two caught my imagination.” She sipped her drink and turned towards Phil. She gazed into his eyes.

  Phil said, “I’ve read about several incidents in the papers recently.”

  “It was two incidents involving brothels,” Amy said. “One was a carbon copy of the other. I’m referring to the mass kidnapping or rescues as I like to think of them.”

  “Rescues?”

  “From what I’ve read, those killed or injured were the perpetrators. Apart from which, substantial quantities of drugs were found. It means whoever got those people out of there didn’t intend to use them the same way.”

  “It sounds like a reasonable theory.”

  “Those responsible left sufficient evidence for law enforcement,” Amy paused. “Anyway, because of a sighting of a van, your van was brought in to be checked. Forensics found traces of blonde, ginger, and several brown hairs in the back of the van. Everybody upstairs got exc
ited.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Everybody, except DI Griffiths. He didn’t comment.” Amy continued to study Phil’s expression as she spoke. “When the lab discovered the hairs belonged to different species of dogs I laughed. DI Griffiths laughed too.”

  “Apart from the van, and my interview, what else brought me to mind?”

  “I first saw you during my morning run in early July—when the first strange incidents took place.”

  “How would you remember me appearing on your route?”

  “I wrote it in my running diary at the time.” She coloured.

  “You are a sweet girl.” He reached out and briefly placed a hand on her thigh.

  “After your interview with DI Griffiths, I wanted to find out about you, but all I had as a start point was your van and your name.”

  Phil smiled and reached for his wine.

  Amy said, “I double-checked the van registration details with the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Authority. I found out where the van was bought, how long you’d owned it, and where you lived. I also discovered you had a Toyota Celica.”

  “Lots of people own a van and a car.” He held her gaze, which was a pleasant experience.

  “My interest was piqued when I found out your Toyota was registered in Hereford in England. I contacted my opposite number in the main police office in Hereford. He informed me it was the home of the elite 22nd Special Air Service Regiment.”

  Phil sipped his wine and placed the glass on the table.

  Amy said, “I later recalled a snippet of conversation from DI Griffiths to you.”

  “Go on.”

  “At the front desk, he’d said how good it would be if you were on the team. I checked on him later. I was aware he’d been a Serviceman, but not that he was ex-SAS—like you Phil.”

  “You’ve put in a good deal of effort,” Phil said. “I suppose you’re eager to know if I’m going to admit or deny your findings.”

  “I wouldn’t like you to think this is a honey-trap. We’re not being filmed or recorded. What we have this evening is, more or less what you see.”

  “Ahh, it’s more or less what I see. What is it leading up to?”