by Tom Benson
“It says, ‘ask me about Cameron’s activities—especially the hashish.’ Sam held up the bandage for Smith to see.
Eddie ran his finger up and down the wire pulley, and grinned at the uneasy patient.
Sam dropped the bagged dressing on the chair. “Tell us about these activities, Stevie boy.”
“I’ve got fuck all to say to you.”
Eddie gripped the pulley and hoisted the injured leg higher. “I wonder how high this will go before I let go ....”
“This is fuckin’ police harassment,” Smith said. “You bastards can’t do this.” When his arm shot out to reach for the emergency cord, Sam grabbed the wrist and shook his head. Smith was perspiring heavily. He swallowed hard.
Sam used his free hand to flick the white cord over the curtain rail around the bed. “It must be a bad injury if they don’t want any weight on it, yet,” He winked at Eddie. “One of the doctors told me they found a bullet amongst the bone fragments.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Smith said. “I woke up with a damaged ankle.”
Sam half-closed his eyes and shook his head. “It must have hurt like fuck Stevie. Who would want to shoot a nice guy like you?”
“I don’t know, but when I—”
“You don’t know, but when you get out, you’re going to do nasty things to them. Yeah, we’ve heard all the revenge shit before. We want to know about your boss’s involvement in drugs.”
“He might be getting into the drug game, but I don’t know any details. It’s the truth.”
“You wouldn’t know the truth if it came through the door playing a fucking trumpet. You are a lying bastard, and we may have to jog your memory.” Sam turned to Eddie. “Be careful with the pulley, Sergeant.”
Eddie hauled Smith’s leg higher.
“Okay, okay” Smith gasped. “There’s a deal going on, and he’s visited a warehouse.”
“What was in this warehouse—and remember, DS Monroe isn’t strong.”
Eddie groaned and allowed the pulley to slip an inch.
“I think it was to do with moving hashish.” Smith stared at the DS.
“Where is the warehouse?” Sam asked.
“I can’t remember,” Beads of perspiration had built up on Smith’s forehead. “Seriously ... I’ve been there once. It’s a fucking warehouse.”
“Now we both know bollocks when we hear it, Stevie. Who owns the place?”
“It belongs to an ice-cream company.”
“Have you any idea how many man-hours we’ll use visiting all the ice-cream places. Give us a break.”
“I don’t fucking know,” Smith gasped. The pulley dropped another inch. “Please.”
“Well, we have to go now,” Sam said. “You’re getting boring, but it’s nice to know your vocabulary includes ‘please’. See you later, Stevie.” Sam tapped Eddie’s arm. “Sergeant, stop fucking around with the pulley.”
“Okay, Sir,” Eddie said and released his grip.
Smith’s teeth were clamped together as he stared at the bandaged foot descending.
Sam told the constable guarding the room to leave the patient undisturbed because he was worn out.
“What next?” Eddie asked, on the way to the car park.
“It’s time to have a chat with Cameron. Let’s take a ride out to Kirkintilloch.”
While Rachel was ferrying the cartons through the bushes in Cameron’s large back garden, Annabel had located herself high in a tree two hundred metres away. She had a commanding view of the east side of the property, and she had all the equipment she’d need.
Inside the garage, Rachel and Jake opened the four large cartons and stacked the contents on the floor. Each block of hash was the size of a house-brick and double-wrapped in cellophane.
Jake said, “How do we conceal the gear, but make it easy for police to find.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Rachel said. “You deal with the outer cartons.”
Jake removed the tape from the large cartons and flattened them.
Rachel stored the bricks of hash into every available crevice in the building. She used storage cabinets, a tool-box, the grass box of the lawnmower, a bag of compost, and inside pots of paint.
When she had eight bricks left to distribute, Rachel used the five-star storage area. It took twenty seconds to gain entry to the Jaguar, and she fitted bricks under the front seats, and under the rear bench seat. It would be worth the effort. She raised the bonnet and secured two in cavities within the engine housing.
Rachel flipped the boot lid. “I’ll put the last two inside the spare wheel cavity.” She placed them inside and flattened the boot carpeting onto the cavity. “I want the flat-packed cartons on the carpet.”
“Got it,” Jake said, and groaned as he stooped to lift all four of the large, folded cartons. He laid them in the spacious luggage space, and Rachel clicked the boot lid down.
Jake knelt down, pressing his ribs. “I’m sorry.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
It was three metres to the side door, but before Jake could get take a step away from the back of the car, the electric garage door rose up, silently, steadily. Rachel dropped flat and looked under the increasing gap. She got up and grabbed a tyre lever.
Jake said, “What do we do?”
“Get underneath—now.”
Jake struggled to get down flat. Rachel was on the garage floor with her head under the back of the car. When she saw Jake’s head sliding in beside her, she shuffled down and gripped his jeans at the crotch. Jake’s eyes opened wide, and his jaw dropped open, but he shuffled under faster.
The electric door stopped in the halfway position.
“Now, what the fuck would you two want?” Cameron muttered, standing at the door.
The pair under the Jaguar exchanged a look of bewilderment, and Rachel steeled herself, ready to go into a rearguard action.
Rachel whispered. “Whatever I do, you get out of here, and run like fuck.”
“I can’t leave—”
“Jake.”
“Okay.”
The door descended and stopped a few inches short.
“Thank you for opening the gate, Mr Cameron. I’m DI Griffiths, and this is my colleague, DS Monroe. We wanted a moment of your time, but you’re heading out.”
The mechanism clicked, and the garage door descended.
“Move,” Rachel said. “I’ll stay in the doorway until you’re in the bushes.”
Jake slid out from under the car and made it to the side door. He was bent over, and paused at the door, holding his ribcage.
Rachel opened the door. “Go on mate. I’ll buy you a coffee on the way home.”
Jake disappeared into the shrubbery. Rachel stood inside the garage with her back to the side door. The electric door rose slowly.
Annabel kept her Sako sniper rifle in the aim. She’d first lifted the butt into her shoulder when she saw Cameron walk from the house to the garage, but she held back. She focused her sights on the security light above the garage door, knowing if she hit the small glass case it would explode, and frighten Cameron off.
When the garage door rose, there was no sign of Rachel or Jake. Cameron half-turned and operated the gate control as a car approached. He turned back and aimed the remote at the garage door, which descended.
Jake appeared at the side, crouched down and dashed into the bushes. A few seconds later he was joined by Rachel. They made progress through the shrubs and bushes to the back of the rear garden. Annabel adjusted her telescopic sight and observed them escape under the fence. Rachel filled in the hole under the fence, and the pair disappeared into the woodland.
A short while later, a low rumble of a motorbike engine could be heard on the back roads.
Cameron let the garage door close and turned his face reddening. “What would you like to ask me, DI Griffiths, because I’m busy?”
“Have you been to visit your employee, Mr Smith?”
“If I have, i
t isn’t a police matter. If you have no serious questions, I’d like you both to get off my property.”
“Mr Smith suggested you might know about the movement of drugs. We thought we’d give you the opportunity to clear up any misunderstanding. I intended to apply for a search warrant, but if you were to allow us to have a look around—”
“With the greatest respect,” Cameron interrupted. “Why don’t you both get in your car, and fuck off. Get a search warrant if you like, and if I’m home, I’ll let you have a look around.” He pressed the key fob to open his garage door.
“Come on Eddie, Mr Cameron is perfectly right. We have no right to remain if he asks us to leave.” The pair got into their car and reversed out of the gate.
Eddie said, “There must be something, Boss. The bastard’s laughing at us.”
“Apart from what Smith said, I had an anonymous call earlier mate.” Sam lifted the handset for the radio. “Hullo Tango Victor Three, this is Delta Four.”
“Tango Victor Three,” echoed from the speaker. “How may we be of assistance?”
“Delta Four, the small problem I called about earlier—it has arisen.”
“Tango Victor Three—now two miles, and closing.”
“Delta Four, thank you.” Sam hung the handset on the dashboard. “Pull over at the edge of the trees, please Eddie.”
“Tango Victor is a traffic call-sign. They’ll be powerless.”
“We’ll see.” Sam sat back as Cameron’s Jaguar came out of the gate onto the country road. The electronic gate closed behind the car, and Cameron paused to gesture at the two detectives with a middle finger.
A white Traffic Division patrol car approached at speed. The car’s blue lights were flashing, and the siren was wailing. As he should, Cameron pulled in to let them pass, but they pulled up behind his car, leaving the blue lights on. The two officers got out, put on their hats, and walked forward to the Jaguar.
“Good afternoon, Sir. I’m Sgt Dickinson of the Traffic Division. We’re doing roadside safety checks this week.”
“It’s a new Jaguar,” Cameron said. “It’s hardly likely to have safety issues.”
“I agree, it’s a lovely car, but I’d like to see your safety equipment?”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m always serious when it comes to road safety, Sir. I’d like to see your wheel-changing equipment, spare wheel, and accessories. My colleague will check your lights, wipers, horn, and seat-belts.” Sgt Dickinson smiled. “You’ll be on your way in a few minutes.”
“This is fucking police harassment.” Cameron operated the boot lid with a remote switch and got out of the car. “I’ll be writing a letter of complaint to your Chief Constable.”
“Writing a letter is your prerogative, Sir.” The traffic cop remained impassive as he escorted the motorist to the back of the car.
Cameron squinted at the sight of the folded, Matsani Wafer cartons. He lifted them out and dropped them on the ground. He pulled the toggle to lift the carpet, to discover two cellophane-wrapped packages squeezed in beside the spare wheel. Cameron closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
Sgt Dickinson said, “Would you like to tell me what’s in those two parcels, Sir?”
“I don’t fucking know,” Cameron said and turned away.
“I’d like you to take a seat in the back of our car, Sir.”
Cameron was placed in the back of the patrol car. Sgt Dickinson called in a police tow truck.
A few minutes later, the two detectives arrived on the scene and parked in front of the Jaguar.
Sam strolled to the traffic cop. “Is everything okay, Sgt Dickinson?”
“I’ve requested a tow truck. Later we’ll have a closer look at this vehicle. It appears to be loaded with packages which the owner says he didn’t know about.”
Sam walked to the patrol car and looked at the gangster. Cameron stared straight ahead, tight-lipped.
The scene was observed from two hundred metres away, by a woman in a tree with a sniper rifle—and a grin. Anonymous phone calls were becoming fun.
Amy had been going through records held in the paper archives. She’d made notes of names and dates. It was going to be a laborious task going through the old filing system. She was asked more than once what she was doing, and she replied she was working on information for DI Griffiths. She didn’t know anybody who’d question his motives.
Each time she was questioned she wished the computer network was working. She could have found out masses of information in a matter of minutes.
When it came to locating known associates of Martin Cameron the job was difficult. Cameron was an enforcer but remained detached from crime by keeping his distance from the men, and sometimes women, he used as muscle. He had appeared in court several times and apart from his younger days as a petty criminal—he avoided conviction.
Amy noted the name of Cameron’s solicitor, and having drawn a blank on Cameron, she followed up on the solicitor’s other clients and connections. He would appear as a visitor if he represented anybody. The man had a short, but diverse list of clients. Some of the information was blocked, and Amy spoke to the department’s computer whizz-kid.
Drew Blake was a geek, but a red-blooded male. When Amy fluttered her eyelashes and asked for help, Drew didn’t question her motives. He hesitated at one point and told her to be careful if she used the information he’d given her.
Amy kissed her fingertip and pressed it to his lips. “Drew, you are a sweetheart.”
Drew licked his lips for several minutes afterwards.
Amy checked the register of officers who were in and out of the station and made her way to the Chief Constable’s office. She ensured nobody saw her, went inside and closed the door behind her.
It took Amy a few minutes to set up the computer as a stand-alone. A few more minutes would see her accessing the documents. While bent forward, studying the screen, she didn’t see or hear the office door open.
“Is there something I might help you with, Constable?” Davenport said.
22. Observations
.
Tuesday 23rd July
Phil’s run took him past the Nelson monument in Glasgow Green. It was 06:30. Amy approached from the other direction. She paused beside a bush and knelt to check her shoelaces. One minute later she got up and continued on her route.
“Hi handsome,” she said as they passed each other.
“Hi sexy,” he responded. Phil stopped as Amy had done and while kneeling, he pulled the crystal ballpoint pen out of the earth where Amy had plunged it.
Back in his apartment after the run, Phil wiped the dirt from the pen tube. He removed the note which was rolled and slipped inside the tube.
‘Too much info for a note. I will be downstairs in coffee shop in Cambridge Street, from 13:00 - 14:00 today.’
Phil made two phone calls and considered his next moves.
Davenport was fuming since finding the young policewoman in his office the previous day. He was convinced her tale about testing individual computer terminals was a lie. She was tampering with the machine in his office, but what was she trying to find?
As she was leaving the office, Davenport had asked for her name and department. It was a passing question, and he didn’t fully consider her reply until later. Davenport sent for DI Griffiths.
Davenport said, “Constable Hughes is working as a collator, which is a general task, but she was investigating criminal associates on your behalf. Is this true?”
“Yes, Sir,” Sam lied. “I told her to dig into files going back a few years.”
“I asked you to find this bloody vigilante. Why have you got her chasing after associates of Martin Cameron?”
“I was working on a hunch, Sir.” Sam paused. “I thought the vigilante might have had a grudge with Cameron, and was winding him up by hitting his illegal business enterprises.”
“This isn’t a half-hour TV show, Sam,” Davenport said. “Let’s stick to good old
-fashioned police work. Find this vigilante killer for me.”
“Okay, Sir,” Sam said. “It will be my priority. It also occurred to me the vigilante might be an ex-associate of Cameron, and disagreement may have occurred.”
“Find the killer. One other point - make sure Constable Hughes stops snooping around. She could find herself in serious trouble.”
“Okay, Sir. I’ll find her and have a word.”
After Sam left the office, Davenport thought more about the blonde constable. Three people had experience in the role of the collator, but between them, they had access to anything and everything. Information existed on paper, microfiche, and computer disc - if you knew how to find it.
The young blonde was dangerous. Davenport was glad he’d asked Drew Blake about setting passwords and suchlike. At least his most secret information was safe. He sat at his desk, staring at the screen of his PC. What to do with the interfering constable?
The phone rang. “Chief Constable Davenport.” He listened with dread when he recognised the caller’s voice. Hartley was giving orders. The man didn’t seem to understand manners or how to ask—he always demanded. The Godfather told Davenport to attend a weekend at his mansion in Balquhidder.
“I can’t drop everything and head off for a weekend,” Davenport said.
It was suggested he did, but it didn’t sound like an invitation. Davenport listened and felt control of his life fade away. He had an idea.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “I can’t make Friday morning, but I’ll get there for lunchtime. Yes, I’ll change my plans, and stay for the weekend.” He pushed his luck. “I was wondering if you could arrange a removal?”
Hartley wasn’t keen and asked how much was at stake.
Davenport said, “The issue is dangerous to both of us. Permanent removal would be best.” He put the phone down and stared at it as if it was alive. He might salvage the rest of his life and career if he planned things right.
While at Hartley’s mansion in Balquhidder for the weekend, a few notes of useful information would be easy. Davenport reasoned, he could make contact with the vigilante to hand over the Godfather on a platter. Once Hartley was dead, it would be easy to double-cross the vigilante.