by Tom Benson
Phil, aka Hawk, turned from the window, sipped his coffee and stepped forward to check the background activity during the bulletin. Seated opposite each other across the large square table in the office were Annabel Strong and Rachel Donoghue. All three BTL associates watched the screen in silence. Annabel was making notes on a pad.
The reporter continued, but while her tone was sympathetic, her eyes sparkled.
‘According to eye-witnesses, the escape was completed in less than five minutes.’ Sandra was working hard at sounding officious, but she was wide-eyed and breathless as she relayed her report. ‘The two large trucks used to crush the prison van had been carrying loads of concrete and other rubble.’ The camera focused on the front truck and then panned back to a large white tarpaulin, which shielded the white van. Apart from the escape, the stationary vehicles had caused traffic chaos.
‘As yet,’ Sandra continued as she turned back to the lens. ‘There is no confirmation about the condition of the security vehicle crew or the prison officer; we believe there is at least one fatality.’ The reporter pursed her lips and winced when a siren sounded close to her. An ambulance departed the scene with blue lights flashing and sirens blaring. Sandra took a breath and inclined her head towards the camera. She blinked as snowflakes landed on her lashes.
‘There has been no official confirmation of the escaped prisoner’s identity, but sources suggest Martin Cameron, the gangland enforcer, was due in court today. He was already serving a lengthy prison term and was expected to see it extended.’
By the time the reporter had handed back to the newsroom, Phil had reduced the volume to a whisper. He dropped the remote onto the large central table.
“At least one fatality,” he said. “I’ll be bloody amazed if either of those two guys survived the shunt by an eighteen-tonner.” He looked across the table. “Rachel, what’s being said online?”
The thirty-year-old anticipated questions and already had her laptop powered up. “The most recent report suggests apart from the two trucks; three motorbikes were also used. According to an eye-witness, the bikes arrived after the trucks crushed the van. The truck drivers were both wearing ski-masks and carrying sawn-off shotguns. An onlooker said all three bikers were carrying spare helmets and jackets.”
“Okay,” Phil said. “Three bikes in use and there were no pillion riders when they arrived. It would suggest they knew there was only one prisoner in the van, or they were only interested in one. The first bike was to get him away, and the other two were to get the truck drivers away.” He turned to his partner, both in life and work. “What’s your assessment, Annabel?”
“I believe it was Cameron, and I don’t think we’re going to see him for a long time. If he can organise this from inside Barlinnie Prison, then he’ll be out of the country within a few hours.” Before being a member of the BTL Enterprises team, Annabel had worked for both MI5 and MI6.
She was a capable operative and regarding logical thinking was rarely far from the mark. At thirty-nine, she had seen and done things that would cause revulsion for many people. She was the most confident and competent woman Phil had ever met, and with her striking features and curvaceous figure—one of the most attractive.
Rachel said, “Breaking online news, Boss.” She met Phil’s gaze. “Three motorbikes have been discovered in locations across Glasgow. They’re miles apart, and all torched when abandoned. There are no signs of helmets or weapons.”
Annabel nodded. “The weapons will end up in a breaker’s yard, and the helmets will be burned in a private location to ensure there is no trace of DNA from the linings.”
Rachel said, “The entire team were wearing gloves and ski masks.” She shook her head. “As we expected, both trucks and all three bikes were stolen in the last twenty-four hours, so the police have little to go on.”
“Okay,” Phil said. “Rachel, I’d like you to put out some feelers regarding the vehicles. You know the right people.” He paused as he considered missing links. “Didn’t Cameron’s wife stay on in their bungalow when he was sent down?”
“She did at first,” Annabel said. “If you remember, after Cameron’s trial and incarceration in ’96, his wife stayed in the house a short time. She headed to their villa in Spain.”
“The house was on the outskirts of Kirkintilloch wasn’t it?” Phil asked.
“Yes,” Annabel said. “We know Mrs Cameron left, but she returned a couple of times to prepare the bungalow for sale.”
Rachel was making notes on a pad and listening carefully.
Phil said, “Would either of you expect Cameron to turn up in Spain?”
“No,” Rachel said. “I reckon the wife will be aware of the escape plan, so she might already be on the move.” She looked from Phil to Annabel. “You know, so they can meet up somewhere else.”
Annabel nodded. “Sound theory, but she might also be primed to do absolutely nothing and deny all knowledge. They’ll expect the British police to get officers over to Spain with a possible reunion in mind.” She paused. “Of course as we know, it can take days before the official wheels are in motion.”
“Good thinking,” Phil agreed. “I think we’ll try to get a step ahead of the authorities on this one. We’ll trace the wife and then keep tabs on her movements.”
“Sounds good,” Annabel said. “We’re not working on anything major right now,”
Rachel said, “Unfortunately we don’t have any assets in Spain?”
“Are you volunteering?” Phil grinned.
“Well I’ve got a passport, I can read a map, and I know a few useful phrases.”
Phil turned to Annabel, who smiled and nodded. He looked back to Rachel. “You’ve got half an hour to impress me with what you can find out about the Camerons in Spain, and then we’ll make a decision on how best to continue.”
Annabel said, “Would you like me to deal with Cameron’s recent prison visitors so Rachel can concentrate on the Spanish connections?”
“Yes, please.” Phil raised an eyebrow. “Before going anywhere else, Rachel, I’d like you to work your contacts on the street. We don’t need immediate answers on the vehicle thefts, but a few discreet enquiries will get the ball rolling.”
Rachel had specific people in mind regarding the stolen vehicles, so there was no pressure there. The keys on her laptop were clacking away as she brought up all she could on Martin and Lorraine Cameron relating to Spain.
Annabel said, “I’ll fix us all a fresh coffee.” She winked at Phil and looked back over her shoulder at her protégé.
Phil returned to stand at the panoramic window. “I know you’ll come back, Cameron, but where would you go right now?” He stared across the river. “Who would you take into your confidence?”
Rachel looked up, and her lips parted to respond, but Annabel raised a hand, half-closed her eyes and shook her head. Annabel understood Phil’s methods. In certain situations, he liked to voice his thoughts as if playing them back to himself for effect.
2. Going Abroad
.
Fort William, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
The vast expanse of Loch Linnhe became an ever-present feature left of the A82 on the approach to Fort William. Across the rippling water, snow-capped hills spread from north to south. To the right of the road, a little further inland was the majesty of Ben Nevis. Snow covered the summit, and the peak was periodically hidden by cloud, as per usual.
Cameron gazed left over the expanse of water. Two hardy souls were leaping around in a yacht fighting to catch a breeze while a tourist cruise was underway with foreign visitors clutching cameras and shooting at anything that moved.
“Would you like a fish supper, Mr Cameron?”
“Aye, Norrie.” Cameron turned briefly and smiled. “I’d like that very much. Thanks.” He sounded civil, for a heartless murderer.
Simpson steered the Range Rover left, off the main road and down into the large public carpark overlooking the loch. He paid f
or a parking ticket and then headed to town to locate the nearest takeaway. Cameron climbed out of the rear and sat in the front passenger seat.
Simpson returned ten minutes later. He opened the driver’s door, and the tantalising smell of freshly cooked fish and chips wafted through the 4 x 4, combined with the aroma of coffee. It was mid-afternoon. Simpson set the fan, and the two men eased the seats further back in the spacious vehicle to relax and enjoy their late lunch.
“This is a better view than the one you had at the start of the day,” Simpson said.
“Aye, it is indeed, mate,” Cameron said. “If everything goes to plan I’ll be back in the summer and have a different view again.” He tore himself a large piece of crispy golden battered cod and savoured the moment. “Freedom is the taste of fish and chips.”
Simpson said, “I remember when you were banged-up, your right-hand man was one of the witnesses for the Crown. I bet he’s somewhere with a nice fuckin’ view.”
“He might be Norrie, but he owes a debt, and it’s a debt I’ll collect on. No matter what Mr Smith calls himself now, he’ll be found.” Cameron stared out across the loch as he spoke. His gaze was as cold as the water to his front.
Simpson was silent, except for the sound of him chomping on his fish and chips.
“Norrie, have you ever been to Australia?” Cameron asked without turning.
“No I haven’t Mr Cameron, but I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Why would you want to go there?”
“My brother lives there.”
“Is he anything like you?”
“Well, he is in some ways.” Simpson laughed. “He’s happy to take payment to do things other people might not want to do if you get my meaning.”
“Does he look like you?”
“We’re the same build, and although we’re not twins, we could be mistaken for each other. Why do you ask?”
“I’ll tell you during the next leg of our journey.” Cameron’s eyes sparkled and his lips twisted into a grin.
“Have you got a new lieutenant for your operation, Mr Cameron?”
Cameron swallowed the piece of cod he was savouring and then glanced at the man beside him. He nodded as he considered how calm and capable Simpson had been under pressure, and it was he who had arranged the team and transport for the escape.
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do Norrie.” Cameron sipped his coffee. He gazed at the snow-covered hills across the loch. “When we continue our journey, we’ll have a wee chat about the qualifications and requirements of my right-hand man.”
Simpson had a mouthful of food, so nodded as he continued chewing.
Cameron continued, “I have high expectations of my people, but the rewards are commensurate with performance.”
Simpson was about to ask if commensurate was a good thing, but swallowed his food and the word was forgotten. “It’ll be a couple of hours before we reach the port. Do you think it will be time enough to chat about your requirements?”
“Aye, a couple of hours will be more than enough time, Norrie.”
The two gangsters fell into a companionable silence as they continued with their lunch and looked out over the wintry landscape before them. Cameron smiled as he considered his relatively new habit of using the Scottish ‘aye’, as an affirmative.
He’d started using the word in prison to mimic and irritate one of the prison officers, but had since found himself using the word all the time, instead of yes, or yeah.
.
Glenbrittle, Isle of Skye
Western Scotland
It was early evening and dark when the two men arrived on the south-west coast of Skye. They’d had a long and interesting conversation since setting off after their lunch break. Glenbrittle had the appearance of the coastal fishing villages featured in old movies.
Simpson parked near to the small dockside and held up an open hand to his new employer.
“Wait there for a minute, Boss.” Simpson opened the door to climb out, and a gust of wind blew snowflakes into the warm interior of the vehicle. Cameron shivered and pulled up his collar. He was looking forward to the different climate of his destination.
Simpson opened the tailgate, rummaged around, and returned to the front of the vehicle. He opened the driver’s door and threw in a heavy duffle coat. At first, Cameron looked at the unflattering garment with its hood and wooden toggles but accepted it would be more beneficial than the leather jacket. He shuffled around on the seat to change coats and left the comfort of the Range Rover.
Simpson was already wearing a duffle coat and woolly hat. He handed a similar hat to Cameron, who pulled it on immediately down over his ears. They both pulled up their hoods and squinted as tiny frozen flakes blasted into their eyes. There was little sign of life, which was just as the two gangsters would prefer.
“Hey, Boss,” Simpson called against the chilling Atlantic breeze. “If you want to give your wife a call, this is the time.” He held out a mobile phone. “I’ve punched in the contact number in Spain.”
“Could anybody trace this number?”
“Make your call, and then take the phone with you and drop it over the side. I’ve put two other phones in your baggage.” The two men went to the rear of the vehicle and Simpson opened the tailgate. He pulled back a holdall that he’d prepared for the escape.
Cameron stood at the tailgate out of the wind, unzipped the large bag and poked around inside. Apart from footwear and an assortment of clothing, there was a small plastic wallet. He opened the wallet to find a passport and American Express card in his new name. There was also a wad of banknotes for use in the destination country, and two phones. He nodded with satisfaction and re-zipped the holdall, then turned to Simpson and gave him a thumbs-up. Simpson nodded.
As Cameron leant away from the increasing snowfall, he spotted a sheltered area. It was no more than a wooden partition at the end of a building, but he went there to make his single brief call.
Simpson lifted the holdall from the back of the 4 x 4 and edged carefully down the slippery cobblestone path to the small dock. A fishing vessel of no more than twenty metres in length was rising and falling beside the jetty. Old tyres secured to the wooden panels squeaked as the boat’s hull rubbed against them.
A short, swarthy man in yellow fisherman’s wet-weather garb crossed the deck and accepted a buff-coloured envelope from Simpson. The sailor gripped the envelope and made a quick appraisal of the contents. He nodded towards the man in the shadows making the phone call.
“Is he our passenger?”
“He is,” Simpson said. “Advise your crew to steer clear of him.”
“They’ve already been told.”
Cameron squinted as he observed his new employee and the sailor. He used his free hand to cover his left ear and held the small device to his right ear. The number rang only twice before his wife answered.
“Hello,” Cameron shouted, without the use of a name, or emotion. “I only have a couple of minutes, and it’s fucking freezing here—listen.” He paused before continuing. “Everything has gone according to plan so far.” He stopped again when he heard his wife asking questions. He gritted his teeth and then interrupted.
“Listen—tomorrow is the second stage. Get it done and get used to it. Get the third stage sorted by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be in touch.” He ended the call and pocketed the phone.
“Okay, Boss?” Simpson shouted into the wind. He held out the holdall as Cameron came down the cobblestones, slipping and cursing into the spray and snowflakes.
He got his lips close to Simpson’s left ear. “Norrie, everything is fine. You call MacDonald from a public call box in the next twenty-four hours.” Simpson nodded. Cameron went on. “Tell him where you want the deposit paid. He’ll give you enough to pay the whole team for today.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Simpson paused. “Is there anything else?” The two men were forced to turn away from the sea breeze, taking turns shouting into each oth
er’s ear.
“Keep an eye on my interests, Norrie, and I’ll make it worth your while.”
“How will you contact me?”
“I’ll be in touch with the solicitor the first time. He’ll let you know when I’m calling you. When I make that call, we’ll sort out a new method.”
“Okay, Boss, no problem.”
The two men shook hands and blinked against the strengthening wind and snow. They looked into each other’s eyes with mutual respect—respect understood by hard men.
Norrie Simpson watched as Cameron grabbed at the handrail. He knew his new boss wouldn’t be happy accepting help from the skipper. The boat was rolling around as the sea became lively, and the ride would get worse before Cameron reached his next transport—a freighter sitting one hundred miles off the west coast of Ireland.
Simpson watched from the comfort of the Range Rover until the small vessel left the coast. “Rather you than me Mr Cameron.” He watched the craft rise and fall before setting off for a hotel on the east coast of Skye. A couple of beers and a night’s rest would be in order before heading back to Glasgow.
He was eager to commence the tasks on which his new boss had already briefed him. The first would be to contact Kevin MacDonald, the bent lawyer. Another key person to check out was his new boss’s wife. Plus of course, there were a couple of business trips abroad.
Yes, Norrie Simpson was a happy man.
.
Saturday 28th February
Madrid
Spain
Rachel grinned as she slid behind the wheel of her pre-booked rental car at Madrid Airport, Barajas. Even after seven years as a member of BTL Enterprises, she still preferred the thrill of taking a vehicle without permission. She had learned. However, there were times to keep things legal—like now.
She was pleased to be getting away from the British winter for a couple of days, but uppermost in her thoughts, she was trusted by her two idols. Rachel steered out into the traffic and thrust her map into the centre console to accompany her phrasebook. Sat-nav devices were okay for some, but Rachel had more confidence in her map-reading.