Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

  Sammy Smart was the forty-year-old head of the local drug gang. He had no sons, so he looked upon Harrity as an unofficially adopted son. The young dealer was everything Smart would want in offspring. He was cocky, ruthless and successful.

  “I want the person responsible brought to me alive,” Smart said. The six men in front of him were armed and angry, but not as angry as their boss. “Injure the bastard, but keep him alive. I’ll make him beg to die.”

  Only when he was by himself once again did Smart allow a tear to fall. “Bastard!” he cried and punched a hole in the nearest door. Anger caused Smart’s tears—not sorrow.

  .

  Easterhouse, Glasgow

  Scotland

  In the same way, in which Drumchapel was situated seven miles to the west, Easterhouse was a similarly infamous estate several miles to the east of the city. Like many of Glasgow’s council estates, these two places were a hotbed for outlaws of every age. Reservations were the colloquialism for such areas. In certain respects, it was an accurate description—among the many peace-loving, hard-working people were many lowlifes.

  Drug dealers, pimps, money-lenders, burglars and car thieves all learned their trade at an early age, and a large number went on to bigger and more profitable villainy, in between prison terms. Knife crime was a speciality learned in the school years by most criminals.

  Denny Curran was one of those who had managed to reach the age of twenty-three, without ever having been arrested and charged. Questioning in the street, and invitations to the local police station always ended with Curran slithering out of the grasp of law enforcement.

  ‘They don’t call me ‘The Snake’ for fuck all,’ he would remind his followers.

  Curran was the leader of a small gang of thugs who pedalled drugs for him, beat people up, set fire to homes or cars, and did his bidding. He had learned early on in life not to get caught. From his teens, Curran had paid somebody else to take the fall.

  He worked directly for, Barry ‘the Bastard’ Brown. The two men lived in the centre of the estate, and Brown had a theory it was safer there than on the outskirts. Nobody could get in, cause damage, and then leave without being seen by somebody. It was an untested theory.

  News of the shooting in Drumchapel had just been on the radio, but Curran didn’t hear it because he was in a house with two of his mates beating a middle-aged family man senseless. The victim was left injured on the floor while the thugs took the meagre amount of cash available and then smashed up the furnishings as an extension to their lesson in keeping up repayments.

  The three hoodlums strolled down the path from the block of flats towards Curran’s Subaru Impreza. There was a strong smell of rotten eggs, and four damp patches on the concrete pathway.

  “Little bastards around here have been throwing fuckin’ stink bombs,” Curran said. “Get in quick lads, and we’ll get to our next client.” All three were still laughing as they got into the fancy car. Before Curran turned the key, he screwed up his nostrils.

  “Can I smell fuckin’ petrol, or what?”

  “Yeah,” his mates said in unison.

  Parked behind the Subaru was an old van, and behind the van was a black motorbike. The bike’s engine was purring quietly. The bike rider remained seated on his machine, but his passenger was standing with his back to the van. At a nod from the rider, the passenger stepped to one side and lit a match. He then dropped the match on the stream of fuel that was flowing under the van towards the fuel-soaked Subaru.

  Flames licked all around the bodywork of the car. The three men shouted at first and then screamed in desperation as they tried to operate the door handles, but they were missing.

  The black motorbike was fifty metres away taking the nearest street corner when the Subaru exploded in flame, with all three passengers inside. There were no other casualties. At either end of the short avenue were small groups of boys who quickly disappeared with the large wads of cash paid by the mysterious bikers.

  .

  Maryhill, Glasgow

  Scotland

  By 10 pm it was getting dark, which was a fitting condition following the deaths earlier in the day. Rory McEwan and his twin brother Malcolm had their foot soldiers out in force all around the area.

  While most people were either in their homes or the local pubs, twenty adult males were working in pairs, patrolling Maryhill’s streets. All were armed—ready and waiting.

  McEwan’s battle plan was simple and unequivocal. “If a black motorbike with two people on it comes into the area, shoot the fuckin’ rider and passenger.”

  The thirty-five-year-old McEwans of Maryhill would show the other gangs how to defend territory.

  At 10:30 pm Davy Sandford, a lifelong friend rushed into the bar where the brothers were having a pint and boasting of past exploits against other gangs on the streets.

  “Malcolm,” Davy said. “I’ve just seen the black bike.”

  “Are you sure?” He stood up. “Where is it?”

  “Five minutes up Maryhill Road, just across the railway bridge.”

  Malcolm grinned and nodded to his brother. “Let’s go, Rory.” Both brothers finished their pints and slammed the empty glasses down on the table.

  Davy said, “I left my brother up there in a parked car. He’s got his phone on him in case they come back to their machine.”

  Rory said, “So, where the fuck are the riders?” He grabbed his coat.

  Davey said, “They might have been in the trees at the edge of Maryhill Park taking a leak or something. The bike is in a little pathway, and the two black helmets are sitting on the saddle.”

  Malcolm sneered. “They’re probably in the park slippin’ each other a fuckin’ crippler.” The brothers laughed.

  Rory spoke to the barman. “Jackie, I want two carloads of our guys up there.”

  “Will do,” Jackie said and turned down the music to make an announcement.

  The McEwan brothers and Davey went outside and leapt into Rory’s silver Saab. The tyres screeched as the car made a u-turn, heading towards Maryhill Park. It took several minutes for the others to bundle aboard vehicles to follow.

  Three minutes after leaving the bar, the Saab’s headlights dimmed as it crept up behind a red Ford Mondeo. The big car pulled up to the kerbside. Parked fifty metres away, near some trees on the other side of the road was a black motorbike with two helmets on the saddle.

  Davey went to the passenger side of the red Ford and got in to talk to his brother. He closed the door quietly, watching the twins through the windscreen.

  The McEwan brothers drew their pistols and ran towards the bike. In typical fashion, they both wanted to boast of making the double-hit.

  “Boss!” Davey shouted as he got out of the Mondeo. “Wait ... don’t go in there.” What he should have shouted was, “Gerry is dead.” Unfortunately, he didn’t. The McEwan brothers were oblivious and ran on. As they reached the bike in the shadows, they slowed to a walk and aimed their guns forward.

  There were screeches of rubber on the tarmac as three carloads of gunmen pulled up on the main road, close to the red Ford. Davy was standing with his back against the car, shaking his head. He watched through silent tears as the other men spilt from the vehicles, all eager to take part in the bloodshed. Most of them would have their wish.

  As men do, the murderous, drug-dealing brothers reached the bike and stopped to look around. They paused for a moment, aiming their guns this way and that, into the darkness of the tree-lined pathway.

  Rory whispered, “This might be a fuckin’ trap, Malcolm. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  Malcolm nodded and stepped forward. He reached out with his free hand and lifted one of the helmets from the saddle.

  The explosion killed the McEwan brothers instantly. It also killed three rabbits, while shrapnel from the disintegrated machine tore into the limbs and faces of the four men who were still running towards the pathway.

  Amidst all the screaming and mayhem, nobody noti
ced a black Ducati bearing two men, pulling onto the road fifty metres away. The rider switched on the lights after they’d covered one hundred metres.

  .

  Thursday 24th June

  Bearsden, Glasgow

  Scotland

  Anne Montgomery listened to the DJ rambling on the radio as she waited for the news. It was 8:55 am. She stood in her fancy kitchen, biting her lower lip as she inclined her head, admiring her new diamond ring. Anne was a tall, attractive thirty-five-year-old brunette, who didn’t care what her husband did as long as she had lots of money.

  Kenny Montgomery was one of the wealthiest gang bosses in Glasgow. He strolled into the kitchen wearing his black silk dressing gown. A fire-breathing dragon decorated the back, which Montgomery liked to think of as a personal symbol.

  “Turn that noise off love,” he said, as he lifted the remote and switched on the TV. “You know I’d rather see the news in the morning.” He shook his head. “You don’t get much on the radio.”

  Montgomery’s white BMW 7-Series resided in the double garage, but his wife liked her car in the driveway. She had a silver Mercedes-Benz sports coupe, and she wanted it seen. Unlike many of the gang bosses who preferred to live in the sprawling estates or rundown areas where they had been brought up, Montgomery had delusions of grandeur.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “What a fucking mess.” He shook his head as the outside broadcast unit panned around the destruction of the Maryhill bombing. “If those guys had two fucking brain cells between them, they’d be out of those areas.”

  “Perhaps they like their family to be around them,” Anne suggested. “There are thousands of decent people living in those areas too.”

  “Well, their fucking families will be around them now,” Montgomery said and laughed. “They’ll be around them as the burial party lower them into the fucking ground.” He turned and held his hands out. “When you have the money I’m making, you get away from shitholes like housing estates and similar areas. You buy a place like this.”

  “Do you have to curse so much Kenny, love?”

  “It’s no fucking wonder,” he said. “Those tossers make us all look like fucking amateurs.”

  A request not to curse would be like a red rag to a bull and result in more foul language, so Anne tried a different tactic to calm her man.

  She said, “Not everybody can organise and use business sense like you darling.” She walked across the room and placed her slender hands on his broad shoulders. “Besides, I don’t think those ruffians would fit well in a place like Bearsden—not the way we do.”

  “True enough love,” Montgomery said. “I’ve got a nice wife and friends who talk all proper. I couldn’t imagine living back in those sorts of places, surrounded by riff-raff.”

  His wife smiled and rubbed his shoulders before leaving him to go and finish her coffee. As she looked at all the lovely things around her, it was easy for Anne to forget the misery that her drug-dealing, money-lending husband caused. He fed on the rich or the poor so that he could be more prosperous. He was a selfish, rich, arrogant, heartless bastard.

  Montgomery noticed his wife’s outfit for the first time. “What’s with the summer dress and heels, are you heading out somewhere?”

  “It’s Thursday, my regular shopping morning in the city. I told Karen I’d meet her at 9:30 and then we’re visiting the new boutique on Buchanan Street.”

  “Who’s driving?”

  “I am—Karen gets a wee bit nervous in the city traffic.”

  “Be back by lunchtime,” he said. “Remember we’re playing golf this afternoon.”

  “I know. I might buy myself a new golfing outfit when I’m in Glasgow.” She finished her coffee, kissed her husband and then lifted her bag and car keys. Anne opened the front door and then stood still for a moment.

  “What have you forgotten?” Montgomery said, as his wife walked back into the lounge. His eyes opened wide, and he stepped forward clenching his fists. Two bikers in black leathers walked in. They wore black helmets with the visors down.

  Pressed firmly against Anne’s head was the business end of an automatic pistol. Down the inside of her thighs was the result of her reaction to the gun. It didn’t look or smell appropriate to her summer outfit.

  One man said, “Turn around now, and kneel—or she dies.”

  “You two are fucking dead men—”

  “Goodbye Mrs Montgomery,” the other gunman said. There was an audible click as he used his thumb to flick the safety catch. The second man aimed a similar weapon at Montgomery.

  Anne Montgomery screamed, “Kenny!” Tears were streaming down her face, and she started to sob. “For Christ’s sake—Kenny!”

  Montgomery stared at the two black visors but couldn’t see the faces within. He turned slowly. A heavy riding boot kicked behind his left knee, and he fell forward onto all fours. He started to get up and turn around, but the butt of a pistol cracked his skull.

  It was the sound of screaming which brought Montgomery around. He got up on his hands and knees, and his head throbbed. He was feeling groggy and focused on the bloodstains on the white deep-pile carpet. As he touched the back of his head and felt the sticky mess in his hair, he heard another scream.

  The gangster stood up but was compelled to grab onto the door frame. He smeared it with blood. When he gripped the bannister for support, it too received a blood donation. He forced himself to go up the stairs. On the landing, he paused and reached under the drawer of a small cabinet. He pulled away a Walther, which was taped there for emergencies.

  As Montgomery continued along the landing, he leant on the wall, spreading blood over the gold and white relief wallpaper. His vision was blurred, and his head ached. The screaming was almost continuous and only ceased to be punctuated by sobbing. It was his wife’s voice.

  When Montgomery reached the bedroom door, it was closed. He cocked his pistol and held it at the ready as he shouldered the door open, breaking the hinges. He landed on the bedroom floor. Immediately he was on his feet; he aimed the pistol around the room before he turned towards the four-poster bed.

  His wife was naked and tied out to the four corner posts, her face bright red and glistening with the tears from her constant crying. Anne Montgomery stared wide-eyed at the sight of her husband with a gun in his hand. She had been in denial for a long time.

  Montgomery ensured there was nobody around before he untied his hysterical wife.

  She sat up and used both hands to cover herself with her ruined, discarded dress. She continued to sob and wondered why her husband was looking everywhere except at her.

  His brow furrowed and nose wrinkled. “Did they do anything to you?” He turned to face her.

  “I was tied to a fucking bed stark naked,” she cried and stared at him.

  “Did they fucking do anything else?”

  “Oh you mean after threatening to fucking shoot me—did they fancy a quick shag?”

  Montgomery stood and paced around the room, tapping the handgun against his thigh.

  “No,” Anne said in a whisper. “They didn’t molest me, Kenny. They didn’t even squeeze my tits, because I’m fucking stinking. My legs and arse are covered in shit.” She was cursing as much as her husband did when in a bad mood. “It looks like they wanted to get your attention, and they seem to have done a fucking good job.”

  “They are fucking dead men,” he said, repeating his rant from earlier. He turned to his wife when he realised how he’d reacted. “I’m sorry Anne ... I—”

  “Oh fuck off Kenny,” she said and headed for the en-suite. She turned at the doorway. “Oh, by the way, one of our armed visitors said you’d be getting a fucking phone call.”

  8. Allies and Enemies

  .

  Friday 25th June

  Alexandria, Dunbartonshire

  Scotland

  “I’ve come to visit William Hartley,” Peter Henderson said into the grille beside the door.

  “What’s y
our relationship to Mr Hartley?” a male voice asked.

  “He’s my uncle,” Henderson said. “I have a visitor’s pass.” He gave an exaggerated grin and held up his pass. The CCTV lens was situated immediately above the speaker grille.

  “Press the white button, Mr Henderson,” the voice said, and a low-frequency buzzer sounded.

  Henderson pressed the button at the base of the grille. There was a click from the door lock. Once indoors, Henderson stopped to sign the visitor’s register and complained. He said the place was run more like a prison than a private clinic. He had been told by more than one person to be careful about what he said on visits, but he didn’t take kindly to advice.

  Five minutes later, Henderson was shown into a small room. It resembled a well-decorated cell, because it was tidy, had a bed, table, armchair and a hard-backed chair. The walls were painted magnolia, and the window had floral drapes, but they didn’t disguise the crisscrossed bars. The room overlooked landscaped gardens. An adjoining door led to a tiny, but functional en-suite facility.

  Near the window a man was sitting in a wheelchair, facing the view. He didn’t move as his visitor closed the door and approached. There was no recognition when Henderson turned the wheelchair away from the view.

  “Hello Uncle William,” Henderson said as he pulled up the hard-backed chair. He looked into the glassy stare of his disabled relative. “I thought I’d drop by and bring you up to date.” Henderson boasted of his recent exploits. He cheerfully explained about being in direct contact with the person who had sanctioned and funded the tasks.

  He told his captive audience how he was bringing big names to heel in the city. The wheelchair-bound man remained impassive. He breathed, and, therefore, was alive and presumably listening.