by Tom Benson
Grant knew a little of what Henderson boasted to the man in the wheelchair, so to get back at Fitzpatrick, he didn’t mention that he’d overheard stories of contract killings and suchlike.
“There is one interesting person,” Grant said, finally thinking of appeasing this lunatic, and getting revenge on the sexy, but surly visitor. “Apart from the young guy with the beard and big scar, there’s an attractive woman in her thirties who visits sometimes.”
“What do you know about her, apart from wanting to get into her knickers?”
“She’s got long, copper-coloured hair, quite tall, says her name is Smith, and she’s a private nurse.”
“What the fuck does Hartley need a private nurse for?”
“I think she deals with the hearing aid she fitted when Hartley first arrived.”
“The man is almost a vegetable, why would he need a fucking hearing aid?” As he asked the question, Fitzpatrick thought back many years to the bogus nurse who’d threatened his right-hand man in the hospital.
It had to be the same woman—attractive, daring, and dangerous. She was a professional assassin. She’d managed to gain entry to Smith’s private room, and terrified him with threats of a lethal injection—minus the anaesthetic ingredient. She’d turned hard bastard Stevie Smith into a fucking jelly.
“Do you know her?” Grant asked, seeing a change in the hard man’s expression.
“I know of her,” Fitzpatrick said. “I need you to do me a wee favour Des.”
28. Arranging Interviews
.
Saturday 17th July
Great Western Road, Dunbartonshire
Scotland
At 8:15 am Jake cruised past the junction where Lincoln Avenue joins the Great Western Road. A black Kawasaki sat on Lincoln Avenue, a few metres back from the junction. When the Norton passed, the Kawasaki engine burst into life. One minute later, the pair were riding in line, careful to observe speed restrictions.
At 8:30 am the two bikes slowed to enter the carpark of the roadside cafe on the outskirts of Dumbarton. It was a pleasant morning, so it was no surprise to see bikers already in the carpark. They were wearing leather jackets, jeans, and the colours of the Mental Riders MCC.
Jake and Rachel parked a few metres away from the others. They removed helmets and jackets, and then Rachel volunteered to get the brews. As she strolled towards the roadside restaurant, she nodded to the guys wearing the outlaw patches.
A big guy with long dark hair and a beard was taking a pull from his cigarette and had been watching the new arrivals when they pulled in. He raised a hand to acknowledge the young female rider.
When Rachel re-appeared with a latte and an Americano, she rejoined Jake, and they chatted. Both stood beside the bikes.
“Hi,” Max called, as he wandered towards the pair.
“Hi,” Jake and Rachel said in unison.
Max placed his cigarette between his lips and moved his coffee carton to his left hand. He shook hands with both Jake and Rachel. “I got your message. How can we help?”
Jake said, “Our boss was wondering if you fellas would like to uncover some information.”
“Will we need any special gear?”
“A van would be useful,” Rachel said. “We can supply if you like.”
“Our chief mechanic is with me,” Max said. “Is it okay to bring him over?”
“Of course you can,” Jake said.
Max turned and called. “Toolkit.” He got a nod from a slim guy with long fair hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Max took a drag of his cigarette before taking it from his mouth.
He said, “If we haven’t got a van, Toolkit will get one at short notice.”
“Hey guys,” Toolkit said and outstretched his hand. “You both work for Hawk then?”
“Yeah,” Jake said. “Good to meet you, Toolkit. I’m Jake, and this is Rachel.”
“Heard a lot about you, Rachel,” Toolkit said after shaking hands with both of them. He nudged the president of his club and said, “This fella’ didn’t tell us you were a biker and a looker.” He made an obvious appraisal that brought a knowing smile from Rachel.
“This is business,” Max said. “Put your dick away.”
“Max,” Toolkit said, shaking his head. “You can be so uncouth, man.” At thirty-two, he was one of the youngest members of the motorcycle club, and he liked to turn on the charm.
“Go on Jake,” Max said, shaking his head at Toolkit. “What’s the task mate?”
Jake gave an outline of what was required and handed Max a small, folded piece of paper which contained an address and timings—minimum detail.
Toolkit continued his lecherous appraisal of Rachel as if she might disappear.
Max repeated the requirements back to Jake, who nodded confirmation and then Max turned to Toolkit and raised his eyebrows.
“Easily-do-able,” Toolkit said, nodding. “I can lay my hands on the right vehicle tonight, and I know a good location.”
Jake handed Max a wad of notes. “This is for fuel and incidentals.”
“Thanks,” Max said and pocketed the money without checking the amount. “Why are we meeting out here in the open next to a roadside cafe?”
“It looks natural,” Jake said. “A couple ride up on bikes and stop for a coffee, and strike up a conversation with a bunch of bikers.”
“Got it,” Max said. “If we were meeting up all sneaky it would attract more attention.”
“It’s sometimes thought of as, being hidden in plain sight.”
“I like that,” Max said. He laughed. “I’ll text you, Rachel.”
“You’ve already got this babe’s number?” Toolkit said, screwing up his eyes and grinning.
“I gave Max my number a while ago.” Rachel smiled, winding up the other biker.
“Oh,” Toolkit said. “You kept that quiet big man.”
“Come on you,” Max pulled Toolkit by the arm, and half-turned to nod at the BTL associates. As the two bikers sauntered away, Max muttered, “Not a fuckin’ word about me havin’ her number.”
Toolkit’s laughter rang out across the almost empty carpark.
.
Bridge of Weir, Renfrewshire
Scotland
Lieutenant Colonel Sebastian Barrington-Cross had retired from the British Army after less than an illustrious career, but nobody he knew in his new life would know his military history. All they would ever know would be the snippets he fed into the conversation. Barrington-Cross used his rank, having decided to retain it after retirement. He thought it made him sound distinguished.
He had come from a family of men who had served their country and decorated for bravery and leadership in a variety of conflicts. Sebastian was the odd man out. He’d been a failure as a young officer and almost lost control of his troops. In the Gulf War in 1991, his inadequate planning had been noted by one of his sergeants, who managed to save the situation and several of their men.
On return from the desert campaign, Captain Barrington-Cross as he was then was promoted to Major and given a desk job at the Ministry of Defence in London. He proved to be better at pushing paper than leading soldiers, so his next promotion was to Lieutenant Colonel. The rank was necessary to allow transfer to the United Nations.
He was happy because he got a promotion, a pay rise and another medal to decorate his parade uniform. Secretly, he was also pleased, because a post with the UN meant there was little chance he’d ever be in the line of fire. Service with the UN saw the man serve in a variety of countries.
Barrington-Cross accepted a post as a liaison officer in Central Africa, which was a position fated to change the course of his life.
In January ‘96, he was paid a visit by two men in suits and taken to a small office on a remote airfield in Mowhandi. The men suggested introduction as diplomats, and they briefed the officer on what was to be said and done. He accepted a large sum of hard cash and rehearsed his lines.
At the same time as Barrington-Cr
oss received his briefing, another part of the bigger picture was being played out. In neighbouring Kentobi, the country’s leader, General Amadi Meterenge was assassinated. Pre-arranged reports broadcasted from radio stations within minutes of the incident. An intricate plan had fitted together and required only a few loose ends to be tied.
A four-man team of British SAS returned across the border from Kentobi into Mowhandi by helicopter. Following the compromise of their mission, they had to bug out. They had taken down the president’s escort helicopter as ordered. As the aircraft crashed to the ground, a single shot was fired by an unknown sniper, which brought down the president’s helicopter.
Barrington-Cross was effectively briefed to await the return of the team, and blame the SAS commander for the assassination. The man wrongly accused and arrested was Phil McKenzie, later to become the Scottish vigilante known as Hawk.
While in his post in Africa, Barrington-Cross was approached by some dubious characters. It was suggested he certify carriage of regular shipments of freight added to the manifest of military aircraft. He tried to refuse until reminded of the cash he’d accepted in January ’96.
The illegal shipments flew into one particular UK airbase from abroad and were always handled by military men who were blackmailed and on the smuggler’s payroll. The crates were collected and shipped to a warehouse by a designated private contractor. The underworld operation was like a parasite, enmeshed within the official organisation it utilised.
It was after the second shipment that Barrington-Cross realised the large volumes of cargo were hashish. He complained of the heat and requested a new posting. The gangster handlers used him to help ensnare another military official before he left—for Afghanistan.
The officer worried about the post at first, believing that he might find himself in the highly dangerous environment of Helmand Province where most of the British contingent were serving. He needn’t have worried, because he was based with the UN in Kabul, many miles away.
One week after settling into his new role Barrington-Cross attended a small office in the suburbs and found himself being blindfolded and taken to a secret meeting. He was once again put to use as the rubber-stamp-man to ship illegal cargo out of a foreign country back to the UK. The new shipment was brown heroin a by-product of the opium poppy.
Processing the opium into the valuable black market commodity was performed by those who were most skilled—the Asians. The quantities of heroin shipped were smaller than the hashish, but processed further and sold in small amounts—it would produce a higher street value.
Before his military career had ended, the failed officer had been drawn irrevocably into a new life as a middleman in the illegal drug industry. He knew the retirement plan with the military but was unaware of the gangland equivalent.
Barrington-Cross continued to use his rank at every opportunity. The civilians who came in contact with him knew him as Colonel. He settled in the quiet Renfrewshire town of Bridge of Weir and used his ill-gotten gains to furnish his fancy house, buy a decent car and ensure that everybody thought of him as a wealthy ex-officer.
He had taken the precaution of investing a lot of money and had a regular income, but he had failed to count on the age-old similarity between espionage operators and underworld gangs. Leaving of your own accord was not an option in any clandestine career.
On two occasions he suggested he no longer needed the cash-flow and would be happy to step back from the organisation. He was content to hand over the names of the crooked connections he’d made in three continents. The retired officer found himself assured in no uncertain terms that he might not need the money, but he wouldn’t be able to step back from anything—if he didn’t have his legs.
And so it was, that in 2004, Lieutenant Colonel Sebastian Barrington-Cross (Retired), found himself still in use as a vital contact for an international drugs operation between Africa, Afghanistan and Europe.
His underworld cronies knew Barrington-Cross as Colonel, but in those circles, it wasn’t a title used with respect, it was tongue-in-cheek. The man himself didn’t realise this, and so continued in the belief that one day he could walk away.
Living in a place like Bridge of Weir didn’t sound grand, but it meant Barrington-Cross was able to live in a big fancy house away from prying eyes. The ex-officer valued his comfortable lifestyle and expensive tastes, so whenever summoned to a meeting, he attended without question.
He had a list of names in his safe that could buy him out of trouble if he ever had to face the music, but he knew it was a card he’d have to keep close to his chest. He hoped it was a card he would never have to use.
“A note for you, Colonel,” Geordie Lavery said as he walked through the large back garden towards the grey-haired man relaxing on a lounger.
“What do you mean—a note?” Barrington-Cross said as he sat up and removed his shades.
“It was under the wiper of your car, Sir,” Geordie said. He had no more respect for the man than anybody else, but he knew how to appeal to the man’s ego. A little bit of flattery might pay dividends, Geordie thought. He handed over the note.
The Colonel unfolded the piece of paper and read it. “What the bloody hell is this?”
“Anything I might be able to help with, Sir?”
Barrington-Cross stood and read the note aloud. “It says, ‘Colonel—Erskine Bridge. 7 am. Sunday 18th July. Follow the biker. No show—I tell Mr F you betrayed him. Max’.”
“Do you know who Mr F and Max are, Sir?” Geordie’s expression was deadpan.
“I know who Mr F might be, but the name Max means nothing to me.” He looked at the short note again. “When did you say you found this?”
“About five minutes ago. I was driving past on my way to Govan when I noticed something a bit suspicious. It’s only because I was here recently that I realised this was your place, so I thought I’d check you were okay. I turned as soon as I could and came back.”
“What did you see that was suspicious?”
“There was a motorbike at the end of your driveway, Sir. He was pulling away, real quiet like, and I thought it looked peculiar ....” Geordie let his words trail off.
“Damned if I heard a motorbike. Well done Lavery. Yes, well-spotted. There is a mention in the note of following a biker, and I know there were supposed to be some dealings with a biker gang some time back.” He nodded and painted on a smile. “It all makes sense now.”
It didn’t make any sense, but as he had done throughout most of his life, he was bluffing to create the illusion he was in control or had some idea of the situation.
Fucking tosser, Geordie thought, as he stood in silence, observing the ex-officer.
“It’s a good thing you were passing,” the Colonel said. “This meeting is for tomorrow morning.”
“Would you like me to drive you, Sir?”
Barrington-Cross had been so worried about the instructions he’d completely dismissed thoughts of anyone being with him, so he grasped the opportunity.
“Good idea Lavery,” he said, nodding, and feigning friendliness. “I could do with … back-up. I’ll call Mickey and ask if it’s okay with him if you drive me.”
“If I may be so bold, Sir,” Geordie said. “I’d suggest neither of us mentions this matter to anybody else.” He paused and leant forward. “Perhaps you should see how this secret meeting goes and whether or not my boss needs to know about it.”
“Good thinking,” the Colonel murmured. He was disturbed but liked the ex-soldier’s theory of playing his cards close to his chest. He could do with a guy like Lavery working for him. He wondered if he might poach him from Mickey McGinley permanently.
Geordie remained impassive.
“I like the way your mind works, Lavery,” the Colonel said. “Yes, we’ll keep it between us for now.” Barrington-Cross mumbled something about needing a brandy and stepped into his large conservatory.
Geordie called out, “I’ll be off then, Sir.” He walk
ed away grinning and shaking his head when he thought how gullible the ex-officer could be. On his way to the car, he pulled out his phone. It answered after two rings. He said, “Hi Jake—Yeah, it’s Geordie. He took the bait. I’ll check in with you again tomorrow.”
29. Interview Techniques
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Fitzpatrick was standing on the roof as he tended to during different parts of the day. It was late afternoon when he noticed the bulk and bald head of Simpson strolling from the main building towards his gatehouse home.
“Visiting time,” Fitzpatrick said, took a long pull from his Cuban cigar and limped towards the turret door. He went down the stone spiral staircase past the upper floor and ground floor, entered the code on the pad and then went down into the cellar area.
He smiled when he noticed Simpson had fulfilled his request to locate and leave him a wooden baseball bat. It was leaning on the rough granite wall between Cell One and Cell Two.
Fitzpatrick placed the cigar in his mouth and lifted the bat. He rested the weighted end on his right shoulder, gripping the narrow end with his right hand. He used his left hand to slide back the bolt of Cell Two.
Stephanie Henderson was sitting up against the wall on her stone bed. She stared at her visitor but didn’t speak. A soundproofed cellar meant as far as the remainder of the building was concerned, there was no noise. The noises made in cells could be heard throughout the cellar area, so Stephanie had listened to every slap, grunt, word, threat, sob, scream and prayer from the small room next door.
Fitzpatrick removed the cigar from his mouth and exhaled a cloud of bluish-grey smoke into the small room. He said, “You’ve been listening to my human torture weapon at work, haven’t you?”
Stephanie forced a nod and became conscious of her eyes misting. She couldn’t take her gaze from the long, heavy wooden bat. Her lips trembled, but she didn’t speak, both for fear of upsetting this strange man and fear of becoming hysterical. What had been happening next door had been horrific, and Simpson explained his intentions in lurid detail to his terrified victim on each visit, before he enjoyed his devious pleasures.