Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

  Fitzpatrick winked. “I reckon you like a bit of rough. Maybe if you don’t talk when you get the chance, I’ll let Norrie spend some time with you. Obviously, I’ll let him finish with the slut next door first.” He paused. “Would you like that?”

  Stephanie shook her head, and as she did, tears ran silently down her face.

  “That’s good,” he said. He lifted the baseball bat from his shoulder and held it at arm’s length to admire its length and shape. “This is one of my favourite accessories when it comes to interrogation.” He rested it on his shoulder again and stepped forward, which caused the young woman to tremble uncontrollably.

  Fitzpatrick said, “A baseball bat has a peculiar shape, and it lends itself to so many uses.” He lowered the heavy bulbous end of the wooden bat onto Stephanie’s thigh and rubbed it up and down her smooth flesh. “A golf club is intended to strike little balls, so it works well with a man. Now, you only have to look at this beauty to know what ....” He paused and then shouted. “You’re not looking at it. Look at the fucking thing!”

  The terrified young woman looked down at the device that was barely touching her flesh. Her imagination went into overdrive, and as much as she tried to remain silent, she started to sob uncontrollably. The top end of the wooden bat was forced between her knees which she had been pressing together.

  Fitzpatrick said, “Are you eating all your meals, Stephanie?”

  “Yes,” she whispered and stared down at the weapon.

  “Good,” he said. “It’s imperative that a person is in the right frame of mind when I interview them. Some require starvation while others require feeding.” He looked her up and down. “You’re not too bad looking either, at the moment.”

  He lifted the baseball bat onto his shoulder, turned and left without another word. He closed the door and slid the bolt home with a loud clang.

  Fitzpatrick took a few steps and slid the bolt open on his wife’s cell. She was already curled up in the corner of the bed, but instead of sitting up she was on her side, hugging her legs up tight to her chest.

  Her torn dress had previously given a glimpse of her underwear intact, but now her underwear was on the stone floor. Even a glance suggested the flimsy garments had been removed forcibly, rather than conventionally. Two teeth on the floor contrasted with the dull grey stone, and surrounding patches of blood.

  “Well, well, you fucking slut. It looks like you’ve finally found a man that can give you more than you can handle.” Fitzpatrick stepped forward and lowered the baseball bat from his shoulder. He touched the terrified woman’s bare leg with the end of the bat, and her entire body convulsed. The end of the bat moved along her thigh under the torn dress.

  Helen whimpered and her head half-turned but she never quite made eye-contact.

  “Aw that’s sweet,” Fitzpatrick said, as he lifted the torn material from the area of Helen’s buttocks. “He’s given you a few love bites. Okay, so they’re a bit deeper than normal, but drawing blood must be a sign of affection.”

  Helen’s body continued to tremble as she finally turned to stare at the man in her torture chamber. She thought she had loved him once and thought she’d understood the risks of being unfaithful to him. In recent times, Helen realised she had severely underestimated his capacity for cruelty. She figured he might slap her around, but not subject her to the horror of something like Simpson.

  “I’ve got a question for you, slut,” Fitzpatrick said. “I can see by the state of your mouth you might not be able to talk, so I’ll let you nod or shake your head.” He lifted his cigar to his lips and drew long and deep on it, before exhaling the acrid smoke around the small room. He swung the bat up onto his right shoulder before speaking again.

  “I’ll ask this question once, so think very carefully about the response.” He stared down at her blackened eyes and bruised face. “Was there anybody else apart from the Spaniard?”

  Helen knew she had a choice that could mean more punishment or even her death. For all she had prayed to die in recent times, she realised, she didn’t want to die. She shook her head slowly from side to side.

  Fitzpatrick shook his head and grinned. He drew on his cigar again, exhaled the smoke and leant forward towards his battered and abused wife.

  “Wrong answer,” he said. He placed the cigar into his mouth and brought the baseball bat down with both hands in a swift movement, so it slammed onto the bed an inch below his wife’s bare and bruised feet. The sound of solid wood on stone reverberated around the tiny room. Fitzpatrick lay the bat on the bed and reached into a pocket. He produced two photographs. He didn’t have to look at them.

  The pictures dropped onto the bed beside his wife, and she let out a moan.

  Fitzpatrick lifted the bat and went to the door. He turned. “You don’t have to worry about looking at those pictures because you’ll be seeing each other again soon enough.” He went outside, slammed the door and slid the bolt.

  .

  Sunday 18th July

  Erskine Bridge, Dunbartonshire

  Scotland

  “There he goes,” Geordie said. “He’s passing us now.”

  A black Triumph Bonneville overtook the car, but the rider slowed to look at the occupants. He pulled in front of the vehicle but maintained his speed. The patches proclaiming Mental Riders and Glasgow stood out above and below the unique club emblem.

  “That’s him,” Geordie said. “It must be him because the description fits and it’s 6:55 am.” It was a beautiful summer morning with a crisp feel in the air, but a blue sky and a pleasant day forecast.

  “Okay,” The Colonel said. “Flash your lights or whatever, and follow him.”

  Geordie nodded and flashed the headlights of the Colonel’s car. In response, the rider raised an arm with forefinger extended. The biker took the right-hand lane at the northern end of the bridge and followed the exit ramp towards the dual carriageway and Glasgow.

  The big car followed the biker. A few hundred metres along the road, six bikes were parked at a bus stop. When the BMW passed, the six bikes set off and pulled in behind the car in pairs. The noise of the engines was sufficient to cause the Colonel to turn and look over his shoulder.

  “There are more of them behind us, Lavery,”

  “No panic, Colonel,” Geordie said, glancing in the rear-view at the agitated passenger. “This is probably how these things work. Don’t underestimate a man because he rides a motorbike.”

  “Does it need so fucking many of them?”

  “Perhaps the escort is to make sure nobody else gets involved.”

  At the Hardgate roundabout, the lead bike turned left, followed by the BMW, and the other bikes stayed close. The convoy went through the small sleepy area slowly and without excess noise. They exited onto a country road ten minutes later. The convoy pulled off onto a short farm track.

  Hedgerows on either side made it difficult to judge the surrounding countryside, but the convoy couldn’t go any further because a black van blocked the track. The lead bike squeezed past the van and stopped on the other side.

  The Colonel said, “I wish we hadn’t fucking come here, Lavery. I don’t like this.”

  Geordie said, “Don’t worry, Sir. I’m carrying a little something. If things get out of hand, I’ll drop a couple of these hairy bastards.”

  “Keep me safe Geordie, and I’ll pay you well.” Barrington-Cross thought by being less formal it might help to win favour with the ex-soldier.

  As soon as the car stopped, two bikers appeared on either side. In itself, it would have been intimidating. When they each produced automatic pistols from within their leather jackets, it raised the Colonel’s perceived threat level from amber to flashing red with loud mental sirens.

  A tall, well-built man with long dark hair and a heavy beard appeared from beside the van. He was cradling a pump-action shotgun and staring straight at the occupants of the car.

  “Get them both out and search them,” Max said.

 
Geordie whispered, “I don’t like the fucking look of this.” He intentionally omitted the ‘sir’, because it was the sort of thing the Colonel would register.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” Barrington-Cross whispered.

  “They don’t care if we see their faces.”

  The Colonel was still trying to work out the significance of Geordie’s observation when he heard the door handles click.

  Both front and back doors opened from the outside, and the occupants were yanked out forcefully, so they fell to the ground.

  “Get up and put your fuckin’ hands on the roof,” a gruff voice commanded.

  Both men stood, using the car to assist them, and then they turned to face each other over the roof. The Colonel was on the left of the vehicle, and Geordie on the right.

  “Hands flat on the fuckin’ roof,” Max growled, and then he nodded to his brethren.

  The Colonel and Geordie had their legs kicked back and outward, causing them to stretch forward and hold their weight on their extended arms. In the case of the Colonel, it was a considerable feat to maintain the position. A frisking from head to toe followed.

  Sinbad was searching Geordie and stood up holding a Walther 9mm automatic.

  “Hey, Boss,” Sinbad said. “The driver thinks he’s a fuckin’ secret agent. He keeps a wee weapon in an ankle holster.” Sinbad punched Geordie in the kidneys and then thrust a boot behind his right knee to make sure his man went down. “Fuckin’ dickhead.”

  Barrington-Cross half-turned as Geordie dropped out of view.

  Max said, “Get them in the fuckin’ van.”

  Two minutes later, the two men from the car were hooded, bound and rolling around on the uncarpeted floor of the van. They’d been told not to speak, and they didn’t.

  The van travelled around on rough countryside tracks for twenty minutes before pulling up in an old farmyard. The two hooded men felt their clothing gripped. They landed on the ground and were told to remain silent unless asked a question.

  Max said, “Bring the Colonel indoors. Two of you take Mr fuckin’ Bond into the shed across there and teach him some fuckin’ manners.”

  Barrington-Cross felt the hood lift. He was already inside a building and was pushed down onto a hard-backed chair. His bindings were pulled close to and attached to the backrest. He blinked several times and looked around. It appeared to be a farmhouse that had fallen into disrepair, but he noticed there were a kettle, mugs and brew kit on a dirty old worktop to the left.

  “So, you’re the Colonel then,” Max said and placed his shotgun on an old oak table to one side. “I’ll explain how this is going to work—Colonel.” Max nodded to the two bikers behind the prisoner, and they came forward to stand on either side of the chair.

  Barrington-Cross felt his lips tremble—he couldn’t hide his fear.

  Max said, “I know this is gonna’ sound a bit cliché, but we need some information, and we can do it the easy way, or we can do it the fuckin’ hard way.”

  The Colonel looked nervously to left and right, recalling the other two men standing slightly behind his chair.

  “Sinbad,” Max said, “Give our guest a hint of how we do the easy way.”

  Sinbad took three steps across the room, and his boots made him sound like a giant walking in a doll’s house. He lifted the kettle.

  The Colonel’s eyes widened.

  Sinbad then lifted a mug with his other hand.

  “Butcher,” Max said, “Give our guest a hint of how we do the hard way.”

  Butcher was wearing a one-piece overall and had a pair of goggles pulled up onto his forehead. He stepped forward and in his gloved hands was carrying a heavy-duty hammer-drill. In the chuck, a drill bit thirty-centimetre-long was secured. It was as thick as a man’s thumb. When Butcher squeezed the trigger, the drill bit became a silver blur, and the sound filled the room with a high-pitched screaming noise.

  ‘Whhueeeeeeeeeeeeee!’

  Max waited until the noise died down and the red tip of the twisted steel could be seen. He grimaced as he turned to the man seated to his front. He leant forward and spoke in a quiet, friendly tone. “You being an ex-military man might want to go for the lengthy, excruciatingly painful, torture method.” Max shook his head. “Personally, I don’t want to have that crazy bastard drill holes in your ankles, knees, and elbows, because I’ll have to wear overalls. These are my best fuckin’ jeans.”

  The Colonel was giving the big biker his undivided attention and was trembling.

  Max leant forward again so that his face was close to his prisoner’s staring eyes. “Obviously Colonel, if you decide to go for the hard option we’ll supply bindings for your arms and legs, and a gag between questions. We won’t be able to keep your fuckin’ body still. Apart from that, I won’t be able to stand the sounds you’ll be making.”

  The Colonel had perspiration dripping from his well-fed face. He swallowed hard and turned to look at the biker with the kettle and mug. As he did, there was a click behind him.

  ‘Whhueeeeeeeeee!’

  “Before you make your decision, Colonel,” Max said. “What Mr F might do is still a sort of theoretical thing, whereas we are here, mob-handed and fuckin’ equipped.”

  Max paused and raised his head to gaze through a window that was behind the prisoner. He teased his unruly beard before looking at the Colonel.

  A man screamed, outside somewhere, but it sounded close. A few seconds later, there was another high-pitched scream. Four cries had occurred before all went quiet, and after a brief pause, there was the sound of men laughing.

  “Ha,” Max said. “It sounds like your driver is providing some entertainment as he learns to behave.”

  30. Interview Results

  .

  Monday 19th July

  Braemar, Grampian Mountains

  Scotland

  Fitzpatrick stood at his battlements gazing out across the beautiful hamlet that had become his adopted home and HQ. He sipped his coffee and took a long pull on his Havana. It was 7:45 am so he still had his early morning stroll ahead of him. He placed his mug of coffee on the narrow inner ledge and slipped out his phone.

  “Good morning Sebastian, it’s Gordon. I thought I’d call with the news we’ve been waiting for.” He could tell from the mumbling noise that the man on the other end was still waking. “We have a delivery this evening, and as business associates, I’d like you and Mickey here to receive it with me.”

  Fitzpatrick heard the excuses from the retired officer, but he wasn’t listening. Instead, he watched a kestrel hovering high above the nearby roadway. He looked directly below the small bird of prey and saw a section of embankment alongside a hedgerow. He smiled and continued to observe the patience of the predator.

  “Well, don’t worry about transport Sebastian—no, don’t use your car. I’ve asked Mickey to use his car and driver. You’ll be picked up at around mid-morning. Bye.” He ended the call and continued to watch the tiny raptor.

  “Patience has its rewards, my friend,” he said. The kestrel closed its wings and shot down towards the embankment like a missile. A flash of blue and reddish brown appeared from the long grass a few seconds later. The kestrel flew off clutching a furry morsel.

  “Patience and decisive action,” Fitzpatrick murmured and nodded. He took a pull from his cigar and went downstairs to set off on his regular walk into Braemar. Later, he thought, he would go into the woods and choose a strong tree.

  .

  BTL Enterprises

  Glasgow

  Scotland

  On the ground floor of the massive office block, Rachel stood at one of the large windows overlooking Bothwell Street. She was holding a small radio in her right hand and a glass of orange juice in her left. She had heard the visitors before she saw them.

  “Hullo Zero and Juliet, this is Romeo, our guests have arrived.”

  In the BTL Enterprises offices on the top floor, the call was acknowledged by Phil.

  “Zero roger. A
lpha is on the way to your location.”

  At the entrance to the basement car-park, Rachel’s call was acknowledged by Jake.

  “Juliet, Roger. Opening up now.” He pressed a pass card into the slot to over-ride the single-vehicle operation of the barrier. The red and white bar lifted to vertical.

  The motorbikes turned from the road and rumbled down the ramp, under the building into the carpark. Each of the riders dressed in leather jacket and jeans. The jackets proudly announced with their patches that the riders were Mental Riders. As the bikers passed the barrier, they acknowledged Jake with a curt nod. He returned the gesture.

  In a carpark accustomed to the quiet purring of car engines or the occasional single motorbike engine, the sound of twelve powerful bikes at once filled the cavernous space with a deep thunderous noise.

  “Hi guys,” Rachel said as the riders wandered into the large meeting room. “You can remove your jackets, grab a brew and take a seat.” She paused and held back a smile as she felt twelve pairs of eyes on her. “Alpha will be joining us shortly.”

  “Nice outfit, Rachel,” Toolkit said, as he slipped his leather jacket from his shoulders and hung it over a chair. He ignored the mimicking of his compliment by his brothers-in-arms.

  Rachel’s lips parted as she gave him a dazzling smile. “Thank you Toolkit—nice T-shirt.” Eleven other leather jackets came off with a little more urgency and hung on the back of chairs. Men will be boys, Rachel thought, no matter how hard they are.

  It was a briefing session rather than an operation, so Rachel dressed in a navy jacket and black mini-skirt, with a pale blue blouse. She wore black shoes with a heel, but nothing too elaborate. Copper-coloured hair framed a face that had been perfectly made-up, and she looked nothing like the woman the bikers had seen before.