by Tom Benson
At the carpark, Max was grinning and sipping hot coffee from a paper cup. He shook his head. “Did you see the wee copper’s eyes there, Jacko?”
“Aye, they nearly popped out of his head.” The two men and those nearest to them all laughed and carried on with their carpark breakfast.
Sandeep Singh stood behind his counter in the small cafe opposite the carpark. He was grateful for the early morning windfall of burgers and coffee to sixteen hungry bikers, but he was praying to his particular deity for the Mental Riders to mount up and go elsewhere.
Sandy, as the men in leather referred to him, was as much a Glasgow man as the bikers, but their presence always made him feel like an outsider. He sometimes dreamt of being the first Asian biker in the chapter, but each time woke up in a cold sweat.
“Yo! Mental!” Max shouted. He raised his right arm and with his forefinger extended made a circular motion. Inside the next few seconds, the bikes all started up, and the local area’s late sleepers awoke into the new day to the sound of revving engines.
Max pulled onto Byres Road and nodded with satisfaction as he checked his mirrors. His brethren pulled onto the road in single file behind him. Jacko pulled up alongside Max, and then the others eased forward into pairs as the bikes cruised towards the main junction at the Botanical Gardens.
As the chapter went past the parked patrol car, every rider raised a single finger to the lone police officer, who in turn reached down for his handset.
“Control, this is Quebec Four.”
“Go ahead Quebec Four,” Marie said.
“The Mental Riders have just passed on the way to the crossroads at the Botanical Gardens.”
“Which direction are they taking Barry?”
“They all turned onto Great Western Road.”
“Can you follow them?”
“Which group would you like me to follow?” Barry said. “Eight turned west, and eight have gone east. Do we have any other cars in the area to assist?”
“We have one responding to an alarm call in Anniesland, and one checking out an alarm call at Charing Cross,” Marie said. “The Sarge says to let the bikes go, and we’ll contact other forces.”
Barry didn’t have to say anything as he imagined the two locations. They were in opposite directions. As Maria finished responding to the call, Barry had heard the sergeant’s laughter in the background. The bikers knew there would only be three cars available at this time of the morning.
The young police officer laughed aloud in his patrol car. The bikers might be bad-asses, but they were well-organised bad-asses.
As the eight bikers led by Jacko went east past Charing Cross, they were joined by Butcher and Paddy. They had created a minor diversion. The group roared off to join the road north towards the east side of the mountains.
In the other direction, as the bikes led by Max went through the Anniesland Cross junction, they were joined by Sparky and Toolkit—their minor mission accomplished. They all headed west to approach the west side of the Scottish Highlands.
33. Castle Tour
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Fitzpatrick had breakfast with his three guests and then commenced the grand tour of his home and HQ.
The four men were standing on the roof of the building, taking in the fantastic view of the nearby village, and the magnificent mountainous scenery that surrounded the area. Fitzpatrick lit a Havana cigar and stood in the centre of the roof pointing out the most famous peaks seen from his home.
“Over to the east is Morven, and north there, that’s Carn Mor.” He turned. “To the south is Lochnagar, but those are my favourite.” He pointed in a jerking motion with his cigar in hand. “Those impressive snow-capped peaks in the west are, Ben Macdhui, and Cairn Gorm.”
“Aye,” Mental Mickey said. “It’s great for one of the mountains to be called Cairn Gorm in a range called The Cairngorms.”
Fitzpatrick took a pull on his cigar and turned to squint at his associate. “Aye, that’s right Mental,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “Not many folks take notice of such a thing.”
“Really?” Mental said and stared out at the mountains.
Fitzpatrick rammed his cigar into his mouth to stop himself laughing.
The Colonel approached Fitzpatrick and whispered, to avoid being overheard by Mental or Henderson. “Gordon, I hate to bring up such a trivial thing, but my mobile phone has gone missing since last night at dinner.”
“You’re right, Sebastian,” Fitzpatrick said, turning to meet his gaze. “It is a trivial thing. Besides, you’re not going to need it.” He walked toward the turret door. “Come on gentlemen, let’s continue the tour.” He opened the small oak door and set off down the stone steps inside the turret. Henderson went next, and Mental ushered the Colonel into the third position.
The guests all had rooms on the upper floor, so there was nothing new to see there. On the previous evening, they had all taken a slow walk around the upstairs corridor and landing to admire the displays of suits of armour, shields, swords and lances.
All the items on display carried the decoration of the clan or regimental colours of Scottish fighting men of many years throughout history. Like many men of his ilk, Fitzpatrick aligned himself with fighting men of the past and was fiercely proud of his Scottish heritage.
The entourage followed Fitzpatrick down to the ground floor. He led them first into the dining room where they’d already had breakfast. A pale woman in her thirties in a smart black and white maid’s outfit was setting the dining table.
She’d served both the meal on the previous evening and breakfast, so the guests had all seen her more than once.
“Linda,” Fitzpatrick said.
Linda stopped work, turned and stood erect, her arms low across the front of her body, fingers intertwined. Her dark hair was tied back, and although she wore little makeup, she was handsome with a good figure.
Fitzpatrick said, “I’m very picky about who shares my life, including my staff.” He turned from his guests to the maid. “Now to look at the lovely Linda, you wouldn’t think she was a serial killer would you?”
Only Barrington-Cross showed any emotion as he stifled a laugh. He’d thought it was a hint of humour, then realised he was the only person laughing. His eyes opened wide.
“What’s wrong Sebastian?” Fitzpatrick said. “Have you never seen a female killer?”
“It’s just,” he searched for a good description. “She looks so normal and quite pretty.”
At a subtle nod from her boss, Linda’s lips parted in a faint smile, she bowed slightly, and performed a curtsey, holding her skirt out with both hands in the graceful movement.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she said. When she stood upright again, her arms were extended and held close by her sides, fists clenched.
Barrington-Cross shook his head. “I just can’t imagine—”
Linda brought both hands up and forward rapidly. There was a glint of shining metal reflecting from the stiletto knives she held in both hands. She looked directly into Barrington-Cross’s eyes. The sweet and soft expression was gone, to be replaced by a malevolent stare, and lips firmly pressed together. Yes, she was pretty; pretty fucking deadly.
At another nod from a grinning Fitzpatrick, Linda continued to gaze at Barrington-Cross as she dropped her hands and lifted her hem. There was a glimpse of thigh, and stocking tops as the woman replaced the blades upwards into the sheaths under the short, flared skirt.
Linda had seen how Barrington-Cross gazed down wide-eyed before he controlled himself and looked up to her eyes. By then his nature had been noted, and the cold blue eyes stared straight back at him. On the surface, Linda looked normal, but she was a psychopath in a French maid outfit.
The Colonel found himself mesmerised by the back view of the maid as she bent over the large dining table once more.
Henderson leant close. “Don’t let her catch you looking, you dirty old bas
tard.”
Barrington-Cross snorted and turned away.
Fitzpatrick said, “You’ll notice apart from the Mackintosh furniture in here, there are several stunning pieces of international wood carving.” He indicated them with a sweep of his hand, but it was hard to miss them because most were as big as a man. “I only had some of these delivered recently,” he continued and winked at Henderson.
Mental said, “Are we having a look at the trophy room?”
“Oh yes Mental, it’s just through here.” Fitzpatrick led the way and pushed open a heavy oak door. He walked through the doorway, followed by his guests, and then they all stood in the largest room in the building.
Fitzpatrick said, “It looks good, but I have more being delivered.”
“It’s awe-inspiring,” Barrington-Cross said as he spun on his heel and looked at the many statues, busts, engravings, weapons and other assorted antiquities. “The contents of this room must be worth a small fortune.”
“Soon to be a large fortune, Sebastian,” Fitzpatrick said. “A fortune is better shared by fewer people.” Dimples pulled his beard as he grinned. The statement hung in the air.
The Colonel gazed at Fitzpatrick’s face but was thinking of the ambiguity of the words. He put it out of his mind. He had enough money. The sooner he could get away from these crazy people, the better he’d like it. He had slept fitfully and decided he’d leave the country at the earliest opportunity. There had to be a way of disappearing from this place.
Barrington-Cross decided if Mental Mickey weren't leaving at lunchtime, then he’d make an excuse and go alone. If necessary, he’d sneak away on foot and pay to get as far as he could from Fitzpatrick and his cronies.
“Peter,” Fitzpatrick said. “What’s your schedule for today?”
“You wanted me on the road for mid-morning at the latest, Boss.”
“Okay,” Fitzpatrick said. “We’ll go down to the cellar rooms next.” He strode across the oak parquet floor of the trophy room, pausing to look at individual pieces. Each time he stopped, he turned and smiled at his guests. “These few pieces are worth so much gentleman, and as I said, there is more to come.”
Mental said, “When are you gonna show us where you’ve stashed all the gear?”
“All in good time my friend,” Fitzpatrick said. “For now, this is where things spiral downwards, from this doorway, and down the stone staircase.” He gave a short laugh. Two minutes later he was standing before the heavy door with the digital pad to the side. He keyed in the combination and pressed the enter button.
“Now, take a look at this place of wonder,” he said as he went down the final few steps. Fitzpatrick reached floor level and then stood to one side.
“I like this,” Mental said. The darkness and sense of a torture chamber appealed to his sick senses.
Fitzpatrick said, “To your front is my private fish pond with a synchronised lighting system. It operates in tune with day and night cycle outside. I love it.” He pointed to the bridge. “The bridge across the pond looks perfect, but I wouldn’t want to fall from it.”
“Why?” The Colonel asked. “How could it be dangerous to fall into such a small pond?”
“It wouldn’t be dangerous Sebastian; it would be fatal,” Fitzpatrick said. He stepped to one side and opened a concealed door in the stone which revealed an illuminated container fitted into the wall. It was a new fridge, complete with a door fashioned to blend in with the surrounding granite.
“Watch this,” Fitzpatrick said as he used a metal spike to lift a large piece of meat from the chilled cabinet. He hefted the flesh out into the pool, and it hit with a splash. There was white foam on the surface for a few seconds and then tranquillity.
“Fucking hell,” Mental said. “Fantastic.”
Peter stared in disbelief but said nothing.
Barrington-Cross gasped and stepped back until his back touched the wall. He pressed his palms against the cold, clammy stonework, swallowed hard, and concentrated on controlling his breathing.
“Piranha,” Fitzpatrick said proudly, and then smiled at each guest.
Mental said, “How long would a person survive who fell in there?”
“Two or maybe three minutes,” Fitzpatrick said and glanced at the Colonel. “It would depend on how much there was for them to eat.”
“What do you have in these cellar rooms?” Mental asked. He was looking around the underground space with an almost a child-like awe. A smile played on his lips.
“These rooms down here are for special guests Mental,” Fitzpatrick said. “Allow me to show you two of my special guests.” He walked across to Cell Two, eased back the bolt and pulled the door open.
Stephanie Henderson recoiled into her usual position, sitting up in the corner of the stone bed; her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, which she pulled up against her chest, just as before. She stared back at the four faces gazing at her. To keep favour, she’d been using makeup to maintain a presentable appearance, but she wasn’t looking her best. Fear has a detrimental effect on beauty.
Fitzpatrick said, “Fancy a wee gang-bang Stephanie, love?”
The terrified woman’s eyes opened wider, and her body trembled. Her head moved side to side as her gaze searched out her estranged husband’s eyes. She realised he could have been looking at a stranger. There wasn’t a flicker of compassion.
Fitzpatrick looked from his prisoner to Peter Henderson and saw the hatred between the two. He laughed, slammed the door and slid the bolt back into place before he walked to the next door and pulled the latch on Cell One. He looked at Barrington-Cross.
“Within this cell is an extraordinary guest, gentlemen.” He opened the door wide, and as hard and heartless as Peter and Mental both were, they both winced. Curled up on the rough stone platform was a pathetic, battered, bleeding creature in tattered remnants of clothing. Her usually lustrous hair was bedraggled and hung like tangled golden-brown seaweed.
The person they viewed didn’t resemble the handsome woman usually seen on Fitzpatrick’s arm. Clutched in her damaged, bleeding fingers was a photograph, and there were four other bloodied photographs crumpled on the bed. She didn’t look up when the door opened.
Barrington-Cross had to stop himself from puking. It was bad enough when he didn’t know who it was, but when the realisation hit him, he had to apply self-control. He knew what that woman looked like when she was well-dressed, and when she was naked.
The Colonel closed his eyes briefly and swallowed hard. He hoped nobody had noticed, but Mental glanced sideways at him and nodded. His thin lips curled, causing his livid facial scar to stretch.
“Fucking slut.” Fitzpatrick slammed the door. “Okay gentlemen,” he said and took a long pull from his cigar. “We’ll go upstairs now because young Peter has a schedule to keep, but there’s something I want him to see before he leaves.
The master of the house led his guests out through the side door beside the double garage and then followed the track along the edge of the woodland. He passed the first exit track and then paused before he strolled down the next path. Fitzpatrick made a show of breathing in the scent of the pine trees as he went.
“Oh, to be at one with Mother Nature,” he said and turned to look at the Colonel.
As they left the building, Simpson had followed them from where he’d been waiting beside the garage door. He was carrying Fitzpatrick’s wooden baseball bat.
“I’d like to show you a clearing and provide a little education along here,” Fitzpatrick said and led the way. He spoke as he walked, but didn’t turn around. “What do you know about the saint whose name you share, Sebastian?”
“St Sebastian,” Barrington-Cross said. “I think he was a martyr shot to death by arrows. I believe he said or did something that went against the ruling powers.”
“Not bad,” Fitzpatrick said and stopped walking. He turned to face the ex-officer who stopped to look him in the eye. “Treason is what they called it back then, Sebastian,
and strangely it’s called the same thing today.”
Fitzpatrick turned away from the Colonel for a moment to look at the faces of his other companions. “Anyway, St Sebastian survived the arrows, so legend has it.”
“Really?” Barrington-Cross said. His pulse was racing, he felt his face warming, and his breathing hitched. He last knew these sensations when he was about to lead his men into battle as a young officer. He had fucked that up because of fear, and he recalled the symptoms. The memory dissipated because of the tone of his host’s voice.
“Yes, really, Sebastian,” Fitzpatrick replied in a raised voice. He turned. “Norrie.”
The big man stepped forward to push forward between the others, and handed over the bat, handle first. He stepped back behind the three guests once again. Mental and Henderson both stepped sideways away from the Colonel.
Fitzpatrick looked along the faces of his three guests, and then as quick as a flash spun the baseball bat down horizontally at waist level. He jabbed the bulbous end hard into the Colonel’s gut. The big man’s eyes bulged, and his mouth opened wide. He stopped breathing, and his overweight body began to double over. Many nights with a particular woman flashed in his mind as he went into a state of panic—and regret.
Barrington-Cross staggered backwards still bent over until two strong pairs of hands grabbed his arms. He was dragged to a tree only two metres away, which had a small red cross marked near the base. A recognition mark made earlier in the day.
Mental Mickey and Simpson held the winded victim against the tree while Henderson went around behind and pulled on the ropes that were dangling from a branch at the back.
“Secure his wrists and strip the fat bastard,” Fitzpatrick said.
It took the men five minutes to secure and strip the heavily-built Barrington-Cross until he was in his underwear. One of the ropes was looped around his neck, to hold his head up.