by Tom Benson
McGinley laughed naturally, genuinely amused, and for a moment seemed like a regular middle-aged woman. “You saw part of the operation over the last couple of days,” she said. “What do you think?” The evil, sadistic monster in her became overshadowed.
“It might be time for me to settle down to an irregular job,” Simpson said, grinning. “You deserve respect. I knew about Mickey’s reputation and about him being married, but I didn’t know you had such a colourful background.”
“I don’t boast about how I used to be, but occasionally I flick my bitch switch to keep people in line.”
“I could see myself working for one person, as long as the person had a strong character.” Simpson nodded and slurped more tea. “I’d like to join your organisation. I reckon I could kill for you, Carol.”
The widow’s lips parted, and tiny dimples appeared on her cheeks, but before she could respond further, a shrill, metallic bell-ringing erupted from her mobile phone. She smiled when Simpson’s brow furrowed. A traditional telephone ring from a tiny modern device sounded peculiar to some folk.
“I love the sound of how phones used to be,” McGinley said. “It reminds me how I made money from nothing in my teens, breaking into public call boxes.”
They were both laughing when she lifted the mobile to her ear. Simpson indicated himself and stood to leave the room, but a wave of McGinley’s hand had him sit again.
“Yes,” McGinley said into the phone. Her eyes narrowed and briefly closed tight as she listened to the caller. “Bring it to me at the house, Callum.” She ended the call.
“A problem?” Simpson said.
“Callum is one of my street-level guys. He’s not high on the payroll, although he’s a nice lad, and he’s got brain cells to burn.” She gazed at the phone in her hand for a moment before placing it on the coffee table. “There’s an article in the newspaper he thinks I should know about.”
The doorbell chimed twenty minutes after the brief phone call. McGinley stood, but once again motioned with a hand for Simpson to stay put. The woman returned with a newspaper and settled herself into her seat in the spacious conservatory.
McGinley scanned the front page, before opening the tabloid to browse the following pages. When she reached pages four and five, her gaze became fixed on page five. Her lips pursed, and she remained silent as her eyes flicked left to right repeatedly.
“Fuck,” she breathed and peered over the paper at her guest. “Pour me a whiskey please, Brian—a large one.”
Simpson stood and went through to the lounge. He returned two minutes later and handed his host a large tumbler half-filled with the pungent amber liquid.
McGinley accepted the drink and nodded. She took a long pull of the strong spirit, briefly closed her eyes, and held her breath, savouring the kick, and the fumes. She handed the newspaper to Simpson.
He held it open at page five to silently read the article before he spoke.
“This blonde woman, her real name was Stephanie Henderson,” Simpson said. “Why do I think I know the name?”
“She’s the little bitch who testified on behalf of the Crown when the charges against Mickey and the others were read out in court.”
“There are two things I found strange when I read about the court case.”
“Go on,” McGinley said, her features relaxing.
“First; if the men were already dead, why did this Henderson woman switch sides in court?” He paused. “Secondly; how come the case came to court so quickly?”
“I don’t know how much you’ve read about the case,” McGinley said. “Stephanie Henderson reckoned she was abused by her ex-husband, Peter, and then imprisoned and threatened with all sorts of shit.” She shook her head. “To bring the court case forward they used a special dispensation which only exists in Scotland. They had no solid defence case, so the Procurator Fiscal, or as you’d know them, the Crown Prosecution Service produced signed statements. They depended on two women who should know better than to testify.”
“If Henderson was one of the women ... who was the other?”
“Fitzpatrick’s wife, who was conveniently secured in a private clinic somewhere under police protection.”
“I read the name, Cameron. Who was he?”
“Cameron and Fitzpatrick were one and the same,” McGinley said. “He returned to the UK from exile in South America. His wife had organised new identities as Mr and Mrs Fitzpatrick ready for his return.”
“It sounds like the authorities were outsmarted and were eager to sweep the whole thing under the carpet. Surely the two wives should have said nothing, or supported the dead men?”
“Our solicitor was told he’d be wasting his time and my money. The case was too strong to fight because the women were prepared to testify.”
Simpson shook his head. “So, how did this Henderson woman end up in Vancouver?” He glanced at the page again. “Wait a minute. It uses her real name under the picture but provides her alias in the story. Did they use her evidence as a publicity stunt, and then give her a meal ticket to Canada?”
“Yes, but it didn’t do her any fucking good, did it?”
“This guy Andy Hicks, in the other picture—who is he?”
“He was one of my best people. I sent him to find the blonde trollop.”
“Was he supposed to kill her and it’s all gone wrong?”
“No,” she said. “Andy wouldn’t have killed without my order. His briefing included finding and questioning Henderson, but not killing her.”
“What would she have known of any use to your organisation?”
“She could have described the vigilante bastards who executed Mickey, Cameron, Henderson and the others at Braemar in July.” McGinley took another gulp of whiskey and winced. “It took Andy a while to find young Stephanie, and he called me two days ago.”
“If he took a while to find her and he didn’t kill her, it means somebody else found her faster and was there when he turned up.”
“How do you work that out?” McGinley said. “Andy was bloody efficient.”
“That’s my point. If your man Andy was good, he didn’t think there was any opposition. He must have entered her apartment intent on interrogating her, so if somebody managed to be a step ahead of him, he wouldn’t be expecting it.”
“I’m with you now,” McGinley said. “You think somebody else was there, and killed Andy, before dealing with the Henderson bitch?”
Simpson nodded slowly. “As an hitman, I’m trying to imagine how it could go wrong,” he said. “Let’s say, whoever happened to be in the apartment, found a gun belonging to Ms Henderson. The Henderson woman comes home and is secured in the place somewhere. Your guy Andy turns up and is shot by the intruder using Henderson’s gun. The intruder then uses the gun close-up on Henderson and sets her up like a suicide.”
“Who could have found her quicker than Andy?”
“You said these vigilante guys were good,” Simpson said. “What if they knew she could identify them, and they were worried about reprisals by you?”
“You’re right, Brian, and I think they’re right to be worried because we’re going to find the bastards.” She finished her whiskey and placed the tumbler on the table. “You said you didn’t get much out of that guy, Grant.”
“He doesn’t seem to know much, except Hartley had several visitors in the secure clinic.”
“Do you think Grant can tell us anything useful?”
“Grant had been having an affair with the clinic boss’s wife. Fitzpatrick got the lowdown, and blackmailed Grant so he would kill Hartley.”
“William Hartley was a dominant figure.”
“No, Carol,” Simpson said. “Hartley might once have been the Godfather, but he was in a wheelchair, in a vegetative state. He was nothing, and would be easy to finish.”
“Did you find out why Hartley had to die?”
“Fitzpatrick found out somebody had fitted an unnecessary hearing aid on Hartley, which was equipped w
ith a transmitter. Fitzpatrick wanted the leak plugged.”
“So, Grant killed Hartley, and did a runner for fear of Fitzpatrick returning to tie up loose ends?”
“Pretty much,” Simpson said. “Grant’s fucking quaking now, because he’s not sure if he knows anything else useful. He realises he could be expendable.”
“Excuse me one minute,” McGinley said and lifted her phone. She hit speed dial and listened. “Hi, Tug—Carol,” she said. “Have you got anything?” She listened. “Keep him for another day and then finish him. When you dump him, do it on the other side of the river.” She paused. “Yes, I want our shit dropped on the north side.” She put the phone on the table and nodded slowly.
Simpson met her gaze. “Have you got a motive for planting your waste bodies on the other side of the Clyde?”
“Yeah, we know the vigilante and his associates probably operate from over there, and I want to discredit the bastards.”
“We’re back to square one then?” Simpson said. “We haven’t got anybody who’s seen these vigilante do-gooders?”
“Maybe we have,” McGinley said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of them before.”
“Who?”
“One person is the widow of the guy we knew as Cameron or if you like, Fitzpatrick.”
“Okay,” Simpson said. “Where is she?”
“I believe she has either been moved to a secure hospital wing, or she’s in a private clinic, but I’m sure we could find her.”
“Who is the other person?”
“Redhead Renton,” McGinley said, nodding. “He told me he’d been hit on the head from behind, but I’m now wondering if the slimy bastard covered his arse in case I questioned him about the vigilantes.”
“You said Renton had a close call, but do we know if it was the vigilantes or undercover police?”
“We’ll find out, or Renton will become excess to requirement.”
“You don’t suffer fools gladly, do you?”
“No Brian, I don’t suffer anything gladly.” She picked up the phone.
“Tug, Carol again—where is Renton at the moment?” She listened and nodded as her chief interrogator replied. “When he gets back at the weekend, I’d like a close eye kept on him. No more than two guys to watch him. They liaise with you directly.”
“Make sure he’s not able to do a runner,” Simpson whispered.
McGinley nodded. “Tug—once Renton is back in Glasgow, make sure he doesn’t have access to a weapon or a set of wheels. Tell him we’re keeping things tight for a while.” She ended the call and grinned at Simpson as she handed him her empty whiskey tumbler.
6. Bad News Travels Fast
.
Friday 24th September
BTL Enterprises
Glasgow
“Okay team,” Jake said and looked at the faces. “We’ve got a couple of issues we’ll have to address as a matter of urgency.” He glanced at the clock. “I’ll let our local crime reporter give you the public verdict, before our discussion.”
He dropped a daily newspaper on the desk and nodded to Rachel.
Rachel flicked the TV remote. She increased the volume as the newsroom handed over to the outside broadcast unit.
‘Good morning. I’m Sandra McVicar reporting for Glasgow Today, your local TV news programme. I am standing on Renfield Street at the entrance to Bath Lane. The city’s one-way grid system has been altered by police during their investigation.’
The reporter half-turned, allowing her cameraman to focus briefly on the white tent erected in the narrow city centre lane.
‘A man’s mutilated body was found here early this morning. The victim has not been officially identified. However, there is speculation it is the missing clinic orderly, Des Grant. Mr Grant was last seen around the time of William Hartley’s murder in July at a Balloch secure unit. It is widely suspected that Grant was contracted to kill the ex-Godfather.
Two days ago, I reported the discovery of Joe Garside’s mutilated body in a car-wash, and due to his injuries, there was some conjecture about his killer.
We must now consider the involvement of the famous Scottish vigilante, nicknamed Hawk. Is the Hawk responsible for the deaths of these two men, and has the public hero moved from execution to torture? As always, we will bring you the latest on this peculiar turn of events. This has been Sandra McVicar for Scotland Today.’
She stepped back as her cameraman zoomed out, and panned around to show the usually busy street cordoned off and devoid of traffic or pedestrians.
“If conjecture were news,” Ian said. “Ms McVicar would be crime reporter of the year.”
“Before we get underway, guys,” Jake said, lifting the newspaper he had brought. “We have some more pieces of this mysterious and worrying puzzle.”
Rachel was up to speed because they’d read the report together at breakfast.
Jake said, “A small column appeared on page five in Wednesday’s paper. I’ll read out the salient points. I know the two recent murders in Glasgow are being laid at our doorstep, but I believe this article is a concern.” He opened the paper, cleared his throat, and read aloud.
“Does Hawk have a flock?” Jake shook his head and continued. “In Vancouver, Canada, on Tuesday, Twenty-first September a cleaner discovered two bodies in a rented apartment. The victims have been identified as Stephanie Henderson, age; twenty-six, and Andy Hicks, age; forty-four.
Mrs Henderson was living in Canada under an assumed name, having fled her native Glasgow in July of this year. Mr Hicks has been linked to the McGinley gang on Glasgow’s south side.
A police spokesman has said the crime scene is still being investigated. It is unclear if a third party is being sought about the deaths. Both persons died due to fatal gunshot wounds. Scottish police have been requested to supply officers to assist with intelligence regarding the casualties. Mrs Henderson was beaten and tortured before being murdered. Unofficial reports suggest the notorious vigilante, Hawk or his associates may be involved.”
Jake finished reading and closed the paper before dropping it on the table.
“Never let the truth spoil a good news story,” Eva said. “Would you like me to organise a brew while you calm down Jake?”
“Thanks,” Jake said. “I shouldn’t let it get to me, but this type of publicity does nobody any favours.”
“I’ll give you a hand with the coffees.” Rachel squeezed Jake’s shoulder as she stood. “Easy tiger, you’re not alone.”
Armed with a fresh brew, the team set up a battle-board complete with photos of deceased gang members. They had to see, understand, and discuss the links between Henderson, Hicks, and the recently discovered body of Grant, however tenuous.
The team called it a day in mid-afternoon. Jake explained he and Rachel had a special date on Sunday, but they’d get in some time on Saturday, visiting places to pick up Intel on the gangland scene. Ian and Eva agreed they’d spend their weekend working independently to get in touch with various outside contacts. Jake reached Freddie and told him to stand-down for the weekend.
.
Saturday 25th September
Glasgow Airport
Martina Crawford arrived back in the UK on a flight from Amsterdam.
“Welcome back to the UK, Miss Harper,” the passport control officer said.
“It’s lovely to be back, thank you,” Crawford said, and slipped the Harper passport into her bag. She made her way to the exit and the coach shuttle service to the city. Taxis were too personal, and the drivers could never resist checking out a lone female. It was an international feature of their profession.
In less than an hour, Crawford was strolling through Central Station. She recovered her laptop and her few other personal effects from the Left Luggage lockers. It was an inexpensive, simple, and secure method of leaving her possessions at short notice. Since initially returning to the UK a few weeks earlier on her personal mission, she had yet to stay in any accommodation for longer tha
n three days.
Crawford took a seat upstairs in a city centre coffee shop and powered up her laptop. Before she engaged the local Wi-Fi, she initiated her custom Firewall programme. Unlike other security protection devices, Crawford’s allowed a hacker to gain access, but only to the first level.
When she’d left the UK some years before as an eighteen-year-old, she’d trained as a programmer and analyst. She was employed using a computer in a regular job and spent her evenings honing her skills. Every week she stole the equivalent of her monthly salary until she had a bank account set up to deal with expenses. Nadia Henderson, aka Martina Crawford, had three international accounts, each with a five-figure balance. Six-figure balances she’d learned attracted attention.
A fistful of passports with different identities proved useful for international travel, and she kept a record of the dates she flew from one country to another and under which name. It wouldn’t do to be highlighted at airport security for overstaying her welcome in any destination.
“Let me into your world,” she murmured as she joined the Internet. A slender hand reached out and lifted her latte, and before sipping the drink, she winked at a teenager sitting nearby who glanced away, pretending not to have been admiring her.
“Fucking pussy,” Crawford whispered, as the young lad turned crimson, finished his coffee and left. Crawford spent half an hour checking out UK newspaper stories, grinning at individual reports. From what she could see, her bigger plan was still in the early stages but continued to look feasible.
As Crawford logged into another of her mailboxes, a small caption appeared in the bottom right corner of her screen. The emoticon she’d set up with it was a face with one raised eyebrow, to remind her of her displeasure at being hacked. She paused for a moment to observe her handiwork operating.
The original emoticon was replaced with a nodding, smiling emoticon and the single word, ‘Gotcha!’. Crawford grinned as she continued to her mail. She quickly scanned the messages, deleting rubbish as she went. Of all the messages in her mailboxes, she searched for one and found it.