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Ross’s brow furrowed in confusion. ‘Craigie, I know you’re a weird bugger, but I also am aware that you have a knack for gettingintelligence right. If I’m to do anything with whatever it is you’re going to tell me, I probably need to be able to categorise the source, and then evaluate it. You know, National Intelligence Model and all that shit, the College of Policing are particular about it.’ Ross licked the white fluffy centre from his lips.
‘Okay, can I say a community contact?’
‘Call it what you bloody like, man. Just tell me what the intelligence is, and we’ll worry about the attribution and evaluation later.’ ‘Okay, but you’re going to have to trust me on this one, it’s a big deal, and I trust the origin of the info.’
‘Pal, you’re being deliberately obtuse here. Just spit it out.’
‘I think that Davie Hardie is going to try to escape from prison.’
A sudden silence descended on the room, as everyone stopped typing.
‘What, that brother of Tam Hardie?’ said Barney, from his customary spot on a worn armchair in the corner of the room.
‘That’s the one.’
‘Shit,’ said Ross.
‘I’ll make the tea,’ said Max.
10
STEVEN ‘MITCH’ MITCHELLthrew the last of his tools in the back of his battered white van and slammed the door shut. He zipped up his jacket against the cold and turned to face the grey-haired and elderly householder who was standing on the doorstep, nodding and smiling.
‘Thanks for such a grand job, Mitch. The new kitchen is marvellous, and I’ll recommend you to everyone at my book club.’
‘Grateful, Mrs Lyons. I’m glad you like it.’ He smiled, brushing sawdust from his trousers.
‘When can you fit the new flooring?’
‘It’s on order, so probably the week after next. I’ll get it fitted as soon as it’s in, I promise,’ Mitch said, and scratched an itch in his ear.
‘You’re an absolute darling. Let me know, yes?’
‘Will do Mrs L.’ He climbed into the driver’s seat, started the ropey-sounding engine and headed off, returning Mrs Lyons’s wave. He sang along with the radio, as Adele burst out of the speakers, feeling once again relief that he was no longer in the game. He was finally enjoying being on the straight, and away from all the problems that his former life had brought with it. He was excited about getting home early and he was going to grab a lightning shower, and then set about making dinner, so that Abi would have a meal waiting for her when she got home. His smile widened at the thought of his lovely wife. She’d saved him from his former life and shown him that there was a better way to live. He actually enjoyed his job now, fitting kitchens, floors, shelves and the like. It was honest, and it gave him satisfaction.
The journey home took only ten minutes, as the traffic was light, and he yawned as he pulled onto the drive of his newish home on one of the recent developments to the east of city. He switched off the engine and fumbled for the front door key.
Although Mitch had left the life of crime a couple of years ago, he still had a sixth sense for when things were wrong, and he knew something wasn’t right, now. He looked at the house, reaching down into the footwell, where a socket wrench had fallen earlier, and he was reassured by its cold heft in his calloused hand.
He wracked his brain, trying to identify what was different that was making his hackles rise.
Then he saw it.
The side gate to the left of the house. The wrought-iron latch handle was askew. He’d fitted the gate himself after they bought the house, but it was rarely used, and the latch was normally parallel to the ground, but it was at a slight angle. Someone had opened the gate, or at least attempted to do so, which was unusual, as it was bolted shut on the other side.
Mitch got out of the van, the wrench still in his hand and walked from the van to the gate. He reached out and lifted the latch, noiselessly. The gate swung open, and his heart lurched. No one ever opened that gate apart from him, when mowing the lawn. Being the depths of winter, it hadn’t been opened for months. Someone had opened it, either from the other side, or by climbing, or by reaching over to pull the bolt back. But why? Burglary was uncommon in this area, but they weren’t unheard of. If there was a bastard burglar in his house, he was about to get a nasty fucking shock, thought Mitch as his grip on the wrench tightened, his knuckles whitening. He lived a law-abiding life now, but he would protect his wife and home with his life, he thought as he felt sweat begin to prickle on his spine, and a flush of blood rise in his face. He’d been a good fighter in his time, and this fucker was going to regret ever breaking into his house. He pushed at the gate and stormed the path that led up the side of thehouse. When he reached the back, he saw with horror, which soon morphed into fury, that the back door was open and shards of glass were under his feet, crunching like hard ice. He growled, trying to keep the fury from exploding out. Stealth was needed, just in case the bastard was still inside. He pushed the UPVC back door open, and it swung smoothly on well-maintained hinges. He eased into the kitchen, trying to stop his footsteps cracking the toughened glass that was strewn all over the hard-tiled floor.
He steadied his breathing, trying to control it, ready to deal with whatever came next, when there was a chink of glass behind him. His heart jumped into his mouth as he turned, raising the wrench, a snarl on his face.
‘Hello, Mitch,’ came a deep, sonorous voice, tinged with the dark streets of Glasgow. Mitch looked at the newcomer who was standing six feet away on the garden path. He took in the heavy, hooded eyes, drooping jowls and deeply lined forehead of the expressionless face.
‘Droopy …’ he began, his heart lurching as dread instantly gripped him like an icy fist.
‘Bye, Mitch,’ said Droopy, who quickly raised his hand. Mitch just had time to recognise a long-barrelled pistol with a bulbous silencer on the front. It coughed once, bucked in Droopy’s hand, and a bullet smashed into Mitch’s forehead. He fell like a dropped sandbag, dead before he hit the floor.
11
MAX STARED ATRoss, who was chewing thoughtfully on another Tunnock’s teacake, his mug in his hand, eyes half closed, contemplatively, as Max spelled out the intelligence given just an hour ago by Bruce Ferguson. The only bit he left out was Bruce’s name, and the fact that illegal phone intercepts were the source of the information. Intercepts are tightly controlled, can never be openly referred to, and are only authorised at the highest level. Max trusted Ross more than anyone else he could think of but telling him about ‘unconventional’ telecommunications intercepts would put him in a difficult position.
