AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Macdonald guffawed. ‘I did hear about that. Okay, here’s whatwe’re going to do. I will personally tell the DCC that Barney is my responsibility and my risk, is covert in nature and that she isn’t to pry any more. I’ve already heard from the vetting department that there are no flags on him; quite the contrary, he’s held Developed Vetted status for more years than the both of us have been alive without so much as a single red flag. Would he like temporary accommodation for the winter? There’s a flat available if he would.’
‘I’ll ask him, but if I know Barney, he’ll jump at the chance of something that’s free, but I’d steel yourself for a big electricity bill.’
‘Excellent. I’ll make a call. So, what’s next?’
‘Max is going to see Frankie Hardie in prison tomorrow. We may need a quick move on that with the Crown Office, depending on what he wants, and what he knows. If he really wants to spill the beans, we may need to look into moving him into a covert and secure location. If this is as big as we suspect, they could get to him, wherever he is.’
‘I’ll need proper convincing if that’s the case, and any operation to debrief him outside of the prison estate will need serious planning, and a detailed risk management plan.’
‘We can discuss that once we know what he’s got to say. I’m still hesitant to believe any Hardie would help the polis.’
‘Agreed. Anything else?’
‘We’ll still chase the money, that’s a big part of this. Norma can keep digging as it looks like it could be a burner account that paid money into Galbraith’s mother’s account. It may have been used elsewhere.’
‘And you want to limit the dissemination of this, I assume?’
‘Aye, of both Frankie and the banking lead until we can bottom them out. The fact that the sniper knew exactly when and where the van would be could only have come from someone on the inside, and we’re going to find out who it is. Bent bastard.’
‘More bloody corruption. This is a bad situation, Ross. Miles is going to brief me on the reactive investigation tomorrow, but I want you to look at the covert side, and keep it locked down tight. See whatFrankie has to say, and chase up this banking. We’ll decide how we approach it from there. We may get a DNA hit on the sniper after all.’
‘I want us to be involved in any arrest op on him. Max was a sniper, and he may know how to get into his head, plus we have to consider how he was paid. He’s definitely a pro, although Max is being critical about his tradecraft. He’d have been expensive.’
‘Always the key to anything like this, eh, Ross,’ said the Chief, stifling a yawn.
‘Follow the money, boss. Always follow the money.’
37
FRANKIE HARDIE WASin his cell, staring at the TV which was not switched on. His thoughts were rushing like static electricity as he thought of his brother, dead on a slab somewhere. Just over a year ago, Frankie was part of a big family. A respected family with serious influence and plenty of money, and now look. He was the only one of them left, and he was in this putrid fucking cell in the shite-hole that was Shotts jail. His pa died in a shitty old graveyard. Tam Junior was gone, presumed dead having escaped from jail, and his wife and kids had heard nothing from him since then. Now Davie was gone. Shot by a fucking sniper during an escape attempt, and all because someone thought he was going to drop the dime on them. Something about someone big and powerful who was tying up loose ends. Frankie knew things that the cops would want to know, but he didn’t know everything. There were gaps. He knew his old man had some big bit of evidence stashed away somewhere, but was he going to help the cops? Could he be that person? It had been imprinted on him from day one that you never grassed, and you never helped the police, but things had changed. He was the last of the Hardies, and if he didn’t help the cops, then the bastard who put his brother in the morgue would get away with it.
He didn’t look up at the familiar rattle of keys in the cell door. ‘Grub’s up, Frankie,’ said Mr Jeffries, his head poking around the cell door.
‘Awesome,’ said Frankie, standing up, his voice flat and laden with sarcasm.
‘Stovies again, unfortunately, but most of the guys are back in their pads now. Grab your food and then straight back in, eh?’ said Jeffries, who opened the cell door wider.
‘Jesus,’ said Frankie, shaking his head, the cloud of depression thickening around his head. He couldn’t even have his bloody food out of his cell, since they’d risk-assessed him after his brother got topped. No new intelligence of hostile intentions, no need for full segregation, but meals in his cell and only out for necessities like showers and healthcare had been the decision by Cole, the head screw. They’d offered him rule 43 with all the nonces, but he’d told them to fuck off. He was a Hardie. Hardies didn’t hide away with all the paedos.
He had to turn to one side to get past a silver-haired, tattooed elderly con he’d not seen before, who was disconsolately pushing a dirty mop along an even dirtier floor, a tiny roll-up somehow attached to his lower lip. What sounded like twenty types of music, from rock to hip-hop to country, was blaring out from twenty cells. It all made for an unpleasant and febrile atmosphere, only made worse by the sour and unpleasant stench of the spice that was clearly reducing his co-inmates into whatever oblivion they were seeking. Spice had replaced heroin as the inmates’ choice of ‘bird killer’, meaning that if you were out of your box, your time passed so much quicker. A brief mental escape from the hellhole that was HMP Shotts. He sighed deeply, the depression biting even harder.
Frankie descended the iron staircase where he found the meal hall almost empty, apart from one of his pals behind the counter nodding at him.
‘Frankie, man. How ya doing?’ said the server.
‘Fucking stoatin, Charlie. Twenty-three hours bang-up, and now it’s stovies for dinner again.’ Frankie tried to lighten his voice, to chase away the deadening fog that was seeping into his brain.
‘Aye well, we spoil ya, eh?’ Charlie guffawed as he ladled a big pileof the grey-brown stew on his proffered plastic tray with compartments for pudding and a big hunk of stale bread. Another ladle, this time of some kind of sponge and a watery custard, was deposited into its space on the tray. Frankie picked up the plastic bag containing his breakfast pack, which he knew would contain two Weetabix, a carton of UHT milk and a bruised apple. All the food he’d get in the next eighteen hours was now in his hands. He was thankful for the stack of noodles and packets of biscuits that sat on the shelf in his cell, which acted both as currency and as sustenance for the putrid diet.
‘Straight back to your pad, Frankie, eh?’ said Jeffries as Frankie made to sit at one of the long trestle tables.
‘Ach, come on, Mr Jeffries. I’m sick of the fucking place, just give me twenty minutes.’
‘Sorry, Frankie. You know the drill, straight back up. I’m just doing the phone checks and then it’s bang-up, pal,’ said Jeffries, shaking his head, with no trace of a smile.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ muttered Frankie, standing up again and heading to the staircase, clutching his tray and bag. He ascended the steps, where the old con was still mopping, his head down, lips moving silently, the roll-up bobbling between his lips, the wooden handle of the mop clutched between his calloused hands.
‘What ya sayin’, old fella?’ Frankie greeted as the old guy looked at him through rheumy eyes, his face unsmiling.
