Black Mail (2012) (19 page)

‘It’s the filth.’ McAteer gestured towards O’Sullivan. ‘He must’ve followed me out here.’

‘Shite! That’s all I need! Is he on his own?’

‘He says he’s got armed back-up outside.’

‘Fucking hell!’

‘He’s probably bluffing. Come on.’ McAteer picked up his car keys from the table and lobbed them across. ‘You drive, Jack. I’ll take care of this one.’ Jack Craig caught the keys, then lifted his anorak and his heavy briefcase from the bed.

McAteer dragged O’Sullivan to his feet and held him in front of him. He kicked open the caravan door, the knife blade pressed hard against O’Sullivan’s throat, drawing more blood.

‘Whoever’s out there,’ he yelled. ‘Back off, or Paddy cops his lot!’

Tom Freer stepped back silently into the shadow of the trees. McAteer moved down the caravan steps slowly, giving his eye time to adjust to the gloom, Jack Craig following close behind. They made their way across to the Volvo, McAteer’s blade pressed against O’Sullivan’s windpipe. He opened the passenger door and got inside, forcing O’Sullivan to sit on the door sill. Craig placed his briefcase carefully on the back seat, then slipped in behind the steering wheel. Firing the ignition, he depressed the clutch and nudged the car into gear. McAteer locked his elbow around O’Sullivan’s throat as the car inched forward, O’Sullivan’s heels dragging a rutted track through the snow. When they started to gather pace McAteer pushed O’Sullivan’s body clear of the car and slammed the door.

Just after half-past five Charlie and Colin Renton walked into the office they’d been allocated, adjacent to the Parkhead hospitality suite. They were greeted by two Celtic directors. A police sergeant and a dozen uniformed officers, most of whom Charlie recognised, were waiting in the office.

‘This is a large-scale operation,’ Charlie announced to the assembled company. ‘We have reason to believe that several hundred thousand pounds’ worth of drugs will be changing hands in the west toilets underneath the main stand in about an hour’s time.’

‘Why would anyone choose to deal in drugs here, Inspector?’ one of the directors enquired.

‘Our information is that two dealers, posing as Dynamo Zagreb supporters, have brought a large quantity of heroin into the country and they’ve set up a rendezvous with their contacts at six-thirty in the toilets to sell it on. When you’re given the signal to move in,’ Charlie said, turning to the sergeant, ‘assign two of your men to cordon off the area and direct anyone trying to approach the toilets to the loos at the other end of the stand. The rest of your team will body search everyone coming out of the west toilets. What we’re looking for is serious quantities of heroin and large sums of money.’

‘What’s “a large sum of money”, sir?’ one of the officers asked.

‘Twenty quid, if you’re on my salary,’ someone chipped in, to the accompaniment of whistles and hoots of derision.

Charlie waited for the banter to die away before continuing. ‘Use your common sense. Wads of notes in brown envelopes would be a good starting point. And talking of using your common sense, we need to do everything we can to ensure cooperation for the body searches, so make it clear that you’re not interested in personal use stuff. If anyone refuses to cooperate, cuff them and take them to the Black Maria that’s parked outside the South Stand. It’s important that we do this with the minimum of fuss and aggro,’ Charlie stated. ‘We don’t want rowdy arguments going on outside the toilets in case that spooks the dealers into flushing the evidence down the pan. Any questions?’

There was a sharp rap on the office door and a girl popped her head round. ‘There’s someone from the drugs squad here to see you, Inspector.’

‘Send him in,’ Charlie said. ‘If there are no questions,’ he said, looking round the room. ‘I need to brief this guy.’

As the police officers and the directors were filing out of the room, a diminutive figure in jeans and a polo-necked sweater walked in. He had a large rucksack strapped to his back and he was holding a jet-black Labrador on a leash.

‘Warrant Officer Pete McIntyre, Inspector,’ he announced, taking a firm grip of Charlie’s proffered hand. He acknowledged Renton’s presence with a wave. ‘Ammunitions Technical Officer to the army cognoscenti,’ he said with a toothy smile. ‘One-man bomb disposal squad to the rest of the world.’ McIntyre had the wiry frame of a jockey. There wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on his angular features and his tousled brown hair flopped down over his forehead.

‘Am I glad to see you,’ said Charlie.

‘What’s the situation?’

‘How much have you been told?’

‘Only that I’m here to disarm an explosive device and that you two are the only people I’m allowed to discuss it with. As far as everyone else is concerned I’m with the drugs squad.’

Charlie nodded. ‘We’ve reason to believe that a bomb is going to be planted in the toilets downstairs in about half an hour’s time – Semtex, about seven kilos of the stuff. What sort of damage would we be looking at if that went off?’

‘It all depends where the device is positioned. To put it into perspective, a few grams of high explosive packed into a radio cassette player was enough to bring down the Lockerbie plane, whereas when the IRA tried to take out Thatcher and her cabinet in Brighton in the nineteen eighties we reckon they used about nine kilos of gelignite. Seven kilos of Semtex, expertly placed, could make one hell of a mess of the stadium.’

‘What about the surrounding area?’

‘The nearest houses are on the other side of London Road?’

‘That’s right.’

McIntyre shook his head. ‘The blast might take out a few windows, but nothing more by way of collateral damage. Anyway,’ he added, ‘that’s all theoretical. It’s my job to make sure the device doesn’t go pop.’

‘I must say I find your confidence reassuring. We should be able to have the toilets cordoned off by about six-thirty. How do you want to play it?’

‘How many searchers do we have?’

‘You’re looking at us.’

‘I assume there’s no problem with me using my dog?’

‘As long as you con it into believing it’s looking for drugs. You’re not allowed to tell it about the Semtex.’

‘I’ll try,’ he whispered, tapping the side of his nose. ‘But Sheena’s nobody’s fool.’ McIntyre’s top teeth stuck out when he grinned. ‘In which case I suggest you leave the search activity to me and the two of you concentrate on keeping any nosy parkers at bay. There isn’t a better sniffer dog in Scotland than Sheena, but we can’t rely on her. One of the reasons Semtex is so popular with terrorists is that it has only a faint signature odour and the dogs have a problem with it. But I’ve got my bag of tricks.’ He shrugged off his heavy rucksack. ‘I’ve got a trace detector to take air samples and that’ll pick up just about any explosive material in the vicinity, including Semtex, and if the bomb’s been placed somewhere inaccessible I’ve got a robot that will let me have a close-up look at the device before I decide how I’m going to disarm it.’

‘Anything in particular we should be doing?’ Charlie asked.

‘Switch off your mobiles, just in case the device is radio
activated. I’d hate to go through the roof because one of your wives called to say your dinner was ready.’

‘Can we use walkie-talkies?’ Renton asked.

‘No problem – different frequency entirely.’

When McAteer and Craig reached the other side of Luss village they pulled into a lay-by and swapped over, McAteer taking the wheel.

‘What the hell were you thinking about – leading the cops to the caravan?’ Craig complained as he clipped on his seatbelt. ‘The last thing we need is the fuzz on the lookout for this car.’

‘It’s nothin’ to get worked up about. It’ll be hours before anybody finds him, an’ with a bit of luck he’ll be frozen to death by the time they do.’

‘Where was his car? I didn’t see it.’

‘Probably hidden in the trees.’

‘Odds-on there was someone else with him. He wouldn’t have followed you out here on his own. The cops are probably on the lookout for this car right now.’

‘Well, if it’s botherin’ you that much …’ They were on a straight stretch of road on the approach to Arden and McAteer started flashing his headlights at the dark green Renault in front of him. When the car slowed down, McAteer pulled alongside and rolled down his window to flag down the driver.

‘You’ve got a problem, pal!’ McAteer yelled, pointing towards the rear of his vehicle. The driver looked across in confusion as McAteer accelerated in front of him and, indicating left, pulled in at the side of the road. When the Renault tucked in behind McAteer got out of his car and walked back. The driver wound down his window and stuck his head out.

‘What’s the problem, Jimmy?’ he asked.

‘Your exhaust’s hingin’ off, pal. You’re about to lose it.’

‘Bloody hell!’ The driver got out and marched round to the back of his vehicle, McAteer following him. ‘I’ve just had this bloody car serviced,’ he complained. As he bent low to examine his exhaust McAteer brought the side of his hand slamming down in a rabbit punch on the nape of his neck. Lifting the unconscious body, he dropped it over a low hedge.

‘Get your gear,’ he shouted. Craig reached over to the back seat for his briefcase and anorak and hurried towards the Renault, McAteer getting into the driver’s seat and Craig climbing into the back.

On the approach to the city, Craig took a body harness from his briefcase and strapped it around his shoulders before lifting the Semtex carefully from his case and fitting it snugly inside the harness. Having tested the harness straps he tugged on his anorak.

McAteer drove across the city centre and made his way along Duke Street as far as Parkhead Cross, then cut across the junction into Springfield Road. When he saw the green and white structure of Celtic Park loom into view he pulled up outside The Oak Bar. ‘I’ll park round the corner and wait for you there,’ he said, indicating the empty parking bay he’d spotted in West Whitby Street. ‘Walk down to the bottom of the hill and turn right into London Road. You can’t miss it.’

‘Okay. We’ll meet you back here,’ Craig said, adjusting the straps of the harness under his anorak.

‘Are you sure you’ve got your ticket?’ McAteer asked.

Craig produced a match ticket from his inside pocket and examined it. ‘Cracking seat. Pity I won’t get to see the match.’

‘You could always stay for the first half,’ McAteer grinned.

‘You’ve got a lot more confidence in the accuracy of this timing device than I have,’ Craig said, tapping his anorak pocket. Craig produced a Celtic scarf from his case and wound it round his neck.

‘Never thought I’d see the day!’ McAteer guffawed. ‘What wouldn’t I give for a photo!’

‘If word got out I wouldn’t dare show my face in the Shankill Road ever again,’ Craig said as he got out of the car and slammed the door. Heading down Springfield Road, he turned into London Road where there were already a fair number of singing, flag-waving, can-swilling supporters walking past the school and drifting up the slope, past the Celtic Superstore, towards the stadium – the Irish tricolours heavily outnumbering the Scottish saltires. He moved at a brisk pace through the crowd and joined a short queue at a turnstile in front of the main stand. When he got inside the ground he made eye contact with a security guard leaning against the wall. Archie Glen nodded in recognition as Craig walked towards him. Their hands met, thumbs probing, fingers sliding past each other. Nothing was said as Glen limped along in front, dragging his club foot. When they arrived at the West Stand toilets there were several people using the urinals. Glen went into a cubicle with an out of order sign pinned to the door. Taking a long black coat from the door peg he slipped it on over his security guard’s uniform. ‘The cistern’s empty an’ the water’s turned off,’ he whispered as he came out. Craig nodded and went into the booth, bolting the door from the inside while Glen stood guard.

A drunk-looking figure, a dirty Celtic scarf draped around his shoulders, was slouched on the stairs leading down from the
main stand. He slipped a miniature walkie-talkie from his pocket and concealed it in his fist as he connected with Charlie. ‘I’ve spotted Craig, sir,’ Renton whispered into his fist. ‘He and a bloke wearing a security guard’s uniform have just gone into the loos.’

Ten minutes later Craig and Glen emerged from the toilets and headed for a wooden door set into the red-brick stadium wall. Glen glanced over his shoulder to check they weren’t being observed before using his pass key to unlock the door. They stepped outside, Glen locking the door behind them.

Charlie’s walkie-talkie connected again. ‘Craig and his accomplice have just left the stadium.’

‘We’re not going anywhere in a hurry, Archie,’ Craig said, casually pulling a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offering it to Glen. ‘It would look odd if we were to be seen hurrying away from the ground.’ Taking out a book of matches he lit both their cigarettes. ‘Bugger!’ he exclaimed in a loud voice. ‘I promised Malky a scarf for his Christmas and I forget all about it. Do we have time to get one before kick-off?’ he asked, pointing in the direction of the Supporters’ Superstore.

Glen took his cue. ‘Sure,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’ Craig led the way down the slope.

Having gazed in the shop window for a few minutes, Craig tugged at Glen’s sleeve. ‘It’s time we were making ourselves scarce,’ he whispered. Moving against the flow of supporters they edged their way down towards London Road, Craig repeatedly calling out: ‘Any spare tickets, lads?’

‘I’ve got one for the North Stand.’ The voice came from the other side of the road, a man waving a ticket above his head.

‘We’re looking for two together, pal,’ Craig called back, continuing on his way. ‘Thanks all the same.’

McAteer was waiting for them at the pick-up spot in West Whitby Street. Ripping off the Celtic scarf, Craig spat on it and threw it over a low wall before climbing into the back seat of the Renault along with Glen.

‘Where to?’ McAteer asked.

‘Drop us off somewhere near Central Station, then dump this car.’