The Purple Contract (2 page)

He knew just the man.

John MacKenzie picked out Con Moloney in the gloom by his size. 'Any traffic on this road last time, Con?' Moloney had been here four nights ago with Alison Munro, doing a finale recce.

'Nothing after midnight … and damn little before.' Moloney fiddled with his watch and a faint blue glow appeared for a few seconds. 'One fourteen. We’re right on sked, John. All right, if anyone needs a piss then now’s the time. It’ll take us half an hour or so to walk up there in the dark, so we need to get started.'

The group set off along the narrow road, twisting its way gently uphill. Moloney led the way, using a torch shrouded with a piece of blue plastic. Each member carried a torch but was forbidden to use it on this outward journey. There would be no need for such caution on the way back.

The three plastic containers of Tesco's unleaded wouldn't be making the return journey either.

As she walked, Alison Munro struggled with mixed emotions. Uppermost among them was
Dejà vu
; she had been here before, more times than she could remember. The old house they were making for, standing on its own near the road, was as familiar to her as her own flat in Glasgow.

It had belonged to her dear Grandmother.

'You okay Alison?' Brian laid a hand gently on her shoulder.

Perhaps she had made a sound, she hadn’t been aware of it. Only of the sadness. 'Of course,' she raised a smile in the darkness, not that her brother could see it.

'How old was Grandma when she died?' Brian asked quietly.

Alison thought about it. 'Ninety-two or ninety-three.' And then added before she could stop herself, 'She died when I was six.'

Brian, several years younger than his sister, had never known the old lady.

'I can’t believe no-one in the family wanted it when she died!'

'We
did
want it, Brian. Mum and dad would have given anything to keep it. Dad could have modernized it over the years, and it would have made a wonderful place for them when they retired. But they couldn’t afford to hold on to it. Dad was struggling to find work at that time, and the money the house brought when we sold it made all the difference in the world to us.'

Brian knew nothing of the hardship his parents had faced in those early days of their marriage. But he heard the catch in his sister’s voice and knew that tears were running down her face.

'I grew up dreaming that one day I would buy it back. That one day Mum and dad would have their retirement place in the countryside.' She took a shuddering breath and forced the emotion back. 'But now they’re gone, too.'

On the other side of her, MacKenzie looked across in concern, but could see only a dim outline in the darkness of the night. He knew the story, they all did––except Brian presumably, the rookie in the group. The little brother that Alison protected with a dedication that both surprised and impressed him. It figured that she wouldn’t have burdened him with the family’s early problems.

'Then last year I saw it advertised for sale, and I wanted it so
much
, Brian!' Her voice was gone completely now, shaking through the tears. 'But the
price
. I couldn’t even come close to paying that sort of money!'

Brian became aware of the tall bulk of Con Moloney appearing at his side. 'It’s been a holiday home for the last ten or more years,' he said quietly. 'Changed hands several times. Every sale to English bastards with fancy salaries and a pile of money in the bank from selling their own family homes as the old folk die off.' His voice took on an edge that would have cut steel. 'They’ve driven prices up all over Scotland to the point where local folk can’t buy a home in their own country any more!'

The house was an eighteenth-century cottage. At some point, two extra dormer bedrooms had been added in the attic space. In the gloom, a half-built wooden conservatory gaped against the front wall, to the left of the door. Obviously very much a work in progress. The house lay in total darkness and silence.

Moloney was mildly disappointed. Nice if they had caught the English settlers on holiday; tucked up in bed and snoring. Or even shagging. He grinned to himself in the gloom. Strip the bastards naked and send them packing on foot …  The road surface would have chopped their feet up a treat before they found any sort of assistance. But that would have meant face masks to prevent the witnesses bleating to the law.
Can't win a war from a jail cell …

They stood in a loose circle in the front garden. Moloney could feel the tension and the emotion radiating from Alison Munro. He put his petrol container down beside the others in the middle of the group. ‘This has to be your decision, Alison,’ he looked across at her indistinct face. He was sure there were tears running, but it was too dark to be see. He felt uncomfortable with crying women, always had done, had seen his mother weeping too many times in his childhood.

Brian had his arm round his sister’s shoulders. ‘It’s not too late, sis. We can call this off if…’

‘No!’ Alison wiped a hand across her eyes. ‘These English bastards have stolen my family’s home, stolen
my
home!’ she stared grimly at the dark house looming over them. ‘If I can’t have it, then neither can they!’ She picked up the nearest petrol container, unscrewed the cap and handed it to her brother. ‘Do it.’

Les Stewart and John MacKenzie took the other two plastic cans. Con Moloney grabbed a shovel from the half-built conservatory and used it to smash the ground-floor windows. ‘Round the back, Les’. He led the way round to the rear of the house and smashed each lower window there as well.

Stewart sloshed petrol through each window and doused the wooden back door for good measure. The empty container went in as well, thrown onto an unmade double bed.

Moloney had unravelled a roll of cloth from his pocket and was winding lengths of it round two short pieces of wood picked up in the garden. His cigarette lighter ignited the primitive torches, and he threw them through windows at opposite end of the building.

When the two got back to the front garden, they were just in time to see another three similar missiles lobbed into the house. Flames caught immediately with a
whoosh
. Alison Munro had thrown the last of them, and with the others she stood and watched as the fire spread. There were no tears now. This wasn’t a matter for sadness––this was justice. Clear and final.

‘Fuckin’ hell,’ said MacKenzie, awed at the sight.

‘We’d better get out of here.’ Moloney advised, ‘this will be visible for miles!’

There was muttered agreement and everybody moved rapidly back down the road towards the bikes, travelling faster now that they were unencumbered by weighty petrol cans.

Alison didn’t look back.

 
 
 
 
2

 
Sabotage

The black bow tie lay discarded and dishevelled on the floor of the spacious apartment, forgotten by it's owner as he sat hunched forward in the armchair, almost speechless with stunned disbelief. The PVR remote control creaked in protest under probing fingers as he savagely spun the hard disk back a short distance. Once again, on the screen, his Royal Highness The Prince Charles spoke calmly and reasonably to the interviewer:

'Of course one is pleased, delighted, that nearly fifty years of dedication and training, indeed one's whole upbringing will finally come to fruition. Will in fact really
mean
something, do you understand?' The unseen interviewer wasn’t sure that a reply was actually expected but he made sympathetic noises and the camera drifted in a little closer; the studio director following his instincts to heighten the drama of the scene.

‘Her Majesty's illness, and her subsequent decision to name me her successor, has of course been a difficult time for all of us. A time when we must unite as a nation––and move
forward
as nation. I regret deeply the present uncertainty over the future of the United Kingdom and its constitution. A wholly
unnecessary
situation brought about by the intransigence of the devolved Scottish Government.

‘Surely this is not the time for the people of Scotland to sever links with the United Kingdom and the Crown? At practically the very moment when the Succession is established.' The Prince shifted imperceptibly in his seat, almost as if with embarrassment. 'I have great empathy with the Scots, and a great love for Scotland itself. I have said before on numerous occasions that I understand their wish for independence. And in general I support it. But this is not the time.' The Prince sat back in his chair with an air of finality.

The playback LED winked out. The handset bounced off the sofa and skidded across the floor, fetching up on its side against the wickerwork cat basket. Peter Barron, ex- miner, ex hard-nosed businessman, politician and Member of the Scottish Parliament stared across the room; through the broad windows filled with the multi-coloured lights of Glasgow, and saw nothing, nothing at all.

‘Bastard.' he muttered almost inaudibly. Then again, louder: 'Treacherous fucking
bastard!’

If it grew any hotter this grotty off-white plastic table would surely start to melt. And it would serve the miserable sods right. Tight-fisted Frenchmen for you:
plastic
f’r God's sake!

'Bloody heating!' The overweight man grunted to himself. He glared enviously at the rest of the hotel's lunchtime patrons, all of whom had more sense than to select a table near to a radiator. A lot of them were grouped instead round the edge of the balcony bordering the mezzanine floor above him. The only empty table in the place was right in front of this damned
radiator
.

In the corner the backlit LCD temperature display proudly updated its reading to 24 degrees centigrade. The fat man scowled and checked his watch, shifting uncomfortably in his chair and muttered, 'Come on, where are you?'

As if on cue a waiter appeared in the doorway, an arm raised, pointing. His companion nodded in thanks and began threading his way between the crowded tables, wincing in the sudden heat after the chill outside. Glasgow in April is not exactly tropical.

He was a youngish man, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties with an unruly crop of long blonde hair which totally dominated his face. A pleasant, open face and a ready smile for the two girls drinking cocktails and laughing together.

'You're bloody late!' Ralph Manson complained, waving the waiter across. 'Two beers, and for God's sake fill them up with ice!'

'How's it hangin', Ralph?’

'Don't be cheeky, young Kevin,' Manson said without rancour. It was uncanny how like his old man the boy had become. Same charm with the ladies, same mop of blonde hair, same careful guarded eyes. So like his father. Manson had shared a cell with Andy Clerke in Wormwood Scrubs for six years. Andy had been serving ten for bank robbery and Ralph Manson eight years for drug dealing and “living off immoral earnings” as the charge had quaintly put it. Out of uncounted reminiscences and discussions through many boring and tedious days had arisen an acceptance that the biggest weapon the authorities could wield against organised crime was just that: organisation.

They had talked about it endlessly, and by the time both had emerged unbowed and unrepentant within a couple of months of each other, plans were well developed to set up a “counter-intelligence” operation. It had become known as
Clearman
, from the two surnames Clerke and Manson. Organised crime responded with enthusiasm and––far more importantly––with funds.

Clearman
set about spinning a web of contacts and informants, using whatever means were convenient at the time, up to and including bribery and threat and menaces. Suitably qualified people were recruited or bought or blackmailed to provide technical advice when it was needed.

In a short time the crime rate in London and the South east went up sharply and the detection rate went down. The response of course was inevitable. Over the next few years the authorities slowly but surely zeroed in on
Clearman
and finally the two originators had to cut and run. Nothing was ever proved against them although a great many lesser fish failed to escape the net.

Clerke simply called it a day and retired, moving permanently to his extensive villa in Spain. Manson, always a careful man, already owned or partnered several business ventures in sunnier climes. He had been quite content to turn his back on his homeland, albeit under duress, for the liberal and far more outgoing atmosphere of Australia. After a good few years had passed, and memories faded, he had quietly moved back to the UK. Wisely staying clear of the south-east of England, he had settled in Glasgow and never regretted it. His penthouse apartment overlooking the river Clyde was his pride and joy.

Manson watched the waiter return with the drinks and then climb the stairs to the mezzanine. 'So, what's happening with the shipment?'

Kevin Clerke shook his head. 'I spoke to them on the radio a couple of nights ago’, he said in a lowered voice. ‘There's been pretty heavy weather around Norway in the last few days––remains of that Low that dumped on us last week. They were heading for a fiord to lie up for a while and let things settle. They'll get here, don't worry.'

'I
do
worry, young Kevin. A quarter of a million dollars worth of stuff on a forty foot boat all the way from Trondheim? I bloody
do
worry, son.'

'He knows what he's doing. It’s not the first time, you know.'

'So you keep telling me. I hope you're right.’

Clerke wasn't going to labour the point. Bringing the cocaine in by small boat across the North sea had been his idea. The result of a contact he had developed in Murmansk. How the Russians moved the stuff to Trondheim he knew not. Couldn’t be by sea at this time of year, obviously. So it must come by road or rail through Finland, he certainly knew better than to ask. Maybe they had a bloody submarine that could go under the ice, wouldn’t put it past them.

'I want you to go over to Dundee tomorrow,' Manson looked at his nearly empty glass and pondered whether to have another. 'I think that bastard Yank is up to something. There have been rumours. Go and talk to him and see what you think.'