The Purple Contract (17 page)

Hollis was idly fingering an offcut section of aluminium tubing he had noticed among the pile of junk. It was over-long of course, with one end bashed almost flat and the other externally threaded. But it would do. 'Okay, five hundred. I'll be here Tuesday morning.'

'It'll be ready. Guaranteed.'

'Good.’ Hollis scanned the area for eavesdroppers, more out of habit than anything else. ‘I hear you have a bad memory, that's a shame. Must be a nuisance to a businessman. Forgetting things.'

'Handicapped, that's right.' Donlevy grinned. 'Probably get an EC grant for it nowadays if I knew which arse to lick.'

'I wouldn't be surprised,' said Hollis truthfully. 'Mind if I keep this?' he held up the short metal tube.

'Take the whole fuckin' lot if you like, you should see what the local Council charges me just for having it sat there!'

Hollis waved his thanks and walked briskly round the outside of the workshop back to the Range Rover: it was close to five o'clock and there were still some things to be done before the shops closed. On his way back across Glasgow towards the hotel he stopped at two ironmongery shops and browsed through their stock, buying several tools and other items in each one. All of this, plus the aluminium tube, he took up to his room in a plastic carrier bag.

The pencil skittered across the surface of the desk, rolling and bouncing onto and over the ancient battered stapler, the blue plastic cap coming loose and spinning in place for a couple of seconds. The remainder of the pen slid to a stop balanced right on the edge of the desktop, half of it's length overhanging the drop to the carpet.

Frank Wedderman watched it without interest, waiting for the fall that never came. Making progress at last, and bloody high time too. The Second Secretary at the Russian Embassy had been helpful if a little puzzled: did Scotland Yard not realize that the visit of Igor Norevny had been cancelled nearly a week past? Yes, some sort of complication with passports and other travel documents, and anyway Mr Norevny had been somewhat "embarrassed" by a St Petersburg newspaper investigation into drug trafficking in the Baltic States. Perhaps another trip would be organised later. Perhaps not. The Second Secretary regretted any inconvenience to the security services and thank you for calling.

By the sound of it Norevny might be about to get his just deserts––if he hadn't bought the judiciary as well. The Embassy hardly sounded heartbroken over his "embarrassment" in any case. But most important of all from Wedderman's point of view he could remove the Russian's name from his list of possible targets for assassination. Progress, yes, of a sort.

Half an hour later his boss ruined his day yet again.

 
 
 
 
10

 
10 – 13 July, 2013

The UK is not a gun-toting society. It therefore follows that carrying firearms of any sort around the streets is a hazardous occupation in more ways than one, and probably one of the quicker ways of getting arrested. The resulting court appearance is guaranteed to be a frosty affair and the plaintiff can be sure he will have adequate time to consider the error of his ways during an extended spell at Her Majesty's convenience.

Mike Hollis, of all people, knew better than to walk the streets with a gun in his belt. In the United Kingdom he had committed no crime, was indeed to all outside appearances a model citizen––albeit an extremely reclusive one. Which was why what he was about to do gave him considerable cause for reflection.

At best he was risking exposure to the law enforcement agencies. Risking his freedom and a very lucrative fee, not to mention the indignity of blowing his final operation. Bad enough if it all came to nothing in the long run: there were any amount of inherent problems along the way. Hollis was under no illusions––this was potentially the most hazardous contract he had ever undertaken. A fitting ending, yes, but let’s not get too cocky f’r chrissake.

The aluminium tube was a little over the optimum diameter but that could be worked around. Hollis re-applied the small hand drill and widened the hole he had just created in the body of the tube, checking it against the nail and smiling in satisfaction. The junior hacksaw removed the point and left the nail as a short bar of steel, which he put to one side for the moment. The TV in the corner burbled music unheeded, it's sole purpose to cover any odd noises while Hollis worked to reduce the odds.

The thing was, you had to accept your limitations.

A sensible man did what he could to minimise the inevitable hazards in any enterprise. Hollis was no coward but taking on two violent young thugs in the prime of life was always going to be a risky business. Both of them would be twenty years or more younger than himself, and by all accounts carried weapons as a matter of course. Well and good. Shortly he would have a means to even things up.

Hollis viewed the likelihood of subsequent official interest to be small. It was difficult to see two young hooligans running to the nearest police station with complaints––not that they were likely to be capable of running anywhere for a while if all went well. Official complications were therefore unlikely.

The already-flattened end of the scrap piece of tubing had proved quite convenient: the long spring would not slide past it even under compression. Well and good. Using one of the hotel’s towels for cushioning, Hollis fitted the small vice to the edge of the bedside table. The rubber demijohn cork tended to distort slightly if the jaws of the vice were too tight, which was awkward, but he worked slowly and carefully to pare them down so as to be a firm fit inside the metal tube. He only had one spare. The hole in the centre, intended to receive a wine-making airlock, was just the perfect size and needed no further adjustment.

Tricky bit now, getting the damned spring into the tube and located in just the right place. Fiddly work and painful on the fingers, but with a certain absorbing fascination. As a child Hollis had been a jigsaw puzzle freak. The spring jumped free several times, but he got it right eventually. The rubber bung was inserted and taped temporarily in place.

The television station had now moved on to international news. Another cargo of cocaine impounded on the high seas, two financiers answering awkward questions in front of a Parliamentary Select Committee, summer water shortages and hose-pipe bans were expected in the Midlands again. Business as usual. Ignore.

The trigger mechanism was the very devil to get right, taking eight attempts and much swearing and muttering under his breath. The idea was to compress the spring using a screwdriver until the nail, pushed through its hole in the aluminium tube, held it in place. When the nail was pulled out the spring would dynamically expand and––well, that was the theory.

With two hands it would be easy of course if a little clumsy, and if necessary he would use it that way, but how difficult could it be to arrange a simple trigger release? Point and pull, yes, much more like it.

Pretty difficult, at least with the primitive means at his disposal in this place. He ended up with a crude rocker arrangement made from part of the plastic handle of his toothbrush. With the nail attached at one end and a pivot in the middle, pulling up on the handle would jerk the nail downwards out of it's socket. The pressure of the spring against the nail provided the friction necessary to hold things securely. A short length of masking tape around the trigger assembly served as a safety catch. Yes, all right, it wasn’t going to win any prizes for design and it was strictly a one-shot situation, but by God the damned thing was actually going to
work
.

Hollis regarded his creation with some amusement and not a little satisfaction. Life in the old brain yet. He was looking forward to seeing the bastard's face when he heard the hollow
twang
...

'You can't be serious!'

'Why not?'

'Well, I mean––' Wedderman stopped uncertainly and changed tack. 'There hasn't been any serious threat to a member of the Royal Family for years. All right, the media have done a pretty good job of rubbing the gloss off and generally eroding the monarchy's credibility. But why would anyone want to––' He stopped again, frowning. 'Wasn't it you who observed once that the media had assassinated the Royal Family more efficiently than terrorists ever could?'

'Ha––hmm.' Chief Inspector Durrant cleared his throat. 'The fact remains, Charles
will
be making a public appearance on the 21st of August and––'

'In the
Orkney Islands
!' Wedderman broke in. 'The back of beyond, for God's sake.' He rose and walked to the office window, staring down at the London traffic below. With a gesture of resignation he shook his head in disbelief. 'Who on earth can possibly gain from killing him in a God-forsaken place like that? It's not exactly the centre of the world stage, is it?' He turned back into the room, his voice more confident now. 'No. If I were to contemplate assassinating the Heir to the Throne I would want to do it rather more prominently.'

There was silence and the two men held each other's gaze for a moment. There was a vague sense of heresy in this discussion and both of them felt strangely uneasy. Arguing the best means of assassinating a member of the Royal Family was an odd occupation for two career police officers.

Wedderman lifted one shoulder in a shrug. 'Blow up the State Coach at the opening of Parliament or something and send shockwaves round the world on live TV. That sort of thing. But shooting one of them in front of a few farmers and a handful of sheep … ?'

Durrant almost smiled at the younger man's vehemence. 'I think there might be one or two media folk there as well! And he would still be dead.'

'Sure, but who would
want
him dead? God knows he's a bit tactless and self-centred, but if he's upset anyone important recently I've yet to hear about it. Badly enough to be put on a death list anyway.'

'I have to agree up to a point, Frank. However, we certainly can't afford to ignore the possibility.'

'No. No, of course not,’ Wedderman agreed. ‘I’ll have a word with the Royal Protection Squad, keep them in the picture.’ He mentally switched track. ‘Did you get me a copy of Tony Blair's timetable for the Aberdeen thing?’

Durrant rooted in one of his wire baskets and handed over a single sheet of paper.

'Lunch at the Walpole Hotel...what's this about a Business Park?'

Durrant looked almost apologetic. 'He's always been enthusiastic about promoting business development. He’s very keen to see this place in central Aberdeen, wouldn't take no for an answer.' He remembered the look on the ex-PM’s face, and his response when the security implications were pointed out. He hadn't been put down like that for a
long
time. 'Just have to live with it, Frank. I've already stirred up the Northern Constabulary. They know they'll get as many extra men as they want.'

'I don't suppose SIS have made any progress towards identifying this man Hollis?'

'I'm afraid not. So far at least.' There was a worried pause as both men reflected on whether they were doing
everything
they could. 'I'm pulling strings through Interpol of course for any leads on unsolved killings around Europe in recent years, but unless anyone can come up with a face or some other means of identification we're just groping in the dark.'

‘Wonderful!’

In the late 1700's construction of the Forth and Clyde Canal had progressed well across central Scotland from it's beginnings on the Firth of Forth towards the Firth of Clyde. At the time the construction of the canal represented a quantum leap in transport efficiency. Although it must have been an awe-inspiring project, and a major act of faith by the designers. Around it as it marched across the landscape north of the embryo city of Glasgow grew a sprawling industrialised area, which was planned and laid out by man called Robert Graham. Graham's wife had been named Mary Hill before their marriage, and in due course the new district was given the name Maryhill after her.

Maryhill expanded in parallel with the increasing canal traffic as the waterway became a major commercial thoroughfare. By the mid 1800's it held a population in the region of 3500 and was a thriving independent community. Inevitably, but to the regret of many of its inhabitants, the township was swallowed by the exploding city boundaries and in 1912 Maryhill became just another district of Glasgow.

Rapidly thereafter the area developed into a rabbit warren of four-storey red sandstone tenement buildings, factories, foundries and mills. Where tens of thousands of people lived cheek by jowl day in and day out, many spending their entire lives living and working within a few square miles of the place where they were born.

By the late sixties and early seventies ideas on social infrastructure had changed radically. As had the acceptable standards of housing in the city, following many years of humiliating nationwide condemnation over dampness and squalor. There followed an even more embarrassing flirtation with high-rise tower blocks, which in a depressingly short space of time ranked among the worst and most deprived ghettos in Europe. Finally a new breath of architectural innovation was seen to unfold across the ancient city. Grass instead of fractured and stained concrete. Terraced housing with gardens replacing the by now very shabby tenement buildings––once the pride of the city and now merely an embarrassment.

Street after street of the crumbling tenements were bulldozed. Thousands of private and council tenants were re-housed. Many of them, under the overspill schemes, found themselves established in new towns many miles from the city of their birth––and of course from their families and friends. It was a time of turmoil, both physical and emotional. There is little evidence to show which caused the more lasting effects.

But even now, in the twenty-first century, there were echoes of the past still to be found among the back streets and railway arches of Maryhill. Shabby ramshackle buildings and dilapidated sheds, places where even the brick and stonework was succumbing to the relentless battering of wind and weather. Aided and abetted by neglect, apathy and the poverty stimulated by lifelong unemployment.