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He set off yawning extravagantly, and scratched at his chin, still raw after shaving his beard a few hours earlier, as he walked past the hotel towards his true destination, the bigger hotel a few hundred metres away. Davide Arbon’s smooth face, heavy rimmed spectacles, neatly trimmed hair and smart suit with crisp white shirt were a stark contrast to the bewhiskered, long haired, scruffy Hans Graumann, who had entered the UK at Glasgow Airport a week ago. The documents for Hans Graumann had been parcelled up and sent by courier to a PO Box in London for safekeeping until he next needed them.
He wobbled along the pavement heading towards the chain hotel close to the ferry port, yawning again, suddenly realising how tired he was. His ferry to Amsterdam left early the next morning, he needed some sleep. He wasn’t worried about what Droopy had told him just a few hours ago about the DNA the cops had found. They would never find him, with the level of incompetence in the UK police force. He was a ghost. He could move across the globe with impunity, with multiple identities in different nationalities that he currently held, all backed up by impeccable documentation.
He was also at an advantage when travelling across Europe, being as proficient in languages as he was after his years in the Legion surrounded by the multiple nationalities of his comrades. His French was faultless, his German was accented but fluent, his Dutch not perfect but adequate, and his Spanish and Italian more than conversational. That was one of the big bonuses of the Légionétrangère. You found yourself plunged into this huge melting pot of nationalities and were forced to learn French from day one, it being the default language spoken by all. From there, if you wanted to survive and then flourish, learning the other widely spoken languages was essential. Comrades were always flattered when he as an Englishman, always known as Johnny, wanted to learn their language.
He pulled out his phone and navigated to the banking app as he made his way along the pavement, only pausing to light a cigarette. He was delighted to see the thirty thousand pounds had been deposited as Droopy had assured him it would be. He hadn’t doubted the fixer, as he’d always paid on time after previous jobs he’d done for the Scot. With just a few flicks and swipes on the phone, he moved the money again into his account in the Cayman Islands, way out of the reach of law enforcement. Once the transfer had been confirmed, he deleted the banking app from his phone, and returned it to his pocket with a chuckle of satisfaction. A good night’s kip, then this time tomorrow, he’d be in the air from Schiphol Airport en route to Corsica, where Davide Arbon planned to relax for a few months before looking forsome more work. He loved Corsica, being full of current and ex Legionnaires, it was a great place to pick up contracts for work. Plus the weather was wonderful and the food even better.
His sinews suddenly stiffened as a large BMW cop car swung into the road ahead of him, a small pump of adrenaline in his blood system chasing away the buzz of the alcohol. He didn’t look up, and just continued along the cracked pavement towards the purple sign of his hotel, desperate to be inside and off the streets and between the crisp sheets. He was confident that any photo that the cops had of him wouldn’t be worth worrying about being at least four years old if they’d got hold of his Legion discharge papers, but it paid to be careful.
The note of the engine told him that the car had stopped, but he didn’t look behind him, instead he knelt down and pretended to tie a shoelace. His hand went to his pocket where he felt the comforting presence of the small lock knife, which he’d purchased in a fishing shop just a few hours ago. He heard a heavy door slamming. He risked a glance behind him, and saw that the cop was out of the car and looking straight at him, the light reflecting off his shaven head. He noted that the cop had a side arm mounted in a thigh holster, and the heavy ballistic body armour of an ARV crew.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, and stood up, before picking up his pace again towards the hotel, walking along the building line of the Royal Quay. Instead of continuing towards the purple sign, he took a sharp left along the side of the smaller hotel, and leapt over the low fence into the small kids’ play area, keeping his back to the rough brick wall of the hotel. He risked a peek around the corner, in the direction of the cop car. The armed cop was still standing, legs planted firmly on the tarmac, his hand on his side arm, head swivelling left to right. ‘Merde,’ muttered Ellis, defaulting to his customary French. Had they made him? He couldn’t see how, but he was a lone man walking in a deserted, closed retail area so maybe it was inevitable that he’d attract some attention. There was a sharp, metallic squeak behindhim, which made him start, his heart began to pound in his chest, and his skin was prickling with fear, his synapses firing on all cylinders. He turned, but saw nothing, apart from dark shadows amongst the dark shapes of the play equipment as an empty swing moved in the soft breeze. He turned away, and decided to risk another peek around the wall at the cop car.
The cop was leaning against the car, a lit cigarette between his lips glowing brightly in the gloom, his attention on the phone held in his hands, which lit his stubble-laden face. Ellis exhaled, the relief flooding through him like a gentle, warm wave.
He leant against the wall and wiped at his brow, which was damp and clammy despite the chill of the night, a smile forming on his lips, as he realised that he was home and dry. A decent night’s sleep on a comfortable bed, and then he was gone. Out of this shit-hole country.
Then, out of nowhere, a shadow loomed, huge and dark as the night that surrounded it. There was a metallic flash as the swinging axe caught the streetlights, and Ellis barely felt anything as the blade was buried deep into his forehead, and he fell to the ground like a dumped sandbag, still and inert.
44
MAIRI MALONE WASlate as usual, as she rushed out of her small flat in the West End of Glasgow, her hair askew, a piece of toast clutched in her hand. She pulled the door shut and set off towards the staircase. A minute later, she was letting herself back in to retrieve her phone which she’d left in the bathroom. She’d already had a call from one of her moaning bloody clients, who had contacted Alba to tell them that she was late.
She tried to stem the rising panic that was bubbling in her chest at the words that that sour-faced bitch Anya had said to her down the phone. ‘You already on warning, Mairi. Any more and we have let you go,’ she had said in her Polish-accented English. She was a bloody tyrant, but Mairi had to agree that she did have a point. Mairi was awful at getting out of her bed in the morning, particularly if she’d been on the cider the night before, which she had been, evidenced by her pounding head and the unpleasant metallic taste in her mouth. She was very late for Mrs Henderson, that was for sure. She was supposed to be there to get her out of her bed by eight, and it was almost ten past already. Thankfully she was only a five-minute drive away.
Her car, a little blue Renault, was a few moments’ walk away from the block of flats, and within a minute, she was in the vehicle, seatbelt on, and was moving away, off the side road and turning left onto the main street, still chewing her toast. The phone on the seat next to her pinged again, and she could see a message from Anya. She picked it up and looked at the message.How long?
Five minutes, she typed out with one hand whilst trying to eat toast, steer and change gear all at the same time, which just resulted in her stalling the car as she tried to negotiate her way into the stream of heavy traffic.
‘Shite,’ she said as she tucked her phone under her leg. She needed to get herself together, that was for sure, or she was going to be out of work, and then what would she do? No cider tonight, not even one, she promised herself, already realising that it was probably untrue.
The traffic was heavy as she turned onto the Great Western Road and headed towards Mrs Henderson’s tenement in a side street close to the Botanic Gardens. She felt her panic begin to subside along with her headache, as she reached for the old bottle of water that was in the centre console. She took a deep swig of the thankfully cold water, and then grabbed a stick of chewing gum that sat in the pot next to the bottle. The minty nugget instantly freshened her mouth, and she almost began to feel human again. She sighed. She’d be fine, it was only a couple of minutes to Mrs Henderson, and she was actually quite sweet, if sharp at times. Her phone vibrated under her leg on the seat.
‘Ah, bugger it,’ she said, looking at the screen, seeing ‘no caller ID’, which almost certainly meant it was Anya again.
‘Hello?’ she said, trying to hold the phone in place between her shoulder and ear.
There was nothing. No voice, just three beeps indicating someone had hung up.
A sudden squeal emitted from behind her, and she jumped in her seat as she looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the strobing blue lights of a cop car, its headlights flashing, the shape of a stern-faced cop at the wheel. Fear gripped her like a vice. Had they seen her on the phone? ‘Jesus suffering fuck,’ she hissed under her breath as she indicated and pulled to the side of the road. She just sat there, her eyes briefly closing thinking of the three penalty points she already had on her licence and the fact that her MOT had run out three weeksago. Would they know this? She sighed again, even more deeply. Of course they’d bloody know.
She started again, as there was a rap on the car window, and a small and wiry young cop wearing a white-topped police cap made a winding gesture with his hand, indicating that she should lower her window. She pressed the button, and the window descended agonisingly slowly.
‘Morning, miss, would you be so kind as to switch off the engine and join me on the pavement?’ he said, a small smile on his smooth face. A white hat, Mairi thought. That meant they were traffic cops. They were known for being really harsh with motorists, particularly ones on their phones. Maybe they had not seen that and had seen on the computer that she had no MOT. She’d seen on the myriad of cop shows that they had computers in their cars, maybe that was it.
‘Aye, of course, what’s wrong?’ she said.
‘Driving’s a little erratic, madam. If you’d join us that’d be great,’ he said, smiling in what to her seemed a genuine manner. Maybe it wasn’t the phone then. She slid the phone from under her leg and slipped it into the driver’s side pocket on the door. If they didn’t see it, maybe it wouldn’t occur to them.
She opened the door, and within a second had joined the officer on the pavement, where stood a much bigger and much older cop, who wasn’t smiling at all. In fact, he looked properly scunnered.
‘Yes, officer?’ she said, forcing a smile.
‘Morning, madam, we noticed that your driving looks a little raggy this morning, and we just wanted to have a word. Where are you off to?’ said the young cop.
‘Work, I’m a home carer. I’ve a client needing help just around the corner,’ she said, tapping at the ID card on her lanyard.
‘Your car?’ said the older cop.
