Each chapter has been written by a different member of the legal profession, who was tasked with picking up the story from where the previous writer ended, and the result has been a thrilling, twisting crime thriller unlike any other.
Now that the story can be read in full, we would now like to poll our readers to find out which chapter was deemed the best written piece of fiction, and the winner will receive the Scottish Legal Fiction Prize 2008.
Chapter 1 was written by us as a prompt to set the scene for the story, and cannot be voted on. The brave souls volunteered to put pen to paper and pick the story up, in order, were:
Gary Moffat of Burness [chapter 2]
David McGuire of MacRoberts [chapter 3]
Deborah Carmichael of Miller Samuel [chapter 4]
Lesley Philips of Balfour & Manson [chapter 5]
Gavin Deeprose of DLA Piper [chapter 6]
Ryan Templeman of Joyce White [chapter 7]
C.C. Smith (pen name) [chapter 8]
Arnold Atkins (pen name) [chapter 9]
Neil Morrison of Miller Samuel [chapter 10]
Brandon Malone of Bell & Scott [chapter 11]
Louise Brennan of Davidson Chalmers [chapter 12]
To VOTE for your winner, simply click on the button next to your favourite chapter, and the winner will be announced shortly.
CHAPTER 1
The icy water of the River Clyde was still, bathing lazily in the moonlight of a bitterly cold December night. In the distance, Glasgow lawyer Billy Noble heard voices. Crouching low in the shadows of the riverside bushes Noble was safe, hidden from the eyes of the three men who had just left The Daily Record building across the road. He glanced at the heavy gold Rolex wrapped tightly around his slender wrist. Only the moonlight making it possible for him to see that it was almost midnight.
From their chatter Noble guessed that the three men were probably night shift reporters. He instinctively pulled his heavy overcoat close around his cheeks in case they caught a glimpse of the recognisable face that would soon be staring out at thousands of Record readers from its front page.
Noble could only imagine the smart headline that the men may have conjured up to describe his latest brush with controversy. Noble despised journalists, but recognised that had it not been for their interest in him and his work during the last 25 years he would not be living the life he currently enjoyed. The plush home in Bearsden, the many cars, the exotic holidays, the expensive jewellery would all be strangers to him were it not for the men who worked in the building opposite. The men he hated.
As the journalists stalked off into night, Noble returned his attention to the task at hand. From his old battered leather briefcase he pulled out a package wrapped in thick black polythene and held together with cords of brown tape.
As he had bound the parcel together earlier that evening in the warmth of his well furnished Carlton Place office, Noble had joked with his secretary, Veronica, in a vain effort to mask the severity of what they were dealing with that evening. Their false laughter had failed to hide their obvious unease at what the night held in store.
The two had worked together for almost 25 years now. Veronica had taken a job with the law firm of Noble and Co as a teenager, some 40 years ago, serving Noble’s father until his death nine years earlier. Since becoming Billy Noble’s secretary she had found him to be the same type of warm and compassionate man that his father had shown himself to be on many occasions. None more so than when at the age of 24 and unmarried, she had fallen pregnant.
Veronica had never broken the law in her life, not even as much as a parking ticket, yet here she was, months from retirement, doing what she would once have considered the unthinkable.
She knew that this secret had to be destroyed forever. It should have gone to the grave with old Mr Noble. Tonight it would be gone forever. Lost in the depths of the river. Banished with the many other secrets that she imagined also lay in the Clyde’s silt bed by her boss Billy Noble.
After taking another glance around to ensure he was alone, Noble hurled the parcel as far out into the water as his arms could manage. It was not as far out as he had wished, but he was not as young and athletic as he had once been. Within seconds the black parcel disappeared from the surface, the only trace of its internment being the fading ripples that spread across the river’s surface.
Moments later the only evidence that Billy Noble had ever been at the riverside that night was Gitanes cigarette butt, the brand that he had smoked exclusively for 30 years, ever since visiting France as a teenager with his pretty young fiancé, Moira.
Within minutes Noble was back behind the wheel of his Aston Martin DB9 and heading back towards Bearsden to prepare for what he hoped would be a very quiet and uneventful family Christmas.
Billy Noble wouldn’t get his wish.
Peter Pryce didn’t utter a word as his eyes scanned around the ransacked living room of the tenement flat that had been his home until six years ago.
“And you heard nothing at all during the night, Mother?” asked Pryce, still glancing around in disbelief.
“Nothing at all Peter,” replied the ashen faced 55-year-old woman who had discovered the scene just hours earlier. “I woke at around 6.30am and came through to find it in this state. I was afraid the burglar was still in the flat so I went next door and called you straight away.”
“So, how long will we have to wait until the police show up then?” enquired Pryce, sarcastically.
The woman glanced at the floor, biting her lip she answered: “I haven’t called the police Peter.”
He looked at his Mother, incredulous. “What? Why on earth not?” he bellowed, angrily.
She looked him in the eye, “Because nothing is missing. I know nothing is missing because what they were looking for is not here any more.”
Pryce was confused, “Mother, what the hell were they looking for and who the hell are ‘they’ anyway?”
“Peter, I think you had better sit down, I need to tell you something.”
The slender man sat down on the old worn red leather sofa, his mother taking the armchair opposite.
She continued, “I should have told you this years ago, but, well, the time never seemed quite right. “For heaven’s sake Mother, what is it?” asked Pryce, becoming even more agitated.
“Oh, Peter, I hope you can forgive me,” said the woman, tears beginning to well in her still attractive blue eyes.
The next 20-minutes changed Peter Pryce’s life in a way he could never have imagined. What his Mother told him set his life on a collision course with that of a man he had never met, a man he never wanted to meet. A man he hated nonetheless.
“It’s about your father,” said the old woman. Her voice quivered as her son listened on.
The thick set heavy hands of Eddie Zamporini threw his copy of The Daily Record onto the round breakfast table in front of him. The grinning face of Billy Noble stared back at him as he read the headline which made him feel sick to the pit of his stomach.
“Bastard,” drawled Zamporini, sipping at his glass of freshly squeezed orange juice as he continued to read the accompanying article.
He knew that grin on Noble’s face well, he had seen it many times over the last 25 years . There was a time when the two men smiled and laughed together most of the time. The good old days. When it seemed like life would never end. They were both young, in the prime of their lives, and, better still, they had plenty of money in their pockets and even more spread around various bank accounts and bolt holes across the city.
As Zamporini’s mind drifted back to those heady days of excess, one of his men, known as Fatboy Franky for obvious reasons, stomped into the room.
“I couldn’t find it boss, it wasn’t there, I’m sure of it,” he rasped, clearly exhausted from taking the stairs to Noble’s third floor flat. “I looked everywhere, turned the place upside down, I did. The old girl never heard a thing though, she slept right through.”
“Damn, damn, damn” shouted Zamporini, slamming his fist down three times onto the paper face of Billy Noble, whose grin continued to poke fun at the silver-haired Italian immigrant.
“So, they want to play games? Well that suits me fine,” said Zamporini, becoming angrier with his every word. “I want ten men at the club in an hour Franky. If this grinning idiot thinks he can get the better of the Zamporinis he is very wrong indeed. Get the boys together and tell them I’ve cancelled Christmas. They’ll be no turkey and tinsel until that grin is wiped off his face for good.”
Fatboy acknowledged his orders and loafed out of the kitchen, the front door slamming shut seconds later.
Zamporini, who had come to Glasgow from the backstreets of Roma with his parents as a four year-old boy, went to his bedroom and dressed quickly. Back in the kitchen he finished his orange juice as he watched the first few minutes of the morning news bulletin.
Little did he know that the subject of tomorrow’s lead story would be him.
TOP | VOTE | CHAPTER 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
CHAPTER 2 – Gary Moffat, Burness
Billy Noble was dreaming. He’s five years old and sitting on his father’s knee in the back garden of their impressive home on the south side of Glasgow. It’s a sunny day in May, but clouds flit across the sun and in the shadows Billy feels a chill.
“You be good today, Wilhelm,” his father tells him, a hint of his original German accent still present.
Billy hates it when his father uses that name, but says nothing.
“You must let me have peace to speak with my guest. You understand?”
“I do,” Billy says, his voice no more than a whisper.
“Good,” his father says. “You play here in the garden, then. I’ll come and see you later.”
Billy nods in silence again.
Noble stirred in his sleep, his head nodding in sympathy with his dream self.
Mario Zamporini stood in the open doorway of Noble’s bedroom and watched. Slowly, he moved forward in the dark and pulled a chair up next to the bed. He sat heavily, the weight of his 78 years on the planet suddenly feeling like too much to bear. Watching Noble for a moment, he tried to remember the little boy he once knew all those years ago. The little boy that used to play with his Eddie. Then he reached under his jacket and pulled a revolver from the holster fixed under his arm, touching the barrel of the gun to Noble’s cheek in a grim parody of a caress.
In the halfway state between dream and awake, reality bled into Noble’s dream as he felt the pressure on his cheek. Billy’s in the car now – his father’s old car – sitting alone in the front passenger seat. The worn leather creaks beneath him as he shifts uncomfortably and strains his eyes to see anything in the black surrounding the car – but the darkness is absolute.
Billy turns from the window and sees now the big man sitting behind the wheel, a thin wisp of smoke drifting up from the lit cigarette in the man’s mouth. Billy recognises the man as his father’s friend from, what was it his father said, “that damned war”.
“Billy boy,” the man says in his heavy Italian accent. “You’ve been bad haven’t you?”
Billy felt the old fear he used to feel whenever he was around the man. He wanted to speak but his jaws were clamped tight.
The man reached out and placed a hand on Billy’s cheek. Billy wanted to open the door and run, but like all good (bad) nightmares he was stuck, unable to escape.
Noble opened his eyes and blinked away the dark. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw the silhouette of Mario Zamporini sitting beside him. Then the gun in Zamporini’s hand. Noble drew back in his bed, kicking the sheets away from him as he did.
Zamporini sat back in the chair and rested the gun in his lap.
“Your father would not be happy, Billy boy,” Zamporini said to Noble. “You’re a disappointment to the both of us.”
Noble started to feel his temper flare at the old man but he said nothing.
“I mean, we sat in the back of that truck, your father and I, for hundreds of miles while the allies poured in to Germany. I wasn’t much more than a boy, sixteen or seventeen, and he seemed so calm and assured. He took me with him and I was just a low level Italian translator for him – this big time Nazi officer. Even when we stopped so the driver could have a rest and we heard from some other travellers that Mussolini had been caught and killed, he took it all in his stride. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be here now.”
“I don’t want to hear your sad story, Mario,” Noble said.
Zamporini moved fast for an old man. He was up out of the chair and on to the bed before Noble could move. He grabbed Noble by the throat and pressed the barrel of the gun into his left eye. Noble flapped ineffectually at the old man’s arms, no match for his strength.
“You will listen to it, Billy boy, until I’m done, or so help me…”
Zamporini cocked the hammer of the revolver and the sound seemed incredibly loud to Noble in the dark of the room.
“…I will kill you now against my better judgement.”
After a moment, Zamporini moved back off the bed and onto the chair. He sighed, weary of this unruly child.
“We risked our lives getting that money out of Germany and bringing it here and I’m not about to let your conscience suddenly get the better of you. It’s my legacy too. And Eddie’s.”
“Eddie still thinks he came over here with you from Roma,” Noble said.
“Little white lies,” Zamporini responded.
“It’s blood money, Mario. I mean, you obviously don’t care about that, but I can’t live with it any longer. How many people, Jews or otherwise, died for it?”
Zamporini laughed and it echoed in his hollow chest.
“There’s blood on your hands too, you know,” he told Noble. “How did you think your father was able to establish a top legal practice so quickly over here, eh? Hard work?”
Noble had no answer for that and Zamporini laughed again without humour.
“You’ve never been stupid,” Zamporini said. “You had it figured out long before now, didn’t you?”
Noble wanted to deny it, but he knew the denial would be a lie.
“There’s none so blind, Billy boy. So you get an attack of conscience now, eh? I mean, with your celebrity lawyer status gone and your wife having walked out the door and now you want to be reborn. Is that it?”
Zamporini stood and levelled the gun at Noble’s head.
“Where’s my money?”
Noble said nothing.
Zamporini cocked the hammer again.
“Where is it, Billy boy?”
“You’re just a cheap gangster Mario,” Noble said, closing his eyes and waiting for death.
TOP | VOTE | CHAPTER 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
CHAPTER 3 – David McGuire, MacRoberts
“Lubo, it’s me – Billy Noble.” His voice tense. “Listen-” “The famous Billy!” Lubo’s interruption crackled through the phone’s tiny speakers, although his voice didn’t sound much different in person. “I saw you! In the newspaper, I saw you. I said to Ella, I said, ‘look – there’s Mr Noble, but I call him Billy because we two, we have known each other-’”
“Lubo-” Noble never had a chance. Once Lubo started, only a coughing fit was likely to stop him.
“-but it says you are in trouble, but then Ella, she shows me this part where it says – hang on, hang on, I put it down here somewhere – ‘Mr Noble’s career is in ruins, but is unlikely to face prosecution’ – that’s good news, is it not? But then-”
The speakers spiked in tinny white noise, punctuated by hacks and gasps that went on and on. Noble looked up at Mario Zamporini, saw the elderly man frowning in displeasure. Noble shrugged. “You wanted him on speakerphone.” He leaned back against his pillows, closed his eyes as adrenaline fought a losing battle with exhaustion and waited for Lubo to stop.
“Not cheap, Billy boy. I am many things – a father, a businessman and a patriot – but I am not cheap.”
Billy Noble opened his eyes. Cold sweat stung fake tears from them, and he blinked rapidly, hoping Zamporini would mistake them for the real thing. He knew this would be risky, but he hadn’t expected guns in the face quite so early in the game – that wasn’t usually Zamporini’s style. If Zamporini thought he was-
“Crying, Billy boy? Ah, I hope your poor father is watching this.” Zamporini made the sign of the cross with the muzzle of his gun and laughed. “No, no, no. A cheap gangster might bring your wife here, make certain threats to her well-being in front of you, but I am not that man. Your wife has flown the nest – la donna è mobile – but I would rather send some friends to sit outside her mother’s house in the middle of the night and wait on a call from me, than drag her here like some petty thug.” He leaned forward. “You’re not going to make me do that, are you Billy boy? You’re not going to make me make a mess?”
Noble shook his head.
“I didn’t think so. I don’t like mess. Where’s my money?”
Noble swallowed hard. One roll of the dice. “Lubo Miksic.”
Zamporini looked blank. “Who?”
“Lubo, you okay?”
The coughing had petered out. Lubo’s voice came back, even scratchier than before. “It is nothing. It is the night air – I need a glass of water, is all.” Muffled shouts and then he came back on. “So what can I do for Mr Front Page?”
“We need to meet,” said Noble. He paused, glancing at a glowering Zamporini. “I need to speak with you. About the Cuidad.”
“How about lunch tomorrow? Always a pleasure, provided a rich lawyer is picking up the bill.”
Zamporini shook his head.
“Sooner than lunch, Lubo. Now. Right now.”
“Well, if you are going to hold a gun to my head…”
Zamporini raised his pistol again, his face turning red. “Who the hell is Lubo Miksic?”
“My insurance policy.” Noble propped himself up in bed and tried to keep his voice, and the situation, under control. “I picked him up as a client about fifteen years ago. He went into a pub on the south side, quiet afternoon, just the bartender and a couple of customers. The bartender tells him it’s free drinks day, so Lucky Lubo empties half the opticals in the place and passes out. Wakes up in custody. Turns out the ‘bartender’ and the other two had broken into the pub and were busy robbing it when Lubo happened by. He was taking the rap for it, and then I stepped in.” Noble shrugged. “Things like that just seem to happen to him.”
“Losing my patience, Billy boy.”
“Then pay attention.” Careful, Billy, this is a dangerous game and he’s played it longer than you. “The police know everything. You saw the headlines – I’m the lawyer with the Nazi gold, but the police think it was all my father’s. Selling a few bars every year was a great little earner, Mario, but the gold is gone-”
“This I know-”
“-and the police have it.”
A pause, then quietly, “The hell, you say.”
“They let it slip when they brought me in. Someone talked.
They knew the location. They have it all, yours and mine. It’s gone, Mario.”
“Then the world doesn’t need you any more, does it?” The gun was suddenly the biggest thing in the room, held rock steady just inches from the end of Billy Noble’s life. “As I said to your father, who’ll miss another lawyer?”
“Lubo Mik-” The barrel of the gun cut the last word off, pushing hard into Noble’s cheek.
“That name,” Mario growled, “won’t save your life.”
“-smuggled out of what is now Croatia when he was a baby, just after the war,” the words tumbled out of Noble. “His mother died enroute, on the Cuidad de Burgos, and he arrived here an orphan. His mother’s name was Spitzer.”
The colour drained from Zamporini’s face.
Noble risked a nod. “Exactly. The Spitzer family fortune. The one you and my father snuck out of Germany.”
“But the last Spitzer died on the Cuidad. We checked. No heirs! No baby!”
“Not on the manifest, no, but would you risk your child and put his Jewish name down? Not on that ship. Not then. His mother certainly didn’t.”
“Does he know?”
Noble smiled for the first time that evening. “Does he know he’s the only man alive who can make that gold legal to own? No. But I have the papers that prove it, and he’s – well, Lubo’s not the sharpest tack in the box.”
“Where?”
“My office. Carlton Place.”
Zamporini stared. The old house creaked in the silence as Noble waited, heart hammering. Finally the elderly man nodded.
“Call him.”
TOP | VOTE | CHAPTER 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
CHAPTER 4 – Deborah Carmichael, Miller Samuel
Lubo hung up. A feeling of intense unease crept over him. He slid open the narrow drawer of the console table and pulled out his extremely well-thumbed address book. His fingers flicked to the section marked ‘N’.
“Eh hello Anna, my name’s Lubo Miksic, eh I’m a client of your husband’s…” – he had almost perfected the Weegie accent.
“Estranged husband, I think you mean” Lubo smarted from the coldness in her voice.
“Eh it’s just that eh.. I spoke to Billy there and he doesnae sound too clever. Almost agitated like you know and I could hear strange voices in the background. I think he could be in some kinda…”
The line went dead. “He could be in Barlinnie for all I care,” thought Anna, calmly placing the receiver in its cradle. She had come back for the last of her belongings. She had enrolled for the part-time law degree. Had lined up an apprenticeship with Maryhill Law Centre. Helping people on the front line, making a difference – not like Billy.
She sat down on the ornate chaise longue in the vast hallway, surrounded by trophies from her marriage. Anna had coveted the notion of owning a chaise longue since she was a child. They were so glamorous and completely pointless – like her marriage. Now she had one. In fact she had everything she ever wanted, materially any way.
“Billy’s a great catch,” “What did you do to snare him?” people said to her – even her family. What did they know. They seemed to forget she had been a good catch herself once.
Her middle-class upbringing allowed her to attend one of the top schools in the city. A private all-girls school, a veritable hothouse of academia. A breeding ground for future lawyers and doctors. Having excelled at school, she commenced her law degree. She had secured a traineeship with one of the ‘Big 5’ and her future was set.
That was until she fell pregnant. She dropped out of university and resigned herself to a life of nappies and baby sick. Her parents’ disappointment was palpable. “What a waste” everyone remarked. Her parents were relieved when Billy ‘the saviour’ came along and took her and the child on.
Her life now consisted of playgroup, coffee mornings and attending the occasional legal do as Billy’s plus one. Occasions where the vain self-publicists who dominated the legal profession were revered. But she had become accustomed to the lifestyle which Billy’s success brought. Her hair became blonder, tan deeper, clothes more expensive. She was happy to play ‘wifey’ and turn a blind eye to Billy’s misdemeanours. That was until the papers got wind of them. Her strict moral upbringing and own previous indiscretion had rendered her ill-equipped to deal with further public shame, and so she left.
“I’m just taking a donner in tae toon love” shouted Lubo and shut the door. He caught the bus which was heaving with Scotland fans. They were playing against Italy later that day, their biggest match in decades. Lubo could taste the excitement.
He jumped off the bus at George Square and sauntered past the Oyster Bar where the Glaswegian glitterati guzzled champagne and conducted their affairs. An upmarket busker performed Mozart on the pavement outside. Lubo recollected seeing Billy there one night with two Italian gentlemen. All pinstripe suits, waistcoats and cigars. Didn’t look like lawyers.
“The legal profession is not what it once was,” Billy said to Lubo once.
“There are far more lucrative enterprises to embroil oneself in these days. Builders, property developers, night-club owners – they hold all the cards in Glasgow these days.”
That still didn’t explain the prize Rolex on Billy’s wrist.
“Gone are the days when lawyers were glorified for their knowledge and power. The punters are grabbing that knowledge for themselves and leaving us in the dust. The pedestal has been well and truly kicked from under us.”
Billy was talking mince. Why would anyone respect Billy? He had certainly never respected Lubo. But Billy had underestimated him. He was neither as stupid nor as malleable as Billy believed.
Lubo jostled his way through the throngs of greedy shoppers on Buchanan Street. Freezing rain lashed down on him, dribbling into his neck. He pulled up his collar and quickened his pace. He passed by the ugly glass-fronted shopping centre. It was deserted, having succumbed to competition from out of town shopping malls with better shops and free parking. It was only midday but looked more like dusk.
The feeling of unease returned. ‘What was Billy after and who were those men in the background?’ The streets were deserted – everyone safely ensconced in pubs or at home watching the match. He passed the wedding dress shop. A figure skulked in the entryway. Stocky, moustachioed. Lubo dipped his head and kept walking. He crossed over at the lights and climbed the stairs to the bridge. He heard footsteps shadowing his own and winced.
He recalled crossing the bridge to the sheriff court, awaiting sentence for the pub incident ‘You’ll be fine. You were duped.’ Billy’s words rang like a bell in his head. Only he wasn’t fine.
Rain lashed down beating hard against the bridge’s railings. And there was the river. Cold, steely grey, like a knife ready to plunge his heart. He wondered how many bodies lay in the Clyde – how many alcies had fallen in there on a Friday night, how many had been pushed. What other skeletons lay beneath its murky depths.
Definitely footsteps. Lubo was almost running as he reached the centre of the bridge. ‘Focus on the match, on Ella…
anything.’
A faint waft of cigar smoke.
A fat hand enveloped his neck, followed instantaneously with cold steel. An inch away from his jugular. His body slammed against the metal railing, perilously close to the water, to death.
Flight was not an option. If he could just get a look at his assailant. He grappled with him, clawing his way to freedom. He hurled round to face his killer. “You...”
TOP | VOTE | CHAPTER 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
CHAPTER 5 – Lesley Philips, Balfour + Manson
“Now, now. There’s no need for that.” DI Cat Hackett’s smiling gaze rested firmly on one of the clamour of journalists hounding her at the doors of the police station. “You’re nice,” she thought. And then she silently rebuked herself: “Concentrate Cat”.
“You’ve had your story – there’s no more to tell at the moment. We can confirm to you once again that we have arrested 52 year-old Eddie Zamporini on suspicion of the murder of Lubo Miksic. We’ll let you know as soon as there are any developments – I promise.”
Cat was exhausted. Murder was tiring and tiresome, especially at this seasonal time. She had been on the case non-stop for over 24 hours and she longed to slip under the covers and sleep for another 24. This was a real puzzler and her brain hurt. She had had enough. She wanted a nine-to-five. “I’d be the best little check-out operator in town,” she thought to herself. “People would be queuing up just to be served by me”.
But she showed none of her weariness.
Instead, she portrayed a picture of complete professionalism to everyone. Her bosses relied on her. The lawyers trusted her. Even the journalists who confronted her today believed everything she said. And she got results. Men adored her. Women respected her.
Catherine Hackett was indeed a vision. Glamorous with a capital ‘G’. With sparkling blue eyes, long blonde hair, bloodred lips and a dewy complexion which belied her 43 years, she wouldn’t be out of place in an M&S Christmas ad campaign. Her friends had teasingly dubbed her the people’s Nigella – and she found it difficult to hide her delight at this description.
That morning’s headlines screamed out at her. “Italian mobster held on suspicion of brutal killing” and she knew she had to work quickly. To her colleagues, this was a simple case. Eddie Zamporini had been found close to the scene of Lubo’s murder. Everyone knew he was a bad’un – but something told Cat that there was much more to it. “We’ve got to be scrupulous,” she told her team. “We all know what can happen when we jump to conclusions”. They all knew what she meant. The force had been rocked by a number of scandals recently. And she knew only too well that Eddie’s father would fight dirty for the release of his son. He had already given the press what they wanted.
Cat was in no mood to see him win.
By 2pm, her team had conducted hundreds of enquiries. Potential witnesses, those close to Lubo and, of course, Mario, the patriarch of the Zamporini family.
What interested Cat most, however, was the string of calls made by Lubo shortly before his death.
“I could hear him on the phone just before he left me yesterday, hen,” Ella revealed to Cat. “It was wee bit vague, but I could swear it was to Billy’s wife, Anna – Anna Noble…and a couple of calls to Billy himself.
The female voice at the other end of the phone was cool, slightly supercilious and definitely not welcoming, “Who did you say you are? I really haven’t got time” – an exasperated sigh – “I should have been away before now.”
Cat took a slow, deep breath and shut her eyes before continuing.
“Mrs Noble, I’m DI Hackett, Strathclyde CID and I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Lubo Miksic.”
“Lubo Miksic? I don’t really know him very well; he’s a client of my husband’s. I’m sure he can tell you anything you need to know.” A quick dismissal, but the tone of voice betrayed the studied casualness of the response. A small bell began to ring in Cat’s mind as she carried on in a studiously neutral tone.
“Ah, ok. Well, I’m sorry to bother you then Mrs Noble, this shouldn’t take long, but it was you I actually wanted to speak to. Have you spoken to Mr Miksic lately?”
“No, why on earth should I have?” the voice was now tight, edgy.
“Lubo Miksic‘s body was recovered from the Clyde last night, and I just wondered why he would have called you shortly before he died.”
The silence at the other end of the phone was, as they say in all the best books, deafening. “Mrs Noble?” Cat knew Anna had to make a decision in the next few seconds, and how much could be riding on it.
“Look, it was nothing.” The words quick and tumbling over each. “I was at our house last night, picking up some of my things that I’d left there.”
Cat had no trouble recalling the lurid headlines that had accompanied Billy and Anna Noble’s very public split a few weeks ago and, despite her earlier dislike, felt some sympathy for her.
“I only picked up the phone out of habit, and heard all this nonsense about Billy being in some sort of trouble.” The bitterness spilled over in a palpable wave “but the only trouble Billy has is staying away from other men’s wives.”
A flurry of thoughts flew across Cat’s mind as she quickly shuffled some papers out across the scarred wooden desk. “So Billy wasn’t at home when you were there?”
“No,” the voice sharp and chilly. “I told you, I went to get my things and the house was empty. He was probably at the flat that he used in the city when he needed to work late.” A mocking emphasis on the last words suggesting all too well that Anna Noble now knew more about Billy’s late nights than she had ever wanted to.
“So you didn’t think Mr Miksic was serious?”
A pause, lengthening and then a soft sigh. “I wasn’t sure” – slow, and haltingly now – “but after I thought about it for a bit, I thought I better let him know, but I couldn’t get him on his mobile so I called his friend..”
Cat held her breath.
“Eddie, Eddie Zamporini.”
TOP | VOTE | CHAPTER 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
CHAPTER 6 – Gavin Deeprose, DLA
Eddie Zamporini sat confused and alone in a cold cell in what was colloquially known as ‘the crypt’ at Cranhill Police Station. The crypt because the cells were tiny, dark and usually full of scarred bodies. Tonight, however, the only scarred body in the place was his.
That didn’t bother Eddie of course. He’d been in these cells before, although not for some time and not in such ominous circumstances. There were his youthful indiscretions, the extortion charge, the arrest for money laundering and that odd vehicle offence where traffic cops had arrested him for driving along the Expressway with a bright yellow wheel-clamp affixed to the front wheel of his four-by-four. It was different this time though. This was serious. It was no episode of Hart to Hart, but this was murder.
Eddie had been arrested on suspicion of killing his close friend, Lubomir Matiasevich Moravcik Miksic. Lubo to his buddys. He had known Lubo for years. They’d started school together at Whitehill in Dennistoun, two foreign kids in an alien city. They’d taken their first steps in crime together selling dodgy Manfred Mann LPs down the Barras. They’d played football together as teenagers and poker every Friday night. They’d got drunk together, regularly. Lubo had even married Ella, Eddie’s first squeeze at school. They were bonded. Brothers, just from other mothers.
It was implausible that he had killed Lubo, but that was what was being alleged. In the cold silent darkness of the police cell Eddie’s mind turned to the events of last night.
He had arrived at the Club, in the bowels of the Merchant City, about 7pm. His father, Mario, had summoned the Family to a meeting and he had been the last to arrive. Already there were his brothers Giovanni and Franco, and his cousins Romano, Lamberto and Silvio, and Silvio’s dog, Baggio, who dribbled all night. Fatboy Franky hung around too, like a bad smell. They’d all been ordained to attend for one reason alone – to discuss why the Family was in decline. Well, that and to eat bolognese.
Times were tough for the Zamporinis. Money was tight and the old illegal gambling schemes and protection rackets that they had profited from before had foundered. Online gambling was the way of the future and the new East European gangs had invaded their territory. The Club barely broke even. To make matters worse the Inland Revenue had finally caught up with Eddie’s wayward accounting and they’d received a six-figure tax bill. Things were bleak and they’d get worse too until they found that bastard Billy Noble.
The meeting itself had been a typical Family affair. Franco had pointed fingers at Eddie, Eddie had gesticulated at Giovanni, Giovanni had sworn at Silvio, Silvio had remonstrated with Romano, Romano had laughed at Lamberto, and Baggio had choked on his own drool. Chilled and relaxed things had not been, but that wasn’t the Italian way. It had been left to Mario to take control of events. Waving his arms the olive-skinned patriarch had pronounced “Is always up to mia to sorta things out. While you guys play I getta things done!”. With a swig of his Peroni he’d grabbed the revolver that Fatboy was pawing and stormed out. For a 78 year old he still packed a dramatic punch. Where he’d gone and why he’d taken a revolver though God only knew.
Eddie had left the Club about two hours later. He would usually have asked Fatboy to run him home to his faux- Georgian mansion on the south-side, but Fatboy was drunk. So he had walked south, through the town and the throngs of partygoers, hoping to pick-up a taxi on Clyde Street or maybe Carlton Place. As he’d approached the small shop that sold those garish wedding dresses he’d noticed a large heavy-set figure lurking in the doorway. It was a man, about six foot four, with a moustache that challenged Marcel Wave’s in its absurdity. He had a massive Cuban cigar in his mouth too and enormous hands, quite out of proportion to the rest of bulging frame. Their eyes had connected briefly, the man evaluating him, searching his features, and then averted again. Eddie smiled. He’d recognised the man. It was Bismarck Pryce.
Looking for a cab Eddie had crossed Clyde Street and the footbridge over the river. As he’d got to Carlton Place he’d felt a vibration in his trousers. It was his mobile. He’d had three missed calls and a voicemail message from Anna, Billy Noble’s ex-squeeze, whom he still had a soft spot for. He’d punched 901 into the handset and heard Anna’s imploring voice. “A client of Billy’s has just called. Phone me when you get this. I think Billy may be in trouble…”.
Before the message had ended a scream punctured the Winter air. Eddie had spun round to detect its source, scanning the horizon and peering back across the footbridge where it had emanated from. Through the darkness he had made out two figures on the bridge, or was it three. They were dancing. Or were they struggling? He saw a glint, a flash maybe. Then heard a muffled shout. And then something toppled over the railings into the murky depths of the river below. He heard a distant splash and then silence. Eddie wasn’t sure what he had witnessed. Was it drunkards? Was it a mugging? Was Bismarck involved? Concerned he had begun to run.
And run he had. All the way along Carlton Place and into Bridge Street. Straight into the hands of Strathclyde’s finest. And twenty minutes later he was locked-up in Cranhill, none the wiser as to what had occurred.
At that moment the door of his cell was thrust open. In strode DI Cat Hackett, legs right up to her waist, and then some. ‘Your lawyer’s here Mr Zamporini’, she announced. Momentarily disarmed by her elegant limbs he didn’t quite hear what she said. ‘Your lawyer’s here Mr Zamporini’ she repeated. ‘My lawyer?’, Eddie said quizzically, knowing that he’d spoken to her not two hours ago. ‘Yeah, a Mr Noble is here for you Eddie. Do you want to see him now?…
TOP | VOTE | CHAPTER 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
CHAPTER 7– Ryan Templeton, Joyce White & Co
Eddie continued to stare into the space that DI Hackett had once occupied until she was replaced by a more robust and familiar figure. His eyes had widened when the police officer’s words had fallen on his ears and they remained peering into the distance a thousand miles or more were it not for the bricks and mortar before him. Without a blink and without a flicker, Eddie’s eyes had instantaneously transfixed themselves on Billy as he made his appearance.
Silence ensued. A silence which did not comfort Billy. A silence broken by the sound of a struggle involving three bodies in the near distance accompanied by protestations of a man’s innocence, quashed and disbanded as quickly as it had started. Eddie licked his lips, clasped his hands before him and prepared his sermon.
“I don’t know what to say. I guess you could say I am, speechless.”
“For want of a better word, anyway?” Billy nervously retorted. Slow down he thought to himself.
Eddie shook his head. “Always the funny guy. I know guys like you Billy, so many of them. They talk their way into things – talk their way out of things – they come to me expect to be treated like something special, they act some kind of funny but that never fools me, no not me. I see through all that shit. I see what really makes them speak like that to me. I know they are scared – I see it all, can’t hide what goes on in here.” Eddie tapped at his temple with one and a half index fingers as his words trailed off, manipulating Billy’s focus with a chilling certainty.
The eyes that stared back at him now portrayed a deeper menace that made Billy prefer what little comfort there was in the foregoing silence.
“So tell me now Billy, seen as you are so – ah, such the comedian, are you gonna explain to me what this joke is all about? Or do I get to deliver the punchline?”
Billy rubbed at the sides of his eyebrows bringing to his attention the beads of sweat that had formed across his temple, their meniscus bonds now broken by the contact with his hand to allow the contents to trickle down the contours of his face. Billy became increasingly aware of his own anxiety. His anxiety perpetuated his self-awareness and so the cycle intensified. He took the opportunity of briefly losing Eddie’s gaze to drag a handkerchief across his forehead before it magically disappeared, discreetly, back into his trouser pocket. Inhale. Exhale. Miss a beat. Miss another. His innermost monologue resurrected his composure before answering:
“Yeah, they said you would try this.” Billy delivered enigmatically.
“Who says what?” Eddie spat as he scratched the thin line of grey hair that ran round the back of his head.
Billy continued “Well in my experience, big fish don’t have to tell the rest of the pond to be afraid – they just seem to know. And right now, my instinct tells me that you have a lot more reasons to be scared than I do.”
“Big fish, little fish, so what.” Eddie interrupted in a hope to diffuse Billy’s allusion.
“Oh not afraid of me, of course. That’s not my line of work. I’m here to help you.” Billy’s voice had settled now, with the tyres firmly gripping that first tight bend he felt he could now cruise all the way to the finish.
“Help me? You want to stop being funny for a minute, that would help me.”
“No jokes this time Eddie. I just want to make a deal with you. And as you are a man of your word, well at least I’m told you say you are, I understand you will keep to your side of the agreement.”
“’Scuse me, did I miss something, what are you….” Eddie said before Billy could cut him off with the superiority of a conjurer relishing in his audience’s unwitting suspense.
“It is simple. I want out of this and I want out now. But I need you to do something for me. Give me safe passage or your blessing, or whatever it is you do.”
“And what do you give me?”
“My word.”
“Only Noble’s words I trusted was your father’s.” Billy refused to let himself be fazed during the greatest performance of his life, only this time Eddie was his jury and probably his executioner should the gambit not be fruitful.
“Well my word is that my hands are as clean as my conscience as far as the gold is concerned.” Billy paced across the cell floor beating out a very deliberate delay in his delivery. He only continued to speak when he heard his antagonist attempt to interject. “But I can tell you who has got it.”
Eddie stopped sizing up the room for the hundredth time to concentrate on the unexpected hoops that the conversation was now careering through.
“And it is the very same person that set you up, Eddie.”
“Ha, and I was thinking that was you Billy.”
Billy smirked to deflate the repugnant suggestion and mask his mental abhorrence whilst Eddie’s face remained defiant in expressing any emotion.
Billy briskly shook his head and steadily tapped his left hand against his sternum. “I’m the one that will get you out of here.” he said.
Billy relaxed. The worst of it had passed, the final card had been played, the negotiations were over and Eddie appeared to be ready to concede to Billy’s intentions. A long and deliberate pause passed without any answer being forthcoming causing doubt to implant itself in Billy’s mind; a doubt that Eddie suspected something. Billy turned his back momentarily and breathed again when he heard Eddie’s voice boom behind him. “What’s wrong with Miss McGrade?”
A smile carved its way across Billy’s paled face as soon as Eddie’s words reached him. Eddie’s inflection, now lighter, denoted that Holy Grail of trust that Billy had dearly sought and risked everything for. He slowly turned around to make eye contact with Eddie one last time and said:
“She won’t know the judge.”
TOP | VOTE | CHAPTER 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
CHAPTER 8 – CC Smith
What did it matter who the judge was? They could bring on Solomon, for all Billy cared.
His claim of being personally acquainted with the judge at Eddie Zamporini’s forthcoming murder trial had been a giant bluff. But the real lie – no, not an actual lie, just not the whole truth – was letting Eddie think it would make the slightest bit of difference whether Billy was pally with “M’Lord”, had merely a nodding acquaintance, or had never met him in his puff.
The jury – the fifteen people who decided on guilt or innocence – would be the usual random collection of people he wouldn’t trust to remember the plot of a film. Some would listen avidly throughout the trial, making notes. Others would dream the days away, relying on their more conscientious brethren to steer them through. There were usually two or three old ladies of either sex susceptible to a bit of old-fashioned barnstorming oratory – which is why he always went for Tavish Clyde QC. All told, he thought, I can manage the jury just fine.
When Billy arrived to discuss the case, Clyde was already in full flow.
“Unbelievable,” he declared. “A late substitution. Lady Lawson. Complete newcomer.”
“Where have you been?” smirked back Clyde’s junior, Ed MacDonald, who liked being in the know. “She’s been a temporary judge for ages. Never thought she would go for permanent office, mind you. And criminal work will be a change for her.”
Beside them, Billy Noble had gone a strange shade of grey. “You know, I’m not surprised she’s been appointed,” continued MacDonald.
“Well, frankly, I am surprised,” grouched Clyde. “The woman who instituted “stitch and bitch” evenings for the girlies? Knitting. Trying to make some kind of point about golf outings. That’s taking the feminism too far, eh?”
“D’you know, Allister MacAllister learned to knit specially so he could go along. I still have the teacosy he gave me for Christmas,” offered MacDonald.
“Nihil humani alienum, eh?” grunted Clyde.
“Anyway,” continued MacDonald, settling down for a good legal gossip, “I heard that the reason she hated golf outings was not because she couldn’t play. Apparently, she played off a handicap of two, so it was torture to go round a course with all those old duffers. And apparently there’s a whole subculture out there who can’t spare the time for golf but don’t mind doing something civilized for an hour or two after the kids are in bed. It was either the knitting or the dreaded book group. Before you could say “purl one”, she’d got a good network going for her practice. Plenty talent. Oh, and Allister too.”
“What do you make of Lady Lawson, Billy?” asked Clyde sociably.
“Moira.” He was going to have to say it. “I used to be engaged to her.” Even keeping his eyes on the impeccable creases in his vicuna suit trousers, he was conscious of the stares of the other two men. “It was a long time ago. We split up so I could marry Anna. It ended quite amicably. Considering.”
MacDonald’s eyes widened in delight. “So: she could have been Lady Noble?”
Billy grimaced. No, she could never have been Lady Noble. She would have been Mrs Noble for the rest of her life. Even if she eventually gave up on him, just like Anna, plain Mrs Noble for the rest of her life.
Clyde glared at his junior. There was a time for gossip, and a time for professionalism. He cleared his throat. “In your expert view, Mr Noble,” he began coldly, “what would a reasonable and informed person think are your client’s chances of getting a fair trial in the present circumstances?”
“Excellent. Perfect,” said Billy, faking nonchalance even as his plans were unravelling. All he wanted now was a quick trial, and the chance to get away. “Moira was always as straight as a die and it was a long time ago. I’m sure it all means less than nothing to her now.” Clyde regarded him stonily. Billy rushed on. “And anyway, we’ll get him off. If by some mischance there has to be an appeal, you can play the “unfair trial” card then. Or somebody can.”
“If Lady Lawson has any sense, she won’t be party to any of that. And neither will I.” Clyde rose bulkily. “First the bad publicity, now this. You’re a liability, Billy Noble. I don’t need your business.”
He opened the door. MacDonald smiled an embarrassed “sorry, pal”. Mechanically, Billy passed through.
In the street, Billy’s Aston Martin had been very deliberately scratched with a coin. “Never used to happen,” reflected Billy. “Could park it anywhere.” Soon he wouldn’t be able to park anywhere at all; and the car would be safer than he would. If he did not represent Eddie Zamporini, the deal would be broken and he could expect little mercy from padrone Mario.
As he returned to Carlton Place, Billy became aware of a commotion outside his offices. Warily, he stopped the car. Several uniformed police officers surrounded Mario Zamporini, who was shouting as loudly as his age and his incipient emphysema would allow him. Veronica Pryce, Billy’s secretary, was on the steps, wringing her hands. Two of Zamporini’s hired hands were being led away. DI Cat Hackett was a spring blossom beside her monochrome colleagues as they guided the elder Zamporini towards the waiting police vehicle.
There was nothing surprising about the family of the accused making a nuisance of themselves; that happened all the time. But Mario was not shouting about his son. And he was breaking the cardinal rule: “say nothing”. While denying everything, he was singing like an asthmatic canary.
Billy joined Veronica on the steps as the van drove away. “What the hell has happened?”
Without shifting her gaze, she said, “I grassed him up. Proceeds of Crime.”
“But the evidence is at the bottom of the Clyde.”
“There’s other evidence,” replied Veronica.
TOP | VOTE | CHAPTER 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
CHAPTER 9 – Martin Macari
The car drew up next to Billy Noble as he left his office. It was a type that was out of place in that part of Glasgow, certainly at this time of night, and he immediately sensed something. Without a word, the driver got out and opened a rear door. Billy could see a figure, a male, in the back.
“Get in the car, Mr Noble” said the male, without looking up.
Billy thought about running.
“Get in the car, please, Mr Noble” repeated the male, forcefully.
“Who …the …hell are you?”
The male glanced towards him wearily.
“I’m either your dream come true, Mr Noble, or your worst nightmare” he said. “The choice is yours”
It didn’t seem like a difficult one.
“Can I phone a friend?” whispered Billy. The male said nothing. There was no one to laugh.
Billy Noble got into the car.
They drove for an hour, without any obvious destination. Billy didn’t look at the male next to him, staring intently instead at the driver. He was short haired, well built, smartly dressed. He didn’t look like a normal Glasgow thug.
“It’s time we ended this farce, Mr Noble” said the male, breaking his silence.
“What farce?”
“Tabloid headlines, second rate gangsters mouthing off in the street, supposedly stolen gold etc. It simply won’t do”. Billy tried to place the accent. He wasn’t from Glasgow. He probably wasn’t Scottish. He had been privately educated, that was for sure.
“Yes, it’s terribly bad form” said Billy, sarcastically “But how would that help me?”
The male sighed and looked away, staring out of the window at the tenements of Glasgow.
“I can ensure that everyone learns the truth about your father. And I can ensure that you enjoy the rest of his money, without problems from the Zamporinis” The male never once looked towards Billy as he spoke “As I said, I can be your dream come true, Mr Noble”
“The truth about my father?” Billy was intrigued “What truth?”
“Your father was a hero, Mr Noble.”
Billy’s face contorted in confusion.
“A hero? My father was a Nazi.”
“Your father was a German, Mr Noble. Not a Nazi. Very different.”
Billy looked away. It was his turn to stare out at the streets as they continued to drive. It didn’t make sense.
“I’ve seen photos of my father from the war. I know he was a Nazi. I’ve seen the evidence. I’ve heard it”
The male smiled.
“Your father was an agent for British Intelligence, Mr Noble. He was a German nationalist who fought those who were destroying his country”
“What about his looted fortune?”
“Money given to him by H.M.G., Mr Noble. Brave men are not only rewarded in heaven”
Billy shook his head. He would have known if this was true.
“Why would he continue to live a lie if that lie is so damning?”
Now the male shook his head.
“Mr Noble, your father couldn’t reveal the truth because he never gave up his fight. He helped ‘deliver’ many Nazi war criminals after the war because they trusted ‘one of their own’. Is it so hard to believe that your father was a good man?”
The male spoke with such authority that Billy found himself starting to believe. Believe that everything he had known about his father was a lie. “And how is this truth to be revealed?”
“Everything I have said about your father is documented, if you know where to look. I only have to point a suitable journalist in the right direction and the truth will out, and….”. The male paused.
“And?” said Billy, desperately
“And suddenly Billy Noble becomes someone whose legal practice was built on good old fashioned heroism, not Nazi gold.” The male’s eyes twinkled as he spoke. “Even The Daily Record might print that”.
Billy searched for a flaw.
“No matter what you say, old Mario Zamporini won’t give up because he thinks that money is now his. He was bailed yesterday and I hear he’s on the warpath”.
At this, the male leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.
“Could you allay Mr Noble’s fears please” he said.
Without responding, the driver stopped the car, got out and opened the boot. Billy looked quizzical.
“It will put your mind at ease” said the male, calmly. Billy hesitantly walked to the rear of the vehicle. There in the boot was a body. It was the body of Mario Zamporini.
“Jesus….”
Billy felt a wave of nausea grab at his stomach.
“I trust that satisfies you” said the male, as the car moved off.
“How …how did he die?”
“Do not worry about the manner of his death” whispered the male “It is the fact of his death that matters”
“But when his body is found, the Family..”
“His body will not be found” interrupted the male.
The silence lasted many minutes. Billy pondered deeply. He knew he was out of his depth.
“So what do you want from me?” he said, eventually
“Mr Noble, the means of payment for your father’s work during the war and afterwards...”
Billy nodded
“The Nazi gold or whatever”
“Precisely. The Nazi gold or whatever…” The male hesitated. “Well, we can tell the papers anything. Those previous headlines were based on unsubstantiated guesswork, nothing more. But we now know you have evidence about it and we would like that back. There must be no connection to the Spitzer fortune”
“So it was looted gold” laughed Billy, nervously. The male said nothing. It was a silence that spoke volumes.
“Christ..” exclaimed Billy, no longer laughing “My father was paid for services to the country with stolen Jewish money?”
The male turned away, his breath now almost visible on the cold window pane.
“War is a dirty business, Mr Noble. Just like law. But H.M.G. would rather this remained …how shall I put it...our little secret”
Billy realised that with Lubo Miksic dead, he was the only one left alive that could formally connect his father’s money to the Spitzer fortune.
‘…With Miksic dead…’
“My god” blurted Billy, breathlessly. It had dawned on him that he may just have solved the murder of the Spitzer heir. “You killed Lubo”
“Me, Mr Noble? I most certainly did not.” said the male, calmly. “Helpfully, Eddie Zamporini will be convicted of that crime. This, as you should understand, will be to your advantage as well as ours”
The male leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.
“Here will be fine” he said.
Without a word, the driver got out and opened Billy’s door.
“I think you can see our position Mr Noble” said the male “The choice is yours. But there is, of course, no choice.”
As Billy eased himself out of the vehicle and shut the door, the window scrolled down.
“This country owed your father much. Offering you this chance pays off that debt.” The male turned to look at Billy “He was a hero, Mr Noble. He made decisions that were, for him, a matter of life or death. As ever, it seems that history repeats itself.”
As the window shut, the car accelerated off into the night.
TOP | VOTE | CHAPTER 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
CHAPTER 10 – Neil Morrison, Miller Samuel
Billy stared at the sleek car speeding off into the distance and noted the vehicle was a Jaguar XF, the car brand and model reaffirmed his belief that he had been in the company of an MI5 agent. Billy stood motionless as he let his gaze wander up to his Victorian sandstone seven-bedroom house. He trudged up the driveway, his mind still trying to comprehend what the MI5 agent had told him. Billy felt the cold wind on his face which roused him from his mental procrastination. If the MI5 agent story was true, Billy’s father was a hero. All those tabloid headlines castigating his late father and he was a national hero. Billy felt his heart leap at the thought of clearing his besmirched family name; it would be his final act of atonement for all the heartache and trouble he had caused his late father over the years.
Billy muttered to himself “If I give the Spitzer family documentation to MI5, everything will be fine, just fine”.
The moonlight shone on the front door of the house and Billy noticed the door was ajar. Someone had been in his house, he felt sick. He walked inside, a spike of adrenaline pulsing through his veins as his breath quickened. Billy slowly walked to the “Singing Butler” Jack Vettriano painting in the hallway, pushed the frame to the side and plunged his hand down the dark hole in the wall. He flinched as he felt the cold steel of his secret revolver against his hot palm. Billy took the gun and quickly darted around the house checking each room for any unwanted visitors. Nothing had been taken; he slammed the door and jumped in his BMW Z3, crunched the car into gear and accelerated at high speed through the leafy suburban streets of Bearsden. Billy’s destination: Carlton Place.
Billy pulled up outside his office and parked the car behind his scratched Aston Martin DB9. He winced at the damaged bodywork and walked up the stairs to the door. He skulked into the foyer and turned left into his office; he saw his secretary, Veronica Pryce, sitting in his office chair. Both of her hands were tied behind her back with a stout piece of string and black duct tape was wrapped around her mouth. As Billy crept closer to her, he noticed her face was bruised and there were lacerations on her neck. He scanned the room; the perpetrators had gone. He walked over to Veronica, cut the string that tied her hands and wrenched the tape away from her mouth.
“Billy, the Zamporini gang were here, they know the whereabouts of the remaining gold bars…they were going to kill me, I’m sorry but I had to tell them!” Veronica cried.
Billy shrugged “Remaining gold bars; Veronica, they’re at the bottom of the Clyde….or are there more bars I don’t know about?”
“Yes, I tried to tell you earlier. Your father knew you had a flamboyant side Billy. He wanted to keep some gold bars aside if the firm ever encountered financial difficulties in the future. I was the only one he told. He hid them in a dead client’s mausoleum in the Necropolis.” Veronica said quickly.
Billy’s forehead was throbbing with rage at his loyal secretary’s deceit. “Which client?” Billy snapped.
“Monty Crooks, he was a client of the firm for almost thirty years until his death, his family were wealthy tobacco importers and they have a huge plot in the Necropolis. They are plot 109 and it’s a large marble mausoleum” Veronica said.
“Ok, they didn’t take the Spitzer documents though?” Billy interrupted.
“They took everything you kept in the safe Billy” blurted Veronica.
“Bloody hell! Veronica, we’re finished!” Billy cried.
“Calm down Billy, the Zamporinis will be in the Necropolis and it’ll take them hours to break the marble mausoleum door without the key.” Veronica pleaded.
“Come on, let’s go! We don’t have any time to waste!” Billy exclaimed as he ushered Veronica outside and into his BMW Z3. Veronica grabbed his arm, and pulled a small black metallic bugging device from his shoulder and showed it to him.
“Great, MI5 just heard our conversation” Billy sighed sarcastically. They jumped in the car and accelerated off in the direction of the Necropolis, the resting place of Glasgow’s wealthiest families. Billy noticed a metallic blue Mercedes car was following them with an odd registration BIZ M8RK. He swallowed and concentrated on the road ahead. Veronica sat in the front passenger seat silently watching the road ahead. Suddenly Billy’s mobile rang, he glanced at the screen and answered it.
“Billy, Peter Pryce has been murdered! Your life is in danger Billy! The killer wrote “Billy you’re next!” on Peter’s forehead in black marker pen.” Anna Noble said, her voice trembling.
“Jesus Christ! Anna, listen to me, we’re going to the Necropolis, plot 109” Billy screamed down his mobile.
The line went dead.
Billy turned to Veronica and told her the tragic news then whispered condolences. She burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.
Billy’s BMW screeched into the Necropolis. The cemetery gates were open. Billy drove up the hill. He could see torch lights in the distance.
“Veronica, this must be it?” Billy whispered, switching the engine off.
They both got out of the car and began running towards the torch lights. They lunged behind a tombstone. Billy and Veronica listened to the Zamporini gang hacking at the Crooks’ mausoleum door with some blunt instruments. Baggio, the gang’s dog, started barking sensing their presence. They both looked at each other; now what?
Suddenly a shot rang out.
“Ahh…..ya basturt!!” Fatboy Frankie screamed and fell to the ground with a thud that reverberated through the silent cemetery.
A second shot was fired.
“Aarrgh…Cazzo!!” shrieked Giovanni Zamporini, as he slumped downwards with blood spurting from his chest. Billy turned to Veronica and wiped away the tears running down her face.
“Do you smell cigar smoke?” Billy whispered.
TOP | VOTE | CHAPTER 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
CHAPTER 11 – Brandon Malone, Bell and Scott
It wasn’t a long knife, but it was long enough. It was at his throat. By God, it was sharp; so sharp that his skin was a little broken.
Who held it? The only clues: the smell of cigar smoke on the knife wielder’s breath, and the look of horror on Veronica’s face.
In the distance, Baggio the dog barks incessantly. A single word escapes Veronica’s lips: “Mark.” A shot rings out; a whimper, and the barking stops. “Hallo, Ma. Fancy meeting you here.”
“Bismarck?” Billy’s eyes, full of fear, swivel in their sockets.
‘Bismarck’ was a fitting nickname for the hulking Aryan form of Mark Pryce. The biggest ship in the fleet, right enough.
“I’ll take the gun ... Noble.” He spits the word. “Noble by name, eh? ”
Bismarck clamps his massive hand around Billy’s and removes the gun.
“Noble by name, ignoble by nature.” Billy’s mouth gapes open, but words fail him. Bismarck lowers the knife and raises the gun.
“I know, big word from the big man, eh? I’m not as daft as you look, Noble.”
“Mark, what are you doing?”
“Well, Ma, I was just away to shoot this bastard.”
Veronica’s eyes fill with panic. “Mark, there’s ... there’s something you need to know ... something I’ve been meaning to tell you ... Billy ... Billy’s”
“Billy’s my brother. I know that, woman.”
Billy’s eyes shoot to Veronica; his mind spins.
“... half brother. But you’ll maybe know that, Ignoble? Know about your father’s mistress? I hope you’ve no been there too.”
“Mark!” He shoots a wicked smile to his mother, savouring the moment.
“I didn’t know that, Mark. I had no idea. I ...”
He laughs whimsically. “We’ll I’ve come for what’s mine now. I’ve plied my trade, and done my time. You’ve been put through the university and landed with daddy Ignoble’s firm. You’ve had it on a plate. I just want what’s mine: my inheritance.”
“How did you find out, Mark? Did Peter tell you? Did you see him? Did you know that ...” She can’t bring herself to say it. “Did you know that Peter ...”
His eyes darken. “Aye, I know. I know he’s dead.”
Her voice quivers with fear and hesitation. “How ... How do you know?”
“I saw him ... earlier. He told me ... he told me something I already knew.” He shoots her a cold look. “I told him a few things I know. We had a ... difference of opinion about what to do next. He wanted to go to the police. Can you believe that, Ma?”
Years of reading witnesses, and reading between the lines allow Billy to fill in the gaps. But he asks anyway. “What did you do, Mark?”
Bismarck’s eyes are fixed on the middle distance. “That’s ‘Bismarck’ to you, Ignoble. ‘Mr Bismarck.’ Show a little respect to the man with the gun. That’s just common sense.”
Veronica has to hear him say it. “Mark, please tell me you didn’t.”
He ignores her.
“Funny, isn’t it, Noble? Here we are brothers, but you’re old enough to be my Dad. Just like he was old enough to her Dad.” He sneers at Veronica. “No wonder he never owned up to that one. Dirty old bugger.”
“It wasn’t like that! He looked after us ... financially.”
Bismarck’s smile is cruel. “Even better. He paid you a wage for your day job, and cash for ... extras.”
Enraged, she moves to slap him.
Billy grabs her hand. “Look! Mark. Bismarck. We need to get out of here. Someone’s shot the Italians. We’ll be next.”
“No. We’re not next. Not me anyway. Here he comes now.”
Franco Zamporini emerges from behind a tombstone, ashen faced. He shoots a look at Billy and Veronica. “Everything under control, Bis?” Bismarck nods.
“The family? ... All dead?”
Franco nods gravely, but doesn’t make eye contact.
“So it was there then?”
From his pocket, Franco produces a gold bar. It glistens in the moonlight. The stamp is clearly visible: an iron eagle clutching a wreathed swastika in its talons, above the words “Deutsche Reichsbank – 1 Kilo Feingold 999.9.”
“How many?”
“I dunno, I think maybe seventy?” Bismarck considers this. “Seventy? Say fifteen grand a kilo.” He gestures to Billy with his gun. “You can count, Billy. What’s seventy times fifteen grand?”
Billy’s struggles to focus on the numbers. “Eh ... just over a million .... a million, fifty ‘K’.”
Bismarck nods, his face give nothing away. “A million, eh?” He laughs. “A million quid!” Franco laughs a hesitant laugh with him. Without warning, Bismarck fires two shots into his Franco’s chest. Billy stumbles backward with fright and Veronica screams. Franco drops like a rock
Bismarck looks up and shakes his head. He sees the look of horror on his mother’s face.
“What? How was I supposed to trust that man? He just betrayed his own family. His own flesh and blood. What kind of man is that?” He drops his head. “What kind of man? No man at all.” His eyes well up.
“He’s supposed to be a bloody mobster. Their whole code is based on the family, and he just wiped his out. Shot them in the back.” He fires another shot in Franco’s body for good measure. “Don’t feel sorry for him!” He kicks the corpse in his rage.
He laughs to himself, his eyes wild. “A million quid. All of this for a million quid. It’s not enough is it? It’s not enough to share.”
Veronica collapses, overcome with anguish. Bismarck looks down at his mother pityingly. He bends down beside her, and puts his hand on her shoulder, then reaches beyond her and prises the gold bar from Franco’s dead hand.
He holds it for a moment, hefting its weight in his hand. He turns to Noble. “Now, Billy. Back to business.”
“Put the gun down, Mark.” Veronica is back on her feet. She levels Franco’s gun at Bismarck’s head.
Bismarck smiles patronisingly and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Come on, Ma. You’ve only got the one boy left. You’re no going to shoot me.”
“Please, Mark.”
“I said you’re not going to shoot me.”
A shot rings out and Bismarck drops to the ground, his face twisted with agony. Veronica stares in horror at the gun in her hands, but she hasn’t pulled the trigger.
Billy seizes the moment. “That wasn’t you! Come on!” He grabs her hand, but she resists, fixated by the crumpled form of her son. A bullet ricochets of the headstone next to them. “Come on!” He shakes her, and she snaps out of it. They stumble off through the Necropolis, bullets whizzing past their heads.
TOP | VOTE | CHAPTER 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12
CHAPTER 12 – Louise Brennan, Davidson Chalmers
It was hard to know what came first. The darkness – or the pain.
Billy’s temples throbbed, pain rippling up his bound arms. He’d been here a while. How long, he couldn’t tell. Foggy fragments of memory flickered before him tantalizingly. He moaned.
They were running when it happened. He’d tugged Veronica’s sleeve. “Come on.” Even whispered, the words had felt dangerous. They’d almost made it when he felt a sharpness hit his neck. A sharpness, then darkness.
“It’s about time.”
The voice was low, but undoubtedly female. Light illuminated the room, blinding him briefly. Billy felt a flicker of hope as he recognised the contours of his office. Hope that was quickly quashed by the sight of Veronica and Anna, similarly bound. A goon grinned at him. The smell of talc assaulted his nostrils. Someone was leaning over him. He looked up.
Ella Miksic stepped back. “You look surprised, Wilhelm.”
Confusion settled on Billy’s shoulders like a heavy blanket. “What are you doing here, Ella?”
A strange expression flickered across the woman’s face. “Mrs Miksic, please.”
“I… I don’t understand.” Billy stammered.
“Unfortunately, neither did your father.” There was an edge of steel to her voice.
“What does my father have to do with this?”
“Everything.” There was a beat of silence. “Does the name Hanneman mean anything to you?”
Billy’s eyes bulged. “Who?”
“Monika Hanneman. One of the many women your father killed ‘doing his duty’ during the war.” Ella spat, “She was a loving mother… My mother.”
Billy swallowed. “But … my father…”
“…was a fool,” Ella snapped. “My mother was innocent. Not that the authorities listened. But he knew.”
“How do you know?”
“Your father and I were lovers.” Ella glanced at Veronica, who had visibly stiffened. “Surely you didn’t think you were the only one?” She laughed – a low, mirthless sound. “I was still with Eddie when it started. Not that that mattered to your father.” She turned to Veronica. “But you know all about that, don’t you dear?” Veronica coloured beneath her gag.
Billy broke the silence. “If you knew, then why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I needed hard evidence. I knew he kept it all in that damn safe,” Ella jerked her head, “so I got him drunk.”
A chill ran down Billy’s spine as the foggy fragments suddenly made sense. “You found the papers about Lubo. That’s why you married him.”
Ella smirked. Anger rose in Billy’s veins. “You heartless....”
Ella clicked her fingers. The goon nodded. A flash of silver danced in mid-air before descending against Anna’s pale face. A rivulet of red snaked down her cheek. Ella fixed Billy with a cool stare.
“You were saying?”
Billy bit his tongue as Ella continued. “For the record, I didn’t kill your father. Nature took that pleasure from me. I’m simply here to claim what’s mine.”
“Lubo’s, you mean,” Billy muttered.
Ella‘s eyes flashed. “Doesn’t matter either way – I deserve that gold.”
Billy blinked. “You hired Bismarck. You set Eddie up.”
Ella shook her head. “It’s true I hired Bismarck. But I didn’t set up Eddie… not intentionally, anyway.” Veronica snorted disbelievingly. Ella shot her a dark look.
Billy pressed on. “So what do you want from me?” “I’m giving you an opportunity, Wilhelm. For atonement, if you will.” She paused, “Tell me where the rest of the gold is.”
“Have you visited the Necropolis lately?” The words flew out of Billy’s mouth before he could stop them.
Ella tutted. The goon smiled ominously and Anna squeaked beneath her gag. “You disappoint me, Wilhelm.”
“It’s true….” Billy mentally cursed himself for the pleading tone of his voice. “Apart from the Necropolis, there’s nothing left. The police have the rest. Please… let them go.”
Ella didn’t respond. Billy followed her gaze. She was staring at Veronica with a curious expression. Without a sound, she moved towards the secretary, who was studiously staring at the floor. Silently, Ella removed Veronica’s gag. “Is it true?”
Veronica nodded. Ella clucked dismissively. “Now, now. I want to hear you say it, dearie.”
“It’s true. There’s nothing left,” Veronica rasped. “You’re lying,” Ella snapped, stepping back. “You’re still protecting him.”
“I’ve no reason to.” Veronica’s eyes glittered with tears. “Both my boys are dead – remember?”
The room was thick with silence. A silence so thick that Billy could hear his pulse thundering. After what seemed like an eternity, Ella sighed loudly.
“Then I suppose I’d better kill you all.”
“Ella. Let’s talk about this….” Billy shuffled in his chair, but the bonds were too tight. Ella continued towards him. As she approached, Billy noted the cruelty of her smile.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” She raised her gun. Billy closed his eyes.
BANG.
“Terribly sorry about that, Mr. Noble.” A male voice penetrated Billy‘s thoughts. Billy opened his eyes a crack. Before him stood the MI5 agent. Two suits were holding the goon. Another was covering Ella’s body.
Billy exhaled sharply. “How did you…?”
The MI5 agent gestured to Billy’s Rolex. The one his father had given him just before his death. Billy’s shoulders sagged as the penny dropped.
“You’ve been spying on me all these years?”
The MI5 agent simply smiled. Billy snorted. “Cutting it fine, weren’t you?”
“We had some business to attend to at the Necropolis. Retrieving the Spitzer documents from Mr. Pryce, for example.” Billy raised an eyebrow. “So he’s definitely dead?”
“Certainly is.”
Billy was silent for a second. “What happens now?”
“I wouldn’t trouble yourself, Mr. Noble.”
“What about the Zamporinis?”
“The appropriate papers are already adjusting their column inches for tomorrow.” The MI5 agent paused, as if to let the information settle. “HMG honours her agreements.”
Billy nodded. The MI5 agent turned to leave. “Wait. What about Ella?”
The M15 agent gave him a long, lingering look. “Mrs. Miksic just lost her husband, Mr. Noble. And grief can be a terrible thing.”
Billy’s gaze drifted over to Ella’s body, now bundled in a black bag. “Yes. It can.”