Die Every Day: A Lambeth Group Thriller

By Gordon Bickerstaff

A woman is murdered in a Glasgow city hotel room. Police have everything they need to charge a suspect. Caught at the scene, he confessed, and he's filled with guilt and remorse. With undeniable evidence; the police expect him to plead guilty.

Rumours suggest the man will plead not guilty, and tell his story. If he faces trial, the truth will cause international outrage, and the government will fall.

Faceless mandarins in corridors of power are determined he will remain silent. Lambeth Group agent, Zoe Tampsin, is ordered to make him plead guilty.

What she discovers will crush her soul, and place her next in line to be murdered.

Who is pulling the strings? What secrets are they hiding?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon Bickerstaff
• Release date: Oct 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393927921

Gordon Bickerstaff

Gordon Bickerstaff was born and raised in Glasgow but spent his student years in Edinburgh. On summer vacations, he learned plumbing, garden maintenance, and he cut the grass in the Meadows. He learned some biochemistry and taught it for a while before he retired to write fiction. He does some aspects of DIY moderately well and other aspects not so well. He gets very tired when it's time to clean up the mess. He lives with his wife in the west of Scotland where corrupt academics, mystery, murder and intrigue exists mostly in his mind. He is the author of the Gavin Shawlens series of thrillers: Deadly Secrets, Everything To Lose, and The Black Fox. He enjoys walking, 60s & 70s music, reading and travel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Southside, Glasgow

Wednesday, 15th August

Over the past thirty years, the manager of the Three Chimneys had witnessed fourteen bar fights. Not unusual for a large pub on a busy stretch of Paisley Road West, near Cardonald. Often started by an aggressive look, or an unsavoury comment about a football team, girlfriend, religion, or high school.

Adrenaline, testosterone, and liquid courage brew a powerful cocktail. It can make a man grow ten-inches taller, and four inches thicker around the brain.

The last one exploded fifteen months ago, and it lasted all of six seconds. That night, the pub was busy with over a hundred patrons, but only eight people saw the whole thing. The end of the football season triggered a heated disagreement about who was the best football manager.

Two men faced each other; all bristle and anger with fists primed and brows furrowed. The crowd was benevolent that night and kept the two locals apart after the first punch. The bar manager gave them a few choice words, showed them the door, and barred them for a month.

This evening started well with seventy-eight thirsty customers enjoying a chinwag over a drink. The atmosphere was boisterous, but not rowdy, and the smell of beer filled the room.

If the manager hadn’t gouged his hand while changing a beer barrel, he would have returned promptly, and prevented the fight. He left a young barmaid in charge.

A former barista. She was capable and popular. She knew all the regulars, but didn’t have the experience to spot trouble brewing, or the confidence to head it off.

Three men entered, spread out, and scanned the room. Their urgency showed they were not interested in a social drink. Boydy remained at the door. Parky and Ranjit waded through groups of men and women standing in front of the bar.

At the counter, Ranjit beckoned the barmaid. ‘I’m looking for Bobby Hamilton.’

To the former barista, the men looked like plain-clothes police. She scanned the tables and pointed Bobby out to them.

‘Over there, between the blonde and the guy with long grey hair.’

‘Who are they?’ Parky asked.

‘His cousin, Fergal, and his sister-in-law, Esther.’

Hamilton was beyond the crowd, sitting at a round table near a wall with Fergal and Esther. She was a short woman with long brown roots in blonde hair.

Beside them, three classic fruit machines, flashing wildly. Fergal’s teenage son, Liam, in a black baseball cap and blue jeans, perched on a bar stool, feeding coins into the middle one.

Parky took the direct route and squeezed through tight groups of people. He arrived at Hamilton’s table, tapped him on the shoulder, and leaned close to his ear. ‘Robert J Hamilton?’

Hamilton took a sip from a full pint of lager before he turned to face the man. ‘Who wants tay know?’ he shouted over the background noise.

Ranjit took the circular route around the crowd and nodded to Boydy to show they had their man. When he arrived at the table, he gripped Hamilton’s jacket.

Parky nodded to the door. ‘A quiet word, outside. Come on.’

Hamilton dumped his glass heavily on the table. ‘Nay chance, pal. Am finishin’ ma drink.’

Parky noticed Hamilton’s fingers take a stronger grip of the glass. Possible weapon.

Instinctively, Parky tipped the table. Six drinks (shorts and beers) landed on the lap of the woman.

‘Ohmagawd,’ Esther squealed. Her top, her jeans, and shoes soaked through.

Fergal jerked his chair back and avoided spillage on his green polo shirt with a Glasgow Celtic Football Club crest. The bottom half of his trousers and shoes were soaked.

The noise of glass smashing on the floor, and a piercing scream grabbed the attention of the people standing in front of the bar. Others, sitting at nearby tables, lifted their drinks and backed away from the mess on the floor.

At the same time, Ranjit hauled Hamilton out of his chair, onto his knees.

The crowd backed away. A semi-circle formed around Hamilton and the two men as the crowd sensed trouble brewing.

Chattering faded, and people focussed on the disturbance. What is it? Is it a fight? FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

Hamilton pushed up onto his feet. A look of revulsion curled his mouth as his fingers clenched. His eyes fixed on Parky. ‘You gonna fight me?’ He stumbled one step forward until Ranjit pulled him back.

Often, a crowd will cheer on a fist fight, but Hamilton was an old guy, and the two men were taller with the look of professional wrestlers. It wouldn’t be a fair fight; it would be more like a beating.

This time Parky pointed to the door. ‘Let’s settle this outside.’

Fergal challenged Parky. ‘Hod it. You owe me thirty notes for ma drinks.’

Ranjit tightened his grip on Hamilton’s jacket.

Behind Ranjit, Liam rushed forward and crashed a bar stool on Ranjit’s back, pushing him forward onto Parky to break his fall.

A tall man wearing painter & decorator overalls, pulled Hamilton away from the men.

When Ranjit turned to face his attacker, Liam moved back into the crowd for protection. Ranjit faced a row of agitating arms, aggressive faces, and a wall of noise. Hamilton had disappeared.

Fergal received a roar of support as he barrelled forwards and threw a punch. Confident that others would pile in if he needed them.

Parky deflected the punch with his left wrist, then brought his right elbow up, and slammed it into Fergal’s face. His nose burst, and blood ran down his face.

Boydy was caught up in the moment, assessing and calculating whether he needed to plough into the crowd to help his mates.

Hamilton rushed to the door. ‘Oot ma way,’ he screeched.

Boydy stood his ground.

The tall decorator stretched across to reach for Boydy’s left hand on the door handle.

The tall decorator’s mate arrived, wearing identical overalls. He was a few inches short of six feet, and twenty stone, most of which was wobbly fat.

The tall decorator grabbed Boydy’s wrist and pulled.

Boydy released his grip on the door, made a fist, and rammed a powerful sucker-punch at the tall decorator. Hit him square in the mouth, split his lip, and knocked out two teeth.

The tall decorator staggered back, and two men in the crowd broke his fall before his head hit the floor. His face was covered in blood.

Boydy punched before he thought about it, and immediately he knew about his mistake. Not all the blood on the decorator belonged to him.

Boydy raised his blooded hand to examine two deep cuts on his fingers. He pulled one broken tooth from between his knuckles. Worse, the crack he heard, and the pain he felt, meant he broke at least one broken finger, maybe two.

The decorator’s mate saw his opportunity. He bowed, dived, and rammed the crown of his head into Boydy’s chest. Crushing him against the door.

Boydy doubled up, and fell to the side, winded and wounded.

The decorator’s mate followed through with a vicious kick directed at Boydy’s ribs.

Hamilton took his chance to escape.

In the circle, someone tossed a large beer bottle to Fergal. Unopened and heavy. Fergal wiped blood from his nose with the back of his hand.

Shouting and chanting at Fergal as if he was a football player, the crowd urged him to make the tough guy pay for the spilled drinks.

The bar manager arrived with his left hand wrapped in gauze. The barmaid waited with a brush and pan to sweep up the broken glass. She told him what she thought happened. He reached for the phone and called the police.

Behind Parky, Fergal’s son pushed out from the crowd and jabbed his boot into the back of Parky’s left leg. Aiming to make him buckle.

Parky didn’t go down and didn’t turn around. He kept his focus on Fergal and the bottle.

When Fergal raised the bottle as if preparing a strike, Ranjit leapt into action.

He swept his left forearm around Fergal’s neck, and trapped it in the crook of his arm. In his other hand, he wrapped Fergal’s thick hair around his fingers for a forceful grip.

Parky rushed forward and took the bottle from Fergal.

Ranjit forced Fergal’s head down and pulled his arm tighter around Fergal’s neck.

Franticly, Fergal tapped the arm around his neck. He tried to say he can’t breathe, then didn’t bother because his face was turning red.

Parky faced the crowd. He pulled the bottle back to a throwing position. They pushed back. Now Parky could see the door.

Boydy struggled to climb onto his feet.

Ranjit shuffled backwards to the door, still holding Fergal in the neck lock. He felt less of Fergal’s breath on his forearm and eased his grip a little.

At the door, Ranjit dumped Fergal on the floor.

Fergal fell to the side, weakened, and gasping for breath.

Ranjit helped Boydy to his feet, then opened the door.

Parky faced the crowd and raised the bottle of brown ale. ‘First person through the door gets smacked in the teeth.’

Chapter 2

Outside, the late evening air was crisp and dry. The pavements on both sides of the road were busy with folk making their way home, others going out, dog walkers, a pair of women joggers, and eight people waiting at a bus stop. Traffic lights changed, and fast vehicles belted along the dual carriageway.

Parky dumped the bottle near the door, and threw his hands up in frustration, unable to dash across the road after Hamilton.

Ranjit examined Boydy’s blooded hand. He wrapped a handkerchief around the knuckles and supported him as he hobbled to their black Mercedes SUV.

Parky watched Hamilton until he disappeared behind head-height bushes.

Hamilton hurried along a shortcut path leading to a group of high-rise flats known as Morse Heights.

Reluctantly, Parky called his team leader to report what happened.

Eight minutes later, just after ten in the evening, Hamilton arrived at his front door. He caught his breath. He wiped a heavy sweat from his forehead. With the lift out of order, he scampered up nine floors.

Trembling with fear, he covered his mouth to hold his breath while he listened in the stairwell. No noise, no-one hurrying after him. Maybe they didn’t know where he lived.

Maybe they were outside, and couldn’t break through the vandal-proof communal entrance door. He relaxed; no-one in the flats would respond to an intercom request to unlock the door at this time of night, unless from a relative or neighbour.

He let out a long sigh and decided he would hide in Fergal’s Govan flat for a while. At least until this business blew over.

At his door, he hesitated to push the key into the lock. He stepped back. His head and neck were hot and sweaty, and his shaking hands were cold and clammy.

He reached out and pressed an index finger against the door. Locked. He sighed with relief. Still time fur me tay get away, he thought.

Inside, the door slipped out of his hand, and slammed shut as it always did when he left a window open in his high-rise flat. Panic stunned his mind. Did ah leave a window open?

His heart raced when the latch bolt clanged in the lock. Trapped. He rested his hand on the lever, ready to open it and run. He listened for a long beat. No unusual noises.

Anxiety dispersed the alcohol fog in his head. No time to waste. He dashed to his bedroom as if possessed by a demon.

Flustered, he hauled out a large suitcase, threw it onto the bed, and opened it. He stepped back for a moment, hands agitating, while he ordered his thoughts to decide what essentials he would take with him.

Desolation filled his mind. Unhappy about abandoning the family home he loved. He fumbled through his belongings, choosing some, discarding others. A voice in his mind shouting at him to get out of Cardonald, fast.

Hamilton lived all of his life in a two-bedroom flat in Morse Heights, south Glasgow. His parents moved there in the late 1960s, after his eighth birthday. He took over the tenancy when his mother passed on.

Morse Heights is an imposing structure built in the 1950s, comprising three 10-storey residential blocks, built along the contour of a high, north-facing ridge, giving a stunning panoramic view of south Glasgow.

He lived alone on the ninth floor of the middle block. Now, in his late fifties, he spent many an evening in the local bar telling anyone who would listen about the state of the flats before refurbishment.

A time when the original lifts were too small to carry furniture or even a coffin, so everything was hauled up the internal staircase. He told lots of anecdotes about things thrown down the garbage chute before Health and Safety spoilsports blocked it off.

He recalled the open crescent-shaped balconies where Morse Heights mothers peered over the edge, and called to their children playing on the green below when meals were on the table. Now, enclosed with double glazed units to provide a sun room.

Seven minutes later, he trundled into the hall with his suitcase packed. A great sense of relief filled his heart. As he reached for the front door, he heard a noise behind him. The back-bedroom door opening with a familiar creak.

He froze, and his heart thumped when he turned around to see a mountain of a man coming out of the back bedroom. The door slammed shut behind him.

Hamilton’s mind rushed to a ridiculous thought. Cat burglar, nine floors up. He spent too much time watching Tom Cruise movies.

Hamilton’s heart shrivelled as he regretted coming home to pack a bag.

‘Who the hell? What urr ya dayin’ in ma flat?’

The man said nothing as he marched to Hamilton’s side, pinned him against the wall with one massive hand, and pulled the suitcase from him with his other.

He grabbed Hamilton’s arm and pushed him along the hall to the living room. The room lay in darkness save faint light reaching from the street lights below.

Beyond the living room, standing in the small sun-room, another man gazed out at the night scene. He stepped inside, reached for a light switch, and lit up the room. A green and white striped wallpaper came out of hiding to dominate the room.

With a Midlands accent, the man said, ‘For a second I thought you might be colour blind.’ He nodded at one wall covered in Celtic Football Club, photos, posters, and scarves. ‘I see you are a football fan. How are they doing?’

‘Who urr you?’ Hamilton demanded.

The man flashed an ID card, but too far and too fast for Hamilton to read.

‘Security Service, I’m Dixon.’ He glanced at his associate. ‘You’ve met Mr Craigie. Or as I like to call him. Everest.’

Hamilton shrugged. ‘Whit day ya want?’

Dixon dropped one of Hamilton’s photo albums on a nearby armchair. The sofa and armchairs, and in fact all the furniture in the flat dated back to the 1970s.

‘I prefer the original crescent-shaped balcony. Just to stand out there in the fresh air at this height must have been invigorating.’

Dixon stood two inches short of six feet. He was mid-forties with short brown hair. Smart, in a double-breasted, dark-blue blazer, grey slacks, and light blue shirt with a buttoned-down collar. Out in the country, he could pass for the golf club secretary.

Craigie pushed Hamilton further into the living room. After another two steps, Hamilton stood in front of Dixon.

Craigie hauled the suitcase onto the sofa. He opened the case and searched inside.

Hamilton waggled an aggressive finger at Dixon. ‘You... better be on your way... before ah kick yar arse doon the stairs.’ His round, puffy face, and constantly shifting eyes did nothing to back up his threat.

Dixon and Craigie exchanged knowing eye contact. Craigie let out a sharp chirping laugh. Alcohol infused Hamilton with more nerve than they expected.

Craigie inspected each item of clothing before throwing it onto a pile on the floor.

‘Don’t think my knickers will fit you,’ Hamilton said to Craigie.

‘Jesus, the smell; know what I’m saying?’ Craigie complained in a Liverpool accent.

The flat stank of cooking fat, cigarette smoke, stale food, and the same smell was trapped in his clothes.

Craigie ripped the lining off the sides of the suitcase. He let out a loud groan when he didn’t find what he wanted, and shot an exasperated look to Dixon.

Dixon shifted his gaze back to the sun-room. ‘Spectacular night view. Extreme view for an extreme nationalist.’

Hamilton threw up one hand in defence. ‘Am only a gofer. Ah day whit am told by SLUG’s Convenor. Ah only—’

‘Cut the crap. You’ve been an extreme nationalist since you were a teenager.’

Hamilton pointed a crooked finger. ‘Ah but, only protests. Nay illegal stuff.’

‘The Scottish Liberation Underground Group is an illegal organisation. You shouldn’t be doing anything for them.’

His two hands came together over his heart. His expression wounded. ‘They’re fuckin’ blackmailing me. Ah huff nay choice.’

Dixon peered at the suitcase. ‘Is this why you are running?’

Hamilton nodded. ‘Aye. They’ll be coming for me. Ah huv tay scoot.’

‘Before you skittle off, I need you to return what you stole.’

Craigie dropped the suitcase on top of the pile of clothes. ‘Nothing,’ he said to Dixon.

Hamilton shrugged and glanced back at the mountain man behind him. ‘Don’t know whit you’re on aboot.’

Craigie dragged a chair from the dining area and placed it in the middle of the room. ‘Sit,’ he said.

Reluctantly, Hamilton lowered his backside into the chair. Nerves caused his lips to fold and move as if he ate something nice, and wanted to recapture the taste.

Craigie towered over him. A six-foot-three bear with a two-inch scar on his face. He wore blue jeans and a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt. His hair was grey, so he shaved his head to avoid looking old.

Craigie fetched a daysack and pulled out a bundle of black plasticuffs to bind Hamilton’s hands behind his back. He used ties to secure Hamilton to the chair.

Dixon asked, ‘Where were you going? Europe? South America?’

‘Whit ta fuck is this aboot?’

Dixon sniggered. ‘You know what this is about. Give me the SIM card.’

Hamilton shifted his gaze to the floor. ‘Nay idea whit yay mean.’

Dixon sighed with frustration. ‘It’s been a long, boring day. Don’t mess with me.’

Craigie roared with a grating voice. ‘Your nationalist and treasonous bitch, Maureen. They caught her hand in the safe; know what I’m saying?’

Hamilton shrugged. ‘Don’t know a Maureen.’

Craigie snorted impatiently. ‘Cut the crap.’

Dixon huffed. ‘Do you think we dropped in here off the street? Climbed all these bloody stairs to waltz in here with a cock-and-bull story? We’re here because Maureen sold you out. Name, address and keycode for the communal entrance door. We entered this flat with her key. Stop pissing about.’

Hamilton’s jaw dropped. ‘Fuckin’ bitch.’

Craigie said to Dixon, ‘Maybe she didn’t tell him what’s at stake because he’s too stupid; know what I’m saying?’

Dixon roared, ‘Five days ago, Maureen Kirk used her phone to copy an eyes-only document belonging to the Foreign Secretary. She copied it before she returned it to the private safe. Embedded document security caught her.’

Hamilton screwed his eyes shut for a long beat.

Dixon planted a heavy hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. ‘She sent her phone SIM card to you. Where is it?’

Hamilton’s face paled.

Dixon continued. ‘You know what we’re talking about. Where is it?’

Hamilton drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly through his teeth. ‘Ah don’t huv it. Ah passed it on. That’s whit ah wiz told.’

Dixon waved his hand across his face, as if wafting a smell from his nose. ‘You’re a lying drunken shit. Can smell a bare-faced liar at fifty paces.’

Dixon nodded to Craigie. He fetched a pair of scissors from the kitchen, and while Hamilton protested vociferously, he cut through Hamilton’s clothes, then removed his shoes and socks.

Craigie searched every item. ‘Nothing.’

Hamilton sat naked with the fragments of clothes stacked in a pile beside his shoes. Trembling, he raised a guttural voice. ‘Ah know ma rights. Ya canny day anything tay me. I’ll sue the government fur millions. The Sun wull scream for me tay tell them ma story,’ He squealed while franticly darting his eyes between the two men. ‘Your boss will go ballistic when ah go tay the Press.’

Craigie said to Dixon, ‘He’s threatening you.’

Dixon leaned closer to Hamilton. ‘Speaking to the Press will incur a revisit from Mr Craigie to reconstruct your memory.’

Hamilton shrugged. ‘Beating me will get yay naywhere. Ah wull die fur a free Scotland.’

Dixon rammed his hands into his pockets. ‘Maureen said the same, and yet, here we are, acting on information received.’

‘Day yar fuckin’ worse. SCOTLAND FOREVER! SCOTLAND THE BRAVE!’

Chapter 3

Craigie drew a Glock 16 from his jacket and pressed the muzzle onto Hamilton’s forehead.

‘Think you’re brave? You don’t know the meaning of the word.’

Terrified, Hamilton eased his head back and didn’t answer.

‘Next to me, you are a pig’s arse.’

Craigie slapped Hamilton’s head. ‘What are you; next to me?’

‘A pig’s arse, sir.’

Dixon nodded to Craigie, and he returned the pistol to its holster.

Smarting from the slap, Hamilton said, ‘When every Scot knows yar plans, we wull fight fur independence.’

Dixon and Craigie exchanged knowing looks. Hamilton had read the documents.

Craigie interlocked his fingers and stretched them to crack his knuckles. ‘No, it won’t.’

Dixon said, ‘The water plan is just brainstorming on what to do about the prolonged droughts expected in the south of England. Chatter, nothing more.’

Hamilton’s heart raced. ‘You’re gonna cripple ma country. Steal our water.’

Craigie slapped Hamilton’s face. ‘We won’t pay malt whisky prices for piss water; hear what I’m saying?’

Hamilton glared at Craigie’s large hands.

Dixon lowered his voice. ‘Forget about the water. What about the other documents in the file? How much did you read of them?’

‘Some crap ah could nay understand. Too much gobbledegook fur me.’

Dixon barked. ‘Good. Tell whoever you want about the water. If you didn’t read the other papers, we are all good. Hand it over.’

Hamilton raised his head proudly. ‘Never. Scottish water stays in Scotland.’ He clamped his eyes shut and pulled his shoulders into his body. He expected a beating.

Dixon tapped Hamilton’s head to get his attention. ‘I may look like a wrestler, but my hands are precious. I don’t risk injury by hitting thick skulls.’ He turned to Craigie. ‘You don’t punch people, do you, Jacko?’

Hamilton shifted his gaze to Craigie.

‘Never. I always let tools do the rough stuff; know what I mean?’

He pulled a small four-inch black leather pouch from his pocket. From the pouch he pulled out a Leatherman Wave Plus.

Hamilton watched Craigie pull on a pair of flesh-coloured, skin-tight gloves. His eyes bulged, and he shook his head as if in denial.

Craigie unfolded the multi-tool and flexed the needle-nose pliers. ‘Nails or teeth?’

A bolt of adrenaline sobered Hamilton, and he stared at the Leatherman with horror. His face paled and his heart raced.

He shifted terrified eyes to Dixon. ‘Is he fuckin’ insane?’

Dixon said to Craigie, ‘Fingernails are bitten down.’ He glanced at Hamilton’s feet. ‘His toenails are long enough.’

Staring at Craigie, Hamilton’s voice quaked. ‘Ye canny hack a man’s body tay bits.’

Dixon pulled Hamilton’s jaw until their eyes met. ‘When matters of national security are at stake, I will hack whatever I need to keep the country safe.’

Craigie knelt in front of Hamilton and held the closed scissor blades in his hand. He wedged the scissor finger holes between Hamilton’s toes and used the closed blades as a lever to control the middle toe.

Then he clamped the needle-nosed pliers on the nail and tugged. He shifted his gaze to Dixon. ‘I’m ready.’

Hamilton shouted, ‘Aw fuckin’ right. It’s behind ma watch.’

Craigie used the knife on the Leatherman to slice through the leather strap. He found a SIM card taped onto the casing.

Dixon smiled appreciatively. ‘Well done, my man. You’ve saved yourself a load of pain.’

Craigie returned his Leatherman to its pouch. He fetched a briefcase, retrieved a laptop, and switched it on.

While it booted up, he fitted the SIM card into a card reader. He launched security software and attached the reader to the computer. He typed with two index fingers.

‘Have copies been made?’ Dixon asked Hamilton.

Hamilton shook his head. ‘Ah wiz warned; nay copies.’

Another smile from Dixon. ‘Glad to hear it.’

Three minutes later, the software finished its analysis.

Craigie shook his head in disbelief. ‘It’s fucking blank. This isn’t the correct SIM card.’

Shock slapped Hamilton as he blurted, ‘Shit.’

Dixon’s face reddened with anger. He crossed his arms and shouted, ‘Who has the original?’

His eyes glaring. Confusion racked Hamilton’s face. His voice collapsed to a whimper. ‘Ah don’t know.’

Craigie closed the laptop lid, and it switched off. He returned the reader and the laptop to the briefcase.

Dixon leaned closer to Hamilton. ‘Last chance, stupid. Who has the SIM card?’

Craigie stood ready with the Leatherman in his hand.

Panic strangled Hamilton’s voice. ‘Ah don’t know... whit the fuck happened.’

Dixon pointed to Craigie. ‘Once he starts, there’s no going back. Don’t make the same mistake as Maureen. We can’t put anything back, even after you tell me. Show him.’

Craigie accessed his phone to find a picture of Maureen. He grabbed Hamilton’s head and forced him to look at the image.

The eyelid of her left eye was ripped off, and the eyeball removed.

‘Aggh.’ Hamilton screamed and clamped his eyes shut.

Craigie retrieved the Leatherman and leaned closer to Hamilton. ‘These pliers don’t open wide enough to grip the whole eyeball; know what I’m saying? I need to pull the lens off, so I can push the pliers inside, and get a good grip of the side of the eyeball, then it’s an easy pull to remove the eye.’

Dixon leaned in and shouted, ‘Who has the card?’

With his finger and thumb on Hamilton’s right eye, Craigie lifted Hamilton’s eyelid. In his other hand, the pliers moved close to his upper eyelid. Ready to grip.

Hamilton’s breath burst in and out. ‘Ah don’t fuckin’ know... her name. She fuckin’ conned me... the bitch.’

‘Who?’

Craigie clamped the jaws of the pliers on the upper eyelid and broke the skin.

Hamilton screamed, struggled against his binding, and passed out.

Craigie winced at Dixon. ‘First time that’s ever happened.’

‘He’s not a brave heart. Not even a proper nationalist.’

Craigie fetched a bowl of cold water, a roll of soft toilet paper, and a bottle of Domestos from the kitchen.

The water rebooted Hamilton’s consciousness. He struggled to see through one eye. The other eye bled from a cut in the eyelid.

Dixon raised his voice. ‘Mr Craigie is going to stop the bleeding for you.’

Craigie moved his hands into Hamilton’s line of vision. In his left hand he held a handful of paper tissues. In his right hand, the bottle of Domestos.

Dixon explained with a voice of experience. ‘Bleach will hurt like hell, but the eyelid will just drop off. Your decision.’

Hamilton shuddered. ‘Ah’ve only met hur once. She said... she said... she wiz the Group Convenor’s PA. Ah phoned hur this morning. Told her ma cousin Maureen sent me a SIM card.’

‘What did she tell you to do?’

‘She said she needed to check fur security traps before passin’ it tay the Convenor. Ah met hur this afternoon. She put the SIM card into hur tablet phone. She must have fuckin’ swapped it.’

‘What type of phone?’

‘Samsung phone tablet. White; eight-inch. Maybe, seven-inch. Said the card wiz clean. Said ah can pass it tay the Convenor.’

Confidence surged in Dixon’s thoughts. Hamilton’s voice, lucidity, and steady breathing showed he told the truth.

Dixon softened his voice. ‘Who is she?’

‘Ah don’t fuckin’ know. Smart-looking bitch. Youngish. Late twenties. Good looker.’

‘Where did you meet her?’

‘Ah don’t hear too good, so ah recorded what she said on my phone. Ah met hur in the car park at the Glen Lovat Hotel.’

Dixon opened Hamilton’s phone, and Hamilton recited his password.

Craigie waggled a finger at the suitcase. ‘Why were you running?’

‘Three men turned up at the pub where ah drink. Ah panicked an ah came back to get my stuff. Ah don’t know what the fuck is going on.’

Dixon’s voice dropped to a relaxed tone. ‘Cut him loose. Get him some clothes.’ His expression less aggressive. He believed he heard the truth.

Craigie smiled as he released Hamilton and handed over a bundle of tissues to mop the blood from his face.

Dixon rubbed a reassuring hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. ‘This never happened. Any complaint will be investigated by people who will deliver intense pain. Do you understand?’

Relief rushed to Hamilton. ‘Aye, okay. Nay complaint.’

Dixon commanded. ‘Get dressed. Put the rest of your stuff away. You don’t need to leave town.’

‘Whit aboot the goons who turned up at ma pub?’

‘I’ll deal with them, and the thieving female. You’re off the hook.’

‘Ah’ve lived here since ah was a