Some Guy Called Black

By Clive Hoad

William Denning had planned on a relaxing holiday to his second farm in the Scottish highlands where he and his wife would spend time in their luxurious house. Their children and friends were going to be camping way across the fields so he had hope for a lot of peace and quiet. Unfortunately a group of very serious men carrying out an arms deal had taken over the house, ransacked it, held them hostage and left the kids under threat and the only ones who could try to save them. Things were going from bad to worse and all because of some guy called black.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291960488

Book preview

Some Guy Called Black

Some Guy Called Black

By Clive Hoad

CHAPTER 1

THE LONDONERS

It was towards the end of August and the sun had risen with the wake of day. The silence and stillness became gradually and increasingly disturbed by milkmen, postmen and early morning traffic. Cows were already wandering across fields chewing on the grass as a thick layer of ground mist rolled over the surface soon to disappear in the brightening sunshine that lit the southern counties of England.

On a motorway a green Range Rover was about to turn off into a service station to refuel, the tired and weary occupants needing a stretch from an early start North out of London that morning. There was no way of knowing their backgrounds or what they were all about, they appeared different in all ways, their manner, their appearance.

Black, an average height, slim, muscular fellow in dark pinstripe trousers, a grey and white stripe shirt and black leather jacket remained in the driving seat and checked his mobile phone for text messages before sinking into a map to review his journey.

Dave Stokes was in the passenger seat; he was medium build in jeans and blue sweatshirt and was unshaven with earrings and short bristly hair. He also remained in his seat and took a can of lager from a bag on the floor at his feet and slurped a mouthful.

Black looked over to the sound of the ring-pull and pulled a face.'

‘What?'

‘Seriously, this time of the morning on an empty stomach?'

Stokes shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe I'll get a bacon butty from that burger van over there.'

‘Sounds good. Bring me one while you're at it.'

Stokes looked Black in the face then swapped his can to his left hand and held out his right for money.

Black looked back from the map. ‘Oh, jeez,' then reached into his jacket for his wallet. ‘Here,' as he handed over ten pounds, ‘get four rounds.'

Stokes got out the car leaving Black alone after both Joey Abblitt and John Smithe had already gotten out from the back.

Abblitt was a thin-faced guy who had a cut on his left cheek possibly from some fight he had been in, he was tall, of medium build, wore a cheap dark pinstripe suit. He had begun to fill the tank with fuel whilst at the same time pulling a length of chewing gum from its sleeve with his mouth and left hand. When the tank was full he replaced the nozzle then knocked on Black's window. ‘Sixty quid, Guv'.

Black lowered the window and pulled more notes from his wallet. ‘I want a vat receipt.'

‘A vat receipt?' Abblitt sounded surprised. ‘Okay.' He then walked casually across to the shop with his right hand in his coat pocket and a bag with a change of clothes in the other. Once again there was no telling who this guy was; a salesman? Abblitt was a quiet sort and a little mysterious but the look on his face told you he might be a nasty piece of work if rubbed up the wrong way.

Smithe was about five-eleven, lightly flabby, a small double chin, and had his dark, straight, hair combed back. This guy looked like he was the follower of the group, the one of no particular importance who just did as told. He was in the shop buying chocolate and crisps, paying just before Abblitt followed him to the loo around the outside of the building.

Abblitt returned in a change of clothes, a tatty jacket over a sweatshirt and overly long baggy trousers. He never returned with the bag he took in with him nor any of the clothes he wore before. Curiously this left a question on Black's mind when he looked up from the map as he closed it and returned it to the door pocket.

Stokes and Abblitt got in the car just as Smithe exited the loo and ran across fiddling with his flies. He had to stop part way when a bar of chocolate fell from his pocket.

Only then did Black get out to stand beside his door stubbing out a cigarette under foot.

Abblitt wound down his window to let out some of the smoke.

‘Where's your bag?' Black questioned him.

‘Don't need it.' There would never be an explanation.

Black raised his brows but let it go, however you could sense the curiosity grow like static as his gaze stretched across to the loos. 'Come on Smithe, how long you gonna keep us hanging' around, we'll be late.'

'Sorry Guv, I was last you know.'

'Yeah, yeah, get in.'

So there was a meeting. Perhaps they were plain clothed cops, sales reps, who would know? All had returned to their earlier positions and, apart from Black who was driving, opened their bacon sandwiches and ate like they'd not seen food in an age.

Black, who appeared in charge, often checked his watch for time keeping seemed essential.  Whilst rarely acknowledging Stokes filthy jokes and smutty comments about the topless girl on page three, he was obviously a different league. He also made no acknowledgement to their actions out of the windows when two attractive women pulled into a parking bay in front the garage shop as they drove past.

‘Hey, let's not draw too much attention, shall we, Jesus!'

Some miles on they left the main roads for a narrow lane then through a gateway to cross open land, streams, and rolling hills where stone walls, clusters of small spindly trees and rock faces that protruded from the side of grass-covered mounds separated fields. For some reason they were losing themselves from public eye. An odd course. Where were they going?

'Well Stokes?' Black enquired to the passenger seat where Stokes supposedly kept track of their heading. He glanced across amid his struggle to watch out for rocks in the grass. 'Will you get your eyes off page three and check our heading!' he added while getting irate.

'We're alright, Guv'. Keep going. I'll tell you when to divert.'

‘I hope you know what you're doing?'

‘Trust me.'

‘That's a joke,' Smithe's previous experience held little faith in Stokes judgement. 'I wouldn't trust you with my Mother-in-law.'

‘Huh, what would you know.'

‘I know plenty.'

Anyway, I done your Mother-in-law, she was nothing special.'

Smithe reached round and wrenched Stokes by the neck.

He had disrupted Black's driving as he reached over. Black and banged his fist on Stokes arm and Smithe's shoulder. ‘Hey, hey. Pack it in for f*** sake. That's enough. Will all of you just shut the f*** up and concentrate on what we're doing! One of you: sort out some grub from the back. Let's just get along, okay? So far you all been like bickering old' women.' Black wasn't amused having felt like he was babysitting children. It was obviously the first time that he had been with these men and perhaps knew little of their attitudes and preceding prison sentences.

Abblitt had been up in front of the judge on murder charges yet managed to escape almost Scot-free on lack of evidence. The others were all petty villains in their own right, probably from the day they came into the world in the back streets on lies and dissuasion, scavenging like foxes.

Black had an air of difference about him, he was more intellectual than the others, and that was by no means difficult for Stokes and Smithe were especially hopeless, apart from their tough suave appearances. Black was beginning to find out his task, whatever it was, would not be easy.

So they were obviously not cops, the idea of sales reps was in questions as well. Likely they were all up to no good and on their way to some job, a raid or such like.

CHAPTER 2

THE IRISH

In another place early this day, a rusty white transit van laden with six other men, each with kit bags and dressed casually in suits or jacket and trousers, headed across the grass to a helicopter that would normally used to shuttle passengers to a major airport some distance away. Here, remotely situated, was a small private airfield, just a single grass runway aside a few small hangars for light aircraft and maintenance sheds, and a basic control tower. There were a few gliders and other light aircraft standing wet with dew.

At this early hour, apart from one light aircraft that had just taken off parting the ground mist like a zip had pulled undone, they were the only other sign of life other than the man who overlooked these visitors with binoculars from the control tower. He had raised a radio handset and called down to a man in overalls in a nearby maintenance hangar after noticing the six men break into the helicopter.

'Hey!' shouted the mechanic as he wielded a spanner. He was Scottish by his accent and marched across at pace with an intention to ward them off. 'What do ye think ye're doing, that's private property!'

Bob Donovan, one of the six men, was about six feet, quite broad-shouldered, his hair barely showing from his scalp, his unshaven face scarred and pitted, the likes of a heavy smoker or drinker. He wore camouflaged trousers and brown ankle boots and a tee-shirt revealing many tattoos on his arms. He sunk his hand into his black and blue sports bag, withdrew a pistol and fired. He didn't have any qualms about killing anyone and never even flinched. Like two cracks of a whip shots echoed across the airfield followed by a plume of smoke that trickled from the barrel.

The mechanic fell to the ground like the strings that worked him snapped.

‘Donovan!' exclaimed Frank O'Leary. ‘Holy Mother,' he went on, ‘what in Gods name?'

O'Leary and Tom Dalgetti were the two more smartly dressed of the group and most likely the ones in charge.

O'Leary, at five feet eleven, was clean-shaven, his hair dark and lightly curled, wore a dark grey three-piece suit and shining black shoes. He may have been in a different guise to the background he came from. He dressed to impress, that was for sure, but he also looked a little uncomfortable. By no means was he impressed they had blown their cover at such an early stage, although stealing a helicopter was never going to go unnoticed.

Dalgetti was shorter, a moustache adorning his face, his thin, straight hair and long sideburns were a sight from the past, but he suited his pinstripe two-piece and tie like he was a ladies man with an alter ego. He continued overseeing the break-in to the cockpit and was likely the one who was to pilot it.

‘I thought he had a gun,' replied Donovan replacing his gun in the bag. 

‘McUen,' called O'Leary, ‘get the man in the tower before he reports us and draws more attention.'

‘No problem.'

Patrick McUen, again fairly short, about five feet six, his hair dark and short, wore an open neck shirt with rolled up sleeves, cardigan, and smart jeans. He withdrew a gun from his bag, quickly screwed on a barrel extension, loaded one bullet, and pulled round a wire stock to his shoulder before taking aim. That one shot cracked off. Shards of glass immediately showered from the glass window and the silhouette in the shadows fell.

O'Leary looked over as McUen looked through the telescopic sight he took from his bag and reported, ‘eliminated, Sir.'

Once O'malley had broken into the helicopter they each climbed aboard. Shaun O'malley, a stocky chap, bit thin on top, unshaven, wore a coat with a hood and jogging trousers and trainers. He climbed up to the pilot seat and continued to muddle through a host of wires to get the thing going.

Last in was Jake Carmichael, a thin man also with long sideburns down his thin face, his hair flat and ginger in colour. He too wore a sweatshirt and jeans and like all of them was averaging in age from twenty-eight and thirty-eight. He seemed a little quiet, tagging along behind, either shy or insecure.

Obviously these guys were up to no good and were very dangerous. Once again there was no telling what they were about to do.

The helicopter lifted off once the engine had warmed sufficiently and  unsettled the men in the back who had not taken a seat since changing their clothes or taking food from their bags.

Once in the air most rested their eyes and so, apart from Dalgetti at the controls, and O'Leary, who had joined him in the cockpit, dozed during their trip across country at very low altitude.

O'Leary and Dalgetti had both brought briefcases with them and were that close to them they could have been newly-weds. There was obviously something of importance inside. To an outsider they may just have guarded important papers or money, but on the other extreme they may well be packed with explosives. On occasion both men glanced to each other. They passed no words but something sinister conveyed between them that was kept from the others. Was it the question are we doing the right thing? or was it we seemed to have gotten away with it so far. There was very little to tell.

Both of them continued to look out to the brightened surroundings while O'Leary followed a course on a map.

Who could tell what they were thinking or what they were going to do, you just knew it was something untoward, something beyond the law where others were likely to get hurt.

Carmichael soon fell asleep and moaned and talked within his subconscious repetitions. He had obviously been fighting at some stage and suddenly shouted out abusively. Still almost unconscious he rolled aside, reached out, and grabbed what could have been a gun, sat bolt upright, thrusting his arms forward to a shocked Dalgetti.

O'malley gave Carmichael a kick from where he lay back dozing. 'Carmichael. For God sake man, you're doing it again!' He then shoved him.

Carmichael woke with a jump of shock. ‘What!' He was shaking, his heart was pounding and he was aghast by everyone staring at him. ‘What? Are we there?'

‘Another nightmare,' said O'malley.'

Dalgetti had swiftly moved aside. ‘For God sake, Carmichael, you could have shot me.'

McUen and O'Malley both gave a snigger.

‘Careful, Tom, or you'll piss your pants,' chuckled McUen.

Dalgetti pulled a gun from a shoulder holster and pointed it at McUen's head, which suddenly silenced him. ‘See if your pants stay dry.' There was silence until Dalgetti lowered the gun. ‘The rest of you, just make sure he never goes to sleep with a loaded gun in his hand, will you.' Dalgetti returned his eyes forward, 'One of these days, Carmichael, you'll get yourself killed for doing things like that in your sleep.'

‘Sorry.' He then brought the gun up from where it rested on his bags at his side. It was like slow motion when he brought it before himself and ejected a loaded clip from the stock. ‘Oops,' he said.

Dalgetti kicked Carmichael's feet. ‘God damn it, Carmichael, you could have killed me.'

The others held off sniggering again as Dalgetti hauled himself up and moved position, his heart racing as he drew a couple of deep breaths to calm himself

.

CHAPTER 3

THE DENNINGS

After the death of his Father Will Denning had been given a lucky start in life being left with much wealth and profitable business. He had always worked on the farms as a boy and loved it. Now he was older, being mid to late forties, he had the desk job of the business and rarely had to change from his suit for any hard graft. Mind you, if there was ever a chance, he did enjoy working around the farm and surveying his land from the seat of a tractor.

Will, with his wife Harriet had vastly expanded their farm business in Sussex with a total acreage exceeding well over two thousand. Over years they had bought out those smaller farms that had tended to lose out to the bulk prices he was able to keep up. Will had also set up new projects which had brought him far greater wealth, not just his beef or lamb but a large heard of Water Buffalo producing milk for cheese. He had Rheas, a smaller version of an Ostrich, which he had bred to sell as chicks at a huge profit, and for their meat.

During the past three years Will had established himself on another adventure in a valley of the Scottish highlands slightly East of Contin and South of Strathpeffer. He had bought another farm, a large farm covering a wide area of some one hundred acres. Situated far away from anything else and with every amenity you could think of it was anyone's dream. It also came with its own private stretch of Salmon fishing water from the river Conon fed from Loch Luichart and Loch Garve from the West.

Taking up a lot of the land surrounding his holiday home, the farm buildings and stables where he kept horses and one particular racehorse, there were several huge plastic greenhouses to grow horticultural produce. Beyond the greenhouses were crops fields for maize, wheat, barley, and rape followed by areas of sheep, Grouse, Deer, Rheas and now a large herd of rare highland cattle. Also, gaining a substantial Government grant as further income, he had allocated a large area of his land for research to see how new hardened to weather crops grew in climatic conditions including vegetables such as potatoes, runner beans, peas, and broad beans, cabbage, cauliflower, carrots, parsnip, and swede.

The house, a 5-bedroom 17th century building, bounded by well maintained lawns and gardens since being renovated over the past few years, was as picturesque and charming as it sounds. The interior of the house, as you would expect, adorned with fine furniture and decoration, was Will and Harry's pride and joy. Their dining room centrepiece, for instance, was a large oval antique Edwardian mahogany dining table and chairs with silverware reflecting off the sheen on the tabletop. Elsewhere the pelmet to floor terracotta curtains were neatly held in tie-backs against the beige lattice wallpaper. Even the candelabra had coordinating light green candles with the  carpet. A large sideboard to match the table, a platform for a display of fine porcelain figurines, was only second to a display case with other expensive plates and ornamentation. Between them, a lamp on a side table. There were two large pictures hanging either side, hundred year old portraits of a man and a woman in tartan attire. A drink cabinet took up the far-left corner and was brimming with bottles, decanters and glasses. 

The lounge was just as neat and tidy gleaming with fine art, china vases, a large mirror over the fireplace and several arrays of flowers, two on plant stands, one on the piano and another on a small table next to the large mahogany television cabinet. It was a large room full of light from several windows, again smartly dressed with curtains coordinated with the light wood floor. Two large floral sofas and three chairs surrounded one large Indian rug. It was a large room for entertaining and yet one could imagine Will relaxing in the quietness as an escape and a time to watch sport or a favourite film, to read a newspaper and have a private tipple.

The features of the house were not surprisingly carried on throughout and why not, if you could afford to. There was a huge kitchen; a modern kitchen by all accounts stacked with modern appliances, panelled units and granite worktops. There was a sun-room with a Jacuzzi, an indoor swimming pool, four bedrooms upstairs, the fifth as a gym and snooker room and two bathrooms. 

After planning to take the family to Highland Farm for a break Will, although having the capabilities of travelling by helicopter, preferred to stay on the ground and drive. Maybe during the time it took to drive the distance he thought he would already have unwound from the strain of work in the South by the time they arrived.

It was a Saturday morning and it had been planned for an early start. The kids friends had stopped over that night so they were all ready to go. I don’t think any of them really believed Will would want to start just before 4am that morning, but then he couldn’t sleep and he wanted to miss all the traffic on the roads south of the M25.

The journey began with everyone still feeling tired and so it was a quiet start, especially on the roads, so they made a lot of progress. It wasn’t long before everyone began to wake and create a lot of noise. They were playing video games in the back or they were talking among themselves, however, the long laborious journey would take at least ten hours and patience would grow pretty thin further along the way.

Being August, Scotland, this year marvelled in glorious sunshine, the fields and hillsides were green with long grass flowing in a constant warm breeze that floated down the valley. It was beautiful to see but not from the road. At least that opinion was held by everyone except Will, so things were not going so great already.

Poor Harriet, she was in her late thirties, still very youthful and knew exactly how it would be this holiday but she tried to put on a happy face. She got on well with just about everyone with a glowing personality. She looked like she had everything going for her, good looks, a modern and attractive taste for fashion, light swaying hair and soft shiny skin. She always looked great in anything she wore, on this occasion a wide rimmed straw hat with a pink bow round it, quite a short colourful dress and had slipped out of her flip-flops during the journey to stretch her legs up on the dash.

Will had been moaning as usual and she had bore the brunt of it. She had also suffered with all the whinging from their Sons Bruce and Andrew, with their friends Paul, Nigel, Sally and Michelle during the journey. They had come up to go camping and did nothing but moan about stopping time after time or it was for constant drinks and food.

Will had driven the motorways at speed cutting a lot of time off his estimate of arrival. They finally  entered the farm from the outskirts crossing several fields to drop the kids way over the back of the greenhouses about half a mile away from the back of the house at around 2pm. In his mind it was the further, the better.

The kids had chosen their camp site at the base of a high hill and at the edge of a forest that crawled up the valley sweeping round high hills and to the River Conon from which they gained a free power source from their very own hydroelectric power generator. 

Leaving Nigel, Andrew, Sally and Michelle with all their tents, bags, food and games they began to pitch their tents while Bruce and Paul continued on to the farm to collect Bruce's motorbikes.

Will dropped them off at the farthest outbuilding where they stored a lot of farm machinery. The fuel tanks were also here, an open barn for hay and straw, then other buildings and stables leading closer to the house. To the right of them was a large paddock behind a three bar fence.

Now on their own Harriet had to get out shortly to open the gate at the