Chapter 5

Mark was still sitting in the lay-by an hour and a half later when he saw Flick's car pull in behind him. He opened the driver's door to greet her and found himself knocked backwards against his car as Flick launched herself at him with a squeal of pleasure. He felt her arms hugging him fiercely and her lips were planting wild kisses all over his face. Mark returned the hug and accepted the unbridled expression of her feelings for him.

"I'm really pleased to see you too, baby," he managed to get out at last.

"Are we going to stay in this lay-by all day or do we need to talk about what we're doing and where we're going?

"Let's go somewhere and get a bite to eat and talk about what we're going to do," Mark suggested.

Flick reluctantly released her hold on him and stepped back, her face still a picture of happiness.

"Okay. Where to?" she asked.

"Just follow me. There's a nice little Italian restaurant I know not far from Discovery Quay and there's plenty of parking around there."

He laughed again at the speed with which Flick returned to her car, clearly now anxious to reach their destination and return to his side. Mark climbed into his own vehicle and pulled the car back out onto the A92 road, heading for the Tay bridge and the city of Dundee.

If someone were to ask Roddy Hamilton why he was interested in the journalist Mark MacGhee he wouldn't have been able to answer them. Somehow he knew the man was sniffing around him and his brother though and a voice in his head directed him to search for details of the journalist on-line.

His google search returned a good number of hits and he was soon looking at a picture of Mark MacGhee. It was a simple matter to right click his mouse over the picture and start it printing out. Roddy picked up the page and wandered through the house looking for his brother. Duncan was the sneakier of two and finding out about the journalist was a tailor-made job for him.

He found Duncan playing pool with some of the other clan members.

"We need to have a word," Roddy said.

His brother simply nodded and put his cue back in the rack. Roddy retreated from the poolroom and Duncan followed. They both made their way through to a room they had made into their study and Roddy closed the door behind them. He put the printed picture of MacGhee down on the desk in front of Duncan.

"This man has been asking questions about both of us," he began.

"Who is he and why does he have a hard-on for us?" Duncan asked.

"He's a journalist by the name of Mark MacGhee and I think he believes we're the makings of his next big story," Roddy replied.

"What do we do about it?" his brother asked.

"For now I think we need to find out what he's up to, what he knows, before we decide how to handle him. Why don't you take some muscle and try and find out what you can?" Roddy suggested.

Duncan nodded and picked up the picture. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket.

"How do I find him?" he asked.

"According to the Internet he's based in Glasgow. Two of the pictures I found of him showed him coming out of the same bistro - the Zinc bar and grill. There were also quite a few pics of him coming out of various Glasgow nightclubs - all of them with different women. It looks like this guy is something of a ladies man and he likes the nightlife. That might be a place to start," Roddy answered.

Duncan Hamilton didn't waste any time in trying to find Mark MacGhee. He reduced and copied the picture of MacGhee and had some of the gang members distribute his face throughout their people on Glasgow's streets.

He himself checked the Internet again and took careful note of those newspapers that MacGhee had freelanced for in the past. There were two main ones, both quality newspapers - the Herald and the Scotsman. Duncan used his own higher than average intelligence to try to exploit that information. He phoned both newspapers on the pretext of being a fellow journalist who was trying to get in contact with MacGhee but had lost his contact details.

"Hello, can I speak to the features editor please?" he asked.

"Can I tell him who is calling, sir?" the woman who answered asked.

"My name is Billy Richards, I write for the Express," Duncan lied easily.

"And what is your call about, sir," he was asked.

"To be honest, it's a little embarrassing. I've been collaborating with a freelance journalist but I've lost his contact details. He mentioned that he's done work for the Herald before and I was hoping your editor could help me get in contact with him."

"Who is the freelance?"

"Mark MacGhee," Duncan said.

"Yes, he has done work for us in the past. Give me a second and I'll look on the editor's contacts database for you, no need to bother him he is quite busy."

Duncan almost held his breath as he waited, pen poised to jot down any information the woman gave him.

"Here it is. His address is 113A Wardlaw Garden Heights. I only have a mobile number listed for him but here it is," the woman said.

Duncan scribbled furiously to note the details of the address and phone number and then thanked the faceless voice who had just helped him zero in on his goal.

A quick search on-line using 'Mapquest' easily identified where MacGhee's apartment was and within the hour Duncan had it staked out by a couple of clan members.

Mark pulled into the car park just off Dundee's Greenmarket and watched Flick pull in behind him. They both locked their cars and Flick quickly put her arm through his as he steered them along South Marketgait, Dock Street and then left into Commercial Street.

The restaurant he was looking for was half way up Commercial Street, heading towards Dundee High Street, and was imaginatively called The Italian.

A waiter quickly found them a secluded table towards the rear and brought them menus before asking them if they wanted a drink. Flick slid alongside Mark rather than on the opposite side of the table.

Mark raised an eyebrow questioningly at Flick and she managed to focus enough to order a glass of Chardonnay. He ordered a glass of his favourite Cabernet Shiraz and they settled to scan the menus and the specials listed on a board on the wall opposite.

The specialities of the house were impressive and when the waiter returned with their wine, Mark let Flick order first.

"I'll have the Delizia Mare E Monte as a starter and the Agnello In Crosta for the main course please?" she asked.

The waiter scribbled her order on his pad and then turned to Mark.

"For me it's the Muscoli Alla Marinara to start with and I think I'll have the Gamberoni E Filetto Al Pinzimonio," Mark ordered.

Once the waiter had departed they were able to talk once more. Flick had gradually wound down enough to hold an intelligent conversation again, but she was still giving off a happy glow at being with Mark again.

"Okay, do you want to tell me what's got you so excited about the Hamiltons and what we're doing in Dundee?" she asked him.

"DI MacIntosh told me that he had looked into the background of the Hamilton brothers but that they were clean.

"I asked him if he gone all the way back into their school days and he said he didn't have the time for that and he doubted it would tell us anything anyway. I don't know why, I just had a bit of a hunch so I followed up on it.

"The head teacher at the school wouldn't talk to me or give me an interview so I did some work on-line. I began to research the school - Glebe High School - and I stumbled over something that looks pretty odd," he said.

"Come on, Mark! Get to the point," Flick urged.

"Well, I looked at everything on-line that I could find including the Scottish Qualification Authorities (SQA) statistics on pupils' examination results.

"There's nothing out of the ordinary in the school's results for the last five years or so - they're pretty much in line with national averages, if anything a bit below.

"When I went back a little bit further however, I found a different story. There's a period where the school's results are quite remarkable, well above national averages by as much as 15-20 percent," Mark said.

Flick was so surprised at the extent of the figure that she actually sat back.

"Are you sure? I mean, a few percentage points I could believe but 20 percent? That doesn't sound feasible," she said

"I'm positive, I double-checked."

"But wouldn't somebody have said something about this before now?" Flick asked.

"You would think so, but one school amongst thousands maybe just doesn't stand out. Remember, the government changed things a number of years ago so that the media couldn't draw up league tables of school performance. It looks as if no one has picked up on this. In fact, this is probably a story I could sell on its own," Mark said.

"But what does it tell us in relation to the Hamiltons?" Flick asked.

"I'm not sure. One thing I do know is that this period of when the good examination results happened was also when the Hamiltons attended the school, that's why I went back so far, I knew when they were there. The reason we're in Dundee is to try and find out anything that might explain the results and anything we can about the Hamiltons," Mark added.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Two things. I've got a contact on the ruling Labour Party local council here in Dundee. I want you to meet him and charm some information out of him. Then I want you to check the SQA results more widely and see if there are any other significant aberrations," Mark advised.

"What information do you think I can get out of the councillor?"

"Anything that happened in the first year when Glebe High School's results improved so dramatically. New initiatives, new curriculum, new teachers, I don't know, anything," Mark replied.

"And what will you be doing while I'm fluttering my eyes at some sleazeball?" Flick asked.

Mark laughed at her stereotyping the local politician.

"I, my sweet, I will be having a few drinks in the pub closest to Glebe High School."

When Mark saw the darkening look on Felicity's face he hurried to explain.

"That's where the old lags on the teaching staff are bound to pop in for a drink after a hard day at the 'chalk-face'. I'm going to be doing the same as you, pumping them for any information about Glebe High School's 'golden years'. What was behind them and why have they come to an end?" Mark explained.

"After that, I'm going to dig into the purchase of the casino you visited. If the Hamiltons are involved with that maybe there's something I can find out about how they paid for it. You know what they say - follow the money!"

Kenny MacGovern wasn't satisfied with merely setting the Hamiltons onto Mark MacGhee. He e-mailed a selected number of other former pupils on his database with what he knew about the journalist too. Roddy Hamilton had e-mailed details of MacGhee's address and mobile phone number and Kenny passed these details on.

He selected those who he felt would be able to help him most. The list included a number of policemen and he used the Church of Cyberscience code to make sure that they kept an eye out for anything to do with the journalist, to feed back intelligence and to have a little fun into the bargain. Others he made contact with were in the financial and insurance sectors and he was looking for these people to gather any information they could on MacGhee, anything that might prove useful.

Less than hour later he already had his first success. A former pupil who worked at Direct Line Insurance (a subsidiary of the Royal Bank of Scotland, RBS) e-mailed with details of MacGhee's cars. The name and address were enough to search the company's database and identify that the journalist had two cars insured through Direct Line.

Kenny wasted no time in passing the car registration numbers on to those who could use the information.

Once he had set in train as much as he could, Kenny sat back with a satisfied smile. He had something else to look forward to and MacGhee wasn't going to spoil it. His reputation for getting results had spread throughout the education community and even beyond Scotland's shores. Kenny had been invited to a prestigious gathering of leading education experts in Washington and he had been thinking over the past few weeks about how he could spread his influence around the globe. He saw the conference as an opportunity to use his brain defragmenter to reach out to the youth of other countries around the world and he was going to grasp it with both hands. It might also be a good thing for him to be out of the country if and when something happened to MacGhee, a watertight alibi was always helpful.

Duncan had received a text message from his brother and he now had details of the cars that the journalist drove. How Roddy had managed to get that information he didn't know, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He rapped on the window of the stationary BMW and the glass slid down silently to reveal one of the clan members who was currently watching MacGhee's apartment. The development that the apartments were part of was up-market and the Beamer was certainly not out of place.

"Seen anything?" Duncan asked.

"Nothing, it's quieter than a Jewish pork eating convention" replied the watcher.

"Very funny, you should be on the stage with lines like that," Duncan sneered.

Parking for the apartments was carefully set out in front of each building and it was an easy job to identify the Ford Mondeo that belonged to the journalist. The Porche Carerra was nowhere to be seen and that suggested MacGhee was out somewhere driving it.

Duncan decided to be bold, things had gone so smoothly up until now he just had a feeling it would be the right thing to do. He pulled out his mobile phone and dialled a number from memory. When his call was answered he kept his orders brief.

"Cat, drop whatever you're doing and get your arse over here."

The Broadway looked as if it had seen better days. The outside of the pub was a mess of flaking paintwork and tired brick. Mark had driven round the area of the school and decided this pub was the most likely to attract the staff he was interested in.

Parking in one of the nearby residential streets, he walked back to the pub and checked his watch. It was 15:30 and he had a hunch that the kind of teacher he was interested in wouldn't hang around after classes finished for the day. He was looking for the tired, older teacher who was disillusioned with the job, run down by the stress through years of trying to educate teenagers with the attitude brought on by developing hormones. He had half an hour to get settled in the pub and look out for likely candidates.

The teachers were easy to pick out when they wandered into the bar. The loosened ties and crumpled suits were a dead give-away and Mark let them get settled over a pint before he made his move. Three men sat at the table next to his own and he could overhear their conversation enough to confirm they were teachers.

"I'm telling you, I was this close to punching the little bastard's lights out! If I told him once to keep his mouth shut, I told him a hundred times!" said one.

"Let me guess, Craig Simmons?" asked another.

"Correct, score five points," the first teacher confirmed.

"I know exactly how you feel, I've been trying to get that little fucker excluded for nearly two years," added the third.

"The only way Simmons is going to understand my lessons is if I pound them into his microscopic brain with a ten pound hammer and I admit I'm sorely tempted," the first proclaimed.

Mark listened as all three of the teachers laughed loudly at this last remark.

"How the hell we're supposed to deliver a lesson to the others with little shits like him disrupting things is beyond me. I'm just sick of the whole thing, disillusioned with teaching altogether."

"The parents are as much to blame. God knows what kind of influence they're trying to exert, as far as I can see none! When they turn up for parent's/teacher's nights it's clear they think butter wouldn't melt in the mouths of their little darlings. I'd like to make them take classes for a week and see how they felt about their angelic children after that! I marked my third year class' papers last night and all but two failed. Thick as the proverbial two short planks!"

"It's true, the parents are doing nothing to help. The only time in the last ten years I've felt as if I've achieved something was those few years when we somehow managed to get a crop of good kids all together at the same time. Man, that was good. The shit we've got now - hell, don't try and tell me they're our future - I think I might puke!"

Mark picked up on the reference to what could only be what he had referred to as the 'golden years' and took his cue. Leaning over and acting like a man who had already had too many beers he tried to join the conversation.

"Hey, the kids are alright!" he giggled inanely.

The three teachers looked at him as if he was something they had picked up on their shoe off of the sidewalk then turned pointedly to ignore him.

"Hey, why are you guys running the kids down? I thought it was your job to mould them into tomorrow's world-beaters? Isn't Scotland supposed to be the best small country in the world?" he asked, playing on the government's latest slogan.

"If the kids we're teaching now are our future take it from me we're fucked!" one teacher couldn't resist expressing his opinion.

"Do you teach at Glebe? I thought the high school was way out in front in Scotland?" Mark threw in.

"A few years ago that might have been true but not anymore. The crop we've got now are just more of the same losers that you see on the news every night - gang violence, hooliganism, completely out of control," one of the teachers growled.

"So what's changed? What made the difference between a few years ago and now?" Mark asked drunkenly.

The teachers were obviously annoyed at his intrusion but couldn't resist his line of questioning as it was very much in tune with their own thoughts.

"Society is going down the tubes. Traditional family values mean nothing anymore and it sucks!"

Felicity made her way to one of the many Costa Coffee shops for her meeting with Nathaniel Graham, a councillor on the Dundee City council. She was not looking forward to the occasion but knew that she would be able to handle the politician well enough. A quick Internet search on her laptop had produced a standard press digest and photo of the man and she picked him out easily amongst the sparse late afternoon coffee-drinking crowd.

Walking up to Graham, she introduced herself.

"Mr Graham? Hi, I'm Felicity Cartwright. Pleased to meet you."

She held out her hand and they exchanged a handshake.

"Ms Cartwright, the pleasure is all mine but I thought I was meeting Mark MacGhee. Is he joining us?" the politician asked.

Flick could barely control the shiver that threatened to run through her at the way Graham was openly and hungrily eyeing her up. His grip was limp, his hand hot and sweaty as they shook and she forced herself to smile, fluttering her eyelashes at the man.

"I'm sorry, Mark couldn't make it and he asked me to step in for him. He's briefed me on what he is looking for though so hopefully we can get down to business."

Flick was sure she heard the politician murmur something about 'getting down to business with her' but chose to ignore it, instead ordering a large latte as she took a stool beside him at the coffee bar. When she caught Graham trying to peer down the front of her blouse she made a mental note to make Mark pay for putting her through this.

"Okay, Ms Cartwright what can I do for you?"

"Please, call me Felicity?" she offered.

"Okay, Felicity, what are you interested in?" he asked.

"Well Mr Graham, Mark is interested in innovations and examples of excellent performance across Dundee's schools. He's writing a piece on how Scotland's performance on education stacks up against our European neighbours and needs some colour to bring the article to life," she replied.

The councillor was like all politicians around the world - he didn't need a second invitation to talk, they all seemed to love the sound of their own voice. He immediately launched into a description of all of the notable successes he was responsible for. Flick held in a sigh as she knew she was in for a difficult and crashingly boring afternoon.

Duncan spotted 'Cat' as soon as he turned into the street. He flicked the switch to lower the electric window of the car and waved the man over. Cat looked out of place in the classy neighbourhood and Duncan wanted him out of sight as quickly as possible. The rumpled clothing and unkempt, unshaven look was not the norm for Wardlaw Garden Heights he knew and it was important not to arouse the suspicions of the locals.

Once the man was in the back of the Beamer, Duncan explained why he had called.

"Okay, here's the deal. I need access to one of these apartments and I need it in a way that won't be picked up. It has to be a clean in and out, do you understand?" he asked.

"No problem, boss. Which one?" the experienced burglar asked.

"That one over there, number 113A," Duncan replied.

"What does it look like at the back?" Cat asked.

"I've no idea, why?"

"It's a ground floor gaff and entry from the back might be relatively easy. I need to have a look see," said Cat.

"You stay where you are! The last thing we need is one of the neighbours seeing you snooping around. What are you looking for? I'll go and have a peek for you," said Duncan.

"Okay, keep your hair on. I'm interested in seeing if the place has French windows. That's always an easy way in and if the place has them I need to know if there's a security lock fitted," replied Cat.

Duncan nodded to show he understood and then left the car to wander casually further down the street. There was a path leading along the side of the apartment building and he sauntered up it, his confident stride signalling that he belonged here, he was not out of place.

The path ended in a wrought iron gate but there was no lock on it and Duncan opened it and passed through. The rear of the apartment building was well maintained with lush green lawns and tidy flowerbeds. There was even a couple of purpose built barbecue grills.

Each of the ground floor apartments did indeed have a set of French windows leading out onto the gardens and Duncan noticed that the upper floor apartments also had an individual balcony with French windows leading out to them.

He carefully counted the doors he walked to make sure he identified 113A and as he passed he scrutinised the doors to see whether there was any security locks fitted. Reversing direction, he made his way back along the path. As he walked, Duncan confirmed the fact that the rear of the building was not overlooked by anything else as it faced out onto the rolling Lanarkshire hills. He made it back to the car without incident and reported what he had found.

"French windows and no security locks," he informed Cat.

"Easy then, piece of piss," said Cat.

"How long will it take you to get in?" Duncan asked.

"About ten seconds," Cat responded with a grin.

Duncan was sceptical about the claim but decided there was little risk of them being observed at the rear of the building.

"Okay. Let's do it then. Don't touch anything once we're inside," he warned.

The two men walked briskly up the path, pulling on gloves as they went to remove the possibility of leaving any prints. Once again Duncan carefully counted the doors until the arrived at the rear entrance to number 113A.

"This is it," he said.

"Stand back and watch the master at work," Cat replied.

Duncan watched as Cat bent down and gripped the bottom of the sliding door securely in both hands. He lifted upwards, pushing the top of the French window into the upper recess and popping the bottom out of its runner. In doing so, he disengaged the standard lock and was then able to slide the door open enough for them both to enter. Setting the door down, Cat turned and grinned at Duncan in triumph. It had taken all of two seconds to gain entry.

"See! I told you it was easy," said Cat.

Duncan didn't respond and instead pushed his way past the curtain on the inside of the door and into the apartment, Cat following along behind.

A quick scan of the rooms told Duncan to concentrate his search in what looked to be the journalist's study. A desk sat against one wall with a home computer sitting on top of it. The rest of the available space on the desktop was taken up with a mess of papers and it was to these that Duncan turned his attention first.

"What are we looking for?" Cat asked.

"I'll know it when I see it, in the meantime just do what I told you. Don't touch anything," Duncan replied without looking up.

Rifling through the papers turned up a number of coloured charts. Studying them Duncan realised they were charts of school examination results for the school he and his brother had attended. He mused that it could be a co-incidence and he didn't find anything else that was of interest on the desktop.

Opening the desk drawer, he flicked through a series of buff folders filed away there, stopping when he came to one labelled 'Glasgow underworld'. Duncan pulled the folder out, being careful to mark its place so he could return it. When he opened the folder he said one word out loud.

"Bingo!"

The folder contained a series of photographs of various members of the clan he and his brother were now controlling. There were even a number of pics where he and Roddy featured. He had his confirmation that the journalist was indeed investigating them and action would need to be taken. Duncan returned the folder and closed the drawer.

Removing a small metallic disc from his pocket, he scanned the living room and then quickly unscrewed the underside of the journalist's phone and fixed the bug inside.

"Okay, I've seen enough. Let's get out of here," he said.

Cat took a little longer to replace the French window, the lock proving tricky to get back into its housing. It was still only a matter of thirty seconds or so before they were heading back to the car, no sign of their entry visible and no witnesses either.

Duncan pulled out his mobile phone and made arrangements for a nondescript tradesman's van to take up post. Having someone in the back of the van would be less suspicious than someone sitting in a car all day and that way he could have someone listen in to whatever the bug picked up.

Mark dropped the drunken act as soon as he left the Broadway and walked back to the Porche. He was disappointed that he hadn't got anything useful from the disgruntled teachers. They had no real explanation for the 'golden years' and he had just wasted two hours listening to their cynical and pathetic whining about the lack of respect from kids today.

Glancing at his watch he saw that it was already after five pm and he debated whether to try and contact Flick so they could catch a bite to eat before heading back to Glasgow. That way they would miss the worst of the evening rush hour traffic leaving Dundee.

He tried Flick's mobile number but only got her message service.

"Hi, Flick. It's me. I'm finished with the cream of Glebe High School's teaching staff and wondered whether you fancied grabbing something to eat before heading back. You're obviously busy so I'll just head off. Ring when you're free," he said.

Traffic wasn't too bad as he made his way onto the main A90 South. Passing Invergowrie, he was coming up on Longforgan when he heard the wail of a siren behind him and saw flashing blue lights in his rear view mirror. He glanced at his speedo and saw that he was doing just barely over the speed limit.

"Fuck! I'm two lousy miles an hour over the limit, why is this bastard pulling me over?".

He spotted a lay-by and indicated to show he was stopping. The police car pulled in behind him and an officer got out. Mark turned off the Porche's engine and lowered his window.

"Good evening officer," he remained polite.

The policeman clearly wasn't interested in pleasant conversation.

"Do you realise you were breaking the speed limit sir?" he asked.

"Surely not officer? It is a sixty mile an hour limit here, isn't it?" Mark asked.

"You were travelling at sixty-three miles an hour sir. I'd like you to remove your keys from the ignition. Are you the owner of the vehicle? Do you have details of your license and insurance with you?" the officer asked.

Mark fought to keep his anger in check; he knew that losing it wouldn't help in the current situation. Three fucking miles an hour over the limit - this was a joke!

The policeman 'invited' him to sit in the rear of the police car while he was lectured about speeding and a ticket was written out.