Elephants can't hide forever (16 page)

“Have you reached a verdict on all fourteen counts?” he enquired of the foreman.

“We have, sir,” came the reply.

“And are you unanimous on all counts?” he asked

“We are,” the young lady representing the Jury replied.

“In that case, I will read out the charges and after each one you should reply either ‘guilty’, or ‘not guilty’, is that clear?”

And with that concluded, the bailiff began reading out the charges- one by one came the reply: “Not guilty.”

The Bailiff had reached the twelfth charge of which the not guilty verdict had been delivered. Danny was beaming like the proverbial Cheshire cat, and so he should be, he was home and dry.

The bailiff spoke: “The thirteenth charge, carrying firearms for unlawful reasons, how do you find the defendant?”

“Guilty” the foreman replied,

“And the last charge, the shortening of a shot gun for unlawful reason, how do you find the defendant?”

“Guilty” the young woman answered.

Danny was in a daze, so nearly home and dry. Fuck it, he thought, but shouldn’t be too long a stretch, he barely heard the Judge thank and then dismiss the Jury.

It took several minutes for the courtroom to quieten down. The press were laying bets on what Danny would get, and the prosecutors’ were in deep conversation. It took his Lordship several
moments of banging his gavel on the desk to bring the place to order.

The honourable Judge placed his half glasses on the end of his nose, not a good sign for the accused or as in this case the guilty. His huge bushy eyebrows had returned to their normal position,
having nearly gone into orbit as he had listened incredulously to that stupid woman pronouncing Gallagher not guilty.

With the court room now silent, the Judge began, “Danny Gallagher, you are a hardened criminal with a history of violence, and the Jury have found you not guilty on all major charges in
this case. However, the two charges you have been found guilty of remain extremely serious.” His honour was at his sanctimonious best. “Therefore, on the charge of carrying unlicensed
firearms, I see no reason other than to impose the maximum sentence, seven years imprisonment.”

Even the hard nosed hacks winced; the judge was living up to his reputation.

“On the charge of shortening a shot gun, once again there is no reason other than to impose the maximum sentence, seven years imprisonment.”

Once again, a stunned court room were shocked by the severity of the sentence. Danny was working out mentally what this meant in terms of actual imprisonment, and he’d concluded he would
serve less than four years, just about manageable, when the judge spoke again:

“Furthermore, the sentences are to run consecutively. Court adjourned, take him down, officers.”

This time there was an audible gasp from nearly the entire contingent of number one court. The judge had effectively sentenced Danny to fourteen years, unbelievable, consecutive sentences were
unheard of in this day and age, but part of the judicial system which could be used if a judge saw enough reason to justify it. Danny hadn’t registered what had just happened, he wondered why
the congregation were looking so shell shocked, and then it dawned on him, that satanic monster had effectively sent him down for life. He’d be over seventy when he got out, oh my God, his
stomach turned a somersault and his bowels loosened.

Later that evening, the Honourable Mark Handford was sitting in a cubicle of the Hare and Hounds public house, a quiet country pub on his way home. There were no other patrons at this early hour
and the judge, sipping a large brandy, was feeling pleased with himself.

Chief Inspector Frank Carter entered the pub, spotted the Judge in his corner, and made his way across. Frank Carter was a man’s man, one of the boys, after all was said and done; he had a
begrudging respect for the villains he had spent a lifetime chasing, but this man sitting before him he despised. He knew his type, members of the upper echelon of the establishment, people who
believed the law was theirs to administer as they saw fit, but not there for them to follow; these people believed they were immune to the rules and regulations that the rest of society had to
follow, and to a large extent this was true. When these people transgressed they would expect their misdemeanours to be swept aside, they were practically invincible.

“I trust our business is satisfactorily concluded, and the matter closed Inspector,” the Judge said.

Frank could barely conceal his contempt of the man.

The story was that the judge was a little too fond of underage boys. The Vice Squad were aware of his behaviour, and even had a dossier on him which included several explicit photos which would
incriminate even this great man. Of course, in the normal path of events, if the judge had merely been Joe Public he would already have been doing some very nasty porridge with the paedophiles and
perverts in the Scrubs, but he was too well connected, had too many friends in the right places, and too many of those friends shared the same tastes as the judge.

So Frank, who had been told about the dossier from one of his many friends in Vice, had borrowed the photos and paid the judge a visit two weeks prior to the trial. For maximum effect, he had
called on the Judge at home and been made most welcome. As the Judge’s wife had retired to the kitchen to make the men some coffee, Frank, not known for his subtle ways, has produced the
photos and without a word thrown them over the Persian carpet in the Judge’s sitting room. This had the desired effect. Mark Handford absolutely panicked, and just about managed to gather the
pornographic material up before his wife re entered the room. He asked her if she could leave them alone whilst they discussed an up and coming case, and hissed after she had left: “What the
hell do you want, you’re not going to arrest me or you would have done so by now, so this must be blackmail, how much?”

Frank grinned. “You have no idea, you perverted ponce, here’s what I want. I want you to make sure you’re presiding in a trial due in St Albans in two weeks, it is the blag at
Barclays, St Albans The defendant stands a chance of getting off, but we know him, so you’ve got to influence the Jury. This bastard Gallagher’s got to go down one way or another, so
you have to ensure he does, the deal is this, he gets twelve years or more, you get the photos back. Under twelve the photos go to the DPP, or worse, the News of The World, and believe me it will
happen.”

Frank didn’t give the Judge chance to remonstrate. He apologised to the Judge’s wife, but some thing urgent had come up back at the Yard, so the coffee would have to wait for another
time. Frank shut the front door on his way out,

“What a lovely man,” commented Celia Handford as Frank left.

Back in the pub Mark Handford was getting cross now. “Look here, Carter, I’ve done my bit, I gave him fourteen years, now you either give me the photos or you can consider your
career over, I’m a personal friend of your Chief Constable” he said smugly.

With this, Frank rose from his chair and placed a two pound coin on the table.

“What’s this?” the judge asked angrily.

“I suggest you purchase an early edition of this Sunday’s News of The World” was Frank’s reply.

Since Jock and Mike had arrived back in Hereford, things hadn’t gone well for Jock. To make matters worse, with Mike’s departure to Australia, Jock had felt very
much alone He had effectively lost the three mates he had lived with for the last six months. He knew nothing else other than the Army, so unlike Mike, who he felt a certain envy of, he had stayed
on at Sterling Lines but his heart wasn’t in it. As much as he tried, his motivation was gone, therefore it came as no surprise when he was summoned to a meeting one morning with the CO.

“Jock, we have to discuss your future with us,” Major Morley started. “You must be aware that since you returned from that fracas in Pakistan you have not been up to speed, in
fact, Jock, to be brutal, you would not be accepted into this unit on your current performance. You would be a liability on any operation we might have to handle in the near future, and I
can’t allow that. As much as it pains me, I have no alternative other than to recommend you are Returned To Unit immediately.”

In an attempt to soften the blow, the Major added, “But of course you will be free to reapply to the Regiment whenever you feel ready.”

Jock was devastated- all serving members of the SAS had started their army life in normal regiments, they then applied to the SAS and if successful transferred to the elite troop. Only in the
initial training months were applicants RTUd, this was acceptable, but not after ten years; no, as far as Jock was concerned this was it, his army life was finished, over and out.

Jock knew the Major well enough to know any sort of pleading would do him no good at all.

“I’m gutted, boss,” he said. “But there’s no way I can go back to being a squaddie, I’m out.”

“I’m really sorry, Jock,” continued the Major “If there’s any thing we can do to help you in Civvy Street, let me know,” and with that the chief stood and
outstretched his right arm, which Jock accepted, and showed him the door.

The next few months were not kind to Jock. Initially, he travelled back to his native Glasgow and tried numerous jobs. Employers were keen to take on an ex SAS trooper, so Jock had no problem
finding gainful employment, but he couldn’t handle the mundane life of Civvy Street- the petty rules and regulations were too much. Jock’s skills as a mechanic were not appreciated
either, he had to learn the philosophy of his new way of life: a good job was a botched job, take as much of the customer’s money as you could, for as little as you get away with. This was an
alien world for Jock, who started to drift back into his old haunts of Glasgow’s East End, taking solace in the bottom of a glass. Before long, Jock started mixing with the wrong crowd.
Glasgow’s East End was still a viper’s nest of petty villains, pimps and prostitutes. Territorial gangs ruled, and a fair share of real bad guys inhabited the place. It was no surprise
that Jock felt more at home in this environment than that of the legitimate workplace, and the local hoods soon recognised that Jock possessed some unusual talents which they could deploy.

Jock became a doorman at a particularly nasty dive in a particularly nasty area, just off Argyle Street. He regularly found himself facing the local wannabes in street brawls and skirmishes
within the club, and he always found himself coming out on top. What Jock possessed, along with his ability to keep the house in order, was intelligence, unusual for this type of work, so it was no
surprise when the owner called him to the back room one night.

“Jock, I’ve been watching you since you started here,” he said in his deep Scottish brogue. “And I have to say the way you’ve kept the door and sorted out the
trouble makers, I’m prepared to take a chance on you, fucking hell, we all started with nothing round here, so how would you fancy being the new manager?”

“Well that would be just fine, Mr Donaldson,” replied Jock.

“Good,” came the reply. “Let me put the cards on the table then, you’re not stupid Jock, no doubt you’ve seen what goes on around here, and it not all Kosher, so
I’m going to pay you two grand a week For that, you manage the club and when you’re not doing that you’re minding my back.”

“Yup, I can handle that, it’s very generous, thank you Mr Donaldson,” Jock replied.

“One last thing, I’ve noticed you like a wee dram a bit too often- as of now, you’re off the sauce.”

The weeks passed, and Jock immersed himself in his new employment. It was to his liking- plenty of excitement, long hours and perks of which Major Morley would definitely not have approved.

One Sunday morning, when all was quiet, Mr Donaldson invited Jock out to his country house, at Greenock, overlooking the Firth of Clyde. They walked out in the gardens, watching the few
container ships that still made the journey into Port Glasgow. Mr Donaldson turned to Jock.

“Jock, you have done better than I could have hoped, nothing seems to faze you, so I want you to go down south and do a little pick up for me.”

“No problem” replied Jock. “Can you tell me more?” he asked.

“That’s why you’re here, in the privacy of my home” came the reply.

Jock, being quick, realised this was something out of the ordinary. In the time he had been working for Donaldson, he had handled drugs and illegal women, and even firearms, but all this was
done as a matter of course from the club.

Mr Donaldson continued: “I can see, Jock, you’ve realised this is a bit special and it is, so there’s twenty large ones in it for you. I want you to go down to Kent, buy a van,
then rendezvous with a plane that will be dropping a couple of large bags of dope in a remote field just off the coast. You’re there to pick up the drugs and get back up here with them-
simple, really.”

“So why do we have to go all the way down into England to pick it up, wouldn’t it be safer if the plane dumped it round here?” asked Jock.

“Good question,” came the reply, “The simple reason is that the plane’s coming in over the English Channel low, so by the time it’s picked up on radar it will be
back out again, and away from British air space, and, more to the point, if it flew all the way up here it would need to refuel and that can’t happen. One other thing, Jock, there
shouldn’t be a problem but you had better go tooled up, just in case.”

Jock considered this, and then asked: “When do I go?”

“The drop’s three am Wednesday morning, so come back to the house and I’ll find you a decent shooter, and you can be off.”

The following Tuesday morning found Jock in Folkestone High Street, bartering for a reasonable Mercedes Sprinter van, with a spotty youth who was so disinterested there was no problem he would
ever recall Jock, never mind remembering selling Jock the van. Jock thought if he told him the reason for the purchase, that might get his attention. With the van acquired, Jock drove south, along
the coast road towards Dymchurch. He needed to acquaint himself with the terrain and the pick up point; the first time since Jock had left the army that his specialised training was being put to
good use.