Brutal Revenge (2 page)

The
other character, who Parker didn’t know, got up from his chair. He was short
compared with the rest of them — not more than five foot six — with a pale,
aquiline face. The beak-shaped nose was inordinately large and looked as though
it had been stuck on as an after-thought.

He
was dressed in an off-the-peg suit from one of the big chain stores, but the
jacket hung well enough and went a long way towards hiding up an incipient beer
gut. He was almost bald and there were deep trenches around the mouth and eyes
that would have made it impossible for him to get away with any white lies
about being under fifty.

His
smile was bright and engaging and his dentures a tribute to whoever had made
them.

Maclean
introduced them. “Robert Stewart, meet Phil Parker. An old friend.”

Stewart
extended a hand towards Parker. “Hello Parker,” he said. “I can see you don't
remember me.”

“Should
I?”

“Eight
years ago. Strangeways. I was doing a stretch for burglary and you did a
stretch before they shifted you out to an open prison. We mixed with the same
crowd for a bit.”

Parker
nodded as if in recognition, though the truth was he could barely remember who
his various cell-mates had been on that, his one and only spell inside.

“From
Glasgow are you?” Parker asked because he couldn't think of anything else to
say.

Stewart
grimaced. “Now I ask you, do I really look like one of those scruffy graduates
from the gangs?”

Parker
had to admit that he did not.

“I
was born and bred in Edinburgh,” Stewart said with an exaggerated roll of the
`r's. “Purest and finest town in all of Scotland without a doubt.”

“So
I've heard,” Parker said. “I've never been there myself.”

“Make
it your dying wish then. If the castle is the last thing you ever see you'll
die a happy man and no mistake.”

Parker
liked Stewart. The guy gave off a good vibe and he thought they could probably
get on. And to Parker first impressions counted for a lot. He had always
trusted his initial instincts and they had rarely let him down.

Anxious
to get down to business, Maclean said, “Come on lads. Let's be seated. We've a lot
to get through.”

Parker
hung up his raincoat and took off his jacket. He ran a hand through his thick
fair hair and rainwater sprinkled his face. It was warm in the room, and
stuffy. A thick cloud of cigarette smoke floated above the table like a
shapeless ghost attracted to the light.

Maclean
went into another room and returned a moment later carrying a tray on which he'd
placed four cans of Carlsberg lager and four empty glasses.

“Ice
cold,” he announced. “And there's plenty more where it came from.”

When
they were all seated around the table, shoulders hunched forward, cigarettes
lit, they gave the impression of a late night card school. Maclean handed round
the drinks and each glass was filled with alacrity.

Maclean
said, “Before we start Phil, how are you fixed for accommodation?”

“I
only just arrived,” Parker said, “but if I don't want in I'll shove off back to
London. If I do I'll try to get a room somewhere for tonight.”

“Forget
about a room. You can kip at my place. It’s not far from here. I’ve got a spare
bedroom.”

“Thanks,”
Parker said. “You sure it won’t be a problem?”

“Absolutely
not. I live alone too. No one giving me grief. For the time being at least.”

Maclean
cleared his throat and looked at Parker. “The others know the set-up already
and they want in,” he said.

Parker
nodded. “Will it be just the four of us?”

“As
far as I'm concerned four's the absolute minimum needed to pull it off,”
Maclean said. “I’ve chosen you lot because I’ve worked with you before and I
know you’re good at what you do. I also know I can trust you.”

Parker
nodded. “Fair enough. So what is it we'd be up against? Bank, security van, factory...”

“It's
an island,” Maclean said, and Parker stared at him like he'd just grown another
head.

Stewart
guffawed. “That was my reaction too when he told me,” he said. “I thought he
must be fucking bonkers.”

Maclean
went on as if he hadn't been interrupted. “The island's called Stack,” he said.
“It's in the Hebrides, about forty five miles out from Oban and ten miles off
the coast of Mull. Population about two hundred and twenty.”

Parker
was aghast. “The Hebrides! There's piss all up there but a load of half civilized
crofters and bloated sheep.”

“Do
you mind?” Maclean said. “I'm from the island myself, left when I was a wee lad.
Would you say I was only half civilized?” He quickly held up both hands. “No,
don't answer that one. I'd rather not know.”

Inevitably
Stewart laughed and Hodge gave a little chuckle.

“But
seriously, Phil,” Maclean went on. “You can take my word for it that the
Hebrideans are not all gormless crofters. Far from it. You'll see what I mean
when you hear what I have to say.”

Parker
looked at his watch. “You've got a lot of convincing to do, Andy. These days
I’m choosy about what I take on. It’s an age thing I guess.”

“Then
I'll give you the best bit first.”

“Which
is?”

“Gold
– and lots of it,” Maclean said slowly. “I’m talking millions.”

Parker
stared at Maclean for a long time, letting the other’s words sink in. At length,
he said, “I don’t get it. How did a fortune in gold find its way onto a fucking
island that few people have even heard of?”

Maclean
smiled. “It’s lost treasure from a sunken wreck. A Spanish galleon to be exact.
The ship sank off the coast of Stack about four hundred years ago.”

“You
have got to be shittin’ me,” Parker said.

Maclean shook his head. “I’m deadly
serious. And let me tell you it’s fucking amazing. I didn’t believe it either
until I saw it with my own eyes.”

 
Parker arched his brow. “I thought treasure
went out with Long John Silver.”

“Trust
me it's up there on that little island just waiting to be grabbed,” Maclean said.
“All we have to do is go and help ourselves to it. I’ve already got a few
dealers lined up to take it off our hands. They’ll pay top dollar.”

Parker
sat back in his chair. His mouth had gone dry, as though it had been sprayed
with powder. He knew that if they told him the whole score now he'd be to some
extent committed, at least in their eyes, and he wanted to avoid that. But at
the same time his curiosity had been aroused. He wanted to know precisely what
Maclean had up his sleeve and why he was so sure of himself.

“All
right,” Parker said, coming to a decision, “So I'll take your word for it that
there's treasure up there. Now you can tell me who it belongs to, how that
person came by it, and how the fuck you intend to swipe it.”

THREE

In
theory the treasure belonged to the Crown, but it was unlikely that the
Receiver of Wrecks would ever know that it had been discovered three months
earlier, quite by chance, in just forty feet of water less than five hundred
yards off the island of Stack.

The
story of a sunken Spanish treasure ship somewhere beneath the waters of the
Inner Hebrides had been passed down through the ages. Historians believed it
was part of the Spanish Armada and that it went down in a violent storm off the
Isle of Mull in 1588.

Ancient
records showed that some Armada galleons headed round the north of Scotland to
escape the English and at least one of them was laden with gold and jewellery.

Over
the years scores of professional treasure hunters and salvage teams had gone in
search of the mystery wreck. But, as it turned out, they had been looking in
the wrong places. No one had ever explored the possibility that the ship had
met ill-fortune close to the sheer south-facing cliffs of Stack.

Yet
it was there, over four hundred years later, that one Ruari MacDonald, aged
eighteen, had come across it.

That
day was warm and sunny. The wind that usually belts down from the Minch was
having a rest and the isles of the Inner Hebrides were at peace with the
elements.

Young
Ruari, anxious to make use of his recently acquired aqualung, had managed to
persuade his father to take him out to the string of half-submerged rocks below
the island's high basaltic cliffs.

He’d
chosen that particular spot because he’d never before explored it. Unknowingly,
he had swum above the wreck for several minutes on that day before his
attention was drawn to an alien shape that stood out in the swirling grey
water. He was compelled by curiosity to take a closer look. He propelled
himself downwards and the sea floor rose to meet him, a rolling, twisting
terrain of various colours over which scores of tiny fish hovered with
lethargic grace. When he reached the dark oblong shape that protruded above the
sea floor, he found it had been uncovered by a subsidence in the floor at that
point. It was encrusted in a mass of thick black scabs that in turn were
partially covered by hard green coral growth.

 
He drew a long sharp knife from his belt and
worked at the scabs of black until he had chipped away about five square inches
of it. He hit metal then and moved his efforts to another part of the object.

It
took only a little while for him to realize it was a cannon. There aren't many
things that resemble it in shape and size.

Feverishly
he swam over the cannon, running his fingers delicately along its rough top,
and then began to slice away indiscriminately with his knife at other bits of
coral growth and black encrustations that did not seem to merge perfectly with
the scene as a whole.

It
took him only thirty more seconds to stumble on the wreck. Very little remained
of the huge, once proud vessel because over the years it had broken down into
heaps of decomposed wood and rusty metal.

Some
of it, thankfully, was in the grip of that ubiquitous black substance which
looked for all the world as if it had been poured over parts of the wreck while
molten hot and then allowed to solidify.

Ruari
explored the area while keeping a careful eye on his watch. In his mind he was
already making plans for coming back another time, equipped then with a full
tank of air and a pick.

Finally
it was time to surface. He had almost used up the air in his tank and probably
had just enough to get back up.

He
decided to take a piece of the wreck with him as proof of his discovery. He
lowered himself to his knees, cut away a chunk of the black substance which
enveloped a likely part of the wreck, and then gouged out a fragment of what
appeared to be more coral growth from underneath. It felt like wood, he
thought, and there were several sharp bits sticking out from it.

It
was a lump about the size of an orange and he was able to hold it in one hand
as he struck out towards the surface.

When
just that one piece of coral was later broken up it was found to contain seven
gold coins.

*

Naturally
Ruari MacDonald’s discovery caused a lot of excitement on the island. In the
week that followed Ruari went down time and again to the wreck and brought up
gold coins and small artefacts by the handful.

Others
who knew how to dive took turns as well and among the items they brought to the
surface was a silver dinner plate, more gold and silver coins, a few pewter
spoons, gold rings, and ornate necklaces and brooches.

Most
of the objects had been remarkably well preserved under that strange black concretion
which had prevented them from being attacked by corrosive elements over the centuries.

Since
it was such a close-knit community there was no question of finders-keepers. It
was assumed right from the start that although Ruari had found the wreck and
its treasure, it belonged to them all.

Meanwhile
Ruari and the other divers plundered the wreck without thought to its
archaeological value.

And
after two weeks they’d collected all the treasure they could find. They had unearthed
more than fifteen thousand coins, most of them gold, plus a sizeable collection
of small and obviously valuable artefacts.

Most of the islanders, particularly the older ones,
looked on the treasure a gift from God. For
so long they
had faced hard times. The dwindling population of 220, which had once numbered
1,500, was rapidly approaching danger level and it was feared by all that Stack
would join the list of Hebridean
islands
that had become uninhabited owing to the decline
in their populations.

On top of this there was no longer a fishing industry
on the island
where once it had thrived, and the islanders were these days just managing to
make ends meet through some tourism and by earning a few extra pounds from
side-line occupations such as weaving and oyster catching.