Trail of Greed: Fighting Fraud and Corruption... A Dangerous Game (25 page)

The sixteenth is a dog-leg left where you have two choices – play straight, but not too strong or you’re in the trees or try to cut the corner over a strategically placed bunker and a chunk of heather on the left.

I chose the former strategy and Keith the latter. Keith didn’t quite clear the corner which meant he was in the heather and I, unfortunately, connected with more than my usual effectiveness. I watched with anguish as my ball bounced once and disappeared into the trees.

We were in no particular hurry as there was no one on the hole behind. So Keith set off to look for his ball while I headed off across the fairway into the trees.

“See you on the green,” I said cheerfully as I kept my eye on the spot where I had seen my ball disappear. Keeping one’s eye firmly fixed on the line is the key to not losing too many golf balls. You don’t look around you but walk in a straight line to the spot that you have registered. One of the first lessons Dad had given me when I was a wee lad.

But this was one occasion when I shouldn’t have followed his advice.

I entered the trees, pulling my caddy car behind me and searching the ground for that pesky little white ball.

I was about ten yards into the trees when they jumped me. There were again two of them. They must have been hiding behind the trees waiting. Looking back on it I suppose that if I hadn’t drifted into the trees on that hole they would have moved up to the seventeenth or the eighteenth. It didn’t change much. I was grabbed from behind by a pair of very strong arms and a hand rammed a cloth against my face, drenched in some kind of chemical. I gagged. I had no chance to shout out to Keith before my head started spinning and I lost consciousness.

It was a total surprise. I had no time to think. No time to struggle. No time to realise what had happened to me until sometime later – I had no idea if it was five minutes or fifty – I came groggily to the surface and found myself in the back of a car, blindfold, being driven to some unknown destination.

When I stirred and groaned my way into consciousness I was made aware that there was someone sitting beside me. I presume I was in the back seat. I was told roughly to shut up and keep quiet. I obeyed. There didn’t seem much point in doing anything else as I couldn’t move anyway. My hands and ankles were firmly bound by what felt like some kind of nylon cord.

After about ten minutes the nausea had abated and my brain started to function again.

I had recognized David Firkin’s voice. I presumed that MacLean must be the driver. This didn’t surprise me. What had taken me unawares, however, was the speed of reaction. Never underestimate the opposition. I had done exactly that. They had moved much faster than I had expected.

Steven’s information had given me a possible motive that I imagined could, to certain people, justify getting rid of two people – me and, more importantly, Dewar. I had no doubt that Dewar’s death was murder even although I had no way of proving it.

Wasn’t the eternal question that the police asked themselves when trying to solve any murder “Why?”?

There had to be a motive. The reason might turn out to be strange to others but, to the perpetrator, it had to be sufficiently strong. That’s where I thought Pierre’s theory fell down. It didn’t seem strong enough to me for murdering two people. Even if Dewar did know of Reid’s involvement in AIM it just didn’t seem to be enough of a reason to need to murder him.

Like a fool I had wanted to gather a bit more evidence before acting. The fact that it was starting to look as if I had been right was no comfort. I was in trouble. And because I’d kept my suspicions to myself, I couldn’t rely on any outside help.

A short while later I was aware that we had turned off the main road and we seemed to be travelling up a long driveway. I could hear the crunching of the gravel under the wheels and there was no longer the noise of other traffic. Although the car was travelling slowly the driveway seemed quite long until we eventually came to a halt.

The driver got out and came round to my side of the car and opened the door. He undid the cord that was around my ankles and hauled me to my feet. No loosening of the blind fold. No untying of my wrists. Without a word he took me by the upper arm and proceeded to pilot me forward.

I stumbled on a step.

“Twelve,” he said tersely. He hauled me up the twelve steps and, once again on level ground, we proceeded forwards. I could sense that we had gone through a door. I was still in my golf shoes and the noise made by my studs changed from stone to what sounded like wood and then to carpet.

We turned right. I could hear the noise of a door being opened and I was pushed through into what was, presumably, the front room of whatever this building was.

Any attempt I made at asking him what this was all about was met with total silence. Silence is not only frustrating but also very unnerving – especially if you are bound and blindfold. I tried to tell myself that perhaps I could talk myself out of this. Anything to keep the mind positive.

I could hear the noise of a chair being pulled over behind me and I was forced down into it. My legs were quickly bound to each leg of the chair and my hands were untied. I could in no way struggle. I couldn’t match the strength of my captors. My hands were immediately and firmly tied to each arm so that I was completely immobile. My escort then left, having checked that I was completely secure and I heard the door close after him.

I could do nothing but sit there and wait. I had a suspicion I knew where I was but no way of being sure. What seemed to confirm my idea was the total absence of noise.

My senses had given me the impression of a building of large spaces and, as far as the entrance and this room were concerned, sparsely furnished. Small rooms with lots of furniture absorb noise and don’t give off the same echoes. And once I was alone there was total silence. No birdsong, no traffic noise in the distance. Just complete stillness.

I must have been left there for about twenty minutes but I had no way of telling. Even with vision it wouldn’t have helped because I wasn’t wearing a watch. I don’t when I play golf. I hate the thing rattling around on my wrist.

Then the door opened and I sensed the arrival of several people. I could feel two walk past me and a third stopped just beside me. The blindfold was removed and I was able to take in the situation.

I was sitting in the middle of a fairly large room of the style you would associate with a large country house. It was on the ground floor. I was partly facing three bay windows looking out onto a lawn of some sort. In the distance were trees. It was obviously a large well-to-do property. High ceilings, tastefully wallpapered and carpeted. There was little furniture – a table against one wall with a drinks tray on it. The two arm chairs in the corner facing me were occupied by my expected acquaintances, Firkin and MacLean. They were watching me carefully. The door must be behind me.

I turned my head to take in the man standing beside me. It was indeed Gavin Reid looking much as I remembered him. Portly, balding, dressed in a two-piece suit. He had a glass of what I presumed was whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was looking down at me coldly and dispassionately.

I reacted as naturally as I could. “What the hell is this all about?” I asked. He looked at me for a second without replying. Then, without any change of expression other than a faint glint in his eye he took a cigarette lighter out of his pocket, flicked it on to give a healthy flame and bent down and applied it to the bottom hem of my cotton golf trousers.

“Hey!” I yelled at him. “What are you doing?” He offered no explanation but held the flame steadily until, with horror, I realised that my trousers were starting to catch fire. The flame caught gradually and I started to feel the heat as it crept slowly upwards. I struggled and wrenched at my bonds – anything to try to avoid the pain that I knew was coming.

It didn’t take long. Within seconds I could feel the scorching intensity of the flesh burning on the front of my shin. I screamed.

Reid walked slowly over to the drinks tray by the wall and picked up a soda siphon. Without any hurry he came over to me and aimed it at the burning cloth. He pressed the lever and a heaven-sent jet of soda water extinguished the flame and left me gasping for breath after the sheer hell of the burning.

I felt sick. I had burst out in a sweat. I was facing a maniac was all I could think of. He looked down at me with an evil smile.

When the immediate relief effect of the water had disappeared I realised that my shin was badly burnt and it started to hurt like hell. This guy was a torturer – and not one of those ones who does it against their will (“This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you!”) but a real sadist. A man who took pleasure from inflicting pain on others.

I yelled across at the other two, “Stop him, for God’s sake!” Little reaction. They did at least have the grace to look a bit uncomfortable about it but it was clear they were not going to do anything.

I looked up at Reid who was standing in front of me, seemingly totally unperturbed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I yelled at him, hauling at my bonds in the hope that I could free myself. All I achieved was more pain from grazing my wrists and ankles.

Reid walked over to the table, stubbed out his cigarette and set down his glass.

He took off his jacket and hung it carefully on the back of another chair and came over to stand in front of me – still with that evil grin on his face.

“Mr Bruce,” he said “I’ve just given you a taste of what might happen to you if you do not cooperate with me. You have stuck your nose into affairs that should not have concerned you and you are now going to suffer the consequences. I warn you now. You are completely within my power and I can do exactly what I want to you. I admit that I enjoy inflicting pain. Always have. I don’t know why but that’s the way it is and you, unfortunately, find yourself in a situation where I can enjoy myself to the full.”

He walked round the chair and, without warning, lashed out at the side of my face. This time the pain was momentary but the shock effect was considerable. The force was such that the chair very nearly toppled over.

“What is it that you want?” I gasped. “I need information from you,” he replied. “But not too quickly, otherwise I won’t have the opportunity to have my fun.”

The matter-of-fact manner that he said this filled me with dread. The burn was stinging and throbbing like crazy. My head was still ringing from the blow. I was horrified by what he might think of next. And I was right to be.

He continued talking as he prepared for his next trick. I had great difficulty in concentrating on what he was saying while I watched him.

“I would like to know why it was that you started looking into the affairs of AIM.”

He was emptying things out of a large cardboard box that was lying on the floor over by the wall.

“I would like to know what you know about any connection between AIM and a certain Mr Bill Dewar.”

The first thing he took out was a poker which he laid on the floor in front of me. He then took out a blowtorch which had a small canister of gas attached to it. This he also put down on the floor beside the poker.

“I would like to know why you decided to visit AIM the other day and what you discussed.”

He then took out an extension electric cable and an iron which he proceeded to connect up to the socket in the wall. He placed the iron on the table. He turned to me.

“In short, I wish to know everything that you know, and I wish to be utterly convinced that everything you tell me will be the truth.”

He picked up the blowtorch and lit it with his lighter. When the flame was suitably strong he picked up the poker and applied it to it.

“Are you willing to talk?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said desperately, hoping that there was a degree of bluff in his pantomime. “I’m prepared to discuss anything with you if you will untie me and let me up from this chair.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he replied. “Now let’s see if this is hot enough yet.”

He removed the end of the poker from the flame and without any reticence whatsoever walked over to me and lowered it onto my thigh.

“Shit!” I cried out and my whole body convulsed. He took it off after only two seconds but that was enough to have burned a hole right through my trousers and leave a searing gash on my skin. It was agony. The smile turned into a leer.

“Now you’ve seen what the poker can do. We’ll soon be passing on to the iron when it’s suitably heated up.”

He walked over to it and picked it up and turned the surface up towards him. He spat on it. The spittle sizzled and evaporated in seconds. “Not quite hot enough yet.”

I was in one hell of a mess. The two goons in the corner were going to do nothing. I was at the mercy of a madman who should be locked up and there was nothing I could do about it.

“Look, if you let me loose I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“Or guess?” “Or have guessed,” I confirmed. “Just let me up and put those damned things away.”

He stepped forwards and slapped me again. Once more it wasn’t the pain but the shock that created the effect.

“Bruce, I’m not mucking about here. I want everything you know or have guessed about AIM and if I don’t get it fast I’m going to really go to town on you. In fact, I don’t honestly think you’ll survive it.”

He was starting to perspire. Beads of sweat had started to appear on his forehead. His bloodshot eyes were lit up with eager anticipation of the plans he had for me. And I could do nothing.

He picked up the poker again. “No,” I screamed. He ignored me and applied it for even longer to my other thigh. The pain was viciously intense. You couldn’t call it unbearable because I bore it. I had no choice. But it seemed to notch up every nerve ending in my body. I screamed and retched. I couldn’t stop myself.

Coupled to the pain this time was the smell of burning flesh. My own flesh. There was a horrific wound, black and bleeding, across the middle of my thigh, about a foot long.