The Purple Contract Read Free Page A

multi-coloured lights of Glasgow, and saw nothing, nothing at all.
    ‘Bastard.' he muttered almost inaudibly. Then again, louder: 'Treacherous fucking bastard!’
    If it grew any hotter this grotty off-white plastic table would surely start to melt. And it would serve the miserable sods right. Tight-fisted Frenchmen for you: plastic f’r God's sake!
    'Bloody heating!' The overweight man grunted to himself. He glared enviously at the rest of the hotel's lunchtime patrons, all of whom had more sense than to select a table near to a radiator. A lot of them were grouped instead round the edge of the balcony bordering the mezzanine floor above him. The only empty table in the place was right in front of this damned radiator .
    In the corner the backlit LCD temperature display proudly updated its reading to 24 degrees centigrade. The fat man scowled and checked his watch, shifting uncomfortably in his chair and muttered, 'Come on, where are you?'
    As if on cue a waiter appeared in the doorway, an arm raised, pointing. His companion nodded in thanks and began threading his way between the crowded tables, wincing in the sudden heat after the chill outside. Glasgow in April is not exactly tropical.
    He was a youngish man, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties with an unruly crop of long blonde hair which totally dominated his face. A pleasant, open face and a ready smile for the two girls drinking cocktails and laughing together.
    'You're bloody late!' Ralph Manson complained, waving the waiter across. 'Two beers, and for God's sake fill them up with ice!'
    'How's it hangin', Ralph?’
    'Don't be cheeky, young Kevin,' Manson said without rancour. It was uncanny how like his old man the boy had become. Same charm with the ladies, same mop of blonde hair, same careful guarded eyes. So like his father. Manson had shared a cell with Andy Clerke in Wormwood Scrubs for six years. Andy had been serving ten for bank robbery and Ralph Manson eight years for drug dealing and “living off immoral earnings” as the charge had quaintly put it. Out of uncounted reminiscences and discussions through many boring and tedious days had arisen an acceptance that the biggest weapon the authorities could wield against organised crime was just that: organisation.
    They had talked about it endlessly, and by the time both had emerged unbowed and unrepentant within a couple of months of each other, plans were well developed to set up a “counter-intelligence” operation. It had become known as Clearman , from the two surnames Clerke and Manson. Organised crime responded with enthusiasm and––far more importantly––with funds.
    Clearman set about spinning a web of contacts and informants, using whatever means were convenient at the time, up to and including bribery and threat and menaces. Suitably qualified people were recruited or bought or blackmailed to provide technical advice when it was needed.
    In a short time the crime rate in London and the South east went up sharply and the detection rate went down. The response of course was inevitable. Over the next few years the authorities slowly but surely zeroed in on Clearman and finally the two originators had to cut and run. Nothing was ever proved against them although a great many lesser fish failed to escape the net.
    Clerke simply called it a day and retired, moving permanently to his extensive villa in Spain. Manson, always a careful man, already owned or partnered several business ventures in sunnier climes. He had been quite content to turn his back on his homeland, albeit under duress, for the liberal and far more outgoing atmosphere of Australia. After a good few years had passed, and memories faded, he had quietly moved back to the UK. Wisely staying clear of the south-east of England, he had settled in Glasgow and never regretted it. His penthouse apartment overlooking the river Clyde was his pride and joy.
    Manson watched the waiter return with the drinks and then climb the