Inverness
10 a.m.
April 17th
Peter Mason arrived at Inverness rail station, close to ten in the morning. He knew that he was booked on the night train, but he also knew that he had the option to trade the ticket for a single ticket going south during the day. He’d had enough of trains. He wanted to be more independent. He knew that the credit card would stretch to a rental car, but that would leave a trail.
He caught a bus out of the city going north towards the Moray Firth. Sure enough, within fifteen minutes he’d found himself on the Carse Industrial Estate. After getting off the bus he wandered around the various units, scanning the car parks. He wanted an old car, the kind with visible pull up locks. He found what he was looking for under trees in the car park of a delivery firm. The owner of the mid nineteen-eighties white Alfasud Ti, a classic hatchback, was going to be devastated by the loss of his pride and joy.
Mason pulled up his hood, knowing he looked suspicious, but wanting to avoid the CCTV getting too good an image. He didn’t mind that he had been seen on other security systems CCTV cameras, it was being recorded committing a crime that counted; just being around when it happened wasn’t a crime. He was shielded from the building partly by the small trees lining a pathway, which ran through the estate.
He pulled a 30 centimetre piece of nylon parcel binder from his rucksack, creased it, slid it in through the driver’s side window and worked it down to the knob topped door lock release, on the inside; making a loop, by pushing one end of the binder, he slid it over the lock, pulled both ends tight and lifted the lock. The door opened easily. He learned that trick out in Asia. Most of the cars out there were old and the security was easily by passed with the nylon parcel binder. He angled himself into the car, pulled the door closed and lay hidden below the steering wheel. His six inch lock knife did for the plastic around the key ignition and within moments of rewiring the ignition he was driving out of the estate.
It didn’t take him long to find a residential area. It was there that he swapped number plates. He’d had to find a car with a square plate at the back. Having found a Suzuki Jeep he’d had to lay between that car and the one parked behind to hide from prying windows, it being broad daylight. Walking, casually, the short distance between the Suzuki and his stolen Alfa he fixed opposite plates back on both cars, with an industrial strength, quick drying glue, also from his rucksack; Mason had a lot of neat little tricks up his sleeve, or in this case his rucksack.
With that done he checked a convenient map in the car and drove for Glasgow. Checking the petrol gauge he knew he’d make it. The little Alfasud handled really well and had a good amount of ‘kick’ in the gear box. He sped onto the A9 Stirling bound. Having looked at a map he knew he’d get the M80 into Glasgow from there. After that he’d either get a train or plane, depending on the circumstances.