text: It was a usual afternoon at the Argyll St branch of the Bank of Scotland with customers queuing as they waited patiently to be served. A teller, sitting at her desk with a hollow look on her face, shouted “can I help someone over here’ to the que to call over her next customer. As the man approached she noted he was very well trimmed and wore smart casual clothes, the kind that don’t draw attention to oneself but still look very much look “I mean business”. Over the top he wore woollen coat and a white shirt underneath with the collar undone. His hair was short on the sides with longer dirty blonde wavy thick hair on top. As he approached she noticed his sharp blue eyes and stern look. She cracked a faint smile at the corner of her mouth. The teller was about to raise her voice when the man began to raise his hand. As it happens, she had caught her tongue just in time as the man was now pointing an M1911 pistol at her. Her vague presence at work had now passed and she felt every second as her heart started racing. The man whispered the words “call the police” in a confident tone, cracking a smile in the corner of his mouth. Moments passed with the teller doing nothing but trembling in her chair. The man impatient with not having his request made turned to the que and yelled “everybody down!”. Within seconds everyone had fallen to the ground with not one person standing the man moved towards the only door in the building. “I simply ask that you call the police” the man said in a non-threating and relaxed tone. When no one moved the frustration began to show on his face. He sighed and pull the trigger. Two rounds were fired at the wall adjacent to the entrance, no one was hit. “I’ll ask again, can someone please phone the police?” The door greeter stood up and walked slowly toward the reception desk, the man tracked him with the muzzle of the gun. Within in minutes the police responded. Police cars piled up around the building surrounding every means of escape. Sgt Millar was an older man who, through stress of the job, had not aged very well. For being only 45 his face was wrinkled and his hair was all but gone. “I’d do it all again” he thought every so often, “to protect my family and the families of this nation.” He stepped out of his vehicle and walked towards the door, his Glock 17 in hand and by his waist, two officers in bullet proof vests followed close behind. The automatic doors whirled open as they approached. They scanned the room quickly and saw, immediately, a gun on the floor and a tall man standing behind it with his hands raised. Millar walked the man off the premises and towards his vehicle in handcuffs. *What on earth did he want?* He pilled him into the car and then let himself into the drivers seat. “You had your fun? You’ll probably spend the rest of your young life in prison now you know?” he said with a subtle mocking tone. The man stared forward in silence. Millar, unsatisfied with the reaction, turn in his seat “what is wrong with you? High as a kite?” The man remained staunch, not even flinching he remained silent. At this point Millar started the vehicle and pulled off. About halfway through the journey the man finally spoke. “Which station are we going to?” Millar paused for a moment, trying to place the accent but couldn’t crack it, it seemed to be undoubtable Scots but had a blend of something else. “Giffnock” both of the men said in perfect unison. Millar scowled at the man in the rear view mirror. *What’s he playing at?*“So you’re from around here, are you?” Millar questioned the man. Once again though, he remained silent. About 10 minutes later the man blurted out once again, “your daughter, Beth, she’s wants to go to Heriot Watt to do engineering is that correct?” A mixture of emotions came over Millar as he asked himself how could he know that. “Patricia does deserve a promotion, you are right Scott, she works the hardest and should ask for a promotion.” Now Millar was fuming, his wife had had this exact conversation with him the previous night before in bed falling asleep, *how could he know that? Is he threating my family?* Millar decided to take things into his own hands, he took a right and headed down an unused farm road. When Millar eventually stopped he stepped out of the vehicle and stared at the abandoned barn. The weather had taken its toll on the structure. The steel was all rusty with many panels bent in the wind, some were simply missing. Millar walked the man inside the barn and stopped him in the centre. “What is your goal from all this?” Millar questioned. The man stood still. Millar paused to think. “Did you intend to be arrest...” the man interrupted, “how would you feel if your family knew about how you abuse your power? The drug gang pay offs? The paedophile rings you take part in? Your secrete affair?” Millar began to vent with rage. He was an upstanding member of the community. He would never do anything of the like. “How dare you, I would never do anything of the such!” Millar barked very offended. “I know about it all and I intend to let the information out.” The man said it with a straight and truthful face. This push Millar over the edge. Like a cosmic silver back, Millar slammed his fist off the man cheek. Blood spattered over the concrete floor of the barn as the man feel to his knees. Millar dragged him back to the car and pilled him into the back once again. The man spoke one final time just as they left. In a calm and collect manor he said, “you’re going to regret doing that.” Millar went home that night still thinking about the things that were said. *How could he know these personal details? And where did the rest come from? Has he mistaken me for someone else?*The words bothered him right until he went to bed, after which he forgot the whole situation completely. A week or so passed when Millar was sitting at his desk when his superior approach him. His superior was Captain Blair. She presented her phone open on the Daily Record with the main headline for today. It read “Police Sargent and Team Disgraced at Hearing.” A video showed the highlights of the hearing. It was a colourful event with witnesses and evidence that damned everyone within Millar’s team. From drug gang members to a women who claimed to have been Millar’s mistress. The cherry on the cake was a small boy who cried in the stand about the alleged times Sgt Millar abused him. Finally the man who Millar had arrested took to the stand, with a very bruised, cut and stitched face he struggled to speak of the time Millar threated him with is police authority and beat him for his money in a back alley obviously recognising him. Millar was shocked to see that the man was a Scots American self-made millionaire called Alexander Fraser. He had been in the news occasionally as being the richest Scot to ever lived, making his money in construction. Blair asked Millar what he made of this. Millar was stunned. Soon afterward Millar was told to go home as he was on suspension until further notice. Along with his team he was almost certain he’d never be able to show his face again. Over the days to come Fraser watched as the papers and news painted him as a hero and damned the police services. The fake witnesses, the makeup all told the story he had intended. This was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to strike fear among the ranks. What history could he pull up on anyone else? Most police officers wouldn’t mess with him now. Fraser decided to test this theory. Months on from the firing of Sgt Millar, at the Argyll St branch of the Bank of Scotland, the tellers were serving the afternoon customers when a familiar face walked in the door. This time Fraser wielded the gun from the beginning. “Hello again” he said with a cruel smile on his face. Everyone hit the ground. “This time I would like to see the safe”. A teller jumped to their feet and walked Fraser to the safe on the lower level of the bank, unlocked the door and ran back up the stairs. Fraser Helped himself to as much as pockets would fill. He didn’t really need the money, it was more for show. Police began to surround the building much like the time before bracing for a shootout. As they poised themselves they saw who was coming. The Sargent with the squad ordered them to lower their weapons. Fraser walked over and placed the gun on the bonnet of the vehicle and began to pull the cash from his pockets. He filled the pockets of the Sargent and the other officers as well. The officers were not very awkward about this and tried not to pay it any attention. The Sargent hesitated but went through with saying what everyone was thinking. “Sargent Millar was a good man” she said trembling. “It’s a shame the people he works for are not.” Fraser said with a hint of passion. He then wondered to the side of the building next to the underground station and didn’t move for a moment or two. Then a large roar occurred. Fraser drove round the corner in a white Lamborghini Gallardo. The sound of the V10 boomed off the walls of the surrounding buildings as he rocketed down Argyll St and then under the Central Tunnel. The Sargent, disappointed with the results of today, lifted the gun off the bonnet and climbed into her car. She noted the gun was offlay light and pressed the magazine release button. Nothing happened. It dawned on her the arrogance of Alexander Fraser. He robbed a bank, left the evidence with the police who reposed and all the while with an empty gun.