“Anything else while you’re at it, Detective Sergeant?” responded a sarcastic female voice coming from the other end of the radio.
“Nope, that should do for now,” replied Thoroughgood and replaced the hand-held radio on its holder.
“Why is it that nothing we ever get involved in is simple, gaffer?” asked Hardie.
“‘Cos that’s the way the man upstairs likes it, faither, and there ain’t nothing we can do about it. Now back to Stewart Street, pronto.”
14
DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT Valentino Tomachek kept his eyes trained on the post mortem report and the previous convictions print-out that charted the life and times of the late Joseph Melville Drummond. Then he looked up, swept Hardie and Thoroughgood with a piercing gaze and said two words, “Bad bastard.”
“PC’s going back all the way to his days at the Borstal. A real nasty piece of work, and one who specialised in armed robberies like security vans, betting shops, plus a nice little turn back in the nineties on a payroll office at one of the shipyards down in Clydebank. But he’s been quiet since he got out of Peterhead two years back. Well, quiet as far as we knew.”
Switching his attention to the post mortem report Thoroughgood continued, “Interesting! Although he’s been blown away by Balfron’s shotgun, it says here that the fatal gunshot wound was a single shot from a .40 calibre handgun to the back of the head. Well, well . . . although the shotgun wound from Balfron’s firearm would have been fatal eventually, somebody else put Drummond out his misery.”
“Compassion amongst armed robbers. Who would have thought it?” added the DS.
It was Hardie’s turn to chip in his tuppence worth, “Aye, he’s tasty all right, and so are his associates. Frankie Grimes is his number two on 70 percent of the armed turns and one look at his PC’s shows you he probably likes a bit of violence with his Frosties first thing in the morning. Feck me he’s a ‘cant’ as dear old John Thaw used to call ‘em in The Sweeney.”
Tomachek pointed his briar pipe at the paperwork, freshly printed off from the crime management system, which now sat on Hardie’s lap, and asked, “Anyone else in Joe’s gang?”
Hardie nodded. “John ‘Jammy’ Gilles. Safe blower, getaway driver and bog standard number three, I would say, in a good number of their turns. There is a fourth member of the gang, a Billy Nichol, but there is one problem with him, boss.”
“Yes?” asked Tomachek, his impatience starting to show.
“He’s brown breid, boss,” answered Hardie with some relish.
Thoroughgood shifted uncomfortably in his chair, positioned parallel to Hardie and opposite the intimidating desk that now had Tomachek’s brogues resting on it. The detective superintendent joined the discussion, “Interesting, indeed. So we have a team who usually operate four up but in this case are one down . . .”
Before Thoroughgood could continue in an orderly fashion, Hardie had interrupted. “Just like one of these bloody crossword riddles you are always bleatin’ about in your Torygraph, gaffer.” Remembering that his senior officer was also present Hardie quickly added, “Apologies, sir.”
“Yes, yes, Hardie. Very witty, no doubt. Get on with our crossword, Thoroughgood,” ordered Tomachek.
“Well, boss, we have two vehicles used on the turn so you are obviously talking two drivers. For my money that means that Drummond has gone into the farmhouse first but, even tooled up, would he have gone in alone? The answer to that has got be no.”
Hardie could not help himself, “The other thing that backs up DS Thoroughgood’s hypothesis is that Drummond never got beyond the door.”
“Mmm,” said Tomachek, simultaneously billowing out tobacco smoke, “Plus you have the two vehicles outside and both the drivers are probably loading up with the cargo they’ve come looking for, while Drummond and
A N Other have gone into the farmhouse to empty the safe. Sounds like a bally inside job to me,” said Tomachek.
“Exactly,” agreed Thoroughgood. “I think we can put our money on Gilles and Grimes as two of the gang still at large, but it’s the third member we don’t have a Scooby about. He’s got to be a new kid on the block, so to speak, and that complicates things, big time.”
“Never mind complications, Thoroughgood. All I want is a plan of attack from you and I want it now, Detective Sergeant.”
Thoroughgood cleared his throat just as there was a knock on the door. It opened and a svelte female shape, that even a police uniform failed to hide, arrived. “Apologies, Detective Superintendent Tomachek, but you wanted the results of the search of the farmhouse and the surrounding area brought to you as soon as they were complete,” said the WPC.
Tomachek’s attempt at a benign, almost paternal, smile failed to disguise the wolfish intent in his eyes. “Indeed I did, WPC MacDonald.”
The WPC leaned over the desk to place the paperwork in front of Tomachek, and this time it was Hardie and Thoroughgood who had their professionalism tested.
“Ah, yes, I should introduce you, WPC, to detectives Thoroughgood and Hardie, as you will no doubt find yourself coming into contact, er, in the professional sense of the word, with them. A couple of reprobates who occasionally find time for the odd bout of good detective work.”
“Pleased to meet you, WPC Macdonald,” Hardie was first, offering an awkward handshake and receiving a warm smile for his troubles.
Thoroughgood remained motionless in his chair and offered a lukewarm smile, although her dark complexion and ample curves had registered on his radar, before enquiring, “How you doin’?”
“Very well, Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood,” replied the WPC, before adding with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Thanks for asking.”
She turned to face Tomachek, “If that is all, sir?”
“Yes, Natalie, that will be all for now. Many thanks for this.” And with her presence no longer required, MacDonald left the room with three sets of eyes following her rear view out the door.
“Any luck?” asked Hardie as Tomachek scrutinised the search results.
The shaking of the DS’s pipe betrayed an agitation in their superior officer that was ominous in the extreme.
“Sweet Christ . . .” were the only two words that escaped Tomachek’s mouth and at that the detective superintendent shoved the paperwork across the desk towards Thoroughgood.
He scanned the information before him, “Our worst nightmare, boss, in my opinion.”
Hardie’s patience had snapped and he grabbed the paperwork, “Fuck me gently. Gilles and Grimes both found dead at a steading with fatal gunshot wounds. Along with an abandoned Luton van which had clearly been recently stuffed full of prime cuts of meat.”
As Tomachek ran his left hand through his grey hair he felt both detectives’ eyes upon him. Silence reigned.
Thoroughgood broke it. “So basically, what we have here is a gang member who is completely unknown to us, and for whom we have no means of identification, who has just polished off two off his amigos and is on the run with Sophie Balfron.”
Before Thoroughgood could continue, his superior officer interrupted. “What was the calibre of the weapon Gilles and Grimes were ended with? .40 by any chance?”
“Bang on, sir,” replied Thoroughgood, immediately realising his unintentional pun.
A slow, one note whistle escaped Hardie’s mouth before he articulated the thought that all three shared, “Our mystery man is making Drummond look like a pussy cat.”
“He is indeed, Hardie, but what matters now is what you two have planned next. Whatever it is, I suggest you get cracking, detectives, and by that I mean now,” demanded Tomachek.
Inclining his head, Thoroughgood pushed back his chair and caught Hardie’s glance as he did so. They had work to do, but not a clue where to begin.
15
ROBERT ROXBURGH made his way through the mirrored entrance doors of the Diamond Palace Casino filled with new found resolve that the deal with the Gwai Lo would save himself, his family and
the Glen Lomond Distillery. His hopes had been boosted by the phone call he’d taken from his mother, Lady Elizabeth, late the previous night, in which she had underlined her willingness to throw her weight behind the plan. The launching of the new Dark Ocean liqueur at an exclusive event at the Hall was one he felt sure his new Chinese business partners would go for.
Climbing a set of marble steps, he was escorted by a shiny-suited member of the casino staff to a small lift that delivered them to the third floor. The silence in the lift was deafening but the suit, known only to him as Lam, stared relentlessly at Roxburgh, his cruel, dark eyes pulsing with with contempt.
The Triad leader’s stillness was unnerving as he remained frozen, gazing out of the third floor window and looking along the River Clyde. Raymond Cheung’s hands remained motionless and crossed behind his back. Although Lam had announced Roxburgh’s arrival Cheung showed no sign that he had heard a word.
A surge of anger burned through Roxburgh, unused as he was to being made to wait by anyone, but all too acutely aware that he had no choice in the matter. Slowly Cheung turned around and locked a piercing gaze on the man who was about to provide a whole new veneer of legitimacy to his business enterprises. He gestured to the seat opposite his large black desk and Roxburgh sat down as he was bid.
Cheung remained standing, but his failure to extend a handshake of welcome had been noted by his visitor. At last the Triad leader spoke, “Viscount Lomond, how nice of you to find the time to visit my humble establishment,” said Cheung without a trace of sarcasm. Briefly he rubbed his fingers along the designer stubble that chequered his face then reached for a set of papers on his desk. “There is no point in wasting time, my dear Roxburgh. Ours will be a marriage of mutual convenience as we have previously discussed at some length,” Cheung pushed the papers towards Roxburgh, “there is nothing there that will surprise you, except perhaps the penalty clause.”
Roxburgh’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, “What penalty clause?” he demanded.
“Come, come, Viscount Roxburgh,” said the Oriental, once again fingering his stubble but penetrating Roxburgh with his dark, unreadable eyes before adding, “Do you think that the Gwai Lo will bankroll your business, save your family from financial shame brought upon it by your, shall we call it weakness, without some form of surety?” Cheung steepled the fingers of both hands together and presented a picture of icy composure, garbed in a black suit that had the most luxurious sheen to it. He left his question hanging in the air.
Roxburgh ruffled his immaculate blonde hair before clearing his throat, “There was no mention of a penalty clause in our previous discussion, Raymond. The deal was that you would be a sleeping partner, that I would continue to retain control of the distillery and its produce, in return for the profit division being 70/30 percent in your cabal’s favour and of course, the successful launch of the new Dark Ocean signature liqueur.”
Cheung smiled wickedly. “But I have, how do you say, had to move the goal posts, my friend. Unfortunately, my bosses back in China are not as generous in their trust of you as I am. So a penalty clause has been inserted, as you will see if you examine the contract.”
Roxburgh’s eyes flitted across the printed paper and he felt his temperature rise almost feverishly as he searched for the words which would confirm just how much the Gwai Lo had him by the balls.
At last Roxburgh’s eyes locked on the clause that underlined how horribly reliant and utterly vulnerable his ‘weakness’, as Cheung had described it, had made him, and now his family. Despite himself, Roxburgh could not help but read aloud the words that confirmed how much he was risking by climbing into bed with the Ghost Men.
“Should 80 percent of the profit targets fail to be met within the Asian markets, then control of the Lomond Distillery board will cede to the Gwai Lo and the position of Robert Roxburgh will be reduced from managing director to non-executive director. Further control of the day-to-day running of the Lomond Distillery will be ceded from control of Alexander Roxburgh, who will also become a non-executive director.”
Roxburgh slapped the papers down on Cheung’s desk and attempted to use his years of military training to retain control of the rage mounting within him, all the while aware that Cheung was continuing to scrutinise him from behind an ice-cold gaze.
The frozen silence was fractured by Cheung. “If I was in your position, my dear Roxburgh, the question that I would be asking myself is what choice I have? Do I need to provide the answer to that question?”
Roxburgh’s brilliant, blue eyes blazed with an anger which made Cheung flick a cautionary glance to his bodyguard Lam, who stood just inside the door. In response to the warning, the henchman’s right hand slipped inside his jacket, his fingers clamped on the Glock that nestled in his shoulder holster.
However, Robert Roxburgh was a realist. Although his pride was being stripped from him, he knew that there was only one path down which he could proceed if all he held dear was to be preserved. He stood up in an explosion of movement that underlined the athleticism of his earlier years. The detached calm that Cheung seemed to wear like a cloak was ruffled and behind the Viscount, Lam took two steps forward and pulled the Glock halfway out of his jacket.
Roxburgh surprised Cheung for a second time when he offered his right hand across the Triad leader’s desk in placatory fashion. “You are right Raymond, of course. But I am also confident that in pooling my expertise in the industry and contacts within the market, and your distributional skills and ability to take our exciting new product to new market places, that the penalty clause will never come into play.”
Roxburgh’s hand continued to hover in the air above Cheung’s desk for a second until slowly, the Oriental got to his feet and enveloped the Viscount’s hand in a tepid grip before his face at last showed some sign of satisfaction. “Excellent,” said Cheung as his eyes signalled that Lam could re-holster his pistol. “It will be a pleasure doing business with you, Viscount Roxburgh, and one that I am confident will be to our mutual benefit.”
Roxburgh had one further surprise up his sleeve for the Gwai Lo’s leader, and from within his sports jacket pocket he removed a small leatherbound flask and quickly popped two miniature silver, leather-encased cups from it, before pouring a dark golden liquid into both vessels. “Would you like a drop of The Dark Ocean?” asked Roxburgh.
Cheung was hooked as the involuntary gasp that came out of his mouth emphasised, “Aah, excellent, Viscount Roxburgh. I am most impressed. You have been very busy.”
Roxburgh now seized control. “Dark Ocean is a blend of aged Scotch whiskies and herbs such as anise, cloves and almonds, plus heather honey and citrus fruits. As you can see it has a deep, dark gold colour and of course, the type of distinctive and unique flavour you would expect. If you will, Raymond, take a sip and hold it on your tongue, just for a moment. Let the luxurious, creamy wave of tangerine and honey wash over your taste buds.”
The Triad boss took a sip from the handleless cup and let some air escape from within his teeth as his taste buds were tickled.
Roxburgh pressed home his advantage, “Now, place the cup a few inches from your nose and savour the rich and complex aromas. The sweet tang of syrup, herbs, citrus and the subtle hint of whisky will slowly reveal its many attractive virtues.
“Perfectly balanced, it is a taste that lingers long on the palate and one I am sure, that will make the Gwai Lo and the Glen Lomond Distillery a fortune,” concluded Roxburgh, delighted with the impact of his product on the Triad boss.
Cheung smiled his appreciation of the liqueur, “I have no doubt that it will, Viscount Roxburgh.”
“What we need now, Raymond, is a launch event to capture the imagination of the whisky industry and the relevant sector of the Scottish public. An event, that with the right sort of people present, will allow us to send advance publicity to your homeland that the Dark Ocean signature whisky liqueur is very much appreciated by the type of person they revere, and would like to be assoc
iated with through our new and exclusive product.”
Re-seated, Cheung kept his eyes locked on Roxburgh, “Indeed. I can see the benefit in that Viscount Roxburgh. What do you have in mind?”
“On Saturday week, within the grounds of Roxburgh Hall, we will host the launch event for Dark Ocean. Already, my family have been busy utilising our contacts to make sure the event will be covered by the right publications, including an exclusive photo shoot with Hello! magazine and naturally, attended by the great and the good as we call them in Scotland.” Roxburgh came up for air as he allowed the picture he was painting to take shape in Cheung’s mind.
“Furthermore, Vanessa Velvet, the fashion entrepreneur I’m sure you have heard of, has agreed, through her friendship with my younger sister Victoria, to host a charity fashion show at the event.”
His confidence growing by the moment as the impact of his words washed over Cheung’s features, Roxburgh added, “I hope that is a date that is compatible with your schedule?”
Cheung nodded and reached down to pick up the leather cup. Examining it with interest, the Triad leader fingered the three initials, LVR, which were stitched into the leather in gold thread, and marvelled at its antique nature.
Reading his thoughts, Roxburgh spoke. “Those were my grandfather Ludovic’s flask and drinking vessels. Hence the initials, LVR. They accompanied him both on the disastrous invasion of Dieppe in 1942 and the triumph that was D-Day, a couple of years later. So they have an important part in my family’s history. I felt it fitting you should have your first taste of the Dark Ocean from a vessel that had accompanied my grandfather on one of the most important days of the Roxburghs’ history.”
Cheung lifted the leather-encased vessel to his lips and drained the contents. Then he stood up and this time offered his hand to Roxburgh. “You honour me Viscount Roxburgh, and it will not be forgotten.”
Roxburgh quickly replenished both vessels and proposed a toast. “The Dark Ocean.” They charged their cups and basked in the warmth that spread through them from the liqueur which they both believed would make them a fortune.
The Longest Shadow Page 7