“Don’t know what you’re on aboot, boss,” muttered Carson.
His rebuttal broke the banks that had been damming Hardie’s mounting rage, and the DC administered a stinging slap with his right hand, across the top of Carson’s ginger nut. Hardie grabbed him by the shoulder and rapidly spun him around on the swivel chair so that he revolved a full 360 degrees, twice, before coming face-to-face with both detectives again. The DC parked his over-ample derrière on the edge of the desk and smashed his handcuffs down on the wooden surface. Carson jumped out of his seat at the impact.
“Okay, wee man, hold them out and we can get you cuffed and in the Stewart Street taxi,” raged Hardie.
“All right, all right, for fuck’s sake. I’ll tell you what I know.” Carson had at last got the message.
“Good boy,” said Thoroughgood.
19
HARDIE PARKED the Focus just off the main road, and both he and Thoroughgood trained their eyes on the turnoff that led to Smithycroft Farm and considered their next move. The moment’s silence was soon perforated by the DS, “I’ve texted Morse to see if he can come up with any dirt on Boniek, and given him the address from the employment records. The wee man has been a bit quiet on the information front of late, and it’s time he sang for his supper.”
“Mmm, funny I was just thinking – it’s been a while since we had heard from wee droopy. I guess, given how close he was to Celine, it doesn’t exactly bring back happy memories for you when you have to deal with him. But if anyone’s going to know anything about some crazy Pole, the wee man has his ear to the ground as good as there is,” concluded Hardie.
“There’s no point in denying it, mate. You’re bang on regarding Morse, but needs must and he is just too good at what he does to leave him lying redundant,” admitted Thoroughgood.
Keen to inject some levity into the conversation, Hardie tried to change the subject. “Just wonderin’, gaffer, are you ever intending to replace the RX-8? I mean a bird like Vanessa must surely be accustomed to be driven in some style?”
Thoroughgood turned to his subordinate, but surprisingly there was a smile in his eyes. “The answer to that particular source of mirth is a Mini Cooper, and I plan to pick her up at the weekend. If that is okay with you, Hardie?”
Hardie threatened to spontaneously combust, such was the explosion of laughter that shook him, but after recovering his composure he continued on his line of enquiry. “Jeez! A Mini Cooper eh . . . bit of a hairdresser’s motor, if you don’t mind me saying. You sure there are enough horses under the hood to pull you out of bed, never mind get her Vanessa-ship down to Buchanan Galleries?” asked the DC with unconcealed glee.
“Your ignorance is staggering, my dear Hardie. We are talking 163 bhp of BMW engine. Tell me, just out of interest, how many miles that reconditioned Vauxhall Cavalier has on the clock . . . second time round?”
This time it was Hardie who found himself on the defensive. “What do you mean second time round? 96 thou’, for your information, and every one an honest mile.”
“Knight to Bishop’s rook, I think you’ll find my checkmate, now can we turn our attention to the matter in hand? If you don’t mind?” demanded Thoroughgood.
For once Hardie was happy to oblige, “Fair enough. A case of vorsprung deutsch technik you might say!” The frown on Thoroughgood’s face indicated the DS’ patience had now reached breaking point and Hardie moved swiftly on. “Talk about stating the bleedin’ obvious, that Carson kid doesn’t have two braincells to rub together. Boy, was that one hard work. Ah mean, we could just about have dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s with the information we got from the employment records. Still, for every pile of steaming horseshit we have to wade through, there is always the odd nougat!”
His gaze still on the entry road to the farm, Thoroughgood grunted, “Okay, we would have been coming this way to speak to Tomaszewski and Lewandowski anyway, but it’s a plus that we know for sure they’re still in contact with Boniek. The questions we need answered are, are they still tight enough with him to be harbouring Boniek? And if so, what does that mean regarding Sophie Balfron? I’ve asked uniform to check out Boniek’s address in the employment records.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” said Hardie, gunning the car into life and heading for the farm road.
At the top of the road lay an imposing whitewashed two storey building that was clearly the Smithycroft farmhouse. To its left lay a series of barns. The sound of cattle coming from one underlined the fact that the main source of revenue came through dairy farming.
“What’s the name of the farmer?” asked Hardie as he slowed the Focus to a halt.
“Jimmy Rogers. His old boy was evacuated here from Clydebank during the Blitz and stayed on to help out as a farmhand, and eventually the owner left it to him when he died with no heir. So, friend Jimmy has been here all his days, according to the info I have here. Seems a decent salt-of-the-earth sort with no previous or anything of interest to us.”
Thoroughgood’s need to consult his notes was now redundant. A burly, red-faced man, sporting a checked shirt and a tweed flat cap, strode up to the Focus just as the DS got out.
“Been expecting you, gentlemen. Jimmy Rogers is the name, I am the owner of Smithycroft Farm,” and with that Rogers offered a huge calloused paw to Thoroughgood and proceeded to crunch the DS’ right hand in his vice-like grip.
From the other side of the Focus Hardie chimed, “So the jungle drums work loud and clear in Stirlingshire, then!”
“Aye, they do indeed, Detective. I would imagine you are here to talk to my two young Polish friends?” asked Rogers, a question he clearly meant as rhetorical.
“What makes you so sure of that, Mr Rogers?” replied Thoroughgood.
“What went on up at Balfron Mill has been the talk of the ‘shire, Detective . . .”
“Thoroughgood. Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood and this is Detective Constable Hardie,” replied the DS. “You’re very well informed, Mr Rogers. Care to elaborate on what you mean by the talk of the ‘shire?” asked Thoroughgood.
“That business between Sophie Balfron and young Boniek. It’s not the first time her eye has been caught by a young buck.”
Thoroughgood let his stare linger on Rogers for a moment longer. “Look, Mr Rogers, I am sure you are very busy and keen to be about your business. Maybe we will come back to you to confirm a couple of things, but what I really need to know is if you have seen or heard anything that would confirm your two hardworking Poles are still in contact with their countryman, and just exactly where they are right now so we can have a word with them.”
Rogers frowned, “Look, I haven’t seen or heard anything that would suggest the boys are still in touch with Boniek. But at the same time it wouldn’t surprise me if they were, given they are all Poles in a foreign land and all that. But if you are asking me, and I know you ain’t, I just don’t see Boniek being the type that would harm a fly, never mind commit armed robbery and murder. It just doesn’t add up for me.”
“With respect, Mr Rogers, it is our job to make it all add up,” said Hardie “So, if you don’t mind, where are the dynamic duo right now?”
“They’re both down in the bottom field, fixing some fencing that got busted in the storm last week,” Rogers pointed down the track that led past the side of the barns. The farmer glanced at the skies overhead and added helpfully, “Best hurry if you want a chat with ‘em, don’t think rain is far away.”
“Ever heard of a mobile, Mr Rogers?” asked Hardie, dripping sarcasm.
“No reception in certain parts round here, Detective,” replied Rogers, almost as sarcastically.
Before Hardie could answer, Thoroughgood did so for him, “Thank you,” said the DS and began heading down the track.
“Oh, Detectives,” called Rogers from behind their retreating backs, “I’ve got a couple pairs extra gumboots for you, might be an idea, what with the fields being waterlogged and that.”
/> Thoroughgood turned round. “I’m not planning on leaving the track, mate, but thanks for the offer.”
“Suit yourselves, Detectives,” said Rogers smugly, and they did.
After they had walked for about 600 yards down an increasingly muddy track, which descended into a gulley, initially hidden from view, the noise of hammering became loud and clear.
“Sounds like our Polish, whatever you called them, are busy, gaffer.”
“Przyjaciel is the Polish for ‘friend’, Hardie. But unlike us they got here via transport, by the looks of these fresh tracks.”
“Aye, well, by the time we get there they’re gonnae have a right laugh at us Gus, feck’ sake, my suede penny loafers are ruined and look at the state of my troosers,” moaned Hardie.
“Maybe that will encourage you to take a trip to Slaters sometime this century, then!” said Thoroughgood as the source of the hammering finally came into view.
Tomaszewski and Lewandowski were so engrossed in battering fence poles into the ground that they did not notice the detectives until they were within 15 feet of them.
“For fuck’s sake that’s it! Cowshit all over my loafers, how in the name of the wee man am I supposed to get that cleaned off brown suede without ruining the buggers?” exclaimed Hardie.
“Maybe you should have had the boots, my friend,” said the taller of the two overall-clad men, in an unmistakeably accented delivery, while his dark-haired mate, who was holding the post up, let rip with a chuckle.
Hardie said not a word but the look on his face made it plain that he was far from happy.
“So, which one of you is Tomaszewski and which is Lewandowski, my prize przyjaciels?” asked Thoroughgood, pausing a couple of feet from the taller man, who had now brought the mallet he had been using into a semi-defensive position in front of his midriff.
“Gratulujes! I guess that makes you detective,” said the one with black hair as he leaned over the post that had been half-hammered into the ground by his mate, adding, “Why you want to know . . . przyjaciel?”
Thoroughgood took a step forward until he was less than a foot away from the man and, whipping out his warrant card he rammed it into his face, “Listen to me, smart arse. I ask the questions and you provide the answers and, if you do, everything will be just fine. Comprendez?”
Black hair remained frozen, his chin resting on his knuckles which remained on top of the post, and the silence was broken by one word, “Culik.” Thoroughgood turned just in time to see the big Pole swinging the giant mallet down towards his head.
20
THE MALLET slashed down just wide of Thoroughgood’s head and he could feel it whistling through the air before it smashed into the post which had previously been propping up a head of black hair.
While Thoroughgood remained motionless in shock, Hardie was not about to pass up the opportunity for retribution. With all of his weight forward, the larger of the two Poles had left his right flank unguarded and Hardie took a step forward and smashed a fist into his midriff with everything behind it.
Black hair lunged towards the DC, only to have his legs taken from him by Thoroughgood’s right foot. As he hit the deck, the DS landed on top of him, grabbing his hair in his right hand, ramming the man’s face into the mud and slamming his right knee into the small of his back. “Kurwa!” he spat.
His friend, winded by Hardie, had dropped to one knee, wincing and breathing heavily, but still clutching the mallet menacingly. Hardie held his distance and tried to parley.
“Listen, mate, I think we got off on the wrong foot with you boys. Let’s just have a wee chat before we end up calling for the seventh cavalry and you two find yourselves in custody and taking the first steps back to Mother Polska,” he said curtly.
The big man still had vengeance in his eyes, but decided to offer an olive branch. “Okay, boss. What you want to know?”
Hardie offered his hand to the Pole, “Your name would be a start, big fella.”
The Pole took Hardie’s right hand and, in pulling himself to his feet, almost toppled Hardie off his, but a smile flashed across his craggy features. “My name is Robert Tomaszewski and friend over there is Artur Lewandowski.”
The outbreak of peace was enough to persuade Thoroughgood to release the pressure of his right knee on Lewandowski’s back, and slowly he pulled him backward by the wrists.
“Easy, fella – our dry cleaning bill is going to be bad enough without any more WWF moves,” quipped Thoroughgood.
Black hair regained his feet and turned to face the DS, but remained poker-faced, “I am Artur Lewandowski. So what you want, detective?” he spat, with some venom in his accented English.
“Oh, I think you know exactly what we are after, my friend, or rather, who we are after. Where is Jan Boniek?” asked Thoroughgood.
“How we know, detective? We have no seen him since he lost us jobs at Balfron Mill at Christmas,” said Lewandowski.
Before Thoroughgood could continue his line of questioning Hardie interjected, “C’mon mate, we aren’t going to buy that. We’ve got a witness at the Mill says he’s sure you’re still in touch with him, and your gaffer Mr Rogers seems to think that is the case too. Listen pal –the bottom line is, Boniek is gonnae drown in a sea of shit of his own creation and if you don’t help us you’ll find yourselves without a paddle, and going under with him.”
At this, the two Poles exchanged nervous glances and began a heated discussion in their impenetrable mother tongue.
At length, Tomaszewski addressed the two detectives. “Yes, Detective, you are right, we have been in touch with Jan since we all lost our jobs, but not how you think. He stay in Glasgow, in place called Maryhill.”
Hardie could not help his gnarled features breaking into a smile, “Ah, hairy mill. Where else would you want to stay in our fair city? Your cooperation is greatly appreciated, my Polish friends, and wisely offered.”
Relieved, Thoroughgood concluded what had turned into an informal interview with a word of warning. “Listen boys, if this all checks out then I am prepared to forget about our little altercation today. If it doesn’t, then you have my word we will be back and your spell in Scotland will be over. Do you understand me?”
“It is understood,” said Lewandowski and handed Thoroughgood a piece of paper on which he had quickly scrawled the address where Boniek could be found.
The journey back to Glasgow was spent dissecting their meeting with the Poles. The address in Maryhill had in fact turned out to be in the Possil area, in contradiction to the employment record, which had Boniek housed in Dumbarton Road. Thoroughgood had radioed it in, along with a description of Boniek, for local uniform to make what was their second home address check.
“Hopefully the wooden tops will pick him up, but I still don’t think we’ve got to the bottom of this one, Hardie. What do you reckon, old son?” asked the DS.
Deep in thought, Hardie completed blowing his mouthful of smoke out of the car window and then flicked the remnants of the Silk Cut out of the vehicle. His craggy features remained expressionless as he gripped the steering wheel and pushed the button to close the window.
“Thank gawd for that, do you think we will ever complete a car journey without your window going up and down more times than a whore’s drawers?” demanded Thoroughgood.
“Doubt it, with regard to the second of your questions,” answered Hardie with a smirk. “With regard to the first, I’d have to say your Polish przyjaciels are telling us nothing like the whole truth. I can’t help thinking there is a twist to all of this, but until we get our hands on Boniek, who knows what that is?”
“I dunno, faither. Do you think we should have Section 14’d them? I would be happier if we had them in and detained until the address checks out, or not, as I suspect may be the case.”
“Being honest with you, Gus, I’m just glad we got out of there without gettin’ the shit kicked out of us. They were tasty all right and I didn’t fancy our chances in a catchwe
ight contest. How long do you think it would have taken for the cavalry to arrive? Christ, can you imagine the mess that big fucker would have made of us with that mallet? Nope, gaffer, I have to say that in this particular case, discretion was definitely the better part of valour. Plus, we would have had to have brought Central Scotland plod in to detain ‘em, given this is all on their turf, and do you see these two widos waiting about for that to happen? I’ll bell Central Scotland and get them to put a watching brief on our Polish chums,” said Hardie.
Thoroughgood’s impatience was made clear when he rapped his fist on the vehicle dashboard. “All right, try this one for size, Hardie. Sophie Balfron is abducted from her place while her old man has his throat cut right in front of her. The original idea behind the Balfron turn looks like it is a robbery, but then something goes wrong on the job, not least that the gang leader is left fatally wounded by Balfron in self defence. Then, as the rest of the gang beat a hasty retreat, one of the three remaining amigos blows his mate’s head off. Although I don’t see the slug that put Drummond out of his misery coming from our mystery man, my guess is it was a mercy killing by one of the others. Yet still Sophie Balfron is nowhere to be seen. You starting to get my drift?”
“So Boniek is the unknown gang member, and he and Sophie are now on the run together as a couple?” asked Hardie.
“Exactly, plus, our Polish pals know exactly what is going on and I’ll bet you ten to one they also know where they are holed up. That’s why the area searches in Strathclyde and Central Scotland have come up blank. They’re being concealed.”
“So the address in Possil is a fanny, and one meant to buy them time while they try to get Boniek and Sophie Balfron out of the area?” asked Hardie.
“Elementary, my dear Hardie.”
The Longest Shadow Page 9