“Fair enough. He’s pretty much a match for Boniek. Why don’t we split up and you come round from the roadside of the van and I’ll continue down the footpath. And when we have him back at the vehicle we can have a cosy little chat with Mr Janek Boniek,” said Thoroughgood before applying a quick pat on Hardie’s shoulders, “Take care, faither.”
“Roger that,” replied the DC, crossing the street towards the farmers’ market that was gradually springing to life just across the way, in an area known quaintly as Mansfield Park, little more than an old, blaize football pitch.
Thoroughgood slowed his pace and held back, tight in the doorway of a shop just two up from the bakers, and waited for movement. Within moments he heard whistling coming from the baker’s doorway and the dark-haired male they had seen earlier strolled out of the premises, pallet in one hand.
Thoroughgood made his move and jogged towards the vehicle, but as he peered round the back of the van the man turned round, alerted by the footsteps. He clapped venomous grey eyes on Thoroughgood and cursed out loud in his mother tongue, “Skurwysyn!” as he smashed the pallet over Thoroughgood’s head, sending him staggering back into a parked Volkswagen. Quickly, Boniek twisted around and made his way towards the driver’s door, only to feel Hardie’s fierce grip on his right shoulder. Spinning round, he hammered his left fist into the side of the DC’s jaw and Hardie sagged onto the side of the van.
The man jumped into the cabin and gunned the engine just as a police vehicle shot down Hyndland Street. Setting the van in motion he attempted to turn it around, just as Hardie seized the driver’s door and yanked it open.
“Out of there you bastard!” he shouted, as he tried to grab hold of the steering wheel, but Boniek hissed at him, “Nie, matkojebco,” and rammed his elbow into Hardie’s face, sending the DC flying through the air before he crash-landed on the road. The delivery van hurtled down to the bottom of Dumbarton Road only to be met head on by a second police vehicle.
Thoroughgood grabbed Hardie and propped him up against the Volkswagen as they watched the van heading straight for the panda car. With a full-on collision pending, the only word that came out Thoroughgood’s mouth was, “Shit.” But at the last minute the van swerved to the left of the Panda and turned into Dumbarton Road. By this time the air was ablaze with sirens and as the van attempted to shoot along Dumbarton Road, in the direction of Partick Cross, another cop car blocked its way.
“We’ve got him bottled up, gaffer,” said Hardie rubbing the side of his face.
There was only one route Boniek could take to make good his escape and the realisation dawned on Thoroughgood, “Oh no we haven’t, he’s turnin’ left now. Jesus, he’s gonnae try and smash his way through the farmers’ market!” Thoroughgood sprinted across the street, vaulted onto a car bonnet and used it as a launch pad onto the brick wall that encircled the market, all the time keeping one eye on the delivery van.
The sound of screeching as rubber burned on tarmacadam brought an end to the van’s progress along Dumbarton Road and it swerved viciously to the left, heading straight for the market. There was a loud crash as it ploughed through a set of railings and headed straight for the first green and white striped stall, as the early morning customers milling around the stall began to realise the danger they were in.
A thickset middle-aged man threw himself onto the stall table to avoid the vehicle surging straight for him. A woman grabbed her child up in her arms and ran as screams pierced the morning.
As Thoroughgood landed on the blaize surface to the left of a stall selling Highland game, he saw the van shooting straight down the middle of the market with pedestrians diving out of the way like skittles in front of a giant white wrecking ball.
To his horror, an elderly wheelchair-bound lady hadn’t heard the ensuing mayhem that was erupting all around – unaware of the certain death that was hurtling towards her as she examined some wild boar salami. Thoroughgood knew he had seconds to save her and threw himself across the five yard gap between himself and the old dear. As he slapped his hands on the back of the wheelchair the elderly woman began to screech, “What the devil . . .?” However, as she was propelled across the gap, the danger that was just about to send her to her maker became apparent and her face was framed in a look of sheer horror as one elongated scream left her mouth.
The van roared by, missing them by a yard as it seared Thoroughgood with a backdraft of hot air. With no control over his own direction of travel the DS careered into a deck chair and smashed a Thermos of piping hot coffee into the air which came down like a thousand minute blistering hot geysers on top of him, as he lost his footing and thudded to the ground. Thoroughgood was not the only one to have his momentum stalled. As he rolled up onto his feet he saw the van shoot through a stall full of hanging bird carcases and eventually come to a halt, embedded in the railings behind it.
The driver’s door opened immediately and Boniek jumped out and broke into a sprint, but Thoroughgood had a head start on him and before he gained any real momentum the DS lunged at him, wrapping his arms around his torso and slamming Boniek into the stall’s green and white striped tarpaulin roof, now wrapped around the truck.
23
AS THE duo landed on the tarpaulin, Thoroughgood felt his grip start to slip. Boniek broke his right hand free and smashed his fist into Thoroughgood’s jaw with crunching power. The blow was enough to knock Thoroughgood onto his back and the Pole attacked viciously.
“Now, I fuck you good, Polijca,” he spat and rained a vicious two-fisted barrage down on the DS.
Thoroughgood took a blow on his forearm as he tried to cover up fast, but the hand that followed cracked into the side of his head and he felt his senses reeling. Another punch thudded into his ribs and, as he desperately tried to grab one of the fists of fury that were threatening to beat him to a pulp, he left his head unguarded and Boniek, who was now on top of him, grabbed his jacket and smashed his forehead into Thoroughgood’s nose.
The DS cannoned back into the tarpaulin and he could already see, through the bloody mist shrouding his vision, that Boniek was off and running again. Struggling to get to his feet, Thoroughgood found himself less than steady as a shout from his right snapped his attention away from the receding back of the Pole.
“Jeez, Gus! You’ve taken a bleaching there, mate!” said Hardie, arriving on the scene at the double.
Ignoring Hardie, Thoroughgood’s attention was once more on Boniek and the look of horror enveloping his smashed face made Hardie follow suit. “Oh fuck . . . surely not?” said the DC.
Boniek was closing in on a parked ambulance, about 200 yards up from the farmer’s market, at the top end of Hyndland Street.
Thoroughgood broke into an unsteady run and Hardie followed suit.
The ambulance driver placed his hands on the top of the vehicle steering wheel and began to drum his fingers in time to the music as the Stereophonics’ Dakota blasted over the airwaves. Jimmy Cairns’ impatience at the length of time his partner, Senga McVeigh, was taking at the Polish deli down the street, was growing by the minute.
His gaze trained avidly on the view through his windscreen, he was brought back into the real world with a bang as his door was ripped open and a dark haired male snarled, “Out.”
“Get tae fuck,” spat Cairns in enraged defiance and found the Pole’s right fist pounding him in the face for his trouble.
With the ambulance driver temporarily stunned, Boniek grabbed him with both hands and smashed his head off the steering wheel. Then the Pole hauled him out of the cabin, throwing him onto the pavement like some naughty schoolboy. As he did so, a female voice shouted, “You bastard, get out of my wagon!” and already halfway into the vehicle, Boniek felt the driver’s door being yanked open again.
Quickly, he rammed the door with his boot, sending the green-suited ambulance technician flying back and onto the bonnet. He grabbed the door, slammed it shut and gunned the engine, thankful that the key was still snugly in the i
gnition; engaged gear and slammed his foot on the accelerator as Cairns frantically pulled Senga clear.
Thoroughgood ripped open the Focus’ door and jumped into the driver’s seat, starting the engine up as Hardie finally reached the police vehicle and, gasping for oxygen, jumped into the passenger side. Both detectives had kept Boniek in view as they had run for the car and now they saw him mount a u-turn with impressive dexterity as the ambulance crew dived clear of their vehicle.
“Bastard’s going back up Hyndland Street for Highburgh Road,” said Hardie.
“Never mind stating the bleedin’ obvious to me, faither, tell it to Control,” rapped Thoroughgood as his foot hit the accelerator and the Focus shot off in pursuit.
The ambulance gathered speed as it sped past the Cottiers Bar and Theatre complex for the junction with Highburgh Road, and as it did so Hardie couldn’t help himself articulating his dread. “He’s got to be taking a left and be heading for Great Western Road, otherwise he’ll have to double-back on himself, if he’s heading for Byres Road,” said the DC.
With Thoroughgood’s foot to the floor the Focus locked into the emergency vehicle’s slipstream, just in time to see the ambulance’s emergency blue light start to flash and the wail of its siren fill the air. As it arrived at the junction it began to turn right.
Thoroughgood’s view was restricted as the Focus shot up the narrow road running parallel with Cottiers, but while the ambulance disappeared to the right at the junction, the mayhem the manoeuvre had caused was brought home to both detectives when a bottle green Volvo shot into the fencing directly opposite the junction in its attempt to avoid the emergency vehicle. As the crash of the impact echoed in their ears Hardie gasped, “He’s fuckin’ mad.”
As the CID car edged out of the junction Thoroughgood could see the ambulance surging down the middle of Highburgh Road towards Byres Road, with vehicles on the opposite side of the road swerving crazily to avoid it. As it did so Hardie blurted out an update on its direction of travel, and the accident it had caused, to Control. Now the police vehicle followed in its wake with the blue light attached to its front grill flashing its own warning.
“Fuck me gently, the middle of rush hour and this mad bastard is gonnae ram right through the junction with Byres Road and fuck knows what kind of carnage that will cause,” said the DC.
“The punters have a fighting chance with the ambulance siren on and the lights flashing, but it’s University Avenue after that and with two pedestrian crossings to negotiate and all these bloody students headin’ for their 9am lectures . . .” Thoroughgood’s words trailed off as the vehicle hit the junction with Byres Road.
Boniek had not dropped any speed and as he hit the junction the lights miraculously switched to green and, overtaking the waiting vehicles, he sailed through. As he did so the Focus began to close the gap to within 50 yards.
“What next, Gus?”
“Direction of travel update and see if we can get a Panda with a stinger to set up on his likely route of travel. I’m betting the maniac is heading for Charing Cross and a sharp exit along the M8 East,” said Thoroughgood.
As Hardie updated control, the vehicle tore up the hill that was University Avenue. The pedestrian crossing outside the John McIntyre building came into view – it was teeming with students.
“Sweet Jesus,” said Thoroughgood.
Boniek seemed to have picked up speed, but despite the sirens and the blue flashing lights warning of the ambulance’s approach there was a fatal delay in the message penetrating the minds of the young academics lost in matters of their alma mater.
As realisation began to dawn on those crossing, screams and shouts of warning pierced the air.
For some it was too late.
A knot of four students were caught on the road between the pavement and the central island. The ambulance shot straight at them.
The impending terror grabbed Johnny Franks’ attention at the last minute and his scream of, “Get off the road!” had such sheer terror in it that everyone in his group of friends was, at last, aware of the danger they were in. Johnny dived at the girl nearest him. His momentum knocked her off her feet and onto the central reservation. The couple between him and the ambulance were not so lucky.
A sickening thud filled the air as the vehicle’s bonnet sent their bodies somersaulting before the young academics landed with two dull thuds. The scene played out in a surreal slow motion that had Franks retching at the sight. The sausage roll and beans he’d just had for breakfast at the Hub now all over the road. The ambulance surged on.
Hardie updated Control, asking for an ambulance to attend the locus immediately as the screams of the students pierced the air.
“There’s nothing we can do for them mate,” said Thoroughgood as he carefully negotiated the mayhem and continued after the ambulance.
The emergency vehicle had hit the bottom of University Avenue and turned left, heading for Gibson Street. Thoroughgood continued his pursuit.
“Where the fuck is the cavalry?” demanded the DS.
“Got a city centre unit in Woodlands Road,” answered Hardie, before adding, “Fuck all good that will do us, we’ve got to stop him before he takes out any more punters, Gus.”
Thoroughgood’s eyes remained trained on the ambulance as it hit the lights at the corner of Gibson Street and screeched right. “He’s gotta be heading for the M8. Tell Control to get that fuckin’ Panda and any other woodentops in the area to block it up. Christ, where are the fuckin’ Traffic when you need them?” raged Thoroughgood.
“Probably doing a granddad for a baldy tyre, bunch of bloody jobsworths,” answered Hardie.
His foot to the floor, Thoroughgood brought the Focus up alongside the ambulance and yanked down left, ramming the cop car into the side of the ambulance as the roundabout materialised up ahead. The emergency vehicle veered sharply from the impact, but Boniek steadied it and then pulled his steering-wheel hard to the right.
The force of the contact quivered right through the Focus; Boniek flashed a feral smile at Hardie and mouthed “Fuck you,” as the cop car cannoned over onto the other side of the road.
Suddenly a cyclist, his eyes wide in sheer terror, appeared in front of the police vehicle.
“Bloody hell!” screeched Hardie.
The cyclist clamped his eyes shut and waited to be turned into mincemeat, but miraculously slipped through a small gap that had opened up between the ambulance and the cop car and made his way unscathed straight down the middle of the road.
Thoroughgood regained control of the Focus to see that the only way he was going to negotiate the roundabout was by going round it on the wrong side. The double decker bus coming his way meant his chances were slim to non-existent.
“Shit!” cursed Hardie as death headed their way.
24
BETWEEN THE double decker and the roundabout lay their only hope. Thoroughgood knew he had just one chance to avoid the bus and he would have to manoeuvre at maximum speed. He rammed his foot to the floor and the car shot into the gap – the filling in a sandwich between the double decker and the edge of the concrete roundabout.
The DS gritted his teeth and clamped the steering wheel with both hands until the whites of his knuckles showed. Hardie shut his eyes and muttered something about gratitude to the big man upstairs if they made it out unscathed. But as the Focus surged into the gap the double decker, its driver’s face enveloped in blank shock, had already begun to close in and the sound of metal on metal screeched its agony through the air as sparks shot out from the collision.
The contact was enough to knock the Focus into the edge of the roundabout on its passenger side, and as it hit the kerb the vehicle began to fly as daylight filled the space between the Focus and the road.
“Throw yourself onto your door!” yelled Thoroughgood as he wrestled with the steering wheel. Hardie did as he was told. The DS cannoned sideways into him to put more force into the impact. It was enough to stop the vehicle tip
ping any further and they breathed a collective sigh of relief as the thud of the offside tyres hitting the ground allowed them to breathe again.
The run-in with the double decker had cost them vital moments and the ambulance was clear and continuing on its route to Charing Cross. The hum of blades from above told them that the police helicopter had now been mobilised, but Hardie was more interested in ground reinforcements, “Where the fuck is plod?” he snapped just as the sound of sirens in the distance answered his question.
“Get in there! We’ve got the bastard!” said an elated Hardie.
The cavalry had indeed arrived, and the off ramp to the M8 had been blocked by a Traffic car. Its crew quickly threw down their stinger device in front of the oncoming ambulance, barely glancing at it before sprinting to comparative safety behind their car.
Spotting that the slip road heading in the direction of Sauchiehall Street and Charing Cross had not been completely closed, with only one Panda car in a blocking position, and realising just how futile that was, Sergeant Jim Brough gave the police helicopter full throttle and surged over the ambulance as it fired along Woodlands Road.
Brough turned his machine around and dipped until he was hovering above the lane that would provide Boniek with an escape route out of the bottleneck. Brough’s number two, Cammy Thompson, trained his Heckler and Koch out of his side of the chopper as the traffic cops used their loudhailer to order Boniek to stop.
The single finger raised by Boniek from the steering wheel was the only reply they got from the Pole. As the ambulance roared out of Woodlands Road, Boniek immediately saw there was no hope of making it onto the motorway and a quick glance to his right confirmed North Street, immediately to his left, was jam-packed with morning traffic. Ahead lay his only hope.
He pressed the accelerator to the floor and raged, “I fuck you all, pigs!”
The Longest Shadow Page 11