As the ambulance surged towards the roadway just under the helicopter, Thompson unloaded his H&K. It was a difficult shot given the movement of the chopper, and the burst of gun fire merely polka-dotted the ambulance roof while the vehicle kept coming.
The helicopter continued to hover about 12 feet off the ground and Boniek knew that this gap was the eye of the needle he had to thread the ambulance through, if his hopes of escape were to remain alive.
He gritted his teeth as the ambulance ploughed relentlessly on and the gunfire stopped, Boniek realising the police marksman must be reloading. Just as the ambulance drew under the helicopter there were two loud bangs and the windscreen shattered in front of Boniek, covering him in a hail of glistening glass.
The helicopter’s landing stanchions had caught the ambulance at the juncture of its roof and windscreen and as Boniek stared wildly through the remains of the windscreen he could hardly believe what he was seeing.
Brough grappled with the joystick with all his strength as he tried to counter the vicious blow that had sent the flying machine spiralling into a somersault.
He could not right it.
“Jesus Christ!” were the last two words he spoke in this life.
The chopper began to topple and, for a moment, time seemed to stretch, before it dropped out of sight and onto the M8, underneath the Charing Cross flyover.
Reality was resumed with a vengeance by the vicious explosion and giant fireball caused by its disintegration on the roadway beneath, as a cacophony of horns and the screeching and rasping of metal on metal filled the air from below.
Boniek was through the cordon and the ambulance shot up Sauchiehall Street with only one vehicle in pursuit
25
BONIEK VEERED left into Sauchiehall Street leaving behind a backdrop of flame and destruction but Thoroughgood had closed the gap as Hardie continued to broadcast an update on his direction of travel.
Once again the Pole surprised his pursuers by sliding left across the three lanes and, as he passed the Garage nightclub, he swung the ambulance left up Garnet Street.
“Bad move, fucker,” said Hardie as the lack of width and the severe gradient of one of the city’s smallest streets slowed the ambulance to a crawl before a violent lurch suggested that the Pole had overdone his gear change.
“There’s a primary school around the bend, and you know what that could mean,” said Thoroughgood.
However, as the ambulance crested the hill it caught a kerb and its lack of momentum brought it to a shuddering stop. The driver’s door swung open and Boniek jumped out of the cabin and took to his heels. Thoroughgood rammed on the handbrake and, grabbing the Maglite Torch out of the driver’s door holder, did likewise.
“This time you’re mine, fucker,” spat the DS, bursting into a sprint.
He reached the corner of Renfrew Street just as Boniek glanced backwards and in doing so, ran straight into a group of green-blazered school kids, knocking two over as he went flying along the pavement. Thoroughgood knew this was his opportunity to catch the Pole and thanked God for all his hours on the squash courts as he closed the gap to within 10 feet. Boniek rolled out of his fall and regained his feet before charging off. The DS knew there was no point in trying to broadcast the direction of the foot chase. He needed every available breath to try and catch his quarry and hoped that Hardie had made it out on foot in time to take in the pursuit and radio in.
Thoroughgood’s eyes swept the street scene and he noticed the Glasgow School of Art coming into view to the right of the pavement he was now pounding. So had Boniek. The Pole took the steps two at a time, under its wrought-iron archway and up to its strangely sinister black wooden doors.
As he hit the bottom of the steps, Thoroughgood glanced up at the doorway – and disbelief and horror swept over him simultaneously. Coming out of the doors was Victoria Roxburgh.
Boniek reacted instinctively and grabbed her long brown tresses before spinning her round so that her back was against his chest and a glinting six inch blade of cold steel was pressed against her sallow skin. Victoria Roxburgh screamed.
Thoroughgood drew to a halt on the second bottom step.
“Now, cop, you stay fuckin’ back or I slit bitch’s throat!” spat Boniek.
Thoroughgood raised his right hand in an open-palmed gesture of acquiescence, “Okay amigo, you hold all the aces. But where is this gonna get you, Boniek? Janek isn’t it?”
The unmistakeable sound of what seemed like a hundred sirens told Boniek his odds of escape had shortened dramatically and for a moment his gaze slid from Thoroughgood and down over the backdrop of Renfrew Street. Thoroughgood eased a foot up on to the third step, but the Pole spotted his opportunism. He jabbed the blade over Victoria’s shoulder and straight at Thoroughgood,
“One step more, she bleeds,” he barked as he rammed his back into the door and dragged Victoria through the opening.
As they backed into the reception area, Boniek quickly wheeled Victoria round and propelled her to the foot of an imposing stair at the back of the foyer. The security guard at the reception desk interrupted his conversation with a female student as he spotted Boniek holding the blade to Victoria’s throat. He jumped up and ran across the foyer just as Thoroughgood raced through the doors.
“Let her go, you nutter!” shouted the guard.
Boniek pushed Victoria Roxburgh onto the steps, turned and buried the blade in the guard’s guts before wrenching its bloodied steel back out.
“Chuj ci w dupe,” spat the Pole, grabbing Victoria by her hair and dragged her up the steps. She screamed.
Thoroughgood crouched over the security guard and tried to offer him some reassurance, “Hold on in there, mate, help is on its way.” Behind him Hardie, newly arrived, could be heard spitting out an assistance request for an ambulance.
Looking up, Thoroughgood saw his neighbour standing above him, “Nice of you to turn up. Can you hold the fort here?” he asked.
“No problem,” said Hardie and took hold of the security guard. Thoroughgood pushed his way through the throng of jostling students all trying to get an eyeful of the carnage that had just erupted. Waving his warrant card in front of him he yelled the words, “Police! Out of the way!”
Reaching the first floor, he almost ran into two teenage males. Breathlessly he panted, “Police! Did you see . . .” but before he could finish the sentence the larger of the two teenagers blurted out, “He’s got Vicky Roxburgh. They’ve gone up again.”
Thoroughgood smiled his gratitude and as he surged up the stairs he could hear Boniek’s gutteral voice coming from above him.
Reaching the top floor Thoroughgood took a moment to regain his breath, the blood pounding in his eardrums as he scanned the area in front of him. A corridor, lined with what appeared to be white neo-classical Greek busts, stretched out before him and the sound of receding footsteps and a female’s sobbing told him that Boniek and Victoria were some way down it.
He broke into a slow run, not wanting to sprint in on anything without giving himself the time to react. As he turned a corner he once again came face to face with the Pole and his captive, half-silhouetted in one of several archways.
Just ten feet away Boniek booted over one of the plinth-mounted classical figures and it smashed on the ground between them. “You stay there cop,” he snarled, yanking Victoria’s hair, forcing an exhausted scream from his hostage.
Thoroughgood played for time, “Come on, Boniek. Is this how you treated Sophie Balfron?”
A look of surprise spread across the Pole’s features, “What you mean, skurwysyn?” he demanded.
Thoroughgood took a step forward and his foot crunched on the shattered plaster of the broken bust.
“Get back, pig,” raged the Pole, alerted to Thoroughgood’s encroachment.
“Listen, mate, we both know there is no way out of this for you. The building is surrounded and it’s up to you how you get out of it, either on yer feet or in a pine box, amigo, I do
n’t give a fuck. But let the girl go. She has nothing to do with any of this.”
Boniek refused to play ball and tightened his grip around Victoria’s neck, dragging her backwards towards a sunlit corridor that seemed to be made entirely of glass.
Thoroughgood’s eyes stayed locked on his quarry. “So, the fox is about to enter the hen run.”
“Go to hell, scum!” Boniek snarled, and with all his power the Pole shoved Victoria straight at the DS and disappeared into the brilliant sunlight behind him. For the second time since they had met, Thoroughgood found himself holding Victoria as she sobbed into his arms, but while he muttered words of reassurance his eyes had not left his quarry. Boniek had retreated down the glass corridor, immediately aware that he had nowhere to go.
“Listen, Victoria, can you be brave for me? I need to take care of this situation, so can you make your way back down the stairs? Help should be on the way, and most likely you will meet my colleague, Detective Constable Hardie, on his way up,” said Thoroughgood looking into her eyes with all the calm and reassurance he could muster
Victoria’s brown eyes locked on his, arresting his gaze for a moment he didn’t want to end, “Yeah, take care, Gus,” she said.
He smiled at her, took his hands from her shoulders and ran into the sunlight.
26
THE WOODEN floorboards creaked uncomfortably as Thoroughgood stepped forward and his eyes became accustomed to the brilliance of the early morning sunshine piercing the glass that surrounded him on the top floor of the Art School. Boniek was 20 feet away, desperately kicking a door that would not give.
“It’s over, Boniek, now tell me what the fuck you have done with Sophie Balfron.” Thoroughgood declared as he advanced towards the Pole.
“You think so, pig?” shouted Boniek, and threw himself at Thoroughgood.
The blood-gored blade sparkled in the sunlight as it descended towards Thoroughgood, but the DS met it full on with steel of his own in the shape of the Maglite Torch and sparks flew as torch met knife. Thoroughgood rammed his knee straight into the Pole’s groin with all his might.
Boniek doubled over and Thoroughgood smashed his right hand off Boniek’s jaw. The rage in the DS gave the blow more force than any he could remember throwing, and the Pole was thrown across the corridor and smashed into the glazed panels encasing it.
As Boniek’s body made contact the crack of the impact was instantly followed by the splintering of the wooden frame holding the windows in place and a look of terror engulfed Boniek’s face as he realised death beckoned, a hundred feet beneath him.
Thoroughgood threw himself across the floor and grabbed for the Pole’s bloodied white coat, as Boniek, desperately grasping at the shattered wooden frame, began to slip through the smashed glazing.
Grabbing the coat with both hands, Thoroughgood held Boniek, suspended half in, half out of the window.
“It’s your choice, you piece of shit! I drop you out the window and no-one knows that it wasn’t self defence – or you tell me everything, fucker.”
Boniek hovered in suspended animation, his life was in the balance but his defiance remained intact. “You drop me, pig? I tell you nothing,” and he flashed a feral smile before adding with dripping sarcasm, “Please, no drop me, Mr Policeman.”
Although he remained defiant, Boniek’s hold on life was becoming increasingly precarious, the weight of his body ripped off one of his coat lapels and he lurched down in a vicious movement. His right hand shot up and Thoroughgood grabbed it with his left, but his grip instantly began to slip.
“Come on, you bastard, help me here,” growled Thoroughgood as he transferred his right hand from the remaining coat lapel and locked it onto the Pole’s hand.
A voice from behind offered help, “Hold him steady, Gus. I’m almost there,” shouted Hardie.
Too late.
The Pole’s icy grey eyes remained locked on Thoroughgood as his hand slid through the DS’ grip. Thoroughgood tried one last time to get the information he needed,
“Where is she, Boniek? C’mon man – do you want to go to your death with Sophie Balfron’s on your conscience?”
“Matkojebco,” snarled the Pole and spat in Thoroughgood’s face as his hand slipped free and he began his descent into oblivion.
Thoroughgood pushed his way through the cordon of uniform cops and walked down the steps at the entrance of the Art School, still shaking from his encounter with Boniek and its implications.
As he did so his attention was hooked by Victoria Roxburgh sitting in the back of an ambulance, a blanket wrapped around her and Hardie, his notebook out, taking her statement. As he joined them Victoria looked up and smiled.
“I hope DC Hardie is taking good care of you, Miss Roxburgh,” said Thoroughgood awkwardly, aware of the crowd of people that had gathered outside the building and were filling the street along with the emergency services vehicles.
“Please, call me Vicky,” she said “I’m fine, Detective Sergeant, thanks to you. But what happened to that man? He was a foreigner wasn’t he?”
“Polish, as it happens, and I’m afraid he didn’t make it. But the main thing is you are okay, Vicky, and that we get you checked out at the Royal. Shock can do funny things to people and you’ve certainly had one today.” smiled Thoroughgood.
“But thanks to you, Detective Sergeant, I still have tomorrow to look forward to,” said Victoria Roxburgh.
27
AS HE strode into the main lounge of Roxburgh Hall it occurred to Robert Roxburgh that every time he did so he seemed to be riddled with feelings of guilt and dread. This time, however, neither could compete with the feeling of nausea as he contemplated the task ahead of him.
The result of his younger brother’s post mortem was now known and he had persuaded the authorities to keep it private until he had broken the news to his mother and sister, both of whom now awaited him, seated together on one of the room’s elegant chaise longues.
Robert sought some comfort from the welcoming warmth of the fire that crackled within the imposing marble fireplace, spreading its warmth throughout the Scott room. Propping his elbow on the mantlepiece, he took a deep breath and delivered his message.
“There is no way to do this, other than to cut straight to the chase, Mama. The post mortem has come back and we now know the cause of Alexander’s death,” Robert took another gulp of air and continued. “I am sorry to tell you that he was poisoned by a lethal quantity of cyanide which he consumed from a dram of 18-year-old malt in my office.”
The initial silence from his mother and sister unsettled Robert, although it was not long before the dam of emotion they were holding in check burst.
“Poisoned? But how can that be, Robert?” demanded Lady Elizabeth, her voice crackling with raw grief.
“Oh no, poor Alex,” gasped Victoria.
“It’s the truth and all there in black and white in the P.M.,” said Robert brandishing a copy of the post mortem report as he confronted one of the grimmest tasks he had faced in his life. For the truth was that the cyanide-laced whisky had not been intended for Alex, and Robert knew this was something that would not escape either his mother or sister for much longer. This was why he had come to the Hall to tell them personally, in an effort to keep some kind of lid on things, make sure that the launch went through and that his family’s salvation was completed.
Lady Elizabeth stood up and made her way to the window, staring through the glass at the timeless beauty of Loch Lomond, her emotions in meltdown as she struggled to comprehend the truth about the end of her younger son’s life.
It was Victoria who put two and two together and wiping her tears away with a lace handkerchief she took a deep breath and said, “Poisoned by cyanide-laced whisky from the bottle of 18-year-old malt you keep in your office? That can mean only one thing – the poison was intended for you, Robert.”
Roxburgh shifted uncomfortably as he sought how best to answer Victoria, “It is the logical assumption and
the one the police have already made. I have spent nearly two hours of my time helping them with what Detective Inspector Pigeon called their ‘line of enquiry.’”
Slowly, Lady Elizabeth turned to face her surviving children, “What are the police going to do about it, Robert? Alexander has been murdered and now you tell me you were the murderer’s original target. It is too much Robert, too much, look at the marquee on the lawn, the fountains, all the equipment already in place and that Velvet woman’s people are due to descend on us today. How can we go ahead with the launch? How can I grieve for my youngest son? How can I bury him, knowing that someone out there wants to kill my eldest son and at the same time, go through with this impossible farce?”
Robert strode over to his mother and took her in his arms, “Because, Mama, we have no choice. It is that, or the Hall and everything we hold dear is gone.” Gilding the lily he added, “Ultimately, in his final moments, that is something Alex did not want to happen. This has been made all the more painful because we’d reached agreement on the Gwai Lo deal. Alex did not want anyone else in Roxburgh Hall bar us, Mama and he came to see the deal with Cheung as the only realistic way to stop that happening, believe me.”
From behind them Victoria spoke up, “What are the police going to do to protect you, Robbie? Do they have any suspects? What about the Triads? If you are dead what would happen with the deal? Would everything be forfeit and they take complete control?”
Robert drew upon all the powers of self-control he had learned from his years in the military. “The detective inspector has promised they will provide me with protection, Vicky. But you have to stop letting your imagination run away with you. Raymond Cheung is a very smart man and he knows that without the Roxburgh name and the tradition and legacy of our house and brand, what he is trying to sell to the Asian market will ring hollow. Cheung is only too well aware that he needs us every bit as much as we need him. We are the respectable front he needs to make the Asian whisky market his own, without us he has nothing and he knows it.”
The Longest Shadow Page 12