Parallel Lines
The Glasgow Supremacy
R. J. Mitchell
Fledgling Press 2011
First Published in 2010 by Strategic Book Publishing
Ebook Edition First Published in 2011 by Fledgling Press Ltd
7 Lennox Street, Edinburgh, EH4 1QB, Scotland
www.fledglingpress.co.uk
Copyright(c) R.J.Mitchell 2011
The moral right of R.J. Mitchell to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Ebook rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced or transmitted, in any form by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or any information storage or retrieval system,
without prior permission from the publisher or copyright owner.
All the characters in this book are imaginary. Any
resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely
coincidental. Some places are real, others are in the
imagination of the author. Any errors are those of the author.
ISBN: 978 1 905916 35 1
Acknowledgments
I owe the realisation of this book to the following people, for without them it would not have been possible.
Many thanks to my group of “expert readers” Graham, Malky, and Kenny for helping me keep Thoroughgood real!
Thanks also to Michael Brady who designed the cover for this e-book.
My eternal thanks to my late grandfather, David Jones, for giving me a set of values with which to start my life and to one day try and live up to.
Thanks to my late stepfather, Martin Kaney, for never judging me when everything seemed a mess. I hope he will look down from above and see that I have done my best.
My gratitude to my mother, Margaret Kaney, for all her encouragement and love.
My undying thanks, love and devotion to my wife, Arlene Mitchell, for her belief in Parallel Lines when no one else seemed to, her endless hours of admin, doing the boring stuff and so, so much more.
Thanks to my daughter, Ava, for helping to make me a better human being.
And finally, to you the readers.
Reviews
"They call Scottish crime fiction 'tartan noir' - and if that's the case, then the thread of red that runs through Parallel Lines is a river of blood, and the blacks and greens are the bruises on a battered corpse. This book doesn't pull any punches in its depiction of a deadly cops-and-robbers feud that strays far beyond the procedural into the personal. At the core of the story is a traditional love triangle - the hero, the villain and the girl that gets between them - but it's Mitchell's first-hand knowledge of what goes on behind the police station's closed doors that sets the book apart. This is a real page-turner: once that plot is set in motion, like a car with its brake pipes cut hurtling down a steep Glasgow street - and that's an image from the book you won't forget - it carries the reader right through to its bullet-strewn climax."
ALAN MORRISON, Group Arts Editor, Herald & Times
"RJ Mitchell has joined the ranks of Scottish crime writers with a stunning debut thriller, 'Parallel Lines: The Glasgow Supremacy'. It packs a punch that Mike Tyson would have been proud of. The action rages relentlessly through the streets of Glasgow with bent coppers, double-crossing gang members, brutal action and more twists than a downhill slalom race, leading to a tension-filled climax that paves the way for a sequel the reader will surely demand."
RUSSELL LEADBETTER, Chief literary critic, Evening Times.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 1
“Code sixty-three, armed robbery in progress, Smith’s Pawnbrokers, 11 Argyle Street. Any station to attend.” The hiss of the radio jolted the two men into action.
“Bloody hell, Gus, that’s just round the corner!” exclaimed DC Kenny Hardie.
“Go, it’s the corner of Robertson Street at Argyle Street, we must be about a quarter of a mile from it. Straight down Wellington Street, Kenny; I’ll stick the light on the roof. Come on, man, put yer fuckin’ foot down or we’ll miss the whole shebang. DS Thoroughgood from Wellington Street, any descriptions, reggy numbers for motors involved?”
“That’s a negative,” crackled the voice from the control room. “All we’ve got is the raid alarm. Treat with utmost caution. The Tactical Firearms Unit has been alerted but ETA is five minutes. They’re coming from the other side of the Clyde, that’s a big shout this time of the afternoon. So you’re the nearest station, DS Thoroughgood.” The controller warned again: “Treat with caution, repeat, treat with caution!”
“Thanks for your concern, mate,” said the DS out loud.
Kenny Hardie’s temperature, as well as his heart rate, was rising fast. The veteran DC blurted out from behind the steering wheel: “Gus, there it is the other side of Argyle Street. You’re first out. Watch your arse, son.”
Hardie’s words of warning could have been coming from the dark side of the moon for all the likelihood they had of making an impact on Gus Thoroughgood; he was surfing a whitewater adrenalin ride and the DS wanted bodies.
Immediately taking in the key elements of the scene before him, Thoroughgood sprung out of the Ford Focus in one fluid movement. A green Mondeo parked at the corner of the pawnbroker’s looked decidedly dodgy. He could see it was one up with a male behind the wheel, but by then the detective was halfway through the pawnbroker’s door and the shit was about to hit the fan, big time.
The first shot rang out before Thoroughgood had taken one step inside the premises. His subconscious registered the sound of the shooter as a shotgun even as his blood ran cold. The impact on the roof brought a fall of plaster and a chorus of screams from the shopgirl behind the counter.
Standing inside the door was armed robber one, complete with balaclava; for a vital split second he paused, surprised to see Thoroughgood diving through the door. The DS threw himself at the criminal and managed to knock the sawn-off out of his grasp with the impact of the collision. It landed on top of the counter, drawing further screams from the petrified girl. Right at that moment, though, her welfare was not top of Thoroughgood’s agenda.
Detective and villain hit the ground with a thud, Thoroughgood just managing to get his hands round his opponent’s neck. This was a fight to the death, and Thoroughgood had no intention of coming second. Over and over they rolled, smashing into the counter and bringing the shooter down, convenie
ntly into the grasp of the criminal.
Thoroughgood moved his grip from flesh to firearm as he attempted to stop it being levelled at him. The acrid smell of whisky and smoke almost knocked him out as it seeped from the ned’s balaclava. The two tightened their embrace on the sawn-off until it was forced upwards, and another shot into the roof brought a deluge of plaster down on the pair.
It was the criminal who was on top now, and he rammed the firearm down onto the cop’s jugular until slowly the air seemed to seep from his lungs as the constriction mounted.
Where the fuck is Hardie when you need him? Thoroughgood thought. He forced himself to scan the walls of the shop for anything that could help break the ned’s killer grip. There it was, a foot to the left of the counter, a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall. Thoroughgood aimed his size ten at the catch holding it to the plaster and the contact brought a shudder, but nothing more. It was time to gamble.
Thoroughgood put all his power into a left hook to his assailant’s ribs and surged his body weight upwards. It wasn’t enough to knock the thug off but it allowed the cop to grab the neck of the extinguisher, which promptly came crashing down onto the ground. That moment also allowed the robber to regain his breath, and he was once again using the sawn-off to crush the oxygen from Thoroughgood’s throat and lungs.
Flicking at the catch on the extinguisher, Thoroughgood could feel consciousness slipping away from him fast. With one final supreme effort from what was likely to be his last breath, the DS concentrated his fast-fading energy on firing the extinguisher at his assailant. Everything went white. Caught off-guard, the villain was snow-blinded.
Thoroughgood smashed a right hand off his jaw; at last, movement. Stunned, the robber lost the grip on the firearm and Thoroughgood’s forehead met the bridge of his nose with sudden impact. A satisfying crack resounded as bone, blood and mucus burst forth in a froth that produced a raspberry ripple effect on the surrounding foam. This time all of the robber’s momentum was going backwards, and the cop seized his moment.
Thoroughgood rolled free and turned on his man with his police-issue baton. A swift left jab with the point of the implement meant the robber was left more than momentarily breathless. It was game over as Thoroughgood smashed on the cuffs, making sure that they were tight enough to turn the skin on the criminal’s wrist red.
“You’re nailed, fucker,” growled the gasping DS as another boot from his size ten took the last remnants of the air from the gunman’s lungs.
Meanwhile, Hardie was otherwise engaged. The green Mondeo had sped off almost the minute the driver had spotted the all-too-obvious form of the CID Focus in his rear view. The lookout posted on the corner opposite the pawnbroker’s was now fleeing on foot towards Clydeside down Robertson Street.
A foot chase was not one of Hardie’s favourite activities. He was forty-two going on fifty-two and had a bronchial problem brought on by his thirty-a-day habit, while “a bevvy” was his favourite method of relaxation. Hardie was no favourite to catch a spring-heeled criminal twenty years younger and at least two stone lighter than him.
Caught up in his own thoughts and focused on the disappearing back of his quarry, Hardie was snapped from his reverie when the crack of a gunshot whistled over his right shoulder before ricocheting off a parked car five yards to his left. Thoughts of self-preservation were brought firmly to the forefront of his mind: the distant but still comforting wail of sirens meant back-up was on its way. Hardie grabbed for his airwave radio before bulleting in an update:
“Code 21, CID officer engaged in foot chase south, down Robertson Street towards Clydeside. Suspect armed with handgun, wearing black hooded jacket and what looks like a stocking mask over his head.”
Delivered in one huge breath, Hardie gulped another before attempting to take stock of his situation. Looking ahead, he saw the suspect change direction along Clydeside, weaving in and out of the late afternoon traffic. He bolted down the steps to the front of the Waterfront Pub, making for one of the nearby footbridges that would take him over the Clyde and into Carlton Place, on the south side of the river that flowed through the heart of Glasgow.
Hardie barked into his PR: “He’s making for footbridge leading into Carlton Place. Unit to attend south side of footbridge immediately.”
By this time, Hardie was descending the steps at the riverside boozer. As he reached the bottom tread he saw the robber turn towards him. The hunter had become the hunted. The stocking mask was pulled up on top of the criminal’s head, and Hardie guessed his target was in his late twenties. The gap between them was around thirty feet, and the handgun was levelled at head height. Behind it the villain, flashed a feral grin as a glint of late afternoon sunshine caught on the pistol.
Time stood still and Hardie wondered if it was another one of the alcohol-fuelled nightmares that plagued his sleeping hours.
Instantly a crack rang out and Hardie hit the deck, rolling under a nearby bench in one desperate movement. The shot hit woodwork and Hardie let out a gasp of relief that was almost over before it had begun. The DC hazarded a quick glance from under the bench. The ned was off his mark once again.
Hardie staggered to his feet and made for the bridge. As he looked along the foot span he had to blink to shed his disbelief at the scene now confronting him: the ned was bolting at full speed straight towards him.
At the other end of the bridge a Tactical Firearms Unit vehicle had just screeched to a halt and two black uniform-clad figures were taking their first steps on to the bridge. Hardie could see, even from the opposite end of the bridge, the levelling of the Heckler and Kochs belonging to his armed colleagues. The robber had decided, presumably without much thought, that the portly detective was by far the easier option when it came to his own survival.
His pistol was out again and assuming its familiar position: pointing straight at Hardie.
Oh fuck, thought Hardie. This is it.
In the distance he heard “Stop, armed police!” A shot cracked across the bridge and Hardie jumped. But as the DC hit water he found he wasn’t alone in the drink, for the gunman broke the surface almost simultaneously.
The grimy fluid of the Clyde closed over him as Hardie’s first thought was Fuck, I’ve been shot, is this what it feels like?
The murky depths continued to envelop him and he sank deeper, panic beginning to seep through. He tried to decide whether he would die of the bullet wound or drown first.
Come on son, give it a fuckin’ go, he told himself and kicked for the surface, wondering if he had enough oxygen in his nicotine-stained lungs to fire him through. Piercing flickers of the bright spring sunshine made him realise that he was almost there.
Keep going, the voice in his head said.
The cool air hit his face and Hardie knew he’d made it. Breathing hard and trying to stay calm, he spat out the gut-wrenching contents of the river. Hardie looked down at the cold fluid splashing around his torso and gritted his teeth, fearing the worst. But there was no red liquid spreading out from his substantial midriff.
A voice from the bridge punctured Hardie’s thoughts.
“You all right, mate?” Can you make it to the side?”
Hardie almost surprised himself when he heard his voice shout:
“Nae bother, bud.” And sure enough his arms worked, one in front of the other as he swam to the riverbank. Then smack, his leading hand rapped against a solid sodden object bobbing in the water to his right.
Fuckin tyre, this shithole is full of them, thought Hardie. Wrong. Seeping from the floating form of the now-deceased robber were his vital fluids, mingling with the putrid water in an ever-widening ruby pool. Robber number two was indeed dead and belly-up in his watery grave in the Clyde.
Well, fuck you, matey, thought Kenny Hardie.
Chapter 2
“Lucky bastard,” grinned Thoroughgood as he looked at the opposite bunk in the ambulance.
Hardie raised his eyebrows in mock indignation. “I hardly think two lung
fuls of that sewer of a river is what you’d call lucky. Fuck only knows what germs have worked their way into my system. You wait and see: before you know it I’ll have pneumonia, that’s how fuckin’ lucky I am!”
The two detectives were on their way to the city’s Royal Infirmary Casualty department, Hardie to have checks done after his unplanned dip in the Clyde, Thoroughgood because Detective Super Tomachek insisted that a cautionary check-up was needed.
Rather than any genuine fears over his officer’s health, Tomachek needed to ensure that Strathclyde Police would avoid assuming liability at a later date for any claims from their employee. The political correctness sweeping through the police and, in particular, Scotland’s biggest force, made Thoroughgood wince with disgust.
Hardie was even more vehement and vocal in his anger at the politicians who now seemed to be turning a cop’s life into a bureaucratic nightmare of endless paper mountains.
“Anyway, it’s okay for you. A few scratches and a keeker, big deal. I’ve ’ad bigger cuts shaving,” mocked Hardie. “Looks like I’m in here overnight for tests and observations when the only medicine I need is a pint of Stella. So what’s happened with the rest of the gang?”
“Well, your man is in the morgue waiting on his post mortem. Mine is being interviewed at Stewart Street and the green Mondeo was found abandoned halfway down Meadowside Street, in Partick. So I guess you could say two out of three ain’t bad, old son.”
The ambulance drew to a halt, and the driver and his mate padded round to open the doors.
“Okay, lads, welcome to your hotel!” said the chauffeur.
Sixty minutes later Hardie was reclining in his bed with the GRI’s medical staff fretting over him and various tubes attached for company.
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