Parallel Lines

by R. J. Mitchell

  That left the lounge at the front of the flat. The lounge was empty, but an icy draft was coming from the door leading out to the small balcony. Thoroughgood strained his ears and thought he could hear a screeching noise coming from outside.

  The DS made his way out through the balcony door and took in the spectacular skyline provided by the twenty-first floor view. The shapes and silhouettes of Glasgow’s skyline, shadows in the spring night. Then he took hold of the metallic railing boxing the small utility area in and felt his hand catch on fabric. Automatically he glanced down and there in the dark night sky he saw the inert form of a body swinging gently in the midnight breeze. Franny Hillkirk had been home all right, but someone else had got to him before the detectives. Someone who had made sure his silence would be eternal.

  Was it, pondered Thoroughgood, the same someone who may have been watching the detectives?

  Chapter 4

  Scenes of Crime were soon present and with the locus secured, the late Franny Hillkirk didn’t have to hang around for long. An exhaustive search for fingerprints was then conducted as Strathclyde’s finest hunted for the smallest clue that could help them put together the pieces which would tell the story behind the erstwhile doorman and small-time drug dealer’s final hours.

  Thoroughgood and Hardie had found Hillkirk at 0050 hours on Thursday morning, and the time of death had been estimated at less than ninety minutes prior to that. The Scenes of Crime Team had confirmed the body was still warm. The life had been strangled out of Hillkirk by a leather belt, which turned out to belong to the deceased.

  The lack of a forced entry implied Hillkirk had known his murderer, or murderers. Preliminary door-to-door enquiries, started by Thoroughgood and Hardie, were being taken on by local uniform from Baird Street and Easterhouse Offices, as the murder locus was in E Division. Unfortunately, and much to Thoroughgood’s frustration, the CCTV covering the entrance foyer to the high-rise was on the blink. But as he headed out the front door of 21c, Thoroughgood was confident that the exhaustive searches and door-to-door enquiries would provide some crumb of a clue despite the lateness of the hour.

  Pulling up the collar of his Barbour jacket, Thoroughgood followed Hardie onto the chilly landing and was immediately confronted by the scowling features of Detective Chief Inspector Henry Farrell.

  Farrell was the senior detective on duty in the East, as E Division was known, and he made no bones about his dislike for Thoroughgood.

  The DCI, at five foot seven inches, wasn’t physically intimidating. What he lacked in bulk and size he made up for with a meticulous inquisitorial appearance, exuding an unhealthy menace. Farrell’s unsettling habit of peering over small rectangular glasses which he clearly felt were the epitome of high detective fashion, only added to the feeling that everything you said was being noted and would one day be used in evidence against you, whether you were a criminal or a copper.

  “So what, Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood, are you doing in E division, without even having the courtesy to inform our local CID that you are conducting enquiries on their patch?”

  At six foot two inches Thoroughgood was able to look down his nose at his superior, and it was a physical advantage he was not about to pass up. Boring his almost feline green eyes into the top of Farrell’s head, Thoroughgood was equally curt.

  “You know full well that if we had a penny for every time an enquiry from another division is pursued over a border without notice given, we’d both be comfortably retired.” Gesturing at a shivering Hardie, Thoroughgood continued: “Both Hardie and I have completed statements detailing our reasons for visiting Springburn. If you take the time to read them you’ll find it was perfectly legit, boss.

  “Now if you don’t mind, I have court in five hours’ time and you now have a murder enquiry to run. Good luck to you, Detective Chief Inspector.” Thoroughgood drawled Farrell’s full title in an obviously sarcastic mark of disrespect.

  This terse exchange was clearly making the uniform officer stationed outside the door uncomfortable. But Farrell was determined to have the last word. Taking his designer glasses off and rubbing the lens on the immaculate pin-striped suit, which made him look more like a bank manager than a DCI, Farrell spoke:

  “Listen to me, Thoroughgood. You will give me the respect I am due. If you think I’m going to let you come into my division pursuing enquiries that could have caused this murder, and then put up with your cheek, you’ll soon know all about it.

  “I’m sure Detective Super Tomachek will want the full details of your little jaunt into the East, and of course your conduct and insolence tonight. I, be equally assured, will enjoy informing him.”

  Thoroughgood, tired, jaded and ready to blow, looked over at Kenny Hardie and, for a change, it was Hardie who attempted to defuse the developing confrontation between his two superiors.

  “Gaffer, you know what it’s like first night on. We thought we were onto a right good lead and maybe had a chance of getting something on Declan Meechan, but that avenue is blocked now. Like Gus says, it’s all in our statements, including the preliminary door-to-door results. We’re sorry if we’ve trodden on any toes, but neither of us expected it to pan out like this. Please accept our apologies.”

  Appeasement wasn’t something Farrell did readily, and it wasn’t on his agenda that morning. Placing his glasses back on at the most precise of angles, in a gesture that only expanded his sense of self-importance, Farrell said,

  “Nevertheless, there are procedures and they must be followed. Now if you don’t mind, as you so precisely put it Detective Sergeant, I have a murder inquiry to run. You can both go but this won’t be the last you hear of this, believe me.”

  Two minutes later the detectives were exiting 12 Eccles Street when Hardie grabbed his DS’s arm and pointed upward.

  “Look at that camera. It’s pointing at the bloody ceiling; what good is that? I thought they had concierges for the flats ’round here, or at least a janny. What’s the point in security cameras if these twats don’t bother to maintain them? What fuckin’ chance dae you have, gaffer?”

  As the two detectives left the high-rise with the rain beating in their faces, a shrug of the shoulders was all Thoroughgood could muster in reply.

  Going to court was one of the things Thoroughgood hated about his job. Giving evidence was one thing, but the time wasted hanging around, and the often illogical and at times utterly shambolic way in which the judicial system was administered, could play havoc with people’s lives, and not just those of the public.

  How many times had a holiday been ruined by a witness citation to return home and give evidence? It was an occupational hazard, but one that brought constant grief to every relationship he had ever been in.

  In all probability Thoroughgood would not be required to give evidence, but it could mean a whole day spent hanging around the Sheriff Court witness rooms on the back of less than three hours’ sleep. Resigned to his fate, the DS unfolded a Daily Telegraph and started to read. The sports pages first, as always. After ten minutes, the newspaper was grabbed roughly from him.

  “All right, big man?” said a deep voice.

  Ross McNab had been in the city’s Eastern Division CID for as long as Thoroughgood had been in City Centre CID and their paths had crossed frequently over the years.

  Thoroughgood got on well with McNab. The DC tended to dress as if he was straight out of the pages of a glitzy fashion magazine. His suit, shirt and tie always conformed to the current vogue, brown hair gelled to perfection, apparent rude good health glowing from his perma-tan, and everywhere he went a trail of aftershave followed.

  “Fuck me Gus; you’re looking a bit rough there. You been a naughty boy again?” asked McNab.

  Thoroughgood, despite his initial inclination to answer this opening gambit with an expletive-laced reply, couldn’t stop a smile coming to his face.

  “The fuckin’ job, of course. I don’t have a personal life. You should know that, Ross.”

&
nbsp; McNab had already heard the rumble of the jungle drums, and was well aware of the DS’s confrontation with Henry Farrell, his superior officer. A smile soon crept over the Detective Constable’s face:

  “It’s none of my business, mate, but you need to watch out for Farrell. We’ve heard all about your run-in with him up at Eccles Street. He is a vindictive little shit who takes great pride in ruining careers and he treats the boys at London Road as if they were fresh out of nursery: you need permission to fart with him. So a word of warning: just make sure that you and Hardie are watertight.”

  But McNab couldn’t help his interest in his colleague’s trip across the border from surfacing.

  “So, Gus, what were you boys doing up in Springburn anyway?”

  Thoroughgood, usually the last detective who would share even a grain of information with a colleague from another division, had no qualms about explaining the nature of the enquiry at Eccles Street. McNab was well aware that the DS had a longstanding animosity towards Declan Meechan that stretched back to his time as a young DC in Partick. As rookie detectives back in the early Nineties, working out of the old Partick Marine station, Thoroughgood and McNab had been mates on the book, as the CID roster was known, and drinking buddies off-duty. Indeed, the duo had done more than passing damage in the boozers and clubs of Glasgow’s West End.

  McNab wasn’t one to miss an opportunity, and he thought this might be just the time to be helpful.

  “Listen, mate, I might have something for you on Meechan. I’ve been sitting on it for a week wondering whether I should turn it over to the SCDEA. But fuck me if those bastards didn’t ignore my application. Anyway, I know how much you’d like any info that would make that wanker squirm.”

  Thoroughgood almost dropped his Telegraph, his fatigue forgotten for a moment.

  “Go ahead, big man, make my day.”

  McNab was only too happy to oblige.

  “On the nightshift last week, I got a phone call from one of my touts, said he had some information about drugs coming into the country. He mentioned the drop-off point was somewhere near the West Coast, maybe from a yacht, and more to the point he said the whole deal was being run by one of Jimmy Gray’s men.

  “As you know, Gray’s main man is Meechan. Tommy Briggs is much more the muscle side of the empire, strictly enforcement and extortion, plus Briggs is getting on a bit. Never been quite the same since that shotgun blast took half his face away. Nope, my guess is it’s gotta be Meechan. This one sounds as if it involves a bit of imagination. What do you think, Gus?”

  Thoroughgood was stunned. “Look, Ross, you know as well as I do that Briggs is as subtle as a whore with no knickers on. It’s got to be Meechan. My guess is he’s trying to up the ante as far as taking over Jimmy Gray’s operation when the old boy finally pegs it.

  “Gray’s not been well for a while now. He must be pushing seventy and he’s turning more and more over to Meechan. I’d bet dear Declan is looking for a really big turn to impress the old man and get him to abdicate his throne or make the case for a coup d’état compelling.”

  Thoroughgood continued, “So, when can I meet your tout?”

  All good favours deserve a return, and although McNab was undoubtedly doing one for Thoroughgood he wanted one back, and big time.

  “Right, here’s the deal. Your old boss at the Marine, Derek Nelson, has been given the Commander’s job at the Serious. The SCDEA might have knocked me back, but you and I both know the favour he owes you. You want Meechan? Get me in the Serious and I’ll have you one-on-one with my tout within twenty-four hours. What do you say, pal?”

  Before the two detectives could continue with their own peculiar form of plea-bargaining, the Sheriff Court intercom system sprang into life:

  “DS Thoroughgood to court seventeen, DS Thoroughgood please attend court seventeen now.”

  “Listen, mate, I’ll give you a call tonight. What are you, backshift at London Road?” asked Thoroughgood.

  “Yep, fire away, Gus. Always remember: ‘We’re a self-preservation society!’”

  Chapter 5

  Top of Thoroughgood’s agenda was some kip, but a late afternoon call to Nelson would do no harm and he’d probably be delighted to have his card marked about McNab’s interest.

  Tuning the Focus’ stereo to Radio Two, he turned into Ballater Street before hanging a right into Tradeston Street and then back round onto the Kingston Bridge flyover that would take him onto the Clydeside Expressway.

  Thoroughgood’s mind was on automatic pilot, half-listening to the debate on the Jeremy Vine show on the dying days of Tony Blair’s premiership but thinking more about the all-engulfing need to get home and catch some shut-eye. He turned onto the flyover, enjoying the effortless way the Focus held the road despite the tight bend and the wet greasy surface on the bridge. But his admiration of the Ford’s smooth driving was rudely interrupted as a loud bang warned him something had just collided with his vehicle.

  Instantly the cop car was shunted off the barrier encasing the outside lane, protecting vehicles from the hundred-foot drop over the side into the murky volumes of the river Clyde below.

  What the fuck was that? shuddered Thoroughgood, as he looked across his right shoulder to see a white Ford Transit prepare to ram him for a second time. He pulled hard to the right as he anticipated the impact, and wasn’t disappointed. He managed to straddle the white lines dividing the two lanes in preparation for a second, but still the blow shunted him against the rails for a second time. A flurry of sparks and the piercing wail of metal on metal sounded out.

  Straightening the Focus up, Thoroughgood put his foot down only to find himself blocked in by a middle-aged female in an Espace people carrier, who was blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding behind her. The white Transit continued to parallel the detective’s Focus as the driver grinned from underneath the peak of a black baseball cap.

  As the gap between Thoroughgood’s vehicle and the car in front closed to fifteen yards, a sighting in his own rear view registered the imposing presence of a Scania artic truck. The detective realised he was now at the mercy of his tormentor in the black baseball cap.

  The detective hit the horn repeatedly and signalled frantically with his hand to try and elicit some reaction from the glazed features pictured in the Espace’s rear view. But as he desperately attempted to gain her attention, the vacant look on the motorist’s untroubled features remained intact and she carried on at thirty mph, oblivious to the flashing lights and the detective’s frantic actions framed in her mirror.

  This time the van smacked home diagonally into the right-hand-side, to the rear of the Focus. The impact drove Thoroughgood into the back of the Espace at an angle. At last a shocked look was solicited in the mirror from the female driver; her face now enveloped in disbelief as she finally became aware of the events unfolding behind her.

  Checking his rear mirror, the DS clocked the van was two up. The passenger was also sporting the requisite baseball cap, this time white with a black Nike tick.

  As the Transit readied itself for one more swoop on the badly battered CID Focus, Thoroughgood thought frantically as he tried to bring about an immediate escape strategy that would help him avoid being forced right through the fly-over railings and a death plunge into the fast-flowing Clyde beneath the Kingston Bridge.

  Taking immediate stock of the facts, he realised that the Espace was lurching on in front of him at roughly the same speed as before it had been hit. Checking in his rear view, he saw that the Scania continued to push up behind him, as the artic driver had little or no option but to continue forward on the flyover off-ramp, with traffic probably jamming up behind him. So there was no point ramming on the anchors and creating merry hell and a possible pile-up behind him.

  Thoroughgood looked back at the driver in the white Transit. His tormentor raised his right hand from the steering wheel and using his index finger and thumb, made a gesture as if to pull the trigger of a gun at Thoroughgood’s h
ead as the Transit sailed past on the outside lane.

  There was no time for relief to register in Thoroughgood’s mind. His primary concern was avoiding an immediate impact with the Espace, whose brake lights were now glowing. The driver had finally panicked into an emergency stop. With the back of the people carrier now approaching the front of his battered Focus, Thoroughgood yanked his steering wheel hard down to the right, and managed to squeeze the cop car out into the overtake lane. Simultaneously the Scania surged up into the space previously vacated by the white Transit, which had now disappeared down the off-ramp and was shooting along the Clyde expressway in the direction of the Clyde Tunnel.

  The full blare of the artic’s horn and the flashing lights now scorching Thoroughgood’s mirror left the DS in no doubt as to the anger felt at his sudden manoeuvre by its driver. Pulling back just in front of the now-stationary Espace, he rapped out a lookout call for the white Transit on his car radio system, posting direction of travel, vehicle and passenger details as best he could.

  What, thought the detective, the fuck was that all about?

  One hour later Gus Thoroughgood sat in Detective Super Tomachek’s office, a piping mug of coffee in hand.

  “Well, Gus, I did want to see you but you appeared to be in an even bigger hurry to see me!” Tomachek grinned benevolently. “You’ll be glad to know the female witness is okay and down at the Royal, but the Focus is pretty badly banged up.” Then, as an apparent afterthought,

  “How are you?”

  “I’ve had better twenty-four hours, boss,” admitted Thoroughgood.

  Tomachek was keen to accentuate the positive from his subordinate’s latest run-in with misfortune.