“As far as I see it, Gus, this was more of a warning than anything else. Let’s face it: if the Transit driver had really wanted to, you would have been through the crash barrier and at the bottom of the Clyde about ninety minutes ago. I think the wee hand gesture, pulling the trigger on you, was the final proof that this was more about sending a message than any real attempt to put you out of your misery, young man.”
Content at his summary of the facts as he saw them, Tomachek took a long drag from his pipe, and his office was enveloped in a shroud of Condor-laced smoke. The fact that every ounce of property owned by Strathclyde Police was strictly under the nationwide no smoking ban in public places bothered Tomachek not a jot when it came to what went on in “his” office.
Thoroughgood agreed. “Yes, boss, but it’s when that warning starts to put members of the public at risk that you’ve got to wonder just what lengths whoever is behind it will go to before he gets his message across.”
Silence ensued as Tomachek enjoyed his Condor moment and fiddled with the buttons of the tweed waistcoat forming part of a natty three-piece number. The Detective Superintendent appeared more like a member of the Perthshire gentry than a senior detective officer in Scotland’s busiest policing division.
The quiet, as Thoroughgood expected from past experience, never lasted long with Tomachek. Behind his genteel façade, the workings of a razor-sharp mind were apt to be in overdrive.
“You’re right, of course, Gus. So just what the fuck are you doing to make Declan Meechan so angry he threatens you with a watery grave and puts the punters at risk, as well as bringing the possibility of a major incident on the busiest feckin’ bridge in Scotland?
“Now, I know you and Meechan have history, but tell me why would he go to such extremes to warn you off an enquiry that started with a serious assault on a kid at one of his clubs and has now moved on to the murder of one of his doormen? Especially since, as I’ve seen from the enquiry notes, you haven’t even interviewed Meechan.”
Taking another moment to enjoy his pipe, Tomachek leant across his desk, and with the pipe now clenched in his right fist he gestured at Thoroughgood.
“I think it’s time you filled in between the lines on this one before things spiral any further.”
Thoroughgood met his superior’s enquiring features with a steady glance and a nod of the head
“I just don’t know what it’s all about, gaffer, other than the fact it’s personal. To be fair, the enquiry with the kid is, if you pardon the pun, at a dead end now that Franny Hillkirk has met with an untimely demise; if we don’t get anything with SOCO, and have no witnesses from the murder scene—and the CCTV being out doesn’t help—then we’re struggling to go anywhere with this one.
“No doubt about it, Meechan is a bastard, but even by his standards this is a bit heavy-handed unless Franny Hillkirk could have led us to something far, far bigger than some routine assault enquiry. And that’s it, boss. I just don’t know any more than that.”
Tomachek was far from convinced.
“You sure you aren’t giving me a highlights-only version here, son? Maybe you should be taking some leave? Because right fuckin’ now everything around you is turning into a twenty-four carat war zone. I want you to give that some serious thought. Take the rest of the night off, go home and get some shut-eye. Report back to me at midday tomorrow and by then we will have the SOCO results from the murder scene up at Eccles Street.
“Let me tell you this. If they don’t reveal a shred of evidence, then the Hillkirk enquiry will stay with that arsehole Farrell in the East. You can tie up the loose ends of the assault on Devlin, the student, and then I’ll probably be signing your annual leave application. Unless there’s anything else, Detective Sergeant, that you want to get off your chest, I’ll see you tomorrow. Now can you get home without all hell breaking loose around you yet again?”
Thoroughgood nodded in obeisance.
“I’ll do my best, boss.”
Chapter 6
It was nearly five-thirty when Thoroughgood’s phone finally rang and the voice of Ross McNab crackled into life. “All right, Gus, had any sleep? I got your message about Nelson and I suppose you’ll be wanting a little something in return?”
Thoroughgood responded, “Took your time, Ross. I thought you were going to leave Nelson dangling; remember he’s got a reunion dinner tonight?”
“No worries, mate, but I wanted to get in touch with my informant just to touch base and make sure we can get things moving between you two as soon as. So how’s a three way hook-up sound for tonight?
“How about ten p.m., Glasgow Green? If you go to the front of the People’s Palace you’ll see the Doulton Fountain. It’s forty-six feet high and seventy feet wide, so you cannae exactly miss it, mate! Me and the tout will be standing there bang on ten pm.”
“You’ve got a deal. Mind if Kenny Hardie tags along on this one?” asked Thoroughgood.
“Rather he didn’t; my man’s a bit nervy about meeting you, never mind a crowd. Hope that’s okay.”
The opportunity to meet with an informant who had anything on Declan Meechan was, however, too good to be true for Thoroughgood to object. The handling of informants was now supposed to be run through Division under the centralised grandly-titled Covert Human Intelligence Source Units, or CHIS as they were known for short. But there were still plenty of cops who felt they needed to retain some kind of personal control over their informants, rather than handing both the tout and the information that came with him or her over to a CHIS Unit.
The relinquishing of a tout who could bring you to the attention of the brass and help launch an ambitious cop or detective on the promotional ladder, was something that more than a few found unpalatable when it came to mapping out their career paths. Thoroughgood had no intention of getting sticky on the matter, doubly so when the informant concerned was tried and trusted by McNab. So he answered in the affirmative:
“Okay, son, I’ll see you then.”
After a shower, and a dinner of last night’s leftover Chinese, Thoroughgood made it to Glasgow Green in less than a quarter of an hour. Traffic was dead at that time of the night; in fact, if anything, he encountered more traffic on the green itself than in the city streets, albeit human traffic.
The People’s Palace was Glasgow’s social history museum, telling the story of the city and its people from 1750 onwards. But Glasgow Green had long been a popular place for the city’s vice girls to ply their trade and tonight was no exception. Every couple of hundred yards a shadowy figure would teeter awkwardly, the lack of balance a symptom of the endemic drugs habits of Glasgow’s working girls.
Sitting outside the People’s Palace in his own private car made Thoroughgood feel damned uncomfortable, especially given the conspicuous Winning Blue of his RX-8. As the DS got out of his vehicle and took in, for the first time, the magnificence of the Doulton Fountain, he had to admit a certain appreciation for McNab’s rendezvous location.
The Fountain had been gifted to the city by Sir Henry Doulton and first unveiled at the Empire Exhibition held at Kelvingrove Park in 1888. The largest terracotta fountain in the world, its five tiers were bedecked with an assortment of sculptures representing Australia, Canada, India and South Africa: the Doulton undoubtedly brought back the full imperial grandeur of those bygone days of the British Empire. But the DS swiftly re-focussed when he saw McNab arrive in a dark blue Peugeot 409.
The diesel engine groaned monotonously as it telegraphed the message to whores and punters alike that there were CID on the green. McNab immediately jumped out of the driver’s seat and made his way over to Thoroughgood, offering his hand in standard greeting.
Looking over McNab’s shoulder, the DS tried to sight the shadowy figure seated in the back of the Peugeot. He looked small and bald but beyond that, the darkness offered a more than adequate concealment.
Thoroughgood was determined to make sure the conversation took place on his verbal ground, even if t
he location and time had been of McNab’s choice. The DS immediately steered the conversation around to the subject of McNab’s call to Detective Superintendent Nelson, in order to ensure his colleague would not forget the favour he had been done which had ultimately brought them to this evening’s meet.
Pulling the collar of his brown Barbour jacket up to his jaw to deflect the spray coming off the fountain and keep the spring chill at bay, Thoroughgood asked,
“So, Ross, are you in then?”
“Straight to the point as ever, Gus! Aye, I made the call, as you knew I would, and you could say there’s a fair chance I’ll be part of next month’s intake. I’m meeting Nelson next Monday for a pint and hopefully that’ll cement it, but first thing tomorrow the application will be going in just to keep Personnel happy.”
Gesturing back at the lane leading up to the People’s Palace, McNab complained,
“Fuck me, the tarts are out in force tonight. I had to threaten one of them with the jail before she would believe we weren’t punters.” Then he nodded his head in the direction of the Peugeot and added with a mischievous wink: “Not much chance of that, though, with Gerry boy in tow?”
Thoroughgood’s attention, as McNab had intended, was immediately drawn to the male sitting in the back of his pool car.
“So Ross, you going to introduce us or has yer man lost the power of his legs?”
“He’s a wee bit on the nervy side about coming forward. Must be worried he might upset you, Gus! You remember back in our Partick days, the Western Hospital was being screwed for drugs, morphine, Temazepam, Diazepam etcetera, and they caught the McIlroy brothers for it? Well, my friend here provided more than a little assistance in helping us clear that one up. I believe you’ll know him all right, but take it easy, okay?”
“Come on Ross, put me out of my misery. Who is it?”
“All right, Gus,” said McNab, and with his right hand he pointed an index finger at the Peugeot and called,
“Time to get out, wee man. Gus, meet Gerry McIlroy, Mick and Johnny’s wee brother.”
“Gerry was a charge nurse in the Western back between 1995 and ’97. Yep, and a very big help in securing the arrest of those two Partick worthies who also happened to be his big brothers.”
McIlroy’s uncertainty at the whole situation was all too obvious to Thoroughgood. A little over five foot three, the tout shuffled over to the fountain, studiously averting his eyes from the gaze of both detectives.
Plainly enjoying his introduction, McNab continued with some relish,
“Oh, but of course, Gerry was completely innocent of any involvement in his brothers’ drug operation, if you pardon the pun, at the Western.”
“Well, that’s not strictly true Gerry, is it? Nope, Gerry here used to leave the fire doors open to selected wards and if he could manage it, the keys to the drugs cabinets were always placed at the fire exit end. Quite often on the nightshift, he was in charge, so it wasn’t hard to offload the keys once the drug round was over. All very simple, wasn’t it Gerry? Still, there’s nothing like paying your debt to society by grassing your own brothers up!”
This last remark seemed to provide McNab with endless mirth, and his shoulders heaved in unashamed self-appreciation. This only served to heighten McIlroy’s discomfort; the air of hopeless vulnerability surrounding the diminutive figure was almost palpable.
Burrowing his face in his zipped-up leather jacket, McIlroy bit on the zipper while his baseball cap almost completely obscured any of his facial features from the CID officer’s scrutiny. Sensing he may have overplayed his hand, McNab quickly changed tack:
“Look, Gus, I know you never liked the McIlroy brothers but to be fair, Gerry here was forced into it by them. You see, the wee man’s got a secret.”
“His big brothers figured it was a piece of cake really. Blackmail Gerry with his secret sexual tendencies, an outing embellished by just a hint that there might be paedophile tendencies in their kid brother’s make-up as well, and Gerry didn’t have much option but to cave in. The alternative? Gerry loses the single thing he values most in life: his position as a trustworthy and hardworking nurse, and the self respect that he’d made it out of the gutter legitimately. So don’t be too hard on our Gerry.”
McNab added with a wide grin: “Oh, one last thing I’d better tell you. Gerry here is one of Celine Lynott’s closest friends! Must have been your bedside manner that won her over, eh Gerry? I suppose she felt quite safe with you; you weren’t exactly likely to jump her, were you?”
Despite the immense enjoyment this little introduction in the moonlight had given McNab, it was obvious the East detective was fully confident Gerry McIlroy could be the key to pulling Declan Meechan down. Thoroughgood took the bull by the horns.
“Look, Gerry, I know you and Ross have obviously had a good working relationship over a few years and you trust him, but all I want from you is one thing: Declan Meechan. He’s the guy who is supplying Partick, the north-west of the city and most of its clubs with their drugs. If you work as a nurse you must have some compassion for people, care in the community and all that.”
“Partick, even Drumchapel, used to have a sense of community until Meechan started flooding them with heroin. Old Jimmy Gray would never have dealt in drugs if someone that bit younger hadn’t made him wise to the profit margins. Declan Meechan is everything that is wrong with Glasgow; cut him down and a big part of the cancer eating into this city dies. I believe that and I believe you can help me. It’s up to you, mate.”
“If you want to get back in the car then fair enough, I won’t try and bullshit you. Once you’ve gone, you’ve gone, no comeback. Mr McNab has finished with you so it’s your call. Can we give it a go?”
For the first time McIlroy looked the DS full in the face and said,
“Mr Thoroughgood, the whole of Partick knows you’d give your granny for Declan Meechan. You don’t need to convince me of that, and anyway, Celine has told me enough.
“You’re right about one thing. I need to be able to trust you and I think I know enough about you to do that. But what’s in it for me? This is serious shit; nobody grasses on Declan Meechan and walks away. If it comes off I’ll need out, money and a new start big time. Can you guarantee that?”
Thoroughgood was in no hurry to promise his newly acquired informant the earth. The DS thought honesty was by far and away the best policy at this stage in their embryonic relationship. “Look Gerry, it’s early days to be making big promises; you gotta show me the goods or at least give me a flavour before we start talking new starts.”
McIlroy was nonplussed. “All right, but first I need a small favour from you to establish some trust here.”
Ross McNab could no longer keep out of the conversation between his soon-to-be former star tout and his colleague. His impatience clear, McNab rapped:
“Look, for fuck’s sake Gerry, I told you what the script was, so stop fuckin’ about. You’re workin’ for DS Thoroughgood now and that’s it, you wee poof. Just do as he says and cut the bullshit.”
Thoroughgood, less than impressed with his colleague’s indelicate summary of McIlroy’s situation, sought to pour oil on waters that were becoming increasingly troubled.
“Gerry, I’m not going to force you into anything here. What’s the favour?”
“It’s simple really. I want ma maw moved out of her mingin’ tenement, away from the damp and the junkies that don’t give a fuck whether they tan the house if she’s in or out. A nice two in a block with a front door and a wee garden, that’s what the old bird needs. Can you do that? If it’s arranged then we can get to work.”
Caught off-guard, Thoroughgood answered the request with a question:
“Councils have waiting lists for that sort of thing, and anyway, how’s old Ma McIlroy being tormented by junkies with your brothers on the scene?”
McIlroy, impatience showing for the first time, played the straight bat.
“The junkies down the Drum are so sm
acked up they don’t give a shit who her sons are. When they’re inside Bar-L for a ten stretch, the bastards know they’re more likely to be dead than to meet either Mick or Johnny.”
Fair play, thought Thoroughgood.
“Okay, Gerry, leave it with me. I’ll get on to it as soon as. Where can I get you?”
McIlroy’s outstretched paw shoved a piece of paper towards Thoroughgood.
“That’s my mobile number; give us a bell any night this week between six and seven and hopefully we can do business.”
McNab decided it was time to interrupt the beautiful beginnings of this new working relationship.
“Will that do for now, big man? Got enough to start the ball rolling?”
Thoroughgood decided if he wasn’t to lose face in front of his colleague, he needed a wee olive branch from McIlroy.
“Listen, Gerry. I don’t doubt I can help your mother out, but you’ll need to give me a wee sweetener to take away. Then the better homes scenario can happen all the quicker for your old dear.”
“All right, Mr Thoroughgood, how’s this: Celine told me to say hello!”
Watching the Peugeot disappear down the lane and out of Glasgow Green, Thoroughgood turned on the RX-8 and gunned the engine. The CD player was just finishing Whitesnake’s Still of the Night and as he shut his eyes, David Coverdale’s voice sparked into life once again with the anthemic refrain to tortured love:
Fool for your lovin’ no more.
How appropriate, thought Thoroughgood, and as he shifted into first, it was not police work occupying his mind.
Chapter 7
The white Transit cornered the top of a hill which provided a beautiful view of the Milngavie Reservoir, and the vista below that took in the City of Glasgow. It pulled up opposite a gleaming black Range Rover, already stationary in the car park that was the final stop for the vehicles of walkers of the West Highland Way, and locals exercising their dogs.
The driver, a massive individual sporting a black baseball cap, jumped out and made his way over to the Range Rover driver’s door. The smoked window of the huge four-by-four, a menacing vehicle resembling a hearse on wheels, slithered down and the rough Glaswegian voice of the Transit’s driver asked in deferential tones:
Parallel Lines Page 4