Parallel Lines

by R. J. Mitchell

  “If we can get a bit of privacy that would seem fair enough; if you don’t mind, sir, I would suggest I take your statement and my colleague,” Hardie turned to his superior, “Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood will take Miss Lynott’s, if I’m not mistaken, story.”

  Looking over to Celine, Meechan said: “I’ll be waiting at the bar for you when you are finished helping—DS Thoroughgood with his enquiries.”

  Celine smiled, stood up and made her way to Thoroughgood’s side.

  “What now, Detective Sergeant?”

  Speechless at first, Thoroughgood nodded in the direction of an empty booth at the back of the bar, and the pair made their way to the waiting seats. In Thoroughgood’s head a voice said:

  Where the fuck do I start?

  Chapter 10

  Ushering Celine into the booth with his right hand, Thoroughgood flagged his left in the air, to catch the attention of the hovering waiter.

  “Listen, mate, could you do us two white coffees?”

  This said with a quick glance at Celine, who nodded her agreement, and the waiter beetled off. Thoroughgood sat down opposite her, trying with all his might not to make contact with those brown eyes, took a subconscious deep breath and got down to business.

  “Well, Celine, I guess there’s no better place to start than the beginning. But before I take your statement, are you okay?”

  Wincing as she recalled the shooting, Celine shrugged her shoulders as if she wasn’t quite sure how to answer Thoroughgood.

  “Thanks for your concern Gus, if I may call you that? I guess it’s not every day that you’re shot at outside the City Chambers, at midday! To be honest it was pretty scary, and as you can see, my suit will need to go to the dry cleaner’s.”

  Her smile showed she had recovered her composure and her humour. She added, almost reluctantly,

  “Declan ordered a brandy and that has had a calming effect, thanks.”

  “It must have been pretty damn frightening, though. I take it you had been at the Chambers for a planning meeting over Meechan’s new West End complex?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, and it was a successful one. Declan had just told me and Charlie he was treating us to lunch at the Rogano when I heard a bang. The next thing I knew Declan was pulling me to the ground, then there was another bang and by then I was aware it was gunfire.”

  “Charlie? I take it that Charlie Coyle was the third member of your party? So where is he now, Celine?” asked the DS.

  “Charlie was pretty shaken up by the whole thing, and after he’d had his brandy he made his excuses and said he had paperwork to get on with back at his office. I don’t suppose he’ll be hard to find if you need to speak to him this afternoon,” she offered.

  Celine explained what she had seen and heard, the maroon car, the four shots, but there was little to add to what Thoroughgood already knew.

  “It all happened so fast that before I knew it, it was over. It was kind of surreal, a bit like being in your own movie.”

  Then she added: “The whole thing was just unbelievable. But that is really all I can tell you, Gus.”

  The DS kept his eyes on Celine, as if he was expecting her to continue, but it was soon clear there was nothing more to tell.

  “Well if that’s it, that’s it. I was speaking to a friend of yours a couple of days back: Gerry McIlroy. He’s an interesting character.”

  “That’s right, Gus, Gerry told me he’d had a meeting with you. I hope it was mutually beneficial?” asked Celine.

  “Time will tell on Gerry, but is this what you really want for your life?” Thoroughgood persisted.

  “Sometimes you can’t help being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Gus. You should know all about that. Nevertheless, I have to make something of my life and I am pretty much my own boss. It isn’t a bad life.”

  “Not a bad life, but not a happy one either, Celine. Meechan hasn’t put you in charge of his city centre operation for business reasons alone. We both know that isn’t the case. Sooner or later you will have to choose, because the type of man Declan Meechan is, he won’t be satisfied with you keeping him at arm’s length. He will want to own your soul, just like he did before.”

  “I know all that, but there is good in Declan Meechan. Anyway, what about you Gus? Is your life a happy one?” she asked.

  Not a question Thoroughgood was happy fielding. A shrug of his shoulders was the detective’s initial reluctant reaction. Again his eyes held Celine’s and Thoroughgood seemed to want to say something more, she thought, but it just wouldn’t come out.

  “Life’s not bad,” was, as Thoroughgood thought, a pretty woeful attempt at an answer and then he added, as if admitting as much, “but yeah, it could be a whole lot better.”

  At that, Thoroughgood was aware of a presence behind his right shoulder and Kenny Hardie’s rumbling baritone said:

  “All right gaffer? I’ve finished with Mr Meechan’s statement; are you finished with Miss Lynott?”

  Looking searchingly into her face as if he hoped there was something more to come, Thoroughgood eventually admitted:

  “Yep, we’re done here. Thanks for your time, Miss Lynott.” Thoroughgood couldn’t help himself, adding: “Take care, Celine.”

  “Of course, Detective Sergeant, and you too.”

  The pleasantries may have been almost banal, but the final look that passed between Gus Thoroughgood and the woman who still cast a spell over him was anything but meaningless. Celine headed over to the bar where Declan Meechan awaited her.

  “All done, Celine? I hope you were able to help the Detective Sergeant with his enquiries?”

  She nodded but her body language said it all. She wanted to be elsewhere and not, once more, caught in the crossfire between the cop and the crimelord.

  Meechan was in no hurry to avoid Thoroughgood, and as the DS made his way towards the restaurant doorway, he mocked in a raised voice:

  “I hope you intend to keep me fully updated with your enquiries, Detective Sergeant. After all I would imagine the fact that Glasgow’s city centre was turned into a shooting gallery at noon will be front page news. Just like every other concerned Glaswegian, I would like some reassurance that Strathclyde police are doing their utmost to keep our streets and communities safe.”

  Thoroughgood half-turned back from the door but Kenny Hardie, anticipating both a parting shot from Meechan and the angry reaction it was sure to draw from his gaffer, had once again placed himself between the two.

  “Let it go gaffer,” said Hardie. “He just isn’t worth the grief.”

  “I can’t argue with that Kenny,” admitted Thoroughgood, but before he turned away his eyes sought Celine’s for a final time.

  Their departure allowed Meechan to refocus all his attention on Celine.

  “He’s still carrying a pretty big torch for you; even a blind man could see that, but what about you, Celine? Is there still a place in your heart for Thoroughgood?” demanded Meehan.

  Celine was caught off-guard, her composure ruffled; she cleared her throat to buy a few valuable seconds.

  “Neither of you made me happy, Declan. So my answer to that question would be the same one I gave you before we were interrupted by the officers.”

  Not wholly convincing, Celine had to admit, but there was no point in trying to bullshit Meechan.

  “Well, at least I know where I stand, Celine. Now, are you still hungry?”

  “Yeah, I would have to say I have an appetite, Declan.”

  Outside, Thoroughgood and Hardie jumped into the blue Peugeot acting as back-up, after their usual Focus had been taken to the police garages at Helen Street following the “accident” on the Kingston Bridge. Hardie was first to puncture the silence:

  “Well gaffer, you get anything helpful out of Miss Lynott?”

  “A maroon saloon with a private hire sign above it and four shots fired: that was the lot. What about you Kenny, was Meechan much of a help?” asked Thoroughgood.

  �
�About the same: no number plate, which is annoying, but the vehicle was two up and they were both males but nothing else to go on,” admitted Hardie, before he continued:

  “Did you hear about that business up at Milngavie Reservoir, gaffer?”

  “It was on Radio Clyde news before we came out. Seems some old boy out walking his dog noticed what he thought was a log bobbing up and down in the drink but when the dog goes in it turned out to be a headless torso. They’ve turned up some of the limbs but not found the head yet, and the reservoir has been shut down. Who does it sound like to you would be behind that type of execution, gaffer?”

  “It makes you wonder. A corpse turns up in the water and then Meechan gets himself shot at in broad daylight in the city centre. I’d put good money on the two incidents being connected,” said Hardie.

  Thoroughgood raised his eyebrows.

  “Meechan’s done it before, we both know that. But he always covers his tracks. Just look at Franny Hillkirk. Nothing from the murder locus at all and surprise, surprise, no witnesses either. But listen, faither, there’s something I need to bring you in on. The other night I had a meeting with Ross McNab over at the People’s Palace, you know, the night after the Kingston Bridge bump.

  “Well, the big fella has introduced me to a tout of his who he thinks might be able to help me with information on Meechan. I think tonight it’s time I gave wee Gerry McIlroy a call.”

  Before Thoroughgood could continue his mobile went off. After a check on the screen to confirm the identity of his caller, the DS blurtedout:

  “Fuck, it’s Tomachek. He’ll be wanting the whole shebang on Meechan.”

  A smile crept over Kenny Hardie’s portly chops.

  “Well, I wouldn’t keep the Detective Superintendent waiting, gaffer!”

  Thoroughgood answered the mobile.

  “Afternoon, boss.”

  A powerful voice from the other end was clearly audible to both detectives:

  “What the fuck’s going on down there, Thoroughgood? I’ve already had the Chief Constable on, biting my arse about drive-by shootings in the city centre. It’s all over the Evening Times and the TV crews are camped outside the City Chambers. It’s a complete circus. I want you and Hardie back at Stewart Street office tout suite. I need all the details and the chief is expecting a report on his desk as soon as.”

  Tomachek had barely taken time for a breath before he continued unabated:

  “Well, Thoroughgood, was Meechan any help or was it all bullshit?”

  Then, answering his own question before Thoroughgood could get a word in, Tomachek was off and ranting again:

  “Now listen to me, Thoroughgood. The Chief has to give a four p.m. press conference about this business with the headless corpse that washed up in Milngavie Reservoir. Fuckin’ perfect timing, it’s all we need. The press are having a field day saying we’ve lost control. So you get your arse back here pronto.”

  Thoroughgood looked at Hardie and the two detectives laughed. There didn’t seem much point in doing a whole lot else.

  Hardie said: “Well, gaffer, just another routine day in the life of ‘A’ Division CID!”

  “I guess lunch is going to have to wait,” said the DS, and with that the CID pool car was en route to Stewart Street cop shop.

  Chapter 11

  Springburn Way was fairly quiet by six p.m. on a Friday. Boasting a small shopping centre, a bank, job centre and a couple of pubs, it wasn’t exactly teeming with commercial activity, serving as it did one of the poorest areas of Glasgow. The blue Transit pulled up outside the bookies at 5.57 p.m., as Brennan confirmed with a last look at his watch.

  Turning off the engine, his stocking mask already covering his face, he opened the door and jumped out. He booted the bookies’ door open and marched straight into the shop with Jarvis a pace behind him.

  “Right you bastards, everybody except staff get the fuck oot,” and to make his point Brennan pulled out the sawn-off and blasted a round into the roof

  Jarvis obligingly trained his sawn-off over the shop floor. The punters, a mixture of drunks, pensioners and assorted local lowlife, made their way out without needing a second invite.

  Springburn was the type of place that had more than its fair share of violent crime, and the punters in Brown’s bookies had all witnessed similar incidents at one time or another. With the exodus from the floor complete, Brennan smashed the butt of his shooter into the two CCTV cameras covering the entrance and the main floor area. As he did so, he made his way to the counter, lowering the sawn-off at the girl behind it.

  “Listen tae me, darlin’. Do as I tell you and it’ll be all right, pet. Now, where’s old man Brown?” he hissed.

  While he was focusing on the girl behind the counter’s glass security window, the heavy door at the side of the counter had begun to creak open and a barrel pointed out.

  “Lookin’ for me fucker?”

  And immediately there was a flash from the barrel aimed in Brennan’s direction. He ducked instinctively as the discharge shattered into one of the TV screens behind him. The door sprang wide open and the burly shape of old Walt Brown came charging out just as Chico Jarvis opened fire, spewing the contents of his sawn-off straight into the old man’s guts. The bookie was thrown back against the door with the violent impact of the discharge. Brennan looked over his shoulder and gave Chico the thumbs-up, then signalled to his sidekick to start dousing the premises with petrol.

  Turning to stare at the terrified assistant, he screamed:

  “Get the fuck oot of here, darlin’.”

  This time the girl needed no second invite and sprinted out of the side door, hurdling the groaning body of Walt Brown as she escaped into Springburn Way.

  Brennan was now leaning over Walt Brown. The bookie was still alive, but his breath came in torturous rasps. Pulling his mask back up onto his head, Brennan leaned closer still to Brown.

  “Well, well, Walt, did you really think you’d get away with that little turn down in George Square earlier today? Looks like it’s time to say goodbye.”

  Recognition flickered across Brown’s anguished face and he managed to string together a sentence:

  “Frankie Brennan, ya bog-trottin’ bastard,” Brown agonisingly drew another lungful of air. “Don’t worry, Meechan’s gonnae get his yet.”

  The effort needed to make the threat had taken almost all Brown’s dying breath from him, but Brennan was determined there was no way Brown was going to meet his maker without being made aware of the fate awaiting the other members of his family.

  “Now now, Walt, that isn’t a nice thing to be saying about Mr. Meechan. But it’s just not going to be happening ’cos you ain’t gonnae have any family left to organise fuck all by the time tonight is out, old man.”

  Brown’s eyes began to assume the glazed quality of a dead man’s stare. Smiling benevolently, Brennan signalled to Chico to bring the can of petrol over to him. Taking it from his sidekick, he stood up and doused the bookie liberally before producing a lighter from his jacket pocket.

  “Goodbye, old man.”

  The lighter’s flame was applied to Brown’s petrol-sodden shirt. Taking a step back, Brennan waited to make sure the flames began to engulf Brown.

  “Right, wee man, let’s get the fuck into the van, it’s done here.”

  Sprinting out the bookies’ door, the two jumped into the Transit and headed up Springburn Way, passing the leisure centre on their left and up the hill towards Balgrayhill Road. Stopping at the junction for a second, Brennan shot over into Mosesfield Street when the first gap in the cross-traffic appeared.

  Springburn Park ran up the left-hand side of the road; on the right there were flats and a cul de sac. Brennan turned the Transit into the cul de sac while Jarvis poured the remainder of the petrol all over the interior, and the lighter was once again administered. The duo exited the Transit and ran over to the waiting Cavalier. Engaging reverse, Brennan turned back into the main street and continued to h
ead north just as the first sirens pierced the evening air.

  It was 6.14 p.m.

  The hit on the car showroom was about half a mile to the north west of Springburn Way. Turning off Springburn Road, the red Volkswagen Golf pulled up outside the showroom and Reid jumped out quickly, followed by Simms. Reid could already see Jimmy Brown standing on the showroom floor talking to a punter in animated fashion.

  Stocking mask over his head, he headed straight across to the car salesman; the colour drained out of Brown’s sharp features as recognition dawned. Gazza Reid enjoyed his work. He was a violent man who enjoyed violence for its own sake. When it afforded him the chance to settle old scores, it gave him an added sense of satisfaction.

  The punter standing with Jimmy Brown also knew something was far from right, and began to back away from Brown and the closing Reid. The distance between Brown and Reid was now less than five feet, and at that point Reid reached inside his Berghaus anorak and pulled out the Smith and Wesson. Still he closed on Brown and, when he stood less than a foot away, lifted his handgun and put the barrel to Brown’s head. Reid spoke.

  “You know who I am, Jimmy?”

  Brown said nothing but his eyes opened wide in the terror of recognition.

  “You bastard, you carved me wide open all these years back and you thought I would’nae come for ye,” continued Reid.

  Keeping the gun trained on Jimmy Brown’s head, Reid pulled out the machete from inside his Berghaus and plunged it straight into Brown’s midriff before twisting the blade deep in his guts. Brown gasped and staggered and before he could fall, Reid added:

  “Night-night, Jimmy,” and with that he pulled the trigger.

  Brown crumpled to the ground with half his head spreading across the previously immaculate, gleaming black and white tiled showroom floor. The temporary silence was pierced by a scream as a female member of the showroom staff came out of the ladies’ and started to head for her desk, only to pull up in disbelief; fear and shock etched in her face.