As she became hysterical, the screaming went on and on. A voice shouted,
“You bastards! Come and get it!”
Reid, and Simms, now positioned ten feet behind his superior at the showroom entrance,turned to see a suited male in his mid-thirties come out of the door next to the showroom coffee machine. The male, who Reid immediately recognised as Davie Brown, the second of Walt’s two sons, was not empty-handed.
“You fuckin’ bastards, what have you done to Jimmy? You’re gonnae pay,” And with that Davie Brown lowered his revolver and opened fire.
Reid and Simms threw themselves behind the nearest glistening showroom motor. Reid, peeking round from behind the rear spoiler of a Fiesta, caught Simms’ eye and signalled to him to start moving round to Brown’s left. Reid started to edge round his right flank.
Brown, his fury unabated but his wits still with him, could see exactly what was happening. However, with his brother lying with his brains half-blown across the showroom floor and his entrails spilling out from his midriff, he was starting to succumb to a Neanderthal bloodlust.
Reid, the killer of his brother, was the one he wanted, and as he saw the murderer attempting to shimmy across the showroom to his right, he opened fire again.
The first bullet embedded itself into the Ford Fiesta Reid was using as a shield. The second bullet punctured a hole in the showroom’s glass wall. So intent was Davie Brown on avenging himself on the man who had brutalised his brother that momentarily he forgot all about the second of his two adversaries, Ricky Simms. But by that point Simms had sidled right round Brown’s left flank and was standing exactly behind him.
“Hey fucker,” Simms said, and as Brown turned on him, Simms emptied the sawn-off into his chest as the third and final male member of the Brown family met his maker in a salvo of lead.
Simms immediately caught the shout of “Out!” from Reid and the two made their way back to the waiting Volkswagen before they screeched off in a rubber-burning exit. They made their way up Springburn Road, turning into Possil and then heading out the back road to the village of Torrance and on into the Campsie Hills. Their intention was to rendezvous with Frankie Brennan and torch the Volkswagen in one of the myriad small country roads that were impossible for the police to patrol effectively.
By seven p.m. Brennan and Reid were able to rendezvous in a small lane just short of Ballat Crossing, around three miles from the village of Killearn. Once Brennan had all the information he needed from Reid regarding the showroom job, he texted Meechan that both jobs had been successfully completed.
Despite Brennan’s confidence everything was going to plan, Meechan was not one for taking unnecessary chances, except when the rewards demanded. The point of taking the getaway motors out into the sticks was that the dumping grounds preferred by the gang were in a different policing area to that of Strathclyde Police.
Central Scotland Constabulary, which covered Stirlingshire and the beautiful, rugged but sparsely populated Trossachs, was one of the smallest Scottish police forces in terms of manpower. With so few police officers covering such a vast expanse of terrain, the gang’s chances of disposing of “hot” vehicles successfully in the aftermath of their operations were greatly enhanced.
Meechan sat in his office chair, his hands steepled and his eyes looking straight up at the ceiling.
So far so good, he thought. But what about Tommy Rankin?
His number two was due to check in with him from the Western Isles, and so far, nothing. Then there was the call Jimmy Gray would be expecting from him over in his Mallorcan villa. Pulling his tie loose, Meechan made his way over to the drinks cabinet which was more of an ornament than a supplier of liquor.
But just tonight, thought Meechan, I could do with a malt, while he waited for Tommy Rankin’s call.
Cradling the sixteen-year-old Lagavulin in his right hand, he had to admit he had been careless, perhaps even arrogant, and it had nearly cost him his life and that of the woman he supposed he loved. From now on, Meechan vowed to himself, he would take no such chances again. With the Browns out of the way, control over Glasgow, north of the river Clyde, was his. It was now time to start phase two, and that meant he needed to talk to Tommy Rankin.
Chapter 12
Eight-thirty and Meechan’s mobile went off, the display screen flashing up the name Rankin.
“Tommy, where the fuck have you been?” demanded Meechan.
Rankin was unrepentant. “Sorry boss, but do you know how hard it is to get a reception in this place?”
“Very good Tommy, forget the excuses and get on with it,” ordered Meechan.
“Okay boss,” Rankin could tell, even from the other side of a mobile, when Meechan’s patience was wearing thin. “Anyways we were met at the airport—if you can call it that—by a nice little welcoming committee. It turns out that we weren’t the only ones those greedy fuckin’ Johnson brothers were ripping off.” Rankin was gathering momentum. “It appears the main man now is an Iain Morriston. After a couple of refreshments and grub, Morriston started to put us in the picture.”
“Very good, Tommy. Now, without revealing how many courses you had and what vintage the plonk was, can you get the fuck on with it,” ordered Meechan, this time with some levity in his voice.
“Yes boss. Well, it turns out Morriston has had his suspicions that the Johnsons were skimming for a while, and not just at our end. The short and curlies of it is that Morriston and his boys started watching the Johnsons. After the container truck was leaving the factory, there were unscheduled stop-off points. Morriston claims that he was about to contact us and put us in the picture but the Johnsons had already left for Glasgow. We all know what happened to them down here.
“Morriston also claimed he knew you would have to send someone up to sort things in Barra and didn’t see the point of getting in a flap. I have to say, boss that would be about right for this place, nothing seems to get done today when tomorrow will do. I think they call it mañana!”
“And?” was the only word Meechan uttered.
“The bottom line is Morriston is more than happy to be your man up in the Isles, he’s confident he can deliver, delighted with your offer of a five per cent increase in the island take of things, and keen to get to work on the new deal. Morriston also said to me, if we were interested, it might be time to start dipping our feet in the crystal meth market? That’s for you to decide, boss.”
“First things first, Tommy; we need to get the current operation up and running, watertight and efficient. Morriston needs to earn our trust. To a certain extent we need to earn the same from him. So what do you think about our new friend, Tommy?” asked Meechan.
“I’d say he’s hungry and ambitious, all right. But like you say, boss, it will be a time before he’s earned our trust,” admitted Rankin.
“It does sound pretty promising, but you’re sure there is no resentment over our disposing of the Johnsons?” enquired Meechan.
Rankin was adamant. “Naw boss, no way. I think when the other island boys found out the Johnsons had been ripping them off they were just delighted when we did their work for them.”
“Okay, Tommy, so what have you got planned for the rest of the weekend?”
“Well tonight, boss, me and the boys are guests of Morriston at a ceilidh, would you believe, in the Castlebay Community Hall? Then tomorrow he’s going to show us round the Barra Fresh from the Sea frozen food factory, and we’re going to have a look at some of the beach drop-off points.”
“If the weather holds, that should be pretty damn good, the beaches and the seas are something else.” Rankin added: “It’s just a pity it’s so bloody Baltic.”
“Aye very good Tommy, to be sure. Just remember you’re no’ a bloody tourist. Don’t let the Teuchters hoodwink you. This is business, and they might fancy pulling the wool over our eyes and then the laugh’s on us when we’ve fucked off back to Glasgow,” warned Meechan.
“Give me a call on Sunday night if th
ere are any unforeseen problems; if not I’ll catch you at the office Monday afternoon,” he concluded.
“Okay, boss, have a good one,” said Rankin, and the mobile clicked dead.
Meechan afforded himself a grin. This was a far better scenario than he had hoped for. The fact that the other islanders had caught the Johnsons ripping them off as well was a real bonus. Meechan was also in no doubt Tommy Rankin would make them only too aware of the fate that befell the Johnson brothers, in graphic detail.
Meechan got up from the desk and helped himself to a second Lagavulin from the office cabinet, then punched in Jimmy Gray’s Puerta Pollensa villa number, one hundred percent confident he had some music for the old man’s ears.
Chapter 13
By the time Thoroughgood and Hardie had finished de-briefing Detective Superintendent Tomachek over the shooting incident outside the City Chambers, both detectives were grateful that six p.m. was the start of their weekend off. After watching Tomachek do his best to give himself a coronary, Thoroughgood had to admit it was at times like these that the brass really earned their inflated wage packets.
Tomachek was due up at Disneyland, as Pitt Street, Force HQ, was known to the rank and file of Strathclyde police, for a three-thirty p.m. briefing of the chief constable. Meanwhile, Thoroughgood and Hardie tied up their loose ends, making sure there was a full briefing note left for the backshift. By four-thirty their main concern was where to enjoy a pint and mull over a strategy for Thoroughgood’s first meeting with Gerry McIlroy, which was pencilled in for eight p.m. that night.
Hardie, ever mindful of his aching bones and the need to bring warmth into his rotund body, had clearly given the matter some thought.
“Listen, gaffer, what about the Ubiquitous Chip in Ashton Lane? It’s got a fire, and a nice pint of Furstenburg would be a good place to start the weekend and help the brain to relax and function at its best. Plus, it’s about the only place in Ashton Lane you can hear yersel’ think, and not get surrounded by posers like a wagon train encircled by the Apache!” Hardie’s grandiose case was, he hoped, compelling.
“Fair enough, you old git. Drop your motor up in Hyndland and we’ll nick down and have a couple, at least. I’m supposed to be meeting McIlroy in the Snaffle Bit on Sauchiehall Street, so I’ll text him and see if he can bring the meet forward to seven p.m.”
By 5.30 p.m. the two detectives were ambling down Dowanside Road. The night air was bracing, and this only heightened the mounting sense of anticipation for the impending pint or two awaiting them in the UB Chip, as it was known to everyone in the West End.
Perching their pints on the mantelpiece above the small fire already crackling and spreading its warmth out from the heart of the UB, Hardie opened up the discussion.
“First thing I’d like to know, gaffer, is where is McIlroy going to be getting his information from? Celine Lynott? Forgive me if I say so, but she looked pretty bloody cosy with Meechan at the Rogano. I can’t see her wanting to jeopardise the expensive pad, the designer gear and a big money management job with Meechan to help bite the hand that feeds her. Maybe I’ve got her wrong, but you were the one who interviewed her. Did she give you any indications?”
“I dunno, Kenny. In all likelihood, the answer has got to be no, there. I got the feeling that Celine is at a bit of a crossroads right now. I think she could be starting to think that Declan Meechan is as good as it’s going to get for her in this life. But she still has doubts.”
After further consideration and a mouth of Furstenburg, Thoroughgood added:
“You’re right, though; are these doubts big enough to chuck away everything she has and gamble her future on god knows what for a return? You’d have to say the odds are stacked pretty big-time on her hanging her coat on Meechan,” concluded the DS.
His lips encircled his pint, as the pot of Furstenburg reached half-empty in one massive swallow that made Hardie looked like some kind of submerging whale, the DC still managed to roll his eyes over the rim in agreement. Setting the glass back on the mantelpiece, Hardie stuck his arse a shade closer to the warming hearth and cracked a fart at precisely the same time he belched from his mouth. The dual expulsion of air brought a hearty smile to his ruddy chops and left Thoroughgood wishing a hole would open up in the middle of the gradually filling bar which would allow him an instant escape from his colleague’s antics.
“For fuck’s sake, Kenny, do you have to?” demanded Thoroughgood.
“As my old man always said, better out than in!” retorted Hardie, and then continued with his thoughts on McIlroy.
“So, if he is isn’t getting his information from Celine, where the fuck is it coming from? You said he had managed to keep his job as a charge nurse, thanks to all the help he gave McNab, and if McIlroy’s brothers are both in Barlinnie then he must have some other way in. What about his ma? Have you managed to do anything on the house front for her?” he asked.
“Aye, it’s all sorted with the Glasgow Housing Association. She’ll get a wee front and back door with a postage stamp of grass out the back, the minute I’m sure he has something valuable for me. Certainly not before,” pledged the DS.
Thoroughgood was enjoying the sight of his notoriously tight colleague make his way to the bar for the next round when his mobile beeped with a text. It was McIlroy, confirming he could make the meet at seven-thirty but not before. Taking stock, Thoroughgood consulted his watch. Just past six now, which would allow for another couple of pints, and then a leisurely walk down University Avenue into the Kelvin Way and he’d be there in good time.
Hardie handed his pint over and bleated:
“Would you believe it, five frigging pounds and ninety six pence that round cost? I can hardly get my heid round it, the three-pound pint is only a baw’ hair away.”
“Well, at least it hasn’t gone up any since I got the first round in. Anyway,” the DS added, as he surveyed Hardie’s shabby, greying white shirt, outdated paisley pattern tie and dull brown double-breasted suit,
“What else have you got to spend all the overtime on? Certainly not clothes!” cracked Thoroughgood.
Changing the subject with some speed, Hardie enquired about his superior’s love life, a tactic he knew that was sure to put Thoroughgood’s gas at a low peep.
“So gaffer, any hot dates lined up for the weekend—apart from a visit to Firhill? Who have Thistle got this weekend?” he quipped from behind a smug smile.
“Fuck off, why don’t you? For your information I have a wee coffee situation the back of eleven tomorrow morning and yes, after that I plan to head up to Firhill to watch the glorious Harry Wrags trounce Airdrie. What more could a man want?”
“You kept that one quiet, gaffer. So where did this all come from? Anyone I know? She’s not a copper by any chance?”
“Well, if you must know, and this is obviously between the two of us, I’ve started going to that speed-dating thing down at the Corinthian and it looks like it’s beginning to pay off,” Thoroughgood admitted.
Barely able to conceal his amazement, Hardie spluttered out a mouthful of foam from the head of his Fusternburg.
“Yer fuckin’ kiddin’ me on, gaffer!”
“As it happens no, I’m bloody well not. For your information I had three lines of enquiry in my inbox from the other night’s meeting, and coffee tomorrow morning is with a pretty brunette civil servant called Sara,” Thoroughgood replied.
Hardie, his head shaking in a mix of disbelief and shock at the hidden depths to his gaffer’s love life, was determined to get the full story.
“Come on, gaffer, you can’t keep an old dog dangling for his bone. How does all that speed-dating shit work?” he demanded.
“Look, faither, there’s no way I am gonnae let you know the ins and outs of my love life just so you can piss yourself at my expense. The bottom line is, at thirty-seven I’m not getting any younger and I just thought it was time to explore all the avenues. Anyway, it’s nowhere as painful as it’s made out to be
,” claimed Thoroughgood, far from convincingly.
The truth was that after a string of meaningless encounters, Gus Thoroughgood was beginning to feel the passing of the years with more than a little trepidation. Much as he tried to deny it, he had never recovered from the rollercoaster relationship with Celine Lynott back in his early twenties, over ten years ago.
Sure, there had been other relationships. One in particular, with a primary school teacher called Ellen, had even resulted in her moving in with her four-year-old daughter Aimie. But it hadn’t worked. Thoroughgood had found himself comparing Ellen to Celine at every instant, or telling himself that there was surely someone more suited for him round the corner. The fact that Ellen had a kid from a previous relationship also freaked him out. Thoroughgood had found it hard to take responsibility for someone else’s child or impose the type of moral authority on the little girl he felt was needed.
When Aimie’s father, a lieutenant in the Navy, had returned to Scotland, his reappearance had placed fresh doubts in Thoroughgood’s mind. After six months Ellen had moved out of Thoroughgood’s flat, both agreeing that a steamy love life wasn’t enough. Since Ellen, and that had been the best part of six years back, there had been plenty of women in his life. Certainly enough to keep his neighbours amused, but none had lasted.
Becoming increasingly frustrated at his inability to find a woman who matched up, it had taken an ill-starred romp with a probationer at the end of a drunken coppers’ night out to finally make Thoroughgood realise he had to take concerted action. All of which had led him to speed-dating.
Hardie winked knowingly. “So is the Sara bird a bit of a looker? Decent chassis, and all that?”
“Listen, Kenny,” said Thoroughgood, his irritation starting to show, “I’m not going to be wasting my time with any old slapper am I? She’s in her early thirties, single and definite Premiership class. But we’ll just have to see how coffee goes.”
Hardie was still in a state of disbelief at Thoroughgood’s determination to kick-start his love life, having always considered his gaffer pretty straitlaced.
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