“If you don’t mind, gaffer, I’d rather run him myself and see what we can do, and we can square it all with the CHIS Unit afterwards.”
Thoroughgood quickly added:
“Anyway boss, he’s made it clear he wants to deal with me and me only.”
It was a necessary lie, thought Thoroughgood, as the last thing he wanted was to lose control of Morse and, more importantly, the information he hoped would help him land Meechan. Taking Tomachek’s silence as approval, he continued:
“He wants me to call him back at ten p.m. with the green light. That’s it all, boss.”
“Fuck me,” was the two-word exclamation from Tomachek’s end.
The Detective Superintendent was never one to let himself get carried away, and he was soon focussing on the job at hand:
“What I’ll have to do now is call the chief. Before that, I need to make a call to Pitt Street, and the Force Intelligence Bureau; they should have all of your informant’s previous turns on record. Hopefully they’ll be good quality, because that’ll strengthen my hand with the chief constable. But Salmond is desperate, and it probably won’t take too much to convince him to put the money up and run with it.”
“After all, as we both know, Gus, he wants his knighthood and the way things are going, if we don’t make a breakthrough soon that will be up shit creek in no time. So what’s the informant’s handle?”
“Morse,” replied the DS.
“Very good, Gussy boy! I know you have a sense of humour but that’s taking it a bit far,” said Tomachek.
“That’s it, boss, and you can blame McNab. The wee man just said to me tonight he wanted to stick with it. You not a Morse fan? I thought he would have appealed to a copper of your generation!”
Tomachek let out a chortle.
“That’s enough of your cheek, pup. Time is marching on and I have calls to make. It’s nine-forty now, and you say you need to call your man back by ten p.m.?”
Thoroughgood confirmed that was the case.
“Right, I have fifteen minutes to check Morse’s credentials. But before I go putting my arse out the window on this one, I think I’ll hold off calling the chief till we have all the information in place. You are one hundred per cent on it?” Tomachek demanded.
“Yes, boss. I believe it’s a runner all right. The wee man is definitely for real.”
“Okay then, I’ll speak with you in fifteen minutes,” and with that the call was over and the game, Thoroughgood hoped, afoot.
He put down his phone and stood up, crossing to his window and staring out at nothing in particular. The dark shapes of the surrounding tenements were grey and forbidding. The combination of the wind and rain rattled and shook the frame of his lounge window in an intimidating combination. Thoroughgood walked over to his CD player and took a look through his discs.
Ah, Blondie. ‘Parallel Lines,’ aye, Debbie Harry’s finest hour, he thought and slipped the digitally re-mastered classic into the CD player.
Pacing the carpet floor, the DS looked at the clock on the mantelpiece: nine-fifty. His phone went off:
“Gus, it’s a goer,” said Tomachek. “After I’d checked some of the turns your man put up for McNab, it’s a pretty compelling case.”
“Well, I’ll give Morse a call the minute you are through, boss. From what he says he’ll speak to whoever it is he’s got on the inside and call me back as near to midnight as he can. Hopefully I’ll be on the blower to you again before one a.m. and with a bit of luck it will be lift-off,” said Thoroughgood.
“All right, Gus. So I suppose I’d better stay off the hard stuff. Just make sure you call me the minute you have something. Oh, and Gus, you don’t need me to tell you that if this comes off it will be a big boost to your career,” added Tomachek benevolently.
Thoroughgood still had to deliver the sting in the tail:
“There’s just one thing more, gaffer, before you go,” he intoned.
“Yes Gus, why do I get the feeling I am not going to like this?” was Tomachek’s wary reply.
“As you know, boss, this is an E Division enquiry and one being run by DCI Henry Farrell. Ultimately, you know how badly I want Meechan. If everything goes to plan and Morse’s information leads to apprehensions, then these captures could provide crucial information in that respect.
“I want you to see what you can do to convince the bosses in the East that I can get access to any ‘bodies’ we may get. I know Farrell isn’t going to like that, you know we don’t exactly get along, but I don’t see him doing much to move the enquiry on. So if my tout provides the information that helps us forward then I think my request is reasonable.”
“You know I have no time for that tosser Farrell, so I’ll do what I can for you, son. But it’s really in the hands of the East brass. However, I’ll see what I can do to bring some pressure to bear further up the tree. That’s all I can promise for now, let’s leave it there and see where we are after you’ve spoken to Morse.”
“Fair enough, boss,” said Thoroughgood, and hung up.
No point hanging about, thought the DS, and lifted the phone once more, punching in the numbers of Morse’s mobile.
“It’s me,’ said Morse’s voice at the other end. “Are you ready for this?”
“You’ve got my undivided attention,” admitted Thoroughgood.
“There are four of them, and they headed to the Trossachs after both hits on the Browns were done. I don’t have the exact location, but the safe house they are using is somewhere close to Loch Ard. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find; after all, it’s not as if there are hundreds of them. You don’t need me to confirm they’re all armed. They split up earlier tonight to dump one of the vehicles used on the second hit at the car showroom. So, at the moment, there are two in the farmhouse and two on the way back,” revealed Morse.
“A farmhouse near Loch Ard in the Trossachs does cause a bit of a complication, and I don’t mean because we don’t have the exact locus,” admitted the detective.
“That’s outside our area and in Central Scotland territory. They aren’t going to be too happy if we go stomping all over their patch, especially if a firearms incident kicks off. More importantly, have you got any identities for our four shooters?” asked the DS.
“What do you think? Are the names Frankie Brennan and Gaz Reid familiar to you, detective?” asked Morse.
“Nasty bastards both,” admitted Thoroughgood, “But what about the other two?”
“They’re both kids. One is called Jarvis and the other Simms, I don’t know any more than that. But the vehicle you are looking for is a dark blue Cavalier.”
“Anything else I need to know?” asked Thoroughgood.
“Just that if you want to be sure of getting them, you need to move now. They’ll be gone by dawn,” said Morse.
“Now I’ve provided the information and if it’s acted upon you will get your ‘bodies,’ as you like to call them. If you don’t mind, I’m going to get some sleep. Can I expect a call from you at, say, one p.m. today, Mr Thoroughgood?”
“Yeah, I’ll do that; say your prayers, Morse.”
The DS ended the call. His mind raced. The location of the farmhouse in the beautiful wilds of the Trossachs was a definite problem.
Tomachek was far from happy with developments.
“This is all getting a bit messy, Gus. I would need to call the chief and probably the ACC Crime, and then we need to make contact with the country bumpkins at Central Scotland polis; as you say, that’s all going to take several hours. On the other hand, how can I authorise you and Hardie to head out into the wilderness to suss out a four-man gang, all armed to the teeth, who have just gunned down three males in cold blood?
“But what I don’t know doesn’t hurt me. If you and Hardie were to act on a tip off from an informant, there might be mitigating circumstances.
“Anyway, the less I know the better until you phone me at, say, ten thirty this morning. But whatever you do, just be car
eful. We haven’t had a police officer killed since the nineties: I don’t want your blood on my conscience. Now forget this conversation ever happened and do what you have to do, Gus, and good luck son.”
“Cheers, gaffer.”
“Yeeeeeees!” was the reply from Kenny Hardie’s bedroom phone when Thoroughgood interrupted his slumbers at twelve forty-five a.m. As the DS had known, after the usual bout of cursing and moaning that Thoroughgood was putting his marriage on the line again, the old boy would soon be ready to rumble.
Thirty minutes later Thoroughgood picked up his portly partner from his semi-detached in Knightswood. Thoroughgood could never understand why his mate had remained in an area the DS had always viewed as dodgy, a belief that was only reinforced when Hardie’s home had been tanned two Christmases back and emptied of a house full of presents. Both Hardie’s kids were grown up, one at university in the US, the other working full-time; with the mortgage paid up it seemed a peculiar choice to stay in an area that was far from the traditional middle-class suburbs usually chosen by cops of his vintage.
When Hardie jumped into the RX-8, the DS moved into auto-pilot as he briefed his sidekick on the content of a night spent constantly on the blower. While Hardie expressed reservations, he knew full well that the quality of the turn and the lack of time meant something had to be done. As Thoroughgood had pointed out, if they didn’t make any arrests tonight, at the very least they would be able to locate the safe house, and a future surveillance operation might well lead to bodies.
There was only one real problem concerning Hardie as the RX-8 wound its way out of Glasgow and passed Milngavie Reservoir:
“Just how are we going to find this farmhouse in the pitch-black?”
Thoroughgood had been waiting for the question.
“According to Morse it’s on the north side of Loch Ard. There’s only the one road in, so basically it’s a case of working out which farmhouse it is from a choice of maybe half a dozen. We have one clue in that there will be a dark blue Cavalier parked outside.”
“Mmm, shouldn’t be that difficult then. But, it’s gonna be a long cold night. You bring a Thermos with coffee or anything?’
With a wink and a nod of his head backwards, Thoroughgood said:
“Look in the back seat, faither.”
Chapter 16
The smooth purring of the RX-8’s Renesis rotary engine was the only noise that punctured the silence as the two detectives made their journey of discovery. Loch Ard was around fifty minutes from the outskirts of Glasgow, but at one-thirty a.m. on a Saturday morning traffic was a non-issue.
Loch Ard was situated in the foothills of Ben Lomond, dominated by its imposing presence which loomed large, high above. As they approached the area known as the Great Forest of Loch Ard the RX-8 slowed to a crawl. Thoroughgood had opted to take his own vehicle on this unofficial spying mission, partly because the diesel engines of the CID pool cars would have alerted any self-respecting criminal to the presence of cops.
Given the isolated nature of the terrain they were now exploring, the only other alternative was really a four-by-four. With Loch Ard being a tourist spot, Thoroughgood felt his own vehicle was more likely to be taken for one of the holidaymakers who had chalets on the loch-side.
Noticing a passing place in the road looming ahead, he decided this was the end of the road in car terms. The DS opened his boot, and Hardie had to admit he was impressed by his gaffer’s forward planning. The Maglite police torch was, naturally, present. But Thoroughgood then pulled out a rucksack which contained waterproof leggings, woollen bob hats, a powerful zoom lens camera and nightsight binoculars.
More important, thought Hardie, were the selection of cheese and ham sandwiches, earning Thoroughgood a thumbs-up from his mate.
Thoroughgood believed the farmhouse they were looking for was in the shadow of Edinample Castle, on the south side of the loch. As the two detectives began to make their way on foot along the loch road, he started to fill Hardie in on its history. The castle had been built by “Black” Duncan Campbell of Glenorchy in the sixteenth century.
Campbell, so legend had it, demanded the builder put a tower on the top from which he could enjoy a commanding view of the loch and the local area. The builder failed to do so, and when he tried to convince Black Duncan that the view was just fine from the roof, Campbell pushed him off the top and so avoided payment. From that day the ghost of the murdered builder was reputed to haunt Edinample.
“A bloody ghost story to put me at my ease, just what the fuckin’ doctor ordered,” moaned the DC.
“Just trying to paint a picture for you,” said Thoroughgood. “It’s a bonus for us that the farmhouse is near the castle, as it certainly cuts down on the process of elimination. If we sight the blue Cavvy, then bingo.”
“How long is the hike gonnae last anyway?” demanded Hardie.
“Well, Loch Ard is only four klicks long by two wide. I reckon we’re starting to turn onto the south side now so I would say maybe another ten minutes or so. Anyway, what are you complaining about? Fresh air, beautiful countryside and it’s your weekend off, what’s the problem?”
“I’ll tell you what the bleedin’ problem is, it’s pitch bloody dark, I’m frozen and you dragged me out the warmth of my bed on some fool’s errand that could easily get us both killed. That’s what’s the fuckin’ matter,” growled Hardie.
It was then the detectives heard the sound of a car engine slowly approaching and, with a glance between the two, they headed off the road and behind a nearby knot of pine trees.
As the vehicle drew close, it proved to be a dark-coloured, possibly navy blue, Cavalier, registration mark F189 JUS.
“Chances are that’s our motor, two up if I’m not mistaken,” said the DS.
Hardie agreed. “Aye, I don’t see it being an innocent coincidence; let’s hope we’re not far away from its destination.”
Sure enough, about a quarter of a mile down the lochside, there was a fork in the road. Up the hill to the right loomed Edinample Castle while about five hundred yards down to the left was situated a whitewashed farm steading, and parked outside was the Cavalier.
The detectives continued down the track for about two hundred and fifty yards, all the time training their eyes on the front door of the steading. Lights were on in two of the ground-level windows. The Cavalier was parked in a yard with a couple of outhouses, which Thoroughgood thought may have been used for housing hens, while there also appeared to be a pigsty. With the steading almost on the banks of Loch Ard, there was plenty of tree cover.
The detectives moved into the fields to the right of the track and headed down towards a pocket of birches almost twenty feet from the Cavalier and the steading’s front door.
Thoroughgood and Hardie took up crouching positions while they laid out the plastic sheeting the DS had also brought with him, and then assumed a prone position. Thoroughgood took the night-sight binoculars while Hardie had the zoom lens camera to hand. They waited in the knowledge that their unauthorised observation operation was breaking almost every dictate of the Force rules governing surveillance of suspects.
After a further ten minutes, with his watch showing it was now five to two, Hardie, growing cold and impatient, signalled to his gaffer he was going to open the Thermos for some much-needed warmth and refreshment.
Just then the steading’s stout wooden door opened, and out stepped the hulking figure of the brute the two detectives knew to be Frankie Brennan. Immediately behind him appeared a second male, considerably slighter than the six-foot-five-inch Brennan. The second male, Thoroughgood guestimated, was perhaps around the five-foot-seven-inch mark, sporting a white baseball cap with what appeared to be a black Nike tick on it.
Thoroughgood immediately whispered to his mate:
“That’s one of the fuckers who tried to ram me off the Kingston Bridge. He had a white baseball cap with the black Nike swish. I’ll bet you it was the pair of them. Bastards.”
; Brennan made his way to the Cavalier’s boot, opening it before bringing out a canvas-wrapped bundle which he handed to baseball cap, who immediately returned inside the farmhouse. Then Brennan removed a huge petrol canister which led to both detectives exchanging a knowing glance; shortly afterwards the giant followed his mate back inside.
Both had been captured by Hardie on the special police surveillance zoom lens that provided pictures of superb clarity in conditions of pitch darkness. This time it was Hardie who broke the silence:
“What now, boss? We’ve got a definite ID on Brennan, and the snaps I got of the other male may help us make him. But you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out the canvas bag contained the shooters and the petrol canister was the one that covered old man Brown at the bookies. So here we are, two in the morning, miles from nowhere, unarmed, no back-up, takin’ observations on a farmhouse that possibly has four highly armed killers inside. Come on, gaffer, what’s your call?”
Thoroughgood replied, “I told you, Tomachek warned me that our brief was only to house the suspects, try and get an ident on them if possible, and then get home safe and sound. I’m not gonnae be calling him at two a.m. to provide a report when it can wait ’til ten a.m. as he requested. But we could do with getting all the guys on film.”
Hardie, whose spirits had been soaring at the thought of packing up and heading home to the warmth of his bed, now experienced a sinking feeling in his gut.
“With respect, gaffer, just how the fuck are we gonnae be doin’ that?”
“We need some kind of diversion to draw them out. Pass me a coffee and a sandwich, this is something we can’t be rushing into,” Thoroughgood attempted to reassure.
“Yer chuffin’ right there, Gus.”
Although they had come dressed for a long and cold night’s open air surveillance work, the damp of their lochside vigil had begun to penetrate into the very core of their beings. Even thermal gloves could only keep frozen, motionless digits warm for so long.
Parallel Lines Page 10