Faced with having to smash his way through the coffee table to get to Reid, Brennan’s temper finally snapped, and he let out an enraged roar as he booted it to one side. Reid recognised the hopelessness of his situation as Brennan grabbed him by the throat with his right hand and sliced the flick-knife down the right hand-side of his face. A flap of skin fell away. Standing back to admire his handiwork, as the wound began to sob blood, Brennan said:
“Well now, what a pity, none of your faggot friends is going to fancy you now, are they? But I haven’t finished, have I?”
“For pity’s sake, Frankie, give me a break. I swear on my …”
Reid got no further as the giant rammed the flick-knife up into his guts and administered the career criminal’s trademark, twisting the blade in a clockwise direction to inflict maximum damage to vital internal organs.
Reid slumped onto the blade, his eyes wide in the knowledge that the wound was surely fatal. Brennan looked down at his skewered ex-colleague, his face a mask of hatred. He jerked the blade free violently as a sucking sound emanated from the wound. Reid placed both his hands to his guts as if trying to stem the flow of his vital liquids; he turned his head down and looked at the red juices spilling over his hands, gasping,
“You’ve done me Frankie, you’ve fuckin’ done me all right.”
Cleaning the four inches of steel with the rag he always kept on his person for such work, Brennan’s smile was full of satisfaction:
“Aye Gazza, you’ve squealed all right but naw like ye planned wee man.”
The sound of police sirens punctured the night air and Brennan heard the outside door being booted in. Reid was now on his knees, the trail of blood quickly turning the fake sheepskin rug in front of the fake black ash fireplace ruby red. Brennan looked down on Reid without a shred of pity.
“Well Gaz, it looks like I’m gonnae have to leave ye to die in peace. A pity that.”
Quickly the giant crossed the living room to the balcony and pulled back the net curtain. He could still hear the siren but there were no marked polis cars in sight; then he clocked the red Focus which meant the footsteps coming from the close were CID. He opened the door and took a step onto the balcony, a fifteen-foot drop.
Nae bother, he thought, and swung his burly frame over the balcony rail, wincing at the shooting pain from the blow to his left hand he’d forgotten about.
He dropped onto a postage stamp of grass immediately below, swung himself over the pitiful excuse for a hedge boxing it in, then walked briskly away to his left, cutting through the high-rise car park and disappearing into the darkness under the railway bridge at the bottom of Hawthorn Street.
Ah, sweet revenge, he thought.
Thoroughgood and Hardie came racing up the stairs to the sound of raised voices and the crash and bang of a disturbance coming from the middle landing. When they reached the first floor they saw that the door of the middle flat was hanging loosely from a hinge. All had gone quiet apart from the blare of the television.
Thoroughgood shot Hardie a warning glance and both extended their telescopic batons. The DS took a couple of steps through the doorway:
“Police, anyone home?” he called.
No reply. Straining his ears, Thoroughgood could hear a low groaning noise coming from what he took to be the living room at the front of the flat. Hardie directly behind him, he eased into the room, baton in hand and eyes scanning for movement. He needn’t have worried. On the floor, his hands clasped over a gaping stomach wound, lay Gazza Reid, groaning in agony. The billowing curtains from the balcony indicated whoever had attacked Reid had gone.
Hardie, nonetheless, advanced to the balcony and took a look out, peering down below to the grass bank bordered by the ludicrously small hedge.
“Aye, whoever did it has gone over the veranda railing, it’s a fifteen- foot drop with a nice cushy grass landing pad below. Hopefully Scenes of Crime will get a footprint lift from that though.” Hardie realised he had been talking to himself and drifted back through the net curtain and into the living room.
Thoroughgood had already called for an ambulance and was trying to offer Reid some words of comfort:
“Come on Gary, the ambulance is on the way, just keep your hands on the wound. Do you know who your attacker was?”
Reid trembled with the effort it took to open his mouth, his whole body quivering as he tried to draw himself up but eventually he managed a croak:
“It was Brennan, Frankie Brennan, who stuck me.”
The DS was worried about Reid’s obvious agitation and tried to calm him down:
“That’s brilliant, Gary. You just take it easy, the ambulance will soon be here and we’ll get you patched up in no time. But we don’t want you overdoing it in the meantime. Just take it easy.”
Hardie continued to check the living room for evidence.
“If Brennan’s not been wearing gloves we’ll definitely get a lift. That means we need you to hang about, Gary. I don’t suppose you want the big bastard who did this to you to walk away.”
Reid nodded his head unconvincingly and winced with the effort. It didn’t take the ambulance crew long to arrive at Carron Street and the paramedics admitted that, although it was far too early to say, the chances were that Reid had suffered a puncture wound to the spleen. The likely outcome would not be known until they had reached the GRI.
“We don’t seem to have much luck up in Springburn, do we gaffer?” asked Hardie. “That’s twice we’ve been up here in the last month and what do we have to show for it, one dead and one dying. Some success rate!”
“Aye, but this is just all too typical of Strathclyde Polis. You give them a key witness in a triple gangland murder case and what do they do? Leave him to babysit for him-fuckin’-self! What chance do you have? Reid should have been looked after the minute we knew he wanted to come into us. The whole thing is a joke. Can you imagine the press we’ll get if they get hold of this one? We’d be a complete laughing stock. Still, it’s not my problem, thank God, but I’m sure Tomachek will want to know.”
Tomachek’s rage was palpable. He spared Henry Farrell nothing, but both the Detective Super and his DS knew full well that with the triple murder inquiry taking up so much manpower and the officers’ rights to a refreshment break, sacrosanct, Farrell was not completely to blame. Particularly so when he had confirmed he would send men up to Carron Street to look after Reid. However, while Reid’s life may now be hanging in the balance, both Thoroughgood and Hardie had quite clearly heard the wounded witness mention Brennan’s name as the man responsible for his injuries.
The living room of the flat looked like a scene from a Wild West saloon fight, and the footprints from the grass below the balcony would provide SOCO with a feast of forensic evidence. For the second time in a fortnight, Thoroughgood and Hardie found themselves waiting for the Senior Detective officer on duty in the East to come and take control of the locus. For the second time, that man was DCI Henry Farrell.
The full circus had sprung into life at number thirteen Carron Street and Thoroughgood and Hardie quickly removed themselves from the locus of the attempted murder, as it was at this stage. At the bottom of the close they debated the need to remain at the scene of the crime until Farrell finally showed up.
Thoroughgood, his anger scarcely abated, was for heading to the Western Infirmary to inform Morse that his flat had become the scene of what could turn out to be a fatal attack on his lover. Although Hardie knew exactly where his gaffer was coming from, he still believed in giving Farrell his place, however little he actually respected him. The point of their conversation soon became redundant when DCI Farrell arrived a little before seven-thirty p.m.
“Thoroughgood and Hardie, we’ve got to stop meeting like this!” Farrell’s attempt at humour was the last thing either of the detectives expected.
“I hear our witness is still hanging onto his life. I spoke to the ambulance boys on the way out and they’re saying he’ll undergo emergency surge
ry later tonight. They reckon the knife wound may have punctured the spleen. Apparently Reid only survived because the blade was so thin, possibly a flick-knife.”
Thoroughgood’s eyes met Hardie’s as the two shared a curious look at Farrell’s new approach.
“Listen chaps, I want you both to know I appreciate your efforts in getting up here as swiftly as you did. There is no doubt whatsoever that if you hadn’t appeared on the scene when you did, then we’d be talking murder here. Any evidence Reid had ready to put our way would be gone forever. As far as I’m concerned, if he pulls through, then all the credit is due to you two. I will make certain that is known in the places that matter.”
Thoroughgood managed a weak: “Thank you sir.” Hardie’s mouth dropped open before he quickly attempted to regain his composure with an unconvincing smile.
But Farrell had not finished.
“I have to stress that I did everything in my power to get officers stationed outside the flat door as soon as I was aware of Reid’s whereabouts. You know the shifts aren’t running at anything like full strength, and with this murder inquiry ongoing and HOLMES actions deploying the CID strength and plainclothes units on this, that and everything, we just weren’t able to rustle up anybody until seven-thirty p.m. But I tried, believe me, I really did.”
So there it was, thought Thoroughgood, the trade off: I’ll make sure you get a suitable pat on the back if you don’t make things difficult for me regarding the absence of uniform outside thirteen Carron Street.
“I take it you won’t mind if we email our statements over later tonight? I feel it’s down to me to go and let Morse know what has happened to his … contact,” Thoroughgood confirmed.
“By all means, Detective Sergeant, and once again, my sincere thanks for your night’s work,” with that Farrell headed up the stairs.
The two detectives walked out to the Focus in silence but once they had taken their seats Hardie exploded:
“What a fuckin’ wanker. Can you believe the cheek of that bastard? If he thinks all that smarming is going to stop me complaining about the lack of plod outside the flat then he’s barking friggin’ mad, never mind barkin’ up the wrong tree.”
“Listen faither, that can all wait. Right now we need to tell Morse his lover might not make it through the night. His house is in a state of complete wreckage, and guess what? It’s all down to Strathclyde Polis. How do you think the wee man is gonnae take that then?”
Hardie shrugged his shoulders.
“All you can do is tell him the truth, gaffer. His man is still alive with a fighting chance, and that’s down to us. Plus I wouldnae be losing sight of the fact that we have him clearly naming his attacker, and hopefully a whole lot of forensic evidence into the bargain.”
Thoroughgood remained unconvinced, but Hardie was determined to put a positive spin on the situation.
“Aye, it’s bad, gaffer, but it could be a whole lot bleedin’ worse.”
Chapter 27
By the time Thoroughgood and Hardie arrived at the Western Infirmary it was eight p.m. Morse was due off his twelve-hour shift any minute.
Thoroughgood, acutely aware of the sensitive nature of the news he was about to break, elected to text the nurse and let him know he was waiting for him in the CID Focus parked in Church Street, at the side of the Western. Soon he spotted a familiar figure walking up the slight incline towards them. Jumping out of the passenger seat he immediately opened the back door of the Focus behind him, offered Morse a weak smile and gestured to him to take a seat. Morse was no one’s fool, and Thoroughgood could tell by the taut look on his face that he had a good idea of what was coming next.
“Good evening detectives, this is all very considerate of you offering to take me home, or is there another reason behind your presence here?”
“I’m afraid there was an attempt on Gary Reid’s life tonight at your flat.”
There was never an easy way to deliver bad news but Thoroughgood knew, after years of experience, trying to soften the blow only prolonged the painful impact.
“Gary was beaten up and stabbed in the stomach, and the wound has punctured his spleen. At this moment he is on the operating table in Stobhill and they reckon his chances are around fifty/fifty, depending on what they find when they go in. It looks like the blade that was used to do the damage was a thin one, possibly a flick-knife; that has saved him for the time being as the knife missed the vital organs.”
Morse’s face was ashen and his eyes seemed to shrink into their sockets:
“Can I ask if we know who did it?”
“Yeah, it was myself and Kenny who were first on the scene, we just missed him by a minute or two. It was Brennan. Gary managed to tell me it was him before he lost consciousness.”
Morse was frantically playing with the earring dangling from his right ear, but said nothing as he digested the news.
“Unfortunately, Morse, there’s more. Brennan slashed down the right hand-side of Gary’s face with the blade and he’ll be scarred for life.”
Again silence, and then Thoroughgood noticed the tears streaming from the informant’s eyes. To his surprise, it was Kenny Hardie who quickly offered the tout a hankie. Clearly in shock, Morse didn’t know where to start. Thoroughgood had seen people react in a variety of ways to bad news over the years. Anger and the need to hit out were quite common, usually aimed at the messenger. Shock was also more than understandable, but somehow he had expected Morse to be different. Possibly because the wee man had been surprising him ever since he had first met him outside the People’s Palace, but he had never expected to see Morse at a loss for words. Eventually the informant found the composure to speak.
“So when will we know if Gary is going to make it?”
“It’s a case of waiting to see if he comes through surgery. He’s lost a lot of blood from his wounds, but I’m told they are hopeful.”
“So what does this all mean for me, Mr Thoroughgood? If they know where my house is, how can I stay there, where can I go to be safe if they’re going to come after me next?”
“You’ve no need to worry there, Morse. You can kip at mine until we can get you a safe house, but you might want to come round with us to your flat to get some clothes and stuff together. Obviously, though, it’s not going to be a good idea for you to be going back to work and in any case, you’ll hopefully be able to see Gary tomorrow.”
Morse continued to sob but eventually blurted out:
“All I wanted was a chance to get away from Glasgow and it’s all gone wrong, Gary could pay with his life and it’s all down to me. It’s such a mess.”
It was late before Thoroughgood and Morse returned to the Detective Sergeant’s flat. Brennan’s description was circulated; a search of his home address had proved negative but the city was being scoured by all available police resources for the giant Irishman who seemed somehow to have melted into the shadows under the noses of Strathclyde Police.
The whereabouts of Brennan was also causing Meechan more than a passing concern, and he had instructed Tommy Rankin to get a couple of “the boys out” to look for the Irishman. The last thing Meechan wanted was a loose cannon on the streets in the form of the giant wrecking ball that was Frankie Brennan, and he now had concerns that was exactly what was about to happen.
The fact that Meechan’s immediate plans were in suspension until it became clear whether Reid was going to pull through did not help the crimelord’s mood. His mind was soon working on a plan to deal with Brennan if the giant had gone off the rails. Meechan reached for his mobile.
“Is it convenient to chat, Lazarus?” Meechan asked.
“Yes,” was the one-word reply.
Brennan needed time to sort the mess in his mind. He guessed the cops would put two and two together, and his home address would be one of the first places on their list. There was no point speaking to Meechan; he had nothing more to say after his original call. No, what he needed was time alone, somewhere he could put everythin
g in perspective and try and make peace with his maker.
Strangely enough for a cold-blooded killer, Frankie Brennan had always been deeply religious. He headed out of Springburn on foot, using the side streets and staying in the shadows; by the time he reached Charing Cross he felt confident enough to hail a black hack. He instructed the driver that he wanted to be dropped at Dumbarton Road, turning up into Hyndland Street before arriving at the massive red sandstone building that was St Peter’s chapel.
All through his life the chapel had provided him with a listening ear and a promise that by repenting for the sins that haunted him, from time to time, he would be forgiven. Brennan knew his mates laughed at his need to turn to religion, but ever since he could remember he had gone to chapel. It had always helped and all he knew was that, right now, he needed help.
When he reached the front door, there was a light on inside. Carefully, he turned the handle and entered. Genuflecting, as he had been taught as a small boy all those years back, he made his way down to the front of the chapel and knelt, and there Frankie Brennan prayed for forgiveness.
Rankin had guessed the giant might need divine intervention to come to terms with the crumbling of his world and the betrayal of his best friend. For a small donation he had persuaded the priest to open St Peter’s, then waited patiently, screening the main body of the chapel through the slats of the confession booth. As he knew he would, eventually Brennan had showed.
He allowed the giant a couple of moments to come to terms with his demons and make peace with his God; Rankin viewed religion as a weakness. He walked up the aisle and eased himself into the pew behind Brennan, taking in every little movement in the Irishman’s back. Every little tensing of muscle and sinew indicated Brennan was aware he had company.
“Hullo Frankie. Is this helping dull the pain?” asked Rankin.
Parallel Lines Page 18