Parallel Lines

by R. J. Mitchell

  Morse could see some of the anger draining from Celine’s face; she knew what was coming next but the informant couldn’t make up his mind whether she would like what he had to say. He paused briefly to drain his latte.

  “You and I both know Gus Thoroughgood is still in love with you. How can I be so sure? Well, I’m staying with him at the moment because the cops say it’s not safe for me to return to my flat in Springburn, the same flat Gary was knifed in by one of your fiancé’s henchmen. I’ve been staying at Thoroughgood’s place ever since, and you know what? The man is living in a timewarp because he hasn’t been able to put behind him what happened all these years back when Declan Meechan had him hospitalised with so many fractures they thought he’d be crippled for life. He can’t get over the fact that, through no fault of his own, the one woman he ever loved—and thought loved him in equal measure—was taken from him by a cold-blooded killer.

  “Now he finds she has decided to forgive the killer and agree to be his wife. Do you know what that can do to a man inside? I’ll tell you, it’s taken Thoroughgood right up until now to start to move on and just as he is making the first steps to kickstart his life, up you pop with Meechan, the man who ruined him, stole the woman he loved and nearly had him killed.”

  Morse came up for air and as he did Celine seized her chance:

  “Well, for a man nursing a broken heart for ten years, he looked pretty happy with his new girlfriend in La Riviera last night.”

  “And hasn’t he got a right to some happiness, Celine? You’ve just said you owe it to yourself look out for number one because you only get one shot at happiness in this life. In any case, I’d hardly compare a second date to an engagement, would you?”

  Celine pinched her forehead between two fingers and massaged.

  “So what’s the point behind all this, apart from ruining any happiness I might have found at last?”

  The time for bullshit was gone and Morse knew it.

  “Gus wants to meet you.”

  “What?”

  “Look, what harm will one last meeting do either of you? I’d say you still have some doubts in the back of your mind about whether you are doing the right thing, whatever you say. As for Gus, I think he needs closure and if you were to meet him then maybe you would both come away with exactly that. As long as Meechan doesn’t know, what harm can it do? But it’s up to you. I’m only the messenger and Gus said it’s your call on the time and the place.”

  Celine shook her head unconvinced anything good would come from going over old ground that would in all likelihood cause them both a lot of pain. She stared out of the window and watched the rain bounce off the concrete. Eventually she spoke:

  “All right, Declan is going to be out of town tomorrow. Tell Gus I’ll be up at the reservoir in Milngavie at four p.m. He’ll know where to find me.”

  Morse smiled again, the relief sweeping over him like a tidal wave.

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’re making the right call, Celine. Just do me one favour.”

  “And that is?”

  “Go with an open mind.”

  “I’ll do my best. Cheerio, Gerry.”

  With that she stood up and walked out, and something about her manner made Morse feel that was the last conversation he would ever have with Celine Lynott in this world and maybe even the next.

  Chapter 32

  Thoroughgood and Hardie’s first port of call was Stewart Street Office, where they checked for any results from their dispatches across the sea. As they had predicted, at close of play on Tuesday, “Father O’Hare” had slipped through the all ports lookout broadcast shortly after he’d slit Gary Reid’s throat to the bone.

  So far there was no official response from the description they had faxed to Dublin but after checking his office line Hardie had discovered a message from Belfast CID, and a DS Sean Devlin, to give him a bell back.

  “Sounds good,” said Thoroughgood. “Well, what are you waiting for, faither?”

  Hardie quickly made the call and was met by the unique sound of a strong Northern Irish accent on the other end of the line:

  “Aye, Sean Devlin here, who’s askin’?”

  “It’s Kenny Hardie from Central CID, Strathclyde Police, Sean, thanks for returning my call about Father Gerry O’Hare. How’re you keepin’?”

  “Not so bad Kenny, yersel?”

  “A lot fuckin’ better if we weren’t in the middle of a gangland war that’s left us with seven unsolved murders and more on the way. The shit has really hit the fan over here; in fact, I can’t remember anything like it in my twenty years service.”

  “Fuck me Kenny, is that all it is, just the twenty now?” and there was a barking laugh that seemed to boom out all the way across the Irish Sea. “Aye, but you’ll be wantin’ anything I’ve got in double time.”

  “That would be a help, Sean. Me and my DS are headin’ out to Barlinnie to try and get something out of a couple of neds banged up there and we have the Detective Superintendent jumpin’ up and doon like a kangaroo on fire. So if you wouldnae mind …”

  “Yer man is Brendan O’Driscoll and he’s a hired gun, all right. He was a shooter for the IRA back in the early Nineties; yer man Declan Meechan and our Brendan here have history together for sure. Since the Troubles have cooled he’s disappeared onto the continent and has been doing some work for the Russian Mafia. Aye, our Brendan has ice water runnin’ through his veins and that would be just his style, turnin’ up as a priest to administer the Last Rites on some poor sod. Anyways we’ve put a lookout out for him but he’s a clever sod, you cannae be expecting him to stay lookin’ like a priest for too long. In fact, I’d suggest Father O’Hare was no more within five minutes of the hit. O’Driscoll is top quality, in fact you wouldnae be needin’ any better.”

  “Well that’s great, Sean, but what you’re telling me is that although we now know who he is, catching him is a totally different ball game,” groaned Hardie.

  “Put it this way, Kenny, he hasnae had the jail over here since he was a kid, but what I’d suggest you do is check Interpol intelligence on him and see what ye can come up with. I’m pretty sure he’ll make for the continent, even if he did come back into Belfast after the hit; when he gets there he might just be lettin’ his guard down, son. Anyways, if I get anything at this end, I’ll be straight on the blower.”

  “Thanks, Gerry. By the way, when did you get the promotion?”

  “That’s been eighteen months now, what about ye? Any chance of a leg up?”

  “Fuck all,” was the terse two-word reply.

  “Well, you keep yer pecker up, Kenny son. God save Ireland!” and with that bizarre send-off Devlin was gone.

  Hardie provided a blow-by-blow recount of his call with Devlin to Thoroughgood and after checking the Police National Computer reference numbers for him, they were able to bring up a grainy black and white photo of O’Driscoll that must have been fifteen years old.

  “Okay faither, at least we have something to go on. Now get someone from the uniform bar to get onto Interpol and see what we can turn up on O’Driscoll. You just never know. If he’s been working for the Russian Mafia then someone might have something for him from there, or maybe in Germany. Just make sure uniform cover all bases.”

  Hardie nodded his head. After five minutes he met Thoroughgood at the back of City Centre nick and they dived into the restored red Focus and headed for the Bar-L.

  They turned off the M8 and down into Riddrie, with the forbidding shape of Barlinnie looming large like some eighteenth-century army barracks holding a dark grisly secret within its huge walls. The Focus ground to a halt at the solid steel gateway, and the challenge to identify themselves came from a speaker situated at the driver’s side of the vehicle. The formalities of identification had to be observed rigidly in the highly regimented world that was HMP Barlinnie. Eventually the twelve-inch-thick steel doors lifted and they drove through, winding round a tight roadway behind the massive curtain wa
lls.

  Thoroughgood had faxed a request the previous afternoon, countersigned by Tomachek, for their visit to the Governor’s office, explaining the identities of the residents they wanted to speak to and of course the reason for it. Eventually, following the routine body search administered to anyone who entered the Bar-L, they were ushered to the prison interview rooms well away from Hall C where Simms and Jarvis were housed, by a prison officer who had obviously had a sense of humour bypass.

  Any attempts at conversation were completely ignored, and soon Hardie and Thoroughgood fell into a sullen silence as the morose warden led them to an interview room.

  Eventually the silence was broken when Prison Officer Grey—how apt, thought Hardie—enquired if they’d like a coffee. Both nodded in the affirmative and were treated to a view of Warder Grey’s back in double quicktime. But to be fair to the dour prison officer, he soon returned with a tray, two coffees, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar and two Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers.

  Hardie could not hide his glee. “Man, this is better than I get at hame.”

  Thoroughgood thought he saw the twitch of a smile at the corner of Grey’s mouth, but it was soon gone.

  “So who are we getting the privilege of our first interview with, Officer Grey?” he asked.

  “It’ll be Ricky Simms and I’ll have the wee scroat along for you in five minutes.”

  The two detectives exchanged glances. Both had made themselves familiar with the Section Fourteen detention interviews of Jarvis and Simms the previous day. Simms was undoubtedly the more naive of the two young would-be gangsters.

  “That’s a bonus, gaffer,” said Hardie. “If we can burst him or at least convince him to come across then we have much more chance with Jarvis, the hard nut of the two. What’s the angle then, boss?”

  “I would think word has percolated through the walls of the Bar-L that one of their mates has had his throat slit by a priest, and the other has gone missing. What concerns me is if Meechan has had anyone give them a warning from the inside. If they’ve been got at then we may have a problem. We have to convince them that, either way, Meechan will have a sticky end lined up for both of them, whatever happens. Our main problem may be just how much they know and whether it goes high enough up the tree to allow us to finger Meechan. Either way, faither, we need a result.”

  Thoroughgood took a gulp of coffee and removed his Barbour jacket, placing it over his chair and turning the cuffs of his immaculately- pressed white shirt—Morse had done his ironing as well as his homework—making ready for the interview.

  Hardie’s eyebrows shot up and then he laughed.

  “Nice creases down the arms. You got that wee bird doin’ yer ironin’ already gaffer?”

  The door was thrown open and Warder Grey pushed in the reluctant, petulant form of Ricky Simms.

  “Sit doon, son,” said Hardie, pointing to the chair at the other side of the table,

  “Can Warder Grey get you a cup of coffee or tea?” Hardie winked at Grey but got no response.

  “Naw, ah’m fine. Whit’s this all aboot? Ah’ve already spoke to the mob about the Broons.”

  “Now, now, let’s just take our time and make sure we observe all the formalities for the benefit of the tape here,” said Hardie as he quickly went through the usual list of required caution and checks. Hardie looked to his DS to take the lead but was met with a smile which invited him to continue instead.

  “A lot has changed on the outside since then, and for your safety’s sake you need to listen to what we’ve got to say and have a long hard think.”

  Simms stuck his right index finger up his left nostril and had a rummage in a barely concealed gesture of contempt.

  “You’ve got nuttin’ I’m gonnae want to hear, CID.”

  Hardie was far from discouraged and leaned across the table giving the sleeves of Simms’ prison shirt a little tug in the process:

  “Oh, but I think I have, wee man, and you aren’t going to like it one bit. Do you know what’s happened to Gary Reid and Frankie Brennan?”

  “We get the fuckin’ papers in Bar-L.”

  “First class, but did you know that the man who slit Gazza Reid’s throat was bought and paid for by Declan Meechan? That he’s a contract killer who has been workin’ for the Russian Mafia but is also an old Belfast mate of Meechan’s?”

  Warming to the task, Hardie leaned back in his chair before continuing with some relish:

  “Did you also know that big cuddly Frankie Brennan has gone missing and there’s every chance he’ll go the same way as Reid? Now when that happens, wee man, the only two who can fire Meechan in will be you and your wee playmate Chico. You’re a smart wee boy, allegedly: I’ll let you work out the rest.”

  Simms’ pale features stretched taut across his skeletal face. He knew exactly what was implied. Hardie, seizing the moment, attempted to press home the advantage:

  “Now, wee man, if you’re thinking, and I’d wager ma last tenner you are, that Declan Meechan always takes care of his own, then you are obviously needin’ a padded cell instead of a jail cell. Sooner or later you and Chico are gonnae have a nice wee accident inside Bar-L, and how easy do you think that would be to arrange?” Hardie clicked his fingers in illustration.

  “Easy as ABC I’d say, matey. Yer throat cut with a razor in the bogs, something sharp in the back when you’re in the laundry, or a hypodermic full of something nasty pumped into you while you sleep. Take your pick, wee man, cos it’s only a matter of time before you and Chico buy it, and then there was none.” Hardie finished with some satisfaction. The silence reverberated around the interview room’s stone walls. Simms opened his mouth:

  “Whit you sayin’ CID?”

  Hardie stretched, arching his back over the rear of the chair which groaned its resentment as he displayed his ample beer belly, then bounced forward, elbows thumping onto the table. It shook and so did Simms.

  “What I’m saying, wee man, is that you need to get yourself somewhere safe, somewhere Meechan or whoever he pays for cannae lay a glove on you and there is only one way that is going to happen, capiche?”

  Simms looked unhappy as recognition of what the DC was saying finally dawned on him.

  “I’m no a grass, CID.”

  “No one is saying they want you to grass … in as many words. But don’t you owe it to Gazza and big Frankie? Fuck me, I’m sure they’d do the same for you if the boot was on the other foot. Hey, if you want tae go the same way as them then that’s fine, but how old are you, Ricky?”

  “Twenty,” whispered Simms.

  “Don’t you want to see bit more of life? We put you up somewhere safe and then make sure you have a fresh start, miles away from Glasgow, and with Meechan all tucked up behind bars somewhere far cosier than Bar-L. All you have to do is tell us what happened the night the Browns bought it and anything else you know, and you can look forward to collecting your pension and seeing the grandweans grow up. If you don’t, all you’ve got to look forward to is a nasty end that you know is coming but you don’t know just when, or how it’s gonnae hit you. Either way, you wind up on the slab with the pathologist slitting your guts wide open and poking about trying to tell us what happened.”

  Thoroughgood thought he’d back up the pleasant little picture Hardie had been so busy painting.

  “Come on Ricky, it’s not rocket science. We can have you out of here straightaway if you agree to help and somewhere you don’t have to look over your shoulder. You give us the whole script and we sort you for life. Make the wrong choice right now and I can promise you your life is over, just like DC Hardie says.”

  Simms shook his head but it was hard to say whether this was a mixture of desperation or recognition that it was time to save his own skin.

  “What about Chico?”

  Thoroughgood smiled reassuringly.

  “We’re going to be speaking to Chico right after we’ve finished with you and we’re gonnae offer him the same deal. If he agrees to spea
k to us then it makes our case against Meechan so much stronger. Two of you firing him in and he is certain to go down.”

  Another silence as Simms weighed up his options but reality had already dawned: there was no choice.

  “Okay, I’ll cough.”

  “You’re not gonnae regret it, wee man, not on your life,’ smiled Hardie with dripping sarcasm, and clicked off the tape.

  “Warder Grey, would you escort the young man to our little holding room and then we’ll take Jarvis when you’re ready. Oh and another coffee would be nice!”

  “Up yer arse,” shouted Grey from over his shoulder.

  “Result,” said Thoroughgood, “it would almost be game, set and match if we can persuade Chico to sing as well, but I don’t know from what I’ve heard about him if that’s going to be so easy.”

  “Damn sight easier now his wee play-matey has decided to turn though,” observed Hardie.

  “Aye, we could have this all wrapped up by the weekend.”

  Thoroughgood, a man who habitually saw his glass as half-empty rather than half-full, urged caution.

  “You’ll be lucky. Getting Simms and Jarvis to sing is one thing but there’ll always be something more. We’ve still got to try and find Brennan, because whatever the two baby-faced assassins know, you can bet it’s nothing compared with the notes Frankie the choir boy would be able to hit. Nope, let’s take it one step at a time and see what Chico has got to say for himself before we get carried away, faither.”

  “Sometimes this job would burst yer arse,” was all Hardie had to say on the matter.

  Moments later Grey entered the interview room with Chico Jarvis but minus the two extra cups of coffee. Hardie couldn’t help himself:

  “Not even a caramel wafer to spare, Mr Grey?”

  Grey failed to bite: