“Charles Jarvis as requested.”
Jarvis immediately walked round to the other side of the chair and plonked himself down, sprawling his arms and dangling his denim-clad legs over the edges of the moulded seat. It was a statement of intent:
You don’t fuckin’ scare me, CID.
“Make yourself comfortable Chico,” said Thoroughgood, still not sure quite how he was going to play this one.
“You know we’ve just had a nice wee chat with your mate Ricky?”
“What’s that gotta do with me, copper?” he spat out.
“Ricky has seen sense, Chico; he’s going to be helping us with our enquiries in the interests of his health. I hope we can convince you that would be the smart move for you as well,” said the DS.
“That little grassin’ shite. I told him to keep his friggin’ trap shut.”
“How nice of you to put it like that, but given what has happened to your mates Gazza and Frankie, it’s not exactly the smartest piece of advice you could have given your best mate, is it?” sneered Hardie.
“What do you know, pig?” rapped Jarvis.
“I’ll tell you what I know, Chico. I know that Gazza Reid has had his throat slit and Frankie Brennan has gone missing and I know that’s because someone is making sure there are no loose ends tying him to the killing of the Browns. But that’s just the fuckin’ problem for you and your little chum Ricky. The pair of you are the only loose ends left and you aren’t going to be allowed to dangle for much longer.”
“Ah heard that Reid was squealin’ to yous and he got what he deserved. It’s fuckin’ obvious the reason big Frankie is missing is because you lot are lookin’ to catch him and pin any bit of shit yous can tae him. So, like I say, you can fuck off.”
Hardie snatched a quick glance at his gaffer:
So someone has managed to brief the little shit and he’s bought it all, hook, line and sinker, he thought.
“Is that right, Chico?” asked Thoroughgood.
“Yous know it is,” Jarvis said, running his fingers through his short spiky hair.
“The problem for you, Chico, is it’s only fifty per cent right. Reid was going to help us with our enquiries, but I’m afraid big Frankie was sent out to shut him up and cocked up. That’s why your boss had to put a contract out on Reid to get the job done properly. Now big Frankie has become a liability to Meechan and no one knows where he’s gone. Don’t you think that Meechan will have you and Simms sussed out? Don’t you think he’ll know that if we lean on Ricky he would be likely to burst? And if Simms bursts then you’re fucked either way, aren’t you Chico?
“We’ve got enough circumstantial evidence to back up anything we get from Ricky to put you away for a long stretch, and that’s only if Meechan decides he can take the chance and let you live. But do you think he is going to do that, knowing you have enough knowledge to put him away if you follow suit with Ricky? The answer to that, pal, is a big fat no fuckin’ chance. If you can’t see that then we won’t be wasting any more time with you, cos frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn what happens to a miserable little piece of shit like you. Do we really need you anyway? As the man once said, maybees aye maybees naw.”
Thoroughgood stopped for effect, raised his shoulders and frowned.
“Not really is the answer.”
Getting up from his chair he stood and beckoned to Hardie to do the same.
“I look forward to hearing how it happens Chico: just remember what I said when the blade goes biting through your flesh and the blood starts pouring out over your hands, ’cos it’ll be all too late by then.”
“Adios Chico,” said Hardie, then turning to his gaffer, “I’ll give you a ten spot he’s deid by the end of the week, toes sticking out a laundry basket.”
“I’ll take it,” said the DS and they both turned to leave.
“Hawd on,” said a voice from behind them. “Awright, I’ll talk,” croaked Jarvis.
Thoroughgood glanced sideways at Hardie.
“Did I hear something, Detective Constable?”
Hardie smiled at his gaffer and nodded his head as they both turned to stare at Jarvis, who seemed suddenly to have shrunk at least three sizes in his denim prison uniform.
“Smart boy,” he said.
Chapter 33
Within half an hour of persuading Simms and Jarvis to turn Queen’s evidence, the two fledgling criminals and their CID minders were back at City Centre, Stewart Street. Simms and Jarvis were deposited in separate detention rooms to make sure the latter didn’t exercise an unhealthy influence over his buddy, pending further and full detailed interviews, while Thoroughgood and Hardie headed for Detective Superintendent Tomachek’s office with almost identical smiles on their faces.
Thoroughgood knocked on the door and a booming “Come in” sounded from the office behind it. When they entered, Tomachek was immediately up and out of his chair offering a congratulatory handshake.
“Well done, my boys, now spare me no details.” Thoroughgood, ably assisted by Hardie, soon filled in the blanks for his commanding officer. While Tomachek’s glee was almost unbridled, his DS was keen to apply a reality check, like the emergency brake to a runaway train.
“Boss, we know we’re going to get everything the boys can give us because even the hard nut Jarvis was bricking it by the end, but the problem might be just how much they can give us.
“There’s no doubt we’re going to have enough to put Frankie Brennan behind bars for life, but the big problem is getting ahold of Brennan while he’s still breathing. We’ve had our touts keeping their eyes and ears open, and so far there has been nothing. That isn’t easy considering who he is and his size. What if they can’t give us much more than hearsay evidence as far as Meechan goes? If that’s the case, we have a real headache ahead and the prospect that he will wriggle off scot free again.”
“How’s it going to look having one gang member dead, one missing and two turned evidence? It’s all a bit, well, messy for the want of a better word.”
Tomachek refused to have his high spirits lowered.
“For God’s sake, Gus, you aren’t telling me they won’t have something we can’t lay at Meechan’s door? After all, who the bloody hell did they take orders from?”
Hardie answered that one:
“That’s just it, boss. They’re both a long way down the food chain and it’s more than likely it was Frankie Brennan who gave out the orders and took them from Meechan. That’s why we really could do with getting our mitts on big Frankie.”
“Aye, I see what you mean, but let’s wait and see what the boys have got to say. Now they’re witnesses for the Crown we have made sure, you will be glad to hear considering what happened with Reid, that we have safe houses already taken care of. What you two need to do is convince them both that the offer is very much within a limited window of time and that we won’t be dicked about; I want them left in no doubt they will find themselves back at the Hotel Bar-L in double quick time if we don’t have something to pin on Meechan.”
Through the screen of smoke Thoroughgood saw Tomachek’s lips move once more:
“We also need to get out of these two where Brennan is likely to be; they must be able to make an educated guess, at the very bloody least, where he’s holed up.”
“You’d like to think so, boss,” agreed Thoroughgood.
“Anyway, I’m going to take almost as much satisfaction from telling DCI Farrell you’ve burst Jarvis and Simms as I have from the news that you’d finally got them to turn Queen’s evidence. Needless to say, that’s going to mean questions being asked in the Ivory Tower as to why his boys failed to get a result under Section Fourteen at the start of this whole sorry mess.
“All right, you may have had some advantages with which to apply the pressure, but I certainly won’t be volunteering any of them to ACC Cousins when I phone him immediately after you’ve left my office!” Tomachek’s raised eyebrows made it clear their chat was finished.
They headed bac
k down the stairs to the DS’s room and, switching his mobile back on, Thoroughgood found a text message from Morse revealing that Celine was prepared to meet him up by Milngavie Reservoir at four p.m. tomorrow. It meant more to him than any of the other developments that day.
“Look Ricky, as DC Hardie has explained to you, we are already aware of both Gary Reid and Frankie Brennan’s roles in all of this, much though we value your confirmation of that. I want you to take your time and try and recall any occasion when you were in the company of Declan Meechan and he said anything that would tie him in with the murder of the Walter, Jimmy and Davie Brown,” said Thoroughgood.
Simms’ face seemed to glaze over and the DS saw Hardie loosening his tie frantically, his temper ready to blow.
“Come on, son, there must have been something that would help us out here.”
Simms’ face was glum but then a glimmer of recognition sparked across it:
“Aye, there was. When we got back fae Aberfoyle and Brennan was dropping us off, we went by Mr Meechan’s office and he thanked us both for, what was it he said, aye, ‘Doing a good joab on the Browns.’ After he paid us a grand each, he told us if we kept our noses clean there would be plenty more where that came from.”
“What do you mean a job well done, son? Was that it?” demanded Hardie.
“Aye, it wiz. Like I say, we nearly always dealt with someone else, either Reid or Brennan. Sure, if he saw you at one of his clubs, like the Volcano, Mr Meechan would ask how business was goin’ and slip you a wedge, but that was it.”
It was much the same story with Jarvis. It was almost always Brennan who gave them their orders, Meechan a distant figure, apart from that one small slip-up in his office after the Brown job.
“Aye, he was well chuffed wi’ the number we did on the Broons. He slipped me another fifty on the way out and said to me it was one of the happiest days of his life.”
There was just enough information gleaned to arrest Meechan and charge him with murder, in that he was art and part, but Charlie Coyle would have a field day tearing their evidence to pieces in the resulting High Court case. A very public embarrassment for Strathclyde Police, and Meechan’s grinning face would be slapped all over the front pages claiming he had been stitched up but that justice had prevailed.
To which Hardie’s “Fuck that” echoed precisely Thoroughgood’s own thoughts on the matter.
One little ray of hope shone out in the cavern of darkness and mounting despair that was interview room one: both Jarvis and Simms reckoned there was a fair chance Brennan was holed up in Meechan’s mansion up in Mugdock.
As Jarvis recalled, they had also done some odd jobs for Meechan up at the house and got a bit nosy.
“Aye man, what a feckin’ place that Tara is.”
When Hardie shook his head mystified, Chico expanded:
“Aye, that’s whit he calls it, Tara. I think it’s somethin’ to do wi’ that mad Gone with the Wind film that boy Gable wiz in know? Well, it has three storeys tae it and a basement with a pool and you could get lost in it for a month.
“If you’re saying Meechan would be wantin’ to make sure he had control of the big giant, then there’s no better place. Up there he could have chopped him into a thousand pieces and threw him into one of these lochs and no one would have known aboot it. Know whit ah mean?”
Now they were getting somewhere, and with Simms backing up what his sidekick had to say, there was certainly enough to go bothering a sheriff for a search warrant.
Jimmy McKelvie was Thoroughgood’s favourite sheriff; he’d called on the retired lawyer with the huge handlebar moustache so often that the old boy barely wanted to know what his signature was for, even in the broadest terms.
“Come away in, DS Thoroughgood,” said McKelvie at his front door, brown corduroy slippers matching his cardigan. ‘“What can I do you for tonight?”
Thoroughgood quickly explained, and before long he had his right hand held in the air and was swearing the oath required to get McKelvie’s signature attached to the search warrant. With the sheriff ’s moustache twitching in pleasure at the genuine joy he took from helping the police, and a “Good luck” ringing in their ears, Thoroughgood and Hardie returned to City Centre office in not much more than fifteen minutes.
Less than an hour later Thoroughgood was holding a briefing with Support and Tactical Firearms Unit officers in the muster room inside. The plan was that at precisely nine p.m. they would hit Meechan’s place. The extra hour was needed to ensure the two-acre grounds had an effective cordon thrown round them so that Meechan or anybody else, be they a priest or a six-foot-five-inch Irishman, weren’t able to make good their escape.
Meechan was enjoying his evening meal in the company of Brennan and Tommy Rankin when his mobile went off; a quick check of the screen showed the name Lazarus flashing. He immediately pushed his chair back and nodded to Rankin that he was taking the call in the oak-panelled anteroom he favoured for such impromptu but sensitive calls.
Soon Meechan had been put in the picture about the day’s developments, a state of affairs which meant his only option was to terminate Frankie Brennan’s life. He made his way back through to the dining room.
“Right Tommy, you and Frankie have got to get out as quickly as possible, we’re about to be raided by CID. They’re after you, Frankie,” he said, jabbing his finger in Brennan’s direction.
“I need you both out of here and all trace of your clothing and your very existence gone before they get here. That bastard Thoroughgood is going to leave no stone unturned and I don’t want him finding a scrap.” Meechan offered Rankin a handshake and a “good luck” before doing the same to the giant.
“Thanks, boss,” said Brennan resignedly.
“Frankie, you’ll be all right at the office overnight, there’s a camp bed that’s a bit cramped, but you’ll get a sleep and then tomorrow we’ll have you gone. Trust me, big man,” and with a wink Meechan brought to an end his last conversation with Frankie Brennan.
Chapter 34
The red Focus pulled up to the huge jet-black iron gates outside Tara and Thoroughgood pressed the buzzer on the intercom system, easily reached from the driver’s window. He would have recognised the Northern Irish accent at the other end of the intercom anywhere.
“Yes?” said Meechan.
“Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood and Detective Constable Hardie with a search warrant for the premises of Declan Meechan. Please open your gates or we will be forced to have them put in.”
“Now there would be no need for that, DS Thoroughgood, when all I have to do is press a button and they open … just like that. Now come away in,” said Meechan.
“I don’t like this one bit, he’s way too cool for my liking,” said Hardie, but Thoroughgood was already signalling to the Support Services van, packed with officers in black boilersuits for the search ahead, and behind it the TFU vehicle to follow them on.
They surged up the short drive turning onto a widened forecourt, surfaced in beautiful white chuckies. Behind the imposing three-storey mansion with its twin towers, Thoroughgood could see the moon reflected on the calm surface of the small lochan behind the house Declan Meechan called ‘Tara’. Standing between the twin white pillars at either side of the dark oak doorway, Meechan stood as still as a statue, watching silently as the three-vehicle police convoy drew up and stopped on his pebbles with a crunch, yards away from him.
Thoroughgood got out and walked over to the pillars; he seemed so much smaller than Meechan, who stood one step up. The menace emanating from those icy grey eyes had never been more latent.
“Nice place you have here, Mr Meechan,” said Thoroughgood.
There was no reply; instead Meechan leaned against the left pillar, hands deep inside his navy pin-striped suit trousers and stared straight through him.
“So to what do I owe the honour for this so unexpected pleasure? And you’ve brought your mates with you! I don’t know if my crockery will stretch to
tea for two vanloads of coppers.”
Hardie arrived at Thoroughgood’s shoulder:
“Oh, we don’t want tea Meechan, we’ve come for big Frankie Brennan and anything else that may be involved in the murder of the Browns and,” Hardie held up the piece of paper with Sheriff McKelvie’s signature at the bottom, “we aren’t leaving until we’ve got what we want. So I hope you haven’t been planning an early night, Meechan.”
Meechan remained untroubled, not the slightest hint of emotion betrayed on his face or in his eyes.
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, Detective Harvey.”
“It’s ‘Hardie,’ and I’m sure you won’t let us down. Now I’d like you to take a closer look at the terms of the search warrant here before we enter and start to turn your house upside down. A damn shame to be messing up such a fine pad,” smiled Hardie.
Meechan took hold of the paper and scanned the contents.
“I like the bit ‘for the person of Francis Brennan or any other items which may be associated with the crimes for which he is wanted.’ You’ve had a fair few bites of the cherry and I’m sure my lawyer Charles Coyle will be fascinated when I tell him on the phone.
“But as you say detective, the night is about as young as you are, so if you want to get started, I have a fine malt opened in my drawing room and a decent book by the hearth. Unless either of you would like to join me then I suggest you make a start. I’m sure Mr Coyle will be along inside the half hour mark to take up any legal matters that may concern him about the content and terms of the search warrant and/or your behaviour.”
Meechan pushed himself off the pillar, turned and walked into the house where he held open the impressive oak door. With one extravagant sweep of his right hand he beckoned in the search party, his face adorned by the type of smile that made Thoroughgood realise they were wasting their time before they had even begun.
He had eight Support Services officers and a sergeant at his disposal for the search of Tara and it still wasn’t enough. Milngavie and Maryhill Police Offices had each loaned him a panda with two uniform officers to keep the perimeter of the grounds under observation in the most effective manner possible. The search team split up into four groups of two with the Support Services sergeant co-ordinating his four teams and maintaining a video-recorded overview of proceedings.
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