To Thoroughgood’s surprise, Meechan declined the offer to accompany any of the searching officers. All there seemed for him and Hardie to do was to poke their noses round Tara, like two under-privileged peeping Toms who had never before been invited to the party at the big house and had taken matters into their own hands.
Hardie descended into the basement with some enthusiasm and moments after he’d gone down the polished marble steps, Thoroughgood heard his name called. Joining the DC at the bottom of the steps, Thoroughgood’s eyes swept over the brilliant aquamarine of the swimming pool, and then on out through the French windows, at the reflection of the silvery moon beaming onto the flawless surface of the lochan.
“Bastard,” said Hardie.
“My thoughts exactly,” agreed Thoroughgood with some disgust.
“Have we got it wrong, Gus? I mean, knocking our pans in for twenty years with the shifts kicking the guts out of your life and sacrificing everything for a pension that’s like a pot of gold when you’re in the middle of your service and the Holy fuckin’ Grail by the time you come to the end of it. Safe in the knowledge you are never going to get anywhere near a life of luxury like this. Who says crime doesn’t pay? Just try telling Meechan that.”
Thoroughgood had wandered over to the full-length French windows, his mind drifting towards thoughts of his meeting with Celine at another nearby expanse of water, Milngavie Reservoir. Hardie’s croaky voice broke his trance:
“You know we’re going to get fuck all and the bastard told us as much. I bet he’s in there, in his drawing-bloody-room, pissing himself in between the pages of his novel or was it the Oor Wullie annual he said he was reading?”
“You’re right of course, faither, but he said he reckoned it would take Coyle thirty minutes to arrive, so why don’t we go upstairs and have a little chat with friend Declan—as long as you promise to keep your temper.”
“Scout’s honour. Dib, dib, dib, dob, dob, dob, and all that, gaffer,” grinned Hardie for the first time since they had entered Tara.
They returned upstairs to ground level, bypassing two of the black boiler-suited Support Services officers rifling through the pine units of Meechan’s impressive farmhouse-style kitchen. Arriving back in the hall at the front of the house, Thoroughgood knocked on one of the Georgian glass panels in the doorway, according Meechan some respect before entering his “drawing room” as he had described it.
Meechan had loosened his black silk tie as he enjoyed the heat from the log fire crackling in front of him, but otherwise there were no signs he was feeling either the heat of the fire or the police activity.
“Ah, my two favourite police officers. Have you come to tell me you’ve found something then?”
“No, we just thought we’d be friendly,” said Thoroughgood as he and Hardie parked themselves at either end of the huge leather sofa opposite Meechan’s high-backed armchair.
“So who tipped you off Meechan?”
“I haven’t got a clue what you mean, Detective Sergeant and, as you know full well, I can’t answer any of your questions without my lawyer, Charlie Coyle, present. I’m surprised you’re bothering to waste your breath, or are you finding DC Harvey’s conversation a bit below par?”
“It’s just that you looked so sad and lonely sitting here with your book and your malt. You could save us all a lot of bother by telling us what you’ve done with Frankie Brennan.”
Meechan laughed; a harsh grating laugh that had something vicious about it.
“How can I tell you what I don’t know? Listen, I’m just as keen to speak to Frankie Brennan as you, but thoughtlessly for both of us, the big fella has gone to ground without leaving a postal address. I’ve already told you you’ll get nothing from your search, but then that’s it, isn’t it? You have to be seen to be doing something and this is an indication of how desperate you are.”
Hardie could not help himself from chipping in his tuppence worth:
“Desperate? Why would we be desperate when we’ve got full witness statements from two of your underlings implicating you in the triple Brown murder enquiry?”
“Oh come on, Detective Harvey, if you did then you would have arrested me the minute you got here. But that’s just it: even with statements from your two little boys you don’t have enough to jail me. And you know that when Charles Coyle gets his teeth into your fine little mess he’s going to have a field day.
“Believe me, I will be demanding a full public apology from the Chief Constable for the harassment you,” Meechan pointed at Thoroughgood, “Detective Sergeant, have been subjecting me to. I just thought I’d give you fair warning of what’s coming around the corner for you, Thoroughgood. When I’m finished with you, your pathetic little career will be lying in bits, and all for what?”
Meechan paused and took another draught from the dark golden liquid glowing in the crystal glass. Holding it up between him and the flames of the fire, he enjoyed the dancing patterns sparkling through the glass.
“The suspense is killing me. Come on Meechan, put me out my fuckin’ misery,” said Thoroughgood amicably enough.
“This is all about who got the girl, isn’t it, Thoroughgood? You couldn’t handle it ten years back and you can’t take it now. The truth is,” and Meechan swept his left hand about him in a grand panoramic gesture, “look at everything I’ve achieved in these ten years. Whereas you, my pitiful little friend, are still staying in your shitty little flat in Partickhill Road, with a whole lot of nothing. Correct?”
Thoroughgood could see Hardie about to rise from his end of the elegant chaise lounge until he placed a hand on his colleague’s knee.
“That’s the problem with people like you Meechan, you have an annoying habit of whitewashing the past so that you don’t have to face the truth. The truth is, you arranged for one of your henchmen to take me out and leave me with more fractures than I had bones. Why did you have to do that, Meechan? Do you ever ask yourself why? Like fuck! Because that would mean facing the truth and that would be just too painful for you to take. But I’m going to give you a history lesson right here, and one not according to the Gospel of Declan Meechan.
“The truth is, Celine had made her choice and she had chosen me and my shitty little flat in Partickhill Road and my pathetic little job as a copper; that was until you filled her full of all those lies; that I was on the take, corrupt and down the drag, going with the whores. You made her think I was going to be a cripple for the rest of my life, and that you were the one with the big bright future.
“Where’s your future now, Meechan? One of your gang is dead, another missing and the other two are under police protection, ready to turn evidence against you. You know I don’t give a flying fuck if we get sweet Fanny Adams here tonight, it’s just been a real pleasure to have such a cosy little chat with you.”
Meechan’s face betrayed no emotion, but the anger burning with such intensity in his slate grey eyes was scorching. Hardie rose from the massive leather sofa and crossed to the elegant Queen Anne mahogany drinks cabinet.
“Why don’t you pour yourself and DS Thoroughgood a malt, Harvey? And while yer at it, my glass needs a refill,” said Meechan, winking at Hardie.
“For the last fuckin time, you bastard, it’s Hardie. But thank you, a malt would be nice. What about you, gaffer?”
Thoroughgood nodded his head. Hardie had barely sat down when the doorbell sounded. Meechan screwed his head around over his right shoulder.
“Ah, Charlie Coyle, how inconvenient, he can wait a moment. As I was saying, finding out Celine had agreed to become my fiancée is the final straw for you Thoroughgood, and so vindictive and pitiful have you become, you will stop at nothing to try and discredit me in her eyes. Charlie is going to have so much fun bringing all that out in court.”
Meechan had no time to react before he found himself dripping from the emptied contents of Thoroughgood’s glass.
“Damn,” said the DS, “I hate wasting a Talisker like that.”
“Can you introduce me to the officer in charge of this outrage?” said Charlie Coyle.
“That would be me,” said Thoroughgood amicably, “but before we have a word, I suggest you calm down your boss here, he seems to have taken exception to my use of his malt.”
Coyle looked nervously at Meechan, who took a step back from the still-seated Thoroughgood, with Hardie poised like an old tiger ready to pounce at the other end of the sofa. Meechan removed a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, bearing the stitched initials DAM, and wiped his face clean of the Talisker.
“Evening Charlie, if the detectives don’t mind I’ll take you out into the hall for a word and explain exactly what is going on.”
“There’s no need for that, Meechan, I’ll save you the bother,” said Hardie.
“Your boss is having his house searched for Frankie Brennan, who we want for the murders of Walter, Jimmy and Davie Brown, and any incriminating evidence we believe may be linked. There are nine Support Services officers making a videoed search of the premises and grounds and here,” Hardie pulled out the search warrant and flashed it in front of Coyle, “is the authorisation.”
Coyle took hold of the warrant and studied it closely from top to bottom:
“I see, and how long can we expect this search to go on?” asked the lawyer.
“As long as it needs to, so I’d make yourself comfortable, Coyle,” responded Hardie with a grin.
After a moment’s awkward silence, Thoroughgood got up and signalled to his number two to follow. There was no point in spending any more time engaged in verbal sparring with Meechan, even if he had to admit to himself how much enjoyment he had taken from throwing the Talisker in the criminal’s face.
Climbing the staircase, Thoroughgood sought out the Support Services sergeant, who was busy supervising the search of Meechan’s office. A ruddy-faced individual with a friendly nature, Alan McGarvey had been at Tulliallan with Thoroughgood when he had joined up all those years back.
“How we doin’ Alan?” asked Thoroughgood.
“Nothin’ here. We’ve been through all the rooms, the cupboards, the lot and I’ve four of the lads out checking round the grounds, but I’d say whoever was here has gone. He’s certainly had someone staying in one of the guest rooms, judging by the hurried way the sheets have been put back in place, but that’s about it. You’d have to say it looks like he’s had some warning we were on our way.”
“Aye, you’re probably right. It’s funny but at times I’ve felt like Meechan has been one step in front of us the whole way through this investigation.”
McGarvey was never one to mince his words, a habit which had followed him out of the Police Pipe Band unit.
“What if he’s getting some help from the inside, Gus? You ever considered that? It’s not as if it hasn’t happened before.”
“This isn’t the Met, Alan. Who the fuck is going to go risking their career for Meechan in return for a few shekels? Naw, he’s been lucky all right, but much as it hurts me to admit it, he’s a clever bastard.”
“Lucky or no, Gus, give it another half an hour and if we haven’t got anything from the search of the grounds then we’re wasting our time and I’ll come and look for you, all right?”
“Agreed,” said Thoroughgood and headed off to find his shadow.
Hardie had slipped back down into the basement and out the French windows and was enjoying one of his Silk Cuts. His oval bump seemed to have been magnified by the view through the glass as Thoroughgood approached.
“Fuck’s sake faither, you pregnant?”
Hardie scowled and flicked his cigarette onto the lawn.
“How’s it going?”
“Not a bleedin’ sausage. It looks as if someone has been staying in one of the guest rooms and left in a hurry, but what does that prove? It’s not as if Brennan won’t have been here before. No, I’m afraid that shortly I’m going to have to go and inform Meechan that the search is over and we won’t have a thing to show for it. How much is he going to enjoy that?”
After McGarvey had confirmed his search team were through, the DS rapped on the Georgian window of the drawing room and entered with his face set, prepared for a barrage of barbs.
“Ah, DS Thoroughgood, search complete and nothing to show for it?’ asked Meechan.
“Much to your surprise I’m sure, Meechan,” replied the DS. “But remember this, Declan Aloysius Meechan, this search may be over but our investigation is not. Sooner or later you are going to slip up and I’ll be there, waiting right behind you.” Thoroughgood turned round and walked out.
McGarvey and his team were already in the Police Personnel Carrier, and Thoroughgood made a point of going up to his old mate and thanking him for his help. He jumped into the passenger seat of the red Focus and Hardie did a three-point turn with just enough speed to send a shower of chuckies spraying in the general direction of the doorway, where Meechan’s grin was framed in their rear view mirror.
Turning into Glasgow Road the police radio blared into life:
“DCI Farrell, please repeat, confirm, armed male inside premises is believed to be Frankie Brennan. Can you confirm he is armed? Do you need back-up, repeat do you need back-up?”
The absence of a reply suggested that Farrell did indeed and the police controller was soon barking out a help request:
“Units to assist DCI Farrell at the premises of Meechan holdings, Dumbarton Road, opposite the Western Infirmary. Armed male inside.”
Thoroughgood didn’t even bother replying.
“Come on Hardie, get a fuckin’ move on.”
Chapter 35
Farrell and his number two, DS Andy Smith, parked up three hundred yards along from the office. Smith, a big ruddy-cheeked individual with straw for hair, had worked for Farrell for three years and for a reason no one could fathom, appeared to enjoy his role as the DCI’s number two. Turning to his subordinate, Farrell delivered a final debrief:
“Nothing is more important than our safety. So although we will give Brennan fair warning, if he’s looking like pulling on us then we shoot first, get our story straight second, and then ask questions third.”
“Nae bother boss, I’m no intendin’ taking a bullet for that bastard.”
Farrell smiled: “Okay, let’s go,”
They slammed the door and crossed Dumbarton Road, overcoats pulled up tight to ward off the cold chill of the late April evening. The office doors were wooden with large glass panels embossed with the “Meechan International Holdings” logo on either pane and, sure enough, when he pushed the right hand door, it swung open first time. Before Farrell and Smith entered, the DCI made sure both he and his partner had switched off mobiles and radios. The last thing they wanted was to give Brennan a warning he had company.
They took in the ground floor of the office, partially lit by the dim glow of overnight security lighting. It was open plan, with three coffee tables, and chairs on the polished wooden floor, and a counter running the width of the ground floor. To the left there was a banistered stairway which spanned around fifteen feet from ground floor to a small landing outside an office door; Meechan’s office, where Farrell had been told his quarry would be. The DCI turned round to make sure Smith was in position, Farrell putting a finger to his lips to indicate silence.
They heard a creak coming from the ceiling above: someone was home all right. Farrell pointed a finger towards the stairs then moved towards the bottom step, his heart hammering in his ears. Taking the standard-issue Smith and Wesson out of his overcoat pocket, he placed his right foot on the first step at the precise moment Frankie Brennan opened the door at the top of the stairway.
Even in the half-light the grin on the gi
ant Irishman’s face was malevolent:
“I thought I smelt pig. You’ll be here for Frankie Brennan, copper?” he boomed.
Farrell kept his revolver down by his right hand-side, hoping to hide the fact he was tooled up:
“That would be right, Frankie. I’m DCI Farrell and this is DS Smith; we don’t want any trouble Frankie. All we want is for the three of us to walk out of here alive.”
Brennan had other ideas.
“If I walk out of here with you, copper, I’ll be doin’ life in some shitehole like Peterheid. Now what makes you think I’d want to be doin’ that?”
Farrell remained motionless on the bottom step, he could hear Smith’s breathing behind him, and every fibre of his body felt like it was about to snap from the tension.
Farrell tried a reassuring smile that failed miserably.
“Come on, Frankie, what say you come down and we have a wee chat round one of the coffee tables here. There’s been too much killing already.”
Brennan was no longer smiling.
“Fuck off copper,” he growled and raised his left hand so that Farrell and Smith could see the barrel pointing at them.
“There’s only going to be one person walking out of here pig,” said Brennan. “Now I’m gonnae gie yous two options. First you get out of my way and I walk down these steps and out that front door.”
“You know I can’t let you do that, Frankie. Come on, be reasonable. What’s the second?”
It was a stupid question and one Farrell instantly regretted asking; he had been playing for time and now he knew it had been pointless.
Farrell anticipated the shot but even though he was already throwing himself to the floor the bullet only just missed his right shoulder, splintering the bottom of the stair banister as he dived off the bottom step below it.
Parallel Lines Page 24