Parallel Lines

by R. J. Mitchell

  “At last we come to the business end of the evening, gentlemen. Well Iain, the floor’s all yours, for the next hour you have both mine and Tommy’s undivided attention, so let’s hear all about these ideas of yours.”

  Morriston smiled, stretching his feet out under the mahogany dining table and reaching behind his arching back with his arms and hands.

  “It’s as simple as this, Declan; my Russian friends are wanting to up the ante in terms of the quantity of both our delivery and its regularity. I don’t know if Tommy has told you about the rugged nature of Barra but there are so many coves and beaches which are uninhabited, we can take our choice of where the deliveries can be dropped. It’s up to you, Declan, we could increase capacity if you want.”

  “I’m all for increased profit margins, what are we talking in kilos here?”

  “According to my contact, Nikolai, that would be entirely up to us. But perhaps as a tester we should increase things by twenty per cent and see where that takes us, Declan. There is no point in the extra coming down if you can’t shift it.”

  “Aye, you’ve got a point there, Iain,” agreed Tommy Rankin.

  Meechan nodded his head as he joined in their mutual accord:

  “Okay, we’ll do as you suggest. Now tell me, how are the Johnsons being missed up in the Western Isles?”

  “Not at all is the answer there. You see Declan, they were both from the Isle of Lewis, and in Barra nobody from Stornoway is going to be popular. Put it this way, the whole operation is a lot happier now they’re on permanent vacation.”

  Meechan’s smile was soon gone.

  “That’s good Iain. It’s important that nobody up the road thinks they can take liberties. Do you understand me?” The threat was not even veiled.

  “No one at our end is going to make that mistake again, Declan, you have my word.”

  Meechan leaned forward and reached for his whisky glass; taking a slug, he licked his lips to enjoy the peatiness of the Lagavulin before replacing it on the table and steepling his hands.

  “Now Iain, there’s something else I require of you to prove your loyalty. Before you go home tomorrow I want you to help Tommy here scratch a little itch that has grown into a major sore.”

  Morriston, knowing he could do little else, smiled benignly:

  “Anything you want, Declan.”

  Listening through the serving hatch in the kitchen Celine could hear the deep baritone of Declan’s voice talking about market share, then thought she heard the Browns mentioned. The noise of the dishwasher, newly started, obscured sound but Celine’s curiosity was stirred. What she heard she could not comprehend.

  The realisation swept over Celine and left her cold. Standing in the kitchen, she was frozen still like a statue. Then as she hung the dishcloth up on a hook next to the cooker, she heard the weight of someone’s foot on the polished pine floor. She turned the kitchen tap on and lifted a glass from the draining board at the side, hoping that would make her presence appear innocent enough.

  “Still up, my darlin’?” said Meechan.

  Turning round, Celine smiled: “There’s more to clearing up a dinner party than just sticking dishes in a dishwasher, Declan, you know!”

  “Of course there is, are you sure you don’t want to join us in the lounge? We’ll probably have one more and then call it quits.” He spoke with not a sign of suspicion.

  Celine moved across the kitchen floor and pressed herself close up against his body. She could smell the peatiness of the malt on his lips as she kissed him and she realised she couldn’t help herself. After a while she pulled back:

  “We don’t want your guests to feel neglected, do we Declan?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Tommy and Iain, they seem to get on pretty well and I’ve even had an invite up to the Western Isles but I wouldn’t want to go anywhere without you, my darling.”

  He held her at arm’s length, staring into her eyes with a seriousness in stark contrast to the warmth of the moment before.

  “Now I hope you haven’t misunderstood anything you might or might not have heard through the hatch here. You know some of the people I deal with are, well, unsavoury, and the only thing they understand is the violence they dish out returned with interest back to them. What happened to us in George Square was part of a concerted effort to have me removed by the Brown family. There was only one option when it came to stopping them. I can promise you, Celine, I am doing everything I can to make all my business dealings legitimate. It just takes time. One day soon, I will be able to look you in the eye and tell you I’m straight.”

  Her eyes sparkled with the pleasure she took from those words:

  “That’s all I need to hear, Declan.” This time they kissed and then held together for moments that seemed endless.

  Watching her ascend the stairs, from behind the smile masking his face, Meechan wondered just how much she had heard. He would know soon enough if she could be trusted and at least it would not be too late if the answer proved negative. In Declan Meechan’s world everyone and everything was expendable.

  Chapter 39

  Thoroughgood climbed into the RX-8 and slammed in a CD. AC/DC, Highway to Hell. He sent a text to Hardie enquiring if his partner could meet him for a pint in the UB Chip at seven p.m. The answer, as if there had ever been a doubt, was yes. He turned the Rex out of the car park and immediately clicked through the gears up to third, taking solace in the powerful engine noise and the surges of acceleration. He needed a drink.

  Thoroughgood was halfway through his first pint of Guinness when Hardie arrived and immediately expressed surprise at his “choice of poison.” After replenishing his Guinness and buying Hardie a Furstenberg they took a seat on the raised dais to the left of the fire. Hardie didn’t beat about the bush.

  “How did it go? I figured you’d maybe want a chat and a pint, so I hope you appreciate how I kept my night free for you!”

  “You’re so fuckin’ considerate it hurts. You are also right, of course. It was a disaster. She basically told me she didn’t believe a word I’d said, that I’ve become eaten up with hatred of Meechan and that I need to move on before there is nothing good left in me. What worries me is she might be right.”

  Hardie took a large mouthful of Fusty, as he tenderly called it.

  “Well, there was always a chance it was gonnae go that way. After all, she has just become engaged to the bastard.”

  Hardie took great delight in venomously drawing the profanity out for as long as possible. Hardie didn’t do subtle, what he did do and do bloody well was straight talking, and he knew that was precisely what Thoroughgood needed right now: no bullshit.

  “Look, you’ve given it your best shot, Gus, and she’s made it clear it’s over. Now you really have got to move on. What about Sara? I thought that was going really well. For fuck’s sake, Gus, how many birds have you come across in the past ten years who were prepared to watch that shite up at Firhill?” Hardie’s attempt at drawing a laugh just about raised a smile from his mate.

  “Shite it may be but at least we don’t have a bloody clue what is going to happen from one week to another under Campbell Paton. Where’s the interest in going to Ibrox and being bored shitless by a team built by a manager who hasn’t got a Scooby Doo what the Scottish game is all about and is too arrogant to admit it?”

  “Ah, there is life, thank God,” said Hardie in mock relief. “Well, mon ami, I have no doubt that Monsieur Le Gronnais will get it right and the Queen’s eleven will soon vanquish the tatty howkers and take their rightful place back among the elite of the Champions League. Now while you were away making a desperate effort to salvage your love life, I had a long chat with our man in the Central Informants Unit. It’s just like we thought; Farrell has no informant registered with them whatsoever. So whatever he is up to, it’s something smelly all right and he doesn’t want anyone to know about it. The question is; how are we going to find out just who his informant is?”

  “I think
you’re looking at it from the wrong angle, Kenny, it’s not about us trying to draw his informant out, it’s more a question of us setting Farrell up and letting him draw Meechan out. The problem is how.”

  Hardie belched and then slammed his half-empty pint pot down on the table, drawing a withering look from the two middle-aged blondes sitting at the table next to them; he winked wolfishly at them. They turned away in disgust immediately. Thoroughgood observed his mate’s behaviour with amusement:

  “Aye, I can see you’ve not lost your touch, faither!”

  “Better out than in as the saying goes. Anyway it’s simple: Jarvis and Simms. We’ll get Tomachek to feed Farrell with some duff information that they’ve been moved to a new safe house, and then we sit tight there and wait for the cavalry to arrive.”

  Thoroughgood nodded his head in approval.

  “That’s not a bad shout and it wouldn’t take much to do. I’m sure Tomachek would go for it. Gary Reid would still be alive if Farrell hadn’t fucked about getting uniform protection sorted, and then how the hell did Brennan find out where Reid was holed up? Nope, Farrell’s in it up to his ears, and this way we can expose him for the dirty bent copper he is and hopefully get Meechan to do something stupid into the bargain. First thing in the morning we’ll go and see whether Tomachek will agree to it, and then it’s game on.”

  “A ‘Thanks, my dear faither,’ would be nice, mon gaffeur, but I’ll accept your gratitude in kind,” said Hardie, raising his empty glass and pointing to the bar.

  Friday morning dawned cold and grey, and as he opened his curtains and looked out onto Partickhill Road, Thoroughgood reckoned by the way the trees were swaying there was a nasty biting breeze in the air as well.

  By nine a.m. he was turning the ignition on in the RX-8. Turning left, Thoroughgood headed down Gardner Street, the steepest road in Glasgow and one more like a ski jump than a road, such was the severity of the gradient.

  Coming to the first junction, about a hundred feet down, he put his foot on the brake and felt it to be a bit soft and unresponsive, but the Rex ground to a halt and he continued down Gardner Street unconcerned. However, when the red Royal Mail van pulled out, he slammed on the anchors for a second time, nothing happened and the RX-8 sailed on with gathering momentum, straight towards the red van.

  The driver saw that the car coming down the hill was not going to stop, and Thoroughgood could see the look of sheer panic on Postman Pat’s face. He could also see the driver mouthing some kind of expletive before he began to manically yank hard left on his steering wheel in a desperate attempt to take avoiding action.

  Gardner Street was as narrow as it was tight, and with cars lining either side of the roadway, there was very little room for manoeuvre. The mail van slammed straight into a parked people carrier nestling innocently alongside the kerb while the RX-8 and Thoroughgood continued their descent, missing the van by inches but ominously gathering speed with every yard that passed.

  The car continued to pick up frightening momentum and no amount of dabbing at his brakes worked. The handbrake was so loose it felt like it was hanging by a thread. There was no response. His brain feverishly processed the information relayed to it by the failure of his brakes and there could only be one conclusion: someone had tampered with them overnight and that someone could only have been Meechan or one of his cohorts. But he had no time to digest the thought as the second junction loomed up ahead of him.

  This time, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the green Range Rover coming in on his left hand-side, and he furiously pumped his steering wheel to blare his horn into life. The white lines of the junction were almost upon him when the driver at last turned her head in recognition of the strident tones of the RX-8 horn, sheer horror filling her features. Her mouth opened and even above the sound of his horn he thought he could hear her screams and those of the two tiny children he had just noticed in the kiddies’ seats in the back.

  Thankfully, screaming was not her only response to the sight of the RX-8 hurtling straight for the side of her vehicle, and the Range Rover jolted forward in response to the driver slamming her accelerator to the floor. Still it seemed certain a crash was imminent and Thoroughgood attempted to slow his own progress by twisting his wheel one way then the other to introduce a slalom effect which would at least cause a minimal diversion from the straight route to oblivion his vehicle was on. It was the only thing he could think of.

  As the RX hit the junction the Range Rover was almost but not quite clear, when its rear bumper was caught with a crack. Although the RX-8 shuddered from the jolt of the impact, the Range Rover drove on with only slight damage.

  Thoroughgood had hoped to get lucky and receive enough of an impact to stall his vehicle’s uncontrolled descent, but it was not to be. As the bottom of the hill approached, so did the junction with the area’s main route, Dumbarton Road. Thoroughgood knew the chances of him getting through that junction without disaster were virtually non-existent. He was almost at the bottom of the huge hill when his mind jumped into flashback mode as he relived the hit and run which had almost done for him all those years ago.

  He could feel the searing pain caused by the multiple smashed bones in his broken body, and taste the dripping blood as it ran into his mouth. Then his mind fast-forwarded to the here and now, and he could feel the cold beads of sweat forming on his forehead and running down his back. His hands were clammy on the wheel as he gritted his teeth and prepared to meet his Maker.

  The traffic was flowing freely along either side of Dumbarton Road and he felt hope growing inside him as he hit the junction and a gap miraculously opened up before him like the parting of the Red Seas.

  Maybe, said the voice in his head, the big man is on my side at last.

  He began to feel a surge of relief sweeping over him as the RX-8 left the junction, but a new danger loomed ahead and this time he knew he had used up all his luck. The giant metallic hulk of a City Council rubbish truck was pulling out from the side of the road ahead and Thoroughgood watched as the driver continued shouting out instructions to one of the binmen on the opposite side of the road.

  He hit the horn again and again and again, and slowly the driver turned his head just in time to see the Rex smash straight into the front of his vehicle, the brilliant blue of its bonnet disappearing underneath the front of the huge truck.

  As the Rex ploughed underneath Thoroughgood threw his hands above his head in an automatic gesture of self-defence. The impact was sickening and he was thrown about, first backwards, then forwards like a ragdoll. The airbag saved him initially. Billowing out from the steering wheel, it enveloped his body in life-saving padding, leaving him winded and with a searing pain on the left hand-side of his ribcage. It could not save him from the truck crushing his vehicle.

  The wheels of certain death surged over the bonnet and then inexorably on, smashing the RX-8’s windscreen and chewing up the roof, which started to collapse on top of him. Thoroughgood looked up, waiting for the inevitable to happen. The vehicle roof above the passenger side began to buckle and broke in half as one of the dump truck’s wheels smashed through it. He looked directly above him, waiting for the same to happen at his side; holding his breath, he shut his eyes and uttered a silent prayer, asking the man upstairs to make it quick. Then, realising nothing else had happened he opened his eyes.

  The car roof above him was still intact; a form loomed over the space where the driver’s side window had been and began yanking at the crumpled door. It was the truck driver, and he wasn’t happy.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at, you bleedin’ maniac?” shouted the binman.

  “It wasn’t a suicide bid that’s for sure,” was the best he could do before he passed out.

  Chapter 40

  Within an hour of his admission to Accident and Emergency at the Western Infirmary, Thoroughgood had been x-rayed, the scan showing he’d fractured a couple of ribs. By the time Hardie and Detective Superintende
nt Tomachek visited, he was sitting upright in a bed in one of the general wards upstairs.

  Tomachek, immaculate in one of his trademark tweed suits, was first through the ward door but only after he had stopped at the nurses’ station to avail the duty sister of his usual words of wisdom. Hardie, standing at his side, looked like some reluctant schoolboy brought along in punishment for some trivial misdemeanour. Drawing up a couple of chairs, the pair took up position either side of the patient.

  “Well Thoroughgood, you’ll go to any measure to avoid doing a shift, won’t you?” said Tomachek in a standard senior-officer-type attempt at humour.

  Thoroughgood nodded and offered a thin smile by way of an answer. Fractured ribs weren’t the only things causing him pain. Despite the best efforts of the airbag he had suffered some whiplash, while his head was throbbing for all it was worth.

  Hardie, seeing his mate was in obvious discomfort, attempted to fill the awkward silence:

  “Your brakes were cut, Gus. The fluid was all over the road where you parked the Rex. The boys from the garage at Helen Street, where we had what’s left of the car taken, have already been on the blower to confirm somebody had tampered with them all right. So who do you suppose was behind this?” asked Hardie, rolling his eyes to the heavens in answer to his own rhetorical question.

  Thoroughgood cleared his throat and took a sip of water from the glass on the locker next to his bed:

  “And not a bloody grape between the two of you?”

  Tomachek smiled and seemed to let a sigh of relief go in the same movement: