His mind failed to register the view his eyes presented in front of him and he rubbed at them furiously, annoyed that his befuddled brain was playing tricks on him in some painful quirk of fate. Celine spoke:
“Hi Gus, are you okay?”
Words deserted him, and he opened the door as far as it would go, gesturing for her to come in. They headed into the lounge in silence, for Thoroughgood still wasn’t sure he could trust the vision before him. He made straight for the comfort of his Chesterfield, as if it would help provide some kind of comprehension check. No, she was still there and he dug his fingers into its arms, determined that he would wake up and find this was all a cruel dream. There she was, wearing a cream raincoat, jeans and knee-high leather boots:
“Gus, speak to me, are you okay? Gerry texted me what happened, and when I called him he gave me the full story. I hear your car is completely totalled and you were lucky to escape with a couple of broken ribs and whiplash.”
Despite himself it all came out wrong.
“But why should any of that bother you, Celine? You made it all too clear up at the reservoir that you’d found happiness and that everything I had to say to you was a pack of lies. I’m rotten with hate, remember?”
She took a seat on his sofa and crossed her legs, swinging a boot to and fro in an involuntary glimpse of her inner agitation.
“I didn’t mean it that way, Gus, but I know now you were right.” Celine lowered her head and stared at the cream carpet.
“I’m sorry?” was all he could say.
“I said you were right. The other night Declan had a couple of his friends round for dinner and when I was in the kitchen, I overhead some of their conversation. You were right about the Browns and the drugs. In fact, I think everything you told me up at the reservoir was spot on. What can I say? I just didn’t want to believe any of it. When Gerry sent me that text, I just knew I had to come and see you and tell you, you were right. I’m sorry Gus, so sorry.”
He could see the tears forming in her eyes and before he had time to think about what he was doing, he crossed the lounge and sat down next to her, putting a comforting arm around her. All the indecision and shock were gone:
“Why is it that whenever we are alone, one of us seems to end up crying? You’ve nothing to apologise for. I knew full well you had to back yourself and the decision you had made when you agreed to become Meechan’s fiancée. He’s more than capable of making someone believe that black is white. Unfortunately his track record—and I include myself in that—and the city mortuary, paint a different picture. I must admit Celine, when you told me he was determined to go straight eventually, I just about threw up. But that’s not important now, now you know I was telling the truth.”
His words were of little comfort and as he pulled her close, he could feel her body wracked by great sobs, as all the bottled-up hurt and pain of being betrayed by the man she had convinced herself was her future, exploded in raw grief. He’d never seen Celine like this, so vulnerable and utterly desolate in the final acceptance that the life she had been intending to live was based on a work of fiction.
Eventually he removed his arm and headed over to the drinks cabinet to pour a couple of glasses of Courvoisier. He moved to the CD player and selected a disc, Tears for Fears, The Hurting. Sitting back down beside her, he handed her the crystal glass with the dark brown liquid sloshing invitingly.
“Here, drink some of this and stop beating yourself up. It’s supposed to be me who’s in need of a brandy, not you.”
At last she raised her head and shared those beautiful brown eyes with him and he stroked her tear-stained cheek with a gentle caress of his hand. Slowly, like the sun breaking from behind storm clouds, a smile crept onto her face. Celine took a deep breath.
“I’m so sorry, Gus, it’s all such a mess and because I didn’t believe you, wouldn’t believe you, you nearly lost your life. How can I ever forgive myself?”
He could not help himself; maybe it was her vulnerability in such close and delicious proximity, but he cupped her face in his hands, leant forward and kissed her with all the tenderness he had in him.
The kiss lingered on their lips and in a move that surprised him as much as anything he had ever done, Thoroughgood recovered his self-restraint. Gradually he pulled himself clear but his eyes never left Celine’s.
“Look, this isn’t going to solve anything. There is nothing I want more in this world right here, right now, than to make love to you but that wouldn’t be right for you, me or my smashed ribs.”
Her tears started to flow freely once more, and this time he attempted to dab at them with his fingers.
“I know you’re right, Gus, but I just don’t know what to do anymore. Where do I go from here? My life is ruined.”
“No it is not,” he said, a little too forcibly. “I won’t allow it to be. But we both need clear heads to think through how we are going to play this whole thing.”
“What do you mean,” she asked through the fingers now covering her face.
“I mean that Declan Meechan must be brought to justice. I mean he can’t go on leaving the city littered in a string of bodies every time someone upsets him. I mean he must, and will, be stopped, and that hour is not far away. But for all of that to happen, and for him to be put behind bars, you must go back to Tara and play the part of the adoring fiancée for a little while more. Can you do that for me, my darling? Can you trust me?”
She smiled once more and this time the air of hopelessness had gone:
“I trust you with my life, Gus. But you called me darling? Does that mean you forgive me, Gus? Forgive me for choosing him and his lies over you for a second time?”
“I love you Celine, that’s all that matters.”
Chapter 42
At ten-thirty on Sunday morning Thoroughgood called Hardie as promised and prepared to lie:
“All right faither, any pre-match nerves then?” He tried to sound at his most buoyant: “Anything other than a tanking is a bonus surely?”
A cough sounded at the other end of the phone:
“Aye, and get it up you, with all due respect, of course gaffer. Anyway, what about you, are you match fit?”
“No, I’m afraid I’ve failed a fitness test and won’t even make the bench. You’re going to have to lead the attack on your own, if that’s all right.”
Hardie couldn’t quite believe his ears.
“Are you sure about that, Gus? Meechan’s bound to be in on this with Farrell singing like a canary to him. It could be your one and only chance to settle the score legitimately with that evil bastard.”
“No faither, I’d be a liability to you and McNab and there is no way I would ever forgive myself for putting the two of you in jeopardy because I couldn’t cut the mustard. What’s wrong, don’t you think you can get a result on your own without me there to hold your hand?”
Thoroughgood had known his final remark would get Hardie’s hackles up because it was a tack he had used many a time before and it had never failed yet. A sound, something like a Volkswagen on a cold morning, came from down the line:
“What do you mean by that? Twenty-three years on the job and I’ve never let a bloody sod down. Don’t you worry, we’ll have Meechan banged up by the time you can say Celtic 0 Rangers 2.”
“So that’s your prediction then? Is that the one you’ve got a tenner on with old Valentino?”
“It is indeed, and I have every faith in the Queen’s eleven delivering said tenner into my back pocket.”
“If you say so, faither. Now listen, you take care out there tonight. Meechan is a dirty bastard and I wouldn’t put it past him to have a trick up his sleeve. One other thing, what’s happening with Farrell?”
“We’re sorted there, apparently some of his mobile calls have been traced to a number registered to a Mr D. A. Meechan. No, gaffer, friend Henry will be banged up by early Monday morning, and that one is definitely worth a flutter.”
“Excellent. Now jus
t take care out there tonight faither, after all you’re no getting any younger. I’ll give you a call in the morning once I’ve had my beauty sleep but promise me there’ll be no heroics.”
“You have my word, gaffer, on that and Declan Meechan being in custody by Monday morning.”
“Good man,” said Thoroughgood even though he knew this was one promise Hardie would not be able to keep: he didn’t know Meechan the way Thoroughgood did.
He dozed off again and by the time the dull ache coming from his fractured ribs had become so painful it had woken him, it was nearly two p.m. Washing down the twin Co-codamol capsules with his cold coffee, he headed for the shower. He phoned for a taxi and was driven down to South Street where he hired a car from the Arnold Clark rental office. A Mazda, this time a six series; he could have wept the way some of the familiarities in the dashboard reminded him of his treasured Rex.
He parked the Mazda about half a mile from Tara’s gates and waited for the dying of the light. Checking through his old squash bag, he located bolt-cutters, insulated rubber gloves, a can of shaving foam and a balaclava. His fingers curled round the handle of the familiar service revolver his grandfather had brought home from the RAF at the end of the Second World War.
He had cherished the revolver as one of the strongest links to the man who had been the closest thing to a father he had had as a kid. Its chamber was filled in each one of its grooves, and he stuck the handgun inside the specially elongated poacher’s pocket of his Barbour jacket.
While the search of Meechan’s mansion had failed to provide either Frankie Brennan, or any tangible evidence, it had allowed Thoroughgood to familiarise himself with the layout inside and, after a chat with the Support Unit cops who had completed the sweep of the grounds, the twin areas where the perimeter fence was vulnerable to uninvited guests.
Watching the rotation of the CCTV camera, Thoroughgood estimated he had roughly twenty-five seconds to cover the thirty yards of ground leading to the wall, cut the wire and then cover the camera head in shaving foam. He would then try to haul himself over the wall and make the four-foot drop into Meechan’s private domain.
As the camera swivelled past the trees and circled north, he broke cover and made the wall, counting to himself, in less than ten seconds. Wincing in pain, he used the wrought iron to haul himself up onto the sill of the sandstone basewall and let out an involuntary gasp as the pain cranked up another couple of notches on the Richter scale. Quickly he pulled the bolt-cutters out of his back pocket and cut a three foot gap in the razor wire.
Looking up to the pillar where the camera was mounted a further three feet above his head, he realised he needed to get himself up onto the top of the column if he was going to foam the camera and the seconds were ticking fifteen, sixteen, seventeen … The pain was almost unbearable by the time he made it onto the top of the column. On his knees, he tasted the salt from the beads of sweat dripping from his brow, but, just before the camera swept round to face him he sprayed it in foam. Turning his body so his back was facing inwards, he dropped down off the column onto the sill on the inside of the wall, in one agony-racked movement.
Gritting his teeth as the waves of pain threatened to induce imminent nausea, he let go and dropped the four feet onto the lawn at the base of the wall, then strained his ears for the sound of any alarm. There was none.
The distance from the wall to the French windows which encased the swimming pool was, Thoroughgood guessed, around one hundred feet, and with shrubs and fir trees running down the right hand side, he had perfect cover to reach within twenty feet of them. The night sky was conveniently dark now, but Thoroughgood could make out the shape of two security lights perched above the windows. Searching amongst the foliage he uncovered a couple of broken branches, one of which he decided would be strong enough to angle the lights upwards.
He approached the first light from the right, taking care to make sure there were no lights going on inside. When he was almost underneath the first light, he pushed the branch up and connected with the rim, sending the light’s encasement in an upward direction, uselessly gazing out into the almost pitch black of the sky above. The second security light was easily manoeuvred, and Thoroughgood gave thanks that both were newly installed, not rusted onto their brackets and as such immovable.
The French windows were the next obstacle to overcome and Thoroughgood was relieved when he examined them closely, to see they were externally beaded. Pulling the Swiss army knife from his pocket, he began to scrape the beading free from around the perimeter of the outside glass frame.
Thoroughgood had been at plenty of break-ins where entire window-panes were found discarded in front gardens after the housebreaker had removed the beading and then popped the frame out. It gave him particular amusement that Meechan of all people had his French windows secured in such a slipshod manner. When he had completely de-beaded the outside window he applied some slight pressure and saw the frame tilt, then lifted it out and placed it against the wall immediately to his right. Ten minutes later the second frame was also out, and a check of his watch showed it had just gone seven p.m. He made his way into the pool area, taking care with every step not to send a shockwave of noise upstairs which would alert Meechan to the presence of an intruder. The lights were low, and the noise of the generator regulating the pool’s temperature meant any noise from his movements was muffled.
He reached the stair leading to the ground floor and took a deep breath before climbing it, one painstaking step at a time. For the first time he could hear the muffled sound of music coming from the lounge, he assumed. He recalled the lounge was to the left of the front door, just inside the reception hall, while Meechan’s drawing room was opposite. That put the lounge on his right and as he hovered on the landing at the top of the stairs which had taken him out of the basement area, he thought he could hear voices.
There was a corridor, perhaps fifteen feet long, that ran alongside an adjacent wall belonging to the kitchen, and then he would be out into the reception hall with the glass-paned door to the lounge no more than ten feet away.
Taking a deep breath, as much to try and break the tension wracking his body as anything else, he started to make his way to the lounge door just as it opened. Celine walked out and barely managed to stifle the gasp of sheer astonishment that emanated from her open mouth. Thoroughgood put his index finger to his mouth in an act of habit, praying she would have enough composure not to give the game away but also wondering whether she might well elect to do so out of design rather than accident.
After the briefest of moments she nodded and pointed back down the passageway he had just come from. He descended the steps with a good deal less care than he had climbed them with Celine immediately behind him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Gus?” She spoke in a whisper that scarcely managed to conceal the shock at what she obviously viewed as an act of lunacy.
“I don’t have time to explain, Celine. What I need you to do is get back into the lounge and act as if nothing has happened. You’ve got to trust me on this one, Celine. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.”
In the glow of the wall-lights around the pool he could detect the tears welling up in her eyes, for she knew as well as he did the danger that was just around the corner. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him close. The action spoke more than mere words, and then she pulled free and turned to walk up the stairs.
There standing at the bottom of the steps was Meechan, his shadow rising up like a giant out of the dancing reflections of the water thrown up by the dimmed lighting.
“How very cosy. I could ask, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure?’ But the warmth of your embrace has provided me with my answer. So touching, and yet such a great pity that two’s a party and three’s a crowd.”
Chapter 43
Hardie had to admit his gaffer’s decision to not see things through at the King’s Stable had taken him by surprise. After all the personal enmity between Th
oroughgood and Meechan, Hardie could not believe the DS had decided to let him and McNab finish the job.
The briefing at Stewart Street City Centre office, held by Detective Super Tomachek, had gone well and everything, Hardie was sure, was watertight. The armed cordon formed by the Tactical Firearms Unit around the King’s Stables, meant there would be no escape for Meechan and his men. The plans he had secured provided the layout of the building in great detail, and an earlier reconnaissance visit made that morning with McNab meant the layout was fresh in his mind. There was only one way in via road, and there was now only one solitary entrance into the building; the front door. Everything else was boarded and sealed up in the metallic casing that encapsulated half of the dwellings in Glasgow’s run-down schemes.
On top of that, Rangers had recorded their first victory in an Old Firm derby at Parkhead that season, and Hardie smiled as the thought swept over him: if that wasn’t a good omen, what was? Tomachek had also been in buoyant spirits, despite Celtic’s loss, particularly when he took Hardie and McNab aside and told them a mobile phone call between Farrell and Meechan lasting nearly fifteen minutes had been monitored at nine p.m. the previous night. There could be no doubt then that Meechan knew exactly where the two remaining members of his gang were due to be relocated to at six p.m. the following evening.
By five-thirty Hardie and McNab, resplendent in a red Berghaus jacket and black beanie hat and navy blue hoody respectively, were climbing into the rear of an unmarked white Citroen van, borrowed from Scenes of Crime/IB branch and parked in the rear yard at Stewart Street Office. As the doors were shut tight by one of the two uniform officers who would convey the pair to their destination, Hardie peered out of the blackened rear window and watched the red Mercedes sports car belonging to DCI Henry Farrell pull into the yard.
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