Farrell parked the Mercedes opposite the van and as he climbed out of it, took more than a passing interest in the white Citroen, usually resident at Force HQ, Pitt Street. Hardie prayed the two uniform officers climbing into the front of the vehicle would lead the DCI to guess this was indeed the motor being used to convey Simms and Jarvis to their new safe house.
The van headed along the M8, turning up into Springburn and then through Bishopbriggs. The conversation between Hardie and McNab was almost non-existent to start with but slowly, as they began to tune in to what lay ahead, both of them attempted to iron out the little kinks causing them concern.
McNab had been chosen to back up Hardie, as the enquiry had originally been in East Division and Tomachek was acutely aware that all the glory couldn’t go to Central CID. The fact McNab had been on the original MI for the Browns was also a big positive; while it had been Thoroughgood’s recommendation, because McNab had spent three years seconded to ‘V’ Support Services as a firearms-trained officer, his expertise would be essential. Not slow to realise the positive effects a successful outcome to the night’s work would bring to his career, McNab had jumped at the chance.
Pulling out the plan of the King’s Stables he had tucked inside his Berghaus, Hardie went over the whys and wherefores once again.
“They’ve got to come through the front door, and we have a ground floor or a first floor to lie in wait for them. You’re the firearms officer; should we split up, one on either level, or stick together?”
McNab curled his mouth at either end as he considered the possibilities.
“I like the shot we would get from the balcony on the first floor. They’re going to come charging in expecting us to be sitting playing cards on the ground floor or shit like that, so they aren’t gonnae be looking for two revolvers trained on them one up one down. We’d have the element of surprise on our side and however minimal and fleeting that would be, it’s one you want with you when shooters are involved.”
“Aye, I’m all for that!” said Hardie.
They arrived at the derelict country pub just before six, safe in the knowledge that a ring of armed steel had encircled the location almost ninety minutes previously. The building was a fine stone edifice dating back to Victorian times. The Forth and Clyde canal ran along the front of the building, with a pathway and an area once used for seating in the warmer weather.
“No’ a bad place to enjoy a beer on a pleasant summer’s afternoon, is it, Hardie?’ said McNab.
“Aye, I enjoyed a few here all right, son. I had a spell out at Kirkintilloch office in the late Eighties and we used to finish our early shift and head for the Stables; a couple of pints on a sunny afternoon was as good as it got when it came to unwinding after seven early starts.”
Hardie’s reminiscing was ruined by the sharp blast of a chill April breeze that threatened to cut them both in half.
“Let’s get the fuck inside before we both turn hypothermic,” suggested McNab as he wrung his hands together in a futile attempt to bring some warmth into them.
Inside, the bar ran three-quarters of the length of the ground floor. At one end were the toilets, at the other a stairway up to the first floor which had been used for dining. Apart from a few rotten tables and chairs, it was now home to a couple of single beds where Hardie and McNab would take it in turn to catch some shuteye.
The electricity had been re-installed for the duration of their operation, and the fridge behind the bar filled with milk and beer that morning. McNab headed around behind the bar and scooped a couple of cans of Stella Artois out before handing one to Hardie, who had just applied a match to the fire he had laid in preparation for their arrival, earlier that morning.
Hardie took a long draft of lager, his gaze trained on the fire as it slowly sparked into life beneath the superb mahogany fireplace.
“A crying shame this fireplace is being left to rot with the building. I wonder if I’d get away with ripping it out and taking it back to mine when this is all done?”
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” replied McNab helpfully before joining Hardie in a mock salute with his can of Stella.
“I suggest we finish these and take up our positions. You had any further thoughts on where you want us to deploy, Ross?” asked Hardie.
“One up one down would be best. That way we can catch them in the crossfire. If you want to go behind the bar then I’ll take the balcony diagonally opposite the door. Just remember, we’re duty bound to give them the benefit of a warning that we’re armed polis. After that, fuck ’em!”
Tommy Rankin guided the speedboat along the Forth and Clyde canal enjoying the remains of the day and the cool air gliding gently over the surface of the canal. He had done his homework late last night within hours of Farrell’s call to Meechan, and established that taking a vehicle to the pub along the single-lane road which could so easily be stoppered up would mean there was no chance of an escape if the polis had set a trap.
A Maryhill boy, he knew all about the Forth and Clyde canal and its twisting route out of Glasgow and into the countryside towards Kirky. He’d had the speedboat stolen from its mooring on the shores of Loch Lomond early on Sunday morning, and now here he was behind the wheel with Morriston and two henchmen armed to the teeth, determined to ensure that Simms’ and Jarvis’ wagging tongues were stilled for good.
Three hundred yards away from the pub, the canal turned into a gentle bend and Rankin switched the engine off and listened for a moment to the sounds of the night. Apart from the rustling foliage lining the banks and the sound of occasional traffic coming from the main road to Kirky, the silence was delicious.
Rankin turned round, leaned against the steering wheel and dished out the final instructions:
“All right boys, it’s not rocket science. I’ll pull up at the berth just down from the pub, you get the jemmy out, fuck the door open and then nobody lives. Do you understand me?”
The collective nod of three heads made it clear they did; they pulled down their black balaclavas and pulled out the Kalashnikovs, ready to blow away whoever they met behind the front door of The King’s Stables.
Rankin started up the speedboat engine, pulled down his balaclava and reached inside his pocket to pull out the Luger that was his favoured handgun. He laid it lovingly down on the dashboard next to the wheel and put his foot down. The speedboat revved into life, leaving a trail of white spray behind them. They were fifty yards away from the makeshift jetty extending ten yards out into the canal opposite the stables, and there was no sign of life apart from the smoke pluming out of the chimney. The boat surged past the jetty and slowed before Rankin turned it neatly and brought it to rest, watching as his three colleagues vaulted over the prow and onto land.
For some reason Rankin turned off the engine, breaking the getaway driver’s golden rule of always having the motor running when a job was in progress. Watching as the first of his hooded mates levelled the jemmy against the door and brought all his force to bear, there was a sharp crack as the metal casing around the doorway was sprung.
In the same moment that Morriston and his two sidekicks burst through the door, Rankin heard a voice pierce the night air and he did not like what it said.
“Armed police! Throw down your weapons.”
The warning from the Police TFU armed incident commander came too late: no one had taken into account the possibility the intruders would come via the canal and because they had been ferried almost to the front door of the pub, below ground level, the armed officers ringing the King’s Stables were taken completely by surprise.
It was McNab who got the first eyeball on their three guests as they burst through the door and he knew immediately as he took in their Kalashnikovs, that a shouted warning would be a complete waste of time.
Raising his revolver he sighted the first man through the door and shot to kill. The bullet hit the balaclavaed male an inch to the right of his heart and he dropped like a stone. But with his first shot Mc
Nab had given away both his position and the element of surprise. The balcony was now being splintered into bits by high-velocity rounds of lead from twin machine guns.
He ducked just in time. But Hardie was downstairs behind the old pub’s bar, and immediately in the path of the gunmen and the line of their withering fire. The firestorm died down and McNab heard the sound of the first footsteps on the stairway; another single shot rang out followed by a groan.
Hardie had kept his position concealed for as long as possible, and when the two blackened figures had started their way up the stairs he unloaded as many rounds as he could into the shadowy duo. He felled one immediately, while it looked like he had clipped the other in the shoulder. With two of the three gunmen down and the other one winged, the odds had swung dramatically in the detectives’ favour.
McNab, guessing what had happened below, made his way to the top of the stair where he saw one figure sprawled in a heap over the first step and a second lying face down on the floor in a pool of blood. The other male was backing out towards the front door with his Kalashnikov trained on Hardie, who in turn was crouching behind the bar with his revolver aimed at the gunman. But the male had caught the flicker of movement at the top of the stairs, and it was enough for him to let his control of the weapon waver.
Hardie seized his opportunity, pumping three rounds at the doorway. Another grunt and the male staggered back through the door and outside. As Hardie began to make his way out from behind the bar, the Kalashnikov spat lead furiously in his direction, before rifling the top of the stairway. The detectives heard the receding footsteps of the gunman making good his escape. They both bolted for the door.
“You okay, Kenny?” asked McNab as he came hurtling down the steps and vaulted the prone figure lying in a heap at the bottom.
“Never better Ross,” said Hardie with a triumphal smile.
Morriston made it to the speedboat just as Hardie and McNab exited cautiously out of the front door; the black boilersuits of the TFU officers were materialising round either flank of the pub but it was too late. Morriston lowered himself in with a helping hand from Rankin, and the speedboat revved into life and shot along the waterway.
“Bastard,” shouted Hardie, his brief moment of triumph ruined.
There was no way he was letting them escape, and as the sound of the speedboat engine dimmed, the noise of a second engine filled the vacuum, providing Hardie with the answer to his prayers. As soon as the detective saw the TFU four-by-four come into view, he grabbed McNab and received a knowing nod by way of answer.
The two of them sprinted for the vehicle and Hardie opened the door and uttered one word to the driver:
“Out.”
Initially the driver thought about putting up an argument but a glance at the gnarled features in front of him made him think twice. McNab was already in the passenger seat and immediately they turned right; Hardie took the Land Rover down the banking and onto the towpath running parallel to the canal. The speedboat had almost disappeared from view but Hardie knew about a quarter of a mile along from the pub was a lock, which also had a car park adjacent to it, and he reckoned it was there the two escaping gunmen would leave the boat and jump into a waiting car.
While the towpath was wide enough for the Land Rover to make its way along with either wheel straddling the side of it, it was not suitable for a foot-to-the-floor pursuit. Hardie had to concentrate fully, his cause not helped by the darkness. Eventually he could see the gates of the lock and the ladder at the side of it. The speedboat was almost there and Hardie gave the accelerator an extra squeeze.
Rankin helped Morriston out of the boat and onto the bottom rung of the ladder, then attempted to push him up. The islander had taken two bullets, one in the right shoulder and the other in the guts, and was losing plenty of blood. By the time Rankin got Morriston to the top of the ladder he was aware of the droning of a diesel engine; as he turned to squint over his shoulder he saw the cause of the noise was a marked police Land Rover.
Rankin turned round, leaning his body weight back against the ladder while he sighted the Kalashnikov in the direction of the oncoming vehicle; he let it rip into life and saw at least three strikes on the bonnet of the Land Rover, which slowed and then ground to a halt.
Satisfied he’d bought some vital time, he followed Morriston onto the bank and helped his injured mate in the direction of the waiting Vauxhall Vectra, all the time conscious of the growing engine noise coming from the Land Rover. They were nearly at the Vectra when Morriston spoke.
“Listen Tommy, get going on your own, there’s no way you’ll make it with me holding you back. Besides, I need treatment and quick. Let me take the motor and divert them, and you can make it out over the fields on foot.”
“You sure?” asked Rankin, aware that Morriston would be lucky to see another dawn if he didn’t get urgent medical attention, never mind escape. Morriston nodded, opened the driver’s door of the Vectra and threw the Kalashnikov inside.
Rankin sprinted over to the fence enclosing one of the cornfields running along the side of the canal. Swinging himself over the top rail, he saw a spark jump off the rail, three inches from where the bullet had impacted. Ducking low on the other side, he could see his pursuers had not been fooled by his attempt at a diversion.
He ran into the cornfields, making for the direction of a clump of trees that would at least provide a semblance of cover. It was a strange sensation letting the corn stubble brush through his hands as he ran through the field; somehow, Tommy Rankin found it liberating and his mind returned to the distant sunshine of his youth. Memories of summer holidays as a kid spent on his favourite uncle’s farm in Ayrshire warmed him against the chill air. His silent reverie was quickly brought to an end when a harsh voice barked from behind him:
“Armed police! Stop or I shoot!”
The realisation hit that here in the now he was running for his life and all his plans, all his hopes, rested on what happened next. The trees were ten yards away and he turned, slowly slipping his right hand inside his black ski jacket and wrapping his fingers round the Luger. In the remnants of the dusk’s half-light, McNab could only make out one of the gunman’s hands from the shadowy silhouette fifteen feet away. Guessing where the other one was heading, he opened fire.
Rankin felt the rush of air shoot past his cheek as the first bullet missed by inches, and drew the Luger but as he levelled it at his pursuer the impact of the second projectile on his forehead threw him back and laid him out, his corpse flattening the corn. McNab walked over to the body, his revolver still cautiously aimed at the prone figure.
Pulling the balaclava back over the head of the gunman, recognition swept over his face.
“Fuck me, it’s Tommy Rankin,” he said out loud.
The sound of heavy breathing at his shoulder alerted him to Hardie’s presence:
“Aye, it’s Tommy Rankin all right, minus half his brains.”
Chapter 44
Meechan switched the lights on, and the pool and its surrounds were suddenly bathed in floodlight.
“What’s that expression when a married man is betrayed by his wife? Ah, of course, it’s come back to me: cuckolded, isn’t it? I promised you the world, my world, and this is what you’ve given me back, Celine. I suppose I should consider myself lucky the truth has been revealed before we went down the aisle. Christ, I might have even been playing at happy families and the doting daddy, bringing up a copper’s baby. Maybe I’ve been lucky.”
He took a step forward, pointing at Thoroughgood.
“But you, Detective Sergeant, your luck has just run out. For tonight, for this,” he swept his arm before him, “for this I will finally end your life.”
Thoroughgood knew he was in no state for a physical confrontation with Meechan, nursing two broken ribs, but he couldn’t draw the revolver from inside his jacket with Celine standing between him and the man who had just promised to kill him. Realising he had to put Celine’s safety first, Meec
han had just offered him the perfect out.
“But that’s just it, Meechan, Celine is pregnant and the baby belongs to her fiancée.”
Meechan’s Northern Irish Belfast accent became almost guttural in his rage.
“You lying bastard, you think your lies can save you or her now?” A sadistic smile lit up Meechan’s face:
“What have you got to say to this, my darling whore?”
“It’s true, Declan. I came down to the pool to get my robe and that was when I discovered him. I don’t know why but I felt I needed to tell him, I didn’t want any trouble between the two of you, but it’s true. You remember the night we had together after Jimmy’s ‘do’? I just wanted to be a hundred percent sure before I told you and to find the right moment, but it’s true Declan, as God is my witness.”
It was Thoroughgood’s turn to frown. His mind raced and panic set in: she was far too bloody convincing for this to be an act, or was she? Right now there was no way he could find out without putting her life in jeopardy.
“A likely story. No. We will finish this here and now.”
Meechan glared at Celine with a burning hatred and she shivered with the fear it induced in her.
“And then, bitch, I’ll deal with you.”
Meechan took another step forward and Thoroughgood knew the moment for caution was long gone. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out his grandfather’s revolver.
“Take another step, Meechan, and nothing in this world or the next will give me as much pleasure as blowing your fuckin’ brains out.”
Meechan halted and let go a short harsh laugh.
“Very brave, with a pistol in your hand, copper.”
He bent down and dipped his hand in the edge of the pool, swirling his fingers around in the water. Thoroughgood, still enveloped in the uncertainty of Celine’s words, looked at her, searching for some kind of confirmation.
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