At the side of the pool a metallic chain, used to fasten the cover, dangled loosely. Meechan unhitched it, deftly balling it in his hand and then rising slowly. He lashed it out at Thoroughgood’s arm, knocking the revolver out of his hand and quickly side-footing it into the pool.
“You were saying, copper?”
Slowly, with a deliberate delight, Meechan rewound the chain and then smashed it off the tiled poolside floor for good effect. Celine screamed, her panic raw:
“Stop it, Declan, for God’s sake, it’s all true.”
“An unlikely truth dearest, wouldn’t you say? Nevertheless, it matters not.”
He closed to within five feet of Thoroughgood. The DS, clutching his stinging right wrist, backed off, but he was running out of space in which to retreat.
“No, Thoroughgood, we finish this right here.”
Meechan made his way over to a rack at the side of the pool stocked with barbecue equipment, and removed two long sharp knives that bore a strong resemblance to machetes. He tossed one in Thoroughgood’s direction.
“Pick it up, pig. In that blade lies your only hope of salvation, to be sure. But I warn you, carving up pork is my speciality.” Meechan laughed, plainly enjoying himself.
“Stop it Declan, I beg you stop it, for the love of Jesus,” cried Celine.
Meechan waved his hand in her direction as if she was an inconvenience so minor she barely registered on his consciousness. In one languid stride, reminiscent of a big cat stalking wounded prey, he closed on Thoroughgood and threw out the chain.
“Take hold of it and wrap it round your free hand. We’ll finish this like men.”
Thoroughgood coiled the end of the chain around his right wrist, lifted the blade and watched the light glint off it. Maybe not a machete but with a broad six-inch blade, it was as near as damn it. Switching the blade to his left hand, he knew he was going to need all his strength to keep Meechan at bay, just as he realised that tonight he must surely die.
The first yank almost took him off his feet, and the searing pain from his ribs brought bile to his mouth as he kept his eyes on Meechan’s right hand. He saw the arc of the blade as it came down in a brutal swipe that missed his left hand by an inch. Already unsteadied by the force of Meechan’s pull, he stumbled down onto one knee, the sweat dripping off his brow and his breath harsh and rasping.
The chain loosened as Meechan advanced. Thoroughgood had exaggerated his vulnerability and when Meechan got within two feet of him he lunged with the blade, slashing at Meechan’s groin. Meechan let out a roar of anguish and pain. Looking down he saw a flap had been cut loose at the top of his denim-clad leg and from it blood beginning to seep.
Touching his wound to check on its severity, Meechan realised it was only superficial and this brought the cruel killing smile back to his face. He rewound the chain round his left hand, pulling sharply.
“It will take more than that, Thoroughgood. Is that the best you can do?” mocked Meechan as he gesticulated with his blade for Thoroughgood to come to him.
Thoroughgood’s face was contorted with fresh pain. The lunge had tugged hard on his injured ribs, but, still on his left knee, he was determined not to show any vulnerability:
“Why don’t you come and find out, bastard?”
He attempted to raise himself up and as he did so everything went dark. Celine had aimed the ceramic flower pot with deadly accuracy, and as she watched him crumple on the tiled floor in front of her from the impact of the blow she had landed so deliberately to the back of his head, her face was awash with emotion.
Meechan’s eyes blazed as he tried to read something from the expression on her face while being denied the opportunity to finish his feud with Thoroughgood once and for all.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?”
“If you would just give me the chance I’ll tell you, Declan. The game is up. He told me just before you came down to the pool. The safe house Simms and Jarvis are supposed to have been relocated to was a ruse to draw you into a police trap. Thoroughgood guessed you would send others to do the job and that’s why he came here to finish this madness between you two once and for all. I swear he is every bit as crazy as you are, but he told me there’s no way any of your boys will get out alive from, what was it he called it, the King’s Stables. Who did you send?”
As she looked into his face she could see from the flicker of concern that the answer was Tommy Rankin. Meechan dropped the chain, tossed away the knife and pulled his mobile from his pocket, quickly punching in series of digits. Holding the mobile to his ear, he waited for an answer and got one which confirmed the awful truth.
“Well, well, if it’s not Declan Meechan. I’ve got some bad news for you: your friend Tommy is lying in a field pushing up the daisies and now we’re coming for you,” said Hardie.
Meechan cut the mobile without saying a word. For a moment his self-control deserted him and his eyes glazed over, moisture escaping them and spilling onto his face against his iron will. Quickly he cuffed away the tears. Celine raised a hand to try and comfort him but he slapped it away.
“Look Declan, you’ve got to go. If you stay here, what’s going to happen? You’ll go the same way as Tommy. Please, while there’s still time, just go.”
He looked into her eyes and all the certainty in him had gone.
“Answer me one thing, Celine: the baby. Are you lying? Are you pregnant with my child? I must know.”
“Yes, I’m telling the truth. I only told Thoroughgood because I thought it would make him go but it was too late. Now please, while there’s still time you must go. When you’re safe somewhere you can get a message to me somehow.”
He leant forward and kissed her, then pulled back.
“Whatever has happened, whatever does happen, Celine, always remember I love you.”
She smiled: “It’s the same for me, Declan.”
Hardie was standing leaning against the cornfield gate, staring at the body of Tommy Rankin.
“So what do we do now? A pint would go down a bloody treat, Kenny,” said McNab.
Hardie’s mind was already busy working out the connotations of his brief conversation with Meechan’s silent mobile.
“I wonder where Meechan is right now? If I was a betting man I’d say there is a fair chance he’ll be at home congratulating himself on a job well done, but not for much longer. No Ross, we have work to do … if you’re up for it?”
“What did you have in mind?” asked the DC.
“Well I’m just a bit concerned about where Gus is. I thought there was no way he’d miss tonight’s show, but I’ll bet he knew Meechan wouldn’t dirty his hands trying to shut up Simms and Jarvis. I’d put decent money on him deciding to pay Meechan a visit. Now that visit is maybe still to happen, and if we’re quick enough we can get there before it all goes pear-shaped and save Gus from himself.”
In less than ten minutes they found themselves sitting at the traffic lights that would take them, with a right turn, onto Strathblane Road and the route leading to Meechan’s house up in Mugdock. As they waited for the green light, a black Range Rover bearing the private plate DAM shot through the lights, heading for Glasgow at speed.
“Fuck me,” said a disbelieving Hardie, “that’s Meechan’s motor and wherever he’s going, he’s in some bloody hurry.”
“Well what’re you waiting for, Kenny? Let’s get after him,” said McNab.
They turned into Milngavie Road with the Range Rover all but out of sight, opting against shouting for back-up. Meechan was obviously unaware of their pursuit, and slowly they began to close on him. By the time they hit the Switchback dual carriageway, the pursuit had begun to pick up speed, and it was then McNab decided the time was right to call for help.
“I reckon he’s heading for the Clyde Tunnel, Kenny. If we can get the Armed Response vehicles positioned on the north side we’ll have him nicely bottled up.”
Hardie nodded in agreement and McNab was soon sending o
ut the radio request:
“Code 44 car pursuit, Detective Constable McNab in pursuit of black Range Rover registered mark DAM 1. One male up, direction of travel: south along Canniesburn Switchback, possibly heading for the Clyde Tunnel.”
By the time they had reached the end of the Switchback dual carriageway, Meechan was aware of the marked four-by-four drawing closer in his rear view mirror and flattened the accelerator. He broke the first set of lights at amber but the second set, running across Great Western Road, he went through at red, missing the back of a green Rover 620 by inches. After he shot through, he quickly checked the rear view to see the police four-by-four slowing dramatically to avoid slithering into a giant Asda artic ploughing its way relentlessly onwards up the Great Western Road.
There was no time to lose, and Meechan rammed his foot hard on the accelerator as he shot towards the Clyde Tunnel. Traffic was light and allowed him to spot the two marked police cars with lights flashing, blocking the entrance to the south tunnel but with the four-by-four in his rearview once again reducing the gap, he kept going, his mind surveying the ever-decreasing options ahead of him.
Two hundred yards from the police roadblock, Meechan could make out the faces of the cops training firearms on his Range Rover from behind the safety of their vehicles, having already deployed the stinger device used to burst tyres across the road in front of them. However, they had only blocked the south side of the carriageway, and at the last minute he pulled his steering wheel hard down right and smashed through the stationary swivel barrier used to block the tunnel during repairs.
The barrier smashed his windscreen and splintered, then he was through and onto the north carriageway, on its outside lane. He had gambled the traffic would be so sparse at that time of the night he might at least have time to prepare for the first oncoming vehicle, and his gamble looked like paying off.
The blaring of horns sounded, a silver Ford Mondeo, the first vehicle coming on in the inside lane, but as the tunnel started to dip into its lowest section, halfway under the River Clyde, he continued at sixty mph unopposed.
Meechan spotted the headlights in his rear view and realised his was not the only vehicle speeding underneath the Clyde the wrong way; as he heard and felt the first metallic crack, he realised his pursuers were armed. He had no time to dwell on what was behind him, for four hundred yards ahead the giant form of a Scania was heading his way in the outside lane and worse still, the inside lane was taken by a red Citroen.
Assessing the situation, Meechan realised he had one shot at survival and quickly changed lanes into the inside track, heading straight for the Citroen. He was gambling everything on its driver slamming on the brakes and a gap opening up between the rapidly slowing car and the Scania, which he guessed would continue to plough straight on, its driver confident he would be safe within its size and bulk.
Sure enough, the Citroen began to fall back from its previously parallel position with the Scania and by the time Meechan was passing the artic there was a gap for him to swerve into before he rammed into the saloon car. But the manoeuvre had cost him time, and the pursuing police vehicle continued to close.
Meechan knew his most vulnerable moments were still ahead as he continued to climb up the steep side of the north end of the tunnel leading back out onto the open roadway. The rise was such that the oncoming traffic would have no view of his Range Rover until it was almost on top of them.
The matter was taken out of his hands when he felt a shock juddering through the spine of the Range Rover as a bullet thudded into one of his rear tyres. Trying with all his might, he attempted to wrestle control of the steering wheel, but it was not enough to stop the violent swerve that took the Range Rover into the inside lane just as a motorcycle began its descent into the tunnel. The driver didn’t stand a chance and the bike ploughed straight into the bonnet of the Range Rover, throwing his body over the top of the roof and landing with a dull thud on the roadway behind Meechan.
He kept the Range Rover going relentlessly, heading out of the tunnel. As he crested the lip of the entrance to the northbound carriageway, he pointed the vehicle as best he could in the direction of the sliproad diagonally across from him, which led off the southbound carriageway into Govan. He could feel the grinding of the wheel rim jarring on the tarmacadam of the roadway. Putting all his strength into his bid to keep the steering wheel stationary, he smashed back through the swivel barrier and attempted to cross the twin carriageways on the southside of the tunnel.
With ten yards to go before he reached the relative safety of the sliproad, the headlights of two cars lit up the side of the Range Rover and he missed the outside vehicle by a couple of feet before he shot into the relative safety provided by the massive concrete wall which shepherded the off-sliproad on its route into Govan.
At the top of the slip-road Meechan opened the Range Rover door and jumped out; he ran up to the Saab that had stopped behind him and hauled the door open, levelled his Colt at the head of the startled middle-aged male sitting in the driver’s seat.
“Get the fuck out and I don’t blow your brains out.”
The driver did as he was bid. Moments later the silver Saab was back on the dual carriageway on the southside of the Clyde Tunnel heading for the M8. This time there was no pursuit and Meechan knew that his only worry would be how quickly the driver could report his vehicle as stolen and the cops alerted to look out for it. Within ten minutes he was crossing the Erskine Bridge and sweeping back into Hardgate.
The prone figure of the shattered body that belonged to the motorcyclist had forced Hardie and McNab to slam on the brakes of their four-by-four at the lip of the tunnel. While Hardie radioed for assistance and an ambulance, McNab cradled the driver’s head in his arms looking for signs of life.
Removing the visor, the trickle of blood from the side of the mouth and the vacant glare from staring eyes confirmed that his search was almost certainly futile. After completing his calls for an ambulance and police back-up to a background chorus of blaring horns from the jammed traffic backing up at the entrance of the northbound carriageway, Hardie returned to his partner. When McNab gave him the thumbs down he could think of only one word to say:
“Bastard.”
Chapter 45
Thoroughgood’s vision was blurred and his head was throbbing. All he could remember was Meechan approaching, and then it had been lights out. He tried to pick himself up off the tiles but found his legs would not obey the commands being sent from his brain. He felt a pair of hands press down on his shoulders and he was looking into Celine’s eyes.
“Take your time, Gus, you’ve just had a bang from one of Declan’s ceramic flower pots,” she pointed at the ornate blue pot lying on its side three feet away.
“I should know, since it was me who landed it.”
She helped him shuffle into one of the nearby wicker chairs at the top end of the pool and he watched as she made her way to one of the chest freezers lining the wall opposite him, returning with a bag of ice which she made him place on the spot where she had administered the flower pot with such effective impact.
Slowly, as the pain and burning subsided, Thoroughgood once again found the strength to look into her eyes
“Why, Celine? Why did you lie to me? Then this?” he pointed to his head. “You try and split my skull open?”
“God help me Gus, I didn’t know what else to do. It was all I could think of to stop him. If I hadn’t, what would have happened? He would have cut you to pieces; surely a sore head isn’t too high a price to pay for your life?”
He attempted a smile that just wouldn’t form.
“What about the baby? Is it make-believe or the real thing?”
It was Celine’s turn to look away. After a short pause she once again met his glare:
“It’s true, Gus. I’m pregnant. When you told me all those things up at the reservoir I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t want to believe them about Declan, especially since I’m now carrying
his baby. When Gerry McIlroy told me what had happened to you, I knew it had to be Declan who was behind it and that you’d been telling the truth and not just trying to split us up. When you came out and said I was pregnant like that, to try and stop Declan from hurting me, I didn’t know what to do. I thought I was going to throw up, but I knew why you were doing it and at that stage it seemed the only way to stop him taking my life and my baby’s too.”
Thoroughgood remained unconvinced.
“What about the rest, Celine? Was that all true as well? Do you love him?”
“There is a part of me that will always love Declan, just as there is a part of me that will always be in love with you. What’s happened over these last few days has brought that home to me, and I just don’t know how much more of it I can take. That’s the God’s honest truth. The only way I could get him to leave without bringing harm to me and the baby was to tell him what he wanted to hear.”
Thoroughgood’s shoulders slumped and he let the ice fall to the tiles; the pain inside his head was far more severe than that on the outside. He stared glassily into the pool, aware that her eyes were still trained on his face, and eventually he found the strength to ask what had to be asked:
“So where does that leave us this time, Celine? You know that Declan Meechan’s life is finished in Scotland, there’s no future for him in Glasgow other than in a cage. You have to make a decision Celine, once and for all, about the baby, about you, and who you want or don’t want to be with in this life.”
She looked shocked and angry at the same time.
“What are you suggesting I do? Get rid of the baby? The baby is my future, Gus, and that means whether I am with or without someone else.”
He began to shake his head but the movement nearly severed it from his shoulders.
“No, you misunderstand me, Celine. I mean I’m here for you and the baby if you want me. I know there’ll be tough times ahead, but nothing would be as bad as losing you again, Celine, forever.”
Parallel Lines Page 31