This time she cared not a bit about his sore head and threw her arms around him.
“Oh, my darling, to think that for the last ten years I shut you out of my life; I know I don’t deserve you, Gus, but thank God for you.”
He only just managed to blurt out the words from the confines of her embrace.
“You just have but first you must tell me where you think Meechan has gone, because this has got to end and the only way that’s going to happen is with him behind bars.”
“I really don’t know. He didn’t say where he was going. I don’t think he’ll be headed to the usual places. He has business interests in Whiteinch with a frozen food company called Freezerland. I’ve also heard him talking about an undertaker’s business he was interested in but I don’t have a clue where that is, maybe the Hardgate. I think the whole Freezerland thing could be a front for drugs. As you know, I heard a few things at dinner the other night, when I was in the kitchen, that made me wonder. I think if he’s going anywhere it will be there. We had a man called Iain Morriston staying with us and he’s from the Isle of Barra. I think he’s definitely involved in it.”
Thoroughgood smiled. “No, that’s great Celine; that gives us a starter all right.”
He took out his mobile and quickly keyed in Hardie’s number. The gruff voice at the other end was instantly recognisable:
“Gaffer, where the fuck have you been? I’ve been trying you all day.”
“Listen Kenny, I’m up at Meechan’s place and I haven’t got time to fill you in with the details, but suffice to say I know Meechan wasn’t at the Stables but I’ve got a pretty good idea where he’s headed right now and I want you to meet me there.”
“Roger that, where is the rendezvous?”
“The Freezerland warehouse in Whiteinch. Think you can find it?”
Hardie laughed. “Gaffer, you know me; I’m convinced I was a taxi driver in a previous life! But Whiteinch, that’s a funny one, ’cos we’ve just lost Meechan after chasing him down the wrong way on the southbound carriageway of the Clyde Tunnel. Maybe he was trying to lead us on a little detour.”
“What? What kind of mess did you leave behind?”
“Aye, it’s no’ pretty, we’ve got one motorcyclist dead, a couple of smashes and the tunnel is shut. Mayhem, in short.”
“Listen, watch what you’re doing. Meechan’s armed, and let me know the minute you’re there.”
“Ach, don’t worry gaffer, I’ve got McNab here to help me.”
With that, the call was over and Gus turned to Celine and said his goodbyes:
“Listen, you lock the doors and don’t let anyone in until I get back. If you see anything unusual happening you call me on the mobile.”
She smiled and they came together in an embrace he did not want to break.
It took Thoroughgood fifteen minutes to find the Freezerland warehouse in Whiteinch. Hardie and McNab were already there, the marked TFU Range Rover sitting just outside a twelve-foot-high wire mesh perimeter fence. Thoroughgood greeted his colleagues.
“I gather you’ve had quite an eventful night!”
“I’m no’ sure the old ticker can take much more,” said Hardie with a short laugh.
“It doesn’t look like there’s much chance of Meechan being round here, Gus. On the way over we got word of the driver of a silver Saab being held up at gunpoint by a man matching Meechan’s description on the Govan sliproad off the Clyde Tunnel. Guess what? A hundred yards away was his personalised Range Rover with the flat back tyre I made a hole in. Uniform have put a lookout for the Saab and hopefully we’ll get something back on that soon. But there’s fuckall sign of a silver Saab in the yard or round here.”
“That’s disappointing, but you can fill me in on it after we take a quick look in the back of that container truck.” Thoroughgood pointed at the large artic emblazoned with the “Barra: Fresh from the Sea” logo sitting in the loading bay.
“Cos I’ve a funny feeling we might find something we shouldn’t in there.”
Hardie spotted a large metallic pole he could use to jemmy the back of the container truck open. Taking care to cover up the security cameras with a helpful coating of shaving foam from the can Thoroughgood kept for such necessities in his Barbour pocket, they made their way to the back of the truck, and, after three or four attempts, the padlock eventually gave way and they hauled the doors open.
Thoroughgood was first to climb in, wincing as he went at the pain the movement had induced from his ribs. The back of the container was full, unsurprisingly, of bags of frozen seafood, from prawns to cod. Thoroughgood grabbed one of the bags and split it open with his Swiss Army knife. It revealed exactly what the label on the packet said it would, frozen prawns.
McNab ventured further into the middle of the container, passing the section divided off for prawns and frozen cod until he reached the section reserved for salmon.
“That’s weird. I didn’t know you could get salmon up in Barra?”
Thoroughgood looked at Hardie and shrugged his shoulders, for in truth he hadn’t a clue where salmon could or could not be found.
“Open it and have a look. You never know, you might find it’s something fishy!” he laughed.
“Aye, very good Gus, now throw me over that fuckin’ Swiss army knife and I’ll have a butchers.”
McNab cut the bag with a diagonal slice and watched in wide-eyed disbelief as a succession of individually cellophane-bagged packages fell out, each one filled with brown crystallised powder, undoubtedly heroin. He threw one of the bags over to Thoroughgood, who caught it and, using his teeth, ripped open the cellophane wrap. The DS dabbed his finger inside and applied the crystalline-coated digit to his mouth:
“No doubt about it: smack.”
It was Hardie who asked the obvious question:
“So, gaffer, what are we gonnae do about Meechan?”
McNab provided the answer. “Did Celine give you any other pointers as to where he might be?”
Thoroughgood nodded his head in the affirmative.
“The only thing she could come up with was some undertaker’s business he has an interest in, maybe in the Hardgate. But I don’t have any more than that.”
“I’ll radio control and see if a little bit of local knowledge won’t sort that out. While we’re waiting on a steer on that, I’ll request local uniform to send over a Panda to stand by here. As soon as we get a green light on things, I say we take my hire car and head in the general direction of Hardgate. As far as I know there is only the one undertaker’s over there called Malone’s, so we might as well make for it and see what develops.”
There was no argument, and a short while after McNab had made his radio request they were on their way to Hardgate in Thoroughgood’s hired Mazda.
Meechan had wasted no time en route to his eventual destination, Malone’s Funeral Parlour. The hands-free in the Saab’s black leather interior allowed him to make two calls before he got there. One was to Henry Farrell and the other to his old friend Father O’Hare, a.k.a. Brendan O’Driscoll.
Having satisfied himself that he had ironed out the loose ends he made a third and final call to Peter Malone, the man whose old and failing family undertakers he had bankrolled and breathed new life into. He knew his second cousin would meet his every request with the kind of phlegmatic unflappable realism that had so impressed him when he had broken one of his golden rules not to fund relatives’ business ventures.
On arrival at the back of the parlour, Malone was already waiting at the rear entrance used to bring in “new arrivals.” Malone, a grey man in the black garb of the undertaker, respectful, reserved and understated, his smile nondescript, beckoned Meechan in.
“Hello Declan, everything is ready as you instructed, if you want to come in I will show you the casket I had in mind for your journey.”
Meechan shook his proffered hand, releasing the tepid grip he had been offered.
“What did you call it, Peter? The Last Supp
er, was it? How appropriate!”
Malone led him into an antechamber which functioned as a showroom for a range of coffins. Skirting past the lighter pine versions, Malone came to a dark mahogany casket and opened the lid, standing back and basking with some satisfaction in the quality of craftsmanship now going to be used to secure Meechan’s escape from Glasgow.
“As you see, Declan, the scene from the Last Supper is carved inside the lid and the interior lined with the finest silk. Obviously, I have added breathing holes to filter the air in and installed a light. There’s enough room to allow you to eat the sandwiches I’ll put inside for you. All in all it should make for a very comfortable ride, and with this level of padding inside, potholes are not going to be a problem for you.”
“Excellent,” said Meechan, his slate-grey eyes resting on Malone, who seemed to shrink under the intensity of their gaze.
“Now Peter, I’ve made myself clear regarding the rest of my instructions, there is no time for a repeat. If I’m right, the polis will be in possession of the information that will allow them to track me here. You take me to the destination I have arranged and wait for my man, and then you’re free to return and enjoy the fruits of your labours and the fifty grand inside this envelope.”
Meechan fished out a crushed manila envelope from the inside of his leather jacket.
“Make no mistakes, Peter, for I will be in touch and as God as my witness, I will be back in Glasgow someday.”
Malone gave him another one of his washed-out smiles:
“For all you have done for me, Declan, you have my loyalty for the rest of my days, be assured. What about the polis?”
“Don’t worry about them, Peter, you stick to the story we talked over on the phone and you’ll be fine. Now I think it’s time for us to get going.”
Malone stood back, lowered the trolley the casket was sitting on and Meechan hopped inside. Rolling his shoulders from side to side and flexing his legs, he found he had more than enough room, even at six-feet-plus, to lie fully extended. Meechan tested the interior light and felt the silk lining and smiled with satisfaction.
“Excellent, Peter. Now as long as your driving is up to the mark, I might even get some shut-eye.”
“I think you’ll find it very restful in there all right, Declan,” said Malone, and shut the casket.
He wheeled the trolley out to the side door of the parlour, where the rear of the Daimler estate was already opened, and smoothly he pushed the coffin into the back of the vehicle. Inside, Meechan laughed out loud and, hearing the muffled sound of his laughter coming from inside of the coffin, Malone felt a chill run down his spine. He jumped into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition on, and within a couple of minutes they were on Great Western Road heading north.
The Mazda pulled into the drive at the side of the road leading to the car park at the rear of Malone’s Funeral Parlour. Thoroughgood had completed his account of his latest run-in with Meechan, and Hardie was suitably dumbfounded by his gaffer’s bloody-mindedness.
“Fuck me gently, gaffer, you took a chance there with your busted ribs, did you no’?”
The conversation ended when they noticed the silver Saab parked discreetly at the rear of the undertakers.
“Okay, boys, my revolver is at the bottom of Meechan’s pool, so you’ll need to tool up, looks like the bastard is here,” said Thoroughgood, as Hardie and McNab followed him out of the motor as quickly as they could.
Hardie made his way over to the Saab and checked to see if he could get inside, but the doors were locked. Placing his left hand on the bonnet, he found plenty of heat still coming from the engine.
“It’s not been stationary long, gaffer, bonnet’s hot all right,” he said in hushed tones.
Thoroughgood and McNab were at the rear door, which the latter had found locked; looking over at Thoroughgood, McNab’s glance confirmed that entry would have to be forced and the DS handed his mate the metal pole they had found so useful at Freezerland. A couple of minutes later the steel shutter was forced up and they smashed the glass panel above the handle in the interior door it encased and made their way inside the premises, showing complete disregard for the activated alarm bell reverberating through their bodies. A comprehensive search of the interior revealed absolutely nothing.
“Bastard’s gone, gaffer, we’re too fuckin’ late.”
“I’d say so, faither. Still, with an all-stations and all-ports lookout request, he won’t get far. It’s not as if we have been left empty-handed, boys. A drugs haul worth over a million quid, the end of Meechan’s criminal activities and the gangland war he has been waging, and the exposure of a corrupt cop should be enough to keep old Valentino puffing away in perfect happiness. You never know, we might even get a drink out of him.”
The background silence was broken by the James Bond theme tune from Thoroughgood’s mobile.
“Fuck’s sake, Gus, that’s a bit cheesy, is it no’?” said McNab, shaking his head in mock disgust.
“Anyway, even if Tomachek doesn’t take you both for a bevvy I will. Cos you’ve finally got that bastard Farrell off my case and I forgot to tell you my entry into the Serious Crime squad has been confirmed in writing, as of Friday’s appointments in the bulletin.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Hardie with a broad grin but as he looked over at Thoroughgood, who was on his mobile, he could see an expression of sheer horror cross his gaffer’s face. It was soon obvious who was on the other end of the mobile and just why Thoroughgood was so concerned.
“What’s that Celine, a car has just pulled up?” Thoroughgood listened avidly.
“A red Mercedes, what does he look like?” Another pause while Thoroughgood listened to her description, then he repeated it for his colleagues’ benefit.
“Small with dark hair, a raincoat and gold-rimmed square glasses.”
“It’s Farrell!” exclaimed a startled Hardie.
Thoroughgood attempted to continue his phone conversation with Celine:
“Hello, Celine are you still there? Celine?” but at the other end the line was dead.
Chapter 46
The battery in her mobile was lifeless and she’d hardly been able to hear a word Thoroughgood had said. Initially Celine had decided not to open the door, just as Thoroughgood had ordered her, but looking through the peephole, she had seen the flashed warrant card. Her fears allayed, she opened Tara’s large oak front door to a smiling middle-aged man immaculately dressed in a black Hugo Boss suit, and whose lively eyes were only partially hidden by gold-framed square lens glasses.
“Detective Chief Inspector Henry Farrell. Miss Lynott, I guess?”
“Yes, that’s right. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Again that sickly smile. “There’s no other way to put this than to get straight to the point, Miss Lynott, surprising as that may be. Declan has sent me to help get you out of here. We’re to meet him outside the city, and then the two of you are to leave Scotland together and make a fresh start.”
Celine was too stunned to say anything, and an awkward silence developed that dragged on. Recovering her composure, she invited Farrell inside.
“Let me get this right: you, a Detective Chief Inspector, are going to smuggle me out of Glasgow under the noses of your colleagues to join up with the man they have been pursuing. Surely there’s something not right there, DCI Farrell?”
Farrell followed her into the lounge, and after she had gestured to him to take a seat, he did so and promptly took his glasses off and began to buff them with his handkerchief.
“Mmm, I can see why it might look a bit, shall we say incongruous, but over the years your fiancé and I have developed an understanding. There’s no way I’m going to see a good man go down because Strathclyde Police and one particular colleague of mine are pursuing a vendetta against him. Declan has asked me, as someone he trusts, to get you out of Glasgow and to meet up with him, and it’s as his friend I’m here to do as he has asked. I’m sure y
ou didn’t for one minute think he would leave you behind?”
Celine was caught off-guard once more, because that was exactly what she had thought had happened. She knew she needed to play for time, and her mind turned over the options as she attempted to come up with a decent stall. She also knew that Thoroughgood would come back to Tara for her as soon as he could. After another uncomfortable silence in which she was increasingly aware of Farrell’s furtive eyes assessing her, Celine made her play for time:
“Well, Detective Chief Inspector Farrell, I did hope Declan would make some kind of contingency arrangement, but he left in such a hurry it didn’t seem like that was going to happen. This has all caught me off-guard so I’ll need time to get some stuff together, at least get an overnight bag sorted.”
Farrell’s smile oozed insincerity.
“I’m sure you will understand, Miss Lynott that time is of the essence here. It will not be long before my overzealous colleagues are knocking at your door, and then your opportunity to join the man I assume you love, will have gone, maybe forever. By all means go upstairs and get a night bag together but I must stress we have a very limited window of time available to get you out. After that you will be left on your own, facing a future of God knows what.”
Celine flashed her sweetest smile:
“Thank you for being so understanding, DCI Farrell; there are some things a girl can’t leave home without. It’ll only take five minutes and then we can go.” She stood up and added:
“Perhaps you want to fix yourself a quick drink while I go and get my things together?”
The sickly grin reappeared on Farrell’s face.
“That would be most conducive, Miss Lynott. A gin and tonic would go down very nicely at this moment in time.”
“It’s all here, DCI Farrell, help yourself. I’ll be five or ten minutes, tops.”
“Please, no longer than that.”
Celine nodded her head reassuringly and left the room. The grace with which her body moved was not lost on Henry Farrell as he savoured the sight of her shapely curves from a rear view. A minute later he was leaning on the superb marble fireplace, sipping his Gordon’s and tonic, and considering how things were likely to pan out once Meechan and Celine had left Glasgow.
Parallel Lines Page 32