Now inside the boathouse, he looked out of the window and recalled the happy days he had spent with Alex, pushing canoes out onto the loch and engaged in imaginary acts of soldiery trying to repeat the heroics of the grandfather who had now betrayed, through his own careless hand, the extent of his personal treachery.
He sliced the seal off a bottle of the 18-year-old with the Guinness pocket knife that his grandfather had handed him as a 10-year-old and remembered how that act of kindness long ago had made him feel 10 feet tall. Roxburgh uncorked the malt, poured a liberal helping and sprinkled some water from the old estate jug that always sat on the desk.
Kicking his heels up onto the splintered desk he took a sip and gazed out into the enveloping gloom, listening to the water lapping onto the shore. He fingered the opening pages of the 1944/45 journal and attempted to return to the life and times of his grandfather.
After scanning his way through half a dozen chapters of little interest, Roxburgh’s attention was at last grabbed. ‘What a wretch I have become and all for the selfish pursuit of my own happiness at the expense of all I hold dear,’ he read. ‘How tough these days are when I have so much to burden my conscience.
‘My clarity of thought is not what it should be, with my mind absorbed by matters concerning both the living and the deceased. I have tainted all those I have had to enlist to end this affair, silence her and stop ruin visiting the reputation of the Roxburghs.
‘All my thoughts should be on playing my part in the big push against the Hun in Europe and instead they are filled with her voice, her face, her scent. I fear I am haunted and will be forevermore, and the passing of the months and years will do nothing to diminish my guilt. My darling Jill what have I done?’ LVR 01/01/44
“Sweet Christ,” exploded Robert Roxburgh as the true extent of his grandfather’s sins swept over him.
He flipped the journal over, picked up the malt and strode out the office and into the night.
His grandfather’s words had confirmed his guilt beyond all doubt. Ludovic Roxburgh had not only been involved in a war-time affair that had seen him take incredibly high risks with both his and his family’s reputations as the Second World War neared its climax, but now it seemed certain he had then arranged for his lover to be murdered when it had turned sour.
Robert walked onto the shingled beach staring out across the dead calm of Loch Lomond and replayed the key words from the diary entry over in his mind.
‘I have tainted all those I have had to enlist to end this affair, silence her and stop ruin visiting the reputation of the Roxburghs.
‘I fear I am haunted and will be for evermore, and the passing of the months and years will do nothing to diminish my guilt. My darling Jill, what have I done?’
“In the name of the Holy rood!” he exploded.
There could be no doubt what that meant. Ludovic had not only had this woman Jill silenced forever, but he had enlisted the help of others and brought all his influence and power to bear in order to do so. Just what had made his grandfather take such drastic action – and who had been complicit in helping him do so?
Roxburgh knew that the answers clearly lay in the third journal which he suspected had fallen into the hands of a person or persons who had tried to poison him but had taken Alex’s life instead.
Picking up a stone from the beach, Robert skimmed it out across the dead pool and watched it jump once, twice, thrice, just as his beloved grandfather had taught him when he was a child. The grandfather he now knew was at the centre of a war-time scandal that would have rocked Churchill’s government to the core had it been exposed. But it had been covered up for over 70 years by the establishment, then buried in the mists of time and in the pages of a set of journals, long since lost . . . until now.
The next question hit him, “What do I do now?”
He knew that if he made the odious DI Pigeon aware of the diaries and all that was in them, he would bring the entire scandal out into the open and risk ruining the Roxburgh reputation: a reputation the Gwai Lo were setting such great store on to help crack the Asian whisky market. But if he stayed silent, he and his family remained at risk from this vengeful assassin who would remain ready to strike from the shadows as the moment of his greatest triumph and his family’s salvation arrived.
Impaled on the horns of his dilemma Robert Roxburgh raised the whisky to his mouth and took another sip and failed to hear the footfall on the shingle behind him.
A voice spoke out of the darkness, “Time to atone, Roxburgh.”
Startled, Robert, Viscount Roxburgh, turned as he heard a rush and felt the sting of the cool night air as something heavy slashed towards him and he caught sight of a metallic glint a couple of feet behind him.
The blow connected and Roxburgh crashed onto the beach.
31
“JESUS, THOROUGHGOOD, you look like shit,” grated the harsh Glaswegian voice.
Trying to extricate himself from the CID car, Thoroughgood winced at the physical pain he was in without registering the sarcasm that came his way from the shiny dome and bulky figure of Detective Inspector Randolph Pigeon.
The pursuit of Boniek had taken its toll on the DS and the gruelling post-incident debrief he’d had to endure had left his mental battery all but flat. The sleepless night that had followed had been plagued by thoughts of what else he could have done to save the Pole and retrieve the information, locked inside Boniek’s head, which would have led them to Sophie Balfron.
Pulling himself to his full height Thoroughgood replied simply, “I’m fucked, pure and simple, Randy.”
The crash of a car door shot out across Stewart Street nick car park and was followed by another voice joining the conversation, “All right, Randy? Aye, the way he dropped Boniek reminded me of Alan Rough in his prime!” quipped Hardie.
“No point blaming yourself, Gus. The bastard was gonnae stop at nothing and he didn’t care who he injured or killed in the process. Not much help to your investigation though, having the chief suspect slipping through your hands, 100 feet up!” Pigeon sniggered. Laughter from the other side of the Focus confirmed Hardie’s approval.
“You’re not joking, Randy, but what about things up at the Hall?” retorted Thoroughgood. “I hear the younger Roxburgh son was poisoned but the cyanide was meant for big brother, and, of course, you know that we came across Victoria Roxburgh during the whole business with that bastard Boniek? Sounds like you got enough problems of your own with the Roxburgh enquiry, especially with the Triads involved. Guess they’re behind it all?”
Pigeon’s eyes narrowed slightly at the dig before he buttoned up his raincoat just as a sharp gust sent a sheet of stinging drizzle over them. “I don’t think it is as simple as all that, Detective Sergeant,” he said officiously. “Viscount Roxburgh is being a bit economical with the truth, which is why I am seeing him this morning. That is, if my driver can find his way to the motor. But hey – good luck finding a way out of your own dead end,” said Pigeon with an insincere wink.
At that, the back door of the police office opened and the flustered form of Pigeon’s No 2, DS Harry Bolt – ‘Lightning’ to his colleagues – emerged from the station. “Sorry, gaffer, misplaced my notebook for a minute,” he said by way of an apology and headed straight to the driver’s side of the Mondeo that was now propping up the furious Pigeon.
Hardie couldn’t help himself, “Aye, good luck, Detective Inspector Pigeon, I’m sure you’ll be good as gold with Lightning by your side.”
His mirth, and that of Thoroughgood, ended abruptly as the creak of a window opening was followed by a barked command, “Balls and buggery! I might have guessed, Thoroughgood and Hardie engaged in their own personal comedy act, live from the central car park! By Christ, if you two are not in my office in 30 seconds, I will have your baws in my nutcracker,” shouted Detective Superintendent Valentino Tomachek.
“Nice one,” Pigeon smirked as Thoroughgood and Hardie charged across the yard and in the back door.<
br />
“Sit down,” barked Tomachek, and Thoroughgood and Hardie immediately did as they were bid. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “How are you anyway Thoroughgood?”
The DS saw no point in glossing over his physical and mental cracks, “I’m cream crackered, gaffer.”
“Aye, and no wonder. Look at these,” ordered Tomachek as he spread a sheaf of newspapers across his desk.
“Aye, ma boy – if taking care of the mad Imam Tariq and dating that Velvet bitch weren’t enough, the mayhem you caused when you chased Boniek through the city centre has made you catnip for the bloody tabloids. By Christ, you made that car chase with Steve McQueen in Bullitt seem like an episode from the Magic Roundabout. Then you go and drop the bastard out a windae 100 feet up, after smashing up one of Rennie Mackintosh’s finest pieces of work for good measure. For fuck’s sake, Thoroughgood!” Tomachek ranted before taking a drag on his Cairngorm Bent.
He was soon back in the verbal stirrups, “By God, if Hardie hadn’t been there to witness it you could have been on a murder charge, Thoroughgood.” Tomachek paused and his eyes narrowed as he surveyed both his officers. Noticing that both men’s jaws had stiffened, Tomachek changed tact.
“Anyway, enough of all that. At least we have one less madman to worry about, but by Christ, he wreaked havoc and we’re a helicopter and two good coppers down because of Boniek, with sweet FA to show for it.
“Ah, yes, I almost forgot. The bodies of the two dead gang members who were found shot at that farm steading were dumped there. So the steading has been of no evidential value whatsoever to Central Scotland plod. It’s just a bugger that this whole business is straddling our area and theirs. It is a pain in the proverbial, having to pick up the blower every time you want to fart just because you are not sure which way the metaphorical wind will blow with Central Plod.”
Hardie was first to respond, “That figures. But it also underlines the point that if Boniek was behind it he must have had some kind of help in dumping them.”
Thoroughgood took up the verbal baton, “That is not all it confirms, faither. It also means they have a safe house somewhere near and that with Boniek now dead, somebody else is babysitting Sophie Balfron. It’s got to be Lewandowski and Tomazsewski.”
“I wonder if the news that Boniek won’t be hanging around to have his longed-for reunion with Sophie Balfron has percolated through to the Poles?” Hardie mused.
“Of course it will,” snapped Tomachek. “The Polish community in Glasgow is a tight one whichever side of the fence it is sitting on, and that’s a big problem for us.”
Thoroughgood shook his head, “It’s an even bigger problem for Sophie Balfron, gaffer, ‘cause if they’ve taken her captive for Boniek to enjoy some sort of sport with her, there’s no point in them keeping her alive if they know of his death. Did Group Two CID liaise with Central Plod, as I requested, over the movements of Lewandowski and Tomaszewski?”
“They did, and it has all gone pear-shaped. The farm owner and local councillor, has gone into orbit. He caught our hick cousins dozing behind the wheel when they were supposed to be conducting discreet surveillance. As a result, he ejected them from his land and went straight to the Chief Constable of Central Scotland Constabulary to make a formal complaint. The whole surveillance operation has had to be pared down,” revealed Tomachek.
Hardie grimaced. “What a feckin’ joke that is. I don’t know how many acres old man Rogers has, but he trusts these two Poles far too much in my book. If they wanted to hide something on his land then they would have no bother. They’ve got to be up to their necks in it, boss. They’re our only lead and now we have petty bloody politics turning them into a dead end.”
“A fair summary of events Hardie, but it’s not going to stop us, or rather you and Thoroughgood, from getting to the bottom of this,” said Tomachek.
“Pardon?” said Thoroughgood.
Tomachek removed his pipe from his mouth and jabbed it in the DS’ direction, “Indeed. I have had a chat with Chief Constable Rockford and he’s more than happy for you and Hardie to go in under the radar, without his official knowledge, that is, and see what you can turn up. He’ll hold the cavalry in check near Rogers’ land until you holler for ‘em. Time is ticking for Sophie Balfron. This is our only lead and we need to act and not let an old fool get in the way of justice,” said Tomachek.
“Bang on, boss,” said Thoroughgood, smiling for the first time that day.
32
THEIR MEETING, with a Detective Chief Inspector McLellan, of Central Scotland Police, had been arranged for 14.00hrs, at a location just off the West Highland Way but Hardie had other matters on his mind. As he drove the Ford Focus along the winding road leading through Strathblane, the DC squinted at his watch in a way that Thoroughgood, despite being engrossed in a map, couldn’t fail to notice.
“Yes?” enquired the DS without lifting his head from the map.
“I’m bleeding starvin’, gaffer, and if memory serves, there’s a little place not far away called ‘The Aizle’ that does the best homemade sausage roll and beans around. It’s just gone midday and we’re gonnae be way too early for McLellan. What about a quick bit of scran? You never know the next time we’ll get the chance of some grub. As the sayin’ goes, an army fights better on a full belly.”
Ten minutes later, they were seated at a wooden table and bench in the quaint little countryside diner with Hardie barely able to conceal his anticipation for the forthcoming feast. Thoroughgood unfolded the map he had been scrutinising and used the two mugs of Viennese coffee that had already arrived, combined with the salt and pepper pots, to help hold it down flat.
Just then his mobile rang and as he pulled it out to check the caller, Hardie couldn’t help himself from second-guessing their identity. “That’ll be Vanessa, I bet. Come on, Gus take the mobi outside and give her some chat, man.”
Thoroughgood stuffed it back in his pocket and ignored him. “This is a map of Smithycroft Farm, the surrounding land and buildings. I got it emailed over from McLellan and had it printed off before we left Stewart Street.”
Shaking his head in disgust at Thoroughgood’s intentional snubbing of Vanessa, Hardie’s basic instinct got the better of him. He grabbed his coffee and watched in horror as the corner of the map it had been holding down snapped back.
“For cryin’out loud, faither!” snapped Thoroughgood.
Hardie quickly took a gulp, covering the end of his nose in whipped cream before scalding the inside of his mouth with the piping hot coffee that lay below, “Bastard,” he yelped.
“Do you mind?” demanded an outraged blue-rinsed woman sitting at the table behind them.
Hardie blushed his embarrassment and apologised in trademark fashion, “Sorry, grandma, keep your wig on.”
Not surprisingly, the elderly lady’s ire was not cooled, “Anymore from you and I will have the manageress remove you. I have never heard the like! I have been coming here for 20 years and now they start letting Glaswegian hoodlums in.”
Her companion echoed her support, “Nothing short of a disgrace using such language in a family establishment. This is no place for gangsters.”
Thoroughgood quickly attempted to pacify the outraged elderly women, “May I apologise for my colleague, ladies. He has had very little sleep and recently had to have one of his dalmatians put down and clearly, he is still struggling to come to terms with it. I can assure you it won’t happen again. Can I offer to pick up your bill, by way of an apology?” asked the DS and was met by twin brilliant white grins that seemed incongruous with the vintage of the two ladies.
“That would be most conducive,” smiled the formerly outraged female.
Thoroughgood flashed her his most sincere smile, “The pleasure is all mine,” and turned his attention back to Hardie. “Now, if you can keep your temper in check, can we get on with it?”
“Recently deceased dalmatian?” enquired the DC in a whisper, raising one overly bushy eyebrow. Thorou
ghgood produced a pacifying smile, but Hardie had his own line of enquiry to pursue, “By the way, what is happening at Roxburgh Hall with the big launch? Are you still going along for your first public appearance, almost, as Mr Vanessa Velvet? Mind you, if you keep ignoring her calls then you are likely to be the ex-Mr Vanessa Velvet pretty damn soon. Jeez, just think of all that posh totty, and of course, Miss Victoria will be very pleased to renew your acquaintance, I would imagine?”
Thoroughgood smiled sarcastically at his mate before he answered, “Yes, is the one and only answer you are getting, faither, to all three of those questions,” and he returned his gaze to the map, gesturing at Hardie to replace his coffee cup back on the unruly corner, as he began to circle a section of the map with his index finger.
“So what do we know so far, Hardie?” he asked.
“The gang have a safe house and somebody, most probably Lewandowski and the other Polish . . .” Hardie quickly pulled himself up before another expletive could escape his mouth and then continued, “er, gang member, have got to be looking after Sophie Balfron.”
“Which means?” asked Thoroughgood.
“If they’re babysitters then they’ll need to make fairly regular journeys to the safe house to check on her. Which might mean they’re using some outhouse on the farm land to hide her –unless there’s someone else in the picture.”
“I think you are 50 percent right, faither. There’s no way they’re going to be keeping her at the farm, it’s just too close to home, but I think you’re probably right about someone else, so far unknown to us, and taking personal care of Mrs Balfron.”
The DS gaze returned to the map and pointed to a specific area. “Have a look at the Millearn Hospital. Sitting empty and unused for 40 years, on land that is less than a mile away from Smithycroft farm’s boundaries. There’s even a single track road between it and the farm land. I’d say that would be the perfect place for a gang to hole up and keep Sophie Balfron under wraps.”
The Longest Shadow Page 14
