Hardie let out a slow whistle of admiration, “I think you could be onto something, gaffer. But what about the other member of the gang, the one we don’t know about?”
Thoroughgood lifted his coffee to his mouth and despite the map corner shooting back on itself, took a leisurely mouthful before answering, “I got a text from Morse last night to say that Boniek has a brother by the name of Tomasz.” His mobile chimed and as he fished out the Blackberry from his pocket he grinned his delight. “Aah. Perfect timing.” The DS brought up a mugshot of a man and shoved the phone across the table at his colleague, just as two piping hot helpings of homemade sausage roll and beans arrived.
“Thanks to Interpol we can now clap eyes on Tomasz Boniek. I think, at last, we know who the organ grinder is, faither,” said Thoroughgood.
“He’s a nasty-looking piece of work all right. What about the other two – Lewandowski and Tomaszewski?”
“Not a sausage, old son. I think we’re talking a couple of aliases in their case, but with a bit of luck McLellan might be able to help there. At least there should be a paper trail back through their employment records. The only problem is, if they’ve been using forged documents then who knows who the hell they really are? Although, given their comfortable grasp of Polish, at least we know their nationality,” replied Thoroughgood.
“So what does that mean with regard to Central plod?”
“It means DCI McLellan and his mates from Central Scotland have become very important men to us, so let’s hope they have come prepared for a bun fight! We’re gonna need back up all right, but we have two loci to worry about now and no time to waste. So let’s get these finished pronto. I’ll bell DCI McLellan en route, and we can set the hounds loose.”
“Game on,” said Hardie, but not before he devoured a huge forkful of sausage roll topped with beans.
33
IF THEY wanted to come and search for his two Poles then by God let them come with a warrant, otherwise they could keep the hell off his land. The truth was that without the Poles, Smithycroft Farm would have been on the verge of going under. Instead, all the essential maintenance that had been required – like the patching up of the hay loft and the replacement of the rotten fencing to keep his dairy herd in – had been carried out efficiently and with a minimum of fuss. It was true what they said about the Poles, they put native Scots to shame with their appetite for hard graft. Jimmy Rogers smiled with satisfaction at his good fortune in snapping them up. He drained the remainder of his breakfast coffee and slammed the empty mug down on his kitchen table. He was still angry at the intrusion of the police on his land and by the implication that Lewandowski and Tomazsewski were somehow involved in this whole business with Sophie Balfron.
The old farmer returned his gaze to the back pages of the Daily Record and immersed himself in the latest Old Firm news, but he was interrupted by a short rap on the door. Rogers eased his once powerful, but now increasingly arthritic, body out of his chair and made his way over to the door before easing it open.
There, standing in the doorway was the intimidating presence of Tomazsewski.
Rogers, smiling, began to thank the labourer for his efforts, “Good morning, Robert . . .” when a huge fist rammed straight into his face.
Rogers was propelled through the air and back against a counter before he sank to the floor in a semi-conscious state. Tomazsewski dragged him to his feet. Rogers groaned in agony at the pain of his fractured jaw, but his farmhand paid no attention and tossed him like a rag doll back onto the chair he had just vacated.
As Rogers began to regain consciousness he saw Lewandowski materialising at his compatriot’s shoulder. The awful truth dawned on him. The police had been right and his two hard-working Polish labourers were up to their neck in the Balfron business. As the realisation swept over him and his mouth opened he was given a vicious backhander by Lewandowski. A coarse gag was shoved in his mouth while his arms were tied to the back of the chair and his legs strapped to its front legs.
The pressure of the gag on Rogers’ newly broken jaw sent waves of nausea through him and the old man vomited onto the gag. Two trails of bile poured down either side of his face.
“Old pig, you no worry about mess now,” said Lewandowski flashing the farmer a pitiless grin. The Pole pulled a handgun out of his boiler suit and placed it against Rogers’ head, he stooped down and looked Rogers in the eye, revelling in the fear emanating from the old man, “Do widzenia,” he said curtly and pulled the trigger.
Lewandowski asked, “You have emptied the safe and have the orange juice?”
“Of course, brother,” replied Tomazsewski. “What about the note for the polijca?”
Fishing through a kitchen drawer Lewandowski murmured, “Nice.” With a blade in his hand, he swivelled round, produced a bit of paper, punctured it with the knife then rammed the blade into Rogers’ corpse.
“Now we go, big man,” and with that the two Poles slammed the farmhouse door shut and jumped into the waiting 4x4.
The first part of the plan was complete. The bait had been set.
The harsh noise of a diesel engine alerted Tomasz to the fact that he had visitors, and a glance out of the derelict hospital window, or what remained of it, confirmed that Lewandowski and Tomazsewski had arrived.
They had made mistakes, and Tomasz found himself berating himself for them. The most obvious had been the failure to destroy the bodies of Grimes and Gilles, and the discovery that his two countrymen were working at the nearby Smithycroft Farm had surely alerted the police to the fact that Sophie Balfron, and whoever had abducted her, must be nearby.
The coppers whom Lewandowski had seen dozing in their car behind a copse of birch trees on Rogers’ farmland had been proof of that. The net was closing but it was not closed yet.
The door opened and the hulking frame of Tomazsewski stooped through it, “Greetings, Tomasz!”
“Djien dobri, my friends. Now, tell me, is the old man silenced and the invitation left for our friend, the polijca?”
“Of course, Tomasz. The bait has been placed,” replied Lewandowski.
“Good,” snapped Boniek. “Now tell me once again, everything you know of my brother’s murder.”
Tomazsewski cleared his throat, “As I say yesterday, Tomasz, it was the polijca called Thoroughgood, the one we told you about, who visit us on farm. He tracked Janek to Ziggy’s, and then pursue him through streets like dog until he corner him on the rooftops. They say Janek slip through the polijca’s hands as he tried to save him. I no believe this. No one else saw it. I say the matkojebco drop Janek to his death.”
“Then he must pay with his life,” said Boniek. “It is good that we have made a start towards making that payment, my friends. This son of a bitch, he will not let go and he will be back soon, and then we make him fry. Janek will be avenged and at same time we find solution to problem of his bitch. We have the bait and now it is fit for purpose. She is in the back room, Robert. Bring her out and we make preparations for the polijca, then we wait.”
As Tomazsewski headed to the rear of the building Boniek smiled wickedly at Lewandowski. “I have something very special for my brother’s pretty whore,” he said and pointed to the hospital’s old reception desk.
Lewandowski’s gaze swept the wooden surface and he noticed what appeared to be an archaic military-style field telephone.
“Did you bring the orange juice?” asked Boniek.
“Ya,” responded Lewandowski just as the stifled notes of a scream broke the silence.
Boniek laughed out loud and said, “Ah, good. Bitch still has plenty spirit for our fun.”
Sophie Balfron, shoved into the reception room by Tomazsewski, slid across the linoleum floor, losing her balance and crashing onto it before coming to rest in a corner, up against a wall, a sobbing, dishevelled heap of humanity.
Boniek grabbed her jaw and forced Sophie to meet his gaze, “I have bad news for you, Miss Sophie, my brother is dead and so there i
s no reason for me to keep you alive. But don’t worry, you are still going to be helpful to us!” He smiled viciously. “Because, my darling, you are going to help us catch the skurwysyn who murdered Janek, and you are going to do so by paying for your part in my brother’s death with your life, Dziwka.”
Sophie’s eyes almost popped in fear.
Reaching down, Boniek grabbed the cloth that was stuffed in her mouth and pulled it free. “Have you anything to say about part you play in my brother’s murder, szmata?”
Sophie tried to stifle a sob but failed miserably, “It was only a bit of fun . . . how could I have known it would end like this? I never wanted it to end this way. It was Johnnie – he found out and . . .” but before she could finish the sentence Boniek backhanded her across the floor.
“Shut the bitch up and tie her to the chair in the back. Then we will connect her up and prepare her for purpose,” ordered Boniek.
As Tomazsewski wrenched her to her feet Sophie pleaded for her life. She was in no doubt this was what was at stake now. “Please, please, I beg you let me go . . .” but the cloth was viciously stuffed back into her mouth by the giant Pole.
As she was dragged past Boniek he spat in her face, saying, “Don’t worry, dziwka, you do not have long now.”
As Sophie felt phlegm drip down her face she knew that her hope of escaping had all but slipped away. Whatever Boniek had planned for her, death was certain to be at the end of it.
Boniek picked up the old army field telephone and followed them into the back room.
34
THE RV point was an old car park off the West Highland way and as Thoroughgood and Hardie arrived they guessed that the man resplendent in a dark wool overcoat, and impatiently pacing the dirt surface, was DCI McLellan.
Jumping out of the Focus, Thoroughgood made his way over to McLellan, a small, stocky, dark-haired man, with lively darting green eyes that missed nothing.
“So, you made it . . . at last . . . Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood,” commented McLellan.
“I’m sorry we have kept you waiting, DCI McLellan, it’s been a hellish couple of days and the bottom line is that food was required. But while we ate we also worked.” Thoroughgood showed McLellan his Blackberry screen with Tomasz Boniek’s face on it, and continued, “This is our man. One Tomasz Josef Boniek, who, not surprisingly, turns out to be the brother of the now-deceased Janek Boniek. A nasty fucker from Warsaw who has an Interpol warrant to apprehend, for armed robbery and drug running. I think, sir, that all along we’ve been looking for the wrong brother. The problem was, of course, that we didn’t know the other one existed and Janek was the only lead to Sophie Balfron and what went down at Balfron Mill.”
“Indeed,” said McLellan before handing the Blackberry back to Thoroughgood and sweeping him with his shrewd gaze, before adding, “But I wouldn’t want you to think we have been sitting on our thumbs in Central Scotland, Detective Sergeant. We’ve discovered that Lewandowski and Tomazsewski augment their money by selling on choice cuts of meat at various outlets across central Scotland. Places that specialise in filtering stolen cuts of high value game into the market. Within the last 48 hours they have made two such attempts to offload a sizeable cargo of game that matches the missing produce from the Balfron Mill robbery.
“So there is no doubt that the Poles are in this up to their necks. Unfortunately, nothing is checking up with their IDs. The employment records at Balfron Farm which had their details and mug shots have mysteriously gone missing and we’re trying to have artist’s impressions matched by the Polish authorities. But, suffice to say that Lewandowski and Tomazsewski are in fact famous Polish footballers, one of whom is in his dotage and the other a multi-million pound Polish international who also happens to skipper his country. A grand case of identity theft, but hopefully one we can solve today when we bring these murdering scumbags to justice.”
“They play nice and dirty, these Polish fuckers,” was Hardie’s way of introducing himself to McLellan before he regrouped. “Apologies, DCI McLellan. Detective Constable Kenny Hardie at your service.”
McLellan offered a tepid handshake and Thoroughgood appraised the assembled ranks of the Support Unit, ready to ensure Boniek and his team were finally brought to justice. As he did so, he realised that Sophie Balfron’s chances of making it out the other side were slim, to say the least.
Surprisingly, McLellan attempted to break the early frost that had enveloped the initial stages of their meeting, “Been a damn problem keeping these bloody West Highland Way characters out of the car park. If you look down the track towards the Beech Tree pub you can see half a dozen of them sitting on their arses watching us. You’d think we’re a new spectator sport!”
That brought a rumble of laughter from Hardie, and Thoroughgood smiled dutifully before cutting to the chase, “It looks like the Poles have been acting as fences for the Drummond gang to punt their stolen meat and then, when the gang lose one of their original members, our pal Boniek is the first man to have his hand in the air as their next volunteer. Almost a seamless transition, but one that goes very badly wrong for old Joe Drummond and his boys.”
“I’ll wager the Poles always planned to take over the gang and their turf, and that Drummond’s death gave them the opening to do so a bit quicker than they would have expected,” said McLellan.
“Silly bastards,” said Hardie. “I bet old Joe would never have dumped the bodies on a farm steading anywhere near anything to do with him or any of his team, if the boot had been on the other foot. That was one big mistake.”
“It was indeed, and we have some new information for you, DCI McLellan,” said Thoroughgood. “I believe we know the locus where Sophie Balfron is being held captive right now, and ultimately where the gang must be – or at least Tomasz Boniek.”
A look of surprise swept over McLellan’s features. “Go on,” he said.
Thoroughgood whipped out the map and slapped it on the bonnet of McLellan’s Vauxhall Vectra. Hardie held the map flat to stop the slight breeze blowing it about and the DS indicated the point he had inked with a big red X, “Millearn Hospital, is where I believe Sophie Balfron is being held.”
“The old World War Two prefab, where they once kept German POWs? Yeah, that would be about perfect for them. There have been various rumours over the years that it has been used at different times by the neds, but we never managed to catch anyone on the premises. At one stage there was chat that it was going to be converted into a top end sports and country club, but nothing came of it.”
McLellan’s gaze swept over the map and he immediately pointed to the old road leading from Smithycroft Farm into the back of the hospital grounds, “Very convenient, it’ll probably be no more than a dirt track, but it’s a road of sorts leading from old man Rogers’ farm straight into the hospital grounds. I’d say you’ve hit the nail on the head there, DS Thoroughgood. That plus all the activity involving the other two Poles points to the hospital being their safe haven.”
“Exactly,” said Thoroughgood. “But I have two concerns, boss. The first is obviously Sophie Balfron, but the second is Rogers the farmer. With the greatest of respect, news of your two lads getting caught dozing the other morning will have reached the Poles, probably via Rogers’ own mouth. I’m afraid if we don’t get him out of there then he could be a gonner.”
“I take it you know all about the shitstorm the old prick has kicked up about us encroaching on his land without a warrant?” asked McLellan.
Hardie butted in. “With respect, DCI McLellan, what about our powers under common law to gain entry to premises or land when we suspect that life is under dire and immediate threat? If you ask me, boss, an ace beats a king and we are holding the ace of spades, as dear old Lemmy might say,” quipped the DC before raising one of his large bushy eyebrows to underline the point.
McLellan laughed out loud and in so doing drew some puzzled looks from the black-clad members of the support unit who were assembled beside two vans.
“Aye, it’s a fair cop, DC Hardie. I guess I can take the bollocking that will await me from the Chief Constable if old man Rogers is sitting playing his banjo in his armchair when we kick down his door,” said McLellan.
“How’d you want to play it then, boss?” asked Thoroughgood.
“In light of everything we have discussed, and the new information you have brought to bear, I think we can now dispense with the niceties. I’ll get the Support Unit gaffer to throw a cordon round Rogers’ farmhouse while we take obs on Millearn Hospital. The question is, who is going to pay their respects to old man Rogers? If you’re right, Detective Sergeant, I don’t have much doubt his life is in immediate danger,” concluded McLellan.
“Don’t worry boss, we’ll take that on. After all, there’s not much point in you running the gauntlet with Rogers if he turns out hale and hearty,” replied Thoroughgood. “I take it we can get Kevlar vests from your Support Unit boys?”
“No problem there, have you come tooled up?” asked McLellan.
Hardie patted the breast of his anorak reassuringly in reply. “I’ll get the vests, gaffer,” he said, heading towards the Support Unit Inspector who was engaged in a game of cards with his men on the bonnet of their van.
McLellan turned to Thoroughgood, “How you gonna play it then, Detective Sergeant? You driving up the farm road or going on foot?”
“On foot. We don’t want to send any more warning signals to our Polish pals than we need to. If you ask the support unit boys to form up at the bottom of the farm road and then spread round in an arc to surround it, I’m sure they’ll sleepwalk through the usual protocol and be exactly where we need them if the shit hits the fan,” said Thoroughgood, just as the Support Services Inspector joined them.
The Longest Shadow Page 15
