“All right, gentlemen, glad to meet you. Inspector Alan Bell, Central Scotland Support Unit. My boys are ready to go on your word, DCI McLellan,” he said briskly.
“Do you think you could spare a couple of your men to conduct a discreet reconnaissance of the outhouses up at the old Millearn Hospital, Inspector? We believe that’s ultimately where the gang are holed up and holding Mrs Balfron. But it must be discreet,” said Thoroughgood.
“No problem, I’ve got just the two boys for that job. Leave it with me and I will rendezvous with you at the farm, pronto.”
Thoroughgood smiled his gratitude.
Moments later, McLellan drove the two detectives the quarter of a mile to the bottom of the farmhouse road and as they clambered out from the CID vehicle reminded them. “I’m on the end of the radio, as is Inspector Bell. No heroics, Detective Sergeant – just get the job done, and old man Rogers out alive if you can, but most importantly, put your own safety first. Good luck, gentlemen.”
As McLellan drove off Thoroughgood saw the black-clad support unit officers fan out along the hedgerow that marked the farm boundary with a ‘B’ road, at a distance of around 50 metres.
One of their number, whom Thoroughgood recognised as Inspector Bell, took a step onto the road and raised a thumb in the air.
“Here we go again,” said Hardie and they turned into the farm road and started walking.
35
“WHAT DO you reckon – front or back door, faither?”
“It’s gotta be the old pincer movement if you ask me, Gus, which one you want? Bearin’ in mind front door entry is for pussies!”
“Okay, okay I’ll take the back door . . . as bleedin’ usual. Make sure you’ve got one hand on your insurance policy,” added Thoroughgood, nodding to the standard-issue revolvers they both had holstered under their left arms.
“Fine, entry on the whistle?” asked Hardie.
“Of course, but make sure you knock before booting the crap out of the door just in case old man Rogers is still alive and rockin’ in his chair! Give me one minute to get in position and check the support unit are ready to go . . . start countin’, faither, and I’ll see you somewhere in the middle,” said Thoroughgood as he began to jog around the farmhouse to the back door.
Once there he unholstered his firearm and dropped it down by his right side, keeping the revolver close to his body, then, whispering into his radio, he confirmed that Bell and his men were in position. “Roger, affirmative,” crackled Bell’s voice in response.
Thoroughgood placed the radio back in his pocket and gave Hardie the three note whistle used by Glasgow neds as a warning signal, and long since adopted by Hardie and himself as their calling card. Then he approached the back door. Solid oak with an iron handle.
Thoroughgood hit it hard in the traditional seven rap police knock and called out, “Hello, Mr Rogers, Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood, can I have your permission to enter?”
Silence greeted him and Thoroughgood suffered the intuitive sinking feeling he regularly experienced in the pit of his stomach when he was about to embark on an exercise in futility.
‘No point hanging about, Gussy boy, let’s be havin’ you’ said the voice in his head as the bang from the front of the farmhouse suggested that Hardie had beaten him to it.
“Old bugger,” muttered Thoroughgood as he tried the door handle, which obligingly invited entry unopposed. Pushing the door open Thoroughgood entered the kitchen, his revolver clutched two-handed in front of him.
He needn’t have bothered. There, in his kitchen chair, was Jimmy Rogers, impaled on a six inch blade protruding messily from his chest. Thoroughgood’s attention was immediately drawn to the piece of paper transfixed by the blade.
He was soon diverted by Hardie’s arrival from the corridor at the other side of the kitchen.
“All clear Gus . . .” said Hardie, trailing off as he took in Rogers’ smashed skull, the first thing the DC noticed as he approached the deceased farmer from behind his corpse.
“We’re too late, then,” he said shaking his head.
“For Rogers yes, but maybe not for Sophie Balfron,” said Thoroughgood, tugging the piece of paper off the blade and reading aloud.
‘IF YOU WANT SOPHIE BALFRON ALIVE THE POLIJCA THOROUGHGOOD COME ALONE. BE THERE 3PM OR SHE DIE.’.
“Fuck me gently,” said Hardie.
Thoroughgood winced. “Nasty. Obviously Boniek wants revenge for his brother. Radio up McLellan and Bell and we’ll get a parley here ASAP, and decide on the way forward.”
Within minutes Thoroughgood and Hardie were in a heated conference with DCI McLellan and Inspector Bell and it was the support unit gaffer who was making his point most forcibly. “There’s no way you can go sauntering your way in there, offering yourself up as some sort of human sacrifice for Mrs Balfron’s life when the murderin’ bastard will most likely kill her anyway, that is if she ain’t cold already,” said Bell, a pale-faced individual with receding blonde hair.
McLellan attempted to speak, but Bell held up his hand and ploughed on, “You bloody CID types are all the same. Any notion of protocol just goes straight out the windae when the shit hits the fan. Well, let me tell you that protocol, force standing orders and such are drawn up just to cover such eventualities. I am a trained hostage negotiator and this is the time to employ that particular skill. Because, gentlemen, if we don’t do it all by the book and it goes pear-shaped then I can tell you every one of our arses will be out the windae without a prayer.”
McLellan broke in, “I don’t see how we can do anything else, gents. Inspector Bell is correct, I make it 14.41 so we still have time for a parley and, given the Inspector is a trained negotiator, it is more than our careers are worth, to say nothing of Mrs Balfron’s life, not to utilise these skills. If it doesn’t work then we look at the other option.” With that McLellan flicked a quick glance towards Thoroughgood, making it obvious where the last chance saloon was situated.
“They’re both right, Gus. We have got to do it by the book, in the first instance at least. Anyways, I reckon your nine lives must be about used up by now, mate, so no point stickin’ your head above the parapet if it ain’t required,” said Hardie.
“Fair enough, but we better get crackin’ ‘cause I reckon the old hospital is about a mile down that dirt track and we haven’t got much time to play with,” said Thoroughgood. Bell nodded and headed over to his unit.
Thoroughgood and Hardie took their places alongside McLellan, behind the hastily thrown up cordon, 100 metres from the broken down, whitewashed prefab walls of Millearn Hospital and watched as Bell took several steps forward with a loudspeaker in hand.
“What happens next?” asked Hardie but no one had an answer.
Ten metres in front of the cordon Bell raised the speaker to his mouth and said carefully, “Hello in the hospital. I am Inspector Bell and I have come to talk with you to see if we can find a reasonable way out of this that will stop any more lives being lost.”
Bell did not have long to wait for his answer, “Dupek! You not read note?” shouted a heavily-accented voice from somewhere behind the open window to the left of the front door.
“To whom am I speaking?” asked Bell, employing the classic hostage-negotiation manoeuvre of getting a handle on the opposition while stalling for time.
“Tomasz Boniek is my name and there be no more talking, idiota. Send the skurwysyn Thoroughgood in or Miss Sophie say night, night, for good. It simple – you send him to me and we let Miss Sophie go. You don’t and . . .” the Pole let his words taper off, his meaning clear.
Bell attempted to keep the dialogue going, “That can not happen, Boniek, however I am sure we can reach an agreement that will allow us all to walk away from this . . . situation, with no more loss of life.”
Bell’s hope was a forlorn one and as soon as he had finished speaking, the front door of the hospital was booted open, and two figures emerged, almost melded into one.
Boni
ek walked two yards out of the door with Sophie Balfron gagged and bound and gripped tightly to his body. A revolver was pressed against the side of her head.
“Listen to me, dupek. Time is 2.51, so that mean you have nine minutes to send murderer Thoroughgood to hospital unarmed or I blow bitch’s brains out. Now, no more speaking. Do what I say, kozojeb.”
With that, Boniek levelled his revolver and fired. Just yards in front of Bell the dirt exploded and the inspector took a startled step back; he needn’t have worried because Boniek was already dragging Sophie Balfron back inside the dilapidated old hospital.
As Bell retreated hastily to the cordon, Hardie was first to articulate everyone’s thoughts, “Well, that worked a feckin’ treat.”
Joining the three CID officers, Bell said, “It’s not good, gents. If my two lads don’t come up with something then we have a real problem because I cannot allow a fellow officer to place his life in danger.”
McLellan was first to respond, “The problem is, that son of a bitch isn’t interested in talking. You heard him, he wants Thoroughgood and if he doesn’t get him then Sophie Balfron’s life is over in precisely six minutes.”
36
THE THREE CID officers watched intently as Bell was debriefed by the two Support Services cops who had returned from their recce of the hospital, then Bell joined the CID men and said, “Okay, gents, we might have something. My lads have stumbled on an old sewage pipe and vent that looks like it’s big enough for a man to get into, and will hopefully provide access to the main hospital building where Boniek and his mates are in situ.”
“That’s it then, Inspector,” said Thoroughgood, decisively. “I suggest you select a team and that DC Hardie here accompanies them and they try and make entry via the sewage tunnel.” He pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and read out the time, “14.57hrs, time I made my appointment. Good luck, gents, see you on the other side . . . I hope,” and with that Thoroughgood offered a handshake to his three colleagues and gave Hardie his handgun.
Hardie couldn’t help himself, “Come on Gus, for cryin’ out loud. There has to be another way.”
“This is the only way,” replied Thoroughgood and started to walk. Silence confirmed there was no other alternative.
As he made his way towards the derelict, antiquated building Thoroughgood tried to take in as much detail as he could of the hospital and its surroundings. The sewage tunnel had to be at the north west side of the hospital so if he could somehow free Sophie Balfron that was where his exit strategy must take him. As he passed the spot where Bell had been shot at, he found himself wondering if this was the ticket that had his number on it – over and over again, for sometime his luck had to run out.
The voice in his head helpfully chimed in, ‘Faither’s right – how many more times are you gonna get lucky, Gussy boy?’
With around 30 yards to go, the door to the hospital opened and the barrel of a shotgun was levelled at him. As he continued to close the gap at a steady walk, he could make out the hulking shape of Tomazsewski and smiled in resignation at the confirmation that Polish birds of a feather did indeed flock together.
The voice in his head once more came to life, ‘Big mistake lettin’ these two bastards go, you should have had them bang to rights back at the farm and now you’re gonna pay.’
Five feet from the doorway the harsh voice that he immediately identified as belonging to Boniek spoke out, “Stop there, Thoroughgood. You have no weapon?”
Thoroughgood strained his eyes into the darkness of the doorway, but all he could see was Tomazsewski. Holding his hands high in the air he said, “I am clean, Boniek, now where is Sophie Balfron?”
“Why don’t you come in and find out for yourself, polijca?”
“I am not taking another step until you let her go, Boniek.”
“You throw my brother off roof 100 feet up, and now you tell me what to do, jebak? Are you scared of Polish hospitality, my friend? Okay, we stop this bullshit.”
“Look Boniek, just get on with it,” snapped Thoroughgood, just as Boniek edged back out with Sophie Balfron clamped to him.
“Take three steps forward, ciota, then bitch go free,” ordered the Pole. He ripped the gag from Sophie’s mouth and pushed her forward, all the time making sure that he remained jammed against her just in case anyone in the cordon of glinting steel surrounding the hospital fancied his chances at a pot shot.
As Sophie drew parallel with Thoroughgood she could not help herself and, through a huge sob, she said, “I’m so sorry.” Thoroughgood did his best to smile reassuringly, but his attempt at encouragement foundered as Sophie was propelled past him and Boniek’s right hand grabbed him and with the other, rammed the pistol against the side of the DS’ head. With the Pole taking cover adroitly behind his body, Thoroughgood was now a human shield.
Boniek shouted down the track to the cordon, “If you want see your friend again, you keep fuck away until we finish.” He laughed out loud and pushed the handgun into Thoroughgood’s head with renewed vigour.
“Now the fun begin, matkojebco,” whispered Boniek into the DS’ ear.
Slightly disorientated by the speed at which the Pole had birled him round, Thoroughgood allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction that, even if he was to pay with his life, he had at least saved Sophie’s. Watching her walk away from them, back to safety, he saw Bell break from the cordon and the welcoming smile on the Inspector’s face as he started to walk towards her and, although he couldn’t make out the words of comfort he spoke, Thoroughgood could make an educated guess.
From behind him a crack rapped out and Sophie Balfron’s head burst like an over-ripe pumpkin and she collapsed on the dirt track.
“Spierdalaj ty glupia Szmata!” shouted Boniek, dragging Thoroughgood backwards into the hospital.
The rage in the DS erupted like a volcano and he rammed his head backwards and into the Pole’s face, stunning Boniek. He turned and surged at the Pole, straight into the barrel of the handgun Boniek had levelled against his forehead.
“Another step and I blow your head off like bitch, Thoroughgood,” Boniek grabbed the DS, wrapped his arm around his neck and gave a vicious squeeze that left Thoroughgood gasping for air.
As Thoroughgood was rammed through the doorway he connected with an outstretched boot that he presumed belonged to either Tomazsewski or Lewandowski before he lost his balance and landed on the damp, cold floor. He attempted to turn around and regain his balance, but Boniek smashed his pistol off the side of Thoroughgood’s head, sending him reeling against the wall where he immediately found himself pinioned by his old friends, Tomazsewski and Lewandowski. Boniek punched the DS in the midriff with all the power he could muster. Thoroughgood convulsed violently and gasped for air.
“Bring him to back room, Robert. Lewandowski, you stay at window . . . just in case polijca try be smart” ordered Boniek.
Semi-conscious and with waves of nausea sweeping over him, Thoroughgood felt his clothing being ripped off. Then, through the blur, he became aware that he was being strapped into a chair, before what felt like pincers were clamped onto his genitalia.
“Pour liquid over him,” snapped Boniek.
Thoroughgood tasted orange juice as he was doused with the liquid from head to toe. The Pole placed what looked like an old army field phone on the rotten old cabinet to the left of him and Thoroughgood saw through his returning vision that the antique appeared connected to the wires which had been clamped onto his privates.
“Boniek, you maniac! What the fuck do you hope to achieve? There’s no way you or your mates are going to get out of this one alive. Do you think they will just hang around until you finish your fun with me, you murdering piece of Polish sewage? You’ve just lost your insurance by blowing Sophie Balfron’s brains out. I don’t matter, Boniek. I’m just a number, so they won’t hang about bleating about me. One way or another you are going to have company any second now.” Inwardly, Thoroughgood made a silent prayer to the big
man upstairs that this would indeed be the case.
As he opened his eyes he saw Boniek’s face loom large and felt the Pole clamp an iron grip on his jaw, “Ty chuju, you think I give fuck? You murdered my brother and the bitch, she fucked him and then spat him out like piece of shit when she have her fun. It pity that Janek no have chance to enjoy revenge on her. You fucked that up, polijca, and then you drop my little brother on his head. Now I have my revenge.”
Thoroughgood grimaced as the spittle from Boniek’s mouth exploded all over his face, but he forced himself to maintain grace under extreme pressure and tried to keep the Pole talking, “So what delights do you have planned for me, Boniek? Tell me, are your two pals happy that they are gonna be going to their death with their mad boss anytime now?”
Tomazsewski provided the answer with a fist that smashed into the side of Thoroughgood’s jaw and sent a tooth flying out of his mouth, “Quiet, polijca, prepare to fry,” said the giant Pole and flashed a grin of dripping evil Thoroughgood’s way.
Just then, Lewandowski’s voice came from the front of the building, “Tomasz – polijca coming!”
For the first time Thoroughgood saw indecision sweep across Boniek’s face and he tried to widen the crack into a fissure, “I hope you have an escape route, Boniek, because otherwise you and your two friends are history.”
Boniek quickly regained his purpose and shouted a reply back to Lewandowski, “Tell them we talk, and keep them talking.” Boniek returned his attention to Thoroughgood and smiled, “Don’t worry, pizda, I still have time to finish what you start.”
He walked over to the field phone and began to crank it. Thoroughgood instantly began to feel a burning sensation shoot through his body at its most vital part. The agony seared him and he heard a voice he dimly recognised as his own, scream out, “No!”
“Fry, kozojeb!” screamed Boniek.
37
The Longest Shadow Page 16
