BY THE time Thoroughgood had taken his first steps along the dirt track towards the hospital Bell had already assembled a group of his support unit officers, including the two who had discovered the sewage outlet.
Turning to Hardie, Bell said, “Okay, Detective Constable Hardie, I assume you are armed?” Hardie nodded.
Bell immediately got to the point, “Sergeant Harris is in charge of the storm team you will accompany. Remember that you do everything Chopper says, he is an expert in this kind of thing and if anyone can get Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood out of there alive, it is him. Understood?”
“Absolutely, Inspector,” said Hardie and offered his hand, Bell gripped it firmly.
A voice to Hardie’s left proved to be Harris identifying himself, “Call me Chopper, DC Hardie, as you will gather, everyone else does, but we can do the introductions en route. All I need you to do is follow my boys, keep tucked in and do what you’re told, and hopefully we can get your mate out of there in one piece.”
“Roger,” said Hardie. He found himself trying to keep up with Harris and his four man detail as they skirted around the rear of the cordon, which appeared to have been reinforced by fresh arrivals.
Navigating a copse of birches in a crouch, Hardie could see the hospital from behind Harris, who proved to be a body-fit for Arnold Schwarzenegger. There were a myriad of outbuildings at different stages of rack and ruin attached to it.
Harris signalled to his detail to gather round before addressing them, “All right, boys, here we go. The sewage pipeline leading into Loch Lomond is 500 yards to our right, which is towards the north-west of the main building, which in turn is the only part of the hospital still roofed and habitable, and thus the reason our Polish friends are holed up there. From past experience we are either going to come up in the shithouse, or possibly an old kitchen, but that is academic.”
Harris took a breath and continued, his group’s attention total, “Okay – we have partial cover from the tree line for the next 200 yards approximately and then it’s down and dirty on your bellies.” Harris paused and winked at Hardie, “Sorry, DC Hardie, I think you’ve got a visit to the dry cleaners coming up!” That brought an amused murmur from the group. “Gupta, you have the wire-cutters, so when we get to within 30 yards of the pipeline you will be on first. The burn is in a gulley, once we are down in the water we will have all the cover we need to make our entry unobserved. Dickson and Woods, you will provide covering fire if needed, while myself and DC Hardie follow Gupta into the burn. It would appear there are only three members of the gang and I doubt if they have the first clue that there’s another point of entry to the building. But we take no chances, boys. All right?”
Harris was met with three staccato replies of, “Yes, Chopper,” while Hardie nodded.
“Okay boys on three . . . three,” and with that Harris quickly broke into a crouching trot with his men following, their Heckler and Kochs strapped to their black uniformed backs.
As they hit the edge of the treeline Chopper’s hand shot up and he pointed left and right to the cover points he expected Woods and Dickson to take up. They did so almost before he had completed the signal and Hardie watched, impressed, as Gupta, a dead-eyed Indian officer, took his position at Chopper’s shoulder.
The sergeant waved him on and Gupta hit the dirt and began to effect a fast crawl across the open ground that would have put a rattlesnake to shame. Next, Chopper turned to Hardie,
“Me next on three, then you, just do what I do and we will be up to our necks in shit in jig time.” The sergeant flashed Hardie a smile, turned back to watch Gupta making his reptile-like progress across a boggy-looking surface and said, “Three.” He hit the deck and started to writhe his way across the opening.
“The missus is gonnae love this,” muttered Hardie, gritted his teeth and did likewise.
His anorak wet and soiled, his trousers soaked and stinging through to his legs from the cold damp of the bog, Hardie made it to the top of the bank and swung himself down, only to land in a huge cow pat.
“In the name of the wee man,” he groaned as Chopper patted him on the back warmly and said, “Well done, Kenny, isn’t it? Aye, appearances can be deceptive, mate.”
“Thanks, Chopper,” said Hardie, smiling sarcastically.
Two thuds at his back informed Hardie that Woods and Dickson had also arrived in the gulley. It was clear Gupta had done his work with the wire-cutters as the mesh over the entrance to the vent had been cut wide enough to invite a crouched entry. “Entry point clear,” he whispered.
“Good work, boys,” said Chopper and provided a radio update to Bell, back at the cordon control point.
“Entry ready to be made boss, permission to go in?” asked Harris down the line, then replied, “Roger, boss.”
“Lads, I’m in the lead, Gupta you are my number two and then it’s you, Dicko. When we make entry into the hospital building the two of you immediately flank me as much as possible. DC Hardie, you are next and Bunny Woods, you cover our rear as usual, wee man. Everyone good?”
“Roger, Chopper,” was the chorused reply.
“On three,” said Chopper and pulled the radio to his mouth and spoke. “Three,” as the Support Unit Sergeant triggered the same manoeuvre at the Cordon control point.
On the command Harris threw himself on his belly into the stinking, ice-cold water and began to crawl up the tunnel. Although the sewage outlet might have been unused for decades, the scurrying noises that came from all around hinted at the identity of its current residents. But with Chopper’s Maglite torch lighting up their route they made good progress and squinting beyond Harris’ huge shoulders, Hardie saw the tunnel come to a stop as it joined a wall approximately 15 metres further up.
Within moments they were at the juncture of the tunnel with the main hospital building and Chopper broke the momentary silence, “Dicko, you got the sledge hammer?”
“Yes, Chopper,” was the answer from beyond the torchlight now glinting the Support Unit gaffer’s way.
“Well, what you waiting for, boy?” asked Harris, fingering the brickwork which proved to be flaking, before adding, “Smash me a nice hole, son.”
“Done,” said Dickson, sending icy drops of water spraying everywhere as he shuffled past the sergeant before folding himself into a crouch that was all the confines of the tunnel would allow him.
“Okay, boys, here we go. Showtime,” said Chopper. “My guess is that the sewage tunnel was probably bricked up when the place shut down, God knows when. We should see, once Dicko has smashed us an entry point, that we are going to be in the building itself and our problems are likely to start there because the chances are the noise coming from the sledgehammer will have alerted the Poles. Hopefully, they will have their hands full elsewhere, though. That’s 11 minutes we have been on the job, dead. Let’s hope we aren’t too late.”
In the darkness Hardie prayed aloud, “Amen to that.”
“This is your final opportunity to save yourselves. Come out unarmed, with Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood unharmed,” shouted Bell down the loudhailer. He was shaking in anger and horror at what had become of Sophie Balfron, whose corpse still lay on the cold ground ahead of him.
“What you offer us, Polijca?” asked a voice that Bell immediately realised did not belong to Boniek.
“Come out and throw your arms down. I will give you 30 seconds precisely,” warned Bell, looking at his watch as he began a mental countdown.
“Go to hell, skurwysyn!” shouted Lewandowski.
Bell immediately raised his hand. Glancing to either side of him, to make sure the cordon was ready to mobilise, he lowered it. The momentary silence was shattered by the sounds of boots crunching on the debris covering the ground.
“Forward!” shouted Bell to his men.
38
THOROUGHGOOD DIDN’T know how long he had been drifting in and out of consciousness, but every time his body was jolted by a shockwave he guessed he blacked out.
It was clear that Boniek was ramping up the strength of the voltage and the DS knew that the inevitable was not far away.
“Now, dupek, you wish you had been thrown off roof, no?” sneered Boniek.
His concentration was disrupted by the sound of gunfire from the front of the hospital building. As the Pole’s attention wavered, Thoroughgood tried to play for time, “Why, Boniek? Please tell me how this all started before you take your revenge.”
“Robert, get to the front and help Artur hold the polijca off while I send this murdering gswno to hell,” yelled Boniek.
Tomazsewski immediately sprinted off and Boniek turned his malevolent gaze on Thoroughgood, “Have you ever had your heart broken? Because, Thoroughgood, the bitch broke Jan’s heart then toss him aside like piece of shit. She had to pay, but you stopped her paying the price Jan wanted from her.”
“Yes, I have had my heart broken too, Boniek. So your plan was to abduct her all along . . . but what about the rest of the gang? You meant to wipe them out from the start?” asked Thoroughgood, straining every fibre trying to hear how close Bell’s men were getting.
“I know your game. You try keep me talking. You think me idiota?”
A muffled pounding began to reverberate through the hospital and hope once more sprang eternal within Thoroughgood, “An idiot is the last thing I would accuse you of being. Come on, Boniek, satisfy a dying man’s curiosity,” pleaded Thoroughgood, frantically trying to loosen the bindings that held his wrists to the back of the chair.
Boniek spotted what he was doing, “There is no escape, Thoroughgood, but before you say bye bye to your world of shit . . . I tell you why. Because Joe Drummond was old and finished, he wanted out. Because, polijca, like everything else in your motherfucking country, we Poles do it better.”
Boniek moved away from the old army field telephone and lowered his face to within inches of Thoroughgood, “I was listening, jebak . . . so tell me, where is your bitch now? At home with baby dancing on knee, waiting for Daddy come home?”
Thoroughgood felt his control desert him and as his body began to shake uncontrollably, he spat in Boniek’s face, “She was murdered, now get on with it you bastard!”
Boniek wiped the spittle from his face and returned to the antique phone. “Too bad, polijca,” he sneered, wrapping his right hand around the old phone’s crank.
Seeing Thoroughgood’s gaze drop to the phone, Boniek permitted himself one final moment of triumph, “You like? The Nazis, they used to do this in the Warsaw ghetto to torture my grandfather’s people. The orange juice is very good conductor, no?”
He called out to his countrymen, “Artur, Robert, you are good?”
“We are good, Tomasz, but we need go now, the Polijca throw smoke bombs,” replied Tomazsewski.
“Give them fire and keep them out for 30 seconds, then meet me at the kitchen and we will be gone,” shouted Boniek.
At that he glanced over his shoulder and a look of confusion spread across his feral features at the sound of voices reverberating up the corridor leading to the kitchen. They were not Polish.
Thoroughgood knew he had to stall for his life, “You think your grandfather would be proud of you now, Boniek. A war hero who fought the Nazis and probably paid with his life. Now look at the monster his grandson has become. You’ve become every bit as big a monster as any Nazi, you murdering bastard. You’re a disgrace to your countrymen.”
Thoroughgood had overdone it and his tirade sent Boniek into a rage that was only going to end with the DS’ death.
“Niech cie diabli wezm! Now I fry you last time, Thoroughgood,” spat Boniek.
Before the Pole could twitch a sinew, a shout erupted from the front of the building, “Co Kurwa, do kurwy nedzy!” screamed Tomaszewski, his words immediately followed by a torrent of gunfire.
Lewandowski charged into the room, “Polijca everywhere! Artur is dead, Tomasz. We must go . . . now!” screamed the Pole.
Boniek looked away from his instrument of torture, “One moment more . . .”
The door smashed off its hinges and three black-clad figures burst through the opening. Boniek cranked up the field phone and Thoroughgood felt the voltage burn him inside out. Then his lights went out.
“Fuck you!” shouted Harris and let Boniek have it with the entire contents of his magazine. The whole room filled with gunfire and Boniek pitched forward across the phone, riddled with lead.
Lewandowski threw his hands up but before he had straightened his arms he was cut in two by the crossfire from Woods’ and Dickson’s flanking positions. Hardie charged over to Thoroughgood, pulling the clamps off his mate’s privates and slicing the bindings from his hands, before tossing his soaking anorak over the DS.
“Fuck me, Gus, that was just way too close for comfort,” he gasped.
The semi-conscious Thoroughgood managed a weak smile then passed out again.
Thoroughgood sat upright in the back of the ambulance and discovered he was wearing one of the unit’s black boiler suits. His jaw throbbed and exploration of his mouth confirmed that he was minus one or possibly two teeth. The burning sensation from his nether regions sent waves of nausea through him.
Hardie’s haggard face came into focus on the opposite side of the emergency vehicle and Thoroughgood sensed that they were, in fact, mobile.
“Jeez, faither, how long have I been out?”
“Best part of an hour, matey, but hey, it beats the permanent vacation that maniac Boniek had planned for you!” replied the DC.
“Aye, I have to admit I thought I was a goner, old pal, but you came through for me as usual, Kenny. Christ, how many times is that youʼve saved my skin?” asked Thoroughgood, reaching out to grasp his mate’s hand.
Hardie was plainly embarrassed by the DS’ show of emotionally-charged gratitude, but returned a warm handshake and as he did so, Thoroughgood realised that he was attached to a drip.
Pulling himself together, Hardie replied, “It’s gettin’ on for a few now, Gus. To be fair, I did have a bit of help this time, mate! You remember that business with Felix Baker? By God, that was nothing compared with what weʼve just come through. Even the Imam Tariq would struggle to come up with that business with the old army field phone. He must have doused you in orange juice to make extra sure you held the charge. How are the crown jewels, mate?”
“Throbbing is the best way to describe them. But what happened to Sophie Balfron? Did she make it?”
“Sorry, mate, I thought you knew, no surprise if you are concussed, maybe even lobotomised from the balls up,” said Hardie, allowing himself a mischievous smirk. “I’m sorry, Gus, they blew her brains out right in front of you. You went through all of that for nothing, mate, but at least those Polish bastards have all said good night Vienna for the last time.”
“I guess itʼs gonna take me a few days to bounce back from this, faither. I’m just glad itʼs DCI McLellan’s show and we did everything we could. I’m fecked, mate. Feel like I could sleep for a week.”
“Hey, Gus, if that is what it is going to take, then do it. I would imagine you’ll be kept in over night for observations and such, and then we can see about getting you hame, and you can get Vanessa to show the Florence Nightingale in her. Aye, come to think of it, I wouldnʼt mind seeing VV in a nurse’s uniform, all right. You better make sure you don’t get too worked up when she gets to work on you mate after your . . . er,” as usual, Hardie attempted to stop digging way too late.
Thoroughgood winced as he was jolted back against the side of the ambulance after a bit of turbulence on the road, “Hilarious as always, faither. Listen − I’m not spending a moment longer in the Western than I have to, I can assure you. Plus, there will be statements required tout suite.”
“Don’t worry about that right now, Gus. Just make sure they are happy with you once they have given you the MOT, and then get home. Get some kip and a bit of TLC from Vanessa, was all I was trying to say, and make sure you take your time getting back to yours
elf,” said Hardie, belatedly attempting to show his caring side.
“Not much chance of that, mate. Vanessa wants me in attendance at the bloody whisky launch at Roxburgh Hall. It might actually be fun to be there and watch old Randy Pigeon jumping about like a kangaroo on fire, trying to make sure his VIPs are all tucked up nice and safe. I daresay he’ll get another bloody pip out of it,” said Thoroughgood, his energy plainly ebbing.
“If you look at all the shit that McLellan has to deal with, being a member of the brass ain’t all that it’s cracked up to be, Gus, just remember that. Anyway, why don’t you try and get some shut-eye before we get to the Western. Christ, you’ve earned it mate.”
“As you might say, faither, maybes aye, maybes naw,” said Thoroughgood and collapsed on the ambulance bench.
39
THOROUGHGOOD WAS woken up by the doorbell ringing repeatedly, someone was clearly very impatient to see him, someone he knew would be Vanessa.
He knew she wouldn’t be happy that he had got Hardie to pick him up from the Western and drop him back at his Partickhill Road flat. He guessed she’d probably have loved to play the adoring girlfriend; there to pick up the pieces and bring her hero-cop boyfriend home. A wave of guilt washed over him and the voice in his head spoke up, ‘Come on, mate, give her a break. This is all about your problems, not hers. Face it for once.’
The truth was that Thoroughgood didn’t feel like much of a hero. The bottom line was that he had failed to save Sophie Balfron and he blamed himself for not having brought Lewandowski and Tomazsewski into custody when he and Hardie had first met them at old man Rogers’ farm.
Because of that, reasoned Thoroughgood, both Rogers and Sophie Balfron were dead. Dead, when they should have been very much alive, all because he had failed to huckle the Poles, at the first time of asking. Now he had to contend with Vanessa. He tried to rouse himself from the blanket he lay under, and switched off the tv.
He tried to ready himself to face the tirade that was likely to come his way over the text messages he had not returned and his failure to call her; the histrionics that were likely to erupt over him not supporting her ahead of one of the biggest events in her career. He could imagine it all and hesitated at the bedroom door as the thought crept into his head that he would be better returning under the blanket than face Vanessa’s ire. A new question arose in his mind, ‘What had changed since the meal they had shared, just days before in this very same flat?’
The Longest Shadow Page 17
