Walking to the front door, Thoroughgood began to realise that his latest brush with death had brought Celine’s memory back to life. Yet there was something else that was gnawing away at him – the memory of an encounter with someone who was very much alive, someone almost half his age, someone called Victoria Roxburgh. He realised this had confirmed that his relationship with Vanessa was almost as superficial as the pages of the glossy magazines she loved to play her life out on.
Thoroughgood opened the door. ‘Christ, she’s hot, Gussy boy’ said the voice in his head helpfully, and Vanessa was exactly that. Knee-length black leather boots topped with a brown suede band, tight jeans, and a bubble jacket, then that beautiful, almost flawless, skin and shock of blonde hair. But then, she was one of these women who was always going to have ‘it’, regardless of what she wore. As his eyes devoured her, Thoroughgood felt a fool for the doubts that had just been surfing through his conscience.
Vanessa spoke. “How are you, Gus? Come to think of it, why is it I am always the last to know how you are?”
Thoroughgood attempted a fudge, “Nice to see you too, Vanessa! I’ve been better, is probably the best way to describe how I am,” and offered her a weak smile. “Are you coming in?”
Vanessa was not interested in the sympathy card, “Do you want me to come in, Gus? Clearly you preferred Hardie’s company to mine earlier on. Why didn’t you call me to come and get you? For crying out loud, Gus! I didn’t even know what had happened to you until I saw Reporting Scotland.”
She stepped over the threshold anyway and as Thoroughgood closed the door behind her he found himself enveloped in her arms. She pulled her head away from his and pierced him with her brilliant azure eyes, “What’s wrong, Gus? Can’t you understand I have been out of my mind worrying about you? Worrying about us? The last time I was here you said all these things that made me believe we had a real chance, and ever since then it seems like you have been doing your best to avoid me. I thought we’d moved on from all our problems, but even that night at the Hall you were strange. I need to know if you are having second thoughts, Gus.”
Thoroughgood held her gaze, “Look, can we go into the lounge, ‘cos quite frankly I don’t know if I can stand up for too much longer.”
The guilt that engulfed Vanessa’s beautiful features and the hurt mirrored in her eyes pricked Thoroughgood’s conscience but his sympathy ploy bought him the space he required. Hand in hand, they walked through to the lounge.
“Fancy a glass of red?” asked Thoroughgood. He took Vanessa’s smile as a yes and added, “Why don’t you put the telly off and put a CD on? I’ll get a bottle out of the kitchen. Malbec, okay?”
Again, a smile that seemed to ooze hurt. He made his way through to the kitchen. He began to wonder just who held the balance of power in their relationship. Vanessa seemed strangely vulnerable. Moments later he returned with two large glasses of red, but instead of sitting down next to Vanessa on the leather Chesterfield settee he elected to claim solace in his favourite armchair. The significance of the manoeuvre was not lost on Vanessa who sat, watching him over the rim of her glass, letting the silence reign. It occurred to him that she had not put on any music after all.
She spoke, “Are you going to tell me what went on at the old hospital, Gus? Is it true what they are saying that Pole did to you?”
Thoroughgood winced at the memory of the pain Boniek’s imaginative torture device had dealt him.
“How can I understand you, or get near to you, if you won’t let me in on your world and what you have gone through? I thought we had shared so much in the tunnels under the Botanics that we would have something worth fighting for, something special that we could build on. But I’m not sure you want to build on anything, Gus.”
Thoroughgood attempted to smile but his mouth wouldn’t obey his mind’s command, “It’s difficult, Vanessa. The problem is that when you come out the other side of the type of shit I have been through these last few days, you just want to shut it all out. I just feel like hiding inside my own four walls ‘cos I don’t have the energy to do anything else, and that doesn’t make me very good company right now.”
He knew it wasn’t much of an explanation but it was all he could come up with and also pretty much the truth. He was physically and mentally exhausted.
Now it was Vanessa’s turn to feel guilty, “I’m sorry, Gus, I’m so sorry. Why don’t you let me take care of you tonight? I can order take-away, after all you’ve got to eat!”
Thoroughgood surprised her with his reply, “What about you, Vanessa? I know how much this launch up at the Hall means to you. It’s a helluva opportunity and I would imagine it must have been pretty stressful trying to keep her Ladyship happy. I’m not sure she sees the benefits outweighing the negatives the way that Vicky does.”
It was a schoolboy error, the shortening of Victoria Roxburgh’s name implying an inappropriate closeness between them. Vanessa seized upon it, “Vicky? I didn’t know that you two were on such familiar terms, Gus. But of course, it was you who played her knight in shining armour at the School of Art. Another one of your adventures that you failed to tell me about but then, as I said earlier, you don’t text me, never mind return my calls, so why should I expect your little encounter with Victoria Roxburgh to make the cold light of day? The problem is that Vicky, as you like to call her, seems to have fallen under your spell, Gus.”
Thoroughgood felt a schoolboy awkwardness give way to mounting anger, “For crying out loud, Vanessa, what do you expect me to do? That crazy bastard Boniek, the first of the brothers bleedin’ Grimm, had done me over then led Hardie and myself a merry dance through the streets of Glasgow! And the icing on the cake was that Victoria Roxburgh happened to be coming out of the School Of Art just as he was going in. I don’t imagine you would love to have a six inch blade of cold steel held to your throat, or have you forgotten all about the Imam Tariq’s hospitality already? Come to think of it, I don’t exactly recall you complaining when I got you out of the old tunnels under the Botanics in one piece.” Before he could stop himself Thoroughgood over-played his hand, “Maybe I should have left you there.”
The contents of Vanessa’s glass of red splashed over his face before he had time to blink. She slammed the glass down on the coffee table and jumped to her feet, “Listen to me, you bastard, I know you have been through a lot, although just how much I am not likely to know, as you seem unable to, or refuse to, share it with me, Gus Thoroughgood. But that doesn’t give you the right to speak to me like that. You’re right, I have a lot on my plate with the Roxburgh launch, but I came here to share it all with you and hoped you’d want to support me this weekend. Hoped that you’d also share what has been going on in your life with me, but that was never going to happen was it, Gus? The reason for that isn’t because you are physically and mentally exhausted, it’s because you are an emotional screw-up and you know what? If this is the way you treat every woman you get involved with then I am not going to have my name added to the list.”
Thoroughgood got to his feet and tried to place his hand on her shoulder but she shook it off furiously, “Don’t bother, it’s too late, Gus. I haven’t got the time or the inclination to waste any more emotion on you.”
“Come on, Vanessa, cut me some slack will you? Less than 24 hours ago a madman was trying to turn my balls into a Polish hors d’oeuvre. I just need time and a bit of space to get things sorted in my head.”
“You take all the time you need, Gus Thoroughgood,” shouted Vanessa, turning on her heels and storming out of the room. Seconds later the slam of the front door confirmed she had gone and this time, thought Thoroughgood, maybe it was for good.
40
THOROUGHGOOD TRUDGED down Hyndland Road in a daze. The encounter with Vanessa had left him both shaken and stirred and, examining what he had left in his life; what he knew he didn’t have was any certainty or emotional security.
“Jeez, I need a pint,” he muttered to himself. A lukewarm
smile swept across his overwrought features at the prospect of meeting up with Hardie for some liquid anaesthetic. After Vanessa had left he’d spent 10 minutes trying to ring her, sent her a text and then realised that was the last thing he should have done, ‘Another bleedin’ schoolboy mistake, Gus,’ said the voice in his head with its usual sympathy.
Desperate for company and a sounding board, his next text had been to Hardie and fortunately, the DC had agreed to meet him for “a shandy” at the Ubiquitous Chip.
As he continued his walk into the stinging rain of the late spring evening, it occurred to him that Hardie supplied just about the only emotional security in his life. Things were that bad. Reaching the crossroads of Byres Road and University Avenue, Thoroughgood stopped for a moment and, looking up towards the university, replayed the pursuit of Janek Boniek, another source of guilt for him.
He asked himself, what had it achieved but more death? The loss of the police helicopter and two good coppers, countless injuries in the pile-up that had ensued on the M8, the death of one of the students and of course, the sight of Boniek, spitting hate at him, slipping through his hands at the top of the Art School.
‘Christ, you’ll be lucky if you ever get another moment’s sleep at this rate,’ said his inner voice.
Turning into Ashton Lane Thoroughgood felt so weak he didn’t know if he had the energy to make it to the Chip and stopped, leaning against a wall outside the Ashoka Restaurant. Seeing couples, content and radiant in each other’s company fuelled his anger; here he was on the verge of yet another doomed relationship – the thought boiled over, “Ah, fuck off,” he raged out loud just as a beggar drew up next to him.
“Keep yer hair on, mate, I only asked if you could spare any change. You’re all the same, you middle class West End bastards,” snapped the beggar from under his filthy woollen hat. As he began to turn away from Thoroughgood, the DS clamped a hand on his shoulder, spun him around and rammed him up against the restaurant window, “Look mate, I’m just half way up shit creek without a paddle right now and I don’t need a lecture from the likes of you on the class system. Here . . .” Thoroughgood offered him the contents of his trouser pocket, “Treat yourself to a Special Brew, on me, pal,” lobbing three pound coins at the beggar’s out-stretched hands and walked off.
‘You’re losing it, mate,’ said his consciousness as he climbed the steps on shaky legs to the upstairs bar in the Chip.
As he opened the bar door Thoroughgood almost fell over a black and white collie, whose grey-haired master sat, despite the icy wind and stinging rain, in shorts and a t-shirt on the seat just to the right of the entrance. The dog let out a yelp at Thoroughgood’s near miss with his front paw.
“Sorry, mate, never saw Rover there,” said Thoroughgood, holding up a hand in apology to the owner, whose glazed eyes indicated that he wasn’t particularly bothered whether Rover had been given pause for thought or not.
Scanning the bar, Thoroughgood spotted Hardie sitting on slightly raised dais seats at the other side, a pint of Furstenberg just leaving his mouth and a coating of froth on his unruly moustache.
“How you doin’?” asked Hardie indicating that the pint of Guinness next to him was for Thoroughgood. “I thought you could probably do with some building up after all you’ve been through, mate. You sure you should be out, Gus?”
The DS sat down beside him and unzipped his jacket, “It was either that or I climb the four walls of my lounge, faither.”
“How are they?” asked Hardie and when a mystified expression enveloped Thoroughgood’s features the DC dropped his gaze towards Thoroughgood’s midriff, before adding helpfully, “Yer crown jewels, that is?” he applied his trademark wink and a wolfish grin crept over his face.
“They, as you so delightfully referred to them, are coming along nicely, thanks to the ointment I was so helpfully furnished with by the Western, but before you ask, it will be a while before they resume active service and that is not just because of what they,” emphasised Thoroughgood, “have been through.”
“Vanessa?” asked Hardie before returning the pint of Furstenberg to his cavernous mouth.
Thoroughgood winced, “Indeed. She just left the flat an hour ago in a helluva strop and you know what? I guess I can’t blame her.”
Hardie replaced his pint pot on the coaster in front of him and folded his arms, allowing a temporary silence to develop, which usually implied the wheels of his mind were in operation.
Thoroughgood finally took a deep draught of his Guinness and stared balefully towards the bar where he had noticed a sharply-dressed female displaying an enticing view of stockinged leg from a bar stool while engaged in deep conversation with an older man in a Crombie.
“Lawyers,” said Hardie, “I’ve been listening to them moaning about the sheriff court since the missus dropped me off. Decent leg though,” concluded the DC before helpfully adding, “but not what you need right now, Gus.”
“You’re no’ jokin’, faither. I’m buggered if I know how to play this one, Kenny,” said Thoroughgood.
“So what’s her problem?” asked Hardie before answering his own question. “She’s hacked off that you haven’t been replying to her text messages. You haven’t been calling her, she doesn’t have a clue what is going on in your life and then, to cap it all, you get me to pick you up from hospital and not her?”
“That’s just about bang on, mate,” admitted the DS.
“But what we need to know right now, Gussy boy, is what is your problem?” asked Hardie, surprising Thoroughgood with his perception.
“Eh?”
“I was talking about this with the missus on the way over, Gus. Let’s face it, you have a few issues. Not so much with Vanessa maybe, but certainly with her life. It’s pretty clear you aren’t comfortable with the whole celebrity aspect of it and if you ain’t, you need to face the facts, man and let her get on with it ‘cause that is who she is, matey . . . or at least that’s what the missus thinks, anyways,” concluded Hardie, playing his get-out card.
“I just don’t think I can cope with the whole goldfish bowl, mate,” admitted Thoroughgood. “But I’m going to have to make my mind up now, because if I don’t show at the Hall for this bloody whisky and high fashion extravaganza it is over . . . that is if it isn’t over already, of course.” He fished out his invitation to the launch and slapped it down on the table.
Hardie hadn’t finished with his interrogation, “I dunno, Gus, you sure you are telling me everything?”
“What you on about, faither?” demanded Thoroughgood, throwing him a dirty look as he replaced his pint on the table.
“I’ll tell you what I mean. I mean that young Victoria Roxburgh seems to be pretty taken with you. You forget I had the pleasure of her company when I took her statement after the business with the first Boniek fecker at the Art School, made sure she was all right and generally held her hand while we waited for big brother Bobby to pick her up. I’ll tell you, there was only one copper she wanted a bit of TLC from, mate, and sadly, it wasn’t moi,” said Hardie, raising an eyebrow.
Thoroughgood shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “What you on about, Kenny? She’s almost half my age, for Chrissakes.”
“Oh, I know how old she is, Gus. Twenty years and seven months, almost. I don’t know how you have managed it, mate, but I’d say you will need to play that one very carefully if you are planning to mix with the hoi polloi this weekend. I mean, for crying out loud, Gus, what is all this stuff about Ivanhoe? Aren’t you taking the whole knight in shining armour thing a bit far?” a smile enveloped Hardie’s hangdog features.
“You sound just like Vanessa,” replied Thoroughgood forlornly.
“Well, maybe she has a point, Gus. If you ask me and in fact, even if you don’t, I would say if you are at all able to do it you need to front up for Vanessa this weekend, press some flesh, flash yer ivories and put her first, mucka. ‘Cos if you don’t, do you think she’ll be short of offers? Come to think of it,
old Randy Pigeon was making some pretty tasty comments about her earlier on!”
“What do you mean, faither?” snapped Thoroughgood a little too loudly.
“Come on, Gus, wake up and smell the coffee, mate. The woman is now a national treasure after that business with the mad Imam and if you fuck her about you are gonna attract a lot of very unwelcome press. It’s one thing being her man, but an entirely different one being the bastard that breaks Queen Vanessa’s heart. If you think the whole celebrity thing is a pain just now, how do you think it will pan out if it all turns to shit? You better watch how you play this one, pal. I had no idea just how much is involved in the launch until your little friend Victoria started to fill me in. Did you know they have Hello! magazine covering it, for instance?”
“That rings a bell,” responded Thoroughgood morosely.
“Just think, a nice shot of you and Vanessa in the centre spread? Aye, that would go nice, up on the canteen wall at Stewart Street!” said Hardie, erupting into peals of laughter.
“It’s no bloody laughing matter, Hardie,” snapped Thoroughgood before he stood up abruptly, “I take it you want another Fursty and if you do, get that bloody brain of yours working on how I can negotiate my way through this whole mess, tout suite,” said Thoroughgood. Hardie nodded sheepishly and the DS made his way over to the bar.
As he stationed himself to the left of the lawyers, Thoroughgood could feel the woman’s eyes lingering on him and managed to respond with a smile that immediately sent a wave of guilt over him. Quickly, he readjusted his gaze to the overhead gantry that paralleled the bar beneath. It was fully stocked with a fascinating array of bevvy; Thoroughgood had always worried that one day the laws of gravity would kick in and it would drop on his head.
The Longest Shadow Page 18
