Suddenly Macintosh took a step forward and smashed the butt of the pistol off Thoroughgood’s jaw, sending the DS flying off the bench onto the grass beside it.
Victoria screamed as Macintosh gripped her throat with his left hand and placed the point of the barrel to her head, “Thanks to your blundering detective friend, you must both die, but you at least deserve the truth, my sweet little Victoria.”
Macintosh spotted that Thoroughgood was trying to haul himself up with the help of the bench, “Stay where you are, Thoroughgood.”
In Thoroughgood’s right hand was the diary. Raising it, he taunted Macintosh, “Here it is Macintosh. Let’s read all about it.”
Macintosh shoved Victoria back onto the bench. “There’s no need. I’ll tell you what happened to Jill Buchan. My grandmother fell pregnant to Roxburgh, but he didn’t want to know. The monster tried to force a termination on her. Jill wouldn’t give in to him and went into hiding to have the baby. My mother Clare was born two weeks prematurely, at the beginning of May, 1942. Roxburgh found out about the birth and lured my grandmother with a pack of lies to a trysting point, not far from where he was stationed with the SOE, at Inverorchy,” Macintosh took a breath and steadied the revolver, which had begun to waver again.
“Why didn’t you tell any of us this, Thomas?” Victoria interrupted. “Have we all been so horrible and cruel to you? What of my mother? Surely you are aware she has feelings for you, yet . . .” Victoria broke off as the implications of what she had just said brought a wave of nausea over her.
“Be quiet, you pampered bitch, and you’ll find out why.” Macintosh spat. “They met and argued, and your dear grandfather’s revolver went off, injuring Jill in the arm. After patching it up they quarrelled again, but this time Ludovic murdered her in cold blood and dumped her body like a piece of shit. Within 48 hours he was on his way to Dieppe while it took three days before my grandmother’s body was discovered in her shallow grave.” Once again Macintosh was interrupted by Victoria.
“You lying bastard! There is no way grandfather would have done that,” she screamed at him.
“He admitted as much in his own hand, in that bloody diary your boyfriend is clutching. But it didn’t end there. He was forced to enlist the services of the great and the good to cover up her murder, reaching as far up as Churchill. Two witnesses had seen Jill head for the ‘Lovers Tree’, but they also saw a man of military appearance pass them on the same route ten minutes later. Yet, despite providing descriptions of him they were never used to bring Ludovic Roxburgh to justice.”
“How could that be?” demanded Thoroughgood.
“Shut up!” snapped Macintosh, as he took a step closer to the DS, the gun now trained on Thoroughgood’s head. “The top detective of the day was dispatched from Glasgow to solve the murder which involved four bullet wounds in Jill’s body from a .38 calibre military revolver, and you know what this arsehole did? He spent the rest of the war trying to track down each and every member of the base and firing their revolvers into a barrel to match the calibre with the murder weapon,” said Macintosh, his anger mounting.
“Come on, man, surely an artist’s impression of the witnesses’ description could be easily matched to the mugshots of every member of the base? The only problem being that most of the base were wiped out when the Dieppe landing went tits up,” offered Thoroughgood.
“Exactly! Detective Chief Superintendent William F Smith, of the City of Glasgow Police, in the absence of a ballistics match, and in the aftermath of the death of most of the invasion force, opted for the convenient truth that the killer perished on the beaches of Dieppe,” concluded Thomas Ludovic Macintosh.
“But why has that led you to murder my brothers, your own flesh and blood, for God’s sake?” asked Victoria.
“Because your boyfriend was wrong. There is an even older sin than that of infidelity within marriage, and one that casts a far longer shadow, one I have had to live with all my life,” said Macintosh, his face masked in the shade caused by the dying of the day, the emotion in his voice raw.
“What would that be, for Chrissakes, man? You’ve proved that you’re a cold-blooded killer just like your grandfather? But murdering your own flesh and blood? You twisted fucker . . .” raged Thoroughgood.
“You’re wrong. Ludovic Roxburgh was not my grandfather. He was my father,” said Macintosh and advanced towards Thoroughgood.
51
VICTORIA THREW herself in front of the DS, “So you kill us both, Thomas, but what will that leave you with? Do you think it will wipe out the shadow that you have lived your life under?”
Struggling to his feet Thoroughgood added his voice to Victoria’s defiance, “Ask yourself this, Macintosh. Do you think the Gwai Lo are going to walk away and just let you piss all over their Dark Ocean investment? Come on, man, why do this to the family that have given you a life? Do you think your mother, your grandmother, your fuckin’ father, even, would have wanted it to end this way? With one Roxburgh, illegitimate or not, murdering all three of his cousins, and for what? Because there will be nothing left for you, or of you, by the time the Gwai Lo get through with you.”
Macintosh stopped just short of them and smiled, “Believe me, Cheung will remain happily incarcerated and my secret safe with your colleague, DI Pigeon. I’m sure he will continue to remain a great help to me in my new role as head of the Roxburgh dynasty for hereafter,” he erupted into a cruel laugh.
“You’re fuckin’ jokin’! There is no way that arse Pigeon would be bright enough to get involved with you and your master plan to create a new Roxburgh dynasty without managing to blurt out something to someone,” raged Thoroughgood.
“He’s done well up until now, Thoroughgood. Do you think that the promise of a six figure job as head of security for Glen Lomond Distilleries, after he takes early retirement, isn’t a powerful inducement for silence? Even for a man of the Inspector’s limited intellect? It also provides a delicious parallel to the murder of my grandmother by my dear father, who clearly bought off the investigating officer with a similar promise that ended in a knighthood for services rendered . . . to Ludovic Roxburgh of course,” said Macintosh resonating menace.
He continued, “But enough of your outrage, Thoroughgood. It is unfortunate for you, and even more so for my cousin, that you have demonstrated a limited level of intelligence that has allowed you to unravel my riddle, even if you got the detail wrong. But then, even 66 years later, there seems to be no change in the quality of Scottish detective work. All this time I have had to watch and endure as the Roxburgh brothers have ruined an inheritance that was rightly mine. Now the time is here for my dynasty to be created, but first you must both die.”
Thoroughgood pushed in front of Victoria and once again Macintosh laughed out loud, “How very heroic of you, Thoroughgood. You may indeed be a true Ivanhoe, but it is I who am the disinherited one. Unfortunately, the time has come for you to meet your maker.”
“How the hell do you propose to do that, Macintosh? Or should I call you Roxburgh? Whatever happens here, you will never walk free as an innocent man, never escape your fate, I promise you. Your dynasty is a fantasy, man! Surely you can see that?” spat Thoroughgood, desperately trying to figure out an exit strategy.
“I will put a bullet through your head and then one in dear Victoria’s, both from the same gun, and covered in your prints, Detective Sergeant. More pleasing symmetry between the tragedy that happened all these years back between my father and my grandmother, and now about to befall you and my cousin. Two lovers, tormented and then killed by the heat of their passions. A pity,” said Macintosh and fingered the trigger on the Colt.
“No, Thomas! I beg you!” cried Victoria.
“I’m sorry cousin, it is too late,” said Macintosh.
Thoroughgood launched the diary at Macintosh with all the power he could muster and the sudden impact jerked his trigger finger. The bullet shot into the foliage a yard to Thoroughgood’s left and then the D
S was on Macintosh. Wrapping both arms around the estate manager’s midriff, Thoroughgood rammed him back and dumped him on the ground in a spear tackle that took the breath out of Macintosh.
As Thoroughgood came down on top of his would-be killer, Macintosh once more aimed the Colt at his head and only a desperate swerve to his left caused the second bullet to miss him by an inch.
Victoria screamed. “Stop it! Stop it!”
Macintosh smashed his fist off the side of Thoroughgood’s head and he reeled back against the fencing surrounding the grave. As Macintosh attempted to disengage and give himself the room to finish Thoroughgood off, Victoria threw herself on his back, gripping his neck with both hands and forcing the Colt skywards.
Thoroughgood heard Macintosh shouting, “You little bitch!” as he began to regain his scrambled senses and he saw that Macintosh had sent her flying after ramming an elbow into her stomach. With his back to Thoroughgood, the bastard of Roxburgh Hall began his murderous advance on Victoria.
“Goodbye,” said Macintosh.
Thoroughgood launched himself at Macintosh. Grabbing Macintosh’s right arm with both hands, he tried to manoeuvre himself between the Colt and Victoria, but the gun remained trained on her. All the hours he had spent engaged on estate husbandry had given Macintosh muscle and sinew that were too strong for Thoroughgood to overcome.
The Colt was just a foot in front of him, still aimed at Victoria. Thoroughgood could see Macintosh’s trigger finger twitch. With one final surge of all the energy he still possessed, Thoroughgood wrestled the gun around towards himself and Macintosh.
His last reserves of energy almost spent, Thoroughgood knew what he had to do to save her. He had no other option.
Standing three feet away from him Victoria saw what Thoroughgood was attempting and screamed, “I love you!”
The desperation in his eyes and the exhaustion that emanated from his features seared Victoria with helplessness. With the Colt pointing his way, Thoroughgood clamped his fingers around Macintosh’s hand, and applied all the strength he still retained into one desperate squeeze.
The trigger jolted back.
The shot rang out and its lethal bullet scythed right through Thoroughgood and then Macintosh, on its deadly trajectory, throwing both men backwards.
Looking on in wretched disbelief Victoria Roxburgh’s tormented scream shattered the night, “Nooooooo!”
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Acknowledgements
FIRSTLY, THANKS to you, the reader, whoever you maybe, for without you there would be no point.
As always, thanks to my darling wife Arlene, a lady who has the patience of a saint, and has needed every ounce of it.
Thanks also to my daughter Ava and my mother Margaret for keeping me in check.
Once again my grateful thanks to Clare Cain, CEO at Fledgling Press, for her continuing support of my heartbroken detective, Gus Thoroughgood. Also to Zander, founder of Fledgling, both have given and continue to give hope and opportunity to aspiring Scottish writers.
Next, my gratitude to “the Rusla” (doesn’t want to be named), the editor of The Longest Shadow, for keeping me out of the ambulance! (You know what I mean, amigo!)
Gratitude to Graeme Clarke for maintaining my website, www.rjmitchellauthor.co.uk, and for his technical expertise.
Thanks to my Evening Times colleague, Mick Brady, for his excellent cover design. Also to Brian McIntyre, general manager at WH Smith, Argyle Street, for his encouragement and support.
As always, thanks to my old cop chums Kenny “faither” Harvey and SupaMalky for helping me keep it real.
Finally, if I have forgotten anyone, please accept my sincerest apologies. Enjoy!
RJM
Also by R J Mitchell in the Detective Thoroughgood Series
PARALLEL LINES:
THE GLASGOW SUPREMACY
R.J Mitchell’s debut outing for Detective Inspector Gus Thoroughgood is an edgy, fast-paced crime thriller set in the streets of Glasgow that tells the story of the deadly rivalry between Detective Sergeant Gus Thoroughgood and his criminal nemesis, Declan Meechan. With Meechan on the verge of complete control of Glasgow’s lucrative drug trade after bludgeoning his rivals into bloody submission, Thoroughgood vows to be the cop that will bring the crime lord down. The lethal intensity of their conflict is heightened by the presence of Celine Lynott, the woman who broke Thoroughgood’s heart ten years earlier, and looks set to do so all over again when she agrees to be Meechan’s wife. Parallel Lines is a powerful and compelling story with a real sting in the tail.
“They call Scottish crime fiction ‘tartan noir’ - and if that’s the case, then the thread of red that runs through Parallel Lines is a river of blood, and the blacks and greens are the bruises on a battered corpse. This book doesn’t pull any punches in its depiction of a deadly cops-and-robbers feud that strays far beyond the procedural into the personal. At the core of the story is a traditional love triangle - the hero, the villain and the girl that gets between them - but it’s Mitchell’s first-hand knowledge of what goes on behind the police station’s closed doors that sets the book apart. This is a real page-turner: once that plot is set in motion, like a car with its brake pipes cut hurtling down a steep Glasgow street - and that’s an image from the book you won’t forget - it carries the reader right through to its bullet-strewn climax.”
ALAN MORRISON
Group Arts Editor, Herald & Times
“RJ Mitchell has joined the ranks of Scottish crime writers with a stunning debut thriller, ‘Parallel Lines: The Glasgow Supremacy’. It packs a punch that Mike Tyson would have been proud of.
“The action rages relentlessly through the streets of Glasgow with bent coppers, double-crossing gang members, brutal action and more twists than a downhill slalom race, leading to a tension-filled climax that paves the way for a sequel the reader will surely demand.”
RUSSELL LEADBETTER
Evening Times
THE HURTING:
THE GLASGOW TERROR
In R.J Mitchell’s second crime novel, we find Gus Thoroughgood recovering from injuries received in his adventures in ‘Parallel Lines: The Glasgow Supremacy‘ and wondering whether to continue his career in the Glasgow Police force. Having handed in his resignation, he finds himself rejoining the force under duress on leaving the police convalescence home, Castlebrae. Thoroughgood and Hardie find themselves embroiled in a world of terrorism, shaking the foundations of the city they love. Terrorist attacks in and around Glasgow see the duo return to action, working with MI5 in a race against time to discover the source of these attacks.
The Hurting: The Glasgow Terror is a fast-paced, rollercoaster ride through Glasgow’s seedy underworld and that of international terrorism. Drawing experience from his 12 year career as a police officer, R.J. Mitchell provides an accurate portrayal of police procedure while guiding the reader through an intricate plot of lies and subterfuge.
“The locations ring true even as characters and scenarios take on violent and exaggerated twists... a timely addition to the Tartan Noir genre.”
ALAN MORRISON
Group Arts Editor, Herald & Times
“This is a thriller packed full of blood and sweat that also has its human side...raises the pulse no question, but also left me with a surprisingly large lump in my throat besides.”
GREGOR WHITE
Stirling Observer
“A fast-moving thriller in which two desperate Glasgow CID officers try to thwart a Jihad on their own doorstep.”
RUSSELL LEADBETTER
Glasgow Evening Times
The Longest Shadow Page 24
