The Hurting

by RJ Mitchell

  Thoroughgood smiled and clocked a smirking Hardie sticking a digit up his left nostril, his attention wavering at the protracted nature of what he had thought would have been a rubber stamped return to action.

  “Pick a winner there faither?” queried the DS and the room erupted in relieved laughter.

  “Listen boss, I’ve had my moments, and some of the worst were yesterday morning, but the bottom line is there is no way I am going to let Meechan win. If I quit and roll up in a ball of self pity that is exactly what I will have done.

  “Sure it’s tough and it will continue to be tough but he's not going to finish me.” As an afterthought he added, “I owe that much to Celine but most of all, I owe it to myself.”

  Hardie couldn’t help himself and before he knew it both his hands were warming each other in a round of involuntary applause. “Well Amen to that!”

  Tomachek continued to appraise Thoroughgood’s features and his words with a searching look. Satisfied that the DS had indeed spoken the truth and nothing but the truth, he fished into his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder, slapping it on the desk and pushing it over to Thoroughgood.

  “I believe you dear boy, I believe you. I really do, Thoroughgood. This is the proof of that particular pudding. Your first case back on the job is a Missing Person!”

  Thoroughgood reached forward and lifted the folder, opening it and perusing the contents. As he did so he could hear Hardie shifting in his chair and shot him a withering look sideways, “You know anything about this, faither?”

  Hardie’s eyebrows arched and he managed a wholly unconvincing reply: “Maybe’s aye, maybe’s naw, as the man once said.”

  Thoroughgood read out the most important parts of the file: “An Asian doctor, works at the Western and resides at St Vincent Terrace, failed to show up for his shift Friday and was reported missing yesterday when he failed to do so again . . . riveting stuff, where do we begin?” Thoroughgood met the assessing stare of his superior officer full on.

  Tomachek, though, had plenty more to say on the subject. “Listen to me Thoroughgood, this case may be a bit more sedate than you're used to but I think it would be good for you to head up an investigation where every corner you turn there is not someone trying to splinter you in a hail of lead or carve you up like my favourite Sunday roast. You get my drift dear boy?”

  Taking another puff on his pipe Tomachek apparently couldn’t help himself. “Balls and buggery Gus, just get back into the swing of things and see where it takes you.”

  Thoroughgood closed the folder, pushed his chair back and said. “Well superintendent, if that is all then, myself and faither here have a Misper’ to find.”

  “It is, and you do, goodday gentlemen,” was Tomachek’s parting shot and with that the two detectives left his office, relieved to breathe clean air again.

  Descending the stairs from the senior officer’s corridor at Stewart Street, city centre nick, Hardie was first to perforate the silence. “Where is our first port of call then gaffer, in the search for Dr Mustapha Mohammed, his work or his hame?”

  “Let’s check out his flat at 406 St Vincent Terrace. I noticed uniform had visited it Saturday night and couldn’t get in but the factor has since dropped off the key, just half an hour before our meeting with Tomachek. How bleedin’ convenient eh?”

  They pulled up at the front of the address which proved to be a block of modern build flats. While Hardie parked the vehicle Thoroughgood got out and walked from the pavement up to the front door which was clear glass with security entry and intercom. As he reached the door he half-turned to see if the old boy had finally made it out of the Mondeo – it never ceased to amaze Thoroughgood how long his ‘neighbour’ took to park a vehicle.

  As he did so he heard the bang of a door and snapped his head back round to take in the interior foyer of 406 St Vincent Terrace. He immediately clocked a figure standing inside the the building, apparently having come from the right-hand ground floor flat.

  Although there had been no picture present in Mohammed’s file, the obvious inclination was to presume that the missing person would be of Middle Eastern appearance and the male, Thoroughgood quickly registered, was exactly that.

  The DS stuck the key into the front door and as he did so the figure turned abruptly and saw him. Thoroughgood turned the key and opened the door. “Wait a minute mate!”

  It was all Thoroughgood needed to present his mobile and snap him with the camera. But that was as much as he got as the furtive figure immediately opened the building’s rear door, clear glass too, exactly like the front entrance.

  Thoroughgood upped the ante. “Stop! Police!” but his quarry had bolted through the swinging door and was already taking to his heels. Thoroughgood did likewise.

  Taking in the male’s rearview Thoroughgood reckoned he was about 5' 11" and wearing a green waistlength waterproof that may have been running gear, but in any case he wasn’t hanging about.

  The male sprinted through the residents’ car park and onto the nearest street, shooting across the road and just missing a council waste truck in the process. Thoroughgood knew that there was no point in shouting any further warnings – he was going to need all his breath. If this was indeed Mustapha Mohammed then he was not for turning.

  Thoroughgood had hoped to try and pace himself, aware that his legs were shot through with lactic acid courtesy of his battle on the squash court with Doctor Meths. They burned as he broke into a sprint and he ruminated that his general lack of conditioning was also going to count against him. A fit man all his adult life, he was disgusted at how quickly he was going into oxygen debt. With Mohammed obscured from his sight by the waste truck, he charged across the road to get round the front of it and make sure that he didn’t completely lose his quarry.

  Thoroughgood had never given up on a foot chase and this was not going to be the first time. But he needed Hardie’s help.

  The DS put the radio to his lips: “Hardie, get back in the car and get round to Charing Cross at Sauchiehall Street. Suspect is 5’ 11” wearing green waistlength waterproof and of dark appearance, with denims. Looks like he has a beard and I’m bettin’ he's Mohammed.”

  Taking in another gulp of air as he tried to keep Mohammed’s green jacket in view, Thoroughgood added. “Am in foot pursuit and trying to push him up towards Sauchiehall Street. Alert all local units.”

  “Roger that,” responded Hardie.

  The pursuit continued up into Granville Street with the male turning right into Berkeley Street, Thoroughgood desperately trying to keep his target in sight and cursing the fact that, resplendent in black Loake brogues and a charcoal Felini suit, he was at a further disadvantage in pursuit of a suspect in trainers and running gear.

  Turning into Berkeley Street Thoroughgood was aware that he had lost sight of his man and slowed to a walk on a pavement lined by grimy tenement buildings, their stained walls testament to the pollution problem in Glasgow’s city centre.

  He gulped in oxygen as he took in the street scene; minimum traffic, precious little pedestrian movement and then the looming majestic form of the Mitchell Library towering at the end of the street and dominating all that it looked down on, like some everlasting memorial to the age of the Empire. He reached for his radio, his mind trying to formulate a new set of instructions for Hardie who was reacting to everything blind.

  The impact was sudden and brutal. Green jacket smashed into him from the nearest tenement close. Thoroughgood was cannoned into a parked Citroen and immediately became aware that his assailant, dark haired and with a beard in the early stages of growth, was also carrying cold steel.

  Thoroughgood’s back was jammed against the car’s nearside door but although he was winded he managed to grab the wrist of his assailant who was trying to skewer him with a blade of curved appearance which he held southpaw-style, slowly closing in on the left side of the DS’s jaw.

  Their faces only inches apart, Thoroughgood could not help but
notice the blemish in the male’s left eye which added to his sinister appearance. Then Green Jacket hissed something at him in what he took to be Arabic; while the meaning was lost on the DS the hatred that seethed through the words was obvious.

  Although he had the advantage of size and strength over the slightly smaller man, the surprise of the attack combined with the impact of his body on the parked vehicle had hit Thoroughgood hard. They slithered along the side of the Citroen with the cop now sprawled over the bonnet. His attacker continued to put all his power into trying to spear the DS with the vicious-looking blade. The chosen point of impact was now Thoroughgood’s right eye, through which the DS noticed at desperately close range that the dagger was crowned with an ornate jewelled handle, possibly made from ivory.

  His assailant’s determination was manic and his good eye radiated homicidal intent. Thoroughgood smashed his right knee with all the power he could muster into the male’s groin and he staggered back against the wall of the tenement.

  ‘Shit,’ thought Thoroughgood as he saw that Blackbeard had not released his grip on the blade which, even in his agony, he held out in front of him.

  Then Green Jacket hissed, “Allahu Akbar!” The poisonous venom in these two words shocked Thoroughgood but only momentarily, for the man the DS believed to be Doctor Mustafa Mohammed immediately launched himself at Thoroughgood again. This time the cop was ready for him.

  As Mohammed charged forward with his blade glinting menacingly, now in his left mitt, Thoroughgood moved to his left and put all his power into an upper cut that smashed off his attacker’s jaw.

  Thoroughgood was right-handed and the impact of the punch coming from his weaker hand was not as significant as it would have been had it come from his strong side, but there was no way he could risk a orthodox shot, and having to take a chance going across Mohammed’s knife-holding left hand would have left him all too vulnerable to a lethal injection of cold steel.

  Mohammed once again recoiled, changing the grip on the blade as he did so, moving his fingers from handle to steel in a manoeuvre that suggested to Thoroughgood that he had done it before. He realised Mohammed was going to launch the weapon at him and the DS dived behind the rear of the Citroen.

  Almost simultaneously the smash of the blade breaking the glass of the vehicle’s tail light sounded out. Trying to pick himself up from the tarmac Thoroughgood could already hear the sound of fast-fading footsteps. As he regained his balance Green Jacket was once more off and running.

  “Fuck me, of all the bastards in the world why do I have to end up chasing Forrest bloody Gump,” groaned Thoroughgood out loud.

  Before he began to break into a run once more he quickly scooped up the curved dagger and part-pocketed it as best he could inside his jacket.

  The pursuit continued towards the Mitchell Library and the male again cast a nervous glance backwards at Thoroughgood, but with the gap at fifty yards and increasing, he reached the side of the famous Glasgow landmark with plenty of leeway.

  Thoroughgood knew he needed to put an extra effort in or he would lose Mohammed before he had reached Charing Cross.

  The sound of a siren gave him a renewed burst of

  energy, meaning as it did that Hardie had followed instructions and must be coming up towards the front of the Mitchell Library.

  Thoroughgood surged on. Pedestrian traffic was also against him, increasing the closer he got to the city’s main library.

  As Mohammed cast another concerned glance back towards Thoroughgood he smashed into an elderly female pushing a bag trolley with one hand and holding a walking stick with the other.

  They both crashed to the ground on impact, with Mohammed somersaulting over the shopping trolley, a favourite of the city’s elderly ladies. Thoroughgood was now twenty five yards away from his quarry and he could see that Mohammed was badly winded but attempting to get to his feet again while the elderly female lay inert on the ground.

  Green Jacket began to pick up momentum again, evidently not having suffered any real damage but he had dropped a leatherbound wallet or filofax, and as he took to his heels once more he momentarily hesitated. His decision though, was an easy one. Risk his own freedom for the filofax or cut his losses and resume his escape bid. He chose the latter.

  Thoroughgood too was impaled on the horns of a dilemma. Continue his pursuit and leave the elderly female prostrate on the pavement or put her welfare first. Eyeing the leather wallet as he arrived at her still form, he chose the latter. With one last glance he took in the receding figure of the male he believed had been Doctor Mustafa Mohammed and turned his attention to the prone and distraught OAP.

  Almost immediately Thoroughgood saw the looming portly shape of Hardie arriving as he reassured the badly shaken pensioner that everything was going to be okay and that she’d just been unlucky. One raise of his eyebrows ensured that Hardie’s radio was already in action requesting an ambulance.

  9

  BY THE time the elderly female had been taken away via ambulance Hardie had put his governor in the picture.

  “All mobiles and beat officers look-out posted but it would appear our man has gone to ground. I must have just missed him cutting round the front of the Mitchell. Bastard must have been fast on his feet though, not like you to lose a suspect, still I guess you aren’t as young as you used to be. Resemble a scene from Chariots of Fire did it, mate?” Hardie sniggered with delight, taking particular satisfaction in putting the metaphorical boot in about his mate’s age, given he himself was a standing joke in Thoroughgood’s book regarding his own less than streamlined appearance and woeful fitness levels.

  This conversation had taken the time it took to return to the hastily parked Mondeo and Thoroughgood shot Hardie a withering glare.

  “Listen Michael bloody Johnston, you don’t know the half of it.” Thoroughgood then fished out the ornate ivory-handled, jewel-encrusted dagger and showed it to his mate. “Maybe I didn’t get the man but that may take us somewhere. Plus, I was bleedin’ lucky it didn’t book me a berth in the city mortuary. That bastard was desperate enough to stick me with it.”

  A look of brief contrition enveloped Hardie’s craggy features. “Shite! I had no idea. I take it you and the good doctor had a bit of a tango then?”

  “Aye you could say that and then some. A nasty piece of work with a bad case of garlic-induced halitosis and a squint in his left eye. It’s a wonder the Pavilion hav’nae signed him up for panto! But all we need is a photo from the Western personnel records to confirm him as our Doctor Mustafa Mohammed and there isn’t going to be much chance of a case of mistaken identity there!”

  The two detectives were now outside 406 St Vincent Terrace. It was then that Thoroughgood revealed the second product of his foot pursuit, pulling out the filofax and holding it up for Hardie to see.

  The DC was obviously surprised. “Well, our friend has been a bit careless hasn’t he? Wonder what this will reveal?”

  Thoroughgood nodded in agreement.

  “All will be revealed inside the flat, come on, it’s time we went over this place with a fine tooth comb. If the elusive Doctor Mustafa Mohammed has a tendency to be careless with his belongings you never know what else we may turn up.”

  Immediately upon entry to the the one bedroom flat Thoroughgood plonked himself down on the cheap cream leather settee in the living room, filofax in hand.

  “So, I wonder what we have here?” he asked Hardie who hovered over his colleague with avid interest.

  “Go on then! Open the thing and put me out of my misery,” said the DC, his impatience obvious.

  Thoroughgood smiled up at his mate and began to leaf through the brown leatherbound wallet. Slowly a look of realisation dawned on his face.

  “Well feck me! Looks like we have stumbled onto something here, faither! Under virtually every letter of the alphabet we have a row of asterisks on an otherwise empty page in a filofax that has the name Dr Mustafa Mohammed, Western Hospital, Accident and Emerge
ncy Department written in block capitals on the inside cover.”

  Thoroughgood fingered the pages in growing anticipation, having to force himself to slow down so he didn’t miss anything of evidential importance.

  “Under ‘A’ it’s one row, under ‘B’ it’s two rows,” Thoroughgood continued through the indexed pages: “Yep, there are more on the page headed ‘G’ and a double set under ‘S’ and ‘T’ as well.” Thoroughgood handed the filofax to Hardie whose outstretched paw underlined his desperation to cast eyes on the booklet for himself.

  “Bloody hell! This is enough to leave you seeing stars all right. So what are they trying to hide? It’s obviously a list of targets but what kind of bleedin’ targets?” Hardie screwed his eyes up and continued to finger the booklet, “Aye, there are more under ‘M’. What do you suppose we are talkin’ here Gussy boy?”

  The DS shook his head and held out his hand for the return of the filofax.

  “Why don’t you give me five minutes with this while you look through the rest of the place? I’m betting there must be something else of interest here,” and, with a smile creeping across his pale features, Thoroughgood added, “While you’re at it, check the fridge for milk. I could murder a coffee after my attempt at breaking the sub-four-minute-mile in a pair of brogues; they should make it an Olympic sport.”

  Hardie faked indignation. “Aye, fair enough, wouldnae mind a brew myself. A bit of caffeine always sharpens up the senses. But we need to get onto Tomachek, this is no bog standard MisPer’ enquiry that’s for sure. You up to that, gaffer?” mocked Hardie as he raised his right eyebrow in homage, he thought, to his hero, Spaghetti Western star Lee Van Cleef.