by RJ Mitchell
“What’s wrong Gussy boy? Is your most prized possession experiencing mechanical difficulties? asked the DC. “Bit like yourself by the look of things!”
Thoroughgood grabbed a nearby bottle opener and inserted it into the side of the CD drawer, managing to prise the device open. “No problem at all there faither but thanks, as always for your help,” and he quickly slipped in Van Morrison much to Hardie’s satisfaction.
He had to admit he was experiencing an aching guilt that he had indeed lived to listen to another CD; the events of the previous Sunday morning remaining his own private property, while the dead at Braehead would never again enjoy their favourite sounds again. Yet he wasn’t prepared to let Hardie in on his own very private guilt-ridden grief, especially when the DC had been through his own agonies of despair and relief only hours before.
Thoroughgood tried diplomacy. “Listen faither, you’d be as well chuckin’ it and getting back to the missus’ bedside. Even by your standards you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. You look shite, faither, to be precise.”
Hardie's Van Cleef eyebrow shot up in disgust.
“Listen to me, Gus bloody Thoroughgood, you may be my superior officer but there are 133 people dead and 48 injured because of a terrorist incident we may have the only lead on and he’s about to walk through these feckin’ doors! Do you suppose now the missus knows all that, she wants me home tending her scratches when she can have any one of half a dozen of her friends clucking over her?”
Hardie took a breath as he waited for the response. None was forthcoming. Triumphant, he rammed home the verbal advantage. “I thought not. Now, with the greatest of respect Detective Sergeant, shut the fuck up and gie’s peace.”
Thoroughgood gripped the arms of his chair and still said nothing.
As the silence stretched, Hardie guiltily reflected inwardly that perhaps he had gone too far. After all, Thoroughgood was clearly still not his usual self. Nursing the fresh torment caused by the Braehead bomb blast and their inability to do anything to prevent it, Hardie hoped his mate would not return to the suicidal state in which he had brought him back from Castlebrae.
‘Fuck it,’ said Hardie to the four walls, “don’t know about you, but I need a drink.” He focused his attention on pouring two rum and cokes and handed Thoroughgood his before inelegantly dropping his sagging body onto the leather sofa which let out a gasp of protest at the weight it had suddenly been asked to support.
Hardie leaned back and stretched out one arm along the back of the sofa before raising the dark frothing liquid to his lips. He raised his glass, “To Betty bloody Hardie, by Christ I love her!” and took a huge draught of the drink.
Thoroughgood stared at his partner and joined him. “Amen to that, my dear faither!”
“Poor bastards! I mean for cryin’ out loud. I can tell you this Gus, I will be at the Kirk come Sunday to say a few amens and an even bigger thank you. Only the man upstairs knows why Betty wasn’t killed. The only reason she didn’t head for Pizza Hut for a coffee and a slice of her favourite salami pizza was because she thought it would be mobbed with tennis punters. She’s funny that way, my missus, full of wee contradictions. Guess it’s why I love her!”
Thoroughgood’s phone sounded — an incoming text — “According to forensics it was a suicide bomber and a necklace of IEDs. A necklace? How poetic. How the fuck have they managed to get a whole string of IEDs in under the gaze of CCTV? That’s it then. Just our bleedin’ luck. What type of organisation uses suicide bombers? Not even the Provos go that far do they? It’s got Jihadists written all over it.”
But Hardie, finally exhausted by the emotional hell he had been through over the last few hours, now had his eyes shut although his knees seemed to have taken on a life of their own as they danced in time to the Irish crooner’s classic ‘Precious Time’.
Suddenly the DC’s eyes twitched open and he stared straight at his mate who had been taking in the virtuoso but creaking performance of Hardie’s lower joints, and they both let out a mutual laugh.
“Feckin’ great lyric, eh Gussy boy?” as he belted out the first line of the Ulsterman’s anthem.
They both laughed again, sharing a moment of levity in a day that neither would forget.
“Fuck me, how appropriate is that one? We just don’t know how much precious time we have left,” said Hardie.
Halfway through ‘Here Comes the Night’ the doorbell rang.
“Thank God for that! Friend Sushi, methinks,” said Thoroughgood. “Let’s just hope this isn’t a wild goose chase — we just don’t have the time for that.”
Hardie raised his glass in mock salute. “Ah Gussy boy, you should have learned to trust your old faither by now!”
13
SUSHI STOOD, dripping wet. His eyes met Thoroughgood’s and the small dark darting pools were furtive as they searched the DS’ face for clues to his mood.
“Come in Sushi, and close the door behind you,” said Thoroughgood. Entering the lounge, Thoroughgood gestured to Sushi to take a seat at the opposite end of the sofa from his portly colleague.
“Well, Sushi son? Where have you been hidin’? Don’t fuck about. You know what happened at Braehead this afternoon. What have you got for us?” asked Hardie.
Sushi didn’t know who to look at first, his head darting between Hardie and Thoroughgood. The DS forced the issue; much to Hardie’s silent satisfaction, for the veteran DC was applying as much scrutiny to Thoroughgood and how he was going to handle the unfolding conversation, as he was to Sushi's information.
‘Please Lord, not some bloody breach of the peace in a kebab shop’, thought Hardie.
“Come on Sushi, whatever it is, it’s obviously important to you and time is getting on a bit,” said Thoroughgood.
Sushi seemed to relax for the first time since he had entered the flat and a tentative smile crept across his face: “Any chance of a fag?” asked the waiter.
Hardie reached into his anorak pocket and pulled out his ever-present packet of Silk Cut, before nonchalantly flicking one cigarette into his cavernous mouth and launching another two feet to his left where the waiter gratefully grabbed it.
By the time Hardie had finished lighting the cigarette and Sushi had taken his first deep drag the waiter’s inhibitions had apparently disappeared.
Sushi exhaled and let it all hang out: “I’m sorry I hav’nae been round earlier but I needed to make sure I wasnae wasting your time. Boss, I’m worried that the shit has hit the fan, big time and I hav’nae a Scooby what to do about it, innit.”
“Sushi, it is long past my beddy-byes and you know what happened this afternoon. Let’s cut to the feckin’ chase shall we? ’Cause if you need more time to think your way around whatever is giving you sleepless nights you are gonnae be wasting my time and yours.” rapped Thoroughgood before adding, “On the other hand you’ve come this far, so if you’re asking my opinion son, I’d get it over and done with.”
The waiter shook his head and immediately slid the fingers of his right hand through his oily black hair before inhaling deeply on his cigarette.
“For fuck’s sake Sushi, will you just get on with it son?” bawled Hardie, his exasperation clearly mounting.
“Okay, okay, boss. I know what happened at Braehead is bad but I believe it is just the beginning. What happened in London 7/7 was one isolated attack but I think Braehead will be the first atrocity of a campaign of terror that will leave Glasgow in meltdown.”
The shockwaves Sushi had expected to detonate around the room with his revelation did not materialise.
Thoroughgood shot Hardie an enraged look. “Look Sushi, we have just had almost the worst terrorist atrocity on Scottish soil and you say it is the green light for worse to come? Havers man! Pull the other one my friend, it has a bell on it,” and Hardie lifted his leg and gave it a shake for good measure.
The waiter however remained undeterred: “Believe me boss, this is just the start of the nightmare.�
� It was a statement of fact rather than a piece of guesswork, delivered in certainty. Thoroughgood reacted first.
“That makes the material uncovered at Mohammed’s now more important than the crown bloody jewels.”
Thoroughgood threw Hardie an enquiring glance as he sought to assess if the effect Sushi’s words were having on his mate were similar to their impact on him. “OK Sushi, I want you to be very careful with this because it is going to set a chain of actions off that will be seismic if your information is true, and probably even if it ain’t.”
“In the name of Allah and all that I hold dear to me, what I have to say is the truth.”
Thoroughgood gestured for Sushi to begin.
“We have a new Imam at the central mosque. When he first took over he seemed to be a real man of God, a teacher who cared for his people and was well versed in the Koran. But gradually his preaching has become more radical.”
Hardie interjected, “That ain’t no crime Sushi, we do live in a democracy, mate, and what about that boy Abdul Muhaimin, or the ‘Protector’ as they are calling him, hasn’t he been preaching a Jihad or whatever you call it down South and nobody has been doin’ sweet FA about it for long enough.”
Sushi shook his head animatedly: “But that is it Mr Hardie. I have now heard that the Imam has been preaching in private; in rooms at the back of a book shop, where he has been holding meetings with those who sympathise with his thoughts. He is developing a young and radical following and now that is beginning to alarm the mosque elders.”
Now Thoroughgood questioned Sushi’s concerns. “Okay, so what is your Imam called? What do you know about his private sermons and where he is preaching them?”
“His name is Tariq, which in English means messenger. The name is taken from the 86th sura of the Koran; Tariq Ibn Ziyad, who conquered Spain for the Moors and the man who Gibraltar was named after when it was first called Jabal Tariq, or mountain of Tariq.”
“Blimey,” said Hardie, “and I thought my explanation of Lal Toofan was interesting!”
Sushi shot the DC a quizzical look but was soon back in full flow. “Tariq has been Imam at the central mosque for eighteen months. Everything was fine for the first year or so but over the last six months there have been several new faces attending prayers and those people are not from this land.
“They keep themselves to themselves but I know they also attend Tariq’s private meetings at the bookshop. They are brothers from our faith’s homeland and I believe they are here to wage Jihad on you Christians.”
Thoroughgood’s mouth curled in acceptance that Sushi’s revelation was almost certainly the real deal. “Okay, but I need a lot more than just suspicions Sushi, and I’ll tell you why. After that terrorist attack at Braehead, this kind of shit could bury you and your people if you aren’t careful,” he said.
Sushi held his arms out in helplessness. “What do I need to give you to convince you it is real, boss?”
Thoroughgood, aware that he wasn’t being entirely honest with the waiter, said, “For a start I would like one of these private sermons on tape so we can gauge the level of intent and get a feel for friend Tariq.
“Second, you say that Braehead is just the start and not the culmination of his planning? Well where has that come from? And have you got any idea what type of targets he is assessing, now that he has caused mass destruction and death in Glasgow’s busiest shopping centre? You know that we uncovered a filofax from a flat earlier with a list of probable targets all filed alphabetically but by using asterisks? Given what happened at Braehead today does that mean we are talking shopping centres? Plus, where are these brothers holed up? ’Cause we are going to need to round them up tout suite mon ami.”
Sushi appeared at a loss. “Sorry boss?”
“He means we need ’em hooked pronto mate,” translated Hardie helpfully.
“Last Thursday, Tariq held a meeting with some of the Mosque elders and it was then that he really made his beliefs clear.”
Sushi stopped and took a deep breath before continuing his tortured account. “One of our customers at India’s is Professor of Middle Eastern Studies at Glasgow University and I have become very friendly with him over the years. You know how it is, you get talking to your regulars. But with Professor Farouk being an elder in the central mosque, which I attend myself, we have that bit more than the curry shop in common, innit?” Sushi finished in his bizarre mixture of Scots cockney.
“Anyway, the last time we spoke, the professor told me that he was becoming very concerned about Tariq, his views and where he was going with things, and that he was not the only one worried about the Imam.
“The professor is a learned man and deeply devout; if he is worried by what Tariq is saying or doing then we have a problem, boss, believe me.”
Thoroughgood remained unconvinced. “So what is the bottom line then, Sushi? What did Professor Farouk say Tariq wants done?” demanded the DS.
“The professor told me last night that Tariq wants Jihad brought to these shores and he wants an act of vengeance that will make the whole of the Western world sit up and take notice — one that will commemorate the martyrs of 9/11 and all of the other brothers who are giving their lives in Afghanistan and Iraq in order to free the homeland of ‘the Crusaders’. That is what the professor told me Tariq called the British and American armies.”
Hardie interjected helpfully: “Bit like trying to bolt the barn door after Shergar has bolted out the back one, if you don’t mind me saying, friend Sushi.”
The waiter ignored him and continued. “The professor says that Tariq has vowed the attack will be at a venue that is at the very centre of ‘infidel culture’ in Scotland; one that will bring massive casualties. He wants a showpiece atrocity that will enshrine his name at the centre of Jihad against the West.”
“You’re too late wee man, or were the 133 people laid out at Braehead a figment of my imagination?” demanded an increasingly angry Hardie.
“He has a point, Sushi. All this info is a bit late in the day, after the events of this afternoon.”
An awkward silence ensued before Sushi finally broke it. “I give you my word, boss. This is not a one-off. I think the evidence you uncovered in that filofax proves the point boss.You have to believe me.”
The two detectives exchanged nervous glances, aware that Sushi’s conviction was compelling.
“Okey dokey, so what the Bo Didly could top Braehead?” asked Hardie sarcastically; his eyebrows raised in trademark fashion at Thoroughgood. An obvious invitation for his superior to put Sushi fully in the picture.
Thoroughgood took a long swig from his drink and swirled it round his mouth, all too well aware that Sushi was staring at him, desperate for details. Unashamedly he enjoyed his moment of control. “Sushi, son, we haven’t been totally honest with you.” Thoroughgood slipped his hand inside his jacket and fished out the ivory-handled dagger and placed it on the coffee table between them.“Recognise that, son?”
Sushi stared at the jewelled dagger, apparently transfixed by its presence; it was clear he had seen it before. The waiter picked it up and handled it with reverence as he read the Arabic words carved into the handle.
“The true believer will taste everlasting happiness in the death of every infidel.”
This time the silence was deafening.
14
DOWANHILL WAS a prosperous middle class area in the heart of Glasgow’s West End, populated by professionals, students and the elderly, who, immersed in its cosmopolitan make-up, would not leave until death did them part with their neighbourhood.
At precisely 9.30am Charles Rose kissed his wife Melissa goodbye, delighting in the delicious impact of the white musk that had been her preferred scent ever since he had met her. It had always been their ambition to own one of the imposing Victorian flats that topped the Dowanhill, and although their union had not been blessed by offspring, they were as happy as any couple they knew.
Charles left their sandstone
flat in Crown Circus, crossing the road onto the slightly crumbling steps that would start his descent of Dowanhill Road. He took care to maintain the static position of The Herald jammed between his right arm and his side, still in a state of shock at what had happened the previous day.A suicide bomber blowing himself up at Braehead shopping centre, and a body count close to 150. It was truly shocking and Charles wondered what the ride in the Underground would be like this morning. People would either be in a state of shock or unable to stop talking about the atrocity.
His Saturday morning sessions in the office were something that Charles had had to become used to as he paved the way for what he hoped would be an eventual takeover bid by one of the big boys. Really, when you worked five days a week there literally weren’t enough hours in the working day.
He stopped for a second and swept his eyes over the vista that spanned the West End and took in the imposing buildings of Glasgow University where, in the Uni chapel, he had been married all those years back. The thought swept through his mind, as it always did at this stage of his journey to work, that there was nowhere in the world he would rather live. As he walked, he followed the route he had been travelling for the last 15 years; to Hillhead underground and the journey that would take him to his insurance company in the city centre.
A hundred yards further down he stopped to pat the black and white cat who waited for him at this stage of his route every day. Almost as if it had some mystic power to predict the precise time of his passing. The tom purred and wrapped itself around his ankles and he smiled.
“Hey Jasper, how’d you do it?” He hunkered down and rubbed his index finger under the cat’s chin. “Time for me to go, old pal. See you same time tomorrow, no doubt!”
Marching down the hill, his mind focusing on the claims and complaints that would be awaiting him, Charles smiled the appreciation of a man satisfied with his lot.
