The Hurting

by RJ Mitchell

  “Before we go into how to handle the Botanics meet I have a question for you . . .”

  “Fire away,” Tomachek’s replied tersely.

  “Just where the hell are the security services in all of this?”

  Tomachek cleared his throat. Clearly discomfited by the question and the information that he had no other option but to provide, he blustered. Badly.

  “Indeed, dear boy, a legitimate question if ever there was one. Also it must be said one that leads us into an absolute bally bloody minefield.”

  Thoroughgood forced the issue. “Come on boss, I think you owe me, Hardie and the boy putting his life on the line tonight, the bottom line.”

  “Without doubt, Thoroughgood, without doubt. Alright here it is. MI5 have been monitoring Tariq and his group from the inside. Until the Braehead bomb they thought he was a firebrand with a big mouth but no terror portfolio.

  “Their man on the inside believed that there was no real hard and fast threat. Just ‘chatter’ as they like to call it. So they made the call that rather than expose an informant who had taken months to get in under deep cover they would let him lie a bit longer. A calculated risk but one that the boys had to make. With me so far, Thoroughgood? Hardie?”

  “We are,” was the chorused reply.

  “The problem is that their man on the inside has disappeared off the map since Braehead. M15 suspect he has turned double agent. So, from MI5/M16 believing they had everything under control up here they have discovered within the last few hours that they have likely been completely misinformed and we are, to put it politely, up shit creek without the proverbial paddle.”

  Hardie’s voice came over the line. “Fuck me boss! Does that mean that we are the only show on the road?”

  “Yes and no is the answer to that one Hardie. I am meeting Sir Willie Stratford at Stewart Street tomorrow morning; I want you two in attendance. Your man’s meeting is vital, and after tomorrow’s conference we’ll have the full backing of the London based intelligence services including surveillance, but until then we’re on our own. So you fellows take no chances tonight and likewise your man. Is there more?”

  Thoroughgood’s voice burst into life. “Yes there is. Tariq appears to have sleepers in key positions all over the city. He must have learned through them, of the liaison between Jim Fraser and Vanessa Velvet. Can I confirm that every available security measure has been adopted round all possible targets - the airport, hospitals and the like?”

  “What do you take me for Thoroughgood? A bally amateur? The chief has made sure that he has done everything to ensure that Glasgow sleeps safely tonight. We have the army out and their bomb disposal experts on 24 hour standby. Glasgow is in a ring of steel between the army and our own armed response units. All leave has been cancelled indefinitely with the rank and file. God willing we come through tonight with something we can build on bloody quick.

  “As of tomorrow I’d expect the intelligence services to take control of the whole shooting match, pardon the pun, but if we can hand them over some key intelligence and a route to Tariq then I think, Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood, I may be able to guarantee you a couple of pips on your shoulder. As for you Hardie, instead of that bloody great big chip you carry on each of your shoulders how would a set of stripes go down?”

  At the other end of the phone Tomachek took a gulp of something that was clearly not air and added, “As if all of that wasn’t enough Johnny Balfour and several of the city’s most notorious ‘businessmen’ were mown down at an exclusive rooftop restaurant this afternoon. CCTV footage has shown the killers to be dear old Tony Blair and George W.”

  Thoroughgood could not help his incredulity. “How the hell does that all add up?”

  “I have not the slightest clue, but I do know that I will see you in my office at 11am tomorrow morning for the meeting with Stratford. Don’t be trying to get yourself killed to avoid it now dear boy.”

  “I’ll do my best,” replied Thoroughgood.

  23

  BY 11PM Sushi had been fully briefed by Thoroughgood and Hardie about the information they wanted to put Tariq’s way.

  A phone call earlier that evening to Professor Farouk had arranged for the dagger to be relocated to his office the next day and round the clock surveillance mounted to keep watch on the premises thereafter. The Intelligence services were to assume control of the operation and Farouk would ensure that his department was closed for the day.

  As locations go it was less than perfect but at the same time the risk of collateral damage had to be weighed up against the need to have Tariq believe that the object of his desire was located somewhere it was attainable and not an obvious trap.

  With 24 hours having ticked away towards the execution of Vanessa Velvet and Jim Fraser, unless the Al-Qaeda Jihadist in Guantanamo Bay was released, any arguments against the plan were flimsy.

  Thoroughgood and Hardie would be inside the

  Botanics grounds, on surveillance duties, while both of the garden’s entrances would be watched by trusted men.

  Thoroughgood had enlisted the help of his old mate DC Ross McNab, the perma-tan prince of the Serious Crime Squad. Hardie had called in a favour to ensure that Detective Sergeant Ally Brown, a man with a knack for thinking outside the box, had also been enlisted.

  On top of that the Armed Response Team were on a discreet standby, imaginatively housed within the actual confines of the greenhouse which had not gone down well with either their commander or his team given the soaring temperatures within.

  For his part, at bang on midnight Sushi had to drop the details of the dagger’s new location and his contact details in a closed container underneath a bench outside the giant Victorian greenhouse. Then all the waiter had to do was vacate the gardens before he came eyeball to eyeball with Tariq’s representative. Sushi had been well warned that he could not afford to linger and thus put the operation in jeopardy, The bottom line of the op being to place a tail on Tariq’s man that would at last give them something to work with.

  At 23.55 Sushi walked up the path, fag in mouth. He felt the sweat trickling down his back and wondered how he had found himself playing a major role in trying to prevent the biggest terrorist incident the city might ever see.

  Thirty yards from the bench and he was aware of a slight trembling in his legs. “Get a grip,” he told himself, furtively glancing over his shoulders to see if he had any company. Apparently he did not.He tried hard not to let his eyes linger on the hydrangea bushes that flanked either side of the path, in which he knew Hardie and Thoroughgood were hidden.

  As he approached the bench Sushi admired the impressive greenhouse. It was a place that had provided Sushi with a lot of pleasure. It was here in the late nineties that he had found his first love.

  An afternoon of sunbathing on the immaculate lawns of the Botanics was a popular past-time for West Enders and the teenage Sushi and his mates had often made a beeline for it during an unusually balmy summer.

  ‘When was it? ’97 or ’98?’ he asked himself. He remembered his first meeting with Laura, an English and Classics student.

  He gazed at the left of the greenhouse where she had sat, all poise and class, the first time he had clapped eyes on her. Man, they had made some sweet music that summer. He wondered where she was now?

  It was in the Botanics too that he had first come across Thoroughgood, while working on the Sally - short for salmonella - fast food van that had been outside the main entrance back since anyone could remember. The DS’s penchant for spicy food had meant the pair often banged into each other at the West End’s more exotic eateries from then on.

  Those early meetings were what had ultimately brought him to this moment, that and the fact that something had to be done about Tariq and the evil he and his men were spreading. To Sushi it still beggared belief that they could have pulled off the bombing at Braehead. As for the murders on Dowanhill, they made Sushi sick to his core.

  Every time he left his front
door, hostile eyes were directed his way. The panic the events had caused led to the organisation of an emergency meeting of the Mosque Council. The elders agreed that something had to be done.

  He still could not get his head around the fact that Tariq was prepared to jeopardise the lives of the thousands of Muslims living across Europe to augment the forces of terrorism in al-Qaeda and the Taliban.

  Maybe the invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq was illegal, but was financing the mass slaughter of innocents, and spreading vitriol against the West, the way to redress it?

  For Sushi, a devout Muslim, it was impossible to square Tariq’s version of Islam with that espoused in the Koran. He fished into the pocket of his bomber jacket, feeling uncomfortable encased in the Kevlar bulletproof vest he wore underneath, and pulled out the container holding the message details. He prayed to Allah it would be seized upon by Tariq’s men and provide a trail to the Imam himself.

  Looking closely at the bench he noticed a commemorative silver plate – ‘In loving memory of Elsie Harris (1930-2001) for whom this spot provided many happy hours. Donated by her loving husband Frank.’

  Sushi felt a wave of emotion well up inside him.

  Then the bullet smashed into his head and he toppled over Elsie’s bench. The container fell out of his hand onto the path.

  Thoroughgood and Hardie had been positioned on either side of Sushi at a distance of around 30 feet, lying under the cover of bushes. As soon as the crack echoed out they knew it had come from a sniper’s rifle. As Thoroughgood screamed a warning to the waiter, the bullet impacted into the rear of Sushi’s head. His blood began to trickle slowly down the path he had just climbed.

  The silence was shattered for a second time by Hardie’s voice howling a single word. “Bastards!” Without a care for his own safety, the DC was out of cover and heading for Sushi as quickly as his stubby legs would take him.

  Thoroughgood was frozen in shock. It was they who had been set up and not Tariq. The sniper was almost certainly the same one from Dowanhill. He was unlikely to pack up and head home when he could get two birds for the price of one.

  Hardie was almost certainly in his sights and that meant only one thing to Thoroughgood – his mate was about to meet his maker. Suddenly a giant flash of light erupted over their heads, shining in the direction of the rooftops where the shot had come from.

  A second crack echoed out but this time it was followed by the smash of glass, underlining that the sniper had been unsighted by the spotlight aimed in his direction.

  Approaching Sushi’s body and the heaving figure of Hardie, who had dragged the waiter behind the bench for cover, Thoroughgood could already hear the voice of the Tactical Firearms Unit Commander calling in the police helicopter and directing them towards the rooftop of Glasgow University’s Dalrymple Hall of Residence.

  Arriving at the bench Thoroughgood was met by Hardie’s enraged gaze. “He’s dead Gus. I’d say we’re well and truly fucked now.”

  Thoroughgood’s silence indicated that for once he and Hardie were in total agreement.

  24

  IT WAS almost 2am when Thoroughgood arrived back at his flat, emotionally and physically exhausted. He ached for sleep. As he put his key in the security door his mind was relentlessly replaying the events of the last couple of hours and asking what they could have done differently.

  Despite an extensive search no traces of the sniper – apart from two spent cartridges – had been found. The cartridges had almost certainly been left as a calling card.

  Thoroughgood had updated Tomachek by phone. The apoplectic superintendent had confirmed that the 11am meeting with Willie Stratford was still on, leaving Thoroughgood in no doubt that the Botanic Gardens fiasco would result in Strathclyde Police being hung out to dry after the further loss of civilian life. Tomachek had warned the DS that he, Thoroughgood, would shoulder full responsibility. For his part Thoroughgood had been too tired and desolate to argue the toss.

  While Tomachek had applied the verbal hairdryer to Thoroughgood, Hardie had gone into overdrive; making sure a full entry was on the Holmes Major Inquiry system and leaving notes to the great and the good, including the Head of CID and the ACC Crime. Full statements had been taken and a precise briefing note for Tomachek to take to the meeting later that morning had been written.

  As Thoroughgood pushed the heavy door open he did not know whether he had the strength to undress before letting sleep claim him or, conversely, the ability to stop his mind flaying him with guilt over Sushi’s demise.

  “Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood,” said a female voice from behind him. Exhausted he turned slowly, trying to keep the door open and gain a good line of sight out into the night.

  “It’s Aisha, Professor Farouk’s daughter. I just wanted to speak with you.”

  Thoroughgood hardly felt welcoming. However guilty it made him feel, though, Aisha had entered his thoughts on more than one occasion since they had met.

  “Yeah, sure, come in,” and he beckoned Aisha to follow him up to the flat. Ushering her into the lounge he was conscious that it was here that he’d last seen Sushi and now, thanks to him, the waiter was dead.

  Slowly his mind filled with guilt. ‘Why didn’t you blow your brains out on Sunday morning? No balls? The only thing that you have ever been any good at is turning the lives of those around you to shit. If you had, you useless bastard, Sushi would still be here.’ He realised that the curtains had not been drawn day or night since that morning. ‘No point in opening the drapes now mate,’ added the helpful voice in his head.

  Clearing his throat he gestured to Aisha to make herself comfortable on the settee. He noticed that his grandfather’s revolver was still perched disconcertingly on the mantle piece, the old man’s bible and an empty whisky glass keeping it company.

  ‘Shit! How the fuck had Hardie failed to spot it?’ he wondered.

  He opted to pursue a ‘silence is golden’ policy and stammered an apology. “Sorry about the mess, the last couple of days I’ve hardly had time to draw air never mind keep the place tidy.” As discreetly as he could, he tipped the revolver into his inside jacket pocket.

  But Aisha wasn’t about to let the evidence in front of her to go unremarked. “An empty whisky glass and a revolver! An interesting combination, Detective Sergeant Thoroughgood.”

  He smiled weakly. Her eyes felt like they were peering into his soul but thankfully she did not pursue the topic further.

  Edging towards the door he said, “Listen, I could murder a drink. Fancy a glass of red? I think I have a decent bottle of Malbec.”

  “Yeah, that would make a nice nightcap,” she agreed.

  When he returned there was definite warmth in her smile. ‘What have I done to deserve that?’ he asked himself. She took the glass of red and sipped.

  Thoroughgood rifled through his CD drawer without thinking.

  Watching him with interest Aisha said “Maybe I shouldn’t have come by so late but I came off back-shift and went for a couple of drinks with the girls up at Cottiers. My father told me where you lived because I wanted to thank you. I know you guys in the CID don’t keep regular hours – just like us.”

  She sipped from her wine glass, the redness of the Malbec giving her lips a heightened fullness that was proving a powerful antidote to Thoroughgood’s exhaustion.

  He put on How Can I Sleep With Your Voice Inside My Head? by A-ha, then without a word he slipped into his favourite armchair and grabbed his wine glass, his nervousness making Aisha frown in puzzlement.

  “So, DS Thoroughgood, are you ok with a female visitor at this time of the night?”

  He attempted to smile that he was, but guilt was starting to seep through him. ‘You’re a charlatan, Thoroughgood. One minute you’re playing Russian roulette, forever heartbroken and the next you’ve got the ‘Night Nurse” here, mentally undressed and bedded in five minutes.’ As he battled his internal demons the silence drew on.

  Aisha could sense all was not g
oing according to her plan. “I’m sorry; I know it’s late. I don’t make a habit of this, it was a bad idea. I’ll finish my wine and head home. I’m sorry, this was all very selfish of me.”

  Her words acted as a metaphorical bucket of water and the vision of Celine that had been about to replace Aisha’s svelte dark features, disappeared.

  “No, I’m sorry. We’ve just had a disastrous night ending with the murder of a good friend. I don’t know if I want to lay all my problems out before you. Can I just say things have happened in my life over the last few months that I’m still struggling to come to terms with.”

  “You mean Celine?”

  And that was it, the floodgates opened and out it all poured. Her words hit him like a freight train and his tears came. He cuffed at them with his hand and jumped up, stormed over to the curtains, opening them to look out at Partickhill Road glowing eerily in the moonlight.

  Aisha spoke. “I know what happened, Gus, I know about Declan Meechan. I know about Celine and how it all came to an end for you two. God, it was all over the papers and it dawned on me today, after you left, exactly who you were. All I can say is, I want to help, if you’ll let me.”

  He leaned forward and planted his forehead on the window pane, sobbing his heart out. Then his legs seemed to give way and he slumped to his knees.

  Immediately he felt the encircling embrace of her arms around him. “It’s okay, okay, let it go Gus, let it all go.” Slowly he turned round and buried his head in her shoulder, aware that this had been the first time since Celine’s death that he had sought any real comfort from another human being.

  Her proximity, her smell, her warmth were a heady intoxicating brew, preying on his heightened state of emotional anxiety. Again he was wracked with guilt for allowing any emotion other than desolation to permeate his being. He was aware of her leading him over to the settee. “Sorry,” he repeated, over and over.