by RJ Mitchell
Thoroughgood exhaled a sharp breath.
His eyes burned into her intensely. “Do you know how important this information is? This could be our first chance to get to Tariq and more importantly, Meechan.”
Aisha nodded. “Can I ask one thing Gus?”
“Be my guest,” said Thoroughgood.
“Do you still have Saladin’s dagger?”
“I do. It’s in the lounge. With everything that has been going on I keep forgetting to lodge it. Why do you ask?” enquired Thoroughgood.
“It has great significance to our community and it just annoys me that it is going to be boxed, labelled and stuck in a strongroom indefinitely. For an artefact that played a key part in one of the most important episodes in Islamic history to be locked away in a strongroom and removed from its place in our culture is not right,” said Aisha.
Thoroughgood laughed disbelievingly. “Until we have Tariq bang to rights and this whole mess is sorted whoever has the dagger is going to be in danger. Wherever it is Tariq is going to be looking to get his hands on it. Nope, first thing once we have done our rounds the dagger is being taken into protective custody and mothballed for the safety of anyone who has been handling it. That is if it is all right with you Nurse Farouk?”
Aisha smiled but Thoroughgood was convinced that she was far from happy with his answer.
But right now, right there, gazing at her in such close proximity was overpowering. “Christ, you are beautiful Aisha,” and with that Thoroughgood abandoned his self-control all over again.
32
BEFORE DRIVING over to the Central Mosque Thoroughgood phoned Tomachek, informing him that Farouk had made contact with Rahman and a meeting between the two had been set for 11am.
The detective superintendent had been sceptical about allowing his two subordinates to go after Rahman on their own. At the same time, irked by the arrogance shown by Stratford and Etherington, Tomachek decided to allow his boys the chance to grab the glory.
The detective superintendent’s words down the line had provided mixed messages. “Are you sure you trust Farouk? That is the bottom line. Remember we’ve been set up already and lost a civilian and everywhere you two go death is your neighbour. I don’t want any more bodies piling up, least of all yours.”
Hardie muttered, “How touching.”
“I heard that Hardie. I’m tempted to have TFU back-up deployed to the mosque and these blighters at MI5 brought up to speed with your meeting with the …What was it they called Rahman again?” demanded Tomachek.
Hardie’s voice piped up again at the other end of the phone. “Hawaladar!”
“That’s the bugger,” agreed Tomachek.
But Thoroughgood had something to ask of his superior. “Boss, have five got any intelligence from One Devonshire Gardens yet?”
“I don’t know,” was Tomachek’s honest answer, “But what I do know is that I want a clean-cut apprehension and Rahman brought in so he can lead us to either Tariq or the puppet master himself. Is that clear, dear boy?” demanded the Detective Superintendent.
“Crystal,” replied Thoroughgood and heard the line go dead.
The journey over the Clyde had been surreal as the two detectives immersed themselves in small talk to keep the mounting tensions at bay. Hardie was for once happy not to mention Meechan’s name ahead of an arrest he knew Thoroughgood hoped would lead him to his nemesis.
In time-honoured tradition the DC turned to his specialist subject. “So, Gus, surely you cannae be prepared to suffer any more self-inflicted abuse by going back to Firhill, for Pete’s sake. Isn’t it time you found some other trivial pursuit?” inquired Hardie, not bothering to hide the impish delight he took in teasing his mate over his footballing allegiances.
Thoroughgood’s face momentarily creased in a frown before he replied, “For a start, I don’t suppose I am going to be taking my seat in the Jackie Husband stand anytime before we’ve got Tariq under lock and key, and smoked out his hornets’ nest of jihadists.
“But the other thing you fail to take into account, my rotund friend, is the outstanding value for money I now get for my season ticket. Glasgow Warriors rugby team have recently moved to God’s own Football Stadium and I can see myself takin’ in a rugga game on Friday night since there are various double-header weekends available to combine both rugga and footie for the price of one. But like I said, that isn’t gonna be anytime soon,” admitted Thoroughgood.
“Not like you to be looking for a bargain, gaffer. Rugga, eh? A game played by gentlemen with oval shaped balls,” said Hardie as sarcastically as possible, before quickly adding, “er, so they tell me.”
The DC moved onto his next point of verbal attack, “Speaking of Firhill, if memory serves, you have a bit of a penchant for takin’ your birds up there for some X-certificate viewing, so does that mean that Nurse Aisha will be following in the footsteps of, what was she called? Ah, that’s it, sexy Sarah the very civil servant?”
Thoroughgood shot his number two a withering glare but it failed to deter Hardie.
“C’mon Gussy boy, I saw the curtain in your bedroom windae twitch when we left and I noticed that you’d kept Glasgow’s version of Night Nurse concealed while I was waiting on you.” Hardie erupted into a deep rumbling laugh.
“Bog off faither,” was Thoroughgood’s final word on the matter.
Trying to distract Hardie the DS added, “Anyway, how’s the missus? Has she been out for any retail therapy or is she still too badly shaken?”
Hardie seemed less than inclined to open up on the subject of his beloved Betty.
“Look I’m sorry mate, I can well appreciate it if she is still in a state of shock but it could have been a helluva a lot worse,” said Thoroughgood attempting to show some sensitivity.
Hardie found his voice, albeit somewhat sheepishly. “Betty is bloody fine. It’s the damn chickens that are the problem.”
“What?” asked Thoroughgood, gobsmacked.
“Well a couple of months back she wanted to get a couple of chickens in, to lay our own eggs, and I knocked her back – obviously. But after Braehead she started banging on about them again and well I . . . er . . . couldnae refuse,” revealed Hardie.
“Chickens in a semi-detached in the middle of Knightswood? Are you off your bleedin’ chomp?” asked Thoroughgood dissolving into a fit of uncontrolled mirth.
Hardie was far from happy with his predicament. “Aye, two chickens and a bloody hen-house the missus bought off eBay and guess what? We’ve already had the feckin’ thing attacked by foxes. I didnae get a wink's sleep last night for them howlin’ or barkin’ or whatever they do at the moon.”
Recovering his composure with some effort, Thoroughgood wanted more. “What happened mate? How did you fight the cunning Mr Fox off?”
“I didnae. But my boy David decided he was gonnae hang out his bedroom window and turn the back garden into a bleedin’ shootin’ gallery. All because the missus wants to play at The Good Life!”
“Aye I can see you as the Richard Briers type! Let’s hope we don’t discover any fowl play at the mosque,” added Thoroughgood sarcastically.
As the impressive shape of the Central Mosque came into view Hardie’s relief at the end of his interrogation was palpable.
The main place of worship for Glasgow’s Muslim community was situated south of the River Clyde in the Gorbals, an area that had been famous for ‘razor’ gangs and tenement slums but had been transformed into affordable ‘des res’ for young professionals by the mid nineties.
Parking the Focus half up on the pavement outside the Mosque grounds they alighted to be met by a beggar.
Hardie looked at the man, sitting cross-legged outside of the Mosque gates, his cap on the ground between his knees. To no one in particular the DC let rip with his indignation. “Fuck me, not another one. It’s about time we set up a task force to deal with these spongers. It ain’t right.”
Thoroughgood laughed. “Ah come on faither, have a heart
,” and tossed 50p into the beggar’s hat.
“Gratitude,” came the accented reply. Thoroughgood noticed the beggar’s eyes seemed to simmer with an unusual intensity far from the usual puppy dog eyes of the imploring. But his rags were as soiled and ancient as any the DS had seen on a beggar.
As the two detectives walked along the path leading to the Mosque entrance their attention was immediately hooked by the impressive minaret; a translucent, almost diamond-shaped dome placed centrally on the roof above the main prayer hall. The minaret was perfectly placed to let sunlight stream through, allowing those praying below to do so in the luxury of natural light. The main entrance was arched with etched glass doors imprinted in a floral design. Hardie admitted he was impressed with the building.
“This isn’t what I was expecting. Don’t know about you gaffer but I’ve never been anywhere near a Mosque on business or pleasure.”
The DS replied, “It’s not the Mosque we want but the Imam’s residence.” He turned to his right and pointed to the two-storey red sandstone house sitting 100 feet away, “I’d say that would be it.”
The area around the mosque baked in the unexpectedly warm autumn sun and as they made their way to the Imam’s residence Thoroughgood loosened the silver tie that had been his one exception to his habitual black, to let fresh air circulate around him. Hardie, resplendent in his anorak, sweated. The red sandstone house stood in a silence that had the hairs on the back of the detectives’ necks standing on end.
Hardie articulated the tension they both felt in a barely audible voice. “I’m wondering if we are here first or second gaffer.”
“An interesting question, Hardie,” whispered the DS hoping the traffic in the background would mask their voices. “Either way we err on the side of caution.”
“Comprendez, mon gaffeur,” echoed Hardie.
There was no reply to repeated knocking but when Thoroughgood tried the handle it gave way helpfully.
The DS nodded to Hardie to draw his police issue ASP baton although they both knew that it was an act of complete futility should they come up against the gang of AK-47 toting fanatics at Tariq’s beckoning.
Slowly they moved through each room in the two-storey house making sure that there was no company waiting for them. But the building was eerily empty and the signs were that someone had vacated the premises in a hurry.
The detectives’ interest centred on the study. It appeared to be the core of the Imam’s theological and spiritual world. The study had also been the designated place for Farouk’s bogus meeting with Rahman. But despite subjecting the the room and its contents to severe scrutiny there was nothing of any interest.
Settling into the desk chair Thoroughgood pushed it back and tossed the ivory handled dagger onto the desk’s leather writing surface.
“Well my dear faither, I’d say whoever was here before us has taken everything we might have wanted to get our paws on. I get the feeling that Rahman has been tipped off that we would be waiting for him. Your thoughts on where we are with this whole bloody mess?”
Hardie’s eyebrows raised involuntarily before he began his discourse. “I’d say you’re right, and who have we got to thank for that? Who has been torturing himself over turning in one of his own and betraying some ancient system and ruining his standing within his treasured community? Bottom line – who supposedly set up Rahman for us?”
Thoroughgood stated the obvious. “Farouk.”
Hardie had not finished. “So, we are hours away from the beheading of Vanessa Velvet and Jim Fraser. We are carrying around some kind of religious artefact that our jihadist friends want back at any cost. We’ve found out that Meechan is tickling the strings behind Tariq and is intent on detonating a dirty bomb sometime bloody soon within the city.”
As Thoroughgood attempted to interrupt, Hardie held his hand up to indicate he had not finished. “But to top all that I’d give you an honest tenner that we have been set up . . . for a second bleedin’ time at that.” Hardie rifled his jacket pockets only for a look of disgust to spread across his portly features as the packet of Silk Cut he pulled out proved empty.
He took a breath and ploughed on regardless. “All we seem to do is go down dead ends. Look at what happened with poor Sushi. Now we are here and Farouk has given us a bum steer. We better radio in and have an all ports and stations lookout placed on Farouk because ten to one the good professor will be looking for a fast camel out of here. I just hope these stuck up sods in MI5 are working for their inflated pay packets.”
Thoroughgood had pulled out his radio and broadcast the lookout for Farouk as well as barking instructions out to have the academic’s work and home addresses checked.
Completing his broadcast Thoroughgood returned his attention to his number two. “Okay, there appears to be nothing here. Next port of call has got to be the UAE bank in Sauchiehall Street. We’ve got to get Rahman.” Looking at his watch Thoroughgood winced. “Time is just slipping away. Don’t know about you faither but I just have this feeling in my bones that the worst is still to come. Braehead was a dress rehearsal and if Meechan is involved you can bet your hairy arse that the mother of all bangs is coming our way.”
Hardie agreed. “Definitely sometime soon. I’d hazard a guess at somewhere in that bleedin’ filofax but somewhere beginning with feck only knows. Christ I sound like when I was a kid in the back of my old man’s Vauxhall Viva playing eye spy!”
Thoroughgood’s smile was fleeting and did nothing to discourage Hardie who rumbled on, “But going back to the Filofax and the email we lifted off Mustafa’s computer. I think they have got to be connected. Just maybe the target is actually not a shopping centre – or maybe not even in Scotland?”
Thoroughgood offered a half-hearted smile “By God I got it wrong when I let you talk me out of Castlebrae!” But the DS knew his pal was onto something and the conundrum had been eating away at him too.
“OK, so say it is not a shopping centre our friends have targeted for the big bang. What could the link be with the Nikah mentioned in the email between the 15th and the 25th? We got any royal weddings coming up?”
Hardie’s eyebrows arched in disbelief.
“Nope, I think you are barking up the wrong metaphorical tree there Gus. Nikah is code for some sort of public event where the impact of a big bang would be the carnage Tariq and Meechan are clearly after. Something even bigger than blowing up a shopping centre. But just what is the event and how the fuck do we find the place?”
Thoroughgood nodded in reluctant agreement, "Okay faither, you’ve made your point. But correct me if I’m wrong, terrorism is a matter for MI5 or MI6 or maybe bleedin’ both but the one thing I am sure of is that this is way beyond our remit.”
Hardie growled back. “After the mess they made of the intelligence from the FBI warning them of London 7/7 would you trust ‘em to score in a brothel?”
Thoroughgood indicated he would not.
“Aye damn right. As much chance of Thistle making it back to the SPL this season,” concluded Hardie.
Thoroughgood ignored him and said, “The old man clearly has as much faith in our pair of London fops as we do. It’s like he can’t bear the thought of the intelligence agencies cleaning up the shite on his own doorstep. We put together the whole hawaladar thing and outed Rahman as the link between Tariq and the Rising Sun and more importantly that bastard Meechan. But with what happened to Sushi we haven’t exactly covered ourselves in glory.”
Thoroughgood paused to let his words find their mark before adding, “But that isn’t our problem mate. Bottom line is, this is too big for us; it’s time to let the spooks earn their corn. Nope, what we need to do once we’ve finished up at the UAE bank is take that feckin’ dagger back to the old man and get him to hand this whole shootin’ match over to the intelligence communities before it’s too late.”
“What about Meechan?” asked Hardie.
“Look, you know I want nothing more in this life than one chance to take
the bastard out but come on . . . In the cold light of day getting that chance seems unlikely. I mean how is he going to get back into the UK carrying a substance as lethal as enriched uranium? Or if the Mossad have put a Kidon on him? Nope, this Meechan thing is fantasy and I need to take a reality check on it. I need to put Meechan behind me and concentrate on the job in hand which is apparently spoon-feeding our friends from London to the extent that even MI5 can’t cock it up.”
The DC replied, “We don’t even know if Tariq’s gang of gunmen are from these shores or foreign imports. Or both. That’s what really worries me. How many sleepers do they have in Glasgow? Christ, Farouk could be one for all we know after this wild goose chase.
“What bugs me is the fact that we don’t seem to have a bloody clue where Tariq is holed up but he always seems to be one step ahead of us. It is like he is the one having us watched rather than the way it is supposed to be.
“Feck me Gus, how can you have a gang of tooled up jihadists running around Glasgow toting AK-47s and yet they manage to melt into the shadows without a trace. They are out of our league mate and it looks like they're out of those numpties from MI5’s league too. I wish someone would turn this whole thing over to the SAS.”
Thoroughgood could not help himself laughing at his partner’s thoughts on the matter.
Hardie continued his monologue. “You remember that the sniper’s rifles from Dowanhill and the Botanics were Russian made? And now our jihadist gang are supposed to be kitted out with more Soviet-style hardware. Then Balfour and his boys are whacked. It all adds up now, don’t it, with Meechan on the payroll of the Rising Sun. Christ, and I thought it was mere coincidence Gus. Nope, this is way out of our stratosphere.”
Thoroughgood held his hand up. “No more. Let’s just get out of here and up to Sauchiehall Street pronto. Hopefully Rahman doesn’t know what is coming his way. That said if Farouk has stitched us up here then who is to say Rahman isn’t on that feckin’ camel as well and the pair of them are on their way to Timbuk-bleedin’-tu! Fuck, I better post another lookout for him or he’ll have flown the coup. I think you’re right faither, the one thing we must do is keep ourselves right in all of this. If the shit hits the fan I am not getting covered in it for Tomachek, or anyone else for that matter.”
