The Hurting

by RJ Mitchell

  AS THEY pushed their way out through the growing crowd of passers-by and the devout gathering for prayer, both detectives realised how lucky they were that they did not have to deal with the fallout of this latest episode.

  Hardie had managed to get the Mondeo out from the kerb despite the crowd and turned back round towards the city centre. He mouthed quick clarification on direction of travel to Thoroughgood. “Sauchiehall Street?”

  Thoroughgood was nursing a frown that showed he was undecided, though it had initially seemed so clear that pursuit of Rahman was the logical next move.

  “Nope, I think we head for University Gardens and an impromptu meeting with Professor Farouk,” he said.

  “Okay,” was all Hardie had the energy to say, and as the DC looked at his mate he had to admit it would have been hard to tell who had been left more exhausted by the events at the Mosque.

  As was his wont Hardie couldn’t help himself articulating the maelstrom within his mind. “I’m fucked, pure and simple. Eight years until I pick up my pension and at this rate I have as much chance of making it to the golden handshake as Thistle have of winning the Scottish bleedin’ Cup.”

  “Charming!” replied Thoroughgood before turning to the issue at hand. “You aren’t the only one in that particular boat now, are you faither?”

  Hardie frowned in acknowledgement before Thoroughgood continued. “I think Farouk is the key to tying up some loose ends and that is why we are heading back up to the Uni. The bottom line is that he either arranged the meet with Rahman and then cancelled it in a fit of misguided conscience, or he sent us there without ever having made contact with our friend the hawaladar. Which do you think it was?” asked Thoroughgood.

  Hardie, by this time fag in mouth and elbow leaning over the driver’s window, had no doubts. “The former. You saw the lather the professor was getting himself in over his big dilemma. I think he made contact and then he reneged on it and warned Rahman off and that means it’s time we took the old boy into custody and made sure he gives us Rahman bang to rights on a silver platter.”

  “Eloquent as always,” said Thoroughgood just as the Mondeo pulled into a bay outside the department of Middle Eastern Studies.

  On entry into the department the detectives were met by Farouk’s secretary who informed them emphatically that the professor had taken himself over to the West Quadrant for a bit of fresh air to clear a blinding headache. The mention of the quads had Thoroughgood recalling halcyon days as he and Hardie crossed University Avenue on foot.

  “It’s amazing, considering I live half a mile away and drive up and down University Avenue virtually every day that I have never set foot in the quads since I graduated best part of 15 years back,” said the DS.

  “Fascinating,” commented Hardie with dripping sarcasm.

  “Aye, July 7 was the big day. I graduated with my MA Hons and enjoyed the old shampoo on the lawns within the quads. I’ll never forget it because it was the last time my mother and my old man were together in this life and they spent the whole day bickering. They may have been apart for almost 20 years before it but they went at it hammer and tongs and it wasn’t helped by the fact that my bird at the time made it clear it was the last place on the planet she wanted to be. Aye, happy days as you might say faither!” concluded Thoroughgood.

  Hardie’s surprise at his superior’s comments was clear in the habitual raised eyebrow. “You know that is about the first time I’ve ever heard you mention your folks Gus. Your old man is dead ain’t he?”

  Passing the security guard at the entrance with a quick flash of his warrant card Thoroughgood was already mentally back on the job. “Long gone. Now up the stairs and turn left and hopefully Professor Farouk is sitting on the verge at the back of the quads, enjoying the view out over the Kelvingrove and the Art Galleries and getting himself together ‘cause we are going to need him lucid for what he has coming his way.”

  They climbed the old, worn stone steps that would take them up past the Bute Hall – where the young Thoroughgood had spent many excruciating hours studying the demise of the Capetian dynasty and comparing the importance of Wallace and Bruce – and into the West Quad.

  Hardie, shivering as the autumn sunlight gave way to a chilly shade, could not help himself moaning, “Feck me, did you graduate with long johns on? It’s Baltic in here. Where are all of the student spongers?”

  Thoroughgood smiled. “Lunch time my dear Hardie. The GU beer bar and the QM will be packed. Aah the mammaries, sorry, memories, this place brings back. You know I’ve never told anyone this but I was going to ask Celine to marry me here, in the University Chapel.”

  Hardie looked shocked but before he could find any words Thoroughgood added, “That’s right and you know who I was going to ask to be my best man?” Clearly from the unchanged look on his portly chops Hardie did not.

  “You, dear old faither.”

  But as he scanned his side-kick’s face Thoroughgood saw that the cause of Hardie’s speechlessness was not his revelations but a body swinging from a cloister 30 yards to his right. As he turned to take in the sight Thoroughgood’s thoughts were once again articulated by Hardie.

  “Jesus H Christ it’s Farouk. The poor sod’s gone and hung himself.”

  35

  THE BMW drew to a halt outside the giant iron gates which had been shut for months. The passenger’s window rolled down to access the remote control and the gates swung wide. The vehicle drove along the estate road, eventually sliding to a halt on the white stones. Two men jumped out and made for the the imposing oak doors.

  The driver, a swarthy man attired in an immaculate Armani suit, watched as his companion inserted a key in the door, softly saying, “Ah, Tara, it’s good to be home.” Meechan turned to the driver adding, “You’ll be glad to know, Mr Rahman, that the drinks cabinet has been kept well stocked. A glass of Talisker?”

  “Thank you,” replied Rahman in his accented English and he followed Meechan through to the drawing room.

  Drinks poured, the two men sat down and Meechan cut to the chase. “Are we on course for the Nikah?”

  Rahman smiled thinly before replying. “Farouk is dead, Mr Meechan, and the balance of the sum agreed has been paid into the Swiss bank account you stipulated. The Imam has one more little diversion planned for your friends before the Nikah is carried out.”

  Meechan looked at the golden-brown liquid for a moment, swirling it in the glass before taking a draught and sighing in appreciation.

  “I had this house built as my family home. I planned to fill it with the voices of my children and the woman I loved. I was this close,” Meechan held up his thumb and a forefinger almost touching, “until these bastards ruined everything and I was left with nothing.”

  Again Rahman’s sleek smile; clearly he was interested in the circumstances behind Meechan’s flight from his homeland and his desperation to return to Glasgow.

  “Your circumstances interest me Mr Meechan,” he said. “We have talked for many months in order to make this business happen and to cheat the Jews out of the enriched uranium but business has always come first …” he finished, giving Meechan the option to elaborate.

  Meechan raised his glass in salute. “First, a toast to the ancient system and right of the Hawalidar. For without it, you and I would not be sitting here anticipating the realisation of our respective dreams.”

  “The Hawalidar.” They both raised their glasses but yet the discomfort and distrust between them was mutual.

  Rahman had rarely experienced the level of Meechan’s intensity, even when dealing with the religious fervour of Tariq and his Jihadists. The thick dark beard and mane of hair framing his ghoulish grey eyes gave Meechan an intimidating appearance that left Rahman feeling threatened. The banker had done his homework and knew of Meechan’s expertise in killing to order, extortion and intimidation, of his meteoric rise within the Rising Sun after his way in was paved by his associate O’Driscoll. It was said his rapid rise was down t
o the personal interest of the Russian Mafia’s leader Omar Youssef Tipsarevich himself.

  Appraising the banker with icy fire burning from his eyes Meechan could smell fear and enjoyed the sensation.

  “All of this and almost all of Glasgow was mine, Rahman. Almost within my grasp until I found out that the woman I loved was in love with a copper. She claimed the baby she carried was mine but I could not believe her and that meant that she had to die.”

  Meechan finished the sentence in matter of fact manner leaving it hanging in the air.

  Rahman sipped nervously at his whisky before replying, “As you say, Mr Meechan, I am no more than a hawaladar, a banker. I thank Allah himself that your path has led you to us and our arrangement which I hope will be most profitable for both parties.”

  Meechan sneered then continued, aggression and anger bubbling near the surface of his voice, “This is not about money for me, Rahman, it’s about revenge on the people and the city that spat me out. Total revenge starting with the death of Balfour and his hangers-on and from which there is no way back. The execution of the hostages is no more than a sideshow. I hope for your sake and your friend the Imam’s that it does not jeopardise the Nikah. Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly,” said Rahman.

  Meechan got up and headed to a large oil painting at the back of the room. He pulled it away from the wall, twisted the combination lock and the safe door opened.

  He removed an attaché case and placed it on the table between them.

  “This, Mr Rahman, is what you paid seven figures for. The key substances needed for your Holy Grail, the dirty bomb that al-Qaeda have been so desperate to get their hands on. And it’s all yours.” Meechan barked out a harsh laugh. “The weapon the West have been pissing themselves over for years; smuggled in on a Russian Trawler. It’s laughable Rahman, is it not?”

  “Nevertheless you have taken a great risk to get it here and we are grateful. May I ask where you brought it onto the mainland?”

  “Oh, we washed up on the Isle of Barra then shipped down to a wee cove near Oban which I’m told used to be a smugglers’ haunt. The rest is history.” Meechan added, “Now it is up to you and your organisation to make history of your own.” The smile that had temporarily lit his face was gone and the calculated viciousness returned.

  “It is almost unbelievable,” stammered Rahman.

  “Unbelievable maybe, but, with regards to this case, the proof is in the pudding. Your responsibility is to get it to the secure location without being intercepted. The Caesium 137 in the second vial is extremely soluble and reactive. You are confident that you have the expertise to help it, shall we say, reach its full potential?”

  Rahman shifted nervously but smiled that he was.

  For a moment Meechan seemed about to lose his temper. “Because I can assure you that if you fail it will matter not whether you are incarcerated or not, your life will be over.”

  Meechan took a quick slug of his Talisker but his cold eyes never left Rahman’s.

  He continued, his Northern Irish accent becoming markedly more pronounced, “You are aware that Mossad have sanctioned a Kidon squad to terminate my life for double-crossing them? That the Rising Sun are denying all accountability and that, at least in public, the blame will be all on my head?”

  Rahman nodded.

  “So you can see that the price I will have to pay for the revenge I want your organisation to help me achieve is very high.”

  “I appreciate all of that,” said Rahman, running his fingers over the suitcase, “I know how hard it must have been to procure the substances. I can assure you that it will not go to waste. We have men ready to make sure the bomb achieves its intended purpose.”

  Meechan smiled. “Good. Very good,” and he ran his fingers through the beard that had so altered his appearance since he last left Tara.

  But he had not finished. “Tell me about Professor Farouk? I believe he got cold feet?”

  Rahman finished his drink and stood up. “I can assure you Mr Meechan that he has been dealt with. The last loose end has been well and truly tied up and the police and MI5 have no route to me. Tariq’s headquarters are underground and will not be traced. We have an army of well paid observers watching the security services as they try to watch us. In short, we know what their moves are almost before they make them.”

  Meechan raised his glass in salute. “You know that there can be no contact between us via cellphone or email from now on? How do you propose to circumvent that?”

  Rahman surprised Meechan with a sneer of his own. “All communication with the Imam has been outwith both these channels for sometime now. We are aware that M15 are monitoring everything and that is why we reward our trusted street runners so well. Do not worry, Mr Meechan, we will remain in contact with you as needed.”

  “Remember this and remember it well Rahman. I am here to settle a personal score as well as a business one and I will allow no one to stop me achieving both.”

  After Rahman’s departure Meechan poured another Talisker and took himself on a tour of his property. The experience left him with mixed emotions.

  As he walked round the empty pool the memories came flooding back. The knife fight that should have ended Thoroughgood’s life but instead confirmed what he had dreaded all along. That Celine would never truly be his and that somehow Thoroughgood would always find a way to come between them. That was why she had to die.

  He opened the French doors and took his whisky out to the lochan, sitting on the grassy verge which overlooked it. Losing himself in its cooling blue hues, he knew that these moments of reflection at the estate would be the last he would spend at the place he had once called home.

  As his eyes swept the panoramic beauty of the Campsies, sheathed in the noon sunshine, he knew he had nothing to lose. The threat of a death squad had condemned his life to one of anonymity spent in the shadows – if he chose to live. To risk that marginal existence by exacting the revenge the desire for which burned his every wakened moment was no risk at all.

  He would not leave without Thoroughgood’s complete destruction. Raising the glass in the air Meechan spoke into the silence, “Count your hours Thoroughgood because they will be your last.”

  36

  THE DOOR creaked open and a man entered. He pointed at Fraser and spat two words: “Get up.”

  Fraser struggled to his feet and a few stammered words left his bloodied mouth, “For pity’s sake please …” But the handle of the man’s pistol smacked off the side of his jaw and knocked him into the cavern wall. As he staggered a powerful hand gripped his shoulder and he was dragged towards the door by a second shadowy figure.

  “What are you doing? Where are you taking him? Stop it! Stop it!” Vanessa screamed at her captors.

  “Shut the fuck up bitch or I come back here and make you beg to join him,” their captor said gesturing towards his genitals, leaving Vanessa in no doubt about what he had in mind for her.

  Fraser was dragged out into the corridor and propelled along it towards the main chamber. He knew about the medieval city that existed underneath present-day Edinburgh but this had a more industrial feel to it. Perhaps they were still in Glasgow, he did not know; his period of unconsciousness had distorted his perception of time and its passing. As his mind ran over the possibilities he was thrown to the ground in front of Tariq.

  He was restrained on his knees. Craning his head round he saw that he had been returned to the same chamber that had been used for the ransom video. A shudder of cold fear wracked his body and mind.

  Tariq spoke in a measured tone, “So, Mr Fraser, your moment of truth has, I’m afraid, arrived.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded Fraser, his voice shaking.

  “I mean that, despite the pathetic attempts of the infidel pigs in the FBI and MI5 to fool us, we know our brother has not been freed. Now you must pay for their lies and treachery with your life.”

  Fraser felt rough hands dragging him t
o his feet and in front of a huge banner emblazoned with Islamic writing. Once again he was forced down onto his knees and as he saw one of his captors start to film him, he knew that the last grains of his life were slipping away.

  “Stop, please stop,” he sobbed. “Look, I can get you whatever you need, just let me help you,” he spluttered through his broken mouth.

  Tariq looked at him dispassionately, his dark eyes pulsing with contempt. “But Mr Fraser it is not I who needs help, it is you who is the one in need of divine intervention.”

  Tariq reached down and picked up the long curved blade before he looked at the camera and spat a string of words in the language of his faith.

  The Imam moved towards Fraser and stood behind him before speaking to the camera again in his thickly accented English, “We demanded the release of our brother but instead you sought to deceive us with a film of his faked release. For that you have brought death on this godless son of a whore.”

  Fraser felt a sharp rush of air on his cheek and caught a glint of metal. He knew what was coming next. “No! Wait!” he screamed as Tariq’s words filled the background and the scimitar began its downwards sweep.

  “I despatch you into your hell, unbeliever.”

  The gleaming steel sliced through sinew and bone and the Leader of Glasgow City Council lost his head for the last time.

  “Allahu akbar,” shouted Tariq and his followers took up the chant with him.

  In her cell, snivelling in the dirt, Vanessa heard the chant cascading along the corridor and her awful certainty at what it meant sent a shudder through her body. The door to her room burst open and a second shudder of raw fear went through her.

  Tariq stood in the doorway and smiled viciously. “So, capitalist whore, what do I do with you now? That is the question.”

  For a moment Vanessa’s former pride stoked a fire of hate. “Go to hell!” she shouted.

  But Tariq had other ideas. “I believe that will be your final destination, not mine, Miss Velvet, but I wonder should I take some pleasure from you before I send you there?”