by RJ Mitchell
“Fi aman Allah,” replied Tariq and the door slammed shut behind Aaban as he left and took with him everything that Tariq had planned so long and hard for.
Judgement day was almost upon them and there was no turning back. “Allah alim,”7 said Tariq out loud over and over again.
7 “God’s will,”
Vanessa choked on the gruel she had been almost force fed. She had lost count of the hours and then the days, and now she felt that she had begun to lose all hope of ever seeing daylight again.
She supposed she must still be in shock from Fraser’s decapitation. She had no doubt that a similarly grisly fate awaited her.
The guard sneered at her and waited for her to finish the disgusting semi-solid slop. Placing the empty bowl on the small wooden table next to her mattress she felt the guard’s iron grip around her wrist. “Maybe tonight, whore, I take my pleasure with you? You like it for sure,” he laughed.
It had become a cruel ritual that with every meal time he would taunt her but as she wallowed in her self-pity Vanessa heard another voice in the background.
“Ihfaz alayka lisaanak!”8 said the voice, “Get out.” Vanessa saw that Tariq had once more honoured her with his presence. His smile danced malevolently in the shadows on his face and he surveyed her ragged and filthy appearance with apparent delight.
8 “Hold your tongue!”
“Your time has nearly arrived. Just one more night and then, with the dawn, you will be consigned to oblivion forever. How delightful that all your vanities will be laid bare before your adoring public at the moment of your death. For, my dear Miss Velvet, by the time we have finished with you, you will clamour for death. And all the while your humiliation and agonies, your final breaths, will be shown on film; displayed on the websites of the faithful all over the globe. Another example of how the West, and one of her whores, can be brought low and subjected by the faithful. By the power and will of Islam.”
Vanessa said nothing. Exhausted, all resistance had left her and she was resigned to her fate.
After a while she realised that Tariq had ceased talking but was continuing to sear her with his gaze. She sat with her knees up to her chest and her arms wrapped tight around them thankful for the heat that radiated from the wall torch.
“So, you have nothing to say to me, Miss Velvet? Where is your pride now? Just another snivelling plastic bitch. As you say in the West, all show and no substance.” He laughed once more.
Vanessa shut her eyes and prayed he would leave but her horror was intensified when he softly sneered in her ear, “What do you think Miss Velvet, should I give you to Najeeb so he may at last indulge his base desires?”
Vanessa sobbed and her whole body ached with the motion.
Tariq whispered once more, “No? I thought not. You may have a final night to reflect on your sins and iniquities, Miss Velvet. Tomorrow they will be cleansed once and for all.” The Imam administered a backhanded slap that knocked her flying, leaving her sprawled on her soiled mattress.
Utterly bereft of all hope, and certain in the knowledge that a fate beyond her worst nightmares awaited her, he left her broken and hysterical.
40
THOROUGHGOOD AND Hardie scanned through the online material at the Mitchell looking for references to abandoned underground sites. The city and the West End in particular was sitting on top of a long-since forgotten memorial to the Victorian engineers who had constructed the Glasgow Central Railway.
Thoroughgood turned to the librarian who was hovering behind them. “Do you have an anteroom, Miss Morris? It would be more suitable for scrutiny of the material that concerns us.”
“Follow me,” she said and led them to an empty wooden-panelled reading room with a slightly musty atmosphere.
Before she left the detectives to their study she favoured Thoroughgood with a smile, providing Hardie with a source of mirth.
“Looks like you’re the academic bird’s perfect piece of crumpet.” Jumping on the chance to crowbar his way into Thoroughgood’s tortured love life he continued, “While we’re on the subject of romance, how is Alicia?”
“For Pete’s sake, you’re like a butcher’s dog … and it’s Aisha as you know full well. I’m seeing her tonight; her dad has just gone to meet his maker under suspicious circumstances, so how do you think she is? Now, can we return to the purpose we’re here for?”
“Sorry gaffer,” said Hardie shamefacedly and
reabsorbed himself in his subject matter. Running his finger along the route of a railway line he almost shouted, “The Botanic Gardens Railway Station!”
Thoroughgood looked to where Hardie was pointing. “I’ve heard of it. Burnt down and unused for God knows how long.”
Hardie read out the information in front of him. “The station was opened on August 10, 1896, by Glasgow Central Railway. Although the station building was on ground level, the actual station platforms were underground, beneath the Botanic Gardens themselves. The station closed between January 1, 1917 and March 2, 1919, due to wartime economy then closed permanently to passengers in 1939. The line itself closed in 1964.”
Thoroughgood’s scepticism was obvious. “No doubt bricked up and cemented over long since. How are a gang of gun-toting fanatics going to get in and out of there without being spotted? Nope, I’d say you are barking up the wrong tree there, faither.”
Hardie carried on, “The station building was an ornate red-brick structure with two towers sporting a clock and the Caledonian Railway monogram. Topped by domes reminiscent of a Russian Orthodox church it was a well known landmark along Great Western Road. Too bleedin’ right.”
Thoroughgood’s drumming fingers showed his impatience as Hardie’s history lesson continued. “Designed by the renowned Glasgow railway architect of the period – James Miller – who also designed the interiors of the famous Clyde Built ocean liners, the Lusitania and the Aquitania in 1914. Hints of features in these more famous designs could be found in the Botanics Station itself. What a pity it’s gone.”
“But it is gone, my dear Hardie, which is why we are wasting our time here. We need to do our digging elsewhere,” said Thoroughgood. As an afterthought he added, “Okay, how did it all go belly up?”
Hardie read out loud, “After the line closed in 1964 the station building was transformed into the Silver Slipper Café. Okay boss, here we are. An Evening Times article from 1970.
“‘A fire started after a Battle of the Bands contest had been held in the nightclub. It was primarily the roof space that burned, resulting in the decision of the Fire Brigade to pull down the two domed towers for safety reasons the following day.’”
Hardie’s features changed. “Apparently the café owner's German Shepherd went to the great kennel in the sky after dying of smoke inhalation,” he said, a lump in his throat.
“You and your bleedin’ animals. At least no one bought it.” Thoroughgood said taking over scrutiny of the plans. “Right, here we go, the bottom line.”
“‘Despite the outer walls of the building remaining intact and the damage confined largely to the roof area, the decision was taken by the then Glasgow Corporation not to undertake repairs and instead to completely demolish the building and leave the site derelict. At the time of the fire, plans were being considered to demolish the building as part of a controversial scheme to widen Great Western Road and this may have been behind the decision not to repair the building despite its prominent and recognisable presence in the West End for seventy-four years.’”
Thoroughgood couldn’t help himself: “Yup, old Jamesy Miller and the hound of the Botanics will be turning in their graves.”
But Hardie ignored his sarcasm and grabbed the faded copy of the Glasgow Central Railway plans he’d been looking at earlier. “Look at the plans, Gus,” he demanded. Hardie’s finger traced its way along the lines. “Here we are; old stations at Partick West, Kirklee, the Botanics, Kelvinbridge. It’s all there. Don’t you think we should make a site visit before cast
ing it aside?”
Thoroughgood considered, “You might have a point, faither. Looking back to the shootin’ in the Botanics, I thought something wasn’t right the way our sniper managed to take him out and then vanish into thin air.”
“Plus the business in Dowanhill. And One Devonshire Gardens is in the West End too. Most of the action is taking place this side of the Clyde and each time the terrorists disappear without a trace. Too bleedin’ easily in my book, Gus.”
“You’ve got a point. There may be a way into the underground at some point along the line. How many stations are there?”
“Eight in total. Partick Central, Partick West, Crow Road, Hyndland, Kelvinside, Kirklee, Botanics, Kelvinbridge,” answered Hardie adding, “There must be access points along the way that will be away from the public eye. Why don’t we start at Crow Road?”
“No, too far away. We want to start at one of the stations next to the Botanics. And we can’t go right in without stirring up a hornet’s nest, we need observations first. That’s if this isn’t a whole bleedin’ wild goose chase.”
Hardie asked, “So either Kirklee or Kelvinbridge? Kirklee?”
“Gotta be. It’s far closer,” said Thoroughgood, his excitement showing in his voice, “Just maybe we’ve nailed it, faither.”
“We gonna inform Tomachek or Etherington? Or both?”
“The auld man needs to know about this even if it’s just a reccy. After the reccy we can drop in at the Marine and let Etherington know.”
Twenty minutes later, having negotiated the West End evening traffic, the Mondeo drove through Kirklee crossroads. Hardie punctured the silence, “That’s it, stop there, where the old Callender’s Mercedes garage used to be.”
Thoroughgood looked surprised. “I used to work at that garage as a security guard back in the mid-eighties. It’s long gone now though.”
Hardie’s head was buried in his documents from the Mitchell. “It says here that the station buildings were constructed from red sandstone and straddled a bridge connecting the line to the mouth of the Botanic Gardens Station tunnel. We need to leave the road and head off into that foliage running towards the Botanics. Can you cope with your Sherman suit and Loake brogues getting mucked up? I know how particular you are about your appearance,” laughed Hardie as both men got out out of the car. Thoroughgood’s back was the only answer he got. The DS crossed the road, vaulted over some fencing and went down a bank with Hardie in not-so-hot pursuit.
The DC shouted, “Hold on Gus, you’re just passing what would have been Kirklee Station’s booking office. It was built on the legendary ‘Three Trees Well’ and allegedly, a popular spot with young Victorian lovers.”
Exasperated, Thoroughgood turned and saw Hardie was stuck, half-over the fence. He offered him a hand. “Look faither, all that Victorian stuff is fantastic but can we just stick to the here and now? The light’s fading and I want this reccy done and dusted.”
Hardie, puffing and flustered, folded his map into a tight rectangle and continued in a more business-like fashion. “Okay, I would say the concrete under the foliage will be the remainder of the Kirklee platforms. Over there looks like a bricked-up bridge and the trackbed runs towards the Botanics which is where we want to be heading.”
The detectives walked along the old railway trackbed, passing the ruins of an ancient sleeper. “There it is,” called Hardie and pointed 100 metres down the trackbed. “The old tunnel mouth!”
“Will you keep the noise down, for feck’s sake,” whispered Thoroughgood adding, “We’re going to have to be bloody careful from now on. We could be 200 meters from Tariq’s lair which is likely to be full of AK-47 wielding maniacs. Now, let’s hide in the foliage behind me.”
Hardie followed Thoroughgood to the side of the trackbed and dropped to one knee out of view. Thoroughgood took out a pair of binoculars and pointed them in the direction of the tunnel. The DC whispered, “You see anything?”
Thoroughgood answered, the binoculars still pressed to his eyes. “Yup! There’s definite movement beyond the iron railings. Let’s see if we can get a bit closer. I think I have the beginnings of a cunning plan!”
“Okay, you let Etherington and the auld man know where we are and what we suspect.”
Hardie looked suspicious. “You?” he asked.
“Look, let’s keep it simple, you head back to the car, make the calls and then come back. I just want to take a closer look and see what I can come up with. Nothin’ heroic, just a bit of snoopin’.”
“Come on Gus, you’re playing with fire.”
Thoroughgood attempted a mollifying smile but had a far-away look Hardie recognised from the encounter with Felix Baker and the fight on the mosque roof.
“Like I said, I just want a butcher’s,” the DS reassured Hardie.
Hardie was not buying it. “Pull the other one! You’re up to something and you don’t give a damn what the consequences are for yourself and we both know it.”
“Like it or not, faither, this is a one man reconnaissance mission and the sooner we both get on with what we’ve got to do the better,” said the DS, rising and stretching out his hand. “Adios amigo!”
Hardie shook his mate’s hand but before he could offer any further argument Thoroughgood had disappeared into the foliage. Staring into the semi-darkness Hardie wondered if he had seen his mate alive for the last time.
41
THOROUGHGOOD APPROACHED the mouth of the tunnel, thankful for the increasing murkiness that was now masking his progress.
The metal fence across the face of the tunnel stood around 10 feet high. Using the binoculars’ night sights he could see that, although most of the railings were rusty, one section appeared unweathered. It had obviously only recently been installed to provide a smoothly opening entrance that neither creaked nor jammed.
He noted a copse of decaying silver birches that had been semi cleared to provide an unobstructed area outside the tunnel.
He crept closer to the fence. A pin prick of light glowed in the darkness behind the railings; a cigarette being inhaled. Obviously, someone was on guard within the blackhole of the tunnel mouth and Thoroughgood decided he needed to draw him out if he was going to have an effective reccy.
The obvious means would be to rattle the railings and wait for the guard to come and investigate. Reaching into his jacket he felt the ivory handle of the dagger protruding. He grabbed it and, leaving the cover of the foliage, planted it on the ground a few feet in front of the railings. He picked up a broken branch before taking cover again around five feet away from the dagger.
He clattered the railings with a succession of stone throws and, sure enough, the glow of the guard’s cigarette moved closer. When he drew closer Thoroughgood recognised him as the beggar from McDonald’s a couple of days ago.
The guard opened the gate and stepped forward, flicking the cigarette from his fingers onto a damp sleeper.
Even in the murky darkness the male could not fail to notice the bejewelled ivory handle of Saladin’s dagger. He made straight for the relic.
As he passed Thoroughgood’s hiding place the DS saw a handgun protruding from the male’s hoody pouch. Ignoring it, he smashed the branch down onto the back of the guard’s head and was rewarded with a grunt and a thud as he pitched forward onto the sleeper. “No need for a ten-count, matey!” said Thoroughgood to himself.
The DS dragged the body into the birches where he cuffed the guard to a tree and gagged him with the Burberry scarf that had been wrapped around his neck. He was out cold and no longer an issue. Taking the revolver Thoroughgood also helped himself to the hoody. He wedged the dagger into his belt, slipped through the railings and began to make his way tentatively through the blackness of the tunnel.
Despite the night sights Thoroughgood made slow progress along the debris-filled tunnel. The constant dampness chilled him and icy water slopped over his brogues. Slowly he continued to edge along the wall of the tunnel, revolver in his hand, hood up and
the binoculars now hidden inside the hoody.
As he approached the bend he could hear voices speaking in Arabic. They were coming his way. Thoroughgood knew that his options were limited and that soon he risked an exposure that would be fatal.
The flickering of torchlight began to sweep the tunnel wall above him and he dropped to his knees just as two males came round the edge of the bend diagonally opposite him. One of them said something and they laughed, then he continued his progress along the tunnel while the other remained stationary for a while and then started to walk back.
The figure on his way towards Thoroughgood seemed likely to be the relief for the guard at the entrance. A voice in Thoroughgood’s head summed up his predicament. ‘If he makes the tunnel entrance and finds matey gagged and bound, you’re on a one-way ticket down shit creek without a paddle. But it’s one-to-one now he’s detached from his neighbour. Fair game.’
As the male walked past Thoroughgood’s hiding place the DS tripped him. The minute he went down Thoroughgood was on him with a punch that cracked off his jaw and caused a cry of pain. A double fisted salvo administered from atop the prone figure put his lights out. Thoroughgood grabbed the guard’s dropped AK-47 and was once more on his way. So far, so good.
But, as he passed the curve in the tunnel, Thoroughgood could see a further gateway and the male who had turned back standing in flickering light.
The use of torch-light surprised Thoroughgood momentarily, then he realised there would be no electric or gas supply to the old out-of-use tunnels.
Taking stock, the voice in his head went into overdrive. ‘What the fuck is this? Your very own suicide mission? What are you going to achieve? A bullet in the brains? For cryin’ out loud you’ve got your confirmation that this is Tariq’s lair and there’s a body sittin’ outside waiting to be taken into custody. Time to get out.’
But in the blackness Thoroughgood heard his own voice speak out loud. “For what?” He edged towards the inner gateway.
