by RJ Mitchell
45
THOROUGHGOOD RETURNED home at 5.30pm. As he opened the door the euphoria and adrenaline that had got him through the last few hours drained away and exhaustion hit hard. Even an hour’s sleep would be a blessed relief. He made his way into the lounge and walked over to the window, looking out at the street as his mind relayed a picture of the day’s events and the part he had played in them.
Tariq was dead and Glasgow was safe but at what cost? Plenty of good people who had been caught up in the crazed Imam’s madness were now dead. Farouk and now Aisha emotionally blackmailed and coerced into Tariq’s crazy world of religious lunacy. Both dead.
His mouth was bone dry and he felt emotion gripping him as thoughts of what might have been raced through his mind. He made his way into the kitchen and helped himself to an ice cold bottle of Carlsberg Export before returning to the lounge and sitting in the armchair. He took a sip of beer and closed his eyes.
This was it. Alone again.
He heard the agricultural roar of a diesel engine outside and automatically registered that a taxi had pulled up. A voice he recognised said, “Thanks, and keep the change.”
A tell-tale clicking of heels on the pavement outside followed and his intercom buzzed.
He walked into the hall and spoke into the voice box. “Yes?”
“Fancy some company, Detective Sergeant?” asked Vanessa.
“Do I have a choice?” he retorted.
“No, Detective!” she replied and a moment later he opened the door and looked into her beautiful blue eyes and at the blonde hair he could not wait to run his fingers through.
There was a slight dishevelment about her and Thoroughgood guessed the hospitality had been good. He opened his mouth to speak but she silenced him with her lips. They both stumbled back against the wall with the intensity of the moment.
Thoroughgood’s hands worked their way down the buttons of her velvet jacket and they soon found themselves in his bedroom as the passion of the moment took over.
Thoroughgood raised himself up on an elbow and checked his alarm clock. 7pm. “Bollocks,” he said and was met by a slight murmur from Vanessa. She rolled over and smiled up from behind the tousled blonde tresses that wreathed her face.
“Christ you’re beautiful, Vanessa,” Thoroughgood said involuntarily.
“Why thank you, Detective. What’s for dessert?” she asked playfully.
“Eh, well …” stuttered Thoroughgood, “You see I’ve gotta be somewhere in an hour.”
She feigned anger. “So you have your wicked way with me and then want to throw me out afterwards. I thought you were a gentleman, Detective Sergeant,” she pulled him to her and once again their lips locked.
As their passion reached its zenith a sharp crack rapped out. A micro part of Thoroughgood’s mind registered it as a handgun. The sound of the flat door being booted open and banging into the hallway wall was unmistakable.
As he turned to the bedroom doorway his worst nightmare was confirmed.
There, framed in the doorway, stood Meechan. The revolver in his hand aimed at Thoroughgood’s head.
“Did you think I would ever forget you, Thoroughgood?” said Meechan matter of factly.
“It didn’t take you long to forget Celine, I see. Miss Velvet, I believe?” He turned his attention back to Thoroughgood. “I thought you had better taste than some fake media tart, Thoroughgood.”
Thoroughgood’s mind swarmed as Vanessa, fear writ large over her face, quickly pulled up the covers and wrapped herself in them.
“Listen Meechan, you’re right. We have unfinished business but it’s between you and me. Leave Vanessa out of this, there’s been enough innocent people killed in this mess. I know the concept of innocence is beyond your grasp but for Christ’s sake, Meechan it’s me you want, not her.”
Meechan laughed loud but his icey grey eyes retained their feral fascination on Thoroughgood. “Get out of the bed both of you,” he shouted, “Now!” He unloaded a bullet into the wall above the headboard.
Vanessa screamed and Thoroughgood grabbed her. Slowly they shuffled through to the lounge where Meechan forced them to sit on the settee. He settled himself into the armchair.
“It’s almost déjà vu Thoroughgood. You remember your uninvited visit to Tara and your waste of my malt?”
Thoroughgood said nothing but pulled Vanessa tight to him.
“Get your slut to pour me a whisky before I decide whether to end her life before or after yours, you worthless piece of shit.”
“For fuck’s sake Meechan …” began Thoroughgood but stopped as his nemesis jumped onto his feet, grabbed Vanessa and jammed the revolver barrel against her head. “Don’t piss me off, Thoroughgood, or her brains will be all over your carpet.”
He sniffed her hair and whispered in her ear, just loud enough for Thoroughgood to hear, “How are you gonna tweet this you vain bitch? I assume the good detective keeps his malt over in that cabinet. From past experience I imagine there may be a bottle of Lagavulin in there? I seem to recall that when it comes to malt you’re into the peat? One last drink for the condemned man, eh?” Meechan was clearly enjoying the mayhem he was wreaking with their emotions.
He pushed Vanessa towards the antique cabinet with such force that the bedclothes that had been covering her fell to the ground revealing her ample curves for his viewing. Meechan admitted his appreciation. “Still got it, hasn’t she Thoroughgood? Was this the start of something beautiful, something to make Celine go away forever?”
The DS couldn’t help the anger in him spilling over. “What do you care you bastard? You’re the one who had her killed.”
Meechan gritted his teeth as he attempted to control his rage. “I had her killed because you had murdered our love once and for all. Taken the only thing that ever mattered to me. For that you will pay, and so will Miss Velvet. There can be no happy ever after for you, Thoroughgood, not while I still draw breath.”
Vanessa appeared at Meechan’s shoulder with the whisky and he took it from her. “A new experience for you, Miss Velvet, having to wait on someone else hand and foot?”
Anger over-riding her fear Vanessa shot back. “I don’t know who you are or why you are doing this but you will never get away with it, you bastard.”
Meechan jumped to his feet and backhanded her viciously. She stumbled onto the couch where Thoroughgood put his arms around her.
“Be careful what you say Miss Velvet because it may hasten your impending demise.” His attention was caught by the bible above the fireplace.
Before Meechan could say anything more Thoroughgood spoke, “You’ve been behind all of this haven’t you Meechan? It was through you that Tariq was supplied with his weapons and ammunition all ex-Soviet and stock in trade for the Rising Sun. That, in return for the death of Johnny Balfour and his cabal. But the enriched uranium? You’ve taken it too far this time. Do you think the Mossad will ever forget about you ripping them off? No chance, you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life looking over your shoulder.”
Meechan had finished his whisky and was leafing through the bible, all the time keeping the revolver levelled on Thoroughgood and Vanessa.
He read out loud. “Presented to Mr David Thoroughgood from the Kirk Session in appreciation of his services as Treasurer. Your father or grandfather, Thoroughgood?” he demanded.
“What’s it to you Meechan? There’s no room for any God in your world,” raged Thoroughgood.
But Meechan’s attention was back on the bible. “Ah ha! How appropriate, a handwritten prayer. Fitting, I think, that we end your lives with a prayer from the good book your grandfather so cherished. Stand up as I read you your last rites, the broken-hearted copper and his new harlot.” They hesitated and Meechan screamed. “Do it!” They jumped to their feet.
Holding the bible in one hand but keeping the revolver levelled on Thoroughgood Meechan walked across to the bay window reading aloud. “The Grace of the Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God
and the communion of the Holy Ghost be with you all.”
He slammed the bible shut and threw it onto the armchair. He turned to level the gun at Vanessa. “You first, bitch,” and his trigger finger started to move.
Thoroughgood shoved Vanessa back onto the settee and threw himself over her as the shot cracked out. But no bullet penetrated him.
He looked up as Meechan pitched forward, his head exploded, brain and blood spraying over the detective.
Thoroughgood sprinted towards the smashed bay window through which the deadly projectile had been fired and saw a black BMW burning rubber as it ripped down the street.
He turned to Vanessa who sat sobbing on the settee. “The Kidon,” he said in a gasp of relief.
Thoroughgood walked over to the body of the man who had ruined everything good in his life for the last decade and said one word.
“Amen.”
PRAISE FOR THE HURTING:THE GLASGOW TERROR
“The Hurting: The Glasgow Terror takes all the elements of RJ Mitchell’s debut novel, Parallel Lines: The Glasgow Supremacy, and places them on a bigger stage. The stakes are higher and the action scenes more thrilling, as the story expands out from personal vendetta to global terrorism: if you put a Glasgow cop with a death wish up against suicide bombers, you can be sure that sparks
will fly.
As the body count soars and DS Gus Thoroughgood takes repeated beatings that would have Jason Bourne crying for a time out, Mitchell is careful to root his fictional creations in factual reality of the city of Glasgow. The locations ring true even as characters and scenarios take on violent and exaggerated twists, with the result that this is a timely addition to the Tartan Noir genre.”
ALAN MORRISON, Group Arts Editor, Herald & Times
“A fast-moving thriller in which two desperate Glasgow CID officers try to thwart a Jihad on their own doorstep.
A suicide bomber detonates a bomb at a shopping centre. The countdown has now begun – but how do you track down the other bombers when you have no idea where they are hiding?
It all leads to a showdown at Ibrox stadium, where the action off the field is even more explosive than the action on it.”
RUSSELL LEADBETTER, Glasgow Evening Times
“RJ Mitchell’s latest presents a truly chilling scenario: fundamentalist terrorists wreaking havoc on the streets of Scotland’s largest city.
Keeping readers on the edge of their seats throughout, the author is a skilled exponent of the action set piece as outrage mounts on outrage and a rawly grieving DS Gus Thoroughgood faces a race against time to kick the legs out from under the evildoers before they can unleash their ultimate weapon.
Full of red herrings and false dawns – plus a leftfield “no way!” surprise return – this is a thriller packed full of blood and sweat that also has its human side: none more so than in the rendering of a Saturday morning, West End sniper attack that raises the pulse no question, but also left me with a surprisingly large lump in my throat besides.
A welcome addition to the Tartan Noir fold.”
GREGOR WHITE, Stirling Observer
For Arlene, Ava and Mum
Acknowledgements
FIRSTLY, THANKS to you, the reader, whoever you may be, for without you there would be no point.
As always, thanks to my darling wife Arlene; a lady who has the patience of the saint, and has needed every ounce of it!
Thanks also to my daughter Ava and my mother Margaret for keeping me in check.
For helping me realise my dream of being signed to a Scottish publisher, and for giving Thoroughgood and Hardie the second outing they deserve, my undying gratitude to Clare Cain, CEO at Fledgling Press. Also to Zander, founder of Fledgling, both have given hope and opportunity to aspiring Scottish writers.
Next, my gratitude to Flora, editor of The Hurting. Her ability to provide a different perspective has been vital. Thanks to Graeme Clarke for maintaining my website www.rjmitchellauthor.co.uk, and for his technical
expertise.
Gratitude to my Evening Times colleagues; Mick Brady for the excellent cover illustration, and Martin Shields for his imaginative photography.
Also to Brian McIntyre, general manager of W.H Smith, Argyle Street, for his encouragement and support.
As always, thanks to my old chums from the cops, Kenny Harvey and SupaMalky, for keeping me from straying off the radar. My gratitude to Major Niall Moffat for his technical expertise and advice on forms of terror used by the Jihadist. I also appreciate the Time Lapse Glasgow website’s virtual tours.
Thanks to the Daily Telegraph, a treasure trove of information on the Jihadist.
If I have forgotten anyone, please accept my sincerest apologies.
Enjoy!
For David Jones and Martin Kaney
You may be gone but you will never be forgottten
