“So, gaffer, what happens if your wee coffee morning goes into extra time? Does that mean the Jags will be deprived of your support?”
“Fuck off faither,” was the terse reply.
Thoroughgood was saved by the bell of his mobile. The surprise caused by the display of Ross McNab’s name was so obvious, he let Hardie see for himself.
“This should be interesting,” said the frustrated Hardie.
“Hi Ross, how’s it going?” answered Thoroughgood.
“Not bad, but yer never gonnae believe this big man. Walt Brown got blown away at his bookies up in Springburn Way, and his two boys Jimmy and Davie were done in the car showroom half a mile away at around six p.m. just there. Who’s yer money on, Gussy boy?” asked McNab.
“Fuckin’ hell! It’s got to be Meechan. Whatever else that bastard may be, he doesn’t waste any time letting revenge go cold,” the DS admitted.
McNab was keen to continue.
“Listen, Gus, I was going to call you anyways to let you know we had a turn up in Springburn, and that the information was, the Browns were behind the attempted hit on Meechan earlier today.” He outlined the gruesome details of what happened to the Browns.
“How bad is the fire damage to the bookies, Ross?” asked Thoroughgood.
“The fire boys got there pretty quick, but the shop floor where it all took place is pretty well done. SOCO are going to have a problem lifting anything from there. It seems a blue Transit van was used for the hit, and we have a lookout for it on the go. But at six p.m. most of the shops are shut, and up in Springburn Way that just leaves the boozers To be fair, on a chilly April night the punters are inside no’ givin’ a fart about what’s going on out in the teeth of a howling gale.”
Sensing his colleague’s mind was going into overdrive, McNab, it seemed, had saved the best for last:
“Aye, the whole thing is a fuckin’ shocker all right. But here’s another one for you, Gus. They’ve put that fuckwit Henry Farrell in charge of the enquiry! Knowing that little wanker, he’ll have been up bleating at the Detective Super’s door to let him have his big chance the minute the shit hit the fan. The frightening thing would be if he manages to nail anything down; then his career will go back into orbit,” speculated McNab.
“So what did your informant say about the George Square turn? What’s the script there?” Thoroughgood asked.
“Well, we had a pretty good idea that the Browns wanted to extend their influence right the way over from Springburn and Possil into the West End and, according to our tout, there’s been a bit of a turf war waging. You won’t believe it, but our informant is claiming Franny Hillkirk was one of Brown’s men who had got in under Meechan’s radar, and it was only when he brought himself to Meechan’s attention that the bog trottin’ bastard took a closer look at him and discovered Franny was dodgy.
“Then you go stumbling about in the east looking for Hillkirk and find him all strung out hanging from a veranda. Well, Hillkirk was a cousin of Walt Brown’s, and he went for the jugular in terms of revenge by trying to take out the organ grinder himself. So there you have it. All of which I am bound, as you know, to pass on to Farrell and the boys at the CHIS unit. I just thought it was important to tip you the wink first,” concluded McNab.
“All very interesting, I appreciate it. And your tout is one hundred per cent?” checked Thoroughgood.
“Absolutely bulletproof,” claimed the DC.
“Ta again, Ross, and for your info, I’m meeting McIlroy tonight. You want me to give him your love?” enquired Thoroughgood sarcastically.
“You’re all right, Gus. Listen, that’s Farrell on the way over, I’ll need to shoot. All the best, mate.” McNab was gone.
Checking his watch, Thoroughgood saw that it was nearly seven, and with one eye on the fact he had a twenty-minute walk ahead of him to meet McIlroy, the two detectives made their way down the stairs and out past the two recently added bars which seemed so at odds with the original 1960s lounge.
Then it was into Ashton Lane and the cold night. The place had become the very heart of the West End, its streetlights spanning the twenty-foot gap from one line of pubs to the opposite. Thoroughgood always thought it felt like it was permanently Christmas in the lane. Walking round into Byres Road, Hardie asked:
“Are you gonna be taping this McIlroy, boss? Considering it’s the first meet, it might naw be a bad idea.”
In answer, the DS produced his pocket-size Dictaphone before adding:
“Spot on, faither, but I thought you’d probably want to listen in on what he is bringing to the table anyhow.”
Hardie hadn’t finished.
“Before you go, Gus, can I ask why the Snaffle Bit?”
“That was his choice. To be fair I’ve got to respect that, given the wee man is coming over close to the West End. Turns out the boozer is owned by an old Teuchter who McIlroy helped nurse back from a brain op in the Western and he’s been a welcome regular in there ever since. So it’s safe ground for him and handy enough for me. If he’s spotted by one of Meechan’s boys speaking to me he won’t get through the night,” summed up the DS.
“Fair play, gaffer. I’m just gonna head off home now but you could give me a call later on the moby. You know I’ll be all ears, Gus!” assured Hardie.
“Will do, faither,” agreed Thoroughgood, and with that he shoved his hands deep into the brown Barbour that seemed to have become part of his body, and trudged off down Byres Road right into the teeth of the gale.
Chapter 14
It didn’t take Thoroughgood long to sight Gerry McIlroy. The informant was seated with his back against a wall almost opposite the entrance, his presence partly masked by a copy of that day’s Evening Times, his shiny pate still evident.
Thoroughgood approached the informant and asked McIlroy if he wanted a drink. The lager shandy suggested was, Thoroughgood thought, quite appropriate.
Returning to join McIlroy, the DS placed the drinks on the table, seated himself and suggested a toast to “New beginnings.”
A large mouthful of Stella Artois later, Thoroughgood, his Dictaphone silently clicked on in his trouser pocket while he was waiting for the pints to be served, got down to business.
“Okay, wee man, there’s no point in us getting started without me putting you in the picture about what’s been happening up in Springburn in the last ninety minutes or so.”
“You mean the Browns getting wiped out,” retorted a deadpan McIlroy.
Struggling to keep his irritation from becoming obvious, the detective’s eyebrows instinctively shot up and before he could stop himself, he blurted out:
“How the fuck did you know about that?”
“Isn’t that exactly the type of thing informants are supposed to know about, Mr Thoroughgood? I wouldn’t be much good to you if I didn’t know. After all, what you specifically want from me, so Detective Constable McNab told me, is information on Declan Meechan.”
“All right. So tell me about Meechan then, since you seem to know everything else that is happening in this city,” snapped Thoroughgood.
McIlroy’s darting eyes met the detective’s and held his gaze in a flinty stare. Thoroughgood had the distinct feeling he was being summed up in more than a professional capacity by the tout he had obviously underestimated. The informant spoke.
“When we met down at the People’s Palace I asked you a favour regarding my mother’s housing predicament …”
Thoroughgood, with an increasing sense of unease developing as he began to feel he was becoming the interrogated rather than the interrogator, said,
“Listen, Gerry, there are no problems on that count. The GHA have a back and front door house waiting for her with a bit of a garden down in the Hardgate. You just give me something to start oiling the wheels of the housing department and we’ll be off and running.”
“I thought you would say something like that, Mr Thoroughgood, and it isn’t too difficult. Did you know Franny Hillkirk was
taken out by Meechan after he found out he was undercutting him and moonlighting drugs sales for the Browns from one of Meechan’s city centre pubs?” volunteered McIlroy.
It was the detective’s turn to take his companion by surprise.
“Actually, Gerry, that’s old hat I’m afraid. I took a call on that one about an hour ago. I believe Hillkirk was a cousin of Walt Brown’s, that right?”
“So you aren’t so uninformed yourself, Mr Thoroughgood. What do you need me for then?” asked the informant.
“A way into Declan Meechan that will help me bring him down,” was the DS’s bald request.
“Believe me, I have just such an opening, Mr Thoroughgood, but on the way to establishing mutual trust, you must start small to go big. Do you have any idea where the people responsible for tonight’s two hits are holed up?” asked McIlroy.
“Not a fuckin’ Scooby,” Thoroughgood admitted.
“By midnight tonight I’ll have a pretty good idea. For that information I must have your word that my mother will be in her new house no later than next week, Mr Thoroughgood,” demanded the tout.
Thoroughgood’s mind raced. It was a huge turn given the severity of what had just happened at six p.m. that night. But the triple murder enquiry was being run in E Division by DCI Farrell, the copper he hated more than most of the neds he’d ever jailed. It was information that Thoroughgood knew he had to handle with kid gloves. So he stalled.
“That would be some starter for ten, Gerry. But as you know, the Brown murder enquiry is not being run in my division. So I have to ask myself, just how much benefit I would derive from supplying others with information which would allow them to land and interview people I wouldn’t necessarily get access to?”
McIlroy was not going to be mucked about over information which he knew full well was red hot.
“You’re the detective, Mr Thoroughgood. Don’t you talk to your colleagues? Surely by placing the four persons involved in a triple murder, you would not only get a hell of a lot of gratitude from above, but what a bargaining tool it would be to interrogate your suspects on their relationship with Declan Meechan.”
“The latter will take some work Gerry, but yeah, you have a point. There are a couple of other things we’re going to have to clear up. Obviously I don’t know what it is, but do you want to remain registered under the pseudonym DC McNab gave you? Or do you want it changed when I re-register you?”
McIlroy shrugged his shoulders. After all, it wasn’t his problem. Thoroughgood continued:
“These days touts also have to be kept above board with the Central Human Intelligence Unit but they don’t need to know the juicy bits. I suggest we just keep you under the same moniker if it’s all the same to you. Secondly, I’m sure you will have a payment figure in mind. Turns like the one you’re offering me don’t come cheap after all, and nor should they,” admitted the DS.
Again the darting eyes seemed to be assessing all the angles before McIlroy would commit anything to words. A mouthful of shandy and a scratch of his shiny dome and eventually the informant’s face broke into a surprising smile:
“My pseudonym is Morse and if it’s all the same to you, I’d be quite happy to keep it that way.”
Thoroughgood was both surprised by the admission and filled with a desire to burst out laughing. Eventually he raised his pint of Stella Artois and saluted.
“To Morse.” One swallow later and the DS continued:
“There you go, one of life’s great big coincidences. My favourite TV detective, Morse, by the way. If that isn’t a good omen then I don’t know what is. I’d be delighted to re-register you under that name with CHIS, but what about payment? I am assuming you aren’t just doing this out of a sense of altruism.” asked the detective.
“No, that's correct, Mr Thoroughgood. Well, I guess it all depends on just what the information leads to. Given that there were four men involved in the two hits, that would mean a figure being put on each one’s head, should my information lead to their capture.”
A pause for another mouthful of shandy and Morse, as he was now to be known, continued:
“There’s no point in me playing it down, given that these men have just carried out three murders. And in the current climate, Strathclyde Police are not exactly getting a good press as we both know, Mr Thoroughgood.” Morse stopped again.
Thoroughgood was in no mood to mince his words:
“So, how much?”
“Twenty thousand pounds for the four males or five grand a skull, I’d say that was a pretty good deal. If you fail to make any apprehensions, my information is likely to lead you to a safe house routinely used by Meechan’s men in their various activities. For the house and the evidence you would likely be getting along with it, but without the males, I would be looking for, say, two and a half grand. I don’t think, Mr Thoroughgood, that you could begrudge me any of that.”
“There lies the problem, Gerry. I certainly wouldn’t begrudge you any of it but the brass, who have to authorise all payments to registered informants, can be a bit sticky about big bucks like this. You probably knew that anyway. But I’ll do my damnedest,” vowed Thoroughgood.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do a lot more than that, Mr Thoroughgood. I take it you didn’t see the Chief Constable on Scotland Today or Reporting Scotland earlier tonight? I saw his conference just before I left the house and he looked very uncomfortable. That was at four p.m. and was about the corpse that washed up in Milngavie Reservoir yesterday and the attempt on Meechan’s life at twelve p.m. today, outside the City Chambers. I would suggest your Chief is under a helluva of a lot of pressure in the wake of the gangland war that erupted less than two hours after he vowed to make Glasgow’s streets safe again.”
Morse continued: “Within four hours I will be offering you information that could, sorry, should lead to the arrest of the murderers. I think the Chief Constable, if he has a brain, will want that information, don’t you?”
It was a statement of fact rather than any search for confirmation.
“So, how do you want to play this?” asked the DS.
Again Morse had all the answers:
“When you leave this meeting I want you to make the necessary calls and I’ll expect a call back from you confirming the money is available at ten p.m. When that’s done I’ll elaborate a bit more. It’ll be a case of me providing the information as soon after midnight as possible. Then, Mr Thoroughgood, it will be up to your colleagues to make sure they act with the necessary speed to make the arrests. Does that all sound reasonable?” queried Morse, more as an afterthought than anything else.
“Fair enough.”
“Well, if that’s all Detective Sergeant, I will be on my way and look forward to our next chat at ten p.m.!’ said Morse.
He pushed his seat back and began to rise, only for Thoroughgood to grab his right wrist in an iron grip:
“Sit down a minute, Gerry. I want to ask you something.” Taken completely by surprise, there was a startled look on the tout’s face. Clearly the last thing Morse had expected was for Thoroughgood to get physical. Morse sat down but said nothing.
Damn it, the little blighter makes nothing easy, not even intimidation, said the voice in Thoroughgood’s head.
“Listen Gerry, there’s something else I need to ask you. But for personal, not professional, reasons. Please tell me that your source inside Meechan’s organisation isn’t Celine Lynott.”
Relief enveloped Morse’s stony face.
“Of course not, Detective Sergeant. You had me worried there but I don’t respond to heavyhanded stuff, as DC McNab will tell you.”
Chapter 15
Thoroughgood was in no rush to make his call to Detective Superintendent Tomachek. Whenever you put your faith in a new informant there was an element of doubt. Sure McIlroy, or Morse as he was now to be known, had been run extensively by Ross McNab, but his relationship with Thoroughgood was embryonic. For their relationship to be kicking off with such sign
ificance made the DS more than a bit jittery. When you put your head above the parapet and informed a senior officer you had the type of information Thoroughgood, via Morse, was going to be providing, there was always an element of “show me yer money.” Checking his watch, it was now nine-thirty p.m. Thoroughgood knew he had to bite the bullet and call his boss.
Detective Superintendent Valentino Tomachek, the son of a Polish wartime RAF pilot, wasn’t the type to berate a junior officer for calling him at home. Especially when the interruption to his evening was of this nature. Taking a long sip of his Shiraz, Thoroughgood punched in the number.
“Gus, my boy, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” boomed Tomachek from the other end.
“Evening, boss. I know you’ve finished for the night but I have something you need to hear. Ross McNab let me know all about the Brown hit, and I had a meeting with a tout earlier tonight who could be very helpful in that respect,” revealed the DS.
A momentary silence, as Tomachek digested what he desperately hoped was a glimmer of hope at the end of a forty-eight hour period in which he’d felt he’d been so far up his own arse, he’d been working in darkness.
“Fire away, son, we’ve got fuck-all to lose at this stage,” admitted Tomachek.
“Okay, boss. My man claims that by midnight tonight he may well be able to house the two teams who carried out the Brown killings. But for the information he wants five grand a skull, and we’re talking four shooters here. He is confident that if we don’t get the shooters, then at the very least we will get their safe house and whatever evidence is in it. No shooters, but the house and evidence, and for that he wants two-and-half grand.
“The tout also says the trail ends at Declan Meechan’s door but it’s going to take time before we’re in a position to chap it.”
“Go on, Gus,” instructed Tomachek.
Thoroughgood obliged.
“I left him about an hour back and I’m convinced he’s for real. Ross McNab used to run him, so he’s registered with the CHIS boys and the turns he has put up in the past will all be on record. I know that Ross and he enjoyed a working relationship that was very fruitful for McNab.
Parallel Lines Page 9
