The lazy spirals of smoke billowing out of the steading’s chimney indicated, along with the light from the main room, that the inhabitants were still enjoying the heat of the hearth, and after sporadic bouts of whispered conversation a semblance of a plan was hatched.
Thoroughgood suggested: “We need to check the two outhouses and see if there are any ladders kickin’ about, or anything that would help us up on the roof. It’s not as if it’s any great height. But if I’m going to get onto it and block the chimney before they’re alerted then it’s got to be bloody quiet. So you take the pigsty and I’ll check the other hut and see what we come up with, then we’ll meet back here in ten minutes. That’s 2.45 a.m.,” Thoroughgood suggested.
Every footstep felt like it was magnified one hundred-fold, as it echoed into the night. While the search for ladders proved fruitless, the detectives were able to uncover items which would make their diversion possible. An empty keg and a giant fork Hardie found pitched into a pile of decayed hay meant the plan could be carried out.
“Okay,” said Thoroughgood, “The chimney is situated towards the back of the main room and I walked round the perimeter when I was over at the byre; fortunately, the only door is the one at the front next to the Cavalier. So you’ll need to get the barrel round the back. I’d say the roof is ten foot off the ground, and the chimney another five feet up on the roof.
“If you can get close enough to the chimney without actually climbing onto the roof, you can hopefully thatch the top of it with the hay and block the smoke in. Give it a couple of minutes, and they will all be chokin’ and will come out the front. Then I can get the snaps taken and it’s a case of an RV back at the Mazda ASAP. That all crystal?”
“Fair enough, gaffer. Is the fork long enough to get at the chimney? ’Cos I had a look at the roof from the henhouse side, and I’d say the minute any weight is on it I’ll be right bleedin’through it.”
“That’s what’s made my mind up on you takin’ care of the chimney. You aren’t going to need to climb onto the roof, and by doing it this way you’re going to get an extra couple of minutes grace to get tae. Know what I mean?
“It’s going take me a couple of minutes to get all the shots I need of the gang, and then I’m going to have to find a way through the woods to get back to the Mazda. I’d say my chances of doing that are better than yours, with respect, old friend!”
With that, Thoroughgood reached into his pocket and tossed Hardie the car keys.
“I reckon we can do it okay. But all this chat is gettin’ us nowhere fast. If you’re okay with it, on you go round the back. Just take care, faither, and I’ll see you back at the Mazda.”
“Okay gaffer, just remember a reel of poxy snaps isn’t worth your life. I’ll have the RX-8 purring for you, facing home for Glasgow. Don’t be late.”
And with that, Hardie made his way round the back of the steading, armed with the pitchfork. Thoroughgood strapped the rucksack over his shoulders, checked the camera was ready and placed the solid steel Maglite torch at his side. A moment passed and Thoroughgood thought he heard some kind of scraping coming from the back of the steading, but there was no reaction from within. It was nearly three a.m. and the inhabitants had probably been drinking for the best part of two hours.
Still the smoke kept streaming out of the chimney. Gradually, it seemed to reduce until all but a trickle was evaporating into the night air. His eyes straining into the night sky, Thoroughgood thanked God there was no full moon lighting up the whole yard like the floodlights of his beloved Firhill shining down on the Jags.
Momentarily his thoughts strayed to Thistle’s home game with Airdrie later that day, when the door burst open and the giant figure of Frankie Brennan rushed out, coughing, spluttering and swearing in anger.
Thoroughgood immediately took another couple of snaps of the giant to make sure his identity was caught on camera. Next out was White Baseball Cap, who helpfully lifted his lid to allow the DS a clear shot of a podgy, unremarkable face topped with short dark hair.
The smoke was fairly billowing out of the steading by the time the third and fourth males burst out; they were notably younger, perhaps even in their teens.
Thoroughgood now had all four on camera, but curiosity was taking a grip on him and he hovered to see how the drama would unfold. Would the gang assume they had been rumbled or would they take a more practical approach to the mishap that had brought an end to their little reverie?
Thoroughgood refocussed his gaze on the front of the steading. The monstrous Brennan was, as he expected, taking control of proceedings. Pointing at White Baseball Cap, Brennan sent him round the back with one of the teenagers; then he gestured to the second kid to come closer.
Thoroughgood, less than twenty feet away, easily overheard Brennan’s instructions:
“Right Chico, we’re gonnae split up and take one of the outhouses apiece. You find anything, shout me. If naw, meet me back here when we’re finished and then we’ll make a sweep around the building. Fuckin’ move, will ye!”
Thoroughgood wanted to wait until the two males sent round the back had returned. If they came back and had seen nothing untoward then the chances were the gang would be none the wiser until they got up on the roof and checked the chimney. If Hardie had been more interested in getting off his mark than concealing his tracks then they had a problem and, more imminently, he himself would have to be on his way sharpish.
Thoroughgood tried to paint a mental picture of the terrain that had led him from the roadway where the Mazda was parked to the steading. Brennan and shellsuit soon returned to the front of the farmhouse, and a moment or so later they were joined by Baseball Cap and his teenage crony.
Thoroughgood clearly heard mention of the words “barrel and fork” while Brennan could be heard confirming that the hay in one of the outhouses had been disturbed. Brennan was soon barking orders:
“Right Simms, get up on the roof and unblock that fuckin’ chimney. Gaz and Chico, you’re comin’ with me. I don’t like the look of this, I think we might have had company. We need to split up and take a look around just in case anyone is hangin’ about who shouldnae be. You get a hawd of anythin’ you bring the fucker to me,” growled Brennan.
Time to get going, thought Thoroughgood with a smile. Useful though, he thought, the little snatches of conversation he’d heard. The mention of the names Gaz, Chico and Simms were all very helpful, thought the DS.
The hulking figure of the sour-faced Brennan reached inside his Berghaus and removed the sawn-off shotgun from inside. He turned round and started to pace towards the knot of birch trees hiding Thoroughgood.
But Thoroughgood was off. He had already scouted out an escape route for the worst case scenario now unfolding, and he warmed himself with the mental promise of the verbal roasting he was going to give Hardie for being careless enough to tip the gang off that they were not alone.
Thoroughgood’s plan was to make his way back along the loch shore-line, just keeping within the tree cover that conveniently hugged the banks. He reckoned if he did that for about five hundred yards or so, then cut up to his right through the woods, he would come into pastureland just before the main road that had brought him and Hardie into the Forest of Loch Ard.
There was no way he could use the Maglite to illuminate his progress and in the dark, in a wooded area, he was likely to find himself stepping on debris, twigs and fallen branches, all of which would give his pursuers plenty of warning as to the progress of their quarry.
That thought, the DS admitted to himself, was far from comforting, especially given the savage rage which had lit up Brennan’s face when he had been informed of the evidence pointing to intruders.
Thoroughgood had to focus all his concentration in making his way through the wood without alerting his pursuers, and that was proving no easy thing to do. His hopes of escape were not helped by the fact that Baseball Cap was wielding a torch in a sweeping arc, lighting up the ground ten to fifteen feet
in front of him. Thoroughgood took a quick look back over his shoulder as he heard a curse, and saw that the progress of the three silhouettes pursuing him had come to a temporary stop amid a volley of profanity.
“It’s me fuckin’ ankle. I never saw the branch. I cannae move it.”
Shellsuit had come a cropper. While Baseball Cap shone his torch down on his fallen mate, Brennan punched in his mobile and raised it to his ear.
You’ll be fuckin’ lucky getting a signal here mate, thought Thoroughgood.
But Brennan was soon barking orders down his mobile:
“Right Simms, what’s the score with the chimney? Hay stuffed down the top, fuck, so it was company. Will you shut the fuck up and listen? Chico’s fallen over a branch in the wood, about a hundred and fifty yards along the shoreline. Get yer arse along here and pick him up and return to the farmhoose. Then just sit tight ’til I bell ye. We have the scent all right.”
Brennan turned round and with a theatrical sweep of his massive right arm he stared out into the wood and shouted,
“Aye, the hounds are well on to the fox trail, you could say.”
The giant looked down:
“Look Chico, you prop yersel’ up against the tree here and Simmy will be along for ye in five minutes. Use yer lighter to flash him in. Now me and Gaz have got to go and find our uninvited guests,” he said before adding with a menacing chuckle in his soft but somehow harsh Irish brogue, “and I fuckin’ hate gatecrashers.”
Chapter 17
His pursuers only thirty feet away, Thoroughgood felt a chill surge through his body but he had no time to linger. Using the night-sight on his binoculars, he took a glance through the wood and along the lochside to make out a path that would be less challenging in the density of scrub and trees. His assessment was interrupted when he heard a crashing from the undergrowth behind him and noticed the spherical glow of torchlight on a tree to his right. Thoroughgood toyed with the possibility of making his way down onto the shore. That could only be done if he put enough distance between himself and his pursuers, but he would be breaking cover and then it would be a straightforward foot chase and stamina test.
Thoroughgood was unperturbed; a more than decent squash player in the West of Scotland First Division, he fancied his chances on foot against any ned. Of greater concern if he took that option was the mix of pebble and shingle on the shoreline, an even more precarious footing than the grassy banks underfoot in the wood. One misplaced step and he wouldn’t stand a chance. The voice in his head warned, Stay where you are and keep to the cover.
He continued to make his way in and out of the trees, but as he stopped to check on his pursuers’ progress Thoroughgood noticed Brennan and his mate had split up. The second male, with the torch, was now moving off to the right and it looked like he was going to try and cut Thoroughgood’s escape route to the road, while Brennan was now hugging the very edge of the woods just above the shoreline.
Thoroughgood estimated that he had been going for about four hundred yards or so, and it was time to start striking up in the direction of the road. The gap had not been significantly closed, but the DS knew, if he wasted time on a ninety-degree dog leg forced on him by the rapidly shortening stretch of available woodland, he ran the risk of being intercepted by Baseball Cap. Picking his footing as carefully as he could, while trying not to sacrifice any momentum, Thoroughgood started down into a gully and then disaster struck.
The bank descending into the dip was steeper than he had anticipated, and the combination of total darkness and slippery underfoot conditions caused by recent flooding made for treacherous ground. Thoroughgood was attempting to use his stronger right foot to keep the brakes on his descent when it gave way and he landed on his back, skiting down into the depths of the gully, a drop of maybe fifteen feet.
The crash was immediately picked up on by Brennan and his sidekick Gaz Reid. Thoroughgood saw the telltale sweep of torchlight slicing through the surrounding trees. He was definitely winded, but as he checked his right ankle, he breathed a sigh of relief, there was no damage. Putting pressure on it, he suffered some discomfort but nothing to stop him moving.
A dozen feet to his right he noticed movement, and spotted Baseball Cap coming into the gully from the side. Immediately Thoroughgood ducked behind the nearest tree, just as the torch shone into the bottom of the gully where he had been lying prone moments earlier.
Brennan’s voice, coming from behind him and still a way off boomed:
“You okay Gaz?”
“Aye, ah’m doon in the brae thirty feet in front of you. Someone’s had a fall by the look of it. I don’t think I’m far off them …”
Thoroughgood slammed the Maglite down with as much power as he could render, and heard a crunch as it impacted on Gaz Reid’s skull. Reid crumpled to the ground, taking a savage knee in the privates as he did so.
“That’ll teach you to try and run me into the Clyde, you little arsewipe,” spat Thoroughgood.
Reid was out cold and Thoroughgood quickly rifled his pockets to see if there was anything useful inside.
Nice, thought the detective when he uncovered a particularly wicked six-inch flick-knife tucked inside the waistband of Reid’s trousers. He had no time to waste and, grabbing his pursuer’s torch, he quickly started making his way up the far side of the gulley just as Brennan entered from the other side.
Thoroughgood reassured himself that the odds had been evened up now Brennan was no longer able to shed any light on his movements.
The DS began to build up some speed as he moved away from the forest, which was beginning to thin out as he approached the meadowland flanking the main road.
An enraged shout pierced the night and the giant’s voice filled the night air:
“Whoever you are I’ll find you, track you down and kill ye. Upon my wean’s soul I will.”
Obviously Brennan had located his fallen comrade. Thoroughgood briefly found himself nursing concerns over the crunch which had emanated from Reid’s skull when the solid mass of the Maglite had smacked into it. He immediately dismissed them. For years he had found the Maglite plenty more effective than the police issue batons. Even now that Strathclyde police were using telescopic batons, the solid reassurance of the Maglite and the years of trust built on the consistently effective results of its wielding, made it Thoroughgood’s preferred hand weapon.
Making his way up through the meadow, Thoroughgood jumped the fence and glanced down the road to the flashing headlights of the RX-8. Hardie was already installed in the driving seat and the veteran detective gunned the engine, which drew a thumbs-up from Thoroughgood.
The DS leaned on the fence and looked back down the meadow into the darkness. Gradually, a shadow started to merge into the solid mass of Brennan’s huge frame as the giant strode through the field. Thoroughgood put the nightsight to his eyes and saw with perfect clarity in the tarry blackness, the giant advancing with the sawn-off shotgun held waist-high in front of him. There was, he estimated, maybe fifty feet and closing between them.
Thoroughgood switched the full beam of the powerful Maglite on Brennan’s features. He shouted:
“Listen to me Brennan, you fucker. I hope your friend has one sore head; maybe that might make you think twice about trying to ram me off the Kingston Bridge. You tell your boss the net is closing.”
Brennan continued walking, his giant strides eating up the ground, and then the night air was shattered by the sound of his discharging sawn-off. The woodwork in the fencing propping up Thoroughgood was splintered by the spray of its pellets. The DS quickly dived to his right, rolled and then got back on his feet before sprinting along the road to the RX-8, which he was delighted to see Hardie had turned round and was now facing their only escape route.
Thoroughgood could hear the engine of another vehicle, and as he reached for the Rex’s passenger door he saw Brennan jump into the front of what appeared to be the blue Cavalier that had been parked outside the farmhouse.
&nb
sp; “Okay faither, let’s get a fuckin’ move on, eh?” demanded Thoroughgood.
Hardie, unused to the highly responsive engine of the Rex, overdid the accelerator in his desire to tear off, and the RX-8 choked on the surge of fuel caused by his heavy-footed efforts and stalled.
“For fuck’s sake, what’s the matter?” groaned the burly detective.
“You idiot, you’ve flooded it. We are not talking about your bog standard sports car here, this engine is sensitive. You tickle the accelerator, not flatten it to the floor. You’ve drowned her. Get out, we’re swapping,” raged the DS.
Thoroughgood jumped out the passenger door and sprinted round the bonnet, opening the driver’s door before Hardie had barely undone his seatbelt.
“Come on man, they’re nearly on us,” muttered Thoroughgood with a hint of panic in his voice, caused by the sound of the Cavalier shifting through its gears as it closed. With the aid of his colleague’s clawing hands, Hardie managed to get out of the low-sprung sports car and made his way as quickly as possible to the passenger side. By the time he had got there, Thoroughgood was already trying to tease the RX-8’s engine into action.
At last the engine responded and Hardie managed to park himself in the passenger seat although the door remained open. As he reached out to pull it closed, the sound of metal on metal and the bright spark of a bullet catching the inside of the door warned the detectives that time and distance were fast running out for them.
“Close that fuckin’ door, will you?” screamed Thoroughgood.
And they were off. Shifting through the gears to bring the coupé’s lightning acceleration was not an option, the road was just too tight and bendy, but Thoroughgood knew he had to put some kind of distance between the two vehicles or risk having both Hardie and himself shot to pieces or, even worse, his pride and joy, the Rex, pockmarked by bullet holes.
Parallel Lines Page 11
