Parallel Lines

by R. J. Mitchell

  The Cavalier remained dangerously close to the RX-8, hovering on its left shoulder as the two vehicles turned into main street Aberfoyle and another shot rang out, this time smashing into a postbox five feet to Thoroughgood’s right. He glanced in his rear view and saw that Brennan, like some bizarre outsized cartoon character, was shoehorned into the front passenger seat with the youngster. The DS had no worries about being able to outdrive any teenager, even one like Simms, who had been one of the most prolific juvenile car thieves in the city in recent years. What worried Thoroughgood was the handgun Brennan kept firing off from the passenger side.

  Brennan, the type of man who would leave a badly injured mate lying unconscious in a wood to gain revenge, undoubtedly had a psychopathic intent. Still, as the RX-8 surged out of Aberfoyle, Thoroughgood took the pressure off the accelerator and let the Rex slow.

  “You fuckin’ mad? How many times do you want to get shot at in the one night?” screamed Hardie.

  Thoroughgood’s eyes and his attention were fully engaged by events in his rearview. The RX-8 was now going back down the gears and crawling in first as the Cavalier surged forward. He lowered his electric window and stuck out his right arm before raising his middle finger in the time-honoured traditional insult.

  At last he shifted through the gears into third, 189 bhp surging through the Rex as it snaked along the A821 on the way back to Glasgow. The Cavalier, a moment before only twenty-five feet away, soon faded into the background. For the first time that night, Thoroughgood found himself starting to relax. Their escape complete, he began to have some fun over Hardie’s clumsy getaway attempt.

  “Fuck’s sake faither, you sure you’ve passed your driving test? And you wonder why I’m not falling over myself to let you drive the Rex? For a minute back there I thought you’d got stuck in the driver’s seat!” grinned Thoroughgood.

  Hardie was still shaken by the events of the last few moments.

  “These bloody bucket seats are murder tae get oot of. With my dodgy hip it’s like getting sucked into a bucket of bleedin’ sand. Anyway, now we’re on the way back home, are you going to tell me exactly what happened back there before the Wacky Races? I heard the sawnoff getting discharged, you okay?”

  “Fuckin’ wonderful, what do you think?” answered Thoroughgood. “Never mind that, what the bleeding hell were you doing leaving the barrel and the fork out for Brennan and his boys to work out they were being watched?”

  Hardie was clearly uncomfortable with his negligence.

  “Ah, that. Well to be truthful, I slipped and fell off the barrel and when I heard the door opening I thought the noise had alerted them so I just got off the mark.”

  Thoroughgood shook his head and met Hardie’s explanation with an incredulous:

  “Sham-bloody-bolic.”

  Thoroughgood’s alarm went off at nine twenty-five and, after taking a moment to come round, he headed for the shower. Feeling lightheaded, like he had just come off a nightshift and been woken up in the middle of his sleep, the DS wondered if the previous hours’ events had all been a dream. The warm jets of the shower burned into his back, gradually helping to relax the knots in his shoulders and down his spine, which felt like it had a piece of plyboard inserted in it. He soon had coffee rustled up and rapped Hardie’s door before entering.

  “Rise and shine Schumacher!” quipped Thoroughgood, and got a “Fuck off ” from somewhere under the duvet.

  Leaving Hardie to come to, he headed back for the kitchen and, after devouring a slice of toast, called Tomachek.

  “All right, so let me get this. You’ve been shot at half a dozen times, done God knows what kind of damage to one of their men, and then been involved in a high-speed car chase through Aberfoyle with more lead flying? Balls and buggery, for fuck’s sake Thoroughgood, I asked you to play it safe and just concentrate on getting them all on camera.

  “Now they know who we are, and more importantly, that we know who they are. That’s a big plus. It’s not as though I can get on the blower to Central Scotland polis and let them know two of our officers caused a spot of bother on their patch in the middle of the night involving a running gun battle and high speed car chase through Sleepy fuckin’ Hollow.”

  “Sorry sir,” was the best Thoroughgood could come up with before attempting some mollification.

  “At least we’ll be able to make every one of them, and surely a Section Fourteen shot would be a good move with two of them kids.”

  “Aye aye, I know all that but we have no evidence, man. It’s not as if I can have the house searched when we weren’t even supposed to have been there. I just hope they don’t go making a complaint to Central Scotland polis!” said Tomachek with some levity at last creeping into his voice.

  “No boss.”

  Thoroughgood knew better than to try and hijack a rant from his superior. The wheels of his mind continuing to turn, Tomachek continued to share his assessment of precisely where last night’s events had left them.

  “So, we know we have good-quality film of four murder suspects which we didn’t previously have. The circumstantial side of things is certainly pointing strongly to them all being up to their necks in it, but none of that is going to be admissible in court.

  “Aye, and I would imagine yer man Morse is going to be pretty pissed that we have blown their safe house but got no arrests to show for it. You’ll need to explain the way things are when it comes to operating outside of our turf. But don’t worry on that front, Gus. Morse will get paid; I’m sure we could squeeze a couple of thousand out the kitty for him.” Tomachek took a breath.

  “Right, get IB to sort the pics and then I want them delivered on disc to Henry Farrell. He will Section Fourteen ’em all right, if I have my way with it. The fact that two of the gang were rookies is just too good an opportunity to miss. Och well, you and Hardie are both home safe and sound and we have something that will cheer up the chief.”

  Thoroughgood had another call to make: Morse. Another slice of toast and a fresh coffee were badly needed, but before he could he rise from the kitchen table he was startled by an apparition now in front of him and framed inside the kitchen doorway.

  There, in his full Seventies glory, was Kenny Hardie, resplendent in thick gold rope necklace, medallion dangling on the end, vest trailing down over tight red briefs and what appeared to be last night’s pair of odd socks still on his feet.

  “Jeez,” said Thoroughgood, with a wink, “lookin’ at you makes me feel a million dollars!”

  Chapter 18

  “Mr Thoroughgood, a successful night’s work, I trust?” enquired Morse’s clipped tones.

  “I’m not going to bullshit you, Morse, the answer to that one is a bit of yes and a bit of the other,” admitted Thoroughgood.

  Silence from the other end of the mobile, then Morse said:

  “Why don’t I like the sound of that? Surely you found my information to be accurate?”

  “There was no problem with that. We found the farmhouse, no problem, and when we were making our way in on foot the Cavalier passed us, so we couldn’t have asked for much more.”

  Thoroughgood then launched into a full Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels recount of the night’s action.

  The DS had been describing how he had dealt with Baseball Cap, who he thought Brennan had called Gaz Reid, when his account was interrupted by the informant. Morse had quizzed the detective on that particular part of his story to such an extent that Thoroughgood began to feel like he was under interrogation.

  Morse fired off a whole batch of questions, asking for a rough physical description of Baseball Cap which, because of the darkness of the forest, was impossible to give. The tout wanted to know just where he had landed the Maglite on Reid, and the extent of the damage Thoroughgood had done. Such was Morse’s appetite for information on his battle with Baseball Cap that Thoroughgood challenged Morse on the reasons behind his questioning.

  “Look Morse, what the fuck is goin’ on here?
Maybe I should have left this bit out ’cos to be quite frank, the way I clocked him and the noise of the impact, he could well have a fractured skull, hopefully no worse. So pardon me if I’m a bit fuckin’ touchy about it, but why do you want to know every little detail?”

  “Because, Mr Thoroughgood, and this must remain between you and me, Gaz Reid is my man on the inside.”

  “Ah,” was all Thoroughgood could manage by way of a reply.

  “If you’ve done Reid in then we may have a real problem with our information flow,” admitted Morse.

  Thoroughgood could not help curiosity getting the better of him, and before he knew it the question was popping out of his mouth:

  “So how the fuck did you get to know Reid?”

  “Like I said, that will have to keep for when you hand over the money. But if you value the working relationship we are building here you will keep that piece of information between us,” instructed Morse.

  Thoroughgood lied to get off the line and end a difficult call he had had his fill of:

  “Listen, wee man, I gotta go. I’m absolutely knackered and I think I’ve got the flu comin’ on after my night out rolling about the freezing ground in the middle of nowhere. You have a good weekend.”

  “Likewise, Detective Sergeant,” was the distinctly unimpressed reply.

  Once again Morse had knocked the DS off balance. How the fuck had he managed to get one of the gang on side? More importantly, had the blow he’d landed with the Maglite meant the source of information would be stopped either temporarily or permanently?

  By the time he’d completed his call to Morse, Hardie had managed to pour himself into his clothes. Thoroughgood quickly brought his number two up to speed with the details of the call, including the sidebar about Gaz Reid.

  Hardie was impressed, but less so when his gaffer asked him to hotfoot the surveillance camera into Force HQ, Pitt Street, so that the pictures of the gang could be put on disc for Tomachek.

  “Come on, gaffer, I’m just off the blower to the missus and she’s naw happy. That’s nearly eleven and by the time I get into Disneyland and back to Knightswood I’ll be late for lunch, and that will mean a major row after last night,” groaned Hardie before adding:

  “Anyway, gaffer, what’s to stop you?”

  Thoroughgood smiled. “Well, you may remember I have a coffee date down at Tinderbox in roughly half an hour.”

  “Och aye, Sara the civil servant, naw we couldnae have you missing out on that one, not after all the trouble you’ve gone to with the speed datin’!” A huge smile washed over Hardie’s ruddy chops.

  “Consider the camera delivered, gaffer. In fact I’ll just get my jacket and get tae. You’ll be wantin’ to psych yourself up for your big date, no doubt. Get in front of the mirror and all that!” winked Hardie.

  Hardie headed out into the hall and clicked the flat’s front door off its latch before turning and adding:

  “Now remember gaffer, I’ll be expecting a full debrief—pardon the pun—on sexy Sara!”

  It had been a long night, and although Thoroughgood had managed over four hours sleep, he was tired. The calls to Tomachek and Morse had forced his brain to engage and managed to banish the fatigue temporarily, but now it returned.

  It would take him five minutes to walk down Hyndland Road to the Tinderbox, and maybe the fresh air was just what he needed at this stage, though God knew he’d had enough of it last night. It was hardly ideal preparation for a first date he’d tried to keep low-key but couldn’t help but approach with more than a bit of hope.

  Sara the civil servant, as Hardie had described her, had immediately struck him when they’d their four-minute meeting in the Corinthian. Aged thirty-one, she was six years Thoroughgood’s junior, the perfect age bracket he thought. Her chestnut hair was shoulder-length with a slight kink in it that, Thoroughgood thought, was not unlike her personality.

  A ready smile and kind deep brown eyes had helped put the DS at ease in a situation he was anything but comfortable in. So when the speed dating agency had emailed him to say she was one of the four interested parties who had ticked his box, Thoroughgood had been pleased, to say the least.

  He found himself at the junction of Byres Road with Hyndland, and standing outside the Tinderbox’s front door. It was only eleven twenty-five and even the badly out-of-practice DS knew that in the dating game, punctuality, one of his trademarks, was a no-no. Bearing that in mind, he crossed the street and headed for one of the small newsagents dotted up and down the West End’s main street.

  Paying for his Telegraph, Thoroughgood felt he was now ready for his date. It was one of the idiosyncrasies of his nature that he would never, if at all possible, enter a bar, coffee shop or Bar Mitzvah without having his favourite rag tucked under the arm of his Barbour jacket.

  Entering the Tinderbox Thoroughgood immediately noticed Sara, perched on one of the stools parked along the coffee bar, lining the full-length window looking out onto Byres Road. He was annoyed he hadn’t noticed her when he had crossed from the newsagents, but now he did, he liked what he saw. Tight jeans and a snug turtleneck topped by a fur-trimmed velvet hat presented a very alluring picture to him. And those brown eyes: what is it with you and brown eyes? asked the voice inside his head. He hoped the fatigue in his face wasn’t too obvious, but doubted it.

  Thoroughgood leant down to greet her with a polite kiss and felt awkward doing so. Relax, said the voice in his head.

  “Hullo Gus, have you been on nightshift?” asked Sara.

  So she missed nothing.

  “Well yes, I guess you could say that; something came up and as a result it was a long, cold night. But you look great, Sara. I could have done with that hat last night!” Thoroughgood reached out a playful hand to pat the top of it.

  She giggled, and he found he liked the sound of it; a girlish quality, full of innocence, maybe some mischief, all at the same time.

  Back to small talk.

  “Have you had a good week?” he asked.

  “Yeah, but a long one. What do you fancy coffee-wise?” she asked.

  They ordered two lattés and shared a hot Danish while looking out at the busy figures hustling and bustling up and down the street outside. The chat was relaxed and Thoroughgood found himself feeling no pressure to fill any holes. A good sign, confirmed the voice.

  Gradually Thoroughgood began to draw some information from her. She’d been in the Civil Service since she had left Cambridge some nine years ago, and had enjoyed stints at home and abroad before being posted north to Glasgow.

  An anecdote recalling how she had organised a reception at number eleven Downing Street for the-then Chancellor of the Exchequer, Gordon Brown, soon had the DS analysing whether that one was thrown in to impress or to let him know that she was ambitious.

  Thoroughgood was determined to avoid asking any questions about how long she might be staying in Glasgow. She did admit she had been looking at buying a flat—he took that as promising—and without trying to sound pushy, offered his services vetting any potential buys.

  Time was flying, and by twelve-thirty Thoroughgood suggested they move on for a bar lunch, and he knew just the place. Her smile, from a mouth of perfect white teeth framed in luscious red lips, somehow seemed fuller than he’d noticed previously.

  It’s the fatigue hitting you man, be careful, no bevvy over lunch, answered the voice in his head, but he immediately ignored the warning.

  Thoroughgood held the door open for her; manners were as much a part of him as punctuality. Both were legacies of a childhood in which the biggest influence had been a grandfather who had fought in the RAF during the Second World War.

  “Thank you,” she smiled and they walked up Byres Road in the direction of Bella Pasta.

  “It’s nothing fancy but the food is great and I love Italian for lunch. Oh, I forgot to ask, is that okay with you?” Thoroughgood enquired, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

  Again that smile, “I love Italian, Gu
s,” she said.

  Two p.m., lunch and a bottle of Chianti were finished, and a furtive glance at his watch betrayed that Thoroughgood’s mind was wandering.

  “You have to be elsewhere?” asked Sara.

  “Eh, well I do and I don’t, if you know what I mean,” blushed an embarrassed Thoroughgood.

  “I meant to tell you earlier, but I didn’t know if we’d be doing lunch and now we have and, well, I don’t want to finish up right now, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Sara was intrigued. “You’re a bit of a dark horse, Gus Thoroughgood. You have me at a loss; is it business or pleasure that’s worrying you?”

  Again she had noticed the colour had risen in his complexion, and then his right hand ruffled through his jet-black hair and Sara’s eyebrows shot up.

  “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m just a bit embarrassed to talk about it, but I don’t get many Saturday afternoons off. When I do I always try and go up to Firhill to watch Thistle play if they are at home.”

  “So that’s a three o’clock kick-off then? But Firhill is within walking distance, isn’t it? Fifteen minutes walk up Queen Margaret Drive and along Maryhill Road, if I’m not mistaken?”

  This time it was Thoroughgood’s eyebrows that shot up in barely concealed shock.

  “You’ve heard of Firhill?”

  She nodded in the affirmative and, encouraged, he continued:

  “I’ve supported the Jags, sorry Partick Thistle, since I was a kid, and it’s just become part of my life that when they’re at home on a Saturday and I’m off, I go to Firhill. But I don’t want us to finish up right here, right now.”

  Easy now warned the voice in his head, it’s the first date and you’re telling her you don’t want to leave her, cool the beans for fuck’s sake.

  “Would you like company at the football this afternoon, Gus?” asked Sara. “Some of us girls quite like watchin’ the footie.”

  Thoroughgood made no effort to keep the smile off his face and, swept away by the spontaneity of the moment, he leant across the table and kissed those beautiful full red lips.