They made their way, this time hand in hand, up Byres Road, crossing into Queen Margaret Drive. Thoroughgood provided a running commentary as he told Sara about the Botanic Gardens on the left and the Sally—short for salmonella—fast food wagon where he used to get the “best chilli burgers in Glasgow” after a student night out, way back in the eighties.
Leaving the grimy tenements midway up Queen Margaret Drive, which were still, naturally, quoted as des res West End locations by the local estate agents, they turned right along Maryhill Road.
“Two-thirty and still time for a quickie,” suggested Thoroughgood.
Sara nodded a yes to that, and he added:
“I hope you aren’t too fussy, I usually have a pre-match pint in Munn’s Vaults, just round the corner from the ground. It has plenty of characters inside, as opposed to just plenty of character!”
A pint of lager and a Bacardi and coke later, they were taking their seats in the Jackie Husband stand, Thoroughgood still pinching himself to confirm he wasn’t dreaming. Sara proved to be amazingly knowledgeable about football. Born in Nottingham, she had been raised on the legendary tales of Brian Clough and had a preference for the underdog, parallelled by Thoroughgood’s support of Scottish football’s greatest underdogs, the Harry Wrags, as Partick Thistle were called (amongst other nicknames).
As it turned out the game was a cracker, Thistle triumphing four-two over an Airdrie side with two men sent off. Afterwards they set a blistering pace down from Firhill back into Byres Road. The twenty minute walk in the driving rain and icy wind left them chilled to the bone and Thoroughgood suggested the best place to remedy that would be a seat in Cottiers Bar at the top of Hyndland Road.
The voice said, Just round the corner from your place, dirty dog.
The warmth from the glowing brazier filled with coals inside the converted church, which was now a bar, restaurant and theatre complex was, Sara had to admit,
“Just what the doctor ordered.”
The conversation, as befitted the mellowness of the early evening atmosphere inside, soon became deeper. Not for the first time it was Sara who took the lead and asked Thoroughgood why he was still single in his late thirties.
“Nice of you to remind me,” he’d groaned.
And so he let it all hang out: Celine, Meechan, the hit and run that had almost cost him his life, his suspicions. How he desperately wanted a family but found his own insecurities and the demanding nature of his job getting in the way of even making a start to a meaningful relationship.
After he’d emptied it all out the look on his face betrayed his thoughts: he’d said far too much on a first date, and his eyes sought sanctuary in the flames of the brazier. Again Sara surprised him.
“You know I guess we aren’t too different in that respect.”
And she unburdened herself of the reasons behind her own single status. She’d fallen in love at Cambridge with another student and found herself pregnant in her final year. The pregnancy had signalled the end of the relationship after the father demanded an abortion. Sadly, a miscarriage had followed, and although she had managed to graduate with a first class degree in English Lit., the scars had run deep.
Her trust in the opposite sex had been shattered and she threw herself into her career. The Civil Service had afforded her the chance to travel and meet and mix with people of power and diversity, and she readily admitted she loved the job. Indeed, although she was looking for a property in Glasgow, she had only planned to see out the duration of her two-year posting. Thoroughgood, hanging on her every word, interrupted:
“If you don’t mind, can I ask why you are telling me all of this, Sara?”
A sigh and then the full gaze of those brown eyes turned on him, dancing with the light of the fire’s flames, and he felt like he was melting.
“Because I think you have been honest with me, Gus, and I can see that must have been painful for you. I feel like I can trust you, Detective Sergeant.”
She added playfully, “Please don’t let me down!”
“I think that deserves a toast,” saluted Thoroughgood, drawing his chair back and jumping to his feet, oblivious to the confused faces of the other early evening drinkers.
“To lonely hearts, then,” and they clinked two glasses of Pinotage together.
It was seven-thirty, and Thoroughgood, full of Dutch courage, chanced his arm.
“Listen, I know a great Chinese that does delivery, would you like to come back to mine? It’s just round the corner.”
She looked at him with an appraising gaze and to his amazement said,
“Yeah, I’d love that, Gus.”
And for once, police work was the furthest thing from Gus Thoroughgood’s mind.
Chapter 19
The harsh Northern Irish voice at the other end of the phone meant the caller didn’t need to bother identifying himself to Meechan.
“Morning Mr Meechan, Frankie Brennan here.”
“Frankie, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” queried the crime boss.
“Well boss, it’s about last night. We had some trouble at the steading. I don’t think you are going to like this, but …” In his slow and clumsy English, Brennan spared his boss no details of the events from the previous evening, taking time to include the business at the end when the mystery visitor had been taunting him about a net.
When Brennan suggested that maybe it had been one of the residents who thought they were poachers, Meechan’s irritation boiled over.
“Poachers! For fuck’s sake, Frankie, I hardly think so. Are you sure you didn’t get a look at him? And, more to the point, you said there was a car waiting on him. Was it a CID motor or could it have been one of the squads?”
“I cannae see it boss, it was one of those coupés, maybees an RX-8? Boss, I know you’re a bit dodgy about the poachin’ shot but just hear me out on that one. Four guys from Glasgow comin and goin’ at strange hours and, on top of that, we made sure we were seen with the fishing tackle and such.
“Okay, you only get trout and perch on Loch Ard, but half a dozen miles away there’s the Endrick and that’s teeming with salmon. Out here, those white settlers who have paid big money for their holiday home and salmon permits would get pretty pissed off at any Glasgow wide boys they saw had turned up on their doorstep and were cleaning them oot.”
Meechan sounded doubtful.
“That’s very interesting, Frankie, but I’m not convinced. Still, as long as you and the boys have cleaned out anything that could give any pointers to the Springburn jobs that’s fine. I want you back in Glasgow. Hole up for a while until we see how this all pans out. The safe house has been blown and you won’t be heading back out to Loch Ard in a hurry. Just make sure you aren’t followed by anyone, Frankie.”
“Will do, boss,” said Brennan, and the call ended.
It was now nearly eleven a.m., and after showering and dressing Meechan still couldn’t get rid of the nagging doubt there was something not quite right about the events out at the cottage. What if it had been the cops who had been behind it? What exactly would they have got from any surveillance operation, other than the location of the safe house and the gang captured on camera? There was nothing else to connect his boys with the killings in the north of the city. Perhaps it was worth giving a call to Charlie Coyle in Paris. It never did any harm to get a bit of advice from your brief, even if Meechan admitted to himself, he was probably being slightly paranoid.
“Good morning Declan,” said Charles Coyle’s insincere voice. “How can I help?”
Meechan quickly put his brief in the picture, and Coyle supplied the calm reasoned answers that made him so valuable to the crime boss. The lawyer acknowledged it could well have been some kind of surveillance operation by the cops or one of the squads, but a pretty amateurish one if that was indeed the case. Equally so, argued Coyle, it could well be that Frankie Brennan was right and the locals were getting restless over the arrival of a group of Glaswegians who’d
never been seen before, and were now coming and going at all kinds of unnatural hours in the middle of the salmon season.
As Coyle got down to the nitty gritty and, as always, outlined the worst case scenario, he had Meechan’s total concentration.
“Let’s say it was the police, Declan, what do they have? There was no sign of any unauthorised entry that the boys noticed? So that would rule out any bugging of the cottage. Yes, they could have filmed the four boys, but what does that add up to? As we both know there will be no identities based on what happened in Springburn on Friday night. The boys were all stocking-masked, I take it?”
“Naturally,” confirmed Meechan.
“So all the cops have at this stage, if it was them, are four faces. There is every chance Frankie Brennan and Gary Reid will already be known to them, so they aren’t getting anything they don’t already have. Jarvis and Simms are probably on record as well, although maybe as juveniles. So what they have at the end of the day is the identity of four males, but for what? I think that they would struggle to even haul the boys in on a Section Fourteen detention.”
Coyle paused for a minute, and then added:
“Of course, if they have Brennan on film with a sawn-off shotgun then he will have some explaining to do, but that will depend on the quality of the pictures and their legitimacy. Personally speaking, this just doesn’t sound like any authorised and coordinated surveillance operation. In fact, it sounds like an amateur night out.”
Something was still gnawing away at Meechan.
“What if it was the cops and they had some kind of inside information, Charlie? I just don’t like the way we’ve had visitors right out of the blue.”
The lawyer cleared his throat at the other end of the mobile, composing himself and buying time before he offered an answer.
“In any kind of organisation, and if you don’t mind me saying so, Declan, particularly in your type of business, there is always going to be a risk of informants. That would explain the unexpected nature of the visit, but you trust every member of the gang, don’t you? Plus any information being fed to the police would, obviously, have to have come from outside of the four of them. Certainly you can never be too careful, but I think that is unlikely.”
“All right Charlie, we’ll leave it there. If I need you, I assume you’re on the mobile and you’ll be back in Scotland tomorrow night?”
“Without fail, Declan.”
Meechan told himself to not be so paranoid, and calm down. What was there to worry about? He had a dinner date with Celine lined up tonight, and a proposal he hoped she couldn’t turn down.
Chapter 20
“Seven p.m. bang on. Pretty punctual even for you, Tommy,” admitted Meechan. “So tell me the good news.”
“Ah boss, it really is beautiful up here on Barra but what a fuckin’ headache I’ve got! I can’t remember the last time I’ve put away so much whisky, but the locals know how to throw a shindig all right. Must be near ten years since I danced as much as I did at the ceilidh last night, by Christ, my feet are near as loupin’ as my heid.”
Meechan laughed. “You have my sympathies, Thomas! Now, is there anything else you would like to tell me?”
“Aye boss, there is indeed. I’d say we are now officially watertight up here in the Western Isles, and I would also say there is pretty significant room for expansion. I liked Morriston the minute I met him, and I now have an open invite to his house! If we can be ready for him, he’s promised to have the next delivery down with us in Glasgow on Thursday, this week coming. How does that sound to you, Declan?”
“Bloody good,” admitted Meechan. “So you’re more than happy to leave Morriston holding the fort up in Barra for us? And what will be the split for the next delivery Tommy, did Morriston let you know?”
“Forty kilos of coke, with a street value of around nine hundred grand, and half a ton in smack, worth nearly three hundred and fifty grand. Morriston has guaranteed us one delivery every two months. That put a smile on your face, Declan?” asked Rankin.
“That’s good, very good, but what about the refrigeration plant? Did you get a good look round?” asked Meechan.
“I did, Morriston showed me how they used to work things under the Johnsons and a couple of wee ideas he has for tightening things up. I like where he’s coming from.
“The drugs go in the freezer units and are concealed within some of the frozen fish produce packages, in the back of the artics. Morriston wants that part of the operation kept to the eyes of as few as possible. It seems Johnson was a bit lax, and rumours were starting to float around Barra that frozen fish wasn’t all the trucks were being packed with. Morriston is going to have a couple of guys he trusts from the mainland installed as uniformed security to make sure the final check, when the drugs are loaded, is done with no prying eyes.”
“If you’re happy with that, it suits me, Tommy. And you’re back around when tomorrow?” asked Meechan.
“I should be in Glasgow by four p.m., Declan.”
“Good. I want you to make your way straight to the office; I’m not sure, but we may have some trouble brewing up. I don’t want to go into it on the phone, but the aftermath of the Brown turn didn’t go according to plan and we had some uninvited guests out at the safe house. There are a couple of other business deals that have been put my way though, Tommy, and they are certainly interesting. But it could be time for a wee bit of diversification that may well make the Barra operation a little safer when it gets on the mainland.”
“Okay boss, if you’re happy with things up here, that’s all. I think we might just have one to watch with the boy Morriston. It may well be worth inviting him down the road, butter him up and make him feel important ’cos he certainly pulled the stops out for us over the weekend.”
Then Meechan turned his attention to other matters. His desire to add to his club and pub empire had been partially sated with the granting of the planning permission allowing the creation of the complex, which he decided there and then, in a moment of spontaneity rare to a nature that by definition only followed a meticulously planned route, would be called the West End.
Now the prospect of taking over a firm of undertakers out in Hardgate was more than a little interesting to him. The business had been a family one, handed down through three generations after being started by an Irish immigrant at the turn of the last century. With the death of the final son at the end of last year, the business was at the point of going to the wall. It was then that one of the cousins who also turned out to be a distant relation of Meechan's, Peter Malone, had approached him through Frankie Brennan to help get the business back up and running with some financial support in return for, well, whatever he wanted. As Meechan mulled it over he had to admit an undertaker’s business would yield endless “business” possibilities for an inventive criminal mind.
Gary Reid’s head was still aching from his accident in the woods when he finally made it into his flat at two-thirty p.m. that Saturday. Reid’s childhood had been a war zone, beaten and bullied by an alcoholic father who hit the bottle when his machinist’s job in the Clydeside dockyards was no more. The old man’s increasing violence had hospitalised his mother and eventually led to the ten-year-old and his mum staying in one of the Women’s Refuges over in the Red Road flats up in Balornock.
The move hadn’t stopped the constant fear that Jimmy Reid would come through the door, taking it off its hinges with one almighty boot, then unsheath his belt before lashing mother and child with the buckle in another act of barbarous brutality. But old Jimmy was found battered to death, left in a gutter after being knifed for a gold wristwatch he’d been presented with by Yarrows dockyard for long service, the only thing of value that he had left.
An only child, Gaz Reid had been left indelibly scarred by the unhappiness of his formative years, and he often wondered if that was the root cause of why he was, in his own words, “a poofter.” But all the pain seemed to go away when the small bald nurse was in
his company. He could unburden himself and the pain of his childhood memories; there was no one else left now his maw, Betty, had passed away last July.
The violence which underlined everything Reid’s life now stood for at times disgusted the gangster. A voice in his head would sometimes scream stop when he was beating the crap out of some rival Declan Meechan had ordered silenced or roughed up. But now he could unburden all the pain of his childhood, and the guilt that he was becoming the monster that had been his father, all thanks to Gerry.
At 4:05 p.m. Reid’s buzzer sounded and a voice said: “And how is the patient?’
“Gerry, come away up before I turn into a fuckin’ paracetamol tablet!” said Reid.
Opening the door, the two exchanged smiles and McIlroy followed Reid into his living room, noticing the open bottles of paracetamol and Jack Daniels before raising his eyebrows at Reid.
Sitting down on the settee, McIlroy said: “I think you’d better let me take a look at that, Gary.”
“I was hopin’ you’d say that, nurse,” replied Reid.
Chapter 21
Eight p.m. Sunday night, and Thoroughgood’s train of thought was broken as his mobile went off.
“That you, Thoroughgood? Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” enquired Detective Superintendent Tomachek.
“Nothing at all, boss, just trying to read the Sunday papers. Any news on the Loch Ard film? Have we got all the idents from it?”
“Indeed we do, my boy, indeed we do. Frankie Brennan was there, larger than life just as you said, so no surprise there. It would appear his number two was Gary Reid. He’s also well known to us. PC’s for drugs, violence and robbery, much the same as Brennan. As for the other two, well, this appears to be a big step up the criminal ladder for them. They’re really no more than kids.
“Charles ‘Chico’ Jarvis and Ricky Simms, both aged twenty and both former car thieves from Partick, who have caused us a helluva lot of inconvenience and the tax-paying punter a fair bit of expense. They grew up in the same street in Yoker and are listed as currently staying at the same addresses to this day. Very handy, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Parallel Lines Page 13
