“We have until nine thirty tonight and if we don’t get Reid before then, we’re all gonnae be going down and you more than most, big man. By six p.m. I should have an address for Reid and then it’s a simple question of getting up there and shuttin’ him up once and for all. What do you say, big man? You up for it?”
Brennan nodded his head; speech, it seemed, was still a problem. The giant cleared his throat.
“Ten years me and Gaz been doin’ jobs for you, and Mr Gray before ye boss, and he’s never said a word. We’ve been in some tight corners together and he’s said fuck all. Now the little poof wants out does he and he’s gonnae turn us all in? Not on ma dear mammy’s grave he ain’t. I’ll do him for ye, boss, and it will be a perfect joy. You just let me know where he is and I’ll fuckin’ carve him up and hing him out tae dry.”
“That’s good Frankie. Once it’s done you’ll need to go to ground for a while, but Tommy here has some new found friends up in the Western Isles and you’ll be hitchin’ a lift on the truck bound for Barra on Thursday. That sound okay?”
“No worries, boss. I’m gonnae enjoy making that wee bastard squeal.”
Chapter 25
Thoroughgood was struggling to keep his mind on the job. Paperwork had never been his strong point but now, with the introduction of the Professional Standards Unit that sat in the same corridor as Complaints and Discipline at Force HQ, everything had to be watertight. Still, he couldn’t help his mind wandering to nine-thirty and the arrival of Gary Reid at Stewart Street. Reid refused to come in alone before then or without the accompaniment of Morse. It was now five-thirty p.m. and time for grub, but that also meant there were still some four hours in which things could go drastically wrong, four hours in which Meechan could get to Reid and silence him.
Thoroughgood made his way over to Hardie’s desk in the CID room and plonked himself down. The veteran detective was busy checking through his notebook. With Professional Standards there to make your life a misery, it paid to make sure all entries in your official police notebook were properly dated and no dodgy-looking spaces were left open, inviting additions at a later date. Hardie took another slug of his tepid coffee and as he looked up, saw his gaffer parked in the chair opposite.
“Okay Gus, what’s wrong? You Hank Marvin?”
“You know me so well, faither!” was the initial reply, but Hardie could tell there was more worrying his DS than hunger pangs.
“You sure it’s nothin’ else, like whether we should be up in Springburn babysittin’ Reid?”
“That’s exactly it. I know it’s all down to him but he shouldn’t be anywhere on his own outside of a cop shop. I figure at the very least we should have a couple of East cops parked outside the flat or somewhere nearby. I’d certainly be a lot happier if we did get something in situ’.”
“Aye, I tend to agree with you on that Gus, but it’s not our division so what can we do? Morse is adamant that no one knows where Reid is, so I think we’ve just got to trust him on this to get his man in.”
The sound of a phone ringing from the adjacent Detective Sergeant’s room punctured Thoroughgood’s thoughts and he headed into his room:
“Stewart Street CID, DS Thoroughgood speaking, how can I help you?”
“Very impressive,” said DCI Henry Farrell. “Good to see you haven’t sloped off for your refreshment break already, Thoroughgood.”
Thoroughgood failed to see the need for small talk and cut right to the chase.
“Detective Chief Inspector Farrell, what a pleasant surprise, how can I help?”
“That’s just the point, Thoroughgood, it’s how I can help you. I’ve just spoken to Detective Superintendent Tomachek: I have concerns about your man Reid staying in some flat in Springburn with no one to watch over him. When you’ve a witness who is getting ready to grass up someone like Declan Meechan it pays to cover all options. I don’t know about you, Detective Sergeant, but I’d feel a lot more comfortable with two plainclothes officers parked discreetly nearby. The trouble is I don’t know where to send them.”
For once Thoroughgood had to admit he was in complete agreement with his despised superior.
“I agree completely, sir. It’s my intention, along with DC Hardie, to head up to the flat at nine-fifteen to bring Morse and Reid down to Stewart Street, but that still leaves nearly three-and-a-half hours when Reid is going to be like a sitting duck. It would be great if you could get a couple of officers up there: the house number is thirteen Carron Street and the flat is middle right. How soon can you get someone up there?” asked Thoroughgood.
“Well, you know what its like over piece-breaks but I would certainly think by the back of seven we’d have someone in place, before, if I can swing it. The problem is all of our CID are carrying out actions driven by the HOLMES Major Inquiry Unit for the Browns’ murder. We’ve also seconded quite a few off the basic shift strength, so it’s not going to be as easy as I’d like to get two cops up. But I’ll do my best to make sure Gary Reid is well taken care of.”
The DS couldn’t grumble at Farrell’s offer. No one else had seemed to place any importance on babysitting Reid till he sang and, given that the DCI was heading the MI into the triple-slaying of the Browns, he would be the busiest officer in the East right now. Taking all of that into account, Thoroughgood thought an attempt at extending the olive branch would be no bad thing:
“Listen, DCI Farrell, I really appreciate this. I know how busy you must be but it goes without saying that if Reid squeals, then you will have your MI cleared up and a nice big pat on the back from the Chief.”
“Good man, I hope you’re happy with what you get,” rounded off Farrell.
Hardie had been standing in the doorway to the DS’s room since he’d heard Thoroughgood mention Farrell by name.
“Wonders never cease! Fancy a Chinky?”
“Let’s go,” was the reply from his gaffer.
Gary Reid checked his wristwatch for the umpteenth time that day. He saw he had less than three hours until he could bargain his way to redemption and a new life. He needed a fag, opened the veranda door and took a step out onto the small cement balcony at the front of the flat. The weather was mild for April, further proof that global warming was doing its damage. In fact, Reid reflected there hadn’t even been a single snowfall in Glasgow that winter. He started to think about just where his life would be played out after his chat with the CID and the resulting court case that would probably blow the Meechan crime gang to pieces. Maybe there hadn’t been any snow, but Glasgow could still be pretty damn chilly and all that rain did his nut in; it was so depressing to wake up and hear the rain pissing down day after day. Aye, he’d ask for somewhere hot, fuck’s sake if he gave them the whole shooting match then why couldn’t the polis put him up in Marbella, somewhere nice, with the sun shining down for 365 days a year.
Brennan had parked the dark blue Cavalier at the top end of Carron Street just before six-thirty p.m. There was only one way into the side street off Hawthorn Street which ran right past the front door of Springburn polis office. Running parallel with Carron Street were three high-rise flats and at the top end of the roadway Carbisdale Street. Brennan found a place where he could park the Cavvy and get a perfect view of number thirteen. One of those high-rise flats was Eccles Street, where he had taken care of a troublesome small-time drug dealer and bouncer called Franny Hillkirk. It had been a piece of cake, Brennan recalled.
Brennan knew that in their line of business a weakness like the one Gaz Reid had been nurturing in secret made you vulnerable, made those you worked with vulnerable too.
No, thought Brennan, one way or another there’s only one way this ends and it’s probably for the best, Gazza.
Looking up through the Cavvy window, he saw Reid appear on the balcony of the middle flat right, number thirteen Carron Street.
Jesus, Gazza, I could take you out with a shot from the roadway and you wouldn’t even know who had done ye.
But Brennan
had other plans for Gary Reid’s end. He was determined to make sure Reid knew exactly who his killer was, and that he would be able to savour the final agonised moments of his former sidekick. Brennan continued to watch as Reid puffed on his fag.
No doubt a Camel, thought Brennan. Ach well Gazza, at least you enjoyed yer last fag.
Flicking the butt over the balcony railing, Reid turned and headed back into the warmth of the flat. Down in the car park opposite, Brennan climbed out the Cavvy and ambled along Carron Street.
Thoroughgood spooned in a last mouthful of his chow mein and looked up to see Hardie had already finished his chicken curry.
“Fuck’s sake, faither, I don’t know how you manage to hoover it down like that. Don’t you ever get heartburn?”
Hardie rubbed his belly, which protruded in unruly fashion over his belt and then some.
“You know what it’s like in this job, Gus, when you get a chance to eat, you don’t hang about or else something will come along and that’s your belly rumblin’ until after yer shift. What’s wrong with enjoying your food anyway? It’s not as if you turn your nose up at a decent plate of grub now, is it? Especially when I’m payin’—again.”
The two detectives were seated in the Full Moon Chinese express restaurant in Sauchiehall Street. Cheap and convenient, the Full Moon was so bright it resembled a toilet, but invariably you were eating almost before you were seated, such was the speed with which the restaurant dished out a limited menu of traditional Chinese favourites.
Thoroughgood had been watching the clock on one of the restaurant’s whitewashed walls since he sat down. Hardie had no need to ask why. Although the DS had been pleased with DCI Farrell’s offer to have two cops parked outside Morse’s flat after piece-break, it still left a gap that had an hour to run before Reid had any protection.
Reading his gaffer’s mind, Hardie said:
“Listen Gus, it’s naw exactly jumpin’ in the Central right now. So if it makes you feel any better, why don’t we take a run up to Carron Street and make sure our man is tucked up okay? Farrell’s no gonnae know we’ve been up and if it makes you feel any better, let’s do it. At this rate, the only punter round here with indigestion will be you!”
“Would you mind, Kenny? It’s just if anything happened to Reid and we missed our boat, I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself.”
Hardie was already on his feet.
“Listen, if Meechan finds out Reid is about to grass him up he will do everything he can to shut him up for good. If Reid had half a brain he would have got himself into Stewart Street at the earliest. Waiting about for Morse to hold his hand could be one costly mistake. Come on then, we can be there in ten minutes.”
As Brennan had thought, the door at number thirteen was a security entry. He had two options: take a chance at buzzing the other five flats or prise open the door with the jemmy. Looking at the name plates he was frustrated to notice the middle flat was missing a name tag, which meant a great opportunity to find out the name of the polis’ tout was lost.
He pushed the button for flat three-one and after a short pause an old croaky voice said:
“Yeees?”
“Evening, Cooperative Insurance here.”
“Come away in son,” the voice crackled over the buzzer entry system and Brennan pulled the front door open.
Two steps at a time, he made his way up to the first floor landing, holding back just before he reached the middle flat’s door, which he noted had a spyhole. Should he use brute force or try a ruse once more? The hideous lime-green wooden door wouldn’t offer much in the way of resistance, thought Brennan. One boot, maybe two at most, of his size twelves, Aye, fuck it, and he aimed the kick.
The impact left the door hanging on its security chain, and when Brennan fired in a second kick there was no resistance left as it flew back against the wall behind it. Gazza Reid had been lying dozing on the couch in the front room after his fag when he heard the first bang. In his semi-conscious state he’d thought it had come from the close or the street outside, but when he heard the second bang, he knew he had company.
Chapter 26
Stalking his way across the hall, Brennan followed the noise of the television. He pulled out the Colt Python before he reached the door and levelled it before kicking the door open. Opposite he could see the television where Reporting Scotland was busy blaring away, and the balcony on which Reid had been taking his cigarette break only five minutes earlier was behind it to the left. A couple of yards further over was a settee but there was no one sitting on it, just a white baseball cap lying upside down. The coffee table in the middle of the room had an ashtray, a packet of Camel cigarettes and a Zippo lighter, but from this angle Brennan could see nothing else.
Reid had to be to the right of the open door but Brennan, ignorant of the layout of the flat, didn’t know just how much room space was to the right. If Reid was waiting for him in that area then he could expect an attack of some sort. Anticipating close-quarter contact, the giant put away the Colt, caressing the custom-made walnut grooved grips as he placed it inside his overcoat. There were few men the giant had ever come across who made him feel wary about his prospects of success in head to head, known in Glasgow as “the square go,” and Gary Reid did not fall into that category.
Gritting his teeth, Brennan walked through the doorway and as he emerged, Reid brought the dining table chair down with all his might. The power and swiftness of the blow would have been enough to fell unconscious any normal adversary, but Brennan had been waiting and was already half-turning with his hands outstretched to fend off the blow. Taking some of the impact on his huge paws, Brennan managed to hold the chair up before it struck his skull and gradually he began to wrest control of it from the desperate Reid.
“Ye treacherous little faggot, I was expecting that,” growled the giant through gritted teeth, and smashed his knee into Reid’s guts.
The power of the blow sent Reid staggering back against the wall, where he crashed into the fireplace. Frantically Reid struggled to stay upright, his eyes all the time trained on Brennan. The Irishman shot his former sidekick a feral grin as he placed the dining chair back at the small oval table which sat in an alcove.
“So, Gary, thinkin’ of singing to the polis? Naw, I cannae be havin’ that. Ten years we’ve been together and that’s all they matter.” Brennan clicked his fingers.
“And you a gay blade into the bargain. What’s wrong, didn’t you think you couldn’t tell me after all we’ve been through?”
Reid knew he had to stall, play for time, God knows what for, but just to keep Brennan talking.
“It wisnae like that, Frankie. I know what you think of gays and if I had told you, what would your reaction have been? We would have been through as mates and then how could I have worked for Meechan again? I would have been ruined, a laughing stock. That’s why I kept quiet.”
Brennan was unsympathetic.
“It may seem hard for you to believe, Gazza, but I think I could have got ma heid round that. So you’ve been a faggot all these years I’ve known you or is this just a recent thing?”
Reid saw a glimmer of hope in his desperate situation; maybe he could talk Brennan round. After all, the giant had always had a soft spot, even if few knew it was there.
“I’ve always had my doubts that I was different in that type of thing, Frankie, but of late it just seemed to get stronger in me and I knew I needed out.”
“Aye, oot ya wee bastard, but oot at who’s expense?” demanded Brennan as he smashed his right hand into Reid’s guts.
Gasping for air, Reid writhed on the floor but only for a moment. Brennan lifted him up with one hand while he threw the glass coffee table out of his way with the other like it was a piece of balsa wood and then threw Reid across the room back onto the sofa.
“That’s the bottom line, ya wee miserable snake though, isn’t it? You’re going to go squealin’ to the pigs to save your own skin. After all we’ve been through
and all Mr Meechan has done for ye, you’d fire us in the first chance ye get. That cannae be happenin’ now, can it Gaz?”
Brennan towered over him and started to reach into his overcoat. Gaz Reid knew he had to do something now or the end was indeed going to be nigh. He smashed his head into the giant’s privates and this time it was the huge Irishman who staggered back, doubling up in agony.
Reid knew he wouldn’t have the upperhand for long. Immediately his eyes scanned the flat for some sort of weapon with which to press home his advantage. Lying next to the upturned coffee table was the marble ashtray he’d been using only moments earlier for far more recreational pursuits. His breath still coming in shallow rasps, Reid forced himself to his feet, grabbed the ashtray and advanced on the giant who was just starting to unwind from the doubled-up position to which Reid’s headbutt had reduced him.
Once again Brennan found himself trying to ward off a blow, as his one-time mate rammed the ashtray down on his head with all his power. This time there was impact and the splintering of bone but it was Brennan’s left hand that had absorbed the assault; as it did so his right cracked off Reid’s jaw and sent him flying onto the dining table.
Brennan was in no mood to make further mistakes and he quickly removed the flick-knife from his pocket, pressed the button and took satisfaction from the sight of four shiny inches of cold steel shooting out before him. The terror in Reid’s eyes was obvious as he lay sprawled on his back on top of the dining table: he knew there would be no reprieve. The giant closed to within a couple of feet when Reid managed to get both his feet up and punch them into Brennan’s guts and then, in almost the same motion, he vaulted off the dining table and grabbed the discarded glass coffee table.
Parallel Lines Page 17
