“Very poetic, Hardie. I suppose I should have expected no less from a man with a name like yours, but fair enough nevertheless. Now, what about Morse? Does he have anyone else in there who could help us out?”
Thoroughgood stayed silent. He knew full well the wee man was still in contact with Celine, but could he really bring himself to ask Morse to stick his neck out once again and set up a meet with her? For personal reasons, he was not sure he could carry one through after the old sores his last meeting with her had re-opened.
Thoroughgood cleared his throat:
“There’s maybe another avenue, boss, but one I don’t want to elaborate right now. All I can say is that I will make enquiries and see if we can get anywhere with it, and let you know as soon as I can. But it is a long shot.”
Tomachek raised those eyebrows again and looked down at his desk, apparently suffering a panic attack after realising he was without his beloved pipe. After a moment’s scrambling through his drawers, he located pipe and tobacco but no light.
“Where’s that bastardin’ lighter? Fucked if I know why I ever gave up using the Swan Vestas.”
“This do, boss?’” Hardie said, leaning across Tomachek’s desk with a ready light.
“You’re a good man in a storm, Hardie.” Tomachek luxuriated in a huge inhalation of his favourite Condor tobacco.
“Now where the fuck, gentlemen, were we? Ah yes, a long shot, you say, Detective Sergeant? Well, at this stage a long shot is about the only shot we’ve got. We had bugger all luck with the all stations warning that was issued after Reid had his throat slit.
“I assured ACC Cousins I would get the lookouts and descriptions out for him as soon as. So I want you two to concentrate on getting the all ports and airports warning out, and the description over to the PSNI and Garda. Tomorrow your top priority is to speak to Jarvis and Simms in Barlinnie. I don’t care what you have to offer them to loosen their tongues, just do it, so I can shit on that bastard Farrell from as great a height as possible!”
Declan Meechan had had a busy day; one that was now yielding some very satisfying results. Brendan O’Driscoll, or Father Gerry O’Hare, had texted him as agreed, to confirm that Gazza Reid was no longer an issue. Approximately ninety minutes after the first text, O’Driscoll texted again to confirm he had touched down at Belfast Airport safe, sound and in the guise of an American tourist. Father Gerry was no more, for the time being at least.
By mid-afternoon Meechan was once again closeted with Tommy Rankin discussing what to do with the second of his “major headaches,” Frankie Brennan, who remained secure within the confines of Tara.
For Rankin there were two ways to deal with the issue.
“The bottom line, Declan, is: has big Frankie become too much of a liability? I think he has. You could send him up to Barra, but so what? That isn’t going to change the fact that Reid ID’d him to the cops anyway. Okay, Frankie would never burst to the mob about the Browns or any of the other business he has done for you with the likes of the Johnsons, but you’d almost be doing him a favour setting him up instead of banged up for life. We both know it would drive the giant mad.”
“So what you’re saying, Tommy, is that it’s not a question of whether we set Brennan up, it’s how?” quizzed Meechan.
“Look, what about trying this one out for size, Dec? We take care of Brennan ourselves up at Tara. Make it look like he’d broken in and was trying to take you out: add a nice bit of damage to make it look like there’d been a struggle and you had to take him out in self defence. If all the evidence at the scene of the crime points to it, then the cops will just have to swallow it. Or alternatively, what if you have a word with your friend Lazarus and we set Brennan up outside the office and let someone else pull the trigger?”
“What happens if Brennan lives? Then he’s going to smell a rat and we have major problems ’cos if he thinks we’ve framed him, the big fella is gonnae squeal.”
Meechan steepled the fingers of either hand together, a sure sign that he was deep in thought
“It’s a shite of a situation all right, but one I’m not going be rushing into. I have a bit of a soft spot for old Frankie, he’s been with us from way back, Tommy, and the whole business with Reid has been a real boot in the balls for him. No, it can wait till the morning after all the pressure is off. Reid has gone to the great white hospital in the sky and will be talking to no one, and we have Frankie under lock and key at my place.”
By six p.m. Hardie had dropped Thoroughgood back at Partickhill Road and the DS steeled himself for his meeting with Morse. Unlocking the front door, he was immediately assailed by the smell of fresh polish. Keeping the large ground-floor tenement flat clean was never easy given the non-stop hours demanded of any member of Glasgow’s CID. He could hear the sound of the washing machine from the kitchen, and automatically made his way in to find Morse sipping a coffee and scanning the pages of the late edition the Evening Times.
“It’s some headline, Mr Thoroughgood: ‘Police let killer priest slip through their hands: Only triple murder witness has throat slit in Stobhill.’ As far as bad publicity goes, that’s about as bad as it gets.”
“Aye, you’re right there, my boss has just had his goolies booted by the ACC Crime, and Hardie and I spent an hour with him trying to rack our brains about any new leads that we could come up with.”
“And did you?” asked Morse.
“Yeah, I think so, and I’m wonderin’ if you might be able to help out with one of them. But first, how are you, Morse? Have you had time to take stock and get it all in perspective? I don’t know what you and Gary had planned, but I would imagine you want to do everything in your power to help put the man who ordered his killing behind bars.”
“It was one of those rollercoaster affairs and I’ve spent most of the afternoon going over how we managed to become so close in such a short time, but I guess you never know what is around the corner. If we did, life would be a lot easier, wouldn’t you agree?”
No prizes for what he means by that, thought Thoroughgood; if we’d done our job properly then Gary Reid would still be here and tucked up in some safe house instead of laid out on the slab down at the morgue with his throat cut from ear to ear.
“I dunno, Morse, if you knew what was around the corner what would that mean? That you’d never get out of bed in the morning?”
“I guess you could be right. Anyway I thought your flat could do with a bit of polish, I hope you don’t mind. You said something earlier about the man who ordered Gary’s killing? Do you mean it was a contract killing? And I take it by that you mean Declan Meechan?” asked Morse, his eyes burning with interest.
“Who else? It’s looking like Father Gerry O’Hare, as the priest called himself, was a contract killer brought in from across the water. He had a Northern Irish accent, we think. We’ve put out an all ports and airports lookout for him but this whole thing is such a bloody mess, it wasn’t done until nearly four hours after Gary was murdered. If Father Murphy was heading back to the Emerald Isle via Glasgow Airport, he had more than enough time to be back in Belfast or Dublin, sitting at his favourite bar with a pint of Guinness and a copy of the Irish Times and a whacking big wedge burning a hole in his back pocket by then.”
Thoroughgood flicked the kettle back on and prepared a coffee before continuing with his resumé.
“I’ve got Hardie sniffing about a couple of leads with the PSNI and the Garda and we’ll see what happens there, plus we’ve emailed and faxed descriptions of Father O’Hare over to see if we can jog a few memories. There’s always the slight chance our man has done this kind of thing before; whether he has any previous convictions, though, is another matter.”
He poured the boiling water into his favourite Partick Thistle mug, stirred, and took a large sip.
“Well, that’s better than nothing Mr Thoroughgood …”
Morse found himself interrupted in mid-flow by the DS:
“For Pete’s sake, will you st
op calling me that? If you’re staying under my roof you’ll call me Gus, all right?”
“Sorry Gus,” said Morse, shaken by the momentary aggression in Thoroughgood’s voice. “Does that mean I’ll be staying here for a while yet then?”
“I’m afraid it does but it’s not a problem, and you seem to be making yourself at home all right!” said Thoroughgood with a grin.
Morse raised his mug in salute:
“So just what is it that you think I might be able to help you with, Gus?”
“We both know you’re still friendly with Celine, although obviously I don’t know just how friendly. As you know, I spoke to her after the attempt on Meechan’s life, in George Square: she seemed very cosy with Meechan over the lunch table. But Celine is very good at playing the odds to look after herself. I haven’t a Scooby what she might or might not know, but right now we have so little it’s got to be worth seeing if she’ll meet me for a chat. The only way I am going to be able to make that happen is through you, wee man. So has she, by any chance, been in touch with you over the last couple of days?”
“Yes, I’m still in touch with Celine and I daresay she would meet you, Gus. Just how much she knows about what has happened, or what has been going on behind the scenes to make these things happen, I don’t know. Of course she doesn’t know where I am. After what happened to poor Gary there’s no way I would let anything like that slip, but I could text her and see if she’d meet me for a coffee and then ask. I reckon she would meet you somewhere discreet.”
Thoroughgood could not stop a smile betraying his inner emotions.
“So I take it she knew all about your relationship with Gary? Did she know about Gary’s intentions to grass up the gang, though?”
Morse shook his head.
“No, she didn’t, and that may be a sticking point but I won’t know until I ask her if she’ll meet me. All I know is she sent me a text at two-thirty p.m. this afternoon saying she was sorry to hear about Gary and to take care. Can I ask one thing, Gus?”
Thoroughgood smiled in the affirmative.
“Just how much of this is personal and how much is business? Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you seeing someone now? I thought I heard Hardie taking the mickey about you having met her at speed-dating?”
“That’s right, and you’re beginning to sound like bloody Hardie into the bargain!” said Thoroughgood, laughing.
Morse remained serious.
“Declan Meechan asked Celine to marry him at the weekend. She said yes.”
Thoroughgood looked like he’d been hit by a sledgehammer, put his mug down on the table with a bang, got up, and walked out.
Chapter 30
Self-analysis had never been Thoroughgood’s strong point, he remembered as soon as he had slammed his mug down and stormed off, a reaction he immediately regretted. However, there was no getting away from the fact Celine had information that could greatly benefit the faltering murder inquiry. This might now prove an irrelevance if she had agreed to become engaged to Meechan. It could only mean one thing: she had decided her life was with him. Yet some part of Thoroughgood still hoped that if he could meet her it would serve both his professional need for information and might yet make her see what an act of folly it had been to pledge herself to Glasgow’s most ruthless gangster.
He could not deny, as hard as he tried to do so, that a fire still burned brightly within him for her. So where did that leave Sara Spencer?
Would it be fooling himself to think that, should Celine agree to meet him, he could keep his composure and concentrate solely on gaining her help to bring down the man on whom she had just banked her future? An exercise in futility it may turn out to be, but the fact she had stayed in touch with Morse and knew all about his relationship with Gary Reid did give him hope that while she had decided to commit herself to Meechan, she did not necessarily agree with everything he stood for.
Okay, said the voice in his head, but what if you can’t keep it together and it all comes pouring out? So what about Sara, is there any point?
Thoroughgood, deep in thought for the previous five minutes, stared out of his flat window while the melancholic strains of Fish and Marillion bewailed the agonies and inner torture of being Fugazi. Thoroughgood had to admit that when it came to women and his love life, he was indeed most probably fucked up, or “Fugazi” as it was termed by the veterans of the Vietnam War. If he was screwed up, did that make Sara some sort of Second Division emotional Cinderella to him? If it did, then he should show her some respect and make it clear tonight before wasting any more of her time. Time was something he didn’t have much to spare, given that it was now six forty-five p.m. and he needed to shower and change out of his black suit before she arrived at seven-thirty.
First he had to get things straight in his head. He had enjoyed himself so much with Sara it had opened up many possibilities, even if she had hinted she would be moving on when her Civil Service secondment to Glasgow finished in a year’s time. But then, as Thoroughgood had discovered to his cost, so much could change in twelve months, and he had the scars both emotionally and physically to prove it, thanks to that bastard Meechan.
The tracks on his Marantz CD player which, although fourteen years old, he still cherished like the memories of a schoolboy’s first romance, only added to his torment. Emerald Lies, She Chameleon, the complexity of Fish’s lyrics framed his every agony. Thoroughgood realised that what was hurting him so much right now was his inclination for an emotive machismo reaction to the unavoidable fact that he had lost the one girl he had ever loved to the man he hated and despised most on the planet.
He had to move on, and what offered him the best chance to do so? The answer he couldn’t see past was Sara Spencer. The lounge door creaked open.
“Are you all right, Gus?” asked Morse, almost in a whisper. “You know I’m a good listener, so Gary always said, if you want to talk about things. It is not a sign of weakness to admit you’re still in love with a ghost from the past, even if she has been haunting you for so long.”
“Look Morse, I really don’t have time for this.”
The words were out of his mouth almost before he could regret them, and as Morse turned to leave he grabbed the informant’s arm.
“Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. It’s just that Sara is due round at seven-thirty and to be perfectly honest, my head is up my arse over this whole business.”
“I can see that,” said Morse. “It’s obvious how much Celine meant to you and maybe still does, but you have to accept she has decided to move on. Maybe that’s what her engagement to Meechan is about, rather than any rejection of the love you once had between you, and your feelings for her now. Everybody has to move on, Gus, and that includes you.”
Thoroughgood was consumed by guilt: it wasn’t as if someone close to him had died, unlike Morse.
“I’m sorry, Morse. I can’t believe I’ve been so selfish, considering what you’re going through.”
Morse was determined to sidestep any conversation concerning his emotions, and the best way to do that was to focus on Thoroughgood’s vulnerability. Too quickly he blurted out:
“I mean, listen to the music you’re playing. Fish? How old is that? Twenty years plus and as depressing as an empty funeral. It’s like you’ve become frozen inside an emotional bubble. Maybe that’s the problem: Celine has finally done something to burst it and you are struggling to cope, because the memories you’ve been clinging to are now irrelevant. If you don’t move on, then irrelevant is what you’re in danger of becoming when it comes to the female of the species.”
“And you would be an expert?” snapped Thoroughgood.
“As it happens I would, because so many of my friends are females and I—unlike you, Gus—was in a stable relationship.”
Thoroughgood moved over to his other prized possession, the 1875 Chiffonier which doubled up as his drinks cabinet.
“Fancy a bevvy?”
“Bacardi and Coke,
thanks,” said Morse.
After he had poured himself a gin and tonic, Thoroughgood sat down in his Chesterfield armchair, appreciative that Morse had opted for the sofa; a large gulp and Thoroughgood leaned back and shut his eyes, as if that would make it all go away.
“Do you want some advice? Even if you don’t, I’m going to give it to you, because that’s what friends do. How many girls do you know are prepared to spend their first date watching Partick Thistle and then want to come back for more? I think you’ve got to give her a chance; after all, what have you got to lose?
“As for Celine, I understand where you’re coming from wanting to meet her, and I’ll do my best, but to be honest, I think you’ll be wasting your time both professionally and personally. Possibly this is the best thing that could happen to you, Gus. Maybe it’s the only thing that will finally allow you to move on. But for tonight, forget about Celine and concentrate on Sara and having a great night out.”
Thoroughgood raised his drink.
“Aye, you’re probably right, wee man. Ironic, isn’t it? I thought I was coming home to provide you with company, a sounding board, cheer you up or whatever and before I know it you’ve been in and out of my head like Sigmund bloody Freud. I think it’s time for a shower!”
“Sounds like a good idea,” said Morse.
Fifteen minutes later Thoroughgood was back in his favourite window-staring pose but refreshed and resplendent in faded jeans, his favourite blue-and-white striped Aquascutum shirt and brown suede jacket. His G&T refilled, he had entered the lounge to find Morse had removed his treasured Marillion CD and replaced it with the cool and mellow tones of Massive Attack.
“Oh I get it, this is part of dragging me and my image into the twenty-first century?”
“It’s far more likely Sara is going to be impressed listening to this than that excuse for a suicide note, and it wasn’t helping me out much either after what has happened this week.”
Thoroughgood immediately felt guilty. “I’m sorry, I just got caught up in the whole self-analysis thing. Anyway, I don’t want you scuttling off when Sara comes in. I’d like you to meet her while we have a quick drink before we go out, and then you can give me your opinion later on.”
Parallel Lines Page 20
