Smith, seeing the giant aiming both his gun and all his attention at Farrell, had dropped to one knee and sighted the giant straight along the barrel of his revolver. Brennan was twenty feet above them, looming large on the small landing outside the doorway and his massive frame seemed to take up every square inch. Smith could hardly miss.
“Drop the gun, Brennan, or I shoot,” Smith warned.
Brennan jerked his head towards Smith and began raising the Colt. The thud of the bullet as it ripped into Brennan’s guts sent him reeling back against the office door and a loud grunt came from his mouth.
“Fuckin’ pig, you’ll pay for that,” he roared, and as he regained his balance he quickly fired off two shots but both were wild.
Brennan ripped the office door open and dived inside, checking the damage from the bullet he had taken. It had grazed him on his right side.
“Nothing too serious, nothing that is gonnae stop me takin’ care of two shitebag coppers,” he muttered to himself.
He moved further into the office on unsteady feet. At the bottom of the stair, Smith checked Farrell was okay and spoke:
“Right gaffer, we can either go up and smoke him out, or radio for back up and sit him out.”
Farrell stalled. The last thing he wanted was for back up to arrive and a waiting game to develop, with Brennan brought out alive. But what to do? He could hardly order Smith up the stairs with him, with the giant and a mouthful of lead waiting for them at the top. Before Farrell could answer his mate, the doors at the top of the stairs burst open,
“Tocfaidh Ar La!” roared Brennan, his voice resounding through the whole building as he hurtled down the stairs, his Colt outstretched in his huge right paw, spitting flame and lead.
This time the giant caught Farrell and Smith completely by surprise, and the second shot hit Smith in the left shoulder, throwing him back against the office wall like a ragdoll. Farrell managed to get behind one of the coffee tables in the open-plan office. When Brennan reached the bottom of the stairs and began to turn, Farrell had the giant’s whole torso to aim at, and this time he didn’t waste a shot. One after another, he fired three times, aiming for the area just below Brennan’s heart. At a range of ten feet he couldn’t miss. The first bullet stopped Brennan in his tracks momentarily.
“You fucker,” gasped Brennan, as he looked down at the red liquid pumping from his body.
He took a faltering step forward trying to raise the Colt with his teeth gritted. The second bullet stopped him dead, pushing him off balance. Brennan reached out for the banister at the bottom of the steps, desperately trying to stay upright and raise his Colt in Farrell’s direction. He was now swaying slightly, like some early Saturday evening drunk when the third bullet smacked into him, slamming his body back against the banister and forcing a loud gasp from his mouth. This time he dropped to the floor.
Farrell got up from behind the protection of the upturned coffee table and, training his Smith and Wesson on the fallen giant, he moved cautiously forward. Standing above Brennan, he saw that the Irishman’s breath was now coming in shallow ragged bursts. Brennan’s eyes were still open; he was conscious and the Colt was still in his right hand. Summoning one huge final effort, Brennan spat defiance at Farrell:
“You’re never takin’ me alive copper.”
Almost too late, Farrell saw the flicker of movement from Brennan’s right hand side and this time he pointed his revolver at Brennan’s forehead and pulled the trigger.
“The end,” said Farrell and watched as Brennan’s head smashed open.
For a moment Farrell stood transfixed as the dark red vital liquid slowly spread from the back of Brennan’s smashed head and ran across the polished wooden floor of Meechan’s office. He was snapped from his thoughts by the gasping coming half a dozen feet to his left, then Smith groaned:
“Fuck me boss, that was a bit close for comfort.”
Smith was propped up against a wall, his right hand clutched to his left shoulder, with blood seeping through his fingers. Farrell bent down and ripped off his tie, slipping it round Smith’s shoulder and knotting it tight to try and stem the flow from the wound, receiving a grunt from his partner for the trouble.
“Been better, gaffer, but he’s just winged me, so I’ll live all right. Thank fuck that’s the last we’ve seen of that maniac. How many bullets did it take to put him down?”
“Five between us, Andy. Aye, I thought he was never gonnae go myself. Good man, I’ll radio for an ambulance. But I’m going to make the call as if we’re requesting back-up for a live incident, then we need to get our stories straight, quick time before the cavalry arrive.”
“Fine by me, boss, you know what these bastards from Professional Standards are like: if Complaints and Discipline don’t get you, they’ll have a bloody good try at doin’ you for something.”
“Exactly, said Farrell. “Now I’ve got a call to make, so give me a minute outside will you?”
Smith nodded his agreement. Taking a step outside into the cold, Farrell breathed a huge sigh of relief. That had been too close for comfort: he was still going to need to cover his tracks with regard to the follow-up investigation that would, as a matter of course, ensue after the discharge of a firearm by any police officer. The fact that at the end of this particular incident a man lay dead and a police officer injured would mean he and Smith had to make sure their version of events was watertight. He clutched his radio to his mouth.
“DCI Farrell requesting urgent back-up, locus Meechan Holdings Office, 225 Dumbarton Road. One male inside armed with a handgun. Repeat, require urgent assistance immediately.”
The divisional controller acknowledged his call and put out the scramble for all stations nearby to attend ASAP.
Farrell took out his telescopic baton and smashed through the pane of one of the doors, before forcing the door in with the good old-fashioned shoulder charge that every beat copper learns in his probation.
He went inside to check on Smith and wait for the circus to begin. Within a couple of minutes he heard the footsteps outside and shouted:
“In here boys, it’s over and we have a man down.”
The uniform cops who were first on the scene were soon engaging him in a full recount of events, soon interrupted by the arrival of the paramedics. Smith was helped out into the ambulance and Farrell was about to exit the rapidly filling office when Thoroughgood and Hardie arrived.
“Well, well, well, DCI Farrell, a bit off the beaten track, aren’t you?” said Thoroughgood.
“What do you mean by that, Thoroughgood? For your information DS Andy Smith is in the back of the ambulance with a gunshot wound to his shoulder and it took us five bullets to put that big mad Irish bastard down and save our skins. So what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Thoroughgood could feel his anger rising to the surface; he was aware the paramedics and uniform cops milling about had their ears wagging, but, his frustration boiling over, he couldn’t help himself.
“I’ll tell you what it means. It means you have just conveniently shut up the only link we had that would lead directly to Meechan and put him right at the heart of this whole sorry mess. That’s eight dead and Meechan is behind it all, and now we aren’t going to be able to put a finger worthy of the name on him. So tell me, DCI Farrell, just how did you come by the information that Brennan was in Meechan’s office?”
Farrell’s agitation was obvious as he took out his glasses and a hanky and began to polish. The DCI realised he couldn’t afford to lose face in front of the shocked audience, who couldn’t quite believe what they were hearing outside the scene of a shooting that had left one man dead with his brains splattered across an office floor and a CID officer injured. Farrell jabbed his glasses in Thoroughgood’s chest.
“Now you listen to me, you upstart. You aren’t the only CID officer with informants capable of yielding valuable information. I had a call from one of my touts who has been active in trying to get information on Brennan’
s whereabouts and he placed him here for me.”
Farrell was quickly into the well-rehearsed story he would deliver to the follow-up enquiry and anyone else he needed to convince.
“When we arrived the door had been forced, and as we made our way into the office Brennan came out at the top of the stairs with a bloody great revolver in his hand. He fired the first shot and we had to respond, then he injured DS Smith with a shot to the shoulder as he came crashing down the steps. I had no option but to open fire. It was either him or me so what the bloody hell would you have me do, Thoroughgood? Wait for Brennan to riddle me so full of holes I turned into a colander?”
Thoroughgood knew there was no point in carrying on with a confrontation he couldn’t win, and so did the watching Kenny Hardie.
“That’s not what DS Thoroughgood means, boss. It’s been a long frustrating night out at Meechan’s and we have nothing to show for it. I think the frustration has got to us all. Of course it’s a pity that you didn’t manage to get Brennan alive, but under the circumstances it’s far better both yourself and DS Smith have made it out just about in one piece. You must understand our frustration though, boss. First of all Brennan somehow manages to locate Reid, but gets out just in the nick of time, then we lose Reid to a hired killer, and now Brennan’s lying inside cold as the grave and Meechan will be laughing all the way up his sleeve.”
“So what the hell do you expect me to do about that, Hardie? Listen, I’ve had enough of your conspiracies and coincidences; if you don’t mind I’m going to hitch a ride in the ambulance with DS Smith and make sure he’s okay. But you,” Farrell lowered his glasses and jabbed them at Thoroughgood for a second time, “haven’t heard the end of this. I don’t give a shit how frustrated you are about Meechan; myself and my partner have just risked our lives and I am not going to stand here one minute more listening to your bullshit. What’s wrong, Thoroughgood? Don’t you like it when someone else gets a share of the limelight?”
Thoroughgood opened his mouth but before he could say anything Hardie grabbed his shoulder.
“Come on, gaffer, it’ll keep for another day,” and turning the DS almost forcibly, the pair walked away without another word. Behind their receding backs Henry Farrell flashed a wide smile in recognition of a job well done.
“Where now, gaffer?” asked Hardie as he and Thoroughgood sat in the Focus.
“I suppose we’d better get back to Stewart Street quick and fill Tomachek in, but he’s going to be swinging off the chandeliers when he hears about Farrell turning Meechan’s office into a shooting gallery.”
“Aye, yer spot on there, gaffer. What did you make of Farrell’s little performance back there?” asked Hardie. “There’re just too many convenient little coincidences. I mean, when the fuck did Henry Farrell ever run a tout?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, faither. If he’s got a tout then he must have registered him with the nosey bleedin’ parkers at CHIS. Do we know anyone in there?”
“I’m sure one of the CID Aides we had in last year, Shuggie Burns, is in there now. Leave that one with me, boss, and I’ll see what I can come across, because if he hasn’t registered the informant then something is definitely smelly. Do we share our concerns with Tomachek?”
“I don’t think we have an option there, do you?” asked Thoroughgood with a grin.
Chapter 36
Meechan ushered his lieutenant into the drawing room. “You know where the malt is, Tommy,” he said, stoking the dying coals of the fire.
“We need to be going over a few points about the arrival of our delivery from up north. The artic should be in at one p.m. tomorrow, as they’ll be taking the overnight ferry from Barra to the mainland and getting in about nine a.m. tomorrow morning. I want you to meet Morriston at Freezerland tomorrow and, after you’re satisfied the gear is up to scratch and duly divvied up, bring our guest out here to Tara for dinner. I think it’s long overdue that I meet Morriston, and we find out exactly what these exciting ideas are he has for expanding the operation.”
“Tomorrow the first consignment resumes the Barra operation and we will hopefully have new avenues for expansion, if what you say about Morriston is right. Earlier today I closed out a deal which will make us a sleeping partner with one of the biggest undertakers in Glasgow.” Meechan stopped as he saw a look of bafflement flit across Rankin’s face.
“You may be surprised, but an undertaker’s is a highly lucrative business venture, and one that from time to time can be very useful for conveying things from A to B in the most discreet fashion. You get my drift, Tommy boy?”
Rankin smiled at the sheer deviousness of his boss’s fertile imagination:
“So where is this based, Declan?”
“In the Hardgate, very handy for us and a possible path for us to diversify into if need be. For the moment I haven’t made my mind up just how I’m going to go about that, but there’s endless scope. Just now I am happy to be the major but sleeping partner, while the new owner, a relative of mine, Peter Malone, I’m sure you’ve met, gets bedded in.”
Meechan enjoyed another mouthful of his malt before continuing:
“As for that fucker Thoroughgood, I don’t agree with you. Something needs to be done about him.”
Thursday was a clear, blue morning and Rankin was positioned at Freezerland’s back entrance in plenty of time to welcome Morriston and the delivery truck. After the Scania had been backed into the loading bay and the disembarkment of the frozen goods was well under way, Rankin treated the islander to a coffee in the warehouse office and got down to business.
“So you got down with no trouble, Ian?”
“Couldn’t have been easier and I wasn’t even sick on the ferry so it was a great wee trip. What’s the plan?”
“Well, one of the boys will bring in the gear and I’ll have a wee sample and make sure it’s up to scratch. Once collections are arranged, we’ll head off for a little visit to a couple of Mr Meechan’s clubs and then you’ll be staying at his tonight. Over dinner I think you’ll be given your opportunity to bend Declan’s ears regarding your plans to expand the Barra operation.”
“That sounds great,” said Morriston in the light dancing tone of the Western Isles.
A knock on the door and one of Rankin’s underlings wheeled in a couple of plastic sacks displaying the neatly logoed “Barra: Fresh from the Sea” packaging. Rankin dismissed the minion, placed the two freezer bags on the office desk and cut them open with a sideways slice three inches long.
The first package bled fine white powder when he opened it; he quickly took out his wallet, removing two credit cards. He stuck one into the bag and lifted it out with a covering of the white powder on top. Placing the first card with the powder on the desk top, he neatly divided the powder into two white lines on top of the mirror he had removed from the desk’s drawer.
Leaning down, Rankin quickly snorted the first line up through his right nostril and, after pushing the glass bearing the second white line back across the desk to Morriston, he sat back to enjoy the rush. Morriston followed suit and after a short silence Rankin admitted:
“That’s good stuff, all right. It’s gonnae go down a treat at our clubs. I’m sure you’ll enjoy looking around a couple of Declan’s places to see just where we’re selling it.”
Morriston smiled back.
“All the way from Mother Russia, and so much more to come. It’s good shit all right, but what did you expect, Tommy? You sampled enough up the road that weekend we had you as our guest!”
It was Rankin’s turn to smile as this time he placed his index finger and his thumb together and inserted them into the second freezer bag. Removing a pinch of brown powder; he placed it onto his tongue and taste-tested it.
A frown crept over Morriston’s face:
“You sure you don’t want to do the chemical test on the smack? Everyone else I’ve ever done business with has. After all we aren’t just talkin’ chicken feed when it comes to money.”
Rankin gave a patronising laugh.
“Naw, that’s quality all right son. Let’s just say when you’ve been doing this kind of business for as long as I have, you develop a nose for it!” Rankin laughed again and this time Morriston joined him.
“That’s good stuff as well. I’m sure our junkies will lap it up. I know you’re saving your full sales pitch for Declan’s ears tonight, but how about expanding a wee bit for me on the Mother Russia angle?”
Morriston, enjoying both the hit from the coke and his newfound friend’s curiosity, favoured Rankin with a smile.
“Fuck, that’s good, but then with the sources we’ve accessed in Russia, it should be. I don’t want to go into a big recount of the whole operation but suffice to say, through some of the Russian trawlers that put in off Castlebay we meet some very interesting types. With the fishing markets not what they were and EC quotas strangling the life out of the fishing industry, well, some of the more opportunistic and disillusioned of our fishing friends have, shall we say, decided to cast their nets further afield to land a decent catch.”
Rankin shook his head in amusement and cut another couple of white lines neatly on the mirror.
“Whoever your contacts are, they know how to get quality charlie and that’s good, because we don’t want any crap in our clubs and this is certainly anything but.” He swept down for a second snort.
Morriston grinned but before he went for his second course curiosity got the better of him:
“I’m glad you’re happy, Tommy. But are you going to let me know how you distribute it?”
“Within fifteen minutes our two delivery vans will come and take away most of the heroin and after it’s been packaged up into more manageable amounts, it’ll be dropped off round the corner shops we have an interest in. The local dealers will come in and pick up their supplies and after that business is done the shit will, quite literally, hit the streets!”
Morriston shook his head approvingly, “And what about the charlie?”
Parallel Lines Page 25
