The Longest Shadow Page 4

  “Ah, feck off the lot of you!” shouted Hardie as he and Thoroughgood jumped into the Focus and roared out of the yard at speed.

  Thoroughgood surveyed his pint of Stella and took a large gulp from the goblet-style glass that had replaced the traditional pint pot he was far more at home with. His quiet contemplation was shattered as Hardie clattered his glass off the chipped enamel table. The Rock was far from heaving with life, which in many ways was ideal after the day they had just had.

  “Fuck me, what next? I never thought I’d see the day when we would be chasin’ after a team of bleedin’ butcher shop bandits. Bloody newspapers! Trust them to get a hold of this. That bastard Hurry has eyes and ears everywhere. Ten to one, if it hadn’t made the front page of the Evening Times then old slippery Salmond would never have heard about it in the first place,” said Hardie, before adding for good measure, “Never heard the like of it in all my service.”

  Thoroughgood nodded. “Well, you heard Tomachek. It’s always the same when the press get involved, the heat is well and truly on and you know what Salmond is like when he thinks the hacks are havin’ a laugh at our expense. Look at this lot,” said Thoroughgood holding up the casefile.

  “Aye, you should sleep well tonight, Gussy boy! Privileges of rank and all that, mon gaffeur!” said Hardie with a sarcastic wink.

  The DC took another slug of his amber nectar before adding, “Listen, what about that promotion the old man was banging on about? Surely you must be due yer pips after taking care of Tariq and his Revolutionary Guards? In fact, never mind your shoulders, I could bloody well do with the set of stripes and £150,000 lump sum that goes with a sergeant’s promotion.”

  Thoroughgood’s eyebrows rose, “If I’ve heard him say ‘you’ll be up on the next promotion parade’ once, it must be half a dozen times since the business with Tariq. To be quite frank, I’m just trying to forget about it all. Put it this way, if we don’t catch this mob we have as much chance of getting promotion as Thistle do. On that note, my dear Hardie, I suggest we finish these up and get going. I have a dinner to cook and a set of casenotes to read.”

  “The big question, Gussy boss, is, will that be a dinner for one or two?” enquired Hardie.

  “Mind yer own, faither, is the only answer you’re getting. But I can exclusively reveal that the house speciality, chilli, is on the menu. Washed down with a liberal quantity of Rioja,” replied Thoroughgood.

  8

  THIRTY MINUTES later, Thoroughgood was busy in his kitchen. First glass of Campa Viejo half-drunk and Johnnie Walker’s Radio Two Drive Time show filling the kitchen. It dawned on Thoroughgood that he was whistling along in time with the track on the radio: “Communication Breakdown” by Led Zeppelin. Taking another mouthful of the Rioja he splashed the rest into the wok. Helping himself to another mouthful of red, he held it in his mouth for a moment, savouring the full-bodied taste.

  Rustling up his favourite dish always took him back to his time at Glasgow University. Back then, in his glory days of the late eighties, sharing a flat in Argyle Street, with two other students who were both from Edinburgh, the unlikely trio had taken it in turns to cook on a weekday evening.

  Thoroughgood’s big night in had always been Monday night. His dish of choice, the old faithful his mother had taught him the previous summer before he had left for the Big Smoke. As the memories of those sweat-soaked nights came rushing back, Thoroughgood smiled wryly as he recalled how his chilli had got hotter with every serving until it had to be washed down with pints of cold water and soaked up with slices of bread.

  The three amigos had steadfastly refused to leave an ounce of the dish, such was each student’s determination to show that he could clean his plate and not be left to face a torrent of abuse because he had become too hot and bothered to beat Thoroughgood’s Chilli Challenge.

  The voice in his head interrupted his wayward accompaniment to Led Zeppelin as it interjected, “Robbie and Derek, wonder where they are now?”

  Thoroughgood added some extra salt and pepper and replenished his personal supply of Campo Viejo. After a quick stir he decanted the chilli into an ashet, covered with silver foil and shoved the dish in the oven, setting the timer for an hour. He had reading to do and those casenotes would not wait.

  Loosening his tie, he plonked his transistor down on top of the chiffonier that acted as his drinks cabinet and let Walker continue to do what he did best: play quality music to a background of warm and friendly chat, occasionally interjected with wry wit. Combined with the sensuous tones of Sally Traffic’s bulletins it was, in Thoroughgood’s book, the perfect drive-time show to park his backside to.

  Flicking his way through the pages of the casenotes, Thoroughgood had to admit he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over his new assignment. Tomorrow, accompanied by Hardie, he would begin the investigation in earnest, but as he flicked through the pile of A4 he could not dispute that the potential for disaster was present.

  While the robberies all appeared to have been staged overnight and therefore no outraged owners had been present to put up a struggle, the thought occurred to Thoroughgood that it was more by good luck than judgement that such a confrontation had not happened.

  ‘Supply or demand?’ was the question the voice in his head asked.

  As he continued to leaf through the casenotes he saw that Tomachek had not been as au fait with the robberies as he’d suggested. Indeed, Thoroughgood had wondered how they could be called robberies when no violence had been perpetrated on any of the victims whose premises had fallen prey to the spate of crimes.

  “Butcher left unconscious by armed raiders at city meat market,” read Thoroughgood aloud before adding, “Aah, the violence at last,” and as he peeled back a few more sheets of A4 he saw that there was indeed more than one victim of violence who may be able to help him.

  But the chiming of the timer in the kitchen signalled that the chilli should be cooked to perfection and that left just half an hour before his dinner guest arrived. Hardie had been, of course, right, he was cooking for two.

  As he set the table he admitted to himself that there was a certain intimate ambience about it, then put the rice onto boil. That would give him another 20 minutes or so to consider a case that he was beginning to admit to himself may have a lot more to it than was first apparent. He began to pore over the casenotes and realised there was a geographical pattern to the robberies. However, increasingly, his assessment of his newest case was pushed onto the backburner as his musings on his private life took precedence.

  His relationship with Vanessa Velvet, the lingerie tycoon, former glamour model and reality TV star had proven a fitful one, borne of convenience and moments of spontaneous passion rather than cemented by any feelings of lasting warmth. Thoroughgood admitted to himself that while he had a lust life, it was far from the love life he craved.

  The truth was that the shadow of Celine, the woman he supposed he would always love, would not fade. And the murder of Aisha, the nurse who had come so close to helping him move on, until she had been blown up by mad Imam Tariq’s minions, had only heaped fresh guilt on his shoulders and served to reinforce his view that in this life, or the next for that matter, no true happiness would ever come his way.

  The kitchen clock chiming 7pm sounded the end of Johnnie Walker and with Thoroughgood’s whistle whetted for more Led Zeppelin, he fished out a compilation CD, crowbarred open the broken Marantz CD player with a bottle opener and slammed in the disc. Ironically, Whole Lotta Love was first up and Thoroughgood smiled sardonically to himself and headed back through to his kitchen.

  He decanted the rice into a serving dish and sprinkled parsley on top, but his mind continued to assess just what stage his relationship with Vanessa Velvet was at. He was uncomfortable with her celebrity status and the lifestyle that went with it. He had stopped reading certain papers in order to avoid clapping his eyes on the Tweets the press seemed to hang on and publish in equal measure, and he had absolutely banned
her from mentioning his presence in her life. But then the media already knew about this, thanks to their night at the opera. He had been desperate to see La Traviata at the Theatre Royal and they had been snapped leaving the building, looking all too cosy together.

  It hadn’t got to the stage where they were door-stepping him but he’d already had to have a quiet word in the ear of Hardie’s favourite reporter, Donald Hurry, who had overstepped the mark when he’d been leaving Stewart Street nick one afternoon.

  The question he had to ask himself was ‘is it worth the hassle?’ The answer he guessed was that, despite Vanessa’s front, and she had plenty of it, in more ways than one, she was every bit as lonely as him. Fate, by bizarre chance, had thrown them together, thanks to the crazy Imam Tariq’s craving for the notoriety that would have resulted from her execution. The fact that Thoroughgood had saved her and that before they knew the first thing about each other they had been thrown together in a string of intimate moments, had meant their relationship had been unbalanced even before it started.

  Thoroughgood spoke out loud, “What chance do we stand?” That was exactly what tonight was all about. An oasis of normality. He wanted to know if they had enough in common to take things further and to decide whether it was worth him breaking his cover as her sleeping partner – so to speak.

  As he sipped more Rioja he admitted to himself that he also had to accept he still wasn’t sure if he was any more than a ‘bit of rough’ for Scotland’s most famous businesswoman, whose fame had gone into orbit following her kidnap by Tariq.

  ‘Since I’ve Been Loving You’ wafted from the lounge, with Jimmy Page’s guitar solo and the precise percussion of the great John Bonham ensuring that Thoroughgood was off and whistling again. He knew it was time to put his cards on the table and, if possible, get Vanessa to do the same. He leaned against the kitchen bunker, put the glass of wine down and joined Page with a moment of air guitar played with eyes shut, his voice joining Robert Plant in claiming ‘he had done the best he could’. But who was he talking to? Himself? Celine? Or just the four walls and his own overriding loneliness.

  Page’s guitar solo went into overdrive and Thoroughgood raced into his lounge, cranked up the volume and jumped onto the arms of his easychair and let rip on his imaginary Gibson SG. The doorbell rang. He had company.

  By the time he reached the hall Rock and Roll was filling the air and he opened the door. Waiting impatiently in the close was Vanessa, the trademark shoulder-length blonde locks, previously butchered by the mad Imam, now restored to their full, flowing magnificence.

  “Hi, detective sergeant, you thirsty?” she asked, producing a bottle of Barolo, accompanied by a smile that would have saved the Titanic from any iceberg. Before he could answer she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Pushing his right hand out to shut the door he managed to negotiate a temporary separation as his senses spun from the smell of her perfume.

  “Mmm, I’m hungry,” she said and seared him with a look that implied her particular appetite would not be sated by the chilli. In truth, a big part of the problem he had with their relationship was that Vanessa always set the agenda, as she did with everything in her life, and it made Thoroughgood uneasy.

  “Brings back memories, Gus, don’t you think?” she asked, leaning close to him and tracing a ruby red nail down his cheek.

  He cleared his throat awkwardly, “Yeah, but at least this time we know that Meechan isn’t going to come bursting through the door with all guns blazin’!”

  She pressed herself up close and personal and he found his back to the wall, as the silk of her blouse created an odd cooling sensation in contrast to the body heat being generated by their proximity.

  “Maybe we should finish what Meechan interrupted then, Gus?” she suggested, a flirtatious grin creeping over her face.

  He knew it was lame, but he played the only card that came to mind. Laughing out loud Thoroughgood said, “What? And ruin the house speciality? Come on, Vanessa, dinner is about to be served and I can promise you won’t be hungry for long. How does chilli con carne sound? That okay with you?”

  Before she could argue he took her hand and pulled her into the kitchen. Pouring the remainder of the Campa Viejo into two glasses, he pointed to the kitchen table and for once she did as she was bid and sat down, glass in hand.

  Minutes later his pièce de résistance was served and for the next thirty minutes Thoroughgood tried to keep the chat light and general before timing his move to the big issue to coincide with the opening of Vanessa’s bottle of Barolo. Clearing his throat then cursing himself for doing so, he found himself beaten to the verbal punch – again.

  “Just wondering if there is any other musical accompaniment on the menu than Led Zeppelin, Gus? It’s hardly the most romantic backdrop for a meal for two at chez Thoroughgood,” said Vanessa.

  “Shit! You’re right, sorry. Give me a minute. Think I may be able to rustle up something more suitable for you, V.”

  Her smile was accompanied by a shake of her golden mane, “I don’t think so, Gus. This calls for a more gentle touch. You enjoy the Barolo and I will see what you have in that dusty CD tower with all the music you never listen to!”

  “Very good,” was all Thoroughgood could think of by way of reply.

  Moments later the strains of Love and Money’s Halleluiah Man struck up and Thoroughgood smiled in approval as Vanessa sat back down at the dining table.

  She took the initiative, “So what’s eatin’ you, Gus? Come on, it’s been pretty obvious from the moment I set foot in your flat that you have something on your mind.”

  She had him on the back foot again and his gaze dropped to the half empty glass of red he was swirling.

  “Where are we going, Vanessa? What exactly are we?” The directness of his question caught her off guard.

  “Wow, Gus! You aren’t about to propose marriage I hope!” She laughed out loud and threw her hair back in that infuriating way that she used to mesmerise her prey, then added, “What you want to know, detective sergeant, I’ll bet, is, are you just a bit of rough to me? Would that be right?”

  This time Thoroughgood met her liquid-silk gaze and held it, “Exactly,” he said and immediately regretted it.

  Vanessa put down her glass, “Forgive me if this sounds a bit callous, Gus, but isn’t this a relationship of mutual benefit? You might think I’m using you, but as far as I can see, you are not ready to start a meaningful relationship.”

  Thoroughgood spluttered on his wine, “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Gus, how can any woman compete with a ghost? Until you get over Celine then any relationship will be one-dimensional. Maybe as one-dimensional as I suspect you think I am. But can you really be bothered to scratch the surface, Gus? Or is this enough for you?”

  Thoroughgood’s frown was accompanied by his hand ruffling through his grey-streaked hair, evidence of the emotional toll this last year had taken.

  Vanessa had not finished, “Look, you can’t have it both ways, Gus. As far as I can see, you want to have your cake and eat it. You won’t be seen in public with me, I can’t acknowledge that we are in a relationship and yet in private . . .” Vanessa let the word hang in the air before continuing, with Thoroughgood hanging on her every word. “So, you admit that all along you’ve been eaten up by the thought that I am using you as my bit of rough?” She asked the question with such force that Thoroughgood was taken by surprise. Here was an intensity about her he had not seen previously.

  Thoroughgood was lost for words but Vanessa was now in full flow, “Oh, and in case you haven’t noticed, I am still trying to extricate myself from the death throes of my second marriage. So you tell me what this relationship is, what you want from it and where it is going, or should I walk out that door right now?”

  She stood up suddenly and placed one hand on her hip as she drained the remains of her glass of Barolo.

  Thoroughgood took a deep breath, “Look, I’m sorry. Everything y
ou said is right. Bottom line. Maybe it’s time I got some professional help,” said Thoroughgood and stared into his wine glass once more.

  Again Vanessa shocked him, “Then let me help you, Gus. No more skulking about. Let’s just see where things go, like two normal people would.”

  Thoroughgood couldn’t help himself, “But that is the problem, V. You just aren’t a normal person.” Just as he realised what he had said Vanessa burst into laughter and, embarrassed, he did likewise.

  Before he knew it she was sitting on his knee and those delicious lips were moving his way once again, “Look, Gus, there are two people in this relationship who are hurting so let’s just take it easy, but let’s also give it some oxygen. There’s a place and a time for plain talking and we’ve arrived at it. But hey, it’s been fun.”

  Thoroughgood searched her eyes, not sure what she meant but she smiled reassuringly, “It’s okay! I have a question for you. I’ve been invited to the launch of a new whisky liqueur by Lady Elizabeth Roxburgh, through her daughter Victoria and they also want me to put on a charity fashion show. I’d like you to come with me. It’s being held up at Loch Lomond, in Roxburgh Hall, and everyone who matters will be there,” she paused for effect.

  “If you come, that will mean that we . . .” but this time Thoroughgood took the initiative and finished the sentence for her, “Are an item?”

  Her smile was mixed with a fleeting hint of insecurity he had never seen before and Thoroughgood realised that at last he was getting close to the real Vanessa Velvet.

  “Count me in, doll,” he said with a wink as they abandoned themselves to the moment.

  9