12

THE AFTERMATH of the explosion at Braehead and the carnage it caused had left everyone at City Centre office in a state of utter shock.

Thoroughgood thought back to 9/11. Sitting in the same police station with the radio blaring inanely in the background, until the implications of the information it relayed finally dripped into his subconscious.

He remembered the mad rush to get in front of a computer or a TV set to confirm that moment of awesome terror. Now here they were all over again. The scramble for phones and bickering that had broken out as everyone sought to contact their loved ones around Glasgow brought this horrific reality thudding home.

A moment of irony swept over Thoroughgood mixed, he supposed, with self pity. ‘No need for you to worry Gus, no one there for you to care about, no one for you to miss, no one to miss you, why didn’t you pull the trigger? Shitebag.’

Thoroughgood realised someone was missing. Where the hell was Hardie? The realisation dawned that Hardie had kids, and more importantly, a missus whom Hardie constantly moaned was a shopaholic who probably had shares in Braehead.

He tried calling his mate’s mobile, got the engaged tone then made for Tomachek’s office. He knew there was a television there where he would at least be able to watch the rolling Sky News.

He approached the door and heard a familiar voice coming from within. It was Hardie’s and he was clearly agitated.

“Listen Davie lad, where the fuck is your mother?” then a pause: “Gone shoppin’, aye son that’s a big help, but where has she gone shoppin’? Haven’t you heard about what's just happened at Braehead fifteen minutes ago son?”

Thoroughgood opened the door and saw his mate sitting in Tomachek’s swivel chair. Even from the other side of the room he could see the beads of sweat on Hardie’s brow.

“Listen to me you little bugger! I can’t get her, her mobile is just going to answer machine. Now one last time, could she be at Braehead?” demanded Hardie, now on his feet.

Within five minutes they were in the Mondeo and on the motorway out of Glasgow, heading for Braehead, foot to the floor with flashing blue light in full luminous glow on the grill helping to clear their way. Hardie and Thoroughgood were not the only people in a hurry to make it to the shopping centre. Sirens pierced the air and billowing smoke from the devastated shopping centre filled them with dread.

There was no way they were getting within a mile of the ruined shopping mall and they abandoned the car on a grass verge just off the slip road to the centre. Hardie had said nothing for over five minutes. Thoroughgood could see the tears engulfing his jaded brown eyes.

The moment the car came to a stop Hardie was out and off at a pace Thoroughgood had not seen for years. As they reached the main approaches the crowds of people became deep and anger and despair filled the air.

Warrant cards already in hand, they hit the outer cordon that had already been formed around the mall and barely slowed down as they offered a quick identification and continued to the entrance. The acrid smell of smoke was now beginning to mix with the sickly stench that they both knew emanated from the remains of charred human bodies. Hardie’s breath was coming in huge rasps and he was yanking at his tie in an effort to let more air into his heaving chest.Now they could see the first of the corpses being brought out on stretchers covered head to toe. Beyond the escalator that would take them up to the arena there were huge girders dangling down and wiring hanging loose.

They were about to hit the escalator when a uniform Police Inspector stepped forward and barred their way. Hardie was having none of it. “Listen Inspector, my wife is up there and neither you or anyone fuckin’ else is going to stop me looking for her.” For a moment the inspector hesitated but seeing the manic look in the DC’s eyes he stepped aside.

Hardie took the escalator steps two at a time and reached the top, his body shaking with exhaustion.

Thoroughgood could hear his mate talking to himself.

“Come on Betty, come on Betty girl you’re gonna be okay, I’m gonna find you, everything is gonna be ok.”

Thoroughgood realised that he had never heard his mate call his wife by her Christian name before.

They could see a Pizza Hut sign hanging drunkenly in the distance. Incongruously Thoroughgood observed an outsized tennis ball, obviously brought for Fury’s post match autograph session, sitting on top of a chair; a kid’s dream of meetingtheir hero ruined. Anger seared Thoroughgood’s soul. All that could be heard were groans and screams and shouted orders from the emergency services.

Thoroughgood spotted a senior medic and made his way over to him at the double. “Listen mate, Detective Sergeant Gus Thoroughgood. I know all hell has just broken loose but we are looking for a Betty Hardie, where are you are taking the injured?”

The medic gave a curt reply: “They’re all in the ice rink.”

Thoroughgood turned to his mate: “Come on.”

As they made their way to the ice rink they noticed that the stretchers being taken in were all carrying body-bagged corpses. At last Hardie spoke.

“Lockerbie must have been a picnic compared to this.”

They pushed through the doors, dodging medics rushing out. At last, straight ahead they saw a group swathed in blankets, bandaging and tin foil sheets. The screams of the victims who were still alive were all pervading.

The two detectives arrived at the injured zone and immediately identified themselves to the medics, aware that they might be about to confront Hardie’s worst nightmare.

The DC’s eyes were darting around every human form with any movement coming from it. He searched desperately for his wife’s straw-coloured hair, his despairing face awash with emotions that Thoroughgood recognised from his own torment. Then Hardie was off again, making his way from one injured person to another, until he had made his way through all of the survivors.

Thoroughgood remained with the medics, his glance turning to the rows of body bags over to his right. He saw Hardie begin to make his way back to him, in resignation and acceptance that any hope of seeing his wife in this life again was indeed over.

Thoroughgood could see his mate’s shoulders shaking uncontrollably and he began to move forward to offer Hardie a shred of comfort that he knew from agonised experience was an act of total futility. The irony that he was about to offer him that which he had extended to Thoroughgood in the depths of his own torment was not lost on the DS.

Then a voice perforated the wails of the dying. One word. “Kenny!”

Hardie sprinted straight past Thoroughgood who turned and saw a moment that would remain etched on his consciousness for as long as he drew breath.

In a second of supreme emotion that Thoroughgood had never thought his mate was capable of, Hardie had grabbed his Betty in both arms and was spinning her round and round in the air repeating one word: “Darlin’, darlin’, darlin’ . . .”

Tears rolled uncontrollably down Thoroughgood’s face.

Thoroughgood was clock-watching again, his mind repeating the events of just over five hours ago endlessly, as if on some Sky News loop. Despite repeated calls to Mr India’s restaurant they had not been able to contact Sushi, with the enigmatic waiter failing to reply to any calls. Nevertheless they had to exhaust all lines of enquiry and the events at Braehead had made their need to speak with the waiter even more pressing. Sitting in Thoroughgood’s lounge their shocked silence, was all embracing.

Thoroughgood had tried to dissuade his mate from leaving his beloved Betty, who, although suffering a host of cuts and bruises, was relatively unscathed. But Hardie was now fuelled with a ravenous desire for revenge.

Sushi, he now believed, was their only hope of gaining any intelligence on the perpetrators of the carnage that had left 133 dead and 48 injured.

The text alert on Thoroughgood’s mobile grabbed their attention simultaneously. The DS checked the screen: “It’s Sushi, says he will be here in fifteen. Thank God for that!”

Hardie was first to articulate the fear that was filling both of their minds. “I know we don’t have any proof as yet and the scene is still being sifted over but ten to one, whatever Sushi wants to speak to us about has got to be wrapped up in this whole terrorist thing. I mean, we find a filofax with a list of what we suspect are shopping centres on it and hey presto, a bomb goes off in Braehead, 300 yards from where Murray bleedin’ Fury is about to open a Davis Cup Tie? Fuck me gently Gussy boy, I can’t help thinking if we had done more and done it a damn sight more quickly then this could have been avoided.”

Thoroughgood met his sidekick’s hypothesis with a metaphorical straight bat. “Look, Hardie, we got all that terrorist material and we made the powers that be aware of it. Tomachek passed it up the tree to the Intelligence Services and it was their business from then on. For fuck’s sake faither, aren’t you forgetting we are just a couple of bog-standard detectives following up a routine Misper' enquiry? Whose fault is it that it turned out to be your worst feckin’ Jihadist nightmare?”

Hardie was surprised by the anger in Thoroughgood’s pale, drawn, features and watched in silence as the DS moved over to the CD player and let out another curse, “Shit!”, as he attempted to prise open the CD holder with little success, much to Hardie’s amusement.

“What’s wrong Gussy boy? Is your most prized possession experiencing mechanical difficulties? asked the DC. “Bit like yourself by the look of things!”

Thoroughgood grabbed a nearby bottle opener and inserted it into the side of the CD drawer, managing to prise the device open. “No problem at all there faither but thanks, as always for your help,” and he quickly slipped in Van Morrison much to Hardie’s satisfaction.

He had to admit he was experiencing an aching guilt that he had indeed lived to listen to another CD; the events of the previous Sunday morning remaining his own private property, while the dead at Braehead would never again enjoy their favourite sounds again. Yet he wasn’t prepared to let Hardie in on his own very private guilt-ridden grief, especially when the DC had been through his own agonies of despair and relief only hours before.

Thoroughgood tried diplomacy. “Listen faither, you’d be as well chuckin’ it and getting back to the missus’ bedside. Even by your standards you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. You look shite, faither, to be precise.”

Hardie's Van Cleef eyebrow shot up in disgust.

“Listen to me, Gus bloody Thoroughgood, you may be my superior officer but there are 133 people dead and 48 injured because of a terrorist incident we may have the only lead on and he’s about to walk through these feckin’ doors! Do you suppose now the missus knows all that, she wants me home tending her scratches when she can have any one of half a dozen of her friends clucking over her?”

Hardie took a breath as he waited for the response. None was forthcoming. Triumphant, he rammed home the verbal advantage. “I thought not. Now, with the greatest of respect Detective Sergeant, shut the fuck up and gie’s peace.”

Thoroughgood gripped the arms of his chair and still said nothing.

As the silence stretched, Hardie guiltily reflected inwardly that perhaps he had gone too far. After all, Thoroughgood was clearly still not his usual self. Nursing the fresh torment caused by the Braehead bomb blast and their inability to do anything to prevent it, Hardie hoped his mate would not return to the suicidal state in which he had brought him back from Castlebrae.

‘Fuck it,’ said Hardie to the four walls, “don’t know about you, but I need a drink.” He focused his attention on pouring two rum and cokes and handed Thoroughgood his before inelegantly dropping his sagging body onto the leather sofa which let out a gasp of protest at the weight it had suddenly been asked to support.

Hardie leaned back and stretched out one arm along the back of the sofa before raising the dark frothing liquid to his lips. He raised his glass, “To Betty bloody Hardie, by Christ I love her!” and took a huge draught of the drink.

Thoroughgood stared at his partner and joined him. “Amen to that, my dear faither!”

“Poor bastards! I mean for cryin’ out loud. I can tell you this Gus, I will be at the Kirk come Sunday to say a few amens and an even bigger thank you. Only the man upstairs knows why Betty wasn’t killed. The only reason she didn’t head for Pizza Hut for a coffee and a slice of her favourite salami pizza was because she thought it would be mobbed with tennis punters. She’s funny that way, my missus, full of wee contradictions. Guess it’s why I love her!”

Thoroughgood’s phone sounded — an incoming text — “According to forensics it was a suicide bomber and a necklace of IEDs. A necklace? How poetic. How the fuck have they managed to get a whole string of IEDs in under the gaze of CCTV? That’s it then. Just our bleedin’ luck. What type of organisation uses suicide bombers? Not even the Provos go that far do they? It’s got Jihadists written all over it.”

But Hardie, finally exhausted by the emotional hell he had been through over the last few hours, now had his eyes shut although his knees seemed to have taken on a life of their own as they danced in time to the Irish crooner’s classic ‘Precious Time’.

Suddenly the DC’s eyes twitched open and he stared straight at his mate who had been taking in the virtuoso but creaking performance of Hardie’s lower joints, and they both let out a mutual laugh.

“Feckin’ great lyric, eh Gussy boy?” as he belted out the first line of the Ulsterman’s anthem.

They both laughed again, sharing a moment of levity in a day that neither would forget.

“Fuck me, how appropriate is that one? We just don’t know how much precious time we have left,” said Hardie.

Halfway through ‘Here Comes the Night’ the doorbell rang.

“Thank God for that! Friend Sushi, methinks,” said Thoroughgood. “Let’s just hope this isn’t a wild goose chase — we just don’t have the time for that.”

Hardie raised his glass in mock salute. “Ah Gussy boy, you should have learned to trust your old faither by now!”