18

THOROUGHGOOD AND Hardie, both still in a state of shock, arrived together outside Tomachek’s office. Clouds of smoke were visible through the half glass door.

“The old man’s going at it fast and furious this morning,” Hardie remarked.

“No bloody wonder, what the fuck is this all about? Four more dead and apparently sweet FA to go on. It’s everybody’s worst nightmare. We don’t even know 100% if it’s terrorists, criminals or just some madman with a grudge against society. As for Braehead, I just can’t get my mind around that.”

As they entered the room the Detective Superintendent swivelled his chair round to face them. “When I ask you to be in my office at 4pm that’s when I want you here!” he barked. “It’s 4.03 – you’re three minutes late.” Tardiness was Tomachek's pet hate.

“The biggest act of terrorism on Scottish shores since Lockerbie. Murder and mayhem in the West End and you two bastards don’t think it is important enough to attend a meeting with your senior officer on time? It’s bally plain old buggery. It’s also dammed disrespectful. Anything you want to say to that DS Thoroughgood?”

“Sorry gaffer. It’s chaos in the backyard. We had to park outside on the street and then battle our way in past everyone and his granny. The media are crawling all over the place.”

But Tomachek’s irritation had passed. He waved his hand to waft the smoke out of his way, turned his world-weary eyes on his subordinates and gestured for them to take a seat. Leaning forward and placing his elbows on the edge of his side of the desk, he said “Sit down boys, we have a major problem.”

Thoroughgood shot a sideways glance at Hardie and then looked back across the desk at his superior officer. “We’re all ears boss,” was the best he could do.

“Before I fill you in on new developments, Hardie, can I say I’m damned glad your missus came through Braehead with just a few cuts and grazes. Truly I am.”

Tomachek slapped a copy of Monday afternoon’s Evening Times onto his desk and pointed at the headline filling the entire front page. Friday: Braehead blown up. Saturday: West End carnage. Tomorrow: who knows? Glasgow in Terror.

“We have the media camped outside the office and it gets a whole lot worse because they don’t know the fuckin’ half of it, dear boys.”

He tossed a single sheet of paper across the desk to Thoroughgood. “The first copper on the scene at Dowanhill found this pinned to the old boy who had his brains blown out while watering his flower baskets. Makes you think twice about taking care of your tulips don’t it?”

Thoroughgood shrugged his shoulders and flattened the note out on the desk in front of him. Hardie took a look at it too before commenting “I’m not too fluent in the old Arabic, boss.”

Tomachek exhaled a billow of smoke. “Indeed. And it isn’t just bog standard Arabic, my dear Hardie, it is a code and we need to get it cracked tout suite.”

Thoroughgood interrupted his boss. “I notice it’s a photocopy boss. I assume Special Branch, MI5 and MI6 don’t know about this duplicate?”

“Just so, Thoroughgood. I’ll doff my bonnet to them in public but what my men get up to in private is another matter.”

Thoroughgood could feel Hardie’s eyes burning into the side of his face and he knew exactly what was going through his mate’s mind. Friend Sushi and his tip off, should they tell the old man or not?

He threw Hardie a warning glance.

“Okay boss,” before adding in a rush, “Is there anything else we can help you with?”

Tomachek’s eyes almost popped at the question. “Of course there bloody well is! Firstly, I want to know exactly where some religious nut job got his hands on a specialist Soviet sniper’s rifle. There could be a trail there.”

Thoroughgood nodded in agreement but there were questions he needed answered. “Religious nut job? I take it that is the flavour of the poisoned prose before us?”

Tomachek inclined his head. “You can take it as bloody well read Detective Sergeant.”

Thoroughgood met his superior’s hardening gaze unblinking but it was Hardie who spoke. “While we’re here do we have any intel’ on White Eye from yesterday, boss?”

The question did little to lift Tomachek’s spirits. “No we do not. The obvious conclusion is that he may not be from these shores. Ironic that, given his unusual appearance, we haven’t got the slightest clue who he is. Which reminds me, do we know anything about the blade he tried to slice you into square sausage with?”

It was Thoroughgood’s turn to provide information. “Aye boss, we've had the inscription on the handle translated.” Thoroughgood hesitated, aware that what he was about to say was likely to send Tomachek into orbit.

The senior officer erupted. “In the name of the wee man will you spit it out Thoroughgood, before I have a seizure?”

Thoroughgood felt his lips curl as the words came out. “The translation is ‘The true believer will taste ever lasting happiness in the death of every infidel.’”

“Great. Just bloody brilliant. What the bally hell we’ve got here the Lord God only knows,” said Tomachek.

“Well if that’s all, we better get goin’ boss,” Thoroughgood said. He started to rise but Tomachek gestured for him to remain in his seat.

“Not so fast, Detective Sergeant. The note was just the aperitif. Get ready for the pièce de resistance!” said Tomachek.

“At around 2.30pm on Saturday afternoon the businesswoman - I’ll call her that for want of a more appropriate description - Vanessa Velvet, was taken from a hotel room at One Devonshire Gardens. By force.”

Hardie couldn’t help himself. “But wasn’t she at that lingerie launch, the one with models playing volleyball on a fake beach in George Square? ‘Bitch’ or something I think she’s callin’ it. The missus told me about it the other day but I wasnae really listenin’, as per . . .”

Tomachek surprised them. “Aye, ‘Bitch. For the woman who doesn’t give a damn.’”

Astonished at their superior officer’s knowledge of Bitch lingerie, Thoroughgood and Hardie exploded with laughter as the tension engulfing the room fleetingly lifted.

“All right, all right, calm down. There’s more …”

Thoroughgood could not help himself interrupting. “Surely not boss! Has VV posted a YouTube clip and it was all a publicity stunt?”

Despite himself the DS grinned. Then he shook his head in dismissal of his subordinate’s suggestion before continuing. “VV, as you call her, wasn’t in the hotel room on her own. She was accompanied by none other than the leader of Glasgow City Council, the man Labour expect to lead them to the political Promised Land, Jim Fraser. The man they’re callin’ the next Tony Blair. Needless to say he has also disappeared without a trace into the bleedin’ bargain, although I’d be prepared to speculate that dear Vanessa had well and truly put the va va voom back into his life before they were taken.”

He picked up the remote control lying on his desk and pointed it at the TV. “Fasten your seatbelts and meet our new friends from ‘The Spear of Islam’.”

Thoroughgood and Hardie’s eyes locked in on the TV screen in silence. The film that followed was brutally to the point.

It showed Jim and Vanessa kneeling in submission, partially clothed, in front of two men wearing the same Bush and Blair masks as used in the Dowanhill attack. The men were dressed in combat clothing and armed with vicious looking curved swords.

The figure masquerading as Bush made an emotionless and monotone speech in Arabic which Tomachek translated from a pre-prepared sheet. He threatened that if an activist known as Ismail Khan was not released from Guantanamo Bay within 72 hours, one of their captives would be decapitated.

The film ended with Vanessa pleading for the demands to be met. As she did so ‘Blair’ forced her chin up with the point of the blade re-iterating, this time in English – “Free our brother or the bitch and her pimp will lose their heads.

“We will provide filmed proof of their executions,” he continued malevolently. “Be warned infidels, it is time for you to find out what the consequences of Jihad in your godless country are. We, the Spear of Islam, will make that happen. You have my word.”

Then the screen went blank.

Tomachek was first to break the silence. “This film was posted on the Al Jazeera Arabic network yesterday evening. Your thoughts?”

“Have we got a make on it, a point of origin or anything like that from the Special Branch boys?” Thoroughgood asked.

Tomachek lent back in his captain’s chair and shook his head. “No Gus, they’ve been too cute. We failed to get an IP address and we haven’t been able to analyse the backscatter from one upload.

“They have us very much at a disadvantage. And because of the content of the broadcast we have the whole shooting match involved, from Special Branch to MI5 and 6 wanting to evoke their specialist procedures and to hell with good old police work.”

Hardie was first to penetrate the prevailing awkwardness. “The design on the cloth at the back of the shot looks familiar. It’s a similar geometric design to one I saw in an article a few weeks back investigating radicalised Islamic students.”

Tomachek took another puff on his antique pipe and looked up at the ceiling. “Radicalised students, Hardie? Hogwash. This lot know exactly what they are doing and they have intelligence about the city that is helping them achieve their means. How the hell else did they get to know about the leader of Glasgow City Council meeting our highest profile businesswoman for lunch and extras to follow?”

Hardie retreated behind a grunt.

“And I thought dealing with that murderous bastard Meechan was bad. This mob are going to make him look like the proverbial pussycat. I tell you dear boys, this is it. Hell’s bells are tolling.”

Hardie pitched in. “Nice touch with the Bush and Blair masks, very fuckin’ cute. So, let’s get this straight, this ‘Spear of Islam’ lot, they’ve not come right out and taken responsibility for Braehead or Dowanhill have they? Obviously the masks seem to tie them into the latter. But this film is threatening to wage some type of Holy War in the UK, correct?”

The answer came from Thoroughgood. “Listen old mate, I’d say from the events of the last few days that we are already at war. The question is not can we stop them from inflicting Jihad. It’s how quickly can we bring it to an end.”

Taking their seats in the Focus parked outside Stuart Street Police Office, Hardie was first to puncture the troubled silence that had prevailed since they left Tomachek’s office. “Looks bad Gus, don’t it? The old man is right though, this has potential for disaster on so many fronts. I never thought I’d say it but thank fuck for friend Sushi. Do you think it was the right call not to mention what he told us to Tomachek?”

Thoroughgood arched an eyebrow. “You kiddin’ Kenny? No chance. Listen, even if we had followed up on Sushi’s concerns there is no way we could have pre-empted this mess. Right now I need to make a phone call to a certain waiter because we need a meet as soon as possible.”