34

AS THEY pushed their way out through the growing crowd of passers-by and the devout gathering for prayer, both detectives realised how lucky they were that they did not have to deal with the fallout of this latest episode.

Hardie had managed to get the Mondeo out from the kerb despite the crowd and turned back round towards the city centre. He mouthed quick clarification on direction of travel to Thoroughgood. “Sauchiehall Street?”

Thoroughgood was nursing a frown that showed he was undecided, though it had initially seemed so clear that pursuit of Rahman was the logical next move.

“Nope, I think we head for University Gardens and an impromptu meeting with Professor Farouk,” he said.

“Okay,” was all Hardie had the energy to say, and as the DC looked at his mate he had to admit it would have been hard to tell who had been left more exhausted by the events at the Mosque.

As was his wont Hardie couldn’t help himself articulating the maelstrom within his mind. “I’m fucked, pure and simple. Eight years until I pick up my pension and at this rate I have as much chance of making it to the golden handshake as Thistle have of winning the Scottish bleedin’ Cup.”

“Charming!” replied Thoroughgood before turning to the issue at hand. “You aren’t the only one in that particular boat now, are you faither?”

Hardie frowned in acknowledgement before Thoroughgood continued. “I think Farouk is the key to tying up some loose ends and that is why we are heading back up to the Uni. The bottom line is that he either arranged the meet with Rahman and then cancelled it in a fit of misguided conscience, or he sent us there without ever having made contact with our friend the hawaladar. Which do you think it was?” asked Thoroughgood.

Hardie, by this time fag in mouth and elbow leaning over the driver’s window, had no doubts. “The former. You saw the lather the professor was getting himself in over his big dilemma. I think he made contact and then he reneged on it and warned Rahman off and that means it’s time we took the old boy into custody and made sure he gives us Rahman bang to rights on a silver platter.”

“Eloquent as always,” said Thoroughgood just as the Mondeo pulled into a bay outside the department of Middle Eastern Studies.

On entry into the department the detectives were met by Farouk’s secretary who informed them emphatically that the professor had taken himself over to the West Quadrant for a bit of fresh air to clear a blinding headache. The mention of the quads had Thoroughgood recalling halcyon days as he and Hardie crossed University Avenue on foot.

“It’s amazing, considering I live half a mile away and drive up and down University Avenue virtually every day that I have never set foot in the quads since I graduated best part of 15 years back,” said the DS.

“Fascinating,” commented Hardie with dripping sarcasm.

“Aye, July 7 was the big day. I graduated with my MA Hons and enjoyed the old shampoo on the lawns within the quads. I’ll never forget it because it was the last time my mother and my old man were together in this life and they spent the whole day bickering. They may have been apart for almost 20 years before it but they went at it hammer and tongs and it wasn’t helped by the fact that my bird at the time made it clear it was the last place on the planet she wanted to be. Aye, happy days as you might say faither!” concluded Thoroughgood.

Hardie’s surprise at his superior’s comments was clear in the habitual raised eyebrow. “You know that is about the first time I’ve ever heard you mention your folks Gus. Your old man is dead ain’t he?”

Passing the security guard at the entrance with a quick flash of his warrant card Thoroughgood was already mentally back on the job. “Long gone. Now up the stairs and turn left and hopefully Professor Farouk is sitting on the verge at the back of the quads, enjoying the view out over the Kelvingrove and the Art Galleries and getting himself together ‘cause we are going to need him lucid for what he has coming his way.”

They climbed the old, worn stone steps that would take them up past the Bute Hall – where the young Thoroughgood had spent many excruciating hours studying the demise of the Capetian dynasty and comparing the importance of Wallace and Bruce – and into the West Quad.

Hardie, shivering as the autumn sunlight gave way to a chilly shade, could not help himself moaning, “Feck me, did you graduate with long johns on? It’s Baltic in here. Where are all of the student spongers?”

Thoroughgood smiled. “Lunch time my dear Hardie. The GU beer bar and the QM will be packed. Aah the mammaries, sorry, memories, this place brings back. You know I’ve never told anyone this but I was going to ask Celine to marry me here, in the University Chapel.”

Hardie looked shocked but before he could find any words Thoroughgood added, “That’s right and you know who I was going to ask to be my best man?” Clearly from the unchanged look on his portly chops Hardie did not.

“You, dear old faither.”

But as he scanned his side-kick’s face Thoroughgood saw that the cause of Hardie’s speechlessness was not his revelations but a body swinging from a cloister 30 yards to his right. As he turned to take in the sight Thoroughgood’s thoughts were once again articulated by Hardie.

“Jesus H Christ it’s Farouk. The poor sod’s gone and hung himself.”