The Nationalist (12 page)

They were now at the top of the hill of the dead, next to the monument erected in honour of the religious reformer, John Knox; a massive obelisk, weathered with decades of grime from the city below. Looking out across Glasgow Arbogast felt at ease, “You get a great view from here.”

“That’s not a view; they call that perspective.”

22

Annabelle Strachan got home at around 5:30pm. It had been a long day at the office and she’d had more than her fill of her clients’ woes. Opening the close door she heard the cat before she saw it. MacCormick always seemed to sense she was in the building before she got back. She stopped on the landing and heard the mewing from the flat; the noise increased when she turned the lock, and by the time she was in MacCormick was waiting, sat expectedly in the hall. As she made her way to the kitchen the cat rubbed his head against her leg and ran his body backwards and forwards, while Annabelle dumped her jacket on the kitchen bench.

“Are you hungry, wee man? Do you want some food?” She repeated the phrase a few times, letting her voice get higher each time, driving the cat into a feline, food frenzy. She dished out the flaked tuna into the plastic bowl, replacing the old dish with the fresh meat, “There you go, and now I think it’s time for me.”

She took the chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge and poured herself a generous glass, adding ice for extra chill. As the cat gnawed happily on the fish Annabelle sat back and sighed, “This is one of the longest weeks of my life. I hope it’s all going to be worth it.” Annabelle lived on the third floor of a blonde sandstone block on Paisley’s Espedair Street. People knew the name from the Iain Banks book, but the reality was more mundane. It was a fairly non-descript street, with buildings of different shapes and sizes, underlined by occasional hedgerows and a long line of cars. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do for now. At around eight o’clock her domestic indifference was brought to an end when the buzzer rang. As usual the cat disappeared to hide underneath her bed. Picking up the intercom she heard an unfamiliar voice.

“Can I speak to Annabelle Strachan?”

“That depends on who’s asking. What do you want?”

“I came to talk about a mutual acquaintance, John Arbogast.”

Annabelle placed the receiver back in the cradle and went back to the living room. The buzzer went again, but she ignored it.

Annabelle left the house at 7:45 the next morning. She pressed the unlock button on her key fob and saw the orange lights flash twice on her VW Beetle. She was about to get in when she was startled by a voice behind her.

“Annabelle Strachan?”

Turning she was faced by a grey haired 50-something, dressed in a blue dress jacket, pink shirt, and beige chinos. He was carrying a brown leather attaché case. “You again; I’m assuming you were my persistent caller last night? The cat still hasn’t come out of hiding.”

“I want to speak to you about John Arbogast.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Are you saying you don’t know him?”

Turning away, she made to get into the car, throwing her handbag and jacket in the backseat. “I don’t know any Arbogast. What kind of name is that anyway? Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go.”

“If that’s the case, perhaps you can explain this?” He took an ipad from his briefcase and was tapping at the screen. He turned it round and she was faced with a vision of herself, on all fours, with Arbogast grimacing behind her.

“For god’s sake, put that away. There are families on this street.”

“Well at least we can dispense with the amnesia routine. I have connections which are pretty far reaching and this kind of thing just won’t wash. Who have you sent this to?”

“Listen old man, who do you think you are ringing my buzzer at night then accosting me on the street? Are you some kind of dirty old perv, is this how you get your kicks?”

Annabelle tried to pull away but the man grabbed her wrist and squeezed tight, it felt like the bone was going to snap.

“What are you doing?” Annabelle screamed out.

“That’s enough,” the old man was angry. “Any more of that and your day will not go well from here on in. I asked how many people have seen the video. This is your last chance.”

“Not many, OK?” He released her hand and Annabelle rubbed her wrist, which had turned red with the pressure. She watched the man, who looked disgusted with her.

“One person would be too many. I need to know how many people have seen it.”

“Two people, alright; his girlfriend and Police Scotland,” her confidence had gone and she seemed to realise who he might be, “Are you with them?”

“Luckily for you I’m not. Is that all the people that have seen the video?”

“More or less.”

“Don’t waste my time. I need all the names.”

“Look, I’ve told you more than enough.”

“Not nearly enough. Inside. I need to make sure the film is erased.”

“I’m not letting you in. Who are you?”

“A friend of John’s”

“I know your face. Why would that be?”

“What can I say? I’m an everyman. The video was on a closed YouTube channel. We can erase that now.”

Norrie taped away at the ipad again and passed the device to Annabelle, “User name and password. I want to see the file deleted.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t control the site.”

“Well you’re going to need to tell me who does. I won’t take no for an answer. What right have you got to ruin a man’s life? He’s got everything at stake here. I don’t even understand why you’ve done this.”

“Because I can; because I need to do something.”

“For what?”

“We can’t just stand by while the Arbogasts of this world allow the Police to run roughshod over our justice system.”

“Can you even hear yourself?”

“I gave the film to Newsnational. They said they’d know what to do with it – how to make the most of a bad situation.”

“You had better hope I can get that film back. If I can’t, you’ll be responsible for what happens.”

As he walked off down Espedair Street Annabelle was shaking as the adrenalin and fear coursed through her body. She sat in the car for around half an hour before phoning in sick. She needed to speak to Ian Wark as soon as possible.

23

Arbogast was having trouble concentrating.

“You’ve got the thousand yard stare going on there, John. What’s happening?”

“Alright Chris, it’s nothing. I’m just. Ach, it’s nothing; just tired, I suppose.” Arbogast wanted to confide in his friend but couldn’t bring himself to start the conversation, although he could see Chris was worried. He had asked casually, but was pretending not to notice, eyes flicking in his direction when he thought he wasn’t being watched.

“Is the case getting to you? We all saw a lot down on the square. I’d understand if you wanted to take time out.”

“Have you been speaking to Davidson?”Arbogast was riled; the question sounded more like an accusation.

“No need to snap, John. I’m just asking. You’ve not been yourself since—”

“—since when?”

“Well since your good lady wife got back from Belfast.”

“She’s not my wife.”

“Touchy.”

“Look, give me some space will you? I’ve got a lot on my mind. Can I not get a minutes peace?”

Chris Guthrie stepped back a couple of paces, with his hands raised, “Sorry I asked. What’s new with the case?”

“We’re not exactly short of information. There are ten teams working on the suspects brought in with the M15 leads, although nothing much seems to be coming from those investigations. Our phantom terror cell seems to be throwing up nothing but dead ends. They have no web presence at all, which seems unusual if they’re trying to make a statement. I keep wondering if Jock Smith was maybe pushed into this somehow, maybe he had something to hide.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I’m not sure what to believe. I’ll tell you this, though, I find it hard to believe that after nearly a hundred years of peaceful campaigning for an independent country the nationalist movement would create some kind of paramilitary wing. There’s a referendum next year; surely if we were going to have trouble it would follow the result.”

“Providing it went against the Government.”

“Of course – but if it’s not about nationalism, what are we dealing with?”

“Our man, Jock, was a committed nationalist. He was a paid up party member. Maybe he thought he could become a martyr?”

“Now who’s being ridiculous? Who would vote for that? Why did he feel the need to kill people?”

“Have we had anything back on the elusive ‘second man’?”

“Not yet. No-one seems to have got a good look at the guy. His face was masked and he was in military uniform at an event full of guys dressed exactly the same.”

“He must have been a nut job.”

“Is that your considered opinion? He was serious enough to blow himself up. The guy’s connected to some kind of terror cell, although god knows why he would put himself through it.”

“Maybe he had nothing to lose.”

“We’ve all got something.”

***

James Wright picked up the phone and dialled the seven digit number from memory.

“I told you not to phone me.”

“That’s a nice way to talk to your father.”

“I know who it is and I know what you want, but I can’t talk to you.”

“I need to talk to someone about Jock. There have been a lot of questions.”

The phone went dead. James tried to phone back but the line was engaged, “Bastard, he’d leave me hanging on.”

About half an hour later he was ready to leave the house and phoned for his usual driver. He needed to tell someone what had happened.

***

Ian Davidson broke the news that Arun Khan had been charged under the Terrorism Act.

“He admitted looking up terror sites on the web – silly bugger.”

“His face was plastered all over the newspapers. Regardless of the result, his name will be mud, and yet we don’t seem to have been able to tie him to the square,” Arbogast said.

“What difference does that make?”      

“It would make a bloody big difference to me.”

“He’s still a potential bomber. It’s our job to take him out of circulation.”

“You should hear yourself talk,” Arbogast was finding it harder to control his disdain.

“I am humility incarnate Inspector,” Davidson said, bowing in a show of mock respect.

“Humility is a lesson you’ve yet to learn. How can you joke about this? He’s just a teenager that looked at some dodgy sites. He hasn’t done anything, and we have absolutely no evidence to suggest he’s in touch with any underground cells.”

“He’ll have a couple of years to think about it.”

“Nice guy.”

“Thanks. At least I’m not some whining leftie. Sometimes I wonder why you even applied to join the Police.”

“So do I,” Arbogast said, under his breath.

Davidson’s stance stiffened, “What was that?”

“As you were, colleague; we need to have a chat about the actual investigation.”

The taxi pulled up outside the red sandstone building which had served as a community centre for more than 50 years. The driver got out first, taking his disability ramp from the boot and fixing it onto the side of the cab to make James Wright’s departure a little more dignified. It took about ten minutes for the old man to ease his creaking bones back out onto the pavement, but when the driver asked if he needed help getting inside the offer was declined, “I’m being met at the door. I’ll be OK.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” said the driver nodding his appreciation as he was handed a generous tip, “Then I’ll let you go.”

James Wright stood on the pavement, which had been torn apart so many times by pneumatic drills it now looked more like a crossword grid than a right of way, with the criss-cross of patched up tarmac giving way to weeds and discarded rubbish. He stood and stared at the small white camera in the door of the building. He waited for five minutes before he heard the familiar buzzer sound and watched as the magnetic lock switched off, allowing the door to swing out to the street. By the time his host opened the door James could tell he was going to be in for a difficult afternoon.

24

“What do you want, James?”

“What happened to father?”

“As far as I’m concerned you’ve got nothing to do with me, which brings me to my next point. Why are you here?”

Ian Wark had about as little to do with his biological father as possible. Ian had been born when James was already in his 50s, the product of a casual affair with Wendy Wark, a woman who pronounced her surname to rhyme with ‘Ark’. Ian set out to find his father ten years previously, and to his disappointment the quest hadn’t lasted long. A scan through the electoral role in the Mitchell Library and there he was, living less than four miles away. They shared a common view of pushing for an independent country, but differed in their tactics, and clashed over big picture politics. James still favoured a socialist utopia, whereas Ian felt a new look Scotland could herald a golden age for business. The two men stood and stared at each other, neither wanting to break the silence, reluctant to begin the conversation they both knew had been coming for some time.

“We need to speak about Jock, son.”

Ian stared at James for sometime before grunting and holding open the door. Inside they sat at a splintered Formica table, which was screwed into the stained, red vinyl flooring. James sat at the nearside while Ian had his back to the wall. Although smoking had been banned in public more than a decade ago, the Legion still stank of stale smoke; the smell clung stubbornly to the jackets of its regular guests.