The Nationalist (17 page)

“Are you alright there?”

“Fuck off and leave me alone,” he was waving his hands to ward off the stranger.

“You were sleeping there, shouting in your sleep.”

“Who are you?”

“We’ve been sat here for an hour. You’re lucky you haven’t been thrown out. If you were sitting at the bar you would have been.”

“No, you’re not listening. Who are you? What is this?”

“Do you even know where you are?”

“Of course I do. It’s the Clutha.”

All he could hear now was laughter. He tried to stand up but the booth he was in was tightly packed. When he stood up his thighs caught on the bottom of the table, lifting it up and pushing it towards the window. Glasses toppled over and drink swept down across the table and onto the laps of what appeared to be four men. There was a crash followed by a lot of shouting. He was promptly ejected from the pub. Landing on his arse, he sat on the pavement, the skin on his hands bloodied after scraping along the tarmac. The shock of being moved had upset his stomach. He expected to burp but when he did he vomited down his front. He could hear people muttering. Looking up he saw two middle-aged women, watching him with disgust.

“Look at the state of you.”

“Try looking in the mirror yourself sometime, love. The hangover will pass but you’ll always be an ugly fucker.”

He had picked himself up and was trying to walk in a straight line, before he realised he was going the wrong way. Turning himself around he felt he was starting to sober up. I’ve got to get home, back to Rose. The woman he’d insulted kicked him in the shin as he walked past, her cigarette butt bouncing off the back of his head as she flicked it at her slow moving target. He raised his left hand with middle finger outstretched as he lumbered on.

“Fuck you too.”

About an hour later Arbogast arrived back at the flat on Lyndoch Place. For years he had rented it, but when Rose moved in she had the idea of buying; it was in her name and he had nowhere to call home. He tried the keys but the locks had been changed. Cursing, he punched the metal door entry system, tearing more skin from his knuckles. Idiot. He put his finger on the buzzer and kept it there. Rosalind answered.

“OK, who is this – do you know what time it is?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Is that you, John? I told you to stay away. Given the headlines today I would’ve thought that would be obvious.”

“I need to see you, Rose. I’ve got a plan.”

“There have been reporters at this door all day. You’re mad to come here, especially if you’re hammered.”

“I’ve had a drink, but I’m not drunk.”

“I can hear it in your voice.”

“You always say that.”

“It’s always true. Look, you can come up, have a coffee, but you’re not staying. OK?”

“Fine.”

Going back through the front door Arbogast expected the flat to have been transformed, but it was just the same, more or less. He stood in the hall staring at the walls for a while.

“Are you alright, John?”

“There’s something different.”

“It’s exactly the same.”

“No its,” He scanned the hall with his index finger, “The picture’s missing.” He could see that there was a lighter patch on the hall wall. A print he had bought at the modern art gallery of an art deco camel. He could never remember the artist’s name.      

“It fell off.”

“Fell off my arse. You never liked that picture.”

“It was too old.”

“It was art.”

“I didn’t like it, and you don’t live here, so I thought what the hell.” She walked into the spare room and came back out holding the small, oak framed print.

“Here you go, have it; stick it wherever you like.”

“I’ve nowhere to put it.”

“Did you come here to talk about home decoration or did you actually have something to say.  You look terrible and what’s that smell?”

Arbogast stood in silence, clutching the painting to his chest. This hadn’t gone the way he had planned. He had fine tuned the conversation in his head 20 times before he got to the front door. But then he’d gone off on an art hunt and he was back at square one.

“It’s just that—”

“—it’s just that what?”

“I want us to have the baby.”

Rosalind walked away, into the living room. He followed but she stood with her back to him, looking out onto the street. The curtains were open and lamp post outside cast an orange glow on her face.

“It’s too late for that, John.”

“We talked about this.”

“It’s in the past. I’m not sure I even want to.”

“But you’ve always said this was your dream.”

“That was before I got the job.”

“Well you’re not there now are you?”

“This is not a conversation I’m having right now. Sorry.”

Arbogast was getting angry, his plan wasn’t panning out, “Is it even mine? Maybe that online site had it right; maybe it is Graeme Donald’s?”

“You know I would never do that. We’re not all living in the gutter. We don’t all have fucking video libraries of our top ten conquests.”

“You’re just doing this to spite me,” he was shouting now and Rosalind gestured to keep the noise down.      

“You’re going to keep it, and what’s more, I’m going to be able to see our child.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing yet.” She knew that wasn’t true, but she could see John was losing the plot. Rosalind just wanted him to calm down and leave.

“You can’t possibly be thinking of getting rid of it.”

“Rid of ‘it’. Can you hear yourself talking? Look, I’m going to have to ask you to go. It’s been a long day. You’ve had a lot to drink and we can’t speak when you’re like this.”

Arbogast was starting to lose it. She could see the emotion in his eyes and moved back out into the hall. She heard someone outside and opened the door. It was their neighbour, Sharon.

“Hi Rosalind, how are things—”

“—I’m glad you’re there. John’s just leaving.”

John Arbogast stood in the hall, print still in hand. He knew he’d talked himself into a premature departure, “I’ll see you later. But remember this is not just up to you.”

“Sober up, John, and we can talk another time. Be in no doubt, though, that this decision is entirely mine.”

She stood with Sharon and watched as he staggered down the steps. He turned on the landing, determined to have the last word, but by the time he looked up he was met by the cold echo left in the close as the door slammed shut.

32

More than a week had passed and questions were being asked about the investigation’s slow progress. A steady flow of funerals were being held; each one covered in the press, but with decreasing interest as the grim procession of death continued. Graeme Donald had been in contact with the anti-terror department at the Ministry of Defence, but so far they had been unable to pinpoint exactly where the plastic explosives had come from. Officials believed the material might have been part of an order sent by UK PLC to the Libyan government in 2010 as a result of the thawed relations between Britain and Colonel Gaddafi’s regime. In Scotland the move had not been popular, with memories of the Pan Am plane bombing at Lockerbie still deeply entrenched in the public’s psyche. Gaddafi was not a man to be trusted. Ironically his death had led to the liberation of an arms shipment, which would have been stored at one of the many Libyan munitions dumps. Exactly where they had been found was impossible to say. None of the official records had survived and the current government was unable or unwilling to help. How the explosives got back into the country was the question no-one seemed able to answer. Graeme Donald sat back in his chair and tried to think. He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

“Is this a good time?” It was Ian Davidson.

“As good a time as any, what is it?”

“I’ve been thinking about the reports on Ying.”

“Is that right?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to pry into your personal life, but I think we may have uncovered a link to those reports and the bombing.”

The Chief sat forward in his chair, he needed to hear something positive, “And?”

“The website the article appeared on is Newsnational, an online platform for radical nationalists. It’s been particularly active of late with the referendum coming up—”

“—I assume you’re going to get to the point?”

“But we haven’t known who has been writing the material. There are no contact details on the site and Newsnational is registered through a Korean ISP.”

“I still don’t see where this is going.”

“Bear with me. Our IT guys have been doing a bit of digging and we’ve managed to identify the host.” Ian Davidson stopped for dramatic effect but he only succeeded in making his boss angry, “For god’s sake man. Out with it!”

“It’s Ian Wark, the guy Arbogast went out to see after his dad died.”

“You mean James Wright, our latest corpse? There are too many new people ending up dead in this case. We have an octogenarian bomber; dead. His only living friend; dead, and now his son is posting illegally hacked emails online. If I’m right he’s also been emailing me too. I’ve received some interesting content in the last few days. I’ll maybe show you some day. What do we know about this guy Wark?”

“I’ve been doing some digging. He seems to have kept a fairly low profile. A few minor incidents when he was a teenager –assaults mostly. He seems to be self employed now but he spent six years in the armed forces.”

“Middle East?”

“He spent some time in Iraq. I ran a check with border control and it seems he visited Libya a few times.”

“For business?”

“It’s not clear. It seems he may have fought as a guerrilla fighter. He was well trained. The rebels would have made good use of his skills.”

“And he would have had access to arms?”

“We obviously can’t prove that, but he would have been able to get his hands on the stuff. I don’t imagine getting it back to Britain would have been straightforward.”

“No, but circumstantially this is a good lead. We need to bring him in.”

“I’ll get on it.”

“Be careful, though, we don’t know what this man’s capable of. Take the Armed Response Unit. Close down his street and don’t take any chances.”

Donald’s heart was racing. He knew this was a big break, and that if the case went his way he would be hailed a national hero.

Later that day following a conversation with the Crown Office, a communication was issued to the press warning them not to reprint any of the allegations that had appeared on Newsnational. The advice was that the story was being investigated under the Terrorism Act and that any breach would face the full force of the law. Donald phoned Ying to tell her to return to work immediately but he only got an answer machine. He asked his PA to contact Arbogast. The Crown Office legal advice would help keep negative press to a minimum. He was going to needed to get the full team back in place.

***

Rosalind Ying arrived at the Sandyford Clinic for her second appointment. She had had a lot of time to think and knew that aborting the pregnancy was the only thing she could do. She felt guilty about not talking it through with John but he would only try to make her change her mind; to make it harder. It was a cold day, but bright, and every imperfection in the stonework of Argyle Street’s tenement rows were clearly visible. Pock marks from scaffolding, flaking sandstone, and flawed paintwork all seemed to be brought into sharp focus. Every detail of the day was being mulled over as Rosalind tried not to think about the one thing on her mind. The building itself was unassuming, set in the middle of a row of shops, split in the middle by a close door which led to the upper floors. Its wooden exterior was painted Victorian green, with large windows masked by hanging slat blinds. The D of Sandyford was off centre. The names of three doctors had been stencilled onto the front window.  She was seeing Dr. Gillian Freemantle, whose name was followed by a string of professional letters ‘M.B. Chb. M.R.C.P, D.C.H’ which seemed rather officious. Inside, sitting and waiting was the worst. Am I doing the right thing? What else can I do? Maybe I should keep the child. It’s not the time to question yourself. Stick by the decision. Deep in thought, she missed her name being called.

“Is there a Rosalind Ying here?”

Jolted from her thoughts by the sound of her own name, Rosalind apologised and was taken into the examination room.

“I’m Gill Freemantle and I’ll be your Doctor today,” She was a short, lean woman with an elegant face, “Before we go any further I need to remind you of the serious nature of the decision you’re making. Once we start this process it cannot be undone. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Is this something you still want to progress with?”

“Yes it is,” Rosalind said it firmly. This was what she wanted.

“OK, well this is the first of two visits. Today we’ll give you a mifepristone tablet. It works by blocking the action of progesterone, a hormone needed in pregnancy. This is tried and tested and very safe. However there are possible side-effects which you should be aware of.  It’s possible the pill could trigger excessive bleeding. Infection is also a possibility but we’ll give you antibiotics to reduce the chance of that happening. In around six cases out of a thousand the procedure won’t work and we will need to try again. Now, that’s unlikely, but it is a possibility you need to be aware of.”

“Will this procedure affect my chances of having a baby later in life?”

“There’s no evidence that this will have any impact whatsoever of your chances of having another baby.”

“That’s good to know,” Rosalind was sitting wringing her hands and was starting to feel anxious. It must have shown.

“Please don’t worry; we do this procedure every day and problems are extremely rare. I’m sure you’ll be fine. You’re in good hands.”

Rosalind nodded and the Doctor continued, “I have a few questions to ask before we continue. Firstly, and this is important, did you have a full breakfast before coming here?”