The Nationalist (5 page)

“—nobody said anything about—”

“—I know, but that’s the way it looks. If you don’t charge the boy you know what the papers will look like tomorrow. There are pictures of this operation all over the internet. I’ve seen one of the boy being shot. That might be your front page.”

Arbogast nodded, “We are where we are Sandy. We can only go on what we’ve got. So far we haven’t really been able to dig too much up on the bomber. I’m hoping his family will be able to help.”

Jock Smith didn’t have much in the way of family. After the war, he had come home and found work in the Glasgow shipyards. He didn’t know it then but the boom in the west coast’s shipping industry had already been and gone, with demand in the war to be the last major period of construction. From then on the story would be of gradual but steady decline, with each passing year adding to the city’s growing identity crisis. Scarred from his experience he wanted to make sure that he used his anger to make sure the country changed for the better. Joining the Communist Party in 1946 he felt confident that by devoting his life to the cause he would be able to help reshape the country to become one which helped its people, that worked to make everyone equal, and that the vested interests of the ruling class would never again push the world to the brink of war. Living in the slums of the Gorbals, Jock saw inequality every day. People spoke of the ‘sense of community’ but he knew that all that meant was solidarity in the face of overwhelming poverty – there was no safety net. For a while he thought things might change. Like-minded people were in government. The introduction of the National Health Service had been fought tooth-and-nail by doctors but the legislation had been a victory for the people. Healthcare as a basic human right fired Jock’s ambitions about what might be possible. He knew that there was an appetite for change and he wanted to be part of the movement that made it happen. As the years passed Jock’s political involvement meant his love life played second fiddle. His affairs were brief and brutal. He used sex as a release rather than for pleasure. Every time he staggered home drunk from the Scotia he knew a wife was the last thing he needed. By the time the 1960s arrived, his world had already started to vanish. He no longer understood the times he lived in.

With the arrival of the Beatles, the city fathers started to talk about renewal. His neighbourhood was bulldozed, replaced by high flats. Thousands were sent to ‘modern homes’ in ‘new towns’ with communities ripped apart in favour of progress. Ship building was in rapid decline by that time and when Jock’s redundancy was served in 1970, his life would never be the same again.

“Our man Jock was a bit of a loner,” Ian Davidson was briefing Norrie Smith on what they had been able to dig up, “I’ve gone through the records and he has no family at all.”

“None?”

“He had no brothers or sisters. He never married. His parents died in the 40s. His records suggest he has been unemployed since the early 70s. The only regular contact that he seems to have maintained was through the British Legion.”

“Comrades from World War 2?”

“Yes. We’ve checked with his local branch. Most of his peers are long gone. The branch treasurer said he pretty much kept himself to himself. There appears to be one person he spoke to – a Monte Cassino veteran named James Wright. He’s 88 years old, but apparently still pretty sharp.”

James Wright sat in the living room of his sheltered accommodation. Despite protests from his family he had insisted that he brought his tattered armchair to take pride of place in the new custom built complex. His daughter had complained it was too old and dusty it was fit for nothing but the dump. But it’s not rubbish. It’s all I have left. The chair had been bought for his 50th birthday by his late wife, Agnes. She had died a year later of cancer and he felt this was all he had left of her. I won’t throw it out. Sitting looking out of his sitting room window into the central square of Wesley House he noticed the bright luminous yellow jackets of two police officers. What are they doing here? Stopping to ask directions from the concierge they were pointed in his general direction. James watched as they made their way across the garden to stop in front of the house. The two officers, a man and woman, stopped and talked before looking at a piece of paper. What are they doing? His peace was broken when the bell rang. The batteries needed replaced and a drunken version of Scotland the Brave sounded uneasily across his flat. James tried to get up but it was getting harder. He pulled his zimmer frame closer to the chair and pulled hard as he tried to stand up. He must have taken some time as the bell rang again. That bloody buzzer needs fixed. He said that every time it rang. Outside the male officer peered in using his hand to shield the sunlight. Their eyes met and the PC nodded an apology. A couple of minutes later, James navigated the locks and opened the door.

“What’s all this about? I can’t walk properly. Why are you ringing the bell like that? What do you want?”

“I’m very sorry sir. We weren’t sure you were at home. I can only apologise.”

“What good’s an apology to me? I’m 88 you know.”

“I know sir.”

“You think you know? What is it you think you know? You know bugger all; nothing.”

“I’m sorry if we’ve got off to a bad start Mr Wright. I meant no offence. If you would only let us in we can tell you why we’re here.”

“Aye well, I suppose you’d better come in.”

The two officers waited patiently as their host made his way back to a filthy old armchair and sat back down.

“If you’re wanting tea, you’ll have to make it yourself. I don’t have any milk.”

“That’s fine sir. We don’t need any. My name is PC Karen Ludlow. This is my colleague, Gregor Collins.”

James nodded, “What do you want?”

“We’re here about your pal.”

“My pals are all dead.”

“Jock Smith died today.”

“Jock Smith – what’s he got to do with anything?”

“He died in George Square today.” James Wright’s expression told them this was news to him, “Haven’t you been watching the news today?”

“I don’t have a television. My black and white set broke down, but I don’t watch programmes anyway. I’m a reader.”

“It would seem that Jock strapped explosives to his body and blew himself up at the Remembrance Service.”

James took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose, “I always thought he was kidding.”

10

Driving back from Fife, Arbogast had time to think. He was convinced the investigation team was starting to lose sight of their real focus. Race hate attacks were on the increase country-wide, while the authorities were sending a clear message that they felt the country was at imminent threat. The official line was that a fresh attack was highly likely. Arbogast wasn’t sure. The pattern didn’t fit. Why would an old man get involved in something like this? The second blast suggested that he hadn’t been working alone, but so far finding a connection had proved to be elusive. He heard the ‘Odd Couple’ theme tune and knew Rosalind Ying was looking for him.

“Hi Rose,” he said on hands free.

“Hey John, how are things going over there?”

John Arbogast and Rosalind Ying had been together for three years after meeting on another case. They had been hunting for a little girl who had gone missing in a snowstorm with a suspected paedophile. After the thaw they had warmed to each other. That had been then. Things were different now; they were engaged.

Arbogast sighed, “It’s a nightmare Rose. The country’s gone mad. People are seeing killers on every street and I’m not sure about our focus. Listen, are you coming back tonight?”

“I’m at the airport, but the flights to Glasgow have all been cancelled. I think they’re looking at terror links to nationalists here.”

Rosalind Ying was a DCI with Police Scotland. Displaced by the recent nationalisation of the force she was looking for a new job after her previous role in Lanarkshire became surplus to requirements.       

“Can you get a ferry?” Arbogast hadn’t been paying attention and had strayed onto the middle lane, prompting a glaring rebuke from a driver annoyed by another near miss on a busy highway.

“I’ll stay another night. I think it’ll be OK tomorrow.”

“I see.”

“Don’t start with that again.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“How was he?”

“This isn’t helping.”

“How was the meeting?”

“It wasn’t official.”

“It’s not right, Rose.”

“It’s my future, John.”

“You know best.”

“Listen—”

The line went dead.

The politics driving Police Scotland had taken Rosalind Ying to Belfast. The man looking to become the Chief Constable of Police Scotland was currently heading up the Police Service of Northern Ireland. Graeme Donald was being tipped to take up the top job in Scotland and as such was Norrie Smith’s greatest rival. The fact that the country was gripped by a real terror threat meant that the powers that be were looking to make a speedy appointment. Rosalind had received a call and was asked to fly over to meet Graeme Donald to discuss her ‘options’. This had caused a rift between John and Rose, who had been arguing more frequently in recent months. The engagement had been intended to draw a line under their problems. They both thought greater commitment was what they needed but when Rose said ‘yes’ to his proposal it wasn’t long before both of them felt they may have made a mistake, although neither were prepared to admit it. Arbogast knew Rose was being lined up to be DCI under Graeme Donald, a state of affairs which was royally pissing him off. Not only would that make Rose one of the country’s highest profile police officers, she would significantly outrank him, while his great champion, Norrie Smith, would be forced out into early retirement. When she left, it had been hot on the heels of another a raging argument. Arbogast had called her a traitor. She said she hated him, that she’d made a mistake. Later on he thought he might have overstated things, but it was too late to take it back.

Five miles out from Glasgow, the traffic had ground to a halt. Traffic measures in the city centre meant the motorway had been reduced to two lanes each way, with cameras trained from overhead gantries recording the movement of every car. It took Arbogast two hours to get back to Pitt Street.

St Andrew’s House, Edinburgh

“I’m not sure this man Smith is the kind of figurehead we need right now.”

Craig McAlmont knew the First Minister was getting worried. With less than a year to the Referendum it was important that everything that could be done to keep the country on an even keel was done without question.

“You may be right, but do you think this is really the time to make a change?”

“It would be decisive.”

“But what if the replacement gets it wrong?”

“We can’t allow that to happen. He’ll have our full support.”

“Do I need to make this happen?”

“I think so. We can wait until tomorrow morning but if we don’t do it now it’s going to look odd. Norrie was good for Strathclyde but I’m not sure he’s what we need for Scotland. He was at the scene of the blast. He’s been physically and mentally compromised. People will understand why he can’t lead this investigation.”

Craig nodded, “OK, well let’s sleep on it but I’ll start working on a Q&A to explain the departure. He won’t like this.”

“No, but we can go easy on him. We can give him the option of presenting the move in the right way. He’ll get his full pension and there will be no suggestion of incompetence.”

“I’ll get on it now. I agree with your logic. I just worry about how this will be portrayed by the media. They might not get it.”

“It’s best to do it early on, rather than wait.”

“I thought we were sleeping on it.”

“So did I.”

Glasgow

“I always thought he was kidding,” James Wright was wringing his hands, staring at the thick brown shag pile carpet.

“Did you know about this?” PC Karen Ludlow hadn’t expected any major revelations. As far as she was concerned this was a routine enquiry.

“You described him as my friend. He was hardly that. We shared a bond; we were both at Monte Cassino – you know, in the war,” The PC’s nodded. Gregor Collins was taking notes. “We didn’t actually meet at the time. We were in different divisions. But the men that went through that were close. It was like trench warfare, appalling. We met much later at the Legion. I started going more after my wife died; a load of us went. Over the years it whittled down to just me and Jock,” His voice was frail and brittle; his vocal chords stretched thin from a lifetime of self explanation. “He was mad, you know. I think Monte was a big turning point for him. He never really forgave the army – blamed the top brass for killing his good pal he said; poor bastard.”

“But you said you thought he was kidding; what about?”

“He said he was going to get them back. He was angry that everything he endured, and after all the death and destruction, that Britain didn’t really bounce back. He got angry when people would talk about war movies and heroes. He said people didn’t really understand. The only real winners to him were the US, Germany, and of course his beloved Russia.”

“He was a communist?”

“After a fashion; he was a lost warrior, a loner – someone who didn’t know how to find peace.”

“Why would he do a thing like this?”

“I wish I knew, Constable. He always said that should it be his last breath he would do something to show the country what it needed to do to be great again; to give people a wake-up call. I don’t think he still believed in communism anymore. He was more of a nationalist.”

After they left, James Wright wasn’t sure what to think. He looked back out at the central courtyard, watching as the officers disappeared from view.