Referendum (12 page)

But when the door opened it was the Irishman again. Lorna made an involuntary noise; she was shaking, this wasn’t good.

“What do you want? I can’t pay you, I don’t know what to do to make you understand the hell my life is right now.” Lorna was scared. She hadn’t met this one before but he looked dangerous. She suspected he might have had something to do with her husband’s death, maybe with Leona’s disappearance too.

“We need to talk.”

Niall Murphy walked straight into the living room, casually looking round, “You’ve not got much left have you?”

“We sold everything to pay you people.”

“Us people were alright when you needed the money; scum of the earth now are we? Shower of bastards? Wise-up, you signed on the line and now you’re mine. You owe a lot by the way.”

Lorna nodded, “I know, but I don’t have that kind of money.”

“What about the house?”

“I need somewhere to live.”

“You won’t need anywhere to live if you don’t start clearing your debt.”

“I’ll do anything I need to do.”

“I don’t think you mean that.”

“I do.” Lorna didn’t want to but she was out of options.

“What would you do?”

“Anything you want.”

“Be specific.” He was up close, she could smell alcohol on his breath, tried to focus on the scar on his chin; anything to avoid making eye contact.

“I could touch you.”

“I don’t want touched by scum.”

“Suck.”

“Suck what?”

“Suck you down there.” Lorna pointed at his crotch, felt a fool but was scared, couldn’t see a way out.

“Suck my cock you mean?”

Lorna nodded.

“It’d take a lot of blow jobs to clear 25k – could be down there the rest of your life.” He turned his back and walked off to the window laughing, pulling back the blinds to see if there was anyone in earshot. “No, that won’t do. I need your money. I NEED YOUR FUCKING MONEY.”

After the tension of the last five minutes the outburst was terrifying. Lorna hadn’t been expecting the punch, but when it landed she knew there would be more. Doubled over, his fists rained down on her, she slowly lost consciousness.
Let this be an end to it; this misery that’s become my life.

When she came to, the house was silent. She lay still for a long time before she finally realised that Murphy had gone. She could feel a cool breeze soothe her back, which was exposed between her jeans and top. The pain came in waves when she moved so she stayed static on the carpet. She knew this was only the beginning.

***

News of Ian Wark’s death was finally released two days after the fact. Greame Donald called a press call at 10:00am on the second Wednesday of the Games. The official line was that he had died of complications to his injuries. The press room had erupted into a fury of questions.
What were the complications? Were rumours of his recovery false? Did he give up any information about last year’s terror attack? Could there be more people associated with the terror cell? What did this mean about finding answers?
But the answer to all the questions was the same; the case died with Wark.

Donald had been in touch with the Scottish Government who in turn held talks with the UK Government. Given the scale of the ongoing Commonwealth Games operation the decision was made that it wouldn’t do to have news of an assassination go public. It would cause panic, create international headlines. It would do no-one any good. The ward was quickly locked down, with hospital staff kept out of the loop; officially they didn’t know what had happened. The story went that Ian Wark died of a heart attack. Military doctors were called in to deal with the remains. Ian Wark had no immediate family. His body was incinerated; his ashes scattered in the nearby Necropolis. There was no service, no fanfare, nothing. Ian Wark had simply ceased to be.

The announcement was front page news but the coverage only lasted a couple of days. Victims of the families involved in the George Square bombing were sought out by reporters – they said they were disappointed they didn’t get answers. Archive footage of the aftermath of the bombing resurfaced, played out on a constant loop by the 24 hour news channels. But Usaine Bolt was running that night and before long the world moved on. All those involved in the plot were now dead. Case closed.

But not everyone was bound by the Official Secrets Act. Reading the news from the comfort of a snug in The Duchess on Duke Street, Niall Murphy knew he now had more influence over Graeme Donald than ever before.

20

The mask itched, and more than anything, Ian Davidson wanted to rip it off and live with the consequences. But he knew he wouldn’t; he didn’t want to be the freak the kids laughed at for the rest of his life.
With a bit of luck, I won’t be.
His skin was tighter on one side of his face and he looked more like his old self than he had done for months. The Doctors said it would take time.
But it’s taking too much time
. Nonetheless they were pleased with his progress.

Ian had arranged to meet Graeme Donald at Pitt Street. The chief had already thanked him for the tip-off about the reporter; he said he wanted to talk a bit more about his future.

“That was good work from you, Ian. I really appreciate the fact you’re fighting my corner. Allies are important.”

Ian tried to smile but it felt strained under the plastic of the mask; his face was partially covered with a hooded top, it was something that made him feel more secure. It made Donald nervous.

“Do you have to sit with that hood up? You’re like an assassin or something. We’re supposed to be friends.”

Ian dropped the hood exposing the full mask and a mop of hair. Donald was shocked. Davidson had always been fastidious about his appearance. Neatly pressed shirts, always a tie, and the hair; well the hair was the biggest surprise. Gone was the close crop, replaced with long flowing locks. Ian Davidson noticed the attention.

“It’s helps to hide this.” He gestured to the mask, tired of always having to explain his life away.
Why can’t they just let me live in peace?

“I didn’t mean to stare, Ian, but it’s painful to see you like this.”

Davidson grunted. He wasn’t convinced by his guest’s bedside manner. “I heard that the bomber died. I was hoping to hear more from him. He had a lot to answer for; he was responsible.”

“He’s gone now, and that’s all you need to know. The force will stick with you on this. No cost will be too high and we’ll have you back here working before you know it. You’d like to come back, wouldn’t you?”

“I can’t sit home with my folks for the rest of my life. I feel like a teenager. They mean well, but I want my life back.”

For a while there was silence. The two men knew that miracles were rare and that Ian wouldn’t be back at work any time soon. The silence was the confirmation neither wanted to voice.

“I wanted to thank you for telling me about Sandy Stirrit. He’s been looking to dig up dirt on me since day one. There are rumours; you’ve heard them, but I don’t want to see these aired in public. It’s all old hat. You helped with that. We’ve sent a message to Stirrit. I don’t think he’ll be bothering us again.”

Ian Davidson had seen the press reports. Sandy Stirrit’s battered face had been front page news: ‘BBC man pulped’, alongside a close-up picture of his face had been the splash of the week. The story went that he’d been beaten up in an alley. It dawned on Davidson that there was more to it than that. Donald had played a part, he’d just admitted as much. Donald had something on him now. He moved uncomfortably in his chair, it felt like there were now conditions being attached to his recovery. He’d only meant to help his boss; let him know he was still around.

“This has got nothing to do with me, sir. I only wanted to help.”

“And you did, and I’m grateful for that. I need people like you around me. You do what needs to be done and that’s an invaluable attribute – one that will get you far; provided you stick with me.”

Davidson could see he was being offered a way back in; but not to his old life, possibly something more. It’s what he’d always wanted. But he knew there were limitations.

“I can’t help you like this.”

“Oh, but you can. There are people circling just now. People that, if left untended, will cause us harm. If I go, you’re not going to climb much higher. Does that sound fair?”

It was a threat and he knew it. Davidson had no other choice but to agree, “I’ll do what I can. Do you have something specific in mind?”

Ian Davidson didn’t really feel up to heavy work, but he needed to grasp back on to some kind of routine. Daytime TV was all very well but he had talent, he felt he was born for bigger things. If there was anything he could do to accelerate his return to Pitt Street he was willing to gamble.

Donald watched the cogs turn as Ian’s facial expressions changed. It was hard to do with that bloody mask on but his eyes gave a lot away, flitting left and right it was a sign he was thinking, trying to come to a conclusion fast. Donald had plans for the boy. He’d been keen to help before but he’d got on the wrong side of people; that was something that had held him back. DCI Ying had also filed a complaint; said she’d been threatened by him in the past and that if it happened again she’d insist on taking it further.
We can’t have that kind of thing hanging over Major Crime.
Donald mulled over his options, he knew Davidson had talents. He could dig out the detail quickly and he had an eye for alternatives. He was just the kind of outside man he needed.

“I’ve got a contact in the East End. He’s a money man; nothing too big, but he’s expanding. Thinks he’s on easy street. But he’s a grass and he’ll work for us. I’ve had information about a new face on the debt collection scene. It seems someone’s trying to rock the apple cart. While I can’t go public with this I think our man may have been involved in the death of Ian Wark.”

Ian was surprised, “I thought he died of complications?”

“A bullet to the head does have a habit of complicating things. It’ll never get out, and you can’t tell anyone you know. It will be denied if you did. But it’s true all the same and this rogue element needs to be brought to heel. You can help to bring him in. What do you say?”

What could I say but yes?

It was bothering Arbogast that Lorna McMahon hadn’t let him do more to help find her daughter.
What’s she scared of?
He drove back to the house to apologise for the way he’d handled the situation. Loan sharks made him angry. He’d seen too many peoples’ lives ruined for the sake of a few quid. Chris Guthrie always said it was their own fault for being greedy, but greedy for what – food?

The door to the house was open. Something didn’t feel right. He knocked first, but when he got no reply he went in anyway.

He saw Lorna lying on the floor. She was bunched up in the foetal position with her back to the door. He gasped when he saw her face.

“Jesus, what’s happened here?”

“Nnnn”

He couldn’t make her out, it was that debt collector. He knew it, “Did that man come back? Was it Murphy that did this to you?”

There was still no response; she was barely conscious. He phoned the ambulance and waited. Something needed to be done.

At the hospital the examination went well. Although Lorna McMahon had suffered extensive bruising there was no indication of sexual assault and no signs of internal damage.
That’s something.
Arbogast waited until she’d come round. The doctor had given her painkillers and it seemed she had been in shock when he found her. Now, she was choosing not to speak.

“Lorna, you need to help me out here. I know it was Niall Murphy that did this. I know you couldn’t defend yourself. I snooped earlier and I’m sorry about that, but I’m genuinely trying to help you out here. This kind of behaviour is completely unacceptable.”

Lorna opened her eyes and glared at him, “Isn’t acceptable?” her voice was thick, “Not acceptable that I was beaten up or acceptable that I’ve been spat out by the system and reduced to begging money from loan sharks? I’m not even a good thief – what hope is there for me?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“—no, you lot never do mean it, do you? My Horace meant it. He meant to try and help but all he did was get himself killed. Well guess what, looks like I’m next. But it’s not me I’m worried about, it’s my daughter. She deserves better.”

The look on Lorna’s face was of bitter defiance. It hurt; Arbogast just wanted her to know that he was trying to help. “That’s why I came back. I want to put out a missing person’s release to the media. They work, people pay attention.”

Lorna nodded. “But I can’t go on camera for you, not looking like this.”

“I don’t want to force you to do anything. But I’ll get on this straight away. I’ll need a picture.”

“There’s some in my house, in the cabinet you were looking through before.”

Arbogast looked down, embarrassed that he’d been caught, “We will find Leona. I’m going to help with the loan sharks; we’ll help you get through this.

Lorna had turned her head away, her eyes were closed, “Of course you will, but excuse me if I don’t hold my breath.”

Outside in the corridor he asked the ward nurse to contact him if anyone came to visit Lorna, he was insistent about that, especially if that someone had a Belfast accent.

***

Junior Bikana had no-where to go. He had slept rough the first night, having run past the city limits to find himself at a village outside East Kilbride, the name of which he could not pronounce. He had taken a pouch with some money but he was still wearing his dark green running shorts. He needed to get inside.

Glen Eccles was watching the early evening news in the Swan Inn in Eaglesham. On screen the reporter said that an African runner had disappeared on a training session. A teammate said he was seeking asylum; that he didn’t want to go back to Cameroon. A good looking policewoman said she was concerned for his safety; that he wasn’t dressed to stay outdoors.