The Nationalist (13 page)

“Are you sniffing?”

“No. I just thought—”

“—that I stank of piss?”

“Let’s not start this again. I thought I could smell smoke that’s all. I thought you’d stopped.”

“I’m not here to justify my habits to you, Ian. I want to talk about Jock.”

“Then talk.” The barman had brought over two pints of McEwen’s lager. Ian hated the stuff, too gassy, but his dad would drink nothing else, so in the name of good relations....

“He told me what he was going to do,” The silence he got in return was no surprise to James, as he guessed his son knew more than he was letting on. Ian kept his eyes firmly on his father who continued, “Jock came to me and said he had an opportunity. That someone had come into some goods he could use to further the cause. He said he had explosives and he planned on sending a message.”

“If that’s true why didn’t you go to the Police?”

“Because I think he got the stuff from you.”

Ian leaned forward and grabbed his father’s coat sleeves by the cuff, hissing as he spoke, “This whole city is looking for suspects just now so you had better be bloody careful who you’re saying this to,” he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face with his left hand, “Look I spoke to Jock, but nothing more. I certainly wasn’t involved.”

“Soldiers died in that square son – people that had been out there and put their lives on the line. They died for what? Some stupid pipe dream? I’ve had the police round a few times already.”

“What did you say?” There was urgency to Ian’s voice, “What did you say to them, you mad old bastard?”

“I’ve not said anything yet, but I will. I needed to see you first though, to tell you face-to-face,” he stopped as a violent cough shook his torso, the metal chair legs scraping off the floor, the screech causing Ian to wince.

“Very decent of you, as if you haven’t already done enough damage to my life.”

“Ach, change the record, it’s time you grew up and accepted there are consequences for the things we do.”

James shouted for the barman to call him a cab. Father and son sat and finished their drinks in silence. It would be their final time together.

Later that night PC’s Karen Ludlow and Gregor Collins were on patrol in the city’s west end. The Lexus was cruising from Garnet Hill down past St George’s Cross and onto Great Western Road. They scanned the streets for signs of trouble but, so far, tonight had been quiet. Garish signs signalling Indian takeaways illuminated small groups leaving pubs. The patrol car slowed down at a church to let an urban fox scurry past. The radio sparked into life.

“Control to Delta Charlie 2. We’ve had an urgent call from someone reporting a disturbance at Woodside Crescent sheltered housing. They aren’t making much sense, but claim to have found a body; they say they think there’s been a murder. Can you attend? Over.”

“Delta Charlie 2 to Control; message received; we’re on our way.”

Gregor Collins flicked the switch and blue lights swirled overhead. Karen Ludlow turned the car 180 degrees and headed to Maryhill. By the time they got to the care home the concierge was having trouble keeping himself together.

“It’s James Wright. Have I seen you two before? Oh god, it’s such a mess.”

“I need to ask you to calm down sir,” the concierge was talking so quickly the officers were struggling to make out the words, “Can you tell me what happened?”

“There’s blood everywhere, I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s on the walls, everywhere, he must have been killed.”

When the officers entered the small flat they could see that the concierge had not been exaggerating. Bloodied hand prints smeared the beige walls by the bathroom. They found James Wright face down in a small pool of blood about three feet from his telephone.

Arbogast found out about 20 minutes later. He was standing outside his flat when the call came in. He had been hoping to speak to Rosalind, who he could see was at home from the light in the living room. Looking up he considered pressing the buzzer but he knew it wasn’t the right time. He got back in his car and headed across town to reach James Wright’s former home.

“What happened?”

“It’s difficult to say. He’s certainly lost a lot of blood.”

“My god, you’re good, Mrs Crime Scene strikes again.”

Kath Finch wasn’t in the mood for humour, “Look, dickhead, I’ve been on the terror case for days. I’d just sat down for a small glass of wine and, oh look, here I am again.” Kath stopped and sighed, she looked deflated. “There’s been massive haemorrhaging and we can see bruising to the body but I’d say they were probably from the fall,” She pointed to a small occasional table, “Looks like he tripped trying to get to the phone. Poor old bugger was probably trying to phone an ambulance.”

“Don’t these places have emergency cords?”

They both stopped to look round the room, “You’re right. There it is beside the armchair. Why didn’t he just pull that?”

Arbogast walked over and pulled the cord.

“Bit late for that now.”

“Let’s see if it works.”

About three minutes later the concierge came back into the room, “Did someone pull the emergency cord?”

“It’s OK sir, just checking. Don’t worry about it.”

Arbogast sat and watched while Forensics tried to piece together the evidence.

“Something’s not right here.”

“Who is this genius that walks among us?” Kath Finch didn’t have time for riddles, “It’s a bloody mess and no mistake. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

As he sat outside, Arbogast couldn’t help feel that something about James Wright’s death didn’t fit. His statements had painted him as a slightly cagey old man, with mobility problems. From the look of his home he looked like he had been particularly active on the night he died; blood covered a large part of his living room. Was someone trying to cover their tracks or was this just a co-incidence? Arbogast was driving back to Pitt Street; by the time he had reached the bottom of Sauchiehall Street he had decided that he was the one that should break the news to James Wright’s’ family.

25

James Wright’s next of kin file didn’t take long to read. It was one name long.

“A guy called, Ian Wark; lives out on the Southside. Do you want me to come along?”

“Thanks, that would be good,” Arbogast threw his car keys at Chris Guthrie, “You can drive. I’ve had enough for one night.”

20 minutes later they were on Afton Street. It was unusual mix for the city. One side was blonde sandstone and the other was red. The darker shade dated to the early 20th century when supplies of the local Giffnock stone ran out, with the blonde supplies giving way to the red replacement quarried from Locharbriggs in Dumfries and Galloway. The cities older buildings, having been built with blocks susceptible to erosion, and later exposed through sandblasting in the 1980s, were all now starting to show signs of age. Arbogast and his partner were heading to the other side of the street.

“It’s number 32, you’ll get parked round the corner.”

“I hate these streets, how many cars do people need?”

A boy of about seven sped out in front of them, pushing hard on his scooter. He didn’t notice the car brake suddenly as he made his way to the next street.

“Jesus, John.”

“Did I hit him?”

“No he’s fine. Are you alright?” Arbogast exhaled and nodded.

Their destination was a modern brick addition at the bottom of the street.

“It’s flat 4-2,” Arbogast said, looking up to the top floor.

“It would be.”

Ringing the buzzer, they waited but got no reply. Eventually they tried every flat to try and get an answer but had a similar response. Taking a step back Arbogast saw a curtain glide back into place.

“There’s someone on the second floor.”

“What side?”

“Left hand side, so it’ll be 2-2.”

Arbogast pressed the buzzer and left his finger on the grey plastic button. After about a minute he could hear a muffled voice under the drone of the bell.

“Aye alright, I can hear you – what do you want, and this better be good.”

“Police.”

After a couple of seconds the release clicked and the door edged open. Arbogast and Guthrie made their way to the second floor. A man in his forties was standing in the doorway, wearing grey jogging bottoms and a stained white t-shirt.

“What’s all this about, officer?”

Arbogast looked past his host and could see a couple more people in the far room, which he assumed must be the lounge. The air was ripe with the pungent smell of grass. He might struggle to get any sense out of the man.

“Well Mr, I’m sorry I didn’t catch your full name from the door?”

“Derek Dolan.”

“Night in, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“Well lucky for you we’re not drugs squad,” Arbogast enjoyed making Derek Dolan squirm, it might make him a little more forthcoming, “We’re actually looking for your neighbour. Ian Wark – lives on the top floor – do you know him?”

“Only to say hello to; I don’t really know any of my neighbours. Have you seen him today?”

“I have, yes.”

“When?”

“He’s standing right behind you.”

Arbogast turned to see a man in his early 30s, dressed from head to toe in blue denim.

“Ian Wark?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is DI John Arbogast. This is my colleague, DI Chris Guthrie. We need to speak to you in private.”

“Eh, OK then. I suppose you’d better come up.”

Ian Wark’s flat was small. Although the brick building was the same height as its sandstone neighbours it had been designed to cut out the high ceilings, meaning four floors could be squeezed in instead of the three floors enjoyed by the rest of the street.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Arbogast said, tripping slightly on a threadbare rug.

“It’s small but it’s fine for me. Now if you’ll excuse me officer could you let me know what it is you need to speak to me about?”

“Are you the son of Mr James Wright?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I have to tell you that your father died tonight, Mr Wark. He was found dead at his care home. There was a lot of blood and we can’t be certain at this point about the cause of death.”

Ian Wark sat on his couch. He tried to form a sentence but all that left his lips were a succession of half formed, guttural grunts.

“I realise this is hard, Mr Wark, but your father was helping us with enquiries relating to the terror attack on George Square. We need to rule out certain things. It’s really only a formality.”

Despite his flippant comments about his relationship with his father, Arbogast thought Ian Wark was taking the news quite badly. It was difficult to tell how people would react in this situation. Some people refused to accept it, asked you to leave. Others broke down into tears. Some struggled to take it in. Ian Wark was of the latter group.

“When was the last time you saw your father?”

“It was earlier today. We met at the Legion for a pint. He went home in a taxi. That was only four hours ago. Is he really gone? It seems so...sudden.”

“I understand this is difficult. Did he seem unwell to you then?”

“Not at all; I mean he was in his 80s so he always had something wrong with him. He could barely walk but no, he didn’t complain about anything new.”

“What did you talk about?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Could you answer the question please?”

“He’s dead you know. He’s actually dead,” Ian Wark was on his feet now, becoming more agitated.

“If you would like to take a seat, sir,” Chris Guthrie stepped between the two and gestured for Ian to back off.

“We were talking about the past; old stuff, family history. We didn’t have a good relationship. You see, he wasn’t part of my life until quite recently.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Arbogast had sat down in a white plastic chair which had been tucked away under a computer desk, “Did he seem particularly sentimental?”

“His pal had died. You know about Jock from the blast I’m sure. He didn’t have any other friends. Old friends I mean. They had all died. My dad was the last of his kind.”

Arbogast and Guthrie nodded while Ian continued, “All we really talked about was how he couldn’t believe what Jock had done. What a way to go.”

Arbogast had picked up a framed picture of a man he supposed must have been James Wright.

“Is this him? He looks much younger here. Is this his army days?” Considering the two men apparently didn’t get on, Arbogast thought it was odd the picture was there at all. He dismissed the thought and let his host continue to talk.

“He’d just been demobbed. He was proud of what he did in the War.”

Chris Guthrie broke the conversation, “Did your dad have any enemies?”

“Why, do you think he was murdered?”

“We’re in the middle of a complicated case and your dad was part of it, we can’t rule anything out.”

“Jesus – poor old James Wright.”

The reference seemed strange to the detectives, who glanced back at each other when Ian called his father by his full name, “But he seemed OK to you when you last saw him?”

“He was absolutely fine.”

“Look I appreciate this has been a shock. Your father was taken to the Royal. We can drive you there if you would like to pay your respects?”

“Not now. Do I have to go right now?”

“Not if you’re not up to it, but we will need you to make a positive identification.”

“Will tomorrow be OK? I need a little time. This is all a bit much to take in.”

Arbogast stood up and handed Ian Wark a card with his number, “Call me first thing, and we’ll pick you up. We’ll leave for now, but give me a call if you think of anything he might have said.”

“You think he was killed, don’t you?”

“As I said, there are a number of things we need to rule out. Goodnight Mr Wark.” It was another dead end.

As the door closed and the detectives left Ian Wark felt a surge of relief. Just when you need a bit of luck, your dear old dad shuffles off to meet his maker. From the window he saw the detectives drive off. Looking off into the night, Ian saluted the dark night sky, “Thanks Dad; that might just have been the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me.”