The Nationalist (14 page)

26

Three days after the blast the First Minister was planning an official visit to the scene of the explosion.

“I think enough time’s passed, and we need to be seen to be on top of the situation. Make sure Donald’s there.”

His special advisor, Craig McAlmont, was nodding, “I think you’re probably right. We’ll be criticised if we don’t make an appearance soon. And as you say it will be a good opportunity to get some early profile for Graeme. I’ll arrange through comms for some of the blue light staff to be on hand for a photo opp. We should also be able to get hold of some of the people that were there on the day. We can tee them up to talk about the blast as a powerful way of generating leads for the case. I’m sure Police Scotland will be thinking along similar lines.”

George Square was still completely sealed off. The impact of the traffic diversions hadn’t been fully felt until Monday morning, when commuters started to flood back to the city in their tens of thousands. Despite warnings of delays, the newly introduced diversions had taken time to bed in, which meant cross town traffic had been slow. But by Wednesday the streets were noticeably quieter as more people used public transport to beat the gridlock.

The Ministerial car pulled up on St Vincent Place, not far from George Square. The First Minister was travelling with Craig McAlmont and the communications officer, Alison Wilson.

“I’ve never seen it so peaceful,” the First Minister said.

“It’s weird,” both men looked at Alison and shook their heads at her latest musing.

The white plastic which covered the heras fencing was pulled back, the metal shuddering with the force of being dragged along the ground. Inside, the group could see the Chief Constable and his new DCI standing by the Walter Scott monument. Turning, Graeme Donald, raised a hand in recognition and started walking towards the entrance gate.

“Good morning, First Minister. We’ve got about 15 minutes before the press get here.” Above them the steady drone of the Police helicopter could be heard, circling the city in an optimistic search for evidence.      

“Good morning, Graeme. I trust you’re settling in fast?” The First Minister liked to use a passive aggressive tactic to get his point across.

“We’re doing everything we can to close this down. It’s the biggest investigation that Police Scotland has had to deal with so it’s testing the new processes pretty well. You should know that someone close to the bomber was found dead last night. At this point we can’t be clear on whether or not it was from natural causes.”

“If there’s potential for this to be a murder case I need to know.”

“I understand that, but at this point we just can’t say. The man was very old, 88, but he knew Jock Smith. We found him in a pool of blood in his home, but it doesn’t look like he was assaulted.”

“Don’t you think this should have been flagged up to my office immediately?”

“I didn’t see the need. It would only have caused alarm, when we can’t be sure about what’s happened. We should get autopsy results back today. It’s a priority case.”

“Let’s be clear, Donald. You were brought in to head the service because of your track record in anti-terror operations. Don’t look on this case as a test. If you don’t get it right you’re out – understand?”  Graeme Donald nodded, his fists were clenched and Craig McAlmont could see his knuckles turn white as the pressure increased, “Of course we’ll do everything we can to help.”

Rosalind Ying smiled in a way she knew helped to diffuse situations, “Gentlemen, let’s not forget that we need to work together on this. Look around you. The white granite of the Cenotaph is soaked red with blood.  We can’t re-open the square until that reminder has been washed away. Meanwhile the whole Force is working day and night to close this down. We have already detained a number of people and those interrogations may uncover fresh leads. One thing we have to consider, though, is a link to nationalism.”

The First Minister was the first to speak, “What are you trying to imply?”

“I’m not implying anything. The bomber left a video which clearly calls for Scotland to unite. I’m not saying he has links to your party, but with the referendum coming up, it may be that a more radical element is gearing up for direct action.”

“A more radical element? Scottish nationalism is built around the democratic process. While they were killing each other in Ireland, we looked to win the argument with words. There is no militant arm of our movement. And for you to start suggesting that in public will not do.”

“I appreciate this is a sensitive time but—”

“—we can talk about this later,” Graeme Donald gestured back to the gates, “For now, I see the media has arrived.” In the distance a small group of people, laden with cameras, microphones, and notepads had arrived to be granted an audience with the First Minister. This was also the first time there had been any public admission to the square.

“Just remember our key messages,” Alison Wilson had her notepad open, “Condolences to the families, investigation making good progress, and for people to remain vigilant and report anything which could help.”

The two groups met in the middle and as the cameras rolled, Rosalind Ying wondered if the First Minister knew more than he was saying.

Kath Finch’s investigation on the death of James Wright had gone nowhere fast. He hadn’t been attacked; he was bruised but the marks were consistent with a fall. She’d puzzled over the volume of blood that had been spread across the flat. It had been everywhere. Sifting through the evidence she eventually shifted her focus to a small orange medicine bottle, with a white child proof cap. Three hours later she phoned Arbogast with an update.

      “James Wright wasn’t killed.”

“I saw the flat; it looked like there had been a fight.”

“It was his medication; he was on Statins. They’re used to make the blood thinner, helps with heart conditions. It can also leave some people more prone to nose bleeds.  The tests proved that he had been drinking. A bad fall while under the influence, coupled with years of use of the pills, could mean that he just bled to death.”

“You think it was an accident?”

“It’s possible. In all honesty it doesn’t look like he’s been attacked. We won’t be 100% sure until after the autopsy but I’m leaning towards accidental death. I don’t think this was murder.”

27

Annabelle Strachan made her excuses and left work early. She had arranged to meet with Ian Wark in the Granary in Shawlands. The pub was dark and discreet and it was still early enough in the week that it would also be pretty empty. By the time she arrived Ian was already there, sitting at one of the light wood booths which looked out onto the street. He had his laptop open on the table and was typing when she said hello.

“Hi Ian, look, I’m sorry about this, but I need to speak to you.”

Ian stood up to meet her. Hugging Annabelle, his hands crept round, inside her jacket. “You shouldn’t have come, it’s not safe,” He whispered, his hands were wandering.

“Not here, Ian, I need to talk, this is serious.”

“So is this.”

Annabelle pushed him away, angry. She sat down with the laptop acting as a barrier between the two.

“Is this about the video?” Ian’s body language had changed, he was disinterested.

“Of course it is. I was visited this morning by a cop. At least I think he was a cop.”

“Did he show you his ID?”

“I didn’t ask. He surprised me in the street.”

“He could have been anyone.”

“He was Police. You can tell.”

“What was his name?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Well you must be able to tell me something; what did he look like?”

“He was in his late 50s, white hair, looked like he was on holiday, dressed in chinos and a blue blazer.”

“How did he know about the video?”

“He knew Arbogast. That’s the only way he could know. Have you still got it?”

Ian turned round his laptop which showed the video on screen. The sound was off. Outside a man was smoking a cigarette.

“For fuck’s sake, Ian, would you turn that off? I’m sat right here if you hadn’t noticed. I don’t want people seeing that.”

A lop-sided smile had spread across Ian’s face, “You really put yourself into that performance didn’t you?” He continued to watch as the barman approached the table to clear an empty glass. Annabelle snapped the lid down, causing Ian to jump back. He glared back.

Annabelle handed the glass over to the barman and they both watched until he had made his way to the next table.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re going to do with the file? I think it’s a mistake. I shouldn’t have gone through with it. I’d like you to destroy it.”

“It’s too late, Annabelle. The plan’s already in place. The video’s already been sent to key targets. I’m pretty sure it won’t be used straight away, but I’ve got other material to work with too. We should be able to uncover this sorry lot and make our case.”

“It’s alright for you. It’s not your face on camera is it? What risks are you taking?”

“I’m taking nothing but risks. My father died yesterday and I had Arbogast at my door last night to tell me. Can you imagine how hard that was? After what he did to you and there he was asking where I was when my father died. I think they suspect me of killing him.”

“Did you?”

There were a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, “No, of course I didn’t. He was old. He died. It happens.”

“I hope you can manage better than that for his funeral.”

“Listen, Annabelle. We have a good thing going here and I appreciate what you did. Don’t forget, though, that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to do something truly great. What we’re doing is part of a much bigger story. Don’t worry about the video. You can see his face but I made sure yours was blurred out. No-one will know.”

“It doesn’t make me feel any better though does it? I can’t believe I actually did that. What does that say about me?”

“It says you’ll do whatever’s necessary.”

Annabelle stood up to leave, “Make no mistake, Ian, I want the file destroyed. I won’t be named as part of this, OK?”

After she had gone Ian’s attention was focused on the email files he had been given by Sarah Meechan. He slipped the USB stick into the drive and opened the file marked ‘Classified’. Looking through the files he could see that Rosalind Ying had been in pretty much daily contact with Graeme Donald for the past six weeks. They had been discussing her future and she had been asked to travel to Belfast for a meeting. What happened there? From the email chain it was clear that there had been some political involvement. A government email address from a special advisor called Craig McAlmont was copied into some of the correspondence hinting at possible meetings in Edinburgh. The traffic between Arbogast and Ying was more personal. It seemed they weren’t on particularly good terms. One of Rosalind’s emails was to her local medical surgery. It would seem there is more to this woman than meets the eye. Closing the laptop Ian knew he was going to have to call the Police; he had yet to identify his father’s body. Sitting back he knew the real work started later.

28

Rosalind Ying woke up in the middle of the night with crippling stomach cramps. This can’t be right, it’s agony. What if something’s wrong? Staggering along the corridor, holding her abdomen for comfort, she felt bile rise in her throat. Holding her hand over her mouth she thought she wouldn’t be able to make it to the bathroom, so she started to run. Collapsing on her knees in front of the toilet bowl she retched, letting loose what little was left in her stomach. She could feel hot tears run down her face, mingling with the thin strands of saliva and vomit which formed a web between her face and the porcelain. Is this what pregnancy’s going to be like?

About 15 minutes later Rosalind was sitting in the kitchen with a cup of sweet tea. Glancing at the clock on the wall she noticed it was 4:30am. The website she had opened suggested a visit to the doctor might be in order.

***

Arbogast was still asleep on Chris Guthrie’s sofa when he was woken up by the loud klaxon he used for Rosalind’s ring tone. Chris had offered to put him up until he could sort out something more permanent. Dragging his arm from the sleeping bag he scrabbled about on the floor to try and find the phone.

“Rose, what is it? It’s late.”

“It’s early, John, I’ve had another email from a third party. It’s from a website ‘Newsnational’ they say they have information on you and me that they intend to run what they’re calling an expose later today,” Arbogast was awake now, the prospect of a career in tatters helped to focus his mind.

“The video?”

“I don’t think so. The journalist says he’s got information on emails we’ve been sending which could be compromising. They involve Norrie and Donald too.”

“Emails? What could they possibly have? Forget it, Rose, it’s a hoax.”

“The guy knew I was pregnant.”

A thoughtful pause filled the silence. Arbogast was thinking that Donald had been right. How did he know? “Who have you told?”

“Not many people. I don’t think I’ll need to.”

“It’s our child you’re talking about,” but Arbogast was having doubts. Why did Donald know? He stayed quiet while Rose kept talking.

“It’s my career we’re talking about. I don’t know if I need a lasting reminder of you to carry round with me for the rest of my life. I’ve made a decision—”

“—you can’t.”

“I’m getting an abortion, John.”

“But we’ve always talked about this.”

“You’ve always talked about it. Some kind of weird fantasy to make up for your own messed up childhood. I can’t be the one to fill that role, John. I’m not your breeding sow, someone to carry on your line.”