The Nationalist (16 page)

“Could you run a check on an H-reg Nissan? I need to know who the owner is.”

“Sure thing, John. I thought you were suspended. How are things going?”

“I hope to be back soon. You guys need me on that case.”

“Whatever you say. The place is certainly a lot quieter.”

“I’ll bet Davidson’s fucking loving it.”

“Yes I can do that.”

“Is he there?”

“That’s correct. Can you give me your information?”

“H629 AUS.”

“Thanks for phoning that in sir. We’ll be in touch should the information be of use.”

The phone went dead. Arbogast went in and said hello to his mother. She said nothing, just sat at her window seat and looked out. No worries, no chat, no future. His phone rang once. Looking at the message he didn’t know what to say; the name was familiar. The car was owned by James John Arbogast.

***

Ian Wark was pleased with how widely the article was being picked up. The piece was being discussed on radio, and some of the online websites were also covering the story. They were all making it clear where the story was coming from, not that that would be any defence if the story turned out not to be true. Bu they’d need to try and find him first. The website was registered under a South Korean host site and his contact details were not available. The only way to directly get in touch was by email. Police Scotland was looking to speak to him:

To: editor@newsnational

From:
[email protected]

Subject: Legal proceedings

Dear Sirs,

I am getting in touch to let you know that the Police Scotland legal team is actively considering a case against your website following the publication of a recent article looking into alleged corruption and nepotism.

Your article makes personal accusations against me which are completely fabricated and the impact the article is having on a major investigation leaves us with no choice but to pursue this matter in court.

We see that your website is not registered in the UK but be in no doubt that the material published will be subject to the full force of British law.

We would advise that you delete the post from your website immediately and contact Police Scotland as soon as possible to discuss the next steps.

Regards

Graeme Donald,

Chief Constable,

Police Scotland

“Think I might have caught a live one here. Thanks for your interest Mister Donald,” Ian closed down the email and switched his attention to his longer term plans. He had sent a link of Annabelle and Arbogast’s tryst to various people but so far nothing much seemed to have come of it. He didn’t want to send the video direct to press as he knew it would be used straight away, and the timing wasn’t right. Instead he decided to go via the Trojan horse route.  Typing in the web address he logged into his account for Redhot.com, uploaded the video and labelled it ‘Hot cop action’. The damage would be done in time. He just needed to wait.

30

Norrie Smith had been following Annabelle Strachan for two days. She worked in a digital design agency as a web master, whatever that meant. It seemed to Norrie that a lot of job titles were made up and he had to check the job spec on Google. It seemed she designed and maintained websites. The company, Tech Stars, had been set up four years ago and Annabelle had been with them from the start. On the first day of his surveillance she went to work for 9:00am and stayed there till 7:00pm, before returning home. On the second day she left work at 4:30pm and travelled by bus to the southside. He followed by car, parking when he saw her get off at Shawlands Cross. It was an awkward junction and he couldn’t park on the main road. It was rush hour. As he rolled through the lights he glanced right and saw Annabelle disappear into the Granary.

Norrie walked around the building to see if he could spot Annabelle through the pub windows. It would be easier to do it this way, rather than by creeping around inside and running the risk of being seen. He saw her meet with a man who appeared to know her well. The man tried to kiss her but she pushed back. They sat down at a table with a laptop and seemed to be having an urgent conversation. Norrie pulled down his flat cap to mask his face and lit a cigarette. He pretended to look into the distance but out of the corner of his eye he could see the man was watching the video, with Arbogast now starring in public. Norrie felt his anger start to rise, when Annabelle snapped shut the case. It looked like she’d caught the man’s fingers and he wasn’t happy. A couple of minutes later she left. Norrie let her go and made his way inside. He went to the bar and bought a pint, watching the man from a distance. Eventually he went over.

“Mind if I sit here?”

“I do mind. There are plenty of seats. Go and sit somewhere else.”

“Not a very friendly chap, are you?”

“Last time I looked this wasn’t gay night at the High Chaparral. Take a hint mate and fuck off will you. I’m busy.”

“Busy watching porn in the pub?”

“Why would you say that?”

Norrie knew he had the man’s attention. He could see his agitation. He was enjoying this. “I saw it through the window.”

“Like to watch, do you?”

“I’ve made a career from observation.”

“It would be a bad career choice for you to continue this conversation.”

“Listen, I’m an old friend of John Arbogast’s and I’m going to have to ask you to give me that laptop.”

The man started to laugh, “You’ll be wanting me to pay for your taxi home as well you daft old goat.”

“I had a word with your friend, Annabelle, last night. I know about the video files.” He snatched at the laptop and dragged it across the table, the far edge scraping off the wooden surface, “Let’s see what we’ve got here,” The laptop was showing the home page of Newsnational when he first looked, “Are you one of those cyber nats? A nasty bunch I’m told.”

“Did you read that in the paper?”

“It’s not true what they say. You sometimes can judge a book by its cover, and you look like trouble to me.”

The man reached under the table and switched off the power. The laptop screen went blank after a few seconds.

“The computer is like you, old and knackered. If it’s not connected to the mains it doesn’t work. In other words the show is over.”

“I’m keeping this laptop.”

“No you’re not,” Norrie watched as the man leaned over and threw the contents of a pint over his crotch. Norrie flinched and in that moment Ian took back the laptop, “There you go old fella; I’ll see you later.”

The man ran, laptop in hand, and by the time Norrie had got out on the street his prey was nowhere to be seen. A passing wag asked him if he had ‘pished himself’ but Norrie wasn’t laughing. He went back into the pub and asked the barman if he had recognised the man he was sitting with, ‘Oh aye, that’s Ian,’ but he couldn’t remember his surname, only that he was a local and a regular.

That night Norrie paid a second visit to Annabelle Strachan.

***

James John Arbogast. He read the text again and then rang Chris back.

“Are you sure that’s right?”

“That’s what the computer says. I’ve no reason to doubt it. Is he a relation of yours?”

“I don’t know,” Arbogast was confused. A thought was brewing but he couldn’t bring himself to accept the reality, “What address do we have for the car?”

“He’s not a local. Says he’s living somewhere in the Lake District. Kendal, I think. Do you want me to send that over too?”

“Ideal.”

Sitting back in his seat he watched as his mother stared out of the window and wondered what she had been up to all these years, “Were you two in touch and you didn’t mention it? Why didn’t you say something?”

He hadn’t realised he was speaking out loud. A hand on his shoulder made him jump. It was Janine, the ward nurse.

“Mister Arbogast, you’ll have to keep the noise down. You’re upsetting the patients and their families. There are young children here.”

“The man that was here earlier,” His eyes were wild; they made Janine feel uneasy. “How long’s he been coming here; what does he call himself?”

“If you’ll come with me perhaps we could discuss this somewhere more private. It’ll give you time to calm down.”

“I’ve not time for that. What was he called? I need you to tell me. Please.”

“He’s a friend of your mother’s – James Johnson; he’s been coming here for years. In fact he’s here more often that you are. I suppose they must have been close.”

“You have no idea. And you’re sure that is the name he uses, James Johnson?”

Arbogast’s phone vibrated in his suit pocket. Chris had sent over the address: 234 Evesham Road, Kendal, Lake District, LA8 7RU.

“Mr Arbogast are you OK? You look quite pale.”

“Yes, I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry if I was out of line. I’ve had a tough week and I’ve just been given some unexpected news.”

“I hope everything’s OK.”

“In a manner of speaking I suppose you could say it is; my father’s come back from the dead.”

Back on Espedair Street, Norrie Smith could see that Annabelle Strachan was home. He arrived at the flat at the same time as a neighbour, and shouted after her to hold the door.

“I’m a friend of Annabelle’s. Is it OK to go up?”

He knocked on her door and stood to the right so that she wouldn’t be able to see who it was through the peep hole. The door opened and he could see her peer out. He pushed on the door and walked in.

“We need to talk.”

“You can’t just barge in like this. It’s illegal.”

“Phone the Police then,” he held up his mobile, “Feel free to use my phone. Let’s get them round and we can all have a good chat. What do you think?”

“What do you want?”

“Who did you meet earlier?”

“What do you mean? I didn’t meet anyone?”

“I saw you talking to this man in the Granary Bar,” he held up the phone which showed the two of them sat in the pub.

“Have you been following me you sick—”

“—I don’t have time for this, Annabelle. That man had the video; I saw the pair of you watching it in public. You make me sick. John’s a good friend; he deserves better than this.”

“You followed me?”

“I don’t trust you. Turns out I’m bang on the money with that one. Tell me who the man is and I’ll go away.”

“I won’t. You can’t make me.”

“You’ll fucking tell me,” Norrie shouted, globs of spittle escaping with the fury of every syllable, “Or I will phone the Police right now. Do you think your employers will want to keep you on when they find out you’ve been trying to smear Policemen with sordid little sex videos? Do you think that’s the image they want to portray? You’ll have a job finding new work with a reputation like that won’t you? It would make quite a good story too. I know a lot of people that work in the tabloids who would lap this up, so cut the crap and tell me who this guy is.”

“His name’s Ian.”

“Ian who?”

“Ian Wark. He edits a website I designed for him. He runs Newsnational.”

Norrie’s mind cut back to the pub. That was the website he had been looking at when he grabbed the laptop.

“You gave the video to a journalist – why?”

“He said he needed it. We’re together. Well we have been on and off. Mostly off of late. I thought this might help.”

“Get back in his good books?”

“Yes,” Annabelle looked beaten. She was leaning back against the hall wall and couldn’t look Norrie in the eye.

“He’s been suspended you know.”

“Because of the video?”

“No, your boyfriend has been spreading gossip about a number of my former colleagues at Police Scotland.”

“Former colleagues?”

“Never mind that; I’d advise you to watch your step. The Police are likely to be knocking on your door any day now. They don’t take kindly to having their own guys dragged through the mud. Stay offline.”

“Don’t come back here.”

“You had better hope I don’t see the need to come back.”

The door slammed as he left. Annabelle stood for what felt like an eternity and wondered how she was going to get herself out of what was fast becoming an uncontrollable me

31

Arbogast sat in the snug of the Scotia bar with a folded newspaper and a pint of IPA. He had been staring blankly into space for around an hour, taking short sips from time to time. His head felt heavy. There was pressure building above his nose and a tingling in his forehead. His sense of disappointment was absolute. When he had arrived the bar was practically empty. It was eight o’clock now and the mid week band was setting up in the lounge. The pub had filled up and groups of post work bar flies were eyeing the extra seats around him, ‘Anyone sitting there, mate?’, ‘There’s someone due. My friends are coming.’ They would back off unconvinced. Arbogast knew it was a matter of time before he would need to move, or end up suffering the brunt of someone else’s banter.

With suspension came a sense of being surplus to requirements. He was technically involved in shaping what should be the biggest case of his life and yet here he was cast out of Major Crime, rubbing shoulders with Jake Rake and the Bad Boys, an eager if unpleasant sounding Johnny Cash tribute act. Rosalind posed another problem. They had clearly been having problems for some time but the idea of being a father changed things. He had been wrong to push her away; he knew he had to tell her, the thing was when? She wouldn’t be happy at the moment either, and politically speaking this row couldn’t have come at a worse time. Quite how Donald managed to survive this unscathed he couldn’t work out. He ordered another pint. How many was that? Four maybe, no it must be nearer six. I should go home. Then he became aware of people around him.