The Nationalist (21 page)

Arbogast heard a car horn. About 100 metres of empty road had opened up in front of him. He had been focusing so closely on the report that he had forgotten where he was and had slowed down to a crawl in the fast lane. You bastard, Sandy; you total bastard. Don’t you know what this will mean for me? He put the car in third gear and promptly stalled. The car behind him beeped loud and long. Arbogast screamed out in the car. He could feel his face go red, tears of rage boiled under the skin. When he calmed down the cars behind him had started to merge with traffic in the middle lane. Drivers looked across, but glanced away quickly when they saw his face. By the time he had regained his focus the report was over. The traffic presenter was warning of slow moving traffic on the M8. Arbogast laughed bitterly, and drove on towards Espedair Street.

Graeme Donald looked in at Norrie lying in his private room from the hospital corridor. He thought he looked old – past it. Looking at the grapes he had bought he shook his head and threw them in a nearby bin. Knocking on the door he entered without being asked. Norrie looked surprised to see him.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I’ll bet you weren’t.”

“What do you want?”

“They said you might die.”

“So you thought you’d come and twist the knife a little deeper?”

“Don’t be like that. You had your chance.”

“It certainly seems like you have the ear of certain people.”

“It helps to have friends at times like these.”

“I’ve got plenty of friends. What’s more I know you’re appointment reeks of nepotism. They wanted you in. I don’t know why given your record, but congratulations.”

“Face the facts Norrie. Regardless of what happens next I’ll always be the first Chief Constable of Police Scotland. No-one will remember your name.”

“You might be the first, but the second could come along at any minute.”

“Don’t kid yourself. You’re finished, and you know it. But believe it or not, I’m not here to gloat. I’m here to give you a warning.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’m told you’ve been doing a bit of digging on behalf of John Arbogast,” Norrie moved to speak but Graeme held his hands up, “Don’t deny it. It seems you’ve been carrying out your own investigation into this case, and what’s more, you’ve been holding back evidence. Given the case we’re talking about that’s not going to look good for you. You might never recover.”

“Where’s this going?”

“This is going no-where. You’ve got absolutely nothing left to say. I’ve got evidence on you. I know who you’ve been seeing. What you’ve been saying. If there’s any more of it you’ll be wishing this guy had done the job properly. I don’t need to say anymore to you because, frankly, it’s none of your business, but if your name pops up again in relation to this case you’ll see how thorough I can be.”

Norrie sat back in his bed, he was staring at the clipboard attached to the steel frame. “Do you understand?” Norrie nodded but Graeme was enjoying his power trip, “Speak to me when I ask you a question.”

“I understand.”

“You better had.”

The front door of Annabelle’s close was open when Arbogast arrived. He stopped to look at the lock and noticed the casing for the bolt was pushed out. It was a flimsy lock. Pulling the door to, he pushed hard at the handle and it opened without giving much resistance; not a good sign. Climbing the stairs Arbogast could see something was wrong before he reached the flat. The door was slightly ajar. He could see inside the flat, with the street lights outside clearly visible through the living room window. He knocked, but he knew no-one would answer. Prodding the door, he guided it open, looking in and checking for movement. There was nothing. He switched on the light and saw someone had beaten him to it. The flat had been turned upside down. There was no sign of Annabelle. Walking through the kitchen Arbogast stopped. Something had caught his eye. He scanned the wall, backwards and forwards several times before he saw it, a small yellow envelope with his name on it was pinned to the message board. He opened it to find a one word message.

Goodbye.

38

Norrie Smith looked up from his hospital bed and saw a familiar face outside the door. He couldn’t place the name at first but he was certain he knew her. She had blonde, wet looking hair, which she wore in tight ringlets. Through the window he could see she was wearing a stone coloured Macintosh coat. It looked like she had been caught in the rain. The woman was waiting outside; hovering, reluctant to come in. He caught her eye and smiled –finally she came through.

“Hi Norrie, you don’t mind me calling on you do you?”

“Not at all, but my mind’s been shot these last few days, and I just can’t place your name – I know you from work, though, don’t I?

“That’s right. I’m Sarah Meechan from the IT department. I did quite a lot of work on your floor when we upgraded the PCs.”

“I remember; what brings you here Sarah?”

“I need to talk to someone. It involves you but I’m not sure you’re going to like what I’ve got to say.”

Norrie could see Sarah didn’t want to be here. She looked terrified and was having trouble maintaining eye contact, “What’s this about?”

“It’s about this investigation. The explosion I mean. I think I might have got involved without realising.”

Norrie knew not to speak. Whatever it was she was about to say, Sarah had been building herself up to, so he decided to leave her to it.

“I’ve been watching the news today. The person they’re looking for is someone I know,” Norrie sat up in his bed and winced when a shooting pain went up his left hand side, the slowly knitting stab wound straining against the stitches.

“I know Ian Wark. I have done for a while. He asked me to do something for him. But it was nothing to do with that explosion,” she was trying to hold back tears, “I could never have done that. All those people dead.”

“Just tell me what it is you think you’ve done. If it’s to do with the investigation you should really be telling this to Pitt Street.”

“I needed to tell you first,” Sarah’s confidence had grown. She took the visitors seat from the corner of the room and pulled up beside the bed. “I’ve been friends with Ian for a while. We were involved with each other but that was all over a long time ago. But we’ve continued to campaign together.”

“For what?”

“Scottish independence; Ian’s been campaigning through the Newsnational website to stir up anti-Union sentiment ahead of next year’s Referendum. He asked me to get some information for him to help with the cause.”

“Is this where the emails came from?”

“I didn’t think it would do any real harm. We were telling the truth.”

“It was my career you were flushing down the toilet. What is it you’re looking for from me – some kind of forgiveness?” There was an audible rasp to Norrie’s voice, “Do you see where this has left me? Your boyfriend stabbed me in a pub. I could have died.”

“I don’t think so. If he had wanted you dead we wouldn’t be talking. He could be very violent but it was always for a reason.”      

“He wanted me out of the way. You seem to know that. You’re going to need to go to the investigation team. What you did was illegal. Fortunately for you only a few of the fringe websites actually published your material. You’ll be charged for this. I think it’s time you started to tell me everything you know.”

Sarah Meechan wasn’t sure how the situation was going to play out, but as she began talking she knew it was her only realistic option.

Rosalind Ying did not feel well, but she had gone back to work to escape the four walls of her own home. The doctor at the clinic had told her the early miscarriage was highly unusual but that there was no risk of infection. She had been advised to stay at home and to book an appointment with a counsellor as soon as possible. She had done neither. I don’t need to speak to anyone about this. I know how I feel and I know what I did. All the same, even at her desk, she was having trouble concentrating. She had re-read the first page of the witness statement from James Wright several times but nothing was sinking in. A knock at the door came as a welcome distraction.

“Come in,” She was disappointed to see it was Ian Davidson. Smiling as usual or was it a sneer?

“Is this a good time?”

“There’s never a good time,” she could see he was trying to work out if he had just been insulted. He should have taken it as a given. Rosalind saw Davidson for the weasel faced sycophant that he was. Colleagues had been pretty vocal about his attempts to win favour with Donald in her absence. They both knew she knew this, so she waited to see what the weasel wanted.

“It was more of a personal matter really.”

“I hardly think this is the time but—”

“—I’ve seen the video. Arbogast’s video.” Rosalind didn’t blink. She said nothing and waited for him to continue, “I must say I’ve seen better technique, but I didn’t recognise his partner. I was rather hoping it would be you.”

“You’re out of line, Davidson. If you think you can talk this way to a superior officer, you’ve another thing coming.”

“I’ve got all the files. The video, those emails that got hushed up – there was some pretty incriminating material from you in there. If it hadn’t been for the gaffer you’d be out of a job.”

“Get out. You’ll be hearing more about this in due course.”

“I don’t think so.”

“How dare you come in here and speak to me like this. Don’t you see the position you’re putting yourself into?”

“If anything happens to me all this information’s going online.”

“Blackmail now, is it?”

“Let’s be honest for a second. It’s no secret we don’t get along, but we both know I’m the best man for this job and you won’t be hanging around for long,” Rosalind was laughing behind her desk, “Carry on, but let me get a pen. I need to write this down.”

“A little bird told me you were pregnant. Then again another source tells me you have already taken care of that. Tongues will be wagging about whether you just shagged your way into the job.”

Rosalind had heard enough. She kicked back her chair and strode over to Davidson, grabbing his suit jacket by the lapels and pushing him roughly backwards. He backed into a metal bin and stumbled, shouting out after turning over on his ankle. He would not have admitted it but the look he was getting from Rosalind was making him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

“Let’s get one thing straight. If anything comes out I’ll know exactly where it’s come from and there will be an internal investigation into where you’re getting your information from. There have been a few leaks of late and the one thing we don’t need is a man who can’t keep his mouth shut. Nothing happened between me and the boss and nothing is happening between me and Arbogast. That none of this is anything to fucking do with you should be taken as read. If you decide to start a little vendetta against me you will soon know who carries the clout in this department.” Her face was inches from Davidson’s, he flinched as flecks of spit hit him on the face, and drew back as Rosalind’s rage grew, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I understand,” she let go and he fell back a step, ashamed to have been dominated. He hoped no-one had heard the outburst.

“Now, get out.”

Rosalind stood in the centre of the office with her arms crossed. She didn’t take her eyes off Davidson until the door closed behind him. No sooner had he gone than she began to shake. She started crying. She had held everything at arm’s length since the termination, and was sure she hadn’t been badly affected. With so much at stake at work, and with colleagues out to sabotage her position, the overwhelming burden of the last few weeks was starting to take its toll. Ten minutes later Rosalind had regained her composure. She sat looking out at the night scene on Pitt Street. Taxis passed on their way to ranks, while revellers made their way from one pub to another. Life goes on. She shook her head and sat down. You’re being stupid Rosalind; it’s time to get a grip. Then the phone rang. It was Norrie Smith. He told her he had new information.

39

Looking around Annabelle Strachan’s flat, Arbogast felt something wasn’t right with the way the place had been turned over. The disruption looked a little too random. If the flat had been burgled by a professional, the chances were that you’d be able to see a pattern; signs of a methodical search. But that wasn’t how it looked. It looked like someone had moved things around at random, with no obvious pattern. A glass coffee table was shattered when there was no reason for it to be broken. Perhaps there had been a struggle. Bending down, he looked at the debris, but could see no blood; the glass wasn’t broken in a way which suggested someone had fallen. The aluminium frame would have been bent if that had happened, but all he could see was broken glass. He noticed a purple paperweight nearby, lodged underneath the gap in the couch. It’s been smashed deliberately. It didn’t make sense. What happened here, Annabelle? Elsewhere, books had been scattered and drawers had been turned inside out. In the kitchen there were a number of plastic pill boxes open. Drug related? The amateurish nature of the sift certainly supported the thought, but it all seemed a little too deliberate. There was no sign of Annabelle. In her bedroom, nothing had been touched. There didn’t seem to be any clothes missing. Arbogast thought of the video. Where had she filmed it from? His memory from that night was hazy but he remembered the angle. Scanning the back wall the only thing he could see was a tall rubber plant. He peered in at it, feeling the leaves with his hands. The camera was still there, tied to the stalk with a tie clip. He wouldn’t have seen it that night; he hadn’t been looking for it – but it had a great view of proceedings. Maybe there are more of these round the flat – could Annabelle be trying to help us? Arbogast called Major Crime and a Forensics team was dispatched. He somehow doubted their search would turn up much but there was a chance they’d be able to uncover something. He hoped so. Whatever the results, they were now looking for two people.