The Nationalist (22 page)

***

Ian Wark watched silently as the waves crashed against the rocks on the beach. From the comfort of the cottage he knew he would be safe for a while. The windows were old, and the imperfections of the warped glass made it difficult to get a clear picture of what was going on outside. Gulls circled overhead, while others bobbed in the sea, waiting for prey. On the beach a man walked with a red plastic stick. Every couple of minutes he would launch a bright yellow ball down the wet sand by the shore, or directly into the sea. A Golden Retriever bounded after it and brought it back for more. The dog had just emerged from the sea, where it had been drenched by high waves. It shook violently from side-to-side to dry off, with the water spraying the man who ran back to get away from the deluge. The whistle of the stove top kettle broke his chain of thought, the shrill tone rising as the pressure increased. Ian took two tin mugs from the cupboard and poured the boiling liquid, which spluttered violently over the teabags.

Back upstairs, from the bedroom door, he watched the sleeping figure under the duvet. Annabelle’s legs were pulled up into a foetal position, a gentle snore breaking the silence from beneath the covers. Ian thought they had probably drunk too much last night. He sat at the edge of the bed and put both cups on the bedside table. Drawing back the duvet he saw her face, which still had the power to draw him in. He stroked the flesh behind her ear with his thumb. Gently he could see she was coming round, “I’ve brought you some tea. I thought you might like sugar this morning.”

“Hmm.” was the only response he got. Pulling the duvet down further he could see she was still naked, “Come back to bed,” she said, and pulled the cover up to her chin. As he eased back into bed, Annabelle recoiled when his cold skin touched her, but he pulled her close. As their flesh warmed together he could smell pheromones and breathed them in. It was the morning after the night before.

Ian Davidson was not a happy man. His ultimatum with Rosalind Ying had gone badly, but he was still committed to seeing things through. I’m not going to be bested by that Chinese bitch. He knew, though, that he was going to have to be a bit smarter about it. The call came in that Arbogast had uncovered a new lead from a flat in Paisley. He seemed to think a woman with links to Wark was missing from a flat on Espedair Street. A forensics team had been sent down. Regardless of what they found, it didn’t change the fact that they didn’t know where Wark had gone. Additional officers had been sent to the scene to gather witness statements. It was possible that someone saw something at the flat, although nine times out of 10 people couldn’t remember what they had been doing on any given day, let alone what someone else may or may not have been up to. So far no-one had been able to say why Arbogast had been at the flat alone, and since he’d returned Davidson hadn’t spoken to him directly; he was still too angry. There had been talk of recording equipment, which might make some sense in explaining this mysterious new lead. Davidson decided to pay the flat a visit himself.

Back at Pitt Street Arbogast was trying to get more information on the blackout. There had been a lot of traffic on social media and national broadcast channels that the power cut could be related to the recent terror attacks. The incident had certainly posed the police problems. In the two hours the power had been off, they had recorded 17 shop break-ins, 13 assaults and one attempted murder. Fortunately Norrie Smith was going to be OK. The police helpline had received 36,000 calls, so many in fact that it had been impossible to deal with them all. Names and numbers were taken until it became clear they couldn’t cope with the volume of enquiries. They had simply recorded a message asking to check the power company’s website for updates. In the end it turned out to be a false alarm. The blackout had been caused by a faulty relay unit. The system was relatively new and was designed to protect itself from an overload. One of the relay stations in Pollokshields had developed an electronic fault where the system sensed it was in danger of meltdown. To protect itself it had switched itself off which broke the circuit and triggered the rest of the network to follow suit, effectively flicking the off switch to a large part of the city. The error had been identified fairly quickly, but engineers had to re-route the local grid around the faulty relay, meaning that 4,000 homes were still without power. The main point, though, was that the power cut had been accidental. It didn’t look like there had been any external manipulation. If that were the case then Ian Wark had just got lucky. Arbogast felt guilty about getting Norrie involved. He had been hoping that a positive breakthrough might have helped his old boss get is job back. All it had done was lead him to a near death experience. He looked up from his notes and saw that another ghost had come back to haunt him.

“Hi Rose, how are you doing?”

“I’m alright, but I need to have a quick word. It’s personal.”

Arbogast’s heart lifted slightly. He thought that perhaps she’d changed her mind. Maybe they did have a future after all; the two of them raising a child. But his hopes were short-lived.

“I’ve had an abortion.” He heard the words but they didn’t sink in, “Sorry?”

“I took the decision not to have our baby.”

“Our baby?”

“There could only be one father.”

“And you just did that without even telling me?”

“I knew what you’d say. We’re finished John, and I don’t need a permanent reminder of a failed relationship.”

“It was a living child, Rose. How could you do that? It should have been a joint decision.”

Rosalind knew how the conversation would go. She had prepared herself to stay calm, but when faced with the accusations she found it hard to maintain her composure, “It’s done now so deal with it.”

“Deal with it? Are you kidding? You’ve killed our baby and you’re flippant enough to say deal with it? We’d always talked about doing this. Why would you do this – why?”

“You’ve no idea what it was like John. I was alone in a dirty public toilet, in excruciating pain. I lost the baby in a toilet – can you imagine that? I thought I was going to die. It was awful. And where were you when all that was happening? Nowhere. And you know what, that’s the norm. You’re never around.”

Rosalind’s eyes were welling up and Arbogast could hear the emotion in her voice. He stood up and went to hold her but she pushed him back, “No, it’s too late for that. It’s too late for us. You need to know that I didn’t want to have your child. This is the time for my career. I worked hard to get this far and I won’t give everything up just to push a pram for you – no way.”

“You worked hard to get this far did you?” Arbogast was angry. He had no control of the situation and wanted to lash out, to hurt Rosalind in any way he could, “Who’s to say it was my child anyway? I’m still not convinced you haven’t fucked your way to the top.” He stepped back and was sneering at Rose. In that moment his contempt was absolute, the rage he felt was overwhelming, “So why don’t you crawl back to your lover man and starting climbing that greasy pole again. It seems to have served you well so far.”

The slap he felt stung his right cheek. Rosalind hit him full force, “How dare you! I’ve told you nothing happened with Graeme—”

“—oh its Graeme now is it?”

“Listen to yourself John, you’re hysterical. You think you can hurt me just because I’ve moved on. Well here’s the thing. From now on I’m DCI to your DI. If you so much as look at me in the wrong way I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure your arse is gone. If you cross me, I’ll have you in the traffic department directing cars on the street. Do you understand? I knew I should never have got involved with a colleague. I felt sorry for you. We all make mistakes, though – you certainly do. Now if you’ll excuse me, DI Arbogast, I’ve got a life to lead.”

And with that, she was gone. He became aware of a phone ringing in the background. Had it been going off for long? He couldn’t be sure. It was Chris Guthrie.

“We’ve been asked to go back down to Paisley, John. Davidson’s asking for you.”

      “OK, I’ll get you outside.”

As he was driven through the city, Arbogast watched as the car drew level with a woman on a cycle lane. She was wearing a long blue dress, and cycling an old fashioned bike with bent back handlebars. In front of her was an orange L-shaped seat which held a young boy with a mop of dark hair, which was blowing in the wind. The child faced away from his mother but looked completely relaxed, like he knew he was safe. Arbogast saw him scanning the road from left to right, drinking in the unfamiliar sights for what might be the first time. Arbogast looked back at the woman and saw that she was pregnant, her bump clearly visible. He hadn’t noticed at first. She seemed completely relaxed too. As she powered on the woman leaned forward and stroked the boy’s hair back behind his left ear. It was a completely natural gesture. Arbogast sighed. Chris Guthrie veered off onto the slip road and headed out onto the motorway.

40

Sandy Stirrit received an anonymous tip-off that the investigation had moved to a flat in Paisley. A call to Police Scotland’s Media Services confirmed they were dealing with an incident on Espedair Street. Although there was little in the way of detail Sandy found a cameraman, and together they made their way down the M8. After a relatively quiet few days there was a fresh appetite for the terror investigation, and with a manhunt underway for Ian Wark it seemed as if the Police were starting to make progress. Sandy wanted to make sure he was first with the story. If he managed to stay on top of the breaking developments he knew he would have a strong case to make for a move to London. He tried to phone John Arbogast but the line was dead, which was strange as he didn’t usually put the phone off. By the time he reached the flat he knew why John wasn’t answering. The street had been cordoned off between Neilston Road and Orr Street. Standing at the barrier, Sandy listened as a man argued with the police officers at the perimeter. He owned a chip shop at the junction and didn’t think it was fair that his passing trade was being decimated. Given the crowd which had gathered, Sandy could see he probably had a point. Eventually the man gave up and returned to the shop.

“Excuse me officers, I’m Sandy Stirrit, Scotland Correspondent with the BBC. I’d like to speak to the investigating officer.”

“That won’t be possible just now. I suggest you contact Media Services who’ll be able to fill you in.”

“I’ve already spoken to them; that’s why I’m here. I didn’t catch your name,” Sandy had his notepad and pen out, poised to take down notes – a tactic he hoped would provoke a response.

“It’s PC David Anderson but I’m afraid I won’t be able to tell you anything. You’ll need to phone Media Services. Now I’m going to have to ask you to move.”

The constable had ducked under the plastic police tape and grabbed Sandy by the arm. An unmarked car had pulled up behind him. He heard the whirr of an electric window being wound down. A voice inside said, “That’s alright officer, let me deal with this.”

Sandy knew the voice, “Is that you John?”      

Arbogast looked tired, “What are you doing here?”

“Look, I’m sorry about the Ian Wark business, but what did you expect? This is too big to be kept under wraps.”

“I asked you why you’re here.” There was a definite atmosphere. Arbogast was still furious that Sandy had used the information to go public on Wark. The press reports had put undue pressure on the investigation, which had been counting on taking a subtle approach to push the case forward.

“I got a call to say you were looking at a building here. My source said it was linked to the terror case.”

“I need to know who you spoke to.”

“You know I won’t tell you.”

“Then I’m afraid I’ve got nothing more to say. Officer, make sure this man speaks to no-one.” He smiled and Sandy watched as his friend’s face disappeared behind the glass. The Lexus crawled past as the barrier was lifted, leaving Sandy to watch as the car disappeared around the corner. In the background the cameraman had caught the exchange on camera. Sandy had been wearing a microphone.

“As I said, sir, you’re going to have to move back.” That night the TV news placed Sandy at the scene of the terror investigation. The pictures showed an officer pushing him back, and Arbogast demanding to know who the source was. Within two hours the press pack had descended on Espedair Street. Neighbours were interviewed, the situation was analysed. One thing was clear though – no-one had anything new to say, and Ian Wark’s whereabouts remained unknown.

Life at the cottage was slow and it wasn’t long before the supplies started to run low. Annabelle Strachan walked down to the village store for provisions, where the first thing she saw the front page splash. Ian’s face was plastered across every edition of every paper. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? THE FACE OF TERROR? MANHUNT FOR SAS MAN The list went on. She quickly threw some essentials into her basket and picked up copies of the main papers. The assistant commented that they’d been selling a lot of copies of the paper today. A terrible thing, she had said. Was she visiting the village or had she just moved? Annabelle smiled and said she was in a real hurry – just passing through. Nosey bitch. She hurried back to the cottage, which was off the beaten track, about a mile from the village. The house had once been part of a miners’ row but was the only remaining evidence of the area’s former industrial past. What had once been a dirt track was now overgrown with grass; from the road you wouldn’t know there was a cottage. It had been painted white to protect against the elements, but the coating was now starting to peel, with the salt water and strong winds having taken their toll through the years. She flicked open the latch and pushed against the door which scraped along the slate floor, it’s warped frame no longer fitting the space it had been made for. Ian was sitting at the back of the living room, deep in thought over his laptop.