The Nationalist (25 page)

“We’ve traced them to Gourock, but they’ve moved on. It’s possible one of them may have been injured. We have divers searching—”

“—divers? Have these animals not done enough damage already? I need to start seeing actual progress. I’ve staked my own reputation on this, and when I brought you over to lead the force I expected to see results. Maybe we were hasty in getting rid of Norrie Smith. At least he was loyal.”

“We’re getting closer.”

“I should bloody well hope so. Let’s be clear about this if we don’t get a result you’ll be the first to know about it. Do we understand each other?”

“It couldn’t be clearer.”

“Tomorrow I’m going to be announcing more money from the proceeds of crime bill will be diverted to fund this investigation. I’m giving you a million pounds to do whatever is necessary.”

“Thank you, sir, it will be—”

“—yes it will, and it had better get results. From the sounds of it we’re only dealing with a few people here. So far the only people the public are really aware of are a couple of old men, a modern day veteran, and an IT girl. The media are asking a lot of questions about their motivation, and to tell you the truth I just don’t know why anyone in their right mind would do this.”

“We think it’s a radical nationalist campaign.”

The First Minister moved forward to stare down Donald. He was a tall, lean man, who drank too much coffee. His breath was overpowering and Graeme had to work hard to stop himself from gagging, “I won’t thank you if you insist on playing up the nationalist card. You’ll be aware we’re gearing up for a small vote next year. I don’t need to remind you how important that is to this administration.”

“No, sir.”

“Should this case be linked to a few fringe individuals they will be dealt with but let’s be clear; they are terrorists and murderers – nothing more. Agreed?”

“Loud and clear. We’ve got our best team working on this and I’m sure we’ll break the case before long.”

The First Minister was looking out across Edinburgh, with his back turned to the room, “For all our sakes I hope that you’re right.”

Off the west coast, about half a mile from shore, the ‘Aristotle’ was anchored for the night. Stuart and Maureen Sullivan had bought the 40 foot yacht as part of their retirement. Years of speculation on the markets had paid off and they planned to spend their remaining years in style. They were still young enough to enjoy it. Both in their mid-50s their careers had been swift and meteoric, with the rewards being large enough to cut their losses and leave the rat race behind. Life on board was simple enough; sail by day, and dine by night. Tonight they had gone to bed early, tired from a long day fuelled by too much wine.

Maureen was the first to wake. She picked up her phone to check the time. It was 2:00am.

“Can you hear that, Stuart?”

The muffled groan suggested he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. A light knocking could be heard on the side of the hull. Maureen shook her silent partner. He sat bolt upright, eyes wide open.

“What’s the matter?”

“There’s something outside. Listen.” Again she heard the knocking. Sometimes the sound was nothing more than a light thud; occasionally it was much louder. They could hear the waves lapping against the side of the yacht. The thudding noise was louder when the waves were at their highest.

“What is it?”

“It must be a log caught on the tide. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“If you think I’m sitting here listening to that noise all night you’ve got another thing coming. Get dressed, get out on deck, and get rid of it.”

Stuart knew his wife well enough to know that it didn’t pay to argue. Reluctantly, he pulled on last night’s clothes from the ledge at the other side of the cabin. Opening the door to the top deck, he pulled his jacket tighter as the brisk cold autumnal air pierced his bed warmed skin like a knife, and wished he was still asleep. Switching on the torch, he cast the light over the side and tried to identify where the noise was coming from. At first he couldn’t see anything and circled round the yacht twice without catching sight of this elusive inconvenience. Then he saw a flash of blue, illuminated under the artificial light. What was that? He could see what looked like a tarpaulin floating in the sea. Another wave hit and the thud came again, sounding much louder in the night air. He picked up a boat hook and used it to try and push the plastic back out to open water. It was much heavier than expected and dipped below the surface, before re-appearing a short time later with a splash. Maureen had got up and was out on deck.

“What’s taking so long? Come back to bed.”

“I can’t shift it. It’s really heavy.”

Maureen stood behind him. She was barefoot and wearing only jeans and a dark blue cardigan, which she held closed with crossed arms, “Just give it a good push.”  Maureen shone the torch into the water while Stuart handled the boat hook. He cupped the round end of the pole in his right hand, holding the shaft about half a foot down. The boat hook swayed in the wind and it was a while before he had the blue tarpaulin in his sights. Pushing outwards he tried to move the object out and round the bow. It disappeared from view but quickly resurfaced. They could see now what it was that had woken them. Staring back, with wide open eyes, were the bloated remains of Peter Peebles.

43

Ian Davidson was furious when Arbogast told him he had gone behind his back to try to break the case.

“I thought we had an arrangement?”

“We did, and we still do.”

“You just thought you’d pursue the lead without letting me know?”

“We thought we might be able to uncover some information at the cottage.”

“Well we just got a call to say the marine team has found a body floating in the Firth of Clyde. We haven’t got an ID yet but Largs has filed a report on a missing hiker. The guy we found fits the description and I imagine it will only be a matter of time before we get a positive identification. The guy’s wife is due to view the body this morning. In other words, you knew where these guys were and you went tearing off after them. It just so happens that you stumbled into another murder. It’s not good enough. This is supposed to be a team.”

“On that we all agree.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“We’re all on this case together. You’re the lead investigator, and if push comes to shove it’s you that will get the profile. I just want to shut this down. It’s gone far enough and we don’t know what these two have planned. They’ve gone too far to give up now, don’t you think?”

Chris Guthrie chipped in, “He’s right, Ian. We might not all see eye-to-eye all the time, but we’re making progress on this case. It was a good lead and we needed to act quickly. Who knows, if we’d been half an hour earlier, we might have found them. The most important thing now is that we make the most of the break and make sure we don’t stay two steps behind.

“Just let me make one thing clear,” Ian Davidson said, “This is my gig and I need to know you’re all pulling my way. If you don’t, you’re out. I’ve already spoken to Donald on this and he’s with me. Don’t go playing the hero. There’s too much at stake.  We’ve got a briefing in 10 minutes. I expect you to be there and I expect you to remain silent unless I specifically ask you to speak.”

Arbogast kept staring at his feet while Chris Guthrie nodded his agreement. Ian Davidson left the room. All three knew the stakes had been raised.

Rosalind’s abortion had been at the back of Arbogast’s mind all day. He knew he would only get one chance to speak to her, and that would be right before the briefing.

“How you doing – can I come in?”

“I’m pulling together case notes. Can this wait?”

“I’ll be two minutes.”

“Make it quick then.”

“I think I’ve found my father.”

Rosalind looked at him with a look which mixed disbelief and revulsion in equal measure.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“I thought you might like to know.”

“Why would I need to know anything about you?”

“All this talk of family and I just thought; well you know.”

“No I don’t. We haven’t had any talk of family.  I was pregnant and now I’m not, and that’s all there is to it.”

“I wanted to talk to you about this though.”

“Were you hoping I’d feel sorry for you? Maybe we could get back together now that things are back to normal. Was that what you were thinking?”

“I don’t really know what you mean. I’ve never known my father. It was the guy that visits my mum in the home. All these years he’s been right under my nose.”

“I hope you’re very happy together. Maybe now you won’t be all on your own. It’s something that bothers you isn’t it? Well I’m sorry but it’s not my concern, so if you’ll excuse me I have more important things to do.”

“How can you be so cold about this?”

“It’s easy. I just think about what an arsehole you are and then carry on breathing. One, two, three and you’re out of the room.”

“Can’t we talk about this?”

“No, we can’t, and I don’t want to see you in here again unless it’s on official business. Your behaviour is verging on harassment. If you force me to, I’ll make an official complaint against you. I imagine it will find in my favour, and if it does I’ll make sure you don’t stay at Pitt Street; you can kiss Major Crime goodbye. I’ve already gone over this once with you. For old times’ sake I’m telling you again, but be warned, if we have this conversation a third time you’ll be asking for trouble. Now is there anything else I can help you with? If not then I’m going to have to ask you to let me get on with my work. It may come as something of a surprise, but the world does not revolve around you. Goodbye.”

Outside Arbogast stopped and wondered quite how they had managed to drift so far apart in such a short space of time. At the bottom of the corridor he heard his name being called. It was Chris.

Ian Wark and Annabelle Strachan had been busy. Once the plan was put into operation it would be impossible to back out. There was only 65 miles between the two objectives but they knew that the initial stages were going to be the hardest.

“Do you think this is going to work?” Annabelle said.

“It has to. So far everything’s gone to plan; people are scared, but more importantly, we’ve got into their heads. They’re thinking about how things could be if only they had the nerve to make a change. Jock Smith believed in the plan. Without him none of this would have been possible.”

In the silence of their island bolthole everything seemed magnified. Each passing car caused them to stop in their tracks, check to see if lights had been left on which shouldn’t have been.

News of the discovery of Peter Peebles’ body came sooner than expected. They could see Police patrol boats out on the Firth in the distance. There was still nothing to lead them here though. Annabelle looked at Ian whose mood had darkened these last few days. His intensity had deepened, and she could see his focus was now on completing ‘the mission’. Annabelle’s thoughts drifted back to the square.

“I never met Jock, what was he like?”

“You would have liked him, he was a soldier.”

44

Monte Cassino, Italy, March 1944

Jock Smith was stationed with 6th Battalion, Black Watch, three miles south of Monte Cassino. Worn down by heavy fighting it had been a relief to see the flying fortresses drone overhead with their 1,000lb bombs dropping onto the abbey which dominated the hill above the town of Cassino. They had been told the abbey was being used by the Germans as a vantage point. Tactically it was a critical location and one way or another they were going to have to take it. After several hours the barrage stopped; the medieval abbey had been reduced to rubble.

“Let’s see how the bastards like that. Can’t be many of them left, eh?” Jock was talking to his comrade and friend, Bill Clements, one of the few that had survived through Africa and Sicily.

“I’m not so sure they’re up there, Jock. I was speaking to a boy the other day. Said he’d pinned down one of the Huns – told him they weren’t using the abbey – said it was too important a site. They’ve dug into positions below. And do you know, I think he’s right. All the artillery fire is coming from the hills.”

“Are you mad, man? The monastery has to be taken. If push comes to shove the Germans would be crazy not to exploit that position. They’ve been ferocious, and I can’t see them giving up easily.”

“All the same – the bombing will do nothing but destroy an ancient monastery. It’s a disgrace.”

Jock and Bill were signallers, meaning they had to maintain clear lines of communication for the advancing troops, and the next attack was imminent, with more than 1,000 men in the division ready to be called into action. The likely target was to be the town of Cassino itself. Already reduced to rubble, it was going to be a difficult objective. But with the monastery destroyed the hope was that the Germans would be forced back – that this time they might break through.

The order to advance came the following day. Jock and Bill lay cables behind advancing tanks as they trundled towards Cassino. Hundreds of men walked in loose formation behind the Churchill tanks as the shattered landscape of the pre-roman village came into sight.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Jock said. Bill nodded. They were both terrified, running on adrenalin and instinct. They were in a group of nine men. Jock carried the cable roll, which unwound as they walked, while Bill made sure the wire sat in the least exposed area. The cable would provide a direct line between Forward Command and Battalion HQ. Ahead was a ridge. Jock stopped. Scanning the horizon with his binoculars he tried to make a judgement call on the situation ahead. About 200 metres north, he could see what remained of the town. It had been bombed to rubble. The archways of old stables were clearly visible, although what had once been homes were now ground down ruins. Huge piles of rubble had washed away where the blast of allied and axis shells had landed. From their vantage point the town’s skyline resembled a row of rotten teeth. Smoothed out and ragged exterior walls were all that remained of a once picturesque town. Above, the smouldering wasteland of the abbey gave an indication of what was about to unfold in this early springtime assault. Immediately in front of Cassino lay a stagnant lake, the water covered with a thick oily scum, the residue of shellfire, incendiaries, and the rotten remains of fallen friends. Burned out tree stumps emerged from the water like accusing fingers. Jock saw it for what it was – a vision of hell.