The Nationalist (7 page)

***

Arbogast woke up with a dry mouth. He was sleeping with his face down against the pillow and could feel the warm sunshine against this face. Opening his right eye he realised he wasn’t at home. Rolling over he took in the view. Judging by the decor he was in a woman’s room. Annabelle. Looking around he could see he was alone. A small post-it note was stuck on the bedside table.

See yourself out.

A x

“What have I done?” Sitting naked on the edge of the bed he sat with his head in his hands, rubbing his face. He felt uncomfortable and realised he was still wearing a condom. Pulling it off with a snap he started having flashbacks from the night before; of the mistakes he had made. Dressing quickly he left the flat and found himself on an unfamiliar street. The sunlight hurt his eyes and checking his watch he knew he would need to get a taxi. He decided to use the GPS on his phone to find out where he was and then call a cab, but after checking he realised that he didn’t have his handset.

“Excuse me,” he tried to get the attention of a young woman who was passing with her son, but she wouldn’t look him in the eyes and tugged on her boy’s arm as she tried to hurry past. “Where am I?” He said, “Don’t look at him,” was the hushed response as the woman pulled her son along the pavement, keen to get as far away from Arbogast as possible. In the distance he could see a double-decker bus climbing the hill. He squinted to try and make out the destination but it was too far away. Looking for the nearest stop he saw it was about 100 metres further up the road. Running to catch up as the coach passed him he made the stop but was out of breath when the doors swung open. Climbing on board a fat, bored man looked at him through the scratched Perspex safety screen.

“Where you going, mate?”

“Where am I would be more like it?”

“Late night was it?”

“Something like that?”

“Are you not a bit old for getting lost?”

“Where am I?”

“Paisley, are you getting on or not?”

“I need to get into town.”

“£2.40”

“I’ve only got £2 coins.”

“Read the sign.”

EXACT MONEY ONLY. NO CHANGE GIVEN.

Arbogast dropped in the coins, “Nice guy.”

“I just drive the bus pal. If you don’t like it then it’s an hour on foot.”

“Thanks again.” As he sat down he could feel the eyes of the bus were on him. He knew he was an unwelcome distraction, taking up too much time in rush hour.

It was 8:00am.

13

By the time Arbogast made it home he knew things had changed for the worse. Rose was nowhere to be seen. There was no note and he could see that some of her things were missing from the wardrobe. There was a stillness around the flat which made him feel slightly uncomfortable, as if the space had been violated in some way. He showered, shaved, and then sat in the living room with a strong coffee. He had phoned the office to say he was exploring a possible lead; that he’d be in as soon as possible. He knew he was being unprofessional, that there were more important things to consider than his own problems. Picking up the ipad he could see Rose had been looking at a video. The background looked familiar. He reset the video to the start and felt sick as the footage started to play.

The film began with a woman looking into a camera. It was a face he recognised – Annabelle. She was wearing a tight green dress and wore a crucifix round her neck. She smiled into the camera. She looked over her left shoulder as if she had heard a noise, and then stood up and straightened her dress. She moved to allow the camera to focus on the bed. Out of shot for a few seconds someone else had come into the room and a soft murmur of voices could be heard in the background. Then two figures could be seen on the bed. Annabelle was wearing only underwear. Arbogast saw himself naked. His stomach lurched and he dropped his coffee; the thick black espresso soaked into the cream carpet. Horrified he watched as he completely undressed Annabelle, and turned her on her front, pulling her up and easing himself inside her. He looked at the time code and there was still another nine minutes of film left to play. He pressed the small ‘x’ at the top left of the screen; the image of his lust remained etched in his inner eye. The video had been a private link sent by email. Looking at the text he saw that Annabelle had been busy.

HI ROSALIND, MET UP WITH AND OLD FRIEND LAST NIGHT. JOHN SENDS HIS LOVE XXX

Arbogast ran to the toilet and grabbed the sides of the bowl as the contents of his stomach heaved back to life. Drool dripped from the side of his face, while hot tears covered his cheeks. It had been a stupid mistake, but the damage had been done.

He made it to Pitt Street by 10:00am, “Looking a bit shell shocked there John, you alright?”

“I’m fine, Ian, thanks. It’s been a long week.”

“It’s only Monday and it’s hardly business as usual,” Ian Davidson was peering intently at Arbogast over his ever present mug of coffee.

“It’s not been your average week though.”

Ian shrugged his shoulders, “I hear changes are coming our way soon, John. Maybe some people will be moving on.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning you need to start learning to play the game. Sometimes a new manager comes in and before you know it, there’s a completely new team in place.”

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing yet, but I’m not sure we’ll be seeing much more of Norrie. We’ve been told there’s a briefing at 12 o’clock.”

Arbogast turned and walked off, leaving his colleague to sneer as he retreated to his desk.

“I’ve been trying to phone you, John.” DI Chris Guthrie sat opposite Arbogast and had been assigned to work with him on the terror case. He looked agitated.

“Sorry, I lost my phone,”

“Again – how many can one guy go through?”

“What can I say, I’m forgetful; now give me a break, will you?”

“Someone’s a bit tense. Who’s been at you?”

“Who do you think?”

“I don’t know why you let him get to you. He’s a toe-rag and he’ll be found out before long.”

“How long have we been saying that? He plays a good game and the only thing that’s kept him down so far is the fact Norrie doesn’t like him. He says something’s happening. Has Norrie been in today?”

“He’s in Edinburgh this morning – should be back at lunchtime for the briefing.”

“I hope so.”

“You worry too much, John. What could possibly go wrong?”

Arbogast smiled weakly at his colleague’s sarcasm and wondered how bad the day was actually going to be. Two hours later he knew.

Graeme Donald and Rosalind Ying were unveiled as the new faces of Police Scotland at an internal briefing in Pitt Street.  Arbogast concealed himself at the back of the room as the reasons for the change were detailed. Operational priorities were outlined and while the suspect interrogations were ongoing it seemed a greater emphasis was being placed on the terror group. The news was unsettling. Everyone in the room had worked with Norrie for a long time. He had been a fixture in Strathclyde for around 25 years and as with every major change came new rules. After a 30 minute session on which Arbogast found it difficult to focus, the two speakers stood up and left the room. Rosalind stopped and spoke directly at him, “DI Arbogast, I need to see you in my office immediately.”

“Your office?”

“The one next to Donald’s; he’ll be moving in as soon as we’ve cleared out Norrie’s stuff.”

Arbogast followed silently behind Rosalind, who nodded at officers of various ranks, who tried not to make eye contact, a faint smile the only acknowledgement. Inside room 10f, her demeanour changed.

“When you went out last night I thought you were going to clear your head. Not to fuck an ex.”

“Wait I can—”

“—no you can’t, not ever again. I’ll be going home tonight. You will be finding somewhere else to live. We are over. Do you understand? We’ve been drifting for a while but your antics last night are beyond belief. That’s it John. I’ll be back at nine tonight. I don’t want to see any of your stuff there and I expect to see your keys on the doormat.”

“I’m sorry, Rose.”

“It’s too late, John. At work, it’s going to be business as usual so don’t do anything to annoy me as you’ll find I’m not someone who appreciates getting the run-around.”  She walked to the window and placed both hands on the ledge, refusing to look round, “Now get out and get back to work.”

***

The plan was working. Walking through the streets of Glasgow he could see people were scared. For the first time armed police were in the city centre, security had never been higher. Minorities were being targeted by sections of the public for something they had nothing to do with, while the politicians were ramping up the fear factor in the name of national security. The old man had done his job well and now the time to maintain operations had come.

Ian Wark was much like any other 32 year old. He had adopted the hipster look to remain inconspicuous. There were hundreds of people his age that looked just the same. A new uniform for the rebellious masses had spewed out an army of clones, all convinced that their take on individuality would make them stand out, when really they were simply trying to hide their own mediocrity. Today that could not be said of him. Ian stopped for a second and caught his reflection in the unlit window of an unoccupied shop. He felt calm. He looked good. Now was the time to act. It was 8:30am and in around an hour the rush hour commute would be in full swing. The straps of the heavy canvas bag dug into his right hand shoulder blade. He nodded to the two armed policemen who stood at the corner of George Square, still cordoned off from the weekend’s attack. Making his way down Union Street, Ian could feel his heart starting to beat faster. He slowed his pace and breathed deeply, being sure to use his training, to stay focused and in control. On Argyle Street he could see council workers using cherry pickers to put the Christmas lights back up for another year. In the distance he could see his destination. When he entered the station he already had his railcard out and ready. He stood still on the top of the steep descending escalators as people in a hurry nudged past him and ran down the metal steps. Taking his time at the bottom, the walkway opened up into the concourse. He slipped the ticket section of his two part pass from its plastic holder and slid it into the ticket barrier. The light went green and he passed through. Taking the stairs back up to the platform he could see the train he wanted was due in three minutes. He was there at exactly the right time. Walking the length of the platform he sat down on the raised round tiled section which surrounded the metal supporting column. Two minutes later the train came. He climbed on board, looked for a seat, and placed his heavy bag on the luggage rack above him. It was 8:45am and the train was busy. The service was headed for Dalmuir and stopped at every station along the line. Ian got off at Central. The bag stayed on. He knew he didn’t have too much time. Taking the narrow steps back up to street level he shuffled up through the busy mass of people heading home and slipped back onto Argyle Street.

At 8:48am the train was travelling in the tunnel between Glasgow Central and Anderson when the bag was discovered by the ticket inspector. When he opened the zip he could see the timer ticking from 20 down to zero.

14

Jim Hamilton hated his job. He had started off with the best of intentions, with an ambition to become a mechanical engineer. But two years into University, he decided to leave. He couldn’t really remember why, but he knew that in retrospect it could never have been a good enough reason. For the last ten years he had been working as a ticket collector on the Glasgow rail network. He’d been there long enough that he now earned the top pay bracket of around £25k a year, something that seemed to surprise people, until he told them the salary the drivers were on; those guys were minted. Every day was the same. In the quiet periods he would grab a seat for 10 minutes, read the Metro, and people watch. Taking the weight off his feet for even a few minutes made a big difference to his day, although when he took time out like that getting back up and moving was getting harder every year. This was rush hour. The six carriages which made up the Larkhall to Dalmuir line were jam packed, with the train near to capacity. In an ideal world they would add extra carriages but the Victorian tunnels which ran under the city centre led to platforms designed to cater for a different level of passenger numbers, and six was the maximum number of carriages which could be accommodated. Jim was a large man. He had grown a beard to hide his double chin, while his belly had grown in recent years, with the extra weight making it harder to get around. That was a particular problem in the narrow walkways of the Glasgow trains, and he had to constantly apologise for knocking into people and crushing them as he squeezed by on his rounds. Every new carriage brought the same disdainful looks. All eyes were on him thinking ‘How does he expect to get through,’ But he got through. Every time he had to push past someone he had a little bit of revenge – rubbing past the good looking ones; staring past the hard cases; chatting to the old dears who should have been offered seats. The last couple of days had been more tetchy than normal. The terror attack had meant increased security. He could see that people were no longer checking him out. They seemed to have more respect for him today. Their attention was focused on each other, looking to see if they might have a bomber in the midst. It didn’t take much to arouse suspicion.