The Nationalist (8 page)

He had already passed the bag when he noticed it in his mind’s eye. They were coming into Anderston station when a group of people stood up and left a nest of seats untended. Looking back to see if he might have an opportunity for a quick break he noticed a hold-all in the overhead rack. A young man in his twenties was the nearest member from the departing group.

“Excuse me, sir. I think you might have left your bag.”

The man looked at the bag and shook his head. Of the three others none showed any interest. The rail company had held a staff meeting that morning and Jim had been told to be on the look-out for any suspicious packages. They had all joked about that; as if lighting would strike twice in the same place. Jim Hamilton’s curiosity got the better of him and he unzipped the bag and looked inside. He nearly dropped the bag when he saw the digital display drop down towards zero.

Arbogast got the call about the suspect package not long after he arrived at the office. Anderston station was only a short distance from Pitt Street, but the flashing blue lights of their patrol car had muted effect in the clogged arteries of rush hour traffic. Edging past cars waiting to get down onto the expressway and motorway they took about 10 minutes to reach the station. Anderston Station was something of an oddity. It had been built underneath the Kingston Bridge, itself a poorly executed piece of the city’s fabric. Built in 1970 the Clyde Port Authority had insisted the bridge was built tall, to allow shipping and dredgers to navigate up the river. But by the time the bridge had been completed the docks were closed. Kingston Bridge was the biggest urban span in the UK, its ten lanes playing host to 150,000 cars a day, 30 thousand more than it was designed for. In the shadow of the bridge sat Anderston Station. It had opened in 1896 and closed in 1948. Unused for 30-odd years it was reopened in the 80s and was largely unloved and mostly unnoticed; you could easily miss it nestled between the supporting pillars. The only thing to mark it out was the dark blue band which held its name, the only colour in the drab grey space. The patrol car left the road and crossed the slabs in front of the station which followed the path of the motorway above. Standing under the carriageway a slow, steady drip of water drummed off Arbogast’s shoulder. Looking up he could see that it wasn’t raining. He wasn’t sure where the water was coming from. In front of him the station had been cordoned off and around a dozen officers were milling around, directing pedestrians to take the long way round.

“DI Arbogast,” he said to the officer at the door, “Where’s the ticket collector?”

“He’s in the office, sir; seems quite shaken up. He eh...”

“Yes?”

“He’s in a bit of a mess, had a bit of an accident. He shat himself,” The PC tried not to snigger, but failed.

“This isn’t funny. You might have too if it happened to you. Where is he anyway; through here?”

The officer nodded and Arbogast made for the brown fire door which sat beside the ticket machine. To his right he could see the office, a mass of machines, paper, and CCTV. Behind a partition wall was a small communal area. Jim Hamilton was sitting in an orange plastic chair with chipped black legs. He was wearing a pair of shorts. The room did not smell fresh.

“Mr Hamilton?”

“Officer.”

“I understand you’ve had a bit of a fright today?”

“I thought I was going to die.”

“You didn’t though so everyone’s a winner.”Arbogast coughed; the stench was overpowering.

“I don’t think this is funny.”

“Neither do I Mr Hamilton but let’s face it, this could have been a hell of a lot worse. I was in George Square yesterday. If that had happened on your train then, well you know what could have happened.”

“I thought I was going to die.”

“But you didn’t. What I need to know from you is exactly what happened. Can you do that for me, Jim?”

“I’ve already told the officers. They’ve got all the information you’ll need.”

“I need to hear it from you.”

Jim Hamilton looked as if he was going to protest but thought better of it. Sighing, he started to recount the last moments of today’s shift, “It was a holdall – a blue bag with brown stripes; kinda retro looking. I thought a young guy had left it by mistake. You’d be surprised how often that happens. It’s busy at that time. People are reading their papers, checking their phones, checking out each other, or me sometimes,” He could see Arbogast didn’t believe the last part, “It’s true. It’s easy to leave things behind. A group were just getting off. I stopped them but they said it wasn’t theirs. Then I started to get worried. After the explosion we’ve been told to keep an eye out for something – well for something like this.”

“What did you do then?”

“I don’t know why, but I opened the bag. At first I didn’t know what I was looking at. It was heavy, really heavy. There was a long black package in the bag. I turned it over to try and see what it was then I saw there was a clock.”

“Can you describe it?”

“It was just a digital display; like an alarm clock; maybe about two inches square. The display was made up of green lines. You know like a digital watch. It was at 20 when I first saw it then it was counting down. The train had stopped at that point and a lot of people were getting off. I thought maybe one of them had left the bag. I didn’t know what to do. There were so many people.”

“You did the right thing.”

“I didn’t need to do anything. I just sat and stared at the bag. I was shaking, sweating. I just sat there and swore.”

“But nothing happened.”

“I didn’t know that, I thought I was going to fucking die,” He had raised his voice which was tight with rage. “The counter just went down to zero. Then the alarm went off. But nothing happened.”

“You were lucky, Mr Hamilton.”

Jim Hamilton looked off past the perspex ticket office wall and shook his head, “Yeah. Lucky is my middle name.”

Arbogast laughed, “Get yourself some trousers Mr Hamilton, it’s cold out there.”

“So it was a hoax?” Ian Davidson had been conspicuous by his absence, but news of the rail incident had brought him out of hiding.      

“Looks that way; I’d have liked to have kept this quiet but it’s all over Twitter. People have posted video footage of Hamilton holding the bag. There was quite a panic. The train emptied. Some of the films are actually quite detailed.”

“It’s not what we need though.”

“No, it’s not, but that’s where we are. The footage is being pieced together and played back-to-back on the news channel. Tensions are high. We’ll need to beef-up the numbers again; get more guys on the street.”

Davidson agreed, “Look we’re having a briefing at 18:00. The chief will have a plan.”

“Where is Norrie anyway?”

“He’s yesterday’s news, mate, you know that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know.”

“Obviously I have missed something. Norrie will always be the top cop to me.”

“You can’t put your arms around a memory. The new guys are already making plans, so you’ll need to watch yourself. Your old guardian angel has spread his wings and left you to fend for yourself. Do you think Donald will have your back? Do you think he needs that kind of baggage?” Ian Davidson was wagging his finger in Arbogast’s face, “You’re on the way out, Arbogast, which should leave a prime spot for me. I’ve worked with Donald before. I reckon he owes me a favour or two. Catch you around.”

Arbogast could feel his jaws clench as Davidson left. What annoyed him most was that he knew his colleague was probably right.

***

Ian Wark watched the TV news from the comfort of the Solid Rock Cafe. He could hear the sirens outside, saw people creep down the street to try and get a look at the operation. The bottom half of Argyle Street was now a no-go area. Added to the cordon at George Square and in the Merchant City, a large part of the city centre was now off limits. The attacks were the only thing people seemed to be speaking about. At a time when people felt secure in their homes the events of the last two days would have a profound impact. Ian knew the plan had already worked and the next stage in the operation needed to get underway soon. Support for their cause could only grow as the security operation ramped up a gear. The barman had stopped working and was watching the news on the plasma screen.

“What’s going on in this city?”

Ian lifted his pint to his mouth and spoke before sipping, “It’s a bad state of affairs, that’s for sure.”

“Who do you think is behind it?”      

“They don’t know yet, do they?”

“There was a guy in earlier who thought it was Islamists. You get that you know; white extremists. The square bombing was some old guy though – a war veteran! Why would he turn against his own?”

Ian Wark shook his head and carried on drinking, “I’m sure he must have had his reasons. Perhaps we’ll never know.”

15

Arbogast phoned Sandy Stirrit when it became clear that there was no way back for Norrie Smith, who had been cast aside. To say Sandy was surprised by the news would have been an understatement.

“No way; why now?”

“As far as I can see it’s purely political. The First Minister’s been looking to get Donald in from the get-go. He’s a political animal and he knows how to play the game. From what Rosalind’s told me he’s good at playing up his strengths, while playing down the stats. From some of the stories you hear he pretty much brought peace to Ulster; he loves his own PR.”

“Others would say he created the need for it. There are a lot of rumours doing the rounds about this guy, John. Ordinarily I’d say that shit sticks, but he seems to be getting away with it. He’s got support, which is more than can be said for Norrie.”

“True, but at least with Norrie you knew where you stood. He’s so bloody-minded he could drive you nuts with the way he went about his business, but he trusted you.”

“We’re talking about him like he’s dead. He’s a good man and he trusted his team. He trusted you.”

“I did a good job for him once.”

“The Kocack case is a long time ago, John. You can’t dine out on that forever.”

“I thought you were supposed to be my friend? At any rate I don’t even rate that case. Who did we even catch? A load of bodies and the bad guy walks.”

“Hang on, we’re going off-piste here. What’s the score? Can you tell me anything new?”

“I think the media could play a part in casting light on Donald’s past. This guy’s got history. Granted there doesn’t seem to be any evidence, but if you could sow the seeds of doubt then perhaps the momentum which built up would do the dirty work for us.”

“People don’t want to hear all that now, John. The city’s been hit with two attacks in two days. Do you think anyone wants a debate on whether the new chief can cut it?”

“Do you think the people want a crook heading things up?”

“I’d need proof before I can start throwing about that kind of dirt in public. You know that.”

“Aye well maybe you’re not worried about your job.”

“Phone me back when you’ve calmed down. I’ll see what I can do.”

Arbogast slumped back in his chair. The day had started badly and was getting steadily worse – a second attack; a new chief; no discernable allies; and no real leads. Not to mention the fact his relationship looked to be thrashing itself towards a messy end. He stared at the ceiling looking for inspiration but saw only cracks. A nagging voice inside told him he needed to get on and work. Turning his attention to his growing in-tray he sifted through the statements which had been taken so far. From survivors who had picked fragments of bone from their hair, to onlookers thinking about compensation, to vigilante attacks on innocent people – all in the name of retribution. There was no clear pattern. No discernable reason about why any of this had happened. Why did the old guy do it in the first place? Intrigued by the witness statement from James Wright, he read and re-read the words. Something didn’t feel right. The tone didn’t sit well with him. What was it? I always thought he was kidding. Mr Wright, I think it’s time I paid you a visit.

He arrived at the home with DS Valerie Sessions, a 40-something mother of two. She was a cheeky bitch. Arbogast liked her a lot.

“Is this the best you’ve got DI Arbogast, an old man in a care home?”

“Last time I looked 15 people had been killed by an old man. Maybe this guy’s dangerous?”

“Maybe he is. What are we here to ask him?”

“He seemed to appreciate a joke.” Arbogast knocked on the front door and waited but no-one answered.

“Statement said he was a slow mover.”

“Thanks Val, I’ll keep that in mind.” He knocked again, loudly this time. His knuckles were sore from the five sharp raps. A voice from behind them suggested they might be wasting their time. It was the concierge.

“He’s not here.”

“Is that so? Do you know where we can find him?”

“Sorry officer – you are Police right?”

“You’d know, would you?”

The concierge blushed, “The patrol car kind of gave you away.”

“So you’re the observant sort,” Valerie said, “Perhaps you could tell us where he’s gone?”

“He was picked up. He goes to the Legion on a Monday.”

“When will he be back?”

“I’d try around six, but he could be longer.”

“OK thanks. Perhaps we’ll catch up with up him.”

As Arbogast drove through the city’s west end he could see there were far fewer cars on the road than normal. Valerie noticed too.

“People are staying away.”

“Wouldn’t you, given everything that’s happened?”

“Life goes on; what’s staying indoors going to achieve? We’ve all got bills to pay, food to buy, children to feed.”

“I don’t have kids.”

“You know what I mean. People are using this as an excuse to take a day off. Do you really think people are scared? An old man blows himself up a hoax bomb shouldn’t be enough to bring the city to a standstill.”