Referendum

by Campbell Hart

  Davidson – first degree burns to right side of face. Reconstructive surgery – ongoing but incomplete.

  Offer of full Police pension – not yet accepted – why?

  Relationship to GD? Fully developed – link to terror case?

  Sandy stopped to mull the third point over. It was something that had been bothering him. His estranged friend, John Arbogast, had told him that Davidson had been in deep with the new Chief Constable, Graeme Donald, around the time of the Glasgow bombing, but there had never been any proof of wrong doing. The rumours had been rife but nothing had come to light. Donald had become pretty much untouchable and that was part of the problem. As far as the public was concerned the bomber, Ian Wark, had been caught. He’d been in a coma for the last eight months but word had it that he was starting to show signs of recovery. There were a lot of people waiting to speak to him; Donald would be one of them. In the aftermath of the terror attack the Chief Constable had ramped up security across the country. Stop and search was more common, and it was normal to see armed police on the streets; something which had rarely happened before. The country seemed to have lurched to the right and the argument that there could still be ‘rogue elements’ in Scotland seemed to be enough for people to accept the status quo. But Sandy wasn’t buying it; something stank and he was going to find out what it was.

  Ian Davidson was the starting point. Looking up from the safety of his VW Passat, he saw the parents still hadn’t left, there seemed to be some kind of argument with a third person inside. The father went back into the house. About two minutes later he emerged waving a wallet in the air. Daft old goat. Sandy waited another ten minutes, just in case they came back, and then left the car.

  Ian Davidson hadn’t slept well for months. Tired again, he was agitated that it was taking his parents an age to actually get out of the bloody house. He knew he had to get back out on his own, but he’d rented out his own flat for a year and still had a few months of home comforts to endure. He’d been standing in the bathroom for about 15 minutes. Eight months on he’d had three skin grafts already with more to follow. Freak. A large chunk of the right hand side of his face had been ripped off in the blast at Prestwick Airport. The Doctor described it as a ‘full thickness burn’. They’d tried a new technique using something called Matriderm, a treatment which helped the skin stay elastic and moist. They took skin from his arse to cover his face. His colleagues tried to make jokes about that but he didn’t see the funny side. Not when he looked like this. Freak. He’d been wearing a see-through plastic compression mask 20 hours a day for 18 months. He still had a year to go but he felt like something out of a science fiction movie. His parents nagged him to keep it on; the mask helped to reduce the scarring from the graft. He’d look just like his old self they’d say. You’re lucky son. But he didn’t feel lucky. He felt like a freak. The moment of truth. He carefully peeled off the mask to see how the scarring looked. He knew he shouldn’t but part of him expected a miracle to have happened in the few hours since he’d last looked. It was uncomfortable to remove and took a full five minutes before he could get it off as the lubrication schlucked on the plastic, like feet trudging through mud. Looking at his face he could still see the scar lines which had gouged a deep red vein around his mouth and up to just below his eyes and ears. He’d been lucky, he knew that, but everyday felt like a fresh hell. He blamed himself for it. If only he hadn’t run at the bomber he would still be OK today. But he had.

  His self pity was broken by the gentle chime of the double bell downstairs. Probably forgot their keys again. Slowly replacing his mask he breathed in deeply and made his way downstairs. He hoped they wouldn’t be back for long. When he opened the door he felt a pang of fear. It was the reporter from Prestwick; the sight of him triggered memories of the night of the accident.

  “I wondered when you’d turn up, Stirrit. I suppose you’d better come in.”

  8

  El Medano, Tenerife

  After three gruelling days, Rosalind Ying was determined to beat the climb. Ahead of the start of the Commonwealth Games, she’d taken five days leave from Police Scotland and time out from her lead role in ‘Team Safety’. Her challenge was simple. Put last year behind her, get fit, and get on. When the Games started, around 300 police officers were going to be patrolling the city centre by bike. It was something that gave her the idea to get serious about her cycling. In Tenerife there was nothing else you could do but rise.

  The ascent up Mount Teide was brutal, and today’s route was going to be the most challenging. Snaking up the volcanic landscape, the road climbed continuously for 37km. She had looked at the pictures on Google but wasn’t sure if she was ready. At 5:00am the alarm went off, but she’d slept through all the same. Her guide for the day had also turned out to be excellent company. Steve Marlin was based on the island and hadn’t been cheap, but Rosalind wanted the best; she hadn’t been disappointed. She felt a hand stroke her jaw line and sighed.

  “Hey Rose, we need to get going.”

  “I don’t know if I can face it today.”

  They’d been sleeping under a single sheet which had vanished in the night. Opening her eyes, Rose smiled.

  “I think we could probably wait just a little longer.” Steve was impatient to get going. He knew the heat would be at its height by the time they got to the top of the mountain. But as he watched his bed fellow turn on her side he knew he was up to the challenge. His employer was turning out to be full of surprises.

  About four hours later, Rosalind Ying was straining to keep going, the acid in her knees was screaming at her to stop pedalling. There was science to her pain. In 1979 a study by Di Prampero et al came up with a formula which laid out the three forces faced by cyclists:

  W = krMs + kaAsv2 + giMs

  The three forces at play were rolling resistance, air resistance, and gravity. Rosalind would have given anything to have had the assistance of gravity in helping her to hurtle down the other side of the mountain, but that was still 10k away. Steve was trying to help, but she could barely focus on what he was saying, simply putting one foot forward and maintaining her steady momentum was her one and only goal.

  “Dig deep Rose, you’re doing great. We’ve just got one more steep climb then we’re back on easy street.”

  “One more steep climb; we’ve just cycled through a fucking cloud. How much further can it be?”

  Steve was laughing. He’d heard it all before but he was sure that Rose was going to crack the mountain; she was that kind of woman. “Just keep going, you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t make it.”

  He couldn’t see Rosalind’s eyes for the wraparound shades but the contortion of her mouth told its own story. Sweat poured like a wave down her forehead. Reaching down to her bottle, the bike wobbled as she momentarily lost control. Two more experienced cyclists chose that moment to overtake. A man with sideburns laughed as he sped past, “See you at the top.”

  A roadside sign said they’d reached the steep climb – 20%. It was a crime worse than murder. Rosalind was convinced she wouldn’t be able to make it. The pain was extreme. I can’t do this. The road was shrouded in the mist from the cloud below but suddenly she was back in strong sunlight. She could see the summit; she was going to make it.

  At 2,190 metres Rosalind had nothing left. The last few kilometres had been completed at a snail’s pace; so slow in fact there were times she felt that she’d come to a stop. But as Steve cajoled and coached, feeding her energy sachets and promising the end was in sight, she kept going. The clips on her shoes kept her attached to the bike, the legs kept pounding, and the wheels kept turning. But when she reached the top she fell off, exhausted but exhilarated.

  Steve ran over, “Are you OK, did you hurt yourself?”

  Rosalind was breathing hard. Steve had been right, the sun was at its height and they were exposed; but what a view. Looking down she could see cloud covering the entire island, with the skies above the canopy the bluest she’d
ever seen. The jagged lunar landscape was like something out of a movie. The rocks looked razor sharp, while in the distance the highest point of the mountain climbed further.

  “Don’t worry about that, you’d need the cable car to get up.”

  Rosalind laughed, “No, you’re alright; thanks for getting me this far, though, it’s fantastic to have made it.”

  “I knew you’d do it. You’re stubborn.”

  “Think you know me now? There’s more to me than meets the eye.”

  “I’m sure there is. It’s your last night tonight. I suppose you’ll want to pack before you head off?”

  The innuendo was obvious but Rosalind was happy to play along, “I’m sure I could find a little time to relax.”

  Steve was back on the bike. “Well you’ll have to catch me first.”

  As the pair raced down the other side of the mountain at 45mph Rosalind Ying felt ready for anything.

  9

  Graeme Donald didn’t think the force was ready for any of it. As Chief Constable he had the ultimate responsibility for security and this was by far the biggest operation he had co-ordinated. With more than a million people expected to visit Glasgow in the next two weeks for the Commonwealth Games, he was uneasy about the prospect of another terror attack. Last year had been unexpected and brutal. This year it felt like they were inviting trouble. The crowds would be unprecedented and although the official line was ‘we’ve got it under control’ the reality was that if someone chose to target the Games, they’d find a way to do it.

  To try and combat an attack, an enormous security operation was being put in place. Police Scotland, as the lead security agency, had the support of the British Transport Police, prison officers, hired-in security guards, as well as venue stewards. All in all there were around 4,500 people involved. That included more than 2000 Armed Forces personnel who had been put on standby to ‘neutralise the terror threat’. Still it could go wrong, and on my watch.

  The Games started in two days. Donald’s DCI, Rosalind Ying, was back from her jaunt to Spain. She’d been stressed out, needed the break. He wanted her fresh for the Games. He wanted her full-stop, but she didn’t seem interested. There’s always the Christmas Party. But away from the festivities he had another problem, one where he could have done with additional support. Someone like Ian Davidson would have been perfect, but he was going to be out of the game for months.

  The issue was something from the past. The press had tried to dig up old rumours when he’d been appointed last year; tired old tales about his reputation from his days in Belfast. He’d managed to keep a lid on it, applied the right pressure; but he knew the past had a habit of catching up with you and that’s what was happening now, at just the wrong time.

  ***

  Niall Murphy arrived in Glasgow at the start of June. He’d been following Graeme Donald’s career with interest. He knew Donald was as bent as they came, but he was being treated as a celebrity cop in Scotland – seemed as though his way of dealing with terrorists had been the key factor in catching the George Square bomber. But Donald didn’t have a knack for tackling terror, he just knew the right people. In Belfast he’d enjoyed a reputation for brutality. Niall had worked in protection. He was muscle, working from Crumlin Road – not an easy gig, but never dull. But he was getting on now, nearly 40. Donald offered hope for an easier life. They’d done business in Belfast and would do again.

  Donald had agreed to meet him, but he’d been cagey about running the risk of being seen in public. He had profile now and needed to be careful who he spoke to. So he said anyway. Murphy was picked up on Great Western Road. The two drove for about an hour. Donald didn’t seem to want to stop. He demanded an explanation.

  Murphy was unimpressed with the bluster, “I don’t think you’re really in the position to be making demands.”

  “We’re not in Northern Ireland anymore, Niall. This is a different situation, and there’s too much going on right now for me to want to deal with a wee nyaff like you.”

  “Insults, is it? Listen, you had time enough for me in Belfast. When you needed some muscle work done I did it, without question. We had a good thing going there. I’m just looking for more of the same.”

  “Can’t happen; it’s not the same here. I’m legit.”

  “Bullshit. You trying to tell me you’ve changed? You’ll never change.”

  “Don’t pretend you know me. You knew something way back when, but it’s just a part of the whole.”

  Niall Murphy was laughing hard, “You crack me up, man. Part of the whole? That’s rich. Remember that lad, what was his name – Colm McNally.”

  “Don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “You remember Colm. They started calling him Pliers after you’d finished with him.”

  Graeme Donald veered left off the road and into a bus lane. He stopped, leaning over he grabbed Niall’s jacket.

  “What is this; are you carrying a fucking wire? Trying to set me up; I’ve nothing to say.”

  Niall raised his arms above his head in a gesture of mock surrender, “I’m disappointed, Chief Constable. I would have thought you knew me better than that.”

  “Look, what’s this about?” Donald hissed, “We can’t work together; not now – not ever again.”

  “You’ll need to find a way. I’ve got evidence from the old days. We worked closely but I knew you couldn’t be trusted. I’ve got pictures, tapes; things you don’t want getting leaked. It could be disastrous. Imagine all that shitty stuff leaking out all over the media right now? Is that what they’d call a national crisis?”

  “Get out.”

  “Here? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  Donald nodded, “If I see you again, you’ll regret it.”

  “You’ll hear from me before you see me, but I’m not letting go. Take care Graeme, the next few days could be full of surprises.”

  Niall Murphy got out of the car and stood by the road as Donald u-turned across the grass covered central reservation, the uneven surface making the car bump awkwardly along the road. Car horns blared as he barred the way to oncoming traffic, heading back to the city centre. In the distance Murphy saw a life size model of a Tyrannosaurus Rex; it was advertising an adventure golf park, “You’re not the only dinosaur around here pal, it’s funny when extinction comes back and bites your arse. Next thing you know the only thing you’re fit for is a museum.”

  That had been two days ago and Donald hadn’t heard anything since. He assumed the routine had been just that; bluster with no comeback. Who did Murphy know in Glasgow? In Belfast he had a crew but who does he know here? Then the parcel arrived. It was a brown A4 envelope. It didn’t have much in it but the contents were enough to get his attention. Sitting back behind his desk he placed the two black and white photographs face-up. When did he take these? This was the evidence. The pictures weren’t of the highest quality but they were clearly of him. It was a before and after scene. He was holding a pair of pliers in front of a boy strapped to a chair. He remembered it well; it was the boy McNally. There was a yellow post-it note attached with two words scrawled in black ink:

  Don’t panic.

  10

  The living room was drab. Decorated in the early 90s it was badly in need of an update. The environment felt odd and the interview was making Sandy Stirrit uncomfortable. Try as he might he couldn’t stop looking at Ian Davidson’s face, which was compressed by the plastic mask tasked with restoring his features to something like the man he’d been before.

  “This isn’t an interview by the way.”

  Sandy couldn’t make out his words, which were impeded by the barrier around his lips; the lisp was hard to follow. He leaned forward, “I’m sorry could you repeat that?”

  Ian Davidson slowed down. Communication’s so frustrating, why can’t people just listen? Having spent the last few months exclusively with his parents and in hospital the people he was used to dealing with had come to understand his speec
h. It was annoying to be reminded of his condition by an outsider, as if he needed reminding.

  “I said this is not an interview.”

  Much clearer that time, but at this speed Sandy thought the conversation could take some time. He knew he was being uncharitable but he was so close to asking the questions that had been gnawing away at him for the last eight months.

  “I don’t remember saying this was an interview.”

  “What’s in the bag then?”

  “It pays to be prepared in my game. We can record later if you like?”

  “I don’t think so. Get to the point reporter, what do you want?”

  “I need to talk to you about Prestwick.”

  “I can’t talk to you about that, you know that.” His T’s were the hardest to follow, the lisp of the words sounded alien to Sandy, “People deserve to know what happened. Look at what happened to you; I take it you’re being well compensated?”

  “You were there, you saw what happened. There’s nothing more to say; nothing will change from me speaking to you.”

  “The public were never told – do you think that was the right thing to do?”

  “Nothing happened in the end, though, did it, they’ve got the bomber. Didn’t end well for him, did it?”

  “Ian Wark’s still alive. They say he might come round. If he does he’ll be going to trial. They’ll want to hear from you too.”

  “There will be no trial. There’s a blackout on this case. Don’t be so naive.”

  Sandy had hoped the man might have borne a grudge. The Ian Davidson of old would have. He didn’t seem like that now, though, he was calm, bored even.