Arbogast was pouring himself a whisky into a plastic tumbler. He offered one to Sandy but he was driving and declined. “You don’t know that, Sandy.”
“Donald dodged a lot of rumours in Belfast; people said he used underground connections to shut the right people up. Now, less than a year after he gets the top job in Scotland, a man from Belfast turns up dishing out kickings when the wrong questions are asked. Come on John, wake up.”
Arbogast was swirling the whisky at the bottom of his cup, he was thinking ice would have been nice; he was wishing he’d never asked Sandy to come round, but there was something bothering him, “What do you expect me to do about this?”
“I expect you to look into it.”
“There’s no evidence.”
“There never is, but you could look into this Irish guy for me. That should be simple enough, even for you.”
Arbogast didn’t appreciate the jibe; the pair had lost touch after Sandy had overstepped the mark with their friendship. He’d been warned about keeping too close to a journalist. It hadn’t been an issue in the early days, there was nothing important enough that it would really pose a problem. But now the stakes were higher. Sandy had damaged his reputation and as long as Donald remained Chief Constable, he suspected he’d already climbed as far as he could. Arbogast knew his arrogance had become a career limiting choice. But there was something to what Sandy was saying, “What did you say the guy’s name was again?”
“Niall Murphy. He’s a scary looking wee guy, all skin head and scars. Like something out of a Mad Max movie.”
“Nice ‘n Semple.”
“What?”
“I think I’ve met him; very recently, in fact. If it’s the same guy I’d agree, he’s a piece of work. I find it hard to believe he’d have Police backing though. My guy’s in debt collection. He’s a class A brute.”
“Then you’ll help?”
Arbogast knew it probably wasn’t a wise move. Career limiting was one thing; career ending was another thing entirely. He scanned the bedsit and suspected he might be here longer than planned, “I’ll look into it Sandy, but I can’t promise you’ll get the answers you want.”
The look on Sandy’s face said it all, “Thanks, John, and I’m sorry for before.”
Arbogast drained the last of the whisky and smiled. He was glad to have his friend back.
A wave of muttered gossip spread through the press core when Lorna McMahon was led into the auditorium at Pitt Street. A calling note had gone out to the media earlier that day saying the mother of the missing girl was going to be making a statement. They hadn’t expected to see someone that had just walked away from a car crash.
“What’s all this about?”
“Looks like she’s taken a beating.”
“Do you think she’s a hooker?”
“Junkie more like; look at how thin she is.”
“This isn’t going to look good for TV.”
“My friend, she has a face for radio.”
The comments were unkind, uninformed, and for the most part harsh barbs. But the tone changed when the talking started. A folded piece of card on the table in front announced the Police Scotland spokesman as DI Chris Guthrie.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here today.” It was Guthrie’s first time on the podium; he cursed himself for the bungled opening. Thanks for being here; it’s not a fucking wedding. He tried not to let his nerves get the better of him, “As you know we’ve been trying to trace the whereabouts of 15 year old Leona McMahon for three days. That we have been unable to find her is becoming an increasing concern. With so many people still in the city as tourists we know that someone out there must know where she is, must have information.” That was much stronger, he found the constant click and flash of cameras distracting and he was aware he was blinking more than normal. There were faces he knew from TV scribbling down notes. The cameras were pointing straight at him but this wasn’t the time to think about yourself, “I am joined today by Leona’s mother, Lorna, who would like to say a few words. I should say at this point that Mrs McMahon was recently attacked and is recovering from this unprovoked assault. This is not related to the disappearance of her daughter.
Lorna McMahon wasn’t sure that was true, everything in the last few days seemed connected. She felt she’d let Leona down, but if this helped to put her mind at rest it was worth it. She watched as the room switched its attention from the cop to her. It was like a slow motion crowd scene at a tennis match. The pain in her abdomen made her wince when she moved forwards to get nearer to the microphones laid out before her.
“Leona, if you’re out there, please get in touch. I’m not angry with you and despite how it looks, I’m OK. We’ll be OK. There’s nothing to worry about.” But as the words came out she thought of Horace, found dead by a riverbank with his veins cut open, of the debt collector who showed no pity, of the massive debt she still had to clear with no way of even making a dent. She knew it was hopeless and the tears came; just at the time she didn’t want them, just when they’d scare Leona the most. The last words which could be heard as Lorna finally caved into the pressure she’d been holding off for weeks were ‘Just come home. I can’t go through this myself.’
Watching online later that night Leona knew she couldn’t stay away any longer. Her mum needed help if she was going to escape the fate of her father. The debt needed to be repaid – they needed to move on with their lives. She knew what she had to do.
22
A search of the Police National Computer found nothing against Niall Murphy’s name. Given he’d been active in Northern Ireland for years Arbogast had expected to find a long list of crimes and misdemeanours. A man like Murphy always leaves a trail. But there was nothing. I suppose it might not be his real name but how would he travel without a passport?
Arbogast knew that it would take time to request passenger manifests from the airlines, time he didn’t really have. He needed to do something for himself. Taking the high def camera from the AV storage room he headed east to pay a visit to Ron Semple.
From the comfort of his miserable office on Duke Street, Arbogast could see his host wasn’t exactly pleased to see him.
“What is it I’m supposed to have done?”
“It’s not you I’m after; it’s one of your associates.”
Ron knew the detective wouldn’t expect him to give out names. The man looked agitated, like he was in a hurry.
Arbogast turned the key in the latch and locked the door behind him; he could see Semple was ill at ease, wary of the way the encounter was heading.
“I think I’d like to see some ID.”
“No need, lucky for you it’s not that kind of day. I won’t stay long but I need information. If I don’t get it, we’ll be here having conversations every day. I don’t imagine it would look good for you if you had Police crawling all over your place? Not now that you’ve gone legit,” Arbogast snorted as he looked around the grimy space Semple called an office.
“Nice ‘n’ Semple’ it’s your business, right?”
A nod.
“I need to speak to someone you’ve been selling debt to.”
“Listen, you know—”
“—I know you know what I need to know. I’m looking for an Irishman by the name of Niall Murphy.”
The involuntary twitch of his host’s eyes told Arbogast he knew exactly who he meant, “So let’s have it. Where is he?”
Ron Semple had been expecting a visitor. He’d been told someone would turn up asking questions, been told the script in no uncertain terms, “You know I can’t say.” Stay focused, slow, controlled, he’ll respect that. The performance will keep this situation in check.
“I can see your wee mind in overdrive there, thinking you’ll be able to sit this one out. Tough luck, turns out you’re closed for the day you worthless scum bag. Look at you sat behind you’re squalid little desk, farming out shitty little loans that you know will ruin people, that you’re
happy to farm out to thugs like Murphy. He’s been reaching out to the wrong people, hurting families that are already on their knees. I need to speak to Murphy; you need to start talking.”
“Is this about the McMahon woman? I don’t see you guys down here when it’s some old man or a slob out of his depth. Put a pretty face on it and it’s a different story. You screwing her – is that why you’re happy to break the rules?”
Semple had been expecting the visit but the copper wasn’t exactly taking a textbook approach and the sucker punch took him by surprise. The swinging right hook seemed to come out of nowhere as the detective lunged across the desk, raising his right leg on the top for purchase and then watched in silent horror as the fist came into sharp focus. The angle worked in Ron’s favour; it was only a glancing blow but the surprise of it had left him winded. His chair tipped back and he was caught behind it, with his legs draped over the seat with his back on the floor. The detective was on top of him now, screaming.
“I asked you where he is. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“I can’t say,” a whisper from a frightened man, “But if you’re thirsty I hear you get a nice pint in the Duchess.”
Arbogast was hunched over the man, a pathetic sight cowering on the floor. He’d allowed himself to flip, enjoyed the rage but he could feel his arm shaking. He’d gone too far.
“Why didn’t you say that in the first place? You need to watch your step, Semple. I’ll be around again if this doesn’t pan out, so don’t go anywhere.”
Ron Semple held the side of his face as the door alarm sounded his assailant’s exit. No-one had mentioned anything about a wildcard; that he might actually be in danger. Picking up the phone he dialled the number he was told only to use in an emergency. The boss would want to know about this.
The Duchess was a bar that had changed hands more times than a pass the parcel prize at a kids’ party. Today it was an upmarket addition to the old style boozers which littered the rest of Duke Street. The recession had hit trade hard and around half the pubs on this one mile stretch had either closed down or had been sold on. But glancing around inside, Arbogast thought The Duchess was doing OK. Painted black on the outside, the interior was in the traditional style, with faux leather seats straining to complement the plastic brass fittings. Arbogast thought it looked cheap but he gave it the benefit of the doubt as it was packed out for lunch. Semple had been true to his word; Murphy was sat in a booth alone.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Arbogast didn’t wait to be asked and sat down beside him, meaning Murphy couldn’t leave.
“Well if it isn’t the cop; what do you want?”
“You did a good number on Lorna McMahon.”
“While I respect a man who gets straight to the point, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. Word’s getting out about you and it’s not all good; you’ve been attracting the attention of the wrong people.”
“Like you, you mean? Fancy your chances big man?”
Arbogast didn’t bite, “Let’s just say that you’re in my spotlight.”
“It’s always good to be talked about; it’s when they stop yakking that you need to start worrying. But that ain’t going to happen any time soon, kiddo.”
“Confident of that?”
“I think you need to tell me who you are? You’re a cop; you made that quite plain the last time we met. The question is: who sent you?”
“This isn’t an official visit. I’m here to tell you that you’re on my radar. I’ll be keeping an eye on you and others will be too. Just watch your step, Murphy.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“I don’t make empty threats. Mark my words.”
Outside Arbogast stayed in his car. He had the zoom on the Canon 450 and waited for Murphy to leave. It happened quicker than he expected and he had to fumble to get the lens cap off. But he got the shots he wanted. When Murphy got into a taxi he followed. He needed to know if there was any truth to Sandy’s claims before he could really commit himself.
23
August 3rd – last day of the Games
The flat had been empty for a couple of hours and Leona knew it was time for her to move on; quietly when there was no-one there to talk her out of it. There’d be no big goodbyes, no-one asking her to stay. It had been fun living with students. They were good people, although to be fair she’d been stoned for most of the time. But she knew she couldn’t stay. Leona had slept on the couch for almost a week and she knew that she couldn’t pay any rent. No-one had said anything but Leona sensed she was starting to get on their nerves.
Standing in the shower washing away the last of her doubts, she made her decision. The force of the water rushing over her head made her feel awake; clean, and refreshed, ready to face up to her future, to say sorry to her mum. She ran her fingers through her hair and felt positive. Maybe she had just needed the time away, to see how other people lived. But the more she looked at the flat the less appealing it seemed, and the more she missed home. The grout on the shower had turned black through lack of cleaning, the white plastic curtains were stained a deep pink with mildew. The rest of the flat was just as bad. Turning off the water she knew she had to go. Pulling back the curtain she got the shock of her life when she saw there was someone else in the room. She screamed as a reflex reaction until a second later she realised it was Paul. Shrouded in the mist left in the wake of her shower he was sitting naked on the toilet, masturbating frantically.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she screamed, “Get out now,” Her voice was shrill; the anger at being watched made her skin crawl.
“Just stay there, just for a second more, I’m nearly done.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Leona covered her eyes with her hand and pushed pass his outstretched legs desperate to get a towel to cover herself up.
“Oh come on, Leona. I know why you’ve stayed so long. I could feel it the first time I saw you. I thought once you met everyone else you’d be OK with this.”
“OK with what?” She watched in horror as he touched himself while he spoke.
“You’re a woman, I’m a man. Let’s do what a man and woman do. I know you want to.”
Leona bent down and grabbed the towel from the floor, and quickly wrapped it round herself, “I’m 15 years old Paul, even if I wanted to, it’s not even legal. What are you some kind of paedo? Get out.”
But she was getting worried. There’s no-one else in the flat. What if he won’t stop; what if he gets violent? She looked past him but the door was closed. She wouldn’t be able to get past. Fuck. She heard a groan and looked back to Paul. He’d cum on himself. What a dirty bastard.
“That’s gross, Paul; what’s wrong with you?” He looked embarrassed. “You’ve gone too far.” Leona sidled past and Paul said nothing more, just sat there staring into space. Back in her bedroom Leona got dressed quickly and left.
Arbogast followed the taxi in his Lexus; careful to hold back and not drive too close behind. They seemed to catch every red light going, but Murphy was heading north, up past the Parade and under the motorway to Royston. In the back of the cab he could see that Murphy was on the phone. The taxi wound round the backstreets and up through an estate. The road sign said it was a dead end so Arbogast stopped and waited. He crouched down when the cab came back about five minutes later, but he needn’t have bothered, Murphy wasn’t there.
Taking the camera he focused on the end of the road. It looked like there was a small car park and turning point for the surrounding estate. Arbogast thought that it looked as if it had been thrown up in the 90s; the yellow brick was already badly discoloured. Then as quickly as he’d disappeared from sight Murphy was back, aimlessly walking around the car park, like he was waiting for someone. He looked up the road. Arbogast froze, he was worried the glint of the lens might give him away but if he saw it he showed no signs.
About half an hour passed before another
car; an Audi, rumbled past. It turned at the bottom of the road and parked out of sight. The registration plate seemed familiar but he couldn’t place it. On hands free he asked his phone to call Chris Guthrie.
“Chris – John here. I need you to run a plate for me. It’s high priority. Can you do it?”
“Sure thing, John; fire away.”
“S014 XRZ.”
There was a pause at the other hand. Arbogast could hear the insistent hammering of the keyboard followed by the regular thuds of the Enter key.
“Why are you looking up that particular plate, John?”
“I’m in a bit of a situation, Chris; I just need to know who owns the car.”
“Nobody owns it, John. It’s one of ours. The car’s registered to Graeme Donald.”
Arbogast was stunned. He knew the licence because he saw it every day. He didn’t want to get involved with Donald, the stakes were too high, but this changed things. Sandy had been right, Donald was mixing with some of the wrong people, and it looked as if he was starting to get more comfortable using dangerous contacts to keep people quiet.
“Thanks, Chris; look, don’t mention this to anyone at all OK?”
“No worries, is this something we need to talk about?”
“Not now, but soon – I think we may have a serious problem.”
It was only a four mile walk but with so many people crowding the streets it felt more like a marathon. The guy on the radio told Leona that 20 thousand people were expected at Glasgow Green for fireworks, while another 40 thousand were at Celtic Park for the closing ceremony of the 2014 Games. With 60 thousand extra people clogging the arteries of the East End, the festival of sport was making it difficult for her to keep a low profile.
Cars sat in deadlock on the roads while people spilled over from pavements onto roads. They were all in a hurry; they all had somewhere to go. Leona was irritated by Games volunteers who lurked at every corner with their big dumb green foam fingers. If she heard ‘high five’ one more time someone was getting punched. What’s the point of any of this? What does any of it even mean? Everyone she knew couldn’t even afford tickets for the Games, and while it seemed to have gone well what good was it doing? Leona felt uneasy every time she passed one of the armed guards, their low slung machine guns contrasting with the jokey approach the Police were taking to the passing crowd. ‘Can I get a picture with your gun, mate?’ People are weird. Then the icing on the cake, just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the mascot turned up. A man dressed up as the kiddies’ friendly thistle. A grown man was bent over waving his big thistley hands, giving her the thumbs up.
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