Referendum

by Campbell Hart

“Meaning that if someone picked up Lorna there it was just blind luck. He must just have been passing.”

  “So it would need to be someone local, someone that knew the area?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “No-one would know to drive through there; they’d stick to the main road rather than cut through back streets at that time of night.”

  “In the old days maybe, but there’s a supermarket nearby, it’s possibly more likely that people would go through there now.”

  “We’ve already checked that. The supermarket closes at ten; there wouldn’t be anyone there at that time.”

  There was something about the comment which made Arbogast stop, “We’re placing this death at between 12 and 1?”

  Guthrie nodded.

  “So what time would the shift stop if the supermarket closed at 10:00pm?”

  “I’m not sure, could be they leave pretty much on the whistle—”

  “—or they might have another hour on the clock, could be different shifts for shelf stackers, deliveries and that type of thing.”

  “It’s worth checking.”

  Guthrie was right; the appeal for witnesses didn’t bring in many good leads. There were the usual well meaning tips, bored pensioners, and cranks.

  One woman tried to call twice but couldn’t get through. Sue Deans thought she might know the van they described. But when she heard the busy dial tone for the third time she hung up, she was probably just being silly.

  ***

  James Green hadn’t spoken to anyone for about a week. He felt disconnected, as though his life was unravelling. He’d stayed at the flat on the first night but when the media coverage started to appear it quickly became clear that he was going to have to move around. They were looking for him. He still had his phone and he had been communicating with the public through the blog. His former employers had been less than complimentary about his record of service.

  “James Green is a low level officer with limited access to secure information. He is not of sufficient rank or length of service to be in a position of knowledge about security matters at Faslane Naval Base. That he has chosen to breach the Official Secrets Act is a serious matter and one which we are vigorously looking into. We can only hope he hands himself in.”

  They’re trying to brush it under the carpet again, but it’s not going to work. He knew that this time was different because the politicians were getting involved. SNP MSPs – who had previously agreed to say nothing about the failed terror attack – had suddenly found their voice.

  Unacceptable security on Clydeside shows why Trident must go; why waste billions on nuclear bombs when staff can’t be trusted to keep us safe; watch as the MoD denigrate their former employee to save their own backs.

  James Green agreed with the last one, wholeheartedly. He was being described as a whistleblower in the mould of Edward Snowden – someone who had done the wrong thing for the right reasons. But he knew his celebrity wouldn’t last, that he’d be called to account, most probably arrested and put on trial. But in the meantime he had an audience and his sentiments were playing into the national psyche. There were hundreds of comments on the blog thanking him for speaking out. His comments were being tweeted and widely quoted, while the arguments raged on in the referendum debate. It helped to draw attention away from the lack of detail. Trident had been a hot topic in the past but it had almost become accepted. Regardless of what happened next he knew he’d done the right thing. He’d had numerous requests for media interviews but he knew he would be caught if he broke cover. Still a few minutes on the radio couldn’t hurt. He picked the one which promised the most exposure. He was booked to talk on Good Morning Scotland at 7:35am. He waited on the line while the presenter introduced him...

  “Moving on now and to matters Referendum. The row which has been taking place over Trident looks to be in no danger of going away. There are claims that safety at Faslane Naval Base on Clydeside is a disaster waiting to happen. The claims have been denied by senior Royal Navy personnel. Well today we hear from the whistleblower himself. Former Petty Officer, James Green, joins us on the line now for his first media interview. James thanks for coming on this morning.”

  “Thanks for asking me.”

  “A lot has been said about Trident since you first published your blog. The MoD seems to have painted you as some sort of crank. What do you say to that – should we believe a word that comes out of your mouth?”

  There was a moment’s silence on the air as James decided how best to respond; he knew that every word would be pored over in the coming days and he wanted to strike the right balance.

  “Well can I start by saying that although certain people are calling me a crank, there has been absolutely no denial of the fact that a terror attack took place last year and was covered-up.”

  “Well they say it was dealt with, that there was no need to cause public alarm.”

  “You can believe that if you want. The plain fact of the matter is that we will never know, now that the man at the centre of all this – Ian Wark – died in hospital. His side of the story will never be told.”

  “You sound sorry about that.”

  “I just think it’s rather convenient. The real issue here is one of trust. Can we trust the authorities to manage a nuclear fleet on the Clyde? My experience of health and safety at the base suggests we can’t. Security is sloppy and the corporate PR line that is being spun around this is that I can’t be trusted.”

  “But you don’t deny having broken the Official Secrets Act?”

  “I’ve been described by some as a whistleblower. I am not supposed to speak about the things I have seen because I’ve signed a piece of paper, but when the things I’ve seen suggest real and present danger to the people of Scotland I feel duty bound to let people know. There are dozens of nuclear bombs being stored down at Coulport. If just one of them went off, for whatever reason, the consequences would be disastrous.”

  “But that would seem unlikely at best, it would seem, on the face of it, that you’ve chosen to come forward now because Trident’s part of the independence debate. Will you be voting Yes?”

  “If I get the chance that’s definitely how I’ll be voting but I somehow doubt I’ll be allowed. I have no problem pinning my colours to the mast. I joined Her Majesty’s Navy to protect my country. Having had firsthand experience of that operation I cannot with any clear conscience say that I feel public safety procedures are operating at acceptable levels. I would urge the public to consider what I’ve said and vote accordingly. Thanks for having me.”

  The presenter tried to get him to stay on but he’d hung up, the interview was over. The content would be online within the hour, sparking fresh debate about the rights and wrongs of nuclear bombs. James Green knew that there could be no winner.

  ***

  The manager at the supermarket was unusually helpful. He’d heard about the murder and wanted to get involved. It was something Arbogast hadn’t been used to hearing on this case.

  “The store’s only a couple of years old and given the location we took the precaution of having an extensive camera network installed.”

  Arbogast had warmed to Filip Bakula almost immediately, he’d gone out of his way to help, made the CCTV footage available without being asked, “Thanks Filip, I really appreciate this, we need to work fast or we’ll be in danger of being in this for the long haul.”

  “After seeing her picture in the papers I realised I knew her face. No-one should die like that, so I’ll do anything I can to catch the bastard.” He left them to it.

  They were looking for the white van. There were five cameras on the car park. Filip had told them the late shift staff would normally leave at around 10:30pm, with people stacking shelves working on till around midnight. Fruit and veg came in early, so the store was only unstaffed for around four hours a day. A team of five were looking through the tapes but it didn’t take long to see there was no white van parked outside. They spoo
led through the footage hoping for a break but it didn’t come.

  “He might have been a delivery driver?” But Chris Guthrie knew he was grasping at straws.

  Arbogast had hoped for more, “You don’t make deliveries to a supermarket in a transit van, Chris, although I appreciate your optimism.” Switching off the bank of TVs they knew they’d reached a dead end.

  ***

  The murder was all they were talking about at work. Some of them said she was too good looking to be working the streets, didn’t look rough enough. Some of them claimed to know her husband. But none of them really knew what had happened, or suspected what he was capable of. He couldn’t really remember much of it himself; it had passed in a blur. It had been quick for her and she wasn’t interested in the sex. It had been a disappointing night. One thing he was sure of, though, was that he couldn’t go forward to speak to the Police. It would be the end of his life as he knew it.

  ***

  Leona McMahon hadn’t slept much, didn’t see the point. Instead she’d sat at home reading news sites and researching the red light district’s past. There had been a number of unsolved murders in recent years and she was sure her mother was going to be a victim of public apathy, even if their disdain was misdirected. Her aunt Margaret had tried to be kind, but Leona didn’t really connect with her. She wasn’t married and didn’t have kids so she didn’t really ‘get’ teenagers, particularly ones that had been through a double murder in the summer holidays; it would make for quite an essay. The one bonus of living with her aunt was the ready supply of alcohol. Margaret didn’t know but Leona had been getting plastered every night to try and blot out the pain, to keep reality at bay for a few hours longer. It didn’t take much to get her drunk and it didn’t make her feel much better anyway. Instead of sleep it allowed her to have fitful naps leading to vivid dreams she’d rather forget. In the gloom of the early hours, clicking on the news sites she saw her mother’s murder had slipped off the front page. There was just over a week to go to the Referendum and that was all anyone was talking about. It wasn’t helping that no-one seemed to have any information to move the case on. That Detective Arbogast said that Niall Murphy checked out, that there was no way he could have been involved, but she still had her doubts. Of all the people that had cast a shadow on their lives his was the one name she kept coming back to – a man with no mercy and a dark heart, someone that didn’t hold back from beating the shit out of women. The detectives had told her that she at least didn’t need to worry about the debt; that it had died with her mother. You’d need to be a real optimist to make that a silver lining. Leona poured the last of the white wine into the glass, missing the rim and covering her duvet. She didn’t think her aunt would notice, probably wanted her to leave so she could get on with her life.

  She phoned the nice one, Guthrie. He’d said she could speak to him anytime. Said they were going to find her mother. When he picked up she could hear a man laughing in the background.

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “Is that you Leona? You sound a bit muffled.” Chris Guthrie had dealt with enough drunks to know one when he heard one and Leona wasn’t sounding too perky.

  “Have you found the white van yet? Just tell me something has changed. I’m going crazy waiting around for you guys to do your job. Just give me one thing, anything.”

  Her voice had broken down, the sentences felt disjointed and Chris was worried he might be kept on the phone for too long. He felt sorry for Leona but he wasn’t a social worker, he was didn’t want to make things worse, “We’re doing everything we can to find the killer. We’re chasing down a lot of leads we’re chasing down. But you’re going to need to be patient; this kind of thing doesn’t just go away overnight.”

  “You can tell that to my mum, Mister Guthrie. One night was all it took for her to go away,” Chris listened, Leona’s voice was heavy with drink, he thought she would probably try and sleep.

  “Are you going to be OK, Leona? You just need to stick with us on this. Have faith.” All he heard was a loud snort and what sounded like the clink of glass before the line went dead.

  Leona sat for another hour holding the phone wondering what she could do to help find justice for her mother, but she suspected she couldn’t do anything. Her one big suspect had already been ruled out and the Police... Well, what had they ever done to help us in the past? She noticed the missed calls but ignored them, there was nothing more to say. Drifting into oblivion she wished her mum to appear in liquid dreams, with her mind her last remaining sanctuary. Anything is better than this nightmare.

  34

  The white van was found, not through public information, but from a chance mistake. The driver had gone through a red light on Duke Street less than half a mile from the crime scene, with the indiscretion recorded by a traffic camera.

  Arbogast was ready to leave as soon as they identified where the van was registered, “Anything back on the address yet?”

  Guthrie counted that as the third time of asking, “It’s a company van so there’s no named individual against the registration documents. Seems it’s leased by Milltown Social Enterprise; quite a new outfit based out at Port Dundas in the north of the city.”

  It was a fairly non-descript unit in an industrial estate. The red brick one storey building ran for about 20 metres with a roller shutter giving access to the warehouse and the attached office.

  Outside, Arbogast stopped to look at a white van parked on the roadside. “That’s it alright. Let’s see what our reluctant witness has to say for themselves.”

  The receptionist seemed surprised to see them. Guthrie made the introduction and said they needed to speak to the manager. A few minutes later a tall spindly man appeared holding a clip board. He seemed flustered, “Can I help you gentleman? I’m Gerry Bealan.”

  “This shouldn’t take too long Mr Bealan, we’re just looking to speak to whoever drives the van outside – registration SC08 VVX.”

  “Well – it’s – actually it’s a pool car, we all use it. Can I ask what this is about?”

  Arbogast wasn’t going to mess him around. Just give him the reason and check his reaction. “It’s about the murder of Lorna McMahon; the van was seen in the area at about the time she died, we need to speak to the driver to rule them out of the inquiry.”

  The receptionist was all ears, leaning closer to the men to try and soak up every word, she knew who had been driving the van that night, she’d tried to phone about it but couldn’t get through. Gerry noticed her interest and thought it would probably be best to take the conversation into his office.

  Arbogast and Guthrie sat sipping at overly stewed coffee while they waited for the manager to check the van’s booking sheet to see who had it on the night in question.

  “This doesn’t seem like the kind of place that would have too many employees. I think I’ve read about it before, does good things.”

  “Yeah, work placements for disabled kids. I think they’ve got funding issues, but who doesn’t?”

  Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door. A slightly overweight man wearing a striped polo shirt which showed off the curves of a well fed belly, “Gerry said you were looking to speak to me?”

  Arbogast thought he had something to hide, he was too nervous, “That depends on whether you were driving the white van parked outside two nights ago?” The man nodded, “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Colin Jackson. I’m one of the trainers here. Why do you need to know about the van? Gerry said it was something to do with the murder.”

  “What murder would that be?” Let him say the name, I want to see his reaction, subliminal signs that he’d been involved.

  “Lorna McMahon.”

  “You remember her name?” Guthrie chimed in, he was smiling.

  Colin Jackson was scared. Why’s the big guy smiling? He didn’t know where this was heading, “It was in all the papers.”

  “But most people usually say the prosti
tute, that’s what they remember. You seem to feel closer to her somehow.”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Her name’s in the paper, that’s all I know.”

  “What were you doing down there on the night she was killed?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, I was nowhere near it.”

  “Are you writing this down, Detective Arbogast? He says he was nowhere near it.”

  “Got that, Chris, thanks. Funny though, isn’t it?”

  “What’s that, Detective Arbogast?”

  “It’s funny that we’ve had a number of sightings of a white van in the area, and then ‘voila’, a white van gets clocked on camera going through a red light just round the corner at just the time we think she died.”

  “That is funny, what do you think Colin – just a coincidence?”

  Colin Jackson was trying to think. His strategy had been to deny everything, he didn’t remember a camera flash but if they said they had him on camera it must be true. How much to tell them though? “I was driving home to my wife after a long shift in here. It’s the quickest way home.”

  “Where is it you live?”

  “London Road.”

  “Seems a bit of a convoluted route to take, would you normally go that way?”

  “Normally, yes.”

  “Did you see this woman that night?” Arbogast pushed over a headshot of Lorna McMahon. Jackson looked at it for a second before saying he couldn’t remember.

  “I’m not sure you’re being entirely honest with us Mister Jackson. I’ll ask you again. Did you see this woman three nights ago?”

  Colin Jackson thought about just telling them, getting it over with. But then it would all be out in the open. It would all be gone – my job, my family. So instead he did what he thought he had to do and bought himself some time.

  “I think I need to speak to a lawyer.”