Referendum

by Campbell Hart

  ***

  The more she looked at the evidence the more she thought there must be something to the claims. Rosalind Ying had been angry that John Arbogast had chosen her to come to talk about Graeme Donald. He knew that she had got her job through her connection to him and he had never hidden his disdain for the way he thought she’d behaved. Part of her thought that this was his revenge for the way she’d ended their relationship, for terminating her pregnancy. But he’d brought that on himself, should have kept his cock to himself. But the evidence is pretty compelling; the question is what should I do about it?

  The rumours about Donald’s questionable ethics were nothing new. He had been accused in Belfast but nothing had ever come of it. She could see now why not. Arbogast had left her half a dozen prints, each one measuring 10” by 8”. The backdrop was industrial, probably some kind of factory. The pictures showed a sequence of events. The first showed Donald bringing in Colm McNally, the man who had accused the Chief of corruption. The second showed McNally tied to a chair, his neck was tensed up so his sternomastoid muscles were clearly visible. He was braced for something. Another showed the pliers, McNally’s face was fearful. The next four showed Donald using the pliers to break McNally’s fingers, the look of horror on the man’s face told her everything she needed to know about how he must have felt. The shots were all time coded with the stamp at the bottom saying 10/04/05. Rosalind knew the time could have been added but the pictures certainly looked real, they didn’t appear to be doctored. The next item was a CD marked ‘McNally session – April 2005’ Arbogast had attached a post-it note to the see through casing which suggested she wear earphones. The disc rattled violently in the PC drive, it had never been great. When the file started to play she realised it was an audio recording of the torture session she’d already seen. The first sounds were of tape being wound round McNally’s hands with grunts of ‘stay still’. About a minute later the talking started.

  Donald: “You’ve been busy, McNally. I’d have given you credit for having more sense, but you thought you’d try and fuck me over?”

  McNally: “It’s not true. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

  Donald: (laughing) “It’s been in the papers. You said that I was working with ‘underworld figures’. How did you think that was going to play out?”

  McNally: “I didn’t think. Didn’t think about it, should have though. You’ve been good to me.”

  Donald: “Who asked you to go public?”

  McNally: “Me, just me – no-one else.”

  Donald: “Bollocks, you don’t have the gumption to do that, you wouldn’t risk going to jail to put the finger on me. Who’d believe you?”

  McNally: “It’s true. Wait, what are you doing?”

  Rosalind was looking at the picture of Donald holding the pliers; she knew what was coming next. As the first sickening crunch was picked up the recording was distorted by the volume of Colm McNally’s screams. She’d heard enough and switched it off.

  The one thing she couldn’t gleam from Arbogast’s file was who had made the recordings and taken the pictures. It doesn’t make sense that Donald would want to have a keepsake of that particular day trip. And surely McNally wouldn’t have known where he’d be taken, wouldn’t have been able to arrange for evidence to be gathered in his defence? At any rate the events dated back almost ten years. Why are they only being made public now given McNally tried to topple Donald in 2005? The warning had obviously worked, the claims had been withdrawn. McNally had gone to jail. But there was something going on here, there was a third party involved. Tackling Donald was a risk, but if this was the kind of thing he was capable of it might be wise to make a move. Rosalind decided to give Arbogast the benefit of the doubt, but she still had questions that needed to be answered before anything could happen. Making a mess of this particular investigation was not an option.

  Arbogast had arranged to take Colin Jackson to London Road Police Station for questioning. Their suspect was being detained, they didn’t have enough evidence to arrest him yet but they expected it was in the post. Guthrie hadn’t been happy about his idea to drive to London Road when Pitt Street would have been the norm. But Arbogast wanted to put Jackson under pressure. Driving down from Port Dundas he made for Duke Street and then turned into Barrack Street. Jackson had been quiet but he sensed he was being set up.

  “Why are we going this way?”

  “You said yourself it was the quickest way to get home, the station’s quite near your house. Maybe you’d like some time to yourself after you speak to us. Take some time to think things over.”

  The Police Incident Van was still there, the area around Sydney Street remained cordoned off. In the rear view mirror Arbogast could see Jackson wasn’t looking out.

  “Is it hard coming back here so soon?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “We were among the first people to see the body. Never ceases to amaze me what people can do to other people. She was a real mess. Looked like a fox had found a late night snack; her face had been gnawed away, she was in a terrible state.”

  The voice from the back was quiet, “I don’t think you should have brought me here. It’s not right. You’re just trying to scare me. I’ve done nothing wrong. I was just driving home when...”

  But he caught himself just in time. Arbogast put his foot down, he was confident Jackson knew much more than he was letting on.

  35

  September 6th

  The day the figures came out was the day the Referendum campaign changed completely. Sandy Stirrit was amazed. The YouGov poll gave 51% to the ‘Yes’ camp for the first time. It seemed the certainty of Westminster politicians that Scotland would vote ‘No’ had been shaken and senior MPs were already pledging to flood the country in the next few days in a last ditch attempt to try and claw back support.

  “It’s as if they haven’t actually been paying any attention to what’s been happening up here,” Sandy Stirrit was en route to the latest rally with his camera operator, Liz Galbraith.

  “I know. I see they’ve bundled up all their past promises as some kind of new ‘Vow’ to the Scottish people. That was good work from the Daily Record, makes it sound like there’s no need to vote yes.”

  “Yeah, but I saw the Home Secretary on camera claiming that nothing being said on the campaign trail should be counted as party politics. The Vow’s not worth the paper it’s written on. It’s a con.”

  “Ever the cynic.”

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks, Liz.”

  They’d driven out to West Lothian to film a clutch of referendum interviews. It was the latest stop in the round robin of constituencies being targeted in the name of balance. West Lothian was reasonably close to home, which suited them both.

  “The Sat truck’s coming out for the lives at 12ish so we’ve got about three hours to get some interviews in the bag. The poll should make for some interesting reactions. Hopefully the good people of Livingston will be on good form.”

  Liz kept driving, she’d be glad when it was all over and things could get back to normal. She didn’t like Livingston much, it was all roundabouts and no real streets, everyone hidden away in cul-de-sacs that no-one ever saw. The town centre was made up of two shopping malls which faced each other. They set up in the car park and started recording when the shoppers drove in for their latest fix of consumer delights.

  File 00157

  “Will I be voting Yes? Do I look mad? No I won’t be doing that. If we leave the running of this country to that lot we’ll be penniless by Christmas. I’ll be voting ‘No’ and anyone with any sense will be doing the same, regardless of what any poll might say.”

  File 00158

  “It’s fantastic news. We’ve been campaigning for this for so many years and it looks as if people are finally starting to listen. We’ve been running a positive campaign and not being all doom and gloom about it. We want to vote for positive change; that the ‘No’ campaign doe
sn’t get that is obvious. Roll on the 18th!

  File 00159

  “Dunno mate, don’t care. Never voted; never will. They’re all the same. Need to go. Car’s on the meter.

  File 00160

  “Well there’s a question. I work for the NHS so this vote is important to me. It might bring big changes for the health service and I’ve got to think about my job. But I want to vote ‘Yes’. I really do. I like what they say and I want to feel proud to be Scottish again. But – well – if you were to ask me if I’d vote ‘Yes’ right now then I’d have to say no. My fears are there and I can’t get past them – and you know as I say that – I’m ashamed to admit it. I can’t follow my heart because I’m being told it might not work.”

  It was the last file that really stuck in Sandy’s head. The woman was informed, articulate. Her job was bound up in the NHS and she wanted to vote ‘Yes’. Wanted to, but couldn’t. That, it seemed, was going to be the last battleground for this campaign. How big a role the fear factor would play in determining the final vote wasn’t clear, but one thing was certain – people still hadn’t made up their minds. No-one had ever expected the campaign to end up like this with so little time left, but he realised that against all the odds the independence vote could go either way.

  ***

  The lawyer phoned Claire Jackson to tell her that her husband had been detained by the Police. That was all she heard. Things had been going well for them. Through the recession they’d managed to get better jobs while some of their friends struggled.

  “Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

  “Andrew Fairweather, your husband has appointed me to represent him.”

  “But did you say he’d been detained by the Police? There must be some mistake. He works for a charity. He helps disabled children, loves his work. What could he possibly have done?”

  “I’d rather not be having this conversation over the telephone.”

  “Just tell me what this is about.”

  “He’s being questioned in relation to the Lorna McMahon case.”

  “The murdered prostitute? He couldn’t have had anything to do with that, no way.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. He asked me to phone you to tell you he’s OK. The Police are speaking to him at London Road, which I understand is quite near you.”

  Claire grunted an acknowledgement; she was trying to think where he’d been that night.

  “OK, well Colin has asked that you stay at home. That there’s nothing to worry about and that he may come home early after he’s finished telling the Police what he knows.”

  “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “That may well be the case but he was driving the van the Police have been looking for. He may be able to help them. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. I just wanted to let you know.”

  But Claire was worried. She tried to think back to when he’d come home that night, but she couldn’t remember. I’d been out and didn’t get back till three in the morning. But what am I thinking, Colin hates violence – he’d be the last person to get mixed up in something like this. All the same, he’ll be getting an ear full when he gets back. Imagine forgetting he’d driven past the crime scene.

  ***

  Karen Balfour had been forced to give up her flat and move back in with her mum. She was lucky to have had that option. Earlier in the year it looked like her mother was going to have to give up the house after the bedroom tax had been brought in. It was the house Karen had grown up in but the UK Government decided that people didn’t deserve to have an extra room without paying more. But it had come to nothing. The SNP were paying top-up fees, which meant the Balfours were able to stay put.

  There wasn’t much space for the two of them in her childhood room but it was going to have to do. Her parents were both retired and offered to look after little David whenever they could. She was lucky; her folks were both still fit and strong and loved playing the doting grandparents. Karen was glad there was someone to share the load. When she saw the pictures on TV Karen knew she had to get down to George Square, there was something remarkable happening.

  She dressed the baby in blue and white and tied two St Andrews flags to the side of his pram. She was wearing her Scotland football top and had drawn saltires on her cheeks with face paint. People might laugh but this was the time they had to be seen. They might not get another chance.

  By the time she got to the city centre the square had been transformed. Word of the lead in the polls had energised both campaigns. The square was a sea of flags, with hundreds of ‘Yes’ activists gathered. She laughed when she saw a group of teenage girls with t-shirts which said: Hug a No voter. Everywhere she went she saw ‘Yes’ flags and banners. It seemed as if anything was possible, that things might change.

  ***

  The only thing that changed for Colin Jackson was his attitude. Faced with Arbogast and Guthrie in the interrogation room he now seemed ready to talk.

  “I’ll ask you again, Colin, why were you driving along that stretch of road?” Arbogast had asked the question three times, but the answers he was getting still didn’t add up.

  “I told you, it was the quickest way home.”

  “That’s not true, though, is it? If you were turning onto Barrack Street from Duke Street you’d just need to drive through to get to London Road, but you turned right. You went the long way, why?”

  Colin was looking at his lawyer. Arbogast had dealt with Fairweather before. He was a well meaning public school boy with a guilty conscience. Legal aid was his way of giving something back. Arbogast gave him three years before he was taking big pay days from criminal law. Fairweather had told his client he didn’t need to say anything he didn’t want to. He knew the corroborating evidence was weak.

  “Sometimes I just go that way, so I’m not doing the same journey every night.”

  “So it wasn’t like you were driving down the road and saw a beautiful woman standing in a striking red dress. That had nothing to do with you turning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Because she was beautiful wasn’t she.”

  “Seemed that way.”

  “How do you know?”

  The lawyer raised his hand, tried to warn Arbogast not to overstep the mark, but his client wanted to talk.

  “I saw her picture in the papers, same as everyone else.”

  Guthrie wanted to change the pace, throw something else into the mix, “Have you ever paid for sex, Mr Jackson?”

  Colin Jackson was shocked but he said the first thing that came into his head, “Yes.”

  The response was unexpected. The room went quiet; the sense of expectation had risen. Andrew Fairweather wasn’t happy, “Gentlemen, this is bordering on harassment.”

  Arbogast didn’t care, “With the greatest of respect Mr Fairweather, we’re investigating a woman’s murder, a woman who was found in an area with a history for violent attacks against prostitutes. Your client has just admitted that he’s paid for sex in the past.

  “You either need to charge my client or let him go, this is outrageous.”

  It had been the moment Arbogast had been waiting for, “Colin Jackson, I am arresting you on the suspicion of the murder of Lorna McMahon. You do not have to say anything. However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  Colin Jackson looked stunned, his lawyer was furious. But Arbogast knew it gave them a chance to take DNA swabs, to take his prints. In short they’d be able to compare and contrast the evidence from Lorna’s body with the samples they’d take from the suspect. If it was Jackson they’d be able to wrap this up pretty quickly. Arbogast hoped that it would be. He could do with some good news to give to Leona, she deserved that much.

  As Jackson was led out the door Fairweather grabbed Arbogast by the arm, “This has all been highly irregular. My client tells me that you drove him
past the crime scene on the way here. It’s not even usual practice for Pitt Street officers to use London Road for questioning. This is a clear case of intimidation.”

  “You should have done your job and told your client to keep his mouth shut. If he’d been properly briefed he wouldn’t have blabbed. But then he doesn’t have a very good lawyer does he? I suppose with legal aid you take your chances.” Arbogast had chosen his words carefully, he’d meant them to cut the lawyer down to size, and by the look on his face it seemed as if he’d succeeded. There was no comeback.

  36

  James Green had been on the run for the best part of a week. The comments he was reading online from the Royal Navy stuck in his throat. He was being dismissed as a crank; someone who didn’t really know what he was talking about. They said he wasn’t of senior enough rank and had been sacked due to his ‘erratic behaviour’. It’s all bollocks. But he knew he had to tread a fine line. He did have direct links to the Glasgow bomber but no-one had cottoned on to that yet. It was something he had to make sure didn’t change.

  After a few days the focus on Trident died down, the debate had swung back to what currency Scotland would use if it went independent and how the uncertainty of the transition would be bad news for house prices and disastrous for pensions. No-one really seemed to be listening to anything the other side said. The polls still showed that both camps were neck-and-neck. James Green knew they were just days away from one of the greatest coups in British democratic history. He knew the time was right to hand himself in, that the news would reignite his side of the story, with the nuclear issue having the potential to push the vast numbers of undecided voters in the right direction.