The Nationalist

by Campbell Hart

  “Why would I say anything to anyone? I don’t even know what you talked about.”

  “That’s right you don’t. You never listen to me do you?”

  The situation was tense. The anger and distrust between them had been growing for some time. Neither really wanted to confront the reality but right now they were faced with little choice. Between the lines the truth was starting to emerge.

  “This is fucking ridiculous.” Arbogast walked away from her, heading nowhere, anywhere, away from Rose.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Out.”

  “Aye well, walk away. Don’t think this is over.”

  Arbogast spun round. At that moment he hated her. With every sinew in his body he wanted to lash out. His knuckles were white as he fought to retain control.

  Rose noticed. “Getting all riled up now are we? Look at the big man on the war path. What you going to do John? Feel like hitting me do you? Why don’t you?” Her voice was insistent. She was goading him now and he was scared.

  “Listen, Rose.”

  “I’m not your Rose, John. There’s nothing left here.”

  “Don’t say that.” His anger was gone. He knew he was in danger of blowing the relationship. He replaced flight with fight. “Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t know what’s happening. We can work this out.”

  “You can’t work anything out John.” Rose turned her back on him and went to the kitchen. She went straight to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. John watched by the door. He knew he wouldn’t be able to speak to her now. They were both too angry, but he wanted to try.

  “Listen, Rose.”

  “No you listen to me. Just fuck off.”

  She slammed the door on his face. His anger had returned and he knew he had to leave. Picking up his leather jacket he left the house and started to walk.

  It was late; about 11 o’clock. Arbogast didn’t know where to go but he knew he wanted a drink. It was Monday night and the town was dead, many of the late night bars were closed after a busy weekend. In truth Arbogast didn’t know where to start looking. In the last couple of years he and Rose had kept their own counsel. Pubs had been replaced by nights in and dinner parties. All day sessions had given way to trips to Ikea and soft furnishings. Bachelor days had given way to being part of a couple. For a while it had worked, but something had changed. He didn’t love her anymore. Norrie Smith had been the last straw. Walking up Sauchiehall Street he saw the outline of an ominous figure standing by the door of the Brunswick Cellar. The bouncer scanned him robotically, looking for a sign of weakness which could be exploited; something to liven his night up.

  Arbogast blinked first.

  “You open?”

  The figure eyed him and nodded down the steep stairs. Arbogast made his way down into the gloom. The basement bar was sliced up by supporting pillars and walls. The lighting was so dim you couldn’t make out the figures lurking in the background. Once his eyes adjusted to the light he scanned the room where he saw all walks of life. Young students looking for love, older men looking for company, bored bar staff, and a battered juke box. This was the Brunswick.

  “Pint please.”

  “What you for?”

  Arbogast looked at the barman, who could have been any age. Both arms were covered in fantastic tattoos, the lobes of both ears with filled with black discs. His beard was long and groomed while his hair was styled in a 50s quiff.

  “What you for? Maybe you’ve already had enough?”

  “Sorry, I was just looking at your tattoos.”

  The barman looked at his arms, impressed by what he had taken as a compliment, although that had not been the intention. He nodded his own self approval before returning his stare to Arbogast.

  “Look, do you want a drink or not?”

  Arbogast found a corner table and sat down. He checked his phone for a message from Rose, but there was no reception. Sighing he took a long gulp from his pint of IPA. His agitation was broken by a familiar sound.

  “Hello stranger.”

  He knew the voice but looking up he could only see the outline of a woman in dim silhouette.

  “Annabelle?”

  She leaned forward and kissed him on his right cheek. Lingering over the table she allowed him to see her breasts, their outline enhanced by a low cut dress.

  “It’s been a long time, John.”

  She still had the same scent. Issey Miyake. Without meaning to, he inhaled deeply and was overwhelmed by nostalgia.

  “I—”

  “—I know; can I sit down?”

  “Sure, I’m just in myself.”

  Annabelle had been a short lived affair around about 15 years ago, when they had both still been in their twenties. He was just starting out in the Police. She was an art student and was about five years his junior. Back then she wore only black. Before long they both knew they weren’t going to last. His lasting memory of her had been making love on a couch at the end of a long, drunken party.

  “I haven’t seen you since—”

  “—I can remember it well. I’m not likely to forget. That was a special night but then I didn’t see you again. Not until yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “On the TV, I saw you at George Square, it must have been terrible.”

  Annabelle looked better at the age of 35 than she ever had at 20. The gothic look had given way to a beauty he hadn’t really appreciated at the time. She was wearing a tight green full length dress which left little to the imagination. She wore a gold necklace with a small crucifix. Her hair was long, dark brown, something which complemented her eyes. The slightly chubby face he remembered had been toned through exercise. The girl he remembered had gone.

  “You look great Annabelle. How long’s it been?” He took another long swig on his pint, feeling nervous he wanted to drink.

  “It’s been a long time, John, too long.”

  “Are you just here yourself?”

  “Just passing through. I was expecting to meet up with some friends but they don’t seem to have made it out.”

  “I’ve had a really shitty day, Annabelle, maybe now’s not a great time to catch up.” His mind was racing. He wanted to do something to get back at Rose. He wanted to chat up Annabelle; see what happened. But he knew he should leave. If he did this, it would be the end of something. A taboo would be broken.

  “I don’t think you want to go anywhere John. Not without me.”

  At 2:00am Annabelle turned both mortice locks until the bolts clicked into place. She stopped and stared at the door, a moment of uncertainty. She felt his presence behind her before she felt his hands slide across the fabric of her silk dress. She flinched slightly as his hands travelled slowly to caress her stomach, gasping as he inched slowly down. His breath whispered against the back of her ear.

  “Now, where were we?”

  12

  Graeme Donald was unveiled as the new Chief Constable of Police Scotland at noon on Monday 12th November. Norrie Smith had been offered a deal, a good pension and a no comment ultimatum at nine-thirty which he had accepted.

  A press conference was set up for lunchtime with a pre-briefing scheduled for eleven.

  “Congratulations Graeme, you’re exactly the man we need for this role, and this is exactly the right time for you to be able to make your mark.”

  “Thank you, First Minister. I’ll try not to let you down.”

  “Try hard. You’ll get no second chance.”

  “You know me. You know my background. I’ve been around for a long time and I know how to tackle terrorists.”

  “Your experience in Ireland is why you’re sitting here now, but be in no doubt that the type of threat is about as different as it could get. You’re taking over when we have no fewer than 34 ongoing counter terrorism operations, with suspects from across the country being detained at Govan for questioning. We can hold them for a month, but if we don’t have answers by the end of that time, th
ere will be trouble.”

  “Understood, sir. Speaking frankly, though, it would appear, and I have to admit I’m only going by what I’ve seen in the press, it would appear that none of these suspects are being seen as particularly high level threats. Do you think the people we have will lead to anything?”

  “I hope so. We all do. That’s why the use of the Terrorism Act was sanctioned. We are being supported by Westminster. The intelligence suggests that all the people being held have had access to terrorist related material. We have got the right people.”

  “But what about this supposed terror cell – can it really be classed as a legitimate long-term threat?”

  “Other than the video we have no evidence that we’re dealing with an organised group. Where our man got that grade of explosive is our primary concern. If there are more of them out there they need to be found. Measures will be taken to get the information we need.”

  Graeme Donald nodded, “I have someone in mind for a DCI to lead this,”

  “Whoever you need,”

  “Rosalind Ying,”

  “A woman? Even better; you can announce it when she accepts; presumably nothing more than a formality.” Craig McAlmont had appeared at the door, “It’s time.”

  Graeme Donald’s arrival was met with a bank of flashes and clicks from the waiting press pack. The news of Norrie Smith’s departure was greeted with a storm of protest.

  BBC News Channel

  “We’re live at Saint Andrew’s House in Edinburgh to bring you news of the shock resignation of Norrie Smith, the man who was acting Chief Constable of Police Scotland. His replacement, Graeme Donald, has experience relevant to the Glasgow terror attack but questions remain over the real reason behind Mr Smith’s departure. Sources at Police Scotland suggest Smith was pushed, although the official line is that the stress of the last few days has been too great and that long standing health issues has forced an early appointment to the top job of Scotland’s new Chief of Police. We’ll have more information and live reaction later in the programme; back to the studio.”

  Sandy Stirrit was having trouble keeping up with the pace of the investigation. Having seen the explosion firsthand he should, in theory, have been replaced by the second wave of reporters. Sandy wasn’t caving-into that though. He knew this was his big chance to move to an international role and he was not going to let go. Arbogast phoned with news that Norrie was being pushed out. He was concerned that Donald’s bullying style was out of kilter with the modern force – that he wasn’t fit to lead Police Scotland. The suggestion was enough to put doubt in Sandy’s mind. His friend’s intuition was usually pretty good and there was scepticism in the press about the new Chief’s credentials, given a number of unproven accusations which had been levelled at him during his time in Belfast – accusations of rigging evidence and witness intimidation during his earlier career, but there had never been any proof.

  ***

  Arbogast woke up with a dry mouth. He was sleeping with his face down against the pillow and could feel the warm sunshine against this face. Opening his right eye he realised he wasn’t at home. Rolling over he took in the view. Judging by the decor he was in a woman’s room. Annabelle. Looking around he could see he was alone. A small post-it note was stuck on the bedside table.

  See yourself out.

  A x

  “What have I done?” Sitting naked on the edge of the bed he sat with his head in his hands, rubbing his face. He felt uncomfortable and realised he was still wearing a condom. Pulling it off with a snap he started having flashbacks from the night before; of the mistakes he had made. Dressing quickly he left the flat and found himself on an unfamiliar street. The sunlight hurt his eyes and checking his watch he knew he would need to get a taxi. He decided to use the GPS on his phone to find out where he was and then call a cab, but after checking he realised that he didn’t have his handset.

  “Excuse me,” he tried to get the attention of a young woman who was passing with her son, but she wouldn’t look him in the eyes and tugged on her boy’s arm as she tried to hurry past. “Where am I?” He said, “Don’t look at him,” was the hushed response as the woman pulled her son along the pavement, keen to get as far away from Arbogast as possible. In the distance he could see a double-decker bus climbing the hill. He squinted to try and make out the destination but it was too far away. Looking for the nearest stop he saw it was about 100 metres further up the road. Running to catch up as the coach passed him he made the stop but was out of breath when the doors swung open. Climbing on board a fat, bored man looked at him through the scratched Perspex safety screen.

  “Where you going, mate?”

  “Where am I would be more like it?”

  “Late night was it?”

  “Something like that?”

  “Are you not a bit old for getting lost?”

  “Where am I?”

  “Paisley, are you getting on or not?”

  “I need to get into town.”

  “£2.40”

  “I’ve only got £2 coins.”

  “Read the sign.”

  EXACT MONEY ONLY. NO CHANGE GIVEN.

  Arbogast dropped in the coins, “Nice guy.”

  “I just drive the bus pal. If you don’t like it then it’s an hour on foot.”

  “Thanks again.” As he sat down he could feel the eyes of the bus were on him. He knew he was an unwelcome distraction, taking up too much time in rush hour.

  It was 8:00am.

  13

  By the time Arbogast made it home he knew things had changed for the worse. Rose was nowhere to be seen. There was no note and he could see that some of her things were missing from the wardrobe. There was a stillness around the flat which made him feel slightly uncomfortable, as if the space had been violated in some way. He showered, shaved, and then sat in the living room with a strong coffee. He had phoned the office to say he was exploring a possible lead; that he’d be in as soon as possible. He knew he was being unprofessional, that there were more important things to consider than his own problems. Picking up the ipad he could see Rose had been looking at a video. The background looked familiar. He reset the video to the start and felt sick as the footage started to play.

  The film began with a woman looking into a camera. It was a face he recognised – Annabelle. She was wearing a tight green dress and wore a crucifix round her neck. She smiled into the camera. She looked over her left shoulder as if she had heard a noise, and then stood up and straightened her dress. She moved to allow the camera to focus on the bed. Out of shot for a few seconds someone else had come into the room and a soft murmur of voices could be heard in the background. Then two figures could be seen on the bed. Annabelle was wearing only underwear. Arbogast saw himself naked. His stomach lurched and he dropped his coffee; the thick black espresso soaked into the cream carpet. Horrified he watched as he completely undressed Annabelle, and turned her on her front, pulling her up and easing himself inside her. He looked at the time code and there was still another nine minutes of film left to play. He pressed the small ‘x’ at the top left of the screen; the image of his lust remained etched in his inner eye. The video had been a private link sent by email. Looking at the text he saw that Annabelle had been busy.

  HI ROSALIND, MET UP WITH AND OLD FRIEND LAST NIGHT. JOHN SENDS HIS LOVE XXX

  Arbogast ran to the toilet and grabbed the sides of the bowl as the contents of his stomach heaved back to life. Drool dripped from the side of his face, while hot tears covered his cheeks. It had been a stupid mistake, but the damage had been done.

  He made it to Pitt Street by 10:00am, “Looking a bit shell shocked there John, you alright?”

  “I’m fine, Ian, thanks. It’s been a long week.”

  “It’s only Monday and it’s hardly business as usual,” Ian Davidson was peering intently at Arbogast over his ever present mug of coffee.

  “It’s not been your average week though.”

  Ian shrugged his shoulders, “I hea
r changes are coming our way soon, John. Maybe some people will be moving on.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Meaning you need to start learning to play the game. Sometimes a new manager comes in and before you know it, there’s a completely new team in place.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing yet, but I’m not sure we’ll be seeing much more of Norrie. We’ve been told there’s a briefing at 12 o’clock.”

  Arbogast turned and walked off, leaving his colleague to sneer as he retreated to his desk.

  “I’ve been trying to phone you, John.” DI Chris Guthrie sat opposite Arbogast and had been assigned to work with him on the terror case. He looked agitated.

  “Sorry, I lost my phone,”

  “Again – how many can one guy go through?”

  “What can I say, I’m forgetful; now give me a break, will you?”

  “Someone’s a bit tense. Who’s been at you?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “I don’t know why you let him get to you. He’s a toe-rag and he’ll be found out before long.”

  “How long have we been saying that? He plays a good game and the only thing that’s kept him down so far is the fact Norrie doesn’t like him. He says something’s happening. Has Norrie been in today?”

  “He’s in Edinburgh this morning – should be back at lunchtime for the briefing.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You worry too much, John. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Arbogast smiled weakly at his colleague’s sarcasm and wondered how bad the day was actually going to be. Two hours later he knew.

  Graeme Donald and Rosalind Ying were unveiled as the new faces of Police Scotland at an internal briefing in Pitt Street. Arbogast concealed himself at the back of the room as the reasons for the change were detailed. Operational priorities were outlined and while the suspect interrogations were ongoing it seemed a greater emphasis was being placed on the terror group. The news was unsettling. Everyone in the room had worked with Norrie for a long time. He had been a fixture in Strathclyde for around 25 years and as with every major change came new rules. After a 30 minute session on which Arbogast found it difficult to focus, the two speakers stood up and left the room. Rosalind stopped and spoke directly at him, “DI Arbogast, I need to see you in my office immediately.”