“It was nothing. We’d argued. I was angry and—”
“—and you thought you deserved a good fuck is that it?”
There were tears in Rosalind’s eyes, “You don’t get it do you. You don’t know what you’ve done.”
“It won’t happen again, Rose. You have my word.”
“Your word, John; what good is that to me now?”
“What’s now got to do with it?”
“Look, I can’t talk now; you’re going to have to leave me alone.”
18
The issue of where the explosives had come from was one of the investigation’s most vexing.
“He must have been working with someone to get access to high grade explosives,” Chris Guthrie was unconvinced about the lone operator theory, “Have we checked Jock’s files – did he have cancer? He must have had some kind of motive to want to kill himself like that. It doesn’t make sense. What have we had back from Forensics?”
“Hot off the press,” Ian Davidson breezed into the room and threw down a thick report on the desk, “Here are the initial findings, and the results make for interesting reading.”
Chris picked up the file and started to skim through the contents.
“As you’ll see,” Ian said, “The explosives used in the attack were weapons grade explosives. From the fragments of shell we have found and the blast damage we now know we’re looking at plastic explosives. Forensics has turned up traces of cyclotrimethylene-trinitramine which is the explosive ingredient of C-4. Given the blast radius, our man must have had quite a lot of it; several pounds at least. This stuff is used by the Army to take out walls. Jock would have seen it used in the war. It made a big impact on D-Day.”
“Would he know how to make it, though, and more to the point – where would he get it?”
“Difficult to say, but it is big business. The UK’s been shipping out this kind of stuff to Libya recently.”
“Wasn’t there an arms embargo?”
“There was. After the Lockerbie bombing in 1986 the UN introduced an arms embargo. The old Soviet Union had been a major supplier to the Gaddafi regime, but the value of those deals slumped when the links to terrorism became too obvious. In 2003 the market re-opened and European sales rose fivefold in a short period of time. The UK share was around £130m a year.”
“Doesn’t sound like a lot of money?”
“That’s just the UK. Remember Libya’s not much bigger than Scotland; it’s only got a population of six million. What I’m saying is that that there were a lot of arms being pumped into Libya for more than ten years before the uprising.”
“So what happened post-Gaddafi?”
“That’s what we don’t know. The arms fell into the hands of the rebels, but when I say rebels; that’s not to say a unified group. The information we’re getting from the MoD suggests that a black market has grown up for western arms. Somehow our man has managed to tap into that supply.”
“He was 85 years old. How could he possibly be connected to the Libyan black market?”
“He might have been old but his record isn’t exactly unblemished. Decorated World War Two veteran; fully paid communist instigator, with two short stretches at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”
“For public disorder.”
“Granted, but the fact remains. On top of that it would seem he has been a particularly outspoken critic of the UK and its roles overseas, and through the Scottish National Party has been looking to help create a new state.”
“It’s still a bit of a stretch. Just because he supported independence doesn’t mean he’d go to any lengths to get it.”
“All I can see is what’s in front of me. He might not have set out to do what he did, but he got there somehow.”
Arbogast arrived back in the room, “Been in with the DCI have you John? You’ll need to remember and not mix business and pleasure. Was that what it was – a quickie over the office desk?”
“Fuck off, Davidson.”
“That’s nice. Remember what I said before. You should start paying me a bit more respect.” Arbogast was jaded, emotional, and worn out.
“OK Ian, I’m sorry. It’s been a hard week. What have you got?”
“We would appear to have a motive, but the means remains a mystery.”
19
It was hard to gauge how the day would pan out. The sky was grey. Low hanging cumulous clouds were punctured by sharp rays of light which reached out to penetrate terra firma. The bare branches of the ash trees tried to resist the force of the wind, with bows stretched and swaying. Ian Wark watched from a bench in Alexandra Park in the city’s east end. In the distance a fair haired mother and daughter fed bread to ducks on the pond. It was quiet. Checking his mobile he could see that his contact hadn’t tried to get in touch; hadn’t tried to explain why she was half an hour behind time. Another quarter of an hour passed. Joggers slogged by, with trainers eroding the tarmac path, as overweight junk food lovers ambled on with great effort and little effect. Dogs sniffed at his legs, children stared. Finally she arrived. Dressed in a dark green, quilted Barbour jacket and long black boots she looked as if she had just stepped out of a hunt; very low key. About two minutes later she sat down beside him.
“This bench is wet.”
“You’re late.”
“I don’t see why we have to meet here.” She picked at the black paint which was peeling from the wooden slats which made up the park bench, “Look at the state of this.”
“I said, you’re late. Where have you been?”
“I had things to do.”
“Were they more important than this?”
“I’m sorry, but it couldn’t be helped. I have what you need,”
“Don’t pass it over here.”
“We’ve done this before. I’ll leave it in the usual place,”
“Did you have any problems?”
“I was almost caught, but I got away with it. This is going to have to stop though. Security’s tight just now and I don’t want to lose my job.”
“This is important.”
“To you it is. I owed you. Now we’re quits.”
Ian leaned over and grabbed her by the arm, “Listen, I’ll let you know when your services are no longer needed.”
“You’re hurting my arm, let go.” She looked uncomfortable but he held on, “This is nothing compared to what could happen. Just keep doing what you’re told,” he let go of her arm, “But do it on time from now on. Understand?”
“Yes OK. I’m going now. You know where to go.”
“Don’t get funny.”
“Heaven forbid,” she stood up and walked off. About five minutes later he followed in her footsteps until he came to the drop off point. He had been scanning the path for the rusted steel cover, it was around six inches square, and masked a small hole which gave access to a utility point. It was hidden from the main park by a line of rowan trees, while a raised bank and hedge screened his position from the main road, about six feet behind him. The cover was chipped at one corner which allowed him to prise open the metal. Feeling around in the hole he found what he was looking for and took out the polythene bag. Inside was a USB stick. Bingo.
Sarah Meechan had met Ian Wark at a party. He was young, good looking, and funny. More than that he had an opinion and she found his company compelling. That had been then. A lot had changed in the last three years. They’d had a casual affair. That was how he put it. In truth she had fallen a little bit in love with him but after discovering there were a few more Sarahs to her Ian, she reluctantly told him she didn’t want to continue. To say he had been indifferent to her revelation would be an understatement, but they had stayed in touch. Both committed nationalists, they moved in similar circles and met fairly frequently at Party functions. Sarah worked in an IT role with Police Scotland, a job which seemed to interest Ian more than she did. She had found out from a colleague that one of the detectives was living with the new DCI, but that the relationship had seemed str
ained after her appointment through Graeme Donald. Sarah had access to email systems and Ian had suggested she should be looking to smuggle out a copy of correspondence for the last few days. She thought he was joking at first but he had insisted, “It’s for the cause Sarah, we can help show why things need to change; highlight real corruption, nepotism and bad management.” She thought he was just looking for a good story for his website, which she wasn’t convinced was really doing all that well. He didn’t seem to be making any money and during their time together he was always looking for a loan. Still he had persisted, going on and on about what an opportunity they were being given. She had logged on using Norrie Smith’s old details. It had been her job to shut down access to his account so by changing the time code to a few hours beforehand she thought she had covered all bases. The operation itself didn’t take long. There were around 350 emails altogether from Rosalind Ying and John Arbogast’s account. Donald’s wasn’t up and running yet but the email traffic from her personal account contained his side of the conversation. It had taken her longer than expected as she kept getting interrupted, and was almost caught when a nosy neighbour spent too long staring at her screen but she got away with it.
By the time she met Ian she knew she was late. Knew he didn’t like being kept waiting. After she dropped off the USB she made the decision not to bother with him again. He was a cold, arrogant bastard who didn’t care about the risks she was taking. Next time he could do it himself.
20
Rosalind Ying was furious. At what should have been the happiest time of her life events had conspired against her. On one side she had managed to land the promotion she had been looking for, but she had just found out she was pregnant. She hadn’t told John yet; didn’t know if it would be a good idea given the circumstances. Things hadn’t been going well for a while, but maybe a baby would change that? Who I am trying to kid? He cheated. What was he thinking? I can forgive a lot, but that’s taking the piss. Rosalind knew that the relationship was over but she didn’t know what to do about her situation. They had both talked about children but in a maybe one day kind of way. Now that it was real, she didn’t know what to do. This particular investigation offered the chance to put her name on the map. If it went well she could be looking at a lot of new opportunities. Maybe even the Met? She had a lot of decisions to make. One way or the other her life was about to change. How did the quote go? ‘It was the best of times and the worst of times.’
“Looking to make a sacrifice for love, Rosalind?” Her chain of thought was broken by Graeme Donald who was leaning against the frame of her office door, she hadn’t realised she’d be talking out loud, “Not so you’d notice. I’ve just got a lot on my mind,”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“I can’t.”
“Doesn’t have to be at work; we could make it over a drink?”
“No, as I said, I can’t.”
“You can’t or won’t?”
“Look, I don’t like where this is going. Do we really need to go through this sexual harassment routine? If this is the way it’s going to be you can find someone else.”
“That’s right, I can.”
“Fine.” Rosalind stood up, picked up her bag and started to leave the room. Donald grabbed her arm as she passed.
“A joke, Rosalind, surely you can take a joke?”
“I’m afraid I don’t share your sense of humour. No more, OK?”
“Fine, I’m here to talk about John Arbogast anyway.”
“What about him?”
“I know you two are an item, but I wanted to check if you will be able to work well together. You’re both looking at the terror case but I sense there might be a tension between you. I need to know this isn’t going to be a problem. If it is, I’ll move him.”
“He’s the specialist Graeme. You need him on this case more than you do me.”
“If it’s a problem let me know. I’m loyal to my people. If you need to cut him loose let me know.”
“I don’t think it will come to that, but thanks.”
“There’s another thing about Arbogast I wanted to mention.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been sent a video link.”
Rosalind gave nothing away but her stomach tightened at the mention of it, “What of?”
“I think you might know.”
“I thought we’d agreed to drop the games?”
“Let’s just say the video shows John Arbogast in a very compromising position. We’re checking the IP address but I suspect it will be cloned account.”
“I see.”
“I don’t need a senior officer exposed as some kind of pervert so soon after taking over this role.”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know who the woman is?”
“It’s Annabelle, an old flame. At least, so I thought.”
“I’m not going to do anything with this. Private lives are private lives. However, if this goes public we’ll have to take action. It’s bad for our image, for my image. I’d suggest you have a good, long think about what you want to do with your life. Is this the kind of man you need?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I see. Well I’ll leave you to get settled in, but it looks like you have a few decisions to make. Don’t take too long.”
***
Arun Khan had been shot in the left shoulder blade after trying to escape arrest in Lochgelly, Fife and was being treated at the Queen Victoria Hospital in Dunfermline. The Police statement said his injuries weren’t life threatening, although it would take three to four months until he would have the full use of his arm. At home, his personal computer had been impounded, the house searched. Officers had found an ounce of grass and a hard drive full of illegally downloaded movies. Even if nothing was found on the PC, there was enough evidence to bring charges against him, even if they weren’t the ones originally intended.
Arun had been put in a single room under guard. Outside through the frosted glass door panel he could see the black silhouettes of two men in suits talking to the white smocked outline of one of the medical staff. After a couple of minutes the door opened and a man in his 50s came in, followed by a younger woman. They looked like cops.
“Arun Khan? My name’s DI Greg Monteith, this is my colleague, PC Jean Hopkins. We’re here from the Counter Terrorism unit of the Specialist Crime Division. As a matter of some urgency we need to discuss your activities.”
“Is this about my stash, man? I’m not a dealer; it’s just for personal use.”
“We’re not interested in that Mr Khan. We’re here about the computer.”
“My computer?”
“It would be easier on you if you came clean and told us why you’ve been looking at illegal material.”
Arun’s face darkened, “Oh man, this is embarrassing.”
“Just tell us what you know.”
“It’s just porn, man; everyone looks at it. That’s why they invented the net.”
Greg Monteith was losing his patience with the boy, “Do you think this is funny son? People are dying out there. You’ve been looking up sites related to terror groups – this is about as serious as it gets for you. It’s time to start talking.”
“Terrorism? No man, you’ve got me all wrong. I’m not into all that.”
“We’ve seen your computer. We know exactly what you’ve been looking at.”
For about a minute there was complete silence in the room, until Arun conceded with a mumble.
“What was that?”
“Just a couple of sites.”
“What sites?”
“Jihad International and AQ Central.”
“Both terrorist sponsored.”
“I was only looking. You always hear people going on about them. I just wanted to see what was on them.”
“Your files suggest you spent quite a long time looking.”
“It seemed exciting.”
“Did you find it exciting
when those people died in Glasgow?”
“No man, that’s not what I meant. I spend all my time at home. I can’t get a job. I’ve tried. I must have applied for 30 in the last month. I keep getting knocked back – too many people chasing too few jobs. All I’ve got is too much time on my hands. So what do I do? I search the web for stuff to pass the time. No harm done.”
“Do you think it would be OK to look at child pornography?”
“What? No way man! That’s out of order.”
“There are all sorts of material available online. Most of it is harmless, but in your case you’ve been looking at highly illegal material. PC Hopkins could you read out the links please.
“About the international struggle; how to make improvised explosives; knowing your enemy; the role of the cell; online communities – the list goes on.”
“I’m not a terrorist. I was just looking.” Arun was feeling distinctly uncomfortable; he hadn’t been expecting the questions.
“You don’t deny looking at these pages?”
“No.”
“When you are well enough to leave the hospital you will be transferred to Govan Police Station in Glasgow where you will be charged under the Terrorism Act. Be in no doubt Mr Khan that your actions are serious, and given the events of the last few days, security is of national importance.”
By the time the officers had left Arun Khan had slumped back on his bed, with tears in his eyes. The next day his picture would be on the front page of every newspaper in the UK.
***
At the Forensics Department, the attention had switched to the second blast which had been picked up on the CCTV footage.
“It’s that guy in the back row. Can we get a better look at his face?”
“Sorry boss,” Caroline Aitken had been pouring over the footage and the available evidence for the best part of 36 hours, “But his face is obscured by the Military cap. He’s in uniform, but we don’t know who he is.”
“We must know. He’s in the enclosure at the Cenotaph which is exclusively reserved for the ‘good and the great’. He should be accounted for.”
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