“There’s a floor plan worked out beforehand for who goes where. The space occupied by our mystery man should have been taken by Brigadier John Mason. He called off due to illness. The assumption must have been that this was his replacement. We can’t ask the people around about him because they’re all dead. We’ve asked the survivors but so far, no joy.”
“What can you tell me about the blast?”
“It was a secondary explosion, most likely triggered by the first blast.”
“What does that mean?”
“At first the explosions might appear simultaneous but if you pause the film at the moment of detonation like so,” Caroline stopped the round toggle dial when the white light appeared. “You’ll see that the mystery man is still here. It’s not until a little while later, about half a second, that blast number two takes place.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that either our chap was waiting to detonate his C-4, or that the force of the explosion caused a chain reaction.”
“Isn’t it possible that the two bombs were electronically linked?”
“It’s possible. If there were two electronic detonators synced and primed to go off in tandem that would do it. But if you look at the mystery man’s face he doesn’t seem to be expecting anything and at any rate the explosions don’t happen simultaneously, they’re consecutive. It looks like the second bomb was set up by the blast of the first. It might be that this guy didn’t know what was happening until it was too late.”
They sat and stared at the image. The second explosion did the most damage to the surrounding crowd. The freeze frame showed the head of the ceremonial granite lion cracked in two, the debris causing serious injury to those nearby. Regimental flags had been ripped to shreds by the shards of sharp stone which had ricocheted through the crowd.
“I’m still struggling to find a ‘why’ in all this.”
“Well that’s your job, John. I’m just here to piece it all together.”
“Thanks Caroline. If you can send me details of the second man I’ll issue a photo fit. Hopefully we’ll be able to identify him pretty quickly.”
“Good luck.”
Arbogast had been called to see Graeme Donald. The note said it was urgent.
“We need to talk John.”
“I’ve a few good leads on the case I’d like to talk through with you.”
“It’s not about the case, it’s about you.”
“What about me?”
Arbogast noticed that Donald had made himself at home at Norrie’s old desk pretty quickly. His old boss’s PC had been replaced by a light weight laptop which was currently open, with the light of the screen casting a faint glow under the Chief’s jaw.
“I’ve been sent something which concerns you,” Donald spun round the laptop for Arbogast to see.
Arbogast gasped. He was looking at a freeze frame of himself and Annabelle, “I have to say, this is not the kind of thing I expect from my top guys.”
“Listen, sir, I can explain.”
“I don’t need an explanation from you John. I need to make one thing clear though. I will protect you on this but only as long as I can keep this an internal matter. Do you know who is circulating this video?”
“I am assuming it’s the girl, Annabelle.”
“Then you need to sort this out. If the video goes to the tabloids it will be game over for you. Do you understand?”
Arbogast nodded.
“OK, well let’s leave it at that for now. You’d better hope this goes away.”
Arbogast took that as a cue to leave and pushed back his chair to get up.
“Oh and congratulations by the way.”
“Congratulations for what, sir?”
“On Rosalind’s news.”
“No-one deserves the promotion more than she does.”
“The promotion,” Donald was laughing. “No I meant about the baby,” There was a pause, “She hasn’t told you?”
Arbogast stared back blankly, “No she hasn’t. Maybe you’ve picked it up wrong.”
“I imagine you’re right. Goodbye.”
Outside the door, Arbogast stood and listened. He could hear Rosalind’s voice from the office next door. She was talking about the case. It was as if nothing had happened. It would explain her moods of late. He considered trying to talk to her but decided against it. His mobile was ringing. It was Sandy Stirrit.
21
The release of the photo-fit of the man at the centre of the second explosion had the unintended consequence of starting a national debate. The media had been careful at that point not to suggest the attack had been linked to Al Quaida. The evidence suggested this was a home grown attack involving a single white man. There had been incidents involving minorities which had been largely condemned but the mood seemed to be changing. The description of the man was fairly non-descript:
Roughly six feet in height
Medium to heavy build.
Dark skinned
Wearing a green military uniform
Black peaked cap with red band round the base
The third point was the most contentious; reporters wanted to know if ‘dark skinned’ equated to ‘Arabic’. The inference was that the George Square incident had been an Islamic attack.
Arbogast was getting tired of being asked the same thing again and again; it was bullshit, “I can’t believe you’re asking me this, Sandy.”
“It’s a fair question, John. The picture suggests this might be a bone fide international attack. It’s looking a lot like the airport bombing in 2006.”
“That’s total speculation, and you know it.”
“You know people are worried. The fact that you’ve issued a photo-fit of this guy proves you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“Sandy, there’s nothing conclusive about that picture. He looks dark skinned, but we’re working off CCTV footage taken from 100 feet away. Our guy doesn’t feature in the TV shots we have and so far we haven’t been able to speak to anyone that can remember seeing him.”
“We’re within our rights to speculate. It’s public interest.”
“Of course it is. Remind me of that again when the reprisal attacks start up on ethnic minorities, which have already happened by the way. One guy was killed, Sandy; killed for working in a shop. We picked up two boys for that. They thought they’d done the right thing. Watch this space. There will be more of the same and you guys can shoulder the blame.”
“It’s a legitimate story. We run what’s new.”
“All I’m saying is that we don’t know much about the man in the cap. Jock Smith was the pivotal figure; his explosives triggered this. It will help us to identify the group, should there be a group, if we can pinpoint who the number two is. We need your help on that, so give me a break and let’s get going with this. So far you seem to be missing the point.”
“Are you doing interviews?”
“Not right now. The case comes before media.”
“You’ll need to help us out with something.”
“You’ve got the photo and the press release. That’s it for now,” He hung up.
Arbogast had arranged to meet Norrie Smith at the gates of the Necropolis.
“Why here, boss?”
Norrie smiled, “I’m not your boss anymore, John.”
“Listen if it means anything—”
“—I know, I know, and thanks; but you don’t need to say it. We both knew it was in the post. Donald’s got experience.”
“He’s bent.”
“We don’t know that, and you’d do well to keep your mouth shut on that front.”
“It might be too late for that.”
Norrie stopped walking midway across the Bridge of Sighs, “Tell me you haven’t been stupid?”
“I can’t take that guy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“He’s been a Chief Constable for the last five years. More important than that, he’s your boss.”
“I’ve tipped off the press about him. I think we can get you re-instated.”
“Do you see where we are?”
“Somewhere quiet to talk?”
“We’re in a graveyard. This is where people go after they’ve died. I’m still walking but that’s me as far as you’re concerned; a dead man walking. Don’t jeopardise your own career for me. I’m being well looked after.”
“But this is your case.”
“It was my case. Its Donald’s now. He’s got the ear of your other half too and that could play in your favour.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“Has something happened?”
“Someone’s going out of their way to try and destroy me. There’s a video. It’s a sex thing from an ex. Her name’s Annabelle Strachan. We hooked up the other day by chance. I didn’t know it was happening but she sent it to Rose.”
Norrie had stopped in his tracks; he looked disgusted, “What were you thinking?”
“You’re not the first person to ask that. Donald’s got it too.”
“And he’s still keeping you on the case?”
“He says unless it appears in the press he’ll back me.”
“He’s got dirt on you John; that’s not a good place to be. One wrong move and perhaps the video will find its way to the media.”
“I don’t know what to do. I can’t even think why she would want to do this to me. We were an item a few years back. It didn’t end well but it was the right thing at the time; nothing which would explain this.”
“Let me do you a favour. Do you know where she lives?”
“The video was from a house in Paisley. I assume that’s where she lives.”
“You need to stay out of this, but I can help. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find out. Whatever you do, though, don’t get any more involved than you already are.”
They were now at the top of the hill of the dead, next to the monument erected in honour of the religious reformer, John Knox; a massive obelisk, weathered with decades of grime from the city below. Looking out across Glasgow Arbogast felt at ease, “You get a great view from here.”
“That’s not a view; they call that perspective.”
22
Annabelle Strachan got home at around 5:30pm. It had been a long day at the office and she’d had more than her fill of her clients’ woes. Opening the close door she heard the cat before she saw it. MacCormick always seemed to sense she was in the building before she got back. She stopped on the landing and heard the mewing from the flat; the noise increased when she turned the lock, and by the time she was in MacCormick was waiting, sat expectedly in the hall. As she made her way to the kitchen the cat rubbed his head against her leg and ran his body backwards and forwards, while Annabelle dumped her jacket on the kitchen bench.
“Are you hungry, wee man? Do you want some food?” She repeated the phrase a few times, letting her voice get higher each time, driving the cat into a feline, food frenzy. She dished out the flaked tuna into the plastic bowl, replacing the old dish with the fresh meat, “There you go, and now I think it’s time for me.”
She took the chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge and poured herself a generous glass, adding ice for extra chill. As the cat gnawed happily on the fish Annabelle sat back and sighed, “This is one of the longest weeks of my life. I hope it’s all going to be worth it.” Annabelle lived on the third floor of a blonde sandstone block on Paisley’s Espedair Street. People knew the name from the Iain Banks book, but the reality was more mundane. It was a fairly non-descript street, with buildings of different shapes and sizes, underlined by occasional hedgerows and a long line of cars. It wasn’t ideal, but it would do for now. At around eight o’clock her domestic indifference was brought to an end when the buzzer rang. As usual the cat disappeared to hide underneath her bed. Picking up the intercom she heard an unfamiliar voice.
“Can I speak to Annabelle Strachan?”
“That depends on who’s asking. What do you want?”
“I came to talk about a mutual acquaintance, John Arbogast.”
Annabelle placed the receiver back in the cradle and went back to the living room. The buzzer went again, but she ignored it.
Annabelle left the house at 7:45 the next morning. She pressed the unlock button on her key fob and saw the orange lights flash twice on her VW Beetle. She was about to get in when she was startled by a voice behind her.
“Annabelle Strachan?”
Turning she was faced by a grey haired 50-something, dressed in a blue dress jacket, pink shirt, and beige chinos. He was carrying a brown leather attaché case. “You again; I’m assuming you were my persistent caller last night? The cat still hasn’t come out of hiding.”
“I want to speak to you about John Arbogast.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Are you saying you don’t know him?”
Turning away, she made to get into the car, throwing her handbag and jacket in the backseat. “I don’t know any Arbogast. What kind of name is that anyway? Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go.”
“If that’s the case, perhaps you can explain this?” He took an ipad from his briefcase and was tapping at the screen. He turned it round and she was faced with a vision of herself, on all fours, with Arbogast grimacing behind her.
“For god’s sake, put that away. There are families on this street.”
“Well at least we can dispense with the amnesia routine. I have connections which are pretty far reaching and this kind of thing just won’t wash. Who have you sent this to?”
“Listen old man, who do you think you are ringing my buzzer at night then accosting me on the street? Are you some kind of dirty old perv, is this how you get your kicks?”
Annabelle tried to pull away but the man grabbed her wrist and squeezed tight, it felt like the bone was going to snap.
“What are you doing?” Annabelle screamed out.
“That’s enough,” the old man was angry. “Any more of that and your day will not go well from here on in. I asked how many people have seen the video. This is your last chance.”
“Not many, OK?” He released her hand and Annabelle rubbed her wrist, which had turned red with the pressure. She watched the man, who looked disgusted with her.
“One person would be too many. I need to know how many people have seen it.”
“Two people, alright; his girlfriend and Police Scotland,” her confidence had gone and she seemed to realise who he might be, “Are you with them?”
“Luckily for you I’m not. Is that all the people that have seen the video?”
“More or less.”
“Don’t waste my time. I need all the names.”
“Look, I’ve told you more than enough.”
“Not nearly enough. Inside. I need to make sure the film is erased.”
“I’m not letting you in. Who are you?”
“A friend of John’s”
“I know your face. Why would that be?”
“What can I say? I’m an everyman. The video was on a closed YouTube channel. We can erase that now.”
Norrie taped away at the ipad again and passed the device to Annabelle, “User name and password. I want to see the file deleted.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t control the site.”
“Well you’re going to need to tell me who does. I won’t take no for an answer. What right have you got to ruin a man’s life? He’s got everything at stake here. I don’t even understand why you’ve done this.”
“Because I can; because I need to do something.”
“For what?”
“We can’t just stand by while the Arbogasts of this world allow the Police to run roughshod over our justice system.”
“Can you even hear yourself?”
“I gave the film to Newsnational. They said they’d know what to do with it – how to make the most of a bad situation.”
“You had better hope I can get that film back. If I can’t, you’ll be responsible for what happens.”
As he walked off down Espedair Street Annabelle was shaking as the adrenalin and fear coursed through her body. She sat in the car for around half an hour before phoning in sick. She needed to speak to Ian Wark as soon as possible.
23
Arbogast was having trouble concentrating.
“You’ve got the thousand yard stare going on there, John. What’s happening?”
“Alright Chris, it’s nothing. I’m just. Ach, it’s nothing; just tired, I suppose.” Arbogast wanted to confide in his friend but couldn’t bring himself to start the conversation, although he could see Chris was worried. He had asked casually, but was pretending not to notice, eyes flicking in his direction when he thought he wasn’t being watched.
“Is the case getting to you? We all saw a lot down on the square. I’d understand if you wanted to take time out.”
“Have you been speaking to Davidson?”Arbogast was riled; the question sounded more like an accusation.
“No need to snap, John. I’m just asking. You’ve not been yourself since—”
“—since when?”
“Well since your good lady wife got back from Belfast.”
“She’s not my wife.”
“Touchy.”
“Look, give me some space will you? I’ve got a lot on my mind. Can I not get a minutes peace?”
Chris Guthrie stepped back a couple of paces, with his hands raised, “Sorry I asked. What’s new with the case?”
“We’re not exactly short of information. There are ten teams working on the suspects brought in with the M15 leads, although nothing much seems to be coming from those investigations. Our phantom terror cell seems to be throwing up nothing but dead ends. They have no web presence at all, which seems unusual if they’re trying to make a statement. I keep wondering if Jock Smith was maybe pushed into this somehow, maybe he had something to hide.”
The Nationalist Page 9