The Nationalist

by Campbell Hart

  “You phoned earlier, right?”

  “You know me better than to ask that, John. I’m offended.”

  “You look offended.”

  “It’s a skill.”

  The door opened slightly but was jolted to a stop by the brass security chain which tethered the wood to the doorframe and blocked their progress.

  “Debbie Greer?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m DI John Arbogast, this is my colleague DI Chris Guthrie. We rang earlier.”

  “You’d better come in.”

  Sometimes it was obvious that the person being called on had spent a long time trying to clean up, to make their home respectable. But that wasn’t the case today. Laminate flooring was speckled with cigarette burns; saucers thick with fag ash were positioned at strategic locations around the house. In the living room a pizza box from a cheap fish and chip shop sat with its half eaten contents having blackened and hardened from being left too long. The house stank.

  “Sorry about the mess.”

  Chris said he didn’t mind, “I hadn’t noticed. Believe you me we’ve seen far worse.”

  Arbogast was surprised. Tact wasn’t usually Chris’ strong point but they both realised today might require a little extra effort.

  “We don’t want to keep you too long but we have a few questions we’d like to ask about your ex-husband.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Nothing at the moment; as I said, it’s just a few routine enquiries.”

  With some people, direct and to the point was the best way to go. Some people were an open book; if you asked the question they would answer at length. Some people would rather do anything than give the police the smallest scrap of evidence. Some people were like Debbie Greer. Arbogast knew he would have to warm her up if he was going to get anything remotely useful from her. She was lethargic to say the least. He couldn’t be sure if she was stoned or just generally downbeat. She was about 5’4” with dirty blonde hair and dark blue eyes. She walked with her neck drooped forward as if she was self conscious about her height. She wore grey tracksuit bottoms and a black, strapped, sleeveless top. She was smoking a roll-up.

  “Have you the day off work today?”

  She looked at him in surprise, “Do I look like I’m off work?”

  “You look quite relaxed.”

  “I’m on the dole. I used to work at Johnny Walker, but when they moved the factory I didn’t move with it. I worked there for 16 years and came away with a few hundred pounds.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. It must have been hard.”

  “It was. Some people moved to the new factory in Fife. Other people got good severance packages. 82 people got made redundant. I was one of the 82.”

  “There were a lot of people working there?”

  “About 700; the last bottle of Red Label rolled out the factory in March. Since then it’s just been me and the TV. I’m signed on, but the money doesn’t go far. I’ve got a two bed house I can’t afford to keep, and no prospects to take me anywhere other than places I’d rather never set foot in. Look around Detective. This is my life. Great joke isn’t it?”

  “It wasn’t always like this though?”

  She laughed, causing ash from her roll-up to fall and stick to her black top, “No, there were the glory days with my dear husband, if that’s what you’re driving at?”

  “When was the last time you saw Ian Wark?”

  “A while ago now, must have been about two years.”

  “And you divorced?”

  “Three years ago. We kept in touch.”

  “Was it an amicable split?”

  “Am I being accused of something here?”

  “No I just need to know what kind of man your husband was.”

  “He was a dirty bastard that couldn’t keep his cock in his trousers. We divorced because he had an affair. I only found out because I noticed a text alert flash on his phone.”

  “But you still kept in touch?”

  “He sometimes came looking for me. He was persistent I’ll give him that.”

  “Persistent?”

  “Friends with benefits I think they call it now. If he needed sex he sometimes appeared back here with his begging bowl out. He’d never say that’s what he wanted, but that’s what it amounted to. He’d be looking for a paper or document he couldn’t find which he’d say I had. Most of the time I told him where to go but sometimes I let him in.”

  “Would you class your husband as dangerous?”

  “He was a trained killer so he’s about as dangerous as they get. He never laid a finger on me though. It was his roving eye that did for us.”

  “Where did you meet?”

  “He’d come back from Iraq. He was discharged and tried to get a normal job; couldn’t settle though. He was talking about fighting for money. Overseas stuff, but I wasn’t happy with it. That’s about all there is to say. We were only together for around 18 months. We had the honeymoon period, and then the novelty wore off. Game over.”

  “And you are absolutely sure you haven’t seen him in the last few days?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “I think we’ve taken up enough of your time but thanks for speaking to us,” Arbogast nodded and they both stood up to go. When he was leaving the flat Arbogast turned back to Debbie.

  “One last thing though; the affair he had.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you know who that was with?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It might help us. Did you know what her name was?”

  “It’s not a name I’ll ever forget. Her name was Annabelle. Annabelle Strachan.”

  35

  The lights went out about 10:35 that night. At the BBC Sandy Stirrit had been sitting out a late reporting shift. From the fourth floor newsroom he watched the late bulletin get underway on the internal monitor. Beneath the screen lay a vast selection of yesterday’s news; every tabloid and broadsheet was represented. The shift finished at midnight but it had been a long day with no news. In the aftermath of the bombing the great slew of interviews, analysis, human interest stories, family histories, clues and counter clues had all played out. But now, more than a week on from the blast, there was nothing much new to say, save for the repetition of the mantra that the investigation seemed no closer to making a breakthrough. On the day of the explosion he had watched the horror unfold in George Square; later he travelled to Fife to cover the so-called terror arrests. The arrival of Graeme Donald led to accusations of political pressure. Sandy was exhausted and he was just glad to get the chance to wind down. Technically he was supposed to be off, but stretched resources had struggled to cope with the demands of the network. They had to provide continuous news to local radio, national TV, online, the News Channel, the network radio stations, while their services were also being called on from overseas networks. This was the environment they all enjoyed. The days went by in a blur. Leads were chased down and stories filed. They knew their audience was up by 30% and times like these helped to define the service they produced. Having said that he was glad it was quiet.

  The TV news bulletin started as normal. The top story was a political row involving which side was telling the truth in the upcoming Referendum. The second item was a rehash job on the terror attack. They led with the fact that a close friend of the bomber had been found dead – Police said there were no suspicious circumstances. Then the building was plunged into darkness. The transmission was lost.

  “Guys, what’s going on?” The set for the late bulletin was located an area known to staff as The Street, but would appear to most of the world as several flights of sandstone steps. The BBC HQ was a large glass box sat on the southern banks of the Clyde. The move from the West End had not been popular. A culture had grown up around the old building for lunches out and lattes. It had been a good place to work. In the new Media Quarter, promises had been made about a period of development and
improved amenities. Five years later, nothing much had changed. Inside Pacific Quay on the fourth floor sat an open ended studio. A backdrop showing a still picture of Glasgow stood behind a small red desk. About ten feet in front of the desk stood a remote controlled camera. This was operated from the gallery, or from London if the space was being used to feed live interviews into the network. During that night’s bulletins the lights flickered and died. The red glow of the battery charged camera’s LED was the only light on that floor.

  “The power’s down, guys, but we’re still live,” the newsreader was nervous and unsure what to do. This had never happened before. Looking around Sandy could see that the whole building was in blackout. He crossed to the north side of the building and looked out across the Clyde. Outside, the city was in darkness. The only thing he could see was the reflection of the moon in the water below. Looking up he could see the stars more clearly than he had for a long time, a rare sight in the city centre. Slowly the office lights started to flicker back on in stages. The newsroom was still gloomy, but the systems were back on line.

  “Looks like the emergency generator’s kicked-in, that’s why the internal lights are so low. The rest of the city is still out. Looks like a major power cut.”

  Sandy had been joined at the window buy his colleague, Jim Kane, a TV researcher who had been working late on a political radio programme, “Since when did we get city-wide power cuts? What is this, the 1970s?”

  “You think it might be deliberate?”

  “Given what’s been happening these last few days it would seem a reasonable thing to ask.”

  Sandy phoned the Police to ask the duty sergeant if they were aware of any major incidents. He was told they were dealing with a power cut and to phone the utility company. There were no more details. They weren’t linking it to a terror attack. The duty press officer at Scottish Power suggested there had been a system fault, but that it was too early to tell what the cause was. He couldn’t give more details about what might have happened but they would know more in a couple of hours. Sandy wasn’t sure what to make of the power cut but he knew he was looking at a good story. He grabbed a Z1 camera, took the keys to the pool car and drove into town to see if he could find some news. It was 11:05pm.

  Arbogast let Chris drive back to the city. He needed to talk to Norrie Smith about Annabelle, and phoned on the move.

  “I’ve just spoken to Ian Wark’s ex wife.”

  “How was she?”

  “She’s seen better days, but I didn’t get the impression our man made much of an impact on improving her prospects.”

  “He didn’t make much of an impression on me either.”

  “Thanks for taking the time on that by the way. You told me what happened in the pub but I wanted to ask you something about them.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you think Ian and Annabelle might still be together?”

  “It didn’t really strike me that they had chemistry.”

  “But his wife said they split up because the two of them had an affair. She said he popped up every now again.”

  “In the biblical sense?”

  “He liked to put himself around. It seems he might have had a little black book. Annabelle certainly went for me in a big way and I’d say I knew her pretty well at one time. It doesn’t chime with me that she’d get in deep with someone as dangerous as that.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know. Look, when I saw them together he was teasing her, showing a porno in a pub she was starring in is hardly a glowing show of affection. If they had a bond it’s because he’s got something on her. Why else would she be in with him?”

  “Did she mention her politics at all?”

  “Why would she?”

  “I’m just trying to find a rational link. At the moment the only thing that makes sense is the nationalist thing.”

  “Annabelle was in the Socialist Worker Party when I knew her. She was a fan of independence when that kind of politics was seen as fringe at best. Maybe she felt she was doing something for the greater good?”

  “Given what’s happened, John, I can only hope you’re wrong. There’s not much more I can say at this point and at any rate I need to go, I’m meeting my son for a dose of normality; we’re going to the pictures.”

  “Anything good?”

  “Something called Nebraska.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Some critic you’d make.”

  As the car rolled closer to Glasgow Arbogast became convinced that Annabelle had got mixed up in something that she was not going to be able to control.

  ***

  Sandy Stirrit drove through the streets of Glasgow with only headlights to guide him through the dark. The city had been switched off, the power cut having brought normal life to a standstill. In the flats by the Clydeside, the dim flicker of candle light could be seen, with people standing by their windows, heads flitting from side-to-side in the vain hope they would be the first to see the lights come back on. With traffic lights off, cars had to negotiate the roads with greater care than normal. Cars edged across box junctions and beckoned fellow drivers through. Pedestrians were hard to see, the dark clothes favoured by the west coast made it difficult to spot bodies darting across the road. The pubs weren’t due to close for at least another hour but the fact there was no power meant that most had opted to shut up shop. They would have stayed open and made extra cash had it not been for the fact that the tills were offline, meaning the evening’s take would be well down. Camaraderie was one thing, but bills still had to be paid. Sandy navigated the diversions around George Square and parked in Candleriggs in the Merchant City. Walking through the cobbled streets he saw small crowds forming outside closing bars. They had drunk enough to be annoyed that their nights had been curtailed, and scuffles were already breaking out. Sandy walked with the camera on his shoulder. He had three batteries with him and plenty of time. The only problem was that his camera’s built in spotlight made him a walking target. What you doing there mate? Is this live on TV? Get that camera out of my face. Men urinated against shop windows while women squatted in the streets. In the distance Sandy heard the smash of glass. It sounded like a bottle but he couldn’t be sure. He kept walking. He would have enough good footage to make something for tomorrow morning. He just needed a couple of interviews, so he headed to the only pub which still seemed to be open – Blackfriars.

  Earlier that night, after the film had finished, Norrie persuaded his son, Robert, to stay out for a couple of pints. It was still early, nine-thirty, and they were both in the mood to talk about the movie.

  “You didn’t tell me it was a Bruce Dern film. I thought he was dead.”

  “Not quite, dad, but he’s getting on a bit.”

  “He was in Marnie you know?”

  “The Hitchcock picture?”

  “He was the sailor that raped the mother; he was Marnie’s big problem.”

  “I’ll need to give that a watch.”

  Their conversation was interrupted when a man bumped into their table and spilled their drinks.

  “Watch where you’re going,” Norrie was annoyed.

  “Sorry, mate, it won’t happen again.”

  “You’ll need to do better than that; you can buy us another round.”

  Norrie walked the man to the bar. He thought he saw someone he knew standing by the door, but when he looked back there was no-one there. “Two pints of Heineken please.” The lights went out. Some people thought it was a joke, with a number of wags making comedy ghost noises. But the lights didn’t come back on. Small red bowls lit by tea-lights became local focal points at every table. There were no lights at the bar. As he stood waiting, Norrie felt a pain in his side, like he’d been poked. He turned round to tell his reluctant benefactor to take it easy but the man was talking to the bartender, trying to find out what was happening. Norrie felt the side of his shirt and felt a warm wetness in the fabric. He looked at his hand and could see it was dripping crims
on. He had been stabbed.

  By the time Sandy Stirrit arrived at Blackfriars Norrie was slumped against the bar. Sandy knew he already had the story of the day.

  36

  The blackout left quarter of a million properties without power for more than two hours. The lights came back on at 12:40am. Most people wouldn’t know until they woke up the next day. Some had forgotten to put their lights off and were rudely awoken through the night, in a sudden and unexpected glare. Arbogast was at the Royal Infirmary. Norrie’s son, Robert Smith, had phoned him to say his father had been attacked during the power cut. Norrie had asked him to come to the hospital. Arbogast had to wait two hours but was eventually allowed to see his old boss.

  “Thanks for coming, John.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Some guy had been messing about and I’d taken him to the bar to replace some drinks he’d spilled. I thought I saw someone. Then the lights went out, and it felt like I’d been punched.”

  “Sounds like you were lucky.”

  “He didn’t hit anything I’ll miss,” he managed a wry smile, but winced when the pain reminded him this wasn’t a time for comedy.

  “Did you get a look at them?”

  “I didn’t see anything. We were in the darkest part of the bar. There were no lights at the tills. But I did see someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I couldn’t place it at the time. It was only for a second but I’m sure Ian Wark was in there. He was watching.”

  “That seems unlikely?”

  “Really? He knows I’ve been looking into him. The email traffic he put online was pretty damning. There was stuff in there I should never have sent.”

  “It’s been dismissed as a hoax.”

  “He doesn’t know that, does he? Meanwhile he ran off when I tried to collar him in the southside.”

  “You think he’s been following you?”