The Nationalist

by Campbell Hart

  Norrie could see Sarah didn’t want to be here. She looked terrified and was having trouble maintaining eye contact, “What’s this about?”

  “It’s about this investigation. The explosion I mean. I think I might have got involved without realising.”

  Norrie knew not to speak. Whatever it was she was about to say, Sarah had been building herself up to, so he decided to leave her to it.

  “I’ve been watching the news today. The person they’re looking for is someone I know,” Norrie sat up in his bed and winced when a shooting pain went up his left hand side, the slowly knitting stab wound straining against the stitches.

  “I know Ian Wark. I have done for a while. He asked me to do something for him. But it was nothing to do with that explosion,” she was trying to hold back tears, “I could never have done that. All those people dead.”

  “Just tell me what it is you think you’ve done. If it’s to do with the investigation you should really be telling this to Pitt Street.”

  “I needed to tell you first,” Sarah’s confidence had grown. She took the visitors seat from the corner of the room and pulled up beside the bed. “I’ve been friends with Ian for a while. We were involved with each other but that was all over a long time ago. But we’ve continued to campaign together.”

  “For what?”

  “Scottish independence; Ian’s been campaigning through the Newsnational website to stir up anti-Union sentiment ahead of next year’s Referendum. He asked me to get some information for him to help with the cause.”

  “Is this where the emails came from?”

  “I didn’t think it would do any real harm. We were telling the truth.”

  “It was my career you were flushing down the toilet. What is it you’re looking for from me – some kind of forgiveness?” There was an audible rasp to Norrie’s voice, “Do you see where this has left me? Your boyfriend stabbed me in a pub. I could have died.”

  “I don’t think so. If he had wanted you dead we wouldn’t be talking. He could be very violent but it was always for a reason.”

  “He wanted me out of the way. You seem to know that. You’re going to need to go to the investigation team. What you did was illegal. Fortunately for you only a few of the fringe websites actually published your material. You’ll be charged for this. I think it’s time you started to tell me everything you know.”

  Sarah Meechan wasn’t sure how the situation was going to play out, but as she began talking she knew it was her only realistic option.

  Rosalind Ying did not feel well, but she had gone back to work to escape the four walls of her own home. The doctor at the clinic had told her the early miscarriage was highly unusual but that there was no risk of infection. She had been advised to stay at home and to book an appointment with a counsellor as soon as possible. She had done neither. I don’t need to speak to anyone about this. I know how I feel and I know what I did. All the same, even at her desk, she was having trouble concentrating. She had re-read the first page of the witness statement from James Wright several times but nothing was sinking in. A knock at the door came as a welcome distraction.

  “Come in,” She was disappointed to see it was Ian Davidson. Smiling as usual or was it a sneer?

  “Is this a good time?”

  “There’s never a good time,” she could see he was trying to work out if he had just been insulted. He should have taken it as a given. Rosalind saw Davidson for the weasel faced sycophant that he was. Colleagues had been pretty vocal about his attempts to win favour with Donald in her absence. They both knew she knew this, so she waited to see what the weasel wanted.

  “It was more of a personal matter really.”

  “I hardly think this is the time but—”

  “—I’ve seen the video. Arbogast’s video.” Rosalind didn’t blink. She said nothing and waited for him to continue, “I must say I’ve seen better technique, but I didn’t recognise his partner. I was rather hoping it would be you.”

  “You’re out of line, Davidson. If you think you can talk this way to a superior officer, you’ve another thing coming.”

  “I’ve got all the files. The video, those emails that got hushed up – there was some pretty incriminating material from you in there. If it hadn’t been for the gaffer you’d be out of a job.”

  “Get out. You’ll be hearing more about this in due course.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How dare you come in here and speak to me like this. Don’t you see the position you’re putting yourself into?”

  “If anything happens to me all this information’s going online.”

  “Blackmail now, is it?”

  “Let’s be honest for a second. It’s no secret we don’t get along, but we both know I’m the best man for this job and you won’t be hanging around for long,” Rosalind was laughing behind her desk, “Carry on, but let me get a pen. I need to write this down.”

  “A little bird told me you were pregnant. Then again another source tells me you have already taken care of that. Tongues will be wagging about whether you just shagged your way into the job.”

  Rosalind had heard enough. She kicked back her chair and strode over to Davidson, grabbing his suit jacket by the lapels and pushing him roughly backwards. He backed into a metal bin and stumbled, shouting out after turning over on his ankle. He would not have admitted it but the look he was getting from Rosalind was making him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Let’s get one thing straight. If anything comes out I’ll know exactly where it’s come from and there will be an internal investigation into where you’re getting your information from. There have been a few leaks of late and the one thing we don’t need is a man who can’t keep his mouth shut. Nothing happened between me and the boss and nothing is happening between me and Arbogast. That none of this is anything to fucking do with you should be taken as read. If you decide to start a little vendetta against me you will soon know who carries the clout in this department.” Her face was inches from Davidson’s, he flinched as flecks of spit hit him on the face, and drew back as Rosalind’s rage grew, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I understand,” she let go and he fell back a step, ashamed to have been dominated. He hoped no-one had heard the outburst.

  “Now, get out.”

  Rosalind stood in the centre of the office with her arms crossed. She didn’t take her eyes off Davidson until the door closed behind him. No sooner had he gone than she began to shake. She started crying. She had held everything at arm’s length since the termination, and was sure she hadn’t been badly affected. With so much at stake at work, and with colleagues out to sabotage her position, the overwhelming burden of the last few weeks was starting to take its toll. Ten minutes later Rosalind had regained her composure. She sat looking out at the night scene on Pitt Street. Taxis passed on their way to ranks, while revellers made their way from one pub to another. Life goes on. She shook her head and sat down. You’re being stupid Rosalind; it’s time to get a grip. Then the phone rang. It was Norrie Smith. He told her he had new information.

  39

  Looking around Annabelle Strachan’s flat, Arbogast felt something wasn’t right with the way the place had been turned over. The disruption looked a little too random. If the flat had been burgled by a professional, the chances were that you’d be able to see a pattern; signs of a methodical search. But that wasn’t how it looked. It looked like someone had moved things around at random, with no obvious pattern. A glass coffee table was shattered when there was no reason for it to be broken. Perhaps there had been a struggle. Bending down, he looked at the debris, but could see no blood; the glass wasn’t broken in a way which suggested someone had fallen. The aluminium frame would have been bent if that had happened, but all he could see was broken glass. He noticed a purple paperweight nearby, lodged underneath the gap in the couch. It’s been smashed deliberately. It didn’t make sense. What happened here, Annabelle? Elsewhere, books had
been scattered and drawers had been turned inside out. In the kitchen there were a number of plastic pill boxes open. Drug related? The amateurish nature of the sift certainly supported the thought, but it all seemed a little too deliberate. There was no sign of Annabelle. In her bedroom, nothing had been touched. There didn’t seem to be any clothes missing. Arbogast thought of the video. Where had she filmed it from? His memory from that night was hazy but he remembered the angle. Scanning the back wall the only thing he could see was a tall rubber plant. He peered in at it, feeling the leaves with his hands. The camera was still there, tied to the stalk with a tie clip. He wouldn’t have seen it that night; he hadn’t been looking for it – but it had a great view of proceedings. Maybe there are more of these round the flat – could Annabelle be trying to help us? Arbogast called Major Crime and a Forensics team was dispatched. He somehow doubted their search would turn up much but there was a chance they’d be able to uncover something. He hoped so. Whatever the results, they were now looking for two people.

  ***

  Ian Wark watched silently as the waves crashed against the rocks on the beach. From the comfort of the cottage he knew he would be safe for a while. The windows were old, and the imperfections of the warped glass made it difficult to get a clear picture of what was going on outside. Gulls circled overhead, while others bobbed in the sea, waiting for prey. On the beach a man walked with a red plastic stick. Every couple of minutes he would launch a bright yellow ball down the wet sand by the shore, or directly into the sea. A Golden Retriever bounded after it and brought it back for more. The dog had just emerged from the sea, where it had been drenched by high waves. It shook violently from side-to-side to dry off, with the water spraying the man who ran back to get away from the deluge. The whistle of the stove top kettle broke his chain of thought, the shrill tone rising as the pressure increased. Ian took two tin mugs from the cupboard and poured the boiling liquid, which spluttered violently over the teabags.

  Back upstairs, from the bedroom door, he watched the sleeping figure under the duvet. Annabelle’s legs were pulled up into a foetal position, a gentle snore breaking the silence from beneath the covers. Ian thought they had probably drunk too much last night. He sat at the edge of the bed and put both cups on the bedside table. Drawing back the duvet he saw her face, which still had the power to draw him in. He stroked the flesh behind her ear with his thumb. Gently he could see she was coming round, “I’ve brought you some tea. I thought you might like sugar this morning.”

  “Hmm.” was the only response he got. Pulling the duvet down further he could see she was still naked, “Come back to bed,” she said, and pulled the cover up to her chin. As he eased back into bed, Annabelle recoiled when his cold skin touched her, but he pulled her close. As their flesh warmed together he could smell pheromones and breathed them in. It was the morning after the night before.

  Ian Davidson was not a happy man. His ultimatum with Rosalind Ying had gone badly, but he was still committed to seeing things through. I’m not going to be bested by that Chinese bitch. He knew, though, that he was going to have to be a bit smarter about it. The call came in that Arbogast had uncovered a new lead from a flat in Paisley. He seemed to think a woman with links to Wark was missing from a flat on Espedair Street. A forensics team had been sent down. Regardless of what they found, it didn’t change the fact that they didn’t know where Wark had gone. Additional officers had been sent to the scene to gather witness statements. It was possible that someone saw something at the flat, although nine times out of 10 people couldn’t remember what they had been doing on any given day, let alone what someone else may or may not have been up to. So far no-one had been able to say why Arbogast had been at the flat alone, and since he’d returned Davidson hadn’t spoken to him directly; he was still too angry. There had been talk of recording equipment, which might make some sense in explaining this mysterious new lead. Davidson decided to pay the flat a visit himself.

  Back at Pitt Street Arbogast was trying to get more information on the blackout. There had been a lot of traffic on social media and national broadcast channels that the power cut could be related to the recent terror attacks. The incident had certainly posed the police problems. In the two hours the power had been off, they had recorded 17 shop break-ins, 13 assaults and one attempted murder. Fortunately Norrie Smith was going to be OK. The police helpline had received 36,000 calls, so many in fact that it had been impossible to deal with them all. Names and numbers were taken until it became clear they couldn’t cope with the volume of enquiries. They had simply recorded a message asking to check the power company’s website for updates. In the end it turned out to be a false alarm. The blackout had been caused by a faulty relay unit. The system was relatively new and was designed to protect itself from an overload. One of the relay stations in Pollokshields had developed an electronic fault where the system sensed it was in danger of meltdown. To protect itself it had switched itself off which broke the circuit and triggered the rest of the network to follow suit, effectively flicking the off switch to a large part of the city. The error had been identified fairly quickly, but engineers had to re-route the local grid around the faulty relay, meaning that 4,000 homes were still without power. The main point, though, was that the power cut had been accidental. It didn’t look like there had been any external manipulation. If that were the case then Ian Wark had just got lucky. Arbogast felt guilty about getting Norrie involved. He had been hoping that a positive breakthrough might have helped his old boss get is job back. All it had done was lead him to a near death experience. He looked up from his notes and saw that another ghost had come back to haunt him.

  “Hi Rose, how are you doing?”

  “I’m alright, but I need to have a quick word. It’s personal.”

  Arbogast’s heart lifted slightly. He thought that perhaps she’d changed her mind. Maybe they did have a future after all; the two of them raising a child. But his hopes were short-lived.

  “I’ve had an abortion.” He heard the words but they didn’t sink in, “Sorry?”

  “I took the decision not to have our baby.”

  “Our baby?”

  “There could only be one father.”

  “And you just did that without even telling me?”

  “I knew what you’d say. We’re finished John, and I don’t need a permanent reminder of a failed relationship.”

  “It was a living child, Rose. How could you do that? It should have been a joint decision.”

  Rosalind knew how the conversation would go. She had prepared herself to stay calm, but when faced with the accusations she found it hard to maintain her composure, “It’s done now so deal with it.”

  “Deal with it? Are you kidding? You’ve killed our baby and you’re flippant enough to say deal with it? We’d always talked about doing this. Why would you do this – why?”

  “You’ve no idea what it was like John. I was alone in a dirty public toilet, in excruciating pain. I lost the baby in a toilet – can you imagine that? I thought I was going to die. It was awful. And where were you when all that was happening? Nowhere. And you know what, that’s the norm. You’re never around.”

  Rosalind’s eyes were welling up and Arbogast could hear the emotion in her voice. He stood up and went to hold her but she pushed him back, “No, it’s too late for that. It’s too late for us. You need to know that I didn’t want to have your child. This is the time for my career. I worked hard to get this far and I won’t give everything up just to push a pram for you – no way.”

  “You worked hard to get this far did you?” Arbogast was angry. He had no control of the situation and wanted to lash out, to hurt Rosalind in any way he could, “Who’s to say it was my child anyway? I’m still not convinced you haven’t fucked your way to the top.” He stepped back and was sneering at Rose. In that moment his contempt was absolute, the rage he felt was overwhelming, “So why don’t you crawl back to your lover man and starting climbing that greasy pole again
. It seems to have served you well so far.”

  The slap he felt stung his right cheek. Rosalind hit him full force, “How dare you! I’ve told you nothing happened with Graeme—”

  “—oh its Graeme now is it?”

  “Listen to yourself John, you’re hysterical. You think you can hurt me just because I’ve moved on. Well here’s the thing. From now on I’m DCI to your DI. If you so much as look at me in the wrong way I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure your arse is gone. If you cross me, I’ll have you in the traffic department directing cars on the street. Do you understand? I knew I should never have got involved with a colleague. I felt sorry for you. We all make mistakes, though – you certainly do. Now if you’ll excuse me, DI Arbogast, I’ve got a life to lead.”

  And with that, she was gone. He became aware of a phone ringing in the background. Had it been going off for long? He couldn’t be sure. It was Chris Guthrie.

  “We’ve been asked to go back down to Paisley, John. Davidson’s asking for you.”

  “OK, I’ll get you outside.”

  As he was driven through the city, Arbogast watched as the car drew level with a woman on a cycle lane. She was wearing a long blue dress, and cycling an old fashioned bike with bent back handlebars. In front of her was an orange L-shaped seat which held a young boy with a mop of dark hair, which was blowing in the wind. The child faced away from his mother but looked completely relaxed, like he knew he was safe. Arbogast saw him scanning the road from left to right, drinking in the unfamiliar sights for what might be the first time. Arbogast looked back at the woman and saw that she was pregnant, her bump clearly visible. He hadn’t noticed at first. She seemed completely relaxed too. As she powered on the woman leaned forward and stroked the boy’s hair back behind his left ear. It was a completely natural gesture. Arbogast sighed. Chris Guthrie veered off onto the slip road and headed out onto the motorway.