The Nationalist

by Campbell Hart

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’ve been out walking,” Ian watched as his unwanted guest prattled on nervously, “The forecast was dry but I’m soaked to the skin. I saw this place and it looked deserted. I thought I might be able to find some shelter.”

  “This isn’t really a good time,” Ian nodded in Annabelle’s direction and winked, hoping the innuendo would be enough to give their unwanted guest the hint he needed to keep walking. The rain continued to batter off the roof.

  “Please let me in, even just for a couple of minutes. I only want to dry off a bit; the rain won’t last.” As if on cue the water started to recede, as sunshine broke through the cloud cover. Puddles had formed in the muddy ground outside the cottage. The noise of gulls rang out at sea, in the hope that Mother Nature’s monsoon had coaxed fresh food to the surface.

  Ian smiled, “Looks as if your prayers have been answered.” The man pulled his hood down and started to clean his glasses with a handkerchief. He had a shock of white hair, which was receding on both sides, and formed a sharp point on his forehead. When he put his glasses back on he suddenly lost his composure as he realised who his host was; his face couldn’t hide his fear and he said the first thing which came into his head, “But you’re the one they’re looking for. I’ve seen your picture in the papers.”

  Ian knew his hand had been forced. He had been willing to let the man walk, but he had insisted on staying, even though it had been clear he wasn’t welcome, “I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else. I can see you’re soaked. Come in and dry off for a while.”

  “I think it’s best if I move on, but thanks for the offer.” Inside there was a creaking noise, as if a door had opened. Ian glanced back and kept talking, “No, it’s fine; we’ve got plenty of room. I insist.”

  The visitor started to back away. He was scared and wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to run but thought that might provoke a reaction. He smiled, “I’m sorry, I’ve made a mistake. You just reminded me of someone. No offence meant.”

  He turned and was met by Annabelle who had left the cottage by the back door. He looked down and saw something glint in the sharp sunlight. He squinted to try and see what she was holding, but it was too late. Annabelle held a copper poker in both hands and swung three times at the man’s head. On the third blow the raking spike stuck fast in his skull. He fell to the ground and didn’t move. Blood seeped out into the muck. The hiker’s eyes stayed open in surprise and the fading heat from his body steamed up his glasses for a final time. Annabelle looked at Ian, who nodded in approval, “Thanks.”

  Arbogast drove while Chris Guthrie continued his interrogation.

  “And you’re going to let Davidson bully you like that?”

  “No, we’re going to break the case.”

  “And what about this video?”

  “I think he’s bluffing.”

  “What if he’s not?”

  “It’s a chance I’m willing to take. I don’t like Davidson and I’m not willing to be dictated to. I can’t let him know what we’re doing because he’s looking to track down Wark himself. He told me to check out the family, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Yeah, but what about the video? That could ruin you. Is it really worth crossing him?”

  “I think so, and anyway, I’ve got other things on my mind.”

  Chris took the cue, “How’s it been with Rosalind?”

  “It could be worse, but not much.” There was a moment’s silence. Chris didn’t want to pry too much, and Arbogast wasn’t sure how much he was comfortable saying, but it was time he spoke to someone, “She had an abortion and didn’t tell me.”

  “I see.”

  “Look, you don’t need to say anything. She’s made it quite clear we don’t have a future, and she seemed to take some relish in telling me she’d already made up her mind.”

  “I don’t think Rosalind’s the type to do things out of spite.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. I’m still not 100% convinced it was mine anyway.”

  “Ach John, all that talk about Donald is being put about the office by Davidson. He’s trying to get to you.”

  “Well he’s bloody succeeding then isn’t he? All I know is that she went to Belfast to see Donald and the next thing you know she’s pregnant. What would you think?”

  “It doesn’t just happen like that.”

  Arbogast laughed, “She’s been in touch with him for weeks about her promotion. How do I know they haven’t been having an affair? What am I, some kind of mug?”

  “Don’t let yourself get too bitter about this.”

  “How else can I feel about it? Davidson said something else to me as well. He thought Annabelle might have set me up.”

  “Do you agree with him?”

  “Maybe; I thought it was a coincidence that we met that night, but what are the chances? She videoed me as well – she was ready, but I just can’t work out why. With all that’s been happening, I just haven’t been thinking straight.”

  The two sat in silence for the next 15 minutes. When they reached the outskirts of Gourock, Arbogast slowed down and let the Sat Nav direct them to the cottage.

  Annabelle held the hiker’s legs while Ian took the brunt of his weight, grabbing him under the arms.

  “Where are we going to take him?”

  “We need to get him up there,” Ian was talking about a line of rocks to the south of the cottage which dropped off from a rocky hill top to a bay which carried on for a few hundred metres.

  “We can drop him off the cliff and it’ll look like he’s fallen. We need to leave soon, but it might buy us some time. You did the right thing.”

  It took about an hour to negotiate the rough grass and rocks to reach the cliff edge. The earlier downpour had greased the ground and caused them to drop the body on several occasions. Eventually, they got to the spot at the top of the outcrop. Ian raised the body into a standing position. It was hard to keep the hiker upright, he was heavier dead. There was a sheer drop onto rocks which were constantly washed over by rough waves. The land on this side formed the start of a bay which ran round for about 300 metres. There was no beach, and this wasn’t a spot people came to. They pushed hard at the body and watched it fall head-first into the water below.

  “His name was Peter Peebles,” Ian looked back. He wasn’t sure how she knew, “I looked at his wallet – don’t worry, the sea will wash away my prints.”

  “Peter Peebles?” Do you think his parents were taking the piss?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, I don’t suppose it does. With any luck we won’t be hearing about Peter for some time. The tide should take him into the cliff edge. It might be weeks before anyone comes here to find him.”

  “He’ll be reported missing.”

  “Maybe, but not today and they certainly won’t be expecting to find him here, off the beaten track.”

  “You’d hope so.”

  “I know so, and at any rate we need to move on, so it’s not worth bothering about.”

  “How can you be so cold about it – a man’s dead? How can you be so sure we’re doing the right thing?”

  Ian looked her hard in the eyes, “We’ve come too far to do anything else. You could maybe have walked away before this but you’ve killed someone now so there’s no going back. If we see this through the repercussions will be massive. You have got to think about what we’re trying to achieve.”

  Annabelle nodded. She wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing, but she’d had an unexpected rush taking that man’s life. Ian was right. Once you crossed the line it was easier to keep going. By the time the week was out everyone would know that they had done what needed to be done for the good of the country. It was all just a matter of time.

  Arbogast drove past the cottage three times before he saw the entrance. It had been obscured by an overhanging bush. They parked the car on a grass verge and continued down the hill on foot. The tall grass which had overgrow
n the driveway had been pushed back, “It looks like someone’s been here recently. The wet grass looks like it’s been walked through. Maybe just one person though.”

  Having been given permission to carry weapons, they had both taken the precaution of bringing handguns. It was possible that Ian and Annabelle were inside; there was smoke coming from the chimney, “Looks like we might have got lucky,” Arbogast said as they moved closer.

  “We should call for backup.”

  “Not this time.”

  Arbogast edged up so that his back was against the peeling white paint of the cottage. There was a dirt track round the side of the building. At the front were two windows, one at either side of a battered black wooden door. Peering in the window he could see the lights were off. He froze and listened but heard nothing out of place. Ducking down he passed under the sill and took up position to the right of the door. Chris was on the other side. Pointing at the door with his revolver he motioned to his partner who kicked the door, which opened with a shudder. The bottom of the door caught on the ground and they had to shoulder it again. It fell off its hinges and collapsed into the cottage. The interior was dark and clouded by a plume of dust from their forced entrance. They both aimed their guns and watched for movement. There was no sound, no sign of life. Arbogast went in first, arm outstretched with gun aimed and ready. Chris followed. They went round the three rooms which made up the ground floor but found nothing. The only place left was the stairs to the top floor.

  “You going up to the attic?”

  “My hero.”

  Arbogast stood back and aimed at the dark space they could see above. Chris climbed and looked round tentatively. He reached out and pulled a cord. Light flooded the space above.

  “Can you see anything?”

  “There’s nothing here; just a couple of tables and a double bed.”

  Back outside the two men looked out to sea and realised that they’d arrived too late.

  “They were here, Chris. The wood burner is still hot. I’ll bet we find his finger prints all over the place”

  “That’s great, but where does it get us?”

  Arbogast went back into the cottage; something was missing. He looked around until his attention went back to the black metal burner. The fireside companion was missing an implement. There was no poker.

  42

  The hum of the engine was their sole point of reference as the ferry made the short journey from Largs to the island of Cumbrae. The tinted windows offered cover from prying eyes while sunglasses obscured their faces further. It was off season and traffic was light. All the same they were taking a calculated risk in making the crossing at all.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” Annabelle asked, unconvinced.

  “It’ll only be for a couple of days. I know a place here where we should be safe. Somewhere I doubt anyone will think to look.”

  And that was as far as the conversation went. Both knew what lay ahead, and the coming hours and days would provide valuable time to run through the plan until they were absolutely sure they could carry it off. Annabelle watched as the ferry turned to dock at the off ramp, the ship’s mechanics slowly lowering the gangway onto the concrete slipway. She could see that there were around half a dozen cars waiting to drive on, while a couple of people had arrived by bus. The coach was waiting at the near side of the road, waiting for fresh fares for the return journey. As the metal clanked into place, a man in a fluorescent yellow jacket gestured for the cars to move off. Ian and Annabelle made up the middle lane of the second row. The car stalled. Ian rammed the stick into first and slowly moved off onto the island. At the top of the slipway Ian took a right hand turn, away from the main town of Millport. No other traffic met them as they made their way along the two mile journey to Stinking Bay.

  “I hope it’s not as bad as it sounds?”

  “Seems appropriate enough to me,” Ian said as he pulled into a derelict looking complex of long rectangular, roughcast buildings. The entrance was barred by two white gates which were tied together with a looped piece of rope. A sign on the verge said ‘Girl Guides’.

  “You’ve got to be kidding?”

  “It’s not much too look at, and that’s exactly the point. The place isn’t used between October and April, so there’s no-one due here for months. We can park out the back and the car won’t be seen. Meanwhile there should still be canned goods in the larder. All that, and the place is connected to the grid so we’ll have power too. We’ll just have to be careful we don’t give ourselves away at night.”

  “What if someone comes? This is crazy.”

  “Trust me. We’ll have all the space we need. Now do me a favour; get out of the car and open the gate.”

  The tests at the cottage proved beyond doubt that Ian Wark had been there. His DNA was picked up in multiple locations. The Forensics team also found traces of blood in the front garden, but so far they hadn’t been able to positively identify who it belonged to. It seemed as though a car had been parked about a quarter of a mile away. Thick muddy tracks suggested it had been parked off-road. Other than that, they were none the wiser.

  “What are they up to, Chris?” Arbogast said.

  “Blood on the ground and a missing poker sized weapon. You don’t need to be Agatha Christie to come up with a theory for that one.”

  Arbogast stood outside and scanned the immediate area. The cottage was in a pretty bad way, with plenty of missing slates and decaying masonry crying out for some TLC. But there didn’t appear to have been much sign of life. In the background he could see that some of the grass had been disturbed. Possibly an animal had made its way through the gorse. Walking across to the start of the bluff, Arbogast could see it was something bigger, “I think I’ve found something.”

  “What is it?” Chris Guthrie was in no hurry and made his way across the yard with his usual loping gait. Once there, he saw what his colleague had been excited about, “Looks like something large has been dragged up there.”

  “It could be Annabelle.”

  “That would mean there was someone else involved too. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think. It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe someone turned up here that shouldn’t have?”

  “Maybe; best take a look,” The two men skirted around the trail and picked up the track at the top of the bluff. The sound of waves crashing against rock was louder from their vantage point. Arbogast didn’t like heights, but forced himself to peer out over the edge.

  “It’s a long way down.”

  “There’s nothing there, though, John. Maybe they had second thoughts?”

  “Perhaps, but I think we should call in the divers all the same. We need to be sure we’re not missing something.” Chris called in the specialists while Arbogast looked out onto the Firth of Clyde. As a heavy curtain of rain swept along the horizon, the distant islands on the Firth of Clyde were shrouded in mist.

  Graeme Donald was called to Bute House for a personal audience with the First Minister at five o’clock that night. It was already dark by the time he set off from Glasgow, with the traffic in Edinburgh not helping to lighten his mood. The final stages of tram works meant there was still a series of diversions around town, with journey times much longer than expected. He rarely ventured through to the east coast and cursed his slow progress. He texted his office and asked them to make his apologies. He was going to be late.

  “Like to keep a man waiting?” The First Minister glanced at his watch. He stood by the window and looked out into Charlotte Square. He wasn’t happy. Craig McAlmont sat in a black leather chair at the opposite end of the room; he was only there as an observer.

  “What’s happening with this case – are you any nearer actually catching these people?”

  “We’ve traced them to Gourock, but they’ve moved on. It’s possible one of them may have been injured. We have divers searching—”

  “—divers? Have these animals not done enough damage already? I need
to start seeing actual progress. I’ve staked my own reputation on this, and when I brought you over to lead the force I expected to see results. Maybe we were hasty in getting rid of Norrie Smith. At least he was loyal.”

  “We’re getting closer.”

  “I should bloody well hope so. Let’s be clear about this if we don’t get a result you’ll be the first to know about it. Do we understand each other?”

  “It couldn’t be clearer.”

  “Tomorrow I’m going to be announcing more money from the proceeds of crime bill will be diverted to fund this investigation. I’m giving you a million pounds to do whatever is necessary.”

  “Thank you, sir, it will be—”

  “—yes it will, and it had better get results. From the sounds of it we’re only dealing with a few people here. So far the only people the public are really aware of are a couple of old men, a modern day veteran, and an IT girl. The media are asking a lot of questions about their motivation, and to tell you the truth I just don’t know why anyone in their right mind would do this.”

  “We think it’s a radical nationalist campaign.”

  The First Minister moved forward to stare down Donald. He was a tall, lean man, who drank too much coffee. His breath was overpowering and Graeme had to work hard to stop himself from gagging, “I won’t thank you if you insist on playing up the nationalist card. You’ll be aware we’re gearing up for a small vote next year. I don’t need to remind you how important that is to this administration.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Should this case be linked to a few fringe individuals they will be dealt with but let’s be clear; they are terrorists and murderers – nothing more. Agreed?”

  “Loud and clear. We’ve got our best team working on this and I’m sure we’ll break the case before long.”

  The First Minister was looking out across Edinburgh, with his back turned to the room, “For all our sakes I hope that you’re right.”