PC James Kerr waited at the top of the landing, ‘No sign of the boss – she must be on the bloody mobile again.’ After five minutes passed and when she hadn’t made an appearance he thought he had better check. Returning to the floor below, he scanned down the corridor. There was no sign of life.
Although Arbogast was only a few hundred feet from the Red Road flats the traffic system was laid out in a way which meant it took him 15 minutes to get there. A combination of traffic lights, wrong turns, and a bad sense of direction meant he went round in circles for some time. When, eventually, he spotted Anah Uday by the side of the road it came as something of a relief. He slowed down the car but Anah walked off into the foyer of one of the blocks, he obviously did not want to be seen. Arbogast parked and followed suit. The set up in this block was similar to the one he had just left but this time the concierge was both available and on site. He nodded to Arbogast as Anah Uday led him into a small room at the back of the office which was dominated by a large pine desk with chairs on either side. There was a perspex screen down the middle of the room and another set of chairs on the other side of the barrier which cut the room in two. The sign on the door signalled this was a ‘community help zone’ although the advisors obviously did not want to get too close to the locals.
“I think I might have something for your information,” Anah Uday said, in his broken English
“The concierge?”
“You need not concern yourself with him, he is of no matter. It is what I can help you with that will be of interest. My friend says there have been many unknown faces here in the last few days. Most of the new arrivals are seeking asylum. Few people choose to live in this area now and as you can see it is slowly becoming a ghetto, well out of the sight of the ‘good people of Glasgow’. But there have been many new white faces seen here in the blocks opposite. My friend tells me most are Eastern European. We had many Poles here some years ago but not so much now. My friend says they all women. There is one woman he says is different from the rest. She has darker skin and darker hair, the rest are blonde.”
“Would he be able to recognise her?”
“This he will not do but I have shown him the picture and he says he is sure it is the same woman – if not her then very similar.”
Arbogast’s heart was racing. He turned away from Anah Uday and tried to think.
“And your friend...where does he say this woman is?” Arbogast said, his body still facing the wall but he turned his head round for effect.
“She was in this Tower three nights ago, in Tower 11 the next day and in Tower 12 last night. She seems to move each day. This is why my friend has noticed. It seems odd, yes?”
“Yes it does. I think you’ve earned your money today. Does your friend have a description of the man who has been with her?”
“He said it was difficult to tell as they always wear baseball caps to mask their faces. He said he was pretty sure that last night it was an older man from the way he walked; he was not like the others. If Mr Madoch’s flats are being used he has property on the 14th, 18th, 22nd and top floors of the building,” Anah Uday passed a slip of paper with a series of floors and flat numbers, “and this is all I can tell you.”
Arbogast tried to raise Ying but her phone was ringing out so he phoned HQ and spoke to Norrie Smith.
“I have an update for you sir. I think I might have found the mother, Hanom. I understand the mobile phone was tracked to the Red Road flats but she might be in Tower 12. I think I should go and have a look.” There was a silence at the other end that Arbogast put down to indecision. He knew they needed to act now.
“DCI Ying has been going door-to-door in Tower 12.” the Chief said, “I think you better get over there. Be warned though the lifts are out of order.”
Arbogast ran out of the building and raced to Tower 12. He should have remembered the weather. The paths had been cleared of snow but the pavement remained treacherous. As Arbogast sped along he did not notice the black ice underfoot until it was too late. His feet gave way beneath him and his whole body collapsed, his head smashing off the side of a rough cast wall. As he lay flat on his back he looked up at the towering blocks in front of him when he realised that there was something wrong. There was smoke coming from one of the flats. As he counted the floors to the fire he already knew the unlucky number was going to be 22. As he picked himself up and carried on he hoped his fears would count for little.
***
Onur Kocack had accepted the invitation from Eric Sanderson gladly. This business with the police had unnerved him. Everything was supposed to be dealt with at this end and he had not expected to hear from his wife for some time. Although the initial plan was to have the family back together very quickly there had been problems and he had been forced to wait it out. He had been checking the web pages of the Turkish press and nothing much more seemed to have come from the assassination, with the investigation having so far turned up nothing of note. There was nothing about him at all save from a piece saying he had been unable to return to work through stress. ‘Are they looking for me –why did I agree to come here?’ Eric had driven him to his home after they had levelled one site for Turbine 102. Sanderson had apologised too many times for the state of his mobile home but Onur said it did not matter to him and that it was good to get out of his own house. When they arrived it was already dark and he had been surprised, despite the warnings, that Eric was living in such a dilapidated old caravan. Onur knew that he made good money and that he must be able to afford something better. As the two men settled into the evening Eric spent the night plying Onur with what he claimed was the best whisky Scotland had to offer. The Laphroig had been hard to take at first but as the night went on he relaxed more and they had enjoyed a night of good food and tall tales. It was well into the evening when Onur realised he had said more than he had meant to, more than he had mentioned to anyone else. He told Eric about his plight and his family who he missed. He told Eric that he had been horrified to learn they were here somewhere in Scotland but that no-one had come forward to let him know. Eric had listened as he had poured over the media coverage and cried when he had recounted what they were saying about his wife and daughter. Onur explained that the police seemed to think he was involved but even he didn’t understand what role he had played in the whole sorry saga. The police had asked about John Madoch but what would he know?
Eric had listened and stayed quiet because Eric knew more than he was letting on. He knew that Madoch had dealings on the continent, knew that he was unscrupulous with money, and knew that he owed him more than he could ever pay back. Eric knew, and it was at that moment that he made the decision to do something about it. Onur would be the first to learn his secret but it was a secret that would not pay to be kept for too long. As the night went on and the whisky went down decisions were made.
He left John Clark in the living room on top of an old foam sofa, material which was not made to resist the naked flame. He knew that he would need to act fast as the area was already swarming with police. He consoled himself with the fact that they did not really know what they were looking for and they would never think to connect a travelling family to their investigation. He had offered to let the policewoman ‘Ying’ leave if she could but she seemed a little under the weather, no doubt she had taken something that did not agree with her. The two of them would look, at first, like two junkies who had gone wrong, which would give him enough time to cover his tracks. He had crossed over to the flat where he was keeping Hanom, who was to share another fate entirely. She would pass quite nicely for an old lady in a wheelchair that had been left behind by the previous owner. He used plastic cable tags to secure her hands and feet to the metal frame and then covered these with a long skirt and gloves. He masked her with a headscarf, while he made sure her face was looking down. For extra docility he had used a dose of rohipnol he kept for special occasions, perhaps he’d use it twice today. ‘Let’s see how this goes first before getting too car
ried away.’ Before he left he gathered what passed for furniture in the flat and piled it together in the living room. It was old – old and dried out – which would be ideal for his purposes. He emptied a can of lighter fluid and lit it. He sat and watched for a few seconds as the flames took hold. This was the best part of a fire, when the bright orange flames raged powerful and pure, working their way up into an unstoppable inferno. The flat would soon be consumed by smoke and it would be a while before anyone was any the wiser about what had actually happened. As he left, pushing his quarry in front of him, he smiled at how well it had all been going but knew he still had a lot to do. For security he had threatened that fat slob of a concierge with a nice new smile if he didn’t play along. He knew he was connected and had passed on his key for the lift which had been ‘out of service’ now for several days. And now as he reactivated his own private express he dropped down to the 18th floor and collected the girl from her latest bolt hole. She had been excited and asked again if it was time to see mummy. ‘Yes,’ he had replied ‘and much sooner than you think.’ As they sailed down the floors the police were still going up by foot. No-one noticed as a man in a baseball cap with his daughter bundled up with hat and scarf for winter pushed an old woman out to the waiting taxi. They would see it later on when looking back at the CCTV footage, but by then it would be too late, far too late.
Arbogast felt light headed and he struggled to reach Tower 12. He thought he had only grazed his head but slowly he had felt the hot blood seep from the wound and drip down into his eyes. His head stung but he forced himself on. He stopped for a second when the window exploded above, with flames and thick black smoke billowing out of the flat and trying to make their way up. At the same time a black Range Rover passed him which he tried to flag down for help but it carried on driving, “Bastards”. When he got into the lobby he was surprised to see that the lift was working and that the doors were still open despite what the Chief had told him. Arbogast stood inside and pressed 22 but nothing happened. He noticed the doors had been jammed open and so pulled them together and pressed the button. On 22 he could see the smoke was already starting to fill the corridor and was seeping under a door about halfway down the corridor. As he kicked in the door the rush of air into the room caused a surge of flame which nearly knocked him over. He forced the first door open and saw a figure slumped on the bed. It was Rosalind but she was not moving.
“I’m too late.” Arbogast dragged his colleague out from the flat and into the hall before returning to the apartment to see if there was anyone else there. He looked in the other rooms but couldn’t see anyone. In the bathroom the shower curtain had been pulled right round and there was no sign of life. The air was thin now and he was struggling to breathe in the heat. Creeping along the floor he heard another crash as more windows gave way in the front of the flat. Arbogast wondered if the building had gas and knew he had to leave. In the corridor he made to smash the fire alarm but it had been vandalised and was out of order. Exhausted he collapsed on the floor with Rosalind’s head on his lap. In the distance he could hear the faint sirens of what he hoped would be the Fire and Rescue teams.
It was visiting hour at the Royal Infirmary but as usual no-one had come to see Mary. It seemed she had no-one and was allowed no visitors anyway. ‘No matter, I’ll be leaving soon and then we’ll see who the victim in this really is.’ Mary’s mind had turned to her past and the secret place which had ruined her life. ‘This time though, it’ll be different. This time I’ll be the one in charge.’ Mary waited until she knew the shifts were due to change then prepared for what she knew she had to do. There could be no turning back.
17
Istanbul, Turkey, October 7th 2009
Hanom was awake but she kept her eyes closed. Her first instinct was to listen. ‘What was it that woke me?’ As a rule Hanom slept with the curtains open so that she was woken naturally by sunlight each day – it had become a habit after Kovan was born. Hanom got up and crept over to the bedroom door. She had felt uneasy since Karim had shattered their family lives. He said he would be back and perhaps this was the time. All she wanted was a quiet life but it seemed she had little say in the matter. Listening intently she could tell there was no movement in the hall and that Kovan was still fast asleep in her room. Her father slept on the ground floor. But there it was again, a slight sound, a quiet rumbling as if someone was moving around below her. The stairs in the house ran up the left hand side of the building with connecting doors on each floor making their way off the painted limestone interior walls. Looking down she could see there was smoke coming from the second floor, and she had to cover her mouth to stop herself from choking. She knew she shouldn’t open the door, that the air would make things worse so she ran back up stairs. Kovan was still asleep and was lying on her front with both her hands stretched out in front of her with her hands buried between a wall of pillows as if she was flying. Hanom shook her daughter violently.
“We must get up now darling, but don’t worry everything will be fine.”
Kovan was not naturally good tempered first thing and did not look pleased to be woken. Hanom grabbed the pile of yesterday’s clothes from the floor and lifted her daughter, covering her in the sheets she slept in. When Kovan saw the smoke in the hall she stiffened.
“What’s happening mummy, has there been an accident, is our house OK?”
“We must leave because of a little fire but don’t worry we’ll phone for help once we’re safe.” Hanom stroked the side of Kovan’s cheek to reassure her. This was something that usually calmed her daughter but Hanom could see that the fear was starting to build. Crossing over the threshold and out into the cool night air Hanom allowed for a sigh of relief. She needed to go back for her father. Breathing heavily to try and calm herself down the Kocack women would have seemed calm to a passerby. The fire itself could not yet be seen from the street.
“It will spread soon.” The voice startled Hanom and she jumped at the sound, clutching Kovan through fright.
“It’s too tight mummy, you’re hurting me,” but Hanom wasn’t listening.
“Karim, tell me this wasn’t you. Tell me that you wouldn’t stoop so low?”
The question hung between them like a corpse on the gallows. Karim looked as if he was about to explain, to put her mind at rest, and for a second he looked like the Karim of old. But the dark cloud returned and he took a step back gesturing for them to follow.
“You must come now. If you want to be reunited with your husband and if you don’t want to die, you must come.”
Kovan was weeping into her mother’s shoulder. She had never seen adults behave like this before and it scared her. Hanom looked up at the second floor, the flames just visible now under the window. She knew she had to leave, that what lay ahead was uncertain, but at that moment she was sure of one thing: that any love she may ever have held for her brother in law was now lost. If he perished in this fire he had brought on their lives she would be glad of it. She stepped forward and could see there was a waiting car to the side of the house. Another man was in the driving seat. He nodded to her in acknowledgement. Hanom turned and stood face-to-face with Karim before spitting hard. He stood, unmoved, as the saliva ran down his face watching Hanom and Kovan then he smiled.
“Your carriage awaits my princess,” he said grabbing her arm, “and before you ask the answer is yes.” Karim looked up at the house then down on Hanom and Kovan who were now sat in the back of the car, “Yes your father is dead.”
By the time the alarm was raised it was already too late as the rickety old wooden house in Istanbul quickly burned away. The dry, brittle wood cladding sparked like kindling and the house burned like a searchlight in the night. The blaze meant that the rest of the street was evacuated due to the danger of the fire spreading through that close knit community. The fire was not brought under control until late that afternoon and by the time the forensics team arrived there was little left to investigate. The structure had collapsed
in on itself and down into the basement. It was another 13 hours before the body was found, and another four days before the blaze was explained as having been the result of an electrical fire.
Glasgow, Scotland, February 22nd 2010
The paramedic found Arbogast collapsed in the hallway of the 22nd floor of Tower 12 with Rosalind Ying unconscious with her head in his lap. At first he thought they might be dead but the Detective’s sudden burst of fury suggested otherwise.
“Don’t waste time on me take a look at her,” Arbogast said. Underneath the soot Rosalind had turned an unnatural shade of blue. The paramedic rolled up her sleeve and nodded.
“What is it?” Arbogast said, concerned and frustrated he could not do more to help.
“Does this woman have a history of drug misuse sir?” Arbogast stared at her blankly before replying as calmly as he could.
“She is a Detective Chief Inspector with Strathclyde Police – she does not use drugs.”
“Then I’m afraid that someone has introduced her to the habit. She appears to be overdosing.”
The stretcher arrived and Rosalind Ying was thrown onto it unceremoniously before the paramedics disappeared back down the stairwell. Arbogast followed in convoy. They left in separate ambulances.
“She’s in good hands now and the hospital is less than five minutes away. I’d say she has more than a fighting chance of pulling through and she’s lucky to be alive.”
Arbogast thought that was a phrase he seemed to be hearing more and more these days.
Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) Page 15