Authors: Campbell Hart
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Crime Fiction, #Noir
The Nationalist
The Nationalist
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Campbell Hart 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form without the prior permission of the publisher.
Cover design: Tim Byrne
1
Glasgow, November 11th, 2013 – Remembrance Sunday
The explosion ripped through the veterans with a vengeance, killing 14 people in an instant and injuring many more. DI John Arbogast was knocked back by the impact, his head cracking off the grey tarmac of George Square. He lay still for a few moments, trying to work out what had just happened.
He’d been standing in formation with a division of uniformed officers when a bomb exploded at the Cenotaph; the remains of the standard bearers were strewn across the enclosure, their blood staining the white granite a deep red. Moments before the memorial had been observing the two minute silence, the solemn peace shattered by the strength of the blast. Staring into space, John noticed that the giant head of one of the statues of ceremonial lions had cracked down the middle, splitting one of the eyes in two.
“What the fuck just happened?”
For what seemed like an age the gathered crowd remained in silence. Those fortunate enough not to have been injured stood and looked on in horror. The wounded started to move, groaning in disbelief and emerging pain. The Cenotaph was a scene of bloody mayhem; a desecration.
As Arbogast looked round he noticed a solitary figure walking away from the square towards Frederick Street. Getting to his feet he realised something wasn’t right.
“Stop!” he shouted. The stranger turned round. “I’m a police officer. Stop right now.”
The man ran.
“Shit,” Arbogast said, taking his radio from his pocket he called into Control to report, “There’s been a major incident at George Square; multiple casualties. I’m in pursuit of a suspect. He’s six-foot-tall; white; male; wearing dark blue jeans; a hooded navy top, and white Converse trainers. The suspect is running towards the Merchant City; currently on Frederick Street; request back up; will update.”
Arbogast was running hard. A mass of people were now making their way to the square, their sense of curiosity drawing them to the city centre to see the unfolding drama. As he ran Arbogast felt his chest tighten; he wasn’t as fit as he should be and the extra pounds were starting to bite. A woman pulled her son back as he passed. She shouted something at him but he couldn’t hear her; wasn’t listening. Past the casino and onto Glassford Street Arbogast saw his quarry dart down Garth Street, past Rab Ha’s. He picked up the pace. A blue Audi screeched to a halt as he tore across the street, the window winding down as the driver chided ‘to watch where you’re going, maniac,’ Then onto Wilson Street. Where’s he gone? Arbogast jogged on, trying to catch his breath. A thin film of sweat was dripping from his brow; he wiped it off with his jacket sleeve. The sound of multiple sirens wailed in the background.
Looking south down Brunswick Street, Arbogast saw movement. A heras fence wrapped around a partially demolished department store was swaying and out of place. It had been pushed back.
“There’s nowhere to run now you bastard.” Arbogast contacted control. “The suspect is currently inside the old Goldberg’s building on Brunswick Street. I need the Armed Response Unit here immediately. I have reason to believe the suspect may be armed.”
Knowing he was doing the wrong thing Arbogast dodged round the security fence and made his way into the building. Inside the stench of decay was everywhere. The store had, in its day, been one of the biggest in the city. Closed now for 20 years the site was gradually being torn down. He came to what would once have been the central courtyard. The opposite side of the block had its exterior wall missing. You could see the building’s past life. Interiors painted red and yellow clashed against spartan corridor walls. Wires hung loose, holding masonry in a state of suspended animation, swinging freely in the wind. Then a face. The man was on the third floor. He was a fast mover. The stairwell was exposed, cracked, and dangerous, but it seemed to be the only way up. With his back to the wall Arbogast sidled up the steps, one at a time; with his hands spread back behind him for support. Dust sieved down into the bright light of the courtyard.
“You won’t get out of here. Give yourself up. This doesn’t need to end with more death.”
“Leave me alone.” The voice was trembling, but defiant.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Arbogast paused, “Do you know what you’ve done? How many people have died? What were you thinking? What could possibly be worth it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. That was nothing to do with me.”
“Why did you run then?”
“I saw you looking at me; I knew I didn’t have a choice.”
Arbogast couldn’t see who he was speaking to. He was on the second floor landing. His clothes clung to his skin; the speed of the pursuit had left him breathless. Outside he could hear approaching voices. A rumble of shouted instructions in the background told him the Armed Response Unit had arrived.
Arbogast pressed on, “This is all getting a bit real now. I don’t know what you were expecting but right now there are a lot of people coming your way. Unlike me, though, they won’t have much time for being messed around.”
On the third floor, to his immediate left, the wall had been demolished; he was standing in what would once have been a corridor. Fire safety posters remained pinned to the wall. A whiteboard held details of a long-forgotten rota. The floor was covered in speckled grey linoleum. About 20 feet away a white fire door barred the way.
“I’m not coming with you. Nothing good will happen. I’m not taking the blame for this. You people are fucking warped.”
“This has nothing to do with me,” Arbogast said. Standing with his back to the wall he opened the door. It was spring loaded and heavier than he expected. He held the door open and counted. One...two...three...four...five. Nothing happened. Walking through into the next room, he discovered what would once have been the sales floor. A number of ancient mannequins were scattered around the space, which was covered in a sodden black carpet. Above, through a large section of collapsed roofing, a Police helicopter hovered into sight. In the courtyard below around a dozen armed police had taken up positions, with more streaming up the stairs. The sound of the helicopter was becoming oppressive.
“You have no more options. Get down on the ground; you’re coming with me,” Arbogast said. He walked forward, hands raised in a conciliatory gesture. The man edged backwards, towards another exposed section of wall. Suddenly he stopped and reached into the pocket of his hooded top. Arbogast saw the man grasp at something and he threw himself to the floor. The helicopter was directly above them. The noise of the rotors was deafening. Arbogast looked up to see a surprised look on the man’s face. He was holding a mobile phone. A dark patch was forming on the front of his jumper. He fell back through the hole in the wall and was gone from sight. Arbogast’s radio crackled back into life. ‘Shot on target. Suspect is down.
2
“So who was he?” Arbogast was standing over the lifeless body of the man he had been pursuing. The suspect had fallen onto a pile of rubble; his back was twisted at an unnatural angle. A single shot from a police marksman had shredded his heart, bringing his short life to a premature end.
“He’s young; only looks about 20.” Arbogast was talking to Jim Reid, head of the response unit.
“We had to fire John. Given what’s just happened it looked like he was reaching for a gun. We had no choice.”
Arbogast could see the pleading in his eyes. Jim was looking for reassurance that he had done the right thing. They both knew there would be an investigation. “Yeah except he didn’t have a gun did he? In fact he said this had nothing to with him.”
“Why run then?”
“That’s what I asked.”
“What did he say?”
“He didn’t get the chance to answer.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s too late for sorry,” Arbogast regretted injecting so much venom to the comment and tried to calm his anger and softened his tone, “Does he have any ID?”
“A wallet; his name was Charles Denby – address is 43 Wilton Street.”
“West end; I’ll get a team out there now.” A large crowd was gathering around the building. The city centre was awash with people who didn’t know what to do. Given the Remembrance Day service was being filmed for TV, pictures were now being beamed around the world. It was being reported that a terror attack had claimed multiple casualties. George Square was cordoned off. Barriers were being put up so that the public could not see what was going on. The immediate focus switched to the department store where it was being reported that the bomber had been killed.
“What happened here?”
Arbogast hadn’t met the reporter before. A young girl from a local radio station had thrust a microphone in his face as he made his way back to the square. He looked ahead and brushed away the microphone, “No comment. We’ll be making a statement soon. All queries through the comms team at Pitt Street please.”
“Comms team? You’ve got to be kidding. This is happening now. There are thousands of people in the city centre. People that are scared – people who need answers.”
“Well we don’t have answers do we?”
It was 11:30am. The last half hour had passed in a blur. As he left the reporter behind he noticed a group of other journalists had gathered round her to ask what he had said.
***
George Square looked like a war zone. The television crew from STV were working with Police Scotland.
“We were just filming the service, the same as every year.”
Rebecca Jones had been working the camera and was providing footage on a pooled basis for broadcast. Watching the tape back the investigation team were starting to piece together the sequence of events.