The Nationalist (23 page)

“What’s wrong?” He could see Annabelle was flustered.

“This is what’s wrong,” she threw down the newspapers. Ian looked at the front page. It was an old picture of him from his army days. He wore a peaked military cap and uniform.

“I’ve not seen that picture for a while.”

“Is that all you can say? They’re on to you Ian. They’re looking for you; we can’t stay here.”

“This was always going to happen, but we’ll be OK for a while. No-one knows about this place.”

“The woman in the shop was asking questions. This is a village; they know everyone and if they know about you what’s to say it won’t be my picture appearing in the paper tomorrow. Especially after the mess you left at the flat. I still don’t know why you did that.”      

“They don’t know what they’re dealing with yet. But it might help you. They might think you’re a victim.”

“But you know that’s not why I’m here.”

“So why are you here?”

“I’m here for you. We need to see this through.”

“Good, there’s not long to go before we have to commit ourselves; we’re in it for the long haul.”

Back at Espedair Street Arbogast found Ian Davidson in the bedroom at the back of the flat, looking around intently. He wanted to give the impression that he was hard at work but Arbogast had seen him looking out of the front window when they arrived, so he must have moved to try to make some kind of point. It didn’t take long before he knew what it was.

“Recognise this room, John?”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I said, do you recognise this room?”

“I was here earlier, if that’s what you mean?”

“It seems you’ve been here a few times already.”

Arbogast started to feel uneasy. What does he know?

“You’re thinking about what I might know; well I won’t keep you guessing for long.”

“Ian, if you don’t mind, we’ve all got a lot to do at the moment, and I don’t see how your cryptic quiz is helping things.”

Davidson had moved round to the side table and was pawing at the rubber plant, “There’s a camera in here.”

“I phoned that in. I wanted to see if there were more. Has anything turned up?”

“Not yet, but it’s this room I’m interested in,” Davidson crouched down so that his weight was balanced on his toes, “You get a great view of the bed from here don’t you?”

“I suppose so, but enough of the mystery man routine. What’s the plant got to do with anything?”

“You’ve got a biblical knowledge of this bed and I know you know the girl that lives here too. About as well as any man can.”

“What are you trying to say?” He knew what was coming, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“I’ve got video evidence of you on this bed; evidence which could ruin your career. I was surprised they let you back after the email episode, and I know Donald’s seen this tape.”

“What’s your point?”

“Why did you come back?”

“I thought Annabelle was in danger.”

“So you admit you know her?”

“I knew her a long time ago. We met recently by chance. I’d had too much to drink and then, well, then the video surfaced. I don’t know why she did that.”

“It all seems pretty obvious. A terror attack against the armed forces, three Police targeted through violence and a media campaign, and radical nationalism – throw it all together and you’re left with quite a potent mix.”

Arbogast laughed, “What, are we talking revolution here? Have you gone mental? There’s no evidence of a larger terror cell, and there’s certainly no appetite for an armed struggle. Most likely, this will turn out to be a small group of misguided people who have convinced themselves, for whatever reason, that they’re doing the right thing. I think Annabelle Strachan has been taken against her will.”

“Because of Norrie Smith?”

“What would you know about that?”

“He phoned in with new evidence. One of the IT people at Pitt Street came in and admitted hacking your accounts. Says this guy Wark put her up to it. Norrie told Donald that Ian Wark was also in close with your girl Strachan. That she’d given him the video to set you up; that you’d got Norrie to follow her. It looks like that whatever happened here all ties back to you.”

“I bumped into Annabelle in the pub, it was a coincidence, not premeditated.”

“Can you be sure about that? Sounds like you’ve been set up. Worse than that, it sounds as if you haven’t even considered the possibility.”

He was right, it wasn’t something Arbogast had thought about. How could Annabelle have known he would be in the pub? She had been waiting for friends, though, that’s what she’d said. Arbogast didn’t know what to think anymore. Could Annabelle be mixed up with Wark again? He knew they had been involved in the past but from what Norrie had told him there didn’t seem to be any love lost between them now.

“Are you listening to me?” The voice brought Arbogast back, “Hello, is there anyone there?”

“Sorry Ian, I was just thinking about what you said.”

“I’ll bet you were, and you’d be wise to keep on doing that. What I need you to know is that this is my case now. Donald and Ying may be pulling the strings, but it’s me that’s going to seal the deal. If you get in my way the video will find its way into the public domain, leaving you out in the cold and with no way back. Do you understand?”

“I think you’ve made your point.”

“Good, well I want you to chase down your girlfriend’s family and see if they have heard from her recently. I want to know what they say before you file a report. In the meantime I’ll lead the search for Wark.”

“What do you expect to gain from this?”

“I expect you to get what’s coming to you.”

Arbogast watched as Davidson left the room. He stood in the living room and followed his progress along the road where he stopped to speak to Sandy at the cordon. You didn’t leave after all. He stiffened when he saw the cameraman move into position, with the bright light from the kit illuminating his colleague.

Sandy began with the perfunctory introductory question, “If you could give me your name and position for the purposes of the tape we’ll make sure and give you the credit due.”

Ian knew he was being flattered, but he warmed to the technique all the same, “Detective Inspector, Ian Davidson, chief investigating officer for the George Square terror attack.”

“Detective Inspector, you’re here in Paisley today in relation to the terror case. Can you give us an update on where you are with the investigation?”

“While it’s too early to disclose specific details, I can confirm we’re here in relation to the case.”

“If you didn’t want to give specific details we wouldn’t be talking. I can see that a house is cordoned off. Having spoken to locals here it would seem you have been searching the flat of one Annabelle Strachan – is that right?”

“I can confirm we are searching a property in relation to our investigation. We believe the owner of the flat has connections which are relevant to the case. So far, however, she has been unavailable for questioning.”

“Does that mean you have her and she won’t talk, or that she just isn’t there?”

Ian stopped and thought for a couple of seconds, in line with his media training, “We currently have no-one in custody in relation to this case.”

“But is she connected to the man you’re looking for – this Ian Wark?”

“We believe there is a connection between the two and would be keen to speak to anyone who can assist us with this investigation.”

“What’s the response been like for your call for information to help track down Ian Wark?”

“We are currently pursuing a number of positive lines of enquiry and expect to make progress in this case in the coming days. Finding the person or persons responsible for the horrifying acts we have seen in the last few days is our number one priority. They will be caught, but we may need your help. If you have any information which could assist us, please phone the Crimestoppers helpline as a matter of urgency.”

The interview was played out in full on the news channel every 15 minutes for the next four hours. The footage was also available online. Ian Davidson smiled as he saw how many mentions his name was getting through the Police Scotland media monitoring service. So far his profile was in the ascendency. All he needed to do now was close the case.

Ian Wark had been in the cottage for three days and had spent most of his time in bed with Annabelle. They both knew they couldn’t afford to be seen in public. Ian’s face had been plastered across the press and he would be easy to spot. He hadn’t shaved for the last few days and was now starting to look the way he wanted – unrecognisable. Using kitchen scissors and disposable razors he had shaved his head.

“I’d hardly know it’s you.”

“Thank you Miss Strachan; just the reassurance I was looking for. But the fun’s over now, we’re going to need to get moving.”

Annabelle nodded, she knew the plan, but it was risky and she had doubts about whether they’d be able to pull it off, “Are you sure we’re going to be able to do this?”

“It’s all in hand. We can’t stay here; they’ll find out about this place soon and if we’re here when they come, this whole thing will come crashing down around us. The plan’s in place and we need to stick to it. You should try and change your appearance too. I see on the internet that they’ve been searching your house. They’re looking for you although they seem to think you’ve been taken hostage. How does it feel to be my prisoner?”

Annabelle smiled, “Every cloud and all that. What would you have me do?”

Ian took her hands and led her in a mock dance around the living room. They both laughed until Ian froze, “What’s the matter? Let go of me, you’re hurting my arm.”

“I saw someone at the window. There’s someone outside.”

Arbogast had never met Annabelle’s family. Their relationship had never been that deep, and they had been happy to keep things simple. Looking through her files he could see only her sister was still alive. Irene Strachan lived in Derby. She was single and worked as a primary teacher. Arbogast phoned her.

“Hello, who is this, do you know what time it is?”

“I’m sorry for the late hour, Miss Strachan but I’m afraid it’s urgent. My name is DI John Arbogast. I’m phoning from Police Scotland. I need to speak to you about your sister.”

“Arbogast. Why do I know that name?”

“I knew Annabelle some time ago.”

“Oh, it’s you. You buggered off and left her to get an abortion after you’d had your way with her.”

Arbogast feigned ignorance, “It wasn’t quite like that. We were both very young.”

“The family had a name for you. We called you ‘The Arsehole.’ Why should I speak to you?”

“Annabelle’s in trouble and you may be able to help. Have you heard from her?”

“I don’t need to speak to you about my sister.”

“What do you think you’ll say if she turns up dead?”

There was a pause on the line, “Is that likely?”

“I’m sure you’ve seen the papers. The man we think she’s with is dangerous.”

“Ian’s not dangerous.”

“You’ve met him?”

“I met him in Glasgow once. He was going with Annie at that point. He seemed a nice guy. I don’t see him as a threat.”

“All those people in George Square would probably see him as a threat.”

“So YOU say.”

“This is serious, Irene. We need to find her. Is there anywhere you can think of that Annabelle might go?”

“Look Detective, Annabelle never went anywhere. She was a workaholic. She wouldn’t even go on holiday save for the cottage and she hasn’t even been going there recently.”

“What cottage?”

“Mum and dad have a bolthole down near Gourock. They bought it in the 60s and did it up, but in the end they couldn’t really afford to maintain it properly so it’s pretty run down. We don’t really use it anymore.”

“Do you think Annabelle would go there?”

“Annabelle came to hate the cottage. She said it was too secluded, too cut off. It was about a mile out of town so the only shop near them was a tiny grocers; I don’t think she’d go there to escape from anything.”

By the time Arbogast hung up his hopes were raised that he might yet be able to beat Davidson at his own game. He found Chris Guthrie nursing a coffee in the canteen and explained what he thought they should do.

41

Ian Wark opened the cottage door and found himself facing an older man wearing a blue Kagool. It had been raining and rivulets of water ran down the waterproof material. The hood was up, and his glasses were blurred with rain and smeared by the blustery wind.

“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.”