Referendum

by Campbell Hart

  “Mrs McMahon’s had enough to think about these last few days without scumbags like you sniffing about her front door looking to make things worse. What’s your name?”

  The Irishman looked back; the scraggy lines at the side of his eyes crumpling into thick folds as he sneered back, “The name’s Niall Murphy and I can assure you I am completely legit. Check me out, you’ll see. Nice meeting you.”

  “I’ll be watching out for you, Niall. If anything happens to Mrs McMahon, you’ll be the one I come looking for.”

  Niall Murphy walked off down the street waving a mock salute back to the house. He’d parked but he didn’t want his car to be seen; didn’t think it was a good idea to give away so much information unnecessarily. He’d be back. It was just a matter of time.

  “What was all that about – do you owe money?” Arbogast had turned back to his host; he knew there was nothing much he could do.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Is that why you were lifted? Trying to steal cash to pay them back? There are ways of handling this and you’re obviously not coping.”

  Lorna had had enough. It had been a long day and things kept getting worse, “I don’t need a fucking lecture from you. I’ve lost just about everything; look around you it’s not exactly a show home is it?” Lorna let it out, it felt good to shout, it helped that she didn’t know this man; it didn’t matter that he was a cop, it was probably better. There’d be no comeback.

  Arbogast stayed calm, “We can help. If this guy’s muscle, looking to extort money from you, we can help.”

  “We signed a contract.”

  “Horace signed a contract.”

  “It was a joint commitment.”

  “But Horace is dead. Is that what you want for yourself? 25 grand is a lot of money.”

  The mention of the money changed the tone of the conversation. Looking to the filing cabinet, Lorna knew he’d been snooping. They’re all the bloody same.

  “I think you’d better leave.”

  “What about your daughter?”

  “I’ll do anything I need to do to find her, but it won’t be through you. Now go.”

  As the door slammed behind him Arbogast shook his head; she was going to be a victim of her own pigheadedness.

  At the bottom of the street Niall Murphy watched as the cop drove off. It was time to get back to business.

  Sandy Stirrit bit the bullet and went straight to Pitt Street. He needed to talk to John Arbogast. When he got there he was told he wasn’t in.

  “He won’t be long. He was in court this morning but he should be back soon,” Chris Guthrie offered to call him but Sandy said he’d wait. An hour later he was still there.

  “I thought you said he’d be back soon?” He didn’t mean to put so much venom behind the comment but he knew Chris and felt he’d get away with it.

  “I’m not his keeper, Sandy. You can always come back later. He’s working on a case so it’s possible he got tied up.

  But it wasn’t impatience that was needling Sandy, it was fear. His camera hadn’t worked properly and he didn’t have any filmed footage of his meeting with Niall Murphy, only the sound had recorded. But it was obvious that something was going on around Graeme Donald and Sandy knew there was a story to be told. But he needed inside help, needed the protection John Arbogast could offer. He’d left several messages, none of which had been returned but he had to persevere, there was too much at risk, “Sorry, Chris, I didn’t mean to snipe; I’ve just got a lot on my mind. I’ll come back later but if he puts in an appearance could you let him know I really need to speak to him. It’s extremely important.”

  Chris nodded. He could see Sandy Stirrit was nervous about something, “Is it anything I can help with?”

  Sandy wavered for a moment, but he didn’t know Chris well enough to confide that kind of information. He smiled, “I would if I could, but I can’t, not on this, but thanks.”

  Chris Guthrie was intrigued. It wasn’t like Sandy to come directly to the Police, he was too high profile. He wanted to know more. It wouldn’t be long until he knew too much.

  ***

  It was the best sleep Leona had had in weeks. Paul Caldwell had been true to his word. His flat wasn’t far from Glasgow Green. She’d been greeted by his two flatmates and his girlfriend. The living room was masked in the grey smog of cigarettes and joints. Paul’s girlfriend, Gillian, was about the same size and offered her some old clothes, said she’d put hers in a wash if she wanted.

  From the quiet of the bathroom, Leona looked at herself in the mirror. Although she didn’t look like she’d changed she felt different. She’d only been in the flat for an hour and yet there was a freedom here she’d never experienced before. Taking off the dirty clothes she saw how low she’d fallen. The filth on the hands and face contrasted starkly to her pale white skin. I’m 16 next weekend, this should be a time for celebration. Maybe it still can be? Under the heat of the shower she felt her cold toes tingle as the numbness was washed away. Thick brown streaks of mud and bird shit from the bridge washed off in strands down the plug hole, as her body was slowly restored by the clean, warm water.

  Getting dressed she felt alien in someone else’s clothes. The t-shirt said ‘Rock Baby’ and the jeans were too long, so she rolled them up. Going back to the living room the guys tried not to laugh, but she didn’t mind the teasing; they weren’t laughing at her, but with her.

  “Look at you, with Gill’s clothes on – that’s insane.” Paul said, holding his hand over his mouth in an effort to hide his smile. Leona spotted the plate of sandwiches. Nothing special, just cheese and ham, but they tasted immense. The Commonwealth Games were on the TV; she hadn’t watched a programme in months.

  “It’s better with this?” Gill had passed across a joint but Leona didn’t smoke, she shook her head, “Not for me.”

  “Oh go on, you’ll love it, makes you feel great, relaxed.”

  The four housemates were all looking at her, willing her to try. Taking the joint in her right hand she sucked lightly on the end; the pungent smoke filling her mouth, she didn’t like the taste.

  “Inhale it, breathe deep,” Paul was making a sucking gesture, “It’s worth it.”

  So she inhaled, once, twice, and three times. Before long the world seemed to stop. She felt lightheaded, like she was falling; didn’t feel well. But Gill was by her side now. “You really haven’t done this before, you’re having a whitey – which means nothing; just means you don’t feel in control, but you are. It’s just the drugs making you feel like this, there’s nothing wrong with you, just keep telling yourself that, there’s nothing wrong.”

  And she was right. About half an hour later Leona was blissed out, watching shot putt on TV; she’d never felt better. But before long she was sleepy; she hadn’t realised how tired she was, how stressful the last few days had been. It was the best rest Leona had had in weeks.

  Lorna McMahon was frantic. She didn’t know where Leona was. It wasn’t like her to run off, but maybe she didn’t think she had a choice. She phoned her sister in Paisley, but Margaret hadn’t seen her; said she’d keep an eye out. Fat lot of good that will do. Phoning around her friends they said they had spoken to her recently but they hadn’t heard from her in a couple of days. A couple of them admitted she’d been looking for a place to stay but they’d said no. What kind of friends are they? But they’d been nervous to speak to Lorna; they knew she’d been arrested. To hell with them, I’ll find her myself. She tried Leona’s mobile again. It was still going through to answer machine. What if something’s happened to her? It has, something’s happened to her and it’s all my fault. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Then came a knock at the door.

  “Oh my god Leona; please let this be you.”

  But when the door opened it was the Irishman again. Lorna made an involuntary noise; she was shaking, this wasn’t good.

  “What do you want? I can’t pay you, I don’t know what to do to make you understand th
e hell my life is right now.” Lorna was scared. She hadn’t met this one before but he looked dangerous. She suspected he might have had something to do with her husband’s death, maybe with Leona’s disappearance too.

  “We need to talk.”

  Niall Murphy walked straight into the living room, casually looking round, “You’ve not got much left have you?”

  “We sold everything to pay you people.”

  “Us people were alright when you needed the money; scum of the earth now are we? Shower of bastards? Wise-up, you signed on the line and now you’re mine. You owe a lot by the way.”

  Lorna nodded, “I know, but I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “What about the house?”

  “I need somewhere to live.”

  “You won’t need anywhere to live if you don’t start clearing your debt.”

  “I’ll do anything I need to do.”

  “I don’t think you mean that.”

  “I do.” Lorna didn’t want to but she was out of options.

  “What would you do?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “Be specific.” He was up close, she could smell alcohol on his breath, tried to focus on the scar on his chin; anything to avoid making eye contact.

  “I could touch you.”

  “I don’t want touched by scum.”

  “Suck.”

  “Suck what?”

  “Suck you down there.” Lorna pointed at his crotch, felt a fool but was scared, couldn’t see a way out.

  “Suck my cock you mean?”

  Lorna nodded.

  “It’d take a lot of blow jobs to clear 25k – could be down there the rest of your life.” He turned his back and walked off to the window laughing, pulling back the blinds to see if there was anyone in earshot. “No, that won’t do. I need your money. I NEED YOUR FUCKING MONEY.”

  After the tension of the last five minutes the outburst was terrifying. Lorna hadn’t been expecting the punch, but when it landed she knew there would be more. Doubled over, his fists rained down on her, she slowly lost consciousness. Let this be an end to it; this misery that’s become my life.

  When she came to, the house was silent. She lay still for a long time before she finally realised that Murphy had gone. She could feel a cool breeze soothe her back, which was exposed between her jeans and top. The pain came in waves when she moved so she stayed static on the carpet. She knew this was only the beginning.

  ***

  News of Ian Wark’s death was finally released two days after the fact. Greame Donald called a press call at 10:00am on the second Wednesday of the Games. The official line was that he had died of complications to his injuries. The press room had erupted into a fury of questions. What were the complications? Were rumours of his recovery false? Did he give up any information about last year’s terror attack? Could there be more people associated with the terror cell? What did this mean about finding answers? But the answer to all the questions was the same; the case died with Wark.

  Donald had been in touch with the Scottish Government who in turn held talks with the UK Government. Given the scale of the ongoing Commonwealth Games operation the decision was made that it wouldn’t do to have news of an assassination go public. It would cause panic, create international headlines. It would do no-one any good. The ward was quickly locked down, with hospital staff kept out of the loop; officially they didn’t know what had happened. The story went that Ian Wark died of a heart attack. Military doctors were called in to deal with the remains. Ian Wark had no immediate family. His body was incinerated; his ashes scattered in the nearby Necropolis. There was no service, no fanfare, nothing. Ian Wark had simply ceased to be.

  The announcement was front page news but the coverage only lasted a couple of days. Victims of the families involved in the George Square bombing were sought out by reporters – they said they were disappointed they didn’t get answers. Archive footage of the aftermath of the bombing resurfaced, played out on a constant loop by the 24 hour news channels. But Usaine Bolt was running that night and before long the world moved on. All those involved in the plot were now dead. Case closed.

  But not everyone was bound by the Official Secrets Act. Reading the news from the comfort of a snug in The Duchess on Duke Street, Niall Murphy knew he now had more influence over Graeme Donald than ever before.

  20

  The mask itched, and more than anything, Ian Davidson wanted to rip it off and live with the consequences. But he knew he wouldn’t; he didn’t want to be the freak the kids laughed at for the rest of his life. With a bit of luck, I won’t be. His skin was tighter on one side of his face and he looked more like his old self than he had done for months. The Doctors said it would take time. But it’s taking too much time. Nonetheless they were pleased with his progress.

  Ian had arranged to meet Graeme Donald at Pitt Street. The chief had already thanked him for the tip-off about the reporter; he said he wanted to talk a bit more about his future.

  “That was good work from you, Ian. I really appreciate the fact you’re fighting my corner. Allies are important.”

  Ian tried to smile but it felt strained under the plastic of the mask; his face was partially covered with a hooded top, it was something that made him feel more secure. It made Donald nervous.

  “Do you have to sit with that hood up? You’re like an assassin or something. We’re supposed to be friends.”

  Ian dropped the hood exposing the full mask and a mop of hair. Donald was shocked. Davidson had always been fastidious about his appearance. Neatly pressed shirts, always a tie, and the hair; well the hair was the biggest surprise. Gone was the close crop, replaced with long flowing locks. Ian Davidson noticed the attention.

  “It’s helps to hide this.” He gestured to the mask, tired of always having to explain his life away. Why can’t they just let me live in peace?

  “I didn’t mean to stare, Ian, but it’s painful to see you like this.”

  Davidson grunted. He wasn’t convinced by his guest’s bedside manner. “I heard that the bomber died. I was hoping to hear more from him. He had a lot to answer for; he was responsible.”

  “He’s gone now, and that’s all you need to know. The force will stick with you on this. No cost will be too high and we’ll have you back here working before you know it. You’d like to come back, wouldn’t you?”

  “I can’t sit home with my folks for the rest of my life. I feel like a teenager. They mean well, but I want my life back.”

  For a while there was silence. The two men knew that miracles were rare and that Ian wouldn’t be back at work any time soon. The silence was the confirmation neither wanted to voice.

  “I wanted to thank you for telling me about Sandy Stirrit. He’s been looking to dig up dirt on me since day one. There are rumours; you’ve heard them, but I don’t want to see these aired in public. It’s all old hat. You helped with that. We’ve sent a message to Stirrit. I don’t think he’ll be bothering us again.”

  Ian Davidson had seen the press reports. Sandy Stirrit’s battered face had been front page news: ‘BBC man pulped’, alongside a close-up picture of his face had been the splash of the week. The story went that he’d been beaten up in an alley. It dawned on Davidson that there was more to it than that. Donald had played a part, he’d just admitted as much. Donald had something on him now. He moved uncomfortably in his chair, it felt like there were now conditions being attached to his recovery. He’d only meant to help his boss; let him know he was still around.

  “This has got nothing to do with me, sir. I only wanted to help.”

  “And you did, and I’m grateful for that. I need people like you around me. You do what needs to be done and that’s an invaluable attribute – one that will get you far; provided you stick with me.”

  Davidson could see he was being offered a way back in; but not to his old life, possibly something more. It’s what he’d always wanted. But he knew there were limitations.

&n
bsp; “I can’t help you like this.”

  “Oh, but you can. There are people circling just now. People that, if left untended, will cause us harm. If I go, you’re not going to climb much higher. Does that sound fair?”

  It was a threat and he knew it. Davidson had no other choice but to agree, “I’ll do what I can. Do you have something specific in mind?”

  Ian Davidson didn’t really feel up to heavy work, but he needed to grasp back on to some kind of routine. Daytime TV was all very well but he had talent, he felt he was born for bigger things. If there was anything he could do to accelerate his return to Pitt Street he was willing to gamble.

  Donald watched the cogs turn as Ian’s facial expressions changed. It was hard to do with that bloody mask on but his eyes gave a lot away, flitting left and right it was a sign he was thinking, trying to come to a conclusion fast. Donald had plans for the boy. He’d been keen to help before but he’d got on the wrong side of people; that was something that had held him back. DCI Ying had also filed a complaint; said she’d been threatened by him in the past and that if it happened again she’d insist on taking it further. We can’t have that kind of thing hanging over Major Crime. Donald mulled over his options, he knew Davidson had talents. He could dig out the detail quickly and he had an eye for alternatives. He was just the kind of outside man he needed.

  “I’ve got a contact in the East End. He’s a money man; nothing too big, but he’s expanding. Thinks he’s on easy street. But he’s a grass and he’ll work for us. I’ve had information about a new face on the debt collection scene. It seems someone’s trying to rock the apple cart. While I can’t go public with this I think our man may have been involved in the death of Ian Wark.”

  Ian was surprised, “I thought he died of complications?”

  “A bullet to the head does have a habit of complicating things. It’ll never get out, and you can’t tell anyone you know. It will be denied if you did. But it’s true all the same and this rogue element needs to be brought to heel. You can help to bring him in. What do you say?”