What could I say but yes?
It was bothering Arbogast that Lorna McMahon hadn’t let him do more to help find her daughter. What’s she scared of? He drove back to the house to apologise for the way he’d handled the situation. Loan sharks made him angry. He’d seen too many peoples’ lives ruined for the sake of a few quid. Chris Guthrie always said it was their own fault for being greedy, but greedy for what – food?
The door to the house was open. Something didn’t feel right. He knocked first, but when he got no reply he went in anyway.
He saw Lorna lying on the floor. She was bunched up in the foetal position with her back to the door. He gasped when he saw her face.
“Jesus, what’s happened here?”
“Nnnn”
He couldn’t make her out, it was that debt collector. He knew it, “Did that man come back? Was it Murphy that did this to you?”
There was still no response; she was barely conscious. He phoned the ambulance and waited. Something needed to be done.
At the hospital the examination went well. Although Lorna McMahon had suffered extensive bruising there was no indication of sexual assault and no signs of internal damage. That’s something. Arbogast waited until she’d come round. The doctor had given her painkillers and it seemed she had been in shock when he found her. Now, she was choosing not to speak.
“Lorna, you need to help me out here. I know it was Niall Murphy that did this. I know you couldn’t defend yourself. I snooped earlier and I’m sorry about that, but I’m genuinely trying to help you out here. This kind of behaviour is completely unacceptable.”
Lorna opened her eyes and glared at him, “Isn’t acceptable?” her voice was thick, “Not acceptable that I was beaten up or acceptable that I’ve been spat out by the system and reduced to begging money from loan sharks? I’m not even a good thief – what hope is there for me?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“—no, you lot never do mean it, do you? My Horace meant it. He meant to try and help but all he did was get himself killed. Well guess what, looks like I’m next. But it’s not me I’m worried about, it’s my daughter. She deserves better.”
The look on Lorna’s face was of bitter defiance. It hurt; Arbogast just wanted her to know that he was trying to help. “That’s why I came back. I want to put out a missing person’s release to the media. They work, people pay attention.”
Lorna nodded. “But I can’t go on camera for you, not looking like this.”
“I don’t want to force you to do anything. But I’ll get on this straight away. I’ll need a picture.”
“There’s some in my house, in the cabinet you were looking through before.”
Arbogast looked down, embarrassed that he’d been caught, “We will find Leona. I’m going to help with the loan sharks; we’ll help you get through this.
Lorna had turned her head away, her eyes were closed, “Of course you will, but excuse me if I don’t hold my breath.”
Outside in the corridor he asked the ward nurse to contact him if anyone came to visit Lorna, he was insistent about that, especially if that someone had a Belfast accent.
***
Junior Bikana had no-where to go. He had slept rough the first night, having run past the city limits to find himself at a village outside East Kilbride, the name of which he could not pronounce. He had taken a pouch with some money but he was still wearing his dark green running shorts. He needed to get inside.
Glen Eccles was watching the early evening news in the Swan Inn in Eaglesham. On screen the reporter said that an African runner had disappeared on a training session. A teammate said he was seeking asylum; that he didn’t want to go back to Cameroon. A good looking policewoman said she was concerned for his safety; that he wasn’t dressed to stay outdoors.
Glen looked outside, she was right, it had been raining for the last two days and it looked likely to continue until after the games. His daydreaming was interrupted by raised voices at the bar.
“It’s him; it’s the guy off the telly. What you doing here, big fella?”
When Glen turned round he did a double take. They were right – the runner from the TV was standing right in front of him, asking if there was anywhere he could stay. Glen looked at his pint to see if there was anything in it, just to be sure he wasn’t seeing things. Then he struck on an idea. He phoned his friend at the Evening Times and went to make a new friend at the bar.
He had no idea what any one of them were saying, but they seemed to know his name. He kept hearing ‘Junior’ in among the accents which he still could not understand. He only knew a few phrases in English which he hoped would be enough.
A fat man called ‘glenacles’ kept talking at him; had his arm round him, gesturing to the back of the bar to sit down. Junior Bikana only had one thing to say and he repeated it again and again, until it was understood.
“I come to seek asylum in Scotland.”
The men at the bar seemed to love him. They were laughing and taking pictures. They all just repeated his name until it became a song, they were all shouting and clapping ‘Junior Bikana, Junior Bikana, away away away’. Someone bought him a drink and he sat and waited. He felt as though these people would help.
Eventually a man with a camera appeared and took his picture. Another man with a pen and paper tried to ask him questions, but he could not understand.
The next day the Evening Times had the scoop of the day, ‘No room in Cameroon - Bikana comes home’ was front page news. Junior Bikana became the face of the Games. It was a night he’d never forget. In time, though, things would change.
***
By August, Ron Semple was seeing a lot more of the Irishman. He seemed to have unlimited funds and had been buying up debt across the East End.
“What you got for me today, fat man?”
It pissed him off that he called him that to his face, ought to show more respect. Ron had given him his ‘in’ to the Glasgow market. Now he treated him like his lackey. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be. “You’d better watch you don’t spread yourself around too thinly, there have been a few debt collectors going under recently.”
Niall Murphy took the comment for what it was, a question. The fat man wanted to know if he was behind the current spate of arrests. Three rival collectors had been detained in recent days and he was increasingly being seen as the safest bet. “I’ll be fine. Things are going well. I picked up some of the muscle from McClune and Naismith – they’re not going to be around for much longer. Did you know they’re already calling me ‘The Untouchable’?”
“It’s an interesting name.”
“Meaning what?”
Semple knew he couldn’t match Murphy for muscle but he saw his arrogance as a weakness. His ego would be the thing that got the better of him, eventually, “Meaning nothing, just an unusual name for a man that’s only been on the scene for a few weeks.”
“It’s all about reputation, Mr Semple,” the deceit implicit in the flattery, “and my star’s on the ascendant. I do things properly and people pay attention, even for the sensitive cases.”
“You mean that McMahon woman? I put you onto her don’t forget. Starting to grow a conscience are we? Bit late for that now.”
Semple had heard what he’d done to the woman, and it wasn’t usual practice. Her husband was already dead and she had nothing much left. It turned out her house was split equity with the housing association. She’d sold back her share but they’d only been in for a couple of years so the sale was only worth a couple of grand. Her debt went down momentarily but it was back on the increase again. “You got a bad rep from that deal. You didn’t do the right thing and a lot of questions are being asked around town, it’s bad for business.”
“Do you want me to write it off?” Murphy was sneering; he’d struck a match off the side of the fire extinguisher and was smoking one of his roll-ups.
“It might be a good idea.”
“Let everyone know I�
�m soft?”
“That’s not going to happen is it?”
“It could do, who knows. Who cares? I don’t need your advice, fat man, so give me a look at the books and let’s trade up.”
“There’s nothing new since I last saw you. Nothing you’d be interested in.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Hardly anything; not for someone like you.”
“How much?”
“Just a grand, good interest though, he’s paying off bills. He’ll be back.”
“He’ll be back even though he can’t pay? Are you taking the piss?”
“Things are a bit slow for me; I could do with the money. The guy will pay.”
Semple handed over the stats sheet, it listed how much had been borrowed; detailed the repayment history, his assets – everything Murphy needed to make an informed decision.
“I’ll take it. Now get me the paperwork.”
Ron was surprised it had been so easy to palm off. It wasn’t going to be an easy debt to reclaim; in fact it might be the one to end him for good. His hands were sweating when he passed the paper across, his fingers stuck to the sheets.
“You make me sick, fat man.”
But Ron just smiled, he was glad to be rid of it.
***
Leona McMahon saw her picture on the news site a few hours after it was posted. The Police said her family were worried, that she needed to get in touch. There were no interviews with her mum, just a picture of her which was a couple of years old. It was a school photo, she looked ridiculous.
“Is that you?”
Paul Caldwell was standing behind her, she smelt the smoke before she heard him; he never seemed to stop.
“It was. Feels like a million years ago.”
“Why did you run away?”
Leona ignored the question, “Something’s wrong with this. My mum would have said something. You know you see them on the TV reports sometimes – parents crying about their missing kids. That’s totally what my mum would be like. She wouldn’t have given them that photo either. It doesn’t look anything like me, it’s so embarrassing.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
Leona was waving away the smoke which was invading her space, making her choke, “I dunno. I should phone my mum; my mobile’s dead though. No credit, no charge.”
“You can use mine if you like?”
“Thanks, but I’m going to wait. I think something’s happened to my mum. I think the people that killed my dad are after her too. I don’t think it’s safe to phone.”
Paul was straight enough to see his guest had gone quiet, “Are you crying, Leona? Don’t worry about it; you can stay here as long as you like.”
“I’m not crying; it’s just that bloody smoke getting in my eyes. You going to do me a favour and give me some air?”
Paul was angry; he didn’t expect to get a bollocking off some young girl he’d gone out of his way to help. Leona saw he’d misunderstood.
“Look, I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me. Really I do. But my dad’s just died and my mum’s missing. The police are looking for me and I’m stressed out. I don’t know what to do. Do you get it?”
“I’ll give you some space, but you’re going to have to let me know when you’re finished with that laptop. There are things I need to check on too.”
Leona sighed when he left the room. She didn’t think she’d be able to stay here much longer. She could still smell smoke. Paul had left her the end of his joint. She finished it off, and for a while she felt a little better. Laughing, she switched off the computer and went back to the party. The real world could wait.
21
He couldn’t put it off any longer; he was a friend and by the looks of it he needed help. Arbogast returned the many calls he’d received from Sandy Stirrit although he wasn’t confident the conversation would end well.
“Hi Sandy, you called?”
“Two bloody days ago, JJ.”
“No-one calls me that.” Arbogast was annoyed Sandy thought it was OK to start off with the usual nickname, as if nothing had happened, like he’d been forgiven for some imagined slight. He regretted making the call almost immediately.
“I’ve been busy, we haven’t been talking. Chris Guthrie said you’d been in.”
“It wasn’t Guthrie that prompted the call though was it?”
Arbogast was at his desk. He still had the front cover of the Daily Record on his desk; Sandy’s pulped face was a picture, one he’d rather not see, “Are you OK?”
There was a moment’s silence. Sandy was angry. John should have realised how hard it had been for him to come begging for help, but he didn’t know where else to turn.
“We need to talk, John, but not on the phone. I know exactly why this happened and who’s behind it. Let’s just say it was Police business, high profile.”
Arbogast sat forward in his chair, he’d picked up a pen; thought maybe there was more to come but Sandy wouldn’t elaborate. They arranged to meet at Arbogast’s flat later that night.
It was the inability to concentrate that was frustrating her the most. Lorna McMahon had heard nothing from the Police and Leona had been missing for three days. There had been a sighting of her in the City Centre and later at the Live Zone but despite national coverage of her disappearance there was no sign of her. Something must have happened to her, she wouldn’t leave me hanging like this. Oh god, this is all my fault. If I hadn’t been so stupid and gone into town this would never have happened. She picked up the phone and called the younger detective, he seemed more understanding than the other one, not so in your face.
Chris Guthrie was surprised he’d been singled out. At first he expected abuse, but Lorna McMahon had a request.
“I need to make a public appearance. Can you get me on the telly?”
“You’d like to make a public appeal for information?”
“That’s what I just said. I’m worried Leona might think something’s happened to me.”
“We’ve made it clear that’s not the case.”
“You don’t know her. She wouldn’t believe it unless she heard it from me, especially given everything’s that’s happened recently. I need to do this.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“You mean after the beating I took? Do you think I’ll scare them off?” Guthrie heard a sarcastic laugh at the end of the line, “This is my daughter we’re talking about. I need to try. I need to get her home. She’s all I’ve got.”
“I’ll see what I can arrange.” Chris Guthrie admired her spirit. It wasn’t everyone that would go on record looking like she did. People would judge her, think less of her. But in the end if the only thing that mattered was to get her daughter back home safe and sound, perhaps the opinions of others didn’t matter a damn.
The digs weren’t so much a flat, as he’d thought, but a bedsit. Looking around Sandy Stirrit was shocked at the conditions his friend was staying in. Arbogast saw the horror in his eyes.
“It’s only temporary.”
“How long has it been temporary for?”
“Just before Christmas, after I split with Rose.”
“Nine months? You need to get sorted out; you must surely be able to afford better than this?”
“It’s just a matter of priority. This has been all I’ve needed; a place to sleep and work. That’s been the story of 2014.”
Looking around there didn’t seem to be much in the way of belongings, “Where’s all your stuff?”
“What is this Sandy, 20 bloody questions? I thought you were here to talk to me, not give me a lecture. We’re not all living in matrimonial bliss. So if you don’t mind, change the record and get to the point.”
The conversation had got off to a bad start. Sandy couldn’t help himself; it was the journalist in him. If he saw a situation he didn’t understand, he asked questions. Sometimes it got him into trouble; some of his friends didn’t appreciate it. Judging by the look he wa
s getting from John, this was one of those times.
“You saw the pictures of me in the papers?”
“Yeah, looks like you’ve healed a bit though.”
“It was worse at the time, head cuts bleed out – they look good for the camera.”
“Who took the picture?”
“The same person that dished out the beating – an Irish guy. Nobody seems to know much about him but he came calling after I started asking questions about your boss.”
“Not this obsession with Graeme Donald again; it got you into trouble before.”
“This doesn’t bother you?”
“How did you expect me to react? Are you saying this guy’s in the Police?”
“No, not Police. But he’s connected. I paid a visit to your old pal, Ian Davidson.”
The mention of the name sparked a flash of memory, Arbogast was there when the grenade had gone off in his face; he’d never forget the scream. “You know we were never exactly close but you should keep your nose out of that case. You’ll end up getting yourself arrested.”
Sandy was starting to get a knot at the bottom of his stomach. “Do you already know about this?”
Arbogast shook his head, “They don’t share that kind of information with me. Maybe you should get to the point?”
“I went to Davidson to try and dig up information about the night he was injured, there’s more to that case than people know. The public have a right to hear about it.” Arbogast had raised his hand, ready to interrupt, “No, John, at the very least you need to listen. You can act on it any way you like but at least hear me out. I asked Davidson about Donald’s involvement. He said there was nothing to say. A day later I’m contacted by this thug who gets real shirty with me as soon as I mention Donald. The next thing I know I’m getting the shit kicked out of me down a back lane. The two things are connected.”
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