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.
Web: www.campbellhart.co.uk
Cover design: Tim Byrne
Table of contents
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About the author
Acknowledgements
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.
The bomb had gone off in the middle of the two minute silence. The Cenotaph was a large thirty foot, rectangular granite pillar. A border wall formed a U-shaped boundary, which was bookmarked by two large statues of lions, which each faced out about 15 feet in front. The enclosure was usually chained off but one day a year was opened to dignitaries who lined the inside of the enclosure, as part of the memorial service. The city’s provost, Joan Armstrong, was flanked by local MPs and MSPs while senior figures from the armed forces, military veterans, and Arbogast’s own boss, Chief Constable, Norrie Smith, made up the rest. In the front of the Cenotaph around 150 members of the Royal Regiment of Scotland were standing in formation in army fatigues with older servicemen in front. The red banded white caps of the Royal Marines broke up the array of military headwear. In the front row stood a line of men with wreaths which had been intended to honour of the city’s dead. During the silence the standard bearers lowered their regimental flags as a mark of respect. Khaki and the Black Watch tartan mingled with civilian suits and ripped blue jeans. Arbogast watched as the old man wearing a black Glengarry cap, with its distinctive red check and red bobble broke from the body of the crowd and walked towards the Cenotaph during the two minute silence. At first no-one seemed to notice him. He stood in the middle of the enclosure on top of the palm leaf engraved into the base of the memorial. He said something but his words were not picked up on camera. The Provost had seen the man and walked forward, taking his left arm and trying to steer him back out to the crowd. The old man reached inside his jacket and then the flare of the explosion blanked everything out.
“The blast shattered the lens of the camera. That’s all we’ve got. The old man blew himself up.”
Arbogast was shaking his head, “This doesn’t make sense. We’ve just shot a man dead. He was our prime suspect. It now looks as if we may have killed an innocent man. Rebecca, thanks for your time but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. An officer will take a statement but I’ll have to ask you to keep this information out of the public domain. Your company has to realise this is a matter of national security; your co-operation is expected.”
As the reporter left Arbogast turned to see Norrie Smith returning from a make shift medical centre, “Are you OK?”
“I had the wind knocked out of me but I’m fine. Better than some of the others,” Arbogast could see his boss was shaking, “We need a Major Incident Team down here now John. We’re dealing with a suicide bomber, whose motive remains unknown. I’ll be requesting the maximum deployment for Glasgow city centre. It’s going to be a long day.
3
Arbogast had never seen anything like it. In the epicentre of the blast zone, scattered body parts and torn clothes were bathed in a shallow pool of blood. The bomb had killed everyone within six feet, with all those standing within the confines of the left hand side of the Cenotaph’s boundary wall having died instantly. The city would need a new Provost, the army a new general. Soldiers, who had survived war and conflict, had been brought low by an old man with an unknown agenda.
Arbogast didn’t know where to start. His old Major Crime and Terrorism Unit had recently been subsumed by the Specialist Crime Division when Strathclyde Police had been replaced by the new national force, Police Scotland. The force was still in a period of transition, with many old faces making way for progress, although they weren’t necessarily being replaced. In effect he was now part of a Scotland-wide unit and he could be summoned for cases anywhere in the country. He formed part of the Major Crime division dealing with murder and major incidents, of which this certainly counted. He would be working with colleagues from Counter Terrorism, and given the scale of the attack he knew that resources would not be an issue as the eyes of the world switched to Glasgow. Chief Constable, Norrie Smith, was back in full control within half an hour, although the medics had told him he could still be suffering from shock.
“What a god awful mess. Who’d do something like this?”
“I don’t know, sir. We’ve seen the TV pictures and it definitely looks like a suicide bombing. But he was an old man; must have been in his eighties, he could barely walk.”
“Military?”
“Maybe; he was wearing the Glengarry and Black Watch tartan, which will give us something to start with.”
“We’re going to need to shut down the immediate area. The City Chambers, Hotel, pubs, and nearby restaurants will be closed indefinitely. We’re putting up screens around the perimeter to keep out onlookers. The demolition site is also out of
bounds, and from the looks of things forensics are going to have their work cut out for them.”
Arbogast nodded, “Do we need to restrict helicopter traffic? There may be eyes in the sky looking for pictures.”
“The press know only police helicopters can fly over the city. We may provide pictures at some point but not today, not now.”
Norrie Smith was already facing a difficult year. With Scotland’s eight regional police forces having been scrapped in favour of a single entity there were eight chief constables all gunning for the same job. Norrie was not the leading contender. A rival from Belfast was being touted as the likely new face of Police Scotland. That way the force avoided hurt feelings. Having all Scotland’s top cops losing out was being seen as the best way to gain ground under the new arrangement. The bombing changed that and both men knew it. “This will be a defining moment for us Arbogast – let’s get it right.”
The Forensics team was in place. Photographers recorded every detail while the white plastic suits of the medical team looked to piece together the course of events. Evidence was logged. The wounded were treated. The dead lay where they fell.
“It might just have been the one guy,” Arbogast said.
“You don’t believe that any more than I do. I’ve spoken to the comms team about the shooting. I don’t think we’ll get too much attention on that right now. The main focus will be on the explosion. The reporters are suggesting we’ve got the guy already which gives us a little bit of leeway, but that won’t last for long. The reporter’s seen the footage and despite what we asked her I’m 100% certain we’ll be getting a call sometime soon.”
Arbogast’s mobile was ringing. He looked down at the handset. It was his friend Sandy Stirrit, calling from the BBC.
“I’m busy, Sandy.”
“We’ve been sent a video.”
“And?”
The Nationalist Page 1
