The Nationalist

by Campbell Hart

  “It’s from the bomber – says his name was Jock Smith – a Black Watch World War 2 veteran. He’s 87.”

  “Have you watched it?”

  “Yes, but it’s not happy viewing.”

  “You can’t use it. You know that.”

  “We will use it. We’re not the only ones that have been sent it. It’s on YouTube John – I’ll send you the link.”

  Hanging up, John Arbogast looked to his boss, “It looks like the cat’s already out of the bag.”

  4

  Jock Smith was looking off camera when the video started. He nodded to someone in the background, before staring directly down the lens.

  Arbogast pointed at the screen, “He’s got company, who’s working the camera?”

  “—listen,” Norrie Smith said, cutting him off, “let’s see what he wants.”

  Jock wore a light green, ragged tweed jacket and his now well known Glengarry bonnet. The background was dominated by a large Union Flag, which contrasted against the Saltire badge on his jacket. He had a thin face which was framed by a large, bushy beard which was speckled white and brown, while a large moustache hung low, covering his mouth. He had a long nose which drooped below his nostrils. Arbogast thought he looked a lot like a Samuel Peploe painting he’d seen in Kelvingrove – Old Duff. Jock started to talk.

  “It gives me no pleasure to be speaking to you today, knowing that I have now died for my cause. As a young man I fought for my country. I believed the Empire was worth fighting for – I believed we had to defeat the Nazis. I believed I would die for my comrades. At Monte Cassino I watched as my best friend died in a crater, filled with his own blood. My division was decimated in the cause of capturing a monastery. In the end the German’s left it to us. They just walked out. After breaking through the Gustav line, came Normandy, Holland, and then Japan. I couldn’t leave the army and ended up in Palestine. In all of these places we brought death in the name of democracy. When the bomb dropped on Nagasaki I was merely glad it had come to an end. But it’s not over. It never is. How many men have you watched die? Maybe your father on his deathbed, or a road accident? But death will still be unusual for you. I see death wherever I go; the faces of friends screaming as they bled to death – if they were lucky perhaps they got a shot of morphine. More often than not there wasn’t enough to go round. But still we thought it was worth it. We conquered and the allies won. Or so we thought. At home the rhetoric was loud. Don’t mention the war they say. Why not if it’s all we have? For the millions that died for peace I have sat and watched the slow collapse of the British Empire, of the capitulation of our government to a European power we once fought against, in pursuit of our famous victory. What the Germans failed to do during the war they have succeeded in through peace. Worse still, we voted for it; and now we will die for it. We are facing an enemy within and I cannot stand by and watch the forces of nationalism grow strong in my Scottish homeland. My actions today were the start of a war – a war against apathy, a war against foreign influence on our day-to-day lives, a war against a powerless British state. We were strongest when we stood together and we must stand strong now. Today I made the ultimate sacrifice for my country. I hope to have taken the lives of those complicit in shaping the mindset of our country. If we have forgotten the lessons of my war then we must start to ask ourselves some far-reaching questions. In the name of our god, I, Jock Smith, have today struck the first blow against nationalism. Scotland must unite with our British brothers and defeat this scourge. There can only be one winner.”

  Jock continued to stare at the camera and then saluted. He was trembling. A graphic came up on the screen and the video stopped. The picture which ended the film made them distinctly uncomfortable. It depicted the Britannia figure – an elegant woman in roman garb, wearing a thick red flumed Corinthian helmet. She was standing, trident in hand, between two lions, under the words ‘Unite or die.’

  “The two lions,” Norrie Smith said. Arbogast nodded, “It’s a depiction of the Cenotaph. This is just the start.

  5

  Away from the investigation the attack had ignited public opinion. The ongoing conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan had made the sacrifice of war much more real to the current generation. The old soldiers of WW2 no longer seemed like the real focus of Remembrance Day. Now, instead of old men in wheelchairs, there were young men with prosthetic limbs, eye patches, and visible scars. Homecoming troops were paraded on the national news while outgoing tours were held up as evidence of the continued battle against the so-called war of terror. That anyone could have had the audacity to target a peaceful memorial simply did not compute. Not to Bob Malcolm anyway.

  “I mean my brother’s out there now – in Afghanistan. And then you get these bastard Muslims bringing their holy war to us.”

  His friend, Dax Cameron, didn’t get it, “Aye but we’re not looking at an Arab attack.”

  “Wake up – who else would it be? Remember the airport attack. They were bloody doctors.”

  “The guy on the telly said the police had been chasing a white guy.”

  “Well it’s the wrong guy then. There’s loads of pictures on Twitter. I was looking at the front line and there were a few of them in there.”

  “A few of who?”

  “They fucking terrorists.”

  “You need to watch what you’re saying man. There’s police all over the place. You’ll get lifted talking like that.”

  “Bullshit. We’re letting these asylum seekers in up at the Red Road. They get everything but they’re still living like pigs. I’ve been up there. I’ve seen them – flinging their rubbish out the 20th floor; dirty nappies and everything. That’s shit we’ve paid for. They’re fucking animals. They’re not like us.”

  “Whatever you say, Bob.”

  “Don’t patronise me, ya prick. My brother’s putting his life on the line for these guys. Christ, when he’s back he’s like...well I barely recognise him. He just drinks vodka by the bottle. He doesn’t speak. Just drinks and stares. It scares me man. I don’t know him anymore. I don’t know my own brother.”

  Bob was getting himself worked up. Dax could see his friend was agitated, getting angrier. They had been out the night before and hadn’t stopped drinking. When the news of the attack came in, Bob said he wanted to go down and help – to do something. But when they got down town, the square was already blocked off, and they were told to go home. That had made Bob even angrier. They were on Duke Street in the East End, walking back to Royston.

  “Listen Bob, let’s calm down a bit. I need some fags. Wait here a minute, I’ll be back.” Dax left Bob standing in the streets and went into ‘News and Booze’. He glanced at the paper rack but the front pages were all out of date. It was all yesterday’s news and today the world was online. The internet had become the main point of call for people looking for the latest updates. The TV would follow later. He picked up a couple of packets of crisps and a bottle of Coke. He needed to eat something and the sugar rush would be good for him. He could feel the hangover starting to bite.

  Tony Siddique smelt the young NED before he saw him. The reek of alcohol was strong and he had obviously been out all night. He hadn’t shaved and the bags under his eyes told their own story. He was wearing a blue tracksuit with a double white band down the outside leg and arms. His hair was closely cropped. Tony reckoned he must be about 19. He looked like trouble. The boy stopped and swayed for a couple of seconds at the paper rack before disappearing to the back of the shop. Tony tracked his movements on the CCTV screen behind the counter. Maybe he was wrong. He’s just buying snacks. The boy staggered into view before throwing his items down on the counter. A can of coke missed its target and fell to the floor. The impact split the metal and the dark liquid gushed out of the can, which spun round with the pressure.

  “Oh man, what’s happening,” Dax said. Tony wasn’t happy.

  “Look what you’ve done, you idiot. I’m going to have to clear all this up; it’s going eve
rywhere.” Tony knew he was dealing with a drunk who would be slow to react and easy to handle. He crossed round from the counter. He had raised his voice. The boy looked riled.

  “You talking to me? It’s just a can; I’ll give you the money you robbing bastard.”

  A metal bell tinkled as Bob opened the shop door, “What’s happening? Is this guy giving you grief?” He turned to Tony, “What you giving my pal grief for?”

  “Listen, I’m not looking for trouble.” The atmosphere had turned cold and Tony could sense the danger; he knew that a wrong move could spark off something he would not be able to finish. He backed off. He could feel his heart beat faster. Two against one suddenly didn’t feel like decent odds.

  “Dax, this Paki says he’s not looking for trouble. That’s too bad mate, because you’ve found it. How come you’re open anyway? Looking to make money out of today were you? Was it your lot that did it – are you a terrorist? Do you think you can use my money to make fucking bombs?”

  Tony tried to make a stand but he was worried, “Get out of my shop. I don’t need you in here. This is all being filmed. You’ll end up getting arrested.”

  “Might as well make it worthwhile then,” Bob grabbed Tony by the neck and pushed him back, throwing him against a display unit, knocking tins from the shelves. Tony fell to the floor, “Why don’t you just leave; there’s no need for this.”

  “There’s no need for bombs but you brought them to us didn’t you? We’re trying to help you lot, and look what you do.”

  Bob picked up the first thing to hand, a large can of soup, and threw it full force at Tony’s head. There was a sharp crack, and after that, Tony didn’t move.

  Bob and Dax walked calmly from the shop, both convinced they had done the right thing.

  6

  The TV news agenda was dominated by the aftermath of the attack and every major report came from central Glasgow. All of the reporters asked the same thing – why did this happen? Sandy Stirrit was front of camera on the BBC’s news channel – he was in demand, with live updates every 15 minutes. Given the lack of information he didn’t have much to say, but he was on form and stretching it out.

  “I’m joined now by Brigadier, Alistair Watson. Brigadier, can you describe your reaction to today’s events?”

  “Firstly I would like to take this opportunity to pay my respects to the families of all those caught up in this terrible tragedy. That this could happen at a memorial taking place to pay respect to all those that have paid the ultimate sacrifice for their country, is simply inexplicable.”

  “There seems to be evidence to suggest that whoever was responsible may have been a veteran?”

  Alistair Watson couldn’t believe the question had been asked. He gave the camera a stern look he hoped would let the audience know that the thought should not be entertained without evidence, “I think we shall have to wait to see exactly what has happened before we can make a statement either way. At this point it doesn’t help anyone to speculate.”

  “With respect sir, the footage we’ve seen so far clearly shows an elderly man wearing Black Watch colours at the centre of an explosion at the Cenotaph. It would appear to be pretty clear cut?”

  “We don’t know the exact circumstances around the incident at this time. We have all seen the pictures but we don’t know why this has happened.”

  “You were at the service this morning. What did you see?”

  The screen blinked back to black, “I’ve seen enough,” The First Minister had been watching the broadcast from Saint Andrew’s House in Edinburgh. Pressing the ‘off’ button on the remote control, he turned to his special advisor, “I need to get down there, to be seen.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea right now,” Craig McAlmont had been expecting the question, “With respect, the focus for the day will be on the event. It may come across as slightly crass to appear so soon.”

  “What’s come out of Whitehall?”

  “Nothing yet – I imagine there will be a statement soon though.”

  “Where’s ours?”

  “In progress – I expect a draft shortly.”

  “I want ours out first.”

  “It will be.”

  “I asked for the Justice Secretary – where is she?”

  “She’s being briefed by Police Scotland on security but will be here by half-past.”

  The First Minister looked at his watch, “15 minutes then, good. When do you think we should go to George Square?”

  “Tomorrow perhaps, but I think Tuesday would be more sensitive. I think the forensics operation will be pretty drawn out. I understand there’s a lot of evidence to examine.”

  “Yes well, perhaps you’re right. Maybe we’d be better doing it somewhere else. The City Centre maybe – Buchanan Street perhaps? That way we could show life getting back to normal.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Come in.” The Justice Secretary, Claire Jaimeson, hurried through, looking harassed.

  “Have you seen the pictures? It’s a real mess. I’ve been on the phone with Norrie Smith in Glasgow. He seems to be doing everything he can. He’s calling in extra resources from neighbouring areas. We’re going to need to have a significant police presence for the next few days – maybe weeks. We’re looking to arrange shifts. Ayrshire and Lanarkshire are sending about 50 uniforms between them and we’re looking at the same again for Edinburgh. Leave is cancelled in Glasgow but they’ve been overwhelmed by offers of help from the rank and file. I think it’s also probably worth asking for the support of the Army. They’re involved here anyway and 45 Commando just came back from a tour of Afghanistan. They’re still on base; we could use their presence.”

  Craig McAlmont had been drinking in the information, “Don’t you think that would look a little heavy handed? If we put armed police and soldiers everywhere, we’ll only stoke up fear.”

  “This is not a theoretical situation. I’m already getting reports of racially aggravated violence. Norrie Smith seems to think a man may have been murdered in retaliation – he was a shopkeeper. Glasgow is keeping that quiet for now.”

  “That’s wise.”

  The First Minister looked visibly shaken, “We need to make sure this is well handled, no leaks.”

  “The referendum’s less than a year away,” Craig said, “If this goes badly we could suffer at the polls.”

  “We can’t dwell on that too much now, but you’re right. Does Norrie know what he’s doing?”

  Claire nodded, “I think he’s trying his best.”

  “I hope that’s good enough.”

  7

  Kath Finch didn’t know where to start. The scene at George Square was closer to a warzone than a field of memorial. This was the most complex case she had worked on as crime scene manager and she knew there would be repercussions if the investigation wasn’t handled properly. Her first job was to preserve the crime scene, in this case a huge public space in Glasgow City Centre. When she arrived she had been faced with a mixture of death, hysteria, and anger. Those who had witnessed the blast, and who were not suffering from shock, were taken to Pitt Street for interview. Given the numbers, a makeshift centre had been set up in the building’s auditorium. Back at the square, many people had been injured, mostly from shrapnel from the bomb, but significant injuries had also been sustained from the granite which had ricocheted from the lion’s head, which had been blown away in the immediate aftermath.

  Preserving the crime scene was complicated. The site had access to Queen Street Station, one of the city’s two main stations, while no fewer than seven roads led directly out into town. Initially a Police cordon was put up around the site, but as the crowds of onlookers swelled to the thousands it became clear that more extensive masking was needed. The Forensics team erected a white ten foot tall tarpaulin barrier across the access roads which saved the investigators from prying eyes at ground level. However there were a number of offices, a hotel, the City Chambers, and a number of resid
ential flats which looked into the crime scene, all of which had to be considered. There was a real risk of the press gaining access to one of the flats in the area where they would have a bird’s eye view of the operation, meaning sensitive details could leak out and compromise the investigation.

  On arrival, Kath had appreciated the site would have to be split in two. The active area of the investigation took up the east end of the square from Walter Scott’s column through to the Cenotaph. A secondary barrier was erected around this part of the square which allowed the rest of the area to be given over to operations. Scanning ‘ground zero’ the complications she faced were clear. The deadliest area had been within the boundary around the Cenotaph where there had been 14 confirmed fatalities. Shrapnel wounds had been recorded to a distance of 100 feet but the immediate focus would be on the 40 square feet between the granite lions. Kath had been concerned that access was going to be an issue, but the location of the blast had made their job easier to a degree. The dignitaries had been packed-in and had been easy targets. The force of the blast had knocked everyone back, with pools of bloods forming around the fallen, caught by a raised ridge which separated the surrounding wall from the memorial proper. This meant the common approach path could be laid directly into the Cenotaph and to the bomber himself, his body now a bloodied mess of flesh and sinew; his Glengarry hat sat frayed and torn not far from the red poppy wreaths. The raised metal plates were laid for the Forensics team to gain access. Keeping track of the rest of the expected police contingent was going to be difficult given the Specialist Crime Division would be all over the case.

  Arbogast had been interviewing some of the walking wounded. It was clear that no-one really seemed to know what had happened. Two of the three people he’d spoken to had said they saw an old man approach the Cenotaph, and that was when the explosion happened. One man in his thirties swore that the bomber had been ‘coloured’ and that he suspected it must have been an Islamic suicide bomber. It wasn’t what Arbogast had seen himself, but the evidence would paint the picture for them, it was just a matter of time. He saw Kath Finch and made his way to the inner cordon to see if she could shed any light on their expected timescale.