“Your office?”
“The one next to Donald’s; he’ll be moving in as soon as we’ve cleared out Norrie’s stuff.”
Arbogast followed silently behind Rosalind, who nodded at officers of various ranks, who tried not to make eye contact, a faint smile the only acknowledgement. Inside room 10f, her demeanour changed.
“When you went out last night I thought you were going to clear your head. Not to fuck an ex.”
“Wait I can—”
“—no you can’t, not ever again. I’ll be going home tonight. You will be finding somewhere else to live. We are over. Do you understand? We’ve been drifting for a while but your antics last night are beyond belief. That’s it John. I’ll be back at nine tonight. I don’t want to see any of your stuff there and I expect to see your keys on the doormat.”
“I’m sorry, Rose.”
“It’s too late, John. At work, it’s going to be business as usual so don’t do anything to annoy me as you’ll find I’m not someone who appreciates getting the run-around.” She walked to the window and placed both hands on the ledge, refusing to look round, “Now get out and get back to work.”
***
The plan was working. Walking through the streets of Glasgow he could see people were scared. For the first time armed police were in the city centre, security had never been higher. Minorities were being targeted by sections of the public for something they had nothing to do with, while the politicians were ramping up the fear factor in the name of national security. The old man had done his job well and now the time to maintain operations had come.
Ian Wark was much like any other 32 year old. He had adopted the hipster look to remain inconspicuous. There were hundreds of people his age that looked just the same. A new uniform for the rebellious masses had spewed out an army of clones, all convinced that their take on individuality would make them stand out, when really they were simply trying to hide their own mediocrity. Today that could not be said of him. Ian stopped for a second and caught his reflection in the unlit window of an unoccupied shop. He felt calm. He looked good. Now was the time to act. It was 8:30am and in around an hour the rush hour commute would be in full swing. The straps of the heavy canvas bag dug into his right hand shoulder blade. He nodded to the two armed policemen who stood at the corner of George Square, still cordoned off from the weekend’s attack. Making his way down Union Street, Ian could feel his heart starting to beat faster. He slowed his pace and breathed deeply, being sure to use his training, to stay focused and in control. On Argyle Street he could see council workers using cherry pickers to put the Christmas lights back up for another year. In the distance he could see his destination. When he entered the station he already had his railcard out and ready. He stood still on the top of the steep descending escalators as people in a hurry nudged past him and ran down the metal steps. Taking his time at the bottom, the walkway opened up into the concourse. He slipped the ticket section of his two part pass from its plastic holder and slid it into the ticket barrier. The light went green and he passed through. Taking the stairs back up to the platform he could see the train he wanted was due in three minutes. He was there at exactly the right time. Walking the length of the platform he sat down on the raised round tiled section which surrounded the metal supporting column. Two minutes later the train came. He climbed on board, looked for a seat, and placed his heavy bag on the luggage rack above him. It was 8:45am and the train was busy. The service was headed for Dalmuir and stopped at every station along the line. Ian got off at Central. The bag stayed on. He knew he didn’t have too much time. Taking the narrow steps back up to street level he shuffled up through the busy mass of people heading home and slipped back onto Argyle Street.
At 8:48am the train was travelling in the tunnel between Glasgow Central and Anderson when the bag was discovered by the ticket inspector. When he opened the zip he could see the timer ticking from 20 down to zero.
14
Jim Hamilton hated his job. He had started off with the best of intentions, with an ambition to become a mechanical engineer. But two years into University, he decided to leave. He couldn’t really remember why, but he knew that in retrospect it could never have been a good enough reason. For the last ten years he had been working as a ticket collector on the Glasgow rail network. He’d been there long enough that he now earned the top pay bracket of around £25k a year, something that seemed to surprise people, until he told them the salary the drivers were on; those guys were minted. Every day was the same. In the quiet periods he would grab a seat for 10 minutes, read the Metro, and people watch. Taking the weight off his feet for even a few minutes made a big difference to his day, although when he took time out like that getting back up and moving was getting harder every year. This was rush hour. The six carriages which made up the Larkhall to Dalmuir line were jam packed, with the train near to capacity. In an ideal world they would add extra carriages but the Victorian tunnels which ran under the city centre led to platforms designed to cater for a different level of passenger numbers, and six was the maximum number of carriages which could be accommodated. Jim was a large man. He had grown a beard to hide his double chin, while his belly had grown in recent years, with the extra weight making it harder to get around. That was a particular problem in the narrow walkways of the Glasgow trains, and he had to constantly apologise for knocking into people and crushing them as he squeezed by on his rounds. Every new carriage brought the same disdainful looks. All eyes were on him thinking ‘How does he expect to get through,’ But he got through. Every time he had to push past someone he had a little bit of revenge – rubbing past the good looking ones; staring past the hard cases; chatting to the old dears who should have been offered seats. The last couple of days had been more tetchy than normal. The terror attack had meant increased security. He could see that people were no longer checking him out. They seemed to have more respect for him today. Their attention was focused on each other, looking to see if they might have a bomber in the midst. It didn’t take much to arouse suspicion.
He had already passed the bag when he noticed it in his mind’s eye. They were coming into Anderston station when a group of people stood up and left a nest of seats untended. Looking back to see if he might have an opportunity for a quick break he noticed a hold-all in the overhead rack. A young man in his twenties was the nearest member from the departing group.
“Excuse me, sir. I think you might have left your bag.”
The man looked at the bag and shook his head. Of the three others none showed any interest. The rail company had held a staff meeting that morning and Jim had been told to be on the look-out for any suspicious packages. They had all joked about that; as if lighting would strike twice in the same place. Jim Hamilton’s curiosity got the better of him and he unzipped the bag and looked inside. He nearly dropped the bag when he saw the digital display drop down towards zero.
Arbogast got the call about the suspect package not long after he arrived at the office. Anderston station was only a short distance from Pitt Street, but the flashing blue lights of their patrol car had muted effect in the clogged arteries of rush hour traffic. Edging past cars waiting to get down onto the expressway and motorway they took about 10 minutes to reach the station. Anderston Station was something of an oddity. It had been built underneath the Kingston Bridge, itself a poorly executed piece of the city’s fabric. Built in 1970 the Clyde Port Authority had insisted the bridge was built tall, to allow shipping and dredgers to navigate up the river. But by the time the bridge had been completed the docks were closed. Kingston Bridge was the biggest urban span in the UK, its ten lanes playing host to 150,000 cars a day, 30 thousand more than it was designed for. In the shadow of the bridge sat Anderston Station. It had opened in 1896 and closed in 1948. Unused for 30-odd years it was reopened in the 80s and was largely unloved and mostly unnoticed; you could easily miss it nestled between the supporting pillars. The only thing to mark it out was the dark blue band which held its n
ame, the only colour in the drab grey space. The patrol car left the road and crossed the slabs in front of the station which followed the path of the motorway above. Standing under the carriageway a slow, steady drip of water drummed off Arbogast’s shoulder. Looking up he could see that it wasn’t raining. He wasn’t sure where the water was coming from. In front of him the station had been cordoned off and around a dozen officers were milling around, directing pedestrians to take the long way round.
“DI Arbogast,” he said to the officer at the door, “Where’s the ticket collector?”
“He’s in the office, sir; seems quite shaken up. He eh...”
“Yes?”
“He’s in a bit of a mess, had a bit of an accident. He shat himself,” The PC tried not to snigger, but failed.
“This isn’t funny. You might have too if it happened to you. Where is he anyway; through here?”
The officer nodded and Arbogast made for the brown fire door which sat beside the ticket machine. To his right he could see the office, a mass of machines, paper, and CCTV. Behind a partition wall was a small communal area. Jim Hamilton was sitting in an orange plastic chair with chipped black legs. He was wearing a pair of shorts. The room did not smell fresh.
“Mr Hamilton?”
“Officer.”
“I understand you’ve had a bit of a fright today?”
“I thought I was going to die.”
“You didn’t though so everyone’s a winner.”Arbogast coughed; the stench was overpowering.
“I don’t think this is funny.”
“Neither do I Mr Hamilton but let’s face it, this could have been a hell of a lot worse. I was in George Square yesterday. If that had happened on your train then, well you know what could have happened.”
“I thought I was going to die.”
“But you didn’t. What I need to know from you is exactly what happened. Can you do that for me, Jim?”
“I’ve already told the officers. They’ve got all the information you’ll need.”
“I need to hear it from you.”
Jim Hamilton looked as if he was going to protest but thought better of it. Sighing, he started to recount the last moments of today’s shift, “It was a holdall – a blue bag with brown stripes; kinda retro looking. I thought a young guy had left it by mistake. You’d be surprised how often that happens. It’s busy at that time. People are reading their papers, checking their phones, checking out each other, or me sometimes,” He could see Arbogast didn’t believe the last part, “It’s true. It’s easy to leave things behind. A group were just getting off. I stopped them but they said it wasn’t theirs. Then I started to get worried. After the explosion we’ve been told to keep an eye out for something – well for something like this.”
“What did you do then?”
“I don’t know why, but I opened the bag. At first I didn’t know what I was looking at. It was heavy, really heavy. There was a long black package in the bag. I turned it over to try and see what it was then I saw there was a clock.”
“Can you describe it?”
“It was just a digital display; like an alarm clock; maybe about two inches square. The display was made up of green lines. You know like a digital watch. It was at 20 when I first saw it then it was counting down. The train had stopped at that point and a lot of people were getting off. I thought maybe one of them had left the bag. I didn’t know what to do. There were so many people.”
“You did the right thing.”
“I didn’t need to do anything. I just sat and stared at the bag. I was shaking, sweating. I just sat there and swore.”
“But nothing happened.”
“I didn’t know that, I thought I was going to fucking die,” He had raised his voice which was tight with rage. “The counter just went down to zero. Then the alarm went off. But nothing happened.”
“You were lucky, Mr Hamilton.”
Jim Hamilton looked off past the perspex ticket office wall and shook his head, “Yeah. Lucky is my middle name.”
Arbogast laughed, “Get yourself some trousers Mr Hamilton, it’s cold out there.”
“So it was a hoax?” Ian Davidson had been conspicuous by his absence, but news of the rail incident had brought him out of hiding.
“Looks that way; I’d have liked to have kept this quiet but it’s all over Twitter. People have posted video footage of Hamilton holding the bag. There was quite a panic. The train emptied. Some of the films are actually quite detailed.”
“It’s not what we need though.”
“No, it’s not, but that’s where we are. The footage is being pieced together and played back-to-back on the news channel. Tensions are high. We’ll need to beef-up the numbers again; get more guys on the street.”
Davidson agreed, “Look we’re having a briefing at 18:00. The chief will have a plan.”
“Where is Norrie anyway?”
“He’s yesterday’s news, mate, you know that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know.”
“Obviously I have missed something. Norrie will always be the top cop to me.”
“You can’t put your arms around a memory. The new guys are already making plans, so you’ll need to watch yourself. Your old guardian angel has spread his wings and left you to fend for yourself. Do you think Donald will have your back? Do you think he needs that kind of baggage?” Ian Davidson was wagging his finger in Arbogast’s face, “You’re on the way out, Arbogast, which should leave a prime spot for me. I’ve worked with Donald before. I reckon he owes me a favour or two. Catch you around.”
Arbogast could feel his jaws clench as Davidson left. What annoyed him most was that he knew his colleague was probably right.
***
Ian Wark watched the TV news from the comfort of the Solid Rock Cafe. He could hear the sirens outside, saw people creep down the street to try and get a look at the operation. The bottom half of Argyle Street was now a no-go area. Added to the cordon at George Square and in the Merchant City, a large part of the city centre was now off limits. The attacks were the only thing people seemed to be speaking about. At a time when people felt secure in their homes the events of the last two days would have a profound impact. Ian knew the plan had already worked and the next stage in the operation needed to get underway soon. Support for their cause could only grow as the security operation ramped up a gear. The barman had stopped working and was watching the news on the plasma screen.
“What’s going on in this city?”
Ian lifted his pint to his mouth and spoke before sipping, “It’s a bad state of affairs, that’s for sure.”
“Who do you think is behind it?”
“They don’t know yet, do they?”
“There was a guy in earlier who thought it was Islamists. You get that you know; white extremists. The square bombing was some old guy though – a war veteran! Why would he turn against his own?”
Ian Wark shook his head and carried on drinking, “I’m sure he must have had his reasons. Perhaps we’ll never know.”
15
Arbogast phoned Sandy Stirrit when it became clear that there was no way back for Norrie Smith, who had been cast aside. To say Sandy was surprised by the news would have been an understatement.
“No way; why now?”
“As far as I can see it’s purely political. The First Minister’s been looking to get Donald in from the get-go. He’s a political animal and he knows how to play the game. From what Rosalind’s told me he’s good at playing up his strengths, while playing down the stats. From some of the stories you hear he pretty much brought peace to Ulster; he loves his own PR.”
“Others would say he created the need for it. There are a lot of rumours doing the rounds about this guy, John. Ordinarily I’d say that shit sticks, but he seems to be getting away with it. He’s got support, which is more than can be said for Norrie.”
“True, but at least with Norrie you knew where you stood. He’s so bloody-mi
nded he could drive you nuts with the way he went about his business, but he trusted you.”
“We’re talking about him like he’s dead. He’s a good man and he trusted his team. He trusted you.”
“I did a good job for him once.”
“The Kocack case is a long time ago, John. You can’t dine out on that forever.”
“I thought you were supposed to be my friend? At any rate I don’t even rate that case. Who did we even catch? A load of bodies and the bad guy walks.”
“Hang on, we’re going off-piste here. What’s the score? Can you tell me anything new?”
“I think the media could play a part in casting light on Donald’s past. This guy’s got history. Granted there doesn’t seem to be any evidence, but if you could sow the seeds of doubt then perhaps the momentum which built up would do the dirty work for us.”
“People don’t want to hear all that now, John. The city’s been hit with two attacks in two days. Do you think anyone wants a debate on whether the new chief can cut it?”
“Do you think the people want a crook heading things up?”
“I’d need proof before I can start throwing about that kind of dirt in public. You know that.”
“Aye well maybe you’re not worried about your job.”
The Nationalist Page 6
