“Phone me back when you’ve calmed down. I’ll see what I can do.”
Arbogast slumped back in his chair. The day had started badly and was getting steadily worse – a second attack; a new chief; no discernable allies; and no real leads. Not to mention the fact his relationship looked to be thrashing itself towards a messy end. He stared at the ceiling looking for inspiration but saw only cracks. A nagging voice inside told him he needed to get on and work. Turning his attention to his growing in-tray he sifted through the statements which had been taken so far. From survivors who had picked fragments of bone from their hair, to onlookers thinking about compensation, to vigilante attacks on innocent people – all in the name of retribution. There was no clear pattern. No discernable reason about why any of this had happened. Why did the old guy do it in the first place? Intrigued by the witness statement from James Wright, he read and re-read the words. Something didn’t feel right. The tone didn’t sit well with him. What was it? I always thought he was kidding. Mr Wright, I think it’s time I paid you a visit.
He arrived at the home with DS Valerie Sessions, a 40-something mother of two. She was a cheeky bitch. Arbogast liked her a lot.
“Is this the best you’ve got DI Arbogast, an old man in a care home?”
“Last time I looked 15 people had been killed by an old man. Maybe this guy’s dangerous?”
“Maybe he is. What are we here to ask him?”
“He seemed to appreciate a joke.” Arbogast knocked on the front door and waited but no-one answered.
“Statement said he was a slow mover.”
“Thanks Val, I’ll keep that in mind.” He knocked again, loudly this time. His knuckles were sore from the five sharp raps. A voice from behind them suggested they might be wasting their time. It was the concierge.
“He’s not here.”
“Is that so? Do you know where we can find him?”
“Sorry officer – you are Police right?”
“You’d know, would you?”
The concierge blushed, “The patrol car kind of gave you away.”
“So you’re the observant sort,” Valerie said, “Perhaps you could tell us where he’s gone?”
“He was picked up. He goes to the Legion on a Monday.”
“When will he be back?”
“I’d try around six, but he could be longer.”
“OK thanks. Perhaps we’ll catch up with up him.”
As Arbogast drove through the city’s west end he could see there were far fewer cars on the road than normal. Valerie noticed too.
“People are staying away.”
“Wouldn’t you, given everything that’s happened?”
“Life goes on; what’s staying indoors going to achieve? We’ve all got bills to pay, food to buy, children to feed.”
“I don’t have kids.”
“You know what I mean. People are using this as an excuse to take a day off. Do you really think people are scared? An old man blows himself up a hoax bomb shouldn’t be enough to bring the city to a standstill.”
“You’re a cynic, do you know that?”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
Arbogast pulled up outside the British Legion at Cowcaddens. Parking on double yellow lines they went inside. The place looked like it hadn’t been decorated since 1974, with dirty red carpets patched with gaffe tape; speckled with cigarette burns and beer stains. There were only two men playing dominos at the back of the room. One thing was clear, though, James Wright wasn’t there.
16
Ian Wark had been busy. The level of chatter on his website was unprecedented. Newsnational.sco had been chipping away at the mainstream media (MSM) for some time, with its niche audience active on social media across the country. The website only had around ten thousand regular users but they knew how to make their views count. For every comment page in the MSM his followers posted counter comments. For every pro-union stance they posted an alternative view. Users would pick away at arguments using their ‘too wee, too poor, too stupid’ mantra to slap down their opponents. Every piece which didn’t support the cause of independence was lambasted. It had been a tactic which had worked well so far. With no daily national newspaper actively supporting the cause, the role of website news had been crucial in drumming up support for the nationalists. From the doldrums of opposition, to minority government, to Scotland’s first Holyrood majority, the party’s rise in popularity had been swift. Too swift perhaps, as they were now faced with trying to drive through the Referendum and secure independence in a time frame no-one had been expecting. The stance of Labour had been the same throughout – dismiss and degrade. It hadn’t worked and now the party were seen as an irrelevance. They had been surpassed in the independence debate by the ruling Tory party, even though they were still feeling the effects of a long hangover in Scotland dating back to the Thatcher years. Newsnational played to the gallery, and openly criticised existing institutions, most commonly the BBC, which was seen as conspiratorial and biased. Every report, phrase, online story, and perceived personal viewpoint was poured over and dissected. The enemy was clear and the plan of attack was to piggy-back from the website’s existing brand to develop and sustain a new way of reporting.
BBC man played by Police in Terror Attack
Fresh evidence of interference in the BBC’s news coverage has emerged in the wake of the George Square terror attacks. Newsnational has discovered that the Corporation’s main Scotland Correspondent, Sandy Stirrit, is a long standing friend of one of the lead investigators, DI John Arbogast. The two men met at the scene of the attack, where we understand they were discussing the move to replace the interim Police Scotland Chief Constable, Norrie Smith, with the new full time replacement, Graeme Donald. A source close to the investigation had confirmed that DI Arbogast’s partner, Rosalind Ying, has been in close contact with Mr Donald in Belfast and has since been unveiled in a senior post at Police Scotland.
It has since emerged that DI Arbogast pressured Sandy Stirrit to ask probing questions at the recent Police Scotland press conference (click here for more) where the broadcaster tried to insinuate the new Chief Constable’s record was tainted. Unproven and well-aired grievances were again brought up by Mr Stirrit in an attempt to discredit Mr Donald in what can only be described as an astonishing smear.
We approached the BBC for comment but were told that no-one was available. This stance is clearly unacceptable. The BBC has again shown that it cannot be trusted to offer impartial coverage on areas of national significance. Today we ask three questions and leave it to you to decide on the appropriate answers:
1: Is it right that the BBC should bow to pressure from Police Scotland to try and discredit a man tasked with managing the biggest single investigation the country has ever seen?
2: Can the BBC expect to get away with sweeping the matter under the carpet?
3: What will Police Scotland and the BBC do to make sure this matter is adequately dealt with?
Comments section (all content is moderated)
Freenat101 I think it’s disgusting that the British Bullshit Corporation thinks it can openly smear a public individual. We deserve more respect.
Saltiredreaming Yet another example of the MSM being led by internal politics rather than their so-called impartial reporting. I use Newsnational to get my news – the more of us that do, the better!
NattheNat Comment pending moderation
23 more comments. Click link for full list
“Who writes this shit?” Arbogast threw his tablet onto the mound of paper at the back of his desk. “Who would even bother to spend time on this?”
“You’ve never read Newsnational before?” Chris Guthrie was smirking, but Arbogast wasn’t in the mood.
“This isn’t funny, Chris. They’re saying I’m distorting the news agenda.”
“And did you?”
“Sorry?”
“I know Sandy’s an old pal. You surely must have expected something like
this to pop up at some point?”
“This isn’t ‘popping up’ it’s another time bomb. Donald’s just in the door and he’ll think I’m briefing against him.”
“I’m sure Rosalind will put in a good word for you.”
Arbogast sat with his elbows on his desk, with his fingers kneading his forehead, “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Chris. Rose and I, well let’s just say we’re not on the best of terms right now.”
“Sorry to hear that, John. Anything you want to talk about?”
“Not right now, but thanks. What with home and Ian bloody Davidson, my melons are being well and truly twisted.”
“What’s Davidson done now?”
“He seems to think he’s in with Donald; that my jacket’s on a shoogly peg. All of a sudden I’m being shot by both sides. I’m not sure I like it.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“Maybe, but I could do with Norrie Smith at my back right now.”
Chris Guthrie picked up his Police Scotland mug and gestured to Arbogast to pass his over, “Norrie Smith’s gone, John, and he’s not coming back.”
***
Ian Wark sat back and watched the comments flood in. Newsnational users had taken to the BBC’s comments section to leave remarks on related stories. They were never allowed to appear. His website wasn’t appreciated as a reliable source and comments referring back to it were suppressed as par for the course. Still, Ian could see that more people were using the site to find alternative views. In time he was confident the tide would turn in their favour.
17
“James Wright, you’re a hard man to track down,” Arbogast and DS Valerie Sessions had asked around for their octogenarian contact, but had then received a call from the concierge at the care home to say he had finally arrived back. James Wright was sitting in a communal area with a green and blue tartan rug draped over his lap watching a game show on TV. He hadn’t heard his guests approach. “James Wright?” Arbogast touched him gently on the shoulder which made him start.
“Jesus, creep up on a man why don’t you.”
“I’m sorry Mr Wright. I was just saying you’re a hard man to track down.”
“That’s right I’m like the Scarlet Pimpernel. You never know where I’ll turn up next. It’s because I’m so agile, like a gazelle in flight. Now perhaps you’d like to tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”
“We were here earlier but you were out. Where were you?”
“I don’t see that’s any of your concern.”
“Where were you?”
“At the Legion.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was playing dominoes.”
“We were at the Legion. You weren’t there.”
“If you knew, why ask?”
“I think you know more than you’re saying,” Arbogast could feel the conversation was becoming strained, too quickly. He tried to lighten the mood, to build a bond. “That’s the Black Watch tartan is it not?” He was pointing at James Wright’s blanket. The remark caught him off guard. It was a subject he was more comfortable with.
“My daughter gave me this. She found it on the internet. It’s comforting to me; in more ways than you could know.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“You young ones always talk about the war as if it were some kind of game. You know it from the schoolroom and from movies. But it wasn’t like that. There were no heroes, only men trying to survive. I ended up in Holland in 1944. It was December. We were trying to cross the River Mass. There was a tiny strip of land in the middle. The Island, we called it. After heavy fighting we managed to install pontoons across the river. The Germans held back and we rolled our tanks across. There must have been 200 men and 20 tanks. As soon as they were over the barrage began. It was terrible. The tanks lit up and I can still hear the screams of the men inside. If a shell got through the sides of a tank it ricocheted off the metal until it came to rest. It did terrible things to men. The first thing to go was the makeshift bridge. Our guys were stranded on the wrong side of the river and they didn’t stand a chance,” Arbogast hadn’t been expecting a history lesson but he could see there were tears in his eyes and he didn’t interrupt, “After about an hour, the fighting stopped. Our men on the north bank were all dead. One of the tanks left on the strip was still working. The gun was out but the tracks were still intact. My orders were to collect the dead and pile them onto the tank and bring them back over what was left of the pontoon. I think I counted 78. 78 men piled like laundry on the front of the tank. Can you imagine? We took that badly, but in the Black Watch we were like brothers. Despite all the bad times, they were still the best days of my life. Everything else has been an anti-climax. I doubt you could even try to understand what that’s like.”
Arbogast and DS Sessions had no response. The old man sat and stared into space. They sensed this was not a story told to many; the horror this man had seen loomed large. It was Arbogast who eventually broke the silence.
“Was Jock with you at that time?”
“I told the officers before I didn’t know Jock back then. There were so many men you couldn’t know everyone. It didn’t pay to get too close to people. You just did what you needed to do and prayed you might live through it. I suppose I was lucky.”
“When did you meet?”
“It was afterwards – after the War. We both worked in the shipyards, but by then the rot had already started to set in. The yards were rife with revolution. We had all been through the same thing. Hundreds served in the war. My god, there were even guys there that had fought in the trenches in the Great War. You didn’t have to go far to find someone who didn’t like the hand they’d been dealt. You have to realise that in the army we were all paid, fed, and the world seemed to be ours. When we came back we were hailed as heroes by people who only knew what they’d read. But we were living in poverty. I was born in a Gorbals slum, but after everything I’d done I felt entitled to more. We found a common cause in communism. It seemed fair then, to try and share the wealth, to make sure the landed classes couldn’t use us like that again. We tried, and for a few years it seemed like we might succeed. But look what we’re left with.”
“What kind of communist were you?”
“What kind?”
“Were you active, organising rallies, maybe you visited Russia to see how they did it in the Motherland?”
James Wright snorted, “The Motherland? Really Inspector, you’ve been watching too many movies. I met Jock abroad, in Berlin actually; must have been in the mid-60s. I would have been in my 40s then, about your age I would say. The unions had links to the Communist Party and we were promised access to some of the great minds in socialism. You have to understand that we were blinkered. We didn’t know what was going on in Russia. We were never told and we didn’t think to ask. The notion of toppling the British way of life seemed a very achievable goal.”
“What did Jock get out of this?”
“I think it opened his eyes. He became something of a firebrand. At home he would speak at packed halls, urging his brothers to take action against the owners. But by then the Government had got wise. The old slums were torn down, people were moved out to new towns, and shipyards started to die. When that started the power of the unions started to wane. People’s lives started to get better and when that started to happen, when people really started to buy into consumerism, the idea of communism became a joke. But Jock never gave up. He was looking for something to change the world. I think he found that in nationalism.”
***
Graeme Donald sat at in his new office with the satisfaction of knowing he had achieved a bloodless coup. Norrie Smith’s belongings were boxed and on the floor, ready to be taken away; they could go to the dump for all he cared. He had insisted the name plate was removed immediately, in case anyone was in any doubt about who was calling the shots. The investigation was going in the right direction, and it seemed possible that the culprit
could be one lonely old man. DI Davidson had suggested the investigation was being hampered by John Arbogast. He knew Davidson by reputation – a creepy man with a staggering lack of self awareness, a quality matched only by his ambition. He would be useful as a tool to shape the Specialist Crime Division, but that would take time. Arbogast posed a more immediate threat.
Arbogast knocked on the door but got no reply. Eventually he got the response he was looking for and Rosalind Ying shouted for him to enter. With mixed Chinese-Scottish parents Rosalind was a striking woman. She wore her hair like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and was every bit as memorable. Arbogast had somehow forgotten how beautiful she was.
“Are you just going to stand there gawping. What do you want, John?”
“Look Rose, I’ve been having trouble concentrating. I just wanted to say sorry.”
“You’ve already said that, and to be honest, I don’t really give a shit. We’ve got nothing worth discussing.”
“I wanted to explain the video.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?”
“I didn’t know I was being filmed. It’s entrapment.”
“Entrapment? You’ve got to be kidding. Did she entrap you into taking her from behind? You looked entrapped right enough. Annabelle; that’s her name right?”
“How do y—”
“—you said it enough times on the film. Is that THE Annabelle; your ex?”
“Yes,” Arbogast was trapped. He knew there was nothing he could say that was going to make this any better. It had been a mistake to think otherwise.
“How long has this been going on?”
“It was just last night.”
“Just last night; you make it sound like nothing.”
The Nationalist Page 7
