Referendum (Arbogast trilogy Book 3)

by Campbell Hart

  She nodded when the shape became clearer, “It’s definitely a body,” Arbogast couldn’t see it yet. He stood on tip toes to try and get a better look, “What is it you’re seeing, Kath?” The angle of the bucket as it edged slowly into position meant she was currently the closest to the bridge support.

  “It looks like a man, although there’s not much left of his face.” A few seconds later Arbogast saw what she meant. The body was wrapped in tarpaulin, lodged in a space of around six feet by three, constrained by the surrounding pillars. The top of the plastic formed a cowl over the top of his head but his face was clearly visible.

  “His eyes,” Arbogast felt ill looking at the remains, “He’s got no eyes. My God, that’s horrific.”

  Kath Finch had her camera out, she muttered under her breath as the cherry picker stopped moving, “Looks like we’ve got our man.”

  4

  Lorna McMahon fought every step of the way. The security guard – his badge said he was called Gary – was leering at her. Another man had come out to help. He hadn’t said much but he’d taken her food. He weighed the contents of the bag with his arm and shook his head. She watched from the corner of her eye as he handed the big blue bag to a young boy, who glanced at her before taking their lifeline back into the shop. Bastards.

  “Let me go,” she rasped through clenched teeth. There might still be a chance to get away.

  “You’re not going anywhere; you picked the wrong guy to pull that crap with me. We’ll take a wee stroll through the back and you can tell your story to the Police.”

  Lorna panicked. The last few weeks flashed past in an instant. The decision to steal hadn’t been easy; it went against every instinct, but she didn’t feel like she had a choice. Her benefits payments had been cut back and the family were struggling. Things had slipped after Horace got into debt. They’d sold anything of any real value to make ends meet. The fridge was the last thing to go and so now their meals were tinned, which hardly made for a healthy diet. If she got arrested they’d all be in trouble. What will I say to the family?

  “Please,” she whispered, “please let me go. I’ve got to eat. Don’t you understand I don’t want this?”

  The security guard stopped, “I’ve got to eat too but I do this job so that I can buy the things I need. That’s the way it works. You’re a big girl now and you know that, don’t you?”

  Nodding her head Lorna sensed she might have an opportunity. Gary’s hand wasn’t holding her as tightly. They’d stopped to talk and she knew this was the moment. She kicked out at his ankle and, surprised, he let go. She ran but felt something clip her foot. She kept running but she was falling, feet still moving like something out of an old cartoon; she tried to move forward but she was running on the spot. Her face bounced off the concrete floor and she could hear a murmur of voices around her, punctuated by the steady beep of items at the checkouts. Suddenly it was silent. If only I’d been able to pay.

  “That was a mistake.” It was Gary, who didn’t sound happy. She felt hands dig into her armpits, pulling her to her feet. The shoppers had stopped. She could see the look of disgust in their eyes. To them she was nothing more than a thief. But if they knew, if they only knew why, maybe they wouldn’t be so judgemental. Lorna had no more fight left, she knew she’d made a mess of things and she was going to have to face the consequences.

  Lorna had been left in a small office at the back of the supermarket. There was nothing much there; a single desk with a monitor, chairs, and a white kettle which looked like it could do with a clean. The TV screen flicked between CCTV cameras but the shop was quiet. After about five minutes she heard a key turn in the lock and Gary appeared smiling at the door.

  “Come with me.”

  Lorna was scared. She’d never been in trouble with the Police before but here she was facing arrest. Gary led her by the arm down a corridor, away from the main body of the supermarket.

  “Where are the cops?”

  “You don’t need to worry about them, I’ve fixed it.”

  Lorna wasn’t sure why but this revelation worried her more, “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll be free to go soon. We just need to come to an agreement.”

  His grip was hard and her arm ached from the pressure. They kept walking along a corridor which seemed to continue the length of the building. Green and white ‘Fire Exit’ signs could be seen at regular intervals. The walls were brick, with the only door a fire escape at the far end, which seemed to take an age to reach. Gary pushed down the metal bar and kicked at the door, which swung open to reveal what Lorna assumed was the loading area. She glanced back when the doors locked back into place.

  “What are we doing here?” She was nervous, had guessed what his play would be. Think.

  “I’m giving you a choice. Either I phone the Police or you do something for me.”

  Lorna felt sick, “Where’s the other guy, does he know about this?”

  “Don’t worry about Eddie. He’s got something else to deal with. Told him we’d got the stuff back; that we’d have a word and you wouldn’t come back, that you wouldn’t mention this to anyone.”

  He’d drawn closer and Lorna wasn’t sure how to react. She was too scared to say anything, didn’t think to shout out. Who would hear me back here? The security guard guided her away from the door and pushed her back against a large metal industrial bin; the label said ‘Food waste only’. She kept looking at the bin. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Her stomach lurched when she felt his hands roughly grope her breasts.

  “Nice,” he said. “Anyone ever tell you, you look like that actress?”

  “What?” Lorna felt bile rise into her mouth. She gagged trying to suppress it, didn’t want to make things any worse.

  “Sandra Bullock, you look just like her.” Lorna nodded her head, the fear was starting to subside, she knew what to do.

  “I’ve never heard that before, do you really think so?” Try to look like you care.

  “I really like her. I like you too. Do you know what I want?”

  Lorna had a good idea of what he wanted but she’d no intention of letting him have it. He was pressed close against her and she could feel his erection against her thigh, he was grinding against her, his sentences getting shorter and making less sense as his lust took over. She knew this was the time.

  “I can see how much you like me. Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

  Lorna started to unfasten his belt, but she struggled with the clasp, was too nervous. What if this goes wrong? Gary pushed her hands away and finished the job. He pulled down his trousers. Lorna noticed they were old and had a black sheen, maybe he’d been out of work for a while. He should know better. He was wearing tight pink lycra shorts which had the word’s ‘It ain’t gonna suck itself’ splashed across the front.

  “Time to earn your keep, Sandra. Take them off.”

  Repulsed, Lorna slowly raised her hands and took hold of the sides of his underwear. Gary thought she was enjoying herself, knew she fancied him all the time. But Lorna was trying hard not to let her feelings show. She pulled the pants down, his penis caught on the fabric and slapped back up. His disgusting cock was swinging in the summer heat. It didn’t smell clean. Looking up she could see him leering at her, “It ain’t gonna suck itself, Sandra.”

  She smiled at him, as genuine a smile as she could manage, one which masked the message to come. Lorna knew it was now or never. With his trousers and pants round his ankles Gary was in no position to call the shots. Tensing herself on the balls of her feet she clenched her fist and punched him hard on the balls. She expected him to scream but all she heard was a muffled grunt. He was bent over and retching. With a look of undisguised hatred she spat out “Suck on this buster,” and kicked him square in the face before turning to run. Twenty minutes later she was home.

  5

  “Whatever happened to him, it looks like he was trying to fight it.” Kath Finch was looking at the remains. The tarpaulin had bee
n loosely covering the man’s body. It looked like he had been using the space for a couple of days. Tins of tuna and beans were open and discarded around him. “This isn’t really somewhere that gets used by homeless people. It’s too bloody awkward to get to for a start.”

  Arbogast was nodding. With the plastic pulled back, away from the body, they could see the man hadn’t been in the best of shape. “He’s so thin; looks like a junkie.”

  “Not this one,” Kath was pointing at his arms, “There are no track marks. He was clean.”

  The man looked like he had been sleeping on his side and hadn’t woken up. He was wearing a pair of dirty blue jeans, a faded white Iggy Pop t-shirt, and a pair of red Converse trainers. His hands were tucked up under his head almost like he was praying. Beneath him was a pool of dark red congealed blood.

  “So what happened?”

  Kath moved the man’s right arm out slightly so that she could get a better look at his wrist. A deep gouge ran about ten inches up the inside of his arm, the skin turned out.

  “Potential suicide, although I don’t see a blade anywhere.” Kath was looking to see if there was anything obvious she might have missed. Arbogast was starting to think he might have wasted his time.

  “Doesn’t look like one for Major Crime to me. I might just leave you to it.”

  “There’s nothing here to suggest that he did this to himself.”

  “We’re right above the Clyde. Maybe he did the deed and threw it away, a last gasp show of defiance?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Kath was easy to anger and she hated the flippancy of some of the cops, the ones that thought certain deaths were below their pay grade, “There’s a guy lying dead here. You might have missed it but there’s a pretty big event about to take place in this city. Given what we went through last year do you want to leave anything to chance?”

  Arbogast sighed. He knew she was right, he was just worn out. Last year he had been part of a major investigation after a suicide bomber killed 15 people during the two minute silence on Remembrance Sunday. It had been part of a wider plan from militant Nationalists to try and stoke up anti-UK sentiment. So far it had worked, and with the Referendum just a couple of months away the concern was that there could be further reprisals.

  “I really don’t think this will have anything to do with the terror attack, just another sad case of a hopeless life gone wrong. I don’t want to talk it up into something that it’s not. We can’t afford another panic – especially after what happened last year.”

  “Thus spake the King of Compassion. Is that as far as your investigative integrity stretches? We’ve got no idea who this guy is. The wound doesn’t fit any pattern I’ve seen before; doesn’t look like he’d have been able to go so deep on both arms by himself.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that someone brought him up here and did this to him? We’re under a bridge in the middle of the Clyde. Someone would have seen or heard something.”

  “Unless it was someone he knew.” The words were left hanging as the waters below crashed off the stone supports.

  “Well, you’re going to have to give me more than that if this is going to turn into a murder investigation. It’s sad, yes, but shit happens and we’ve got an international police operation getting underway right now, and to be honest, I just don’t have time for conspiracy theories.”

  “What’s happened to you?”

  “Don’t start, Kath. Just get the body down and tell me what you can, when you can.”

  The two stared at each other, willing the other to blink first when they were interrupted by the cherry picker operator; they’d forgotten he was there.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt, but you two really ought to get a room. Are we done here?”

  “Yeah, take me back down,” Arbogast said, “The lady’s still got work to do.” As the hydraulics groaned back into life, the Detective had a nagging feeling that he wouldn’t be rid of the case quite so easily.

  6

  Pacing the kitchen floor, Leona McMahon was worried sick. What was she going to do? How could she support herself? It was bad enough with her parents at home but without them she didn’t know what she would have to do to survive. The look of defeat on her mum’s face had been the killer. She’d always been so strong, but with the things the way they’ve been maybe it was only a matter of time before it all went tits up.

  She froze when she heard a key turn the lock in the front door.

  “Dad, is that you?” But she was worried it might be someone else, one of them. She grabbed a knife from the kitchen table, terrified. Maybe it was the folk from the supermarket. What if they’ve tracked me down, that security guy was staring right at me. When the door opened a huge sigh of relief passed through her as her mum appeared, dripping with sweat. She looked terrible and almost fell through into the hallway, before collapsing on the floor, the door slamming shut behind her.

  “Where have you been? I was so worried. They caught you though, how could you—“

  “Shush, slow down pet. It’s OK, they let me go.”

  “Why would they do that?” Leona didn’t understand; something wasn’t right.

  “They got their stuff back, so no harm done. We were stupid to get caught. We’d been so careful.”

  “We were stupid to do it at all. I thought you’d been arrested. I don’t know where dad is. I thought it was just me, here on my own.” The emotion of the day had finally hit home and her last words trembled as the tears started.

  Lorna took her daughter in her arms and told her not to worry, “It’ll be OK. You’re right, we can’t go on like this but we can’t starve either.” Lorna took her girl’s chin in her hand and forced her to look her in the eyes, “Are you OK? I’m back, that’s all you need to go. Things will work out, you’ll see.”

  Leona nodded and said she’d be fine, but for the first time she didn’t believe it; couldn’t see what was going to change. She needed to know where her dad was.

  Horace McMahon was identified by a fingerprint search on the national computer. His file showed that he had been arrested for theft. Scanning his file Arbogast could see he was dealing with a small fry. Horace had been stopped trying to leave an ironmongers having asked a member of staff to hand him a set of pots and pans from the top shelf. He had simply walked out of the shop with them but hadn’t got far. Who steals pots and pans? The arrest date was only six months ago and the crime suggested he might have needed petty cash to feed a drug habit. There was still no word from the morgue on the exact cause of death. The case wasn’t priority so he wasn’t expecting the results for a couple of days. He didn’t expect he’d be involved after they knew for sure but until then he was stuck with the case. Major Crime was being temporarily subsumed by the city-wide operation to man the 2014 Games. With hundreds of thousands of people flooding into the city it was going to be busy. In the meantime Horace McMahon was still dead and his relatives needed to be told. Looking up he could see his partner wasn’t exactly rushed off his feet.

  “Fancy a trip to the East End?”

  “Is this something to do with your mystery man?”

  Arbogast raised his hands in a mock show of the supernatural “Yesss Chrisss. It’sss the straaange tale of the eye of Horace.”

  “You’re sick, do you know that?”

  “Sorry, Chris; just mucking around. I do need to speak to the family, though, and it would be good to have support. I’m not sure of the family background; it might get a bit rough.”

  “Sure. Let’s go break the bad news. Where are we heading?”

  “Haghill.”

  Haghill had a reputation that was proving hard to shake off. Situated a couple of miles east of the city centre it had been built in the early 20th century as an overspill estate for artisan workers. Heavy industry nearby meant that it had been prosperous at first, but with decline came increased poverty. Today the low prices attracted first time buyers from the professional and working classes, who mixe
d company with the forgotten generation of the underclass. When Arbogast and Guthrie arrived at 134a Corsock Street neither could be sure which side of the divide they were about to encounter.

  7

  This time, Sandy Stirrit wasn’t going to take no for an answer. As the BBC’s Scotland Correspondent he’d been bounced out of the biggest story of his career, with the Ministry of Defence threatening to sue the corporation for breaching the Official Secrets Act. Last year Sandy had been invited to cover a security operation at Prestwick Airport in Ayrshire. Police Scotland wanted a reporter on the scene as they closed in on the George Square bomber. But it hadn’t gone to plan and the only thing that had gone off without a hitch was their key contact, who had blown himself up during the sting operation. A cop had been badly injured too. Sandy thought he might be able to unravel the whole sorry mess if only the officer would speak to him.

  Sandy had been parked outside Ian Davidson’s house for the best part of an hour. Davidson was, by all accounts, a nasty piece of work. But Sandy had seen the bomb blast at Prestwick reduce the man to a screaming shell. Since then he’d been on sick leave. But he knew what had happened, and had reason to be unhappy. It certainly didn’t look like he was going back to work any time soon.

  Sandy had done his homework. Asking around he’d found out that Davidson had moved back in with his parents. With no wife and kids he needed round the clock care which he couldn’t provide himself. Sandy watched, relieved, as the parents finally opened the front door. They were younger than he expected, late-fifties, but were taking an age to get out of the house. They went to their local social club every Wednesday and today was the day. Sandy glanced down at his notes. There was still time for some last minute prep.