***
The Glasgow Food Bank had been popular in the press and Jamie Ogilvie was becoming embroiled in a political spat which was turning increasingly ugly. He was being accused of using hunger as a tactic to drum up support for the ‘Yes’ campaign. Rival schemes told him that donations to their established food banks were falling and that because his project wasn’t registered there was no way he could be investigated if anything went wrong. Sandy Stirrit had been asked to file a report, but Jamie Ogilvie knew who he was and wasn’t playing ball.
“I don’t need to answer your questions. All I’m doing is trying to help people.”
“So it doesn’t bother you that the existing four food banks in the city can no longer supply the people they have built up relationships with?”
“I’m only taking donations from people who want to give. Look around, we’re getting hundreds of donations every day.”
“That’s the point I’m trying to make, you’re a law unto yourself. How do you decide who gets what, and where’s all this kept?”
“Let me ask you a question. Do you think it’s right that people should have to beg for food in 2014?”
“I hardly think—”
“—but it’s exactly the point. Under Westminster cuts these food banks have flourished. With more benefits being cut and more people pushed into zero hour contracts, families can’t survive. I don’t want to be here, but we’re making a difference.”
“You’re also making a political point. Is that fair?”
“Of course it’s fair. People are starving. But don’t take my word for it. Talk to one of our volunteers.” He scanned the crowd and waved to a young woman behind the donations counter.” A few seconds later she joined them.
“This is Karen Balfour. She’s a single mum who, until recently, was working on a zero hours contract at the Continental Gold Hotel. Ask her what she thinks.”
Sandy’s crew turned the camera on the girl, “Well Miss Balfour, do you agree?”
“I worked hard and I liked my job. I’ve a wee boy and I want the best for him. But I was brought into the office and told there was no more work. No back pay, no national insurance, no nothing. Just goodbye and thanks for turning up. I’ve applied for benefits but the claim hasn’t been processed yet so I’m here helping at the food bank.”
“But I’m sure you’ll agree these types of food banks are operating across the UK?”
“Of course, but that’s not right, and we live here. I live here and I want more than this for my kids. Who wouldn’t?”
“Some people would say that the SNP have been in power for years and yet the food banks have flourished all the same.”
“We don’t have the power to set benefits in Scotland; we’re just living with the consequences. We’re labelled as skivers by the Tories and scroungers by the red-Tories. They all want a piece of us, to tell the rich out there that poor people are bleeding them dry, but what kind of society is that? Labour have had their turn, and so have the Tories. We’ve got a chance to change things and if we can help just a few people eat at home with their families tonight, then I for one am going to do everything I can to help.”
When he was back in the editing suite the voices he heard were overwhelmingly positive, they made for a convincing emotional argument. The ‘No’ camp stuck to their mantra that the Nationalists were doing nothing to help, that their record in government was nothing to write home about. And while Sandy saw himself as a ‘No’ voter, even he could see something he hadn’t witnessed for a long time, politics mattered.
31
Junior Bikana didn’t know it then, but his life was about to change for the worse. After his very public plea for asylum in the local press the athlete had been staying with Glen Eccles in Eaglesham. It was a small village and the people had been kind. Junior didn’t understand what they were saying most of the time but his English was improving. Glen had been patient and had taken time to teach him little phrases to help get him through the day. He had refused every offer of money, though, as that was not why he had run away.
These first steps towards a new life had been positive. Junior had somewhere to stay until he could find somewhere permanent.
Thinking back, he still had regrets. He’d had to pull out of the Commonwealth Games and leave the team after four years of hard training, but that was a price he was happy to pay if it meant he could live in peace. He’d been asked on TV and radio several times. People seemed genuinely interested in his story. They cared enough that he shouldn’t have to go back to a country where he’d be persecuted for his sexuality. Glen had started a petition in his name which had been signed by more than a 100,000 people online in less than a week. He did not really understand why so many people were getting involved but it seemed things were going well and he was sure he had made the right decision.
But his enthusiasm wasn’t shared by the Home Office. Junior Bikana had been granted a special visa which allowed him to stay in the UK for the Commonwealth Games for up to six months, providing he left the country by September 3rd. It was now the 6th and his time was up.
5:00am
Seven souls poured out of the back of the Immigration Control van. Five stayed back while the two with the paperwork went to the door. Given the profile of the case they’d also invited a TV crew to film proceedings so that there would be no doubt as to how the operation was handled. Sandy Stirrit hadn’t wanted the job but given it was national news, he’d been despatched to cover the operation for Scotland and the UK.
It was a cold morning and there was no answer from the door following the first brisk raps at the door. Sandy felt sorry for the athlete; he’d been popular with the public and was genuinely scared for his safety back home. But he was here illegally and the Government wanted to send the ‘right message’ to others in the same situation.
The lead officer from Border Control knocked again, she was crouching, shouting through the letter box, ‘This is Border Control. You had better open the door.’ Sandy listened but couldn’t hear anything from inside. He watched as the battering ram was brought out, winced at each of the three blows to the door before the frame splintered open. Then they were all inside, a bustle of bodies looking for their man. It was a bungalow so he wasn’t hard to find. They found the owner first, he screamed when he saw the figures. He’s still asleep; doesn’t know what’s going on. Next door Junior Bikana was still out for the count. As he was abruptly roused to a new day of Border Control efficiency, the first thing he saw was the bright light of the camera. Sandy felt sorry for him as the realisation of what was happening slowly dawned on the runner. Later the footage would be broadcast as the officer told him why they were there.
“You have no status in the UK and on that basis you are under arrest as a suspected immigration offender and having outstayed your leave in the UK.”
He was allowed to dress but he said nothing. The camera followed him out, caught his expression, one of resignation. Junior Bikana had hoped for a better life, but within the space of a fortnight, had been deported back to Cameroon. Through the glare of the media spotlight he had also become a celebrity back home. Everyone knew that he’d tried to flee because he was gay and that he had told the world that he didn’t feel safe in his home country. Everyone knew he had disgraced the nation when he pulled out of the Games. Publicly, everyone knew that when he died three months later, that it was most probably from natural causes.
32
It had been the psychologist’s report that had done the damage. James Green had been a Petty Officer on the nuclear submarine, HMS Vanguard, at Faslane Naval Base, but Her Majesty’s Navy had decided he was someone they could do without. They said his behaviour was becoming more and more ‘erratic’. Whatever that means. They said he could no longer be trusted to work on the nuclear fleet.
James Green thought they were probably right, he knew more than he was letting on. Last year he’d been working with the terror group which had targeted George Square. He’d
met the ringleader, Ian Wark, a few years back and they shared the same goals. James wanted to leave the Navy but he had been persuaded to stay. Wark had encouraged him to share information when he could. And he did. He shared the locations and loading information for HMS Vengeance. Ian Wark had a plan to bomb the submarine through an aerial attack. And he had been close, so close to pulling it off.
Fast forward ten months and James Green knew he was working alone. With the rest of the group dead, the attack had been covered up at the highest level. With a referendum due there could be no question of the naval base’s role being undermined. Even the SNP had gone along with the official version; they knew national security was at stake. The less said about Faslane the better.
Except that James Green didn’t see it that way. He’d been dismissed as part of a non-standard early termination; his Commanding Officer didn’t want him on the base any more. They said he was talking too much, complaining too often, and more importantly, had been negligent in his duties. All he wanted to do was to make sure people knew what was happening on base. Fires in missile chambers, poor security, and general bad behaviour were being tolerated on a grand scale. James Green was going to make sure the world heard more. With the Referendum campaign now in its final stages the future of Trident was being openly discussed. The Nationalists said they didn’t want nuclear bombs in Scotland while the ‘No’ brigade said the state of world security meant they had to stay. It was an impasse but James figured it didn’t need to be; in fact it wouldn’t be when he finally told his story. As he was escorted from the base from the final time he looked back through the security gate. I’m going to blow the lid off this place if it’s the last thing I do.
***
They’d been tearing around Dennistoun for the best part of an hour when the boys decided to take the bikes down to the wasteland. The BMX was Ronnie Jones’ pride and joy. It had been a present for his 13th birthday. He loved it. All his friends had them and until recently he’d been riding around on his sister’s old bike. The boys just took the piss out of him. The BMX changed all that. Brand new and with better specs than the others, he was now the most popular in the group. He was loving his time in the spotlight.
His mum was being a real drag, though, kept nagging at him to wear a helmet. He took it out every day to keep her happy, but he dumped it in the front garden when he left.
The rides were fantastic. Ronnie could feel the wind in his face, his first taste of freedom. The boys were going at speed the wrong way down a one-way street. They bombed through the red lights on Duke Street. Ronnie’s heart was racing when the double-decker screeched to a halt, the horn chasing him down the road along with a hundred unheard insults from startled passengers. It was just something they did. Up on the pedals they veered off past the abandoned Fruit Market before climbing the rubble which welcomed them to the natural assault course contained in the wasteland.
Looking around Ronnie reckoned they’d done a pretty good job. They’d made ramps which got higher by the week as their confidence grew. Sometimes they smoked, whatever took their fancy. With no-one around to pester them, it didn’t really matter what they did, they just liked getting out of the house and away from the folks. They just sat there watching crap TV. It wasn’t for Ronnie anymore. It was kid’s stuff.
“You seeing Jenny again, Ronnie?” Stevie Baron was always the first with the questions, a real livewire. He’d told him he’d taken Jenny Rollins out on a date, he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone but now they all knew, “You’re going a bit red there wee man. Look guys, he’s pure got a beamer. You’re totally going to see her again.”
Ronnie mumbled that he didn’t know – he might. He cycled off to the centre ground to try and find a bit of space, “Watch this,” he shouted back, hoping he could change the subject, “I’m going to bunny hop the top of the big ramp; you’d better watch – this is going to be class.”
His friends were already laughing at him but the volume turned up a notch when he fell off his bike. They watched as he tried to stand up but he fell back again. They could see he was pointing and shouting at something that they couldn’t make out. But by the time they’d joined him to see what all the fuss was about, they knew exactly what the problem was. It was something none of them would ever forget.
Arbogast and Guthrie looked down on the mutilated body and felt they had failed to protect the woman when she needed it most.
“Who found her?” Chris Guthrie asked, he was finding it hard to look.
“Some kids on bikes. They’re pretty shaken up.”
“No wonder. Look at her.”
The mutilated body of Lorna McMahon was found by a bunch of kids playing on waste ground near to Tennents Brewery. Chunks of her cheeks were missing. It looked as if an animal at been at her through the night. Her neck was badly bruised.
Arbogast felt it the most, “I’ll bet that bastard Murphy had something to do with this.”
“John, it could have been anyone. You know what this area’s used for.”
“I don’t think she was working the streets, Chris, she was just down on her luck.”
“Sometimes the two go together. She’s not had an easy time of it.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” It seemed to be a regular theme for Arbogast, being in the right place at the wrong time, “We should have done more to help her.”
“You know as well as I do that’s easier said than done.”
The story pretty much wrote itself. Lorna had been found in a red light area and a tip-off to one of the more seasoned tabloid hacks suggested she had been ‘sexually active’ on the night she died. That there was no money found didn’t matter; in fact it added to the mix. There was a sadistic killer on the loose with a penchant for hookers. It also gave the papers the excuse to dig up the suicide from earlier in the year. It seemed like this was a family which courted tragedy. Leona found the reports hard to read:
Red light terror for suicide hooker
A murder investigation has been launched after a prostitute was found butchered in an infamous Glasgow red light district. Lorna McMahon (35) was discovered by a group of children early yesterday afternoon. It’s the latest in a string of assaults on the city’s ‘night trade’ with Police Scotland currently unsure if this case is linked to six other murders in the last five years.
We understand that Lorna McMahon had led a troubled life. In July of this year her husband Horace McMahon (40) took his own life in Glasgow Green just hours before thousands of people were due to descend on the park for Commonwealth Games celebrations. Both Lorna and Horace were unemployed and we understand the family were struggling to deal with serious debt problems.
Neighbour, Irene Heggarty (53) said that times had been tough for the McMahon’s, “I knew they were having debt problems but I didn’t know it was as bad as this. I saw the power company come round to cut them off the other day so I felt for them. But to think her life ended like this is just unbelievable.”
We understand that Lorna McMahon’s face had been deeply cut while one of her hands had been removed. Claire Jones (31) is the mother of the boy who found the body. She said that the family were stunned, “No-one should have to see something like that and my son’s very upset. He hasn’t said much since he saw the body and that’s just not like him, he’s always so chatty. I hope that they catch whoever did this as we live nearby and I for one do not feel safe.”
Investigations are still at an early stage but it’s understood Police Scotland is treating this murder as a priority with 35 officers currently investigating the case. Spokesman at the crime scene, DI John Arbogast, said he was confident the killer would be caught, “This is an horrific crime which cannot go unpunished. We are doing everything we can to track down whoever is responsible. We believe there will be substantial evidence left at the scene which will help solve this case quickly but we need the help of the public at this crucial stage of the investigation. If you know anything at all please come forward; this woman�
�s family deserves justice.”
Leona couldn’t read any more. It’s not my mum they’re talking about. None of this is happening, it can’t be. Her aunt Margaret was hovering, about to offer more tea to ‘take her mind off it’.
“Drink this Leona, it’ll help.”
“How can you be so calm? Have you read what they’re saying about my mum, about your sister?” Leona was holding up the front page in case there was any doubt.
“I don’t know what to believe, love. It hasn’t really sunk in.”
“They’re saying she was a prostitute. How can that be true? We never had any money – do you believe this?” Leona was struggling to understand how her life had been so completely destroyed in such a short space of time. Her mobile had been ringing all day, the friends that wouldn’t help her a few weeks back were all desperate to show how much they cared, and anything in the way of extra information would no doubt be appreciated. In the end she’d switched it off.
“This is about money,” Leona was indignant, lost, “nothing more than that. They’re saying dad killed himself but I know that’s not true. He was murdered. My whole family’s been murdered. Do you know what that feels like?”
“Leona, I know this is hard, but your dad took his own life. That was bad enough, but this awful thing with your mother, well it’s not easy for any of us. The Police say they’re doing everything they can. They’ll find the person that did it, you wait and see.”
Referendum (Arbogast trilogy Book 3) Page 17
