Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy)

by Campbell Hart

  It was 4:30pm at Glasgow Royal Infirmary, which meant visiting time for those lucky enough to have someone that cared. Mary Clark had other plans anyway. Mary had been moved into a private room off the Cardiology wards due to the risk of complications brought on by hypothermia. Although she still felt weak Mary had made a better recovery than she had let on and she was now aiming for an unscheduled visit of her own. Mary knew the first task would be the hardest and that she would need to deal with the policeman before being able to do anything else. Mary had been told the officers had been stationed there to ‘keep an eye on her’ but she knew only too well that she was under practical house arrest and was being segregated from the rest of the patients, which had given her time to think. Mary had asked about her husband John who should have been back in touch by now, but they said he had gone missing which wasn’t a good sign. Looking around the room Mary realised that she had one or two pressing problems. Firstly she had no clothes other than the gown she had been given by the hospital. Her clothes were most likely classified as evidence now. She had searched through all the cupboards and drawers in the room but, unsurprisingly, they had all been empty. Turning her attention to her 24 hour guard Mary was running short of inspiration. Early on it had been that young guy Frank. He had been sweet, trying to talk to her and telling her everything would be OK. That was when they thought she was the victim. Frank had not been as nice to her after the investigation had switched its focus to her. Mary sized up her chances. Frank was a big man and he would be difficult to get past but she didn’t feel that she had any choice. The chair was just outside the room and the only time her guard would leave was when there was a nurse in the room. She was always under their watchful eyes. Mary’s luck changed for the better about an hour ago. Frank had been replaced by the family liaison officer, DS Mhairi Reid, who was altogether a more appealing prospect. She had come up with an idea, which she was just about to put into action. Mary opened the door slightly and cleared her throat.

  “Mrs Clark you know you are not allowed to leave the room unaccompanied.”

  “I’m not aiming to leave but it’s just that I’ve got,” Mary lowered her voice, “well let’s just say you might be able to help me with a delicate matter,” she smiled in a way she hoped would inspire empathy. DS Reid recoiled slightly at the notion but Mary could see she was weighing up the situation. She rose from the chair before bending in to Mary.

  “I’ll just get a nurse for you.”

  Mary didn’t waste any time. There was no-one in the hallway and she knew she had to act quickly. She punched DS Reid sharply in the throat, winding her and causing her to bend over. While she was doubled up Mary grabbed her hair and pulled her into the room. She was prepared for this and had shredded a pillow case and now deftly wrapped it around the officer’s mouth using it as a makeshift gag. DS Reid was disorientated and didn’t have time to realise what was happening to her. She looked from left to right as her brain tried to make sense of the situation. Her natural reaction was to raise her hand, to try to say ‘No’ but as she rasped and spat onto the cotton sheet she was now bound to her fate. Mary grabbed her by the hair again and smashed her head down onto the floor, once, twice...four times – then quiet. Mary could see there was blood but she knew that could not be helped. The blinds to the room were drawn so she would not be seen if she worked fast. Mary dragged the leaden weight of Mhairi’s body into the en suite bathroom. It had been built to be disabled friendly so there was plenty of room to work. The two women were not exactly physically matched but Mary knew the clothes would need to do. DS Reid was about four inches taller but maybe not as wide as Mary. Stripping her of her uniform, Mary shed her gown and got into character. “I’m sorry,” she said, bending over to kiss her former captor as if saying goodnight to a lover, “But it had to be this way.”

  Mary slipped out of the room and was almost caught by a passing Doctor. She quickly sat on the sentry chair before she was seen and nodded to the man as he passed. If he had looked at her more closely he might have seen the beads of sweat which had formed on her brow. Once he left Mary slipped away unnoticed. As she walked from the hospital up and out of the concrete walkway she noticed an ambulance arriving with sirens blazing, unaware that her self-appointed nemesis was about to take her place on the casualty list.

  Eric Sanderson had visited Tower 12 earlier the same day. He had been feeding Onur whisky all night while he guzzled on cold tea. He knew that something was going on behind the scenes but had not realised that it might present him with an opportunity. People always asked why he lived the way he did, why if he had made so much money selling land, didn’t he sit back and enjoy life. He always said the same thing: that he invested his money into the company and that he was waiting for the long term kick back, his retirement fund. And this was true to a point but his benefactor knew him too well.

  John Madoch first approached him a long time ago, around the time when all the fuss had kicked off with the boy and his daughter in the 80s. Madoch had held a knife to his crotch and asked a single question, ‘Where is it?’ ‘It’ was what Sanderson considered his life’s greatest achievement but also his darkest secret. The ‘secret place’ had been for his Mary, although he never let her know where it was. It was always a car ride away at night – a long, circular journey which led to the inevitable confrontation. He had made her feel that it was quite normal and in time she had learned to accept it. All until she was old enough to know differently and then she began to challenge and defy him but had never mentioned the big secret. His wife had died of cancer having never cottoned on to what was happening. Eric always imagined she must have known but she had never said anything. He often wondered if she had worried herself to death, always fretting about the little things but never dealing with the big problems of which he surely would have been top of the list. That had been a long time ago but with Madoch the past was never let alone. His ‘investment’ was more of a security than anything else. His secret was kept and he did alright out of it. Sometimes the ‘secret place’ would be used by people who needed to stay out of sight for a day or two, but now through a curious turn of events he had a different use in mind. Eric imagined he might even be able to have some fun along the way.

  He had squared the meeting with the boss first and so when he arrived at Tower 12 everyone knew what to expect. He had been there and it had been strange to see him after all this time in the flesh. Eric could see that he despised him but that didn’t matter – he would do as he was told. The arrangements had been made. Eric told the girl her father was waiting but she didn’t seem to be convinced. ‘Where is my mother?’ she kept asking in Turkish, ‘Will I see her soon?’ Sanderson had smiled, not understanding what she said in her foreign tongue, and ruffled her hair in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. ‘I’ll return later, be sure to be ready.’ The girl sat playing on the dirty green carpet, and Sanderson thought that she might find herself quite at home, given time.

  As he breathed in his lungs were filled with cool, clean, life giving oxygen. Arbogast could almost taste the next 40 years. His face was covered in soot, the dirty black particles having stung his eyes and blocked his nose. When he ran his hands through his hair a thick, filthy grease smeared his hand. In the ambulance they had made him take oxygen although he had protested that he was sure he didn’t need it. When he got it though he knew he was wrong.

  This was his life for the five minute trip to hospital with the wailing siren marking out the vehicle as one worthy of free passage through the clogged arteries of the city’s east end. When he arrived his first thoughts were for Rosalind. He shrugged off the attempts of the paramedics who tried to corral him into the emergency admissions ward for a medical examination, as he could feel he was going to be OK. It turned out that Rosalind had been injected with what they thought might be Diamorphine – or in other words Heroin. Arbogast could feel the investigation slipping away from him. He didn’t think there would be too many people out there brave enough to
take on the police like this, and fewer still with the nerve to try and burn one alive. Arbogast was sure of one thing though – Madoch was definitely involved. It was his property, two people involved in the case worked together at one of his firms. ‘One was Kovan’s father for Christ’s sake.’ Answering his phone Norrie Smith updated Arbogast on the search.

  “They’ve found another body at the flat. We’re fortunate to have caught the fire when we did. It’s burned out the front of the building but the back rooms are all intact.”

  “It’s John Clark isn’t it?”

  “We think so John,” Arbogast couldn’t remember the boss having used his first name before. “John Clark’s wallet is in the building, it was found on the corpse but I can’t identify the body yet, the face has been badly mutilated.”

  “But you think it’s him?”

  “Well he’s the same build and height and the wallet is a fair clue even if we can’t be a hundred per cent about it. We’ll need to look at dental records as he was badly burnt, but it’s a matter of time. Whoever is responsible for this seems to be tying up all the loose ends. And if that wasn’t bad enough Onur Kocack has now disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?” Arbogast couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “I thought we had a car on him at all times?”

  “Well yes we do. We had a patrol out at the wind farm but his car’s still there and there’s been a light on through the night at the office. It was only after one of the constables thought to look in that they realised there was no-one there.”

  “This couldn’t get much worse really could it, did you check in with Eric Sanderson?”

  “He said Onur was working late and that he hasn’t heard from him. The patrol car noted that he left at the usual time, about 5:30. They would have seen if two people were in the car.”

  “Maybe, look thanks for keeping me in the loop. I’m going to make sure DCI Ying is OK and then I think I’ll have a chat with Mary Clark since I’m here anyway. DS Reid can sit in with me.”

  “Good idea DI Arbogast,” he said, hesitating for a second before adding, “and take it easy John. Are you sure you’re fit to carry on?”

  “Yes sir – we’re close now I’m sure we are. Thank you.” When Arbogast hung up he opened the door to the emergency room where Rosalind was being treated. He could taste blood in his mouth when he saw that she was breathing through a valve mask, and watched to check the breaths were constant. He didn’t see the doctor approach him with an outstretched arm; he was too busy watching as some kind of drug was prepared.

  “Is she going to be OK?” he said to no-one in particular. As he was pushed from the room the masked doctor nodded.

  “She’s in the best possible hands but you cannot be here.”

  And then Arbogast found himself forced back out into the corridor, faced with a cold grey door and a million questions.

  The daily news meeting had been much livelier than normal. Sandy Stirrit knew that he had a good lead on the abduction case. He had explained that the woman found on the bus was the same little girl who had accused her father of raping her in a secluded dungeon in the 1980s. Those old enough had mulled over the juicier titbits of that case while younger reporters watched, asking questions as they tried to remain part of the conversation, hoping to lend some latter day insight. Sandy knew that Arbogast would not have thrown him this scrap if there wasn’t something in it but the editor wouldn’t touch it.

  “Look Sandy, if this ever gets solved, which let’s face it doesn’t look too likely, then this kind of thing is great. If we’re the only ones who have it then it’s perfect for a background report but you know the score just now, we can’t afford to be upsetting people with age old gossip. We’ve had our knuckles wrapped a few times recently when we’ve been accused of taking part in trial by media and we can’t afford another scandal. We have had the Scottish Government on already trying to punt a line about secure border controls and sensationalist reporting. The police are already getting pressure to get this case solved and I can’t see the justification of going after this guy. Check it out by all means but I’m not putting it on at this stage.”

  Sandy hadn’t been happy at being fobbed off. He was supposed to be the senior reporter but there were few risks being taken these days. He sensed there might have been political pressure judging by the comments about the Government. The Scottish Parliament was still a young institution trying to make its mark and the communications guys were never far away when the reports were ‘off message’. The thing that annoyed him was how readily his masters snapped to attention. The fourth estate seemed to be losing its bite. Cuts and rationalisations had left them with an inferior product that less people wanted to watch. It was the same all over but the more it was cut, the worse it got. Sandy wasn’t going to let this go. He decided that if he wasn’t going to be allowed to actively report on the lead then he was still going to have a bloody good look at it.

  Sandy’s first stop was to the archive section to root out any coverage they had on tape. He had his answer about four hours later. The case had made the news three nights in a row in 1985 before it died away, the daughter’s claim of incest having been dismissed. The reports themselves offered little in the way of insight but he was intrigued by another tape marked ‘SANDERSON ARCHIVE’. Taking his time Sandy spooled through and could see Mary as a young girl. She was dressed in a pair of blue denim dungarees and a white baggy t-shirt, topped with the most ridiculous crimped fringe. The grainy film caught the times. It had been a glorious summer’s day when the boy had gone missing. This was the next day ‘My father did this,’ she said directly to the camera ‘and he’ll do it again, he’ll rape another boy and maybe another girl,’ then from the background a younger Eric Sanderson appeared and touched the back of her shoulder where she seemed to flinch. Sandy rewound the tape. ‘Ever so slightly yes,’ he was sure she had moved. Eric explained that she was upset by the attention and that his daughter had never wanted to allow others onto the land and that the camp had annoyed her. The footage hadn’t run of course as it was libellous, although that hadn’t stopped the papers, if the old timer’s stories were anything to go by. He watched more of the raw footage and was intrigued by the house. It seemed to be circled in birch trees; they didn’t look too old, maybe ten years or so. The house sat proudly on the hill, brightly painted in white with black around the exterior windows and round the door. It was a fairly unremarkable old farmhouse. In the background he could see what looked like a well, which sat next to an outhouse, possibly a shower block. There was something about the picture which didn’t seem right. He looked and looked but for the life of him he couldn’t work out what it was.

  Back at Glasgow Royal Infirmary Doctor Ellen Fitzpatrick was doing her rounds. She kept the ‘prisoner’ for last. She scolded her juniors for calling her that but it was true wasn’t it, she was a prisoner more than a patient. Mary Clark seemed to be making a good recovery and she would soon be out of her hair. As long as this whole sorry saga continued her life would be turned upside down. Constant media calls about the state of her health and the round the clock police presence was putting staff and patients alike on edge. Before she even entered the room she knew something wasn’t right – there was no policeman at the door and Doctor Fitzpatrick assumed the detectives must have come back to speak to her – maybe they had taken her away. The doctor made a mental note to bring the matter up with her junior staff. This was something that she should have been told about. But when she opened the door there was no-one inside. She became worried when she saw there was blood on the floor. She bent over and touched it, and realised that this was something that had only just happened. As she bent over she could see a shape inside the bathroom through the door which was ajar. Peering into the gloom she gasped when she saw DS Reid lying on the floor. Quickly checking for a pulse the second thing Doctor Fitzpatrick did was to pull the alarm chord.

  Mary Clark was loose.

  Part 3

  18
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  Glasgow, February 23rd 2010

  Every fresh blow shook the plaster from the ceiling. The noise had been constant for 45 minutes and his patience was starting to wear thin. Graeme Short had lived downstairs from John Arbogast for just under six months, and was starting to really ‘get to know’ his neighbour. Graeme looked up wondering if the ceiling was going to give way and moved to the side of the room ‘just in case.’ Sometimes dust sieved down through an expanding crack. ‘Right that’s it, I’m going to go up, whether he’s a cop or not.’ Graeme had just put his shoes on when the noise stopped. ‘Next time, next time I’m actually going up there and give him a piece of my mind.’

  Sweat dripped from Arbogast’s head as he crouched on all fours on the bedroom floor. He had tried to run for an hour on the treadmill but hadn’t quite lasted the pace. ‘You’re still out of shape,’ he thought, gasping for breath. Arbogast had transformed what was ostensibly the guest bedroom into a makeshift gym. The corner nearest the front window was filled by an unmade single bed, which he had taken from his mother’s house when he had sold it on. Opposite stood the treadmill which was rarely used, while in the middle of the room sat a bench press and dumbbells. This had all been bought in good faith but the flaw in the plan was that Arbogast lacked the basic motivation to train. Fast food grabbed on the hop and too much socialising in his spare time meant that there were occasions he could barely recognise his own face in the mirror – today it looked fat and fleshy. It was generally true, though, that one good run would pave the way for a three month health kick which got him back to square one and his preferred weight of thirteen stone. Although he had noticed that it had been getting harder to do. Today he would have preferred to have sprinted along the banks of the River Clyde with the bracing gusts of freezing air more refreshing than any session in the gym. But the hard packed ice was making getting about on foot a tricky business, as he had already found out at the Red Road flats. The weather was due to change and the forecasters said that a thaw should come in the next few days. Outside the trees were frosted and beautiful in sharp winter skies. Gone now were the inches of snow which had clung for so long to their bows. It wouldn’t be too long before life returned to normal.