Referendum (11 page)

“Looks like a pro, sir.”

“Thanks Constable,” Donald didn’t know where they found these guys.
Is that supposed to impress me?
He forgot about his irritation when he saw the body. A small calibre entry wound marked the front of Wark’s forehead. The bullet had rotated through his skull, mashing his brains and forcing its way out of the other side. The blood from the exit wound stained the light green wall behind the metal bed; fragments of hair and skull clung to the bed and plaster.

“Sam Brown was right.”

“What about, sir?”

Donald turned back to the PC, “It’s a hell of a mess.”

Kath Finch had arrived with her team but she wasn’t happy, “Why haven’t you got your shoe covers on, sir?”

Donald looked down, he’d deliberately forgotten; the more confusion the better. It was more evidence that they’d need to rule out, something that was bound to slow things down. “Shit, sorry Kath. I was worried about the case. This isn’t going to be easy to explain.”

Kath Finch stayed quiet. She knew she couldn’t argue with her boss, it wasn’t worth the effort, but what on earth was he thinking? She knew he’d been heavily involved in the manhunt to find Wark; this would be personal for him. “I need to ask you to leave the room, sir.”

Graeme Donald tried to look chastised, “Sorry, Kath; it’s just you, know, it’s this case – I’d hoped to get answers from this guy. There was going to be a trial.”

Kath nodded, “We need to work fast to try and isolate the evidence. It won’t be easy in this room. There must be dozens of people in and out of here every day, so it may take time.

“Just do what you can, Kath; it looks like there might be someone else out there holding a grudge. This can’t leak out. We might need to try and keep this quiet.”

As he left the Royal Infirmary, Donald was confident the coming months were looking decidedly better. But to be able to square the circle he needed to deal with Murphy, an issue which had suddenly leapt up his list of priorities.

19

Back at Corsock Street, Arbogast waited while Lorna McMahon freshened up. She said she was tired out from her ordeal at court and asked if he could give her 15 minutes to shower and change. He said he didn’t mind. Upstairs, as the patter of water drummed off the plastic shower curtain restoring Lorna to life, Arbogast took the opportunity to look around. There wasn’t much to see. There was no TV, no electrical equipment at all. A couple of DVDs suggested that hadn’t always been the case, the movies were a couple of years old. The only piece of furniture was a small pine effect set of drawers. The side was hanging off, it had seen better days. There were an assortment of letters crammed in, many unopened. He pulled one out and a picture started to form. It was from a debt collection agency – Nice ‘n’ Semple loans.
Jesus, where do these guys get off, passing off their business with a joke?
The picture being painted for the McMahons was one of massive debt.
Which explains the lack of furniture.
Arbogast checked the name on one of the unopened envelopes:

Mr and Mrs Horace McMahon

That wasn’t good. With Horace gone, the debt would be left in her name, which explained why she’d turned pick pocket, although it obviously wasn’t a skill. She was taking a long time to get ready. Outside he saw a shadow pass the venetian blinds, which were pulled shut. There was someone outside. The letter box flapped. He didn’t move. It wasn’t his place to answer the door. Then he heard a voice. Looking round from the living room to the hall he could see a hand poking through the slot.

“I know you’re in there, Lorna. Don’t make this hard for yourself. Open up and let’s talk. What would your husband say?”

Could be the debt collectors? Maybe I can help after all.
Arbogast unlocked the door to find a tall man straightening up. He had closely cropped hair, and a well worn face which looked like it had seen too many late nights. There was a small scar on his chin and he didn’t look happy.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Never mind that, what do you want?”

“Listen, pal, I’m here to ask the questions and I’m here to see Lorna McMahon. Now if you’d go and get her that would be grand.”

Niall Murphy knew if he played it confidently the guy would do as he was told. He had to give it to her though, the woman didn’t hang around, her husband was barely cold and here she was shacked up with someone else. This guy didn’t look like he’d be much trouble.

“Are you from the debt collection agency?”

“What’s it to you? Not your business, so be a dear and get the woman of the house, please.” Niall reached into his inside pocket; he wanted this guy to know he might end up in trouble so the hint of being armed was usually enough.

Arbogast had had enough of this clown, “I think it’s time you told me who you are.” Arbogast produced his Warrant Card and flashed it in Niall’s face, “DI John Arbogast, I’m looking into the death of Horace McMahon and your agency has its name all over the case. Why don’t you come in and we’ll talk?”

Upstairs the shower had finally gone off. Lorna appeared in the hall in her dressing gown, “Who’s that down there?”

She came down into the hall still drying her hair with a towel, Lorna didn’t recognise the man but he carried a look she was more than familiar with; he was here about the money, “This isn’t really a good time, I’ve got company. Could you come back tomorrow?”

Niall Murphy knew he was in a tricky situation but perhaps a few calls and this guy could be warned off, “Look, Detective, no worries; sorry if there’s been a misunderstanding. I’ll see you around.”

Arbogast didn’t like the look of the guy; he wasn’t someone he’d seen before, wasn’t a known fixture, “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“That’s right; you didn’t ask to be fair.”

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me your name. I doubt your boss will want any more attention from the Police.” He’d heard of Ron Semple before. He’d started small and built himself up, making money out of other people’s misery. He hated these guys with a passion and this guy looked like good old fashioned muscle.

“Mrs McMahon’s had enough to think about these last few days without scumbags like you sniffing about her front door looking to make things worse. What’s your name?”

The Irishman looked back; the scraggy lines at the side of his eyes crumpling into thick folds as he sneered back, “The name’s Niall Murphy and I can assure you I am completely legit. Check me out, you’ll see. Nice meeting you.”

“I’ll be watching out for you, Niall. If anything happens to Mrs McMahon, you’ll be the one I come looking for.”

Niall Murphy walked off down the street waving a mock salute back to the house. He’d parked but he didn’t want his car to be seen; didn’t think it was a good idea to give away so much information unnecessarily. He’d be back. It was just a matter of time.

“What was all that about – do you owe money?” Arbogast had turned back to his host; he knew there was nothing much he could do.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Is that why you were lifted? Trying to steal cash to pay them back? There are ways of handling this and you’re obviously not coping.”

Lorna had had enough. It had been a long day and things kept getting worse, “I don’t need a fucking lecture from you. I’ve lost just about everything; look around you it’s not exactly a show home is it?” Lorna let it out, it felt good to shout, it helped that she didn’t know this man; it didn’t matter that he was a cop, it was probably better. There’d be no comeback.

Arbogast stayed calm, “We can help. If this guy’s muscle, looking to extort money from you, we can help.”

“We signed a contract.”

“Horace signed a contract.”

“It was a joint commitment.”

“But Horace is dead. Is that what you want for yourself? 25 grand is a lot of money.”

The mention of the money changed the tone of the conversation. Looking to the filing cabinet, Lorna knew he’d been snooping.
They’re all the bloody same.

“I think you’d better leave.”

“What about your daughter?”

“I’ll do anything I need to do to find her, but it won’t be through you. Now go.”

As the door slammed behind him Arbogast shook his head; she was going to be a victim of her own pigheadedness.

At the bottom of the street Niall Murphy watched as the cop drove off. It was time to get back to business.

Sandy Stirrit bit the bullet and went straight to Pitt Street. He needed to talk to John Arbogast. When he got there he was told he wasn’t in.

“He won’t be long. He was in court this morning but he should be back soon,” Chris Guthrie offered to call him but Sandy said he’d wait. An hour later he was still there.

“I thought you said he’d be back soon?” He didn’t mean to put so much venom behind the comment but he knew Chris and felt he’d get away with it.

“I’m not his keeper, Sandy. You can always come back later. He’s working on a case so it’s possible he got tied up.

But it wasn’t impatience that was needling Sandy, it was fear. His camera hadn’t worked properly and he didn’t have any filmed footage of his meeting with Niall Murphy, only the sound had recorded. But it was obvious that something was going on around Graeme Donald and Sandy knew there was a story to be told. But he needed inside help, needed the protection John Arbogast could offer. He’d left several messages, none of which had been returned but he had to persevere, there was too much at risk, “Sorry, Chris, I didn’t mean to snipe; I’ve just got a lot on my mind. I’ll come back later but if he puts in an appearance could you let him know I really need to speak to him. It’s extremely important.”

Chris nodded. He could see Sandy Stirrit was nervous about something, “Is it anything I can help with?”

Sandy wavered for a moment, but he didn’t know Chris well enough to confide that kind of information. He smiled, “I would if I could, but I can’t, not on this, but thanks.”

Chris Guthrie was intrigued. It wasn’t like Sandy to come directly to the Police, he was too high profile. He wanted to know more. It wouldn’t be long until he knew too much.

***

It was the best sleep Leona had had in weeks. Paul Caldwell had been true to his word. His flat wasn’t far from Glasgow Green. She’d been greeted by his two flatmates and his girlfriend. The living room was masked in the grey smog of cigarettes and joints. Paul’s girlfriend, Gillian, was about the same size and offered her some old clothes, said she’d put hers in a wash if she wanted.

From the quiet of the bathroom, Leona looked at herself in the mirror. Although she didn’t look like she’d changed she felt different. She’d only been in the flat for an hour and yet there was a freedom here she’d never experienced before. Taking off the dirty clothes she saw how low she’d fallen. The filth on the hands and face contrasted starkly to her pale white skin.
I’m 16 next weekend, this should be a time for celebration. Maybe it still can be?
Under the heat of the shower she felt her cold toes tingle as the numbness was washed away. Thick brown streaks of mud and bird shit from the bridge washed off in strands down the plug hole, as her body was slowly restored by the clean, warm water.

Getting dressed she felt alien in someone else’s clothes. The t-shirt said ‘Rock Baby’ and the jeans were too long, so she rolled them up. Going back to the living room the guys tried not to laugh, but she didn’t mind the teasing; they weren’t laughing at her, but with her.

“Look at you, with Gill’s clothes on – that’s insane.” Paul said, holding his hand over his mouth in an effort to hide his smile. Leona spotted the plate of sandwiches. Nothing special, just cheese and ham, but they tasted immense. The Commonwealth Games were on the TV; she hadn’t watched a programme in months.

“It’s better with this?” Gill had passed across a joint but Leona didn’t smoke, she shook her head, “Not for me.”

“Oh go on, you’ll love it, makes you feel great, relaxed.”

The four housemates were all looking at her, willing her to try. Taking the joint in her right hand she sucked lightly on the end; the pungent smoke filling her mouth, she didn’t like the taste.

“Inhale it, breathe deep,” Paul was making a sucking gesture, “It’s worth it.”

So she inhaled, once, twice, and three times. Before long the world seemed to stop. She felt lightheaded, like she was falling; didn’t feel well. But Gill was by her side now. “You really haven’t done this before, you’re having a whitey – which means nothing; just means you don’t feel in control, but you are. It’s just the drugs making you feel like this, there’s nothing wrong with you, just keep telling yourself that, there’s nothing wrong.”

And she was right. About half an hour later Leona was blissed out, watching shot putt on TV; she’d never felt better. But before long she was sleepy; she hadn’t realised how tired she was, how stressful the last few days had been. It was the best rest Leona had had in weeks.

Lorna McMahon was frantic. She didn’t know where Leona was. It wasn’t like her to run off, but maybe she didn’t think she had a choice. She phoned her sister in Paisley, but Margaret hadn’t seen her; said she’d keep an eye out.
Fat lot of good that will do.
Phoning around her friends they said they had spoken to her recently but they hadn’t heard from her in a couple of days. A couple of them admitted she’d been looking for a place to stay but they’d said no.
What kind of friends are they?
But they’d been nervous to speak to Lorna; they knew she’d been arrested.
To hell with them, I’ll find her myself.
She tried Leona’s mobile again. It was still going through to answer machine.
What if something’s happened to her? It has, something’s happened to her and it’s all my fault. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Then came a knock at the door.

“Oh my god Leona; please let this be you.”