Referendum (24 page)

When her body was found he started to worry. The picture in the newspaper didn’t do her justice and at first he wasn’t sure if it was the same woman. But as he read through the article he realised it must be. He wondered if they’d be looking for him. His wife had noticed he was jumpy.

“What’s up with your face today, babe? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He mumbled something about the state of the world while his wife noted that was the chance ‘they’ took if ‘they’ wanted to sell their bodies on the streets.

“It’s all for drugs you know, they don’t even need the money. It’s disgusting if you ask me.”

When he told her he hadn’t, the conversation turned as cold as his coffee. He’d stayed home longer than normal until he decided it would be important for him to stick to his usual routine, he had to look as if he had nothing to do with it. If he kept his head down for a few weeks it would all blow over. They never caught the guys that killed hookers – it was an unwritten law. He tapped into Google to bring up the Police website. He wanted to see what they were saying, just for peace of mind.

MEDIA RELEASE – appeal for witnesses

Police Scotland has issued a public appeal for information in relation the death of Lorna McMahon.

Detectives investigating the case are keen to trace the driver of a white Ford transit van seen on Sydney Street and Armour Street in Glasgow’s Gallowgate at around 11:30pm on September 12
^th
.

Lead investigator DI John Arbogast said he hoped the driver would be able to help them piece together Lorna McMahon’s final moments:

“At this stage we are only looking to speak to the driver of the van, after a number of local sightings placed a vehicle fitting that description in the area at around the time of the incident.

“We are hoping that the driver will be able to help us fill in missing pieces of information which may lead to a breakthrough in this case.

“We would also like to reassure the public that extra resources are being deployed in the East End as we step up our efforts to catch the killer.”

Ends

Back in the office Chris Guthrie thought it unlikely the media release would generate much they would be able to work with.

“Do you think the driver’s our guy?”

Arbogast wasn’t sure, “It’s about all we’ve got to work with at the moment. Despite public perception and the insistence of the press, the plot where she was found isn’t an area which is used by prostitutes anymore, for exactly the reasons we’re seeing. It’s too isolated, too easy for bad things to happen.” The two detectives were staring at a map on Arbogast’s monitor. The immediate area was split into quarters. To prevent cars from parking off-road the council had bordered the plots with rubble and grassed them over. It was something that worked well for the women that used to work the streets at night. With no lights and poor visibility it was easy to go unseen in the darkness. But when women started to get hurt, fewer people went there, and it quickly became a no-go zone.

“Poor Lorna just picked the wrong part of town.” Arbogast was shaking his head; the injuries didn’t fit the pattern he’d seen in the past. “Her daughter doesn’t think her mum was there to work.”

“Well she wouldn’t, would she? If it was your mother, what would you think?”

“Sex workers don’t use this plot, so it’s unlikely that anyone would go there looking for it. If she was working the streets it seems to have been something new. I mean, you saw their situation; it was desperate, all for the want of keeping that bastard Murphy happy. Did you see his face at the flat, he knew we were coming.”

Chris Guthrie remembered it differently. He didn’t like Murphy either but his alibi was watertight. They’d asked about in the pub and the punters had backed him up, he’d been there until close to 1:00am, and then left with company. The timescale didn’t fit and Arbogast knew it, “It wasn’t Murphy, John. You need to keep some perspective on this. As you’ve said already, we owe the girl some kind of closure.”

“And what, exactly, is closure? Do you think if we find someone for this, then all her problems will just disappear?” Arbogast was red in the face, exasperated and frustrated, “The only thing we can do to help – even if it offers just a crumb of comfort – is to find her mother’s killer.”

“I think this white van man could be the guy we’re after.”

“Why?”

“Because, as you’ve said, no-one uses that area to buy sex anymore, they just don’t.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that if someone picked up Lorna there it was just blind luck. He must just have been passing.”

“So it would need to be someone local, someone that knew the area?”

“Why do you say that?”

“No-one would know to drive through there; they’d stick to the main road rather than cut through back streets at that time of night.”

“In the old days maybe, but there’s a supermarket nearby, it’s possibly more likely that people would go through there now.”

“We’ve already checked that. The supermarket closes at ten; there wouldn’t be anyone there at that time.”

There was something about the comment which made Arbogast stop, “We’re placing this death at between 12 and 1?”

Guthrie nodded.

“So what time would the shift stop if the supermarket closed at 10:00pm?”

“I’m not sure, could be they leave pretty much on the whistle—”

“—or they might have another hour on the clock, could be different shifts for shelf stackers, deliveries and that type of thing.”

“It’s worth checking.”

Guthrie was right; the appeal for witnesses didn’t bring in many good leads. There were the usual well meaning tips, bored pensioners, and cranks.

One woman tried to call twice but couldn’t get through. Sue Deans thought she might know the van they described. But when she heard the busy dial tone for the third time she hung up, she was probably just being silly.

***

James Green hadn’t spoken to anyone for about a week. He felt disconnected, as though his life was unravelling. He’d stayed at the flat on the first night but when the media coverage started to appear it quickly became clear that he was going to have to move around. They were looking for him. He still had his phone and he had been communicating with the public through the blog. His former employers had been less than complimentary about his record of service.

“James Green is a low level officer with limited access to secure information. He is not of sufficient rank or length of service to be in a position of knowledge about security matters at Faslane Naval Base. That he has chosen to breach the Official Secrets Act is a serious matter and one which we are vigorously looking into. We can only hope he hands himself in.”

They’re trying to brush it under the carpet again, but it’s not going to work.
He knew that this time was different because the politicians were getting involved. SNP MSPs – who had previously agreed to say nothing about the failed terror attack – had suddenly found their voice.

Unacceptable security on Clydeside shows why Trident must go; why waste billions on nuclear bombs when staff can’t be trusted to keep us safe; watch as the MoD denigrate their former employee to save their own backs.

James Green agreed with the last one, wholeheartedly. He was being described as a whistleblower in the mould of Edward Snowden – someone who had done the wrong thing for the right reasons. But he knew his celebrity wouldn’t last, that he’d be called to account, most probably arrested and put on trial. But in the meantime he had an audience and his sentiments were playing into the national psyche. There were hundreds of comments on the blog thanking him for speaking out. His comments were being tweeted and widely quoted, while the arguments raged on in the referendum debate. It helped to draw attention away from the lack of detail. Trident had been a hot topic in the past but it had almost become accepted. Regardless of what happened next he knew he’d done the right thing. He’d had numerous requests for media interviews but he knew he would be caught if he broke cover. Still a few minutes on the radio couldn’t hurt. He picked the one which promised the most exposure. He was booked to talk on Good Morning Scotland at 7:35am. He waited on the line while the presenter introduced him...

“Moving on now and to matters Referendum. The row which has been taking place over Trident looks to be in no danger of going away. There are claims that safety at Faslane Naval Base on Clydeside is a disaster waiting to happen. The claims have been denied by senior Royal Navy personnel. Well today we hear from the whistleblower himself. Former Petty Officer, James Green, joins us on the line now for his first media interview. James thanks for coming on this morning.”

“Thanks for asking me.”

“A lot has been said about Trident since you first published your blog. The MoD seems to have painted you as some sort of crank. What do you say to that – should we believe a word that comes out of your mouth?”

There was a moment’s silence on the air as James decided how best to respond; he knew that every word would be pored over in the coming days and he wanted to strike the right balance.

“Well can I start by saying that although certain people are calling me a crank, there has been absolutely no denial of the fact that a terror attack took place last year and was covered-up.”

“Well they say it was dealt with, that there was no need to cause public alarm.”

“You can believe that if you want. The plain fact of the matter is that we will never know, now that the man at the centre of all this – Ian Wark – died in hospital. His side of the story will never be told.”

“You sound sorry about that.”

“I just think it’s rather convenient. The real issue here is one of trust. Can we trust the authorities to manage a nuclear fleet on the Clyde? My experience of health and safety at the base suggests we can’t. Security is sloppy and the corporate PR line that is being spun around this is that I can’t be trusted.”

“But you don’t deny having broken the Official Secrets Act?”

“I’ve been described by some as a whistleblower. I am not supposed to speak about the things I have seen because I’ve signed a piece of paper, but when the things I’ve seen suggest real and present danger to the people of Scotland I feel duty bound to let people know. There are dozens of nuclear bombs being stored down at Coulport. If just one of them went off, for whatever reason, the consequences would be disastrous.”

“But that would seem unlikely at best, it would seem, on the face of it, that you’ve chosen to come forward now because Trident’s part of the independence debate. Will you be voting Yes?”

“If I get the chance that’s definitely how I’ll be voting but I somehow doubt I’ll be allowed. I have no problem pinning my colours to the mast. I joined Her Majesty’s Navy to protect my country. Having had firsthand experience of that operation I cannot with any clear conscience say that I feel public safety procedures are operating at acceptable levels. I would urge the public to consider what I’ve said and vote accordingly. Thanks for having me.”

The presenter tried to get him to stay on but he’d hung up, the interview was over. The content would be online within the hour, sparking fresh debate about the rights and wrongs of nuclear bombs. James Green knew that there could be no winner.

***

The manager at the supermarket was unusually helpful. He’d heard about the murder and wanted to get involved. It was something Arbogast hadn’t been used to hearing on this case.

“The store’s only a couple of years old and given the location we took the precaution of having an extensive camera network installed.”

Arbogast had warmed to Filip Bakula almost immediately, he’d gone out of his way to help, made the CCTV footage available without being asked, “Thanks Filip, I really appreciate this, we need to work fast or we’ll be in danger of being in this for the long haul.”

“After seeing her picture in the papers I realised I knew her face. No-one should die like that, so I’ll do anything I can to catch the bastard.” He left them to it.

They were looking for the white van. There were five cameras on the car park. Filip had told them the late shift staff would normally leave at around 10:30pm, with people stacking shelves working on till around midnight. Fruit and veg came in early, so the store was only unstaffed for around four hours a day. A team of five were looking through the tapes but it didn’t take long to see there was no white van parked outside. They spooled through the footage hoping for a break but it didn’t come.

“He might have been a delivery driver?” But Chris Guthrie knew he was grasping at straws.

Arbogast had hoped for more, “You don’t make deliveries to a supermarket in a transit van, Chris, although I appreciate your optimism.” Switching off the bank of TVs they knew they’d reached a dead end.

***

The murder was all they were talking about at work. Some of them said she was too good looking to be working the streets, didn’t look rough enough. Some of them claimed to know her husband. But none of them really knew what had happened, or suspected what he was capable of. He couldn’t really remember much of it himself; it had passed in a blur. It had been quick for her and she wasn’t interested in the sex. It had been a disappointing night. One thing he was sure of, though, was that he couldn’t go forward to speak to the Police. It would be the end of his life as he knew it.

***