Referendum (28 page)

39

Arbogast was surprised at the speed that the Lorna McMahon murder case was moving. After the arrest and detention of Colin Jackson, DNA tests were taken to add his details to the national database. These were being cross checked against samples taken from the body. In theory the results could be finalised within a couple of days. In the end they weren’t needed. Chris Guthrie broke the news that Jackson wanted to talk.

“His lawyer’s been in touch, seems he wants to speak to us before the tests come back.”

Arbogast had other things on his mind, but the case was one he wanted to break, “Right now?”

Guthrie was nodding, “He’s been moved here from London Road. He’s in Room B – got time for it?”

Arbogast laughed, “How often does this happen, of course I’ve got time, let’s go.”

Room B was located in the bowels of Pitt Street. If you didn’t know where to go, you were probably lost. It had taken Arbogast six months to remember the way. In a few weeks it wouldn’t matter. With the building now in its last days it was with a certain amount of nostalgia that the detectives entered the interrogation rooms to find Colin Jackson staring at the floor with his lawyer by his side.

Arbogast and Guthrie sat down; they’d spoken to Fairweather beforehand and knew to expect a confession. Arbogast stated the time and location of the meeting and pressed the record button. The conversation was now being filmed and taped.

“Mr Jackson, you have requested this meeting in relation to the investigation into the murder of Lorna McMahon. Is that correct?”

Colin Jackson still hadn’t looked up. Reviewing the footage later his reply could barely be heard, “That’s correct. I want to make a statement.”

Arbogast continued, “Mr Jackson is on record as saying he would like to make a statement. Mr Jackson, you have been charged with the murder of Lorna McMahon and can I remind you that everything you say can be used in a court of law. Do you understand?” Jackson nodded, he understood. Arbogast continued, “Can I ask if you have anything to add to your previous statements?”

“I didn’t plan on doing anything that night,” Jackson had raised his head and Arbogast could see he had been trying to hide the tears which were welling up, what he was about to say was obviously not coming easily. Neither Detective wanted to interrupt, so they sat back and waited.

“I told you before that I drove back from Port Dundas and cut through from Duke Street to London Road; that much was true, it was a shortcut. But I lied about seeing her. How could I miss her? She was standing under a lamppost, wearing this amazing dress, bright red – you could see it under the glow of the street light. I thought I was dreaming at first.”

“Did you stop for her?”

“No, not straight away. I kept on driving but something pulled me back. I stopped my van and thought. I knew the area used to be popular for hookers but that had all stopped a few years back. But she didn’t look like a prostitute. She was so beautiful. Even from a distance I could see she was something special. That’s the way I felt anyway. So I went back.” He stopped; his thousand yard stare was boring a hole in the interview desk. Arbogast could almost see the thought process as Jackson’s eyes flitted up and down as he remembered the scene.
Let’s have it, man.
“I asked her how much it would be, but she didn’t seem to know. She seemed nervous. What she asked for was too much but she accepted £80.”

“What happened then? Did you have sex on the waste ground?”

“No, it was in the van. I didn’t want to do that outside. I’d never done that before, it didn’t seem right. We’d been on a day trip with some of the kids at work. I had a lot of blankets in the back of the van we’d used for a picnic. It seemed like it would be –

I don’t know, more romantic somehow.”

Arbogast was starting to get annoyed at the vague musings of a man who seemed on the verge of admitting to murder. He reminded himself he needed the confession and clenched the side of his chair to distract himself. He hoped that Jackson wouldn’t notice.

      “But she didn’t seem to like it. It was just like at home. My wife isn’t keen, she doesn’t like being touched. It’s always been that way. So – frustrating,” That was a moment that would be dissected later, the first signs of the man’s anger. Jackson continued, “So after, well, after she just left and didn’t say anything, walked off down the road. I thought I heard her crying so I drove off. But I felt so guilty, like maybe I’d hurt her, so I went back. I knew then that I should never have stopped in the first place. I’ve never cheated before and it felt grubby. Doing it like that felt grubby, disgusting.”

Arbogast could see the rage building in Jackson, it was time to press the point, “So what happened next, after you went looking, what did she say when you found her?”

“She asked me to leave her alone. She was upset; started shouting at me, said she’d made a mistake. I asked her to stop crying, to keep her voice down. It was late and if anyone was walking by they’d have heard, questions would have been asked. So I grabbed her, grabbed her by the throat. I counted you know, I counted to 20. Doesn’t sound like much does it? But when you think about it, it’s a lifetime. After that I don’t remember much. I dragged her into some bushes and just left her. I didn’t know what to do. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill her. But I know what you’ll find on the body. After you did those tests I knew what you’d find. And I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what I did.”

Later the DNA tests would show conclusively that Colin Jackson had strangled Lorna McMahon to death. He would be put to trial and later sentenced to 15 years in prison. On most days that would be front page news, but it turned out that tomorrow was going to be different.

40

The one thing that everyone agreed on was that there had been a massive cover up at Faslane Naval Base. Sandy’s reports led the national news with the BBC’s coverage retweeted tens of thousands of times online. And as the information became more widely read other outlets started to follow suit.  James Green had gone from a crank to a genuine whistleblower in a matter of hours.

The footage of the blazing submarine was the lead image that accompanied every report. Each culminated with the sign-off ‘The UK Government has yet to comment, no-one at the Royal Navy was available to confirm or deny these allegations.’ But the pictures spoke for themselves and the damage had been done. Regardless of the official position people could see that a serious incident had taken place and that a decision had been taken to hide that information from the public. The backlash was furious and as the hours passed the calls for answers grew in number and volume.

Sandy Stirrit was pleased. It had been a late night but it had been worth the effort, the story was dynamite. He’d been filing reports for eight hours straight and he knew the work would continue late into the night. He had waited for a long time to be able to bring people to account for the terror attacks and the way they’d been handled and this felt like justice. But there was still one thing he wanted to know, and only Arbogast would be able to set him straight.

Sandy phoned his friend and almost didn’t expect a response, he was thinking of the best way to leave a message, he didn’t want to sound too accusatory. But the call was taken on the fifth ring.

“Hi, Sandy.”

“John, you’ll have seen the coverage today?”

“Yes, and I know what you’re going to ask.”

“Did you know about this?”

“I refuse to answer, Sandy. And you should know that I’m looking into your problem just now. Action is being taken. Any attempt to drag me into this will not be appreciated.”

Sandy paused. He had phoned Arbogast from a studio and had been recording the conversation. He wanted evidence that his friend had been involved. He should have told him the conversation was being taped. He pressed ‘Stop’.

“I couldn’t talk about this even if I wanted to, Sandy. You’ve got your story and the Government is going to have to say something. Take their lead. No-one cares about what Police Scotland has to say on the matter. It’s one for the politicians.”

“Were you there on the night?”

“Goodbye, Sandy.”

Sandy would never know categorically, but he suspected Arbogast knew more than he was admitting to. He had inferred as much in the call, but it would be good to know how wide this went. It would explain why Arbogast had cut him off so completely in the last few months; he had never been good at keeping secrets. By the time he got back to his desk he saw that he’d had 54 new emails, each one asking for comment on the report, could he confirm, could they use the footage, did he have the film in higher resolution? Sandy felt vindicated. It was an awkward moment for the authorities and the debate was coming at just the wrong time for the politicians given the looming Referendum vote, but this was why he did the job; this was something that mattered. When he started scripting the next report he knew he’d done the right thing.

James Green had been hoping the interview would make a splash, but he hadn’t been fully prepared for the shock waves his comments were making. The reaction had been fast and furious. Despite the fact that he’d been dismissed after the smear campaign from the Royal Navy, people were now taking him seriously. It seemed as if seeing really was believing, and he was glad he’d stuck to his guns. By making the initial claims he knew he would be vilified, that his reputation would be questioned. The cover up had been watertight, with hundreds of people on Faslane sworn to silence about the incident. He was glad that he’d made the stand and extremely relieved to have had the foresight to record the attack on the night it happened. He should have been helping make the base safe; that had in fact been the reason he had been sacked. James Green had stood and watched in awe as his friend Ian Wark crashed the plane into the loch. At first he’d assumed he was dead but later he found out he’d survived. He’d hoped for a recovery, but months later when the news of Wark’s death emerged, James Green knew he had to finish what Wark had started. No-one was aware that the two men had known each other and it was going to stay that way.
There are three days to go before the referendum vote and if this doesn’t tip the balance in favour of the anti-trident ‘Yes’ campaign then nothing will.

At 9:00am on September 16
^th
James Green arrived by taxi at the gates of Faslane Naval Base. At the security gates he asked to be handed over into the custody of the Admiral. His time as a fugitive was at an end. Mission complete.

41

The furore surrounding the revelations around the Faslane terror attack meant that interest in the McMahon murder case quickly waned. Arbogast didn’t think that was any kind of justice. The papers had run a few column inches about a man being charged with Lorna’s death, but it was a closed case. The world moved on.

Arbogast wanted to speak to the daughter, to let Leona know that he’d done everything he could and he decided to make the journey alone
.

Outside the post-war council house he stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. Composed, he rang the bell and a woman opened the door who looked a little like Lorna McMahon. Margaret had the same eyes and nose but she was shorter with blond hair, unlike her dark haired sibling. She also had a distinctive scent, Pinot Grigio 2012
.
Margaret swayed at the door and asked what he wanted; when he said he was Police she sent him round the back. He found Leona sitting on the grass with a book face down beside her. She twisted round on her belly when she heard the gate creak.

“I wondered when you’d turn up.”

“I felt I owed you a visit, to tell you in person.”

“I thought that’s what the Family Liaison officer was for?”

He paused to cast a glance round the garden. He didn’t want to wind her up but she had to start listening to reason. “This is about more than just your mum and you know that. How are you bearing up?”

“I just celebrated by 16
^th
birthday as an orphan, how do you think I am?”

It was an accusation, but Leona didn’t seem angry. She was squinting up at him from the grass, sat with her arms tucked over her knees. She seemed resigned to living with the hand she’d been dealt.
Maybe that’s the best way.

“Your aunt seems to have taken this very badly.”

“She’s pissed if that’s what you mean. She’s been getting worse the last few days. The arrest was the last straw. She just can’t accept that any of this has happened.”

“But you seem OK?”

“You’ve got the guy that killed my mum and I’m grateful for that. But my dad’s death is still unexplained. I still think Niall Murphy was involved.”

“He wasn’t even in the country at the time, Leona. You’ve got to let that go. The autopsy results came back favouring suicide as the cause of death.”

“How can suicide be the ‘favoured’ cause of death? He was a person you know, not just some statistic.”

“You need to accept it Leona or it will drive you crazy. Colin Jackson has admitted killing your mother and he’s going to go away for a very long time. Your father killed himself. You might not like that, but it’s the truth.”

“Whether he laid a finger on them or not, Niall Murphy is responsible. You saw what he did to my mum, she was lucky she didn’t die of that beating. And you didn’t see what he did to my dad, he got worse. If he killed himself it was because he couldn’t take any more. And what’s worse is that the debt was only £100. One hundred pounds quickly turns to thousands when you can’t pay people like Murphy back, and whether you’re prepared to admit it or not I’ve lost everything because of that man. That’s something I’ll never forget. For the sake of my family’s memory it’s something I need to hold onto. That man can’t be allowed to continue destroying peoples’ lives.”