Referendum (9 page)

Niall sensed a stitch up, “Are you wearing a wire?”

“You should know me better, Murphy.” Donald opened his suit jacket and raised his arm, “Check if you want.”

Murphy frisked him, “Pays to be careful, you know that better than most.” Donald nodded.

“The thing is, I paid the reporter a visit earlier and you’re right to say that work is trademark.”

“Setting yourself up over here now are we?”

“I said I would and as a gesture of good faith I thought I’d do you a favour. That guy’s not going to cause any more trouble for you. I can help with people like him. I’m setting up alright, protection first but I can go deeper than your people ever will. You need me and I still have shit on you, so don’t forget it.”

Donald made the decision there and then. It would take time but he was patient. “What do you want?”

“Same as always; the blind eye when it’s needed and a few scraps from the table when it’s mutually beneficial.”

Donald sighed, “It’s more difficult over here.”

“No, it’s not. You’ve got some gangs to deal with but they’re nothing compared to the paramilitaries – not even in the same league.”

“Maybe that was true once upon a time, but the game’s changing. They’re all armed these days – are you out of touch? Do you still have the stomach for this?”

“You saw the pictures?”

“That you claim to have taken.”

“Let’s cut the crap – are we doing business or what?”

“I’ve got one condition.”

“Name it.”

***

It was late at the hospital and the wards were quiet. He rattled at the lock for a few minutes before it clicked open. Inside the target was flat on his back and dead still. It was true; he was still in a coma. They said the man was dangerous, but you would never know it to look at him. The green line of the heart monitor showed steady life signs. They said he might be coming round. But that wouldn’t do
.  He knew too much. The visitor didn’t hesitate.

“I’ve a message for you from Police Scotland. They say thanks for your co-operation in the terror investigation but the case is closed.”

A single bullet puffed through the silencer, breaking the skin on the target’s forehead, the haemorrhaging and tissue damage ripping away all traces of life to tell a colourful story on the wall behind. No-one checked on the patient for 45 minutes, and by that time he was long gone.

18

Closing the curtains had been the last thing on their minds and in the glare of the morning sun it was something they both regretted.

“Close the curtains, John; I’m not ready to move yet.” Beckie Arnold was lying on her side, she’d pulled a pillow over her head to try and block out the light. John Arbogast was flat on his back. He’d been asleep but he’d been roused by Beckie’s insistent kicks. He rolled over to spoon, breathing in the pheromones from his partner, their night together still pungent in the morning air. She flinched when his cold hands spread across her stomach.

“And you can forget about that, I don’t have time.”

“But you just asked me to close the curtains, surely you’ve got a little time.” Beckie knew he’d say anything to try and keep her in bed. Last night had been good; perhaps she’d give him a reprieve. Still, it was nice to torture him with the thought of it. Getting up quickly she stood by the window and looked back at him. Arbogast had to raise his hands to shield his eyes.

“Oh c’mon Bex – just a little longer.”

“I can see what you want, lover boy.” Arbogast pulled the sheets up to cover himself.

“That’s mother nature.”

Beckie shook her head, “You’re an animal, and animals need fed. Do you want some breakfast?”

He watched as she paraded around the room naked; she kept herself in good shape. Arbogast pinched the fat around his waist, he had to get back to the gym or she might not hang around for long. He’d been getting decidedly mixed signals. Beckie took her silk robe from the peg on the door and turned to him as she put it on. She was driving him crazy.

“Please?”

Beckie covered her breasts and tied the cord loosely, “Maybe some other time, Johnny boy, but not now.” She was wagging her index finger in a show of mock annoyance, “Time the big nasty cop was up and at ‘em.”

Arbogast collapsed back into bed and pulled up the covers; nuzzling his head into her pillow he could smell her scent and breathed deeply.
That woman is something else.

His reverie was broken at the kitchen table by an insistent mobile. It was Sandy Stirrit.
What does he want?
Arbogast hadn’t spoken to his estranged friend for several months. He’d gone public with information which had jeopardised a case. It was unforgivable and he had no time for traitors.

“Who’s that?” Beckie looked up from her ipad; she’d been checking work emails.

“No-one; looks like a sales call.” Arbogast pressed the red receiver and cut the call; he wasn’t in the mood for memory lane.

“Bastard,” Sandy Stirrit looked at his handset, he had to speak to Arbogast. He might be able to help. But what did he expect given they hadn’t talked for so long. He was still in hospital. The doctors said they weren’t sure if his concussion was serious, it would be wiser to be safe than sorry. Sandy’s body ached every time he moved and from the relative comfort of his hospital bed he was about to leave for home. He certainly didn’t feel safe. The nurse had returned his clothes which had been dry-cleaned and pressed. Checking his shirt he saw that the button hole camera was gone and they’d told him the laptop had been destroyed in the assault. What was left had been taken in for evidence. Sandy couldn’t be sure if everything would have uploaded to his cloud account but he would have a good amount of footage of Niall Murphy that he might be able to use. He just hoped it had been recording when he took his beating; that way he might have something to work with. He’d know soon enough.

Beckie Arnold dropped Arbogast at Pitt Street on her way to the hotel. They made loose arrangements to catch up soon but they were both busy, it could be soon or never; time would tell. Arbogast checked his phone. Sandy had left a message. Walking through the corridors of the Police HQ he listened to what his friend had to say.

“Hi John, look I know we haven’t been getting on of late and I know why – that’s fair enough. But I’m in trouble and you might be able to help. I wouldn’t have phoned if this wasn’t serious. You might not want to have anything more to do with me but I’m begging you, John, for all those years we stuck together, please phone me back. We need to talk.”

For a second he considered dialling back but he was distracted when he heard his name called.

“DI Arbogast, if you will, step this way.”

Looking up he saw that Rosalind Ying was looking to speak to him.
What Now?

She was speaking but he wasn’t really listening. Arbogast couldn’t believe how good his ex looked. He always thought of her as an Asian Audrey Hepburn, but in truth she eclipsed that. He’d heard that she’d been getting into fitness a lot and it showed. Her skin was taught and tanned; it made him want to see her again.
Maybe there’s still a way.

“Are you listening to me?”

Arbogast snapped out of his reverie. Rose was buttoning up her jacket, had he been eyeing her up? “Look, I’m sorry—”

“—don’t apologise, just listen and do not look at me that way again. Understood? Sexual harassment cases are never pretty and be in no doubt that you’d lose.”

What were you thinking, John?
He could hear the disinterest in her voice; she wanted nothing more to do with him. She’d terminated their baby to focus on her career. That’s reality; he nodded for her to continue. They both knew who was calling the shots.

“I was saying that I understand you’ve been looking into the Glasgow Green body?”

“Horace McMahon?”

“Yes, the man on the bridge. Seems there’s been a development.”

“Looked like suicide. I was only really there to cover for the Games shifts so I’m not expecting much in the way of drama. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”

“Something I’m trying to tell you but, as usual, you’re not listening.”

No need for that. No cause to make it personal. I only asked.
He nodded again.

“His wife’s been arrested. She was caught picking pockets in the Merchant City on Sunday. Evidently she’s not very good at it. More to the point another complaint has been made about her by security staff at a supermarket out at Parkhead.”

“Doesn’t sound like the woman I met, she seemed OK; upset about her husband sure, but she didn’t seem the sort that had any kind of history.”

“She’s up in court today. You’re right about her past. She’s got no record, but it looks likely she’ll get a community sentence. It’s her daughter we’re worried about.”

“What’s happened to her?”

“She’s gone missing, hasn’t been seen since yesterday. Given the family circumstances we think she might be about to do something stupid.”

“I take it we’ve tried her friends.”

“They all say they spoke to her yesterday, that she was looking for somewhere to stay. They all said no, were too scared when they were told she thought her mother was in trouble. You know what teenagers are like.”

“I’m sorry to hear all this, but what’s it got to do with Major Crime?”

“As you’ve just said, John, the shifts are all over the place,”
Now she calls me John, pushing all the buttons.
“And you’re good with missing people. The Games are on and we don’t need a family tragedy to erupt right in the middle of it. So far everything has gone well. The arrests we’ve made have been for breach of the peace. Drunks mainly, and we can live with that. What we don’t need is a girl turning up dead. Try and find her, let’s get her back to her mum. Do you think you can do that?”

Arbogast wasn’t happy at being brought into a domestic case but he knew he wasn’t really being given an option.

“Do you know how many people are in the city just now?”

“I know that but if there’s anyone with the smarts to find the girl it’s you.”

DCI Rosalind Ying pushed across a file with the new information. Arbogast flipped through the pages absent-mindedly.

“OK, fine. I’ll have a look but I can’t promise anything. She might turn up by herself.”

“Thanks DI Arbogast.”

Back to business as usual, she’s learning the game pretty quickly.
He stopped on his way out, “You’re looking well, Rose.”

But when he looked round she was on the phone, she’d moved on.

***

Leona McMahon could hear voices in the night. The three men were still trying to find her. They were drunk. One of them said he was going to rape her, the other two laughed. It might just be the drink talking but she wasn’t taking any chances. She hid behind tall grass on the riverbank and waited. They weren’t going away.

“Think she’s gone over the fence boys.” The voice was uneven and unsure; the game wasn’t going to plan.

Leona banged her knee on something solid. Her hands crept along the wet embankment before she found it. The log was heavy but she thought she’d be able to lift it. These boys don’t look like heroes. Pitching the wood behind her the log crashed into the Clyde and in the evening air the sound carried further than it would have through the day. She screamed out, “Help, I’ve fallen in. I can’t swim, please help.” She was under the bridge now and had waded out into the River between the bank and the stone supporting columns. She splashed thrashed violently at the water, hoped the noise would do the job. And it did. The men didn’t want anything to do with the drama and they ran.

The water was quite shallow at first but the river got deep quickly. Leona lost her footing and fell in, the current taking her out towards the middle of the river. She caught onto a metal rung at the far side of the supporting column which had been hidden from view. Coughing as the water caught her mouth she looked up and saw a series of iron rungs. It was a ladder, a ladder to the top of the column. Dragging herself up Leona could see the platform at the top. She could hear scuffling around the iron grid, the chirp of baby birds. A few moments later she was up, safe in the place where her father had died just a few days ago. The area was marked out with police tape but there was no tarpaulin, nothing to keep her dry and warm. She could see there was a connecting passage, not very wide – only a couple of feet. At the other end of the bridge was an old sleeping bag. It was filthy and stank but it was dry. Climbing out of her clothes and into the bag she settled down. The silence of Glasgow Green was broken only by the occasional car in the distance. Leona hadn’t really had time to think about her dad. But now, being here, it all hit home. Leona thought she was too strong to cry, but she’d been wrong. The pain of the last few days wracked through her body and by the time the cathartic cries had dried up she fell into a fitful sleep. Tomorrow was another day; whoever did this to her father was going to pay.

***

Niall Murphy had asked around. He was settling in nicely but needed to up his profile if he was going to build a reputation. Donald would help. After that job he had to. He’d been drinking a lot. The bars offered gossip that would be hard to get elsewhere. Overheard stories and drunken conversations meant he had gathered more than enough information within a few days of arriving. One girl with a loud mouth had been particularly helpful. He’d seen her sitting at the bar at around 2:00pm. She’d been drinking rum and coke, so he bought her another.

“Mind if I join you?”

She eyed him suspiciously, wasn’t used to young men chatting her up. Niall thought she must have been in her late forties. She was wearing a tight black dress with a pink stripe across the waist; it looked new, but was hardly flattering.