Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) (24 page)

Earlier this week Eric had been told he was to pick his passengers up at Tower 12. Meanwhile he was to convince Onur ‘one way or the other’ to seek refuge with him. Karim had sat and said nothing and Eric sensed he would have to be careful. Eric thought about the subsidence at his home and he knew that his capital was literally sinking; that once his secret place was exposed he was in danger of becoming surplus to requirements. For the time being Eric agreed to the plan but he knew that he would need to make a change and soon.

Back at the caravan Karim and the girl slept in the spare rooms while Eric lay awake, wondering how to take the initiative. It seemed odd that he was getting a minder this time. He suspected Karim might be here to finish off a few jobs and that he might be top of the list. He tried to put the matter out of his mind and reached for a bottle of vodka from his bedside table. Watching the clear liquid fill his glass Eric knew that he had taken to drinking more than was wise under the circumstances. Leaving the glass he took a deep swig from the bottle and almost retched as he swallowed finger after finger of the cheap sharp liquid. The vodka spilled from his mouth when he pushed the bottle away, thin rivulets of alcohol dribbling down the side of his face. Eric knew what he had to do. Whatever happened he was sure it would be on his own terms and that Madoch could go to hell.

Bishopton, February 22
^nd
2010

It took Mary less than half an hour to get to Bishopton. Soon she would be back at the farm, back with dad, the very thought made her feel nauseous. She thought back to the day she first met Hanom, the day that fate handed her a gift. Hanom had said her employer planned to bring her daughter into the country at Hull. Kovan would be smuggled by van but they were using a tried and tested method and there was no doubt she would get through safely. Mary’s job was to take over at the ferry. She would meet a man called Oskar at the ferry terminal and he would hand over Kovan. Oskar worked for Hanom’s boss. Hanom said she had not met him but that he was working with her family to make sure they were reunited. It might be that she could not leave so they had arranged for Mary’s husband, John, to meet them in Lanarkshire. Mary said she had a safe place to take the child. She had mentioned her father, but not his history. But it had all gone wrong. A man had appeared while she was still on the bus, forcing her to strip. He said he meant her no harm but that she couldn’t leave. He left the engine running and she had gone along with it. It had been warm at first but when the engine stopped – she shivered at the thought of it. It had gotten so cold and the next thing she remembered she was in hospital which was when the questions had started. It had all seemed so straight forward. She had meant to put the past to rest but now there was no sign of John and she seemed to be the suspect for a crime she had not committed, not in the way they thought.

Mary parked the stolen car inside the ruins of an old farmhouse she had known as a child. It hadn’t been lived in for more than 60 years and was now nothing more than a shell. There was only a dirt track leading to it from a side road and it was not a spot people would be likely to come across anytime soon. Mary put the car into first gear and tried to steer it over land that was still frozen with thick black ice. She struggled to steer the car as it slid, the wheels spinning through lack of purchase. Frustrated at her slow progress she stopped and took stock. She took the floor mats out of the car and placed them in front of the wheels, ramming them as far under the tyres as she could. Then she climbed back in the car, took a deep breath and turned on the ignition. She smiled when the car roared back into life. Mary had left the door open so that she could look back and see the wheels in motion. She put the car in first gear and then leaning out of the car she gunned the motor and pressed the accelerator. The car lurched forward and spun into the ruined building, causing loose masonry to fall on the roof and bonnet. She screamed but then stopped when she realised that she had escaped uninjured. The car spluttered and juddered before coming to a halt.  The job had been done. The car was partially obscured by the ruin and wouldn’t be easily seen from the road. Mary changed back into her winter clothes and began the final mile of her journey.

As she walked along the deserted back road her mind wandered back to her childhood. The area brought back painful memories and that was one of the reasons she never came back. That, and him. The man who had lied and postured for so long no-one could think him capable of doing anything untoward. He: beloved father, a man of the people. If only they knew what he was really like. She winced when she thought of the secret place, of the lengths he went to try and hide its true location, but she knew it was on the farm, somewhere. And now after years of waiting she had come so close to uncovering him, of allowing his mask to slip. But the bus had changed things. She knew she had to avenge his victims. She had found it hard to believe that the driver was Stevie Davidson. In truth she hadn’t recognised him but the irony was that he had now become her victim. She had tried to use him once before and had been called a liar.

‘Now he’s dead and I should feel something for him but I just can’t. If I allowed that to colour my thinking I wouldn’t be able to do this and if I never do anything in my miserable life – this will be it. I hope you are feeling perky, daddy dearest, as tonight we’re going to change the rules.’

Mary stopped at the bottom of the lane she knew so well. In the distance she could make out the ramshackle frame of her old family home, silhouetted in the night sky. But it was the other place she was interested in and as she made her way up towards the caravan she could see the master was still at home. Mary prepared herself to settle down for the long haul.

20

Glasgow, Police HQ, February 22
^nd
2010

It took the team three hours to put a trace on DS Reid’s credit cards. After five hours a full description of Mary Clark had been broadcast around the UK. The first question that had been asked was ‘where is she going to go?’ When they realised Mhairi’s purse had been stolen they drew their own assumptions.

“If we can trace the cards we’ll have a good idea of what she’s up to,” Arbogast said. Their HR records showed that Mhairi banked with HSBC. They pulled in the paperwork and got a copy of her statements from the bank without too much resistance. From there they could see that she had standing orders with both Visa and MasterCard. A few hours later they sat looking at the latest credit card transactions.

“She’s a fast worker I’ll give her that,” Arbogast said, as they pieced together her movements. “She left the hospital and made her way to town, stopping off at the first major store she came to and went on a spending spree. I’m going to need someone to go to the department store to take statements. I think we can safely assume she’s no longer in police uniform.” Grim looks were exchanged around the room. They all knew Mhairi Reid was in a bad way. The doctors said she had a brain haemorrhage and so far hadn’t been able to speak. If the case hadn’t been personal before it certainly was now. Arbogast found the last few entries on the card statements the most perplexing.

“Mary has withdrawn £800 using both cards, which amounts to the daily limit so we know she has cash – and then we have the train ticket.”

VIRGIN rail Glasgow – London 8765 £113.70

“Let’s assume she wants us to believe she’s on the Virgin train bound for England, probably London. Did she actually get on?”

Norrie Smith had arrived, “I’ll get some bodies down to the station to check the CCTV. The transport police should be able to help. Do we know if she has family and friends in London? Maybe she’s trying to leave the country?”

Arbogast considered this as he leaned back in his chair, trying to picture what might have happened.

“I don’t think she has sir. Most people would have panicked given the situation but she’s kept a cool head. I agree with you on the CCTV – we need to check it out. I’ll get onto our colleagues in London to see what station the train would go to.”

“It’s London Euston sir.” PC Frank Simmons had been battering away on Google and was staring at a long list of departure times, “The nearest two trains leaving for London from the time this ticket was bought both terminate at Euston.”

“Right well we’ve got plenty to work with. What I want is a picture of Mary in the shop and hopefully from the station. We need to go public with this as soon as possible. I have an idea to put a cat among the pigeons too, but I’ll need to check some things out first.”

The Chief Constable was nodding in agreement, “Right team let’s get on with it. I don’t need to tell you we’ve had two officers assaulted in the last 24 hours in connection with this case so let’s assume we’re already ruffling their feathers. We can’t afford to make mistakes now. I need you all to do good police work.” There was a chorus of approval around the room as the team got back on the case. Arbogast had already left the room.

Central Station was an enormous glass cavern situated right in the heart of Glasgow. It was one of the busiest stations in Britain with around 27.5 million bodies passing through it each year. Arbogast stood on the concourse by Platform 1. He knew that tens of thousands of people would have been through here today. It was late now – nearly 11:00pm. The last trains of the day would be leaving within the next hour. Of the many shops only Burger King remained open. A travelling man stood teetering by his suitcase trying to co-ordinate a burger from hand to mouth. He hadn’t noticed the salad cream dripping down his suit jacket. ‘That will be one for tomorrow, let’s hope he has a spare.’ The person Arbogast was here to see was he ticket inspector. Craig Johnson had been on shift since 2:00 that afternoon.

“I’m on till midnight then I’m away.”

“Can you remember seeing anything odd earlier in the day?”

“We get all walks of life through here Inspector,” Craig Johnson said, nodding towards the travelling man who had now dropped his burger on the ground, and was making moves to retrieve it.

“Yes I can see that but did you notice anything odd, someone acting strangely? We’re looking for this woman.”

Arbogast showed Craig a picture of Mary. Craig moved his flat station cap back and scratched his balding head.

“Now you’re asking. Look I couldn’t tell you if I’ve seen her or not. Maybe she did come through but unless she was breathing fire I doubt I’d have noticed. You remember the drunks, the troublemakers but it’s been quiet today. Sundays are like that.”

He stopped to think for a while. “There was one thing I suppose,” Arbogast tried not to look too animated, “But I’m sure there’s a reason for it. There was one woman who got off the train and came back through before it left. She didn’t get back on. That must have been about 6:00. I remember because I’d just come back from a break.”

Arbogast was disappointed. “It can’t be unusual for someone to wave a loved one off on the train now can it?”

“It isn’t, but they have to do it from this side of the platform.” he pointed to the security gates in front of him, gates which blocked access to the platform, “But since we beefed up security you can only get on and off the platform if you have a ticket. If someone had asked to get through I would have remembered. This woman must have had a ticket but she didn’t travel.”

Arbogast raised himself onto the tips of his toes, “Mister Johnson, you are a star.” Arbogast made straight for Network Rail, who ran the station and had an office above the ticket booths. He had four officers checking CCTV with pictures of Mary Clark to try and make a positive identification.

“Change of plan lads, let’s check footage between 5:30 and 6:30pm. We’re looking for a woman leaving the train, someone that doesn’t get back on.” At first they couldn’t spot her. It wasn’t until the saw a woman wearing a large winter sports jacket and hat waving to the carriage and then making her way down through the gates an under the camera that they got their match, “Gotcha,” Arbogast smiled, “you’re still here.”

After searching through other footage they established Mary had left the station by the North West exit at around 6:15. They had rushed out an enhanced picture of her to all news outlets late that night. Arbogast knew this would be big news tomorrow. It had made the websites within an hour.
‘The newsrooms will start filling up in around two hours. It’s going to be busy but the Chief will have to deal with that part of things. I’m sure he won’t mind the profile.’
Calling back to the office Arbogast found the address for Mary’s workplace. The Phoenix Centre was only a five minute walk from the station. Arbogast didn’t think Mary would be bold or stupid enough to go there and he knew they had already phoned.  He decided to check again just to put his mind at ease.

The Phoenix Centre was open through the night. It had to be. The city’s statistics for violent abuse against prostitutes were not great. There had been ten women murdered in the last nine years. Some had been raped and beaten; others abducted and left in isolated rural areas. One had even been thrown from a moving car on the motorway. Her body had bounced off rush hour traffic and several cars had simply kept on driving. But all the cases had one thing in common and that was that no-one was ever caught. Arbogast knew those incidents were the high profile ones, the cases the tabloids loved, but there was never any mention of the nightly beatings from pimps and punters, of rogue police taking advantage of their protection, or simply of the dangers posed by drugs. Glasgow was no Amsterdam. There were no glass windows, no vivacious mannequins offering sexual adventures. Glasgow was the real deal with women forced into punting their bodies to pay for unsustainable drug habits. Not such a problem at first but over time the ravages of trying to manage the habit took its toll. As Arbogast walked through the red light district he could see that some of them looked half dead. The scrawny, other worldly faces told their own stories – toothless crones touting for business. The thought of a good time was a bitter irony which would end in premature death. But it was unfair to say this was true of everyone. Some were just desperate and it was desperation which Arbogast saw when he entered the drop-in centre.