Free The Nationalist by Campbell Hart Page B

some of the stories you hear he pretty much brought peace to Ulster; he loves his own PR.”
    “Others would say he created the need for it. There are a lot of rumours doing the rounds about this guy, John. Ordinarily I’d say that shit sticks, but he seems to be getting away with it. He’s got support, which is more than can be said for Norrie.”
    “True, but at least with Norrie you knew where you stood. He’s so bloody-minded he could drive you nuts with the way he went about his business, but he trusted you.”
    “We’re talking about him like he’s dead. He’s a good man and he trusted his team. He trusted you.”
    “I did a good job for him once.”
    “The Kocack case is a long time ago, John. You can’t dine out on that forever.”
    “I thought you were supposed to be my friend? At any rate I don’t even rate that case. Who did we even catch? A load of bodies and the bad guy walks.”
    “Hang on, we’re going off-piste here. What’s the score? Can you tell me anything new?”
    “I think the media could play a part in casting light on Donald’s past. This guy’s got history. Granted there doesn’t seem to be any evidence, but if you could sow the seeds of doubt then perhaps the momentum which built up would do the dirty work for us.”
    “People don’t want to hear all that now, John. The city’s been hit with two attacks in two days. Do you think anyone wants a debate on whether the new chief can cut it?”
    “Do you think the people want a crook heading things up?”
    “I’d need proof before I can start throwing about that kind of dirt in public. You know that.”
    “Aye well maybe you’re not worried about your job.”
    “Phone me back when you’ve calmed down. I’ll see what I can do.”
     
    Arbogast slumped back in his chair. The day had started badly and was getting steadily worse – a second attack; a new chief; no discernable allies; and no real leads. Not to mention the fact his relationship looked to be thrashing itself towards a messy end. He stared at the ceiling looking for inspiration but saw only cracks. A nagging voice inside told him he needed to get on and work. Turning his attention to his growing in-tray he sifted through the statements which had been taken so far. From survivors who had picked fragments of bone from their hair, to onlookers thinking about compensation, to vigilante attacks on innocent people – all in the name of retribution. There was no clear pattern. No discernable reason about why any of this had happened. Why did the old guy do it in the first place? Intrigued by the witness statement from James Wright, he read and re-read the words. Something didn’t feel right. The tone didn’t sit well with him. What was it? I always thought he was kidding. Mr Wright, I think it’s time I paid you a visit.
     
    He arrived at the home with DS Valerie Sessions, a 40-something mother of two. She was a cheeky bitch. Arbogast liked her a lot.
    “Is this the best you’ve got DI Arbogast, an old man in a care home?”
    “Last time I looked 15 people had been killed by an old man. Maybe this guy’s dangerous?”
    “Maybe he is. What are we here to ask him?”
    “He seemed to appreciate a joke.” Arbogast knocked on the front door and waited but no-one answered.
    “Statement said he was a slow mover.”
    “Thanks Val, I’ll keep that in mind.” He knocked again, loudly this time. His knuckles were sore from the five sharp raps. A voice from behind them suggested they might be wasting their time. It was the concierge.
    “He’s not here.”
    “Is that so? Do you know where we can find him?”
    “Sorry officer – you are Police right?”
    “You’d know, would you?”
    The concierge blushed, “The patrol car kind of gave you away.”
    “So you’re the observant sort,” Valerie said, “Perhaps you could tell us where he’s gone?”
    “He was picked up. He goes to the Legion on a Monday.”
    “When will he be back?”
    “I’d try around