Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) (3 page)

***

N Division was the branch of Strathclyde Police which covered North Lanarkshire. The area had once counted among the industrial powerhouses of British manufacturing but that had been a long time ago. Today the region was still nursing a long term hangover after the collapse of heavy industry in the 1980s. Unemployment was higher than average and the promise of an IT boom had disappeared virtually overnight, with the lure of cheap labour in Eastern Europe proving too big a temptation for business, despite the Government millions which had been pumped into their coffers to come to Scotland in the first place. And after the boom, came bust. The first signs of decline came when civic leaders ran out of cash and were unable to maintain the region to the level it had become accustomed. Parks became overgrown, services closed, potholes scarred the streets like tarmac acne. The signs of decline were apparent. Everyone talked of progress but somehow life never seemed to change. Each new facelift was more like a coat of makeup, destined to be washed off by the end of the night. Pockets of affluence could be found, as they can in any area, but so far there had been no phoenix like renaissance for this forgotten stretch of ravaged hinterland. It was here that Frank Simmons worked his beat. He had only been a Constable for two years and still had a lot to learn. He had always wanted to serve his time in Glasgow but he had been sent here instead. Pouring out his fourth coffee he sighed, puffing air into his cheeks – he knew he was in for a long night. The snow was thick and lying which meant problems for the overnight desk. They had been dealing with abandoned cars and lorries for the last four hours. There had been 34 minor accidents reported on the roads and now that the motorway was closed his less fortunate colleagues had been sent out to travel along the carriageway to mark off all the vehicles that had been searched and found to have no-one in them. It was hard work but there would be hell to pay if someone was found dead behind the wheel, simply because there was no-one to find them. Eight years ago a man had been found sitting at Buchanan Bus Station waiting for a bus home from Glasgow. He had waited and waited, but in the end he didn’t leave. Eventually someone from the control centre had gone down to tell him there the station was closed but the advice came too late. The traffic controller had tapped on the sitting man’s shoulder but instead of turning round he slid off the bench and tumbled onto the concourse like a bag of old clothes. The coroner’s report suggested he had died of the cold and had been sitting dead for as long as five hours. No-one had noticed. People had come and gone and he had also been spotted on camera. No-one did anything. That was his final moment – staring into space at Stance 46 waiting for a coach that never came. In his inside pocket they had found a small wrapped necklace for his granddaughter. The papers had loved that and questions followed asking why this could have been allowed to happen and what was wrong with the world that people could stand by and do nothing. It filled half a page but was forgotten by the next day. Thinking back Frank knew that was part of the reason he had signed up, because he wanted to try and do something for the victims, for the people no one cared for. Tonight, though, he knew he would rather be in bed. Getting home tomorrow might be more of a problem than it should be. Frank’s office was in Motherwell which was the regional HQ. The phone rang. Control again.

“Frank?”

“Yes,” Frank said, “I’m still here – what have you got for me this time? Six old ladies stranded on their way to the bingo perhaps or maybe Miss Scotland has picked the wrong day for a bikini shoot?”

“Very good,” said a blank voice at the other end. Frank didn’t know who it was, it must be someone new. He had meant to ask but they had had so many conversations tonight that it seemed the time for introductions had passed.

“We’ve had a report of a missing bus. It was travelling from Glasgow through to Harthill but had to take a diversion through the City’s Southside after we closed the motorway. The owner has been on to say he expected the coach back between 9:00 and 10:00 but it hasn’t shown up yet. He can’t raise the driver but says he’s one of their best. He’s hoping there hasn’t been an accident – you could hear he was worried. He said he had been waiting by the phone in Harthill. Traffic doesn’t seem to be moving much past Newhouse now. The snow’s three or four feet deep in places. I’ve never known it to be so bad. I just thought you should know about this one. It’s a luxury coach with all mod cons so even if they do get stuck they should at least be warm. I’ll keep you posted if anything else comes in but it looks like this one might be a problem.”

Another phone was ringing from a desk at the far side of the room, “Thanks Control,” Frank said, “I think it’s going to be a tough night but as you say it’s probably nothing.”
‘Strange the driver hasn’t been in touch by radio.’
Frank pressed the flashing red light to take the next call in what was likely to be an eventful evening.

***

On the coach George and Gerry were still staring down in disbelief.

“What the fuck is this?” Gerry said, pointing.

When they had opened the door at the back of the bottom deck they had uncovered a figure lying curled around the stainless steel toilet bowl wearing only her underwear.

“That explains the clothes on the top deck,” George said.

The woman was handcuffed with her hands pulled behind her back. Her bare stomach was pressed against the metal fittings. Her skin was blue grey but she was not shivering.

“Is she still alive?” said Gerry.

George was crouched over her, checking for a pulse.

“She’s still breathing but her heart rate seems slow. She won’t have had any heat on this bus since the engine died and that was hours ago – I think she might have hypothermia. We’re going to need to get her to hospital as soon as possible but let’s get her back to the house and try and get some heat through her. Phone your mum and tell her to get a move on – we need to act fast.”

***

Arbogast didn’t know how long he had been out cold for but it couldn’t have been long. When he awoke he wasn’t sure where he was but he did know he was freezing. His sense of smell was overwhelmed by the strong stench of urine and rotting food. As he opened his eyes it was obvious he was not at home. He threw up, retching until it seemed as if there could be nothing left inside him. Saliva dripped from his chin as he propped himself up on one arm, his hand going numb as it sank beneath the snow. Looking at the thin film of snowflakes building on his jacket he started to come to.
‘My head is thumping,’
he thought,
‘and there’s the taste of blood. I must have been in a fight? No the blood is dripping... My head is bleeding – where am I?’

As he regained some sense of composure he knew he was still quite drunk although he was sobering up quickly. The alcohol was already starting to leave his system, marking the start of what he suspected would be a rather unpleasant hangover. Grasping onto the side of the industrial bin he hauled himself up to a standing position. The snow had seeped through his clothes but he knew he had also pissed himself.
‘That explains the smell.’
Slowly the evening’s events came back him. He had been was lying between two industrial waste bins in the lane directly behind Devil May Care.
‘What have I done?’
Arbogast didn’t see himself as a problem drinker. He liked a drink; it was true, but not generally to excess and rarely through the week. Groaning at the state he was in he finally remembered that he started his new job tomorrow – later today in fact – with the chances of creating  a good first impression getting slimmer by the second.  Looking around Arbogast knew he was out of sight, safe from prying eyes in the alley. Glasgow was a Victorian city with the centre based around a grid system. Between the blocks ran a network of lanes mainly meant for access and deliveries but which by night served a range of functions ranging from outdoor toilets through to prostitution. The council were trying to redevelop these areas so they would be used by people in the same vein as Barcelona’s Gothic quarter but given it was always either freezing or raining Arbogast didn’t see much hope of a cafe culture taking hold anytime soon. Looking down at his sodden trousers he felt deeply ashamed.
‘Some fucking elite I’ll make.’
He checked his watch: 2:23am.
‘Fuck.’
He knew he’d be lucky to get a taxi in his current condition so he made a start on the long walk home. Arbogast avoided the main streets and kept to the alleys, keeping a low profile and avoiding the eyes of the occasional passerby. As he walked down by the banks of the Clyde in heavy snow he shivered and thought of Japanese films. Snow usually represented death, a habit which had slowly infiltrated western movies. Tonight he felt like death itself. If he were in a Japanese film he would be dead within five minutes. As he trudged on contemplating his own self inflicted misery he noticed a light glowing in the distance through the gloom. His saviour tonight was to be Kerry. Kerry’s snack bar was a city institution. An all night van selling many cultural fried delights, most of which were conducive to an early heart attack. But tonight as he held the roll thick with sauce, dripping fat and running egg he welcomed the impromptu meal as being fit for a King. He washed it down with a scalding hot cup of third rate tea, rising up on the balls of his feet and savouring the moment. Then he remembered groping the girl in the club, “What an arse you have been tonight John, what a complete and utter arse.” Kerry looked up from serving the next customer, “Did you say something,” but Arbogast was already back on the road.

***

Jean Rome had been getting tired of the constant calls from her husband. First off he had woken her. He said a bus was stranded but that the snow plough wasn’t up to the job. It had always been the same with George, ever since they’d got married. Why buy new when you can make do with second hand gear. She knew she could be harsh and that they were living through tough times but business had been good for them so far. The snow plough had been 12 years old when they had bought it. Well she said bought. She had gone away to visit her sister for a weekend and found on her return that her one year old Mercedes had been traded in for a tractor and plough. And now here we are two years later and it’s knackered, when the car would have lasted a decade at least. She laughed at this despite herself. Well now he wanted her to get the quad bike hooked up to the trailer. She had never done it before and it was hard going in the cold. Her hands were bleeding from a gash from the tow bar. Then the phone went. But it wasn’t George it was Gerry.

“Mum, we’ve found a woman on board and she’s not looking too good. Bring down blankets when you come but get them fast. Dad says he’s worried she might die if we don’t get help soon.”

“My God,” Jean said, “will this night never end?”

It took Jean ten minutes to reach the bus. Her boys had cleared a path to the bus but it was still snowing and the way through was starting to cover over already. The snow was piled up more than six feet at the sides and she couldn’t really see for the swirling snowstorm that had swept across the land. She used the dim torch light in the distance as her beacon and by the time she reached the bus she could see her family were not in a mood to hang around.

Acting as one all three of them uncoupled the trailer and tried to spin it round. But there wasn’t enough room to turn so they had to physically lift the machines, first the bike and then the trailer. When they were set they cleared the trailer and laid a blanket for a mattress. George and Gerry laid the woman down and then covered her in the duvet Jean had brought down.

“Could you stay with her in the back Jean? Keep her warm and I’ll drive. Gerry, you too,” he said as he fired up the bike and roared back to the warmth of the farmhouse.

They laid the woman on the couch at home and got the fire going immediately. Their guest looked half dead. She was mumbling incoherently “Not this time,” she seemed to say.

“You’ll need to phone the ambulance and police right now George. This isn’t right. Why would she be down there handcuffed like this?” Jean looked quizzical as she mulled this over, “We can’t care for her here. She needs help,” George nodded and went to phone from the kitchen.

***

When the phone rang again Frank Simmons cursed under his breath. ‘Phone call number 456 here I come.’ 

“Motherwell Chinese laundry,” he said, expecting another minor incident.

It was control, “We’ve got a problem. The bus I told you about earlier?”

“What about it?”

“It’s turned up but there was woman handcuffed on board. She was practically naked.  A local farmer phoned it in. He’s dug her out but says he’s scared she might die. He says the area is completely cut off and he doesn’t know what to do. We’re going to have to get someone out there. You better get on it.”

Frank’s left hand massaged his temple back and forth as he stared at the receiver. His heart sank as he knew this was not going to be easy.

“No problem,” he said, and hung up. It was 6:00am.

 4

February 15
^th
, 6:00am

The storm had engulfed N Division. The snow had fallen thick and fast for nine hours and there were drifts of up to ten feet in some isolated areas. Unfortunately the bus was right in the middle of it, with an eight mile section of the M8 from Newhouse to Harthill now completely inaccessible, getting there was proving difficult. It was -14c outside which provided its own problems. The gritters and snowploughs were still out working around the clock but were struggling to make a difference. The snow kept falling and they kept trying to clear it. People complained that they didn’t understand why Britain always ground to a halt when a severe weather cast its shadow over the country but the truth was the UK just didn’t get prolonged periods of any kind of weather. While their Scandinavian neighbours could fit snow tyres and prepare for longer periods of this kind of natural treachery, Britain was likely to bear the brunt of a bad spell for a couple of weeks at best. That didn’t matter right now, though, and Frank Simmons could see the headlines already. He had counted 230 cars either abandoned or broken down overnight and with every call came more administration. He looked at his in-tray and wished he could just roll over and go to sleep. It was going to take at least a couple of days to get the roads back to normal and a lot of effort to clear the cars that had been left unattended. There were more than 15-thousand people living in the affected areas and with no supplies likely to get through for some time they were facing a logistical nightmare to keep people alive for as long as the weather continued. Frank drummed his fingers against the desk trying to work out his priorities.
‘And now we have this bus
.’