Where There is Evil (27 page)

‘Who were these other girls?’

‘And what was Marjorie’s big sister called?’

‘And what did you say when you went up to him?’

‘And what did you feel like then, when he was saying that to you?’

‘And what do you think would have happened if he’d taken them away?’

‘Did you make him stop before?’

‘And what did you see him do through the glass? What was he doing, Sandra?’

‘Stop. What does he do then?’

Hetty went further back. I could see myself walking to school with Jim, my first boyfriend at age six, the two of us arguing over conkers. Then came my memories of the trip to
Callander with Baxter’s bus staff and the knicker-bocker glory. Even further back I was jumping off dykes and wash houses, thrilled with the baseball-style boots I had pestered my mother to
buy. And now I was very young, way before school.

Hetty asked if I had sore bits on my body anywhere, and there it was. The visit from Dr Vicky, trainee physician in the family. I remembered the excruciating pain of passing urine, the
deep-seated cramping in my intestines, and the relief of hugging a hot-water bottle tightly to my abdomen. I held my breath, and the memory began to fade; I was aware of no adult touching me
anywhere it was sore.

The sense of relief was indescribable as I left Hetty’s sandstone villa. We had discussed her amalgamated notes from the two sessions and she firmly pronounced that she
did not believe me to have been a victim of incest in childhood, despite my father’s paedophile behaviour which I had witnessed.

As I drove back to Edinburgh, a huge weight seemed to roll off my shoulders with each passing mile.

On Tuesday evening Maggie Barry turned up on our doorstep, looking apprehensive. She apologized profusely over the mistaken identity, then interviewed me in a fairly subdued way, asking the
question I now expected. Quietly I declared I had not been a victim of my dad’s sexual practices. She looked up. ‘Let me get this right. There’s been no link made so far between
the man quizzed down south in recent months, about Moira Anderson’s disappearance in 1957, and the pensioner whose relatives in the Monklands are accusing him of abuse from the
sixties?’

‘No, the general public aren’t aware of that connection, and you can’t link them.’ I pointed out what Eileen had told me, that lawyers would say that he would not be able
to secure a fair and unprejudiced trial, and the door would be slammed on any court case.

‘We’ll see.’ Maggie Barry shrugged. When she had gone, I was left with a nagging feeling of uncertainty.

I met up with Jim at Pitt Street HQ, and we caught up with the news. He was enjoying his new post, but had arranged for a machine to filter the levels of silt in Witchwood Pond. This operation
would take some weeks, he said, and a team of frogmen would eventually be able to explore the bottom with an unrestricted view.

He frowned when I passed him the letter Maggie Barry had sent. Then I showed him the letters from Lord James Douglas-Hamilton and John Smith. Jim read and reread them.

‘Inaccuracies? About what?’

‘Exactly. I haven’t a clue what they find inaccurate,’ I said indignantly. ‘But here’s the original letter I sent off. Plus all the correspondence I typed up to
both the politicians. I’ve gone through it in detail. See if you can spot what isn’t correct.’

Jim began to read, then groaned. ‘I’ve just spotted it, and it’s a cracker.’ He glanced up. ‘You report here that Griffiths didn’t appear fully conversant
with all the facts about your dad – including not knowing of his prison sentence in the mid-eighties down south.’

‘But my dad
was
in jail then.’ I looked at Jim in stupefaction. ‘You’d his mug shot on the wall, with an ID number under it, in your office in Airdrie. You asked
me to identify him for you the first time I went there.’

‘I don’t deny it,’ said Jim, ‘and I even remember telling you your dad
had been in trouble with the law
but I have the sinking feeling that you’ve picked
up that information the wrong way. I don’t recall a sentence, so maybe he got community service or a fine or something in Leeds, but not jail.’

‘But his photograph, and number?’ I was aghast now. ‘Wasn’t it taken in prison?’

Jim shook his head. ‘It was certainly taken mid-eighties, when he was in trouble about obtaining a mortgage under false pretences and deception. But that’s what they do to everyone
who’s in for questioning at the nick – they all get mug shots taken by a police photographer, and get given a number.’

I put my head in my hands. I had scored an own goal. Angrily, I reflected that I had given Crown Office the perfect opportunity to claim that I’d provided misinformation.

‘Well, it’s done now and there’s no going back.’ Jim passed me the letters. ‘I can see how you came to that conclusion, given what I had said. It doesn’t
change the fact that Mr Griffiths alluded to your dad having served his sentence, without acknowledging that these crimes against your cousins followed it.’

‘You’re right, Jim,’ I said. ‘As far as they’re concerned, he’s done his time. But not for Moira, and not for my cousins.’

‘I advise you to put what’s a genuine misunderstanding to one side,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens, you can bounce back from it, and that’s what to do now. Forget the
murder investigation, and concentrate on your cousins. This is about getting justice for them – Moira’s past all help. So acknowledge that, fight for compensation for them, and do it
right. See it through for their sakes.’

But I knew I could never give up on Moira. It was Moira with whom everything had started, and she was the reason I had approached Billy in the first place, long before I had ever known about my
own relatives. I said, ‘I’ll do all I can to secure a meeting with Lord Rodger. Even if he agrees purely for public relations, it’ll do. But count on it – we won’t
give up.’

I felt strong, despite discovering the stupid error I had made, which had cost us dearly, but I had a feeling that for what lay ahead I would need incredible reserves of energy.

‘Good luck with your exam!’ Jim called as I drove off.

It loomed within days, and I needed peace to revise for it. Maggie Barry, however, had other ideas. She rang me out of the blue. ‘Hi. It’s just to let you know my paper will carry
the story tomorrow evening. Lawyers are checking out the possibilities of us naming him, but we’ll certainly highlight your dad
is
the same person involved in both the stories coming
from the Monklands in recent weeks.’

‘But what about repercussions?’ I asked. ‘What about Eileen’s prediction that doing that could knock a court case on the head? Don’t you need to get permission from
anyone to do that?’ I could not think straight.

Maggie Barry, however, was unequivocal. ‘We don’t need permission. My boss wants to run with it in tomorrow’s edition.’

After she rang off my mind was still in turmoil. I had spoken freely to her, in my own home, and now she was to use what I had given her. She didn’t need permission.

I contacted Eileen’s office next day. ‘I don’t believe it!’ she gasped. ‘They can’t identify him and link the two things without running the risk of libel. If
they go ahead, the whole thing steps up a gear again, and it will go crazy. Look, if it’s all going to blow, will you think about speaking to a national reporter, on my recommendation?
Someone who’ll treat this the way it should be handled, to give maximum publicity to the miscarriage of justice going on here.’

‘I don’t know. I’ve my exam on Thursday. Who are you thinking of?’ I was wary.

‘Melanie Reid. She’s to be trusted, believe me,’ said Eileen. ‘
Sunday Mail
columnist and one helluva reporter. Think about it. I’ll ring you
later.’

At work I tried to keep my mind off her words. As I left college, I ventured into the nearby Livingston shopping centre, and purchased a copy of the
Evening Times
.
ABUSE PROBE POLICE IN MURDER MYSTERY
was Maggie Barry’s headline. I noticed that my father’s name was not used throughout her half-page article, but that she had revealed
that ‘police have been talking to one man about the unsolved disappearance of Coatbridge girl Moira Anderson in 1957
and
the sexual abuse of four young girls from the same area, now
grown women’.

I told Ronnie that things were taking an explosive turn. ‘Maybe when I’ve done the exam tomorrow we should go away for the weekend, right out of Scotland. It could all get
nasty.’ I rang Eileen and told her I would see Melanie Reid, then spoke to our friends Peter and Gillian, who lived in Wolverhampton. Surprised, but delighted to hear from us, they confirmed
they had no plans for the coming weekend.

I felt relieved I had taken Thursday off. My exam was scheduled for the afternoon, but instead of being able to spend the morning calming myself and getting into the right frame of mind, I was
visited by a
Sunday Mail
staff photographer, who introduced himself as Henry. He would take some photos, he explained, unpacking a battery of camera equipment, and Melanie would come to
see me later in the evening. His portrait would be from the back, so that nobody would recognize me. ‘Only your nearest and dearest.’ He smiled, not realizing the irony of his words as
he looked for a location. His eyes brightened as he spotted a small statue I have in our bedroom, of a young girl, hunched over her knees, whose face is hidden, but whose posture conveys sadness.
Somewhat bemused, but wishing to indulge his enthusiasm, I obligingly perched on our bed and gazed out of the window, so that the statue and I were framed together.

After Henry had gone, I set off for the city centre. My heart thudded into my boots when I saw the sea of wooden desks inside the examination hall, but the hour of reckoning had arrived. If I
did not know the course material by now, I never would.

The three hours passed in a flash, and then I headed home, where a tall, fair-haired journalist was speaking to my husband in our lounge. She smiled reassuringly as I kicked off my shoes, and
poured us a drink. We discussed our respective jobs. I had read some of her columns, and we had similar views on several subjects. Then, delicately, she asked me about child abuse. I told her of my
childhood, my father, Moira and my cousins. She only interrupted with an occasional question. She asked about William, the psychic, and I explained that Eileen could put her in contact with him.
When she asked the location of the pond to which William had taken the police, I would say only that it was on the outskirts of Coatbridge.

More than two hours passed. I tucked my feet under me, and pressed my knuckles into my eyelids, shattered by the long day. Melanie surveyed me. ‘You’re exhausted,’ she
declared, tucking her notes in her bag. ‘Thanks for sharing such an amazing story. It’s right the public should know what happened to Moira, and your family. It’ll appear this
Sunday. How will your mother take it?’

‘It’ll be devastating for her and my brothers,’ I said quietly. ‘We’re going to go away for the weekend, with the children. To friends down in the English
Midlands.’

On our way back from our trip, stopping at a motorway service area on the M6, I had no doubt that I had certainly blown the whistle. My eyes widened as I saw rows of Sunday
papers on full view, with a front-page picture of Moira on the
Sunday Mail
prominently placed, and the headline screaming beside it:
MY DAD KILLED THIS GIRL
.

People were discussing it in wonder, as I stood behind them in the checkout queue, surrounded by Hallowe’en merchandise. ‘In’t it queer,’ a lady was saying, ‘that
such a thing should come out so long after?’

‘Nowt surprises me these days, but it’s hard to imagine it’s his own lass saying such things about him. Likely she’s doing it for the money.’

I wanted to tell the Lancashire couple who had said this that in this case no cheque-book journalism had been involved, but I didn’t. When I returned to our car, I handed the newspaper to
Ronnie. He glanced at the headline, the portrait of Moira, and the double-page spread inside. As well as Melanie’s article, it featured a photograph of an old-fashioned Baxter’s bus of
the correct era, a less well-known faded snapshot of Moira in a cotton summer dress, a wide-angled view of the pond at Witchwood, with high flats shown in the distance, and, of course,
Henry’s picture of me by our window, gazing at the small portrait photograph he’d given me of Moira.