Sewing the Shadows Together (15 page)

Tom sat in his claustrophobic room in the Regent Guest House, watching
Reporting Scotland
on the tiny box television. As the report on Rory’s death finished, he slammed down the remote control. ‘What a cheap trick. Not a dry eye in the house I’m sure.’ He wasn’t certain what he felt about Rory. He had been his best friend when he was young, charming and charismatic, but the way he had treated Sarah appalled him.

After the local news programme there was a trailer for a programme later that evening. A reporter was shown standing in front of Carstairs State Hospital, where criminals in need of psychiatric care are imprisoned in Scotland. The strong wind inflated the reporter’s jacket and made his hair stand on end. Fighting against the sound of the gale, he shouted into his microphone. ‘After nearly forty years in prison Logan Baird has just been released, pending his case being heard by the Court of Appeal. Our special report investigates the circumstances which led to this greatest miscarriage of justice in the history of the Scottish penal system, tonight at 9pm on BBC Scotland.’

Tom groaned. After speaking to Archie Kilbride he’d got the impression there wouldn’t be any programmes or reports until after the appeal, but it seemed that the BBC had jumped the gun. He reached for the bottle of whisky on his cheap chest of drawers and took a hefty slug from his tooth-glass. He wouldn’t be going to the pub tonight.

He put the sound down on the television and let the images flicker in the background as he waited for nine o’clock. He filled up his glass and looked around the room; the single bed with the uncomfortable dip in the centre, the pink cabbage-rose wallpaper, the frills round the edge of the kidney-shaped dressing table, clashing with the 70s swirls on the carpet. He hated this room.

He poured another drink. Here he was, fifty-three years old, without a home or a job, without any real friends, and – he gulped another swig of whisky – in love with the widow of his best friend.

The
Scottish Special Report
logo came up on the screen and he flicked on the sound. The prat in the wind-inflated suit was still fighting to make himself heard. ‘For thirty-six years, this grim building has been home to Logan Baird. He came here in 1976 as a nineteen-year-old. Earlier this month he was released after new DNA evidence showed he could not have been the murderer of little Shona McIver, whose body was found in a culvert just yards from her home in Portobello, Edinburgh’s seaside suburb. This evening we are going to investigate what went wrong during Baird’s conviction, and how he must feel, back in a world very different from the one he left in 1976.’

A montage of images from the mid-70s appeared on the screen to the background of Rod Stewart singing ‘We are Sailing’. How gloomy the photos made the time seem – bombings, strikes, dark streets. Tom couldn’t remember any of that – he remembered the sun shining on the sands, football in the park, laughs at school, Shona and Sarah dancing to the Bay City Rollers. Then pictures came of houses for sale for £10,000, Bagpuss and Kojak, flared trousers and platform soles, Turkish Delight and Caramac. That was more familiar, all technicolour until…

The scene cut to the reporter on Portobello prom, in front of the low wall round Abercorn Park. Tom wondered if he could even bear to watch as the reporter used his serious voice to describe the night in September 1976 when Shona McIver disappeared after being seen playing in this park. The familiar photo of Shona smiling on the beach flashed up on the screen. Tom took another drink of whisky and reached for the remote control. His hand shook. No, he wouldn’t switch it off. He had to watch this. It would be worse to lie there, wondering what was being broadcast.

The camera panned to the bushes beside the culvert ‘where little Shona’s sexually-molested body was found’ and then moved on to the arrest of Logan Baird. They showed a school photo of him in his uniform, unsmiling and with staring eyes, but relatively normal compared to the way he’d looked after he’d left school. Tom remembered him in his ankle-length black coat, his long dark hair falling over his face, standing hunched in corners, never looking up.

Weren’t there any more recent pictures of him? Perhaps he thought the devil would take his soul if he was photographed. Tom gave an involuntary giggle. He blinked to focus on the screen; the whisky was blurring his brain. He felt tears very close behind his eyes but he refused to let them fall as he concentrated on the rest of the programme.

Actually, the rest of it wasn’t that bad, because the focus of the programme was definitely Baird. There was a description of the trial and some contemporary footage of Baird being bundled from courtroom to van under a blanket. Then there was a long interview with Rev. Hamish Mackay, a square-jawed teuchter with a manic gleam in his eye. He described his first meeting with Baird during his prison visits and spoke movingly of Baird’s love of religion, and his protestations of innocence.

The interviewer dared to ask why Baird had confessed to the crime at first, but Mackay was ready for that one. ‘Logan wasn’t able to talk about it for a long time, but after we built up a relationship he opened up about that night. First he said that he had seen the devil with a little girl in the bushes. The police questioned him for eleven hours. He was confused and began to feel guilty, somehow feeling that the presence of the devil was part of him. He was a vulnerable teenager who had words put into his mouth by the police at the time. They made him sign a statement without allowing an adult or legal representation to be present.’

‘Why did he never make any kind of appeal in all the years he was in Carstairs?’ The reporter asked and Tom began to think that the interviewer wasn’t perhaps as big an idiot as he looked.

Once again Mackay was ready. ‘This poor young man was incarcerated and forgotten by all save his mother, and after her death, he had no visitors until I came in contact with him. Because he wouldn’t admit his guilt, he was abandoned by the system. He was prejudged and pigeon-holed by the psychiatric mafia, who deemed him psychotic and pumped him full of inappropriate medication. In fact, he’s now been diagnosed as bipolar. He would have been released a long time ago if he had been put on the correct medication programme and people had listened to him.’

‘Where is he now? Is he now being treated?’

‘He is living in supervised accommodation, organised for him by some of his supporters. It is very difficult for him, as he has come out into a world that has changed so much, like Rip Van Winkle waking up after so many years. The technology, traffic, shopping is all very new to him, but with the support of the Lord and his friends, he’s making good progress.’

The rest of the programme was padded out with some background information on the work of the Scottish Criminal Cases Review Commision, which since its establishment in the nineties has resulted in twenty-five successful appeals. It also mentioned the DNA testing which proved that Baird was not the killer, and the fact that the case had been reopened by the Lothian and Borders Police. But there were no further details about this except that the investigation was on-going and no new suspects had yet been announced.

Tom thought again about his father’s pictures. He had to go to the police; he’d ring them tomorrow. He pushed the memory of the images from his mind again. The whisky made this easier to do.

Portentous music announced that the programme was coming to an end. The reporter turned to the screen and made a few final remarks, sure that, after this terrible miscarriage of justice, all viewers would wish Logan Baird well for his continued adjustment to twenty-first century life.

Tom put the television off. He was relieved they hadn’t delved too deeply into Shona’s life and there was no speculation about any other possible perpetrators. Tom looked at the whisky bottle. It was almost empty. What the hell, he would finish it off. He drained the bottle into his glass and knocked it back, before falling into a troubled sleep.

*

Lottie gently removed the wine glass from her mother’s grasp. Sarah’s head had fallen to one side in the corner of the Chesterfield when she’d slipped into an exhausted sleep.

*

Tom woke up the next morning with his mouth furred and his head pounding. Why had he drunk that whisky last night? After seeing what drink had done to his father he tried not to lose control, but last night… a wave of self-pity washed over him. The programme about Baird and Shona, Rory dying, Sarah seeming so close and now so far away, his lack of home, plans, direction…

He got up and showered. He didn’t think he could face Mrs Ritchie’s grief or a full Scottish breakfast so he pulled on his running shoes and, shouting a vague, ‘No breakfast for me today, thanks,’ slid out of the front door.

The haar was down and the air was like damp grey cottonwool. He turned down towards the prom and began to run along the wet sand at the water’s edge. The beach was almost deserted, all sound muffled except for the gentle lap of the receding tide. Occasionally the ghostly figure of an early-morning walker and his dog loomed out of the mist but no greetings were exchanged.

His head throbbed and the damp cold air seemed to scratch his lungs like a Christmas tree. At first he had to force his legs forward but when he got into his rhythm, his mind came into gear, too. He wasn’t just going to sit around and do nothing until his mother’s meagre inheritance ran out. He had to be proactive; he was going to stay in Edinburgh, look for somewhere to live and find a job.

He stumbled as he missed his step. This thought seemed to have jumped fully-formed into his mind without any warning. He
wasn’t
going back to South Africa. Already Plettenberg Bay seemed so far away and the years he’d spent there melted into a blur of nothingness. Scotland was where he belonged.

The sun was shining above the mist, casting a shimmering sheen over the damp sand. Tom stopped and looked at the sky as the sun broke through the clouds. Taking his mobile phone from his back pocket, he found Sarah’s number.
Thinking of you. Anything at all I can do to help, just let me know. Hope to see you soon, Tom.
It was very bland but he guessed there would be lots of family around Sarah at this time. He hoped his message would show he was thinking of her, but not cause any problem if anyone else read it. He hesitated for a moment and then pressed send.

He turned round and made his way back along the beach. Looking up at the row of Victorian houses, the red-stone tenements, the baths, his school and the Free Presbyterian Church lining the shore, he was taken back to the life he’d lived here – before Shona was taken from them.

Next to the church were the tenements where Logan Baird had lived. Where was he now? Had he come back to the only place that he’d ever known, apart from Carstairs? Hatred welled up in him like a wave of nausea. Years of anger had their own power, which he struggled to quell: Logan Baird was innocent, the DNA tests had proved this, so Logan Baird was a victim, losing so many years of his life locked up in that institution.

Tom walked towards the prom, almost feeling that Baird would appear like a ghost before him at any moment. Would he even recognise him now? He must be getting on for sixty, so very different from the spooky teenager he vaguely remembered.

He stepped up onto the prom. In the front garden of Captain Kidd’s house he saw his old teacher, bent over some rose bushes, dead-heading the shrivelled blooms. He was wondering whether to speak or just pass by when HJ Kidd raised his head.

‘Tom,’ HJ stood up and approached the low granite wall. He held out his hand.

Tom shook it. ‘Have you seen Sarah? How is she?’

‘I went round to visit her briefly. She seems to be bearing up remarkably well, considering…’ His handsome features twisted in pain. ‘You know I was there when it happened? After we saw you at Rory’s house, we did some filming and then climbed up the Salisbury Crags to catch the sunrise. I was just about to read, Rory was getting the right angle, he stepped back and…’ his voice cracked in pain.

Tom felt sympathy for the older man. He hadn’t really thought about how the accident had happened until that moment. He realised he’d only been thinking about Sarah and himself. ‘I haven’t seen many news bulletins. They just said it was an accident. I didn’t know you were there – it must have been awful.’ He shuddered, his body cooling down in the chill morning air.

HJ noticed. ‘I do apologise, you must be freezing. Please come in for a cup of coffee.’

Tom hesitated, then accepted. He wanted to find out more about Sarah.

They went through the hall into the large kitchen at the back of the house. There was a range along one wall and a long scrubbed wooden table in the middle of the room. Hannah Kidd came in from the scullery, drying her hands on a cloth. The room was warm and welcoming with the smell of coffee and fresh washing.

Hannah made some coffee as HJ described going round to Sarah’s, and seeing Lottie and Archie with her. Tom was pleased to hear that – it made it seem more normal for him to contact her, too. He felt the shape of his phone in his back pocket. Had Sarah replied? He hadn’t heard it beep, but sometimes the sound was masked by the roar of the sea and wind when he was jogging. He resisted the temptation to sneak a look.

HJ finished speaking and then looked over the table at Tom. ‘And how are you, Tom? You’re still staying in Portobello, I see.’

Tom began to explain what he had decided on his run, his ideas hardening as he formulated them into words. He explained that he’d decided to stay in Scotland and was looking for a job and a place to stay.

HJ looked thoughtful. ‘You said you did odd jobs in South Africa?’ He hesitated. ‘Now, I don’t know if you would consider working as a janitor/handyman, but I have an idea that might help you.’ Tom sat up straighter, eager to hear what he had to say next. ‘Have you heard of the Canongate Centre? It’s an old church near the Grassmarket, which is used as an arts centre, and for community groups. There’s a playgroup and a youth club, for example. It’s where my poetry group meet and there’s also an amateur theatre group that puts on small experimental productions. We’ve had a resident caretaker there for as long as I can remember, but he’s well past retirement age and wants to go and live nearer his daughter and grandchildren in Forfar.’