Redemption Road

by Lisa Ballantyne

  Angus’s study smelled of mothballs and old hymnbooks, but he found the smell comforting. He sat down at his rickety mahogany desk, which needed sanding and varnishing. The top of the desk had been scored by the legs of the typewriter and one of the knobs had fallen off the drawers, so that his pencil drawer was perpetually open for ease of access.

  He had been avidly collecting articles by other journalists on the Molly Henderson kidnapping, and these were stacked to the right of his typewriter. Because the police had not communicated any real leads, there was a tendency for the newspapers to repeat details over and over again, possibly adding one new piece of information. The others speculated on similarities between the Henderson abduction and the abduction of other children who had been found dead and linked to a single killer who was still at large. This speculation allowed the newspapers to reprint details of the previous abductions and murders, thereby creating a feature when nothing new had been discovered.

  Angus knew that he was different from the other writers. He was an investigative journalist and as such he was committed to discovering the truth. He would stop at nothing until he found it.

  He remembered Tam at the McLaughlin garage and the way he had laughed when Angus asked where George was: ‘That is the magic question,’ Tam had said. Whatever the police or the other newspapers thought, Angus felt that Tam was right. Finding George was the key to finding Molly, dead or alive.

  He looked through his notes and decided that it was worthwhile trying to speak to the three girls who had witnessed Molly’s abduction. He would have to go through their parents, but there was a chance at least one of them would talk to him. It was still early, but Angus decided to shower and dress and call his contact from church at the primary school, Betsy, to see if she would give him the addresses for the girl witnesses.

  At eight o’clock, as soon as he had finished his porridge, Angus called Betsy Clarke at home. He was now full of passion and energy and ready to act. He wanted to avoid visiting the school and having to wait for Betsy’s tea break.

  ‘Good morning, Angus. Are you well?’

  ‘Very well, and yourself?’

  ‘Grand. Just about to go to work…’

  ‘I don’t want to hold you back. It was just about those three names you gave me last time.’ Angus consulted his notebook, pressing the point of the pen underneath each name as he spoke, ‘Tait, McGowan and Tanner.’

  ‘The girls that witnessed…’

  ‘That’s right. You don’t happen to have their addresses? I wanted to talk to their parents – see if anything’s been missed.’

  ‘Well, not on me, but you can look them up. Sandra’s father works in the post office in town, Pamela’s mother runs the café-gallery on Main Street and Sheila lives next door to Gordon and Jeanette who cover the Sunday school when David is unavailable.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Angus, making careful notes. ‘That’s enough to go on. I’m sure I’ll find them, no problem.’

  ‘You will. I’ll have to dash now.’

  ‘You’ve been a great help once again, Betsy. You’re in my prayers.’

  ‘And you mine. You heard, of course, about the other witnesses?’

  Angus swallowed and hunched over the telephone, as if someone was listening to him. ‘Others?’ he whispered.

  ‘My next-door neighbours – you might not know them – an old couple, the Stirlings – they’re heathens but they’ve paid the price for it; a hard life, lost a child to leukaemia, poor souls. You might know Sue, of course, she was the one…’

  Angus pressed his teeth together in irritation. The minutiae that women thought relevant or even interesting made his soul white hot with rage. It was all he could do not to scream at Betsy to shut up and tell him what they saw.

  He took a deep breath and interrupted as politely as he could. ‘I think I know who you mean. What did they see? Do the police know?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I was talking to Sue just yesterday. They were in the police station for some hours the other day. After all the newspaper articles, they decided to come forward – thought that what they had seen might be relevant…’

  ‘And what did they see?’

  ‘A little girl that matched Molly’s description being dragged screaming into a car near Sir George’s Park.’

  ‘My goodness,’ said Angus, almost to himself.

  ‘Anyway, I really must dash. I did like your prayer of repentance on Sunday. You can tell you’re a writer, because you do have a way with words.’

  Angus blushed at the compliment, and hung up the phone, his mouth twisted into a sneer. When the Lord closes a door, somehow He opens a window.

  The Stirlings were retired and Angus had thought they would be at home so early in the morning, but no one answered when he pressed the doorbell. He peered through the letterbox and saw that there was no build-up of mail on the doormat to suggest they were away on holiday. He went around the back of the property. There was no letterbox on the kitchen door, but there was a cat flap, so Angus got down on his knees on the step and pushed his nose inside. He picked up a distinct smell of toast in the kitchen.

  ‘Can we help you?’

  Angus heard himself being addressed by a very properly spoken man and scrambled to his feet. Mr Stirling and his wife, Sue, were standing arm in arm, frowning at him. Mr Stirling was a tall man, so Angus chose to stay on their doorstep as he threw out his hands in welcome and gave them a large smile.

  ‘Hello. What a surprise. I’m so glad you came back. My name’s Angus, Angus Campbell, from the John o’Groat Journal. I was very keen to speak to you.’

  ‘So I can see,’ said Mr Stirling, watching Angus’s outstretched hand wavering in the space between them, before he finally took it.

  Angus tried to compensate for his behaviour by giving Mr Stirling’s hand a manly squeeze, but found that the older man tugged his hand away.

  ‘What is it you want to speak to us about?’ said Sue.

  She was a thin-boned woman wearing bright lipstick.

  Angus made sure his smile remained in place as he addressed her. ‘Forgive me for the interruption, but I’m working on the Molly Henderson story – I met with Kathleen, bless her, just a week ago. I heard that you had information.’

  The couple looked at each other. ‘We spoke to the police. We’re not sure if what we told them is relevant,’ said Mr Stirling.

  ‘When a young girl goes missing, every detail is important,’ said Angus.

  ‘You’d best come in then,’ said Sue, as her husband took the house keys out of his pocket.

  Mr Stirling stood pointing the key at Angus, as if it were a knife of some sort. ‘You’ll need to move away from the door so that I can open it,’ he said, and Angus detected a note of irritation in his voice.

  As he was bid, Angus climbed down from their doorstep and waited for the door to be opened.

  The Stirlings’ home was traditionally furnished and cluttered. There was an old globe on its axis, a collection of blown glass animals, several bookcases with glass fronts and a considerable stack of records beside an old turntable. Two crystal decanters were filled with what Angus presumed to be whisky and sherry. He turned down his lips in distaste as he waited for Mr Stirling to return from the bathroom and Sue to bring the tea she had offered.

  When they were settled, Angus took out his pad and pen. ‘I am working on the bigger story. What you tell me won’t be printed any time soon and possibly not at all, but I am working on finding who has taken Molly and what you tell me may well be useful in tracing her abductor. Ultimately, I am hoping to write a good news story when she is found. Although some others believe she is already dead, I am hopeful that she is still alive.’

  ‘Oh, we hope so too,’ said Sue, placing a plate of buttered scones on a small table in front of Angus.

  ‘So, if you could tell me what you saw?’

  Mr Stirling cleared his throat and looked at his wife, as if to ask for her permission to proceed. Angus opened his eyes
wide in anticipation.

  ‘It was only after reading the article in the Journal… your interview with Kathleen Henderson in fact, that the two of us thought again about the incident and then we reported it. It may be that it is still of no consequence… However, we were on our morning walk – our usual route by the park – and we saw a car stop at the pelican crossing. A young girl jumped out, possibly not as young as seven… to me she looked older – nine or ten years old, but she did have long hair like Molly…’

  ‘Did you notice an eyepatch?’ asked Angus.

  ‘No, neither of us did,’ interjected Sue, lifting her tea, which rattled on the saucer. ‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean she didn’t have one. At the time neither of us thought any of this was untoward.’

  ‘However, after the young girl jumped out of the car, she started to run,’ continued Mr Stirling, ‘and a tall man got out and gave chase. He was very tall, I would say a good few inches taller than me, and I am hardly short…’

  Angus twitched at the mention of height, but nodded.

  ‘He was heavy too,’ said Mr Stirling, ‘not fat at all, but large built and it seemed that the run was taxing for him, and he was wearing a suit and so he caught your eye so to speak – a man of his size in a suit, running at full pelt. He caught up with the girl and took her by the arm and began to pull her back to the car. As we approached, we saw that the girl was crying and shouting, but we assumed it was his daughter…’

  ‘Yes, some sort of tantrum,’ said Sue, sipping her tea. ‘And they could have been father and daughter, not that we looked closely, but they both had dark hair. He smiled at us, though. He seemed… nice.’

  Angus had brought with him a copy of the photograph of George and his family on the steps of the High Court in Glasgow. He slipped it from the back of his pad and passed it to the couple. ‘Do you know if this was the man you saw?’

  Mr Stirling sighed, one hand over his mouth. ‘In truth it could have been any of the men in this photo. Do you agree, Sue?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘We didn’t get a good enough look at his face, but the car…’

  ‘Oh, yes, we told the police…’

  ‘You got a number plate?’ said Angus, feeling a flutter of pre-emptive joy.

  ‘No, but the car was definitely dark red, and it was an Allegro. I only remember because we used to have one. And when they drove off we noticed there was a bumper sticker on the car that said Glasgow’s miles better.’

  Angus felt a flush of vindication. It was George McLaughlin; he knew it in his bones.

  ‘And where were they headed?’

  ‘They were headed out of town, on the A9.’

  Angus returned to the office, where he made notes on the McLaughlin case and called Inspector Black, who said that there were no new leads at this time.

  ‘I’m aware of what the Stirlings said about the Glasgow sticker, but that means nothing. We can hardly arrest everyone in Glasgow, I’m sure you’ll agree, Angus,’ said the detective.

  ‘But you still haven’t managed to question George McLaughlin?’

  ‘We haven’t managed to locate him, but he is not an actual suspect at this time.’

  ‘The Stirlings’ description matches George…’

  ‘Yet they failed to identify him. I thank you for your efforts, but I have nothing more for you at this time.’

  That afternoon, Angus wrote two articles: one on the Thurso autumn fair and another on the Caithness boat race, and then, at three o’clock, he got into his car and drove to Sheila Tanner’s home, a council house with a well-kept front lawn.

  He waited outside for the child to return from school – hoping to catch both her and a parent on the doorstep and persuade them to give him a few moments. If he had no success with Sheila, he was planning to go to the post office to speak to Sandra’s father and then to the café to speak to Pamela’s mother.

  Sheila was a heavyset child, with red shoulder-length hair. Angus got out of the car as soon as he realised who she was and lightly jogged along the pavement towards her, then followed her down the path to her front door.

  The girl turned at the sound of his footfalls, just as her mother opened the door. Mrs Tanner had the same build and colouring as her daughter and a similar hardened expression: deep-set eyes and pinched, thin lips.

  ‘Hello,’ said Angus, giving them both a wide smile. ‘How fortuitous to see you both together. My name’s Angus, Angus Campbell, from the Journal. I wanted to talk to you about Molly Henderson.’

  Sheila’s mother put a hand on her daughter’s shoulders to usher her inside.

  ‘She’s said her piece.’ Sheila disappeared and her mother stood at the door, arms folded above her stomach and the corners of her mouth turned down. ‘It’s only just this week she’s back at school. All that business was far too upsetting: a classmate taken right before her eyes. She’s hardly slept since.’

  Mrs Tanner was frowning down at Angus. He found her abhorrent. He hated excess flesh on a woman; when the female nature of indulgence and weakness was visible on the outside. He blinked slowly, remembering Eve taking the apple into her eager palm: The woman saw how beautiful the tree was and how good its fruit would be to eat, and she thought how wonderful it would be to become wise. So she took some of the fruit and ate it. Angus struggled to maintain his façade before Mrs Tanner.

  ‘I understand that this is a very distressing subject. I would be quick. Also, I am not going to write this up immediately. I am investigating the kidnapping itself and, as I think we all are, I am intent on tracking down Molly’s abductor.’

  ‘Isn’t that what the police are for?’

  Angus narrowed his eyes at Mrs Tanner. ‘I just want to go over a few facts – make sure that nothing has been missed…’

  ‘She’s not speaking to any journalists and that’s that,’ said Mrs Tanner, as she closed the door in his face.

  Disheartened, Angus returned to his office to consider his next move. There was both the post office and the café to try next, in an attempt to speak to Sandra Tait and Pamela McGowan’s parents, but Angus felt he had better plan his visit more carefully, for fear of frightening off all the families.

  While he was working, the editor told him that another press conference had been scheduled at the Royal Hotel in an hour’s time. Angus glanced at his watch and knew he would need to hurry in order to get a good seat.

  He transposed his notes from the meeting with the Stirlings from shorthand into longhand, while the police radio crackled quietly on his desk. He had grown used to the radio’s background noise both at work and in the car and often had to remind himself to maintain vigilant of its content. It was nearly five o’clock and Angus was just putting on his jacket to leave when his telephone rang.

  ‘Angus Campbell,’ he said, still standing, exasperated at the thought of someone calling with what he fully expected would be trivialities, when he was on his way to a press conference about an investigation into a missing girl.

  It was a woman with a very quiet voice. He listened, frowning, as he put his pad, pencils and Dictaphone into his briefcase. He snapped his briefcase shut and then barked:

  ‘Will you please speak up? I can barely hear a word you’re saying.’

  The woman cleared her throat and started again. ‘I’m very sorry to bother you. My name’s May Driscoll. I’m not sure if you can help me at all. It was just on the off chance. You see… my husband’s missing and… well, I think you might know him. I found your business card in his work overalls.’

  ‘Your husband? Who might he be?’ Angus stood looking at the ceiling, frowning.

  ‘He’s Thomas Driscoll.’