by Tana Collins
‘I know all this, Andie.’
‘All except this building known to locals as the Pink Building. It was the original building on the site and built as a private residence in the mid-1500s. It only became part of the mental institution in the 1800s.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Did you know that its use changed in the 1970s? For about fifteen years it was used as a children’s home.’
He nodded. ‘Gayle told me.’
Carruthers examined the photograph more closely. ‘This photograph looks to have been taken in the 1970s, so this boy could have been a resident.’
‘Very likely.’
‘Do we know who he is, or who the two men are?’ Carruthers turned the photograph over, but if he was hoping for a date and names, he was disappointed. It was blank.
‘No, we don’t, but I should imagine the two men might have been members of staff.’
He studied the figures in the photograph again. ‘What were these photographs doing in Fraser’s home?’
‘No idea. But like you said, it does prove he had a connection with Braidwood. Take a look at this.’ Fletcher handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Copy of an article written for The Fife Courier, 25th September 1975.’
He studied it in silence. ‘There were allegations of sexual abuse at the care home,’ said Fletcher.
‘Was there a police investigation?’ asked Carruthers.
Fletcher shook her head. ‘Don’t think so. Certainly wasn’t reported to the Procurator Fiscal.’
‘Yet it got in to the papers.’
‘There’s some damning things said about the Chief Superintendent at the time.’
Carruthers skim read the article reading words such as ‘cover-up’ and ‘incompetence.’
He frowned. ‘Who was the chief super?’
‘Man called Bob Marshall. No longer alive. I found his obituary. Died in 2001, apparently after a long and distinguished career, if his obituary is to be believed.’
‘Name doesn’t mean anything to me.’ He took a closer look at the photograph. Fletcher saw him frown.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure. Something’s not right.’ He tapped the photograph. ‘At first glance this looks pretty innocent, doesn’t it? See the man whose arm is placed around the boy’s shoulder? It looks protective. At least that’s what I first thought.’
‘Now?’
‘In light of what you’ve just said now it seems possessive, proprietorial, almost creepy. Depending on how you decide to interpret the photograph you can see it in a whole new light.’
Fletcher leaned over. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. The man’s standing too close. He’s invading the boy’s personal space.’
‘Look at the boy’s eyes,’ said Carruthers. ‘They’re wide and full of fear.’
Fletcher took a closer look at the boy’s face. ‘Poor lad. He looks terrified.’
‘Of course, this photograph on its own isn’t evidence of sexual abuse,’ said Carruthers giving back the photo and news cutting to Fletcher, ‘but there’s something about it that makes me feel uncomfortable.’
‘Wait,’ said Fletcher. ‘There’s a second article you need to see.’ She handed it to him.
Carruthers looked at Fletcher. ‘It’s a retraction of the earlier article. Been written by the editor-in-chief of the paper.’
‘And an apology to Bob Marshall,’ said Fletcher.
Carruthers tapped the photograph with his index finger. ‘Find out if there’s anyone alive who was in the job in the mid-seventies who remembers the allegations of abuse at Braidwood. Also, see if you can track down anyone who worked for The Fife Courier at the time. We need to interview them.’
‘Right, will do, boss.’ Fletcher looked up at Carruthers who had an unreadable expression in his blue eyes. She said, ‘If we could find the journalist who wrote the original article before it was retracted, it would be a start.’
‘And a good one.’
‘What are you thinking?’ said Fletcher.
‘What I’m thinking is that the two men in this photo are in their late thirties to mid-forties by the looks of it which means if they are still alive today they would be in their mid-seventies to early eighties. In other words, they would both be old men. Keep digging, Andie. Great job. With a bit of luck we’ll have a name for our second body soon. We’ll see if he’s also got any connection with Braidwood, other than spending his last few moments there. By the way, we’re still trying to trace Ruiridh Fraser’s ex-wife and son.’
‘What about Jordan Hunter? Do we still keep that as a line of enquiry?’
‘Yes we do. He may not have broken into Fraser’s home or been responsible for his tyres being slashed, but he still subjected the old man to a catalogue of harassment and we still don’t know why. We also need to find out why Malcolm Hunter’s phone number appears on Fraser’s phone bill.’
Fletcher nodded. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said. She watched Carruthers walk off, knowing that his mind would still be on the photograph of the boy and the two men. Like her he’d be wondering who they were and what exactly the connection was between Ruiridh Fraser and Braidwood.
Fletcher’s attention was caught by a movement at the door. She turned and saw the same dark-haired PC who had given her the cuttings and photos.
‘It’s PC Glenys Palmer, ma’am.’
‘Of course it is. Don’t be shy. What have you got for me?’
‘PC Miller found it, ma’am, in Fraser’s personal effects. It’s a letter. Thought it might be important.’
Fletcher raised her eyebrows. ‘You’ve read it?’
Glenys nodded. ‘Written to Ruiridh Fraser from his son, Paul.’
She handed it over to Fletcher, who struggled to recognise the stamps on the envelope. She angled it so she could see the postmark. ‘It’s been sent from Reykjavik,’said Fletcher.
‘Yes, ma’am, that’s in Iceland, ma’am.’
‘I know where Reykjavik is, Glenys.’
Glenys’ face fell. Fletcher retrieved the letter from the envelope. It had been written three months before the old man’s death. It was short and to the point, leaving Fletcher in no doubt as to how Paul Fraser felt about his father. And from the contents of the letter there was every chance Jordan Hunter was no longer the main suspect. She downed tools and went in search of Carruthers.
7
The following day was crisp and clear but raw, the temperature having plummeted overnight. As Carruthers hurried from his car to the station, the wind bit his face, making his cheeks feel as if they’d been skinned.
Ten minutes later he was sitting at his desk deep in conversation with Fletcher about the letter the team had unearthed the day before. ‘I know this now makes Paul Fraser the main suspect,’ she said, handing the letter once more to her boss.
He scanned each line, his keen blue eyes missing nothing. Having left the whisky alone the night before he felt much clearer-headed this morning than he had on previous mornings. He vowed once more not to drink during the week. And, mercifully, his sleep had been dreamless. But he still hadn’t plucked up the courage to call his brother. He was starting to detest himself for his cowardice. He’d had friends who’d been ill before but it hadn’t been like this. It was all just too close to home. If he didn’t think about it, perhaps he could pretend it wasn’t happening. He forced himself back to the contents of the letter. Scratching his chin he looked up at Fletcher. ‘He hated his father. That much is clear.’
‘It doesn’t get much more explicit than this.’ Carruthers pointed to a line three quarters of the way down the first page. ‘He says he’ll kill his father if he ever tries to contact him again. But he doesn’t say why.’
‘There’s certainly a lot of anger in the letter,’ said Fletcher, ‘but we all say things in the heat of the moment we don’t mean. That’s the problem with the printed word. Once it’s written down it can’t so easily be taken back. Perhaps he was having a bad day
when he wrote it.’
‘Or maybe he meant it.’ Carruthers dropped the letter to the table. ‘We need to interview him. Find out if he’s got an alibi.’ Carruthers straightened up from his position leaning over Fletcher’s desk. ‘I’m going to fix myself a coffee. Get you one?’
Fletcher shook her head, picking up the photographs that had been found alongside the letter. ‘No, I’m good, thanks.’
As she stared at the photograph she and Carruthers had been looking at the day before, she absentmindedly began to tap it, a curious expression on her face. There was something fundamental she was missing. What was it? She ceased tapping and brought it up closer, scrutinising the faces of the two men and boy. The boy was dark-haired, like Jordan Hunter, but that’s where the similarity ended. The boy in the photo must have been about three years younger.
‘Christ, why didn’t I see this before?’ She stood up abruptly, went in search of Jim. Found him thumping the coffee machine.
‘Frigging machine. Just eaten my money.’
‘Jim, can I talk to you for a moment. I know Paul Fraser’s now most likely our prime suspect but say that letter was nothing but an empty threat. If we factor him out for a moment–’ She looked up at her boss, her words tumbling out in a rush. ‘What if we got the wrong kid, Jim?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that the photographs I saw of Braidwood have made me think. That’s all. What if Ruiridh Fraser did have an eye for one of the Hunter kids, but what if we got the wrong kid? What if it wasn’t the girl but the boy? That would explain Jordan’s hostility towards the old man. And say Fraser’s interest in boys goes back several decades, it would explain why he has those newspaper cuttings and would also give him a direct connection to Braidwood.’
Fletcher watched her boss process the information. ‘Reckon we need to talk to the Hunters again,’ said Fletcher. ‘We need to speak to Mr Hunter, anyway. Perhaps he’s been warning Fraser off Jordan.’
‘Hold that thought, Andie. I’ve a meeting in five with Bingham.’ He bashed the machine with his fist one last time, to no effect. As he walked away he threw the next words back over his shoulder at her, ‘I can’t help but think Paul Fraser’s relationship with his father is still key in all this.’
The machine sprung in to action and Fletcher watched as it dispensed a double espresso.
‘I want to fly out to Iceland so I can interview Paul Fraser.’ Carruthers was standing in Superintendent Bingham’s office, having waved aside the hard-backed chair he’d been offered. He’d rather stand than be at an inferior height. Always felt he was being interviewed for a job when he sat in that chair. He gripped the edge of Bingham’s mahogany table tightly.
Bingham shook his head. ‘We don’t have the budget, Jim. You can’t go over on a whim.’
‘With all due respect, sir, it’s hardly a whim.’
‘At the moment, we have no evidence whatsoever that links Paul Fraser to his father’s murder.’
‘Except the letter. A letter written by Paul Fraser threatening his father with physical violence should he ever try to contact him again. That’s enough for me.’
Bingham banged his fist down hard on the table, spilling his own milky coffee. His penholder rattled. ‘Bugger,’ he said mopping up the spillage with a hanky from his pocket. He looked up at Carruthers with a frown. ‘You’re not a DCI anymore, Carruthers, and you’ve got to stop acting like one. You’re lucky you’ve still got your old office. That is, until a new DCI is appointed.’
Carruthers flinched.
Bingham continued, ‘It’s not a DI’s business to go flying all round Europe.’
Carruthers bristled. Straightened up but dug the nails on his hands in to his palms. Steadied his breathing before speaking. ‘There’s a connection between the death of Ruiridh Fraser and the relationship he had with his son. I know there is. I want to talk to him.’
‘I’m sorry, but like I said, the answer’s “No”. We’ve got people over there who can do that.’
Carruthers turned, taking a step towards the door. Turning back, he said ‘I’ll fund myself.’
Bingham’s lips pursed in a slash across his face.
Carruthers continued, ‘And take annual leave.’
Carruthers’ boss shook his head. ‘You know all leave’s out of the question during a murder investigation. Anyway, your best line of enquiry from this end is that Jordan boy.’
Shaking his head Carruthers said, ‘Look, I might be going out on a limb here but I don’t believe Jordan Hunter murdered Ruiridh Fraser. For a start, he’s a minor who doesn’t drive.’
‘There’s plenty of teenage killers out there,’ said Bingham, dropping the sodden coffee-stained handkerchief in to the bin. ‘So do you think it’s the father, then? Malcolm Hunter?’
‘We’ll be checking alibis. But it’s something Andie said that’s got me thinking. She thinks Ruiridh Fraser may have been a serial sexual abuser of boys.’
Bingham’s eyes narrowed. ‘A paedophile?’
‘It would explain the rift in the relationship with his son.’
‘You’re telling me you think Fraser sexually abused his own son?’
‘Why not? He wouldn’t be the first perverted father.’
‘And the link with Jordan Hunter would be?’
‘It’s simple, sir. Jordan Hunter’s an attractive teenage boy who lives next door to a possible paedophile. Fraser put the moves on him, comes on to him, made a pass at him, whatever you want to call it. And it also ties Fraser in with Braidwood.’
‘So who killed him?’
Carruthers shrugged. ‘Well, if it’s not Jordan or Malcolm Hunter, perhaps one of the care home residents he abused tracked him down.’
‘Forty years later?’
‘Why not?’ said Carruthers. Bingham remained silent, running his top lip over his bristles. Carruthers continued, sensing a change of heart, and a weakness he could exploit. ‘We originally thought Fraser’d put the moves on Jordan’s sister. But the more I think about it, well, Andie might be right.’
‘All this is guesswork, Carruthers. Pure guesswork.’
‘Not completely. You’re forgetting one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The photograph and newspaper cutting found in Fraser’s flat. The article was about allegations of sexual abuse against the boys in the home. What would Fraser’s interest be in that? Why would you keep a newspaper article for over forty years on such a sordid subject?’
‘Christ, Carruthers, I’ve got articles at home on the Dambusters. Doesn’t make me one. See my point?’ Bingham shook his head. ‘That is not proof he was a paedophile or had an interest in teenage boys, as well you know. Perhaps he was an amateur local historian.’
Carruthers snorted. ‘No, it isn’t proof, but it certainly makes a lot of sense. Give me a chance to hear what Paul Fraser has to say about his father.’
‘A phone call would achieve that.’
Carruthers shook his head. ‘A phone call’s not the same. I want to interview him face to face. At the very least he’ll be able to shed some light on what sort of man his father was. If neither he nor the Hunters are responsible for Fraser’s death, it might point us in the direction of the person who is. We now have two men dead, most likely killed by the same person. I think Ruiridh Fraser’s past life might just be key.’
Bingham remained silent.
‘I’ll only be gone a couple of days.’
There was a laboured sigh across the big desk. ‘Christ. You’d better bring me that bloody travel requisition form before I change my mind.’
Carruthers headed straight back to the coffee machine. Would risk giving it another try. He punched in his request for a black coffee and heard the machine spring in to action. No sooner had his hand wrapped round the scalding cup when Fletcher appeared behind him.
‘Call’s just come in from Dougie, Jim. There’s been a positive ID on the second body. His name’s Henry Noble. He stays in Kirkc
aldy. They can’t interview the wife yet, she’s collapsed. GP’s in attendance, had to give her a strong sedative.’
‘Shit,’ said Carruthers, ‘OK, tell Dougie to stay with her. She needs to be interviewed as soon as possible.’ He turned to Fletcher. ‘Speaking with the Hunters will have to wait. I’m going to head over to Kirkcaldy myself. Stay here, will you? Find out if Malcolm Hunter’s got an alibi?’ He gave Fletcher his coffee, jerked his head towards the cup. You might want to put some milk in that.’
He was half way to Kirkcaldy when he remembered he hadn’t picked up a travel requisition form.
Fletcher tried and failed to reach Malcolm Hunter either on the mobile or on his house phone. However, her research paid off. She found out that the editor-in-chief of The Fife Courier in the mid-1970s had been Alan Stewart. Unfortunately, her research also revealed that he’d died the year before. More hopeful was finding that the reporter who’d written the original piece about child abuse was still alive and living in Fife. She’d found his home phone number and left a message on his answer machine. The gruff voice had been of a man, possibly in his sixties.’
Peckish, Fletcher headed to the canteen for a quick snack. Her thoughts turned back to Jordan Hunter. They should interview the boy again. This time asking some searching questions about his relationship with Ruiridh Fraser.
She bolted her sausage roll, burning her mouth on the coffee she had to swill it down. She was only gone ten minutes but on her way back to her desk found Watson approaching her.
‘Andie, you’ve just had a phone call from a Mr Dawson.’
Fletcher’s expression was blank, her mind still on the Hunters.
‘He used to work for The Fife Courier in the 1970s?’ continued Watson. ‘You left a message for him?’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Fletcher. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘He’s willing to meet up. Said it’s time. Does that mean anything to you?’
Fletcher shook her head.
‘Here’s his number anyway.’
Fletcher thanked her and phoned the number she’d been given. It was engaged. Swearing, she replaced the receiver and spotted Glenys heading towards her. The younger girl’s cheeks were flushed.