by Tana Collins
‘Ma’am. They’ve found the death certificate of a Margery Fraser, wife of Ruiridh Fraser.’
‘Right, thanks for letting me know Glenys.’
‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘No, I think that’s well, actually, you drive don’t you Glenys?’
‘Of course, ma’am.’
‘And you live near Cupar? Am I right?’
‘Yes, actually in Cupar itself.’
Fletcher rifled through her desk drawer, making a grab for her car keys. She gave them to Glenys. ‘Look, you’ll be doing me a huge favour. Can you drop off the contents of the boot of my car to this address on your way home?’ She scribbled the address of Mark’s parents on to a Post-it note.
‘Sure, ma’am. I’ll just transfer the contents now, if you don’t mind. I’m on a break.’
‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind.’ Fletcher grabbed the piece of paper out of Glenys’ hands, crumpled it and dropped it in to her wastepaper bin.
‘You don’t want me to take the stuff out of the boot of your car?’ The girl was all for giving the keys back to Fletcher.
‘No, no. I do. But I don’t want them delivered to that address.’
‘Where then?’
‘Take them to the nearest charity shop,’ replied Fletcher.
Having debated whether to interview the Hunters again or to return to Braidwood, Fletcher opted for the latter. Carruthers had already disappeared and she was loath to take Watson with her. Harris was on another job. However, there was no way she could pitch up on her own again without getting into serious trouble.
Instead, Fletcher headed for the local library at Braidwood. She knew this wasn’t a job for her rank but felt it was something she needed to do herself. And if Carruthers was at Henry Noble’s house ready to interview the man’s widow, then that was that base covered. She’d also managed to touch base on the phone with Angus Dawson, who, once he’d heard about the death of his old editor-in-chief at The Fife Courier the year before, had been surprisingly willing to talk. In fact, he’d been more than happy to meet up to discuss the article he’d written about allegations of sexual abuse at Braidwood. Allegations he had maintained were true and for which, he’d told Fletcher, he got sacked.
Speaking with Dawson, Fletcher had the impression the man had been threatened as well as sacked, so she was looking forward to the interview and, she hoped, getting one over Watson, as well as furthering the investigation. As she drove in to the main street and looked for a parking spot, she thought what a pity it was that the earliest he could make it was seven that evening.
Parking her green Beetle in the main street by the church tower she entered the old stone library, previously the village school, according to the stone inscription above the front door. She spotted a librarian– a rather buxom lady in her fifties who wore a pair of old fashioned looking spectacles on a chain round her neck.
‘Can I help you, dearie?’
She was taken aback by a Nottingham accent in the heart of Fife but felt strangely comforted. One of her best pals from uni had the same accent. She thought of Kim now and wondered how she was doing.
‘Yes, please. How would I access local newspapers from the mid-1970s? Would it be by CD or microfiche?’
‘Well, we certainly don’t have newspapers going that far back on CD yet. They’re all still on microfiche. Are you familiar with how to use microfiche, dear?’
‘Yes I am. Can you let me know where they are?’
‘Certainly. Come this way.’
After an hour Fletcher still hadn’t found anything on Braidwood. She sighed and stretched her arms behind her back in a cat-like pose. Her whole body felt tense from a mixture of bad posture and concentration. Her neck muscles ached. She gave them a rub.
‘No joy?’ asked the lady, who was now putting books back on the shelves behind her.
‘’Fraid not.’
‘What is it that you’re looking for?’
‘I’m interested in the history of Braidwood.’
The lady frowned. ‘That’s strange. I’ve had two other enquiries this week about Braidwood. It must be because of the murder.’
News of the second murder clearly hadn’t yet reached her. Fletcher’s ears pricked up. ‘Two other enquiries? Who from?’Fletcher fished out her ID. The woman put her glasses on and leant forward to study it.
‘Both men.’ She bent over her trolley and put another book back on the shelf. She straightened up and looked at Fletcher again. ‘Honestly, I didn’t pay much attention. One man was in his mid-fifties, early sixties and the other was younger, perhaps in his mid-forties.’
‘Can you describe them to me?’
‘Well, the older man was kind of nondescript, you know –medium height, brown hair, although he did have a big build. I remember that.’
‘What about the other?’
‘The younger guy had a narrow face, eyes close together. He was sort of shifty. He looked like some sort of wild animal, like a weasel.’
Fletcher frowned. It sounded like the librarian was describing the man she’d seen at the meeting sitting next to Buchanan. Told herself it wasn’t surprising that the developers would be doing research on the history of the site they’d purchased.
‘Do you think you’d recognise them if you saw them again?’ said Fletcher.
‘I honestly don’t know. Maybe.’ The librarian bent over and picked up another couple of books. One fell out of her hands and Fletcher bent down to retrieve it. ‘Thank you. You might want to try the campus up at Braidwood. It has its own library in the Old Braids building.’
‘That would be the Pink Building?’
‘That’s right. The university’s moving out in the spring, but they still have all the inherited archives from when it was a private mental institution.’
‘Would I also find information about when it was a children’s home?’
‘That’s really odd. That’s exactly what the older man asked.’
‘When was he in?’
‘Two days ago. He seemed in a bit of a hurry. He wasn’t too polite, if I remember rightly. There’s no call for bad manners, is there?’
‘Did you give them the same information you gave me?’
‘No, I didn’t. It’s strange. I’m not usually unhelpful but there was just something about him… I didn’t feel like giving him any extra information.’
Fletcher had fished out her notebook and opened it up. ‘Did they both have local accents?’
‘No, just the older man. The younger man had a southern accent.’
‘Southern? Can you be more specific?’
‘I s’pose you’d call it “Home Counties”, dearie.’
As Fletcher drove through the gates she took in the lay of the land. The Victorian buildings of the old mental hospital dotted the landscape. There was a glorious open feel to the nature reserve. She parked at the bottom car park. From there it was less than a five-minute walk to Old Braids. The light was already fading and a low pink sunset provided a stunning backdrop to the rough rose coloured sandstone of the sixteenth century building. She could see why it was known as the Pink Building. With her back to the old building she took in the sweeping vista of the area of land known affectionately as The Orchard and marvelled that anyone would be callous enough to want to build on it.
Fletcher had called ahead, spoken to Sarah Harrison, a member of the Fife university staff, who was to meet her at the entrance. Standing by the original wooden front door, Fletcher looked up at the enormous mansion with its tiny windows and slanted slate roof. There was a Latin inscription in stone above the doorway. She wondered what it meant.
‘I was coming down to greet you,’ the voice belonged to a pretty girl Fletcher estimated to be in her early thirties. She was wearing knee-length black boots, a plaid mini skirt and plain white blouse. ‘When I saw the car, I wasn’t sure you were the lady I was supposed to meet.’ She laughed. ‘I can’t imagine many police officers drive green Be
etles. It’s very distinctive.’
‘No, well, officially we’re meant to drive a car from the car pool. But I’m rather fond of driving her. So, what gave it away? Do I look like a police officer?’
‘No, not at all. Sorry I don’t mean for that to sound rude. It’s just I expected you to be wearing a uniform.’
‘We don’t wear uniforms in CID.’
‘Of course not. I’d totally forgotten I’d be interviewed by CID. Look, sorry, I don’t want you to be kept standing out in the cold. Please come in. I’m Sarah Harrison, by the way.’ She put her hand out and Fletcher shook it. ‘I’m a little nervy about spending time outside since the murders. I get my boyfriend to drop me off and pick me up. He sees me right to the door.’
‘Very sensible. Detective Sergeant Andie Fletcher.’
‘Andie? That’s a boy’s name.’
‘Not the way I spell it.’
Fletcher followed Sarah Harrison up a steep flight of stairs. ‘Horrible to think there’s a murderer on the loose,’ said Sarah.
‘If it’s any comfort, it’s highly unlikely the public at large are at risk.’
‘You mean he would have known both the victims?’ asked Sarah.
‘That’s a line we’re pursuing,’ said Andie. ‘I mean, it’s more likely, yes. Most murders are committed by people the victim knows.’
‘I understand you’re interested in the history of Braidwood?’ said Sarah.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Fletcher, noticing the smooth worn tread in the stairs. The stairwell was narrow and uneven. If she reached her arms out, she could have easily touched both stone walls.
Sarah talked over her shoulder as she climbed. ‘Well, you won’t be disappointed. It certainly has an interesting one. For example, this building’s the oldest on site, dating back to 1537. It replaced an even earlier building that got burnt down during the time of the “Rough Wooing”.’
‘Rough Wooing?’ repeated Fletcher. ‘What was that?’
‘Lovely name, isn’t it? It marks the time of the conflict that took place between Scotland and England. Dates were about 1543–1550.’
‘Crikey, you’ve got a good memory.’
‘Almost photographic, I’m afraid. Great for exams but can be annoying at other times.’
Fletcher had never really met anyone with a photographic memory before and wondered at what times it could be annoying, but she kept quiet.
They reached the top of the stairs and Fletcher paused to admire the thick embossed flock wallpaper. She ran her hand over it, liking the feel of its velvety contours and the look of the still bright colours. She turned to Sarah. ‘This looks old.’
‘It is. We think it dates back to the 1850s. We’ve had folk come in with cameras and take photographs of it.’
Fletcher raised an eyebrow. ‘Rough Wooing?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes, war was declared by King Henry VIII in an attempt to force Scots to agree to a marriage between his son Edward and the infant Mary Queen of Scots. The Scots refused. Wouldn’t be bullied into love, you might say. In 1544 major hostilities were declared. The Earl of Hertford was sent up with an army to destroy Edinburgh and places across Fife. They were heading to Castletown but never got that far. They burnt towns and cities right across Lothians and Fife. Old Braids was one of the last properties that got burnt to the ground.’
Fletcher was fascinated that the very building she was standing in had been the site of such violence.
‘Bloodthirsty time,’ said Sarah, ‘but I understand you’re interested in a more recent time in our history?’ She took a key out of her pocket and unlocked a door to the right of the landing. She led Fletcher in to a small, low-ceilinged room with a tiny east-facing window that looked out across the car park and meadow. ‘Watch your footing,’ said Sarah, ‘Flooring’s uneven.’
‘Right. Will do. Yes, I am. Specifically the time it was a children’s home in the 1970s. Don’t suppose you’ve any records or photographs of the children in its care, or of the care workers?’
‘Well, all archived material on Braidwood is kept in those boxes over there.’ She indicated several large boxes on the floor underneath the narrow window. ‘As you can see, I’ve already got them out for you. Not much of a system, I’m afraid. We were going to sort through them and get them in to hanging files but we just never got round to it. Seems rather pointless now the university’ll be moving to Dundee. My uncle, on my father’s side, was in care for a short time here. I guess you could say I’ve got a personal interest.’ She bent down to pull the large cardboard box in to the centre of the room. ‘Funny to think forty years later I’m working at the same place.’
‘It’s quite a coincidence, ’Fletcher agreed.
Sarah turned to go and said, ‘If you have any questions just ask.’
Fletcher nodded her thanks, and once Sarah left the room, she stepped out of her heeled shoes, hitched her skirt with her hands and knelt down by the box Sarah had pulled out. She began to rake through it, removing a couple of heavy-framed photographs and several smaller black and white ones. She studied each in turn. One was of the inside of a building, an enormous ornate wooden hall. It looked as if it would be used for assemblies, or as a refectory. The ceiling was domed. Definitely a room from a bygone age.
The door opened a few minutes later and in came Sarah carrying a mug. ‘Thought you might like some tea.’
‘That’s really kind of you. Thanks.’
‘You do take milk?’
‘That’s fine.’ She took the mug from Sarah and held out the photo to her. ‘Tell me, where is this?’
‘It’s a beautiful room, isn’t it? It’s in New Braids. The building next to this one.’
‘What’s it used for?’
‘It’s not often used nowadays. It used to be a dining room. I don’t know what will happen to it when the flats are developed. Bit of a shame, really. There’s such a sadness attached to this place. Past and present. When you think about all those broken lives…’
‘You mean when it was a children’s home?’ asked Fletcher.
‘Not just that. Also when it was used for caring for the mentally ill. You know the second body was discovered in the old Victorian vegetable garden?’
Fletcher raised her eyebrows. ‘Go on. I’m intrigued.’
Sarah continued. ‘The residents were encouraged to grow their own fruit and veg. Braidwood as a mental hospital in the nineteenth century was a very progressive place. Even then it was realised tending the land was good for one’s mental health. Did you know New Braids was deliberately built so it was south facing to maximise the light coming in through those enormous Victorian widows.’
‘We could learn a lot from them,’ said Fletcher.
Sarah retreated to the door. She laughed. ‘I’ve bored you enough. Anyway, better get back to it. You know where I am if you need me.’
Fletcher placed the photo carefully on the carpet. She picked up another one. Again, it was black and white. It had been taken in the grounds of Braidwood, another imposing Victorian building as backdrop. In its centre were five figures, three men and two boys. Her heart started racing. It was very similar to one of the photographs that had been found in Fraser’s flat. Same boys. She was sure of it. Same two men… but wait. Who was the third man? And there was another difference. A big difference. One of the men was wearing a uniform. A police uniform. Fletcher frowned. She turned the photograph over. Overleaf it read: SE Hinton, JF Milne, HJ Noble, William Rutherford and Superintendent Bob Marshall, 1973.
Her heart jumped. She felt a sharp nervy feeling in her chest. HJ Noble? Could it be a coincidence? If this was the same man who’d been found dead at the nature reserve, then this was the connection they were looking for. And what would the superintendent be doing there? She studied the photograph more closely. Brought out her black notebook from her briefcase. Briskly turning the pages until she found what she was looking for. Muttering to herself said, ‘Allegations of abuse reported in The Fife Courier on
25 September 1975.’
As she got up her knees cracked. She slipped her heeled shoes back on, smoothed her skirt and left the room, photo in hand. She tapped on the next door and stuck her head round. Sarah was typing away at her computer.
‘I just wondered … if you knew anything about this photograph?’ asked Fletcher.
Sarah held out her hand for it. She studied it, turning it over as she did so, reading the back. ‘All I know is the name William Rutherford. He was head of the children’s home here. I remember my grandmother talking about him. Of course, he must have been fifty-odd in this, so he might be dead by now. Apparently, he was well known in the local community … Did a lot of charity work.’
‘You don’t know either of the other two men? Ever heard of an H Noble?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘No, sorry.’
‘So this photograph was definitely taken when Braidwood was a children’s home?’
‘Yes, absolutely. Look, do you see the two kids in the photo?’ She gave it back to Fletcher. ‘They’re wearing a type of uniform, aren’t they? They were sticklers for rules at the home apparently, one of them being that the boys had to wear uniform.’ It was true. Both boys were kitted out in almost identical grey trousers and white tops. ‘I’ve done a bit of research on Braidwood. But don’t get your hopes up if you have lots of questions. I probably won’t know the answer to most of them.’
‘It’s interesting that the head of the home’s standing with a police officer. What do you know of allegations of child abuse from the time?’
‘I know there were allegations of abuse at Braidwood but that’s about all I know. Sorry.’
‘Did your uncle tell you?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘No, he didn’t like to talk about his time here. I was sorting out some archived material and came across an old newspaper article. Should be in the box.’ Fletcher wondered if it was a copy of the same article she’d read. If Sarah’s uncle hadn’t talked about his time at Braidwood, and Sarah had read the same article as her, then she probably knew no more than Andie did. She felt a momentary pang of disappointment. The photograph at least was proof that Superintendent Marshall had visited Braidwood at least once and that an H Noble had been present. But was it the same H Noble? She wondered what Carruthers had found out talking to the widow. But from the broad smile on the policeman’s face it looked more like an exercise in PR than a visit to talk about alleged child abuse. Of course, the dates were all wrong. Allegations of abuse had appeared in the newspapers two years later. So what was Superintendent Marshall doing at Braidwood? Fletcher frowned.