by Tana Collins
‘Can I borrow this photograph?’ asked Fletcher.
‘Would you mind taking a photocopy of it?’
‘Yes of course. Would I also be able to speak with your uncle?’
Sarah shook her head again.‘Fraid not. He died in 2008. Suicide.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Both women were silent for a moment.
Sarah took a deep breath in. ‘He had a history of depression. I often wonder if it came from his time in care …’
‘So you never got to speak to him about it? His time in care, I mean?’
‘No. I didn’t. It’s not the sort of thing a niece would ask an uncle about. My father tried to speak to him but it was hard to get him to open up.’
‘I’m sorry to be asking so many questions, especially as they’re clearly bringing up painful memories.’
‘Not too much for me, but they would be painful for my father.’
Fletcher turned to Sarah. ‘From what little you’ve been told, do you know what Braidwood would have been like as a home in the 1970s?’
Looking at her through narrowed eyes Sarah said, ‘You think the bodies found here are related to its time as a children’s home, don’t you?’
‘It’s a possibility. We just don’t know. But it’s definitely an angle worth pursuing.’
Sarah shook her head. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help. I really don’t know very much. I meant to do some research and find out more … even bought a book on it.’
‘On Braidwood?’ Fletcher’s voice showed the hope she felt.
‘No, no not Braidwood. But about what it was like to be in care. I was trying to understand whether my uncle’s depression and suicide could be linked to his time here … I never read it. The blurb on the back was enough to put me off. Too close to home after all, I guess.’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve still got the book?’
‘On my shelf at home. Couldn’t bring myself to read it or give it away.’
Feeling a ray of hope that she might glean something Fletcher said, ‘Would you be able to dig it out for me?’
Sarah smiled and nodded. ‘Sure.’
Fletcher looked at the photograph again. Both boys were standing ramrod straight. Neither was smiling. This in marked contrast to the men. These were the same boys she had seen in the earlier photograph. There was the same kid with the dark hair that had reminded her of Jordan Hunter.
Pointing at one, she said to Sarah, ‘You don’t know what happened to any of the kids?’
She shook her head again. ‘No idea. Don’t think there are any records. At least none I’ve come across. Won’t be anything in the boxes anyway.’
Fletcher looked thoughtful. ‘Thanks, Sarah. That’s really helpful. Do you think there’s anyone in your family I could talk to about your uncle’s experience here? I know he didn’t exactly open up, but any information at all might be useful.’
‘Well, there’s my mum. I lost my dad last year.’ She turned to Fletcher, ‘I’ll ask her.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You said the head of the home was known for his charitable work. Would your mum know what charities he supported?’
‘She might. Like I said, I’ll ask.’ Sarah looked shy. ‘If you’ve got any more questions just pop in. I don’t get many visitors up here so it’s rather nice to chat.’
‘Nobody recently?’
‘No, I think very few people realise this is a public archive.’ At that moment, Sarah’s phone rang. She gave Fletcher an apologetic look and picked it up. Fletcher crept out of the office, shutting the door on the way out. She went back to the room with the archive and took her phone out of her bag. No reception. She went downstairs, out of the front door, mobile in hand. Walking away from the thick-walled stone building she watched as the phone showed two then three bars. Punched in Carruthers’ mobile number. Stood shivering, she waited for the connection, speaking as soon as she heard his voice.
‘Jim, it’s Andie here.’
‘Andie, where are you?’There seemed to be a lot of interference on the line. She could hardly hear him. He sounded as if he was on a train.
She shouted, ‘I’m up at Old Braids, the Pink Building on Braidwood. I’ve just been going through the archives.’
She heard him say something but couldn’t make out what it was as his voice kept cutting out. ‘Jim, I can hardly hear you. Look, will you meet me later? Say in a couple of hours. I’ll be back at the station. I’ve come across—’She suddenly realised that the line was dead. ‘Oh, shit.’ She phoned him back immediately, turning her body away from a gust of cold wind that cut right through her. It went straight to his voicemail. ‘Bollocks.’ With numb hands she wrapped her cardigan tighter around her and returned indoors.
Still deep in thought she put her mobile on a nearby table top. When she’d gone through the remainder of the box, having got Sarah to take some copies of anything she thought might be important, she replaced the photos and box. Grabbing her things, she picked up her shoulder bag and headed into Sarah’s office.
‘That’s me away.’ Glancing at the original photos lying by the side of the copier, she said, ‘Do you want me to—’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll put them away.’
Fletcher gave Sarah her business card and said goodbye. Retracing her steps back downstairs to the front door, she ran her hand over the fading ancient flock wallpaper as she went, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl. She liked the texture of the raised surfaces of the wallpaper and noted the deterioration in places from the oils and acids of human touch. The whole building reeked of history and she hoped that when it was converted in to a house its uniqueness wouldn’t be lost.
The weather had changed. A light drizzle starting to fall. The air was feeling a few degrees warmer than it had in the morning. Glancing at her watch she decided to retrace her steps to the boiler house where the second body had been found.
It was a five-minute walk from Old Braids. Buttoning up her coat, she threw her bag over her shoulder and set off on the tarmacked road behind the Pink Building. Within a couple of minutes she had taken a right on to the coarse stony path that led to the cluster of graffiti-covered boiler houses. By the time she’d reached the first, the drizzle had turned in to a steady rain. Cursing, she turned her collar up against it. She walked past the rhododendrons and ugly elders to the entrance of the boiler house where the man’s body had been discovered.
The more she thought about it, the more she felt that not only were the two deaths connected, but that they were both connected to Braidwood’s troubled past. She thought back to the photograph. What had Chief Superintendent Bob Marshall been doing at Braidwood? He had been wearing his uniform. What official business would have brought him to the home in 1973?
There was an eerie silence in this place where death had caught its prey. The only noise or colour the police tape fluttering in the wind. Casting her mind back to her last visit she saw the murder scene as it had been then. Saw everything. Every last detail. Replayed it, wondering if she had missed anything. The legs of the deceased sticking out from the shed. Dr Mackie leaning over the torso, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Blinding flashes of white light, like strobe at a nightclub, as Liu, nimble footed as ever, took his series of photographs. She took a step back and heard a twig snap like a gunshot. Frowned.
The sound had come from behind her, not underfoot.
She whipped round. Nobody there. Must have been an animal. Still, she started to feel uneasy. Watched the rain dripping off the elder trees making pools on the ground. The place felt bleak and unloved, the smell of decay earthy and pungent.
Another twig cracked right behind her. Before she had a chance to swing round she felt a painful blow to the side of her head. Everything went black. Woozily she staggered, trying to clutch the stone wall beside her – dimly aware of a shadowy dark figure. She heard the far away calling of a woman’s voice. But the blow was too forceful, the darkness closed in and she fell.
&n
bsp; ‘Andie, what the hell happened? Are you OK?’
Carruthers was sitting by her side in the hospital, his eyes searching her face, taking in the plaster over her right eye. He swallowed hard. She looked so small and pale in her hospital bed.
Fletcher tried to sit up but her movement was slow.
‘Don’t try to sit up.’
‘Don’t worry. Looks worse than it is. It wasn’t a hard whack but I gashed my head on a rock as I fell, apparently. They’re keeping me in overnight for observation. I guess it’s because it’s a head wound.’
‘Are you up to talking? I won’t stay long. The nurse has only given me a couple of minutes with you.’
‘I’m a little groggy, that’s all. And I feel as if I’ve got half of the Man United team stomping around in my head … but yeah, I’m OK to talk. Just got a blinding headache. No worse than when I drink tequila.’
Carruthers smiled at her trying to be so brave. ‘Wayne Rooney with hobnailed boots. Not a pretty image. Well, talk me through what happened from the moment you arrived at Old Braids.’
Fletcher struggled to sit up. ‘My bag. Got something important. Need to show you.’
Carruthers leant over and gently restrained her by laying a hand on her shoulder. ‘Take it easy.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll ask one of the nurses for your bag. No moving until I get back.’ He left the ward and flagged down a passing blonde-haired nurse.
‘No, I’m sorry. I was here when your colleague was admitted and she didn’t have a bag on her. It’s certainly not here in the hospital.’
‘I just heard,’ said Fletcher when Carruthers walked back in. He sat back down in the visitor’s chair. ‘Must have been after what was in the bag.’ She turned to Carruthers. ‘How could they have known? Unless they followed me into the building. Who found me, Jim?’
‘Sarah Harrison. Apparently, you left your Blackberry up at Old Braids. She came after you.’
‘I thought I heard a woman shouting. That was the last thing I remember.’ Fletcher winced as she reached over to the table for a glass of water. Carruthers helped her half sit up and angled the straw towards her. She took a sip and, with Carruthers’ help, lay down against the pillows once again. ‘I’ll have to thank her. She might have saved my life. I’m surprised she left the building. Told me she doesn’t like being outside on her own.’ Fletcher let out a sigh.
‘Are you in pain?’ Carruthers asked.
‘Yes, but that’s not why I sighed. Just trying to remember what else I had in my bag.’ Her face brightened. ‘Credit cards were in my other bag. Thank goodness. Car keys, but I’ve got another set in the house.’ Fletcher groaned. ‘My police notebook was in the bag. Shit!’ She turned to Carruthers. ‘Mostly they were photocopies that I had in the bag. The original documents and photos are with Sarah.’
‘Not any more. Whilst she was waiting with you for the ambulance, someone sneaked into the building and took the originals.’
Fletcher groaned. ‘I left them by the photocopier. Sarah said she would put them back. Oh shit.’ Again Fletcher tried to ease herself in to the seated position. She winced.
‘Stop trying to move.’
‘Jim, what have you found out? Any developments your end? Then I’ll tell you about the photographs.’
‘Well, yes, Bingham’s agreed to me flying out to Iceland to interview Paul Fraser.’
‘How did you wangle that? You know what he’s like about budgets. How did the interview with Henry Noble’s widow go?’
He shook his head. ‘Too heavily sedated to talk. Waste of time me being there.’
‘Jim, I need to tell you about the photographs—’
‘Look, Sarah Harrison is here at the hospital. She’s come to see you. Don’t worry. I can get a lot of the information I need from her. I’m going to interview her here, and then, if you’re up to it, the nurse said that she could just pop in for a few minutes and say hi.’
‘No, don’t go. She’s an archivist, not a copper. I need to tell you myself.’ She was tugging on his sleeve. He knew not to try to stop her when in full flow. He sat back down. ‘I found a photograph … similar to the one picked up at the home of Ruiridh Fraser. Same era. Same dark-haired boy. Another man in the group. An H Noble.’
Carruthers’ ears pricked up.
Fletcher continued. ‘It could be a coincidence but we need to find out if Henry Noble worked at Braidwood. The names of the people in the photo were marked on the back. William Rutherford, head of the children’s home and Chief Superintendent Bob Marshall, alongside H Noble, with two boys. It was during the time the place was a children’s home. Marshall was in uniform. What was Marshall’s connection to Scott and the children’s home, Jim? Oh fuck.’ She struggled again to sit up. ‘The interview.’
‘What interview?’
‘I’d set up a meeting to interview a man called Angus Dawson. Seven tonight at the Braidwood Gardens Hotel. In 1976 he was a reporter for The Fife Courier. Responsible for running the story about the alleged abuse at Braidwood, until it got pulled by the editor-in-chief.’
Carruthers retrieved his mobile out of his jacket pocket. ‘You won’t make the meeting. I’ll phone Gayle. See if she can make it.’
‘He lost his job over that piece he wrote. Angus Dawson. Told me on the phone, abuse took place, that it wasn’t a one-off incident. Said he got threatened, told to issue a retraction. Felt he had no choice.’
Fletcher grabbed Carruthers’ sleeve. ‘Also, said he had evidence. Evidence of abuse that took place at Braidwood.’
Carruthers leant in to Fletcher, kissing her on the cheek. He then got up and started to walk away from her. ‘I’d better make the call to Gayle,’ he said. ‘Tell her to drop everything and make that meeting a priority. Then I need to pack.’
8
The flight from Glasgow to Iceland’s Keflavik International Airport was just over two hours. Carruthers spent most of the journey listening to music and going over his notes on the Fraser case. Was wondering when he’d find the time to ring his brother, let alone visit him. Or get his cholesterol tested.
As the plane began its descent he gazed curiously out of the window. What he saw beneath him was a darkening frozen wasteland of ice, snow, sea and sky. The ocean a cobalt blue surrounded by a flat desert of snow. A dusky pink streak of sunset sat low in the sky.
Navigating passport control he headed out of the exit with his hand luggage to join the taxi rank. The cold air hit him full in the face. Like opening the freezer door. His cheeks felt pinched; hands raw. Although he was thankful for his black down jacket, his blue jeans were no match for the Icelandic winter. Jumping into a taxi with legs that felt as if they’d spent half an hour in the freezer, he headed towards Reykjavik.
He noticed that on either side of the arrow straight road out of the airport the countryside resembled an apocalyptic scene from a sci-fi movie, with its modern functional warehouses and barren lunar landscape. He marvelled that, as it grew darker, the earth with its glare of snow, became lighter than the sky. An eerie yet exciting experience. His ex-wife hadn’t been a great traveller. They had mainly holidayed within Scotland so they could pop in and see her parents. Now that marriage had ended he’d promised himself that he would do more travelling.
Within forty minutes he was approaching Reykjavik’s bright lights. Found himself virtually on the edge of his seat, excitedly straining against the seat belt like a dog on a lead. Pulling up at his hotel he climbed out of the taxi, noticing an enormous futuristic-looking church of stone and stained glass on the other side of the road. He was surprised at how beautiful such a modern religious structure could be, with its clean angles and perfect symmetry. Hoped he would be able to make time to find out what the interior was like.
Having checked in, he dumped his hand luggage in the small but functional white bedroom then set out on foot to explore the city. He managed to pick up a guidebook from a still open bookshop. His time was his own until his appointment with Fraser’s son at ten the nex
t morning. He felt frustrated that he couldn’t get the meeting organised any sooner but Fraser’s son had been out of town. As he walked, he noticed how the capital city was a mix of futuristic concrete and glass buildings, oddly placed between the historic timber houses of the old town.
He wandered down to the harbour. It was bitingly cold. He saw the warehouses looming out of the darkness, imagined the hulking whaling ships of the past. The wind whipped across his face, stinging his already cold cheeks. He reckoned the wind chill factor must be at least minus twenty. Carruthers glanced at his watch. Approaching 7pm. Fast losing the feeling in his gloveless hands he shoved them deeper in to his jacket pockets. Feeling peckish he decided to make his way the few minutes back to the picturesque old town where there were a number of cafes and restaurants. They were still quiet. The night was young by Icelandic standards: most people, especially at weekends, didn’t venture out until the wee hours of the morning. Carruthers knew that the high price of alcohol meant that they tended to drink at home first and hit the town later.
Instead of going to one of the cheaper cafes, he decided on one of the decent restaurants that served authentic Icelandic food. He looked through the windows in a couple and finally settled on one whose attractive old weather-board frontage entranced him.
Inside it was warm and had a wonderfully rustic charm. The wooden tables were bedecked with red tablecloths and candles and there were old-fashioned wooden skis attached to the walls. He was seated at a small table near the window by a young man in his twenties with a shock of blond hair and the bluest eyes Carruthers had ever seen.