Care to Die

by Tana Collins

  Carruthers didn’t doubt for a minute the truth of Paul’s admission that he had been abused by his own father, but this in itself gave the man a strong motive for murder. If, on the other hand, his alibi checked out, and he hadn’t murdered his father, then who had? His money was on the killer being one of the many boys who’d been abused. How many other victims were out there? How many knew where Ruiridh Fraser had lived? Most crucially, why had the murderer waited forty years to commit the murders? What had been the trigger?

  It just seemed the most likely scenario that a former victim would be the murderer. But if that was the case where did Angus Dawson fit in? If he had been about to expose the paedophile ring why was he killed? Surely not by a child abuse victim. Carruthers was starting to form an idea in his head and it wasn’t one that he very much liked. Could it be possible that there were two murderers out there? Two murderers whose lives were connected in some way but who had very different motives. The first had killed the two men but then there was a second, one who had bashed Andie and killed Dawson?’

  His thoughts turned to the Hunters. Fletcher was most probably right. Perhaps the old man’s attention had turned to Jordan Hunter. That would certainly account for the boy calling him a paedo. But Jordan had an alibi for the night Fraser was murdered. He had been away on a school trip to France. Where had his father been that night, Carruthers wondered? Away on one of his many business trips? How easy would it have been for him to slip back and murder his next-door neighbour? They had noticed how defensive he’d been of the boy. It had even been recorded in the original notes taken by Brown and Harris.

  Carruthers was starting to feel uncomfortable. He was also starting to kick himself that he’d forgotten to ask Paul for a list of the names of any of the boys his father had brought back to the house. He was unlikely to know surnames but he might remember first names and vague descriptions.

  His thoughts turned to Angus Dawson’s sudden death. Four witnesses to say it hadn’t looked accidental. Then there was the fact the killer stopped at the scene, not to check on the man he’d just knocked down but rather to pick up what looked like a satchel from the body. You couldn’t get much more cold-blooded than that. He sighed, picked up his mobile and phoned the station, then Paul.

  Carruthers got back to the hotel, had a quick shower and changed clothes. He’d phoned the hotel where Paul and Anna had been staying with her family and, as luck would have it the receptionist, who spoke near perfect English, had been working on the day of their arrival and remembered the party of four. Paul had used his own credit card to pay for the stay so there was record at least that he’d been there at the start and at the end when they had checked out after their four nights. The dates he claimed to be on holiday were the very dates over which the murders had taken place. On the surface, it looked as if he was off the hook. Carruthers knew, though, that they would have to have a much more comprehensive check before they could rule him out.

  He decided to eat before meeting Paul that evening. Choosing a busy noodle shack within walking distance of both his hotel and the café, he settled on beef noodle soup with extra chillies. After eating traditional Icelandic food he felt like something hot and spicy. He ordered a coke to go with it. He still hadn’t phoned Fletcher. Knowing her, the news would have her out of bed and straight in to the station. He decided to put it off for as long as necessary. Fletcher had no more information to give him and Watson was a capable officer.

  He spent an enjoyable half hour people watching. The cafe had drawn a lot of young people to it and, despite its proximity to his multicultural hotel, Carruthers had the impression it was very much a local’s hang-out. A number of the young men had beards and long hair. In their bearded faces and unkempt locks, Carruthers could quite easily see forefathers wearing helmets and brandishing swords, getting into their Viking longboats. His English teacher had always said of him that he had a vivid imagination that would get him in to trouble. He was sure that if he voiced these current thoughts, it probably would.

  With time on his hands before meeting Paul, Carruthers took a short wander back to the impressive Hallgrimskirkja. He was pleased to see that, even at this late hour, it was still open to the public. He brought out his guidebook to see what it said about the building. At seventy-four metres high, tall enough to double as a radio mast, which had been the intention of its creator, it dominated the city skyline. From its ribbed tower clad in granite, which was an echo of Iceland’s basalt rock formations, to its vaulted ceilings and columns flanking the nave, it was a study in both beauty and simplicity. Carruthers was unsurprised to learn that it had taken forty years to finish, having been started at the end of the Second World War in 1945 and finally completed in 1986.

  At this time of evening the chapel was quiet. Most tourists would more than likely be in bars or eating their evening meal in restaurants. Carruthers slipped inside and took a comfortable seat at the end of one of the wooden benches. After gazing at the illuminated altar, he bowed his head in reverence and quiet contemplation. He was awestruck by the church’s beauty, and not for the first time moved that the human race that could produce murderers and paedophiles could also create something so exquisite.

  Carruthers was suddenly aware that someone had slipped in to the pew beside him. He heard a familiar voice. ‘Peaceful, isn’t it?’ Carruthers looked up. It was Paul. ‘I was early for our meeting,’ Paul said. ‘Thought I’d come in here for a few minutes. Do you find that strange?’

  ‘No, not at all. I had the same idea. I wanted to see what it looked like from inside.’

  ‘I’ve got that list for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Carruthers took the folded sheet of paper from him. He opened it up.

  ‘It’s only what I can remember. There may be more.’

  ‘Were you ever—’

  ‘No, just by my father. I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies.’

  The only two people who had been in the church at the same time as Carruthers were just leaving. He and Paul were now completely alone.

  Carruthers scanned the names on the sheet. There were seven in total. Apart from his father’s name there were only two he recognised – those of Marshall and William Rutherford. Noble wasn’t one of them.

  ‘How sure are you of these other men?’ Carruthers asked.

  ‘Pretty sure. Let’s just say my father wasn’t discreet. He must have felt he was untouchable. And he was, wasn’t he?’ Paul Fraser added bitterly.

  ‘So you heard all these names mentioned by him in phone conversations?’

  ‘Yes, all except Marshall. As you know, he visited.’ Paul went on, ‘All these boys were just kids. Just like me. Who would have believed them? And we all know kids and teenagers have strong imaginations, can sometimes be fantasists.’

  ‘It did get reported though, didn’t it?’ said Carruthers. Given that Paul was a suspect, there was no way Carruthers was going to tell him about the call from Angus Dawson and his subsequent sudden death. ‘It got into the papers. Although I do remember reading in a follow up article that the case was dropped by the police. The paper made it very clear there’d been no wrong-doing by the care workers.’

  ‘We all know why it was dropped. Pressure from on high.’

  ‘Marshall?’

  ‘Not just him.’ Paul pointed to another name on the sheet of paper of the alleged abusers. ‘John Whitelaw. He was editor of The Fife Courier at the time.’

  Silence stretched between them.

  ‘I do remember being interviewed by a young police officer,’ Paul mused.

  ‘You were interviewed by the police? You never said.’

  ‘Must have slipped my mind.’

  ‘So your mother did report it?’

  ‘No, no she didn’t. One of the boys in the home had cited my father as being one of his abusers. The police wanted to interview him in connection with that. I was in the house at the time. I was asked to come in to the living room. The policeman asked me if I had
ever seen any of the boys in our house.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Paul hung his head. ‘I said “no”. I was interviewed right in front of my father. I was only thirteen.’

  Carruthers inwardly swore.

  ‘You have to remember that I was terrified of my father. We both were.’

  ‘I’m not judging you, Paul. Do you remember the police officer’s name?’

  Paul took a sharp intake of breath and let it out slowly. ‘You’re talking over thirty years ago.’

  ‘I know. Think, man. It’s important.’

  ‘But as it happens I do remember it. Just by pure chance he had the same name as my maths teacher. And you never forget the names of your teachers, do you? It was PC McBride.’

  ‘First name?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘No, sorry. I don’t think I ever got told his first name.’

  ‘Thank you, Paul.’ Carruthers shut his notebook.

  When Paul spoke again, his voice was a just a whisper but also full of emotion. ‘If I had spoken out, perhaps I could have prevented those boys from being abused.’

  Carruthers placed his hand on Paul’s shaking shoulder. ‘You would probably have just made things worse for you and your mother.’

  Carruthers watched Paul leave the church. He brought his mobile out of his pocket, realised he’d had another missed call from his mother. Phoned her as he walked.

  ‘Jim, where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to reach you. It’s Alan. He’s in hospital.’

  Carruthers’ heart leapt in to his mouth. ‘Mum, I’m in Iceland with work. What happened?’

  ‘He was having chest pains.’

  ‘Oh Christ.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry to give you this news on the phone. He needs a triple heart bypass.’

  ‘Triple? I thought it was only two arteries that were blocked? What about the stents?’

  ‘I’m afraid all three are blocked. The artery that had the stents put in – well, it’s not coping well. The procedure hasn’t worked.’

  ‘Jesus. Have you got a date for the bypass?’

  ‘Not yet. They need to do more tests. Find out if he’s even a candidate.’

  Carruthers found that the lump in his throat at the start of the call had now grown to the size of a golf ball.

  Look, Mum, I’ll be back in Scotland tomorrow. I’ll give you a call as soon as I get back. Give him my best.’

  Carruthers finished the call and wiped a freezing tear from his face. Arriving back at his hotel room he started packing.

  9

  As soon as the flight landed Carruthers called his mother. His brother was stable. He asked if he should drive straight to the hospital, to be told there was no point, his brother would be undergoing tests all morning and they would be unable to spend much time with him. Perhaps he could come through the night before Alan’s bypass? Carruthers agreed.

  Driving to Fife with his head full of his brother and the twists and turns of the investigation, Carruthers barely registered the flakes of snow beginning to fall on his windscreen and the leaden sky above. It was only when he reached the M80 with the onset of a blizzard he noticed the worsening conditions. He cursed as he was forced to slow his speed to a crawl. The flakes were falling thick and fast. The car in front ground to a halt. Carruthers braked and thumped the steering wheel. He connected his phone to the hands free and called his brother but there was no reply. Perhaps he was having a sleep.

  The traffic finally started to move again. Ten minutes later he was able to see the cause of the jam when he passed a silver Audi that was at an angle across the road. Once past, he managed to pick up a little speed, but for the next ten miles progress was painfully slow.

  By the time he got to the Kincardine Bridge the blizzard had stopped. There was the occasional break in the sky allowing a silvery sun to peek out on to the melting snow and wet roads. Carruthers blasted his horn long and hard when the driver of an articulated lorry with Italian plates in front of him opened the window and threw out his rubbish.

  It had been an early start. By the time he arrived at the station he was dog-tired. Gratefully, he accepted a coffee from Fletcher. Sipping it, he realised that she’d had the foresight to go for a double shot of espresso.

  ‘Jim,’ this from Watson who had just entered the room, clutching a sheaf of papers. ‘I checked the number Agnes Noble gave us for her husband’s mobile against Ruiridh Fraser’s phone statements. One of the numbers Andie said appeared several times—’

  Fletcher looked up. ‘It’s Henry Noble’s?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, it is.’ Watson looked from Fletcher to Carruthers. ‘Proves the men knew each other and were in touch as recently as three months ago.’

  ‘Good work. We’re starting to get somewhere now. Let’s take this into the brief.’ Standing up Carruthers grabbed his notebook and the three of them left his office.

  ‘Right, let’s have some quiet,’ shouted Bingham.

  The caffeine was doing the trick. Carruthers was already starting to feel more human. As for the sight and sounds of Iceland, they were fast becoming a distant memory.

  With all leave cancelled there was a full complement of staff. Carruthers glanced over at Fletcher, taking a closer look at her as she took a seat. Immaculately dressed as ever, she wore close-fitting dark grey trousers with black-heeled boots and a black V-neck tank top over a crisp white shirt. She had her hair loose around her face and looked a lot younger than her early thirties. The bandage round her head was gone. The only sign she’d been in the wars was her pale complexion and the cut and bruising above her right eye. No doubt she could feel a bump on the back of her head too, but it wasn’t visible. Carruthers was concerned about her. He thought it too early for her to be back at work after such an attack.

  ‘We’ve got a lot of ground to cover,’ said Bingham. ‘Jim, over to you.’

  Carruthers walked to the incident board. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘this is starting to move fast. We’ve managed to establish a link between these two men,’ he said, pointing at the photographs of Ruiridh Fraser and Henry Noble. ‘They were both care workers at Braidwood in the mid-seventies.’

  ‘We dinnae ken if they’re both paedophiles, though,’ said Harris.

  ‘No, that’s true,’ said Carruthers carefully. ‘Although Paul Fraser says he was sexually abused by his father. He’s also produced a testimony to say that his dad was part of a wider paedophile ring that centred on abuse at Braidwood. He’s given us these names.’ Carruthers pointed at several names on the board including those of Superintendent Bob Marshall, William Rutherford and editor of The Fife Courier, John Whitelaw.

  ‘It goes to the very top,’ said Fletcher, shaking her head, and then wincing. ‘All we need is a politician or two and we’ll have the full set. No wonder the allegations were dropped. I mean, if it’s true, between the police super, the head of the home and the newspaper editor, those poor kids never had a chance. No wonder the investigation didn’t get going. Marshall wouldn’t want his activities made public.’

  ‘We may well find this investigation grows arms and legs. This could be just the tip of the iceberg. Look, let’s not kid ourselves,’ said Carruthers. ‘If these allegations are true, and I have no reason to disbelieve Paul Fraser, then this could be massive. And it’ll send shockwaves right across the country. However,’ he held up his hands, ‘We need to focus on the present. As repulsed as all of us are, we’re not here to round up paedophiles. We need to leave that to the experts. What we have are two murders to solve, a nasty assault on Andie; and now a suspicious death of an ex-reporter.’

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  ‘Did the same person who killed those old men, also assault Andie and run down the newspaper guy?’ asked Brown.

  ‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?’ said Carruthers. ‘We believe there may be a link with the hit-and-run. Andie’s stolen bag contained her diary, which had details of the meeting she’d set up with Angus Dawson. T
he man was killed before the meeting took place.’

  ‘And whoever ran him down,’ said Watson, ‘was calculating enough to stop the car and retrieve his satchel before driving off. The big question is, of course, how did the killer know the man crossing the road was Dawson?’

  There were murmurs of agreement. Fletcher hung her head. ‘I’d scribbled down Dawson’s mobile number and home address.’

  ‘So,’ said Carruthers, ‘it is possible that the killer located where he lived and followed him from his home—’

  ‘But that also means he must have been following me,’ said Fletcher. ‘It can’t have just been a coincidence he pitched up at Braidwood the same time, and even if he did, how would he know I’d got the photographs in my bag?’

  ‘OK,’ said Carruthers carefully, ‘so let’s say the assailant follows Andie, presumably from the library on Braidwood Road, up to the resource at Braidwood Campus.’

  Fletcher turned to him. ‘When I spoke to the librarian at the public library she said two other people had been in recently asking questions about Braidwood in the seventies.’

  ‘There must be something we’re missing here,’ said Watson. ‘Why follow Andie? Unless it was a coincidence they were at the campus at the same time or they just happened to be in the library.’

  Fletcher shook her head. ‘I didn’t see anyone else up at the campus. A few parked cars in the car park. But that was for the staff on site.’

  ‘But why Andie? We’re all involved in this investigation,’ said Watson.