by Tana Collins
‘Yeah, well, don’t worry about Hunter. He’s in a whole heap of shit just now and having illicit sex is just one of his worries. If his alibi doesn’t pan out he could be on a murder charge.’
‘For that you’ll have to find some evidence.’
‘Believe me, if he’s the murderer, I will.’
13
‘I’m not sure interviewing Julie Coutts during her shift in a busy pub is the best idea,’ said Fletcher, bringing her tonic water to her lips. She watched as rain lashed the grimy windows.
‘Well, what would you have us do?’ Harris asked. ‘The boss wants answers and she wasnae at home to question.’ He shrugged.
They were sitting in the King’s Arms in Glenrothes. Fletcher looked around her at the no-frills pub. It was a working man’s pub, a real spit and sawdust place.
Harris sat, legs astride, admiring his pint of Guinness before taking a long thirst-quenching swig. He smacked his lips and set the glass down on a wet, dog-eared mat with a satisfied belch.
‘Anyway, it’s lunchtime and I’m hungry. A man’s gotta eat.’ He wiped some of the frothy head from his upper lip. ‘Slips down nice and easy, just like a prossie’s drawers.’ He picked up the torn and dirty menu. ‘Think I’ll have the steak pie. What you gonna eat?’
‘The soup. Need something to warm me up.’
Harris took his packet of Marlboro out of his pocket saying, ‘I’m away for a fag. I’ll order the food whilst I’m at it. Want another drink? I’m getting one. Thirsty work catching murderers.’
‘We haven’t actually caught one yet, so go easy on the booze.’
Although the banter was still a bit edgy, they had come to an uneasy truce of sorts. She took a sip of her drink and played with one of the tatty coasters. In a lot of ways Harris was the worst of the seventies-style cop – sexist and aggressive – the sort to act first and ask questions later, but at least you knew where you stood with him. He was also useful to have on your side if things turned nasty. He wasn’t afraid of putting himself out there and, unlike some of the cops she’d met, he didn’t seem to be on the make. Definitely a product of his age and class though, that one.
She wondered how his job choice had been greeted by his family. She sensed a strong loyalty in him. No, he wasn’t all bad but she hoped his breed was dying out. Nothing wrong with being tough and working class but as far as she was concerned there was no room for the old-style cop in today’s force.
‘She’s due to start her shift in five minutes,’ said Fletcher looking at her watch as Harris settled his large frame back on to the stool. He traced his thumb up the side of the cold glass to catch some liquid that had slopped over. Just at that moment a spotty youth lurched towards them spilling some of his pint over their table.
‘Watch it, ya wee radge,’ said Harris. The youth mumbled something as he tried to look at them through unfocussed eyes. He was listing as badly as a ship in a storm. He hesitated then stumbled off, spilling his pint as he went.
‘Classy joint,’ said Fletcher.
Harris wiped his nose with his hand. ‘Drink’s cheap. That’s all I care about.’
Fletcher took another sip of her drink as the front door opened. In walked a voluptuous red-headed woman in her mid-forties. She walked straight round to the back of the bar shaking out her umbrella and unbuttoning her close-fitting purple coat. Under the coat she was wearing a tartan mini skirt with knee-length boots and a low-cut cream blouse.
‘Ya beauty,’ said Harris. He drained his first pint in one go, belched loudly and said to nobody in particular, ‘That looks like our girl to me. What a looker. I’ll be right back. Grab another chair, DS Fletcher. We’re gonna be having company.’ Then in her ear he hissed, ‘My money’s on Hunter being off the hook. I’m no queer or anything but he’s no bad looking and, let’s face it, naebody could resist tits like that.’ And with that he sauntered off to the bar.
‘Christ, I know cops when I see them. What d’you want now?’ asked Lenny McBride, as he opened the door to Carruthers and Watson. ‘More shitting questions? And where’s Morecombe and Wise?’
‘Just one question to start with,’ said Carruthers walking through the door, flashing his ID. He bent down to pick up McBride’s post. ‘Heard you weren’t very helpful. The question is, why?’
The man shrugged. ‘I don’t want to get involved.’ He held his hand out for the post, which Carruthers rifled through. The detective’s eye caught a familiar looking leaflet.
‘What’s this?’ he asked McBride. McBride made a grab for the leaflet but he wasn’t quick enough. Carruthers stared at it. ‘Thought you’d never been to Braidwood before? Isn’t that what you told my colleagues?’
‘I told them I couldn’t remember ever having been to Braidwood,’ he said.
‘Well, if that’s the case, what are you doing with a leaflet from the Friends of Braidwood?’ asked Carruthers. ‘It’s a bit out the way from here, is it not?’ He turned the leaflet over, his eyes scanning the bulletin-type points. ‘Says here the developers have got their latest plans in to the council, and the community have until 31stJanuary to register objections.’ Carruthers turned to McBride. ‘Now why would that interest you?’
‘What are you doing with their leaflet, Mr McBride?’ asked Watson.
‘I’m interested in the environment,’ he replied.
‘My arse, you are,’ said Carruthers, making a mental note to ask the Friends of Braidwood what areas their leaflet drop took in. He doubted it extended this far. He turned to Watson. ‘What do you think, DS Watson? Does Mr McBride here look like an environmentalist to you?’
‘I can’t say he does, no.’
‘So what if I am interested in the work of the Friends of Braidwood? Doesn’t mean anything. Folk support the RSPB without going to all the bird sanctuaries.’
Carruthers turned back to McBride. ‘I know you don’t want to be involved, but you already are. And maybe up to your neck. Now, are you going to invite us in properly or do we have to conduct our business on your doorstep? Your choice.’
‘Do I have a choice?’McBride said with a sigh as he led them in to the small living room. Uninvited, they took seats on opposite ends of the sofa, like a couple of bookends. McBride remained standing. Carruthers noticed that the room was spartanly furnished. There were no ornaments or photographs cluttering the mantelpiece. Nothing of a personal nature.
‘Look, what happened was a long time ago. I never believed the allegations, if that’s what you want to know. Marshall was as straight as a die,’ McBride said.
‘There’s a growing body of evidence to suggest he was an abuser, Lenny. I’m afraid you not wanting to believe it doesn’t make it any less true,’ said Carruthers.
‘He taught me everything I know.’
‘That’s what worries me.’
McBride was silent but all colour drained from him.
Carruthers picked up a book from the coffee table in front of him. He glanced at the cover. It was a James Patterson novel. ‘Like mysteries, do you? We’re here because two men, maybe three, have been murdered within days of each other. You’ll have heard all about the first two. It’s been plastered all over the papers.’ He put the book back down again.
‘I don’t watch TV or read the papers. Too much bad news.’
‘Ruiridh Fraser and Henry Noble. Ring any bells?’ said Carruthers.
‘Na.’
‘Here’s the interesting bit. Both men worked at Braidwood in the 1970s.’
‘So?’ McBride shrugged but looked uneasy.
‘So both turn up dead at the very place they worked some forty years before. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Do you DS Watson?’
‘No, I don’t boss. I don’t believe in coincidences any more than you do.’
Carruthers turned to McBride. ‘And with your police background I’m sure you don’t either. Fraser’s son told me recently his dad abused him when he was a kid. He also confirmed the man had abused boys from Braidwood back at
his house. We’ve found out that, prior to their murders, both men had been sharing child porn.’
McBride folded his arms. ‘Nothing to do with me. I can’t help you. You said three men. Who’s the third?’
‘Can’t or won’t? asked Carruthers ignoring the question.
‘Can’t,’ said McBride, walking over to the glass drinks cabinet and helping himself to a bottle of whisky. He poured a liberal amount in to a crystal tumbler and downed it in two gulps.
‘Bit early for a drink, isn’t it, Lenny?’ said Watson.
‘I’m retired now. I can drink when I want. Look, what do you want?’ he said, turning to Carruthers.
‘We want to know, Mr McBride, why the case of alleged sex abuse against boys at Braidwood was dropped. And how far this paedophile ring actually goes?’ said Watson. ‘And thirdly, and most importantly for us, what Braidwood’s recent history has to do with two brutal murders.’
McBride remained looking at them through narrowed eyes. He poured himself another glass of whisky. He swirled the amber liquid around the glass without taking his eyes off Carruthers.
‘Don’t think you’re off the hook because this happened some forty years ago,’ said Carruthers. ‘Irrespective of the two murders, if you’ve buggered boys in that home or been an accessory to it, I’ll find out and I’ll have your balls on a platter.’
‘Christ, another moral crusader.’ He took a swig of whisky. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
Carruthers grabbed the glass out of the man’s hand and set it down on a coffee table. ‘Then you won’t mind answering a few questions, then, will you?’ said Carruthers. ‘First of all, what was your relationship with Ruiridh Fraser?’
‘Who?’
‘First victim.’
‘No idea who you’re talking about. I don’t know him.’
‘You interviewed his son, Paul, during the initial investigation into child abuse. Paul would have been about fifteen at the time.’
‘I remember him. Small for his age. Bit of a runt. No case to answer.’
‘Any reason why you’d interview a victim about alleged abuse with the alleged abuser present? Seems odd. That’s all. Boy’s hardly likely to open up with his abuser present.’
‘That’s not why I interviewed him. I interviewed his father as one of the boys from the home had made a complaint against him. Paul was present at the time of the interview and I asked him if he’d seen his father with boys from the home. I then asked him if his father had ever abused him.’
‘With his father present? Paul was terrified of his father. Fraser sent Paul and his mother out of the house when he brought boys back. He raped boys in Paul’s bed, man.’
McBride stood by the drinks cabinet as still as a statue, glass to his lips. The only sign the man was under pressure was the fact his knuckles were turning white. ‘Boy said his father hadn’t abused him and he’d never seen boys from the home brought back to the house. I believed him. I’m telling you nothing like that went on at Braidwood, whatever you say. It was just a care home for unruly wee neds. Not worth bothering about, if you ask me. Christ, I wouldn’t be surprised if half of them hadn’t ended up on the streets or in a life of crime.’
‘And if they had, whose fault would it have been?’ asked Watson. ‘The system that failed them? Or perhaps, for the unlucky ones, the paedophiles who abused them?’
McBride pulled out a packet of Marlboro from his front shirt pocket, and slipped one of the cigarettes into his mouth. He stooped to pick up a box of matches from the coffee table. With the cigarette still dangling unlit he said, ‘Waste of space, the lot of them.’ He then struck the match. Watson watched the flame flare. There was a smell of sulphur in the air.
‘You really are all heart. OK, let’s move on,’ said Carruthers. ‘You told my officers there was no point looking for your archived police interview notes as they’d all gone missing soon after. Is that right?’
‘Aye, that’s right.’
‘Convenient. What happened?’
‘To the notes?’
‘No, in the interview.’
‘Look man, it was forty odd years ago. I can’t remember that far back.’
‘Yet you remembered the notes had gone missing. Interesting. Useful having a selective memory. So what did happen to the notes?’
McBride shrugged. ‘We were in the middle of moving offices at the time. It happens.’
‘It’s surprising just how much paperwork conveniently goes missing when there’s an investigation in to child sex abuse,’ said Watson.
‘And talking about files going missing where were you at approximately 3pm on 20th January? Anywhere near the library at Braidwood, Lenny?’
‘Why would I be? I’ve never been to the library at Braidwood. I might have a James Patterson novel in my home but I’m no’ a great’ reader.’
‘Really? Only a witness puts you, or someone looking very like you, at the library at Braidwood on the day my DS gets assaulted.’
‘I wasn’t aware that going to a library was a crime.’
‘The person in question was asking some interesting questions about information relating to Braidwood when it was a children’s home. Don’t you find that odd, Lenny? Later that afternoon DS Fletcher sustained a nasty injury to her head when someone relieved her of some files she was carrying.’
‘I haven’t assaulted anyone.’
‘That’s good to hear. So back to my original question. Where were you when DS Fletcher was assaulted and Fraser and Noble were murdered?’
‘Christ, first you accuse me of being a frigging paedo. Now you think I’m the murderer. Make your mind up. What possible reason would I have to kill two old men?’
‘I haven’t even started accusing you of being a paedo yet. You could be both. Murderer and paedo, for all we know. If you had been an active paedophile in the 1970s you would have had every reason for wanting them dead.’
‘Why?’ He drew on the cigarette and let out the smoke through his nostrils.
‘We have no doubt these two men have been murdered because of their past involvement in Braidwood. They’d been in touch with each other recently. Ruiridh Fraser had been taking indecent photographs of his next-door neighbour’s teenage son and sharing them with Noble. There’s nothing like shitting on your own doorstep. You could have found out. Panicked. Worried they would slip up and your part in the ring would be exposed.’
‘What part in the ring?’
‘As a paedophile, Mr McBride.’
McBride’s face was starting to look pinched and had taken on an unhealthy sheen. He opened his mouth, cigarette dangling precariously.
‘If it comes to light you were part of that ring of sex abusers it will mean a prison sentence, and let’s face it – I can’t think of much worse than being put in prison as a paedophile and a former cop. Can you?’
‘Doesn’t bear thinking about,’ said Watson, shaking her head. ‘You wouldn’t want to go anywhere near the showers for a start.’
‘Now, I’d get your diary, if I were you, and start talking. Do you have alibis for the nights Fraser and Noble were murdered, or not?’ said Carruthers.
‘Look,’ said Julie Coutts, showing her cleavage to a drooling Harris, ‘I’m at work. I cannae talk long. Aye OK, I’ve been sleeping with Malcolm Hunter. It’s sex, pure and simple but I’m married and so’s he. It’s no’ an affair. He’s no’ leaving his wife for me and I’m no’ leaving my husband for him. It’s an arrangement and it suits us well.’
‘We don’t need the details, Mrs Coutts. We just need to know if you were with Malcolm Hunter on the dates we’ve given you.’
‘Aye, I was.’
‘Both dates?’ asked Harris, never taking his eyes off her breasts.
‘Aye, I’ve said, haven’t I?’
‘Where were you?’ asked Harris.
‘At a wee pub in Dunfermline called the Travellers Arms. Stayed both nights. Breakfast wasnae bad but we were in a different room the second night
, and look at this,’ Julie pulled up her top to display a well-preserved midriff, the only blemishes being three angry looking itchy red weals. ‘Bed bugs,’ she whispered. ‘Shuggie, my husband, wanted to know where I’d got them from. I had to tell him the cat had fleas.’
‘Where did your husband think you were?’
‘Oh, at my sister’s in Dunblane. She doesnae like him so she’s happy to give me an alibi. Bit too useful with his fists.’
‘Has he ever hit you?’ asked Fletcher.
‘A few times. Put me in hospital once.’
Fletcher knew better than to ask Julie Coutts why she hadn’t left an abusive husband. The reasons were often complicated.
‘And Hunter stayed throughout the night with you?’ Fletcher checked. ‘He didn’t slip away for a few hours?’
‘He was definitely with me all night. Trust me, I’m a light sleeper. I would’ve noticed.’ She patted her auburn hair with a manicured hand.
‘How did you two meet?’ asked Harris.
‘Right here in this pub. Came in for a drink after work. He’d had a meeting with some doctors in Dunfermline. I served his table. We got talking. There was an instant attraction. You ken how it is. He asked me if I’d stay and have a drink with him after my shift finished. I didnae have to hurry home. My husband was working nights.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose I should consider myself lucky. Shuggie’s no’ interested in me like that anymore. I’m sure he has his affairs. I’m no’ interested if he does. I just need a roof over ma heid and a man to tell me I still look good once in a while. Shuggie does the first, Malcolm does the second for me. Makes me feel good about myself. He’s a real gentleman. It’s no’ much to ask for, is it, wanting to feel good about yoursel’?’
Fletcher was staring at Julie Coutts. She almost felt sorry for her. It didn’t sound like much of a life. If Julie had found a little happiness, albeit temporarily, who was she to judge her?