Care to Die

by Tana Collins

  Fletcher decided she’d better toe the line. There was no way she would get permission to journey down to London to talk about the abuse that did or did not occur some forty years before. Reluctantly she said, ‘I’m sorry about the cancer, Mr Wallis, but we’re not the team who will be dealing with any child abuse claims. I can pass on another number. I don’t want to sound harsh, but we’re currently dealing with two suspicious deaths. Unless you can help us with those I think you’d be better placed going to the other department.’

  ‘I can’t say for sure, but what I know might have something to do with the deaths. I don’t want to just see you about the allegations of the Braidwood child abuse. Look, I’m saying too much on the phone, but it’s also about a child from the home that went missing at the same time. The thing is, I think he’s buried on Braidwood.’

  Fletcher drew in a sharp intake of breath. ‘Give me a bit more,’ she said. ‘What’s the connection with McBride?’

  ‘The boy was with Lenny McBride when he disappeared. And I know McBride’s responsible for the boy’s death.’

  ‘Go on,’ urged Fletcher.

  ‘McBride was taking the boy by car to a hotel to be abused by Marshall, amongst others. Like I said, I don’t know what all this has to do with your murders, but I think it might be all linked. Look, make your own decision. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve come clean about what I know. Like I said, it’s haunted me all these years.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come forward before?’ In the background she could hear movement in her bedroom.

  ‘I didn’t have a choice about leaving the force and even after I left, I still had threatening phone calls. Anonymous of course. I’m pretty sure Marshall or McBride were behind them. I decided to get right away and start again. That’s why I moved to England. I didn’t have any more problems from them after that. Look, you might hate me for being a coward, but trust me when I say that the abuse of these kids was real, but it also went to the highest level. And I’m not just talking about a superintendent. I’m talking about politicians, judges and lawyers. If I had gone to the newspapers I would have been hung, drawn and quartered by these bastards. I’m not even sure that the editor of the local newspaper wasn’t himself involved. Now do you understand?’

  Fletcher understood only too well. And what Simon Wallis said certainly backed up what they had found out. It was the same with the Hillsborough scandal. Individual police officers being forced to change their statements so that any blame was diverted from the force for mistakes made. Blame instead that was wrongly directed at the innocent Liverpool fans. Fletcher felt herself grow cold. In this case, it wasn’t mistakes being covered up though. It was cold-blooded child sex abuse. And possibly murder. If that was the case how did it relate to the deaths of the two care workers? She thought on her feet. It was close to midnight just now. She’d missed the sleeper. She could be on a train to London first thing. ‘Give me your details. I’ll meet you tomorrow. It’ll have to be lunchtime and close to King’s Cross.’ She brought the mouthpiece closer, bringing her voice even closer to a whisper. ‘And don’t talk to anyone else about this. I’ll explain why when I see you.’

  She finished the call and climbed the stairs to the bedroom. She opened the door to find her bedfellow pulling on his jeans.

  ‘You never told me you were a cop. CID no less.’ He whistled.

  ‘You never asked. Does it matter?’

  He pulled on his shirt, then his socks and shoes. She sensed he seemed to be in a hurry. She wondered if it was to do with her job. Wouldn’t be the first time. She turned to him. ‘I need to have a shower and get some stuff ready for tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you. I’ve got to get home anyway. Wife will be wondering where I am.’

  Fletcher swung round. ‘Your wife? You mean you’re married? But you’re not wearing a wedding ring. You told me you didn’t do relationships.’

  ‘You’re right. I don’t do relationships. Too risky. But I never said I was single. You just assumed.’ He gathered the remainder of his things, his watch, his gold chain, stuffed them in to his jeans pocket and headed out of the bedroom. As he passed her, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. Incredulous, with tears pricking her eyes she tried to slap him. He caught her arm mid-air.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you. After all, that could be seen as assault. You don’t want to be up on a charge for assaulting a member of the public.’ His eyes twinkled and his easy smile was back.

  ‘You—’She was lost for words.

  He shrugged. ‘You enjoyed it, so what’s the problem?’ He started to bound down the stairs whistling. He paused to scoop up her abandoned knickers, which he threw at her. ‘For the wash basket. And by the way the name’s Barry.’ He placed his hand on his heart in a theatrical manner. ‘I’m hurt you didn’t ask.’ He winked at her and with that he was gone.

  15

  Fletcher was sitting in the quiet carriage. They’d just passed Newcastle. Having sent a text to Carruthers she then put her mobile on silent. Placed the phone in front of her on the table. The message had been short. ‘Following lead. Back later today.’ She knew that he would hit the roof when he found that she’d made her travel plans without consulting him, but it had been late and she hadn’t been in the mood the evening before to discuss it with him.

  ‘Tea, coffee, any refreshments?’ asked the jaunty dark-haired girl with the Geordie accent. Fletcher shook her head and watched the buffet trolley pass through the carriage. She’d been up since the crack of dawn, driven to Leuchars and caught the London-bound train from Aberdeen.

  Feeling sick with tiredness that not even a cup of hot sweet tea would cure, she had lain awake most of the night castigating herself for her stupidity. Her stupidity and lust. She had never knowingly slept with a married man before, but the fact that she had been kept in the dark about his marital status didn’t make her feel any better about herself. She also hated being taken for a fool.

  She managed to doze after they left Newcastle but awoke with a start when the train ground to a halt just north of Northallerton. After ordering a cheese sandwich from the buffet car she walked back to her coach where she devoured it, washing it down with a cup of coffee. She absorbed herself with her case notes until the train pulled in to London.

  She had arranged to meet Simon Wallis in a café in Holloway Road, two stops north of King’s Cross. As an Arsenal fan it was an area she knew well. As she came out of the tube station and turned right she was assailed with the vibrant and dirty sounds and sights of North London and felt a moment of nostalgia. She found the café he had recommended with little difficulty. Ordering a pot of tea and a bottle of water she settled herself at a table by the window so she could gaze out in to the busy street, which was right across from the tower block of the London Metropolitan University.

  Simon Wallis had the look of a trendie leftie, from his multi coloured scarf down to his Dr Martens. Definitely not the look of an ex-cop. He had a shock of white hair and lively grey eyes. He caught the waiter’s eye and ordered a white coffee.

  ‘I like this café,’ he said. ‘It reflects all walks of life, don’t you think?’ He glanced over at the table to their right where three men of what Fletcher judged was Middle Eastern origin had just settled themselves with cups of strong black coffee. To their left was a West Indian woman in brightly coloured robes having a cup of tea with her little girl. Fletcher tried to push away the sudden terrible feeling of loss that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Feeling bleak she turned away from the little girl, took a deep breath and said to Wallis. ‘What did you do when you left the police?’

  Wallis paused, as the café owner, another Middle Eastern man, brought over a cup of coffee and set it on the table in front of him.

  Wallis laughed. ‘I became a social worker.’ He jerked his head towards the window. ‘I studied at the Polytechnic of North London, as it was then.’

  ‘The building across the road?’ Fletcher ask
ed, watching a group of black girls, arm in arm, walking past the café and crossing the road. They walked up the stone steps and in to the university building.

  ‘No, over at Ladbroke House, Highbury Grove.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Fletcher. ‘Right by the old Arsenal ground.’

  ‘You know the area?’

  ‘Only because of the football club.’

  ‘A Gooner, eh?’

  Fletcher smiled. ‘’Fraid so.’ She brought her cup of tea up to her lips, blew on it and took a sip. ‘I bet social work was a far cry from being in the police.’

  ‘You might be surprised. Different environments. And political affiliations back then of course. Glad I came out when I did.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Especially after Thatcher came to power.’ He smiled. ‘You’ll be too young to remember that but there was a sizeable number of people who thought Britain was starting to resemble a police state back in the 1980s.’

  ‘Still,’ said Fletcher. ‘One helluva change of career. From police officer to social worker.’

  ‘Let’s just say I was never cut out to be a police officer, especially back in that era.’

  Becoming serious Fletcher suddenly said, ‘What can you tell me about the boy who went missing?’

  Scratching the stubble on his chin, he said, ‘Tommy Kelly. I remember he was twelve. Been put into care because he was a handful.’ He took another sip of his strong coffee. ‘That was the official story anyway.’

  ‘And the unofficial?’

  ‘He’d been bullying his younger siblings. When I interviewed him myself—’

  ‘You interviewed him officially?’

  ‘Aye, before Marshall got wind of what I’d done and put the kibosh on it. The boy told me he’d been abused by his stepfather.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  Simon Wallis nodded. ‘I didn’t think there was any reason to disbelieve him. I saw some of the other kids around him.’ Wallis stirred his coffee. ‘They were wary of him. One in particular. It made me wonder if he’d turned bully himself. It happens.’

  Fletcher nodded. That sounded all too familiar. She thought of the meeting with the psychologist who’d said much the same thing. Fletcher said, ‘Other than that, what sort of boy was he?’

  Wallis drew a deep breath in through his nose. ‘Hard to say. Only interviewed him the once. But I felt something wasn’t quite right. Got the impression other boys kept their distance from him. He seemed a bit cruel.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘During the interview a butterfly flew in to the room. It was damaged. I remember its wing was torn. Tommy Kelly pounced on it and ripped the wings off. Right in front of me.’

  Fletcher shuddered. ‘Was he the sort to fight back if someone abused him, in your opinion?’

  ‘Aye possibly.’

  ‘Enough to get him killed?’

  Wallis shrugged, scratched his left ear. ‘Mebbe.’

  ‘And you say he disappeared? How long had he been in the home before he went missing?’

  ‘Around eight months, I think. It was June 1975 when he went missing. I left the force three months later.’

  ‘So,’ said Fletcher glancing at her notes, ‘Tommy Kelly went missing in June 1975, eight months after he was placed in the care home.’ She played with her glass. ‘I’m just trying to make sense of all this. How this kid’s disappearance may be linked to the deaths of Ruiridh Fraser and Henry Noble.’

  ‘Look, if there’s any chance of nailing Lenny McBride, I’d like to help. If he killed the boy, that is.’

  Fletcher looked sharply at Wallis. ‘You really think McBride had something to do with his death? Could the boy not just have run away? Or if he was killed, wouldn’t it be more likely to be one of the care home staff? Maybe an accident?’ She paused, leaning in to the table. ‘What do you remember about that day? I need you to tell me everything. Anything you can think of, anything at all.’

  Wallis looked round the café to make sure he wasn’t being overheard before resuming talking. He leaned forward too, hands palm down on the table. ‘On the day the kid went missing I saw McBride driving off with two kids in the back of his car. One was Tommy Kelly. Like I said on the phone, McBride was one of the last to see him alive. I think he was taking them to that hotel they used, but there’s more–’

  ‘You sure it was McBride?’ asked Fletcher.

  Wallis nodded. He leant back in his chair and picked up his coffee cup.

  ‘Which hotel would that be?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘The Queen’s Head, just outside Braidwood. It changed hands numerous times since. Became the Garter and Horse. Burnt down a few years ago. Word was it was an insurance job.’

  Fletcher scribbled this down in her notebook. ‘How do you know all this?’

  White took a sip of his coffee. ‘Still got family in the area.’

  Which kids did McBride have in his car?’

  ‘Kelly and the second boy was a wee dark-haired laddie. I remember McBride lifting the second boy in to the back of his car. I think he’d given him something. A sleeping pill perhaps. They did sometimes, you know. Made them more docile.’

  ‘Can you remember the second boy’s name?’ said Fletcher.

  Wallis shook his head. ‘Look, we’re talking thirty-five years ago now. It’s a long time. To be honest it’s a miracle that I remember Tommy Kelly’s name. All I remember of the other boy is that he had dark hair, slim build and had a bad cut on the chin as if he’d had a recent fall.’

  ‘A cut?’ she asked. ‘The sort of cut that would leave a scar?’

  Wallis nodded. ‘It needed stitches. Aye, might have scarred. Certainly seemed deep enough.’

  It was a long shot. Fletcher tried to calculate Malcolm Hunter’s age. How old would he have been in the mid-1970s? He was early fifties now, which by her reckoning would make him about twelve in 1975. Give or take a year, same age as the boy.

  ‘Any idea how he received the cut?’ she asked. ‘Did he have any other injuries?’

  Wallis shook his head. ‘None of the care home workers I spoke to seemed too bothered about where he got it. What did one say? “Boys will be boys.” Kids are always getting themselves in to scrapes, aren’t they? Especially boys.’

  ‘These are serious allegations, Mr Wallis. You have to be sure of what you’re saying. There’s no physical evidence and it’s a long time ago.’

  ‘I know what I heard. And what I saw. It’s my belief Kelly is buried up at Braidwood.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I overheard McBride talking to Marshall back at the station later that day. They didn’t know I was there. There was nobody else around. It was towards the end of a quiet shift. I ducked down behind a cabinet. Of course, there’s nothing that can be proved, but I heard McBride telling Marshall the boy had died. Marshall was angry, asked McBride where the body was. McBride saying it was in the back of his car in the station car park. Marshall telling McBride to wait till dark then bury the body in the woods up at Braidwood.’

  Fletcher felt herself grow cold. ‘You heard all that? What did you do? Did you confront them?’

  For a moment, Wallis put his head down. Stared in to his near empty coffee cup. When he lifted his head Fletcher sensed a range of emotions in his eyes. Sadness, regret? Yes, definitely regret. And guilt.

  ‘Christ, no. I hadn’t long been in the force. I thought about it, wanted to, but Marshall was a powerful man. If they could kill a child, even accidentally, and bury his body, imagine what they could have done to me. They could’ve just made me disappear too. You have no idea what they were capable of. And nor did I, until that moment.’

  ‘But you definitely remember hearing McBride telling Marshall the boy had died. Not that he’d killed him.’

  Simon Wallis leant forward. ‘That’s right.’

  Fletcher glanced around the café. The West Indian woman was busy paying her bill and the Turkish men were engaged in a noisy board game. />
  ‘Will you make a statement to that effect?’ asked Fletcher.

  Wallis nodded.

  Making a calculated decision based on an instinct to trust this man, she bent down and fished in to her black briefcase bringing out a brown A4 envelope. ‘Would you mind if I showed you some photos? They’re not very pleasant, I’m afraid. We’re just trying to put names to faces. Perhaps looking at them might trigger some more memories. I’d like to start with one in particular. I want you to take a good look. Was this the second boy in the car with Tommy Kelly?’

  She brought out the photograph Anne Hunter had given them of the young Malcolm Hunter and passed it to Wallis.

  ‘What made you think you could just waltz down to London without running it by me first?’ Carruthers demanded from behind his desk. He was standing, hands on hips, glaring at Fletcher. ‘I bet you’ve not even filled out a travel requisition form.’ Stress about his brother and the fact Jodie hadn’t returned any of his calls, had put him in to a bad mood. And now this.

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Jim. I didn’t have time. I had to make a snap decision. It was bloody midnight when I got that call. Look, if you’re going to put me on a charge, just get on with it. Then we can talk about what I’ve found out.’

  Carruthers sighed. He’d spoken to his mother and they still hadn’t been given a date for his brother’s bypass. All this waiting had made his mother really stressed. She’d burst in to tears on the phone. He couldn’t blame her. Dragging his focus back he said, ‘I’m not happy about this. For Christ’s sake call me next time. Preferably before you board the train.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ Fletcher grinned.

  ‘Right, tell me everything you’ve found out. And I mean everything,’ said Carruthers.