Care to Die

by Tana Collins

  Fletcher pulled up a chair and started to talk. Every so often Carruthers would interrupt with a question. Finally, he said, ‘Right, what we need to do now is to find out if Malcolm Hunter’s ever been in care.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ said Fletcher. ‘He’s hardly likely to tell us.’ She paused for a moment before speaking. ‘Wallis couldn’t say for sure whether the photo I showed him of Hunter as a boy was the same kid as the one in the back of McBride’s car.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Carruthers.

  ‘It was a long time ago, Jim.’

  ‘So Simon Wallis thinks Lenny McBride may have killed Tommy Kelly?’ said Carruthers.

  ‘Wallis overheard McBride discussing the fact the kid had died. I’m assuming either in the car or at the hotel. Something obviously went wrong. Wallis thinks they were taking him and the second boy to a hotel they used. Apparently, they drugged the boys sometimes. He thinks the second kid was asleep when he was carried to the car. Probably drugged.’

  ‘But Kelly wasn’t?’

  ‘No, according to Simon Wallis he was awake.’

  ‘So it could have been an accident?’ said Carruthers.

  ‘Could have been. Like I said on the phone, Kelly went missing in 1975. Body’s never been found. Imagine if Hunter did spend time in care at Braidwood. He may well have been abused. And if he was, just imagine how he feels when he realises he’s living next door to his former abuser?’

  ‘Unless he tracked him down with the intention of killing him,’ said Carruthers. ‘Perhaps the move next door was deliberate.’

  ‘Would you really go to the effort of moving next door to your former abuser?’ asked Fletcher. ‘But think about it, Jim. Fraser, the former care worker, starts showing an interest in Hunter’s own son, Jordan. Think about how you’d feel if it was your son. You’d flip, wouldn’t you? Imagine the feelings that would get stirred up. Say we’re back in June, 1975. Malcolm Hunter wakes up to see Tommy Kelly dead beside him. Or he finds out Tommy’s died. Of course he would have also been one of the last people to see Kelly alive, too. What sort of questions would you ask as a lad? Would you ask any? Or would you be too scared and keep quiet? Imagine if he did start asking some awkward questions. It’s possible he was told he was to blame for the boy’s death in some way.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Carruthers.

  ‘Well, you wake up from being drugged to find the boy next to you is dead. What are you going to think? You then have an adult telling you you’re responsible, that you killed him. It would stop you pointing the finger at anyone else. Perhaps McBride is so sick he even enlisted Hunter’s help to bury Tommy Kelly’s body.’

  ‘Whoa,’ said Carruthers. ‘You don’t think you’re running away with all this?’

  ‘Look, I know it might sound a bit farfetched, but we already know Kelly had been abused at home. At least that’s what he told Simon Wallis. We’re assuming this made him vulnerable to further abuse in the home. But what if he was the abuser not the abused? We also know from Wallis that he got put in the home for bullying a younger sibling so he already had history. What if he bullied Malcolm Hunter? And that’s why Hunter believed McBride when he was told he’d killed the boy?

  ‘We have no evidence, no corroboration of Wallis’ story. Simon Wallis may have his own agenda. He may be lying. Have you considered that?’

  ‘Thing is, I believe him, Jim. What we need to do is find the body. Or extract a confession from McBride.’

  ‘The latter’s hardly likely to happen. There is another scenario, Andie.’

  Fletcher looked up. Carruthers continued. ‘That Malcolm Hunter murdered Tommy Kelly and Lenny McBride covered it up with Marshall’s help. Well, they would’ve had to. Otherwise it could have exposed their paedophile ring. If I’m right then we may well be looking at Malcolm Hunter being a killer from adolescence.’

  ‘I didn’t think of that. What’s our next move, Jim?’

  ‘We need to track down the parents of Tommy Kelly.’

  ‘After all this time? How the hell do we do that? They may not even still be alive.’

  ‘Good old-fashioned leg-work. Get a meeting set up, will you? I want as many willing hands as possible.’

  ‘What do you want us to do about Lenny McBride? Bring him in?’

  Carruthers sat chewing his pen, thinking. ‘It will come down to his word against Wallis’. McBride’s an ex-cop. And wily. Let’s face it, if there is a body buried somewhere in Braidwood, where do we even start looking?’

  A stray lock of hair had fallen over Fletcher’s face. She tucked it back behind her ear. ‘I’ve never dealt with a case like this before. Any point in bringing in the sniffer dogs?’

  ‘I’ll need to check that out. But even if we do find some old bones in that wood, even with the advancements in forensics, it may not lead to our murderer.’

  ‘So he’s going to get away with it?’

  Carruthers snapped his head up, looking at Fletcher, a new zeal in his blue eyes. ‘No, we’re going to be clever and flush him out, instead.’

  Fletcher curious, ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I have a plan. I want you to phone Alison Stephens from the Friends of Braidwood. See if she’s prepared to meet or at least talk to us on the phone.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want her to devise a new Friends leaflet and put it through Lenny McBride’s door. We may even get her to do a bit of cold calling and speak to him.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘She’s to tell McBride, and this is what the leaflet will say, that the developers have got the council’s permission and reactivated an old consent to build and that they will start working in the woods within forty-eight hours.’

  ‘We put a tail on McBride? Will Bingham agree? Can we even spare the manpower?’

  ‘For a potential sex abuser and serial killer? He’ll agree. Although I haven’t decided if we put a tail on him or stake out the woods. After all, there’s only two car parks from which you can access the woods.’

  ‘And let’s face it. It may not be McBride who turns up,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘Well, it will be if he’s the only one who knows about the developers reactivating an old consent to build.’

  ‘Perhaps put it out to a wider audience?’ asked Fletcher.

  Carruthers nodded. ‘We’ll see if Alison can send out an email. Perhaps she’s got it on Facebook or Twitter. Just to widen the circle. We already know she must have McBride’s address from the mailing list.’

  ‘Then we wait?’ said Fletcher.

  ‘Then we wait,’ agreed Carruthers.

  16

  Carruthers sat in his cottage, long legs encased in blue jeans. He had a glass of Highland Park in one hand and his case notes in the other. He was just contemplating putting on a Johnny Cash CD when there was a tentative knock at his front door.

  He wasn’t expecting company and, as he pulled himself out of his battered brown leather sofa with a sigh, he couldn’t imagine who it might be. Fleetingly wondered if it was Jodie but deemed it unlikely. She still wasn’t returning his calls. He sighed, wondering if he had blown it spectacularly. Then his thoughts turned to Fletcher. But why would she be pitching up? He replaced his cut crystal glass on a coaster and in just a few long strides, was opening the front door. The woman who greeted him was the very last person he expected to see. She had been crying. Of that there was no doubt. She’d made an attempt to wash her pinched face before leaving the house but it was blotchy and her blue eyes red-rimmed.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she asked.

  ‘How did you find out where I lived?’

  ‘It wasn’t that hard. Anyway, we’re practically neighbours.’ Anne Hunter looked up at him with imploring eyes, her face framed by her long fair hair. ‘I need your help.’ Then she burst into tears.

  Carruthers faced a dilemma. It was against all police policy to invite this woman in to his house so they were alone together. She was the wife of a suspect, perhaps even a suspect h
erself. He would have the book thrown at him. And yet he wanted to know why she was on his doorstep late at night crying. He made his decision, opened the door wider and stepped aside.

  She took a seat on his sofa as he set up the tape recorder. He sat on the bucket chair opposite. She was wearing a moss-green knee-length woollen dress. Her long legs were encased in black leggings that fit in to her black knee-length leather boots.

  ‘I’m not sure how I can help you,’ he eventually said, breaking the silence that stretched between them.

  ‘Just tell me what’s going on with my husband. You know. Don’t you?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘That he’s in some sort of trouble.’

  ‘Trouble? You mean because he lied to the police?’

  ‘Well, not just that. Do you know who he’s got himself mixed up with?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t follow.’

  ‘It’s why he lost his job, isn’t it? He hasn’t been made redundant at all, has he? He’s been dismissed. For stealing money.’

  Carruthers was completely lost now. He was feeling in need of another whisky but would have to make do with a soft drink. He stood up.

  ‘I’m going to get myself a Diet Coke. Do you want a soft drink or a cup of tea?’

  She brushed a strand of highlighted blonde hair out of her face. She was make-up free and looked as young as a teenager in the light thrown by the lamp in the corner of the room. A teen with a blotchy face who’s just discovered her boyfriend’s not all he appears to be.

  ‘I’d rather have a whisky.’

  ‘Just soft drink or tea, I’m afraid.’

  She sighed. ‘Oh, OK, a Diet Coke please. Have you got any ice?’

  ‘Coming right up,’ he said. He went in to the kitchen. Rooted around in the cupboards for two cans of coke and a glass and then in the freezer for some ice cubes. He plonked a couple of cubes of ice in the glass. He took the two cans and glass back through to the living room and gave her the glass with the ice and a can.

  ‘I think you should start at the beginning,’ was all he said, as he pulled the tab. The coke made a fizzing noise.

  ‘I don’t know where the beginning is exactly. I’m worried he’s got a gambling problem.’

  ‘What makes you think he might?’

  ‘He’s had a bit of a problem in the past. And today my bankcard got declined in Aldi of all places. It was so embarrassing. I got a mini statement from an ATM. Found there’s money missing from our account.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘A lot of money. Three thousand pounds.

  Carruthers’ ears pricked up. ‘And when you say missing, do you mean withdrawn? As in taken out in cash?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You think it’s your husband?’

  Anne Hunter looked puzzled. ‘Well, who else could it be?’

  ‘Have you asked him about it?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not yet. I thought I’d speak to you first. This on top of everything else. I just don’t know what to do. Look, he won’t tell me where he’s been when he was supposed to be at work. When he was supposed to have an alibi for the murders.’

  I bet he hasn’t, thought Carruthers.

  ‘Can you tell me where he was when he’s not been with us and he’s not been in work? I’m going out of my mind with worry here.’ She sat with her face in her hands, the picture of dejection. She looked up at him as she said, ‘I started to think that it might be another woman.’

  Carruthers remained silent as Anne Hunter gulped the rest of her coke back. She choked.

  ‘Hey, go slow,’ he said taking the glass out of her shaky hand and setting it down on the coffee table.

  ‘I need to know what sort of man I married. I’ve got the kids to think about. Who does he owe money to and why? Is that why he lost his job – because he’s gambling?’

  Carruthers was in a fix now. He didn’t know how much to tell her. He was starting to have major concerns himself about where the money had gone. Didn’t think it had gone to pay gambling debts, however. He was starting to form a hunch about what the money had been used for, and he hoped to God, for Anne Hunter’s sake, he was wrong.

  Perhaps he hadn’t been far off the mark when he’d accused Julie Coutts of giving Hunter a false alibi. She’d said herself she was working a double shift because she needed the money. Well, if she had been the recipient of £3,000 cash, would she have banked it, stuck it under the mattress or spent it? Would there be a paper trail? Most likely, if she needed the money, she would have spent it without banking it first.

  He grimaced.

  ‘Anne, could I ask to see your bank statements?’

  Anne Hunter shook her head. ‘My husband deals with all the finances. I’m not even sure where he’s filed them so I wouldn’t know where to start looking.’

  ‘And you don’t do on-line banking?’

  She shook her head.

  Carruthers felt a moment’s frustration with this beautiful woman.

  ‘OK, could I ask you for details of at least who you bank with? If you could get me the sort code and account number, it would be a start.’

  She nodded. ‘I don’t have them on me but I’ll text them to you when I get home. They’ll be on my card.’

  Fresh tears pricked at her blue eyes. ‘You must be able to tell me something.’ She picked up her glass and held it out to him. ‘Are you sure I can’t have a whisky?’ she asked.

  He took the empty glass from her and laid it down on the table for a second time. ‘I’ve already had one drink tonight,’ he said. ‘I think we’d both be better off with coffee. I know I would. Can’t afford a hangover.’

  ‘Fine. Decaff if you’ve got it. Are you always this sensible?’

  Carruthers raised his eyebrows. He stood up. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’ He hesitated momentarily before leaving the room. ‘Look, Mrs Hunter, Anne. I don’t know what’s going on myself. I don’t have all the answers. I only wish I did. I don’t think your husband’s job loss was anything to do with stealing money if that makes you feel any better. I think it is a case of redundancy.’

  She expelled an audible breath. ‘Well, that’s something I suppose. But what’s he needed £3,000 for?’

  ‘Now that, I don’t know. Look, will you do me a favour? I’m trying to help you here. Will you help me?’

  She looked up at him.

  ‘Don’t tell him you know about the missing money. At least not yet. Not for a couple of days. Let me make some enquiries first.’

  Anne Hunter remained silent but nodded.

  They finished their coffees in silence. Carruthers stood up. ‘I think we need to get you home.’

  That night, after Anne Hunter had left his cottage, Carruthers couldn’t sleep. Thoughts were spiralling around in his head. When he wasn’t thinking of his brother his mind was going in to overdrive about the case. It would be true to say that as murder investigations went, they’d made a lot of progress. A breakthrough was always vital in the early stages of any investigation and it had taken a while to get their first. But really, were they any closer to catching the murderer? Yes, Carruthers was now satisfied that they could rule out Paul Fraser and Jordan Hunter but that still left Malcolm Hunter and Lenny McBride. And what of Lenny McBride? Had he really had a hand in the disappearance – and possibly murder – of one of the boys? Carruthers had half the team working on trying to find the parents of Tommy Kelly, assuming he had actually existed of course.

  Carruthers thumped his pillow for the umpteenth time. His thoughts then turned to the reason for Anne Hunter’s visit. At 2am, giving up all of pretence of sleep, Carruthers switched on the bedside light. Making a snap decision he picked up the landline phone on his bedside table. The recipient of his call would be less than happy to hear from him at this late hour but then again, he was one of the few people Carruthers knew who might still be awake. And he was the only one at this hour who might be able to help. He punched in the number.

 
; ‘John Forrest.’

  ‘John, it’s Jim Carruthers here. Look, sorry about the lateness of the hour. Did I wake you up?’

  For the wee hours of the morning the voice down the phone sounded very bright. ‘How late is it? Shit. It’s 2am.’

  ‘Have you not gone to bed yet?’ Now he really did feel like a parent.

  ‘Been playing computer games.’

  That figures, thought Carruthers. ‘Listen, John, a big favour to ask. Are you still in contact with Big Ron over in the Financial Investigation Unit?’ He thought of the obese officer who was well known as Forrest’s Dungeons and Dragons partner-in-crime. ‘If I give you a bank account number can you get the FIU to access the last six months of statements for me? I’m looking for any large withdrawals, especially of cash.’

  ‘Jesus, I hope you’re joking me. It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘No,’ said Carruthers, ‘I’m deadly serious.’

  ‘It’s only a few more hours till morning. If you wait till then I won’t have to put my career on the line. Will a few hours really matter that much? But you know as well as me this sort of enquiry normally takes several days if not weeks.’

  ‘We don’t have weeks. Christ, John, you know what red tape is like. Not to mention all the bloody admin that goes with the job. We need to nail this guy before he strikes again.’

  There was a long pause. ‘As it happens, Big Ron owes me a favour. I’ll give him a call. But I’m doing this legally. In the morning. Trust me. You’ll thank me.’

  Carruthers sighed. ‘Shit. I know you’re right. Sorry.’ It was Carruthers’ turn to pause. ‘Don’t know what I was thinking. OK. But first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Scout’s honour.’

  Carruthers replaced the phone but he knew all sleep had deserted him. He pulled on a pair of jeans and padded downstairs. It was whilst he was waiting for his decaff coffee to percolate that he heard a soft knocking at his front door. He frowned and bare-chested walked over to door. He opened it several inches to see Anne Hunter on his doorstep. Before he had a chance to speak she thrust some scrolled up papers in to his hands.