by Tana Collins
Fletcher opened her car door.
Carruthers laid an arm across Fletcher’s shoulder. ‘Not yet. We need for him to find the body first before we go in.’
She shut the door with a clunk and they sat in silence. She passed him the coffee cup.
‘I’m not very good at waiting,’ she said.
‘Who is?’ He took a long drink from the cup and passed it back to her. Thought about his brother’s wait for a bypass.
‘How are things between you and Jodie?’ asked Fletcher. ‘Have you managed to talk to her yet?’
Carruthers shook his head. ‘I think it’s over. She’s still not responded to any of my calls.’
‘Have you tried apologising?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Bit hard when she’s not talking to me, like I said.’
‘You could leave a message on her answer machine.’
‘To go with the other five? I don’t think so.’
Fletcher shut up.
Time stretched once more between them. They sat in silence until Fletcher said, ‘How’s your brother?’
Carruthers silently stared out in to the inky darkness.
‘It might help to talk about it,’ she said.
‘Not good. He’s needing a triple bypass. All three arteries are fucked. The stents didn’t work.’ Carruthers opened his car door. ‘I’m getting out for a pee.’
He walked away from the car and road in to the side entrance to the woods. As he unzipped his fly he heard the high-pitched child-like scream of a fox. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Fletcher was right about the stars. As he stood, feet apart, he stared up in to the deep blue sky that was punctuated by twinkling stars. The cold cut into him even in the short time he was outside. As he did his fly back up with numbing hands his mobile rang. He cursed the unnatural sound, which disturbed the quiet of the woods, prayed that McBride wouldn’t have heard it. Briskly he walked back to the car, cutting through a gap in the stone wall.
He returned the call. Nothing important. They sat for a further hour mostly in silence until suddenly Carruthers said, ‘I still can’t believe he’s had a heart attack. He’s so fit. I’m the unhealthy one.’
Fletcher encouragingly said, ‘You need to get this off your chest. I’m listening.’ She reached out and covered her boss’s hand. She squeezed it before letting go. ‘And by the way, you’re not that unhealthy.’
Suddenly Carruthers found himself opening up, talking about his brother in a way he hadn’t done for years. ‘We used to be close,’ he summed up, ‘Christ, I don’t know when we stopped. Maybe when we were teenagers. I miss it.’
‘It’s not too late,’ said Fletcher.
‘You can’t turn the clock back,’ said Carruthers. He found himself craving a cigarette.
‘Perhaps not. But it’s not about turning the clock back. It’s about going forward.’
‘Sorry, I don’t know where all that came from,’ he said a bit later, embarrassed. ‘But, well, you did keep pushing. It felt good to get it—’
Suddenly Carruthers’ phone started to ring again. Fletcher looked up expectantly.
‘It’s Gayle,’ he mouthed to Fletcher.
‘Jim, we’ve got him,’ said Watson.
‘Gayle, what have you found?’ said Carruthers.
Watson’s voice came out tinny, distant. Carruthers strained to catch her words. ‘We’ve taken his flat apart,’ she said. ‘Found a blood-stained shirt in a cupboard under the sink and what we think is Angus Dawson’s satchel in his attic.’
Thank God, they’d managed to get the warrant. ‘Great work. Keep searching.’ He spent another couple of minutes listening and talking. He cut the call and turned to Fletcher.
‘They’ve found a blood-stained shirt. What’s the betting the blood will match either Fraser or Noble?’
Fletcher looked like she’d been punched in the gut. ‘I was so sure it was Malcolm Hunter,’ she said. ‘It all fit. He had motive, opportunity, he was being blackmailed, for Christ’s sake.’
‘McBride wanted us to think it was Hunter. Clever bastard. Gayle’s even found the lorazepam used to sedate the two men. It was in a drawer in McBride’s bedroom.’
Fletcher knelt with her head in her hands. ‘Instead of bringing in the right person for questioning we brought in the wrong person. And now he’s tried to top himself. In police custody. The press will have a field day. How in God’s name did McBride find out about Fraser and Noble’s recent activities?’
‘Perhaps we’ll learn more when we get in to McBride’s hard drive,’ said Carruthers. ‘Speccie’s still trying to get access.’
Just at that moment Fletcher’s’ mobile rang. The call was short. Fletcher opened her car door, throwing the half cup of coffee out. ‘That was Dougie. We’re to make a move. Think he’s found the body.’
Within moments they were out of the car and walking in through the gates of the park. The old university buildings loomed up eerily out of the darkness, their parapets and spires piercing the darkness. The clearness of the night was slowly being obliterated by a thick band of cloud, which was blotting out the stars, one by one.
In darkness, except for the beam from Carruthers’ torch, they walked across the orchard with its handful of dying apple trees, their gnarled branches clutching the sky. Making their way past the Pink Building they reached the gap in the old stone wall which they squeezed through. Carruthers, who was ahead of Fletcher, turned to her and in silence gestured for them to make as little noise as possible. He switched the torch off.
His eyes getting accustomed to the gloom, Carruthers could make out a faint but moving shadow up ahead by a large oak tree. He and Fletcher inched forward then each behind a tree, stood, waited and watched. They heard a grunt and the sound of a spade hitting the earth. Carruthers strained his eyes and ears. The bulk of the man ahead was half hidden by a large hole in which he was now standing. Carruthers couldn’t see Harris or Brown but knew they would be watching from their vantage points.
The man disappeared from sight. Carruthers assumed he must be down on his haunches. The ground was too hard and the time too short to dig a hole that could completely hide him from view whilst standing. He heard a couple more grunts and then the man was standing upright again with what looked like an old blanket in his arms. A shout went up and Carruthers saw movement and light from behind other trees. Harris racing over, breaking his cover with a couple of uniforms. Torches shining in the face of the shocked man. The man dropped his bundle but before he was able to make a move, Harris, first on the scene shouted, ‘Got ye, ye filthy nonce. Yer nicked.’
Carruthers stared in to the ruddy and dirtied face of Lenny McBride, noticing how, despite the cold, grimy sweat was pouring down his cheeks. From McBride he looked down at the pathetic bundle on the ground. What was left of a blanket was filthy, full of holes and mostly disintegrated. A thin, brown skeletal arm was hanging out. The final remains of Tommy Kelly.
Epilogue
‘I just can’t stop thinking about all those kids, the ones at Braidwood,’ said Andie the next day. ‘What their lives would have been like. How many ended up in prison? On the streets? Committing suicide? It’s so fucking tragic.’
Fletcher hardly ever swore. Carruthers couldn’t remember the last time she had used language like that.
‘Is Hunter really going to be OK?’ she asked.
‘Physically he’ll recover and he’ll be offered counselling. It can only help. Perhaps the truth will finally come out at McBride’s trial and Hunter’ll be able to put the past to bed.’
‘You mean about Tommy Kelly’s death?’
Carruthers nodded. ‘Let’s face it, if Hunter was drugged when he was placed in that car, it’s much more likely McBride killed Kelly. We’ve got Simon Wallis’ testimony that he overheard McBride telling Marshall the boy had died whilst with him.’
‘Yes, but not who killed him,’ said Fletcher.
‘Who would your money be on? A drugged twelve-year-old or a grow
n man and paedophile? Hunter’s got a good family who love him.’
‘If Anne stays with him,’ said Fletcher. ‘It’s only a matter of time before she finds out about the affair.’
‘Well, we won’t tell her. Hunter’s been through enough.’
‘What will happen to Braidwood now?’ she said.
‘Well, the whole area is now a crime scene,’ said Carruthers. ‘There’ll have to be an investigation. Depends on whether any other children went missing from that period. Probably be enough to hold the developers back from any imminent build. Meanwhile life goes on.’
Fletcher looked bleakly into her coffee cup. ‘I think the buildings should be bulldozed.’
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t be the only one who thinks like that. I wonder how the locals trying to save the site will feel when they know its recent history. Will they still want to save it? But would you bulldoze the Pink Building? Didn’t you tell me it dates back to 1537? Seems a shame. It has over four hundred years of history before it became a care home.’
‘OK, I’d save the Pink Building and the land. It’s a fantastic nature reserve.’ She stopped for a moment thinking of the glorious open feel of the old sweeping orchard, the majestic line of rhododendrons and Scots pine. ‘Oh and New Braids with its amazing hall. But I’d bulldoze the rest.’
‘They will get to the truth of what evil went on there, Andie. There’ll be prosecutions.’
Fletcher shrugged. ‘Won’t turn the clock back.’
Carruthers looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe not. But places like Braidwood survive because of the secrecy surrounding abuse. The fact people don’t want to talk about it. It’s the elephant in the room. If we know the ingredients of what allows child abuse to flourish in places like Braidwood, then that’s a start. And yes, there will still be abuse allegations coming to light all over the UK. We’re just seeing the tip of the iceberg now, but I don’t think we’ll ever see widespread abuse on that scale again. We can’t.’
‘Thank God,’ she said. She turned to Carruthers, looking thoughtful. ‘Have you still got that leaflet from the Friends of Braidwood?’
He frowned. ‘Somewhere. Why?’
‘I feel I need to redress the balance. Do something positive in my own small way.’
‘I’m intrigued,’ said Carruthers. ‘What did you have in mind?’
She smiled. ‘I’m thinking of joining the Friends of Braidwood.’
‘You know you can’t do that. Don’t want to face you across a picket line.’
Fletcher pulled a face.
‘If you want to do something positive,’ said Carruthers, ‘why don’t you do something positive for yourself first?’
‘Like what?’
He slipped his hand in to the inside of his jacket pocket and brought out a card.
‘Hunter’s not the only one who needs it. Book yourself that appointment for counselling and don’t tell me you’ve already done it. I know you haven’t.’
Handing her the card he grabbed his jacket and mobile. She took it from him and smiled. ‘Where you going?’ she asked.
‘Something I should have done weeks ago. Visit my brother.’ And with that he was gone.
* * *
THE END
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Readers who enjoyed Care To Die will also enjoy
Robbing The Dead
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Acknowledgements For Care To Die
A huge thank you to Bloodhound Books for their fantastic work in promoting my debut novel, Robbing the Dead. I was incredulous at its success and want to thank not only Bloodhound but also all the hard working authors and bloggers who participated in my blog tour and all those who made an effort to leave such positive reviews!
The biggest thanks for Care to Die must go to fellow writer Avery Mathers for the painstaking hours he selflessly put in to earlier drafts. Thanks must also go to my crime writing friends Alison Baillie and Sarah Ward who, along with Avery, were my first readers.
Thanks also to editor, Gail Williams, who helped whip my book in to shape before approaching Bloodhound. My success is in no small way thanks also to her. Thanks also to Clare Law, my editor at Bloodhound.
I want to thank all the crime writers and readers who have influenced and supported me along the way. What an incredibly supportive bunch you are!
All my family, friends and clients at Scottish Water and Leonardo for their enthusiasm and support of my writing. You know who you are! Particular thanks to Greg, Gemma, Anna, Mike, Chris, Vicky and Graham B for their enthusiasm and interest. Jane Amaku for cheering me on from her vetinary surgery, Amanda Selway for the fab friend she has become, Gill McLaren and Jacqui Fraser for the fab friends they have always been, best friend Bettina and lastly Henrietta whose enthusiasm is still as contagious as it was when we were six years old!
* * *
And finally, Ian, who has had to put up with me writing on every holiday we’ve been on in the last ten years!