by Sue Black
That night, twelve miles south of Inverness, a train driver noticed a car on fire in a layby on the A9. It was Renee’s blue BMW. The car had been destroyed by the time the fire brigade arrived and there was no sign of either Renee or her son. No trace of them was found in the car, either, although a blood stain later identified in the boot was of the same blood group as Renee’s. All sorts of wild rumours did the rounds at the time, including outlandish tales of planes landing at Dalcross Airport with their lights switched off and claims that Renee had been whisked off to a life of luxury in the Middle East, abducted by a rich Arab oil sheikh.
Of course, there was absolutely no basis to any of it. This is simply how, since time immemorial, communities have responded to such inexplicable and devastating events, spinning yarns and building myths around them that become part of local lore. Such stories will be reported by well-meaning but misguided citizens as well as by those just eager to grab a bit of the limelight. Whatever the intention, they rarely assist and often waste a great deal of valuable police time.
I remember the police coming to our door one Sunday afternoon and talking to my father. Over a hundred officers had been drafted in to search for Renee and Andrew, supported by several hundred local volunteers and army reservists. They were checking every rural outhouse, shed and shack and we were searched like everybody else who lived out in the countryside in the vicinity of the A9. There was not a household in Inverness that was not affected in some way or other by the disappearance of Renee and her son. The police were out day and night, combing Culloden Moor and all the buildings and scrubland nearby. The RAF flew Canberra bombers, equipped with heat-seeking devices, over the area and divers investigated lochs and flooded quarries. No stone was left unturned.
A detective sergeant working on the case, who had started some excavation at Dalmagarry Quarry just north of Tomatin, only a few hundred yards from where Renee’s car was found, reported a stench of decay. But for some reason the digging was halted and soon, with no fresh lines of inquiry to follow, the police started to wind down the case. A huge incident like this leaves a scar on a community that never truly heals. It is impossible for whole towns to move on, let alone the immediate family and friends left behind, until the missing are found. When a young child is involved, the poignancy of the loss remains sharp across the decades. If Andrew were alive today he would be in his forties (Renee would be in her seventies), and every time a significant anniversary of their disappearance approaches, the local press will retell their story. At first glance this might seem a little macabre, but it serves to keep the case active in the public consciousness.
In 2004, the construction of a new stretch of dual carriageway on the A9, for which a supply of sand and gravel was needed from Dalmagarry Quarry, provided the police with an opportunity to reinvestigate the quarry and the surrounding area and to finally close off a part of the original inquiry over which questions remained.
Dalmagarry Quarry occupies an isolated triangle of land of about 900 square metres between the A9 to the south-west and the steep slope down to the Funtack Burn and the Ruthven road to the north. This location was the source of several pieces of circumstantial evidence from 1976. A member of the public had reported seeing someone walking on the A9 that evening in the dark, possibly with a pushchair (Andrew’s was never found). There had also been sightings of a person hauling what looked like a dead sheep up the slope towards the quarry (Renee was said to have been wearing a sheepskin coat on the night she disappeared). By coincidence, the man with whom Renee was having an extramarital affair, Bill MacDowell, worked for the company that had been cutting the quarry at the time. When these small pieces of information were added together, along with the report of the DS who had smelled decomposition there after starting the 1976 dig, there was enough to justify a new, full investigation of the site as part of a cold-case review.
I was asked, along with the country’s leading forensic archaeologist, Professor John Hunter, to lead the excavation in an attempt to find any evidence of the remains of Renee and Andrew MacRae. Aerial images taken by the RAF in 1976 allowed us to determine the precise morphology of the different faces of the quarry at that time and to dig it back and reconstruct it precisely as it would have looked during that period of activity. Once this excavation had been achieved, we could look for areas where remains might have been buried. We worked in conjunction with the owners of the site, and they provided diggers and expert drivers who would become an integral part of our forensic team.
Dalmagarry Quarry is a desolate place, accessible only via a gated track off the A9 that was permanently guarded for us by the police. The media attention was fierce and some overzealous members of the public did what they could to influence our thinking. A few, convinced that the police were concealing information – which they most certainly were not – even tried to pressurise us in their attempts to find out what was going on. Thank goodness this was before the advent of drones. We held a press day to explain what we were hoping to achieve, promising to update the media as and when there were any developments, and crossed our fingers and toes that it would be enough to keep them happy and ensure that we would be left in peace to get on with our work. As it turned out, the dig went on for so long that I think they eventually got bored and forgot we were there.
The excavation inevitably prompted a barrage of what Viv calls ‘File 13’ correspondence – letters from both conspiracy theorists and well-intentioned members of the public motivated to involve themselves in a case in the mistaken belief that their pet theories and fantasies will provide the vital piece of evidence that eventually solves the mystery. I had letters telling me to dig in specific locations under the A9 – one correspondent had even been out on the road and marked a yellow X on the tarmac to show me where. I was informed that there were local gangs of human traffickers and paedophile rings run by the police, which was why we would never find the bodies. Many named their prime suspect and urged us to go and dig up the horse paddock at his home. And of course I had mail by the bagful from clairvoyants. All I can say is that the spirit world must have been having fun with them because none of them offered the same answer. I know most of these people were only trying to help, but in practice such letters only ever take up time and generally produce nothing of any relevance or value.
In the thirty years since Renee and Andrew had gone missing, the quarry had been filled, levelled and planted with trees. We estimated that it would take us at least a month to dig it back to its 1970s profile and to highlight any areas of possible interest. If remains were found, then it was likely we would need longer.
The first job was to clear the site of around 2,000 trees to expose the current ground level and map out the superimposition of the quarry as it had been. The speed with which the trees were cut, stripped and sectioned by the modern forestry harvester equipment was simply incredible. A job that in the past would have taken weeks was finished in a couple of days. Some trees were left strategically placed along the sides of the quarry to provide some shelter and privacy and prevent covert media shots and curious members of the public rubber-necking from the already dangerous A9. I was confident that if Renee and Andrew were here, we would find them, though I immediately regretted my enthusiasm in saying so to the media. It was never my intention to raise false hopes. If we were not successful, at the very least the site could be written off as an area of interest in this case.
It was also possible that the quarry could have been used as a primary deposition site. The remains could have been hidden there first and later lifted and transferred to a secondary or even tertiary location. This theory was consistent with all the contemporary intelligence apart from the reported smell of decomposition. Primary deposition sites are generally chosen for their convenience and proximity to the crime scene (possibly, in this case, the burning car). They also tend to be familiar to the perpetrator. As most murders are not planned, there is often an element of initial panic in disposing of the body and ancill
ary evidence. Once the killer has had time to think, he or she may return to the primary site and move the remains to a safer place, usually further away from the crime scene. Because they have been better thought out, secondary deposition sites are much more difficult to predict or find and tertiary sites even harder.
The next four weeks were spent shifting over 20,000 tons of earth from the quarry, coordinating the work of the diggers with that of the forensic archaeologists and anthropologists, looking for bones, clothing, bits of pushchair, luggage and so on, bucketload by bucketload. The archaeologist directed the digger and inspected the surface of the soil after every scraping and the anthropologist searched through every bucketful. We had dry weather, wet weather, hot and cold weather, hailstones and biting winds – all in the same day sometimes.
What did we achieve? We knew that we had restored the topography of the quarry to exactly how it had been in 1976 and earlier. We found items confirming that, including an empty packet of salt and vinegar crisps advertising a Queen’s Jubilee competition promoted by Jimmy Savile. We knew that if remains had been buried there we would have found them, as our minute screening turned up much smaller bones than those we were looking for, such as those of rabbits and birds. We discovered the potential source of the rotting smell: the site where rubbish and waste from workmen’s toilet facilities had been buried during the construction of the A9 in the 1970s.
But we did not find Renee MacRae, we did not find Andrew and we did not find any circumstantial evidence relating to either of them or to their disappearance. It was hugely deflating for the team that had gone into this mammoth operation with such high hopes, but we knew we had done our best and we were confident that, wherever they had been and wherever they were now, they were not in Dalmagarry Quarry.
The cost of the excavation is thought to have been over £110,000 and it would have been a small price to pay if we had found any trace of Renee and Andrew. The chief constable at the time took some quite extensive flak for his decision to investigate the quarry nearly thirty years after their disappearance, but he would have been a hero if their remains had been found. Personally, I think it was a brave and bold decision and one that demonstrated unswerving police commitment to closing such cases, regardless of the passage of time.
Back in my office, reflecting on the excavation and mulling over what else we could have done, I was deeply touched to receive a handwritten letter from Renee’s sister, thanking us for our efforts. Her one wish is not retribution but to have her sister back, to be able to bury her with dignity and to know that she is home and safe at last: the universal desire expressed by all families unfortunate enough to find themselves condemned to spend their lives waiting for the knock on the door that might just be the harbinger of astonishing, elating news but which they know is much more likely to bring long-anticipated heartbreak.
When these searches are successful, it is, of course, exhilarating for us. When they do not produce what we are seeking, we simply have to accept that we are looking in the wrong place and cannot find what was never there. Renee’s sister summed this up much more eloquently than I ever could in an interview: ‘Time can never heal the pain, and I can’t believe that time will ease the conscience so much that someone out there can believe they will get away with murder. It always gives me some hope when I read of an old crime being solved. Maybe one day.’
Time, patience and conscience are the ingredients that fuel hope for the families of the missing. Police Scotland have not given up on Renee and Andrew MacRae and neither has their family. Somebody out there knows what happened to them and where the bodies lie. Perhaps they have kept silent all these years about something they know or have heard about, reluctant to point the finger of blame. But as time passes, allegiances change, relatives and acquaintances die, and if this person, or people, have a conscience, even if they heed it only on their own deathbed, they must do the decent thing and put an end to the family’s misery.
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The second case I want to highlight is that of eleven-year-old Moira Anderson, who popped out from her grandmother’s house in Coatbridge on a cold winter’s day in 1957 to buy butter and a birthday card for her mother and has never been seen since. In a break with the normal protocol, in 2014 the lord advocate, Frank Mulholland, named her killer as paedophile Alexander Gartshore, who had died in 2006, forty-nine years after Moira’s disappearance. Bus driver Gartshore, the last person known to have seen Moira alive, was indicted for her murder, which is not, of course, the same thing as being found guilty. Technically, he remains innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, but as he is no longer alive to face trial, that can never happen.
I remember, in 2002, sitting with a retired murder squad officer watching news coverage on television of the investigation into the disappearance of schoolgirls Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman in Soham, Cambridgeshire. Their school caretaker, Ian Huntley, who was maintaining that he had spoken to them as they walked past his house, was being interviewed by a news crew. The former detective remarked to me: ‘Always look closely at the person who claims to be the last to have seen the missing person alive. He looks dodgy to me.’ As we all now know, it ultimately transpired that Huntley had murdered Holly and Jessica. I was in awe of this officer’s prescience. Police instincts, allied to years of experience, can be priceless. So many elements of police investigations are driven by technology these days but good, old-fashioned detective work should never be allowed to go out of currency.
Key to the background of the Moira Anderson case is the most amazing campaigner called Sandra Brown. Sandra, who was a few years younger than Moira and grew up in Coatbridge at the same time, has doggedly pursued the truth of what happened that day. As well as campaigning tirelessly on child-protection issues, in 2000 she set up the Moira Anderson Foundation, which helps families affected by child sexual abuse, violence, bullying and related problems. In 1998 she wrote a book, Where There is Evil, about Moira’s disappearance and the investigations of the previous forty years. An inspirational example of sheer determination to see justice served in the face of monumental adversity, it examines, in classic no-nonsense Lanarkshire style, but with compassion and empathy, the devastating effect of child abuse on everyone who comes into contact with this most heinous of crimes.
Sandra believes that there was a well-protected paedophile ring active in Coatbridge at that time and named Alexander Gartshore as the person responsible not only for Moira’s abduction but also for her murder. What is so utterly astonishing about Sandra’s campaign is that Alexander Gartshore was her father.
I first met Sandra in 2004, when Gartshore was still alive and she was actively pursuing any and every lead she could. She contacted me after bringing a psychic into the search for Moira (yep, the spooks are always there, aren’t they?). They had found some bones. Would I look at them?
The bones had been discovered while they were out looking for Moira’s remains near the Monkland Canal. The psychic had apparently been overwhelmed by the force of the pain and distress emanating from them. There was no doubt in his mind that the bones were channelling the pain and suffering of a child, who he strongly believed to be Moira.
My views on this sort of thing are fairly unambiguous: it’s absolute nonsense. I think I do understand, though, why people bring in self-proclaimed psychics, especially when all else has failed and they feel they have nothing to lose. Some of these ‘psychics’ are earnest but misguided; others are charlatans, and I worry about the damage they can do to vulnerable loved ones. But since bones had been discovered, I agreed, making it very clear to Sandra that if these remains did turn out to be human then there could be no further contact between us as this would become a police matter. She respected that and understood fully. Sandra is a dear friend now and I know she will laugh at this, but I wondered if perhaps she was a bit doolally.
The delivery of the bones was arranged in a very cloak-and-dagger manner. The psychic apparently worked at the University of Dundee –
now there’s a coincidence – but, I was told, wanted to remain anonymous, so would leave them outside my office door. I waited for these bones to appear and one day they did. For relics holding so much power and pain they had been treated with scant respect, just shoved into a supermarket carrier bag and left hanging on my door handle. A note on the bag read simply: ‘Monkland’. Before opening it, I made notes, took photos of the bag and donned mask and gloves to ensure that, if these were human remains, there would be no DNA cross-contamination. I admit to being a little nervous as I unwrapped them. But within seconds I was exclaiming under my breath, ‘Oh, for the love of the wee man!’ as I found myself looking at the butchered rib and shoulder bone of a large cow.
I broke the news to Sandra and she took it like the trouper she is. To her it was just another avenue closed and she would carry on with her mission. I was in touch with her sporadically over the next few years as she, the Moira Anderson Foundation and Moira’s family maintained their assault on the legal and investigative authorities. Around 2007 she started to talk to me about the possibility of Moira’s body being buried in a grave in the Old Monkland Cemetery. She had approached the lord advocate of Scotland, Frank Mulholland’s predecessor, about examining the grave in question, and felt their discussions had been encouraging.
As negotiations continued through 2008 and 2009, Sandra arranged for Moira’s sisters to have their DNA samples taken and analysed and asked me to store the reports in case they were needed. I still hold them to this day. She provided me with a comprehensive list of what Moira had been wearing when she disappeared so that, should we find the buttons from her coat, the buckles of her shoes or her Brownie badge, we would be aware of their significance. Now in full battle mode, she sought and was granted permission for a GPR (ground-penetrating radar) survey of the grave. I do not profess to understand GPR visuals, but the results certainly appeared to show some anomalies of interest. Having said that, this was a graveyard, which is exactly where you would expect to find holes being dug and human remains being buried.