by T F Muir
‘You’re probably correct,’ Gilchrist conceded, ‘but we’d still like to review your files. Just to be thorough.’
‘What’re you up to?’ asked Logan.
‘I thought we’d explained that,’ Gilchrist said, and rose to his feet. He was through trying to reason with her.
Logan jerked to her feet. ‘I don’t like it, Billy,’ she said. ‘He’s fishing. I know him. I wouldn’t put it past him to slip something into our files to make us look like pricks and—’
Whyte raised a hand to silence Logan, then he eyed Gilchrist. ‘Are you fishing?’
‘Only trying to find a possible motive.’
Whyte turned to Smith. ‘Show DCI Gilchrist and DS Janes our files.’
‘I’m telling you, Billy, I’ve seen this guy at work. He’s up to—’
‘I hear you, DI Logan.’ Whyte’s sudden formality sent a message to Logan, who pursed her lips as if to stifle a curse. ‘But I’ve made my decision.’ He walked round the table and held out his hand. ‘If you need anything else, Andy, let me know.’ Then he faced Jessie. ‘DS Janes. A pleasure,’ he said, and shook her hand. Then, ignoring Logan, he said to Smith, ‘They’re all yours, Mac.’
Smith looked embarrassed as Logan walked from the room without a word.
‘And then there were four,’ Jessie said.
‘Quite,’ Whyte said. ‘The less said the better.’
From what Gilchrist and Jessie could ascertain, Chief Super Whyte and his team had left no stone unturned in their investigation of Magner. They’d even gone all the way back to his primary school records at St Cyrus – about fifty miles north of St Andrews – where he was brought up as a single child to churchgoing, disciplinarian parents. He completed his secondary education in Mearns Academy in Laurencekirk, leaving at the age of sixteen with just two Highers – an A in Art and a C in English.
Magner then headed north to Aberdeen to work on the oil rigs, first as a roustabout, then graduating to assistant driller, working two weeks on and two off. It was during one of these two-week spells ashore that he first got into trouble with the law – nothing serious, just a drunken brawl outside a bar in Aberdeen city centre on a Saturday night. The incident was reported to Grampian Police, and both Magner and his assailant – Magner maintained he had been hit first, although witness statements suggested otherwise – spent two nights in custody. They then received identical fines on Monday morning at the Sheriff Court.
Throughout their search, DI Smith answered every one of Gilchrist and Jessie’s questions, led them to names and places in the files, pulled out witness statements, and let them take notes, all with the patience of a saint. He confirmed that eleven women in total had filed complaints of sexual abuse against Magner. All the alleged assaults occurred within an eight-year period – 1979 to 1986 – after Magner left the rigs to work as a salesman in the construction industry, but before he started Stratheden Enterprises with McCulloch. Gilchrist theorised that the itinerant life of a salesman lent itself to overnight stays away from home, and plenty of opportunities for short-term sexual liaisons that were readily forgotten or, as in Magner’s case, came back to haunt him.
Of the eleven women who had come forward, eight still lived in Scotland – from Nairn in the north to Eyemouth in the Borders – and three had moved to England – York, Birmingham and Manchester. Each had accused Magner of rape and forced penetration and, to a woman, declined to file a complaint at the time of the assault for fear of retaliation. Interestingly, all eleven complaints were made in the space of just forty-five days at the beginning of the year. It seemed as if they had all made the same New Year’s resolution, and made a pact to see it through.
‘And there were no complaints against Magner before 1979?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘We’re thinking that the regimented routine of working on the rigs kept him pretty much on the straight and narrow up to then.’
‘Getting into a fight in Aberdeen on his shore leave, you mean?’ Jessie said.
‘And his new job as a salesman opened up opportunities for new relationships.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Any other way?’
‘Women to rape whenever the mood struck him?’ Jessie scratched her temple. ‘Why didn’t they fight back, or at least report him?’
‘A big strong lad like that?’ Smith said. ‘After five years’ grafting on the rigs? With a few beers pumping up the testosterone? None of them would have been able to stand up to him during or after the alleged rapes.’
Gilchrist glanced at his notes. ‘The first woman to file a complaint was a Mrs Vicky Kelvin. What can you tell us about her?’
‘Née Smith. No relation,’ he added with a smile. ‘She lives in Dundee. Recently divorced. Three adult children.’
‘What prompted her to file the complaint now, rather than back then?’
‘Her divorce, she says. Apparently, that incident with Magner all these years ago got her hung up about sex. That’s what her ex-husband thinks, anyway. His grounds for divorce were incompatibility. Read that as frigid.’
‘How old is Mrs Kelvin?’ Gilchrist asked.
Smith flipped through some files. ‘Fifty-four.’
‘Divorced recently?’
‘Last year.’
‘And when did Magner allegedly—’
‘August 1980.’
‘So she would have been, what, twenty-eight? And Magner was . . . twenty-four? When the incident took place. Allegedly,’ he added.
‘Give or take a year.’
‘And once Mrs Kelvin filed her complaint, the next to do so was . . .?’
‘Lindsey Seaton.’
Gilchrist checked his notes. ‘And she did that on the very next day.’ He ran his finger down the printed list, mouthing the names, checking the dates. ‘Then nothing for a few days, then a flurry of activity until, in the space of six weeks, all eleven women had filed their complaints of sexual abuse—’
‘Rape.’
‘Rape . . . against Magner.’ Gilchrist sat back. He would put Smith in his mid-thirties. Liquid brown eyes conveyed a calm confidence that told him Smith was an honest man, someone who had perhaps joined the Constabulary with the idea of bringing justice to the world. He found it incredible that he had once felt the same way. But years of being ground down by a system flooded by criminals who thought prison was just a roof over your head and three free meals a day, until they let you out to commit another crime, had killed his idealism. Now the job seemed to be just a matter of tackling whichever case they shoved your way.
‘Isn’t it strange that they all complained in short order?’ Gilchrist said.
Smith shrugged. ‘Once the first complaint is filed, it kind of frees up the others to come forward. They might have been intimidated or frightened when they were younger, or thought it had only happened to them.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘But if they learned that the same thing had happened to someone else, they could have taken strength from that and come out of the shadows.’
Gilchrist gave Smith’s comments some thought. There had to be a ringleader, he was almost certain of that, someone who initiated the complaints, which then persuaded the others to step forward. ‘So every one of them just walked into her local police station and filed a complaint in person?’ he said.
‘All but one.’ Smith flipped through the files. ‘Here she is. Charlotte Renwick. Lives in Perth. Said she wanted to file a complaint only if she could do so in total anonymity. As an upstanding member of the local community – churchgoer, charity organiser, etc. – she did not want to risk damaging her reputation.’
‘Is she prepared to go to court?’
‘Provided she can maintain anonymity.’
‘Or she’ll withdraw the charges?’
‘Apparently.’
Gilchrist asked, ‘How did the others know about that first complaint by Vicky Kelvin?’
Smith shrugged. ‘Read about it in the newspapers. Saw it on TV.’
&nb
sp; ‘So Mrs Kelvin’s complaint made it into the Courier and beyond?’
‘Not at first. She said she felt bitter after her divorce, and hated everything to do with . . . she hated men. The memories of that incident apparently haunted her to the point where she blamed Magner for everything that had gone wrong in her life, and in particular the end of her marriage. Then, one night, something clicked, and she realised that if Magner had raped her, then maybe he’d raped others. So she decided to find out, and through social media and internet requests she managed to locate Lindsey Seaton. The two of them made their statements one after the other, then the rest heard and followed suit.’
‘Did she appear vindictive?’ Gilchrist asked.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Jessie snapped.
Gilchrist bit his tongue. But it troubled him that a vengeful woman might muster damaging support against any man if she went out of her way to convince others. He could never condone rape, or abuse in any shape or form, but he had seen how claims of violence or abuse were often exaggerated to strengthen a case. His own experience with DI Logan was proof of that sour-tasting pudding.
They spent the next forty minutes reading more statements, taking more notes, but made no progress in establishing a potential motive for murder. It seemed that the deeper they looked, the more Gilchrist came to understand that Magner had to be innocent.
Maybe Logan was right. Maybe they were barking up the wrong tree.
By two o’clock, Gilchrist’s head had cleared, and a worrying thirst for a pint was settling over him. He pushed himself to his feet and told DI Smith, ‘I think we’ve gone as far as we can for now. If anything unfolds, or springs to mind, let me know.’
‘Likewise,’ Smith said, his grip firm.
Gilchrist waited while Jessie and Smith shook hands, then he turned to the door and said, ‘We know the way out.’
‘Regards to DI Logan,’ Jessie said, unable to resist a parting quip.
‘And watch yourself with her,’ Gilchrist advised.
But Smith already had his mobile to his ear, and Gilchrist’s words of warning passed unheard.
CHAPTER 11
‘I’m feeling kind of peckish,’ Jessie said to Gilchrist.
‘Thought you were on a diet.’
‘Only when I’m not eating.’ They drove on in silence for another couple of miles before Jessie said, ‘Do you never eat?’
‘Only when I’m hungry.’
‘Do you never get hungry, then?’
‘We can have a pint and a pie in The Central if you like. Once we’ve spoken to Vicky Kelvin,’ he added, and eased the speed up to seventy.
Jessie seemed to sulk at his response, and powered up her mobile. ‘Christ on a stick,’ she said. ‘How many messages can one useless fat prick leave in a day? Listen to this: In St A where r u? Then, two minutes later, r u not talking?’ She let out a cursed hiss. ‘No, I’m not talking. What part of N-O don’t you understand?’ She worked her mobile some more, still cursing under her breath. ‘A total of six messages. In fifteen minutes. I mean, if you don’t hear back after the first two, you’re not going to hear back from any more, are you, no matter how many you send, the useless twat.’ She tapped the keypad. ‘Delete, delete, delete.’
‘Sounds like he’s making a nuisance of himself.’
‘Par for the course.’
‘Like me to have a talk with someone in Strathclyde?’
‘I can handle it,’ she said. ‘If he continues to pester, I’ll threaten him with my brothers. That should scare some sense into him.’
‘Aren’t they locked up?’
‘Only Tommy. But next month he’s due for early release for good behaviour. Read that as didn’t kick someone to death inside. But he’s still got time to take somebody out.’
‘Right,’ said Gilchrist, deciding to abandon the topic of Jessie’s criminal family.
They found Vicky Kelvin’s home, a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a high-rise complex that, at a stretch, overlooked Dundee’s waterfront. As they stood outside, Gilchrist about to ring the bell, Jessie said, ‘Next time we use the lift, all right?’
‘Climbing stairs is good exercise for your karate lessons.’
‘I get enough exercise running away from Jabba.’
‘Isn’t Jabba too fat to run?’
‘Smart arse.’
Gilchrist pressed the doorbell and caught the melodic chime from somewhere deep in the apartment. It took five seconds before the door peeled open to the sticky snap of wood tearing free of painted weatherseal.
A worn-looking woman with dyed black hair peeked out from behind the safety chain.
‘Mrs Kelvin?’ Gilchrist held out his warrant card. Jessie did likewise. ‘Do you have a couple of minutes?’
‘What d’youse want?’
‘To talk.’
‘Oh, aye? What about?’
‘Thomas Magner.’
The door eased shut for a moment, then reopened to a gruff, ‘In youse come, then.’
‘Tea would be nice,’ Jessie said, which received a glare from Vicky.
They strode along a dark hallway, past a kitchen that reeked of burnt toast and something more unpleasant. Gilchrist caught a glimpse of dishes piled high in the sink. The small living room was crowded with two clothes horses packed with women’s underwear – knickers, tights, bras, vests – that had long since lost their washday freshness. The whole place carried the stale smell of cigarette ash; the wallpaper yellowed at the ceiling line.
Gilchrist walked beyond the guddle and faced the window. Through glass smeared with bird shit and city grime – not been cleaned in months, maybe longer – the River Tay slid towards the sea. From the kitchen came the sound of a kettle being filled, dishes clattering, cutlery chinking. All they needed were a few chocolate biscuits to round off the afternoon.
He turned his back to the Tay. Jessie had finagled her backside on to the arm of a sofa that looked as if it doubled as a spare bed. In the corner, a muted TV flickered some old movie at them. Vicky made her way into the living room, carrying a tray with three mugs, the string of a teabag dangling over the rim of each. ‘I hope you dinnae like milk and sugar, ’cause I’ve no got any. And I’ve nae biscuits either. Ran out two days ago.’
She presented the tray to Jessie, and waited while she removed one mug, then turned to Gilchrist, who did not have it in his heart to decline.
He took a sip as a matter of courtesy, then said, ‘You recently filed a complaint against Thomas Magner for indecent assault.’
‘Rape’s indecent. Aye.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, it’s no right, is it?’
‘No, I mean why did you wait all this time before filing the complaint?’
She narrowed her eyes, then looked at Jessie, then back to Gilchrist. ‘What’s this about, eh? I’ve already told them all this.’ Her look shifted from irritation through mild anger to full-blown suspicion. ‘Who’re you with again? Here, give me another look at them cards.’
Gilchrist showed her his warrant card.
She squinted to read it.
‘We’re with Fife Constabulary. St Andrews CID. We’re not involved in the investigation into the allegations against Thomas Magner, but we’d like to ask you a few questions relating to your complaint.’
‘Like what kindae questions?’
Gilchrist took another sip of tea. ‘I’d like you to think back to when you lived in Aberdeen, and tell us how it happened.’
She screwed up her face, as if deciding whether to answer or tell them to leave. Then she said, ‘We was out for a bevvy, me and a couple of friends, Sheilagh and Morag. I’ve no seen them in ages.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Twenty-seven.’ She ran a hand under her nose, then wiped it on her skirt. ‘We used to go to the city centre. The Caledonian Hotel was my favourite. Right upmarket, so it was. At the weekend you could meet up with the crews coming off the rigs. There was loads of money back then, all they men
with two weeks off looking for ways to spend their dosh. We’d let them chat us up, and they’d spend the evening buying the rounds, then trying it on. But we were wise to them, so we were. We’d let them pay for everything, then pretend we were going to the bathroom and make a run for it. Leave them standing.’ She laughed at the memory.
‘Were you not worried about seeing them again?’ Jessie asked.
‘If we did, we’d chat them up like, then tell them we were married. Most of them had birds of their own to go back to anyway. They were just there to get pished. But we could go out and have a good time without spending any money. No like nowadays. Price of stuff would scare you shitless, so it would.’
‘And was that how you first met Thomas Magner?’ Gilchrist asked, nudging her back on track.
Her eyes narrowed again. ‘He was different, so he was. He’d look you up and down before coming over for a chat. Fancied himself rotten.’
‘Sounds like you were familiar with him,’ Jessie said.
‘After a while you get to know who goes to what pub, who to stay away from and who to let chat you up. So I’d seen him around, yeah. We all had.’
‘Did you see ever see him with a regular girlfriend?’
‘No really. Just chatted some up like.’
‘Did he chat up Sheilagh and Morag?’
‘He’d chat up anyone, really. He was just there with the crowd.’
‘So he was always with his friends?’
‘No real friends, if you know what I’m saying. Just riggers on the same shift.’
‘But the night you say you were attacked, when he tried to chat you up, was he by himself?’
‘Aye. Although I seen him earlier with someone who looked a bit like him. Same kindae hair, same build. I thought he was working with his brother. He’d chucked the rigs, and was wearing a suit. They both were.’