“We can offer you one thousand pounds, that’s all.”
Margo couldn’t keep the surprise off her face. All that money for some old notebook? She’d struck gold. “It’s worth more than that,” she responded quickly, hoping the surprise on her face would be interpreted as outrage at an insulting offer.
The editor looked at her with pity. “It’s all we’re going to offer. You do realise this notebook is the property of the Courier? Instead of offering you money for it, I should by rights be calling the police to let them know you are in possession of stolen property.”
“You’re bluffing!”
He stood up, extracting his portly frame from the seat with some difficulty. “Good day.”
“No, I’ll take it!” Margo almost shouted, worried that she’d be left with nothing.
The editor didn’t bother turning around. “Pay her cash and bring me June’s notebook.”
Margo left the Courier’s offices with more crisp notes filling her purse. Her feet felt as if they were attached to springs as she entered the supermarket, heading for the wine section to celebrate the change in her fortunes. A glance at the Courier’s front page brought her back to earth with a bump – Child Abuse at the Orphanage – screamed the headlines, and underneath in smaller writing – alleges Margo MacDonald in a Courier exclusive.
She added the newspaper to her shopping bag, folding it so that the front cover was obscured from view. “Shit!” The expletive hissed from between her tightly clenched jaw.
When the reporter had listened to her story on Monday it had felt so good just to have someone to talk to, someone who nodded at the right times, made sympathetic noises. For the first time in her life Margo had imagined that someone actually gave a damn about her. Now she’d seen the headlines the truth hit her as hard as one of Oscar’s blows. She was just being used and abused again. Worse than that, her story was plastered across the newspaper and would be read by everyone in the town, everyone that knew her now had another window into her miserable life.
As she stood on the pavement she was acutely aware of passers-by looking at her, taking turns to point her out. Margo could imagine the conversations taking place around her in hushed tones: ‘That’s Oscar’s whore, that’s the woman who’s made all those dreadful allegations about poor Reverend Simon McLean, child abuse… lies… bitch… whore.’
She summoned a taxi, relieved to see someone she didn’t know in the driving seat and sat in the back, anxious to not have to speak on the journey home. For the moment Margo just wanted to sit alone with her thoughts as the road turned into rough track and the scenery grew as bleak as her mood. The car pulled into the tight turning circle in front of the cottage – at least the laird’s vehicle was nowhere to be seen.
Margo shut and locked the cottage door behind her in an effort to close out a world that had turned colder and more hateful than it had been when she had first awoken. She sat in the small living room, poured out a generous glass of wine without any regard to the foetus developing in her womb and drank the liquid in large gulps. It was just as well Oscar was dead, he’d never have wanted that story to come out about his abuse as a child. He’d have killed her rather than let her tell anyone, much less let a newspaper spread the story far and wide. Christ, what if the nationals did take the story up? Margo sat, undecided as to whether she could face any more news reports, wondering if she could make more money from selling her story to the big newspapers.
“Shit!” The word escaped from her mouth as she considered that the reporter’s notebook could have been worth more to one of the nationals. Too late now. At least there was a thousand pounds in her purse to add to the money hidden in the pillowcase. Another full glass of wine was in her hands without any memory of her pouring it, swiftly following the same route as its predecessor. What to do now? There were still the photographs. Initially she had considered them to be worthless and had been on the point of binning them when caution had stayed her hand. If the Courier was willing to pay a thousand quid for the old notebook, what might she be offered for the photographs, complete with skull and crossbones markings?
Margo put down the wineglass, running upstairs to gather the notes stuffed inside her pillowcase and adding them to the money she’d received from the reporter. One by one the notes were counted until she had £4600 forming miniature paper skyscrapers on the table next to her glass. She stared at the money, scarcely able to believe how much was there. The last of the wine slipped down her throat and she automatically reached for the bottle then paused. Wine wouldn’t be good for the bairn. An internal struggle occurred which Margo experienced more as an onlooker, the need for drink to deaden the pain of her existence versus the raw emotion of a mother protecting her young. The mother won and Margo screwed the cap back on a half-empty bottle wondering what had just happened.
The money was a substantial amount, more than enough for her to move and rent somewhere new – but it wouldn’t hurt to have some more. Wait and see what they write in tomorrow’s paper, Margo advised herself. If they mention the children then they’ll pay for the photographs – and the graveyard symbols on the back meant something to someone.
She looked out of the cottage window, seeing the empty track winding down the glen with nothing but the shadows of clouds chasing along the flanks of the hills for movement. For the moment the money and photographs had better be hidden away – just in case the laird came back.
XVIII
WEDNESDAY 09:41
Frankie received the first call from a previous orphanage resident at 9:41. A hesitant voice, close to tears, explained how he’d been regularly abused by the minister, that there were other people he could name but he wanted protection. When she’d hesitated, the line had gone dead. The number was unavailable when she tried calling back.
She sat back in her seat, aware of the two constables behind her staring listlessly at their screens. What did they even do all day?
“Have you had any luck with the names on the list?”
Frankie had provided copies of the list of children to the two constables in an effort to move the investigation forward. She was juggling so many balls in the air at once she felt she should have joined a circus. The Fiscal was proving a difficult man to reach and she needed his help to access the reports dating back over twenty years.
“Nothing yet, Frankie.” Lamb at last was starting to take this more seriously. “Apart from another five of them being recorded as dead.”
“Are you sure? The council only had records of three children dying in care.”
“Plain as day. They all died at the orphanage within a six-year period. The last one in the same year it closed.”
“That makes eight deaths, plus a girl who went missing and there’s next to no bloody record of her disappearance.” Frankie was sharing Corstorphine’s frustration. It seemed that every clue they followed turned into a dead end or was so poorly documented they couldn’t hope to pursue it any further. She didn’t hold out much hope that any post mortem reports they turned up would show anything out of the ordinary.
“I’ve got one here.” Bill McAdam interjected. “Simon Battle. Turned up on the VALCRI search. He’s banged up in Barlinnie. GBH.”
“Sure he’s one of our boys, Bill?”
“No doubt about it, unless he shares a NI number with another Simon Battle.”
“Good. I’ll apply to see him, see if at least we can get one person to tell us what went on in that place.”
Her phone rang again, the calls coming ever more frequently as news started to spread further afield. Frankie recognised the French accent immediately and responded before she could be asked for any leads. “Good morning, Josephine. I don’t have any information for you.”
“Actually, Frankie, I called to offer you information.”
“What have you got?” Her voice was resigned. So far the newspaper was leading them by the no
se with all the major leads coming straight off the pages of the Courier.
“I had another visit from Margo this morning.”
Oh God, Frankie thought. We need to talk to her before she goes and blethers to the paper again. She waited for whatever was coming next.
“She handed over June Stevens’ notebook.”
“What was she doing with that?”
“I didn’t ask. But it’s what is written inside in shorthand that I think you’ll find of more interest.”
“I’m listening!” Frankie said, more brusquely than she should have.
“She was investigating child abuse at the orphanage and somehow knew Oscar was a victim. She’d arranged to meet him in the glen by the tree. Why on her own, I have no idea. Oscar was, as far as her notebook records, the last person to have seen her alive.”
They both knew what this signified. The last person to have met a murder victim is always the first in the frame.
“There’s more. There’s a list of names that she believes were involved in the abuse, some of them were nuns who ran the orphanage, but there are a couple of names you might find more interesting.”
“I don’t have time for games, who are they?”
“The recently deceased minister, but you have him already. You might want to question the laird, he features prominently in her notes as an abuser. She also listed DI Brian Rankin and another name that I’d rather not mention over the phone.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Frankie’s suspicion was growing. These weren’t juicy morsels you’d freely hand out if there was no price to pay.
“Quite simply, you need to prove the allegations before we can print them.”
“Hasn’t stopped you so far,” Frankie retorted.
“Ah, but Frankie, these have been Margo’s allegations, recorded and signed by her. If they were untruthful, we merely suffer a slap on the wrist. The nature of the evidence our reporter was pursuing would result in a massive libel action or even imprisonment if we published without corroboration. You might also want to question whether her investigation was so sensitive that she was killed and the murder hushed up by your own police department.”
Frankie thought rapidly. If the reporter’s case was reopened, as Corstorphine wanted, then the notebook and where it had been for the last twenty years would become key evidence. “That notebook should be handed in to the police. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.”
“Her reporter’s notebook and all it contains remain the property of the Courier. I’ll share some of what she wrote down, but if you want to take the notebook as evidence you’ll have to apply for a warrant. And to do that you have to officially reopen the investigation into June’s death.”
Frankie stared at her screen as the call ended, eyes unfocussed as the enormity of what she’d just been told hit home. Where was bloody Corstorphine when she needed him? “Anyone know where the DI has gone?”
“He left twenty minutes ago, said he wanted to go over a few things with Brian Rankin,” Bill McAdam advised.
This was so far above her pay grade. She grabbed her car keys and broke out an evidence bag, just in case.
“Off to the Courier,” she called to the two bobbies and keyed in Corstorphine’s mobile number as she headed out again. “Come on, pick up!” The phone rang on and on before finally switching to voicemail. She terminated the call, stabbing at her phone in frustration. “Why don’t you pick up?”
Corstorphine had just parked outside the old DI’s neat bungalow, reaching into his jacket pocket on the back seat to retrieve his mobile. Missed call from Frankie. “It can wait,” he muttered to himself. “First I need some answers.”
Brian Rankin came out of his garden gate even as Corstorphine opened the car door. “Brian, can I have a word, in private?”
The old DI’s head shot up in surprise. “James! I didn’t see you there, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“I hope not,” Corstorphine countered. “Where are you going, can I give you a lift?”
“I’m just off to the newsagents. Been following the double murder investigation. You can’t take the detective out of me that easily.”
Corstorphine felt the implied rebuke that Brian had to buy the paper because his old work colleagues no longer involved him in any of their cases. “I’ll run you there. Hop in.”
He held the passenger door open for the retired inspector. “I wanted to talk to you about this double murder case anyway.”
“Of course, anything I can do to help.”
Corstorphine noticed the guarded look that the old detective sent his way and decided that going in straight for the kill would be the optimum approach. “Have you been talking to the ACC, asking him to warn me off looking into the June Stevens hanging case?”
“The Assistant Chief Constable? Why would I have anything to do with someone that senior? I’m retired, James. Old and retired and put out to pasture. No, I don’t know who could be responsible for interfering in your work but it’s nothing to do with me!”
Corstorphine’s eyebrow rose a few millimetres. Brian’s voice sounded too outraged. A detective trying to fool another… good luck with that, Corstorphine thought.
“Brian, you’re the only person I told about reopening the Stevens case.” It helped to slip in the occasional white lie, keep them guessing what was fake and what was real.
Brian sat quietly as the car drove along a road of identical houses. Corstorphine tried another prod. “I’ve talked to Hamish about the Stevens crime scene. He’s adamant that there was nothing she could have used as a step under the tree when he found her. How do you suppose she managed to climb up into the noose, Brian?”
“Are you accusing me of something, James?” The old detective’s voice was quiet, controlled.
“I’m just trying to get to the truth. Somehow that case is connected to these two recent murders. I don’t think her death was a suicide, Brian, and I want to know why someone like the Assistant Chief Constable is trying to stop me looking into the reporter’s suicide before I even get started.”
“Let me out here, James.”
Corstorphine pulled into the side of the road, watching his ex-boss intently as he struggled to release the safety belt and open the door. He was attempting to appear calm whilst desperately trying to escape Corstorphine’s company. Finally freed and out on the pavement he stood facing him down. “If you want to talk to me again, James, you’d better do it officially. Don’t bother paying any more social calls.”
The door slammed and the old detective walked towards the shops, back held straight despite the pain he had been experiencing just two days ago.
Corstorphine watched him go, trying to work out if Brian was furious, frightened – or a mix of the two. The short conversation had decided him. June Stevens’ death was going to be re-examined in the light of recent evidence from the attending officer. It wasn’t going to make him a popular man, especially having received an unequivocal message from the ACC. It appeared increasingly likely that the reporter had been murdered twenty years ago. Could the same murderer be responsible for the deaths of Oscar and the minister? And what motive could connect the three deaths after such a long time? If there was a link to historical child abuse, then the female reporter’s death didn’t fit the narrative.
Corstorphine was tempted to follow Brian into the newsagents to buy a copy of the Courier as well, if only to see how the paper was reporting the deaths today, but he thought it best to avoid him after their recent encounter. Let him stew for a while, then he’d get him in for questioning under caution. He drove back to the station, wondering whether his considering the old DI as an accessory to murder was justified, never mind the opprobrium he’d face questioning one of their own. As he saw it, there wasn’t much choice – the woman’s death twenty years ago had a connection to the two recent murders; the papal co
ins left at the scene of both crimes was too great a coincidence. It was as if the murderer was deliberately leaving a trail, pointing him towards the events of that day in 1997, opening up the historical child abuse at the orphanage to scrutiny. If that was the case then the murderer must have suspected that June Stevens’ death wasn’t a suicide. Whoever it was had to be stopped before inflicting their own brand of justice on anyone else; the last thing he needed was a vigilante let loose to be judge, jury and executioner. Brian was the only lead he had at the moment; he really had no choice but to bring him in.
He kept an eye on the cars he passed, the people walking by. Any one of them could be the murderer, any one of them might have knowledge of the orphanage and what really happened behind those walls. I’ll give it a few days, Corstorphine told himself, wait until I’ve more to go on.
XIX
WEDNESDAY 10:19
Frankie followed Josephine back into the same sparsely furnished office that had been the venue of their last meeting, pointedly taking out her notebook to record the conversation.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” Josephine shot her a quick, welcoming smile. “I’ve transcribed the most pertinent pages of June’s notebook into longhand, but for legal reasons I’ve been told I cannot pass them on without an official warrant. We have to protect our bottoms, I think is the way you say it?”
“Close,” Frankie responded. “We would say cover your arse.”
“Exactly.” Josephine beamed at her. “The discovery of June’s notebook and Margo’s ability to produce it after such a long time is one question that concerns us at the Courier. Are you planning to investigate this?”
“Is this off the record?”
“If you want it to be,” Josephine countered.
“Then yes, Margo has apparently had access to a lot more information than she initially led us to believe. So yes, we shall be asking her in for questioning.”
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