“And will you be reopening the investigation into the death of our reporter, June Stevens, over twenty years ago. Will this be part of your investigation?”
“I can’t answer for the DI who’s leading the investigation, apart from saying – strictly off the record – that DI Corstorphine has expressed a desire to look into June Stevens’ apparent suicide.”
Josephine nodded slowly, the word apparent was all she needed to know. “Then you will be able to requisition June’s notebook as part of your investigation.”
“That’s what you want, isn’t it? Us to reopen the June Stevens case?”
“This was before my time, well before my time, Frankie. But my editor never believed she committed suicide. He also doesn’t believe her daughter ran away from that orphanage.”
Frankie’s interest was piqued. “What does he believe happened?”
A smoker’s voice answered from the open doorway. “I believe she was murdered and Oscar was the murderer.”
Frankie spun round, startled by the man’s voice. A short, bespectacled man who didn’t look as if he’d ever seen the inside of a gym stood in the open doorway. He extended a hand which Frankie shook lightly. It was like holding onto a wet sponge.
“I’m Jack Hammond, editor of the Courier. Twenty years ago, I was the junior reporter here and worked alongside June. She was not suicidal, I can tell you that. She had a daughter she doted on and a lot to live for.”
“I’m Frankie...”
“I know who you are, DC McKenzie. I know all about every member of our local police station. It’s my job. Your job is to bring this out into the open so we can report it.”
“I’m sorry, what is it you want brought out?”
The editor wheezed with exasperation. “The orphanage stayed under the radar all the time it was here, but there are people who knew what went on behind the walls and did nothing about it.” He held June’s notebook up in the air, waving it to emphasise his words. “June was onto them. She’d talked to a few of the children and they opened up to her, told her things she didn’t enjoy hearing. The nuns of Holy Mercy were involved, of course. Children were regularly given the strap for bed-wetting, locked in cold stone cells without food or warmth for minor transgressions. Then one of the children told June he was being sexually abused, described what was being done to him in such graphic detail that it had to be the truth.”
“Did she tell you this?” Frankie asked, her notebook and pen completely forgotten. “Why didn’t the nuns report it?”
He grimaced. “The nuns were complicit in it. Any children reporting such things were beaten so hard they didn’t dare mention it again.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an inhaler, taking a deep breath before replacing it. His breathing became less ragged as he concentrated on breathing evenly, the rattle in his throat abating.
“June suspected children died there, deaths that were never reported. And then of course the building was demolished, sold at a nice profit for the Catholic Church to a developer and any evidence of burial sites lost with it. Did she ever tell me what it was she was investigating? No, she never told me. Thought I was too young and innocent to hear about such depravity in our perfect little town. She gave me clues, though, clues I only realised after her death.” He lowered his head as if in shame. “I might have been able to help her if she’d only trusted me. Her notebook, though, everything she knew is in here.”
“What is it you had to tell me in person? What is it you found in her notes?”
The editor and Josephine exchanged a knowing look. “We’ve already told you that the minister and the laird are listed as paedophiles, two adults the children mentioned by name.”
“Yes, and DI Rankin, you mentioned him as well.” This was directed towards Josephine, who had remained silent since the editor had entered the room.
“DI Rankin was not mentioned as a predator. He was a regular visitor to the orphanage, but June found nobody who claimed he had abused them in any way – she specifically states this in her notes.”
“Why did you give me his name then?” Frankie found she was having to hold back her anger. “If I’d been able to reach my boss earlier and pass on what you told me over the phone, he would have accused Brian Rankin of being a bloody paedophile!”
Josephine held up a hand to stop her. “No, what June wrote in her notebook is that he’s suspected of covering up the murder of three children that we know died at the orphanage. Three children who were either beaten or starved to death, or never given medical treatment. Then she mentions five children whose deaths were never even officially reported. Your inspector, for whatever reason, prevented what was going on at the orphanage from ever coming out. He’s as guilty as those who abused the children, more so!”
Frankie sat quietly, trying to imagine the quiet old inspector having any involvement in the events Josephine described. “It doesn’t sound like the Brian Rankin I know.” Her voice came quietly, doubtful. “Why would he even do such a thing? It makes no sense.” She said the last words emphatically, deciding whatever was written in the reporter’s notebook wasn’t necessarily the truth.
“He did it because not only the sheriff was involved, but someone else who carried a lot more clout.
“Who?” Frankie asked. “Who can possibly be so important that you can’t even mention his name over the phone?”
The editor looked steadily into her eyes, weighing how much she could be trusted. She passed whatever test he set. “Lord Lagan,” he said softly.
Frankie stared at him is disbelief. “Jesus!”
“It may as well be,” the editor replied. “Imagine if we tried to report that a senior member of the House of Lords was engaged in lewd behaviour at a Catholic orphanage. The last high-profile person to be accused of child abuse only came to light long after he was dead – conveniently. Do you think this was because he was so clever at hiding what he’d been doing that none of his victims ever reported him to the authorities?” He gesticulated, thrusting the notebook in Frankie’s face to emphasise each point. “He was a famous figure, renowned for his charity work. If the hospitals let on that they knew he was sexually interfering with patients, male, female, young, old… God, he didn’t even care if they had a pulse! They’d lose millions of pounds of donations and then have potential damages to pay. Was he protected? Work it out for yourself.” He mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “If a whisper of these allegations reaches the real power in this land then you’ll find your investigation is closed down before you’ve even begun. That’s why we can’t mention these names until you have a firm case against them.”
Frankie shook her head. “This can’t be right. Did your reporter have any evidence to support this allegation? We can’t proceed on the basis of an old notebook that we can’t even be sure did belong to June Stevens, much less put people like that in the frame.”
“This is how we should proceed.” The editor spoke quietly. “First we need to make copies of this notebook and place them where they can be easily accessed if we are threatened.”
Frankie thought this was getting into the realms of paranoia. “Oh, come on, who’s going to be threatening us?”
Josephine joined the conversation. “We would not be the first journalists to suffer an unexpected death because we were about to reveal an inconvenient truth. If killing us will not prevent the distribution of June’s notebook, then that makes our lives a little bit safer.”
The editor nodded in agreement. “Secondly, the police have to proceed very carefully. If there is any hint that you know the full extent of the people involved in the abuse then you’ll be closed down – same as they did with your predecessor, DI Rankin.”
“You think he was leaned on?”
“Leaned on, threatened, told in no uncertain terms from on high to close any investigation down. Yes, Frankie, and that is why you will meet resistance
from your superiors if they know you’re digging. You have to find the evidence, incontrovertible evidence, before your investigation gets closed down and you end up silenced somehow.” He took another puff of his inhaler. “And I want justice for June. I want to print what those bastards did to the children and put whoever we can behind bars.”
Frankie nodded in mute acceptance. What at first sight had seemed to be a couple of random murders was developing into something that had the power to change all of their lives, for the worse. “You’re aware that the two recent murders are linked. Do you have any idea who may be behind them?”
The editor and Josephine exchanged another of their mute glances. The editor answered. “At first we thought Oscar’s death was a suicide, until we received information that the mechanism found in the tree was similar to the one found in the church.”
“How did you know about that?” Frankie couldn’t help but interject.
Josephine smiled that same ingratiating smile that was beginning to grate on Frankie’s nerves. “We can’t identify our sources.”
“Never mind about that!” The editor spoke quickly. “Oscar and the minister, both killed apparently by the same person. We think that Oscar was hired as paid muscle to close down any potential leaks about the orphanage. It’s possible that both of them were seen as witnesses and dealt with by MI5 or some shadowy government agency.”
“No, I don’t think so.” Frankie replied thoughtfully. “I don’t believe any professional assassin would rely on such complicated bone clockwork mechanisms to commit murder. No, this has the feel of someone who has a personal involvement, someone who lives locally and knows the daily routines of these people.” She looked at them both carefully before continuing. “Someone who is out to avenge the death of June Stevens. Do you have any ideas who, apart from yourselves, could have such a link to June?”
Frankie left the Courier offices in a state of near panic. Far from providing another clue that would help them nail whoever was the murderer, the newspaper’s staff had dropped a bomb on the entire investigation. She had to get hold of Corstorphine before he began anything official into June’s death. The editor was right in one regard: if the names in June Stevens’ notebook were involved in child abuse and the ensuing cover-up, then the full weight of the British establishment would come falling down on them from a great height.
XX
WEDNESDAY 11:18
Frankie drove into the police station car park, relieved to see Corstorphine’s car parked in its usual spot. She headed straight for his office, knocking smartly on the door. Something in her expression must have alerted him, as he beckoned her in immediately, shutting the door behind her.
“What is it, Frankie? Have we made any progress identifying the murderer, or a motive?”
Frankie calmed herself down, taking a couple of deep breaths as she composed her response. “The Courier called me, said Margo had just handed in the dead reporter’s notebook.”
Corstorphine’s surprised expression said it all. “After all these years. Where has she been hiding it?”
Frankie held up a hand to forestall him. “There’s more, sir. I’ve not read the notebook, it’s in shorthand, but the reporter, Josephine Sables, has transcribed the contents.”
“We need that notebook as evidence!”
“Yes, sir, but they’ll only to release it if you open an official investigation into June Stevens’ death – and you’ll have to come at them with a warrant. The point is, though, June Stevens had identified some of the suspected abusers in her investigation notes. They include the minister of St Cuthbert’s and the sheriff, Anthony McCallum.”
“He’s identified as one of the abusers?” Corstorphine was incredulous.
“That’s not all, sir. The editor thinks that Oscar was employed as hired muscle to keep the orphanage abuse under wraps, stop any word of it ever getting out. He thinks that’s why Oscar killed June.”
“I think the editor should leave any detective work to people qualified to make such assumptions.”
“There’s more, sir. The editor claims that DI Rankin was under orders to keep June’s death a suicide, not investigate it fully. The notebook goes on to allege that there were more child deaths than the three that were officially recorded. The Courier reckons that five more bodies were buried in the grounds and then covered up by the building development works after the orphanage was demolished.”
Corstorphine sat silently, processing the information and trying to identify what might be real from a string of outlandish statements. “We can’t have the laird in for questioning, not on the basis of such an unreliable source as a dead reporter’s notebook – if that is even her notebook.”
“Sir. I don’t think we can do anything officially at the moment.”
“Why on earth not, Frankie?” Corstorphine’s patience was almost at an end.
“Because, sir, there’s one other thing I’ve not told you.”
“Well, get on with it, we don’t have time to play games.”
Corstorphine looked genuinely surprised as Frankie bent her head towards his ear to whisper Lord Lagan’s name. His shocked reaction was proof enough that he’d heard her correctly.
“There’s no way…”
“I didn’t think so either, sir, until I started wondering how such a cover up could have happened.”
Their eyes met, complicit in a shared look.
“OK, Frankie, this is how we are going to play it. We need real evidence, not the musings of a long dead reporter, otherwise we stand a very good chance of being removed not only from this case, but the force altogether. We have to find the children who were at that orphanage, we need them to come clean over what they knew.”
“I’ve already seen one person, the uncommunicative William Booth.”
“He was definitely one of the orphans?”
Frankie nodded.
“You think someone’s got to him?”
“Not sure, sir. If it was Oscar, then he won’t be worrying him now.”
“We can try again. Maybe I’ll speak to him this time. Anyone else?”
“Bill tracked another child down through his NI number, Simon Battle – presently banged up in Barlinnie for GBH.”
“Good. He’s not going anywhere. Let’s have a word with him as well, eh?”
“What about investigating June’s death, sir?”
Corstorphine stared out of the window, seeking whatever inspiration he could find from the car park. Car park – didn’t they discover Richard III’s body under a car park? And the orphanage garden had been left as a public space.
“We better not proceed in any official way, Frankie. I’ve had my orders and if there’s any truth in that notebook then starting an investigation would be a red rag to a bull. What do you make of the reporters at the Courier?”
“I think they’re fairly straight, sir. They’ve helped our investigation along by passing on what Margo told them.”
Corstorphine stroked his chin, a habit left over from the days he used to sport a beard. “OK, we may be able to work with them. Let the reporters do some of the dirty work without anyone knowing we’re working together.” He thought for a second. “Right. I’m going to pay a social call on the laird, just to sound him out. You arrange for William Booth to come in at his earliest convenience for a chat. If he can be tied to the supply of animal bones, then he may have more than a coincidental connection to the murders – and he’d have a motive for both those deaths. I want you to organise a visit to Barlinnie as well. Let’s try for first thing tomorrow, eh? See what Mr Battle has to say about his time at the orphanage.”
Frankie asked the constables whether they’d been able to track down any more of the orphans, but they’d had no luck so far. Whatever the reason, the children who’d been to that orphanage were proving particularly elusive to find. She arranged a visit to Bar
linnie for herself and Corstorphine at 11:15 Thursday, then persuaded William Booth that his attendance could either be voluntary or otherwise if he preferred. He was booked in for 7:30 Friday.
She looked at the crazy board. William Booth and John Ackerman shared space with Margo McDonald as ‘persons of interest’. How was Corstorphine going to handle the laird without insinuating that he knew he had been accused of child abuse? Sometimes it was the best career choice to stay at the level you were, something the constables and desk sergeant would all agree on. It was lunch time, good a time as any to see what the old clockmaker had made of the pile of bone fragments she’d dumped on him yesterday.
Frankie pushed open the door, ears tensed against the urgent clanging the bell made above the door and waited for the owner to make an appearance. In detective work, there are lines of enquiry that have all the makings of a rich lode – a seam of clues and evidence that if mined efficiently provide all you need to build a substantial case for the prosecution. The converse was also true, some seams may look promising and a disproportionate amount of energy is expended before the realisation dawns that you have a heap of fool’s gold in front of you. This seam didn’t even live up to the expectation of fool’s gold.
The old clockmaker appeared, pebble glasses perched on the end of his nose. He reminded her of Pinocchio’s cartoon father, Geppetto. She was about to start speaking loudly and clearly when he turned smartly on his heel and disappeared back into the depths of the shop, returning again with an elaborate mechanism suspended in a framework of old meccano metalwork. He wordlessly attached a small weight to a wire and started spinning a metal disc in the middle of the apparatus. The clockwork came alive, bone gears meshing together and moving in an almost silent mechanical ballet.
“There you are, my dear.” the old man announced. “It really is a quite accomplished work, if I say so myself. I’ve had to improvise, of course. The mechanism was almost intact but a lot of the supporting framework that held the gears in place was missing.”
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