Whirligig

by Andrew James Greig

  Corstorphine and Frankie exchanged a glance. This was the first time anyone had mentioned the girl. “What can you tell me about her? What was her name?”

  “Abigail Stevens. She must have been five, something like that. I didn’t see much of her. They kept the young ones in a separate part of the building.”

  “What happened to her?” Frankie asked.

  “I don’t know. As I say, didn’t really see much of her. I know she spent a lot of time in the hole.”

  “What’s that? The hole?” Frankie pressed.

  “It was a room with small windows, no heat or anything. Nothing in there but the stone walls and floor. If you didn’t do what the nuns told you then you were put in there without anything to eat or drink. Solitary confinement I think you’d call it now.”

  Frankie exchanged a significant look with Corstorphine before asking him to continue.

  “I often saw her with that detective who was in here earlier. He was the one who brought her in. I was out playing in the yard when he turned up in the police car with her in the back. I only noticed her because she was screaming, trying to get away.”

  “DI Brian Rankin brought her to the orphanage?” Corstorphine asked.

  “Aye. He was never interested in the boys, if you get what I mean. We reckoned he had a thing for young girls.”

  “Did you ever know that for sure?” Frankie was sceptical.

  Craig glared at her defiantly. “Don’t you believe anything I’ve said? You think I’d make stuff like this up?”

  Corstorphine held a hand up, a pacifying gesture. “We believe you, Craig, but we need more than just an idea that Brian Rankin may have been involved in the sexual abuse of young girls. Can you state for the record that you saw Brian Rankin involved in any such activity?”

  Craig shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “No. Not for sure. It’s just every other visitor who came was there for one thing. He may not have done anything.” He brightened suddenly. “Oscar reckoned he’d seen the girl in the detective’s car in the town, the morning she disappeared. Everyone else said she’d run away, probably died on the moors.”

  “We’ll look into it.” Corstorphine paused, watching Craig closely as he asked the next question. “What can you tell us of your movements during the last two weeks?”

  “You think I had an involvement in the murders?”

  “Did you?”

  Craig didn’t answer immediately, his eyes fixed on the table between them. “I’ve thought about killing the people that did those things to us, yes, of course I have. Any of us will have had the same thoughts.” His eyes raised from contemplation of the table to match Corstorphine’s piercing stare. “I don’t have the guts to kill them. I wish I did.”

  Corstorphine’s eyebrow refused to rise. He was speaking the truth. “I still need to know where you’ve been over the last two weeks.”

  “I’ve been replacing power lines north of Inverness over the last month. Monday to Friday. Just call the Inverness office, they’ll be able to confirm.”

  “And weekends?”

  “I spend the weekends with my wife and family.” Craig’s expression changed in an instant to pleading. “I don’t want my wife to know about any of this, anything that happened at the orphanage. You can talk to her but don’t tell her about the abuse, please. I’m not sure I can take it.”

  “We’ll not mention anything about the orphanage, Craig, but it’s already in the press. I can’t guarantee you’ll be able to keep your involvement quiet.”

  “Then I’m not saying anything.” He made to stand.

  “Wait!” Corstorphine held his hand level to the table, indicating that he regain his seat. “None of us here will release the names of people involved, you have my word on that. The press doesn’t know your names. They only have Margo and Oscar – neither of whom were orphans. I’ll talk to the reporter at the Courier, make sure she doesn’t name any of you, even if she somehow manages to get that information. That’s the best I can do, Craig. Either way you stand the same risk of being identified. If you don’t help us with this investigation that’s your prerogative, but without your help it will be that more difficult to put these people behind bars. Will you help us? Or do you want to live with the possibility you had one chance to get back at them and bottled it?”

  Craig’s expression reflected the conflict going on inside his mind.

  “I’ll give you a statement.” The words came reluctantly, in a quiet monotone.

  Corstorphine nodded. “I’ll do everything I can to protect your identity, you and the others. You have my word on it. In the meantime, I want you to remember everyone that you saw at the orphanage. Names, dates if you can, what they did.”

  As the interview drew to a close, Corstorphine knew he finally had enough detail to make a case, more than enough to prevent the ACC from closing them down.

  XXIX

  FRIDAY 12:11

  Corstorphine stared at the crazy board, desperately searching for a clue to jump out and point the way forward. He glanced at the clock, still no sign of the Assistant Chief but it was only a matter of time. He had the three murders arranged at the top of the board; the minister and sheriff, both of whom each of the former orphans had accused of child abuse, and Oscar who apparently was employed as a hired thug. Circumstantial evidence now placed Oscar at the scene of the reporter’s death, back in 1997. Oscar would have been about eighteen, certainly old enough and strong enough to have committed the act. If the reporter had been about to go public on what she’d discovered about the orphanage, then there were a number of people who’d have wanted her dead. He added her daughter to the board, Abigail Stevens, and pinned a red string connecting her to Brian Rankin. The man was responsible for bringing her to a place where he must have known she was likely to suffer abuse – yet, according to Craig Derbyshire, he may also have been responsible for getting her away some months later. Why?

  Corstorphine had photocopied the five small children’s photographs and placed them on the board, waiting for word from Lamb and the ground penetrating radar. How five children could just go missing, with social services and all the other agencies involved, was beyond him. The Sisters of Holy Mercy would have to wait for the moment. He didn’t have the resources to deal with them until he’d identified and arrested the murderer, although they were as guilty as sin itself. Whoever the murderer was, they must have had local knowledge to select the location and means of murdering each victim, especially since each victim’s detailed movements were known prior to each death. It had to be one of the orphans. They had the motive. He felt this was especially likely given the specific nature of each death. Each punishment fitted the individual, if not the crime. The way the laird had died suggested that the murderer had also spent some time in solitary confinement. In the hole, as Craig Derbyshire had put it. The similarity to his chosen method of execution couldn’t have been mere coincidence.

  The suspects, then – Margo still remained on the periphery, but he was fairly certain she didn’t have the skills or imagination to plan each death so carefully. Craig Derbyshire was a possibility. He had managed to hold down a job locally and put his past behind him, to a large extent. He had also displayed satisfaction at the mention of each death. His work alibi was likely to stand up to scrutiny, leaving him the weekends to plan and execute each murder – assuming his wife would cover for him. That seemed unlikely, if he was desperate to keep his time at the orphanage a secret from her. There was nothing more likely to attract her interest than to involve her in a deception. George Winter was homeless, a drug addict and beggar. He was the unfortunate victim of a life loaded against him before it had even begun. Did he have the wherewithal to plan and execute three murders to this level of detail? He was the only one without an alibi, but then again, he would have struggled to remember what year it was, never mind provide a detailed explanation of his movements during the
past fortnight. Corstorphine wrote each name down on the wall as he considered them. That left William Booth, the butcher. He lived locally and worked for himself. Even so, with limited time, he could have got away and primed each death trap in readiness for the victim. He was also the only person with ready access to bone to make the devices. Finally, there was the gamekeeper, John Ackerman. The only link he had was with the laird and Oscar, but he had broken into the laird’s house. What about the other orphans? Those who had been on the council’s list, but they had so far been unable to track down?

  Corstorphine shook his head, the job was looking impossible – chasing a murderer who left no forensic clues, only bizarre contraptions that must have taken hours to construct. He tried to get inside the murderer’s head, to imagine how they would have coped as a child, forgotten and unloved in that cold Victorian orphanage. How had any of them survived?

  “Anything I can help with, sir?” Frankie’s enquiry brought him back to the present.

  “Just trying to identify a likely culprit, Frankie. Someone clever enough to plan these murders without leaving any evidence connecting them to the scenes. Somehow, I don’t think it’s anyone we’ve put on the board.”

  “Do you think there’s going to be another murder, sir? Is there someone we should be keeping an eye on?”

  Corstorphine rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble rough against his fingers. The relentless string of events was beginning to take its toll, his personal hygiene held hostage to the need for sleep before the next day’s fresh horrors. “The only other person we have identified as an alleged abuser is living in London, and well enough protected from some insane murderer.”

  “Insane?”

  He turned towards Frankie, eyes red-rimmed where he’d been rubbing them to keep alert. “Perhaps. Don’t they say that it’s a fine line between insanity and genius? Whoever our murderer is, they’ve designed some extremely efficient methods to kill their victims without having to be present at the death.”

  “Could be they’re squeamish, sir. Don’t like the sight of blood.”

  “Possibly, Frankie. I’m open to all possibilities at the moment.” He changed tack. “We need Craig’s statement signed before he leaves. And has Bill finished preparing George Winter’s statement?”

  “I’ll check, sir. If not, I’ll type Craig’s. I always knew my touch-typing course would come in useful one day.”

  Corstorphine watched her as she spoke to the PC. The resigned look she sent his way told him she’d be typing for the next hour at least. He sat down in his office and looked up the number for Barlinnie. The prison staff weren’t keen to arrange an impromptu telephone interview with Simon Battle, making their displeasure felt by taking an eternity to remove him from his cell and into an interview room. Corstorphine waited; he needed an excuse to do nothing, to just sit with the receiver held to his ear whilst the world continued without him. A click announced someone on the other end of the line, followed by a hesitant voice querying who was there.

  “This is Detective Inspector James Corstorphine, is that Simon Battle?”

  A pause, then a reluctant response to the affirmative. “What do you want?” The voice betrayed anger, a reluctance to engage. “Thought you lot were coming here yesterday morning. Did you find something more interesting to do?”

  “We had to turn back. Sheriff Anthony McCallum was reported missing. We found his body last night.”

  “The laird? No way!” The line lay silent, waiting for confirmation or denial. The silence provided the answer Simon needed. “Fucking great! You’ve just made my day. Who got to him?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m talking to you, Simon. I was hoping you might have an idea. I’m investigating alleged child abuse at the City Road orphanage as part of a multiple murder enquiry. I have statements from Margo McDonald, Craig Derbyshire, George Winter and William Booth, who have all stated that abuse happened at the orphanage, that you were also a victim – and that Oscar Anderson set you up for the GBH charge you’re in for. I can understand you have little to trust the police for, Simon, but I’m determined to get to the truth and won’t stand by whilst an innocent man rots in jail.”

  The line fell silent again. Corstorphine could picture Simon processing the news, working the angles, trying to trust the enemy.

  “Who else has gone? You said multiple murders.”

  It was Corstorphine’s turn to be silent. No point in holding back, though. The press would have the names soon enough. “Oscar Anderson was killed sometime Friday, the minister Reverend Simon McLean on Sunday and the sheriff yesterday. I think it’s one of the orphans taking revenge. Do you have any idea who may be responsible, Simon? Before anyone else dies.”

  “Those bastards all deserved it, and there are others out there who should be worried. I’m glad they’re all dead.”

  “Who else should be worried, Simon? Give me some names.”

  “You said you knew I was innocent.”

  “That’s what the four statements I have say, yes.”

  “And you’re going to get me out of here?” His voice held the first sign of hope, a drowning man clutching a straw right enough, but still having something to hold on to.

  “I’m putting the wheels in motion, Simon. I can’t promise it will happen any time soon but with this new information I’m confident we can get you released, yes.’ Corstorphine held back, feeling the fish nibbling on the line. Strike too soon and he’d lose the catch.

  “I don’t know who’s taking them out, but I’m fucking glad he’s out there. You’d better tell that old detective to watch out – he knew fine well what was going on here and did nothing. There’s only one other bastard who needs killing. Lord fucking Lagan! Hope he gets to him before you do.”

  “There’s nothing else you can give me? No idea who we should be looking for?”

  Simon’s laugh echoed down the line. “Man. I’ve been in here for years – how the fuck am I meant to know who it is?”

  Corstorphine let him know they’d be making a return trip to take a written statement and put the phone down.

  It was no good, he couldn’t put off getting the old DI back in for questioning now that he had sworn statements, unwilling as he was to confront the possibility that his old boss – someone he’d always looked up to – could be implicated in all this. Decision made, he dialled Brian’s home number. At least he could provide him with some warning this time, give him the opportunity to explain to his wife before the squad car collected him.

  Brian answered the phone. “Hello, James. I wondered how long it would take before I heard from you again.”

  “We’ve three signed statements, Brian, implicating you directly in the abuse at the old orphanage. I’ve no choice but to get you in, officially this time.”

  “I never touched any of those kids, James.” His voice held vehement denial, “So if any of those so-called witnesses have made that claim then they’re lying!”

  “You’re not being accused of abuse, Brian, but of knowingly hiding it and refusing to investigate any of the children’s allegations. Why, Brian? Why didn’t you help them?”

  The phone remained mute. “What about the girl, the reporter’s daughter, Abigail Stevens? One of our witnesses claims you brought her to the orphanage after her mother’s so-called suicide. Why would you leave a defenceless six-year-old girl in a place like that when you knew fine well what was going on?”

  “She was safe there. I made sure of it.” His voice was so quiet Corstorphine had to strain to hear him.

  “How could she possibly be safe, man? In the hands of psychopathic nuns and subject to the sexual whims of any number of visitors! Christ. I thought I knew you.”

  “Nothing ever happened to her. I swear it.”

  “Where did you take her, the morning she vanished? Someone saw you with her, Brian, in your car. She didn’t just run
off and become lost on the moors, did she?”

  There was a silence. Corstorphine wondered if the old DI was still on the other end of the line, then he spoke.

  “Yes, I took her away from there. I set her up with a new family, somewhere far away where she’d never be found. I knew her mother had been murdered and I was fairly sure it was Oscar who murdered her, left her hanging. I can imagine the sadistic bastard enjoying telling her how her daughter would end up in the orphanage as she struggled on the rope. It was my poor attempt to make amends, try and make one thing good out of it.”

  “Why, Brian? You could have reported it, got the placed closed down, made sure those involved were put away for a long time”

  “What names have you got, James? The laird? The minister?”

  “There’s more than that, Brian and you’d know better than I. You can add the previous Member of Parliament to the list.”

  Brian laughed, the sound echoing down the line like a lost soul. “You don’t have the biggest fish then. Think I’d have stopped doing my duty for a sheriff or an MP? No, James, think Lord Lagan from the bloody House of Lords. That’s why I had no choice, that’s why I saw small, bloodied bodies buried in makeshift graves and nobody dared say anything about it. Your investigation will be closed down, you know that, don’t you? There’s no way the establishment can allow anything this big to get out. What’s a few unloved children compared to the sanctity of the British establishment, James?”

  Corstorphine forgot to breathe for a few seconds. Brian’s corroboration of the name Frankie had whispered two days ago suddenly made the unthinkable a real possibility. “You can make this right, Brian. Just give us an honest statement naming everyone, and I mean everyone, that was involved. I’ll take it all the way, I promise. We’ll make sure you’re protected inside, if it comes to that.”

  “I’m sorry, James. I’m so sorry.” A muffled sob was immediately stifled at the other end. “I’ve got to go now, James. I wasn’t a bad cop. There was nothing I could do – not against them.”