by Jane Renshaw
‘It’s hardly ideal, but I guess that person has to be Pippa.’
He breathed. ‘Okay.’ Making a Herculean effort, it seemed, to humour her. ‘If you want. I guess that’s something we should have sorted years ago anyway.’
‘Let’s call her now.’
‘Now? It’s the middle of the night where she is.’
‘If she agrees, we can at least get the legal stuff moving.’ She reached for the landline handset and held it out to him. ‘Put her on speakerphone.’
Pippa answered groggily. ‘You do know what time it is here?’
‘Sorry,’ said Neil. ‘We’ve um... We’ve got something to ask you, Pip.’
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yes, well, more or less...’ He sighed. ‘You know what’s been going on with the Johnsons... But no, we’re fine. It’s just that... Flora... We’re thinking we need to appoint someone as Beckie’s legal guardian – not that we’re thinking anything’s going to happen to us or anything, but all this has concentrated our minds and, well – Would you be okay with being next in line to look after Beckie?’
Several hundred miles of static.
In that second’s, two seconds’ pause, Flora knew that it was the wrong thing. She knew it before Pippa’s ‘Sure, of course’; the false note in her voice.
‘No, Pippa, actually it’s fine,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s not fair to ask you. You don’t want a child in tow – what were we thinking? I mean, I hope you’d still be part of Beckie’s life, just not – in a parenting role.’
‘It’s all hypothetical anyway,’ said Pippa sleepily. ‘Come on. Okay so these people are bad news, but they’re not going to murder you. Come on.’
‘Yeah, I know, sorry... Sorry to wake you,’ said Neil, giving Flora a What the hell? look. And as soon as he’d ended the call: ‘For Christ’s sake, Flora!’
‘Pippa would be a terrible guardian for Beckie. Last time she saw her, she got Beckie drunk.’
‘It was a few sips of wine.’
‘Beckie was staggering around giggling and Pippa thought it was hilarious. She couldn’t understand why I was so angry.’
‘Mm.’ Neil grimaced. ‘But Beckie does love her.’
‘She hasn’t seen her for three years.’
‘But still.’
‘Beckie loves her because Pippa lets her do whatever she wants. I know she’s your sister, and I’m really fond of her, but...’
Neil stood abruptly. ‘This was your idea, remember? But somehow it’s been turned back on me, as usual.’
‘Pippa’s not the right person.’
‘Okay. So who else do you want to phone up and badger with a bizarre and frankly really disconcerting request in the middle of the night, before changing your mind and insulting them by pretty much coming out and saying they’re not parenting material? Who else is there, Flora? Because let’s face it, we don’t really have any friends any more, do we?’
‘There’s Pam and James. Now the Johnsons know where we are, there’s no reason not to contact them. We could ask them...’
‘After disappearing on them like we did?’
‘They’ll understand if we explain it to them.’
‘Right. “Hi Pam, remember us? Yeah, sorry about that, sorry about dropping you like hot potatoes, but we had to disappear because Beckie’s psychotic biological family were after us. If they murder us, you’ll take her on, won’t you? Okay so you might have to move to Alaska to avoid the same thing happening to you...” Look – Pippa’s family. I know she’s not ideal, but if you’re intent on appointing a legal guardian for Beckie, we can’t ask anyone else to do it.’
‘I’m phoning Pam in the morning.’
‘Oh, okay, fine. Do whatever the hell you like, Flora, and as usual I’ll grin and bear the consequences.’
She blinked at him. ‘What?’
‘It’s always about what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Alec, we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place if you hadn’t be conned by Lorraine Johnson into giving her your name and address back in Arden. They probably found us this time because of something you did too, some absent-minded professor stunt –’
‘Yep, let’s play the blame game. That’s really helping. That’s really constructive. I’m trying to do what’s right for Beckie, but you keep coming up with these mad schemes, like we just up sticks and move again –’
‘It’s mad to want to do everything possible to keep our daughter safe?’
‘We should never have moved from Arden in the first place! We had a good life there, Beckie was happy – We should have dealt with this then, instead of running away.’
‘And you’re “dealing with it” now how, exactly? What do you think would have happened if we’d stayed in Arden? We’d probably be dead and Beckie –’
‘Oh Christ, Ruth! We wouldn’t be dead! I’m “dealing with it” – with the hypothetical “it” – by consulting a solicitor and going to the police and putting up cameras to catch them if they try anything. Excuse me for being half-way rational about it!’
And he banged out of the room like a four-year-old.
Chapter 27
‘Right son,’ I goes to Connor, parking up outside the newspaper office. ‘Let me do the talking, aye? Keep it zipped.’
Connor goes, ‘Can I no do the bit about the lawyers? It’s wrote down here.’ He taps the documents on his clipboard.
‘No you cannae. Maybe you can say it’s a nice fucking day but that’s it. This bastard’s an old pro and he’s gonnae be scrutinising every fucking word comes out our mouths. Nice day, nice wee town, nice wee paper. That’s it. Right?’
Connor gives me evils.
He’s smart in his funeral suit. He’s getting to be no a bad-looking laddie apart from they fucking Johnson ears. I’m in a wee sleeveless green and white silk blouse and a navy pencil skirt and heels. We get out the motor and in that fucking office.
There’s no a receptionist or nothing, just a poky wee room with copies of the paper spread out on a table and posters on the wall for jumble sales and rabbit shows and shite. There’s a door with a keypad and a bell. I get my thumb on it.
In a bit, this long streak of piss comes through the door and gives it, ‘Good morning, how can I help?’ He’s no much older than Connor. This cannae be the man.
‘Good morning,’ I goes. ‘Jessica Stuart and Kieran McKay from Making Waves. We’ve an appointment to see Mr Roberts at eleven-thirty?’
‘Ah, yes, hello. Please come up. I’m Chris.’ He huds the door open.
‘Nice day, eh?’ goes Connor. ‘Sweating like a pig’s knackers so I am in this fucking suit.’
I goes, ‘Kieran, too much information,’ with a chuckle. ‘So you’re Chris Mason? I read your piece on the controversy about local authority spending in the area. Great piece of journalism.’
He looks back down the stair at me. ‘Oh, thanks!’
Oh aye, I’ve done my research.
He takes us up to a dark wee lobby with glass doors off of it. Old bugger comes through one giving it ‘Ms Stuart?’ and hudding out his hand.
I smile. ‘Mr Roberts. Thank you so much for taking the time to see us. We do appreciate you must be busy.’
The wee blouse shows a fair bit cleavage and he’s on it.
‘Pleasure’s all mine.’
‘This’s Kieran MacKay, one of our trainees.’
He shows us into his office. There’s no an inch of wall space left without a framed photae on it of yokels on the bevvy, or a charity bint meeting Camilla, or a dug that’s pulled some fuckwit wean out a river. Roberts shuffles across the room. He’s eighty if he’s a day, more hair growing out his neb and his lugs than on his head.
I wave a hand at the walls. ‘All of life is here, eh?’
He shrugs, pulling out chairs for us. ‘All of life in Tweeddale, anyway – which amounts to the same thing.’
I cross my legs. ‘Can I just say before we start – reading The Bordere
r for background has been a joy. In my work I have to plough through a lot of column inches, and really, most of it these days, you’re thinking to yourself, a ten-year-old could do better. It’s genuinely been a joy to immerse myself in good writing.’
‘Well, thank you.’ He sits himself down behind his desk, a big brown bastard the size of a fucking tanker with piles of paper all over it, and raises an eyebrow. There’s hairs sprouting off of his eyebrows in every fucking direction and I’m having a hard time no staring. ‘Don’t get me started, Ms Stuart, on standards in modern journalism.’
‘Please, it’s Jessica.’
Bit more chit-chat and then we’re down to business. ‘So,’ I goes. ‘I think I outlined in my email that we’ve been commissioned by BBC Scotland to produce a three-part series on kids who kill – although it won’t be called that, obviously. This is the BBC we’re talking about. They’re giving us the Wednesday nine o’clock slot on BBC 2. Provisionally.’
He’s nodding along. Maybe he’s Googled Making Waves, but that’s fine – it’s a genuine TV production company operating outta Glasgow. Long as he hasnae contacted them we’re good.
‘We’re planning on the first episode focusing on the Tricia Fisher case. What I’m hoping you can supply us with is any details, any extra colour that didn’t make it into print.’
‘Aye,’ goes Connor. ‘And –’
I hold up a hand with a wee smile. ‘Okay Kieran, hold your horses, I’m sure Mr Roberts –’
‘Jeff,’ he goes.
‘I’m sure Jeff is aware that it’ll all be picked over by the lawyers before filming starts. Nothing with even a whiff of litigious will get past the grey men in suits, believe me!’
Jeff raises an eyebrow.
I’m no too keen on that eyebrow right enough. It’s like he’s maybe onto us. Maybe the old bugger’s contacted Making Waves after all and they were all ‘No, there must be some mistake.’ Maybe he’s just seeing what crap we’re gonnae come out with.
‘But I like to just ask people to speak freely, and worry about all that later. Obviously, as I said in my email, you’ll be recompensed for your time and if we film you for the production there’ll be further remuneration, but...’ I make a face. ‘As I said, this is the BBC, so don’t go booking any holidays in Barbados, Jeff!’
‘Or even Largs!’ goes Connor.
Jeff chuckles. ‘But I think we can run to a cup of tea and a biscuit.’ He turns to the door. ‘Chris!’ he yells. And when the young guy appears he gives him our order, and then we get down to it.
‘You have to remember this was nearly forty years ago,’ he goes, leaning back in his chair. ‘No mobile phones, no internet. The first I knew of it was a call from one of my several contacts in the police force, tipping me off to get my behind over to Lomax Road in Kelbinning where a tragedy was unfolding – kids messing about with a bow and arrow and an accidental fatality, was what we were led to believe.’
Now I’m relaxing. He’s an old school bastard likes the sound of his own voice. Too much of a fucking ego to maybe wonder why emdy making a documentary for the BBC would want to hear it. He’s no questioning nothing.
I goes, ‘This was on the actual day it happened?’
‘Yes. The sixteenth of June. When I got there, though, there wasn’t a whole lot to see. They didn’t close off the road as they would now. There were just a couple of panda cars and an unmarked car I recognised, parked on the driveway of Number 7. The road’s still very much as it was then – you’ll get some good shots of it. It’s a road rather than a street, just a few big houses on it before it leaves the village and winds off up into the hills. House is a big Edwardian detached job with what an estate agent would call “extensive policies”. Very nice part of a very nice village. The Fishers still live there, as I assume you know?’
I nod. ‘They’ve agreed to talk to us later.’
‘I parked on the street and walked up. Young bobby I knew gave me the lowdown. It seemed that these two twelve-year-olds, Tricia Fisher and Rachel Clark, both from well-off middle-class families, had got themselves a reputation at the village primary school as bullies. It seemed they’d asked a girl in their class, Gail Boyle, if she wanted to come and play in Tricia’s garden.
‘Things soon turned ugly. Tricia and Rachel tied Gail to a tree and Tricia fetched her brother’s bow and arrows. In those days, of course, kids did play with lethal weapons more or less willy-nilly.’
‘Those were the days, eh?’ goes Connor.
Jeff blanks the wee fuckwit. ‘So there was nothing odd about a fourteen-year-old boy possessing such a thing. When Tricia returns with the bow, she’s put on a pair of gloves. She fires off an arrow into the branches above Gail – nowhere near her, but Gail’s terrified, poor kid. She’s struggling to get free of the ropes they’ve used to tie her up, but she can’t. She’s screaming for help, but there’s no one to hear. It’s a big garden, and there are no adults around. Matthew Fisher, Tricia’s brother, is upstairs playing records at such a volume he’s never going to hear Gail’s screams... Tricia takes off the gloves and gives them to Rachel, and hands her the bow, and tells her to “Shoot the little cow”. Those were the exact words, apparently.’
I’ve got a dry mouth so I have. He’s on a roll. He’s loving it.
‘Tricia is goading Rachel. She’s saying “Do it!” and “It’ll be two against one, they’ll have to believe us and then he’ll go to jail!” It seems Tricia and her brother had had a massive falling out the day before over something trivial – he’d spilt Ribena on Tricia’s favourite dress, I think, and she was convinced he’d done it on purpose, and things escalated from there. Anyway, she’s screaming at Rachel to Do it, she’s saying Rachel is a wimp and a waste of space and that if Rachel doesn’t do this Tricia will never speak to her again. Rachel lifts the bow and –’
‘You’d think someone would hear them, eh?’ goes Connor.
I’m grinding my teeth. ‘If they did, they’d just think it was kids playing, Kieran. Sorry Jeff. Rachel’s got the bow...’
‘And she fires an arrow at Tricia’s face, point blank range. It goes through her eye and into her brain, killing her instantly.’
The house is like something off of Pride and Prejudice. But at least they’ve got new windaes in and it’s all modern inside, big grey leather sofas and abstract shite on the walls like a wean’s been chugging paint and boaked it up on a bit paper.
Mrs Fisher’s a scruntit wee wifie keeps rubbing her arms like she’s cold. Mister’s a big old bastard doesnae say much. I’m in sympathy mode, giving it, ‘Such an awful thing,’ and ‘I know Rachel was just a child, but it must have been hard that she wasn’t really... well, this is only my personal opinion and of course we couldn’t say this in the programme, but it seems to me she wasn’t really properly punished.’
Mrs Fisher’s blinking away. She’s sitting next Mister on the sofa opposite with her knees together and her right hand on her left arm, stroking it like it’s a wee dug.
‘That was what we felt.’
‘That girl should have been locked up for life,’ goes Mister. ‘God knows where she is now and what else she’s done. They moved away, of course. It’s our understanding they went to Australia – that’s where the mother was from.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Oh no, Rachel’s still in the UK. She’s changed her name of course. New identity. I don’t think even her husband knows about her past as Rachel Clark. She has a husband and a little girl. Her husband’s a university lecturer and they live in a big house in a very desirable part of Edinburgh. Tea and crumpets on the lawn kind of style.’
Mister’s raging. But if Flora was here right now, if she walked through that door, it’d be Missus got to the bitch first, no question.
I goes, ‘We’re planning to confront her on the programme.’
‘She should pay for what she did!’ goes Mister. ‘For murdering our daughter! Oh, she pulled the wool over the judge’s eyes all right, but that wasn’t man
slaughter. She was shouting at me and I just did it! I didn’t mean to kill her! How do you not mean to fire an arrow into someone’s brain?’
I nod. ‘Of course, we’re duty bound to give both sides. Gail Boyle gave evidence at the trial that Tricia had been goading Rachel to shoot Gail. That she wanted Rachel to kill her and then the two of them would say Matthew did it. His prints would have been on the bow and arrows...’
Mister makes like he’s gonnae jump up and pagger me, but Missus grabs his arm and goes, ‘It was a game. Tricia had such a vivid imagination, she was always making up these involved games... It was all just make-believe.’
‘Your son also gave evidence for the defence...’
‘Matthew was troubled,’ says Mister.
‘It was a tremendous shock for him,’ says Missus. ‘Losing his sister like that. He was fourteen years old.’
I nod. ‘But he told the court that Tricia was violent. That she enjoyed inflicting pain...’
‘That’s rubbish. Yes, they fought sometimes, but what siblings don’t?’ She turns to Connor. ‘Have you brothers or sisters?’
Connor nods. ‘Aye, sibling rivalry’s what you’d call a weapon of mass destruction in our house, eh M –’
‘Thank you Kieran,’ I goes. ‘So what Matthew was referring to was really just the normal rough and tumble of family life?’
Missus gives me a grateful wee smile. ‘Yes, that’s exactly it. Tricia was a lovely girl. Very warm, very kind and considerate. All this nonsense about bullying – that was all Rachel. Before she became friends with Rachel, Tricia had never been in any trouble. Not really.’
‘So you had concerns about Rachel before the –’
‘Oh, call it what it was!’ goes Mister. ‘Murder! It was murder! How could that evil little monster have possibly not meant to kill Tricia?’
I nod. ‘You’d concerns about Rachel from the get-go?’
‘Yes, we did,’ goes Missus. ‘She was a mousy little thing, quiet... watchful, in a very unsettling way... She’d sit watching me while Tricia burbled on. She was polite, she always said “Please” and “Thank you”, and offered to help with the washing up... but I always thought there was something... not quite right about her.’