“They harm not only themselves,” Jamieson cried out, exasperated. He looked at each of them in turn, Coulter, Russell, Webb, then back at the Monsignor, as if they were a class of fools who couldn’t see the obvious. “But others. All of us. An innocent is corrupted, so she will go on and corrupt another, another ten, more. The cycle goes on.”
Coulter took a step closer to Jamieson. “Are you telling me that… you killed Frances Mulholland?”
Jamieson shook his head forcefully from side to side. “I did not lay a finger on her.”
“Murder is a mortal sin,” explained the Monsignor. “A responsible adult would not have the option of Limbo. Or even Purgatory. Especially if he has not made a good confession.” The meaning of his words was perfectly clear, yet there was silence in the dark church, until Coulter managed to say the words.
“You needed another child.” He looked up at the distant altar. Silence reigned in the church, none of the five men present looking at one another. “But who?” Coulter turned to Jamieson, eyes scorched with fury. “Who?”
Jamieson held his gaze defiantly.
“Jesus – not Darren?” Behind Coulter, Russell made to lunge at the priest, but was held back by Sergeant Webb.
“You told Darren to kill her.”
Jamieson shook his head again. “He couldn’t.”
“But you suggested it to him? His own sister.”
A Mr. Mark Deveny and Mr. Robert Wilson, both of Stratheaton, Lanarkshire, had been arrested on charges related to the assault of Mr and Mrs Baxter in June earlier this year which led to the death of Mrs. Baxter and the continued ill-health and trauma suffered by her husband.
Deveny and Wilson were hardly newcomers to the police or the courts and all the paraphernalia of Scots law. They would be new, however, to the publicity that was about to befall them. The Consultative Steering Committee on Delinquency and Crime had decided – if not in quite so many words – to make an example of this pair. Thieves, drug-dealers, thugs. Deveny and Wilson were everything that was wrong with modern Britain.
Deveny was accused three years ago, when he was only fifteen, of raping and robbing an aunt. The victim turned out not to be related but a friend of the family and the case was dropped due to lack of evidence, but the story got out. Wilson had been moved from school to institution and back to school again for consistently disruptive and violent behaviour, just not quite disruptive or violent enough for the criminal justice system. Local children told tearfully of Wilson and Deveny’s bullying, extortion, and victimisation. One twelve-year-old boy’s house had every single window broken by the pair – twice. There was proof of their bullying: pictures on their phone cameras. Deveney and Wilson were happy slappers – punching folk, sometimes strangers in the street, and taking a photograph, sending it out to their peers.
A press call had been arranged for 12.00 midday outside Glasgow’s police headquarters. The head of the investigative team from Lanarkshire Police had already spent all of yesterday in Glasgow. The Deputy First Minister herself would be present, alongside the Ministers for Justice and Education and Young People. Members of the Youth Crime and Delinquency Committee would be available for questioning, including its founder, Steven Murray MSP, its chair John MacDougall, and Procurator Maxwell Binnie. Chief Constable Robertson and Malcolm Henderson – Strathclyde Police’s ACC – and senior colleagues from Lanarkshire, would also take questions on the Deveny/Wilson case, and the youth crime problem in general.
The Ministers’ cars were at this moment approaching the city centre on the M8, relatively free of snarl-ups this morning. Those who had been meeting upstairs came down into the car park a little early, their business finished, statements agreed, and the day being pleasantly warm. They stood at the door, letting the smokers have a last puff before walking over to the assembled press. Maxwell Binnie grumbled to the Moderator that there weren’t quite as many cameras, microphones, or hacks as he’d expected.
Along through the cars, behind the BBC outside-broadcast van, walked a young man. His hair combed tidily back, his tracksuit gleaming, and his hands held deep in his pockets.
Maddy was showing her card to the policeman on duty at the car park barrier, Dan’s voice still speaking over the hands-free system. “He had a reputation, Maddy, that’s all. No action taken against him.” All the time she was keeping a eye on Darren Mullholland’s progress through the lines of cars towards the station building.
“How did you know he’d be here?” Belinda asked. She had never seen Darren before, but knew at once who he must be.
“The radio in his room,” Maddy said, when the policeman had waved them in. “The news.”
The bewildered expression didn’t lift from Belinda’s face. “They announced this press conference.” Maddy’s eyes flicked between finding a space for the car, the approaching Darren, and the assembled worthies outside the station.
“It’s not an Irish accent, though the Americans might mistake it for one.” Then, unhooking the mobile from its cradle, she spoke again to Dan: “What did you get?”
MacDougall looked over – whether at Maddy parking or Darren walking it was hard to tell. A moment later Binnie looked up too – in his case, quite definitely at Maddy. MacDougall merged back in with the suits and chatted to the uniformed honcho from Lanark.
By the time Maddy had parked and got out the car it was too late to head Darren off. He was ahead of her now and would reach the group first. A shout went up and the journos and technicians got ready for the conference. MacDougall, Binnie, CC Robertson and the rest walked towards the waiting cameras.
Pattison Webb had found a pew up near the altar to phone into the station: Darren Mulholland had to be found, as quickly as possible. Take men off the search for Ian Lennon, every car and constable available to find the boy.
Mike Jamieson was sitting now on the back pew, a saintly look on his face like he was communing with powers the rest of them couldn’t comprehend. He was also sweating.
“Where’s Darren!” If he could have, Coulter would have kicked seven colours of shit out him to get the answer. Connolly came between them. He brushed Coulter’s arm and gently made him stand back. He put his hand on Jamieson’s shoulder.
“Father,” it sounded odd, from this elderly man to Jamieson who looked every minute more like a hurt child, “you and I believe in the truth. There’s a cycle of virtue, as well as evil. We are with Christ in fighting corruption and decay. You must say now where this boy is. You loved him, didn’t you?”
Jamieson nodded.
He still had that beatific look in his eye. “It was too much to ask. To save the soul of your own sister. Of course it was. It would be better to exchange them. I suggested that.” He was unravelling before their eyes, his shaking getting worse, his voice crackling, but he was still proud of his ingenuity.
“You suggested someone else should kill Frances? Who? Who did you suggest it to?” The Monsignor kept his voice soft and low.
Jamieson held his head high, his mouth closed. Like St. Peter, resisting the temptation to betray. Coulter couldn’t take it. “Who killed Frances?!” He stood towering over Jamieson. “Was it Sy? Or Paul? Is that how it works – the crime is done by another already lost soul?”
“Come on Father – you’re making a better confession now.” Connolly massaged the young priest’s shoulder. Jamieson nodded. And mouthed one word: “Paul.”
“Who else is part of this?”
Before he could answer, Webb called over. “Alan. Darren Mullholland’s been spotted at the press conference back at the station. So has Maddy Shannon, and Paul Pacchini’s mother.”
At the police station? Why? Coulter knew he would get nothing out of Jamieson. “Ask him,” he said to Connolly, “has Ian Lennon anything to do with this? We have evidence of his presence in both crime scenes.”
Connolly merely looked at Jamieson, who shook his head. “I was only told to get a hair off that dog, give it to Darren.”
Connolly got
down on his knees beside the weeping Jamieson. “Ego te absolvo a peccatis—”
“What are you doing?” Russell spat the words out at the Monsignor.
“As I said. We believe in breaking vicious circles.” And he turned back to Jamieson, who was slumped now over the pew in front like a drunk at midnight Mass. Coulter stared as the old man made that little sign of the cross again on Michael Jamieson’s lips.
The two constables thanked old Mrs Mackay for the cup of tea and got up from the table.
“I never realised police work could be so… tedious,” she said, sympathetic.
“Has its ups and downs. Like any other job, I s’pose.” Uniformed officers had been positioned outside her house for over a week now. The taller of the two on duty today collected his own cup and saucer and those of his colleague and carried them over to the window. But he stopped dead before getting to the sink.
“Just put them on the sideboard, dear,” the old lady said.
“Good God,” said the officer.
His partner got up and stood beside him – stock still too, petrified, as though some spell was operating in that half of the room. Helena made her way to where they were, staring out the window.
Out in the garden, clearly aware of their presence and the fact that he was being watched, but not taking his eyes off his work, was Ian Lennon, digging. He looked as if he’d been there all morning. In a groove, a rhythm of work achieved only after time and with concentration, serenity.
“What’s he doing?” asked one of the officers.
“Turning the earth around the roses, dear,” said Mrs Mackay, easing the cups and saucers out his grip. The other one managed to come round enough to get his phone out. As he raised it to his ear, Lennon half looked up, glanced at the policeman through the window. Only then were the bruises and stains of blood not properly washed away evident. He gave the faintest of smiles, then nodded towards Mrs Mackay. The old lady waved merrily back, and began humming as she washed the dishes.
Desmond and Veronica Kane knew a little about Faith and Family. The organisation – a registered charity – had matched the funding for Paul’s schooling that they themselves had put in. “Not an inconsiderable amount, Miss.”
Amy Dalgarno couldn’t be sure if they were lying about having no idea of the organisation’s darker side. They knew it was international – that really helped Paul with his school work. For geography or history essays, there was always an email contact who could help, in France or Venezuela or America. They knew it was religious – it was through a fellow parishioner that Des and Nicky first got in touch with them.
They were more forthcoming about John MacDougall. “Yes, we know him,” said Nicky, smiling. “He came to see how Paul was getting on.”
“Twice,” added Des.
“Did you know that Mr. MacDougall’s recently become a public figure up here? In Scotland.”
They had no notion of that. Never heard the term “School Czar”. They only knew him as an educator, a kind of inspector they had thought. They didn’t even realise he was Faith and Family. “We thought he was appointed by the Education Department.” When pressed, they hadn’t even been sure that his name was MacDougall. “Wasn’t it MacDonald, Des?”
“Paul just told us he was coming. It was fine by us.”
“Are you sure he’s a Catholic, dear?” Veronica wondered out loud to Amy. “MacDougall. Doesn’t sound it.”
“He’s from the Uists, or a convert.” Amy explained, merely repeating something she’d been told.
“Paul had met him before we had.”
Amy took notes as, between them, Des and Veronica explained briefly how Paul had been in the habit of going off to Day School sessions. “Nearby,” Veronica said quickly. “And only once a term or so.”
“To meet tutors,” Des said.
“He must have been lonely,” Amy asked “with no schoolmates?”
“Why should he be?” Des replied, but she detected a note of doubt in his voice. “He was a very serious boy. He liked his own company.”
“He never got over his father dying,” Veronica shook her head sadly. “No matter what we did or said, he still blamed himself. He was with him you know, the day his dad was knocked over by that car.”
“He was awful hard on himself, the poor lad.”
The Kanes, thought PC Dalgarno, were as bad as the natural parents Geo and Belinda. Paul Pacchini, born Laird, had been shunted from addiction and mysticism, to wealth and good intentions. What he really needed was someone who knew what it’s like to be young and sad and scared.
Chief Constable Crawford Robertson was trying to get off the subject of Kelvingrove and the suicide, hinted at in this morning’s papers, of a leading suspect.
“Have you arrested two others as well, sir?”
“Yes, a man and a woman, helping us with our enquiries, but that’s not—”
“Is it true there’s a child sex ring involved in this?”
“I can’t comment on that just now. We’re here today to discuss the Stratheaton case—”
Belinda followed Maddy up to the group of people listening to the press conference, both of them scanning the scene for Darren. He wouldn’t be that hard to spot, kid in white trackies among dark-suited middle-aged men.
He appeared to the left of the speakers and cameras. Maddy, as luck would have it, was towards the right. There were about a hundred people now plus cables and wires and cameras everywhere. She could recognise even from there, though, that his track suit jacket wasn’t Coq Sportif. Another wrong theory.
The boy gave off no sense of rush. He stood firmly, his back to the cameras, facing the assembled worthies. He took one step forward. John MacDougall stepped out from behind Robertson. There was a moment’s silence before he spoke in his best headmaster’s voice.
“Stay right where you are. Turn around, and go home.”
Darren stared up at him, as if he hadn’t quite understood. No policeman moved. Like some kind of collective decision had been made to let MacDougall’s natural authority deal with the situation, like a true Czar.
“I won’t say it again, son. Away home.”
MacDougall took a step towards him, and Maddy watched the boy’s hand drop towards his pocket. She was too far away to do anything about it directly. She stepped out from the crowd
“That’s what these lads need, sir. Good old-fashioned teaching methods.”
MacDougall, together with everyone else, turned to look at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Proper teaching. Like you used to do. Rules. Kids knew their boundaries then. You were famous for it, Mr. MacDougall. Every school you were in –teacher, deputy head, head, Convener.” She smiled warmly at him.
MacDougall peered at her, unsure of her meaning or intentions. But everyone else looked back towards Darren, to see if she was right – if the pupil would do what he was told. Darren looked confused for a moment, aware for the first time of the exposed, public position he was in. He glanced towards Maddy, then back at MacDougall. But he didn’t take a single step back.
“You told me I’d feel better. Cleaner.”
“What are you talking about, son? On your way. This is no place for you.”
Maddy kept advancing, the only moving body in the scene. “Didn’t you hear the man? Don’t you ever do as you’re told?” Her tone perplexed everyone – not least Darren. Though the words were strict, taking MacDougall’s side, her tone was light, not quite sarcastic. She smiled as warmly at Darren as she had at MacDougall, all the while keeping moving until she had placed herself directly between boy and man.
“You said I was marking them out.” Darren had to squint his head round her. “So God would know them.” His hand dangled at his side, near his pocket. Perhaps innocently, but Maddy wasn’t going to take the chance.
MacDougall stiffened. “Look son, I don’t know who you are, but if there’s something I can help you with, I’d be glad to. But not now. We’ve important business
here.”
“Maybe I can help,” Maddy said.
Darren looked past her, as though she weren’t there. “You said it would make up for Frances and my Ma and everything I’d done before…”
Now a kind of minimalist choreography began. Everyone moved slightly. The cameramen to get a better angle of both MacDougall and Mulholland. Uniformed officers made a move towards their weapons. Everyone else shuffled, or began to put their hand to their mouth. But it was all slowed by fascination. A need to see where this unexpected story would end.
“It’s my turn next, isn’t it?”
MacDougall smiled and shook his head – daft boys in schools could make you laugh sometimes. “That’s enough.” He turned to the people around him, like they were unresourceful staff members. “Get him out of here.”
“Who have you got lined up for that?”
The Chief Constable stepped back from the School Czar’s side. Policemen moved closer in but they still weren’t sure what was expected of them.
“Could somebody get the little prick out of here!”
Darren put his hand in his pocket and suddenly the dance livened up. Maddy made her dash for him. A shot thudded clumsily in the air, hitting no one. A nervous young Uniform looked at his gun as though it had fired itself. When they all looked back, Darren had a gun in his hand, but was pointing it at the ground.
“It’s okay,” said MacDougall, stepping closer to him. “Everyone relax. He won’t use it.” There was a smile on his face but his voice had taken on a harder, bitterer quality. “Now where did you get that?”
“From where you made me throw it. By the canal path.”
MacDougall spoke over his head to the crowd. “Do you know what kind of a kid this is? The kind of life he leads?”
He was stopped by Coulter’s car wheeling up to the car park barrier and screeching to a stop.
“He’s like the rest of them. No-hopers.”
MacDougall took a step away from Darren. Maddy reached Darren at the same time as the nearest Uniform. But there was no gun in his hand. They looked at the ground to see where he’d dropped it. DS Russell had jumped out the car and was running straight at them.
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