by David Leslie
The name was on everyone’s lips and the majority wondered if he would kill again before the police triumphed. Of course, as with any murder inquiry, the officers had to contend with the usual raft of nutcases and time-wasters desperate for their moment of notoriety by declaring themselves the killer. Normally, they dry up quickly once it becomes apparent that either their claims have been dismissed or the real culprit has been arrested, but the unsolved nature of the Bible John case meant such foolishness would go on and on.
Two years after the death of Helen Puttock, three children playing by a river at Renfrew, on the other side of the River Clyde from where she had been dumped, discovered the naked body of a woman in the bushes. Some police officers may have wondered if Bible John had struck for a fourth time. Certainly, the killer this time wanted them to think so. The corpse was that of local nurse Dorothea Meechan and beside it lay a note reading:
Mr Polis,
I have killed that woman in cold blood,
Bible John
Richard ‘The Snake’ Coubrough, the man who was eventually arrested for the crime, would deny being both the murderer of Dorothea and the killer Bible John, but he nevertheless spent 34 years in prison as a result, protesting his innocence every single day.
But not even Helen’s murder was enough to persuade Hannah to seek a meeting with the police. Having decided not to make contact after the slaying of Jemima McDonald so close to a tenement where she herself occasionally stayed, it was unlikely she would put herself at risk on behalf of someone for whom she no doubt felt the deepest sympathy and sorrow but who was, nonetheless, a stranger.
If she was aware of the impassioned appeal by a tearful Corporal George Puttock for someone to come forward and perhaps provide the key to discovering the identity of his wife’s killer, she remained silent, convincing herself with the same arguments that she had used to stay in the shadows during pleas for assistance following Jemima’s death. In fairness, like many, she was confident Bible John had killed once too often and that, having failed twice, the police could not miss their target a third time. In any case, she would have been hoping that by the time she made her next trip to the Barrowland the murderer would be safely behind bars.
It has to be remembered, difficult though it might be to come to terms with, that in Hannah’s eyes the predicament in which she found herself was just as traumatic as that being endured by the families of the three victims: the consequences for them would span their lifetimes, as they would for her.
She constantly told herself that her missing periods were the result of stress, or some mystery illness that would eventually disappear, but by the time of the demise of Jemima McDonald she was beginning to wonder if, after all, she really was pregnant. It was now dawning on her that her condition was not going to disappear. It was a cloud that darkened her every day and almost with each hour that passed the force of the burden that lay in her belly became heavier.
When it was reported that Helen Puttock had become the victim of a Bible-ranting lunatic, Hannah’s resolve that nothing untoward was taking place inside her was further weakening. While outwardly she continued telling herself she was not having a baby, a persistent voice within her was whispering that she must indeed be pregnant and that there could be no turning back to her life before the calamitous episode in the stranger’s car.
Just as it is easy to condemn her for the decision to remain mute over the attacks, it seems natural to criticise Hannah for her attitude to a condition that even the most unworldly of women would not just have recognised but would have very soon come to terms with its inevitable outcome. However, it should be remembered that she lived in a society that would have had little compassion for a fallen woman, and she would certainly have been placed in that category.
Another in her plight, surrounded by family equally keen to dispense with the problem, would have been advised quite frankly much earlier about how to get rid of the baby, but if Hannah was unable to grasp the reality of actually being pregnant, what chance was there of her understanding terms such as ‘termination’ or ‘abortion’? It is impossible not to commiserate with her dilemma. Most women on the verge of giving birth have a married friend, relative or, more importantly, mother to whom to turn to find out what happens next. Hannah felt there was no one that she could ask simple questions, like ‘Will it hurt?’ or ‘How will I know when the baby is coming?’ As she saw it, there was nobody in whom she could safely confide her fears without them being so scandalised that they would blurt the news of her pregnancy to all and sundry. And how long could she continue without it becoming patently obvious to outsiders that she was either putting on weight at an alarming rate or was carrying a child?
At the time of Helen’s murder, Hannah was still working at the Hoover factory in Cambuslang. Close friends are fairly sure none of her workmates, including her former fiancé, had a clue about her condition, although there was probably some gossip to the effect that for one so young – she was 20 – she was letting herself go. Had there been a regular boyfriend on the scene – and in such communities as Hannah lived it would have been impossible to hide this – then tongues might have wagged more cruelly and, as it would transpire, accurately. But her loose-fitting smocks and dresses became such an accepted garb that when the baby bump grew more noticeable no one thought it odd that Hannah was beginning to fill out her clothes.
One or two, in kindness, had a quiet word with her, suggesting she would look more ladylike in outfits that were more tight-fitting, but Hannah simply replied that she liked the way she was and was happy with the way she dressed.
And at home her father had certainly not noticed any difference in his daughter; she was not in the habit of going about the house semi-naked so to him she appeared absolutely normal. Fooling her dad was easy. She rose early and came home late and, because of the time of the year, most went to work in the dark and the few hours of sunshine had vanished well before they returned. As Hannah made her way between work and home, apart from the lights within the buses she travelled on, she was walking in darkness. And in the chill of that time of year, everyone wore heavy clothing to stay warm, giving them the appearance of having considerably greater bulk. So there was little or no chance of anyone thinking anything was out of the ordinary outside – and within – the family home.
She had also ceased going to the dancing in Glasgow, but then that was hardly likely to attract attention: so had scores of others who had traditionally taken buses from Lanarkshire to the city – mostly the single females who had either decided for themselves to wait until things were declared safer or who had had their minds determined by anxious parents laying down the law and flatly refusing them permission to go. Generally, there was little dissent to these rulings. In Hannah’s case, it meant a potential problem was taken out of her hands. Not that a triple murder would have otherwise deterred her sense of defiance: not against her father but the climate at the time that urged caution.
Would Hannah have blithely gone on in her world of make believe until the moment came when pain and a baby suddenly arrived? No one will ever know, as Hannah’s predicament was solved for her by a close neighbour and family friend who had kept a motherly eye on her since Jessie’s death. We shall call her Joan.
This kindly woman was not the type to pry on the Martin family, but she did by chance regularly meet Malcolm or his daughter. She noticed a slight difference in Hannah’s gait and a bulkier look to her shape. Having had a family of her own, she knew the telltale signs and suspected, astonished though she was, that they were there in the girl.
Joan was both baffled and worried. She waited for some days to see whether her eyes had been deceived by a trick of the light or a breath of wind blowing out her neighbour’s clothing; she waited, too, to discover if it would be Hannah who would make the first move and pass on news that, in the circumstances, she might not altogether be happy to tell. Joan felt that if she was right then help would be needed, and quickly, but she had first to fi
nd out the truth. In the end, there was only one way that could be done.
Greeting Hannah one day, Joan opened with customary small talk, asking about her work, her friends, her father and her health, then suddenly she pointed a finger at Hannah’s tummy. ‘You’re getting a bit on the big side there,’ she shot. ‘Is there anything wrong?’
For a second, Hannah was stopped in her tracks. Then she burst into tears. The masquerade was over. Years later, she would admit that by the time Joan intervened, she had come to accept she was having a baby and knew that it had been crazy to carry on thinking that such an event was not going to happen.
‘I can’t believe I didn’t tell myself right away that I was pregnant and try to do something about it, seek help, advice,’ she said. ‘But I was terrified as to what my father would say, what the rest of the family would think and how neighbours would react.’ These were the fears that flooded out with the tears.
Joan immediately reassured Hannah. She took the girl, her eyes red, her face covered in teardrops, into her own home, sat her down and asked when the baby was due.
‘I think it’s January,’ was the reply.
‘You sure?’
‘As sure as I can be.’
‘Your father must be told.’
‘No.’
‘He’ll have to know. He’ll find out anyway.’
‘He’ll go wild.’
‘Perhaps, but he has to be told and told right away. You cannot hide this from him a day longer.’
‘I’m too scared to tell him.’
‘You want me to do it for you, Hannah?’
‘Would you?’
‘OK, I’ll tell him. But he’s going to want to know the name of the baby’s father.’
‘I don’t know his name.’
‘You don’t know his name! What do you mean?’
‘I think he might have said he was a shipyard worker. But I can’t remember.’
‘You better tell me what’s been going on. I can’t believe you thought you could get away with this without anyone finding out.’
Hannah felt better after telling Joan the story of the night she had tried drinking away the memory of jilted love. Her older friend knew a good part of it had to be the truth, but now she too was not looking forward to telling the news to Malcolm Martin.
There would have been no point in putting off the dreaded moment, so Joan called on him when she knew he was alone and told him she had something important to discuss, then broke it to him. She knew it would be a shock, but he was still a young man, just approaching his 47th birthday, and had coped with worse traumas. He had handled sudden death, now he was required to face the shock of unexpected life.
Malcolm sat briefly stony-faced, sullen, silent and hurt. Perhaps this pain came from hearing that his daughter had been abused or because she had evidently been too afraid to tell him herself. He would never say, but when he did react Joan would later tell a friend only that he ‘blew his top’. When he calmed down, his first thought was that nobody must know.
Malcolm was unashamedly old-fashioned, in the way he acted and dressed and in his outlook on life. One of his friends noted, ‘He was close to Hannah and liked to think that if she had a worry, she would go to him with it. He knew, of course, he could be no substitute for Jessie, but he was the head of the household and the decision maker. This was one situation in which he was simply out of his depth. He wasn’t a bad man, but he got it wrong from the very first words he uttered. As far as he was concerned, this was all about what others would think, about the shame and scandal he felt Hannah was bringing. What he should have been concerned about was his daughter, her well-being, happiness, her state of mind. Just as she had for months tried to pretend there was no baby, her father’s attitude was that there would be no child in his house. At the time she needed her father most, he wasn’t there for her. His thoughts were first and foremost for his reputation and that was wrong.’
Malcolm Martin was no fool. He would have read in the newspapers about backstreet abortionists, often elderly women versed in quackery or one-time medical students booted out of university for reasons mostly of drunkenness, unpaid gambling bills or lasciviousness. Three years earlier, the death of a teenager in Glasgow had been put down to an amateur termination, although the abortionist was never discovered. With enough money and the necessary contacts, finding someone to ‘take care of things’ was always possible.
The Abortion Act of 1967 had specifically targeted backstreet abortions, ruling a termination could only be carried out by a registered medical professional. Even then there were few conditions in which it was considered necessary, one being that the mental state of the mother would be at risk as a result of having a baby following a sexual attack or rape. Had Hannah come forward sooner, it is highly possible she could have proved that she fell within this category.
There is little doubt among those who knew Malcolm that the idea of an abortion would have flashed through his mind very soon after Joan broke the traumatic news to him. But even though he was no medical man, he would have realised just as quickly that such a solution was out of the question. No one would even contemplate terminating the life of a now seven-month-old unborn child. That would undoubtedly have been murder.
By ordaining that no one should know about the pregnancy, Malcolm had automatically limited the practical options to one. Hannah might have had the child and then gone off somewhere else to live, but her sudden and unannounced disappearance would have posed so many awkward questions from friends and relatives that it was out of the question. To have kept the baby and brought it into the house and explained it as the child of a friend who had died or had found herself unable for a swathe of reasons to look after it was too unlikely a scenario, inviting equally uncomfortable queries. In the end, there was only adoption, and immediate adoption.
Malcolm would contact social workers and start the process, but it was an approach that left him feeling humiliated and shamed. Through all of this decision-making, Hannah was left on the outside, told by her father once choices had been made rather than consulted during the process. There were risks in this, but what Malcolm saw as the consequences were very different to those seen by friends who sympathised with Hannah’s predicament. His fear was that the inevitable legal process, involving outsiders, would lead to a leak locally: the secret would be out and shame galloping to his door. But was not the possible effect on his daughter of having the infant she had carried for nine months snatched away almost at the moment of delivery potentially more devastating?
To carry on the secrecy required considerable thought and planning. Hannah would continue at her work almost until the point of delivery, leaving her departure to the very last and explaining away her absence by some sickness. No other neighbour had to find out and as for immediate family not even her grandparents, Richard and Hannah, were told. The mother-to-be would, until the birth, refrain from her frequent visits to their home on the grounds that she was being required to work extra hours. In the event of unexpected visitors to the house, she would make herself scarce. The need for absolute discretion would be explained to the social workers assisting with the adoption, who would no doubt protest confidentiality was an inbuilt rule. Malcolm, however, feared their penchant for gossip and indiscretion and their role would remain a constant worry for father and daughter.
NINE
ARRIVING AND LEAVING
As 1969 disappeared, leaving memories of so many tragedies, Hannah found herself visited by and calling to see a never-ending stream of officials. There were numerous checks with doctors acting on behalf of the adoption authority to ensure all was well. Both Hannah and her father, as her next of kin, sat through lengthy meetings with psychiatrists and psychologists, filled in countless forms and underwent a string of interviews. All of it was well-meant: giving birth for the first time is the most momentous event of any woman’s life; having that baby taken away forever represents a pivotal step. Once done, it is done for good; ther
e can be no turning back. Regrets are allowed but not encouraged. Tears expected.
Time after time, Hannah was asked if she was sure about the adoption. The social workers asked if she felt she could cope with the knowledge that her child would be brought up by strangers, who almost certainly would not tell the child about her. They explained that the child would look upon this man and woman as mother and father and told her it would be they who gave the baby a name, not her. ‘When your baby cries, they will provide comfort, not you. When it falls and bleeds, they will hug it and kiss the wound better, not you,’ she was told. ‘At Christmas time, they will give it presents, not you, and it will thank them, not you. If your baby succeeds in life, becomes famous, important, you will never know. When your child is an adult and having a family of his or her own, you will not be a part of it. The infant you pass on the street, the schoolchild playing with friends, the handsome young man or pretty girl you see holding hands and looking lovingly into the eyes of another may be the baby you carried and brought into the world, but you will never know. Is this what you want, Hannah? Decide now because in a few weeks, perhaps only a few days, it will be too late for a change of mind.’
As the time grew near, Hannah surely began to wonder if she was doing the right thing. She must have felt an attachment for the growing baby she had not sensed previously. But, effectively, the choice was not hers to make: Malcolm Martin had decreed what would be and that was it. When she tentatively raised with him the issue of perhaps, after all, keeping the child, he was adamant. ‘You don’t have a mother behind you, there’s only you and me, there’s no way we can take care of a wean. You have to let it be put up for adoption.’