by Jane Renshaw
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 11:30?’
‘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. My God, there’s no an inch of wall space left without a framed photy 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 Borderer 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. She can’t scream for help because they’ve gagged her.’ He shakes his head. ‘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, culminating, unbelievably, in the girl deciding to frame him for murder. She’s screaming at Rachel to Do it, she’s saying Rachel is a wimp and a waste of space a
nd 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.
‘Tricia’s parents and brother were inside the house,’ goes Jeff.
‘How was she gonnae frame her brother if he wasnae there?’
‘It seems he spent all his time in his room listening to records. The parents were in a different part of the house. They didn’t know where the kids were or what they were doing.’
I’m grinding my teeth. ‘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 on a bit paper.
Mrs Fisher’s a shrivelled 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 Clark 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 fucking 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 manslaughter. 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, ‘That Gail – she was in on it, I’m sure she was. She wasn’t just an innocent witness. If she was tied to a tree, how did she get free? It was Gail who came and got me. She said that after it happened, after Tricia… She managed to pull her hands free and run to the house. But she was obviously in on it. That nonsense about Tricia telling Rachel to shoot Gail was obviously a complete fabrication. I mean, really – to suggest that Tricia wanted Rachel to kill Gail in order to frame Matthew for murder? It’s completely absurd!’
‘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.’
My feelings exactly. My fucking feelings exactly.
26
Thank God for bad mothers, thought Flora, watching Selina Wright, elegant in white shirt and skinny jeans, Mulberry bag hanging from one elbow, light up a fag behind the Forsythia before bolting for the garden door and freedom. Her brood of five – or was it six? – were screaming their heads off at the bottom of the garden with Beckie and the only other three kids who had turned up to the party. Selina’s daughter Miranda was in Beckie’s class and had been invited, but her numerous siblings hadn’t been. This was an opportunity, though, for Selina to unload responsibility for a few hours, and no way was she passing it up just because Beckie’s parents were reputed to be violent towards pregnant girls and children.
It was the same story with the hyper little boy, whose parents were obviously just grateful for the respite. And Mia’s mum, Flora suspected, was taking full advantage of the opportunity to rile Ailish. ‘Sorry Ailish is being such a bitch,’ she’d even grimaced as she’d unloaded Mia from a Land Rover that looked like it had just returned from a war zone.
The only other kid who’d turned up was Edith.
Her mother Shona hadn’t come in with her – she’d turned away from the door without once making eye contact, but Flora had told Edith to go through and find Beckie’s dad, and followed Shona down the path to the pavement.
‘Sorry Shona, can I have a quick word about… well, about Beckie and Edith?’
The other woman, pulling her bag up her skinny shoulder, had shot her a sideways look.
‘I’m so sorry about the bullying – I hope there haven’t been any more problems?’
‘Oh no.’ A nervous smile past Flora’s left shoulder.
Flora smiled nervously herself. ‘The thing is… I’m concerned that another child might be bullying Edith and stealing her lunch.’ This was, after all, a possibility. ‘Has she said anything to you about that…?’
Shona shook her head, her gaze now on the pavement.
‘Right. It’s just… I’m a bit of a “feeder”, as my friend calls it, and I always pack far too much lunch for Beckie, and Beckie says Edith has been eating the extra food and seems… well, really hungry. So I think there’s something going on there. I’ve mentioned it to Mrs Jenner, in fact…’
Shona’s eyes met hers for a millisecond. ‘I – thank you.’
‘No no – there’s no need to thank me. As I say, I’m such a feeder! But –’
‘I suffer from depression and I’m not always…’ The poor woman was twisting the strap of her bag. ‘I’m not…’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Flora touched her arm.
‘I’m not always able to look after her properly, I know that, I know Edith is suffering for it. Her dad wants custody.’
‘Oh Shona. Would you like to come in for a minute? I – I do understand, I think, a bit. I… R
ecently, I’ve had some problems myself. Please, come in and have a coffee… or maybe some iced tea?’
For a fraction of a second Shona hesitated, and then, like a frightened deer, shook herself and backed up. ‘Thank you, no, thank you, I have to…’ And she turned and half-ran away down the pavement.
Oh God. Poor Shona.
Poor little Edith.
Edith hadn’t stopped smiling nervously since she’d got here. Flora had taken Beckie to one side and told her that Edith’s mum was having problems and wasn’t well, a bit like Flora hadn’t been well, and Edith didn’t have her dad at home like Beckie did, so poor Edith wasn’t eating properly and wasn’t being looked after very well. But Beckie mustn’t tell anyone. ‘Because Edith might be taken away from her mum?’ Beckie had immediately realised, and Flora, after a moment’s thought, had nodded. ‘Edith is having a really hard time at the moment. I don’t think the problem is that she doesn’t want to be friends with you – I think she’s just very sad and, as you thought, lonely and maybe scared. I think she really needs someone looking out for her at school.’
Beckie had frowned, and nodded.
Now, Beckie was standing with Mia on one side and Edith on the other, and all three were poking at something in the grass with sticks, laughing. Edith poked her stick down too hard and it snapped, leaving her with a stump in her hand. Beckie, seeing this happen, swooped under a tree and returned with another stick, so big it was almost a branch, hauling it behind her with exaggerated effort until all three girls were in hysterics. Edith, accepting it from Beckie, pretended to stagger backwards, her face flushed.
Good girl, Beckie.
But what was she going to do about the whole Shona problem? Speak to Social Services? Karen at the Scottish Children’s Reporter Administration? But what if that meant Shona losing Edith? But maybe that would be the best thing for Edith?
She would think about it later.
When this damn party was over.
Neil, when he’d eventually deigned to start speaking to Flora again, had said they had to put everything with the Johnsons aside for one afternoon and give Beckie a fun birthday. For the sake of peace, Flora had pretended to agree, but she’d no intention of letting down her guard. The fact that Neil was in denial meant she had to be doubly vigilant. And it didn’t help that all the other mums of the kids that were here had bailed. She kept scanning the top of the wall, the trees, the bushes, expecting any moment to see one of the Johnson thugs. She kept wishing the kids would be quiet and not draw so much attention to themselves.