“We all remember the case and there’s nothing more you could have done. You have recent, relevant experience which we can use. I’ll fill you in on the details when you get here. DCI Ying from Motherwell will be taking the lead. The team are meeting at Pitt Street. I want you to sit in on the press conference. The timing’s not great but we can’t pick the cases – you’re on the team.”
“Well I’m not sure how I’ll look. I...eh...fell in the snow last night and I’m not looking too pretty.”
“Too bad Arbogast”
After a heavy intake of breath Arbogast managed a “right” in reply
“Oh and Arbogast,”
“Yes sir?”
“Welcome to Major Crime.”
5
Arbogast looked out over the assembled press pack and wished he was in a better frame of mind. The conference room was an oddly proportioned space framed by a stage at the front with stairs leading up from either side. It had been digested into the bowels of the Pitt Street headquarters and was best known to the public as the backdrop to many a night of misery on television news bulletins. It reminded Arbogast of church mainly due to the countless sermons he’d heard here, that and its size. The room stretched back about 40 feet but was easily the same in height. Halfway up pale cedar panelling gave way to expansive windows which in turn flooded the room with light. He entered the room from a narrow corridor to the right of the podium. For these occasions the stage was always redundant, replaced by a more intimate Strathclyde Police stall which was made up of two long tables sat side by side in front of a triptych of branded boarding, which made it feel like a post match football interview. For the first time today it was Arbogast who was sitting up front as part of the top team. Three of them sat at tables laden with radio and TV mics along with the dictaphones of the press corps. Chief Constable, Norrie Smith, sat centre stage with Rosalind Ying at his right hand. Arbogast sat uncomfortably on the left trying to make himself invisible. This was a big story. The press release had gone out first thing.
Missing persons Shotts
Detectives in Motherwell are appealing for witnesses after two people went missing overnight.
They had been travelling on a bus which became stranded in heavy snow when they appear to have left the vehicle.
One other person was found on board. This third person is presently being treated for exposure in hospital.
A press conference will be held today (Monday morning) at 10am.
Interview opportunities will be available.
For further information please contact Media Services on 0141 332 4789
The information was vaguely sensational and had attracted a full house. There were four TV crews, several radio stations and all the major local papers, as well as staff from selected UK agencies. Of all the snow stories doing the rounds this was the only one that was actual news. Rosalind Ying had insisted Arbogast obscure the cuts and bruises from his nocturnal adventure with makeup. He had protested but when she showed him his face in the mirror and asked whether that was what he wanted to show the national press for his first assignment in Major Crime he had given in. He still didn’t look particularly healthy but he was as ready as he could be. Arbogast didn’t expect to say much if anything at this stage in the investigation given he knew exactly nothing about it. His heart was racing and he was gripped by a fear he might be found out on day one. ‘Stay focused,’ he chanted to himself as Norrie Smith got the conference underway.
“Ladies and gentlemen thank you very much for taking the time to be here today. It’s encouraging that we seem to have a full house and I can assure you that your help is needed. Last night a coach became stuck in a ten foot snow drift near to the Kirk o’ Shotts on the old A8. On board we found a woman in her thirties suffering from the effects of hypothermia. She is currently being treated for this at Glasgow Royal Infirmary. From evidence found at the scene it seems there was also a child travelling with her who was not on the bus. The driver is also missing and we can assume the two must be travelling together. Given the temperature overnight dropped as low as -14 Celsius we are extremely concerned about their welfare and are appealing for witnesses.”
Sandy Stirrit raised his hand and was the first to ask a question. “Are there any concerns about this child going missing with the driver?”
Norrie’s reply was brusque “We have been unable to speak to the woman found on board and we do not know her relationship to the child at this time. I can make no further comment on this matter as it is part of an ongoing investigation.”
“And when do you expect to speak to the woman,” Sandy said, “Does she have a name?”
“Naturally she has a name,” he stopped and smiled around the room, “but her details will not be released until such time as we have spoken to her next of kin.”
“What about the driver – do we know much about him?”
“We have been in touch with the coach company and they are co-operating fully in our inquiries. I must stress we are at a very early stage in this investigation and our primary objective is to find the two missing people. There is a lot of snow in that area and we still haven’t been able to fully open up access to the site yet given the conditions. The area is largely cut off and this is causing us problems. If anyone listening to this in the area saw or heard anything they might think is useful please contact us immediately. We need to know if anyone travelling on the bus beforehand remembers seeing the woman and child. We need your help,” he said, looking directly at Sandy’s camera. ‘He’s good,’ Arbogast thought. “This investigation is being handled in Motherwell by DCI Rosalind Ying who is heading up our team there. To my left is DI John Arbogast who will be offering the expertise of the Major Crime squad who have dealt with similar cases in the past. We will be updating the media as and when we have more information and thank you again for your time.”
Norrie stood up, nodded to the room and left with a press officer by his arm furiously scribbling notes and taking instruction. Rosalind Ying was left to deal with the mass of interviews, repeating the same information again and again. It was obvious there was something being left unsaid but this was going to be big news and the fact the satellite broadcasters were there already alongside network correspondents meant it was going national.
45 minutes later Rosalind Ying and Arbogast left the press briefing and rejoined Norrie Smith at his desk. Despite the fact that this was supposed to be a paperless office there were reams of reports and files. A dark wood table which had known many owners over the years formed the focal point.
“Right, sorry for leaving you with all that but I had some information flagged up to me through my blackberry which needed immediate attention,” Chief Constable Smith said by way of apology, “As we know the driver, Stevie Davidson is on the sex offenders register but considered low risk. I’ve called in his social work reports so we should know more about his background shortly. The woman we found on the bus has been identified as Mary Clark. We’ve checked her files and she’s married to a John Clark. They live in Shotts area. More importantly though is that she doesn’t have children, so who was she with?”
Arbogast and Ying looked at each other and then back at the chief.
“I sense there may be something more?”
“Yes Rosalind,” the Chief Constable said, “For the most part Mary Clark seems a model citizen. Interestingly, though, her maiden name was Sanderson,” The revelation drew blank faces all round, “Her police file show that she had made a complaint about her father Eric about 20 years ago. She had claimed he had been sexually abusing both her and a boy on the Sanderson estate. She made claims about some sort of hidden room where her father abused children, herself included. The claims were never substantiated but it made a lot of news back in the 80s. The boy involved in all this was Stevie Davidson.”
“You have got to be kidding,” Arbogast said smiling incredulously, “You mean to say that a child has been taken from the daughter of someone accused of molesting him
as a child? I’ve never come across a revenge attack so far down the line. It all seems a bit too fantastic. I mean how would he know?”
“Agreed, but on the face of it the facts we have certainly seem to connect. It looks like we might have a revenge snatch on our hands. Admittedly it does all seem a bit bizarre. What are your gut feelings Arbogast? Do you think Mary Clark could be in on this?”
“And leave herself to freeze to death on the bus? Doesn’t seem likely does it but it wouldn’t be the strangest ploy I’ve come across. I don’t know, is the short answer, but we need to be able to speak to her as soon as possible, we won’t be able to keep this under wraps for long.”
Rosalind Ying nodded in agreement. “I’ll update the people we have on hospital watch at the moment. Arbogast, I suggest you speak to the father. I’ll deal with the driver side of things and I’ll get a family liaison officer ready to tackle the husband. We’re going to have to pull our resources.”
Mary Clark was being cared for in the intensive care ward at Glasgow Royal Infirmary. She had been diagnosed with moderate to severe hypothermia. When she had been found she was freezing with a body temperature of 29c, which was 7 below the norm. Doctor Ellen Fitzpatrick considered her lucky. Having been found practically naked in that weather she was fortunate not to have died. The only thing that had saved her was the length of time the engine had kept running. That and the fact the farmers had heated her externally with blankets and duvets. This was smart thinking and in the two hours it took the medivac to get there her temperature had already risen by two degrees. Mary had been semi conscious although she hadn’t been making much sense. She was mumbling about Turkeys and honour as she slipped in and out of consciousness. The doctors opted to proceed with an internal warming technique. The doctor placed a mask over Mary’s head allowing the gas to enter Mary via life support. If it all went to plan her temperature would rise by 2.5c an hour until she reached 40c. Only then would they know the extent of the damage. The patient was still shivering. As Doctor Fitzpatrick watched from the bedside she could see that Mary’s pale blue face was starting to regain some colour but it would be several days before she was completely back to something approaching normal. “You’re going to have quite a story to tell when you wake up,” she whispered. In the corner of this private room PC Frank Simmons watched and waited.
Arbogast was surprised when he arrived at Eric Sanderson’s farmhouse, or rather surprised at what remained of it. The address he had been given was for ‘Sanderson Farm’ on the outskirts of Bishopton in Renfrewshire, about sixteen miles south west of Glasgow. Arbogast had been paired with Detective Sergeant, Mhairi Reid. The farm itself was typical enough. A two storey sandstone affair which had been pebble dashed at some point. To the side was a small one floor extension which looked like it might be used as a kitchen. What was striking however was that the building seemed to be collapsing in on itself. There was a large crack from the middle of the house which began at the lintel for the front door and continued up through the height of the building. It looked like the hand of god had pressed down on the house and forced it down with the middle maybe half a foot lower than either gable end. The snow lent the scene a strange fairytale quality. Someone had been busy as the driveway and front court had been cleared. A man appeared from the right hand side of the house carrying a snow shovel in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
“Mr Arbogast is it?”
“Eric Sanderson?”
“The very same – I had a phone call to say you’d be coming. I see you’ve been looking at the house. It’s been in my family for 150 years.”
“What happened?”
“The past caught up with her. This area’s covered in old mine workings. Everything after about 1872 was officially recorded. There were so many shafts littering the landscape that they needed to know where everything was. Unfortunately everything before 1872 is something of a mystery. Many of the pits simply fell into disuse and were covered over and forgotten although the pits and shafts remained. It must have been about a year ago that it emerged rather dramatically that this house had been built on top of old works. It had been snowing and when the big thaw came the ground gave way beneath us – there’s limestone bedrock which gets eaten away by water – and as you can see the whole structure simply sank. The council came out and surveyed the area. They found the mine workings alright – they’re right beneath the living room. We were fortunate not to crash into the abyss but I fear the whole house might disappear this year once the next thaw comes, so I’m in no hurry to see the spring.”
“But you’re still living here?” asked Arbogast
“Well not really, I’ve a caravan round the back that I’ve been staying in. I do venture into the house now and again but it’s really not safe. It’s still home though – where else would I go? But enough of my misfortune, I gather you’re here about Mary?”
“Yes and no. We’re still waiting for your daughter to come round although I’m told that should only be a matter of time. It’s the circumstances that we found her in that have brought us to you Mr Sanderson.”
“Call me Eric, please.”
“You know the circumstances Mary was found and we still have a child unaccounted for. It’s the driver that’s really brought us here.”
“The driver? I can’t imagine I’ll be able to help you with him.”
“The driver was Stevie Davidson.”
Eric Sanderson focused intently on Arbogast and his knuckles turned white as his grip on the snow shovel tightened. Suddenly he seemed to become self aware and his body relaxed.
“Well officers, if it’s Stevie Davidson you want to talk about you’d better step inside.”
The first thing Mary Clark saw when she opened her eyes was her husband John. He was sitting at the side of her bed with his elbows resting on his knees, looking at the ground.
“John,” she tried to say, though it sounded more of a rasp through her thickened throat.
“Mary – you’ve come back to me. I was so worried. I’m sorry.”
Mary focused on trying to form her words and whispered “I’m sorry too.”
PC Frank Simmons had been stirred from his stupor and was writing everything down. The first thing he did was to get in touch with control. There was more to this than met the eye. As he watched the reunited couple he couldn’t help but be moved. Husband and wife cried and held each other tight but there also seemed to be a note of apology about the way they acted, as if they had parted on bad terms. While he mulled this over and waited for DCI Ying to arrive his train of thought was broken as the Doctor burst through the doors and asked everyone to leave.
6
The Sanderson farm was circled by a ring of birch trees covering about an acre of land which, in summer, must have given the family a sense of privacy. In the depths of winter the trees lent the property an eerie feel, with the white barked trunks camouflaged against the snow – it reminded Arbogast of a druid worship site he’d visited as a child which had been built around a rocking stone – not unlike the crooked house he could see now.
Arbogast realised he had come to a standstill, lost in his own past and struggling with his hangover when he saw that Mhairi Reid and Sanderson had left him behind. Jogging to catch up he found them at the back of the house. The detectives were surprised to find a large static caravan pitched about 30 feet north of the house itself. Behind it was a long slated building which Sanderson told them was a shower block which had once served a long gone camp site.
“Quite a set up you have here Mr Sanderson,” Mhairi said, “although I’m surprised you choose to live like this, so close to the house.”
“It’s not ideal but it does. The building at the back has showers and electrics which supply me with all the power I need. There’s also an outdoor tap but it’s useless in this weather as you can see,” he said pointing ahead of him. Beside the outhouse was a freestanding lead pipe which was capped with a copper tap. The water hit the ground, frozen in
mid flow. “The weather’s been so bad that I’ve been buying bottled water these last few days,” he seemed amused by the story but cut himself off when he realised he was rambling. “And now if you please, welcome to my humble abode,” Sanderson gestured for his guests to go inside.
Last through the door Arbogast stopped and scanned the narrow corridor which ran the length of the 40 foot tin can. The inside was even worse than he imagined. The walls were tatty and pockmarked with holes that looked like they had been punched through. The doors were of the plastic concertina variety and looked like they had played their last tune a long time ago. To his right Arbogast could see a door at the far end of the corridor which presumably led to the master bedroom. The next door sat at 90 degrees and was presumably another bedroom while directly in front he assumed the damp smell seeping from under the rotting, mouldy door must be the bathroom.
“Did you get lost Mister Arbogast?” Sanderson waved him through to the living room cum kitchen. The three of them sat down at an aluminium rimmed formica table top set into the far end of the caravan. There were fitted seats forming an L shape round the table, with the long end of the room framed with two panoramic windows which currently looked out onto the undulating snow fields of rural Renfrewshire.
“I picked it up for next to nothing from a travelling fair that used to camp here during the winter,” he said, “It’s more than 30 years old and as you can see is not fit for much these days, but it’ll do me. But anyway I digress, what can I help you with? You mentioned Stevie Davidson?”
Arbogast generally preferred a bit of preamble but he could see his guest was in no mood to dance around the issue at hand, “Stevie Davidson is missing along with a child that had been travelling with your daughter. We know your connection and we believe you might be able to shed some light into the history between Mr Davidson and your family?”
Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) Page 4