Eric Sanderson sighed and shifted his weight back into the seat. “I thought I’d heard the last of Stevie Sanderson. This goes back to the 1980s and I’m sure you’re well aware of the circumstances.”
“I’ve read the reports but it’s your version of events I need to hear today,” Arbogast said, “I appreciate it’s a topic you’d probably rather not delve into but I’m afraid on this occasion I’ll have to insist.”
“OK, well I’ll give you a potted history of how we came to meet,” Sanderson said, “As I’ve already told you my family’s lived here for generations. At one time we had around 400 acres which we put over to sheep. We made a living from it for many, many years but then came the attack from Russia.” Arbogast was in no mood for the ramblings of a lonely man and had already raised his hand ready to protest when Sanderson explained what he meant, “The Russians and their nuclear fallout was what put us out of business. The Chernobyl disaster in ‘86 polluted the animals – it meant we couldn’t sell the sheep. There was a blanket ban on the sale of meat – those damned toxic clouds drifted over the land and rained us right out of business. Do you know there were farms still under restrictions as recently as last year? It was a real hammer blow to us. We tried to diversify with crops and then leisure but nothing seemed to work and eventually we sold the majority of the land. Some to the Forestry Commission – you can see the woodland about half a mile away. With the rest I put up a small wind farm. Maybe you saw it? There are only three turbines but if I had known how much money you could make I’d have kept more land. It’s worth it just for the subsidies. The UK Government has promised to create fifteen per cent of our power from renewable by 2020 but they need to pay people to do it. It’s crazy really but on top of any money you make from energy they also have 20 years guaranteed income just for having turbines. It’s making me a fortune.” He was lost deep in thought when a cough from Mhairi Reid brought him back.
“Apologies, that’s got little to do with young Stephen. My family always liked to keep good relations with our nearest neighbours in Bishopton. For years we allowed community groups and local schools to use part of the land for annual camping trips. We have local water supplies here and it’s a safe place for children to roam away from the danger of heavy traffic. In those days people weren’t so bothered about letting their kids run free. In 1985 around twenty boys from the local High School came to camp as part of a three day trip. I remember it well as they called it ‘frosties’. It was sort of a rite of passage where they would camp under the stars and not under canvas. They’d light fires and keep them burning through the night and be taught basic survival techniques, staying awake wrapped in sleeping bags. I remember the teacher telling me they loved it. ‘They all think they’re Indiana Jones’ he’d said. At that time we still had the sheep and I was only too happy to give the boys a talk on what we did, gave them a chance to work with the animals and experience farm life firsthand. Most of them would think they were too good for that kind of thing – they were beginning to be interested in girls and music, so work still seemed a long way off. Then it happened that one of the boys – Stevie Davidson – went missing, which, as you can imagine, caused a great panic. I assumed he must have gone off exploring but he didn’t reappear. We searched everywhere – in the outhouses, in the animal pens – but he’d vanished.”
“The police were here, though,” Arbogast said, “there must have been quite a search?”
“Of course the place was crawling. There was a lot of talk that maybe he’d fallen down a mine. I had always heard there were hidden shafts in the area but at that time I had certainly never seen any so and I told them that although they didn’t listen. But then after about 13 hours, just as quickly as he had vanished, Stevie Davidson reappeared. They found him walking along the M8 motorway, disorientated. He couldn’t remember where he’d been...or so he said. I was just thankful that they’d found him as I felt partly responsible.”
“Why would you feel responsible? Did you have anything to hide?” Arbogast was curious to see if he would get a reaction.
“I hardly think I’d allow school children to camp on my land then abduct one of them Detective. No that incident was the start of the end of my relationship with Mary – that was when all the trouble started.” Eric Sanderson stopped and massaged his temple. He screwed up his face as if he were trying to block out the memory.
“Could you explain please?” Mhairi said, looking to Arbogast to make sure she wasn’t acting out of turn. Arbogast nodded.
“The next thing I knew the police were knocking on my door saying they had a ‘few questions to ask’. To this day I have no idea why she did what she did but she accused me of molesting the boy and her. My own daughter said that.”
“It’s a serious allegation but what grounds would she have for saying that?”
“None that I’d know of – her mother Joan, god rest her soul, had died from cancer the year before. Mary had taken it badly as they’d been very close. It was difficult for me caring for a girl of 12 after that – it’s a hard age not to have a woman around. Things just sort of deteriorated and then after the ‘incident’, completely out of the blue, Mary accused me of rape. She told the police that I had taken Stevie Davidson to what she called ‘a secret place’ and ‘happily abused’ the pair of them. She said she had seen me with him the day he was found. And if that wasn’t bad enough she said I had molested her too – done terrible things to her. I don’t have the words to express what that did to me.”
Arbogast was intrigued by the detail and thought it a nice touch that Sanderson had managed to look glassy eyed as he recounted his story. Perhaps he was getting too cynical but he couldn’t help but feel he was wasting his time. He took a deep breath, “And where did she say this ‘secret place’ was?”
“That’s just it, she never could say. It broke my heart to have her accuse me like that. The police took it seriously and searched the property but found nothing. The paper’s got hold of it and my name has been tarnished ever since, even although there was never any evidence. To this day Mary claims she was telling the truth. She moved out of here as soon as she was able and I haven’t spoken to her in about ten years. She’s lost to me. I’m told she works helping hookers in the city – you know women that have been attacked – so I’ve heard anyway. As for Stephen Davidson well I haven’t seen him since the day he disappeared and his family never made a formal complaint – only Mary did that.”
“Could Mary and Stephen have kept in touch?” Mhairi said.
“It’s possible I suppose, but why would they? To the best of my knowledge they had never even met. It wasn’t long after that that the farm hit bad times.”
Arbogast persevered “Let’s try and stick to the matter at hand. I take it you don’t think that Stevie and Mary would know each other today?”
“Why should they?” Sanderson said, his voice getting louder, “It’s a hell of a coincidence that they’d be travelling on the same bus but what do you expect me to say? If they had ever met before, they were kids, nothing but kids. Would you remember someone you had met once when you were a child, 20 years later? It seems unlikely to me.”
“Yes...” Arbogast considered his next question carefully. He wanted Sanderson to be calm so he smiled with his eyes in a carefully rehearsed show of understanding, even if it was just theatre. “Do you get on well with your grandchildren?”
“Grandchildren? I don’t have any unless you know something I don’t?” Sanderson said, laughing.
“We need to know who was travelling with your daughter.”
“Well she doesn’t have any children that I know of. As for any friends she may have had or their kids, well I suspect you’d be better asking her husband. He’ll know about her life now. I’m ashamed to say that I can’t tell you anything about my daughter.”
Arbogast sensed he would get nowhere with this today and he knew he had other people to speak to, “We’ve asked enough for today Mr Sanderson and I need to get
back out to Lanarkshire which will take time in this weather. I have no doubt that we will need to speak to you again. Where can we reach you?”
“I’m working as an engineer at the new wind farm development on Eaglesham Moor. They’re putting 200 turbines up there. It’s one of the biggest projects in Europe you know. When I used the money from the sale of my land to put up my turbines I felt something of a pioneer. There weren’t many around at that time and I used the money to retrain. I saw a boom industry in the making and it’s turned out that way I’m glad to say. I’ll give you my mobile number. We’re doing some blasting at the moment as some of the turbines are being built on granite bedrock, which is causing more problems than expected. If I can’t answer straight away I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Have you had any word on my daughter’s condition?”
“Haven’t you been to see her?”
“I don’t think that would be appreciated.”
“You could still phone.”
“DI Arbogast, while I appreciate your concern for my family affairs, my daughter and I parted on extremely bad terms. We fought for over four years after the ‘incident’ but she was unrepentant. She still believes I’ve done her wrong and she can’t bear to be anywhere near me, and I’ve come to accept that. I don’t like it but that’s the way it is. Having said that, though, she is still my daughter and if you could keep me updated on her condition I’d appreciate it.”
“I will do. Thanks for your time. We’ll see ourselves back to the car.”
Arbogast and Reid left Eric Sanderson mulling over the past, sat in his ancient caravan.
“Eric Sanderson,” Mhairi Reid said, “the fun never starts.” She laughed at the absurdity of her own comment although Arbogast found it hard to see the joke.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look at him, a man in his mid-50s living in a wrecked old carnival caravan, sat back watching as his family home sinks into the ground right before his eyes. It’s bizarre and yet he says he’s rolling in money. Why would you stay here? If you ask me his story doesn’t quite ring true.”
“It’s a strange one right enough,” Arbogast said, “I mean why would a daughter accuse her father of sexual abuse – and not just her but a complete stranger – if there was no truth to it?
“He did seem genuinely upset that he has no contact with his daughter but I still don’t get why she’d put him through all that for no reason. Do you think the death of her mother maybe sent her over the edge?”
Arbogast considered the question for a moment before answering, “You do hear of children blaming one parent for the death of another, but with cancer I’m not sure that would hold. It’s not like it’s anyone’s fault. But look at this place. It’s in the middle of nowhere. You could get away with a lot out here if you were minded to – just the two of them.”
“Oh come on Arbogast, do you really believe that? They checked at the time and found nothing.”
“Yes you’re right but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing here. The technology in 1985 was prehistoric by today’s standards. Sanderson said in there he’d discounted the possibility of there being a mine in the area but look at the house, it’s being sucked into the earth by a crumbling mine shaft so the stories were true. What else could be hidden here, waiting to be discovered? I think one thing is perfectly clear though.”
“What’s that?”
“We really need to speak to Mary Clark.”
7
At the end of the first night Arbogast was going to stay and work but was told he needed to be fresh for the next day when they expected to be allowed to speak to Mary Clark in hospital. He left the office and made his way back home listening to Nick Drake’s ‘Bryter Later’. The sweet melancholy of the music fitted his mood perfectly as he wound his way through the frozen Lanarkshire landscape. He focused on the songs, isolating instruments to try and deconstruct how it was pieced together, trying to put the investigation to the back of his mind. He was a big believer in this way of working, leaving an issue to one side for a while and then coming back to it with a fresh mind. Psychologists called it incubation – you would have the genesis of an idea but forget it and then hopefully find inspiration from your subconscious. He wouldn’t say no to an idea.
Arbogast was glad to be home, even if only for a few hours. He turned his attention to what constituted his drinks cabinet – a lone bottle of Glenmorangie left on the fireplace – and poured himself a generous measure into Caithness crystal. It was a thick, heavy glass and the last of six from a prior engagement, although there was no-one left to toast. He promised himself one complete, undisturbed hour of relaxation and made for his Project Genie III turntable, which was his pride and joy. His previous record player had shuffled off this mortal coil after a late night visit from Sandy who had been blind drunk when he arrived and who had immediately fallen asleep on the couch. Arbogast had woken the next morning to find Sandy standing in a trance emptying his bladder over his TV and stereo system. He was prone to sleepwalking but had been ejected from the flat, like a drunk at last orders. Everything had been destroyed, although the plus point meant that everything had to be replaced and upgraded. He dug out his old Otis Reading LPs and sank back into his well weathered leather armchair as the strains of ‘You left all the water running’ oozed out from the speakers and deep into his soul. Slowly but surely he slumped into a good place, feeling the knots wash away. It had been quite a first day but at least it was over. On cue the phone rang. He was in two minds about answering but he knew it might be important.
“Mr John J Arbogast?” the voice said at the other end.
“Speaking”
“Mr Arbogast its Janine from the Woodlands Rest Home – I think you should get here as soon as possible – your mother has taken a turn for the worse.”
The trip to the care home was only a three mile drive but tonight it felt longer. As he drove through the city the bright lights and late night activity shot past in a blur. John J Arbogast had been born on the 8th of October 1973. His mother had left it late and was considered a very old mother at the time, giving birth at the grand old age of 41. He had no father that he knew of and no brothers or sisters to keep him company and so his formative years were spent primarily with his mum. ‘Me and my mum,’ he had always said when he was little. It had never seemed that he was missing out on anything as they did so much together and to be fair he had been quite spoilt. Or as spoilt as you could be when your mother spent half her time as a teacher and the other half making up for being away so much. But when she turned 70, things started to go wrong. At first he thought she’d turned to drink and it had been a great joke between them, her sitting with whisky in hand and him berating her for being such a lush. But a year later what he had thought were drinking binges turned out to be galloping Alzheimer’s. That had been the term they’d used – galloping. The word conjured the prospect of a race to the finish and it hadn’t been wide of the mark. Her mind at least was long gone and she’d been here in Woodlands for three-and-a-half years, in body if not in spirit. When he arrived he pressed the buzzer and was admitted by an anxious looking nurse, “Janine?”
“Yes I’m so glad you made it. She’s taken a turn for the worse.”
“She seemed OK when I last saw her,” Arbogast said, trying to remember when exactly that was. In the early days he had tried to visit every day. It had seemed so cruel to have her here with no-one to speak to and she was still fairly chatty at that point. But recently it had turned into once a month. Once he didn’t come for twelve weeks and this was something he would never try to justify. He just never spoke of it to anyone. Apart from him no-one even knew she was here. They would sit for hours just the two of them. Arbogast knew he was talking to himself, but he told her what he had been doing, while she sat staring off into space with her hands clasped together on her lap, looking as if she were watching an invisible fly hovering around in front of her somewhere. Sometimes there would be flashes of recognition. S
he would suddenly burst into a smile and say, ‘There’s my wee boy,’ or touch his cheek and tell him that she loved him. So shocking were these experiences that they more often than not reduced him to tears. He would hope against hope that it might mean she was getting better; that she might come back to him. But of course she never did and as the months went by she was gradually lost to him.
He usually saw her in what the nurses said was her ‘favourite’ seat by the window, surrounded by about twenty more of the lost generation. Today she was in bed, attached to a drip with life support machines doing what they did by her side. The red emergency cord seemed somewhat redundant given there was no one capable of pulling it.
“Mr Arbogast?” the voice broke his train of thought, “Mr Arbogast, are you OK?” asked Janine the night nurse on the ward. “You’re mother is rejecting her medication and it’s affecting her breathing. It’s possible she may not last the night but we will try and stabilise her.”
“What for?” Arbogast said, “She’s a vegetable and she’ll never been anything else. My mother died years ago, it’s just that no-one’s told her. Please don’t give her any more medication – this is no way for her to be kept, paying your bills while barely being alive.”
He thought Janine might be shocked but all she did was dip her head slightly before looking up at him through slightly narrowed eyes. “Mr Arbogast we have a duty of care here and we will do everything in our power to keep your mother alive. It’s illegal just to ‘let her go’. You of all people should understand that. I called you as it’s possible we might fail. She might die tonight and if she does...well at least you can be with her. It’s morbid I know but I’ve seen people who didn’t come and regretted it, so you’ve done the right thing by coming tonight... in my opinion.”
Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) Page 5