Arbogast knew she was right. “Well if you don’t mind I’ll sit here and wait.” Janine nodded. Doctors came and went doing their tests and measuring their successes and failures. Arbogast was ready. He thought it would be a blessing for his mother if this was the end of the road. Not that he believed in life after death but it had been a solace his mother had always clung to and he would never forget her so she would have that fleeting immortality if nothing else. As he sat with her he tried to remember her as she was, and one image kept returning to him. They had gone on holiday to the island of Arran, off the west coast, where they rented a small flat. This was their annual treat. People might laugh at the notion now but it had been such an adventure to him as a young boy. He had felt like an explorer, the laird of the island. But it was their routine that he remembered most fondly. There was a spot by the coast where a fresh water stream met with the sea where they would drive the car to wash it. They took washing up liquid from the kitchen and dowsed the car with buckets of fresh mountain water. It seemed such an exotic thing to do at the time and they always enjoyed it. He would ‘race’ his mum in the car, leaving 15 minutes earlier than she to reach their destination and of course she always let him win. She had climbed onto the bike, which was far too small for her, and cycled round and round in circles, both of them laughing. She wore a yellow pastel quilted jacket and beige slacks. Round and round she went until eventually she got too dizzy and fell off. They had fallen about laughing; it had been the perfect day and possibly his lasting image of his mother in her prime. He smiled as he thought of it and then slowly was taken by sleep and the exhaustion of the last few days.
He had been dreaming about running over cobbles when he was awoken by a gentle rocking. It was Janine. She had been trying to wake him, but for how long? In his stupor he said, “I don’t think it’s time yet,” as his mind lingered on his childhood days.
“I think you might be right,” she said, “Take a look,” as Arbogast looked up his mother was sitting upright in her bed, being fed some sort of gruel by the nurse. “You see I think Ella Arbogast will be with us for a while yet.” John J was both relieved and disappointed. It was great to see his mum alive but this was her condition now. He asked if he might be able to feed her and the duty nurse agreed. “Not too much now and don’t force it please, she might choke.” He felt immensely sad as he carried out this task but at the same time he knew he had made a breakthrough of sorts. He still had memories to cherish and he could still be part of his mother’s life. After about an hour he left the care home and got back in his car.
Arbogast sat for another 20 minutes, shuddering at the prospect that what had happened to his mother could happen to him too. If it did there would be no-one to come and see him. He turned on his phone which rang immediately. It was DCI Rosalind Ying.
“Where have you been?” The sound was so loud that Arbogast had to move the phone away from his ear, “Get yourself to the hospital – Mary Clark’s woken up.”
The call disconnected and Arbogast put the car in gear and left his mother behind him.
8
February 16th 2010
Ever since Stevie Davidson had failed to return to the depot many of his colleagues had already convicted him of every conceivable crime. More than a few eyebrows had been raised when John Dale had decided to take him on – a man who had been sent to jail for trying to abduct a child from the side of the street. The boss had argued that he had been young and that everyone deserved a second chance. He was like that, a bit of a social champion – he liked to see himself as someone who was better than the rest. ‘But now look what’s happened,’ they said, ‘No Stevie, no coach, and no child.’
‘Was it a boy or a girl?’ thought Jean Jessop, her mind was working overtime. Jean had worked with Dales for 22 years and had more experience of working in the business than the current owner. She had been taken on when there was just one bus and John’s dad Phil ran the show. Jean knew what had happened. She might not have any proof but she knew. They’d been trying to catch Stevie out for years but he’d been clever. He’d kept his cards close to his chest. But now, well now they had him and he’ll be going back to jail where he belongs. This time he’d gone too far.
The company was closed because of the weather. No-one could get into work and the roads were too blocked to cope with coach traffic so Jean had ended up with an unexpected couple of days off and too much time on her hands. ‘Why haven’t the papers named Stevie yet?’ she thought, ‘I mean he’s got previous and that kid will be in danger – possibly already be dead.’ Jean had already made her mind up that the world deserved to know exactly what they were dealing with.
Linda Davidson wasn’t sure what had happened. The police had been round to tell her that her son was missing and that a child may be with him. A woman had been left to die on his bus? Linda didn’t think it sounded right. Stevie had had his problems but that was all in the past. Even so the evidence wasn’t looking good. She had tried to phone his mobile but it went straight to answer phone. The police woman had been nice. She had said they couldn’t find him either but she was quite insistent they needed to find him soon – although there was no need to assume the worst. Then she’d gone and Linda was left, alone, in her lounge. 30 years ago the room would have passed for modern. The old brown mottled covers on the couch were tinged with damp and the furnishings were really now just functional rather than smart. This was the house of a 69 year old woman, living alone and with no need for the high life. Linda could feel that a deep depression was starting to take hold and she sat and wept at the unfortunate string of events which seemed to have dogged her son through the years. Linda stood by her fire place looking at aged and weathered pictures of her family that now seemed lost to her, when the silence exploded into a wall of sound. She was aware of a crash which sounded like glass. Cursing her haphazard cat she made her way into the hallway where she found a brick lying on the carpet. She stared at it not really knowing what to do. Turning to face the door another brick came smashing through the living room window, shards of glass tearing through her life and bringing Linda back to life, as fear gripped her to the spot.
News of a disturbance at Maplin Drive in Motherwell came not from the police but through the internet. Sandy Stirrit had been looking to find new lines on the deserted coach case when he turned his attention to his Twitter account. He had been sceptical about using social media as recently as six months ago but he could see the medium had obvious merits. He often gleaned leads from tweets and online discussions while he had been given more than one story through direct messages to his own account. People were now videoing incidents and posting them online immediately. Even though a lot of content tended towards the libellous you could still find interesting and immediate reaction to all manner of stories within seconds. Today he was surprised. Someone calling themselves @HotGossip had made a number of interesting entries under the trend topic #snowpaedo which, if there were anything to them, threatened to blow the case wide open. He had struggled to get any information from Arbogast but this might force his hand. A story is a story after all. @HotGossip had made a number of tweets over the last three hours including:
#snowpaedo bus driver is known sex offender Stevie Davidson from Dales Travel
Justice 4 #snowpaedo Stevie Davidson police do nothing then we will demonstr8
#snowpaedo Stevie Davidson @ Motherwell Maplin Drive 2:30 4 justice DM me for details
Sandy was intrigued. He phoned Dales Travel and asked to speak to Stevie Davidson anonymously. He had spoken to the owner earlier who had nothing to say but it would be interesting to see the reaction. John Dale answered again and said Stevie Davidson was not working today and the depot was closed. He could pass on a message. ‘Well Stevie seems to exist.’ Sandy phoned Arbogast to sound him out.
“Alright JJ how’s the case going?”
“I can’t speak now Sandy.”
“You’ll want to know this. Does the name Stevie Davidson mean any
thing to you?” The brief silence meant that it did.
“Thanks JJ, you might want to check up snow paedo on Twitter. Looks like there’s a storm heading your way,” and hung up.
With a cameraman in tow he headed over to Motherwell. Something was happening there and he might just get there first.
Arbogast was still driving but he wasn’t happy. DS Reid had checked the social media sites on her personal mobile and when he heard the information being posted online he blew up.
“What are these people thinking – what are they thinking? Just sit back and wait for the backlash Mhairi – this isn’t going to be pleasant.”
This was a tricky case and the last thing they needed was vigilante attacks. If they didn’t make progress soon they would need to put some kind of ID out for Stevie. At least that had been the plan. Messages about Stevie’s identity in relation to the case were now being freely distributed online with some messages having been re-tweeted more than 1000 times. Someone had even made the leap and connected Stevie to his previous conviction. Nothing yet on his childhood but it was now only a matter of time before that came. ‘Fuck.’ He knew they’d have to bring forward a press conference and update the media if they were to keep on top of the coverage. The messages were libellous but Arbogast knew Stevie’s reputation was already tarred and he wouldn’t have a chance of winning a court case. But there was no warrant out for Stevie so technically no-one was breaking the law. Sandy was already onto the case and this was certain to be all over the press before the day was out, regardless of anyone’s guilt or innocence. They would need to name him but it wasn’t his call. He phoned into Motherwell and told DCI Ying. She was furious.
“While I can get royally pissed at the press at least they check their information, this is just gossip and there doesn’t seem to be anything we can do. We’ll get hammered for keeping the public in the dark on this one but we haven’t even spoken to Mary Clark yet. Get to the hospital and see what you can get from our mystery woman. I’ll call a presser to tie in with the late night TV bulletins and we can hope for some damage limitation.”
“Good luck Rosalind,” Arbogast said, but the line was already dead.
By the time Sandy Stirrit arrived at Maplin Drive what looked like a full scale riot had broken out at a seemingly innocuous semi-detached council house. It was a quiet residential street which had erupted into a fury. There was a crowd of around 150 people, mostly children, mobbed around the house. All the front windows were broken and rocks and abuse was being hurled in its general direction. Sandy wondered if Stevie Davidson might be here, hiding. As he skirted around the mob police sirens cut through the noise of the rabble who knew their time was up. As the crowd ran the camera rolled. Someone had set fire to a pile of rubbish and left it burning on the doorstep. He could hear screams from inside. He’d seen this kind of thing before. It was peculiar to this area but when someone got wind of a sex offender living locally the mob turned ugly. Some of the local papers liked to print names and addresses but it inevitably ended up like this. Mothers would take their children down and families would unite to rid their community of its unwanted guest. It was horrible and ugly but he wondered what he would do in the same situation. He knew for a fact he wouldn’t take his kids to hound a pervert. These people were out of control but all the same he could understand their reasons.
The TV news that night made for compelling viewing. The opening shots of a mob running from the shattered facade of an urban home made for great footage. Sandy had managed to get a quick sound bite from Linda Davidson who sobbed as she was led away by ambulance staff and under police escort, “My Stephen’s done nothing wrong. It’s all in the past. Why can’t you leave him alone?” This was followed by confirmation from DCI Rosalind Ying that they were seeking to find both a Mr Stephen Davidson, who had been driving the coach, and an as yet unnamed child. No she could not comment on previous offences but they were treating this case as a force wide priority. They had yet to speak to the woman found but hoped that would happen shortly. The next day the papers were full of lurid details with past case notes ‘mysteriously’ appearing. It was trial by media. Although no charges had been raised against Stevie Davidson whatever happened next he was going to be blighted with scandal of the worst kind for the rest of his life.
Jean Jessop had got up early the next day to see what people were saying. She hadn’t thought her campaign would have received so much attention but when the TV guy had turned up it had all gone stellar. But maybe she had got it wrong. Not about Stevie. He was guilty no doubt about it. But she’d expected him to be at his home but it had only been his mum. She had stopped when she saw her, tears streaking down her face, brought to her knees in her living room. But at least people knew now. At least they knew that it was Stevie that they were looking for.
9
February 17th 2010
Mary Clark looked frightened. Although she was past the worst she still felt dazed and her audience was having trouble making out what exactly she was trying to say through slurred words and vague gestures. She was like a drunk at the end of a long night of celebration and this wasn’t going to make for an easy Q and A session. Arbogast and DS Reid had pulled up chairs and were sitting staring at the patient while her husband, John Clark, sat at the other side of the room.
“What were you sorry about?” Arbogast said.
“Sorry?”
“When you woke up you told your husband you were sorry – what about?”
“It’s personal,” Mary wouldn’t look Arbogast in the face and was focusing all her attention on the hospital ID tag strapped around her wrist.
“Mrs Clark, we will have plenty of time to talk in-depth about what exactly happened but right now we have a child missing with a known sex offender. We know you were travelling with the child. A number of people on the bus have come forward to say you were travelling with a young girl. The driver of the bus was Stevie Davidson who I know you know. I’ve spoken to your father.”
Mary’s eyes opened with a look of pure disgust, “My father...what have you been speaking to that bastard for? Be in no doubt Detective that he does not speak for me.”
In the background the husband, John Clark, tried to intervene, “I really don’t think this is—”
“Oh it is very necessary Mr Clark,” Arbogast said, “and I would ask you to keep quiet or I will have you removed.”
John Clark looked at his wife and then the DI. He realised this was a battle he would not win and sat back down.
“Who was the girl Mrs Clark and why is she with Stevie Davidson?”
Mary sat silently while she worked out what she was going to say. She looked close to tears.
“You have no daughter,” Arbogast said, “so who is she?”
“I can’t say,” Mary’s voice was a whisper, “I just can’t say.”
Arbogast was getting angry, “You can’t say – really? A little girl is out there Mrs Clark. Where you were found was under ten feet of snow. Now it’s quite possible the girl and the driver may already be dead. Someone took the time to undress you and left you for dead and I have to make the giant leap that someone had good reason for doing so. Does it please you that the girl might be dead or being abused? She could be in the hands of paedophiles,” Arbogast knew this was a risk but hoped the threat of abuse might spark some kind of reaction, “she could be getting molested right now, this very second. We need to find her Mary and you need to help.”
It was at this point that Doctor Fitzpatrick intervened, “Please DI Arbogast this really won’t do. I need to speak to you for a moment – outside please.”
Arbogast glared at the Doctor with unconcealed contempt, “That would be most inconvenient Doctor,” he spat out the two syllables of Doc-tor with a venom which surprised DS Reid and the Clarks.
“Nevertheless if you would join me for a chat I think that might be best.” Outside Doctor Fitzpatrick was unimpressed. Her stance was belligerent with arms folded right foot forward and
shoulders squared in a gesture of defiance, “Just what do you think you’re doing in there? That woman is lucky to be alive. We still don’t know what happened to her but she was, as you say, left for dead in a bus and has still obviously not recovered. You need to go easy on her – she’s still in shock. Keep on at her like that and she might breakdown altogether. Do you understand?”
Arbogast realised he had been holding his breath and exhaled through his nose and nodded.
“And if you had bothered to ask,” the Doctor added, by way of compromise, “the bruising she has is historic. I’d say they were a few days old. Certainly she didn’t pick them up on the bus,” Her voice softened, “I appreciate the situation here but please just use some common sense.”
Arbogast thanked her and they returned to the patient was crying, buried in her husband’s arms.
Arbogast stood at the bottom of her bed and apologised, “I’m sorry to have gone off like that Mrs Clark. I appreciate what you’ve been through, but please be under no illusions about the seriousness of this situation.”
“It can’t have been Stevie Davidson. Surely I would have recognised him. If you’ve spoken to my father then you will have been given an idea of what happened in the past. It ripped our family apart but I stand by what I said. That bastard has got away with a lot over the years and I’ll have nothing more to do with him. But as for Stevie Davidson, I haven’t seen him since I was a kid. I can’t imagine he’d recognise me either.”
“It’s a hell of a coincidence don’t you think?” Arbogast said, with the slightest of smiles.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean officer, but I can assure you I do not know that man.”
Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) Page 6