Sandy Stirrit had a feeling he might be onto something. His report last night had helped to generate fresh leads for the Police and more and more people seemed to be coming forward. Newswise it had been a quiet couple of months and it was great to finally get something juicy to sink his teeth into. The weather had been stretching their resources. Usually when it snowed everything stopped and the bulletins felt more like extended weather forecasts. People he met would always say ‘you must love it’ as they’d have their pick of snow stories, but in truth everyone hated it. Reporters hated finding snow stories and viewers quickly reached the point where they hated hearing about it, but they kept on doing it anyway. In the last 20 years bad winters had become rare, until recently when they had had three ferocious winters in a row. ‘Maybe the climate is changing after all,’ he thought, making a mental note to chase up the science after the big thaw had set in. This time had been different though and they had a bona fide drama which just happened to coincide with the weather or ‘snow hell’ as they called it in the newsroom. He had cut out the offending tabloid and stuck it to the wall. The ‘Snow Paedo’ headline had become legend. Sandy knew it was probably a mistake that would cost the paper dearly in court but the name had stuck. If they found the guy and he hadn’t done anything he could sue but then they probably made the call that a convicted sex offender wouldn’t want to bring any unwanted attention on himself, as if he could avoid that now. And so it seemed he didn’t matter. Stevie Davidson had turned into a commodity. There were no arrests so technically they could say what they liked. Arbogast had been keeping quiet on this and he didn’t want to cause him too much grief, ‘But Jesus, give a dog a bone would you JJ?’
Today’s big break had come quite unexpectedly. He’d been speaking to the Police media officer last night at the press call where they’d unveiled the CCTV footage. He had been told about the break in at the Kirk o’ Shotts but that they weren’t sure if it was connected to the case. The press officer assured him they had combed the area and found nothing, largely on account of the snow having masked every movement. There was nothing to suggest the church had anything to do with the investigation.
Eric Sanderson took a deep drag from his cigarette and shook his head as he watched the lunchtime news. The reporter said the police had botched the investigation. That they had searched a church less than quarter of a mile from where they had found Mary and missed a forced door and weren’t sure what, if any, relevance this might have to the wider case. The TV guy said this was despite there being more than a hundred officers in the area and despite the fact this would be an obvious place for two people trying to shelter to go. The reporter was on screen now, standing by the wrecked door which had been cordoned off with police tape. He said, ‘Could this have been sanctuary for the bus driver Stevie Davidson and for a young girl who have not been seen since? Sources at Strathclyde Police say there doesn’t seem to be evidence to connect this but, if they missed it first time around, what else might they have missed?’ Eric had seen enough he switched it off. ‘They know nothing, nothing at all.’
Rosalind Ying was furious. “Did you see that news report?” she said as she burst through the door. She stopped at Arbogast’s desk, hands on hip, towering over him. Arbogast was distracted by the swell of her cleavage before he remembered he was meant to be working.
“News report?”
“You’re fucking pal Sandy – saying we’d made an arse of the crime scene, had missed an obvious clue and didn’t know what we were doing,” she glared at him accusingly.
“Well in fairness Rosalind, we did miss a big bloody sign.”
Rosalind breathed deeply and shook her head. She raised an accusing finger, “Was this your doing?”
Arbogast stood up now and put his hand on where he though his heart might be, “On my life I don’t talk shop with Sandy, not during a live case anyway. He knows the score.”
Rosalind wasn’t convinced but her anger subsided, “I’ve had Pitt Street on the phone. The Chief Constable has made it very clear he’s not happy with the way this is going. It’s four days in now and we haven’t made any real progress. I think this might get passed over to him. I might be replaced.”
Arbogast could see the situation but took a different take on it, “It might be just what we need. If Stevie is out there,” he corrected himself, “if whoever is responsible for the disappearance of Kovan Kocack and Stevie Davidson is following all this it might work in our favour.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look at it this way – if you thought the police looking into this didn’t know what they were doing wouldn’t that boost your confidence just a little?” He brought his thumb and index finger together as he said ‘little’. Rosalind could see he was off on a new train of thought.
“Perhaps,”
“Let’s hope so Rosalind. If he gets sloppy now it might be just the break we need.”
They looked at each other as if trying to guess what the other was thinking, to guess what leads might be uncovered if it played out that way. Arbogast become aware of a low rumble, a pulse of sound. He was still lost in the thought of landing a lucky break when he realised that his phone was ringing on vibrate. They both looked at the handset which was slowly making its way to the edge of the desk when he caught up with it.
“It's her.”
There had been a church on the site of the Kirk o’ Shotts since 1450. Perched on the top of one in a series of low undulating hilltops in the area, the remnants of much older glacial decline, this had seemed a good spot for worship. The building was plain to see for miles around and the chapel served to bind the people together. Through time Catholicism had become less catholic, giving way to the reformation and the ‘heretic’ Protestants. Wars had been fought and rebellions lost. The old chapel gave way to a new church in 1560, and sparked the start of a long pointless struggle with people who all knew they were right. Today the Kirk o’ Shotts hosted a congregation of less than two hundred, with more and more of the locals looking for answers elsewhere, but for those who remained the church retained a special sense of history. Today a new congregation had found its way to the building. Not concerned with theological discussions or of moral well being, but of the rights and wrongs of a live investigation. The press corps had descended en masse to the Kirk following last night’s insights. Camera crews vied for space. Styled in the Jacobean-Gothic style the church had distinctive ridged gable ends, which gave the effect of steps leading to a central point. In the middle sat a small copper topped bell tower and weather vane. No-one knew today which way the wind blew as the metal cockerel had been frozen solid for a week. There was no real reason to be here other than to report on the lack of progress. ‘Perhaps there was nothing new in the investigation,’ one seasoned hack said, ‘but maybe this will give the police the kick start they need to get things moving.’ The Kirk’s minister had been tracked down but had nothing to say. From the car PC Frank Simmons wondered why he always got the shit jobs, as another reporter knocked on the patrol car window looking for an update.
Arbogast answered the call with his left hand so that he could still write with his right.
“Hanom?”
“Mister Arbogast,” Hanom said. She spoke with an accent but her English was excellent. Rosalind leant into the phone to hear. Arbogast wanted to turn on the speaker phone but he knew he would run the risk of drowning her out. Hanom didn’t wait for a reply.
“I cannot talk for long. I tried to phone you last night but it was not possible. We have been moved. We are being kept in some kind of skyscraper if that's the word? It’s not so nice. The area looks very poor and maybe no-one really lives here,” Arbogast wondered if she might be in a tower block somewhere, “You must find my husband, he will help me. We are locked in a struggle to free our family. I would leave Mr Arbogast but I cannot. They have my child, I am sure of it. I do not know why this is happening. We escaped Turkey for a new life away from our debts but these people would ha
ve me live like a whore. I cannot stand it but I must – for the love of Kovan I must endure this.”
“How can we find the girl, who did you deal with? Mary Clark told us that you wanted her to meet with you on the night your daughter disappeared. Who was she going to meet?” Arbogast could sense he wouldn’t have much more time, he needed answers.
“It was supposed to be me but I could not leave the club that night – it was too busy. I tried to believe me, but they would not allow it. I had agreed with Mary that her husband could help, that they hide my daughter somewhere. Mary said she had a safe place. Somewhere that could not be found. I trusted her Mr Arbogast. You must help me.”
Arbogast thought for a second. There was something he could sense, something she knew that could help them. He grasped the phone tighter and then it came to him. “Hanom does Kovan have a mobile phone? I think I saw her with a handset at the bus station but I couldn’t make it out at first. The footage was grimy but she held something, could it have been a phone?”
“I don’t know. She’s too young to have a phone. She didn’t have one at home but maybe Mary gave it to her to get in touch with me?” There was a rattle on the phone, the sound of a hand being put over the receiver.
“Hanom, HANOM. Are you still there?”
Her voice returned, distracted, “I am sorry I must go, find my husband,” and she was gone.
Arbogast stared into space.
“Well that was food for thought,” Rosalind said, “John and Mary Clark were tasked with hiding the child in a secure place. They played us well didn’t they?”
Arbogast bit his lower lip as he chewed things over, “It would seem so. I’ll need to get the Home Office to confirm the husband’s address if they haven’t already got back.”
“No they haven’t – not so far. It seems he’s moved about a bit. The address they have is out of date.”
“I think we’re going to have to play a little game of Mr and Mrs. I’ll phone the hospital and let them know we’re on the way. Get DS Reid to do her family liaison bit, but make sure she’s got someone else with her. We might need to bring him in but we’ll grab him for a chat first.” He smiled and looked up, a wide grin spreading over his face, “At last, something to go on.”
He didn’t buy that Mary and John would kidnap a child to raise as their own but he thought he was starting to see the bigger picture thanks to his brief conversations with Hanom, and he knew that he would need to try and find her. He sent her a text on the phone which he assumed would be switched off now. It would help them to have a decent picture of her and he asked her to send one if she could – even a copy of a physical photo taken on the mobile would be better than nothing. He thought it might also be time for a raid on the club. His mind was racing with the possibilities the case now offered when his day took a completely unexpected turn. PC Frank Simmons knocked on the door to tell them that Stevie Davidson had been found.
Amid the furore and the public soul searching about how a known sex offender could have been allowed to drive a public bus, why psychologists hadn’t picked up on this or that, years ago, emerged the latest version of the truth. As search parties scoured the country looking for Stevie Davidson he hadn’t managed to travel more than half a mile. The discovery had been made by a cub TV reporter at the Kirk o’ Shotts who had, in a careless moment, slid on an ice patch and knocked over both his camera and cameraman, causing all three to tumble to the ground. As the cameraman tried to get his breath back, sitting spread eagled and wet arsed in the snow he felt his hands find the rim of what he thought was a rock. The combined 30 stone collision had displaced a lot of snow and was to make an even bigger impact on the case. Around two hours later the forensics team had uncovered the body of Stevie Davidson who had been lying face down in the snow. His neck was broken and it was assumed he had fallen from the bell tower, which would explain the break-in and the open door above. Stevie had lain there undiscovered while the snow had continued to fall, masking all that had happened in its wake. In the next 12 hours all the snow around the church and its graveyard was removed with expectations that the girl’s body would be the next to be uncovered. But despite the hours of manpower and extensive searching nothing more was found.
Part 2
12
Istanbul, Turkey, June 4th 2003
Stopping at the kiosk to buy water and magazines Hanom made her way to Sultanahmet Park. She had no plans other than to enjoy what was turning out to be a fine summer’s day. It would soon be noon, meaning the call to prayer would sound out across the city, but the thought did not stay with her long. Hanom had become preoccupied with plans to celebrate her 18th birthday a week today. That and the small matter of what she planned to do with the rest of her life. Hanom wanted to become a lawyer but medicine was also an option. She had excelled at school and gained top marks in her exams but she wanted to wait and see something of the world before going back to study at University. ‘So much to do and so much time ahead of me,’ she thought, ‘what can’t I do?’ Hanom took her cold water from her bag and as she screwed the top off she counted the number of times she could hear the tiny plastic slivers giving way. Someone had told her once that if you heard thirteen clicks it was a lucky bottle but as usual she couldn’t keep count, it all happened too fast. She smiled as she drank, knowing that in about an hour the water would be warm from the day’s heat and so she decided to enjoy the moment while it lasted. As Hanom sat and thought of her future she also basked in the city’s past. From the peace of the park Hanom looked over at the Blue Mosque, a building she loved. As a child Hanom imagined the Mosque’s six towering minarets as rockets aimed at an unseen enemy. ‘You have quite an imagination child,’ her mother would say, ‘but try to stay in the here and now.’ Her mother was traditional in every sense of the word and had raised her daughter at home while her husband toiled long hours at the family business. She was planning to visit her father at the Grand Bizarre later in the day to surprise him.
“I wonder if he realises I am not made for his world?” she said, thinking out loud.
As she pondered her imagined life, a voice from behind cut through her daydreaming
“Talking to yourself – perhaps you’d like some company?”
Hanom thought she recognised the voice but when she turned she was blinded by the sun and had to raise a hand to shield her eyes to try and make out who it was. As her vision adjusted she could see that it was the Kocack brothers, who she knew as family friends through her father’s business. Onur and Karim were immediately recognisable as brothers, although separated by a year in age they looked very much alike. Hanom knew that Onur worked as some kind of engineer and was only too happy to bore you to death with his underground tales from the city’s new Metro network. Hanom thought Karim a different prospect altogether and was impressed by the fact that he had travelled, which was something she wanted to do more than anything else in the world and the sooner the better. She would listen intently, hanging on every word as Karim recounted in vivid detail his trips to Thailand and America which always sounded so exciting. When she spoke to Karim she felt that she wanted to leave Istanbul that very day and jump on the next flight out, but of course so far she hadn’t.
“Ah the mysterious Kocack brothers,” she said as her eyes adjusted to the bright midday sun, “what brings you here today?”
Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) Page 9