Where There is Evil

by Sandra Brown

  The days slipped past, but my cousins heard nothing from the Fiscal’s Office at Airdrie and I went south for my university summer school at Nottingham. When I returned, Ronnie said Jim wanted me to call him.

  The next morning, 29 July, I went down to the police station and Jim showed me the letter he had received from the Crown Office. At the top, my father’s full name and address were given, under it the words ‘Investigation into the Disappearance of Mary McCall Anderson (known as Moira) from Coatbridge, Lanarkshire, on February 23rd, 1957’, then: ‘The Scottish Crown Office notes with interest the stage reached by the present inquiry, and advises this matter should continue to be investigated. Further evidence will continue to be examined. You are instructed to proceed with such till further notice.’ Below this were the names of my four cousins. My father was also named, in connection with five charges of lewd and libidinous behaviour against them on various occasions. I read the concluding sentence with disbelief: ‘On the above matters, it is advised that there be no further proceedings.’

  I knew my father had admitted the abuse of A, and he had made another incriminating statement on tape, which indicated that B’s allegations were also correct. What more did they need? I demanded angrily.

  ‘I have spoken to the Fiscal and he won’t reveal reasons,’ explained Jim. ‘It may seem odd, but they don’t have to tell you or me why. I told David Griffiths that you’d be at a loss to understand this decision, Sandra. I was sure you’d want answers from him, so I’ve arranged for a car to take you to his office shortly.’

  Jim and I walked to where a driver was waiting. Jim slid into the back seat beside me, saying he would make the formal introductions. Seconds later we arrived at the large, airy offices of the Procurator Fiscal, and Jim escorted me upstairs to a seat, where I waited. When Mr Griffiths came in Jim made formal introductions and departed. He had to be as neutral as possible, but I felt uneasy as he left and I was shown, with no obvious cordiality, into an office.

  The man sat down behind a huge desk and I asked why such a puzzling decision had been taken regarding my father and my relatives. He told me, rather as though he were delivering a lecture, that it was a long-standing tradition for the Crown Office never to give any reasons. ‘The documentation I sent to Chambers in Edinburgh went to a very senior level for consensus, Mrs Brown,’ he answered stiffly. ‘They have obviously reached the unanimous conclusion that what happened to your cousins is not to be proceeded with because it is not in the public interest. In other words, in their view it is not worth pursuing this case.’

  Not worth pursuing! I began to argue that abusers don’t stop, and my father had continued to add to his victims over the years. How could they have reached this crazy decision to do nothing about my cousins and the trauma they’d endured, when if they charged him, and brought him north, they would, in all probability, gain a confession for murder?

  ‘There is no murder without a body, let me remind you,’ said Mr Griffiths. ‘The Moira Anderson case is still officially a missing person’s inquiry, pure and simple.’ He went on to say there had, of course, been one or two examples in British courts of a murder trial without a body, but it was rare; that, in such cases, there would always be other evidence to go on. Everything he had read in Jim’s documentation, he said, was of an overwhelmingly circumstantial nature, and there was no proof that Moira Anderson had met her death at my father’s hands. ‘I know your father has said some extremely incriminating and suspicious things, but they have not enlightened us. In my view, the police aren’t much further forward than in 1957.’

  This was nonsense, and we both knew it.

  ‘My father has lied to other people as well as myself, about not knowing Moira, about saying he was interviewed at the time when he wasn’t, and the tape recordings made with his co-operation in Leeds are full of inconsistencies.’

  ‘That may be so, but just because someone lies about something doesn’t mean to say the converse is true,’ Mr Griffiths said. ‘Inconsistencies aren’t enough to go on. While your father’s made a number of very suspicious admissions, we take the line that an admission is not the same as a confession.’

  Then he added, ‘I have never understood – what do you hope to gain from all of this coming out? Why would these women want to go on a witness stand and testify to sordid acts your father committed long ago? What possible satisfaction would your cousins gain from sitting in a witness box here in Airdrie, in front of the local yobs and describing what your father did all those years ago?’

  ‘Justice, perhaps.’ I felt my cheeks glow with anger. ‘Justice for what happened to them and all his other victims including those who can’t speak up. Like Moira, who was murdered.’

  ‘You can’t call this a murder inquiry, it’s a missing person’s,’ Mr Griffiths said again. ‘May I remind you that your father has served his sentence.’

  I regarded him with incredulity. ‘Mr Griffiths, these offences happened to my cousins after my father had served his sentence at Saughton prison. I was unaware of what he had put them through till this investigation brought it to light. What do I tell them now?’

  ‘Sordid things happened to all of us,’ he replied. He went on to describe some of the things he was presently coming across in child-abuse cases, and said that what had happened to my family was long ago and relatively less severe.

  Shaking with anger, I made a mistake that would return to haunt me later. ‘If you’d taken the time to interview my relatives, you would know that all have suffered long-term emotional damage, and you cannot possibly be in a position to judge the effects of it unless you have been a victim of sexual abuse yourself. He is still a danger to children in my view. What about his recent prison sentence?’

  Mr Griffiths answered, ‘I know nothing of that.’

  I went on, emphasizing that because of my own field of expertise, teaching child development and child protection, I felt qualified to judge whether my family was still suffering. He rose. My persistence annoyed him. I could see he had reached the end of his tether and was relieved when I got up. I told him that I would be writing to the Crown Office to complain. He handed me a note of their address. ‘No one is disbelieving you or your relatives,’ he repeated several times, ‘but I assure you it just isn’t in the public interest to pursue these matters.’

  Before going home, I saw Jim briefly and related to him my conversation with Mr Griffiths. I left him saying that I would not, however, let the matter rest there. ‘Didn’t think you would,’ he replied with a grin.

  Next day I dashed off a letter of complaint to the Crown Office, and a few days later I received a brief formal reply, which politely fobbed me off. It pointed out that it was a long-standing tradition of the Scottish Crown Office not to disclose to anyone its reasons for arriving at decisions. I did not need to be told.

  It was a polite brush off, which I related to Jim in some disbelief.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘it would be an idea to get yourself a good lawyer.’

  ‘A lawyer! But I’ve done nothing!’ I protested. ‘Why on earth should I need one?’

  ‘It’s just a thought,’ he replied. ‘I think you need to get some good independent advice from the best you and your cousins can afford. If you’re not giving up at this point, then you should. You’re sailing into deep waters, Sandra.’

  ‘I’m not giving up. I’ve discussed it with my cousins, and neither are they giving up on this,’ I answered. ‘If it will help, I’ll seek some expert advice.’

  ‘Do it. You’ll need it.’ Jim’s voice was resigned. ‘You’re up against it. Good luck.’

  Later, I discovered that rarely does anyone in Scotland quibble over the decisions of the Crown Office, particularly not an ordinary member of the public. Only two alternatives were open to me: either to publicize this unbelievable decision, or to pursue a private prosecution.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Nowhere in Scotland does an independent body exist, chaired by a lay perso
n, to investigate a complaint against the legal system, which can duck behind its get-out protection clause by saying that it is not accountable for any decisions and need not reveal why they were taken. At present the support mechanisms favour the offender, rather than the victim. I was being ignored by the legal authorities, I told Jim, who agreed to my next request. I wanted to meet with Eileen McAuley, the local reporter who had given massive local coverage to the re-investigation. Jim knew her well and respected her.

  That August, media interest in Moira and my dad had not died down. Speculation continued to hit the headlines, but even now, no link could be made between the man being questioned repeatedly in Leeds about the disappearance of Moira Anderson in 1957 and the man being accused by a group of women in Coatbridge of sexual abuse. Those south of the border were also unaware of this connection, according to Ann Inglis, assistant minister at my church. She had been on holiday with her family in Yorkshire, and had been astonished to hear details I had told her in confidence reported as the main item on the local television news.

  ‘I was flabbergasted,’ she said to me later. ‘They clearly stated that a local pensioner was being investigated by Scottish police who had visited Leeds three times in connection with Moira’s case, and they showed a picture of the little girl who was from his home town in Lanarkshire. They said he was presently on bail while a decision is being reached by the Scottish Crown Office as to whether they will press charges. The whole thing was headline news down there.’

  Such a splash in my father’s own territory unnerved me. Despite her reassurances that I would make a credible witness, based on her experience as a barrister, I still dreaded a huge court case with all its accompanying publicity. I did not relish ‘celebrity’ status as the woman who had accused her own father of a murder that had taken place when she was an eight-year-old child.

  Eileen McAuley and I met in a small café, close to the office of the Airdrie and Coatbridge Advertiser. We talked of William’s unexpected involvement, about how devastated my cousins and I were at the latest events, and the possibility of employing a lawyer who could take on the establishment. I mentioned that I had thought of approaching John Smith, the local MP. Two of my cousins were in his constituency.

  Eileen frowned. ‘He might help. He’s honour bound to do all he can to help them, if not you. He can’t have missed the developments on this case.’

  We spoke for an hour, but I was careful not to mention either my father’s or my cousins’ full names. We shook hands and agreed to keep in touch. I felt reluctant to speak to any other journalist, and somehow the link with Jim helped. I had a positive feeling about Eileen and knew she would respect confidentiality. I wrote to John Smith.

  On 11 September, as I stretched out in bed with the Saturday morning paper and a breakfast tray, he rang me. The voice at the other end of the phone was brisk but kindly. ‘I understand from your résumé of events that two victims are my constituents?’

  ‘Yes, and they would be happy to meet with you. They are entitled to have their day in court, and have people listen and believe in them. Not like before, years ago, when nobody wanted to know.’

  ‘Well, that attitude is changing, but I agree there are still those who prefer to look the other way,’ he commented. ‘There has been a spate of these cases in Scotland over the past five years or so, which date back thirty years or more. It is indeed a feature of these that the victims were unable to come forward at the time, and one hopes today they are treated more sensitively than in the past.’

  We discussed my meeting with Mr Griffiths, and how my father had linked himself to Moira. ‘But it must be terribly difficult for your family,’ Mr Smith said, after a brief pause. He revealed he could remember the original case without difficulty, such was its impact. ‘Although your brothers were just very small children in 1957, nevertheless, they share his name, and in a place the size of Coatbridge, they are bound to feel everyone will know if it comes out who is responsible. They must be very concerned about being identified, and I can understand that perfectly. I know you feel your principles are the correct ones, but there are times when you have to choose between your family and your own integrity. You run the risk of damaging family relationships.’

  I murmured agreement, but pointed out that another family in his constituency would never know the truth about their child. I went on, ‘Everyone has the right to tell the truth about her childhood, her upbringing, her life. Keeping silent about painful memories is in the interests of the abuser. Silence doesn’t help anyone, and little girls are still at risk from him.’

  Mr Smith said he would do his best to help: he would write to Lord Rodger, the Lord Advocate, personally and request a meeting. He wished me well, and indicated he would be in touch shortly.

  I reflected on what he had said about family relationships. I didn’t wish the rift between my brothers and me to widen, but there was no going back. I thought of the last time we’d met up, when Norman had insisted I drop everything and stop supporting my cousins. ‘I don’t know how you’re going to feel, Sandra, at the end of all this,’ he’d declared angrily, ‘when that lassie turns up.’

  ‘What lassie?’

  ‘Moira Anderson. When she turns up safe and well, how will you feel then?’

  I was dumbfounded. He had still not come to terms with the truth about our father.

  Two or three weeks after our meeting, Eileen published a piece in her newspaper about the latest developments in our case, but took care to make no link to the Moira Anderson investigation. Her headline of 3 September said: WOMAN IN PRIVATE PROSECUTION BID.

  A woman is poised to take out a private prosecution against her father in respect of child abuse allegations dating back 30 years. The former Coatbridge woman, who cannot be named for legal reasons, is furious the authorities have decided not to prosecute. Mrs X claims her 73-year-old father – who no longer lives in the area – sexually abused four female members of her family during the early 1960s.

  Monklands detectives, who investigated the claims, submitted a report detailing a series of Lewd and Libidinous allegations to the Procurator Fiscal in Airdrie. But the Fiscal’s Office, acting on Crown Office advice, ruled it was not ‘in the public interest’ to proceed with the case. Mr A. Taylor Wilson, the P.F., this week refused to discuss the case, stating he had ‘no comment to make’.

  Mrs X maintains the justice system has failed her family and stressed there was no ‘statute of limitations’ on sex offences. ‘I am extremely disturbed by the Fiscal’s decision, backed by the Crown Office, not to proceed with charges against my father,’ she said. ‘Because of this situation we are being forced to seriously consider taking out a private prosecution against him. It is intolerable for the Fiscal to say it is not in the public interest to proceed.’

  Mrs X also claimed the Fiscal’s office ‘minimised’ the alleged offences against her four cousins. She stated: ‘I pointed out the long term effects were still evident. One victim has required regular psychiatric treatment over the years because of childhood events and another has experienced great difficulties with relationships because of the abuse. The type of attitude taken by the Fiscal’s office sends out the wrong signals about child abuse. During the ’60s people simply did not discuss it, it was a strict taboo, especially among families. Now that members of my family have had the courage to make an official complaint, they have been slapped in the face by the justice system. I understood the prevailing attitude nowadays to be more enlightened than that displayed by the Fiscal’s office in Airdrie.’

  The article ended by indicating that the police felt it inappropriate to comment. Privately, however, Jim McEwan and Billy McCloy were both supportive.

  Jim phoned. He had been studying aerial photographs from the fifties that showed the pond at Townhead. Glasgow University experts had told him the topography of the land there had changed dramatically over the years, particularly following the hot summer of 1959. He told me how important any find by diver
s would be that made a link between Moira and her killer . . . a heavy tool from a bus, or a wheel that would have acted as a weight. I reminded him that the leather bucket bag and the wax cloth Co-op book she had had would not have been biodegradable either.

  ‘You should’ve been a cop,’ Jim laughed.

  My cousins A and B had been worrying that should a trial go ahead it would be their word against my father’s, given that there had been no other witnesses to the abuse. Billy phoned and reassured me that, in Scots law, a factor called the Moorov Doctrine comes into play where allegations of a pattern of behaviour emerge. Named after a Glasgow case from years back, in which a shopkeeper had molested his assistants on evenings when he asked them to work late, its thrust is that when a group of independent witnesses come forward with similar complaints about an abuser their statements are treated as corroborative.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  On 13 September 1993, I received a formal reply from John Smith, with the green portcullis logo of the House of Commons.

  Dear Mrs Brown,

  I refer to our telephone conversation, and to the letter you sent to me which very fully sets out your concerns. As I suggested, the best thing for me is to take up the matter with the Lord Advocate which I have now done. I will let you know when I get a response.

  I mentioned the complication that you are one of Lord James Douglas-Hamilton’s constituents. I have written to him explaining why I have taken up the issue with the Lord Advocate, but it might be appropriate for you to approach him also. Kindest regards.

  I did not particularly wish to write to my own MP to set out all the facts – so difficult to condense in a few lines – but as John Smith was concerned about parliamentary protocol, I did so.

  My letter ran to four pages, and took me almost as long to compose as my latest Open University essay. I glanced through the last section, for which I had had to do some research in one of the Edinburgh libraries, on what the Sexual Offences (Scotland) Act 1976 involved. This was the one my father had contravened, and I had been keen to check it out, highlighting the part that mentioned the main crime he had perpetrated against my cousins: