Where There is Evil

by Sandra Brown

  This was a blow, but I was getting used to taking one step forward and three back. However, I had been looking over Eileen’s story on Moira’s friend, Elizabeth Taylor Nimmo, which had appeared in the spring, and I felt compelled to contact her. I had told the police in my original statements about a girl I had seen with Moira and my father by his car at the park and I wanted to ask Elizabeth Taylor if it had been her. I asked Eileen how to get in touch with her. Eileen checked her notes to make sure that Mrs Nimmo would not object to her passing on the address, then gave it to me. ‘She was very helpful,’ she said. ‘She wants to see justice done as much as you do – though I doubt if she will have made the connection that the man interviewed three times in Leeds who’s prime suspect for Moira is also the same pensioner from Monklands whose nieces are claiming sexual abuse.’

  ‘I don’t see why the public can’t be told of that link,’ I said.

  ‘There’s no way we can publish that. If we did the Procurator Fiscal would be down on us like a ton of bricks. It’s highly prejudicial.’

  On the last Saturday in September, Jim, Billy and their wives came to dinner at our home. We had a pleasant evening, with our friends Janet and John also among the gathering. Although Jim insisted he would still be technically in charge of the case, I feared he would find it almost impossible to keep control from another police division. Also, everything was being shifted from Airdrie back to Coatbridge. We’d gone full circle.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The blow of Jim McEwan’s sudden move to Clydebank was quickly followed by a second, even more upsetting, event.

  One crisp October morning, I went to pick up the mail and found my heart jumping into my throat. A plain brown envelope was lying on the floor, and unfamiliar assertive dark blue handwriting leaped out at me. My knees buckled and I almost keeled over. Someone with a bold, heavy, backhand style had scrawled in large script a name followed by our address.

  I laid it on our dining table, and sat down. I couldn’t bring myself to open it.

  Ronnie asked what was wrong.

  I pointed to the letter. ‘I think it’s hate mail.’

  Horrified, he grabbed it and stared in puzzlement at the name.

  It was addressed to Moira Anderson, care of our home.

  The letter contained one page with about fifteen lines of the same firm script.

  Dear Moira,

  I understand you may be launching a private prosecution against your father and I would like to speak to you about this. I enclose an article I wrote recently which has prompted a lot of feedback and I am now in the process of putting a second one together.

  I would appreciate you getting in touch with me either at the office or my home. Bob Reap gave me your address because I have been doing some work on children who have been sexually abused, and I wondered if I could have a word with you. I look forward to hearing from you.

  The letter, signed ‘Maggie Barry’, and dated 29 September 1993, was headed with the logo of the Evening Times and Glasgow Herald.

  I felt anger rise in me. How dare this woman not get her facts right? The telephone rang. I grabbed it and a voice at the other end said, ‘Maggie Barry here. May I speak to Moira?’

  I gasped. ‘This is Sandra Brown. I have just received and read your letter.’ I chose my words carefully. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well you rang. I’m so angry, I was thinking of ringing you to complain.’

  ‘To complain?’ she sounded bewildered. ‘Isn’t Moira Anderson there?’

  ‘No. She hasn’t been for almost forty years either,’ I spoke through gritted teeth, ‘and if you’re wondering who I am, I am the woman who has accused her father of abducting Moira from Coatbridge in 1957. You’ve got your information all wrong. I don’t think any newspaper editor would be thrilled at the way you’ve managed to upset me, trying to contact the child I have claimed my father is responsible for murdering. I’ve just had a huge shock.’

  There was a brief silence. She offered to come and apologise and we agreed to meet a few evenings hence.

  A day or two later Lord James Douglas-Hamilton’s secretary contacted me. He had received a reply from Crown Office and had sent me a copy of it. Lord Rodger had written to him with assurances that both enquiries reported by the Procurator Fiscal’s office at Airdrie had been given ‘careful consideration’.

  The Lord Advocate added:

  I have had an opportunity to consider the papers and am satisfied that the decision in relation to the allegations of sexual misconduct against Mrs Brown’s father represented a proper exercise of the Crown’s discretion. As you are aware, the Crown’s reasons for its decisions are not disclosed.

  Within hours, however, this letter was followed by a copy of the reply John Smith had received from the Lord Advocate. Although both documents carried the same date, 5 October 1993, John Smith had received much more information, even if it was negative.

  A paragraph in the middle leaped out at me.

  In relation to the disappearance of Moira Anderson there has been an active investigation by Strathclyde Police notwithstanding the length of time which has elapsed since the girl’s disappearance and the difficulties which that has inevitably caused. Crown Counsel have had the benefit of full reports of the outcome of the various police enquiries, some of which they have directed. While recent enquiries have still not explained Moira Anderson’s disappearance, Crown Counsel have noted the results and instructed the Procurator Fiscal to report any further evidence or information which comes to light. I would only add that while Mrs Brown appears to have some knowledge of the enquiries, some of the information which she appears to have provided to you is inaccurate and some incorrect.

  I reread the last sentence in astonishment.

  The police also investigated allegations against Mrs Brown’s father, and interviewed him in connexion with 5 allegations of lewd and libidinous conduct involving four girls. The results of these enquiries were also seen by Crown Counsel and after careful consideration they instructed that there were to be no criminal proceedings against him in these matters. As you are aware, the Crown’s reasons for its decisions are not disclosed and remain confidential. However, I have had an opportunity to consider the papers and am satisfied that the decision represented a proper exercise of their discretion. Again, I must comment that some of the information which Mrs Brown appears to have provided is incorrect.

  I was concerned to note that she had commented to you on the approach and attitude of David Griffiths, the Senior Procurator Fiscal Depute at Airdrie. He has been involved in these enquiries from their outset and has been the author of a number of reports to Crown Counsel. I have read his reports which are informative, thorough, helpful and prepared in the professional manner I would expect from a senior member of staff.

  Following Crown Counsel’s decision in relation to the allegations against her father, Dr Griffiths agreed to meet Mrs Brown as the spokesperson for her family. I understand that he spent some two hours with her when he endeavoured to discuss the matter rationally and sensitively with her. In the circumstances I am saddened that Mrs Brown has seen fit to criticize Dr Griffiths in the way she has.

  Yours,

  Alan (Rodger of Earlsferry)

  What incorrect information had I given? I searched out my original letter to them, and the letter I had written to John Smith, seeking ambiguities or anything that could be misconstrued, to no avail. I could not fathom from their reply to John Smith to which sections of information they were referring.

  I was furious. The inference to the Labour leader was that I was not a credible person as I had fed him false data. The reiteration of this point reinforced a question mark over my integrity. I also noted how I was subtly undermined in the parting shots at the end, with the emphasis on the ‘rational and sensitive’ Depute attempting to discuss the issue with me. The iciness of our meeting came back to me: there had been no hysterical raised voices, but I had broken a cardinal rule. I had said I would complain and I
had done so, daring to voice my criticism of him as an individual and them as an organization. The Lord Advocate was simply closing ranks. Lord Rodger had turned a complaint about one of his staff and lack of information on a decision into a query about my trustworthiness and a complaint about my attitude.

  I was still upset when Ronnie appeared for our evening meal. I showed him the letter. ‘If you read between the lines they’re saying I’m a crackpot. I don’t know what they find inaccurate. I’ll have to show it to Jim and ask his advice.’

  He read it, and shook his head in stunned silence. ‘Damn right.’

  Over the following week three meetings were scheduled. I was returning to Hetty McKinnon’s home for our second session, and two nights later, on 12 October, Maggie Barry was visiting me. Also, I had organized a rendezvous with Jim at the main Strathclyde police HQ in Pitt Street, Glasgow.

  ‘Don’t forget, Sandra,’ my husband pointed cheerily at the calendar we keep on the wall with four columns for the family’s various commitments, ‘I’ve booked theatre tickets for the Lyceum for our anniversary on the 16th.’ We were still attempting to juggle an otherwise normal life through this period.

  I was pleased to see Hetty again, and in no time at all, I was venturing back through that kaleidoscopic tunnel of flashbacks.

  A gallery of faces paraded before me: Miss Mack, my formidable teacher in Primary 7, with her Jackie Kennedy-style pillar-box red suit. She was marking my essay on the Matthew Arnold poem, ‘The Forsaken Merman’, debating with me the comment I had made about how much easier life was for men, and how I wished I was a boy. Her shocked face had stencilled arches of eyebrows shooting upwards into a midnight black razor-cut hair-style. She was making a cutting aside to a teaching student about such decidedly unfeminine views, but the younger woman spoke to me quietly later, and when she questioned why I had written it, I did not hesitate to tell her the truth: ‘Ye kin do anything ye like, Miss, when ye’re a man.’

  Hetty took me to 1957 once again. The tape was running on, but only Hetty’s tranquil voice was recording. Then came the familiar echo of my voice, with its strong Scots accent, from childhood when we lived at Dunbeth Road.

  ‘There’s a lady visiting my mum, and I’m helping with the san’wiches. I’m pressin’ the banana on them for the lady an’ she’s askin’ ’bout ma dad. I’m listenin’ in the kitchen ’cos he’s away. My mum’s whisperin’. I’ve not to hear. An’ the other san’wiches, with the brown bread, the stuff on the meat is kind of – like glass. I’ve taken it off, it’s jelly stuff an’ it looks horrible. Don’t think Ah’m gonna get a row fur doin’ it. They call it gammon. The lady’s sayin’ why dontcha go out and play? She wants to speak to my mummy. I’ve not to be there . . .’

  ‘And that’s upsetting you. Do you know who this lady is?’

  ‘She’s someone who’s got a baby in ’er tummy, I think – but I got a row for askin’ about that too. An’ my dad’s not here, and they don’t wanna tell me where he is, I’ve gotta go out and play . . . My mum’s angry ’cos I’ve asked what “pregnant” means. She says I’m only eight an’ I’m too wee to know about that.’

  ‘And do you go outside to play?’

  ‘M’m, but the lady doesn’t have any children with her. There’s nobody outside except me playin’. Her tummy’s fat. I know that’s what happens, but my mum’s upset with me askin’. I’m jus’ goin’ to go in and get my Enid Blyton diary and put my writing in there . . .’

  ‘What happens then?’

  There is silence, then:

  ‘I went intae the cupboard. I wis lookin’ for the Christmas presents an’ I wis wonderin’ about Santa – an’ there’s these books my daddy has about, Exchange ’n’ Mart it’s called. An’ there’s horrible magazines ’n’ comics and things that belong to my daddy. It’s horrible the things they’re doin’ to these ladies, an’ I’ll jis’ put them back an’ cover them up, an’ not say anything . . .’

  ‘You’re scared. And you’re going to put them all out of sight?’

  ‘I know that he’d some of these pictures he showed to my friend.’

  Here the child named one of my buddies from Dunbeth Road. Here was an incident I had not previously recalled.

  ‘He made her kiss him and he gave us all sweeties.’

  ‘When did he show them to Elizabeth?’

  ‘He did things – in the back of the car. Her mummy says that she’s not to go back in the car because Elizabeth’s got oil on her good dress. So they’ve not to go back in the car. It’s because their mum’s very angry about the stains on their clothes an’ he’s – you know – he keeps givin’ sweets to my friends and me. An’ I told my mummy ’bout the other girls he gave sweeties to, as well, at the park. But she didn’t believe me about that. An’ I think . . . he wanted them to go into his car, too, at Dunbeth Park.’

  ‘Who were these other girls?’

  ‘They were big girls, two big girls. They’re not my friends, but they were going to go into his car till I went over to speak to them. It was Marjorie’s big sister, an’ her friend Beth. An’ they were going to with ’im . . . but I told my mummy about that.’

  ‘And what was Marjorie’s big sister called?’

  ‘Majorie’s sister Moira an’ her friend Beth. An’ I was with Marilyn Twycross an’ we were playin’ at the park. I think he wanted . . . to go away with them, an’ do things too. My mum – she wouldn’t believe me. But he wis givin’ them sweeties. He wis in his car.’

  ‘And what did you say when you went up to him?’

  ‘I saw him, through the park gates. I thought he’d come to get me. He’s in his bus uniform, an’ his hat an’ his badge. The letters are MM 9507, an’ he told me that’s his PSV number, an’ inside his pocket he’s got his watch on a chain. An’ when I went over, he said, “Whit are ye doin’ here?” I thought, He’s seen me comin’. An’ they jist went away . . .’

  ‘And what did you feel like then, when he was saying that to you?’

  ‘He didn’t want me to come along. He wanted me out of the road. But I’m really worried about them, because I think he wanted to take them away. An’ not with me there.’

  ‘And what do you think would have happened if he’d taken them away?’

  ‘He would do bad things – again. An’ I wouldn’t be there to make him stop.’

  ‘Did you make him stop before?’

  ‘I banged on the glass, with the ice creams an’ I said to him, “I’m gonna tell my mummy,” but he was right ’cos she wouldn’t believe me—’

  ‘And what did you see him do through the glass? What was he doing, Sandra?’

  ‘He was touchin’ my friends. Under their pants. I think he wasn’t in the front seat of the car when I came back, he was in the back, with them. An’ I can’t see properly, but I look in . . . it’s all misty, an’ I bang to make him . . .’

  ‘Stop. What does he do then?’

  ‘Wound the window down, an’ took the ice creams, an’ told me to keep the money I had left. He’s angry with me, he’s angry. He’s shouting at me. Calling me a liar . . .’

  Hetty went further back. I could see myself walking to school with Jim, my first boyfriend at age six, the two of us arguing over conkers. Then came my memories of the trip to Callander with Baxter’s bus staff and the knicker-bocker glory. Even further back I was jumping off dykes and wash houses, thrilled with the baseball-style boots I had pestered my mother to buy. And now I was very young, way before school.

  Hetty asked if I had sore bits on my body anywhere, and there it was. The visit from Dr Vicky, trainee physician in the family. I remembered the excruciating pain of passing urine, the deep-seated cramping in my intestines, and the relief of hugging a hot-water bottle tightly to my abdomen. I held my breath, and the memory began to fade; I was aware of no adult touching me anywhere it was sore.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The sense of relief was indescribable as I left Hetty’s sandstone villa. We had discussed her
amalgamated notes from the two sessions and she firmly pronounced that she did not believe me to have been a victim of incest in childhood, despite my father’s paedophile behaviour which I had witnessed.

  As I drove back to Edinburgh, a huge weight seemed to roll off my shoulders with each passing mile.

  On Tuesday evening Maggie Barry turned up on our doorstep, looking apprehensive. She apologized profusely over the mistaken identity, then interviewed me in a fairly subdued way, asking the question I now expected. Quietly I declared I had not been a victim of my dad’s sexual practices. She looked up. ‘Let me get this right. There’s been no link made so far between the man quizzed down south in recent months, about Moira Anderson’s disappearance in 1957, and the pensioner whose relatives in the Monklands are accusing him of abuse from the sixties?’

  ‘No, the general public aren’t aware of that connection, and you can’t link them.’ I pointed out what Eileen had told me, that lawyers would say that he would not be able to secure a fair and unprejudiced trial, and the door would be slammed on any court case.

  ‘We’ll see.’ Maggie Barry shrugged. When she had gone, I was left with a nagging feeling of uncertainty.

  I met up with Jim at Pitt Street HQ, and we caught up with the news. He was enjoying his new post, but had arranged for a machine to filter the levels of silt in Witchwood Pond. This operation would take some weeks, he said, and a team of frogmen would eventually be able to explore the bottom with an unrestricted view.