Part 7
Portobello prom. The sky is bright and the sun sparkles on the water and the wet sand. Shona and I are walking arm in arm. The breeze off the sea is warm as it gently ruffles our long hair. I hear the ebb and flow of the waves, the laughter of children digging in the sand and the barking of a dog as it leaps to catch a ball in the shallow waves. Couples walking hand in hand and the distant cry of a baby.
A gaze bores into me. I look back and see the small dark eyes of Logan Baird fixed on us. He is standing in the gloom of the shadow of the Free Presbyterian Church. His ankle-length dark coat is hanging open, his narrow white face framed by long lank black hair, his eyes small and close together. Despite 1976 being the hottest summer on record, a chill passes through me.
Chapter 14
Tom splashed through the shallow waves as he pounded along Portobello beach. He was alone apart from a few early dog walkers and a flock of seagulls squawking and squabbling over the rubbish bins. The air was cool as the sun rose palely over the distant Lothian coast. As he reached an effortless rhythm, his thoughts returned to Sarah.
He remembered last night. The torrent of passion Sarah had unleashed had triggered a reverberation in him that seemed to make his body take flight. Sarah, so beautiful, so sensual, so vulnerable. He wanted to kiss her, to hold her, protect her for ever.
This was ridiculous – he felt like a seventeen-year-old. He’d only ever felt anything remotely resembling this once before. His heart caught as he remembered Layla. He was a lonely seventeen-year-old with nothing in common with the stocky Boers in his class, who mocked his Scottish accent and his interest in football. When he met up with the community who lived on a farm high up over the rocky coast along from the Plettenberg Bay, he’d felt accepted. They were an international group, living in the big farmhouse or in tents scattered amongst the exotic shrubs and colourful flowers of the ‘fine bush’.
Layla was beautiful with long straw-coloured hair, an intriguing Scandinavian accent and an enigmatic smile. She had sensed the trouble in him as she massaged his shoulders. He could remember her low voice as her supple hands ran over his back, locating the knots and easing the pain away.
‘You need to release the pain and feel the sorrow flow out of your body. Relax your mind and let the bitterness drain out.’
Over and over, like a mantra. He’d felt the pain easing, replaced by a wonderful buoyancy, as if he was floating. ‘Breathe in sparkling shiny air. It will give you energy and strength. It will flow into every part of your body. Let go of the past and breathe in new life.’
As she turned him over and ran her fingers down his legs he felt himself stiffen. He tried to think it away but it quivered and grew, and then Layla moved closer. Tom felt a stirring at the memory as he ran. How strange that the memory of Layla was coming back so strongly now. Being with Sarah was the first time that lovemaking had meant anything since Layla.
After that day he’d spent every moment he could at the farm, learning to make the beautiful drift-wood sculptures the community made to order or to sell at the market in Knysna, smoking joints and exploring Layla’s golden body. His father was drowning his sorrows in the Moby Dick Bar and his mother was absorbed by the One World Church, so they didn’t seem to notice their son was skipping school, running wild.
One hot day, he went up the dusty red road to the farm earlier than usual. The day was hot and airless and the only sound that broke the silence of the afternoon air was the rhythmic rasp of the crickets. As he approached the house it was quiet, only the hum of low voices could be heard from some of the tents. He went up to Layla’s room and opened the door.
He stood frozen in the doorway; brown buttocks were moving up and down into Layla’s golden body. As his eyes became accustomed to the shadows of the darkened room, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, he recognised John, the ‘leader’ of the community. Realising there was someone else in the room, his handsome face with its chiselled Zapata moustache looked round and Layla gave an enigmatic smile.
Tom ran to the edge of the bush and watched the waves crash against the honey-coloured rocks below. His body heaved with sobs. He loved Layla. He’d never dared to say it, but he’d felt it.
Some time later he sensed a presence behind him. Layla laid her hands on his shoulders and began to massage the tension in his neck. Tom turned round angrily and brushed her hands away.
‘Tom, you knew you were not the only one.’
‘I didn’t. I love you. I thought you were my girlfriend.’
‘Love is not possession. Our community is built on love, we must share it. We must love everyone.’
Tom could still feel the hurt, the open raw gaping wound of his disappointment. Soon after that, the community had moved away along the coast, Tom had dropped out of school completely and the place in his heart where love should be became hard. The succession of superficial relationships had made this place more brittle. Now he felt it melting, the feelings he’d forgotten for so long coming back. He loved Sarah.
Despite her loyalty to Rory, he felt it in her, too. He wanted to help her shake off the feelings of guilt and responsibility that were shackling her to Rory, wanted to share his own reawakening with her. He was going to win her. Rory didn’t deserve her. She should be loved, sharing the wonders of life instead of keeping up the lonely façade of her sterile existence. And bound up with his thoughts of Sarah were his memories of Shona, the brilliant whirlwind of energy she’d been and the woman she could have become.
He ran further along the beach, leaving the dogwalkers behind, his thoughts in tune with the steady rhythm of his footsteps. He was meeting Rory and the journalist at lunchtime. Sarah would have seen the newspaper by now. He felt a coward for not showing it to her last night, but their emotions had taken over.
As he approached the west end of Portbello beach, the image of Logan Baird came into his mind. To him, Logan was still the creepy teenager he’d been in 1976, but Tom realised he would now be in his late fifties; a man who’d been locked up for the whole of his adult life, a man to be pitied. Tom had spent so many years hating Baird, but now there was the nagging question always just below his consciousness – who had killed his little sister?
He remembered that awful box and the pictures there. Could his father have murdered his own daughter? Tom couldn’t bear to contemplate it; surely no man could do anything like that to his own flesh and blood. But, on the other hand, he’d read about so many cases of unthinkable things happening within families.
Forcing these thoughts away, Tom increased his pace as he ran along the beach, wanting to push himself to the limit, cleanse his body of these suspicions and lose himself in the thump of his heart and the relentless pounding of his feet.
*
Sarah sat at her desk in the cramped Charinet office in Johnstone Terrace. Through the grime of the small window she could see the castle from its less familiar rear-view. She looked at leaflets for the Christmas appeals piled up on the desk. They were to be sent off to volunteers for distribution and her mind-numbing job today was to pack them in envelopes and take them down to the post office at the end of the day.
She looked at the silent phone. She’d been here for three hours and it hadn’t rung once. The group of charities she worked for seemed to be dying of apathy. Once again she wondered how long she could put up with the boredom of this job. It was poorly paid, but she’d wanted to do something when the children left home and had imagined that in this job, for an umbrella organisation handling the administration for small charities, she’d be doing something good, making a difference. She’d quickly realised that working for charities didn’t necessarily mean doing anything to help people.
She yawned. A mixture of lust and embarrassment ran through her body; it had been so wonderful with Tom. She wanted to be with him again, losing herself in his long-limbed body, releasing herself into his arms. But it was impossible; she was a wife and mother.
But what kind of mother? She�
��d thought everything was fine in her family, but had she been blind to problems right under her nose? She remembered that awful phone call from Lottie. You should love your children equally and Sarah was sure that she did, despite what Lottie had said.
She hesitated; it was true that she’d always found Nick easier to talk to. Lottie seemed so self-contained, content with the way she organised her own life, happy with her job in HR, and happy with Liam. Had she neglected her, missed something important? Sarah resolved to contact her and go out with her one day soon.
But Nick? He’d sounded so intense when he’d said they must have a drink together. She wondered what he wanted to say. Was it about a girlfriend? He seemed to play the field, never seeming to settle long with one girl. What was behind Lottie’s barbed remarks? Did she really know what was going on with her children at all?
Sarah sat up straight; she was going to be a better mother, talk to her children, find out what they really thought. Who should she contact first? Lottie, or Nick?
Nick answered almost immediately. ‘Hi Mum. Is everything all right?’ He sounded slightly worried; she didn’t usually phone him at work.
‘Yes, fine. Is this a bad time? Can you talk now?’
‘I have a conference call in about fifteen minutes but it’s OK to talk now. What is it?’
‘Nothing really. I’m just a bit bored at work and I was thinking about lunch next Sunday. You know that Lottie always brings Liam along and I wondered if you’d like to bring someone?’
There was a pause at the end of the phone. ‘There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about for a while, but I don’t want to do it in front of the family.’
Another pause. Sarah answered carefully, trying to keep the concern out of her voice. ‘You mentioned meeting up for a drink? What about after work today? Just let me know when and where and I’ll be there.’
‘Yeah… that could work if we make it early. I tell you what. I’ll come into town after work and we can meet in the Dome in George Street. They make a good gin and tonic. Can you be there at quarter past five?’
‘That’ll be fine. Looking forward to seeing you then.’
Nick’s voice was suddenly hurried. ‘Got to go now. See you later. Bye.’
Sarah put down the phone thoughtfully. What was all that about? She shrugged her shoulders and went back to the piles of leaflets. She’d find out soon enough and meanwhile she had plenty of other things to worry about. She remembered Tom’s kiss, and her stomach gave a lurch. She tried to put it to the back of her mind. She was a wife, mother and daughter, and she was going to be a good mother today.
*
The sound of the one o’clock gun was echoing from the castle ramparts over Princes Street as Tom turned into the narrow cobbled lane leading past Register House. He pushed open the heavy revolving door of the Cafe Royal, and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness after the bright sunshine of the September day. The light shone through the stained glass windows into the high room, dominated by the huge circular bar. Along the far wall were tiled murals of some of the many Scotsmen who’d made this small country the centre of so many inventions and technological developments.
‘Tom,’ Rory’s voice came from one of the semi-circular niches on the near side of the room. ‘Mine’s a pint of 80 shilling, and Archie’ll have a pint and a dram.’
Tom bought the order and a pint for himself and carried them over to the wooden table, scored by years of use. Rory was sitting next to Archie, who was watching Tom with ironic drooping eyes.
Rory raised his arm in greeting, ‘Hi Tom, I can’t stay long but I think you two are going to have a lot to say to each other. Archie, tell the boy what you’ve found out.’
Archie took a long draw from his pint and laid it on the table, ignoring the foam moustache on the upper lip of his leathery smoker’s face. ‘Hi Tom, have you been to the police yet?’
‘Not yet. I’m hoping you’ll be able to give me a bit of background info and then I’ll give them a call.’
‘They can’t be aware yet that you’re in the country or they’d already have contacted you. They have to re-interview everyone associated with the original case, and I guess they’d like to start with the family.’
‘Do you know who’s leading the investigation?’
‘DI Fergus Chisholm, a decent enough chap. He should do a good solid job. He has to go carefully, though, because whatever they find is going to put the original investigating team in a very bad light.’
Tom took a slow sup of his pint. ‘What do you know about the original investigation?’
Archie took a battered notebook out of his pocket. ‘It was run by Detective Inspector Charlie Sinclair. The first time he’d been put in charge of a murder probe, and mistakes were definitely made. I say that charitably. Someone uncharitable might say that he made up his mind pretty quickly that Logan Baird was the perpetrator and decided to ignore or withhold any evidence that didn’t back up his case.’
Rory, who’d been leaning back and taking no part in the conversation, broke in. ‘I remember him. Young, flared trousers, long hair, a bit flash… fancied himself as a bit of a star.’
‘He had quite a meteoric career after that, ended up as Assistant Chief Constable. Died in Spain about five years ago, so unfortunately we’re not going to be able to get him for the shortcomings of the investigation.’
Tom wanted the conversation back on track. ‘So what was the arresting evidence, exactly? And why did they set Baird free?’
Archie downed half of his pint and put his glass on the table. ‘After Baird was picked up, he was questioned for hours on end – about eleven without a break. There was no offer of a lawyer, no proper recording of evidence. At the end, he signed an admission of guilt–’
Rory leant forward. ‘I was sure he’d admitted it.’
Archie shook his head. ‘–which he withdrew before the trial. It would never be allowed nowadays and was not good practice even in the wild seventies. But the defending lawyer didn’t make as much of that as he should. In fact, he seemed to be certain of Baird’s guilt as well.’
Tom gasped. He’d hated Baird for so long, but this injustice was staggering.
‘There was also eyewitness evidence which placed him in the park that night, and they found a footprint which they claimed was his near the bank of the burn leading to the culvert where…’ Archie saw the expression on Tom’s face, and changed direction. ‘The footprint was a size 7-9 Chelsea boot from Freeman Hardy Willis. Baird always wore these boots, which also happened to be one of the top-selling styles of the year. The clincher, as far as the police were concerned, was Shona’s pink cardigan found in the churchyard next door to Baird’s house. There were semen stains on it, which were a match for Baird’s blood group – O+. More exact means of testing wasn’t available at that time and although 24% of the adult male population share this blood group, it was seen as conclusive, combined with the other evidence.’ Archie leafed through his notebook.
Tom was aghast. ‘But this evidence is all circumstantial.’
Archie nodded. ‘Baird was definitely odd, which made it easier to pin it on him. He always wore black clothes and spent a lot of time hanging around the churchyard. His bedroom was apparently painted black and he slept in a sort of box, which the press reported as a coffin.’
Rory leant forward. ‘It’s true – I know someone who actually saw it. He was a total nutter – scared all the girls.’
‘Of course, as soon as suspicion fell on him plenty of people came forward to say they’d seen him acting suspiciously. Some teenage girls said he’d exposed himself to them, but all withdrew the allegations later and wouldn’t go to court to testify. However, the damage was done and the police were certain they’d got the right man. Only someone with local knowledge would have known about the culvert, and the fact that the grating could be removed, so he fitted the bill. The press and the public were baying for a conviction and the police had found an easy targe
t.’
Archie paused, but neither Tom nor Rory said anything. ‘So, he’s been mouldering in Carstairs for the last thirty-five years, ineligible for parole because he would never admit his guilt, and because he was considered to be in denial, he couldn’t even get on any courses or training.’
Tom gasped again, astonished at the Catch 22 situation.
‘The only visitor he ever had was his mother – and even she’d helped the police in the original investigation because she thought he was guilty. After she died in 1980 he had no visitors at all and just withdrew more and more into religious mania. No one bothered with him over the years until the Reverend Hamish Mackay, a prison visitor, started to take an interest in his case.
‘He was convinced of Baird’s innocence and persuaded the SCCRC to look into the original case. When the forensic evidence was reinvestigated, DNA tests showed that the semen sample was definitely not Baird’s. Hence the appeal and his release, pending the review court case.’
Tom leant forward. ‘But if they have DNA, can’t they find out who the killer is?’
Archie took another long draw from his pint. ‘You’d think so, but from what I’ve heard, they’ve run the sample through all the databases and haven’t found a match. That means the murderer wasn’t a convicted criminal, and nor is any member of his family. Even if the murderer is dead, they should be able to find out who it was through family matching. A lot of people get found out like this – someone in the family commits a minor offence, DNA is taken and, bingo! The murderer, who thinks he’s got away with it, is traced.’
‘So at the moment the police have no idea who the killer is?’ Tom thought of his father, and his suspicions. He shuddered. The murderer couldn’t be anyone with a criminal record so that disposed of the serial killer theory. He was going to have to go to the police.
Sewing the Shadows Together Page 12
