Lottie nodded. ‘The phone’s never stopped ringing all day, all the Scottish papers and nationals as well.’
Archie told Lottie to take the phone off the hook and turned towards Sarah. ‘Can we sit down somewhere? There are a couple of things I want to say before these journalists are all over you.’
‘Take a seat in the front room. I’ll make some coffee,’ Lottie said, moving towards the kitchen. ‘Is that OK, Mum?’
Sarah nodded and went to sit on the leather Chesterfield while Archie slouched on the wing-backed chair opposite her. He looked straight at her, took a deep breath and spoke in a serious tone. ‘Now, when celebrities die, one of two things happens. They’re either beatified by the press – or the press look for all the dirt they can.’ Archie looked awkward. ‘Now we know that Rory was a great guy, but he certainly wasn’t a saint.’
Sarah held her breath, and wondered what was coming next.
Archie leant forward. ‘Rory had great personal charm, people loved him, but there are a couple of indiscretions in his life which could raise their ugly heads now.’
Sarah sat up straight and widened her eyes. ‘Isn’t there such a thing as respect for the dead? Surely the gutter press won’t go raking up all kinds of rumours when he isn’t here to defend himself?’
Archie raised his hands in a defensive gesture. ‘Sarah, Sarah. We’re both on the same side here. I just wanted to make you aware of what might happen – and warn you against journalists. They’re a slimy bunch and you have to be careful of people trying to worm their way into your confidence.’
Sarah gave a bitter smile. ‘Like you are, you mean. What are you getting at?’
Archie looked at her, sadness in his drooping eyes. ‘Sarah, you know I loved Rory and he was a great guy. But, you must know that he was not always…’ he coughed with uncharacteristic sensibility, ‘totally faithful.’
There a sound from at the doorway where Lottie stood, holding a tray of coffee. She stormed into the room and stood in front of the journalist, her eyes blazing. ‘You’re upsetting my mother. I’d like you to leave.’
Archie looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry, you weren’t supposed to hear that.’
‘Evidently not, but I’m glad I did. My father died yesterday. How dare you speak to my mother like that? How can you be so insensitive as to come here today and slander his memory like that?’
Archie stood up. ‘I’m truly sorry, but I really do have your mother’s best interests at heart.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘I just wanted you to be forewarned and on your guard. I’ll go now, but remember that I will do anything I can to help you.’
Sarah felt numb inside. She’d always avoided this kind of conversation. Rory had always come back to her, always reassured her that she was the one, so she’d pushed any unspoken suspicions away. And now Archie had put her subconscious fears into words and she realised that it wasn’t a surprise.
‘Archie, sit down, please.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Lottie, thank you for standing up for your father like that. He’d be very proud of you, as he always was. Your father was a very charming man, a very loving man, but we have to face up to the fact that there may be some truth in what Archie is saying.’
As Lottie gasped, Archie said, ‘But your mother was always the most important person to him. She was the one that he really loved and respected.’
Lottie gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Not so much that he’d remain faithful to her, it seems.’
Sarah held out her arms to her daughter and held her close, somehow gaining strength from the return to her role of mother and protector. ‘Lottie, he loved us, we were his family. He was just a very attractive man in a business where he was surrounded by beautiful women.’
Lottie looked up at her mother and kissed her cheek. She turned to Archie. ‘But they won’t print any of this, will they?’
Archie looked down. ‘I’ll do my best to keep it quiet, certainly in the Scotsman Publications, but there are lots of sensational rags and your father’s big news.’
The sound of the doorbell interrupted him. Sarah looked up from Lottie’s hair as Archie moved towards the door. ‘I’ll get rid of them.’ He pressed the button and spoke into the entry phone. He turned to Sarah. ‘HJ Kidd? Can I let him in?’
Sarah hesitated, then nodded. Archie opened the door and Sarah heard footsteps hurrying up the stone stairs. Captain Kidd burst into the hall, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. ‘Sarah, my dear. How are you today?’
He stopped with an embarrassed grimace, realising what he’d said. ‘I don’t want to disturb you at this time, but I just wanted to give you these,’ he indicated the flowers, ‘and let you know that if there is anything at all I can do to help, you only need ask. Really. Anything.’ He stood looking awkward, all his usual assurance gone.
Sarah took the bouquet. ‘It’s so kind of you, HJ. Really I don’t think there’s anything we need at the moment, but I’ll let you know.’ Then something did strike her. ‘We don’t know when the funeral will be yet, but perhaps you would be willing to read something then? A poem? I know that Rory would have liked that.’
HJ’s face lit up. ‘Of course, I would be delighted, honoured to do that.’ He coughed and shuffled, clearly uncomfortable. ‘Actually, as you mention it, and as I’m here, I wonder if I could take back the papers I gave Rory? My childhood poems. Would they be here?’
Sarah indicated towards the closed door of Rory’s study. ‘He was working on them in here, so I’m sure they’ll be on his desk.’
HJ hurried towards the room. Archie raised his eyebrows. ‘A bit odd, him coming round for papers now?’
Sarah whispered back. ‘He was with Rory when it happened. He’s bound to be upset.’
Archie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Still weird in my book.’
After a few minutes, HJ reappeared with the manila folder. ‘Do you think this is everything? Could Rory have taken any things to his office?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘No, he was working on this alone and always at home. That’s why he was even doing the camera work himself.’ Her voice caught but she carried on calmly. ‘I think Rory would have kept everything together, but if I find anything else I’ll let you know.’
‘Yes. Right. Thank you. Thanks very much. Look, I won’t take up any more of your time… Nice to see you again, Mr Kilbride.’ With that HJ gave Sarah a perfunctory hug and hurried out of the door.
Lottie reappeared with the flowers beautifully arranged and put them on the polished mahagony coffee table. ‘Has he gone already?’
The doorbell rang again and there was the sound of footsteps and muttering right outside the flat door. A voice called through the letterbox. ‘Mrs Dunbar, would you like to make a statement about your husband’s death?’
Sarah started. ‘How did they get inside?’
Archie moved towards the door. ‘That plonker must’ve let them in. Never mind, I’ll get rid of them. And I’ll ask your neighbours not to open the stair door to anyone they don’t know.’ He patted Sarah on the shoulder and handed her a card. ‘Just give me a call if you need me. Remember, I’m on your side.’
*
Sarah breathed deeply after Archie left. What he’d said about Rory hadn’t really shocked her. It was something she’d always known deep down, but hadn’t wanted to admit to herself. In a way, having to acknowledge the truth made her feel strangely empowered. And she surprised herself by finding she didn’t blame Rory; that was just the way he was and, remembering last night with Tom, she wasn’t really in a position to take the moral high ground. She wished Tom could be here with her now, but that was impossible.
She put the phone back on the hook. There were calls from so many people. With some of them, like her mother and Patsy, she felt she was doing the comforting. Other calls gave her a sense of purpose. The Head of BBC Scotland rang personally, offering condolences, which even sounded sincere. He said that the corporation would, of course, be organising a memorial service and to leave everything i
n his hands. The hospital phoned to say that Rory’s organs had been given to seven people, seven lives saved. They promised to forward further details as soon as possible.
Nick came round, saying he’d spoken to the police and hospital authorities and also to John Coltrane, the family solicitor. Sarah felt the composure of the day before returning, as she and Nick sat down with Lottie to make lists of who they should inform. She was pleased that they were all working so well together; the family tensions of the last few weeks seemed forgotten as they were united by the tragedy.
Towards late afternoon, the phone rang again. Lottie answered and looked over to her mother. ‘Police,’ she mouthed. Sarah took the phone and explained that she would have to reschedule her appointment with the team investigating Shona McIver’s death and that her husband, Rory Dunbar would not now be able to attend.
Archie phoned to say they should watch the Scottish news programme, Reporting Scotland. After a few small items of local news, there was a long feature on the death of Rory Dunbar; it included clips from his earliest programmes, showing him as a long-haired roving reporter, and also a couple of his most famous interviews from Chats with Rory. The item ended with the trademark conclusion of his chat show. Rory turned round and looked directly into the camera with his dazzling smile: ‘It’s good night from me, Rory Dunbar, and keep safe until we meet again next week.’
Sarah snapped the television off. The tears, which had refused to flow over the last two days, flooded from her.
Chapter 18
Tom sat in his claustrophobic room in the Regent Guest House, watching Reporting Scotland on the tiny box television. As the report on Rory’s death finished, he slammed down the remote control. ‘What a cheap trick. Not a dry eye in the house I’m sure.’ He wasn’t certain what he felt about Rory. He had been his best friend when he was young, charming and charismatic, but the way he had treated Sarah appalled him.
After the local news programme there was a trailer for a programme later that evening. A reporter was shown standing in front of Carstairs State Hospital, where criminals in need of psychiatric care are imprisoned in Scotland. The strong wind inflated the reporter’s jacket and made his hair stand on end. Fighting against the sound of the gale, he shouted into his microphone. ‘After nearly forty years in prison Logan Baird has just been released, pending his case being heard by the Court of Appeal. Our special report investigates the circumstances which led to this greatest miscarriage of justice in the history of the Scottish penal system, tonight at 9pm on BBC Scotland.’
Tom groaned. After speaking to Archie Kilbride he’d got the impression there wouldn’t be any programmes or reports until after the appeal, but it seemed that the BBC had jumped the gun. He reached for the bottle of whisky on his cheap chest of drawers and took a hefty slug from his tooth-glass. He wouldn’t be going to the pub tonight.
He put the sound down on the television and let the images flicker in the background as he waited for nine o’clock. He filled up his glass and looked around the room; the single bed with the uncomfortable dip in the centre, the pink cabbage-rose wallpaper, the frills round the edge of the kidney-shaped dressing table, clashing with the 70s swirls on the carpet. He hated this room.
He poured another drink. Here he was, fifty-three years old, without a home or a job, without any real friends, and – he gulped another swig of whisky – in love with the widow of his best friend.
The Scottish Special Report logo came up on the screen and he flicked on the sound. The prat in the wind-inflated suit was still fighting to make himself heard. ‘For thirty-six years, this grim building has been home to Logan Baird. He came here in 1976 as a nineteen-year-old. Earlier this month he was released after new DNA evidence showed he could not have been the murderer of little Shona McIver, whose body was found in a culvert just yards from her home in Portobello, Edinburgh’s seaside suburb. This evening we are going to investigate what went wrong during Baird’s conviction, and how he must feel, back in a world very different from the one he left in 1976.’
A montage of images from the mid-70s appeared on the screen to the background of Rod Stewart singing ‘We are Sailing’. How gloomy the photos made the time seem – bombings, strikes, dark streets. Tom couldn’t remember any of that – he remembered the sun shining on the sands, football in the park, laughs at school, Shona and Sarah dancing to the Bay City Rollers. Then pictures came of houses for sale for £10,000, Bagpuss and Kojak, flared trousers and platform soles, Turkish Delight and Caramac. That was more familiar, all technicolour until…
The scene cut to the reporter on Portobello prom, in front of the low wall round Abercorn Park. Tom wondered if he could even bear to watch as the reporter used his serious voice to describe the night in September 1976 when Shona McIver disappeared after being seen playing in this park. The familiar photo of Shona smiling on the beach flashed up on the screen. Tom took another drink of whisky and reached for the remote control. His hand shook. No, he wouldn’t switch it off. He had to watch this. It would be worse to lie there, wondering what was being broadcast.
The camera panned to the bushes beside the culvert ‘where little Shona’s sexually-molested body was found’ and then moved on to the arrest of Logan Baird. They showed a school photo of him in his uniform, unsmiling and with staring eyes, but relatively normal compared to the way he’d looked after he’d left school. Tom remembered him in his ankle-length black coat, his long dark hair falling over his face, standing hunched in corners, never looking up.
Weren’t there any more recent pictures of him? Perhaps he thought the devil would take his soul if he was photographed. Tom gave an involuntary giggle. He blinked to focus on the screen; the whisky was blurring his brain. He felt tears very close behind his eyes but he refused to let them fall as he concentrated on the rest of the programme.
Actually, the rest of it wasn’t that bad, because the focus of the programme was definitely Baird. There was a description of the trial and some contemporary footage of Baird being bundled from courtroom to van under a blanket. Then there was a long interview with Rev. Hamish Mackay, a square-jawed teuchter with a manic gleam in his eye. He described his first meeting with Baird during his prison visits and spoke movingly of Baird’s love of religion, and his protestations of innocence.
The interviewer dared to ask why Baird had confessed to the crime at first, but Mackay was ready for that one. ‘Logan wasn’t able to talk about it for a long time, but after we built up a relationship he opened up about that night. First he said that he had seen the devil with a little girl in the bushes. The police questioned him for eleven hours. He was confused and began to feel guilty, somehow feeling that the presence of the devil was part of him. He was a vulnerable teenager who had words put into his mouth by the police at the time. They made him sign a statement without allowing an adult or legal representation to be present.’
‘Why did he never make any kind of appeal in all the years he was in Carstairs?’ The reporter asked and Tom began to think that the interviewer wasn’t perhaps as big an idiot as he looked.
Once again Mackay was ready. ‘This poor young man was incarcerated and forgotten by all save his mother, and after her death, he had no visitors until I came in contact with him. Because he wouldn’t admit his guilt, he was abandoned by the system. He was prejudged and pigeon-holed by the psychiatric mafia, who deemed him psychotic and pumped him full of inappropriate medication. In fact, he’s now been diagnosed as bipolar. He would have been released a long time ago if he had been put on the correct medication programme and people had listened to him.’
‘Where is he now? Is he now being treated?’
‘He is living in supervised accommodation, organised for him by some of his supporters. It is very difficult for him, as he has come out into a world that has changed so much, like Rip Van Winkle waking up after so many years. The technology, traffic, shopping is all very new to him, but with the support of the Lord and his friends, he’s making good progress.’
The rest of the programme was padded out with some background information on the work of the Scottish Criminal Cases Review Commision, which since its establishment in the nineties has resulted in twenty-five successful appeals. It also mentioned the DNA testing which proved that Baird was not the killer, and the fact that the case had been reopened by the Lothian and Borders Police. But there were no further details about this except that the investigation was on-going and no new suspects had yet been announced.
Tom thought again about his father’s pictures. He had to go to the police; he’d ring them tomorrow. He pushed the memory of the images from his mind again. The whisky made this easier to do.
Portentous music announced that the programme was coming to an end. The reporter turned to the screen and made a few final remarks, sure that, after this terrible miscarriage of justice, all viewers would wish Logan Baird well for his continued adjustment to twenty-first century life.
Tom put the television off. He was relieved they hadn’t delved too deeply into Shona’s life and there was no speculation about any other possible perpetrators. Tom looked at the whisky bottle. It was almost empty. What the hell, he would finish it off. He drained the bottle into his glass and knocked it back, before falling into a troubled sleep.
*
Lottie gently removed the wine glass from her mother’s grasp. Sarah’s head had fallen to one side in the corner of the Chesterfield when she’d slipped into an exhausted sleep.
*
Tom woke up the next morning with his mouth furred and his head pounding. Why had he drunk that whisky last night? After seeing what drink had done to his father he tried not to lose control, but last night… a wave of self-pity washed over him. The programme about Baird and Shona, Rory dying, Sarah seeming so close and now so far away, his lack of home, plans, direction…
He got up and showered. He didn’t think he could face Mrs Ritchie’s grief or a full Scottish breakfast so he pulled on his running shoes and, shouting a vague, ‘No breakfast for me today, thanks,’ slid out of the front door.
Sewing the Shadows Together Page 15
