The Innocent Dead - Rhona MacLeod Series 15 (2020)

by Anderson, Lin

  ‘He lives in a former chapel?’

  ‘Once a priest, always a priest?’ McNab said. ‘Pretty impressive and expensive surroundings.’

  ‘I thought priests didn’t earn any money?’ Janice said.

  ‘You’re right, plus they’re not meant to leave or retire. After all, they made a solemn promise to God.’

  ‘You’re very knowledgeable about all of this,’ Janice said, somewhat sarcastically, McNab thought.

  ‘I did some research before we came.’

  McNab drew into a parking space just short of the gated entrance to the chapel and its associated former school buildings, also now converted into luxury flats.

  Auto-locking the car, he headed for the entrance, Janice following.

  The buzzer to the right of the metal gate had the flat numbers but no names. When McNab chose the one he’d been given, a voice swiftly answered.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘DS McNab and DS Clark, here to speak to Declan Walsh,’ McNab said.

  ‘Very good. Come on up. The pedestrian gate’s open. Use the steps by the underground parking. Our entrance is there.’

  ‘Our entrance?’ Janice said, throwing McNab one of her looks. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me about Declan Walsh?’

  McNab found himself having to confess to the possibility of that. ‘Ollie dug up some further information on the former Father Feeney, which hadn’t been confirmed, until maybe now.’

  A second buzzer ring brought them into the building, which McNab thought still boasted of its former life. Chapels were chapels, he thought, whatever folk did with them.

  Reaching the front door, they found it already open. In the doorway stood a slim, grey-haired man, who, to McNab at least, looked younger than his seventy years. The eyes behind fine-rimmed spectacles were a bright blue and the smile he wore as he ushered them inside the apartment looked genuine enough.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here, although I did offer to come down to the police station and save you the bother.’

  He led them through a hall and into a sitting room dominated by arched windows and a fine view.

  ‘Can I get you tea, coffee?’ he offered as he showed them to a seat.

  ‘Thank you, that would be good,’ Janice said.

  When Walsh disappeared to wherever the kitchen was, they both took a proper look at their surroundings. The way people lived was a good indicator of their current view on life. Whatever the last ten years had brought to the former priest, it wasn’t poverty.

  There were a number of impressive semi-religious paintings adorning the walls, prompting Janice to stand up and take a closer look.

  ‘They’re all by the same artist,’ she told McNab as she reassumed her seat. ‘Jordi Ferrer. Isn’t there a Catalan footballer called Jordi . . . Jordi – what’s his second name?’

  ‘Alba,’ McNab finished for her, wondering how the hell she knew that. The arrival of their host prevented him from asking.

  ‘Here we are,’ Walsh said brightly, laying a tray down on a polished coffee table. ‘I’ve made a pot of reasonably strong coffee and a pot of Earl Grey tea, so you have a choice.’

  Having sampled the excellent and strong coffee, McNab now relaxed back in the leather chair he’d chosen, already suspecting, if Ollie was right, that it was the one normally occupied by the said Jordi Ferrer.

  ‘So,’ their host said, ‘I was distressed to hear that the remains found on the moor were those of wee Mary McIntyre. I always hoped –’ he shook his head – ‘no, prayed we would find her, although I feared she wouldn’t be alive.’ He took off his glasses at that moment and wiped them on a handkerchief he brought from his trouser pocket. ‘Her disappearance haunts me still. As I’m sure it does her remaining family.’

  The small and poignant sermon over, McNab nodded to Janice to go ahead.

  ‘Can you tell us where you were when you first heard Mary was missing?’ Janice said.

  It wasn’t the question he’d perhaps expected, but Walsh’s reaction definitely wasn’t the same as McLaughlin’s had been.

  ‘I remember that moment very well. Mary’s father appeared at the church, frantic with worry because Mary wasn’t with the others when they arrived back at the school. We immediately searched the chapel, the toilets and my living quarters next door. My housekeeper was there. She hadn’t seen Mary. There were some grounds, mainly at the back. We checked them too.’

  This time it was McNab who posed the question. ‘Did you notice Mary that day at all?’

  Walsh answered immediately. ‘No, I cannot in all honesty say I did. Each child gave me their chosen confirmation name, usually a saint’s name, and there were popular ones, which were often repeated. The school helped them choose their name and sent a list.’

  ‘What was Mary’s confirmation name?’ Janice said.

  ‘It was Anne, as far as I remember, after the sainted mother of the Virgin Mary.’

  Now he sounds like a priest, McNab thought, before asking, ‘What about Robert McIntyre?’

  Walsh nodded as though he’d been expecting such a question. ‘I saw Robbie on the news. He’s grown into a fine man. I’m glad things worked out for him. Mary’s disappearance hit him very hard. He always thought he was her protector. Against his father and that belt of his.’

  ‘And you?’ McNab finished for him.

  Walsh looked pained and rather sad. ‘Robbie was struggling with his sexuality back then. It’s difficult to describe to people who haven’t lived through those times how frightening it was to be different. The Catholic Church was, of course, the biggest bigot of them all.’

  ‘Robert McIntyre gave a statement back then to Detective Inspector McCreadie, and to us more recently, accusing you of the sexual abuse of minors,’ McNab said bluntly.

  ‘I know, and I forgave him back then, as I do again now,’ Walsh said, with no apparent anger in his voice and demeanour.

  ‘Why would Robbie say such a thing?’ Janice asked.

  ‘I caught Robbie and another boy having sex. I spoke to them, perhaps too forcibly, regarding the sin. Robbie accused me of being the same, which was true, although I was denying it to myself and the Church at the time.’

  He hesitated there, his thoughts, or so it seemed, having drifted back to the past. ‘I eventually saw that the greatest sin was in my own denial, and so I left the priesthood.’

  ‘Robert mentioned you moved in important circles,’ McNab said.

  ‘Back then the Church was held in much greater esteem than now. I was often invited to civil events. I was also trying to start a junior sports club which involved asking for money. Many of the wealthy men I approached were generous enough to donate, including the Chief Constable at the time, Peter White.’ He paused there. ‘I hope Robbie eventually admitted to who he was. I feel guilty looking back that I didn’t support him. He has every reason to be angry with me.’

  When McNab didn’t enlighten him on that, Walsh continued unburdening himself. ‘It took many years before I could face the truth. Even then, when I approached the Church about it, I was told to continue with my relationships, but just not broadcast it. So basically to live a lie.’ He nodded as though remembering. ‘Then I met Jordi when visiting Barcelona and found the courage to be truthful.’

  ‘That’s when you left the Church?’ Janice asked.

  ‘Yes. Jordi and I now share our time between here and Barcelona.’ He waved at the paintings. ‘He’s an artist, quite famous in Europe. We’ll be heading back there for the summer.’

  McNab wanted to say, better stick around until we give that the okay, but glancing at Janice, decided not to.

  ‘We’ve taken note of what you’ve said, Mr Walsh,’ she was saying. ‘Although we may require you to provide a formal statement at a later date.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘We also require a DNA sample for elimination purposes, which you can give now or when you come in to provide your statement,’ McNab offered
.

  His reply was swift. ‘I’m happy to give one now.’

  Was the former priest relieved or discomfited by all of this, McNab wondered, as Janice produced the kit and duly did the mouth swab, but found he couldn’t tell.

  Thinking it was all over, Walsh now rose to show them out, but it seemed Janice had something more to say.

  ‘Do you remember Karen Marshall, Mr Walsh?’

  He looked perplexed. ‘I don’t believe I do.’

  ‘She was Mary’s best friend. They were joined at the hip, or so people say, except when in school or church, since Karen was a Protestant.’

  McNab saw something – he was unsure of what – flicker across Walsh’s face.

  Walsh shook his head. ‘If she wasn’t one of us, I’m unlikely to have met her.’

  ‘What about Alec McLaughlin then? He lived two doors up from Mary.’

  His look darkened. ‘I remember Alec. A most unpleasant character. I thought he ended up in prison?’

  ‘He did,’ McNab said, ‘but he was released recently.’

  ‘I take it you’re interviewing him?’

  ‘You think he has information regarding Mary’s abduction?’ Janice said.

  Walsh was fighting himself on what he should or shouldn’t say. Eventually he told them, ‘Alec wasn’t of the faith, so I didn’t know him personally, but there were a lot of rumours about his attitude to girls even back then.’

  They departed after that, staying silent until they were clear of the grounds.

  ‘So,’ McNab said as they got into the car. ‘When did you decide to bring up Karen Marshall?’

  ‘Probably around the time you decided to mention McLaughlin.’

  ‘Robbie never talked about McLaughlin in any context other than that he shouted things at the girls when they were playing tennis in the street,’ McNab said as he drove away.

  ‘We should be used to folk telling half-truths and lies,’ Janice said.

  ‘We are,’ McNab assured her. ‘How much of what the priest said do you believe?’

  Janice didn’t answer.

  ‘Well?’ McNab insisted.

  ‘Pretty well none of it,’ Janice said. ‘Except maybe for Jordi Ferrer. I saw a letter addressed to that name on the hall table.’

  ‘Well spotted, partner,’ McNab said, delighted.

  ‘Plus, I believe he was in the flat during our interview.’

  McNab waited for the reason.

  ‘There was a smell of cologne or aftershave, and it wasn’t coming from Walsh.’

  ‘Or me,’ McNab said.

  ‘Definitely not you.’

  35

  Karen locked the front door behind her and went through to the kitchen, but not before she’d checked there had been no further notes put through her letter box.

  Once in the kitchen, she placed the diary on the table.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she told the chair opposite hers at the kitchen range. ‘Things got a little awkward at the recovery cafe.’

  ‘Really?’ she heard Jack say. ‘I thought it was doing you good to go there. You’re not back on the drink again?’ His voice sounded panicked, so Karen put him straight.

  ‘Of course not. I haven’t touched a drop.’ She didn’t add that she’d wanted to.

  ‘Good. So are you making a pot of tea or will I?’

  ‘I’m on it,’ Karen told him. ‘The diary’s proving a problem,’ she said as she filled the kettle.

  ‘I thought you’d thrown that out when I told you to.’ Jack’s voice sounded angry.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she admitted, ‘because it might help me remember.’

  ‘But you don’t want to remember. You must never remember. That’s what your father told you. Forget all this, Karen. Forget what happened and live your life. That’s what he said.’

  ‘And it worked for a while, but not any more.’

  She poured the hot water into two mugs, popped a teabag in each and a drop of milk, stirred them, then put the teabags into the food-waste bucket.

  ‘Hope it’s not too weak,’ she heard Jack say. ‘I don’t like dishwater tea.’

  Karen plonked the mug on the edge of the range next to him. ‘Just as you like it.’

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re back talking to me all the time. Not a good sign.’

  It wasn’t and Karen knew it. She lifted Jack’s mug, took it through to the scullery and tossed the dark tea into the sink, telling herself to get a grip. She wasn’t going back there, talking to a dead man who hadn’t even recognized her as his wife for the eighteen months before he died.

  It was ridiculous.

  Noting the time, she switched on the radio to catch the news, and sat down with her own tea to listen, both praying and dreading that there might be news about Mary. It came at the end of the bulletin, just a short clip from a news conference. The detective’s voice sounded both serious and kind. He explained that the body found on the moor had now been identified as . . .

  Mary’s name echoed in Karen’s head, stripping away all the years between then and now.

  ‘They’ve found her,’ she whispered to Jack. ‘They’ve found Mary.’

  Then she heard her own name being spoken. The detective wanted her to come forward and speak to them. Karen was Mary’s best friend, he said. We need to talk to her. We will find the person who did this, he said, but we need your help. Anyone who lived on Hill Street at that time, who knew Mary, should contact Police Scotland.

  ‘That’s you,’ a voice told her, only it wasn’t Jack’s voice any more, but Mary’s.

  ‘Mary?’ Karen said. ‘What should I say?’

  ‘Tell them. Tell them everything.’

  36

  It was good to get out of the city. Although it was surprising how swiftly the urban landscape changed to open fields, speedily turning spring green. Glasgow was renowned for its parklands, but one of its attractions apart from the river was how quickly you could come within sight of the Scottish Highlands.

  Magnus stayed on the dual carriageway until the roundabout north of Stirling, which allowed him a spectacular view of the castle atop its rock on his way past, the light catching the bright colour of the restored Great Hall. The beauty of the castle pointed to it as a royal residence, whereas Edinburgh Castle, although imposing, was in reality a military barracks built to house the Queen’s garrison in Scotland.

  Heading back now towards town, he gained a closer view, the green of the foliage on the west side of the castle rise making clear they were heading for summer. There was a magical path there, he remembered, called the Back Walk, a way he’d like to take again.

  Turning left before the grassy spread of King’s Knot, he passed to the left of the castle and headed into Raploch. He’d visited the community campus before, having met Pat Robertson there, after which she’d taken him to the church building that housed the recovery cafe meetings.

  Finding a parking space, he locked the car and headed inside, turning left towards the cafe, drawn by the smell of coffee and the chatter of customers.

  The room was busy. Looking around, he didn’t spot the imposing figure that was Marge, so he got himself a coffee and, since the scones came highly recommended, ordered one. Carrying his tray to a high table by the front window, where Marge might see him on entry, he took a seat and surveyed the clientele.

  It was a professional habit of his, this fascination with people. DS McNab did it too. Magnus had watched him in action, although he felt that their desires to observe came from different perspectives. His being psychological, whereas McNab was eternally looking for lawbreakers, past and prospective.

  Currently in the room were a group of women round a table dressed as though they might work in the building. Two younger women, dressed in workout gear. A couple of elderly men in conversation. A group of teenagers on their mobiles and a mother with three children. A good cross-section of the community.

  ‘Professor Pirie,’ a voice now boomed out across the room, much to
the interest and amusement of those gathered there.

  Whereas he’d been recently studying them, now Magnus became the centre of attention. It was obvious from the greetings that followed Marge’s advance that she was a ‘weel kent’ figure, and a popular one.

  Magnus stood and extended his hand in greeting, which she ignored, giving him a hug instead.

  ‘What can I get you?’ he offered.

  ‘No need,’ Marge told him. ‘They know what I like and it’ll be here in a moment.’

  She was right. Her tea and scone arrived soon after she’d taken her seat.

  ‘I work here part-time on a voluntary basis, so there are perks. Like these scones.’

  She proceeded to butter hers.

  ‘So have you found Karen yet?’ she said as she sipped her tea.

  ‘The police know,’ Magnus said, ‘and are seeing if they can locate her.’

  ‘Her pals at the cafe are also on the job. We didn’t ask for her address, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find it out, probably quicker than the polis.’

  She checked Magnus’s reaction to this and, finding it positive, continued. ‘In her state, a couple of uniforms turning up at her door will likely terrify her. It should be one of us, me probably.’ Marge hesitated. ‘Or maybe me and you, Professor?’

  ‘They’ve agreed that I sit in on any interview,’ Magnus told her.

  ‘That’s a start, but it doesn’t help if she’s topped herself first.’

  ‘You think that’s a possibility?’ Magnus said, shocked.

  ‘It’s always a possibility with folk as traumatized as Karen.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Magnus promised. ‘You mentioned a diary?’

  ‘The diary’s not the only thing we need to talk about,’ Marge said firmly. ‘There’s something else you’ve got to see.’ She finished her tea. ‘And for that we need to go back to the church hall.’

  And so they walked round to the hall, where Marge brought out a big, hand-drawn map of the street Karen had grown up on, together with a chart they’d made up of all folk living nearby at the time of Mary’s disappearance.

  ‘When she first told us about Mary, she was keen to get the others to ask questions, because it might jog her memory. She said it was like a door had been shut and locked on a room she needed to see. We’ve all been there, Professor, you saw that when you visited us. We need to face up to what we’ve seen, what we’ve done, otherwise it’s like being haunted. Karen was truly haunted. She’d been having nightmares, seeing things, talking to her dead husband. She thought she was going doolally. I told her we were all doolally. So . . . we decided to play it a bit like a mystery game. We would solve it for her. That was even before they found the body.’