Where There is Evil

by Sandra Brown

  Before we went away, I drew up from our extensive family tree a list of all my cousins from the huge clan on my mother’s side, concentrating on the girls. I dismissed those who had gone to live abroad, which left six, all much younger than me, three sets of sisters. The eldest would have been fourteen or so when my father left Coatbridge, the youngest only three or four. I shall call my three sets of cousins A and B, C and D, E and F.

  Before I approached any of them, I phoned an aunt I felt I could trust for advice. I was convinced that nothing could have happened to her daughters, both lovely, well-adjusted young women, whom I adored. But as soon as I broached the matter, there was an awkward silence. I repeated that I couldn’t say why I needed to know but for the sake of my health I did. Finally, she said I should speak privately to C, the elder of her girls. She would say no more, and hung up.

  I was stunned. I had looked after C as a child, and I have always felt close to her. I rang my cousin and asked to see her right away. She told me to come to her home.

  She and her husband were shocked by the terrible state I was in when I arrived. After some tea, I stumbled through an explanation, and although C was upset, she was relieved that I was not about to tell her I was leaving my husband – she and her partner could think of no other reason why I should be so distraught!

  When I asked if my father had ever made sexual advances towards her when she was little, she looked at me directly and said, ‘Yes, it’s true. When I was six. Did my mother tell you what happened? I’ve had some counselling about it, which has helped, in the last little while, but I’ve never been able to say anything to you about it because he was your dad.

  ‘It was a beautiful warm day, some time in the summer of 1962. My little sister and I were both in similar outfits, little cotton dresses, with matching bolero-style sleeveless jackets, so it must have been scorching. So good, that we were taken to visit Granny Frew, and were able to have afternoon tea in the back garden at Ashgrove. A rug was put out, and while the adults sat in deck chairs, we’d our own little picnic, then we went off to play. Your mum was there, and mine, and they both were enjoying chatting in the sunshine to wee Katie. You weren’t there, or your brothers, but your dad was working in his garage.’

  Grandpa Frew had had a hut that screened off the area where the picnic was being held from my parents’ garden. That land ran to one side of our home, and formed a large triangle dominated in the centre by the garage my mother had had built for my father’s exclusive use. Within months Alexander had filled this garage with all his usual junk.

  ‘I don’t know what he actually shouted to get my attention from the front garden, where D and I were playing. She was only four years old then, so I really was expected to keep a close eye on her and make sure she didn’t venture on to the road. But he used some kind of pretext to lure me into the garage, perhaps it was an offer of sweets, I don’t know. I recall he was sitting, not where the garage doors were open, but up near the top, beyond his black car, with its bonnet up. He’d something on his knee which he was fixing. I wasn’t keen to go further up into the gloomier part of the place, but whatever he said, it must have been persuasive. As I passed his car and approached him, I felt something wasn’t right, and I hesitated. I remember he said: “C’mere, hen, there’s something Ah want ye tae hold for me here.” Well, I couldn’t see what exactly he was doing, and it was drummed into us to be polite, so I stepped closer. I was a pretty helpful wee girl, and it would look bad to say no, but I didn’t like him. I saw that it was one of those old one-bar electric fires that he had across his knees, with a flex hanging over on to the floor. He’d on these navy blue work overalls over his own clothes. I didn’t know why he was inside his garage on such a nice day. Anyway, I was really quite close to him by now, almost within arm’s reach, when I stopped dead. He had this really weird expression on his face, a funny look that I just didn’t trust. He said, “Come on, hen, I want you to hold this for me. Come on, haud it jist for a minute, that’s all ye’ve to do. It’s a cable.”

  ‘Well, I could see that what he was pointing to, something big and white and sticking right out of those overalls, wasn’t anything electrical, but it sure as heck gave me one almighty shock! I was rooted to the spot, and staring with such incredulity, I could describe his underwear for you right down to the last detail. But I couldn’t think what to do – I don’t know what your dad would have tried next, though I had nightmares afterwards about that. Strangely, it was D who really saved the situation. She’d followed just at the back of me, all curiosity, to see what Uncle Alex wanted me to do, and as I stood there, transfixed, I suddenly felt her at my elbow, peering round and trying to see what he was showing me. I just panicked, because I knew I must protect her, though I couldn’t have said exactly from what. I backed away, turned abruptly and said, “Run!” and grabbed her hand, and we rushed out.’

  I was incredulous that my father could have done such a thing while a tea party was in full swing just yards away. His cunning was frightening too, for of course he had been smart enough to leave the doors of his garage standing open: any passer-by could have glanced in his direction, but the car bonnet obscured a perfect view. This outwardly normal scene meant that if he was accused of anything by a child, he could claim that their imagination was over-active, and protest that no one would dream of exposing himself where he could be so easily seen.

  ‘I got my little sister back to where my mother was, and she saw we were both very upset. I whispered to her that my uncle Alex was doing bad things. She took me inside right away, and I was categorically told never to repeat such an accusation.’

  Jim McEwan had been absolutely correct about denial within families.

  ‘I wasn’t believed. I was told to stop telling such lies, and we were taken home.’

  Despite my aunt’s apparent refusal to believe that anything sinister had occurred, she ensured that for the next few years contact between her daughters and my father was minimal.

  Yet because her mother had been so adamant that C had told lies about my father, when later, aged eight, she was indecently assaulted by a neighbour, she said nothing, but attempted to avoid her attacker. Shortly afterwards this same teenage boy came to babysit for her parents. Eventually, they noticed how his visits terrified her and he was asked to stop coming, but not before the damage had been done.

  My cousin told me that she had had counselling, which had helped, and that she was fund-raising for Childline in Scotland: she wanted to channel the anger she felt at what had happened into something positive. ‘There are far too many people out there saying, “Child abuse? What’s all the fuss about?” Or they say the figures are overestimated, denying they’ve ever come across it. Or they kid themselves that these sordid events only happen in poor families, which is rubbish. I’m a classic example of a child who spoke up, but wasn’t believed. I wasn’t a naughty kiddie who told whoppers, but it was easier for my mother to deny everything I said that day and call her own daughter a liar, rather than raise the alarm. It was hushed up, as it often is, and not confronted. Well, I’m not prepared to hush it up any longer.’

  Her courage was infectious and I told her why I was asking questions about my father.

  When I got home I had a phone call from C’s husband. She had told him of the hostility I was facing from some family members, who hated the idea of public exposure. ‘Ignore these people,’ he said flatly. ‘If it was their child who was abused, or their daughter who had gone missing, it would be a different story. Bottom line is, Sandra, you have to live with the fact that your dad spoke to you, and I agree you could not dismiss what was said and just get on with your life as if nothing had happened. I have real respect for what you’ve done, and if they can’t give you support, then they are not worth bothering about. Those who are right behind you, like ourselves, are the ones who count, so don’t give the doubters the time of day.’

  His unexpected midnight call really lifted my spirits. There was no way I wanted to cau
se a split within the larger extended family, which was important to me, but my professional role involved teaching courses on child protection and my integrity would not allow me to ignore what my father had told me.

  As soon as I returned from holiday, I telephoned my aunt again, and demanded to know why, given my father’s history and, in 1959, that he had then recently emerged from prison for sexual offences, she had allowed her children anywhere near him.

  ‘I thought it might have all been a mistake with the babysitter [Betty], and that maybe he’d learned his lesson,’ she said. ‘And he was their uncle, married to your mum. They always thought the world of their aunt Mary, so I never thought for one minute he’d try anything with my two.’

  ‘Then why on earth did you ignore what C told you?’ I asked.

  Several seconds passed while she fished about for answers. Then she said, ‘I had to stop it right there. My husband would’ve killed him if he’d got any inkling about what your dad had done. There would have been terrible trouble in the family, and I couldn’t have that on my conscience.’

  I marvelled at her logic. Where had the need come from to protect such a man? Why had her loyalty to her own two daughters not come first?

  Then my aunt told me the real reason she had not gone straight to the police when this incident occurred. ‘You don’t know, Sandra, what it was like. I couldn’t have put your mum through any more pain. She’d been to hell and back, with people talking and whispering, and everything in the papers. Then she got the house beside your gran, and she seemed to be getting back on her feet. When he got out, we all felt he deserved another chance, and your mum’s such a Christian soul, she gave it. I felt I had to protect her. She didn’t deserve more pain. And it’s all in the past now, anyway, no need to bring it all up. Some things are better left alone.’

  ‘In this case, we can’t do that,’ I said gently. ‘It may not have been reported then, but it will have to be now.’ As calmly as I could, I explained about the investigation and what had triggered it off. The silence at the other end was deafening.

  It would be up to C and D, now grown women, I explained, as to whether they made a statement to the police, but her daughters had information that Jim McEwan would be interested to hear. Any evidence that proved I was correct about my father’s pattern of behaviour might aid the investigation into the murder of Moira Anderson.

  ‘Oh, my God! You’re not saying he’s responsible for that!’ she screeched.

  ‘I’m having to try not to think about that,’ I replied grimly, ‘but when I said a moment ago that my dad spoke to me about Moira, and I went to the police with information he gave me, I didn’t mean that he was just a witness they had missed at the time. The reason I reported the matter, after nights of no sleep, is because I believe he witnessed her death. And that’s because he took her life in 1957.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  As the leaves started to turn in our garden, there were days when I felt crippled by anxiety, shame and insecurity. Fear of what lay ahead paralysed me, although I continued to work feverishly. It seemed important to have some areas of my life still under control and functioning, so I threw myself into the Master in Education I had embarked on just before my world disintegrated. I met other new students and prepared for my own first exam.

  Jim had now interviewed a number of people: some ex-colleagues in the police and some of my father’s former workmates. Most seemed, he joked, to be suffering from the disease of the three wise monkeys: they had seen nothing, heard nothing, and were prepared to say nothing, but some of his probing, he felt, was beginning to prove fruitful. I explained what had happened to one set of cousins. I knew it was imperative that I spoke to the other four, but fear gripped me as to what I might find.

  I reflected on the wall of silence Jim had encountered from those we had felt would be able to help. Some of the former Baxter’s employees were now silver-haired grandparents but the clippies who had been involved in or had observed my father’s affairs were reluctant to admit to any part in it. They were wary of what their families would think. Drivers refused to comment in front of their spouses on the wide-scale philandering that had gone on.

  This selective amnesia was apparent, too, in the ranks of retired policemen. Though not all were unwilling to be interviewed, Jim’s officers were meeting surprising resistance: some former policemen seemed uneasy that this case was being put under a spotlight once more.

  One retired policeman, though, Alex Imrie, made a damning statement: ‘Complaints were made on numerous occasions about Alexander Gartshore. Very often these were in the vicinity of Dunbeth Park, in particular the bushes there. His exceptional height gave him away. He was long suspected of being a flasher within the park, and in other areas, but this was not able to be proved.’ Significantly he added, ‘He was never interviewed regarding Moira Anderson.’

  The unexpected stonewalling Jim encountered made my desire all the stronger to discover the truth as to what had happened to Moira.

  I decided to attempt to speak to my cousin B. Her mother was seriously ill in hospital and I suggested I accompanied her to see how my aunt was doing. We would have a few minutes of privacy in her car. She agreed and we set off. B is an attractive woman, with glossy black hair and striking features. She chatted nineteen to the dozen until I asked, ‘I know this is kind of out of the blue, and I don’t want it to upset you, but can I ask . . . did my father ever make any sexual advances to you when you were little?’

  The question had a dramatic effect. B’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, and she almost drove through a red light near Monklands Hospital. I was struck by the closed expression that came down like a shutter on her face.

  ‘What a thing to ask!’ She tried to regain her composure as she swung her saloon into the car park, checking her driving mirror several times, and avoiding my eye.

  ‘I don’t want to upset you or A,’ I apologized, ‘not when your mum is so ill. But I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to. It’s vital. I can explain why I need to know later, but please tell me, did anything – anything at all – ever happen?’

  Still she avoided my eyes. Finally, she answered in a strangled tone, ‘Your dad, he was . . . I mean it was so long ago . . . he was over-friendly, that’s all I want to say.’ Then she repeated, ‘Just over-friendly.’

  Before I could ask her anything else, she swung her legs out of the car, and was off, rushing towards the main entrance so that I had to hurry to catch up. As we strode along the corridors, she pleaded with me not to say anything to her sister, who was grief-stricken about their mother. I promised.

  Now that I had discovered another of my father’s victims, I knew there must be more.

  Meanwhile, I had been telephoned by another relative. She had heard a rumour in the family, but could not accept it was true. Had I really sparked off some criminal investigation into my own father which involved murder?

  Yes, I had. She demanded to know what had caused me to go to the police. Wearily, I told her. ‘You should have ignored what your dad said, he’s your own flesh and blood, no matter whit he’s done. He’ll be an old confused man by now!’ she cried.

  I explained that seventy-one was no great age, and that he was pretty sharp.

  ‘It’s years since I saw him last, and I never want to see him again,’ she said. ‘But this information you’ve taken to the polis – it’s dangerous, the work o’ the devil. You should’ve kidded on you never heard him say what he did. There’s nae need for all of this to come up again, what good’s it going to do?’ There followed a string of invective, the main gist of which was that I would live to regret the steps I had taken and had carried out what she considered to be a betrayal of the whole family.

  ‘This will kill your mammy, and you’ll be responsible, if you take this any further. D’you hear me? You don’t know what ye’re getting yerself into, and all yer family tae! They’ve tae haud up their heads in Coatbridge. This cannae go any further.’

/>   ‘It already has.’

  ‘Listen, ye wee bitch from hell, whit about yer mammy? This’ll kill her, as God’s ma judge.’

  ‘I’d never do anything to hurt my mother!’ I roared, then took a deep breath. ‘Look, I love my mum, but if anyone’s hurt her it’s that bastard down in Leeds and I’ve got enough on my mind right now, without you adding your twopence worth. Just remember, the damage was done a long time ago, but not by me.’

  I paused for a second in an attempt to control my anger and my language.

  ‘There are people who could have tipped off the police about my dad years ago, and what he got up to, and that includes you. The truth’s got to come out, whether it’s going to upset folk or not. I’ve given a number of names to the detective in charge, and they’ll be coming to see you, so save your criticism for them. If they’d done their job properly thirty-five years ago, none of this would’ve happened.’

  There was silence and then she declared she would never agree to being interviewed about her memories of Alexander. She point blank refused, she said, and nobody would make her. They would have to drag her, kicking and screaming, before they’d get anything. (In fact, she was seen by the police later and made a revealing statement.) I was still shaking with fury, when she rang off with the parting shot: ‘Mark my words, if a’ the family turn their backs on ye, ye’ve only yerself tae blame.’

  She left me with a horrible sense that whatever I did, I was going to incur somebody’s wrath.

  Another attack was more subtle. My mother’s sister asked me how I was getting on with my counsellor and I told her that Ashley was probably single-handedly responsible for keeping my life in one piece. While Ronnie and the children were supportive, what was happening to me was outside their experience. ‘She’s great. We’re meeting weekly just now, and I’m finding it a godsend.’ I added, ‘Isn’t it silly that I was a bit resistant to her at the start because she was a psychiatric nurse? I said if anyone needs a psychiatrist, it’s my dad!’