Hugh’s was a noisy carefree upbringing surrounded by love and attention. He was the youngest and – though I’d never have admitted it – the bonniest. The result was that he was both spoiled and ignored in equal measure. He was one of the few pals to keep in touch with me after they all went off to jobs or apprenticeships at fourteen. It made his betrayal all the harder. And, looking round this pitiful silent box, it made this passage of his life so much more wretched. I’m sure one of his brothers or sisters would have taken him in, in England or Canada where they’d gone to roost and establish their own families. But Hugh couldn’t face them, not looking like he did now. His final vanity. He’d walled himself up inside the shattered shell of himself, hanging on for his next fix, until he’d bumped into Fiona again. And Rory. There had been an upswing in Hugh’s life last year, making this hovel bearable, bringing hope. Only for the God he worshipped to dash it from his burnt lips; this isn’t for you Donovan. No wonder he didn’t much care if he lived or died.
I thought of Fiona living and breathing within five minutes of here. But I’d had enough stumbling down memory lane for one day. I caught the tram on Crown Street, changed at the big interchange at Gorbals Cross and crossed the river past Central Station and all the way north to Cowcaddens. From there it was one tram to Hillhead along the Great Western Road and to Samantha Campbell’s office.
I sat smoking on the top deck taking in the city. The red sandstone grandeur was tarnished from the noxious outpourings of the heavy industries. Glas gow: the green meadow. There were few enough green meadows left, but in their place was a sense of permanence and certainty. The city fathers back in the nine-teenth century had known where they were going and how to get there. The Second City of the Empire. The trouble was we no longer seemed to have much of an empire. There was even talk of handing over India. It seemed unthinkable. The pennies I just handed over to the conductor still said Ind Imp. And thousands of British lads had fought and died to fling the Japs out of South-East Asia. Queen Vickie would be rotating in her mausoleum. At least we still had our shipyards; the boom times would surely come again when we’d got over our Bavarian hangover. We had to replace all that tonnage sunk in the Atlantic and the Pacific, or lying at the bottom of the Barents Sea. According to my mother, the Ayrshire pits were working at full blast, and you only had to glance at the trailing clouds of steam from train stations I was passing to know we had the basics right. All we needed was some money to get things going again. That was the rub. We were as broke as tinkers.
EIGHTEEN
It was just after six when I walked into Samantha Campbell’s office. The reception area was empty. I called out and Sam answered.
‘Come on through, Brodie.’
I pushed open her door to find a cosy scene: Sam taking tea with Father Cassidy. They were even sharing a plate of digestives. For one daft moment I felt annoyed – no, jealous – at Patrick Cassidy’s intimacy with Samantha. Which was simply ridiculous. The man had stood by Hugh throughout this sorry tale. I resolved to like this man and not let my stupid prejudices about God-botherers blind me to his qualities. He’d been right about the pubs to look in to find Hugh’s drug dealers. In short, he was useful.
Sam nodded at the tea cosy. ‘There’s a spare cup and the pot’s still warm. I’ve nothing stronger,’ she added with a shade too much spice.
‘You have a low view of the drinking habits of newshounds, Miss Campbell. Tea is exactly what I need.’
‘You can get another chair from the outer office, or…’ She indicated one of the piles of papers.
I poured myself a cup and gingerly squatted on a shaky tower of files. ‘Well, isn’t this nice.’
‘Father Cassidy was visiting Hugh today. He came by to see how we were getting on.’
I nodded at him. ‘Good of you to see him, Patrick. How is he?’
The priest put his cup down on the edge of Sam’s desk. ‘They’ve put him back on his medication. He wasn’t really with us, I’m afraid. I asked the warder about it and he told me that Hugh had been in lot of pain. It was for his own good.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. Just drifting away. A man should be compos mentis if his time is short.’
‘So he can confess his sins?’
‘Better to go with a clear conscience, surely?’
‘Well, he’s not dead yet.’ I slurped my tea.
‘You’ve found something?’ asked Sam.
I glanced at the priest. She saw my question. ‘It’s all right. You can talk freely in front of the father, Brodie. He’s on our side.’
I told them about my day. Sam confirmed my perspective on the trial from my morning’s review of the newspapers.
‘One thing that leaped out’, I said, ‘was that Rory wasn’t the first child to go missing. Four others had vanished before him. Never found?’ I asked.
Cassidy looked pained. ‘Nothing to this day. I know one of the other families. I’m not sure which is worse: to have to bury your child or never to know…’
‘Do you think there’s a lead there?’ Sam asked.
‘I find it convenient that the fifth abduction resulted in a body being dumped where it could be found, and that Hugh Donovan’s house should be choc-a-block with evidence to hang him.’
‘Are you suggesting some sort of frame-up?’ asked Patrick.
‘Criminals tend to work a pattern. A thief tends to have a trademark style of operating. Same with a murderer. The way they kill, when they do it, who their victims are. If Hugh was the abductor and murderer of all five children, why would he change his pattern with the last? Careless? Stupid? Drugs… maybe. But it doesn’t feel right.’
‘Did you get anything from the police?’ asked Sam.
I shook my head. ‘They were never going to turn round and say: “By God, Brodie you’re on to something. Why didn’t we think of that?” But you obviously rattled them in court, Sam. They were still moaning about how this clever lassie had got them all confused and made them look stupid. But they’ve had time to work on their story so that it all adds up.’
‘So, nothing?’ asked Patrick.
‘There’s a couple of angles. I asked to see their notebooks. And to interview the constable that did the first search on Hugh’s flat. They just laughed. Can you get them hauled in front of the Appeals Court and force them to hand over the notebooks?’
‘We can try.’ She jotted a couple of notes down on her pad.
‘What are you looking for, Brodie?’ asked the priest.
‘Differences. In their stories,’ said Sam. ‘Muncie claimed in court that the constable on the first search was blind or stupid. If he wasn’t, and there was no sign of the boy a week before they found his body, then where was he kept? And as for the other pair, I’m betting their notebooks conflict with each other over when Hugh Donovan provided intimate details of the crime scene.’
‘Perhaps I’m being naive. Won’t they just conveniently lose the notebooks? If they haven’t already burned them?’ Patrick Cassidy was leaning across to me, his face creased with scepticism.
I raised my palm to him. ‘Losing your notebook was a hanging offence in my day. And it would look awfully convenient to lose two. Samantha here would have an open goal in court. But you’re right, Patrick. There’s a lot of “ifs” about. And we’re stuck if we can’t prove any of this. The police can be remarkably uncooperative when they put their mind to it.
They both sat back letting the gloom descend again.
‘There might be something else though…’ I began. I described my visit to Hugh’s house and my meeting with the neighbour and her smart kid.
Sam was the first to speak. ‘You must go, Brodie. You have to go to Arran and find them!’ Her face was as animated as I’d seen it. Colour suffused her pale cheeks and her eyes shone behind her specs.