‘After disappearing on them like we did?’
‘They’ll understand if we explain it to them.’
‘Right. “Hi, Pam, remember us? Yeah, sorry about that, sorry about dropping you like hot potatoes, but we had to disappear because Beckie’s psychotic biological family were after us. If they murder us, you’ll take her on, won’t you? Okay so you might have to move to Alaska to avoid the same thing happening to you…” Look – Pippa’s family. I know she’s not ideal, but if you’re intent on appointing a legal guardian for Beckie, we can’t ask anyone else to do it.’
‘I’m phoning Pam in the morning.’
‘Oh, okay, fine. Do whatever the hell you like, Flora, and as usual I’ll grin and bear the consequences.’
She blinked at him. ‘What?’
‘It’s always about what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Alec, we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place if you hadn’t been conned by Lorraine Johnson into giving her your name and address back in Arden. They probably found us this time because of something you did too, some absent-minded professor stunt –’
‘Yep, let’s play the blame game. That’s really helping. That’s really constructive. I’m trying to do what’s right for Beckie, but you keep coming up with these mad schemes, like we just up sticks and move again –’
‘It’s mad to want to do everything possible to keep our daughter safe?’
‘We should never have moved from Arden in the first place! We had a good life there, Beckie was happy – We should have dealt with this then, instead of running away.’
‘And you’re “dealing with it” now how, exactly? What do you think would have happened if we’d stayed in Arden? We’d probably be dead and Beckie –’
‘Oh Christ, Ruth! We wouldn’t be dead! I’m “dealing with it” – with the hypothetical “it” – by consulting a solicitor and going to the police and putting up cameras to catch them if they try anything. Excuse me for being halfway rational about it!’
And he banged out of the room like a four-year-old.
25
‘Right son,’ I goes to Connor, parking up outside the newspaper office. ‘Let me do the talking, aye? Keep it zipped.’
Connor goes, ‘Can I no do the bit about the lawyers? It’s wrote down here.’ He taps the documents on his clipboard.
‘No you cannae. Maybe you can say it’s a nice fucking day but that’s it. This bastard’s an old pro and he’s gonnae be scrutinising every fucking word comes out our mouths. Nice day, nice wee town, nice wee paper. That’s it. Right?’
Connor gives me evils.
He’s smart in his funeral suit. He’s getting to be no a bad-looking laddie apart from they fucking Johnson ears. I’m in a wee sleeveless green and white silk blouse and a navy pencil skirt and heels. We get out the motor and in that fucking office.
There’s no a receptionist or nothing, just a poky wee room with copies of the paper spread out on a table and posters on the wall for jumble sales and rabbit shows and shite. There’s a door with a keypad and a bell. I get my thumb on it.
In a bit, this long streak of piss comes through the door and gives it, ‘Good morning, how can I help?’ He’s no much older than Connor. This cannae be the man.
‘Good morning,’ I goes. ‘Jessica Stuart and Kieran McKay from Making Waves. We’ve an appointment to see Mr Roberts at 11:30?’
‘Ah, yes, hello. Please come up. I’m Chris.’ He huds the door open.
‘Nice day, eh?’ goes Connor. ‘Sweating like a pig’s knackers so I am in this fucking suit.’
I goes, ‘Kieran, too much information,’ with a chuckle. ‘So you’re Chris Mason? I read your piece on the controversy about local authority spending in the area. Great piece of journalism.’
He looks back down the stair at me. ‘Oh, thanks!’
Oh aye, I’ve done my research.
He takes us up to a dark wee lobby with glass doors off of it. Old bugger comes through one giving it ‘Ms Stuart?’ and hudding out his hand.
I smile. ‘Mr Roberts. Thank you so much for taking the time to see us. We do appreciate you must be busy.’
The wee blouse shows a fair bit cleavage and he’s on it.
‘Pleasure’s all mine.’
‘This’s Kieran MacKay, one of our trainees.’
He shows us into his office. My God, there’s no an inch of wall space left without a framed photy on it of yokels on the bevvy, or a charity bint meeting Camilla, or a dug that’s pulled some fuckwit wean out a river. Roberts shuffles across the room. He’s eighty if he’s a day, more hair growing out his neb and his lugs than on his head.
I wave a hand at the walls. ‘All of life is here, eh?’
He shrugs, pulling out chairs for us. ‘All of life in Tweeddale, anyway – which amounts to the same thing.’
I cross my legs. ‘Can I just say before we start – reading The Borderer for background has been a joy. In my work I have to plough through a lot of column inches, and really, most of it these days, you’re thinking to yourself, a ten-year-old could do better. It’s genuinely been a joy to immerse myself in good writing.’
‘Well, thank you.’ He sits himself down behind his desk, a big brown bastard the size of a fucking tanker with piles of paper all over it, and raises an eyebrow. There’s hairs sprouting off of his eyebrows in every fucking direction and I’m having a hard time no staring. ‘Don’t get me started, Ms Stuart, on standards in modern journalism.’
‘Please, it’s Jessica.’
Bit more chit-chat and then we’re down to business. ‘So,’ I goes. ‘I think I outlined in my email that we’ve been commissioned by BBC Scotland to produce a three-part series on kids who kill – although it won’t be called that, obviously. This is the BBC we’re talking about. They’re giving us the Wednesday nine o’clock slot on BBC 2. Provisionally.’
He’s nodding along. Maybe he’s Googled Making Waves, but that’s fine – it’s a genuine TV production company operating outta Glasgow. Long as he hasnae contacted them, we’re good.
‘We’re planning on the first episode focusing on the Tricia Fisher case. What I’m hoping you can supply us with is any details, any extra colour that didn’t make it into print.’
‘Aye,’ goes Connor. ‘And –’
I hold up a hand with a wee smile. ‘Okay, Kieran, hold your horses, I’m sure Mr Roberts –’
‘Jeff,’ he goes.
‘I’m sure Jeff is aware that it’ll all be picked over by the lawyers before filming starts. Nothing with even a whiff of litigious will get past the grey men in suits, believe me!’
Jeff raises an eyebrow.
I’m no too keen on that eyebrow right enough. It’s like he’s maybe onto us. Maybe the old bugger’s contacted Making Waves after all and they were all ‘No, there must be some mistake.’ Maybe he’s just seeing what crap we’re gonnae come out with.
‘But I like to just ask people to speak freely, and worry about all that later. Obviously, as I said in my email, you’ll be recompensed for your time, and if we film you for the production there’ll be further remuneration, but…’ I make a face. ‘As I said, this is the BBC, so don’t go booking any holidays in Barbados, Jeff!’
‘Or even Largs!’ goes Connor.
Jeff chuckles. ‘But I think we can run to a cup of tea and a biscuit.’ He turns to the door. ‘Chris!’ he yells. And when the young guy appears he gives him our order, and then we get down to it.
‘You have to remember this was nearly forty years ago,’ he goes, leaning back in his chair. ‘No mobile phones, no internet. The first I knew of it was a call from one of my several contacts in the police force, tipping me off to get my behind over to Lomax Road in Kelbinning where a tragedy was unfolding – kids messing about with a bow and arrow and an accidental fatality was what we were led to believe.’