Where There is Evil (26 page)

I had also contacted Robert Reap, from Falkirk, who had spearheaded the formation of an abuse survivors’ group. C had shown me a
Daily Record
article on his work, and thought he
might have advice on how to lauch a private prosecution. He advised me to talk to Maggie Barry, who had written the article on him. I had never heard of her, but filed her name for reference. If
she was anything like Eileen McAuley, there would be no problem, I thought.

Over the next few days, events occurred that undermined my self-confidence. I had rung Jim to have a word with him about the second of my meetings with Lord James Douglas-Hamilton, but he was
out and could not be contacted. I gave Eileen a quick call instead, and was put through to her. She asked if I had heard anything more from John Smith. I had had a note from him, I told her, and
then mentioned in passing that I hadn’t been able to get hold of Jim. There was a short silence. ‘Has he mentioned to you he’s about to be moved from Airdrie CID? It’s a
sideways shift to Clydebank on the other side of Glasgow. It’s come out of the blue.’

This was a blow, but I was getting used to taking one step forward and three back. However, I had been looking over Eileen’s story on Moira’s friend, Elizabeth Taylor Nimmo, which
had appeared in the spring, and I felt compelled to contact her. I had told the police in my original statements about a girl I had seen with Moira and my father by his car at the park and I wanted
to ask Elizabeth Taylor if it had been her. I asked Eileen how to get in touch with her. Eileen checked her notes to make sure that Mrs Nimmo would not object to her passing on the address, then
gave it to me. ‘She was very helpful,’ she said. ‘She wants to see justice done as much as you do – though I doubt if she will have made the connection that the man
interviewed three times in Leeds who’s prime suspect for Moira is
also
the same pensioner from Monklands whose nieces are claiming sexual abuse.’

‘I don’t see why the public can’t be told of that link,’ I said.

‘There’s no way we can publish that. If we did the Procurator Fiscal would be down on us like a ton of bricks. It’s highly prejudicial.’

On the last Saturday in September, Jim, Billy and their wives came to dinner at our home. We had a pleasant evening, with our friends Janet and John also among the gathering. Although Jim
insisted he would still be technically in charge of the case, I feared he would find it almost impossible to keep control from another police division. Also, everything was being shifted from
Airdrie back to Coatbridge. We’d gone full circle.

The blow of Jim McEwan’s sudden move to Clydebank was quickly followed by a second, even more upsetting, event.

One crisp October morning, I went to pick up the mail and found my heart jumping into my throat. A plain brown envelope was lying on the floor, and unfamiliar assertive dark blue handwriting
leaped out at me. My knees buckled and I almost keeled over. Someone with a bold, heavy, backhand style had scrawled in large script a name followed by our address.

I laid it on our dining table, and sat down. I couldn’t bring myself to open it.

Ronnie asked what was wrong.

I pointed to the letter. ‘I think it’s hate mail.’

Horrified, he grabbed it and stared in puzzlement at the name.

It was addressed to Moira Anderson, care of our home.

The letter contained one page with about fifteen lines of the same firm script.

Dear Moira,

I understand you may be launching a private prosecution against your father and I would like to speak to you about this. I enclose an article I wrote recently which has prompted a lot of
feedback and I am now in the process of putting a second one together.

I would appreciate you getting in touch with me either at the office or my home. Bob Reap gave me your address because I have been doing some work on children who have been sexually abused,
and I wondered if I could have a word with you. I look forward to hearing from you.

The letter, signed ‘Maggie Barry’, and dated 29 September 1993, was headed with the logo of the
Evening Times
and
Glasgow Herald
.

I felt anger rise in me. How dare this woman not get her facts right? The telephone rang. I grabbed it and a voice at the other end said, ‘Maggie Barry here. May I speak to
Moira?’

I gasped. ‘This is Sandra Brown. I have just received and read your letter.’ I chose my words carefully. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well you rang. I’m so angry, I was
thinking of ringing you to complain.’

‘To complain?’ she sounded bewildered. ‘Isn’t Moira Anderson there?’

‘No. She hasn’t been for almost forty years either,’ I spoke through gritted teeth, ‘and if you’re wondering who I am, I am the woman who has accused her father of
abducting Moira from Coatbridge in 1957. You’ve got your information all wrong. I don’t think any newspaper editor would be thrilled at the way you’ve managed to upset me, trying
to contact the child I have claimed my father is responsible for murdering. I’ve just had a huge shock.’

There was a brief silence. She offered to come and apologise and we agreed to meet a few evenings hence.

A day or two later Lord James Douglas-Hamilton’s secretary contacted me. He had received a reply from Crown Office and had sent me a copy of it. Lord Rodger had written to him with
assurances that both enquiries reported by the Procurator Fiscal’s office at Airdrie had been given ‘careful consideration’.

The Lord Advocate added:

I have had an opportunity to consider the papers and am satisfied that the decision in relation to the allegations of sexual misconduct against Mrs Brown’s father
represented a proper exercise of the Crown’s discretion. As you are aware, the Crown’s reasons for its decisions are not disclosed.

Within hours, however, this letter was followed by a copy of the reply John Smith had received from the Lord Advocate. Although both documents carried the same date, 5 October
1993, John Smith had received much more information, even if it was negative.

A paragraph in the middle leaped out at me.

In relation to the disappearance of Moira Anderson there has been an active investigation by Strathclyde Police notwithstanding the length of time which has elapsed since
the girl’s disappearance and the difficulties which that has inevitably caused. Crown Counsel have had the benefit of full reports of the outcome of the various police enquiries, some of
which they have directed. While recent enquiries have still not explained Moira Anderson’s disappearance, Crown Counsel have noted the results and instructed the Procurator Fiscal to report
any further evidence or information which comes to light. I would only add that while Mrs Brown appears to have some knowledge of the enquiries, some of the information which she appears to have
provided to you is inaccurate and some incorrect.

I reread the last sentence in astonishment.

The police also investigated allegations against Mrs Brown’s father, and interviewed him in connexion with 5 allegations of lewd and libidinous conduct involving four
girls. The results of these enquiries were also seen by Crown Counsel and after careful consideration they instructed that there were to be no criminal proceedings against him in these matters. As
you are aware, the Crown’s reasons for its decisions are not disclosed and remain confidential. However, I have had an opportunity to consider the papers and am satisfied that the decision
represented a proper exercise of their discretion. Again, I must comment that some of the information which Mrs Brown appears to have provided is incorrect.

I was concerned to note that she had commented to you on the approach and attitude of David Griffiths, the Senior Procurator Fiscal Depute at Airdrie. He has been involved in these enquiries
from their outset and has been the author of a number of reports to Crown Counsel. I have read his reports which are informative, thorough, helpful and prepared in the professional manner I would
expect from a senior member of staff.

Following Crown Counsel’s decision in relation to the allegations against her father, Dr Griffiths agreed to meet Mrs Brown as the spokesperson for her family. I understand that he
spent some two hours with her when he endeavoured to discuss the matter rationally and sensitively with her. In the circumstances I am saddened that Mrs Brown has seen fit to criticize Dr Griffiths
in the way she has.

Yours,

Alan (Rodger of Earlsferry)

What incorrect information had I given? I searched out my original letter to them, and the letter I had written to John Smith, seeking ambiguities or anything that could be
misconstrued, to no avail. I could not fathom from their reply to John Smith to which sections of information they were referring.

I was furious. The inference to the Labour leader was that I was not a credible person as I had fed him false data. The reiteration of this point reinforced a question mark over my integrity. I
also noted how I was subtly undermined in the parting shots at the end, with the emphasis on the ‘rational and sensitive’ Depute attempting to discuss the issue with me. The iciness of
our meeting came back to me: there had been no hysterical raised voices, but I had broken a cardinal rule. I had said I would complain and I had done so, daring to voice my criticism of him as an
individual and them as an organization. The Lord Advocate was simply closing ranks. Lord Rodger had turned a complaint about one of his staff and lack of information on a decision into a query
about my trustworthiness and a complaint about my attitude.

I was still upset when Ronnie appeared for our evening meal. I showed him the letter. ‘If you read between the lines they’re saying I’m a crackpot. I don’t know what they
find inaccurate. I’ll have to show it to Jim and ask his advice.’

He read it, and shook his head in stunned silence. ‘Damn right.’

Over the following week three meetings were scheduled. I was returning to Hetty McKinnon’s home for our second session, and two nights later, on 12 October, Maggie Barry
was visiting me. Also, I had organized a rendezvous with Jim at the main Strathclyde police HQ in Pitt Street, Glasgow.

‘Don’t forget, Sandra,’ my husband pointed cheerily at the calendar we keep on the wall with four columns for the family’s various commitments, ‘I’ve booked
theatre tickets for the Lyceum for our anniversary on the 16th.’ We were still attempting to juggle an otherwise normal life through this period.

I was pleased to see Hetty again, and in no time at all, I was venturing back through that kaleidoscopic tunnel of flashbacks.

A gallery of faces paraded before me: Miss Mack, my formidable teacher in Primary 7, with her Jackie Kennedy-style pillar-box red suit. She was marking my essay on the Matthew Arnold poem,
‘The Forsaken Merman’, debating with me the comment I had made about how much easier life was for men, and how I wished I was a boy. Her shocked face had stencilled arches of eyebrows
shooting upwards into a midnight black razor-cut hair-style. She was making a cutting aside to a teaching student about such decidedly unfeminine views, but the younger woman spoke to me quietly
later, and when she questioned why I had written it, I did not hesitate to tell her the truth: ‘Ye kin do anything ye like, Miss, when ye’re a man.’

Hetty took me to 1957 once again. The tape was running on, but only Hetty’s tranquil voice was recording. Then came the familiar echo of my voice, with its strong Scots accent, from
childhood when we lived at Dunbeth Road.

‘And that’s upsetting you. Do you know who this lady is?’

‘And do you go outside to play?’

‘What happens then?’

There is silence, then:

‘You’re scared. And you’re going to put them all out of sight?’

Here the child named one of my buddies from Dunbeth Road. Here was an incident I had not previously recalled.

‘When did he show them to Elizabeth?’