Where There is Evil (30 page)

I glanced at my watch desperately. To attempt to explain in minutes such a complex web of events seemed like an impossible task. I groaned inwardly. To my relief, at 5.30, he agreed we should
both go home and reconvene later at his house.

When I got to his rambling Victorian villa, we went into a room I supposed was his study to resume my story. My host put on a fire to take the chill off the room, but I could not help shivering.
Talking about my father always had this effect on me, and so it remains.

At last I stopped. It came as a huge relief when he looked at me and said, ‘I have never heard anything like this in my life. It is straight out of the stuff of nightmares – it is so
surreal, it could make a film but I believe you. My personal reaction aside, what I have are enormous concerns
why
Crown Office, of which I have long experience, is doing precisely nothing
about your father. Firstly, it seems very surprising that the PF at Airdrie is not willing to take up proceedings in relation to the allegations made by your cousins. It seems to me there’s
enough evidence there to justify them. Secondly, in the present climate, it is entirely in the public interest that such matters be addressed. Finally, even if the Crown took the view that for some
reason these particular charges were not worth prosecuting alone, it would be only sensible to keep them live, so that if he
is
ever charged with the girl Anderson’s murder, these
other things could be dealt with at the same time, thus increasing the likelihood of a conviction. It seems illogical to dismiss them summarily.’

I described the correspondence stalemate that had gone on for months, and said I had concluded that the only strategy left to try was writing to John Major at Westminster.

‘Right. It’s worth a try,’ he replied. ‘Should that effort run into a brick wall as well, there are two influential figures I know, one in the Commons, one in the Lords,
who might help pressurize Crown Office to re-examine its decision or at least have some sort of meeting with you. Their clout might help following on from the representations by John Smith and Lord
James. You write the letter to the PM and let me check it for you before sending it off, and we’ll take it from there.’

I went straight home to compose it.

Alistair and I had briefly discussed John Smith’s problems in the Monklands, with allegations rife of nepotism and religious discrimination, and I had not been surprised to have had no
further news of him. So I was astonished when he telephoned me the next day. He apologized for his delay in getting back to me, and said he had seen the articles of October and November in the
Sunday Mail
. He imagined that the Crown Office would not be thrilled by them. What an understatement. I had to smile at his deliberately neutral tone. However, he went on to say that he
felt, regretfully, that he had done all he could, and his involvement could not continue in our representation.

‘Why?’ I jumped in. ‘The Moira Anderson case happened in the Monklands, my father molested and abused a number of children there, and my cousins – the two worst affected
by all this – live there. And it is your constituency, Mr Smith.’

‘Well, naturally I
am
concerned about everything that you have divulged about your father’s pattern of behaviour, the fact that he appears to have been missed by the police
in 1957 altogether, and the very worrying stories that your cousins have claimed happened to them.’

‘If you’re concerned, then why do you feel you can no longer support our case?’

After a brief pause, he explained.

‘Let me just check what you are saying here, Mr Smith. You feel that as Leader of the Opposition, you cannot afford to become embroiled in this situation with Crown Office, and you really
feel you have done all you can for myself and my cousins?’

‘That is correct. I have every sympathy with your situation. Your public-spiritedness is to be commended, but unfortunately the outcome is the worst possible. The Crown’s decision
does seem somewhat inexplicable, but I have done what was asked and do not feel, as Leader of the next Labour government, that I can afford to become further involved in what could evolve into an
explosive issue. I can’t be involved in a campaign. I am sorry, but that is how I see it.’

I replied that I had taken legal advice, and would now have to go over Lord Rodger’s head. Who, I asked, might be the Lord Advocate’s line manager?

There was a great roar of laughter at the other end. ‘That’s a good one! He is totally independent. No one oversees his decisions.’

‘I find it quite incredible, Mr Smith, that Lord Rodger’s not accountable to anyone.’

‘Well, yes, it’s a unique feature of our Scottish legal system. I suppose, though, if he has to heed anyone, it would be John Major.’

I told him of my letter to the PM, and he wished me well warmly.

Mindful of my earlier costly mistake, I completed a three-page letter to Downing Street. Alistair suggested two tiny changes, but otherwise declared it to be ‘excellent’. I posted it
with a huge pile of Christmas mail on 10 December.

It was not, however, until after the holidays that a note acknowledging receipt of it, from a Miss Gorman, appeared, along with my Open University results. I had passed – and reasonably
comfortably too, to my delight. Before I knew it, I was immersed in my next course, on child psychology, for 1994.

Still there was nothing from Westminster.

College resumed around my birthday on 7 January, and a piece of information came unexpectedly to me. One of my colleagues, whose father had been taken ill and died, had departed in a rush to
Sydney, Australia, before Christmas. Such was the frustration point I had reached that I had decided to ignore my assurance to Jim McEwan that I would not contact any of the witnesses outside my
own family circle. I could remember the married name of Moira’s sister, and the unusual name of the wealthy suburb where she lived which, in passing, Jim had mentioned. It was time, in my
view, to join forces to get something done. I asked my colleague to help and, when she returned, she gave me a contact number. I calculated time differences and dialled.

My first call to Janet’s home must have been shattering for her, but she listened carefully and agreed we should work together for justice. Both of us were in tears by the end of it
– she because she felt so frustrated at being on the other side of the world and was desperate to meet me; and myself through sheer relief that she had not rebuffed me. We agreed that we
would correspond immediately and keep our link under wraps.

‘I haven’t heard anything from Jim McEwan for weeks now,’ she said. ‘Is he still on the case?’

‘Technically, yes,’ I replied, explaining the changed circumstances. ‘When I last heard from him, divers were going down to search the pond this week despite freezing
conditions. And obviously they’ve waited for the media interest to die down a bit.’

‘What I find very worrying is that when my relatives, the Mathewsons, recently went to Airdrie police station, they were told that the case was now closed.’

‘That isn’t correct, Janet, so I don’t know why they would be told that.’ I explained, ‘Everything has been moved to Coatbridge police station, according to Jim.
They still have a set of family photographs and pictures of my father with other Baxter’s bus staff which they have not returned. But it sounds like they want it all to disappear
again.’

Finally she pleaded before hanging up that if I heard of
anything
being found where the divers were searching, I should let her know right away. ‘Please,’ she said.
‘It’s awful being thousands of miles away. If any remains are found, I’d fly direct to Scotland and never mind the cost. I owe it to my parents to ensure Moira is given a
Christian burial.’ Her voice cracked. ‘That’s been the worst thing of all. Not having a body, not having a grave to visit, all these years. It broke my parents’ hearts. So
cruel. If John Major actually reads your letter, I hope he’ll have some compassion for my poor mother and father who both died not knowing. I least now I do. I know why you won’t give
me your dad’s address, but I’ll always be grateful to you for doing all this, and going to the police.’

Her words haunted me for hours after that first call. What a tragedy. When there is no body, how do you
begin
grieving?

Anger flooded through me against my father, the Crown Office, and those too apathetic to do the right thing.

Only my husband and one or two friends knew of the call I had made to Australia. The conversation with Janet echoed in my head for days. The most terrifying aspect of it was
her conviction that the tall man in overalls who had motioned her over to his car near her home and indecently assaulted her, as a young girl, had also been my father. Shaken to think that
lightning could strike twice in one family, I had asked her to give me a brief description of her attacker. ‘I told Jim McEwan all about it when he took my statement,’ she had replied.
‘A great tall fellow with a small dark car, that’s all I can remember. That and what he said to me: “C’mere, come and help me hold this.” When I went over to see what
he was doing under the bonnet of his car, he grabbed me and said, “Hold this dip stick for me, would you?” I was mortified when I saw what I was to hold.’

I had hardly been able to answer her. An image of my father in his navy boiler suit with its buttons down the front, the clothes that had terrified A, surfaced. Not only was Janet’s
description accurate, the words the man had used mirrored the experience of my cousins C and D. ‘We were warned, you know, that a bad man lived near the town hall,’ she added.
‘And now you say your folks did. Tell me what your father looked like, Sandra.’

‘Very tall, and dark, with strange, light-coloured eyes. If you’d met my dad’s gaze in the street, you’d remember him. I always felt uncomfortable with the way he looked
at me, and any young female for that matter. And he had a black Baby Austin car.’

‘It
has
to be him!’ Janet had spat out the words with loathing, so I was not surprised when she answered the letter I sent her with a furious tirade against the police of
1957, who had made such empty promises to her parents. Not only had Andrew reported the assault on his eldest daughter, she herself had reported it to staff at Coatbridge High School. While noting
that she was not the only victim of the man with the black car, the school had declined to take any action. It seems incredible to think that the local police would ignore an attack on a girl from
a family who had hit the headlines in such a tragic case, but this appears to have been exactly what did happen. Andrew took to escorting both his remaining daughters to school, having lost all
faith in the local cops.

In mid-February 1994, I finally met Moira’s childhood friend Elizabeth Taylor, now Nimmo. I arrived without warning at her comfortable home in Glenmavis, which she took in her stride. We
chatted about Moira for several hours. Elizabeth shook her head at the craziness of the legal system. I asked about her memories of Dunbeth Park. Was she the ‘Beth’ I had remembered as
being with Moira? I described the girl I hazily recalled.

‘She’d a rounder face than Moira, darker, different hair, and she was wearing something pink on top, with those sort of culottes that we called divided skirts then.’

To my disappointment, she shook her head. ‘No, we were lookalikes, I wasn’t noticeably darker than her, and we wore our hair in the same style – people sometimes confused us,
in fact, so it doesn’t sound like me.’ She shrugged. ‘We went there a lot, though, with my wee dog, which Moira loved, Lucky. Your memory doesn’t ring a bell for me, but it
could be that the Beth you’re looking for is her cousin. I’ll give you her number.’

I left her home, pleased that for once I’d not broken down speaking of what I had recently been through. Elizabeth had passed on Jeannette Mathewson Fryer’s number. I spoke to her at
length, then she gave me a contact number for her sister, Beth. It seemed odd to be speaking to the grown versions of the two cousins who had been due to take Moira to the pictures so long ago, and
who had been surprised when she failed to rendezvous with them at their grandmother’s home. Once again, however, I drew a blank: despite a long, encouraging conversation about the whole
affair, this Beth turned out not to be the one who had been Moira’s companion that day. And yet I was sure she had not been a casual acquaintance of the little girl’s, but someone she
knew well. I gave up with a sigh.

I had still had no reply from Westminster.

A huge double-spread article on the saga of the reopened investigation was featured in the
Airdrie and Coatbridge Advertiser
of 25 February 1994, on the thirty-seventh anniversary of
the disappearance. I noted with interest Eileen’s comment: