Where There is Evil (36 page)

‘The folk who served the prison sentence were Moira’s mum and dad. They never knew what happened to her.’

He broke down completely.

‘Are you glad for getting it off your chest?’ I handed him tissues, as he nodded hard. ‘Yes.’

I begged him not to leave this world without further closure for us all. ‘Dad, nothing will come out till well after you have gone – to anybody. I need to know where she is, for her
sisters’ sake. Is there anything you can say to help us find her?’

His colour drained, eyes flicking to the door in panic. He was back in denial mode.

‘Not a thing. Ah huv something tae say – Ah wisnae involved.’

I closed my eyes. Maybe he thought I had a policeman nearby, instead of Ronnie.

‘You can try and put things right before you go. Dad, this isn’t like an episode of
Taggart
or
The Bill
. There isn’t going to be a big cop in here in a minute
to take a statement. But you won’t have an easy time of it on the Other Side if you haven’t cleared your conscience here. That’s what Gallogley did – wrote it all down. He
trained as a butcher in the army and you were in the Tank Corps. But I know he was quite clear Moira did not get cut up. She is still in one piece, and we are going to find her, Dad.’

His expression was horrified.

‘You can try to put things right before you go. Gallogley had eight months to clear his conscience; you’ve probably got more like eight days. If you can’t tell me, what about
your wife? Could you tell her?’

‘Aye, maybe. Ah wish there were things Ah could change. Isa and those kids . . . What you have tae understand Sandra, is we had no entertainment then . . . no television.’

I gasped in disbelief. ‘Uh?’

How could my father try to justify his behaviour with such an excuse?

He looked at Moira’s photo as if it was possessed in some way.

‘She’s haunted me ma hale life. She was bonny, too bonny for her own good . . .’

The nurse came back. My father’s wife wanted to meet me. I held the photo and tapped it.

‘It’s strange how you’ve spent all this time trying to forget her,’ I said, ‘and I’ve spent more than a decade trying to make sure she’s not forgotten.
Moira won’t be.’

‘You’re like a dog wi’ a bone.’

‘But you know why, Dad. You know why.’

‘Ah do, but ye cannae change the past. Ah regret everything to do wi’ that kid.’

‘I suppose in a way I’ve haunted you, too. Sorry, but it needed to come out, it did.’

‘Ah forgive you for that.’

‘That’s good. It means I can get on with my life, not be stuck in this situation. I’m glad I came, and we made peace.’

‘Ah feel better fur it,’ he declared.

I reminded him we are all responsible for our actions, and if he felt he’d had hell on earth, he had created it. If he felt better for telling me some things, then I urged him to make a
clean breast of it to his wife.

‘Ah think Ah could; she’s made me happy,’ he said, as she appeared. I rose to go.

She was pleasant enough, protesting I need not leave, but I was drained. I commented that it was good she had made him happy; perhaps it was third time lucky.

She beamed. He was a grandfather recently as well, she said, twin girls.

Nice, I said, but I must go.

‘How did you know he was here? Who told you to come?’

‘I’ve told Dad I think I was guided,’ I said guardedly. ‘We’ve forgiven each other and made some peace. Let me just say cheerio, Dad. You won’t see me
again.’

‘Well, it was good you came and saw Alex. You are his only daughter.’

I explained to her I wasn’t. She looked dumbfounded, saying his second wife had three boys, so I was definitely his only lass.

‘No, I’m not. That is what we were just talking about. I’m his only
legitimate
daughter. There are at least another three to a woman called Isa. Isn’t that
right, Dad?’

My father’s expression was priceless, as he nodded in agreement.

‘My goodness, I never knew that.’ She was blinking in shock. ‘Is that right, Alex?’

He answered, ‘Aye,’ as she expressed astonishment, looking at a young man who had entered the room. He was the youngest of Pat’s three, the same age as my own son, Ross, yet,
weirdly, also my half-brother. He looked furious. I recognized him from my granny Jenny’s funeral. I was relieved to see that his twin brothers were not with him.

‘There are a lot of things my mum never knew either.’ I squeezed past her. ‘And there are other things my dad here has to tell you. A lot. Cheerio, Dad.’

My dad had spilled some beans, but not enough. It broke my heart, I explained to Janet later, that he had not found the courage to conclude the whole matter on his deathbed.

Ronnie and I had gone on to London, and I could not bring myself to listen to the tape with that voice on it until my return. I left some messages for Janet, not realizing she was away from home
and not picking them up. Then my brother Norman had a call from one of the sons in Leeds. Alexander had died on 1 April. It was from the twin who was my dad’s namesake. There were no details
of arrangements or when the funeral would be held.

I was shocked when I accessed my email after a week away to find messages from the same twin, demanding to know about the conversation I’d had with our father. What exactly had passed
between us? I ignored him initially, but wondered how he had traced my email too. More messages came.

Then I was flabbergasted to find long missives from his twin, Fraser, whom I had never met either. These had pictures of his small daughters. He wrote that he had left Leeds, turning his back on
my father after the publication of
Where There is Evil
, changing his name by deed poll, moving to another country, and trying to establish a writing career. His comments about my father
were interesting. He had always had ‘a crippling feeling that he is not as innocent as he makes out’. He would never have returned to Leeds, but personal reasons brought him back, and
he wanted me to know that my dad had only met his little girls on a few occasions, ‘always in a public place, never alone’.

This twin’s tone was less intimidating, but manipulative, because he also had the same goal: just what had been said at the hospital bed? Whatever had taken place, his father seemed
brighter, so could I tell him what had lifted the burden?

Reluctant to get into any correspondence with either twin, I wrote a sparse note to say the meeting had been private; it didn’t involve them or their mother to any extent, and I hoped the
funeral went well but I wouldn’t be attending.

After that, for Janet and myself, all hell broke loose as we were both under siege by the press. Janet left Sydney where Steve Smith had broken the news to her and her daughter, and headed to
Perth. At the charity in Airdrie, journalists and TV reporters were on the phones all day and it was a relief when we could finally talk. Poor Janet had ended up in hospital for several days with
the sheer stress of it all.

I explained to her that what had caused me the greatest stress was a
Sun
journalist, who had rung me on Tuesday, 4 April. I made it clear that, as we had said all day at the charity,
there would be no comment, as the deceased had not yet been cremated.

‘I know,’ the reporter said, ‘but I thought you might want to make a comment on the press statement put out by your half-brother Marcus. Did you know about him?’

‘No,’ I said, puzzled. ‘Who’s he?’

‘He changed his name. He is a struggling writer calling himself Marcus de Storm.’

It clicked – this was one of the twins using a pseudonym.

‘Anyway, this has been released tonight throughout the UK. He’s saying that you saw your father on his deathbed, asked for his forgiveness and said you had made this huge mistake
about his involvement with Moira Anderson – and he forgave you completely.’

‘What? As if!’ I banged down the phone, shaking.

Janet was speechless when I told her of this duplicity. I had immediately asked a friend to put out a statement refuting absolutely what was being claimed by ‘Marcus’, but the
fabrication still appeared in a number of tabloids next day.

‘Huge apology indeed! No wonder you were furious!’ Janet cried. ‘I was furious too, at that Steve Smith wanting to know every detail of what was said. I told him you had talked
with only me about the meeting, and I know all about confidentiality because of my job, so if he thought I’d share anything with him on my sister, he was up a gum tree.’

‘I know you wouldn’t have told him anything, but he’s the type to publish stuff anyway.’

Janet was even more thunderstruck when I told her the barrage of emails had stopped, but the last one revealed who ‘Jared’ was.

I spotted my short note of thanks to him at the top of the message, then there was a long diatribe that told of three sons gathered round their father’s bed, two holding his hands, one
separate. In semi-literate, rambling phrases he thanked me for visiting and described how each had felt at the passing of ‘this great man’.

Halfway through, the grammar changed dramatically.

‘If you have been strong enough to read this far, then read on, Sandra. You will have guessed by now I am Jared – sorry about tricking you, but I could not think of any other way to
get you to come.’

‘It’s written by one of the twins, Fraser, a.k.a. Marcus de Storm,’ I said. ‘Seriously disturbed, if you ask me, or just downright duplicitous. I was duped, but the trick
backfired. I was there much quicker than he ever imagined, and I have the evidence to show just who said what. It was a set-up, a trap. What he has put out to the press is the scenario he would
have liked to happen, not what really did take place.’

‘But people might believe you really did make a huge apology to your dad about Moira. Thank goodness you taped it. They need to know the true version of events!’

‘They will. Once my father is cremated, I will make sure of that. But only after his wife has had a chance to put him to rest. She has done me no harm, and if he found the courage to get
everything off his chest to her, maybe she will say so later.’

On Easter Sunday, a full sixteen days after the death, Jacqui McGhie of the Scottish
News of the World
published the truth, after listening to the tape recording. That article and an
in-depth follow up in the
Sunday Times
by Gillian Bowditch ensured that the record was now put straight, and the treachery exposed.

I sent copies to Janet and we discussed the way forward. Janet knew my second book would be about the incredible journey I had made since setting up the charity in her sister’s name. I had
met extraordinary people with the most remarkable of stories, had encountered both inspiring individuals and the most malevolent abusers.

However, we made a pact. We were not giving up. We had got nothing from the authorities but apathy and resistance to our quest to find Moira. The book would also detail our fight to get the
final truth under the Freedom of Information Act, our pressure campaign to see the release of the paedophile dossier, and it would describe our final efforts to find her sister’s remains.
We
were prepared to look, even if few were willing to search for a small child whose only crime had been to lose money in the snow and whose innocence had ensured she did not recognize in
my dad the true face of evil.

Sandra Brown was educated at Coatbridge High School, Hamilton College and the Open University, which awarded her an Honours Degree in 1978 and a Masters in Education in 1996. A
Primary Deputy Headteacher, then a Senior Lecturer in Further Education, she is the author of a number of articles. Recently she has worked for a children’s charity in Scotland, which has
involved her in a wide range of issues affecting children and their parents, including child protection. Scotswoman of the Year in 2005, she was awarded the OBE in 2006.

She believes that dangerous sex offenders, with very few exceptions, should be detained for life, and argues that it is time, in this country, that we review how such people
are dealt with by the authorities. Where there is compelling evidence of a pattern of sexual deviance, she calls for juries to be fully informed of the defendant's history.

Where There is Evil
is her first book.

‘Sandra Brown’s past has come back to haunt her in an extraordinary way . . . her story rocks many fondly held assumptions about the warmth of working-class culture
in the 1950s’
Sunday Times

‘Explosive, evocative . . . a remarkable story that climbs into your mind and stays there; a book that should shake a nation’
Scotland on Line

‘If this wasn’t a true and appalling story, it would have made a terrific thriller. As it is, this tale of child abuse, murder, betrayal and corruption is utterly
harrowing . . . A powerful book from someone brave enough to confront evil on her doorstep. Five Stars’
Daily Mail

‘Very few writers can evoke childhood, even and especially their own . . . Sandra Brown has served up real childhood, raw, unexpurgated, tunnel-visioned and common to
every last one of us. A graphic and indelible account of the mind-boggling persistence, audacity and ruthlessness of the truly obsessional paedophile’
Guardian

‘Sandra Brown’s powerful account of her memories, her fears and her dawning belief that her father was responsible for the death of a child as well as sexual abuse
of her contemporaries, makes compelling reading. It is an example of the very reason for the existence of Childline’ Anne Houston, Director, Childline Scotland

If life is not measured in how many breaths you take, but how many moments you have that take your breath away, then you may feel the same is true of books. Many are read, some
you discard, some influence your thinking, some climb into your head and stay there, a few are even profoundly life changing.

This one, which laid the foundation of a charity which has now supported many families affected by child abuse, is unique. I am glad I found the strength to tell Moira’s story.