Everything She Forgot (9 page)

CHAPTER 9

G
EORGE PUT HIS FOOT DOWN AND CROSSED
THE
R
IVER
Thurso, and was about to accelerate out of town on the A9 southbound when an old lady stepped out onto a zebra crossing. George drummed his fingers on the wheel impatiently, glancing to the park on his left and noticing that it was named after him: Sir George's Park.

Moll was turned away from him, still crying, and he was about to speak to her again in an attempt to calm her when she released the lock, threw open the door, and fell out right onto the road, such was her rush. She was on her feet before he could reach for her and sprinting back along the road toward the bridge and the town.

“Christ,” said George.

He drove through the zebra crossing, startling the old lady, and parked the car by the side of the road, half on the pavement, before he leaped out and gave chase. Running full pelt, he made up the distance between them in seconds. He caught her by the collar of her jacket and spun her around. She started screaming and twisting away from him and George panicked again. His hand closed around her wrist and he began to drag
her back to the car. Up ahead he saw a man and a woman, walking arm in arm, and wondered if he should just let Moll go and make a run for it. The couple both glanced in his direction, but instead of looking alarmed they smiled at him with understanding. Realizing that they assumed Moll was just a young child having a tantrum, George dared to smile at them and shake his head. The couple nodded and walked on.

At the car, George threw open the passenger door and tried to drag her inside, but she leaned over and bit the hand that held her wrist. It wasn't a playful bite; George felt her small teeth break the skin.

He shook her, just to get her off him, but then realized that he had been too rough. She was suddenly very pale, either from shock or terror.

When he pulled his hand away, he saw that she had drawn blood. He lifted her up, put her in the passenger seat and closed the door.

After pushing down the lock and pulling her seat belt over to secure her, he drove away with a skid, glancing into the mirror to see if the couple was turning back to look in their direction. The speedometer twitched well above the speed limit as they drove out of town on the A9, before George left the main road to take the smaller mountain roads, where he considered he would be less visible.

He needed a cigarette suddenly, but was driving too fast. The chase and the fight with her had shaken him. Two hands on the steering wheel, he glanced at her and noticed that she was crying soundlessly; the tears already breaking through the patch that covered her left eye.

Blood was trickling from the wound on his hand where she had bitten him, curling around his wrist. He brought his hand
to his lips and instinctively sucked at the wound, tasting the familiar salt of his own blood.

G
eorge was seven years old. He was laughing and joking with his sister while they ate their tea of mince and tatties. George liked to mash the tatties into the mince so that it was a huge brown mess, while Patricia liked to keep the mince completely separate from the potatoes, and would complain to her mother if they were touching. She would then eat the mince first and then all of the tatties, leaving stray onions on the plate, which she said were slimy as worms, and which their mother would then cajole her to finish. George never needed cajoling to eat his food. Every time he finished, his mother would tousle his hair and tell him that he was a good boy and he had a good appetite.

“I
S NOT.”

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

“Is sot.”

“Not, not, not!”

“Sot, sot, sot, sot!”

The key turned in the lock. George and his sister stopped their chatter and their mother turned off the wireless. His mother focused on the dirty mince pot in the sink, and George and his sister looked down at their plates.

Brendan McLaughlin sighed as he closed the front door. George and his sister didn't move, but their mother turned to their father.

“Run a bath,” said their father, without a word of hello. They both knew he was speaking to their mother. She had
been washing the mince pot, but she put it down immediately and went to run the bath, wiping her hands on her pinny. She stopped dead at the sight of her husband in the hall. George and his sister followed the direction of their mother's gaze.

They were used to seeing their father roughed up. Often his knuckles would be bloodied and their mother would set a bowl of Dettol on the kitchen table for him to steep his hands. The smell of antiseptic would fill the room, thick as shame, as he made bloody fists into the milky liquid.

But tonight, it was not just his hands: Brendan McLaughlin was covered in blood. His clothes were dark and wet with it; his face was smeared with it and his hair was slick with it. Blood pooled around his black shoes and when he walked to the bathroom, he left dark red footprints on the floorboards.

“Mother of Jesus, a bath? You need the hospital.”

“Run the bath,” said Brendan, his voice slow and menacing. Not a single person in the household would counter him when he spoke like that, not even Peter. George's mother ran the bath and poured Dettol into it, so that the familiar stink eased through the house like enmity. Patricia brought towels and, with two hands, George put the kettle on the range to top up the bathwater in case it went cold. The children and their mother were like soldiers rushing to their posts.

George hid behind the door, watching his father and mother in the bathroom. He didn't like it when they spoke to each other directly because often it would turn sour, and George would want to protect his mother but be afraid for himself. His father's temper was often sparked by physical pain. If he had been stabbed or beaten badly, it made him angrier. But tonight they stayed calm and his mother passed his father the yellow bar of carbolic soap, so that he could wash himself.

Through the steam in the bathroom, George could just make out that the bathwater had turned red, and he wondered if his father was bleeding to death. The thought brought a small flutter of delight under his rib cage, and he pressed his lips together in hope and expectation.

His mother sat on the toilet seat, preparing dressings.

“Where is it you're hurt?” she whispered. “If you need stitches, then you need stitches; you can't go without like last time . . .”

George held his breath as he strained to get a better look, making sure that he kept out of sight. The water was dark red now, as if all the blood in his father's body was pouring out into the bath.

George rested his head against the door, feeling something akin to happiness.

But then his father pushed his knees forward, leaned back, and dunked his head into the bath to wash his hair and George saw the firm muscles of his father's abdomen rising up like a lobster before peeling. Moments later George watched his father's pale hard body rise from the blood. His father stood naked, dripping in the bath. Brendan McLaughlin was six feet one, and George had to look up to take him in.

His body was clean, hard, faultless as a statue. There was not a single cut on him. At seven years old, he understood that his father had not been bathing his wounds at all: he had been cleaning brutal murder from his skin.

George pressed himself into the crack of the door as he watched, feeling he was invisible. He bit his thumbnail as he watched his father towel himself dry. As his father bent down to dry between his toes, George bit the skin of his thumb right through.

G
eorge cut off the A9 onto the mountain roads, where he slowed his pace. When he was on the back roads, outside Inverness, he pulled over and turned to speak to her for the first time.

“Are you OK, Moll?”

She turned her face away. The tears had created a gap at the bottom of the plaster covering her right eye.

George stroked it with his finger and she winced slightly at his touch.

“Let's take this off, shall we? Let's see those baby blues.”

She kept her face turned from him, but did not fight him, and he gently peeled away the rest of the Band-Aid. When the patch was removed, he turned her face to his. Her skin was reddened from crying, and George felt guilt gut him, deft as a fisherman's knife. Holding her face in his hand, he realized the reason for the patch. She had a lazy eye, and so one of her eyes was now fixed on him, unrelenting, accusing, while the other was turned away. The eye that had been covered was her good eye.

Her face was pale, impassive, yet she shrank from his touch. It was not as he had imagined; not as he had wanted.

“I'm sorry if I frightened you, Moll,” he said, rubbing her leg and dropping his chin to look up at her. “I didn't mean to upset you.”

“I don't forgive you,” she said, almost without moving her lips.

“See what you did to me,” he said, holding up his hand with the tiny, bloody teeth marks on his skin. Because Moll's two front teeth were missing, the marks were like a snakebite on his hand.

“You deserved it,” she said, turning away.

George frowned and stared at the road ahead, hands between his knees. He had pictured himself driving this same road, with the money in the boot and Kathleen and Moll singing car songs as they headed south.

Everything had changed overnight. Yesterday he had disappeared from Glasgow, hoping to win back his sweetheart and his little girl. Now he was on the run with an abducted child, a bag full of dirty money, and a stolen car. It was the abducted child part that was the real problem, even if she was his daughter. George wiped a hand across his mouth. Trouble had always clung to him, like summertime sticky willow. Freedom taunted him now, but George was determined not to relinquish it.

“You need to do what I say, angel . . . We're going on an adventure.”

“You're a
bad man
,” she said, whipping her head around so that her right eye confronted him while the left looked away. “I want to go home.”

George exhaled, clasping his hands on his lap. “I'm
not
a bad man,” he whispered, “I'm your daddy,” speaking as though the two were mutually exclusive—although he himself knew better.

CHAPTER 10

T
WO DAYS SINCE
M
OLLY
H
ENDERSON HAD BEEN
TAKEN.
Search parties of neighbors, friends, and police were still out looking for her, but hope was running out.

The Hendersons had given tearful radio appeals, asking for the return of their daughter, but concern was deepening. In the recent similar cases of abducted children, the little girls had been sexually assaulted and then killed within twenty-four to forty-eight hours of their abduction. Tracey Begg, a little girl taken from Aberdeen just two years earlier, had been assaulted and killed within a day of her disappearance, but her body was found dumped in England, some ten days after her abduction. Angus suspected that the police would have very little to go on, until they found the body.

Highlands police were now coordinating with the national force, searching for the car and the man who had taken Molly, but the descriptions were imprecise and the witnesses had all been children.

None of the statements that the police made publicly said anything about searching for a serial offender who had killed
before, but Angus knew that this was merely a tactic to avoid panic. His police contacts had told him, confidentially, that they were looking again at the other unsolved child murders.

There were three cases in particular which bore a resemblance to Molly's abduction: Gillian Hardy, 1981, from Ballymena, Northern Ireland; Charlotte Martin, 1982, from Whitby; Tracey Begg, 1983, from Aberdeen. The police suspected these three murders were linked and it had been two years since the last abduction. It was time for the killer to abduct another child.

As with the other children, witnesses to Molly's disappearance suggested that she had been tempted away by a stranger. Tracey Begg from Aberdeen, taken only two years ago, had been just five years old. A tall dark man, described as having a scruffy appearance but wearing a suit, was seen paying for Tracey to ride on a merry-go-round, just before she disappeared.

Angus had written a news article for the
John O'Groat Journal
based on the syndicated facts about the Henderson abduction and the ongoing national investigation, but he wanted a feature. He was collating a file on the Hendersons and the abduction and knew that he had it in him to make a breakthrough on the case, if only he could gather enough information. He was still writing his usual articles for the paper, about the petty goings-on in Caithness County, but he was working on the big story. The larger news agencies were still camped outside the Hendersons' house, and Angus knew that the couple had been bombarded with requests for interviews. He wondered if his local connection meant that Kathleen might talk to him.

It was mid-autumn, but the Hendersons' large walled garden bloomed as if it were still summer: chrysanthemums and fuchsias, roses and clematis. The rowan tree was still dark green
but red berries hung heavy from its branches. A large wych elm in the corner of the garden had a makeshift swing attached to one of its branches.

Angus stood on the doorstep and looked through the front window into the cream-furnished living room before he rang the bell. He peered through the frosted glass of the door. The house seemed desolate: no lights on, and no sound from inside. The bell had an old-fashioned brass bellpull and sounded loudly in the hallway. He waited a few minutes and was just about to ring again when he saw a shadow behind the glass, and heard the lock turn.

Kathleen Henderson had shrunk into herself. Her collarbone was sharply visible and her eyes were sunk into shadowed sockets. She was well dressed, however, Angus noticed with some disdain. Wearing an expensive, low-cut sweater, she had adorned herself with pearls and long earrings, and swept her hair to one side.

“Can I help you?” she whispered. She held on to the door, not opening it fully. From her accent, Angus could hear immediately that she was an outsider. It had not been so noticeable at the press conference because she had been speaking through tears.

He puffed his chest out. “Mrs. Henderson, Kathleen, my name's Angus—Angus Campbell.” He held out his hand and she quickly gave him her cold fingers.

He had thought carefully about what he would say, should he get the chance to speak to Kathleen Henderson in person. He had heard about journalists who doorstepped bereaved and fraught parents, who cared about the story more than its subject, and Angus did not want to be tarred with that brush. He wanted to win her over; to gain her trust.

Angus was not accustomed to being so ingratiating with women. They were the weaker sex in so many ways.

Women were infernally weak and he did not like to indulge them, but Kathleen Henderson was a special case that called for delicacy on his part, if only as a means to an end. He remembered his beloved, pregnant Maisie, and imagined that he was speaking to her instead, in the barn filled with warm straw, sweetened with the smell of dung.

“Kathleen, if I may call you that . . . ?” Angus paused and raised both eyebrows, and Kathleen nodded once, with a sharp jut to her chin. “I work at the
Journal
and I worship with the Thurso congregation of the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland. I wanted to let you know that you are in our prayers, and we are taking a collection to help with ongoing support.
Together
we can find Molly.
We
can bring her home. I truly believe that.”

“Thank you,” Kathleen managed, her eyes glassing with tears, her words clotting in her mouth. “You're very kind.”

“I know you've been bothered by a lot of press in the last two days, and you look very tired, but I wondered if it might be worthwhile for you to talk to someone like myself, someone local, who understands the area. The police are fantastic, but they're casting their net wide. I just wondered if it would be worth going over the facts once more?”

“You mean, write another story? There's been so many already . . . just two days and it seems like every paper, every TV station . . .” Kathleen's eyelids fluttered, as if she were on the verge of fainting. “I don't have anything else to say. I feel as if I've said it all a hundred times.”

“What I'm suggesting is a local take on your story, to bolster awareness and support, and look at things afresh. I'm sure the
police have told you they're doing their best, but they don't have much to go on. What's needed is a local campaign focused on jogging people's memories from the day of the abduction. You don't need to sit around waiting for news; we can be proactive. Someone else must've seen
something
. It's Thurso, after all: when the streetlamps go on an hour early complaint letters are written, and I should know . . . The right
kind
of article . . . with the correct approach could mean the difference between . . .”—the words
life
and
death
were on his lips, but he swallowed each of them, like pips in an apple—“. . . between finding her sooner rather than later.”

Kathleen sniffed and dabbed the end of her nose with her knuckle. She looked down at her feet and Angus wondered if she was indeed faint, and as the moment lingered he thought she might simply close the door on him. Yet Kathleen coughed and pulled open the door, inviting him inside.

The house was immaculate, and smelled of citrus fruits. The fireplace was swept clean and on either side stood tall, thin oriental vases with dried bouquets of honesty and catkins. There were photographs of Molly on the mantelpiece, one taken when she was a baby, and the other a school photograph: posed and turned toward the camera, her glasses on, one side of her fringe sticking up.

Kathleen served him weak tea and offered a plate of chocolate biscuits that rustled as she held them out to him, because her hands were shaking so much. He took a Blue Riband, but dared not taste it until she began to speak. The large, high-ceilinged room had three sofas and a coffee table in the middle. Kathleen sat on one sofa, Angus on the other nearest to her. He took out his notepad and pen, as she sat forward, hugging herself as if she were chilled, chest near her knees.

“I don't know what to say,” she sniffed. “The words have gone. I've used them all up. I can't tell it any different from what I've said already, and it hurts so much . . .” She made a sound that reminded Angus of the noise Maisie made when the vet examined her.

Despite the chill of the autumn air, Angus brushed some beads of sweat from his upper lip before he began his questions. He had already decided that he would not mention the other child murders from the past few years, although he knew the police were working on comparisons with the Thurso abduction. He didn't want to alarm Kathleen; he wanted her to open up to him. “I want us to take it easy. Nice and relaxed. Let's go over it, not from a police point of view but from a human point of view, a local point of view. Let's think about the details: what has been missed? Let's think about the connections we could make locally or further afield. Let's consider the jigsaw pieces and make a picture.”

Kathleen seemed to be shivering. He considered offering her his jacket, but didn't for fear that it would seem inappropriate.

Angus poised his pen.

“Is there anyone you know who might want to take or harm Molly?”

“No . . . not that I can think of. She is just a wee girl. I can't think of anyone who would want to harm her . . . take her away from her family.” Kathleen began to break down as she spoke, but she finished her sentence.

Angus took notes in shorthand, marking the paper faster than Kathleen could speak, never taking his eyes off her. In his notes, he also included descriptions of what Kathleen was wearing, how her face looked and whether or not she seemed on the verge of tears.

“What about the girls who witnessed the abduction?” Angus said, “Did you know them, have you spoken to them about what they saw?”

“They are girls in Moll's class . . . When the police told me about the child witnesses, I knew who they were
exactly
, but I hadn't met them in person.”

“What do you mean?” said Angus, his eyes wide and his breathing even and steady, as if he was stroking Maisie's flank. “Just take your time.”

Kathleen took a deep breath. “Moll . . . told me that some girls in her class called her names, bullied her . . .”

“And these were the girls responsible?”

“I'm sure of it, but . . .” Kathleen turned to him, two thin lines suddenly appearing between her brows. “Don't print that . . . The important thing is to find Moll, not to start some idiotic thing over name-calling. Their parents would . . . I can just imagine . . .”

“It's off the record,” said Angus, nodding at Kathleen to reassure her, and he saw that her face and shoulders relaxed. “Don't worry. You can speak freely.”

“It's just that I know those girls, and they were cruel to her, and I can't get over the fact that . . .”

“What names did they call her?” said Angus.

Kathleen was startled by the question and looked at him strangely, but then wiped her nose and continued.

“Och, just names, you know what weans are like. They called her ‘pirate' because of her eye. My daughter wears an eye patch—you'll have read in the papers—because she has a lazy eye. And the patch, well, it's supposed to cure it over time. She won't keep it on, that's the problem. She takes it off
whenever she can and her eyes are not getting better . . . and the name-calling seemed harmless enough at first, but it really affected her. She felt singled out and I think the girls were quite vicious and now I am at the stage of realizing that . . .” Kathleen inhaled deeply and put a hand over her mouth to stop herself from sobbing. “They were among the last people to see my daughter and could have done something to stop her being taken . . . but they were children who tormented her and probably wished her harm. I'm not saying it's their fault, but I don't believe everything those girls say. I don't believe everything they told the police.

“They said that she just went off with a strange man, arm in arm, but Moll is a shy girl. I told the police as much—that those girls
must
be lying. There must be other, more impartial witnesses than the bullies that picked on my daughter each day she went to school.”

Kathleen put her hands to her head. It seemed to Angus as if she was pulling her hair. “And there was a police car in the area investigating a burglary at one of the houses near the school. Why didn't they see or hear her?” Her eyes were raised toward the ceiling, as if asking God rather than questioning Angus.

She let go of her hair and took a sip of tea for the first time. The cup shook in her grasp.

Angus continued: “The description that the girls gave was very rough, very general: tall with black hair and blue eyes, dressed in a suit. Did the description sound like anyone you might know?”

Kathleen shook her head.

“Even the sketch?”

Again, Kathleen shook her head. The police had commis
sioned an artist's sketch based on the schoolgirls' descriptions, which all of the papers had printed. The
Journal
had printed it under the headline
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN
?

“Let's concentrate on the local context. You are both local people—your husband has lived here for many years. What has been missed? What should people have seen that the police and the press haven't mentioned?”

Kathleen wiped her hands over her face. “You're right. The local context is everything. What I find absurd is that my daughter was taken from this small town in broad daylight, before witnesses. I'm from a big city, but here? Thurso? How is it possible?”

Angus sat back an inch. The tendons were standing out on the backs of Kathleen's hands.

“And my daughter's shy but she's not naïve. She's sharp as a tack. She just wouldn't be sold on puppies or sweets or all the other things they say these perverts offer a wean. Moll's different . . .”