Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) (6 page)

“It’s not ideal but it does. The building at the back has showers and electrics which supply me with all the power I need. There’s also an outdoor tap but it’s useless in this weather as you can see,” he said pointing ahead of him. Beside the outhouse was a freestanding lead pipe which was capped with a copper tap. The water hit the ground, frozen in mid flow. “The weather’s been so bad that I’ve been buying bottled water these last few days,” he seemed amused by the story but cut himself off when he realised he was rambling. “And now if you please, welcome to my humble abode,” Sanderson gestured for his guests to go inside.

Last through the door Arbogast stopped and scanned the narrow corridor which ran the length of the 40 foot tin can. The inside was even worse than he imagined. The walls were tatty and pockmarked with holes that looked like they had been punched through. The doors were of the plastic concertina variety and looked like they had played their last tune a long time ago. To his right Arbogast could see a door at the far end of the corridor which presumably led to the master bedroom. The next door sat at 90 degrees and was presumably another bedroom while directly in front he assumed the damp smell seeping from under the rotting, mouldy door must be the bathroom.

“Did you get lost Mister Arbogast?” Sanderson waved him through to the living room cum kitchen. The three of them sat down at an aluminium rimmed formica table top set into the far end of the caravan. There were fitted seats forming an L shape round the table, with the long end of the room framed with two panoramic windows which currently looked out onto the undulating snow fields of rural Renfrewshire.

“I picked it up for next to nothing from a travelling fair that used to camp here during the winter,” he said, “It’s more than 30 years old and as you can see is not fit for much these days, but it’ll do me. But anyway I digress, what can I help you with? You mentioned Stevie Davidson?”

Arbogast generally preferred a bit of preamble but he could see his guest was in no mood to dance around the issue at hand, “Stevie Davidson is missing along with a child that had been travelling with your daughter. We know your connection and we believe you might be able to shed some light into the history between Mr Davidson and your family?”

Eric Sanderson sighed and shifted his weight back into the seat. “I thought I’d heard the last of Stevie Sanderson. This goes back to the 1980s and I’m sure you’re well aware of the circumstances.”

“I’ve read the reports but it’s your version of events I need to hear today,” Arbogast said, “I appreciate it’s a topic you’d probably rather not delve into but I’m afraid on this occasion I’ll have to insist.”

“OK, well I’ll give you a potted history of how we came to meet,” Sanderson said, “As I’ve already told you my family’s lived here for generations. At one time we had around 400 acres which we put over to sheep. We made a living from it for many, many years but then came the attack from Russia.” Arbogast was in no mood for the ramblings of a lonely man and had already raised his hand ready to protest when Sanderson explained what he meant, “The Russians and their nuclear fallout was what put us out of business. The Chernobyl disaster in ‘86 polluted the animals – it meant we couldn’t sell the sheep. There was a blanket ban on the sale of meat – those damned toxic clouds drifted over the land and rained us right out of business. Do you know there were farms still under restrictions as recently as last year? It was a real hammer blow to us. We tried to diversify with crops and then leisure but nothing seemed to work and eventually we sold the majority of the land. Some to the Forestry Commission – you can see the woodland about half a mile away. With the rest I put up a small wind farm. Maybe you saw it? There are only three turbines but if I had known how much money you could make I’d have kept more land. It’s worth it just for the subsidies. The UK Government has promised to create fifteen per cent of our power from renewable by 2020 but they need to pay people to do it. It’s crazy really but on top of any money you make from energy they also have 20 years guaranteed income just for having turbines. It’s making me a fortune.” He was lost deep in thought when a cough from Mhairi Reid brought him back.

“Apologies, that’s got little to do with young Stephen. My family always liked to keep good relations with our nearest neighbours in Bishopton. For years we allowed community groups and local schools to use part of the land for annual camping trips. We have local water supplies here and it’s a safe place for children to roam away from the danger of heavy traffic. In those days people weren’t so bothered about letting their kids run free. In 1985 around twenty boys from the local High School came to camp as part of a three day trip. I remember it well as they called it ‘frosties’. It was sort of a rite of passage where they would camp under the stars and not under canvas. They’d light fires and keep them burning through the night and be taught basic survival techniques, staying awake wrapped in sleeping bags. I remember the teacher telling me they loved it. ‘They all think they’re Indiana Jones’ he’d said. At that time we still had the sheep and I was only too happy to give the boys a talk on what we did, gave them a chance to work with the animals and experience farm life firsthand. Most of them would think they were too good for that kind of thing – they were beginning to be interested in girls and music, so work still seemed a long way off. Then it happened that one of the boys – Stevie Davidson – went missing, which, as you can imagine, caused a great panic. I assumed he must have gone off exploring but he didn’t reappear. We searched everywhere – in the outhouses, in the animal pens – but he’d vanished.”

“The police were here, though,” Arbogast said, “there must have been quite a search?”

“Of course the place was crawling. There was a lot of talk that maybe he’d fallen down a mine. I had always heard there were hidden shafts in the area but at that time I had certainly never seen any so and I told them that although they didn’t listen. But then after about 13 hours, just as quickly as he had vanished, Stevie Davidson reappeared. They found him walking along the M8 motorway, disorientated. He couldn’t remember where he’d been...or so he said. I was just thankful that they’d found him as I felt partly responsible.”

“Why would you feel responsible? Did you have anything to hide?” Arbogast was curious to see if he would get a reaction.

“I hardly think I’d allow school children to camp on my land then abduct one of them Detective. No that incident was the start of the end of my relationship with Mary – that was when all the trouble started.” Eric Sanderson stopped and massaged his temple. He screwed up his face as if he were trying to block out the memory.

“Could you explain please?” Mhairi said, looking to Arbogast to make sure she wasn’t acting out of turn. Arbogast nodded.

“The next thing I knew the police were knocking on my door saying they had a ‘few questions to ask’. To this day I have no idea why she did what she did but she accused me of molesting the boy and her. My own daughter said that.”

“It’s a serious allegation but what grounds would she have for saying that?”

“None that I’d know of – her mother Joan, god rest her soul, had died from cancer the year before. Mary had taken it badly as they’d been very close. It was difficult for me caring for a girl of 12 after that – it’s a hard age not to have a woman around. Things just sort of deteriorated and then after the ‘incident’, completely out of the blue, Mary accused me of rape. She told the police that I had taken Stevie Davidson to what she called ‘a secret place’ and ‘happily abused’ the pair of them. She said she had seen me with him the day he was found. And if that wasn’t bad enough she said I had molested her too – done terrible things to her. I don’t have the words to express what that did to me.”

Arbogast was intrigued by the detail and thought it a nice touch that Sanderson had managed to look glassy eyed as he recounted his story. Perhaps he was getting too cynical but he couldn’t help but feel he was wasting his time. He took a deep breath, “And where did she say this ‘secret place’ was?”

“That’s just it, she never could say. It broke my heart to have her accuse me like that. The police took it seriously and searched the property but found nothing. The paper’s got hold of it and my name has been tarnished ever since, even although there was never any evidence. To this day Mary claims she was telling the truth. She moved out of here as soon as she was able and I haven’t spoken to her in about ten years. She’s lost to me. I’m told she works helping hookers in the city – you know women that have been attacked – so I’ve heard anyway. As for Stephen Davidson well I haven’t seen him since the day he disappeared and his family never made a formal complaint – only Mary did that.”

“Could Mary and Stephen have kept in touch?” Mhairi said.

“It’s possible I suppose, but why would they? To the best of my knowledge they had never even met. It wasn’t long after that that the farm hit bad times.”

Arbogast persevered “Let’s try and stick to the matter at hand.  I take it you don’t think that Stevie and Mary would know each other today?”

“Why should they?” Sanderson said, his voice getting louder, “It’s a hell of a coincidence that they’d be travelling on the same bus but what do you expect me to say? If they had ever met before, they were kids, nothing but kids. Would you remember someone you had met once when you were a child, 20 years later? It seems unlikely to me.”

“Yes...” Arbogast considered his next question carefully. He wanted Sanderson to be calm so he smiled with his eyes in a carefully rehearsed show of understanding, even if it was just theatre. “Do you get on well with your grandchildren?”

“Grandchildren? I don’t have any unless you know something I don’t?” Sanderson said, laughing.

“We need to know who was travelling with your daughter.”

“Well she doesn’t have any children that I know of. As for any friends she may have had or their kids, well I suspect you’d be better asking her husband. He’ll know about her life now. I’m ashamed to say that I can’t tell you anything about my daughter.”

Arbogast sensed he would get nowhere with this today and he knew he had other people to speak to, “We’ve asked enough for today Mr Sanderson and I need to get back out to Lanarkshire which will take time in this weather. I have no doubt that we will need to speak to you again. Where can we reach you?”

“I’m working as an engineer at the new wind farm development on Eaglesham Moor. They’re putting 200 turbines up there. It’s one of the biggest projects in Europe you know. When I used the money from the sale of my land to put up my turbines I felt something of a pioneer. There weren’t many around at that time and I used the money to retrain. I saw a boom industry in the making and it’s turned out that way I’m glad to say. I’ll give you my mobile number. We’re doing some blasting at the moment as some of the turbines are being built on granite bedrock, which is causing more problems than expected. If I can’t answer straight away I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Have you had any word on my daughter’s condition?”

“Haven’t you been to see her?”

“I don’t think that would be appreciated.”

“You could still phone.”

“DI Arbogast, while I appreciate your concern for my family affairs, my daughter and I parted on extremely bad terms. We fought for over four years after the ‘incident’ but she was unrepentant. She still believes I’ve done her wrong and she can’t bear to be anywhere near me, and I’ve come to accept that. I don’t like it but that’s the way it is. Having said that, though, she is still my daughter and if you could keep me updated on her condition I’d appreciate it.”

“I will do. Thanks for your time. We’ll see ourselves back to the car.”

Arbogast and Reid left Eric Sanderson mulling over the past, sat in his ancient caravan.

“Eric Sanderson,” Mhairi Reid said, “the fun never starts.” She laughed at the absurdity of her own comment although Arbogast found it hard to see the joke.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, look at him, a man in his mid-50s living in a wrecked old carnival caravan, sat back watching as his family home sinks into the ground right before his eyes. It’s bizarre and yet he says he’s rolling in money. Why would you stay here? If you ask me his story doesn’t quite ring true.”

“It’s a strange one right enough,” Arbogast said, “I mean why would a daughter accuse her father of sexual abuse – and not just her but a complete stranger – if there was no truth to it?

“He did seem genuinely upset that he has no contact with his daughter but I still don’t get why she’d put him through all that for no reason. Do you think the death of her mother maybe sent her over the edge?”

Arbogast considered the question for a moment before answering, “You do hear of children blaming one parent for the death of another, but with cancer I’m not sure that would hold. It’s not like it’s anyone’s fault. But look at this place. It’s in the middle of nowhere. You could get away with a lot out here if you were minded to – just the two of them.”

“Oh come on Arbogast, do you really believe that? They checked at the time and found nothing.”

“Yes you’re right but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing here. The technology in 1985 was prehistoric by today’s standards. Sanderson said in there he’d discounted the possibility of there being a mine in the area but look at the house, it’s being sucked into the earth by a crumbling mine shaft so the stories were true. What else could be hidden here, waiting to be discovered? I think one thing is perfectly clear though.”

“What’s that?”

“We really need to speak to Mary Clark.”

7

At the end of the first night Arbogast was going to stay and work but was told he needed to be fresh for the next day when they expected to be allowed to speak to Mary Clark in hospital. He left the office and made his way back home listening to Nick Drake’s ‘Bryter Later’. The sweet melancholy of the music fitted his mood perfectly as he wound his way through the frozen Lanarkshire landscape. He focused on the songs, isolating instruments to try and deconstruct how it was pieced together, trying to put the investigation to the back of his mind. He was a big believer in this way of working, leaving an issue to one side for a while and then coming back to it with a fresh mind. Psychologists called it incubation – you would have the genesis of an idea but forget it and then hopefully find inspiration from your subconscious. He wouldn’t say no to an idea.