‘It’s useful background,’ she said. ‘Do you know of any connection between Naomi and a woman named Inez McCullough? Later Inez Davis.’

  ‘No, no I don’t. I definitely don’t.’

  ‘But you do know who she is. I believe her late father was a client of yours for a time. You knew her aunt as well.’

  Murtagh sighed. ‘Yes, Cameron was a client after I left government, not that I ever did much for him. Cameron’s main advisers were a Big Three accountancy firm and a London financial PR company. And yes, I knew Goldie, rather too well as I’m sure you’re aware. You won’t have come here without doing your homework.’

  ‘And Inez?’

  ‘Inez was around, unless she wasn’t. She was a difficult character, always. You’ll know too that she got knocked up when she was fifteen and gave Cameron his nickname. She spent most of her time with Goldie, even when her kid was a baby, then ran off to Glasgow for a few years, leaving her daughter with Cameron and poor Abigail. Yes,’ he murmured, ‘poor Abby. She never could cope with Inez, or anything else really. She suffered badly from depression, then she developed throat cancer. They were a contrasting couple, she and Cameron, but he loved her and he never forgave Inez for the effect she had on her mother; he blamed her for everything. He cut her out of his will, I heard. Is that true?’

  ‘That I don’t know,’ McClair admitted. ‘If he did, though,’ she added, ‘children have rights under Scots inheritance law. She could challenge it in court.’ I wonder if she will, she thought.

  ‘She’s got plenty of time to think about it,’ Murtagh said. ‘A lifetime, you might say, but I’m sure that Cameron would have anticipated that.’ He shifted again in his creaking chair. ‘Are we done?’ he asked, checking his watch. ‘I have another meeting.’

  ‘Almost,’ she assured him. ‘There’s one other thing I want to ask you. Have you ever heard of Moses Trott having another son? Possibly from an earlier relationship?’

  The fallen politician frowned as he searched his memory. ‘I can’t say that I have. Moses wasn’t big on relationships. He had less natural charm than anyone I ever saw. Goldie’s husband, Henry Brown, speculated that Naomi and Sammy must have been twins born a couple of years apart, because no woman in her right mind would have sex with Moses twice. Mostly he was a loner as a criminal too. The only exception I can think of was his second-last prison term, for a convenience-store robbery. He had a co-accused then, a younger man.’

  ‘Do you recall his name?’ McClair asked.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. It was over thirty years ago. You’ll have to check the Courier. And now,’ Murtagh rose from his chair, old and, to McClair, as sad as Moses Trott in a different way, ‘we really have to finish. My next meeting awaits.’

  As she turned to leave, the DI speculated that his engagement might be in the pub. She was reaching for the door handle when he called out after her.

  ‘Hughes! That was his name: Anthony Hughes. God, I do surprise myself sometimes.’

  Seventy-Six

  The smile left John Cotter’s face as he made his way through the photo files that Richard Bush had sent from Dublin. The Church of Ireland investigation of the Almondside allegation of sexual exploitation had been thorough and detailed. It had been led by Michael Haughey, a senior member of the Bar of Ireland, and heard by a committee, in effect a court, of five bishops, and the hearing had continued into a second day.

  The allegation had been made on behalf of her son by the mother of a fourteen-year-old boy who had been a resident of the Almondside Care Centre while she recovered from a quadruple heart bybass, routine surgery in modern times but life-threatening forty years in the past. She claimed that her son had been groomed and seduced by a young male member of staff and that sexual acts had been performed. Cotter noted that the report did not consider the question of consent. Haughey’s contention was that the complainant’s age made this irrelevant. The boy had been medically examined by a consultant, and testimony given. No evidence of penetration had been found, but when this was put to the complainant he had explained that the sexual acts were oral, performed upon each other following the detailed instructions of the adult. There had been no defence evidence. The hearing had been conducted in the absence of the accused, who had left Ireland and could not be compelled to return.

  The bishops had found unanimously that the offences ‘were likely to have taken place in the manner described’. They had been impressed by the demeanour of the complainant and had been of a mind to believe his evidence. While the offences had been criminal acts, the complainant and his mother agreed that the matter would not be referred to the police. Haughey had advised that the absence of physical evidence and witnesses made a prosecution unlikely, far less a conviction. Instead, the boy and his mother had accepted a written apology from the archbishop and a financial settlement linked to a non-disclosure agreement, to be agreed with the Church of Ireland.

  ‘In other words,’ Cotter growled as he reached the end, ‘another church cover-up, and the poor little bastard’s mother went along with it.’ But, he conceded, that had been probably in her son’s best interests.

  He shook his head as he cleared the documents from his screen, then reached for his phone and dialled.

  ‘Thank you, Richard,’ he said at once as his call was picked up. ‘I can see why that one can’t be accessed on the Church website. Did you read it yourself as you photographed it?’

  ‘No,’ the press officer admitted, ‘I decided that there are some things I’m better off not knowing. I never like having to lie to the press.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Cotter assured him. ‘Since you didn’t, there’s one thing you won’t have realised. The report has been heavily redacted. The names of the boy, his mother and most important to me, the teacher, have been blacked out. Without them, it’s useless. I’ve wasted your time and mine. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a bugger,’ Richard Bush agreed. ‘Sorry, poor choice of words,’ he murmured. ‘But,’ he continued, ‘what about the Clerk to the Investigation? He’s the guy who would actually have written the report. Is he named?’ he asked.

  ‘No, he isn’t.’

  ‘Even so,’ he continued. ‘Given the nature and the sensitivity of the matter, I would guess that it would almost certainly have been the secretary of the General Synod. All the bishops will be dead by now, and he probably is too, but I’ll speak to the incumbent and report back.’

  ‘Cheers,’ Cotter said; his day was not quite as dark as it had been before.

  Seventy-Seven

  ‘Not Anthony Hughes, just Tony?’

  ‘That’s right,’ the Crown Office clerk confirmed. ‘That’s the name on the indictment and it’ll have been checked. He and Moses Aaron Trott both pleaded guilty to the High Court in Dundee. It must have been there on circuit. Trott got four years; he was sentenced on the day of the hearing. Hughes was continued for background reports because he’d never had a custodial sentence before. His second appearance was in Edinburgh. The judge gave him two years, but it was suspended, so the lucky boy went home. The criminal justice system never saw him again. Credit to the judge for getting that right.’

  ‘Does it say where home was?’ McClair asked.

  ‘No, both he and Trott were remanded in custody, so HMP Perth was all that appeared on the court papers. What’s he done, that you’re looking for him?’

  ‘Nothing, that we know of,’ she said. ‘It’s a known-associates check on Trott, that’s all.’

  ‘Good luck with that. They’ll all be a fair age by now; Trott himself must be seventy-seven, going by the age on the indictment. Come back to me if you need anything else.

  The DI hung up and turned to her colleagues. ‘You can stop looking for Anthony Hughes at the RG’s office,’ she told them, ‘and check on just plain Tony. I can even give you a date of birth.’

  ‘Will do, ma’am,’ Benjamin replied. ‘Was Murtagh right about him having a criminal record?’

  ‘Yes, he was, but he didn’t do time, then or since.’

  ‘Could we get a match on the database to let us know whether he might be the second son the old lady was sure existed?’

  ‘I doubt it, Tiggy. It was in its infancy then.’

  She paused as an alert told her she had a new email in her inbox. She opened it and read. As she did she gasped. ‘What the . . . Tiggy,’ she exclaimed, ‘I don’t think we’re going to need to check the central database.’

  ‘Why ma’am? What is it?’

  ‘Word from the lab at Gartcosh, finally. They’ve extracted DNA from the hair that was found in the tablecloth that Naomi Trott’s body was wrapped in. It’s male and –’ she took a breath for dramatic effect – ‘it has a sibling relationship with the two skeletons. We don’t know whether it was Tony or not but Magdalena Smyth was right; Moses did have another son, and he was involved in the deaths of his sister and brother.’

  ‘It’s a family affair,’ Jackie Wright sang.

  Her companions stared at her.

  ‘Come on,’ she exclaimed. ‘Sly and the Family Stone. Where have you two been all your lives?’

  Seventy-Eight

  ‘You’re in luck so far,’ Richard Bush told John Cotter. ‘I’ve found out who clerked the Almondside hearing, and he’s still with us. His name is Seamus Corbett; not only is he still alive – he’s still active in the church. He was a layman at the time of the hearing, but he’s now a parish priest, in Wexford of all places, where Almondside was related. He’s years past the normal retirement age but he doesn’t want to go and his congregation love him, so he has a dispensation to carry on for as long as he’s able. I’ve spoken to him, explained what’s happened and he’s happy for you to call him. Here are his contact details.’ He read out two phone numbers, mobile and landline. ‘I must tell you, Sergeant, that he can’t be compelled or instructed to reveal the identities of the people on either side of the Almondside complaint. What he tells you or doesn’t will be based on his judgement and his conscience.’

  ‘I’m fine with that,’ the detective sergeant assured him. ‘If the accused wasn’t the man I’m trying to trace, that’ll be an end of it. How do I address him?’ he asked. ‘Father? Vicar?’

  ‘Plain Mr will do. Good luck, John.’

  ‘Thanks for all your help,’ Cotter said, and ended the call. Rather than call the old priest immediately, he made himself a coffee, taking it with him as he knocked on Mann’s office door.

  ‘Come,’ she shouted.

  He stepped inside and gave her a progress report on his Irish search. ‘I have no great hopes,’ he warned her. ‘If I draw a blank with the old man of Wexford, I reckon that’ll be it. How’s the Spanish investigation going?’ he asked. ‘How much feedback are you getting?’

  ‘What’s Spanish for fuck all?’ she retorted. ‘To be honest I don’t give a poo about their investigation. John, as far as I’m concerned our first priority remains the Candleriggs murder. The theory of Reid framing Andy Martin was discounted, but then his DNA profile, when finally we got hold of it, put him at the site. Then he turned up in that freezer. If you ask me, Becky Stallings has seized on his death as a way of closing the investigation on a “no one else is being sought” basis. She more or less told me to wrap it up and move on. The work that you’ve been doing is part of a broad investigation that she’s supervising. We’re trying to get background on Reid, while Sauce and his guys are concentrating on his death. Will any of that tell us who killed Calder Bryant? Will it fuck. It’s as if nobody cares about him any longer, other than me and his brother.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not having that, John. The Candleriggs inquiry stays in my in-tray, whatever the ACC says. Meantime, on you go and phone your old priest.’

  Carrying his coffee, which had lost its attraction as it lost its temperature, Cotter returned to his desk. He consulted the numbers he had noted and called the mobile.

  It rang twice, before a mechanical voice told him that he was being redirected. The ring tone changed; it sounded several times. He was on the point of giving up when it was answered. ‘This is Seamus Corbett, how can I help you?’

  The voice had a gentle Irish lilt, softened still further by the fact that its owner was breathing heavily.

  ‘Mr Corbett,’ he replied, ‘this is Detective Sergeant John Cotter, from Glasgow.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ the minister said, ‘the man from Dublin said you’d be calling. I’m terribly sorry; I’m short of breath. I was speaking to a parishioner over the rectory wall when I heard the phone ringing. I can’t run these days, but I can walk very fast.’ He paused, completing his recovery. ‘Mr Cotter,’ he continued in an even tone, ‘Mr Bush told me what you’re after, but I’d like to hear it from you. This is a murder investigation, I believe.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The man you’re trying to trace. Is he the victim or did he do it? Mr Bush wasn’t clear about that.’

  ‘He might be both, Mr Corbett. He’s a person of interest in a very nasty homicide in Glasgow, and now he appears to have become a murder victim himself. His name was Matthew Reid. Can you tell me, sir, whether he was the accused in the Almondside complaint? I’ve got no grounds for believing that he was. This is just a process of elimination, Mr Corbett. I’ve seen the Almondside report, the one that I’m told you wrote.’

  ‘The version with the black lines through it?’ the old priest asked.

  ‘Thick black lines,’ he agreed.

  ‘Those weren’t my doing,’ Seamus Corbett said quietly. ‘The primate himself did that, the archbishop, with a great big black Sharpie thing. He did it to every printed copy . . . apart from mine, that is. I held the master back, because I suspected he was going to do what he did. I still have it.’

  ‘Are you prepared to discuss it?’

  ‘Will it help your investigation?’

  ‘Not if you tell me Reid wasn’t involved. In that event it won’t matter; I’ll get back to my diminishing list.’

  ‘Oh, it will always matter, young man,’ Corbett chided him. ‘These things always do. There’s always hurt goes with them, for the victims, and usually shame. The victims shouldn’t see it that way, but most of them do. The perpetrators should be ashamed of themselves, but in my experience, which was more extensive than the Church would care to admit, only a minority of them are. I don’t know whether your man Reid, and yes, it was him, was among the shamed, for he had left the Centre before the complaint was made. I tried to contact him to give him the chance to defend himself at the hearing, but I couldn’t. I’ve always thought that the archbishop was wrong to cover up his name in the report. I told him so at the time, but there was money involved, you see. That made him determined to ensure that it was all hushed up.’

  ‘Who was the complainer?’ Cotter asked. ‘Will you tell me that?’

  ‘It was a Mrs Marjory Murphy, on behalf of her fourteen-year-old son, David. You’ll have read the report, so you’ll be aware of what he alleged was done to him. He gave his evidence with great dignity and no obvious distress, unlike his mother who railed against the Almondside Centre, against Reid in his absence and against God himself. In spite of that she impressed the five bishops for they all found in her son’s favour.’

  ‘She didn’t impress you?’

  ‘Anger doesn’t, I’m afraid,’ the old priest replied.

  ‘Did you agree with the bishops?’

  ‘It wasn’t my place to agree or disagree. Looking back on it, I don’t know; there was no proof, and that’s a fact. Reid was damned on the basis of the boy’s eloquence. It was as if he seduced the judges to his side.’

  ‘Do you know what became of him?’

  ‘I have no idea. His mother had taken him out of the Almondside Centre months before the hearing but after Reid had left the staff. Their address was never revealed to the court.’ The old man sighed. ‘I hope that’s sufficient for your needs, Mr Cotter.’

  ‘It is, Mr Corbett; thank you for your time and your memory. My needs, as you call them, are satisfied. As for my purpose, I’m not really sure what that is.’

  Seventy-Nine

  ‘Our priority now, ma’am, is to find this Tony Hughes. We don’t know for certain that he’s Moses Trott’s son; suppose he is, Moses isn’t going to help us verify it. He’s in a secure psychiatric ward, under heavy sedation. But my gut’s telling me that hair sample did come from Hughes. I might be wrong, they might not be related, but in all Trott’s criminal career, Hughes was the only person who ever sat in the dock alongside him. We’ve got his date of birth, so we’ll have his CHI number. Benjamin’s looking for his medical and dental history. We’ll have his National Insurance number too. Then there’s DVLA and the passport office. We’ll find him, don’t worry, and when we do, I’m certain we’ll put him in that wood, with Naomi Trott’s body.’