Wilderness (Arbogast trilogy) (8 page)

“Thanks JJ, you might want to check up snow paedo on Twitter. Looks like there’s a storm heading your way,” and hung up.

With a cameraman in tow he headed over to Motherwell. Something was happening there and he might just get there first.

Arbogast was still driving but he wasn’t happy. DS Reid had checked the social media sites on her personal mobile and when he heard the information being posted online he blew up. 

“What are these people thinking – what are they thinking? Just sit back and wait for the backlash Mhairi – this isn’t going to be pleasant.”

This was a tricky case and the last thing they needed was vigilante attacks. If they didn’t make progress soon they would need to put some kind of ID out for Stevie. At least that had been the plan. Messages about Stevie’s identity in relation to the case were now being freely distributed online with some messages having been re-tweeted more than 1000 times. Someone had even made the leap and connected Stevie to his previous conviction. Nothing yet on his childhood but it was now only a matter of time before that came.
‘Fuck.’
He knew they’d have to bring forward a press conference and update the media if they were to keep on top of the coverage. The messages were libellous but Arbogast knew Stevie’s reputation was already tarred and he wouldn’t have a chance of winning a court case. But there was no warrant out for Stevie so technically no-one was breaking the law. Sandy was already onto the case and this was certain to be all over the press before the day was out, regardless of anyone’s guilt or innocence. They would need to name him but it wasn’t his call.  He phoned into Motherwell and told DCI Ying. She was furious.

“While I can get royally pissed at the press at least they check their information, this is just gossip and there doesn’t seem to be anything we can do. We’ll get hammered for keeping the public in the dark on this one but we haven’t even spoken to Mary Clark yet. Get to the hospital and see what you can get from our mystery woman. I’ll call a presser to tie in with the late night TV bulletins and we can hope for some damage limitation.”

“Good luck Rosalind,” Arbogast said, but the line was already dead.

By the time Sandy Stirrit arrived at Maplin Drive what looked like a full scale riot had broken out at a seemingly innocuous semi-detached council house. It was a quiet residential street which had erupted into a fury. There was a crowd of around 150 people, mostly children, mobbed around the house. All the front windows were broken and rocks and abuse was being hurled in its general direction. Sandy wondered if Stevie Davidson might be here, hiding. As he skirted around the mob police sirens cut through the noise of the rabble who knew their time was up. As the crowd ran the camera rolled. Someone had set fire to a pile of rubbish and left it burning on the doorstep. He could hear screams from inside. He’d seen this kind of thing before. It was peculiar to this area but when someone got wind of a sex offender living locally the mob turned ugly. Some of the local papers liked to print names and addresses but it inevitably ended up like this. Mothers would take their children down and families would unite to rid their community of its unwanted guest. It was horrible and ugly but he wondered what he would do in the same situation. He knew for a fact he wouldn’t take his kids to hound a pervert. These people were out of control but all the same he could understand their reasons.

The TV news that night made for compelling viewing.  The opening shots of a mob running from the shattered facade of an urban home made for great footage. Sandy had managed to get a quick sound bite from Linda Davidson who sobbed as she was led away by ambulance staff and under police escort, “My Stephen’s done nothing wrong. It’s all in the past. Why can’t you leave him alone?” This was followed by confirmation from DCI Rosalind Ying that they were seeking to find both a Mr Stephen Davidson, who had been driving the coach, and an as yet unnamed child. No she could not comment on previous offences but they were treating this case as a force wide priority. They had yet to speak to the woman found but hoped that would happen shortly. The next day the papers were full of lurid details with past case notes ‘mysteriously’ appearing. It was trial by media. Although no charges had been raised against Stevie Davidson whatever happened next he was going to be blighted with scandal of the worst kind for the rest of his life.

Jean Jessop had got up early the next day to see what people were saying. She hadn’t thought her campaign would have received so much attention but when the TV guy had turned up it had all gone stellar. But maybe she had got it wrong. Not about Stevie. He was guilty no doubt about it. But she’d expected him to be at his home but it had only been his mum. She had stopped when she saw her, tears streaking down her face, brought to her knees in her living room. But at least people knew now. At least they knew that it was Stevie that they were looking for.

9

February 17
^th
2010

Mary Clark looked frightened. Although she was past the worst she still felt dazed and her audience was having trouble making out what exactly she was trying to say through slurred words and vague gestures. She was like a drunk at the end of a long night of celebration and this wasn’t going to make for an easy Q and A session. Arbogast and DS Reid had pulled up chairs and were sitting staring at the patient while her husband, John Clark, sat at the other side of the room.

“What were you sorry about?” Arbogast said.

“Sorry?”

“When you woke up you told your husband you were sorry – what about?”

“It’s personal,” Mary wouldn’t look Arbogast in the face and was focusing all her attention on the hospital ID tag strapped around her wrist.

“Mrs Clark, we will have plenty of time to talk in-depth about what exactly happened but right now we have a child missing with a known sex offender. We know you were travelling with the child. A number of people on the bus have come forward to say you were travelling with a young girl. The driver of the bus was Stevie Davidson who I know you know. I’ve spoken to your father.”

Mary’s eyes opened with a look of pure disgust, “My father...what have you been speaking to that bastard for? Be in no doubt Detective that he does not speak for me.”

In the background the husband, John Clark, tried to intervene, “I really don’t think this is—”

“Oh it is very necessary Mr Clark,” Arbogast said, “and I would ask you to keep quiet or I will have you removed.”

John Clark looked at his wife and then the DI. He realised this was a battle he would not win and sat back down.

“Who was the girl Mrs Clark and why is she with Stevie Davidson?”

Mary sat silently while she worked out what she was going to say. She looked close to tears.

“You have no daughter,” Arbogast said, “so who is she?”

“I can’t say,” Mary’s voice was a whisper, “I just can’t say.”

Arbogast was getting angry, “You can’t say – really? A little girl is out there Mrs Clark. Where you were found was under ten feet of snow. Now it’s quite possible the girl and the driver may already be dead. Someone took the time to undress you and left you for dead and I have to make the giant leap that someone had good reason for doing so. Does it please you that the girl might be dead or being abused? She could be in the hands of paedophiles,” Arbogast knew this was a risk but hoped the threat of abuse might spark some kind of reaction, “she could be getting molested right now, this very second. We need to find her Mary and you need to help.”

It was at this point that Doctor Fitzpatrick intervened, “Please DI Arbogast this really won’t do. I need to speak to you for a moment – outside please.”

Arbogast glared at the Doctor with unconcealed contempt, “That would be most inconvenient Doctor,” he spat out the two syllables of Doc-tor with a venom which surprised DS Reid and the Clarks.

“Nevertheless if you would join me for a chat I think that might be best.” Outside Doctor Fitzpatrick was unimpressed. Her stance was belligerent with arms folded right foot forward and shoulders squared in a gesture of defiance, “Just what do you think you’re doing in there? That woman is lucky to be alive. We still don’t know what happened to her but she was, as you say, left for dead in a bus and has still obviously not recovered. You need to go easy on her – she’s still in shock. Keep on at her like that and she might breakdown altogether. Do you understand?”

Arbogast realised he had been holding his breath and exhaled through his nose and nodded.

“And if you had bothered to ask,” the Doctor added, by way of compromise, “the bruising she has is historic. I’d say they were a few days old. Certainly she didn’t pick them up on the bus,” Her voice softened, “I appreciate the situation here but please just use some common sense.”

Arbogast thanked her and they returned to the patient was crying, buried in her husband’s arms.

Arbogast stood at the bottom of her bed and apologised, “I’m sorry to have gone off like that Mrs Clark. I appreciate what you’ve been through, but please be under no illusions about the seriousness of this situation.”

“It can’t have been Stevie Davidson. Surely I would have recognised him. If you’ve spoken to my father then you will have been given an idea of what happened in the past. It ripped our family apart but I stand by what I said. That bastard has got away with a lot over the years and I’ll have nothing more to do with him. But as for Stevie Davidson, I haven’t seen him since I was a kid. I can’t imagine he’d recognise me either.”

“It’s a hell of a coincidence don’t you think?” Arbogast said, with the slightest of smiles.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean officer, but I can assure you I do not know that man.”

“Well that as may be but we still aren’t any further forward trying to find the girl. Who is she?”

“I can’t say.”

“You will have to say Mary. If you don’t you might be charged with perverting the course of justice and possibly as an accessory to murder.”

Mary flinched at the M word, “I can’t tell you everything officer – believe me I would if I could. I don’t know how much you know about me but I work with prostitutes in Glasgow. The Phoenix Centre helps women in crisis, gives them alternatives. You have to understand that a lot of them are forced into what they are doing and addiction can be a one way street for a lot of them. I feel something of a bond with the way they live and try to help when I can.”

“Mrs Clark, please stick to the point – we don’t have much time.”

“Bear with me. About a month ago I was approached in the street by a woman, Hanom Kocack. She’s Turkish and had been smuggled into the country by her husband Onur who works here as an engineer. She told me her family had got into trouble with debt in Istanbul – very serious debt. She said Onur had borrowed from loan sharks. It’s a familiar story but the debt soon added up and it was obvious they’d never be able to pay off what they owed. They had a daughter too – Kovan – and they made the decision to get out while they still could. Onur found work here in Scotland. He was sponsored by the Home Office to work with the Madoch Group. He left first, about six months ago. He tried to get his wife Hanom into the country but couldn’t get a visa so he opted for a different route. She travelled west through to Bulgaria where she linked up with people traffickers. To cut a long story short she arrived in the UK with about twenty other women in a container on a cargo ship. She told me it hadn’t been a good journey but she made it all the same.”

“So the two are now both living here in Scotland – I’m assuming then I know who the girl is?”

“Yes but its more complicated than that. Hanom is in Scotland. In Glasgow in fact but her life has not worked out the way she planned. The women who were brought in are being forced to work in sex clubs. They are given no money and have no papers. They know if they go to the authorities they will be deported so they are virtual slaves. People don’t realise what goes on. Onur is living somewhere in Glasgow but hasn’t seen his wife yet. This is what brought Hanom to me. Hanom found my number through Google in an internet cafe. She told me she needed to find her daughter. She said they would have travelled together but the traffickers insisted it wasn’t they way they did things, that it wasn’t safe. Kovan was brought to Britain in a van. She was forced to sit for 16 hours in a space hollowed out under the dashboard. The poor girl was stiff with cramp, terrified she might be electrocuted by the wires which held her in place. But she got here and I met her off the ferry in Hull two days ago. We travelled back to Glasgow by train and were travelling to meet her mother in Shotts when we got stuck in the snow.”

“How was it that you were meeting her mother – I thought she was a virtual prisoner?”

“There was nowhere for them to go but they do get breaks. They could walk about in the city but where would they go? She knew the people that brought her to Glasgow still had her daughter.”

“So you would have me believe that the people holding Hanom hostage would just hand over her daughter to a complete stranger?”

“I can’t talk about that but I made sure I got her.”

“Mrs Clark you realise your story sounds rather unlikely.”

“It’s the only story I have. I’m not lying. You have my word.”

“So what happened on the bus? Why were you left behind?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t part of the plan. I knew I might meet a third party. Hanom was going to try and run away. She said she’d try and leave.”

“You’ve met her then.”

“She found the address for the Phoenix Centre and came in one day on one of her breaks. She seemed nice and I agreed to help. I had to – the way those women are treated would sicken you detective – I had to try. Hanom said if she couldn’t meet with me on the night I collected her daughter then someone else would. She said I’d know.”

Arbogast was far from convinced but sensed this is what he was going to have to work with. “So I’m assuming Hanom didn’t show up?”