‘Nice wee house,’ said Anderson, pulling into the driveway of Anne McLeod’s cottage. She had been the easiest contact to trace, and the most accessible, living just four miles away, still at the same address and happy to talk. ‘There was no reason for you to come with me. I think I could cope with this on my own. She used to work for Frankie Scanlon, but she has no real connection with Dukes at all.’
‘She could be the writer of the blue file, CS 1? She went on the walks with the family sometimes.’
‘Confidential Source One? She could be.’ Anderson pulled the car to a stop in front of a dark-green front door with a highly polished brass letterbox. There was well-trimmed ivy round the doorframe, a clean black rubber mat sitting squarely at the front of the step. ‘That’s kind of my point. Nobody’s close to Eddie Dukes. There’re the three of them and then nothing. It’s as if the Peacocks were an island and it exploded, leaving nothing behind except this woman. I want to get a feel for what she thought of her boss. She was Frankie’s secretary, so what’s she doing …’ He stopped talking.
‘She’s opening her door – that’s what she’s doing.’
Anne McLeod, a small woman in her sixties, walked around with a bustling efficiency, dusters hanging out of the pockets of her canvas apron, and a black spaniel trotted after her, totally ignoring the strangers at the door. She was the sort of woman who would have a very neat greenhouse.
She gestured that they should follow her into a small cluttered kitchen that smelled of scones and good coffee, as Costello muttered that they were looking for somebody who liked dogs.
‘So you are investigating these rumours as well?’
‘Were you spoken to the first time – the review by Arthur Kelly?’
She nodded.
Costello leaned forward, patting the spaniel on its smooth domed head. ‘I’d like, if possible, for you to give us some idea of Frankie Scanlon the man. I’d like to hear about him first-hand, as a human being.’
‘Do you want to know if I thought he was involved in child abuse in any way? If you do, I can say no. He was a very good police officer, well liked and efficient.’
‘You left your job shortly after he resigned?’ Costello let her voice trail off, leaving an open-ended question. Anderson looked at her, wondering where the hell that came from.
Anne McLeod moved uncomfortably, taking a seat, resting the coffee pot down gently, constructing the answer in her head. ‘I really liked working with Frankie. There’s no way I was going to stay after he left.’
‘Anne, did you have feelings that went beyond the normal for a detective of his rank and the woman who did the typing?’
Anne laughed a little. Two cups appeared and she lifted the coffee pot. Anderson gladly accepted with a nod. Costello declined and was offered tea, which she also declined.
Costello continued. ‘I am very fond of Colin here, but I wouldn’t walk away from my career if I didn’t see his smiling face across the canteen in the morning.’
Anne pulled a face, still thinking about what she was going to say. ‘I guess I was unhappy when he left, lost for a while. He protected me from the chauvinistic crap that a woman who worked for the Glasgow Police Force suffered in those days, and yes, I did miss that when he left.’
She stopped talking, and Anderson was left staring at the silence between them.
‘But he was very much in love with Birdie. He was destroyed, absolutely destroyed, when she died.’
‘Murdered,’ corrected Costello.
This time Anne let the silence lie.
‘He retired when Birdie was murdered?’ queried Anderson.
‘No, he retired when his son died – little Ben. He couldn’t bring himself to work anymore, and he had Veronica to cope with. She was in a terrible state.’
‘So he didn’t retire when Birdie died?’
‘No, later, when Ben died. He took months of compassionate leave when he lost his wife. He was distraught, as you’d expect.’
‘You are obviously aware of the paedophile claims made by others about him.’
Anne sat back a little, crossed her legs, relaxed. ‘And have you ever found out who was making these claims? I bet not. I bet there was hearsay and anonymous letters but never anybody – victim or parent, then or now – who has stepped forward and said, “It happened to me.” There was never anything in it at the time, not now, not ever.’
‘There was a folder, in a blue file …’
Anne looked up. ‘Oh, you found that, did you? That is a weird document. It’s almost accurate speculation.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘Yes, twice. And I discussed it with Artie Kelly when he was doing his review. It’s written by somebody who pretends to know the family well. I suspected a friend of Birdie, or there was a friend of Eddie’s – a woman who used to hang around him all the time, not seeing that he only had eyes for Birdie. She’d be long dead by now. I read about Eddie’s death. Is there more going on there than the papers are saying?’
Anderson nodded.
‘Was he murdered?’
‘Yes.’
Anne closed her eyes, the palm of her hand to her chest. ‘That’s terrible. There was something about them, all of them – cursed almost.’
‘Yes, I thought that. Why do you say the blue file was written by somebody who pretended to know the family well?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘The names. The children were always called their full names. Frankie never called Veronica “Ronnie”, never in a month of Sundays.’
‘So what do you make of it?’
‘Honestly? No idea. Muckraking? Somebody who had it in for Frank? But I have never heard anything, never experienced anything. The three men were close. They had this thing – they used to dance, Frankie and his two friends.’
‘Eddie and Dougie. The Peacocks.’
‘Yes,’ she smiled, a fond memory. ‘They grew up on the same street. Frank did national service out in Hong Kong, but they stayed close. I saw them dance much later, when they were past their peak, at some police functions. The three of them were very good, drunk but really skilful … dancing on the table, then balancing on the back of chairs. And again at the Palomino Club – they recreated the Nicholas Brothers that night. They were very close. But no, I never had any suspicions that there was anything going on with children. I refuse to believe that, but I could believe that they were gay – there was a very, very strong bond there. They delighted in each other’s company, and it seemed that Birdie was a convenient decoration. That’s what I think, looking back. I might be wrong, but there it is.’
Costello drew a finger across the kitchen table. ‘So where are they coming from, all these rumours? Eddie had to be moved twice out of his house, and it looks like they finally caught up with him.’
She shook her head. ‘He was a lovely man, a gentle man.’
‘And Dougie?’
‘The cheeky one, always up for a laugh. Frankie was a really decent human being. There’s that thing my friend’s granddaughter asked me about the Top Gear presenters. Who would you marry, who would you have an affair with and who would be your brother? As for the Peacocks, you’d have an affair with Dougie, marry Frankie, and Eddie would be the brother.’
‘Which is what Birdie did?’
‘I suppose she did.’
‘What about after Eddie murdered Birdie? Did you ever think you and Frankie might …’
Anne smiled ruefully. ‘I tried to be supportive. But he didn’t want to know. He returned to work after he lost Birdie, but couldn’t cope after he lost Ben. He nearly had a nervous breakdown, to be honest.’
‘But his friend had killed his wife?’
‘Yes, it sounds terrible, but it was a horrible accident and Frankie didn’t blame Eddie. I did wonder – and I have no basis for saying this – if Birdie was suffering from some kind of mental illness. Frankie said that it was no longer Birdie looking after the kids – he was looking after all of them. He was less flexible at work. He was at the point of interviewing for nannies. The day she died was a very hot Saturday. I have always wondered if they got into a scuffle: she was trying to harm herself and Eddie tried to stop her. It’s just something that has crossed my mind.’
‘That would be sad, but why not say so? Why would Eddie confess?’
‘No idea – to protect the children? There was no resentment, no animosity from Frankie. I thought I’d be the support for Frankie, but it was Dougie. I thought we were closer than we were, obviously. Then, when Ben died, Frankie left and didn’t even say goodbye. He walked away. I never got a phone call or a Christmas card. He just wanted to be with his daughter. I can see that, but it did hurt. He was always … protecting her.’
‘Do you know how Ben died?’
‘He fell down a hill. Frankie said he always ran about without looking where he was going, the way kids do. Just running around mad, blind. Veronica tried to hold on to him, but he slipped through her fingers. I don’t think she ever got over it; it all affected her mental health. Or was that because of the other thing? She was twelve or so at the time. Sorry, such a long time ago. Then Andy disappeared.’
‘Or was that because of what other thing?’ asked Anderson.
‘Sorry?’
‘You said, “Or was that because of the other thing?”’
‘Oh, something had happened to Veronica as well. She nearly died in some sort of swimming incident.’ Anne closed her eyes. ‘She nearly drowned … or she saved another child from drowning. Like I say, it was a long time before I came on the scene, so I don’t know. I know she was thrilled that her picture was in the paper. Her dad framed it for her.’
‘Do you know where that was?’
Anne took a sip of her coffee and nodded. ‘A beach, down the coast.’
‘Invernock?’
‘It could have been. Funny how it all turned out.’
‘But you have done all right, got a lovely home. Did you ever marry?’
She shook her head.
‘Was Frankie the love of your life?’
‘I think so.’
‘Can you recall what happened to Andy?’
She let out a long, slow breath. ‘Recall it? I was there. It was just like every other time we were out together. The kids had all been playing in the woods – they were staying at a caravan park, and I’d nipped up for the day. It was a while before they noticed Andy was missing. I think Veronica panicked and sent Brian back to us at the caravan while she and Loretta went off to find him. They didn’t. Nobody ever did. There was a huge enquiry – all the paperwork will be there. I can still see Frankie arguing that he should be allowed to assist on the enquiry, but he was a civilian by then obviously.’
‘But you don’t have a clear memory of the incident with Veronica at the coast?’
‘No, but I know she became a very good swimmer after that. Frankie made sure it would not happen again.’
‘They liked the water?’
‘They did. Frankie was a swimmer and he liked to take the kids. Ben was an enchanting child with a huge mop of fair hair, a wee smiley face. You’ll have seen the photographs. How could you recover from losing him?’ Anne bit her lips, the forefinger of her left hand circling the top of her coffee cup. ‘You know, after Frankie left, I went on the walk, the same walk, just to reconnect with them. I’d been there a few times, with Eddie’s dog, my dog. It was a type of ground zero for me.’
‘Were they all there when Ben died?’
‘Yes. All the kids. The famous five. Have you seen pictures of Birdie?’
They nodded.
‘Did you think she was stunning? Reminded me of Deborah Harry. Ben looked like her. Eddie said once that it hurt Frankie to look at Ben as he was so like his mum. I guess that can happen.’
‘Was Ben the favourite?’
Anne thought, then shook her head. ‘No. I think Veronica was the favourite.’
Costello looked out of the window to the azalea bush that was bouncing in the breeze, keeping away from Anderson’s eye line. She heard raw jealousy in Anne’s voice for a twelve-year-old girl and for her boss’s wife who had eyes like Deborah Harry.
‘In the end, nobody could match his daughter. They were on a little personal island. Nobody else was allowed on.’
Loretta Stirling, Douglas McSween’s eldest child, had been tracked down to a small housing estate on the north side of Glasgow. After a progression through name changes, marriages, divorces, she was, indeed, her father’s daughter.
The driveway was busy for such a small house. There was a buzz, incongruous in suburbia at noon on a Thursday. Anderson and Costello walked up the driveway, squeezing their way through the line of parked cars, one of them half up on the grass. They rang the doorbell, but their presence had already been noted by the gaggle of three women behind the front window. The door was opened by one of the group, her hair in curlers, wearing a silky housecoat. She smiled at them, looked down at their hands and then behind them, her smile drifting to confusion. She obviously didn’t see what she expected to see.
It was Costello who spoke. ‘We’re looking for Loretta Stirling or McSween? Is she at this address?’
‘Mum? Yes, but she’s not been McSween for a long time.’ The woman paused, then said, ‘Hang on.’ The door closed slightly and then opened again. ‘Who did you say you were?’
Loretta was dressed similarly, with the addition of a neat headscarf. She looked stressed, but not necessarily by their arrival; she seemed almost relieved at the interruption. Opening the door, she ushered them through the small hall into the kitchen. The door into the living room was closed tight, but it was evident that the noises of excitement from the other side had ceased. They stood in a very neat kitchen. Two bottles of champagne lay opened and empty, six used glasses stood neatly beside them, a few plates alongside. A box of unopened prosecco was on the floor, next to a dog food bowl and a small overnight bag. A celebration breakfast had just passed and they had interrupted Loretta stacking the dishwasher.
‘What can I do for you again?’ she asked, her voice weary now.
‘I presume congratulations are in order. Are you the mother of the bride?’ asked Costello, with enthusiasm, while alerting Anderson to what was really going on – judging by his face, he didn’t have a clue. ‘Nice housecoats. I like the script on the back.’
‘It’s what they do now. Part of the wedding nonsense that goes on, along with hen parties in Ibiza and chocolate fountains, the two-year-old daughter being a flower girl. But the fact remains, my eldest is getting married at three o’clock today in a wedding that’s a third of what we paid for, so if we could make this quick.’ She folded her arms, leaned against the sink and pursed her thin lips before speaking. ‘If it helps any, I know my dad passed away recently, but I don’t speak to my half-brother, so I didn’t go to the funeral. There’d be a turnout of various wives – I didn’t think I’d be welcome. Does that answer any of your questions?’ She bent over to place the glasses carefully in the dishwasher, holding them tenderly by their stems. Then she gave the surface a wipe down, showing them the back of her dressing gown, with the legend Mother of the Bride in bright-red italic embroidery, before walking over to ensure the door was closed. Her daughter got there first, asking her if everything was OK, looking angry. The bride: it was her day and she was ready to defend it. She didn’t look like a pushover; in fact, she looked every inch the female version of her maternal grandfather.
‘Everything is fine. We just need your mum’s help about something, and then we’ll be on our way,’ said Costello, with that slight grit in her voice that Anderson had tried to imitate without success. The door closed again.
‘I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.’
Loretta’s eyes flicked from one to the other.
‘Eddie Dukes was found dead at his home.’
‘Eddie? Uncle Eddie. Oh.’ She turned round, back to leaning against the sink, her hand rising to her forehead. ‘What happened to him?’ she asked. ‘Not natural, I presume, since you are here.’
‘Can we ask where you were on Tuesday night through to Wednesday morning?’
She didn’t need to think. ‘There was a final dress fitting for the bride, with two witnesses, then I went to bed with my husband, but I was awake most of the night. My daughter was in the house as well. I don’t think I’ve set eyes on Eddie since I was thirteen or so.’
‘Did he or anybody else ever call you Lori?’
‘No. Not ever.’
‘We really want to know about the—’
‘I suffered no abuse as a child, if that’s what you are pussyfooting around. It didn’t happen. I’m not in denial. It just didn’t happen. After I spoke to Mr Kelly years ago, I think I figured out where this rumour had come from. There was a girl assaulted on Black Bay Beach when we were very wee. And then something happened to Veronica, but really we were too young to remember. But the abuse never happened to us. Anyway, my daughter gets married in a few hours and I have a lot to panic about.’ Her attempt at good humour was a polite way to get them to leave.
‘You’ve said why you didn’t attend your father’s funeral, but was there somebody specifically that you were keen to avoid, apart from your half-brother?’
‘Mostly him. If you meet Brian, you’ll understand. He’s never forgiven me for Andy going missing, but in truth my mum taught me better. I didn’t run off, and I did as I was told. I was very fond of my dad, but he was a rather free-range husband – the lovable rascal. He loved me and brought me up well. I’m honouring his name by getting a trophy at the dance school in the village named after him. He’d have liked that – he was all about the dance. He’d have liked that more than that peacock flower arrangement they put on the coffin – he’d think that was just a waste of money. I nearly cracked up when I saw that on Facebook.’ She blinked slowly, as if she had said something that she regretted or a memory flashed past her mind. ‘The funeral would have been … stressful. I want to concentrate on the happy stuff, you know. If there had been a week or two in between funeral and wedding, but well … he always chose his moments.’ She looked sideways into the living room; the cops stood their ground, waiting. ‘It was natural causes, wasn’t it? With Dad?’
‘Oh, yes, no question. It was the virus in the end.’
‘Can you tell us, very quickly, what you think happened on the twenty-first of June 1978?’
Her answer was instant. ‘Eddie Dukes stabbed Birdie.’
‘I’m sure you were told the family version of it.’
She shrugged and the tension fell from her shoulders. ‘That’s what happened. My mum took me out of the equation before that, so I can’t say anything.’ She looked troubled for the first time. ‘Later, we heard about Ben, and then Andy died as well … it was as if they were cursed.’ She picked up her cloth again, wiping vigorously. ‘It sounds odd, but they were cursed in some way – those three guys, you know. I remember my mum saying that they wouldn’t get away with it, that life wasn’t like that. They were lovely, talented, handsome intelligent men. We had the greatest holidays with them when we were young. The stories we heard growing up, the dancing – they were gifted and there would be payback for that.’ She nodded. ‘I think my mum was right. Eddie never found a wife, Frankie married the perfect wife and Dad tried everybody else’s wife. There were rumours that Dad and Birdie stayed close, but I’m not sure – they were both terrible flirts. The passing years didn’t bring them happiness. Is Frankie still alive?’
‘We’re having trouble tracking him down. You don’t know anything that might help?’
‘No, I think he struggled after losing Ben, looking back. As a kid, you hear bits here and there. He might have passed away. Did he go abroad? I think Veronica ended up in care or something. Was there depression in the family? I can’t recall. Sorry, but we have to get on here.’
‘Can you recall where she was?’
She thought for a moment. ‘I think it was on the east coast, because my mum said that was odd.’
‘Odd?’
‘Yes, too far to visit.’ A shout came from the other room, something the mum had to go and see to, but Loretta paused, her hand up in the air as if she was catching a passing thought. ‘St James, St Jude? Something like that.’
‘Good luck. Have a lovely day and thank you for your time. Sorry if we have put a damper on it.’
Loretta smiled. ‘The bride has dealt with a dead grandpa and a global pandemic. If you find Frankie, can you let me know? I’d like him to know how I ended up – tell him about the girls, the trophy.’
‘We will.’ Costello hesitated. ‘You liked Frankie?’
‘Yes, I did. Everybody did.’
‘Would you say that Frankie never got over losing Birdie?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, that’s a picture painted over the years. My mum never liked Birdie. Back in those days, women didn’t like women like that – painted nails and short skirts after a certain age. Birdie was always nice to me, but … well, she was a bit of a flirt. I guess she just made other women jealous. There was talk: “No wonder she was killed by her husband’s best friend; there must have been something going on between the two of them.”’
‘Was there?’
‘I was nine years old. I don’t know. But I’d suspect my dad before Eddie.’
They went to the front door. The three bridesmaids watched them from the window.
‘Loretta, do you recall the cine films that were made of you?’
Her face lit up. ‘Oh God, yes, I had forgotten.’
‘We have them now. When the time comes, you can apply for a copy. We enjoyed the jumping competition. You were robbed.’
Her face lit up. ‘I certainly was! Oh my God, that would be nice, thank you.’
By the time they climbed into Anderson’s old BMW, Loretta was dabbing her eyes. ‘She’s watching, you know, from the hall window.’
‘Mmm,’ said Anderson thoughtfully. ‘I doubt she’d want copies of those films if they brought back traumatic memories.’
‘Suppose not. You didn’t help out much.’
‘Too many women in that house.’
‘Just to be sure, Douglas McSween did die of natural causes, didn’t he?’
‘Covid. I checked twice. Like she said, they were cursed.’
‘By what?’
‘By whom, more like.’