‘No, this is a pre-trial interview, that’s all. I’d guess that at this stage they were looking for something that might support a plea to a culpable homicide charge, rather than murder.’
Together they read through the succeeding documents, until they came to a series of newspaper cuttings, mostly from the Courier, Dundee’s own daily newspaper. They were reports of the trial itself, and day by day they presented an unremitting story of gloom for Mrs Gates. Eventually, they turned to the account of the verdict and of the judge’s severe minimum recommendation. Unexpectedly, it was the subject of a critical leader in the Tayside broadsheet, known for its firm views on crime and punishment.
‘I guess the real story begins here,’ said Bob, ‘after the conviction.’ He looked at the next document. ‘Yes, this is a copy of the prison doctor’s medical report.’ He laid it aside. ‘And these look as if they’re specialist opinions on Beattie Gates’ condition.’
‘What the hell are these?’ asked Sarah as he picked up the last of the reports.
‘Those? Oh, they’ll be the photos Richard Kilmarnock mentioned. The defence team had them taken to show how her musculature had wasted.’ He glanced down at the folder, at a colour photograph, shot from directly overhead, of a naked woman, lying full length on an examination table.
‘Time is all that was wasted with those,’ his wife retorted, picking up the photographs as he began to read the first specialist’s report.
He read carefully, noting the heavy qualifications which were made by the consultant in his assessment of Mrs Gates’ condition and capabilities at the time of her husband’s murder. ‘A doubt,’ he thought, ‘but is it reasonable?’
‘Bob.’ Her voice came quietly, from his right.
‘Mmm,’ he responded, still reading.
‘Beattie Gates wasn’t married before, was she?’
‘No.’
‘And she and her husband were childless?’
‘Yes. According to Grace Collins, George Gates was sterile.’
‘In that case, my darling, how come his wife has a Caesarean scar?’
‘You what?’
Sarah held up the photograph. ‘Look here.’
He followed her pointing finger, and saw the thin blue line on Beattie Gates’ white abdomen.
‘It’s an old wound,’ she said. ‘It was done many years before this photograph was taken, but there’s no doubt about it. See how narrow her pelvis is, too. This woman would have had difficulty delivering a child naturally at any time, and on this occasion she had help for sure.
‘George Gates may have been childless, my dear, but his wife most certainly wasn’t.’
78
Grace Collins looked at Skinner as if one of them was mad.
‘A baby?’ she repeated. ‘Auntie Beattie? Not that I ever heard of.’
‘Do you think that if Curly had known, he’d have told you?’
‘Yes, of course he would. Curly loved family gossip; he’d never have kept something like that to himself. But she couldn’t have had a kid. George Gates couldn’t. .’
‘How do you know that, Mrs Collins?’ asked the policeman.
‘Granny Lewis told us once. Curly’s mum would never have breathed a word about anything below the waist, like, but the Auld Yin never liked Gates. I remember her laughing as she told us about it. George and Auntie Beattie had been married for over five years, when he finally said, “Enough’s enough; we’re going to find out what’s wrong with you, woman.”
‘So he sent Beattie to a gynaecologist. The specialist examined her, then sent for George. She took a sample off him and found absolutely zero tadpoles.’
Grace Collins laughed, mirthlessly. ‘Of course Beattie had told her mother about him sending her to the consultant, so when he got the result of his test, the old warrior made him own up to it.
‘She said to Curly and me that Gates started his wandering after that. He always had regarded Beattie as a possession, as an inferior. When he found out that he was sterile, he seemed to blame it on her. It was a marriage in name only after that. He just did as he liked, all over Dundee and he never made any attempt to hide it.
‘Beattie’s face was rubbed in it for going on fifteen years, until the morning when she woke up and he didna’.’
‘She killed him then?’ The question was in the tone of Skinner’s voice.
‘Of course she did, and quite right too. If it’d been me I’d have cut his balls off a long time before that. It was a wonder to me that Granny Lewis never did for him herself. She was a wicked old devil, but her girls meant everything to her.’
‘In that case,’ Skinner asked, ‘if Beattie had been pregnant once. . before she met George, say. . how d’you think her mother would have handled it?’
‘She’d have covered it up. But she was a staunch Catholic, so she’d never have let her have an abortion.’ The killer’s widow paused for thought for a moment or two. ‘I reckon she’d have sent her away to her auntie’s, so to speak, like they did in those days. . only in this case it would have been her uncle’s. Granny Lewis was from Fraserburgh originally, and she had a brother up there: Uncle Michael, Michael Conran. I only ever met him the once, when he came to our wedding.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you’re looking for Beattie’s bairn, you’d be best to start with him.’
‘Not quite,’ said Skinner. ‘I know where I’ll look first.’
He thanked Mrs Collins and left. He had called in on her at 8:30 a.m. on his way into the office, but rather than heading into the city centre, and Fettes, he drove down from Craiglockhart and swung through Longstone, heading for the west of Edinburgh.
While New Register House, at the eastern end of Princes Street, is the head office of the Registrar General for Scotland, much of his department is based in an out-station in the genteel suburb of Corstorphine. Skinner found a place in the visitors’ car park and strode briskly into the building. A black-suited man sat at the reception desk. ‘Is Jim Glossop in?’ the policeman asked.
‘I’ll just find out for you, sir,’ the clerk replied in a sing-song voice. ‘And your name is?’
‘Deputy Chief Constable Skinner.’
He dialled a number. ‘Hello, Mr Glossop. There’s a Mr Skinner to see you, from the police. Yes, sir. Very good.’
At the receptionist’s request, Skinner signed the log-in book and was given a visitor’s pass. He was just clipping it on to his jacket when the man he had called to see appeared through a door behind the desk. He was in his fifties, stocky, short-necked and thick-chested, conjuring up the image of a barrel on legs.
‘Hello,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘I’ve heard of you. How can I help you?’ His accent reminded Skinner of Adam Arrow’s Derbyshire tones, although clearly it had been subject to other influences.
‘I recall that you gave some valuable assistance to a colleague of mine, Ms Rose, about a year ago.’
‘That’s right. Henry Wills, from the University, introduced us.’
Skinner nodded. ‘I wondered if you could do us another favour, discreetly and informally.’
‘Try me. Come on through ’ere.’ Mr Glossop led the way through to a small but bright meeting room, just behind the reception area. ‘Have a seat.’
As soon as he sat in the uncomfortable tubular chair, the policeman realised that he would rather have stood, but he began nonetheless. ‘My force is investigating a serious crime. We’re on the trail of a potential suspect, but the trouble is we don’t know anything about him, other than his gender. We don’t even know for sure that he exists.
‘I need to find out about a birth. The mother was unmarried, her name was Beatrice Lewis; I believe that it may have been registered in the Fraserburgh area, around, maybe just over, forty years ago.
‘I stress that it may have been. I don’t know for certain.’
‘I see. D’you want to know who the father was?’
‘If possible, yes, although it may turn out to be A. N. Other. But I’m really interested in finding out about the child. My guess is that. . assuming it was a live birth. . the baby would have been put up for adoption. Could you trace him onwards?’