04-Mothers of the Disappeared by Russel D McLean Read Free Book Online

mothers.’
    ‘The mothers?’
    ‘Of the disappeared.’ Talking about the mothers of his alleged victims. Just being in the same room as him, I got this little shiver running up my spine. He looked like a guilty man, now. His skin was pale. He sat with his head forward and looked up at me as though he couldn’t stand to face me head on.
    Had he always been like this?
    Or had prison changed him?
    I tried to remember. To cut out the interpretation of the years, to remember with clarity the man that Alexander Moorehead had once been.
    And I failed.
    All I remembered was the media monster.
    I said, ‘I’m here on behalf of someone who thinks you’re innocent.’
    He gave a little cough. Might have been his version of a laugh. Hard to tell. All the time inside, he’d forgotten how to smile.
    ‘You used to say you were. Innocent, I mean. Always protesting your arrest. And yet never saying a word about how all the evidence managed to damn you so completely. Even now, you’ve never really talked about any of the other victims. Except Justin.’
    He remained silent.
    ‘Someone is willing to believe you. If you are innocent, I’ll find the proof.’
    ‘You put me in here. You and your boss.’
    ‘You helped us.’
    He sat back in his chair, regarded me with dark, shadowed eyes.
    ‘You act like you want to be here. You want to be locked up.’
    ‘It’s better this way,’ he said, finally giving me something.
    ‘You’re sorry for what happened to Justin?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And the other boys?’
    Silence
    ‘You’re sorry for any mother who has lost their child?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then give them peace by telling me where the bodies are.’
    Back to the mime impersonation. Trying to look bored. But I could sense something else, too. An edgier emotion; something crying out to be released, just beneath that placid surface.
    ‘Or tell me why you don’t know. Tell me why you’re innocent. Just … give me something.’
    Was I reading too much into his new act? Buying too readily into Elizabeth Farnham’s story?
    All those years ago, I’d been convinced as to his guilt. But what convinced me was another man’s absolute conviction.
    Was I doing the same, in reverse, with Elizabeth Farnham, allowing her own absolute certainty to affect my judgement?
    ‘Are we done, now?’
    Moorehead had spent ten years stonewalling Project Amityville. Giving them nothing, not even a hint, as to the truth behind those crimes they suspected him of. What would I expect to discover in one morning? One interview?
    All I’d wanted was to look at him, see if there was even a hint of what Elizabeth Farnham said she had seen.
    Just a hint.
    A possibility.
    I wanted to see it, too. Perhaps because hopeless causes had become my personal quest in the last few years. And just once, I’d like a chance to turn someone’s bad fortune around, to redress the balance of injustice in the world.
    The detective in charge of Amityville after Ernie stepped aside was a big guy named Wemyss. He wore plaid shirts, sported a moustache, and had a weakness for mid-morning bacon rolls. Something I took full advantage of when I arranged our meeting in Kirkcaldy, near police HQ.
    We ate at a diner a few streets away from the building, drank strong black coffee. Around us, people who would never imagine the kind of things cops could see during the course of an investigation bitched to each other and their mobiles about bosses and spouses.
    ‘There was another investigator I used to know from Dundee,’ Wemyss told me after taking the first, big bite out of his roll. His teeth were stained with ketchup. ‘Bryson, I think his name was.’
    ‘I took his old business,’ I said. ‘He was looking to get out of the country. Move abroad with his partner.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Wemyss. ‘Remember hearing something about that. He got in over his head. Guess that can happen, you don’t have the support of the force behind you.’
    I shrugged. I only knew the guy in