The money was a substantial amount, more than enough for her to move and rent somewhere new – but it wouldn’t hurt to have some more. Wait and see what they write in tomorrow’s paper, Margo advised herself. If they mention the children then they’ll pay for the photographs – and the graveyard symbols on the back meant something to someone.

She looked out of the cottage window, seeing the empty track winding down the glen with nothing but the shadows of clouds chasing along the flanks of the hills for movement. For the moment the money and photographs had better be hidden away – just in case the laird came back.

XVIII WEDNESDAY 09:41

XVIII
WEDNESDAY 09:41

Frankie received the first call from a previous orphanage resident at 9:41. A hesitant voice, close to tears, explained how he’d been regularly abused by the minister, that there were other people he could name but he wanted protection. When she’d hesitated, the line had gone dead. The number was unavailable when she tried calling back.

She sat back in her seat, aware of the two constables behind her staring listlessly at their screens. What did they even do all day?

“Have you had any luck with the names on the list?”

Frankie had provided copies of the list of children to the two constables in an effort to move the investigation forward. She was juggling so many balls in the air at once she felt she should have joined a circus. The Fiscal was proving a difficult man to reach and she needed his help to access the reports dating back over twenty years.

“Nothing yet, Frankie.” Lamb at last was starting to take this more seriously. “Apart from another five of them being recorded as dead.”

“Are you sure? The council only had records of three children dying in care.”

“Plain as day. They all died at the orphanage within a six-year period. The last one in the same year it closed.”

“That makes eight deaths, plus a girl who went missing and there’s next to no bloody record of her disappearance.” Frankie was sharing Corstorphine’s frustration. It seemed that every clue they followed turned into a dead end or was so poorly documented they couldn’t hope to pursue it any further. She didn’t hold out much hope that any post mortem reports they turned up would show anything out of the ordinary.

“I’ve got one here.” Bill McAdam interjected. “Simon Battle. Turned up on the VALCRI search. He’s banged up in Barlinnie. GBH.”

“Sure he’s one of our boys, Bill?”

“No doubt about it, unless he shares a NI number with another Simon Battle.”

“Good. I’ll apply to see him, see if at least we can get one person to tell us what went on in that place.”