Authors: Cathy Wilson

Escape From Evil (43 page)

‘But I didn’t see anything, I told you that about twenty times.’

They wouldn’t have it though.

‘What if I don’t come?’

‘Then we’ll subpoena you. One way or another, you’ll be going to Dundee with the rest of us.’

I began to cry, but not at the thought of standing up in court. ‘I don’t want to see him,’ I said. ‘Do you have any idea what he put me through? What he still puts me through?’

I think they’d expected me to say that.

‘Don’t worry, we can erect a screen. He’ll be able to hear you, but he won’t get a glimpse.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll do it.’

That really should have been the end of the matter, but as the police team were packing up, one of them said casually, ‘Of course, we’ll be needing Daniel to testify as well.’

That was it – the gloves were off.

‘You bloody won’t!’ I shouted. ‘He’s got enough shit in his life without that. He was three years old, for God’s sake. What the fuck do you think he can remember from then? Tell me what you can remember from when you were three? Go on, try it!’

The guy wouldn’t be drawn and my anger disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. In its place was pure fear.

‘Please, I’m begging you,’ I cried. ‘Don’t make him do this. He’s twenty, he’s at the start of his life. Don’t ruin it for him before he even gets going.’

But would the bastards listen? No. The only consolation was that he too would be shielded by the screen. I insisted on that.

‘That paedophile has not set eyes on my son since 1993. I do not want Peter to know a single thing about him.’

That night I called Daniel over and broke the news to him. He took it better than I had, but he was just as perplexed.

‘Is it about that purse?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘But I can’t even remember it. What use is that going to be?’

‘I don’t know, darling, I really don’t.’

All I knew for sure was that the horrors I’d managed to protect him from for so many years were about to be picked over in the minutest detail – and there was nothing I could do.

Vicky’s trial began on 3 November 2008. A year earlier hundreds had attended her funeral – sixteen years after her death. As Daniel and I entered the court building in Dundee, you could feel the whole town wanted justice. I was so proud of my boy. He looked a million dollars in his suit and no jury would ever doubt a word he said. Unfortunately, we both knew he had nothing to say.

At some point, I think the prosecution must have realized that as well. We’d been there a day when a note was passed along saying we wouldn’t have to testify after all.

‘Thank God for that!’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

It was only when we saw the news coverage later that I realized Daniel had actually played a starring role – or rather his DNA had. That old purse neither of us could remember had actually belonged to Vicky. After Peter had killed her, he planted it miles away in Edinburgh, to throw the police off his scent. But by then he had already given it to Daniel to play with. DNA evidence now placed Peter and Vicky irrefutably in the same house and car. As soon as the jury heard that, Peter was going down.

We never discussed it, but fourteen years after Peter had saddled Daniel with the guilt of being used as bait to nearly kill two innocent young girls, as well as to lure both Vicky and Dinah into trusting Peter, the son had got his own back. How fitting for a boy whose name means ‘God is my judge’.

After the wasted trip to Dundee, I wasn’t at all fazed six months later to receive word that I’d be needed as a witness at Peter’s trial for the murder of Dinah McNicol.

They probably won’t even call me,
I thought.
It’s not worth getting stressed about.

Daniel wasn’t needed this time, but, along with my partner Stuart, he offered to come along for moral support.

‘We’re all in this together, Mum,’ he said.

I loved him so much for saying that, but I wished it hadn’t been the case. I’d have given anything for him to still be blissfully ignorant.

The longer the investigation into Peter went on, the more the claims against him stacked up. Although they couldn’t prove it at the time – and still haven’t been able to – I was told the police suspected Peter to have been behind the ‘Bible John’ murders which had terrorized Glasgow during the late 1960s. Peter had been living in the area, after all, and the deaths of the three young female victims bore the same hallmarks as his other crimes.

From my point of view, if Peter was capable of killing one girl, he was capable of killing more. Although he has always denied each murder, when newspapers reported that he had gloated to a prison psychiatrist, ‘I’ve killed forty-eight people’ – and then challenged the police to ‘prove it’ – I believed it. Even his most outlandish lies were often founded on truth.

December 2009 arrived and I found myself in the waiting room at Chelmsford Crown Court, Daniel and Stuart by my side, about to face my worst nightmare. Even screened off, just knowing Peter was in that room would be enough to make me feel sick. Just knowing he was already in the same building had already got me trembling. When I saw a court official coming over, I prayed and prayed that he was going to tell me I could go home. But he didn’t.

‘You’ll be called in about an hour.’

I crumbled.

Sixty minutes later, I was ready. My official escort and a lovely policeman called Bernie were by my side and we were just waiting for our cue to enter the chamber. The silence was deafening. I swear I could hear my knees knocking – I thought they only did that in cartoons. When the green light came, I struggled to put left foot in front of right.

Bernie had barely started to open the door to the court when I froze. There, right in front of me, was Peter Tobin.

‘Where’s the screen?’ I said, suddenly panicking. ‘There was meant to be a screen!’

Bernie let go of the door and looked at the official, who hurriedly consulted his notes.

‘No,’ he said, ‘there was never a screen for this case.’

I was getting hysterical. ‘But I was promised a screen. They said I wouldn’t have to look at him.’

‘Look,’ Bernie said, ‘I’ve been watching this guy every day for three weeks. He never, ever looks up from the floor. You’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about.’

It was kind of him to say that.

‘Okay,’ I said, wiping my face. ‘I’m ready.’

I was in there for twenty-five minutes. The prosecutor asked me every single question he could think of about Peter’s old cars – their colours, their child seats, their condition – and then the defence lawyer did the same. I couldn’t look at either of them, though, because directly behind them was my ex-husband.

When the judge said I could go, I nearly ran out. Panting, I collapsed into a chair. Stuart and Daniel rushed over, but Bernie the copper beat them both.

‘Now there’s a thing,’ he said. ‘For three weeks that man does nothing but stare at the floor. Then you take the stand and he didn’t stop looking at you for one second. Not one single second.’ He laughed. ‘I think you’ve got him spooked.’

I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. The only thing I knew for certain was that I had seen Peter Britton Tobin for the very last time.

EPILOGUE

This is Where it Begins

2010 started well. The Dinah jury had taken just a couple of hours to convict Peter. On top of all his other sentences, he wouldn’t be a free man again if he lived to be a hundred.

I also made progress with my bête noir, the team driving Operation Anagram, when a new officer took over the project and promised me it would end very soon. He was as good as his word. From two meetings a week in 2007 to two a month in 2008 and one every two months in 2009, I was now free of their questions, bar the odd phone call. They finally accepted I’d had nothing to do with any of Peter’s crimes. They also admitted I’d been pursued in rather too enthusiastic a manner.

I was grateful for the new man’s candour, but in a sense it had come too late. The stress of the constant interrogations and, in particular, intimating that I was Peter’s accomplice had driven me to find a therapist. After years of pretending the name Tobin meant nothing to me, I needed to tell someone every thing. I have to say, it’s going well. The final piece in my recuperation, in fact, is this book. Not one person in the world knows the story you’ve just read. Some have known bits, but no one, until now, has had the full version.

One person who definitely will not be reading this book is Daniel. He had his closure with his father many years ago. Ironically, it was my obsession with giving my son the family I’d been denied that nearly ruined it for both of us. But we survived.

And how! In July 2010 I climbed into my finest stilettos, pulled on my fanciest frock and cheered loudly as Daniel was handed his degree in Business Entrepreneurship from the chancellor of Portsmouth University, the actress Sheila Hancock. Looking around at the hundreds of other jubilant families in the great hall, I wondered if any of them had secrets as chilling as ours. But as I glanced at the proud family gathering of Anne, Geoff and Stuart, all showering praise on my wonderful son, I thought,
I don’t care.
All that was in the past.

The future – mine, Daniel’s, everyone’s – starts right here. This is where it begins.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank Jef Hudson for his ability to put my memories and emotions into words. Tank you also to my editor, Ingrid Connell, and all the staff at Macmillan who convinced me that I had a story to tell, and my agent, Ben Mason for all his help in overseeing this book.

Above all, thanks to all my friends and family who have loved and supported me through these difficult five years, especially my son, who through his own life has given me the strength and courage to continue with mine.

List of Cathy Wilson Photographs

[1] My grandparents on their wedding day in 1940.

[2] Mummy and me (on the far right) in a mother and baby competition.

[3] Mummy in her wedding dress, holding me, May 1970. It was seeing this photograph when I was fourteen that made me realise I was illegitimate.

[4] With my mother in the back garden of my grandparents’ house in Saltdean, May 1972.

[5] Trying to go fast on my tricycle, aged two in October 1972.

[6] Snapped on the beach, aged four, by the local paper. This was just before my childhood became a lot darker.

[7] My mother, with my first bicycle in the background. The mismatching tyres upset me as a child, perhaps because I knew it was second-hand.

[9] My first motorbike, which I bought in 1986 when I was sixteen. By the autumn of that year I’d moved in with Peter Tobin.

[10] My grandmother holding baby Daniel, who was born on 21 December 1987, while Peter looks on.

[11] My friend Sally lent me her husband and his Daimler as my wedding car – I felt like a princess.

[12] Just married, and happy that in marrying Peter Tobin I was doing the right thing to do for our son.