Had my son been killed by his girlfriend?
Linda McGhee and Ian Tannock
Wednesday 19th September 2007
First impressions count, isn't that how the old saying goes? Well whoever came up with that was obviously talking a load of old rubbish. Take my relationship with my only son Ian's girlfriend, Linda McGhee, who was 33 when we first met back in 1987.
I had her down as rough sort. A cigarette was permanently welded to her bottom lip and her language! Not that Ian had seemed to notice. He was besotted.
'She's not like your ex,' I'd whispered, when she'd nipped to the loo on that first meeting.
Pretty, petite little thing she was.
But over time Linda, made me realise how wrong first impressions can be. I mean, how many girls would go to the effort of contacting their local newspaper and nominating their partner's mum for a mother's day prize? Thanks to her I'd won a weekend in a posh hotel Edinburgh.
So she liked a drink and a fag and said words that make a grown man wince. But she was kind and decent and that went a long way in my book,
Which is why now in March 2006, after 20 years together, it was such a shame she and Ian had hit a rocky patch. They'd always had a volatile relationship. Both enjoyed a drink and when they'd had a few they'd end up having blazing rows.
'I want to end it,' Ian confided in me. 'We argue constantly and she thinks I'm always nagging her.'
I looked at the sadness in Ian's eyes.
'You're obviously not happy love,' I said. 'Perhaps it is best if you split up.'
It wouldn't be the end of the world. I could still stay friends with Linda.
Then on Tuesday 7 March, the phone rang at 8am.
'Anne,' a man's voice panted. 'Come over quickly. There's something wrong with Ian and he's got blood on him.'
It was Linda's son Graeme Brabson, 31. What on earth was wrong with Ian?
'I'm on my way,' I puffed, grabbing my car keys.
But then the phone rang again. This time it was Linda.
'Graeme's just phoned,' she said breathlessly. 'What's wrong?'
'I don't know,' I said. 'I'm going over there now.'
'I'll be there in five minutes,' she said.
I jumped in the car and when I arrived at Ian's flat five minutes later blue police tape cordoned off the front door. The place was crawling with police and paramedics.
'What's going on?' I screamed, pushing my way to the front of the cordon. 'I'm Ian's mum.'
The police officer's face fell and he took a deep breath.
'I'm not going to lie to you,' he said slowly. 'The man up there's dead. He's been murdered.'
Everything started to spin. I felt my knees buckle and the policeman grabbed me as I slumped to the ground. Suddenly, I saw Linda running towards me.
'What's wrong Anne?' she screamed.
'Ian's dead,' I said, my voice trembling.
A look of horror flashed across her face and all hell broke loose.
'I've got to see Ian,' she yelled.
'You're going to the police station,' the police officer told her. 'We need you to give us a statement.'
I sat there like a zombie, as Linda was lead away. Poor, poor Linda. Had Ian even got round to finishing with her before he fell ill?
I planned to call her first thing in the morning but I never got the chance.
'Linda's been charged with murder,' a police officer told me. 'Ian's throat was cut with a knife while he was in bed.'
'Don't be so ridiculous,' I spat.
I knew that woman inside and out. Yes, they'd rowed but she wasn't capable of something like that. Knowing Linda she'd probably shot her mouth off and landed herself in hot water.
The police told me that Linda had pleaded not guilty to murder so all I could do was wait for the trial. Finally in March 2007, I went the High Court in Glasgow. Linda didn't give evidence so instead I listened in horror as Linda's barrister said Ian had put her through 20 years of 'mental torture'. That Ian had constantly nagged her and Linda had taken to playing her Walkman in the house to drown out his constant whining.
But I'd seen them together so many times – that wasn't the Ian I knew. The court heard that Linda couldn't remember what had happened on the night of the attack because she'd had a black-out. She claimed she'd argued with Ian about her nose stud and the next thing she remembered was turning up at her son's flat telling him she'd done something bad.
Then, having washed her bloodstained clothing, she left the flat door unlocked to try and persuade the police Ian had been killed by an intruder. Afterwards, she went to Graeme's home. When he went to the scene of the crime, he found Ian lying in bed with a knife plunged into his neck. Incredibly he'd pulled the knife out and thrown it in bushes before calling the police hours later, claiming he'd just found the body.
Sick, sick, sick.
When I'd spoken to Graeme and Linda they'd known all along that my son was dead. I couldn't believe it when Linda's barrister claimed she'd only stayed with my son because she had nowhere else to go. It just wasn't true.
I stared at the woman I'd called a friend sitting in the dock. How could she say such things about my son?
A week later she was cleared of murder and found guilty of the lesser crime of culpable homicide. She was also found guilty of trying to defeat justice by washing bloody clothes and attempting to invent a false alibi. She was sentenced to seven years. Graeme was given two years probation and 240 hours of community service for trying to dispose of the knife.
Seven months on, I'm still trying to pick up the pieces. And so back to that old saying. It grieves me greatly to admit that I was wrong.
First impressions DO count. When we first met I had Linda down as rough sort who'd cause trouble. And tragically I should have trusted my gut instinct.
By Simon Houston and Katherine Davison
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