She grabbed her jacket from behind the door and checked her car keys were in her bag. ‘Mind the house whilst I’m out and don’t open the door to any strangers.’ Cat glanced at her for a moment, sniffed the bottom of the stairs then darted out of the front door.
The traffic was fairly light and she made her way along Byres Road to the studio. She pulled into a parking space just as Ross was pulling out. He gave her an exaggerated wave and a smile that she didn’t trust; Oonagh noticed the baby seat was missing from the back and guessed he’d be off on a hot date.
She had a few minutes to spare and nipped into Make-up. ‘Oh, Oonagh, I wasn’t expecting you here.’ Abby looked at the clock and Oonagh touched her arm.
‘No. It’s OK, I’m not booked in.’ She slipped the square silk scarf from her neck. ‘Can you just do me a quick repair job?’
Abby was the make-up of make-up artists. A genius who could obliterate hangovers, forty-eight-hour drug binges and the red-eyed evidence of a broken romance with a wave of her magic brushes. She examined Oonagh’s neck with apparent impartiality. ‘You know, hon, you can hardly see it; it’s really faded.’
‘Mm… maybe, but can you just dab a bit of powder and paint on it anyway?’ Abby complied and in less than ninety seconds all trace of Oonagh’s scar was gone. She examined herself in the mirror. ‘Thanks, Abby.’ She reached over and kissed her before heading off to Alan’s office.
The door was slightly ajar and she rapped it with her knuckles and let herself in before he had a chance to answer.
‘Ah, speak of the devil.’ Alan gestured for her to sit down as he cradled a phone on his left shoulder, held a mobile in his right hand and tried to type with his spare fingers. ‘We were just talking about you.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, myself and Ross.’
Her back stiffened, ‘I’m all ears.’
‘He has some ideas for The Other Side.’ Oonagh sat back in her chair and let Alan do the talking. ‘Thought it would be a good idea if the programme was a double header. Get a co-presenter. He’s thrown a few names into the hat and—’
Oonagh cut him off before he went any further. ‘I don’t think so!’
Alan shrugged and held his hands wide, inviting Oonagh to explain. The initial series of The Other Side had been her idea and examined the underbelly of Scotland. She’d managed to get commissioned for a six-part series, then the network had bought the rights and it had gone national. But series two needed to have a different angle to stop it being formulaic. ‘This is my baby and I’m not letting that wee shite get within spitting distance of it.’
Alan stood up and closed the door. ‘Listen to me, Oonagh, you’re lucky you’re still here after that stunt you pulled.’
Oonagh’s stomach shifted; she wasn’t quite prepared for this. ‘Are you kidding? That shower deserved everything they got.’ Clearly not everyone thought uncovering historic abuse in the Catholic church was Oonagh’s finest hour.
‘You still don’t get it. You were a fucking liability. You broke every rule in the book and could have had us sued.’
Oonagh elected not to tell Alan of emails and support she’d had in the wake of the programme. This wasn’t the time for petty point-scoring. Her investigative techniques had fallen way short of legal and she knew it. The station had only managed to wriggle out of a court case when the church had feared even more dirt would come out in that particular wash.
‘You need to go with a double header on this one.’ Alan had calmed down slightly, but he was keeping her on a tight lead. ‘Then when the dust settles…’ Oonagh pinched the end of her nose to stop her nostrils flaring.
Alan sat back down. His voice softened slightly. ‘You just seem to have a knack for rattling cages, Oonagh.’
‘Really?’ She swallowed hard. ‘Well, I’d rather rattle a few cages than rattle my jewellery like the rest of the twats in here!’ She jabbed her thumb behind her in the direction of the production office.
‘Why are you so… so angry?’
‘I’m not angry.’ It was only a half-lie; she was more furious than angry.
‘Oonagh, forget that I’m your boss for a moment.’ Alan’s choice of weapon when he needed to remind Oonagh who was in charge. Her back stiffened again but she gave him a weak smile. ‘Can I talk to you as a friend?’ Clearly he really meant business. ‘How’s the love life?’ That came from left field and threw her off guard.
‘Good job you’re asking as a friend and not as my boss, Alan. I’m sure you’ve just broken at least three employment laws right there.’
He ignored the jibe. ‘You’re a lovely-looking girl, Oonagh.’ He was really putting the boot in now. ‘It’s a shame to see you on your own.’
‘I know. Sad, isn’t it? I’ve got a T-shirt with Great Looks – Shite Personality on the front.’ Oonagh sat back and crossed her legs. ‘Are we here to talk about when I was last laid or why that little prick Ross isn’t getting anywhere near my programme?’
Alan ignored her. ‘He thought one of the Big Brother team would be perfect. Really appeal to the—’
‘Big Brother? What the fuck’s that about?’
‘Oonagh, it’s one of the biggest-rating shows on television. It’d be a real coup to have the winner co-present—’
She couldn’t stomach this. ‘Please tell me this is a joke. And a bad one at that.’
Alan put both phones down, a sure sign he meant business. ‘You’re a bit out of touch, Oonagh. If we’ve a hope in hell’s chance of getting sponsors we need to widen our demographic.’
Oonagh realised she was losing this particular battle and changed tactics. ‘Alan, you’re right, you’ve got a knack of knowing what works on screen. No, I’m not against the idea in principle. It’s just, well, I’m not sure, Alan, I just feel…’ She wasn’t sure how to get out of this one and had to think on her feet. ‘Right. OK, I’ll come clean. We’re too far into this series to make any vital changes.’ She was furious but refused to let it show. She didn’t even have a schedule together and was still mulling around ideas in her head. But she wasn’t going to let that petty wee fat bastard Ross muscle in on her act.
‘Oh?’ Alan lit a cigarette and looked up with interest. ‘I hadn’t realised you’d got so far into it. What’s the theme?’
Shit. Oonagh threaded a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘Women Who Kill.’ The words were out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying.
Alan leaned forward, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. ‘Carry on.’
Fuck. ‘I can’t tell you too much at this stage, Alan…’ she dropped her voice to let him think this was confidential information ‘… but I’ve uncovered some great stories here. Women kill for many more different reasons than men do.’ She didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. ‘There’s a ton of research to show that…’ she was already up to her ankles and the crap was now lapping around her shins ‘… women who’ve been incarcerated for murder… or indeed manslaughter – over 80%, would you believe? – have had previous history of…’
Alan held up a finger. She’d known that would do the trick. ‘Oonagh, I don’t want a whole load of facts and figures and mind-numbing stats.’ She nodded, to show they were both on the same page. ‘I want real people, relatives, eye witnesses, the killers themselves. I want good interviews, decent sound bites. Have you managed to speak to any of the killers themselves?’
Oonagh gave Alan a slightly disappointed glance. ‘It’s me you’re talking to – d’you think I wouldn’t already have had that in the bag? Oh and, Alan—’ she leaned forward in her chair and tried to look as pious as possible ‘—I’d rather you didn’t refer to them as killers. These women are human beings. They’ve paid their debt to society and have a right to move on.’ Alan’s face reddened slightly and Oonagh was starting to believe her own bullshit. ‘That’s OK, times are changing, Alan, and we all need to change with them.’
He nodded and looked for an excuse to change the subject. ‘So,
how’s the book coming along?’
This time she was more truthful. ‘Oh, don’t, it’s flipping hard work, you know!’
‘You know what Ross said when he was in here?’
‘What?’ She tried not to grind her teeth.
‘He said every journalist has a book inside them…’ he let out a little snort ‘… and that’s where it should remain!’ He let out a belly laugh. Clearly he thought Ross was hilarious. Oonagh pretended to go along with the joke. He was probably right, but secretly she wanted to smash his face in. She made her excuse and left.
3
Arkansas 1975
Marjory Channing stepped into the white overalls and pulled them up over her shoulders.
‘Put this on—’ he shoved a white baseball cap towards her ‘—and take your make-up off.’ He wagged his finger in front of her face. She did as he requested, wiping her lipstick off with a tissue from her pocket. He pinned a laminated ID badge to the front of her overall that confirmed she specialised in industrial cleaning. He patted his handiwork and let his fingers linger on her left breast just a little too long.
‘Where did you get that?’ Marjory removed his hand from her breast as she looked down at the badge, which bore her passport photograph.
‘Lady, I can get you a Cuban passport, a new Social Security number and an access-all-areas pass to Disneyland.’
Despite her fear she tried to suppress a smile. ‘You’re good.’
‘Not that fucking good, lady. I keep getting caught.’
He looked around; the corridor was empty. ‘Right, come on.’ She followed him up a narrow staircase, which led out to an atrium. The building was grey and industrial-looking but surprisingly clean. She wasn’t really sure what to expect – she’d never been in a prison before. ‘Here.’ He moved some boxes that sat in front of a door and held it open for Marjory to go inside. She hesitated for a moment and he let out a sigh. ‘I’m a forger, not a rapist; if I was going to hurt you, you’d be dead by now.’
‘Thank you for those words of comfort.’
‘That’s British humour, right?’
‘Sarcasm.’ She nodded. ‘It’s my second language.’ She followed him inside.
The room was filled with mops and buckets and boxes of disposable gloves. He took a set of keys, which hung from his belt, and opened a further door at the back. The strong smell of disinfectant coated her mouth. Her white plastic shoes were at least two sizes too big and squeaked on the metal floor. This room had a narrow window halfway up; she had to stand on tiptoe to get a proper view of the ward, which was thirty or so feet below them.
It wasn’t quite as she’d expected. It looked more like a cafeteria and spanned the size of a school assembly hall. It was hard to count the amount of beds. A rough scan, she reckoned forty to a row, and three rows deep. The men lay supine but relaxed on the beds and chatted among themselves. The cots didn’t look very comfortable, but they only offered respite for a short time, so comfort was not a main priority. Certainly not among prisoners. Each cot was occupied and Marjory could see a queue two deep had formed at the double swing doors. Prison officers kept them in line, but the atmosphere seemed relaxed and casual. Most of them had fat roll-ups perched between their fingers or wedged behind their ears.
‘Is it always this busy?’ The forger was sitting on the floor having a cigarette. He shrugged. ‘Guess so.’ Marjory dragged a box to the window and stood on it to get a better view.
Each man on the beds was hooked up to a needle leading to a clear plastic bag. Each bag slowly filled with the deep red liquid feeding from their arms. Guys with bandanas, white aprons and matching white plastic boots seemed to be drawing the blood. It was difficult from her position to see what other staff were in attendance. ‘How many doctors, nurses are there?’
‘Usually the doc comes in and out, make sure there’s no bleeders.’
There were four would-be medics in total for the entire ward. Each tapped the crook of the prisoner’s elbow before piercing his arm with the flat bore needle that linked up to the plastic bag. Each one looked experienced in raising a vein. Once the blood began to flow they were onto the next guy. Marjory had to admit, it was a pretty efficient operation. They had it running like clockwork. Each medic looked after his own row and the plastic bags filled with blood at varying levels. Once filled the needle would be removed and the donor ushered to the double swing doors at the back of the hall, presumably to some sort of recovery area. By that time the next guy was lying on the cot waiting to be hooked up.
‘These guys?’ She gestured to the nurses. ‘They’re wardens, nurses…?’
‘Cons.’ He attempted to blow smoke rings, but failed.
‘Yeah, but are they trained… to…?’ She struggled to keep the anxiety out of her voice. He just shrugged again. ‘Don’t take much training to stick a needle in your arm. That’s what most of them are in here for in the first place.’
Marjory tried to find a retort as to what was wrong with this, but decided to shut up. ‘What’s the incentive?’ She couldn’t help notice her accomplice had needle marks on both arms.
‘Seven dollars a pint.’
Cigarettes, porn mags and toilet paper were all valuable currency inside prisons. Seven dollars could go a long way.
‘No shit.’ She tried to sound tough and vaguely American, but guessed she came over as a stuck-up British twat. Her Glaswegian accent held little truck here. No wonder there was a queue at the door. It was like a production line. She found it strangely hypnotic. There was only one problem. ‘That guy?’ She pointed to the con-cum-medic. ‘He’s using the same needle for each donor.’
‘Mm?’ The forger had given up trying to blow smoke rings. Marjory repeated herself. ‘He’s not changing the needle.’
He stood up and eased his hand on the window ledge and peered over the side. ‘You know how much needles go for in here?’
Marjory didn’t know. She realised she didn’t have a fucking clue about life in general.
But it was slowly dawning on her.
‘Ain’t no problem, lady – they’re all used to sharing needles. They ain’t complaining.’
‘But the blood.’ She struggled to keep the urgency from her voice. ‘There’s an enormous risk of cross-contamination.’
‘Fifty bucks.’ He held out his hand.
‘Who the hell’s in charge of this?’
‘I want my fucking fifty bucks.’
She stuffed the dollar bills into his hand. Her legs were shaking and she felt sick. He walked away and she followed him back downstairs to the outside yard.
‘That’ll take you back outside.’ He tipped his head towards a utility truck. The driver was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
‘My clothes?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘My stuff? I had a handbag, shoes…’ Her voice trailed off as the forger walked away and left her to the mercy of the guy in the truck.
4
Glasgow 2002
Oonagh scanned the faces but couldn’t pick out Alec. If she were on an identity parade she’d be snookered by now. All the men looked the same; some had kilts, others wore black tie, but they all had regulation copper haircuts and seemed to morph into each other. The women were more easily defined.
Oonagh was glad she’d plumped for the long sleeveless black dress, cut away at the shoulders with a mother-of-pearl choker-style collar, which hid her scar. It was a good choice for the event, and the only decent one she’d had which wasn’t in storage or at the cleaners.
At last she saw a face she recognised. DS McVeigh was waving frantically as he squeezed his way towards her. He looked as though he’d had his hair cut that very afternoon, but still it stuck out in wiry ginger tufts from his head. And he’d grown a moustache. Oonagh stretched out her arms. ‘Jim.’ She hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks, leaving a slight smudge of lipstick. ‘You scrub up well.’
He tugged at the cuffs of his white shirt, Jame
s Bond style. ‘D’you think?’
She stood back slightly. ‘You’re actually bordering on handsome.’
He blushed and laughed. ‘You looking for the boss?’ Jim McVeigh never referred to his superior officer by his first name, even when he was out of earshot.
‘Either that or a drink.’ A waiter passed and slowed down enough for them to each take a glass from his tray.
‘Quite an event.’
Jim looked around and sort of tipped his head in agreement. These charity balls were getting more and more lavish each year. ‘So tell me, Jim…’ Oonagh took a sip, looking over the top of her glass ‘… is it true Glasgow coppers have the most impressive balls in Scotland?’ They both burst out laughing. She liked Jim. He was a good laugh. He suddenly straightened his face and smoothed down his jacket; Oonagh turned round to see Alec negotiate his way through the crowd towards them. ‘His bark’s worse than his bite, Jim.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? His bite’s pretty bloody lethal, believe me.’
‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ Alec bent to kiss her cheek and she stood on tippy-toe to meet his embrace. ‘This guy bothering you?’ He tipped his head in McVeigh’s direction. Oonagh knew he was just teasing, but she also knew he was still easily irritated by his partner that he’d been assigned over two years ago.
‘He’s looking after me, now leave him alone.’ She slapped Davies affectionately on the shoulder. ‘You’re both off duty.’
Alec did a slight double take. ‘What the hell’s that on your top lip?’
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