‘So prisoners across Europe were being paid to donate blood?’
‘Europe proved a tougher nut to crack, so instead the company struck a deal with the USSR as it was at the time.’
Oonagh could almost see the can of worms open up in front of her. The Soviet bloc wasn’t known for its human rights records; she dreaded to hear what was coming next. People selling their blood to buy bread? Nothing prepared her for what Maura told her.
‘There’s a paper trail which leads to the source of the Russian blood products.’ She pronounced Russian as Rush-ee-ahn.
‘Go on.’
‘Skid-row donations, as cheap as it was, still had an element of cost and had its limitations.’
‘I’m not sure I want to hear this.’ A million horrific images flooded Oonagh’s head.
‘Why pay for one pint of blood when you can get eight pints free?’ Maura paused before delivering the killer punch. ‘That’s right, they took the blood from corpses.’
‘What?’
‘Thousands of them. Maybe even tens of thousands. The Soviet morgues provided more blood than anywhere else in the world. Apart from the ethical implication, there were never any checks on the standard of the blood, the risk factors, what the deceased died of. Nothing. This blood was given to NHS patients across the UK. Across the world, in fact.’
Oonagh struggled to find the words. She was about to ask why this hadn’t been in the news. Why it hadn’t been widely reported. She worked for the very same media who treated this as a second, third, even forth item news story. ‘I’m assuming you can back all this up?’
Maura nodded. ‘Sadly yes. Although some of it you’ll have to take on trust for now.’
Oonagh wasn’t sure what to do with this information. ‘I’m not known for my trusting nature, but carry on.’ She was trying to lighten the mood, but Maura didn’t return her smile.
‘There’s more, a whole lot more. But for now, take the disk.’ She caught the look on Oonagh’s face and gave a half-smile. ‘Yes, of course I have a copy.’
Oonagh slipped the disk into the side pocket of her handbag. ‘There’s a lot to digest here, Maura. You’ve sat on this for years. Why are you coming out with it now?’
‘The shit’s about to hit the fan, Oonagh.’
‘This stuff already looks pretty brown and smelly to me.’
‘This is just the tip of the iceberg. As I said, times were different then. Maybe I could have done more, maybe we both could have, but—’
Maura faltered. Her eyes were tired and red. She looked as though she was no stranger to a night-cap or three to help her sleep ‘A friend of mine, she continued, ‘Forensic pathologist. He’d worked out something was far from right.’
‘Why didn’t he do anything about it?’
‘He tried but…’ Maura pressed the back of her hand under her nose ‘… he was killed before he had a chance.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘He wasn’t the only one. And I got scared and ran away.’
Oonagh had a million questions and knew she’d have to tread carefully.
‘Maura, you need to go to the police with this. I have a friend who is quite high up and—’
Maura threw her head back and laughed. Really laughed. ‘The police? Honestly? They’d have this buried quicker than a mason’s handshake.’
Time to change tactics. ‘You prepared to go on camera?’
Maura hesitated.
‘We could have you in silhouette. Disguise your voice.’
This was a story. A big story. But Oonagh knew she’d need concrete evidence, cold hard facts. ‘Maura?’
‘You know the biggest con act in the history of the world?’
Oonagh shook her head, but she realised it was a rhetorical question.
‘The devil convincing the rest of the world that he doesn’t exist.’
He came again tonight. Dear God, thank you. I need him more each day. He keeps me strong and shows me the way. I pray he’ll keep Robbie safe too. My blood is bad, I can smell it through my skin. That’s why the baby left before she was born. He told me that, but says it’s not my fault. But I know it is. I must have done something to make it go sour. If only I could scratch through my skin and let it all drain away. Others can smell it too. I see them look at me when I’m outside. They can smell my rotten blood. I can hear them whisper, they think I can’t hear them, but I can. I hear everything. There are so many sounds I can hardly bear it some days. The constant chatter from inside people’s heads. Why don’t they stop? Just for a second. If they stopped I could get some peace. His voice is the only thing that calms the noise. He’ll keep me safe. He laid his hand on my shoulder; the smell from my putrid blood doesn’t repulse him. Tonight he laid his hand on my shoulder and told me his name. Raphael.
7
Glasgow 2002
Alec Davies looked at the bulging case file on his desk. It stretched over twelve box-files, each one tattered and worn at the edges from the past three decades. He was almost afraid to make a start on it. He’d glanced at it before, and knew most of the key facts – there were few cops in Glasgow who didn’t – but even before he read it he knew it would be stuffed full of inaccurate witness statements, contaminated crime scenes and a conspicuous absence of vital evidence. A bloody nightmare.
There seemed to be no connections between any of the victims. Davies sifted through the profile case of each of them. This was going to be a shitty job.
There was a rap on the door and McVeigh entered before he had a chance to say bugger off.
‘Wee cup of tea?’ McVeigh placed the china mug on the desk. ‘It’s infused with rose petals.’
‘What is it with you and fucking tea?’
‘I got it in Florence. They have the most spectacular tea houses.’
This was all Davies needed to convince him the whole world was going mad. He looked at McVeigh. ‘And what the fuck is that on your top lip?’
‘Nothing.’ McVeigh ran his index finger under his nose to check there was nothing lurking there.
‘Aye, I can see that, but… it looks weird.’
McVeigh’s top lip had a strip of chalk-white flesh in the shape of a moustache. The rest of his face had the freckled sun-burned look that only the redhead could appreciate.
‘Why is it a different colour from the rest of you?’
McVeigh craned his neck to catch his reflection on the mirror behind Davies. ‘I grew a moustache on holiday.’
A feeling of déjà vu washed over him. ‘Well, where is it?’
‘What?’
‘The fucking moustache.’ Davies could feel his ulcer coming back.
‘I shaved it off. You told me to!’ He looked like a petulant teenager. ‘You said I looked like a twat.’
‘Aye and you look like an even bigger twat now!’ He thought this day was never going to end. ‘Grow it back again. Fuck’s sake, is it too much to ask that I have an assistant whose face is all the same colour?’ He looked at the china cup on his desk. ‘And can you get me some… some Bovril for a change? I’m sick of tea.’
He felt a slight pang of guilt. McVeigh did his best and was shaping up to be a fairly decent detective. But he found it hard to be nice to him. He just couldn’t put his finger on it: McVeigh got on his tits.
There was a rap on the door, which changed the subject away from tea and top lips. ‘You seen this?’ It was one of the desk sergeants, laughing as he pointed to two men guiding a huge machine on wheels through the office.
Davies stepped toward the door and craned his neck to get a better look, ‘What the fuck is that?’
‘Oh, it’s arrived.’ McVeigh eased past him and seemed to be the only one with a handle on what the hell was going on. ‘It’s a health monitor,’ he said as he walked out giving the machine a loving stroke.’
‘What’s a health monitor?’
‘It does everything, measures blood pressure, pulse, weight, you name it’ By this time the two guys had negotiated the monstrosity through the double doors. ‘It
can even tell you your risk of having a heart attack.’
Davies felt his own heart sink and hoped to God there wasn’t a breathalyser installed on it or he’d be snookered.
‘Why is it here?’
McVeigh was now on a roll, clearly delighted at being in the vanguard of this brave new world. ‘Part of the force initiative for us all to keep in shape.’ He gave Davies the once-over and did a really annoying little nod-cum-wink thing, ‘No excuses now,’ then added a smirk to the ensemble. Davies could just tell there was a six-pack lurking under his M&S sweater mocking him with a whiter than white smile.
‘Can we get back to work?’ He jerked his thumb back towards his office, making sure McVeigh followed. ‘You had a look at this?’ He pointed to the box on his desk. McVeigh shook his head, but Davies knew like most of Glasgow he’d have a rough idea of the case. Everyone knew about Raphael. His killings were apparently random, with no obvious pattern, and made little sense. But every religious nut in the city was under suspicion.
He opened the lid of the first box and flicked the spring catch that kept the papers in place. There was a handwritten note signed by Dr Andrew Malloy. Davies held it between his thumb and forefinger. Poor Malloy.
He stood up and pulled on his jacket. ‘Come on.’
‘Where we going?’
‘To do a bit of plod-work.’ He barged out of the office, deliberately forcing the two delivery men to step aside as the rest of the office cooed over the new ‘guilt-machine’. McVeigh scurried after him, pulling his jacket off the back of his chair on the way out, and fell into step beside him. He resisted saying, ‘But you haven’t finished your tea,’ and for that Alec Davies was truly grateful.
8
Glasgow 2002
Normally murder briefings had a sense of urgency, but not this one. The victims had been dead for almost thirty years and the only suspect wasn’t going anywhere. The budget was tight; Davies guessed Threadgold had done his best to push the boat out, but they’d struggle to find enough man hours to do this case justice. There were only three people assigned to the case: himself, McVeigh and a new graduate, Toria Law. He didn’t hold out much hope for a speedy resolution.
Toria caught Davies staring at her; she responded with a nervous smile.
‘You any relation to Amy Law?’ He’d worked with Amy on a case in the past. She was a good cop and had been transferred to Serious Crime in Edinburgh.
‘Sister,’ she said.
‘You as gobby as she is?’
‘Not really, but I can be if you think it’ll help my career.’
He turned to the whiteboard, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Didn’t want to let her see him smile.
‘Right, here’s the deal.’ He went through the main details of the case, what they knew, which was surprisingly little.
Each murder had made headline news. There was nothing particularly gruesome or gory about them. And apparently nothing the police could find to link the victims. Nothing except the way that they died. But Davies knew that wasn’t right. There were very few random serial killers. Some newspaper clippings sat on top of one of the files. Composite photofit pictures filled the pages of each story, which could have been any one of a thousand men in the city at that time. Grainy pictures of Glasgow closes and streets where the women’s bodies had been discovered. It looked the grey and dreich place that he remembered so well from his childhood.
Each victim had had their throat slit and been left fully clothed. No sign of any sexual interference.
He pinned the pictures of the dead girls on the board. ‘As far as we know there was nothing to link each of the victims—’
‘They all look alike?’ Toria phrased it as a question and held one finger up as she spoke.
‘I was just coming to that, but thanks, Toria.’ Oh, God, he thought, this is going to be tedious.
Toria held up a finger again. ‘They were all killed on a Thursday night…?’
‘Yes. But at this stage we can’t assume this is significant—’
‘But it might be,’ added McVeigh, who looked a bit pissed off at being left out so far.
‘Of course…’ Davies rubbed the underside of his ribs; that ulcer was threatening to make a spectacular comeback ‘… but… oh, for fuck’s sake can I just finish this without you two piping up every five minutes? It’s like herding fucking cats,’ he muttered before going back to the whiteboard.
Davies knew that often details that looked significant could lead an investigation down the wrong path completely, yet to ignore even the smallest detail could prove fatal. The Yorkshire Ripper proved to be a case in point. Peter Sutcliffe had been interviewed by the cops nine times during the investigation. He even matched the bite marks taken by forensics. But hoax tapes and letters profiled the Ripper as being from Wearside and were used to eliminate all other potential suspects – including Sutcliffe himself.
Davies knew that every detail had to be used as a line of inquiry and not as a point of elimination. He continued and outlined what they had.
‘OK, no apparent link, they all look similar and were all killed on a Thursday evening as they walked home. And, of course, the biblical quote left on each body. Which links the killer, not the victim.’
The case notes were a nightmare. Thousands of men had been interviewed but there had been very little to go on. Media reports had asked for the public’s help in finding the killer, but all that had led to were thousands of phone calls to an already overstretched police force. Some of the calls had made no sense at all. But each one had had to be logged, wasting valuable time and resources. The murders pre-dated computers on the force and every statement had been stored on handwritten index cards, making it impossible to cross-reference. The key suspect at the time had been a petty thief, Willie Mack.
The pictures of the dead girls showed no sign of frenzied attack, no sign of a struggle. And according to the autopsy reports each one had died after a single slice to the carotid artery. Not the work of a small-time crook more used to grabbing videos and sovereign rings. But Mack had been seen prowling around the back courts of Glasgow tenements during the time of one of the murders. Davies reckoned he’d been more likely looking for an opportunistic open window than a potential victim. He’d been questioned several times, but let go when his wife and cronies had provided cast-iron alibis for each murder. Davies had never believed that Mack was the killer anyway, but now he was their best hope.
Toria held up her hand again. Davies let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘You don’t need to put your hand up every time you want to speak.’ He wondered if she was taking the piss and struggled to remain patient, but he was still fresh from a one-day management training course, which had told him and a few other cops nearing retirement that they were no longer permitted to treat the rookies like shit. McVeigh didn’t count. McVeigh wanted to be one of the big boys and if he was to survive then he’d need to take all the shit that got thrown at him. Otherwise he’d sink without a trace. With the others, though, Davies knew he couldn’t risk it. They were too quick nowadays to file a complaint form with everything from racism to bullying to sexism. The only thing that was still permitted, according to employment law, was a bit of bigotry. So, by all accounts he’d get away with firing a few Orange and Fenian bastards about and all he’d get was a stern talking-to.
‘Right, any questions?’
Toria was about to raise her hand then pulled it back down before she spoke. ‘Just one.’ Davies nodded to her to continue. ‘Why has the case reopened? I mean, what’s the new evidence?’
‘Good question,’ and it was. Had it been up to Davies the case would have remained where it was. Technically they didn’t have enough to re-investigate it.
‘Well, as you know we’ve received a letter from the daughter of our only suspect from the time. Apparently she’s now saying she knew all along her dad was the killer.’
This time it was McVeigh who butted in. ‘But what actual evidence do we have?’
Davies was feeling weary. None of this was stacking up.
‘I mean,’ continued McVeigh, ‘is there any actual evidence apart from this daughter who may or may not have a grudge against her dad?’
‘Well, yeah and no.’ Davies couldn’t tell him he thought he was right. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen this. Forensics had gone back over the evidence and managed to find a scrap of DNA picked up from the first of the victims, Janet Channing. Traces of saliva on the shoulder of her raincoat, which she could have picked up from the bus, from the supermarket, from anywhere in fact.
Didn’t mean it belonged to the killer. But Threadgold was determined this case would be closed before he hung up his truncheon and that was about the size of it. He might be about to make way for fresh blood, but he still had a lot of clout in the force.
‘And for that you got an exhumation order?’ McVeigh didn’t even try to keep the surprise out of his voice.
‘So why are we re-investigating the case?’ Toria was clearly comfortable enough now to speak without bobbing her hand up every few seconds. ‘Surely it would be more prudent to wait and see if the DNA matched the suspect before going to all the trouble of tracking down witnesses and…’ She let her voice trail off. She’d been seconded to the team, if you could call it a team, from another case. A gang of professional shoplifters was targeting the designer stores in the city centre. Blagging hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of booty each day.
‘Toria, love, if you want to go back to sitting in front of a screen analysing CCTV footage for eight hours at a time then be my guest. If not, then…’
‘Shut it?’ She finished his sentence for him.
‘Comprende.’
They were both right, of course, but Davies had a horrible suspicion that somewhere along the line the DNA would miraculously fit their only known suspect, and if that was the case there wouldn’t be too many questions asked and it would be a case of ‘case closed’. But he’d never get the chance to reopen the investigation and he needed a motive to find out why these girls were killed. It just didn’t fit.
Keep Her Silent Page 4