‘We’re treating this as though the suspect were still alive. We’re treating this as though the case were fresh. As though those poor women were killed yesterday. Is that clear?’
McVeigh and Law both nodded.
9
Glasgow 1975
He sliced through the skin, creating a Y-shaped incision through the torso; there wasn’t much fat on this one. The cuts were clean. Tidy. He was always careful to ensure that. Normally he’d let his assistant do the initial incision, take out the vital organs, but he’d insisted on doing this one entirely alone. The only thing the mortician had to do was measure its height and weight.
The instruments had been laid out exactly as he’d instructed. The clear plastic safety glasses fitted neatly over his own, and he made sure the paper mask covered his nose and mouth. Carefully he peeled back the thick layer of skin that flanked the breastbone and braced himself for the smell. It was the one thing he never got used to; no one did. And once the smell of death touched you it never went away. A drop of blood spilled onto his blue scrubs, splashing down onto his white rubber boots. He was careful to wear two pairs of disposable gloves, with a Kevlar glove in between on his non-dominant hand. There could be no room for mistakes here.
Next, he clamped the open torso at either side of the navel to reveal the organs. Bruising was evident along both arms and legs – that was to be expected – with further evidence of bleeding into the joints. The main organs would be removed and weighed. Tissue samples taken and, of course, the obligatory blood tests. Everything as it should be. The only thing missing was the consent form.
For Andrew Malloy being a surgeon was as much about working on dead people as the living. For as long as he could remember he’d wanted to be a doctor. As a kid he’d worked in his dad’s butcher shop before getting a Saturday job in the local vet’s.
‘Any experience of working with animals?’ they’d asked.
‘Only dead ones’ he’d replied without a trace of irony. He was sure he’d got the job for his cheek alone. Then at medical school slicing through bodies had come like second nature to him. He was mesmerised at how a cadaver was reduced to no more than a collection of blood, flesh and bone. Sinews and muscles. Meat and carcass. Yet still it had a soul. He never forgot that. And was forever grateful to the souls who’d donated their bodies to medical science in order that he and his pals could practise being grown-up doctors.
It was a twist of fate that determined the discipline of medicine each student fell into. And fell really was the operative word. Punishingly long hours as a hospital consultant meant few women opted for that. Constant overnights and being on call did not make for an easy motherhood. The nice guys went into paediatrics. Anaesthetists, well, they were the silent assassins. The good guys who made everyone laugh, but then would put you to sleep with a snap of their finger. In an instant the patient would be under. Every bodily function at the mercy of the one who wielded the God complex. It was they who had the power of life over death, not the surgeons. It was they who ensured that the patient could drift into slumber and feel no pain, or if they were so inclined ensure that the unlucky sod was paralysed yet was aware of each slice of the knife. There were enough rumours to claim that those with a marginally sadistic streak would gauge it just right, just enough for the tiny perception of pain and awareness throughout the operation. Enough to be aware but not enough to think it was real. They’d forever more have post-op trauma but think it was all a bad dream.
The psychopaths became surgeons. As simple as that. There had to be a sadistic streak to slice a person open without feeling a degree of panic. As far as Andrew was aware, there had been no studies to suggest such, but there was certainly enough evidence associated with the personality traits of a surgeon: the ability to remain calm under immense pressure; the indifference to human suffering when slicing someone open. For him, pathology was the perfect option. Never had to speak to a single patient, and he got to hose them down afterwards. The smell of death was bad, but the stench of the living could be a whole lot worse. The total nutters went into psychiatry, but that was a whole other story.
Andrew spoke into the Dictaphone. He’d recently got into the habit of keeping two sets of autopsy notes. One for the public record, for the death certificate, and one for himself.
He looked down to the body on the slab. Normally it was a foregone conclusion. The deceased had suffered from haemophilia and had died from internal bleeding.
Once the body was opened up Andrew could see at a glance the cause of death.
Taking tissue from the liver would be a mere formality. The grey, bloated organ was pocked with disease; typical of the damage caused by the cirrhosis. But still, the tissue had to be inspected. Analysed.
With such damage to a vital organ the most likely scenario was that the male on the slab in front of him was a chronic alcoholic with years of abuse behind him. He might even have been a drug abuser. No one could blame him. Haemophilia was a shitty condition, often with a poor prognosis for the future. Was it any wonder the poor sod turned to the booze? The only problem was, the male on the slab in front of him was nine years old.
10
Glasgow 2002
The cuff loosened from the top of her arm. ‘Blood pressure’s normal, Oonagh. How’re the panic attacks?’
‘Fine.’ Oonagh O’Neil fished around in her bag for a tissue to avoid eye contact. ‘Much better, thanks.’ She was aware that her hands had a very slight but detectable tremor. Mags was clearly having none of it. She’d been her GP for over five years now, not that long really, but she was a good doctor and took the time with her patients. She had the bedside manner many others lacked. Oonagh liked to think they might have been friends had they met under different circumstances.
Mags sat back and crossed her legs, obviously couldn’t be fobbed off. She was noticeably taller than Oonagh, and her blonde hair was cut short in an Italian-boy style that Oonagh had toyed with but never had the courage to see through. Oonagh didn’t know that much about her, but imagined she pretty much had the perfect life Oonagh longed for. Her husband was most likely kind and supportive. They’d probably met at uni. He’d have put off studying for his PhD until after she’d finished med school. They’d have two immaculate blond children who took piano lessons every Thursday after school and would run into their parents’ room on a Sunday morning, jumping on the bed and thwarting any plans for sleepy love-making. Her husband would scoop them up and go downstairs to start breakfast, leaving Mags to have a much-needed long lie in.
Oonagh suddenly felt lonelier than she had in years and was mortified to feel the telltale sting of sadness on the tip of her nose as her eyes filled with tears. Mags leaned over. ‘It’s OK, Oonagh. These things take a long time to get over.’
‘No, God, I’m fine, it’s just that…’ She trailed off, deciding against telling her GP that she was crying because she didn’t have any pals, envied the life she imagined Mags to have and was even fantasising about chumming up with her for girlie nights in the West End.
‘Are you trying for another baby? There’s no reason why you—’
‘I wasn’t trying for that one.’
‘Sorry.’ The colour rose slightly in her GP’s face and Oonagh suddenly felt like a shit.
‘No, please, it’s OK. It wasn’t the right time. I don’t have anyone special in my life and…’ She let it trail off.
‘None the less, a miscarriage is never easy.’
How had it come to this? Hitting forty and no pals. She didn’t think she should count Tom. And Alec? Well, he had his own life. She longed for some proper female friends. The kind she could lose a Saturday afternoon with over a bottle of wine. The kind she used to have. But times moved on and people moved on. Slowly they changed, or Oonagh changed. Some moved away, most got married, had children, settled down. A couple of them had died. Tragic short lives cut down. It didn’t take long to lose touch with people. The new friends Oonagh had made when she’d started wor
king in television had been mainly media types. Itinerant types, desperately moving from promotion to promotion. Oonagh had been lucky, or so she’d thought, staying in her native Glasgow. And the life that she’d craved of late-night parties, adrenalin-filled deadlines and the single-girl freedom of staying in bed until three on a Sunday now just felt hollow and empty.
Mags didn’t seem to feel the need to fill the silence. Oonagh let it linger for a few more moments before blurting out, ‘Can I get more pills?’
Mags took off her specs and laid them on the table. ‘Oonagh, I’m not sure that’s necessarily the answer.’
‘Just a slight increase in the dosage.’ She tried to keep the desperation from her voice. ‘I don’t feel these are—’
‘Have you thought about counselling?’
Shit, not that. ‘I’ve been through most of the good ones within a ten-mile radius. I’m onto the crap ones now.’ She let out a laugh as she blew her nose. Mags allowed a faint smile, and her eyes showed she was on Oonagh’s side.
‘You’ve had a rough time of it.’
The sympathy was more than Oonagh could bear; her eyes welled up at this display of camaraderie. She felt her heart beat just a little faster. Dr Mags was going to give in. Write her a new prescription for bigger and better happy pills. Ones that worked. Oonagh nodded her head as the tears spilled onto her cheek and pangs of self-pity tugged at the side of her mouth.
‘I want you to try CBT.’
‘What?’ Oonagh struggled to keep the disappointment from her voice. Her new pal was letting the side down.
‘Cognitive behavioural—’
‘I know what it is.’ Oonagh didn’t let her finish.
‘There’s every reason to believe you’re suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. The miscarriage, the attack…’
‘Counselling won’t help. I could write a book on the different therapies available. I’m sick to the back teeth of therapists with their soothing voices and Laura Ashley curtains. I want more pills!’ The last sentence was more aggressive than she’d intended. ‘Please,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘Oonagh, I’m afraid you’re already on the highest dose.’
Mags clearly didn’t understand. With her perfect life and her perfect husband and her perfect children.
‘How much alcohol do you consume each week?’
‘For f… goodness’ sake. Why does everyone assume I’m an alcoholic all of a sudden?’
‘You know alcohol is a depressant, on top of which it really doesn’t agree with the anti-depressants that you’re on, so if you—’
A slight wave of panic fluttered in her chest. ‘Yip, you’re right.’ She needed out of there. It was happening more and more, with alarming frequency. Butterflies with iron wings reached up and gripped her throat. ‘I’ll knock the booze on the head.’
Mags’ soft smile, which had seemed so caring just moments before, suddenly now seemed smug and victorious.
‘And please give the CBT one more go.’ She scribbled something down on a Post-it note. ‘We can refer you, but there’s a waiting list.’ She passed the note to Oonagh. ‘To be honest, the Priory is probably the best in the country.’ Oonagh scanned the piece of paper; it was the name of a therapist.
‘I can thoroughly recommend him. He’s not cheap,’ Mags said, ‘but I don’t think that’ll be an issue?’
Oonagh gave an unenthusiastic nod. ‘Thanks.’ She felt utterly betrayed, but then Mags had probably never had a day’s sadness or uncertainty in her life. She got up to leave.
‘Just try him, Oonagh.’ Mags dipped her head towards the Post-it note; her voice dropped to no more than a whisper. ‘He helped me enormously after my husband was killed.’
Oonagh’s mouth moved. ‘I’m, I’m so…’ Through her shame she mumbled an impotent apology. Mags smiled again as she ushered Oonagh towards the door.
‘Come back and see me in a month. And try to stay off the booze, Oonagh.’
11
Glasgow 1975
Andrew Malloy held his hand over the mouthpiece as he spoke. There was no one else around, but just in case. He’d arranged to meet her in a place neither of them would be recognised. She knew as well as he did how vital it was that they kept their arrangement private, but he told her again just in case. She was young and sounded very nervous; understandably really. They’d never met outside work before, well, just that once at the Christmas party, but there had been dozens of others there too so that didn’t count.
Dorothy Malloy glanced at the clock, then back at her watch; both settled on 5.50. She caught a taxi from the railway station. It threatened rain and the black clouds meant it was already dark for the time of year. Robbie was tucked up in bed. She’d told the neighbour her aunt had taken ill and she had to visit her in hospital. Her neighbour had no reason not to believe her. He was a good boy, Robbie – more than likely he’d still be sleeping by the time she got back.
The café wasn’t somewhere she would normally go, but she took a seat by the window. From here she could see the pub across the road. Had a good view of the front door. No one gave her a second look as she nursed her second cup of coffee. It had already gone cold, but she stirred the top of the froth as she looked out of the window, picking the skin around her thumb until it bled.
Ten past six.
She recognised Andrew immediately. Even with his back to her she’d be able to pick him out in a crowd. The man she slept soundly beside every night. The man who had fathered her only child. The man she’d promised to love, honour and obey. He walked inside, she lost sight of him, but there was only one exit so he couldn’t leave without her seeing him. She sat for a further few minutes then saw her across the street. She’d never seen her before, yet recognised her immediately. She didn’t belong in this neighbourhood. Her blonde hair hung softly to her shoulders. She seemed barely out of her teens. Her clothes looked expensive, her raincoat a classic design, the plain grey skirt underneath cut on the bias. Dorothy liked that detail. It sat well on her. She walked inside and within minutes was back outside with Dorothy Malloy’s husband by her side. He held a protective hand under her left elbow as he ushered her across the road. Dorothy felt the emptiness in the pit of her stomach and realised that she’d already lost him. The girl by his side was almost perfect. Just one tiny flaw. A small ladder on the left heel of her pale-tan stockings. Dorothy guessed she hadn’t even noticed it was there.
12
Glasgow 2002
The city had changed so much in the past three decades. Alec Davies had been only a teenager when the first murder had been carried out, but it had dominated news headlines and he remembered it as though it were yesterday. They retraced the steps of the first victim, or what they assumed were her steps. CCTV in the 70s wasn’t what it is today. ‘D’you think this’ll do any good Boss? I mean what’re we looking for here?’ Davies ignored his partner and kept on walking.
Janet Channing had been a nineteen-year-old medical secretary who’d lived at home with her parents and younger brother. Had had a few close friends and a boyfriend she’d seen twice a week. Then one evening her life had been plucked from the ordinary when a stranger had slit her throat and left her to bleed to death in a back lane just a few minutes from her house. After that Janet Channing had become a household name. The press had made a big deal of the fact that she was pretty and came from a decent family. As though that mattered. In the six months following her death, two more women with the same height and build and hair colour had been killed in the same way. All with the same biblical quote tucked inside their coats. Suddenly Glasgow had had a serial killer on its hands.
A twenty-seven -year-old cold case was a fucking hellish thing to be landed with, but Davies had no choice; he so desperately wanted to do right by Threadgold.
He needed to get a feel for it. Give the killing a sense of place, a sense of time, and that wasn’t something he could put into words. He spoke to McVeigh without looking at him. ‘Why don’t y
ou go back to the office? I’m best here on my own.’ By this time, he was crouching near the spot where the body had been found. There had been no reports of a disturbance, no witnesses and no blood or skin under her fingernails. Her carotid artery had been sliced in a clean single cut. McVeigh took a step closer and Davies instinctively pushed him back in case he contaminated the evidence – even though that was an impossibility.
‘Fuck’s sake, can you just get out of my face here?’ He glanced at McVeigh then softened. ‘Long day, y’know?’ That was the nearest he could bring himself to apologise to his partner.
‘Shall I head back and go through the witness statements again?’
Davies nodded. ‘Aye, good idea.’ Despite McVeigh’s tendency to annoy him, he had a good instinct, and often spotted minor details that proved significant. ‘Oh, can you make sure someone gets up-to-date contact details for the witnesses?’ He took a breath. ‘The ones that are still alive.’
*
Oonagh keyed in ‘Tainted Blood Scandal’ into the search engine; it threw up hundreds of results. Her initial glimmer of excitement dropped like a stone when she saw they were mainly from crackpots and conspiracy theorists, each claim more elaborate than the last. There were a few newspaper articles, the ones which had been archived; it hacked her off that there wasn’t more online. There was nothing there that Maura Rowinson hadn’t told her already. Her mind and fingers instead wandered to Dr Google. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe Dr Mags when she said she was already on the highest dose of tranquillisers, but she wanted to double-check. Within moments ads started popping up for online happy pills. Safe, effective and stronger than anything a UK doctor would prescribe. She had no intention of buying them, just wanted to learn more.
Testimonials flooded the page. Happy customers made even happier with each and every dose. Surely there was no way they could sell this stuff if it wasn’t safe.
Keep Her Silent Page 5