Her finger lingered on the order button. Her basket flashed, urging her to complete the order. She could buy them, didn’t actually have to use them. Stuff it, they were only tranquillisers.
13
Glasgow 1975
Her blonde hair hung to her shoulders. There was a shine to it and it probably smelled of apples, but there was no way of knowing that, unless she was closer. Her summer raincoat was pulled tight at the waist with a belt.
Overhead the sky darkened and threatened rain; she walked quickly, obviously used to walking in heels. There was a tiny ladder in her nylons. Just at the left ankle. She probably hadn’t even noticed it was there. She looked like the type to throw them away rather than mend them.
Rain would be good. It masked the sounds. The light began to fade and she switched her bag from one shoulder to the other as she looked up at the sky and turned into a narrow side street, then through a lane that was lined with the redbrick walls of the tenement back courts.
She wasn’t more than a few yards away now. ‘Excuse me…’ She turned around. ‘Can you tell me…?’ Her green eyes flashed for just an instant, then glanced down at her throat; they both saw the street light glint off the long blade. There was no sound as she clutched her hands to her neck, her bag falling from her shoulder onto the ground at her feet. The blood seeped through her fingers as her legs buckled and she fell first onto her knees, then sideways, slumped against the wall. Her nylons were ruined. The blade was easy enough to remove. The rain started as the blood streaked from her wound into her hair and gathered in a little pool.
She looked nice. There was no wedding ring, but perhaps she had a boyfriend. She was bound to have some family and that was a shame.
14
Glasgow 2002
‘I appreciate the details may be a bit hazy after all this time.’ Davies reached up to take the steaming mug of coffee when the woman faltered.
‘Are you kidding? I wish I could forget.’ She passed him the mug, careful to twist it so he could take the handle, then sat down on the sofa opposite. ‘We were more like sisters than best friends, you know?’
Davies nodded, although he didn’t really know. He’d never got on with his own brother, and his cousins were scattered around the country to make anything other than yearly visits out of the question.
Framed pictures were dotted around the room; a black and white photo-booth image of two teenage girls, made fuzzy by the enlargement, was in a silver frame on the console table. She picked it up. ‘This is my favourite.’ She held it out for Davies to take a closer look. ‘Taken at the booth in Central station. We were always goofing about.’ She sat back down and waited for Davies to speak.
McVeigh had done a good job tracking down Eileen McLean. She’d moved several times since Janet Channing’s murder before finally settling in Edinburgh. She’d also been married twice, changing her name each time.
Davies was trying to find a link between each girl who’d been murdered – other than the fact they all had shoulder-length blonde hair. They must have missed something in the initial investigation. Then the killing spree had stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun. That usually meant one of several things: the killer had died, the killer was in prison for some other crime, or the deaths had never been linked and it was all just a coincidence. But Davies didn’t believe in coincidences.
He didn’t expect to learn anything from this visit, but he felt he had to start somewhere. Sadly, Eileen McLean was still grieving for her best friend. She was right, her memory was crystal clear, but she just didn’t have any information that could lead him to the killer.
‘Was there anything different about Janet in the run-up to her death?’ Eileen shook her head. ‘And the boyfriend, did he seem—?’
Eileen cut him off. ‘Alistair was just an ordinary kid. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
Davies looked down at his feet. He had no idea where he was going with this. Janet Channing’s boyfriend at the time of her death was long since dead. He’d been a prime suspect in the early stages of the investigation. The boyfriends or partners usually were, but he’d been out of the country when the other killings took place, which pretty much crossed him off the list. Anyway, the killing was too clean-cut. Too neat for it to be the boyfriend. Partners tended to leave their victims in a mess.
‘Was she perhaps seeing someone else? Did she ever mention any other boys?’
Eileen shook her head. A dead end. ‘Not that she was short of admirers. You’ve seen her picture. Stunning, wasn’t she?’ Davies agreed. ‘But she didn’t know it. She was quite shy really, was always the quiet one. Her sister was the—’
‘Her sister?’
Eileen Mclean topped up Davies’s tea. ‘Oh, I’m not saying Marjory wasn’t nice either…’ her face flushed red, as though she’d been caught gossiping ‘… but she was always much more outgoing than Janet.’
Davies scanned the details he had of Janet Channing. There was no mention of a sister, just her parents and a younger brother. He hated being on the back foot. ‘Did she live at home as well?’ He tried to sound casual, didn’t want to let on he knew nothing about the sister.
‘No!’ Eileen tutted as though this were the most stupid thing anyone had ever uttered. ‘Marjory was in America.’ She paused for a few moments. ‘I think it was the States – it might have been Canada. Anyway, she was seven years older than Janet and had worked all over the place.’
‘Where is she now?’ There was nothing in the case notes about a sister, clearly she’d never been interviewed, but had she been abroad at the time of Janet’s murder that was hardly surprising.
Eileen McLean settled back into her chair. ‘She passed away too from what I gather. She’d come home for the funeral but only stayed until the next day then was off again. Marjory was a bit more, how can I put it…?’
Davies knew he shouldn’t prompt her, so let the question breathe for a few moments.
‘She just had her own life. Liked to do things her way. Not really a home bird at all.’
‘When did she die?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure really. I’d heard a few years back that she’d passed away. D’you know I can’t even remember who told me that. But aye, only the brother left. It’s a sin.’
Davies had left McVeigh trying to track down the brother. They couldn’t find any trace of him, like most of the family and friends of the three murdered girls. After all this time they only had a handful of people still alive connected to the case. Even that would prove little use. There were no actual witnesses to the killings themselves. It was hard work. Just old-fashioned plod work, but Davies felt they must have missed something in the original investigation.
‘I take it you’ve lost touch with the family?’
Eileen gave an apologetic smile. ‘Although Janet and I were best pals, I never really fitted in. They were a lot posher than us. They lived in the Mearns and we were on the scheme.’
Sprawling estates with council-owned properties were called schemes, the privately-owned ones were always estates. Davies could never work out what the difference was.
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, they were always really nice to me, but you know.’
Davies knew only too well.
‘We exchanged Christmas cards for a few years, then I got married, moved away and sort of…’
‘It happens. Easy to lose touch.’ He eased himself out of the chair; last night’s five-a-side had taken its toll and his knee creaked like a dodgy dial-up Internet connection. He caught Eileen glance down and once more give him that apologetic smile.
‘Thanks for the tea. You’ve been most helpful—’ they both knew he was lying ‘—and if you can think of anything else, anything at all, no matter how trivial…’ He handed her his card. She slipped it into the mirror frame on the mantelpiece and promised to get in touch should that elusive, vital clue suddenly come to mind that would tie up this entire case.
She walked him to the door. ‘When you talk to
Mike tell him I’m asking for him.’
‘Mike?’
‘Aye, Michael—’ just a nod ‘—Janet’s brother.’
‘Will do, and thanks again.’ Davies didn’t have the heart to tell her they didn’t have a clue where he was either.
‘Although I’m not sure he’ll even remember me. He’s done well for himself though.’
Davies paused on the front step. ‘I thought you said you’d lost touch with the—’
‘Yeah, but let’s face it, it’s easy to keep track of Mike’s progress.’
Davies was lost. Didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. His poker face must have let him down.
‘Mike Morrison? The painter?’ She pointed to a print on the wall. ‘That’s as close as I’ll get to an original, I’m afraid. His work goes for silly money now.’
‘I’m not much of an art connoisseur.’ Davies wasn’t kidding, when it came to art he was clueless, but even he had heard of Mike Morrison. Glasgow boy turned good. His works hung on the walls of the rich and famous across the world. But as usual with these things it was Posh-Glasgow boy turned good. Mike Morrison had been an art-school graduate, but played on his Glaswegian upbringing, playing the working-class-hero card.
Davies was biting his tongue so hard he was sure he’d be drawing blood some time soon. He didn’t want to come across as a prick in front of Eileen McLean and let on he didn’t have a clue that one of Scotland’s most famous artists was the brother of Janet Channing.
The noise won’t go away. I’ve begged them to stop. It’s raining. She’ll be getting wet. Her clothes will be all muddy and dirty. That’s not nice. She didn’t suffer. I’m sure of that. I’m praying for her. Praying for her soul. I need to stop this. I need it to stop. There can’t be any more. Robbie’s safe. I’ll make sure he’s safe. I must have done something wrong. I don’t know what, but it must be a bad thing. I fear Raphael has deserted me. It’s been so long since he’s spoken to me. I can make this stop. I need to make this stop. Andrew will be home soon. In him we have redemption through his blood.
15
Glasgow 1975
Dorothy wiped her hands on a tea towel and wandered through to the living room. The skin around her once perfect nails was bitten red and raw. The anxiety that had settled in her chest caused the acid to burn the back of her throat.
Her graduation picture was one of a group of family portraits on the piano. She missed teaching. Perhaps when Robbie started school she could think about going back. The shrill ring of the phone made her jump. Her hands trembled as she lifted the receiver. She couldn’t bear to hear the words she knew were coming.
‘There’s been another one.’ She didn’t answer. The tears stung hot in her eyes, and her breath grew shorter. ‘They’re just innocent girls.’
‘This has got nothing to do with me,’ she screamed. ‘Leave me alone.’
She tried to piece together the events of the last few months. But things were hazy. Tried to remember but couldn’t. She pulled open drawers to find her diary. She needed to see if there was evidence of a pattern. The radio blared in the background and seemed to grow louder and louder. Panic overwhelmed her chest, which grew tight and squeezed the breath from her.
Drawers were pulled from cabinets, contents scattered around the floor. She didn’t even know what she was looking for.
By the time she was finished she was exhausted and sat panting on the floor among the mess. Her shoulder bag hung from a chair. She fumbled inside until she found the small brown bottle, then stuffed two pills into her mouth, hungry for the relief they offered. The dryness coated her mouth and they stuck in her throat. She struggled for breath and scrambled over to the sink on all fours. Pulling herself up, she managed to turn on the cold tap and cupped the water into her mouth. The small tablets, so benign, eventually slipped down.
She wiped the tears from her cheek; the hand of the clock moved so slowly. The ticking counted the seconds, which would eventually turn into minutes, which would allow the pills to give her some relief. Her back was against the sink. The mayhem in her kitchen lay scattered around her feet. The phone rang once more. Loud and shrill, it seemed to echo through the entire house.
‘Leave me alone!’ Dorothy’s scream burned the back of her throat and she placed both hands over her ears, but it did nothing to drown out the sounds. She picked up a plate and threw it in the direction of the phone. It smashed against the wall, the sharp shards spiking the carpet as Dorothy slid down the kitchen unit and sobbed on the floor.
16
Glasgow 1975
The hair was slightly darker, more honey than ash, but still blonde. It was strange how we all woke up each morning, never really knowing for certain if this would be our last day on earth. How many would do things differently if we knew. How many dreams left unfulfilled, how many love letters unwritten. It did no good to be sentimental.
Dusk was descending on the city and the heel of her boots caused a very slight echo as she walked. This was the first day without rain in almost two months; the weather man had said so on the television just a few hours ago. Closer up, evidence of a natural brunette created a slight dark line across her scalp. A single silver bracelet hung loose on her wrist, settling on her hand. She had a confident stride and walked quickly.
Dumbarton Road stretched into the distance, flanked by tenements on either side. A row of shops in the distance. A small clearing of grass just before them. This was a busy road and a bus route. Not the best place for this. She turned left into a side street. Perfect.
‘Excuse me, miss.’ She spun round and glanced at the one-pound note offered in her direction. ‘Did you drop this?’
She patted her pockets. ‘No, I eh, no, I don’t think so.’ She checked the catch on her bag, which was securely fastened. ‘Not mine.’ She smiled and her teeth appeared to be perfect. Tiny laughter lines creased around her eyes. She looked as though she smiled a lot. Just one flaw. Her nails were bitten down. Made her look vulgar.
‘Oh, well, my lucky night, eh?’ The pound note was placed back into the pocket from where it came. They were side by side now and fell into step with each other.
‘Thank God the rain’s off, eh?’ She nodded and smiled again. She was probably taught to be nice to others. Always smile. Perhaps she believed girls who smiled politely were more popular.
‘Right, I’d best crack on.’ A slight look of relief passed her eyes. She seemed glad not to have to continue with the small talk, but she gave a polite smile and a slight nod. ‘Oh, just one thing…’
‘Yes?’ Her eyes once more had that happy-to-help look.
‘This.’ The blade was across her throat with surgical precision. She fell to the ground before her eyes had a chance to close.
17
Glasgow 2002
Tom was sitting in a booth near the bar nursing a drink. For a moment Oonagh almost didn’t recognise him. His hair was cut in a close crop and had slightly greyed at the temples. His clothes were casual but looked expensive and he had a relaxed way that he’d never had before. He waved over and stood up when he saw her approach.
‘Father.’ Oonagh bowed her head slightly.
‘My child.’ Tom laid his hand on her head before reaching his arms out to hug her.
‘Oh, how the hell are you, Tom?’ Oonagh squeezed him tight and couldn’t help but notice his aftershave smelt expensive. She eased herself into the booth and sat opposite him. ‘You look great,’ and she meant it. She tapped her throat with her index finger. ‘Not missing the old dog collar, then?’
‘Oonagh, I actually liked being a priest…’ he looked into his glass ‘… sometimes.’
She reached across and patted his hand. ‘I’m just teasing.’ She saw the waiter busy at another table and wriggled out of the booth. ‘Same again?’ Tom nodded. ‘And that would be…?’
‘Oh, gin & tonic.’
‘Slimline?’ He nodded again.
Oonagh stood at the bar and could see Tom behind he
r in the mirror. She was glad he was looking so well. Initially she’d felt a bit guilty about his fall from grace – after all, she’d been pretty instrumental in the whole decision.
But looking at him now she knew he’d made the right choice. After he’d left the priesthood he’d gone into pastoral care. Oonagh wasn’t quite sure what that was but, by all accounts, he was administering good works to a community in Lanark. He caught her looking and gave her a smile, then they were both distracted and cast an eye over a tall chap in a mohair suit who passed the table.
She returned to her seat and placed the drinks on the table. ‘So how long are you in Glasgow for?’
‘Not long, a couple of days.’
Oonagh was genuinely disappointed. She missed Tom. ‘Stay a wee while longer.’
He just shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. ‘So, what’re you up to?’
Oonagh let out a slight sigh that made her sound like a horse. ‘Don’t ask. I’ve backed myself into a corner with a series on women who kill.’
Tom knitted his brows together. ‘Thought that’d be right up your street.’
She stirred her drink with the straw then took a sip. ‘Usually, but I don’t know, Tom. It just feels…’ She struggled for the words; Tom helped her out.
‘Salacious?’
She nodded. ‘I’m peddling people’s misery.’ She waited for him to reassure her and tell her what a great journalist she was, but the sod just raised his eyebrows. He let her carry on and she talked for ten minutes to dig herself out of the hole she’d created.
‘There’s someone who you may be able to help.’
Oonagh held up her hand. ‘The last person I tried to help nearly got me killed, remember?’ She placed her right hand on her throat and smoothed the cashmere polo up over her neck.
Tom placed his glass on the table between them. ‘Hear me out.’ Oonagh settled back and waited to be unimpressed.
Keep Her Silent Page 6