‘I’ve been dealing with a woman who was incarcerated in Cartland for over a quarter of a century.’ Tom was very good. He knew how to press Oonagh’s buttons. She hadn’t realised it before. Cartland was the state hospital for the criminally insane. The psychopaths who were too dangerous for prison. Oonagh traced her finger around the rim of her glass.
‘Carry on.’
‘She’s now trying to integrate back into society.’
‘What did she do?’
Tom took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Oonagh shook her glass, allowing the ice to rattle, and said nothing. She knew he was buying time to make his tale more dramatic. Tom raised his glass to his lips. ‘Stabbed her husband, cut out his heart—’ a beat as he tipped his head back, swallowing the remains of his drink ‘—then drowned their five-year-old son.’ He nodded towards Oonagh’s glass. ‘Same again?’
It wasn’t often Oonagh O’Neil was lost for words. She was only vaguely aware of her mouth gaping open and assumed she must have nodded because he was up at the bar getting the round in. Tom had played a fucking blinder. He must be at it. If that had happened in Glasgow in the last fifty years Oonagh O’Neil would have known about it.
She felt a shift in the balance of power between her and Tom and wasn’t sure she was entirely comfortable with this new-found confidence he’d acquired. She rather liked the old Tom. The nervous Tom. The Tom who wore a dog collar and was scared of being a priest. Tom came back and told her the sad story of Dorothy Malloy. ‘I don’t understand why the press wasn’t all over that one.’
Tom raised an eyebrow. ‘They look after their own.’ Oonagh didn’t pick up on the cue. ‘The police,’ he added. ‘They made sure only the scantest of details were released.’
‘Fuck’s sake! Her husband was a cop?’
Tom thought for a few seconds. ‘Not quite – Forensic Pathologist. But he worked mainly for the police and had friends in high places.’
Oonagh took in the enormity of what he’d told her. She made a mental note to ask Alec. He was bound to know the details of this one. Tom gave her the details of Dorothy Malloy’s plight. Her entire family had disowned her after the killings.
‘Why the hell would she do a thing like that?’ She paused for a few seconds, tried to get the image of a wee boy drowning in the bath out of her head. ‘I mean, that’s pretty fucking brutal.’ Oonagh struggled to find sympathy for this woman but could only feel loathing. That aside, she had to admit she’d be perfect for the programme. If she was prepared to speak on camera.
Tom bit the inside of his cheek. Oonagh had seen that look before. ‘Tom?’
He drummed his fingers on the table and suddenly the old Tom that she knew and got slightly irritated by had come back. ‘It’s confidential, Oonagh. I can’t really talk about it.’
Oonagh knew that all it took to get Tom to be on her side was a decent red wine or a gallon of gin. She couldn’t be arsed going to the bar again and caught the waiter’s eye.
‘Tom! Behave yourself. You want me to meet this…’
‘Dorothy Malloy,’ Tom interrupted.
Oonagh nodded. ‘Dorothy… so presumably I’ll find out anyway.’
‘I’ve had access to her medical notes and she’d been prescribed anti-depressants like they were Smarties.’
Oonagh took in what he’d said. ‘Surely that was a mitigating factor?’
But Tom explained things were different in the seventies. Doctors prescribed pills without a second thought and didn’t care much for research that suggested that they could cause psychotic behaviour.
‘Can I meet her?’
Tom nodded. He was still biting the side of his cheek and Oonagh guessed it would be bleeding by now. Whatever Dorothy Malloy had done, she’d got under Tom’s skin.
18
Glasgow 2002
Davies caught the tail end of Oonagh’s car driving through the exit gate as he pulled into his parking space in front of the station. Shit. He considered driving after her but decided against it. He had no real excuse to speak to her right now other than he liked talking to her.
McVeigh was waiting for him on the steps, his suit jacket pulled tight with both hands, jumping from foot to foot to keep warm. He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. ‘Jeezus, it’s freezing.’
‘Did Oonagh say what she wanted?’
‘Eh?’
‘Oonagh O’Neil, just saw her drive away.’
McVeigh shrugged his shoulders.
‘Have you got an address?’
‘Yip.’ He held a Post-it note above his head, waiting for his boss’s approval. He’d have a long bloody wait.
It wasn’t a huge surprise that Mike Morrison lived in the West End. A converted church. There was a for-sale sign in the driveway. Davies made a mental note to check the price when he got back to the station.
Huge oil paintings covered the walls; red and green and orange clashed violently with dark purple backgrounds. Naked females with wild eyes and torn distended bellies, malnourished foetuses clawing at their feet, attached by a bloody cord. This was what people paid thousands for. Davies just didn’t get it. Morrison must have guessed what he was thinking. ‘Not everyone’s cup of tea.’
‘No, I was just…’ Davies struggled to find words, even one word, that wouldn’t land him in the shit.
‘Passion.’ McVeigh’s thumb was under his chin as his index finger curved over his top lip. He pointed at an oversized image of a woman tearing open her abdomen to reveal a coquettish girl sucking her middle finger. He turned to Davies and Morrison and tipped his head. ‘Aye, there’s real passion there.’
Davies wasn’t sure if he was taking the piss and currying some favour with the artist, or if he genuinely knew about art. ‘I’d say more like pain.’ Whatever it was, Morrison wasn’t buying it.
‘I take it you want to talk about Janet?’ He got straight to the point and Davies had no arguments with that.
‘We’re reinvestigating the case, Mr…’
‘Michael, please call me Michael. I use my mother’s maiden name. I didn’t want to be associated…’ He faltered for a few seconds. ‘No, that’s not quite right. I wanted my art to stand on its own two feet. Didn’t want to be that artist whose sister was killed, d’you know what I mean?’
‘Aye, I do.’ Davies knew only too well. Families of victims of violent crime were forever defined by that very fact.
‘So, what is it?’ Morrison clearly wanted to get to the point. He was thin but well built. His long hair still had some traces of blond, but was receding slightly and streaked with grey and curled out where it hit his neck. Plain jeans and T-shirt splashed with paint suggested bohemian rather than workie to the untrained eye.
‘We’re reopening the case. Well, that’s not strictly true, the case was never closed, but we’re reinvestigating your sister’s death, along with the other two girls who were killed, of course.’
‘Oh?’ Morrison posed it as a question. Understandable after nearly thirty years.
Davies didn’t want to give too much away. Hated giving families false hope. ‘We think we may have some DNA evidence that could…’ He detected the slightest hint of a twitch in Morrison’s jaw line. ‘Please don’t get your hopes up, but sometimes, in some cases, even after all these years we can manage to match evidence which wasn’t available to us at the time.’
Morrison took a deep breath. ‘And catch Janet’s killer?’
Davies shot McVeigh a look that told him to keep his trap shut. ‘Perhaps. But it could be a long shot.’
He pulled at his top lip with his thumb and forefinger. ‘I see.’
Davies wasn’t sure what to expect, but this was a somewhat more muted reply than usual under such circumstances.
‘I’m sorry to bring this all up again, but—’
Morrison cut in before he had a chance to finish. ‘What, like you think it ever goes away?’
‘Don’t suppose it does.’ Davies offered the usu
al platitudes. ‘But if there’s anything that you think can help us now?’
‘Like what?’
‘Was Janet pregnant?’ McVeigh’s voice sliced through the atmosphere like a knife.
‘No! What the fuck is that all about? Fuck’s sake, you must have the autopsy report.’
‘Sorry.’ McVeigh took a step back. ‘I was thinking out loud. These paintings, they’re very…’
‘What?’
‘Graphic? I just thought perhaps your inspiration was—’
‘Fuck off! My art is my business. It’s got nothing to do with my sister.’ He took a cigarette paper from a tin by his side and formed a thin roll-up. ‘Jesus Christ, can you leave her in peace, please? You already fucked up the investigation, so just piss off and leave us to our tortured but at least personal memories.’ He flicked his Bic lighter but it failed to ignite.
Davies stretched his arm across. ‘Here,’ he said, lighting his cigarette. McVeigh remained standing. Seemingly taking in the art.
‘DS McVeigh didn’t mean anything, he just thought perhaps—’
‘It’s cool, man.’ Morrison ran his fingers through his hair then wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Davies guessed he was trying to act tougher than he was. He knew the type of upbringing he’d had. The type of family he’d come from. They’d never have said ‘cool, man’, they’d never be the type to smoke, let alone roll-ups. Mike Morrison was desperate to conform into the bad-boy wild child that every artist claimed to be.
‘You had another sister?’
Mike nodded, let out a sarcastic laugh. Davies gave him breathing space. ‘Not exactly a great help to my poor parents after Janet’s… Fucked off back to the States the day after the funeral.’
‘Where is she now?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dead, I think. I got word a few years back she’d had a stroke. Don’t really care, to be honest.’
‘Look, mate, I hate to ask you these questions again but…’ Davies went on to ask all the same questions he’d asked Eileen McLean. Was there anything unusual about Janet’s behaviour in the weeks before her death? Davies tried not to use the word ‘murder’. Did she seem preoccupied? Was there anything that could hint as to why she was killed? He realised that it was a fruitless quest, but one he pursued none the less.
Mike Morrison shook his head and settled with his elbows on his knees. ‘She was just a kid.’
There’s a pain deep inside that won’t go away. There’s something there. Something clawing. It lives in my blood. I can let it out little by little. It’s the only thing that stops the pain. I lit candles today. As many as I could find. I can still smell them. Raphael says do that which is good and no evil shall touch me. I don’t want another one to die. Not tonight. I wish it were my blood that flowed out. I wish my blood poured red and clean like theirs. But mine is black and rotten.
19
Glasgow 1975
‘I’ve done it. I’ve killed him.’
The handset felt very heavy. She dropped it and could hear the tinny voice on the other end telling her to stay calm as it rocked back and forth before coming to rest on the table. They’d be here in no time. Soon. That was what they said. They’d be here soon. She didn’t have much time left.
It took both hands to keep the glass steady and she downed the whisky in one. She poured another, and gagged as she tried to swallow. It did nothing to calm her nerves. And did nothing to take away the terrible taste lingering in her mouth. She didn’t know it then, but that taste would be there for good.
The voice behind her was sleepy. He tugged at her skirt, and raised his arms to be lifted. Her brave little man. She grabbed him harder than she meant to and squeezed him tight. Pressing him close against her body. Buried her face into the soft folds on the back of his neck. His little legs dangled by her thighs. The blood on her hands left giant black prints on his pyjamas as she carried him upstairs. Leaving the mutilated body of his father staring at the television in the front room.
The bathroom was on the first landing. She’d drawn the bath earlier in the evening. Before all this. The image of the water lapping against the sides brought an aching lump to her throat and she yearned for normality. Downstairs the television blared; Saturday night game-show giving the lucky contestants the chance of a lifetime. The audience laughed and screamed, yelling conflicting advice to the contestants, oblivious to the carnage in Dorothy Malloy’s front room. Her footsteps fell into line with the rhythm. The contestant was just about to make his choice when the deafening thud from downstairs told her they were here. They’d arrived. There wasn’t much time left with Robbie.
Later, years later, when she thought about those next few moments, she could never get the order right. Never remember the sequence of what happened next. They tried to restrain her, that she knew for sure. A hand first. Round her throat, dragging her back. Holding her down. It took months for the purple bruise to fade. And even today she could still hear Robbie’s screams. And other noises. There were always other noises in her head. The water, the splashing. Robbie’s arms stiffening as he reached out. His hands grasping, his little legs thrashing in spasm, his heels banging against the bottom of the bath as he fought for breath, inhaling only a lungful of water. That last fatal breath before he fell silent. Her brave little man.
It wasn’t long before the house was full. Full of men. And light. Flashbulbs exploded into her face and her own screams were drowned in the sea of voices.
They dragged her away from Robbie. His arms and legs were limp now. She clawed and kicked and scratched but there were just too many of them and the sudden sharp pain in her arm was quickly followed by a drifting sensation. Her eyes were open as they strapped her down, but her limbs were heavy and impotent. She saw her Robbie one last time. His flaccid body draped in the arms of a policeman, who unashamedly sobbed as he laid him onto a stretcher. Outside the cold scratched her face and they carried her into the van. A young policeman was bent double, retching onto the pavement.
‘Aw fuck, sarg, she’s killed them both. Her man and the wean.’
It was the last thing Dorothy Malloy remembered of the free world before she passed out into oblivion.
20
Ayrshire 2002
Oonagh struggled to get her head round this. The biggest scandal in the history of the NHS and no one seemed to give a fuck. ‘So why now?’
Maura sat opposite her and nursed her coffee. She’d suggested the Ayrshire Pub for their meeting. It was quiet and traditional. A log fire blazed in the background.
‘You’ve been sitting on this for almost thirty years. Why now, and why’re you telling me?’
Maura raised one eyebrow. ‘I’m not telling you anything that’s not already in the public domain.’
‘That’s not strictly true, Maura, the disk, that had—’
‘You could have found that, had you known where to look…’ she paused for a moment ‘… and known what you were looking for.’
Oonagh wasn’t buying it, and couldn’t help but feel she was being dragged into something dirty. Very dirty. ‘OK, so why tell me at all, then?’
‘The government has promised an inquiry if it can be proven that the victims were given infected blood from US prisons.’
Oonagh knew her way around the legal system well enough to know that in cases like this proving wilful negligence was vital. It wasn’t enough that it happened, what was needed was proof that it could have been avoided. One of the key arguments against the compensation claims was that without the blood products the patients might well have died. They were given the plasma in their best interests, and before the risks of HIV were fully known. Therefore there was no real negligence, it was just a case of tough luck. Oonagh felt like a real crumb for all the times she’d thought that very same thing. That the victims had just had a bad roll of the dice. Sometimes that was just what life threw at you. How wrong she’d been on that count.
‘So can it be proven?’
‘I beli
eve so. I’m a key witness here. I saw it with my own eyes.’
Maura went on to tell her about what she’d witnessed in the Arkansas Department of Correction. It ran the plasma programme until 1994.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘No pun intended?’
‘Sorry! But…’
‘’S OK.’
‘Maura…’ Oonagh paused; she had to pick her words carefully. Didn’t want to point the finger of blame. ‘If you knew the risks were there, then…’
Maura cut in. ‘Why didn’t I do something about it sooner?’
Oonagh nodded. It seemed obvious enough.
‘D’you know what happens to whistle-blowers in the pharmaceutical industry?’
She continued before Oonagh could reply. ‘You need to understand what it was like back then. Arkansas was the last state to cease selling plasma from prisoners. There were very powerful people making millions from this. I can’t prove it at this stage, but I believe that senior figures in the state prison system were doctoring medical records to claim that the prisoners didn’t carry either HIV or hep C.’
‘Surely the buck had to stop somewhere?’
Maura nodded. ‘The Governor of Arkansas. It happened on his watch. So I suppose…’
Oonagh knew what was coming before Maura opened her mouth. ‘You’re not telling me…?’
Yip. Big Bad Bill, or President Clinton as he went on to become. By the time he took office in seventy-eight the programme was already a licence to print money. They weren’t going to give that up without a fight.
Oonagh could see why Maura had been up against it with this one. ‘Jeez, makes shagging Monica Lewinsky seem a rather innocent pass-time in comparison.’, The horror unfolded in front of Oonagh like a bad dream. She knew how these things worked. Haemophilia wasn’t a ‘sexy’ illness. No one really cared. In the way that breast cancer got more public sympathy than bowel cancer. Some diseases just didn’t make for good column inches.
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