‘Tell me about the Russian involvement. Did the pharmaceutical companies know the blood came from corpses?’
‘Absolutely. They drained blood from people who’d died in old folk’s homes, state prisons, you name it. There were never any checks on what they died from, or if there were any communicable diseases present. And many of the donors died of Alzheimer’s. There’s no telling what risks that carries.’
‘How did they find out?’
‘It’s there in black and white. The blood was labelled as a “waste product” and they used it as an excuse to embalm all the bodies. The waste products were sold on. You’ve no idea what was going on. Harvesting organ donations too. Horrific.’
Oonagh felt ashamed at her lack of knowledge. It was as though Maura knew what she was thinking.
‘Don’t feel bad at not having a handle on this before. Those responsible designed it that way. It was big business.’
Oonagh raised an eyebrow.
‘Have you any idea of the profit margin in a pint of blood?’
Oonagh had no idea at all. Maura didn’t wait for her response before telling her that a pint of blood that prisoners were paid seven dollars for was worth over three thousand dollars to the drugs companies. Haemophiliacs had a blood-clotting deficiency either factor VIII or factor IX. This could be manufactured by extracting it from donated blood. Only a tiny bit was needed for each treatment, hence thousands could be used from the same donation. But to extract this essential element the blood was pooled together using blood from up to twenty thousand donors, which increased the risks to haemophiliacs considerably more than the risk factors from ordinary blood donations.
‘The Scottish Prison Service was just as bad. They used donors for the best part of fifteen years. And d’you know how they identified the drug users?’
‘They asked them?’
‘Not that far off the mark. They got them to roll their sleeves up to see if they had needle marks!’
Surely even the Scottish Office couldn’t have been that stupid, but sadly Oonagh knew that they were.
‘That’s scandalous!’
‘Concentrating on the American donations meant it took the heat off the NHS, who claimed they weren’t responsible. But they were. The whole thing just stinks.’
This was just getting worse.
‘Maura, what exactly can I do about this? I mean, what is it you want from me?’
‘Even with an inquiry it could take years for the full facts to be made public.’ She didn’t give Oonagh a chance to answer. ‘Yes, I know it’s already in the public domain, but d’you know how complicated all this information is? And people need to know where to look for the information. And there’s more.’
Oonagh grew nervous. She was really struggling to understand some of the information and knew that to get a programme commissioned on this she’d need credible witnesses. Professionals willing to speak on camera, but most of all victims. Getting people with HIV and AIDS to go public was a hard thing.
‘D’you think any of them would be willing to speak on camera?’
‘You kidding? I have some who would bite your hand off for the chance to tell their story.’
‘You mentioned others – who were they?’
‘A friend of mine. He was a forensic pathologist.’
‘What was his part in all this?’
Maura’s eyes misted over slightly. ‘He saw a pattern developing in autopsies from haemophiliacs, which showed that they had signs of severe liver damage. A clear pointer that they may have had hep C. They had to be getting it from somewhere, and the obvious link was the blood products.’
‘Did he tell anyone of his findings?’
‘He was shot down in flames. After that he believed there was a cover-up so he started doing his own research and saw that a clear pattern was emerging. He stepped on a lot of toes and people didn’t like it.’
‘D’you have any of his research notes?’
‘Very little. I have no idea what happened to them, but that’s no great surprise.’
‘Oh?’
‘The amount of records which have gone missing throughout the years is staggering. Every haematology lab in the country had a hepatitis record book. Every single lab destroyed the record books so it’s no great surprise that his notes can’t be found.’
‘Are you claiming there was a conspiracy?’
‘Does that lump me in with the rest of the nutters?’
‘No, I’m just saying…’
Maura looked at her watch. They’d been in the pub for less than an hour but she was growing increasingly nervous.
‘Can you give me his name, Maura?’ Oonagh needed to see if her story stood up.
‘Listen, I need to go.’
‘I’ve only just scratched the surface here, Maura.’
She nodded. ‘I know, we’ll meet again, but I really need to make a move.’
Oonagh realised she needed to toughen up. ‘If you want to meet me again I need names, I need some credible witnesses and concrete evidence. I’m not going at this half-cocked. I’d get laughed off the set if I go to my editor with a few half-baked conspiracy theories.’ She felt a bit shitty, but she had to play hard ball here. ‘I’ve wasted enough time, Maura. I can’t afford to waste any more.’
‘I’ve given you enough information to make a start, surely?’
She had, but Oonagh needed more. ‘I’ll put a programme outline together, and if you come up with the goods then we’ll talk further. But I’m not doing anything without this guy’s name.’
Maura bit her top lip. ‘Andrew, Andrew Malloy.’
Oonagh slumped back into her seat. ‘Fuck me!’
‘What? You’ve heard of him?’
‘You tell me what the fuck’s going on right now.’
But Maura was already standing, her tweed jacket tucked under one arm. She glanced at her watch but Oonagh guessed the face was too small for her to tell what time it was.
Oonagh stood up. ‘Maura, you can’t drop a bombshell like that then scurry away.’
‘We’ll meet again soon, I promise. But for now, d’you mind if we don’t leave together?’
‘We’ve been sitting together for the best part of an hour. I think it’s a bit late for the cloak and dagger stuff.’
‘OK, humour me, then. Give me five minutes, eh?’
Maura Rowinson was halfway out of the door before Oonagh had a chance to agree. She ordered another coffee and tried to make a call to kill time. But there was no signal so instead she watched the flames of the log fire until it was time to leave.
21
Glasgow 2002
There was no real reason for the nerves that had settled in Oonagh’s stomach, but they pushed up through her gut and caused tiny ripples of excitement in her chest. The meeting had been scheduled for midday. Apparently, Dorothy Malloy struggled with mornings.
From the outside it looked like any other of the impressive blond sandstone villas in Pollokshields. Oonagh pushed the intercom at the gates and announced her arrival. She had to admit to being impressed. When Tom had told her to meet him at the counselling centre she’d expected it to be a bit drab, municipal and functional but this bore the hallmark of luxury. She was greeted at the door by a smiley-faced woman and led through to a waiting area. Again inside there was nothing to suggest anything other than five-star luxury. Oonagh was looking at the paintings on the wall when Tom walked in looking more serious than their last meeting. A bulging buff-coloured paper file was tucked under his left arm.
‘Thanks for coming, Oon.’
Oonagh nodded to the papers. ‘They her case files?’
‘Yeah, some of the records are pretty scant, to be honest.’
Oonagh wasn’t surprised. Mental health patients were often at the bottom of the pile when it came to decent care in the health system – what it must have been like for mental health patients in a state hospital was anyone’s guess.
They walked up the stairs and Tom led
Oonagh through to a room at the bottom of the first floor. Inside the bay window looked onto Maxwell Park and the sun streamed through, dancing on the green tiles on the fireplace opposite. A plump leather couch dominated the room and several easy chairs were pushed snug against the walls.
Dorothy Malloy was curled up on a wing-back chair by the window. Oonagh drew a slight breath when she saw how tiny and frail she looked. Her legs were tucked up underneath her and she kept her head down, making no attempt to acknowledge their presence. Tom walked slowly towards her, his footsteps barely making a sound on the soft carpet. He crouched by the chair, making sure he was in her sight-line, and laid his hand gently on her arm.
‘Dorothy.’ His voice was little more than a whisper. She turned her head slightly but still refused to meet his eyes. ‘This is Oonagh. Oonagh O’Neil.’ A slight pause to allow Dorothy to take in the information. ‘Remember I told you she wanted to meet you?’
Dorothy tipped her head a fraction of an inch. Indicating she did remember. ‘You still OK to chat?’ Another tiny nod and Tom invited Oonagh to sit in the chair opposite.
‘Hello, Dorothy.’ Oonagh tried to keep her voice as soft and as calm as Tom’s. She held out her hand but Tom gave her a sharp look and she quickly pulled it back. ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me today.’ She could hear Dorothy’s breath growing quicker as she rubbed her palms together. Dorothy’s hair was streaked with grey and hung limp to her collar. She wore a simple black sweater and cream jeans, which were miles too big and emphasised how thin she was. Her bare feet were tucked into sheepskin slippers. She glanced up briefly and Oonagh could see the void in her eyes.
‘Oonagh just wants to get to know you better.’ Tom broke the silence. Oonagh gave a little nod and hoped her smile didn’t look too fake. Her heart broke for this poor woman with the dead eyes, but she also knew that there was no way she would be able to feature in a documentary. It would be cruel and unfair to expect her to speak in front of the camera. Tom seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Just try and help, Oonagh.’
What the hell Tom expected her to do was anyone’s guess and she shot him a look that said, Later.
Oonagh tried to associate this tiny, frail, middle-aged woman with the horrendous crime she was guilty of. She tried to cast her mind back, tried to get inside that moment when Dorothy Malloy decided that the world would be a better place without her husband and son. Did she plan it out beforehand? Did she choose the murder weapon carefully, picking a knife that she was confident would inflict the most damage, and as quickly as possible? The sequence of the deaths suggested there was a degree of planning. Had she attacked her son first, no doubt her husband would have intervened. There would have been a struggle. But there was no struggle. No defence wounds on the body of Andrew Malloy. He hadn’t even raised his hands to protect himself. He hadn’t lashed out, fought back or even tried to grab the knife. From the case notes Oonagh had managed to get from Jim McVeigh’s office, everything about Andrew Malloy’s death pointed to him being incapacitated by the initial blow.
‘Are you originally from Glasgow, Dorothy?’ Oonagh tried to make small talk and Tom filled in the gaps as Dorothy stared out of the window. It turned out she wasn’t originally from Glasgow, but from Dunblane. Obviously from money, then. She’d come to Glasgow as a student; went to Jordanhill to do teacher training. It had been her dream to be a teacher. Loved children by all accounts. Perhaps just not her own, Oonagh concluded.
Dorothy pulled a tissue from her pocket and as she wiped her nose Oonagh was surprised to see her nails were perfectly manicured. Like tiny little pink shells.
‘Oh, your nails are beautiful, Dorothy.’
‘Good grooming starts with the nails.’ The voice seemed to come from nowhere; its confidence pierced through the silence. Dorothy Malloy rolled a covered elastic band from her wrist and, running her fingers through her hair, tied it back in a ponytail then sat up straight. Crossing her legs at the ankles. Suddenly her clothes seemed to fill out and her mouth eased into a confident smile. The physical transformation in Dorothy Malloy caused a line of fear to crawl down Oonagh’s spine. This new woman stood up and reached her hand towards Oonagh. ‘I’m so delighted to meet you. Has Tom offered you some tea?’
Oonagh could only shake her head and mumbled something to the effect that she was fine. This personality shift scared the shit out of her and tea was the last thing on her mind. Tom appeared unfazed by this and stood by, hands in his pockets, nodding his head in acceptance.
Dorothy folded her arms across her chest, walked closer to the window and smiled out at the sunshine. ‘When I was a child I used to dream of living in a house like this.’ She turned her upper body and caught Oonagh’s eye. ‘Where d’you live, Oonagh? Are you local?’
Oonagh didn’t like this one little bit. The old wound on her throat pulsed as her adrenalin kicked in. She pointed vaguely out of the window. ‘A few miles down…’ Oonagh decided it would be best not to share too much personal information with Dorothy Malloy and she wagged her finger in some random direction. She stood up, fearing this could all end rather badly.
There was a soft rap on the door and a smiley-faced lady entered with a tray laden with tea and biscuits. ‘I’ll just leave these here.’ She placed the tray on the coffee table and left. Both Tom and Oonagh nodded their thanks and by the time Oonagh turned back the old Dorothy Malloy was back on the easy chair, head down, rocking back and forth, scratching an imaginary stain from her sweater.
Outside Oonagh slapped Tom across the top of the arm. ‘What the fuck was all that about?’ She pointed her thumb back towards the house. ‘She’s bloody bonkers!’
Tom looked genuinely confused as he rubbed the top of his arm. ‘Well, yeah, she’s just out of Cartland.’
Oonagh let out an exasperated sigh as she walked quickly to her car. Tom struggled to keep up. ‘Hey, I told you she was still in treatment.’
Oonagh didn’t want to admit that she’d been petrified in there. ‘There’s no way we can use her for…’ She rethought her words. ‘Dorothy Malloy is not a suitable subject for my documentary, Tom, and fine you know it.’
Tom had climbed into the passenger seat uninvited. ‘I know, Oonagh, but she needs help.’
‘Too right she needs help.’ Oonagh started the engine and eased the car out into the street. ‘But if I can remind you, it was her who was supposed to help me with the programme. Not the other way around.’ She was shocked to find her right leg trembling and she braced herself to hold it steady. Whatever help Dorothy Malloy needed, she wasn’t about to get involved.
‘Tom, she butchered her family and she’s clearly schizophrenic.’
Tom slapped his hand on the dashboard hard enough for Oonagh to think she needed to make an emergency stop. ‘She’s not schizophrenic!’ He dropped his voice slightly. ‘Dorothy Malloy has multiple-personality disorder. There’s a huge difference.’
‘Not from where I’m standing.’ Oonagh pulled up outside Maxwell Park and switched off the engine. In the distance toddlers played by the swings as grown-ups chatted nearby. That very same scene was probably being played out in parks across the planet and Oonagh longed for such normality. The soft touch of Tom’s hand on her arm sent a slight shock through her skin.
‘You OK?’
Oonagh swallowed hard and was surprised to feel the tears sting the backs of her eyes. ‘Wee Thing would have been about that age by now…’ she didn’t take her eyes off the kids ‘… if she’d ever been born.’
‘She?’
Oonagh let out a shrill laugh. ‘I know it’s daft.’ Oonagh had always thought of Wee Thing as a girl. Her girl. But she’d lost her when she was little more than a mass of tissue. There was nothing left to grieve for. No trace of the unborn child that should have been hers. Oonagh O’Neil had lost her baby on the very day she’d cancelled her termination.
Tom rubbed her hand. ‘It’s not daft at all.’
Oonagh started the engine. ‘C’mon, let’s go for a
coffee.’ She guessed Tom would take this as a sign that she was compliant. ‘You can tell me how I can help Dorothy Malloy and I’ll tell you why I won’t even think about it.’
22
Glasgow 2002
‘I’m not sure what you expect me to do.’
The café had changed hands since Oonagh had last been in and was now sporting some sort of nautical theme, which she didn’t much care for. There was a handful of customers and each booth had an imitation porthole backlit with a blue bulb.
‘Just hear me out—’ Tom pushed the case file across the table closer to Oonagh ‘—and have a look. If you still don’t want to get involved after that, then no harm done.’
‘She’s not a suitable subject for the programme, Tom.’ Oonagh didn’t want to admit she was terrified of Dorothy Malloy; she flicked the outer edge of the buff folder open and let her eyes rest on the first page. ‘What’s post-partum psychosis?’
‘Exactly what it says on the tin.’ Tom was interrupted by the waitress standing by their table, one eyebrow raised, notepad in hand. They ordered quickly.
‘I’ll have whatever he’s having.’ Oonagh pointed to Tom, who ordered a white coffee. ‘But make mine black,’ said Oonagh. The waitress was about to leave. ‘And can you make it tea, not coffee?’
The waitress smiled and nodded.
‘Oh, and make it…’
The waitress stopped, still with her back to them. ‘What’ve you got that’s not tea?’ said Oonagh. ‘I’m a bit tea-ed out.’
‘We’ve got wine.’ The waitress turned back towards them, placed one hand on her hip and raised her eyebrow. ‘That’s not tea.’
Oonagh scanned the wine list on the back of the menu and glanced up at Tom, who gave in gracefully. ‘I’ll have my coffee plus whatever she’s having.’ Oonagh ordered for them both and the waitress winked at Tom and sashayed away, smiling.
‘Can we get back to…?’ Tom pointed to the folder.
‘Sorry, carry on.’
‘It’s a rare condition after childbirth where women can experience psychotic episodes.’ He paused to look at Oonagh, trying to gauge her reaction, but she wasn’t ready to give anything away at this stage. Mainly because her head was pounding and she didn’t know what to think. ‘It can cause delusions, hallucinations, paranoia… in some cases it can lead to suicide or even attempts to kill their baby.’
Keep Her Silent Page 8