Oonagh’s initial sadness gave way to anger, which settled in the pit of her stomach; she noticed her hands had clenched into fists. Whatever emotion was coursing through Tom’s veins, he kept to himself. Instead he reassured Dorothy that she was safe and allowed her story to unfold.
Dorothy Malloy’s case notes made for grim bedtime reading; hearing her first-hand account was the stuff of nightmares. ‘In the end they left me alone. They didn’t like the noisy ones.’
*
Outside Oonagh breathed in the cool air and let the rain fall on her face. The whole sorry episode had left her emotionally exhausted. Tom followed her out to the car. ‘You all right?’
She nodded. ‘I’m not the one who needs sympathy.’ She looked up to the window. ‘And neither does Dorothy Malloy. What she needs is justice.’ Shit, that was the last thing she’d be likely to get.
Tom folded his arms, clearly pissed off. ‘You know how bloody difficult it is to get a rape charge as far as the courts at the best of times?’ He paused slightly. ‘Add to that a victim who was heavily sedated, has mental health issues and poor cognitive functioning,’ he said, counting each point out on his fingers.
‘You forget to mention the fact she’s a ruthless killer.’ Oonagh felt shitty about even saying it out loud, but they both knew there wasn’t a hope in hell’s chance of any of this even making it onto a charge sheet. Even if she was prepared to speak to the police, they’d make mincemeat out of Dorothy.
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Oonagh had had enough. ‘I need to go.’ She reached over and gave him a hug, then climbed back into the car. She watched him in the rear-view mirror as she pulled out of the drive. He looked broken.
She couldn’t face going home. Not yet, not while the sadness and despair of what she’d just heard lingered in her chest.
Both she and Tom had agreed that sticking a camera under Dorothy’s nose would be cruel and exploitative, but without her there was no story to tell. She could picture Alan’s face if she pitched the story to him without a victim or a key witness. He’d tell her to bugger off.
Without Dorothy, it would be just another general exposé on abuse and the programme idea could sit on the slush pile for months, years even, and might never get made.
A telltale wave of sadness gripped her throat. She drove until she found a secluded spot, pulled over and cried for all the horror and pain suffered by Dorothy Malloy and the hundreds of people like her, banged up in soulless institutions, without a single person to fight their corner. Outside a middle-aged man walked towards her eating chips from a bag. As he passed the car he screwed up the newspaper and threw it on the pavement. The sadness that had moments before engulfed Oonagh gave way to a blind rage. ‘You fucking inconsiderate bastard.’ She opened the door and jumped out. ‘Pick that up, you disgusting piece of shit.’ By this time, he was almost half a block away but she was screaming loud enough for him to hear. He turned round. Oonagh stood with one hand on her hip, the other pinching the greasy chip paper at arm’s length between her thumb & forefinger.
‘You talking to me?’ His clothes were casual, but expensive.
‘Yes, I am talking to you. And you can drop the Robert De Niro routine. D’you want to stick this in the bin?’
The street was otherwise deserted, and he was closer than she thought. Suddenly he broke into a run.
‘Fuck.’ For a big guy with a fondness for chips he was surprisingly fast on his feet. She threw the chip paper at him and scrambled back into her car. Her heart was racing as she punched her fist on the central locking just as he slammed his hands on her bonnet.
‘Out the fucking motor.’ Judging by the vein bulging on his temple, he was a bit pissed off.
Oonagh wisely declined his invitation and, head down, twisted the key in the ignition. For one brief but horrible moment she thought it wasn’t going to start. ‘Come on, come on.’ Her foot pumped the accelerator and suddenly it choked into life. She revved the engine hard as he battered his fist off her side window and, crunching the gear stick into reverse, drove backwards down the one-way street praying it would stay deserted long enough for her to get a bit of distance between her and The Angry Chip Man. She made a quick turn at the corner and winced as the gear stick squealed in protest at her brutal change into first. She sped off, back towards the West End and home, making a mental note not to piss off men eating chips again.
Gradually normal life resumed. As she passed the Botanic Gardens civilisation slowly came into view as apparently law-abiding citizens thronged Byres Road carrying various bags that looked no more dangerous than a week’s shopping.
She pulled over outside the record store, which still did a roaring trade in vinyl, and wiped the greasy newsprint off her hands with a tissue as she got her breath back.
Her nerves were in tatters but she felt slightly giddy, intoxicated even at her lucky escape. She swallowed hard; her heart was still beating a tattoo in her chest as she opened her phone. The number was on speed dial, and even for her she knew this was flirting with danger. It rang three times before he answered.
‘I’ve got a story for you.’
26
Glasgow 2002
Oonagh glanced at the clock and did her best to look bored but a wee flutter of excitement played in her tummy; she knew what was coming. The morning meeting was populated with the usual suspects, half a dozen or so fellow journalists with Alan at the helm. He read out the prospects of the day, each member there encouraged to pitch in with a story or an idea. There were very few real news stories; most were the product of carefully worded press releases, doled out by the junior PAs of spin doctors. A trawl through the papers could produce some decent ideas to work on too. It was commonplace for radio and television studios to lift stories from newspapers, put their own spin on it and pass it off as their own. Alan picked up a copy of the News of the World from the previous day.
‘I take it you’ve all seen this?’ He placed it on the table in front of them, opened at the double-page spread.
Systematic Sex Abuse of Scotland’s Most Vulnerable Inmates
Beneath the salacious headline was the picture of a woman in silhouette sitting alone on a park bench. Throughout the article, several bolded-out quotes read like a horror story.
Screws sold me to their pals for the price of a pint.
Drugged and helpless, I was abused as staff looked on.
‘Worth chasing?’ He posed it as a question, but what he meant was, Who’s up for it?
Mutterings from the rank and file suggested historical abuse stories such as this were a nightmare to cover, but irresistible for journalists. They all threw their hats in the ring, but Sandy decided he’d double up as Home Affairs Correspondent for the day and picked up the baton. ‘It’s a prison story, so I’m happy to chase the Scottish Prison Service for a response.’
Alan nodded. ‘Get that kid on work experience to do a bit of phone bashing for you. We need to get former inmates, ex-wardens, cleaners, anyone.’ He flicked the top of his pen. ‘Try to get victims. Aye, we need victims.’
Sandy was already on his feet, desperate to get onto something new. Oonagh only felt a slight pang of guilt knowing that he’d never find the woman in the picture, but that made no odds. Sandy was an experienced journalist. He could throw everything he had at this story. Had enough contacts in the SPS to get some off-the-record quotes to give this the padding he needed for a decent programme. And he knew that, with a bit of exposure, other victims would be coming out of the woodwork telling similar horror stories. Everything else he’d attribute to ‘allegations of’, ‘reports of’, ‘claims of’, then he could just regurgitate all the information in the article without breaching any laws.
Oonagh was always fascinated by the fact that newspapers had different ethical codes of practice from television; different editorial guidelines. She let her eyes drift over the article. A sickening catalogue of abuse going back years. One woman’s tragic sto
ry told from the heart. No names were mentioned, and scant details of exactly when or where the abuse took place. None of it could ever be proven. But Oonagh knew it would be enough to prompt a raft of journalists across the country desperate to report on the allegations.
The Home Office would have no choice but to issue a statement saying the claims were being investigated. Heck, there might even be an official inquiry. Their press office would never have the balls to say that there wasn’t one claim in that article that could be substantiated or would stand up in court. The public outcry would deafen them. She wasn’t much for praying, but perhaps some other poor soul would come forward. A poor soul who was in a position to speak out. A poor soul who deserved the justice that Dorothy Malloy was denied.
Oonagh folded over the paper and slid it back towards Alan. She didn’t bother to finish the article – no need, she already knew it word for word. After all, she’d written it.
27
Glasgow 2002
Exhumations were a rare occurrence in Scotland. In this case there was no family objection, but still the paperwork took weeks to complete. The customary white tent surrounded the grave and the digger moved in. Alec Davies stood in the background. As was the legal requirement there were two doctors, two uniformed officers, a state undertaker complete with private ambulance with blacked-out windows and an Environmental Health Officer to ensure the correct grave was opened and that due respect was shown to the deceased. He’d left McVeigh at home. There was no point in dragging him out of bed at this ungodly hour for nothing, and he reckoned he’d need him sharp as a tack later in the day.
The evidence against this suspect was sketchy to say the least. Davies didn’t hold out much hope but it was all they had, and it was more than his life was worth to tell Threadgold as much. Willie Mack had been a small-time criminal. Shoplifting mostly, housebreaking and fencing stolen goods. He’d been questioned around the time of the killings as he’d been seen in the area of at least one of the murders. Had claimed it was a case of mistaken identity and had a cast-iron alibi: his wife, who’d vouched that he was at home the entire night of all three killings, and Davies guessed she’d have said he was at home for any future crimes committed too.
Mack had fitted the description of a prowler seen in the area. Sneaking about back gardens. A peeping Tom terrorising women by staring in their bedroom windows as they’d got ready for bed. But the most likely scenario was he’d been trying windows to break in later when all the occupants had been asleep. Davies knew it was very unlikely that a petty thief, a housebreaker, would suddenly turn into a ruthless serial killer. It just didn’t fit the MO. But it was all they had – that and DNA from one of the victims. Threadgold was pretty insistent that they close the case. Rumours were rife that he was tipped to be on the Queen’s Birthday Honours list, and nailing one of Glasgow’s most notorious murderers days before his retirement would be a great piece of PR. Davies feared that no matter what the results were, he’d be encouraged to say the case was now closed. Not actually saying that Willie Mack was the killer, but the suggestion would be there and the press could do the rest.
Davies had known Willie Mack. Had had his run-ins with him. Hands like bananas, a neck as thick as his waist, ‘the man they couldn’t hang’, he’d joked. There was no way Willie Mack had carried out the Raphael killings with such surgical precision. And anyway, he’d had no motive. Davies stamped his feet on the ground and blew into his hands, almost wishing McVeigh would show up with a flask of tea.
Dawn was still an hour away and the bitter cold suited the setting. The Southern Necropolis was slap bang in the middle of the Gorbals, the headstones mirrored the high-rise flats that towered in the distance. It was a fairly small graveyard, as graveyards went, with relatively low walls. Davies could sense the press at the other side of the wall and imagined he could hear the gathering of the locals; but he could be wrong.
They worked by floodlight and Davies said a silent prayer that the coffin would be intact. He’d been to very few exhumations in his career, but at his first the coffin had already been in a state of deterioration and moving the remains to a new casket had been a messy and time-consuming business. And the smell. It had never left him. Thank God he didn’t have to actually touch anything. Each person there wore full regulation safety suits, goggles, face masks and a supply of disinfectant was on hand. He rocked back and forth on his heels, wanted the whole thing over and done with quickly.
The guy operating the digger was impressively precise. The hole looked as though it had been cut by hand, neat edges and geometrically squared corners. As soon as the top of the coffin was visible the digger stopped. Not one other piece of earth was disturbed. The driver stepped down from the cabin and Davies was shocked to see it was a middle-aged woman. ‘Rest’ll be done by hand now.’ She nodded to her two colleagues and the three of them got to work to retrieve the coffin from the ground.
No real bad smell. Good sign, indicated it was still relatively intact. It didn’t matter too much about the state of the body – all they needed were DNA samples.
Davies waited in his car until he saw the private ambulance ready to leave. He followed it along Caledonia Road taking a right towards Saltmarket and the City Mortuary. It was an old red-bricked building. Hardly fit for purpose, opposite the Merchant City Gates of Glasgow Green.
He knew the forensic pathologist would already be scrubbed up, ready to start as soon as they arrived. As he approached he could see a flicker of light by the front entrance. A security guard sat watching an old black and white portable with the sound turned down. Davies sounded the buzzer; the coffin would have been brought in by the back entrance. Regulation stated it would also be transferred to another bigger casket. He held up his ID to the security camera and waited for the familiar click of the door to open. He flashed his warrant card at the security guy on the way in and nodded a greeting. The guy didn’t get up, kept his head down. Davies could only see his face in the mirror and recognised him as an ex-cop from the division. Thrown out for taking backhanders. Davies went along with the game and pretended not to know him.
The mortuary attendant came walking down the corridor to meet him, hand outstretched, white coat flapping behind him. His gut hung over his trousers, which were slightly too long. His shoes could have done with a polish too. He introduced himself as Michael something as he tugged his brown jumper down. Davies didn’t catch his second name. He led him through to the waiting room.
‘You scrubbing up to go in?’
‘No, you’re OK.’ Davies had no intention of seeing any more than he absolutely had to. He had enough battle scars to give him nightmares for the rest of his life; he didn’t need to make any new memories, thank you very much.
He stayed in the corridor and picked up a newspaper, but his bum hadn’t even touched the seat when the pathologist came out from the theatre.
‘Christ, that was quick.’
‘I’ve not started yet. You need to come in.’
Davies’s heart sank. What the fuck did they need him for? It was only the live criminals he was interested in. Someone else could take care of the dead ones.
‘What kind of…?’ He wanted to know what he’d be seeing in there.
‘Skeletal remains. The death certificate shows the deceased had died from pancreatic cancer. There wouldn’t have been much left of him in the end.’
Davies followed him through and braced himself. The room was a stainless-steel tomb. The stench of death hung heavy in the air. An industrial-sized extractor fan in each corner of the room could only mask so much. The decomposed body of the suspect lay on the steel slab. Small tufts of hair clung to the skull and the almost perfect teeth jutted from the jaw bone. The remnants of cloth that would have been his burial suit were by his side.
‘Here.’ The pathologist pointed and Davies gave a very quick glance.
‘What?’
‘There!’ He forced Davies to take a closer look.
‘Fuck me.’<
br />
‘I’ll take some more photographs, of course, but I wanted you to see before it’s removed.’
On the slab lay the skeleton of their only suspect in twenty seven years. The only organ left intact was his heart, which was wrapped in pages from the bible and preserved in a clear plastic bag.
28
Glasgow 2002
‘None of this leaves this room. Understand?’ For the first time Davies had a link between the Raphael killings and Andrew Malloy. He’d need to tread carefully here.
‘Toria, get onto the undertakers for Mack’s funeral. I need the names of every member of staff there, including admin, delivery drivers, cleaners, and check if they took on casuals or freelancers.’
‘I don’t think they’re called freelancers in the undertaking business. I think—’
‘So, what, you’re an expert now on…?’
‘I wish. That’s the business to get into, eh?’
‘Sorry?’ Davies was convinced this girl was a bit on the nutty side.
‘Funeral director. I’d love to do that.’
‘What? Deal with dead bodies?’
‘Doesn’t bother me at all.’ Toria actually looked as though she was enjoying this conversation. Davies wasn’t absolutely sure but thought she might have licked her lips slightly.
‘In fact, when I retire from here that’s what I intend to do.’ Davies and McVeigh both shot each other a look, but she didn’t seem put off at all. ‘I could do bespoke funerals. I’ve been pricing motorbike hearses with sidecars, all sorts of stuff.’ Davies couldn’t tell if she was taking the piss or not.
‘Would you do those biodegradable wicker coffin type things?’ McVeigh clearly couldn’t resist getting in on the act.
‘Oh, God, yes, they would all be bespoke… and then I’d—’
Keep Her Silent Page 10