McVeigh moved his hand across an imaginary sign in front of her eyes. ‘We put the fun into funerals.’
‘That is a fantastic slogan.’ She was deadpan.
‘Toria, love?’ Davies cut in before she had the chance to tell them about the two-for-one deals on stiffs, or the fun-time karaoke wakes. ‘How old are you?’
‘I’m twenty-three e, sir.’
‘OK, love, you’ve a few years yet before we need to worry about all this, so in the meantime…’
‘Just get my arse in gear?’
‘Oh, you’re one step ahead of me.’ He held the door open for her and tried not to lose his patience. She nodded, but didn’t seem to realise she was getting on his tits.
McVeigh waited until she was out of the room before he spoke. ‘Did the DNA match?’
Davies shook his head. ‘No big surprise there. But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t up to his fat neck in something.’
‘Obviously Mack was a lot more clever than we gave him credit for.’
‘Not we, me. You’re off the hook with this one, McVeigh. You were still at school when Mack died; I’ve clearly taken my eye off the ball somewhere along the line.’
*
The funeral parlour was in Finnieston, not far from where Davies was born. The area was once a thriving hub of working-class life. Where every man had a job, wore a collar and tie on a Sunday and belted their weans if they stepped out of line. But the decline of the shipyards allowed a river of poverty and neglect to slowly percolate its way through the local community.
There was a large plastic flower arrangement in the window, with a sombre-looking cream curtain. The door pinged a very light bell when he opened it. McVeigh was one step behind. ‘You must be Detective Inspector Davies.’ The young woman held out her hand and offered a warm smile. Davies was slightly taken aback by how attractive she was, but held back from asking: What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? He nodded and introduced McVeigh as he shook her hand.
‘I’m Alison Duncan. Your colleague called to say you were on your way. Please, come through, we can talk in private,’ and she led them through to a small room at the back of the main reception area, where Davies guessed Alison Duncan had used her soothing tone and attractive smile to comfort many of the recently bereaved.
‘Your colleague only gave me the briefest details, but I’ll try to help you as much as I can.’ She already had a file on her desk, which she told Davies was the documentation for the funeral of William Casey Mack.
‘I don’t need to tell you this has to be in complete confidence.’ Davies knew as soon as he said it how ridiculous it sounded.
‘Rest assured, DI Davies, I have no desire for our long-standing reputation for excellence to be sullied any more than it already has been.’
Wishart Frasers had been in Finnieston for as long as Davies could remember. The sign above their door said ‘Established in 1952’. It was a family-run firm and from what the lovely Alison told Davies they handled every part of the process in-house, from collecting the deceased to embalming to dressing the body and they even had their own resident hairdresser and barber. This kind of publicity could close them down for good.
Davies went over the details of what they had found when they’d opened Willie Mack’s coffin. Alison Duncan’s jaw tightened and Davies detected a tiny pulse throb in her neck.
‘Can you tell me if it was an open casket? Was the body on view for family?’
Alison looked as though she was struggling to keep her hand steady as she flicked through the documents on her desk. ‘It was a very long time ago and—’
‘We really appreciate you taking the time to help.’ McVeigh butted in without being invited. ‘We understand this is as much a shock for you as anyone.’ Alison nodded; a faint tint of red dotted the end of her nose and she swallowed hard as she blinked against the tears that threatened in her eyes.
‘This is a family firm. We take a huge pride in the service we offer the local community. It’s not easy, you know. Especially now. This place has turned into bedsit land. No one seems to care any more about personal service. And let’s face it, you can get buried by the Co-op nowadays and pay it up on tick. Independents like us just don’t stand a chance.’ The tears she struggled to keep back spilled out over her cheeks, splashing onto the desk. She moved the documents out of the way as she dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘I’m sorry, it’s terribly unprofessional of me to cry but…’
Davies leaned forward, stretching his hand towards hers but stopping short of actually making contact. ‘Don’t be silly. It’s actually refreshing to see someone so committed to their work.’ He knew they were in danger of getting off-piste with this and needed to get back on track to find out who the hell would butcher Willie Mack after he’d died.
Alison quickly recomposed herself, dabbing the underside of her nose with a tissue, and wiped an imaginary speck of dust from the desk. She straightened the notes in front her like a newsreader and placed them back on the desk before turning over the first page. ‘Every stage of the deceased’s journey with us is documented and signed off by a member of staff. I can’t possibly believe that such a thing happened here.’ She ran her finger down the A4 sheet and Davies detected that tightness in her jaw once again.
‘I need a full list of everyone who came in contact with the body at any stage of the…’ he couldn’t bear to call it a journey, ‘process.’
Alison nodded. ‘It’s all here in black and white.’
‘Who’s the last person to handle the body?’
Usually our mortuary technicians. It very much depends on whether there’s a viewing or if the body has been embalmed or not. But once everything is final then our mortuary technicians will ensure the coffin is fully secured and…’
Davies was about to take the sheet of paper from her hand when she drew it back towards her. Her eyes widened slightly. Davies thought she muttered the word Christ under her breath but couldn’t be sure. He leaned across and pulled the paper towards him.
‘The technician in this instance?’
‘George McClemand.’
She wasn’t giving out any more information than that.
‘Is he still here?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid we had to… we had to let him go.’
As lovely as she was, she was dragging this out and was beginning to get on Davies’s tits. He raised his eyebrow, letting her know that he expected her to be a bit more forthcoming.
She played with the silver chain around her neck, rubbing the small pendant with her thumb. ‘He just didn’t quite fit in to what we expect from a—’
Davies held up his hand. ‘Can you cut to the chase here?’
‘There was no proof, and we never actually saw him do anything as such, but, well, he was just a bit odd.’
‘Odd? Jesus Christ, can you sack people for being a bit odd?’ He glanced over at McVeigh with his white top lip. He was saying nothing.
‘He was found once crying over a recently deceased.’
‘Did he know the deceased?’
‘No, I mean he was hunched over the body sobbing and crying. Then another time we found he’d taken a lock of hair from someone in our care.’
Davies guessed this was another term Alison liked to use instead of dead body.
‘He just seemed unnaturally attached, shall we say, to those loved ones placed in our care.’
‘Did he ever mutilate or do anything more severe to any of the other bodies?’
Alison shook her head.
‘Not that you know of, anyway,’ McVeigh added.
‘What?’
‘Let’s face it, he could have been up to all sorts of crazy shit and you’d never have known about it.’
Crazy shit? Where the hell did McVeigh get these phrases from? But Davies nodded and admitted he could well be right.
Alison Duncan immediately went on the defensive. ‘Let me assure you, if there was something going on of a m
ore sinister nature I would have known about it.’
‘Presumably you took your eye off the ball with Willie Mack, then?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Davies decided to let McVeigh run with this one. ‘Willie Mack. You know. The same William Casey Mack who was entrusted into your care. You know, the same William Casey Mack who, when on his final journey, had his chest ripped open, his heart torn out and wrapped in a poly bag and pages from the bible. You know, that Willie Mack!’
Alison Duncan held her hand over her mouth as she took an intake of breath which caused a tiny gulp in her throat. ‘There was nothing to suggest he was doing such, such… extreme things with the bodies.’ She’d given up on finding comforting euphemisms for the deceased.
Davies took over. ‘D’you have contact details for this George…?’
‘McClemand.’ She shook her head. ‘He left us almost nine years ago. We don’t really keep tabs on our ex-employees.’
Davies was hardly surprised but at least they had a name. ‘Just give us what you have.’
‘I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’ She sorted through some more files on her desk and pulled out a few sheets of paper. ‘I mean, he came here with excellent references. There was absolutely nothing to suggest he was, well, odd in any way.’
Davies reckoned anyone who wanted to work in an undertakers was already earmarked as odd, but said nothing. ‘D’you have his references there?’ Davies didn’t need the information to track him down, his National Insurance number would throw up as much information as they needed, but it could save valuable time.
Alison shot him a look. ‘Why on earth would we keep information like that?’
‘Well, how the hell do you remember that his references were excellent?’ This was wearing him down. Alison Duncan was either incredibly clever or being deliberately difficult.
‘Because, Detective Inspector, I only allow those with excellent references to become part of our team of care-givers.’
‘Well, just shows, anyone can make a mistake, eh?’ He stood up to leave, shaking her hand across the desk. McVeigh offered her a slight nod as he held the door open for Davies. ‘If you do remember anything else “odd” about this George McClemand you’ll let us know, eh?’
Her arms were folded tight across her chest; she sniffed and nodded at the same time. The colour had drained from her cheeks and she chewed on her bottom lip as she faked a smile.
29
Cartland1985
The stench was so familiar now. The smell of unwashed bodies, people dying from the inside out. The smell of the putrid blood. Grey mattresses lined the floor. The small windowless room was lit only from the lamp at the nurses’ station. Dorothy Malloy could no longer count the time she’d been here by the passing of days and nights. So much of her time had been in darkness. Much of it sleeping. She no longer recognised her own hands. The strands of hair that hung loose around her face were no longer chestnut. It was long enough that she could hold it out in front of her eyes and when there was enough light she saw it was coarse and streaked with grey and belonged to a woman much older.
She shuffled along, her feet too heavy to lift, a hand guiding the small of her back. ‘C’mon, dear, there we go.’ The voice was soft and kind, not like the others. He helped Dorothy down onto the bed. Her limbs were stiff. Her legs felt skinny and fragile, as if they might break from too much pressure. Deep breathing and low moans from the others filled any void in the room. Dorothy lay back and prayed that sleep would come soon. But it didn’t. The sleep that had engulfed her was now becoming less and less. Instead her body was paralysed. Her limbs refused to move and the only sensation was in her head. A waking nightmare. Occasionally someone would pass her bed.
She was promised the treatment would make her forget. It didn’t.
30
Glasgow 2002
Oonagh spread the sea of papers in front of her. Dorothy Malloy’s case notes covered the entire island unit in her kitchen. She didn’t have a clue what she was looking for but thought this would be a handy place to start.
Tom had warned her that some of the pictures were horrific. Oonagh had thought it was only in cheesy crime fiction that people cut out their victim’s heart and wrapped it in the pages of a bible. She’d deliberately asked Tom to leave those pictures out for now. She had enough trouble sleeping and didn’t think that would help any. There were witness statements from Dorothy’s GP and the scene of crime officers. Interestingly enough there were none from the neighbours; no one had been asked if they’d heard or seen anything suspicious that night, or indeed in the weeks leading up to the murders. And nothing from Dorothy herself. Oonagh made a mental note to badger Alec for the full police account. She’d leave it for a few days though. He was still smarting at the news Dorothy Malloy was free and at large in the local community.
Dorothy and her husband had lived in a large sandstone villa on the outskirts of Glasgow with their five-year-old son, Robbie. On paper it would appear they had an idyllic life. Clearly not.
There were some brief details of Dorothy’s medical history. She’d been prescribed mild tranquillisers when Robbie was a baby. To help her sleep, apparently. Five years later and she was getting them on repeat prescription. But there was nothing to suggest here that she was capable of this shocking crime.
Photographs were among the papers. Wedding photographs of the happy couple. Oonagh was surprised at how beautiful Dorothy had been. The last picture taken of Dorothy was on the day of the killings. It was a standard police issue photograph. Two sets. One of Dorothy in the clothes she’d worn when she’d been arrested. The other wearing standard-issue hospital white robes. Her eyes looked dead and she stood staring blankly ahead. There were no defence marks on her arms. Clearly she’d incapacitated her husband with the first wound. In the blink of an eye Dorothy Malloy had been transformed from a devoted wife, a loving mum to a ruthless killer.
Oonagh stood up and eased the crick from her back. She was tired, trying to make sense of all this. She stuck the kettle on. Coffee would help. Wine would help more but she was meeting her mum shortly and she couldn’t be arsed with the hassle she’d get. And although she’d discovered that chocolate was far better at disguising the smell of booze than chewing gum, she decided today not to take the risk. Well, maybe just one wouldn’t hurt.
Oonagh washed the glass, left the papers scattered on the worktop and made her way out. Her mum had already texted suggesting she’d just meet her at the house, but Oonagh wasn’t in the mood for visitors and pretended she was already on her way, suggesting instead they meet in the park.
She decided to walk to Kelvingrove Park. It was a nice day and there were a few people out enjoying the early spring sunshine. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She guessed her mum had already arrived at the café, which was on the other side of the park gates. Oonagh pulled her collar up around her neck and stuffed her hands down deep into the pockets of her jacket. In the distance she saw Fran get out of the car and for the first time she was struck by the resemblance between them. Her build, her hair, her mannerisms. Even the clothes were similar. For her whole life people had told her how much she looked like her mum, but today was the first time she’d noticed. Before reaching the door, Fran turned and caught sight of Oonagh and walked towards her.
‘Fancy having a walk first?’
Oonagh nodded and was glad of the fresh air.
‘I’m worried about you, sweetheart.’ Her mum didn’t believe in making small talk.
‘Mum, d’you want to get the pleasantries over with first?’
Fran linked arms with her and smiled. ‘I just think you’re looking a bit pale and—’
I’m fine!’ Oonagh cut in before she had a chance to finish. ‘Come on, let’s go get some tea – I’m not really in the mood for a walk.’ The subtext being I’m not in the mood for a motherly pep-talk. Fran just gave her one of her looks and they walked back towards the café.
The tables outside
were mainly free, apart from one woman trying to placate a toddler in her arms. The boy couldn’t have been more than four but struggled to get free and lashed out with his open hands.
‘Little shit!’
‘Oonagh, he’s only a wee tot.’
‘Well, he’s going to grow up into a big shit if no one tries to control him.’
‘You weren’t always an angel, lady, let me tell you.’
‘But surely I didn’t hit you, Mum?’
Fran laughed. ‘OK, you never resorted to violence but you were a stroppy little madam at times.’
‘I blame the parents.’ Oonagh grinned and the middle-aged woman with the shitty little boy had given up and let him walk. She flopped down onto a seat and let him run around the swings, clearly no longer concerned if he ran off into danger.
‘They’re a handful at that age, eh?’
The woman smiled at Fran. ‘Exhausting!’ She stroked her neck, which flashed red with tiny slap marks and bore the brunt of little nails scratching her skin. She glanced down at her hands, which also had the making of small bruises from where The Little Shit had lashed out. ‘I should get danger money for him!’
‘The joys of being a granny, eh?’ Fran beamed, totally unaware that her chance of being Grandmother had been washed down the sluice at Glasgow’s Western Infirmary little over two years ago. Oonagh felt herself go pale and licked her lips. She looked at the two women, engrossed in innocent chat about babies, and her stomach gave a little roll. Her palms grew clammy, the telltale tightness clasped her throat. She was aware of her heart beating; the rhythm didn’t seem quite right. It was too fast, surely. A pulse throbbed in her neck as a trickle of sweat helped the fear makes its way down her back. She wanted her mum to give her a cuddle. Tell her she wasn’t going to die. Then the fear intensified and she had to get away. She struggled to keep her breath even. The pulse had moved into her jaw; it was threatening to give the game away. She needed to leave. Fast.
‘Mum, I’ve just remembered I need to be—’
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