The blood from the initial wound had sprayed in an arc, hitting the wall behind and reaching the edge of the fitted carpet. By all accounts she’d let him bleed out before hacking open his chest. Rumours that she’d taken out his heart and wrapped it in pages of the bible weren’t quite true. Malloy’s breastbone was still intact. It would take more than a kitchen knife and a pissed-off wife to break that. Instead Dorothy Malloy had stuffed pages of the bible into her dead husband’s chest cavity, ensuring they covered as much of his heart as she could. Davies wondered if there had still been a faint heartbeat as she’d performed this final ritual. Coppers had a macabre joke that the quickest way to a man’s heart wasn’t through his stomach, but straight through the chest with a kitchen knife.
The charge sheets for Dorothy Malloy were in a different envelope. He glanced through them. The police statement was there, no witness statement and of course no statement from the accused; she hadn’t been in a fit state. The Malloys had lived in a suburb in the south side of the city, where things like this didn’t happen. Davies looked again at the paperwork. Something jarred. Dorothy Malloy was taken from her home and straight to Cartland in Lanark, over thirty miles away. It was the only state mental hospital with a segregated female ward. He slipped the paperwork back into the envelope, put it in his drawer and locked it.
He then braced himself before looking at the pictures of the boy. Of Robert Malloy. Their son Robbie. Just five years old. He’d have been thirty-two now, had his mother not killed him. A grown man, with all the happiness and sadness and mundane shit that all the other grown-ups had to deal with every day. Davies could never shift that utter sense of devastation, the absolute loss with the death of a kid. A life yet to be lived. Dreams unfulfilled. Was there a woman or a man out there somewhere missing a soulmate because of the premature death of Robbie Malloy? Was there an undiscovered cure for cancer that died with him? Or a work of art never to be realised or a great statesman who would never be? Davies chose not to consider the fact a murdered child might just as easily have grown up to be a rapist, a serial killer or just another fucking waster who didn’t give a shit.
He looked at the post-mortem examination results first. There was only one single page. He sifted through the rest of the papers to retrieve more but found none. It was little more than a death certificate. There had been no toxicology report, no detailed examination of the boy’s organs; not even a fingernail scraping. His height, weight and cause of death, drowning, were all that was recorded. He couldn’t read the signature of the pathologist who signed it off, but it would be in the records.
Davies slid the photographs from the A4 envelope, laid them side by side and immediately felt a chill from the back of his throat slide down towards his chest. He dropped his head into his hands. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ He stood up as the adrenalin caused a slight shift in his abdomen then surged through his body; he punched the door of his office hard enough to cause a searing pain through his right knuckles. He rubbed his wound as he rocked back and forth on his heels wondering what the fuck to do next. He caught sight of McVeigh’s ginger hair through the glass and snapped his fingers, even though he was too far away to hear, gesturing for him to come quick without catching his eye. McVeigh was used to being on high alert and opened the door.
‘You want me, boss?’
‘Get your arse in here quick and shut the fucking door.’ He drummed his fingers against his thigh, his left foot dancing on the ground as he pointed to the pictures, denying McVeigh the luxury of reading the post-mortem report first. Davies leaned back on the window sill and held his right hand over his mouth, hiding the tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his top lip. His eyes shifted from the photographs to McVeigh, who remained perfectly still but was betrayed by the tightening of his jaw and the single vein pulsing on his temple.
‘Who is it?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Davies hadn’t kept McVeigh in the loop about this one. McVeigh shot him a look, and he suddenly felt a bit shitty for exposing him to pictures of a child’s corpse without prior warning. ‘Of course it matters.’ He softened slightly. ‘I mean, for now, please just tell me what you see.’
Robbie Malloy’s bloated body was grey. There were no scene of crime pictures. Instead he lay on a metal slab. The blue tinge around his lips still evident. His eyes, thank God, were closed and his hair smoothed down at the sides.
McVeigh folded his arms in front of his chest. He hesitated slightly.
Davies was growing impatient. ‘It’s not a trick question, McVeigh, just tell me.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Child, aged…’ he paused ‘… six or seven?’ he said; an obvious question waiting for his boss’s approval before continuing. Davies nodded.
‘Five.’ Robbie Malloy was tall for his age. ‘Carry on.’
McVeigh picked up one of the pictures for closer examination. ‘Clearly—’ he took a deep breath ‘—the child was murdered, killed.’ He began to relax into the job in hand. ‘Finger marks, bruises, to the upper arms, neck area suggest he was grabbed from behind. Can I ask?’ Davies tipped his head, gestured for him to continue. ‘Did he drown?’ Davies nodded. McVeigh was shaping up to be a good cop. He was thorough and could slot vital pieces of evidence together like a jigsaw. ‘Bruising around the ankles, too, shows that a degree of force was used.’ He was getting into his stride. But paused again, momentarily. ‘Boss?’ Davies let him continue. ‘Do we know where he drowned?’
‘Bath. At home.’ Davies knew McVeigh was already forming the scenario in his head. Had the child been thrown into a body of water and left to die the bruising would have been caused by the initial restraints. In the bath suggested he was held down.
‘A significant degree of force was used,’ he repeated.
‘Can you tell me anything about the killer?’
‘Oh, no.’ He held up his hands. ‘I’m not going there. You need forensics for that.’
Davies knew he wasn’t playing fair, but who said life was fair? McVeigh had joined him as part of the graduate training scheme for coppers and had a special interest in forensics. ‘Just humour me, eh?’
McVeigh looked nervous as he picked up the set of photographs. Taken from every angle on the pathologist’s slab. Bruises on the heels indicated he’d kicked against the bottom of the bath for as long as he’d had life in his body. Bruising on the ankles but lack of bruising on the ankle bone itself suggested he’d been restrained from lashing out sideways with his legs. Apart from purple bruising on his buttocks, presumably from bucking his body against the attack, his torso was clean. Not one handprint or finger mark was present on Robbie Malloy’s body.
‘So?’ Davies stared at his colleague.
‘I’d need to see more, boss, I mean—’
Davies cut in. ‘Fuck’s sake, the case is closed. I know who the fucking killer is – it happened twenty-seven years ago. Just go out on a limb here.’
Despite Davies’s outburst McVeigh seemed relieved to be off the hook with the realisation that the case did not rest on his opinion. ‘OK,’ he ventured, ‘the pattern of the bruising suggests his legs, arms, throat were restrained or grabbed simultaneously.’ He leaned over the desk, resting his weight on one hip; the pictures he rearranged from top to bottom, his eyes darting between each one. ‘This kid was attacked, possibly by a male, judging by his hand-span.’ He read the notes, which stated Robbie Malloy was three feet ten inches. McVeigh held his arms wide, judging the distance, then leaned over, simulating the scene; holding his arms in front of him reduced his arm span considerably. ‘Mmm… six foot plus, or…’ He hesitated.
‘Or what?’ Davies cut in.
‘Or two people held him in the bath?’ Again it was a question. McVeigh turned slowly. ‘But…’
‘What?’
‘You wouldn’t hold a kid down in a bath, would you?’
Davies said nothing, let his colleague continue.
‘Would it not be easier just to force his head under the water?’
<
br /> Davies hadn’t known of many deliberate drownings; of those he did know about, none of the victims were killed face up. McVeigh was right. Face down. Hand on the back of the head.
‘I’d say the kid put up a bit of a fight.’ He paused. Davies knew what was coming but wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear this. ‘And more than one person was involved, given the fact there seem to be several sets of finger-mark bruising.’
Davies looked at his colleague, who offered him a weak smile, apparently hoping he’d passed the test. At that precise moment he had no way of knowing the huge, big can of fucking worms he had just opened.
40
Glasgow 2002
Davies’s bed offered little in the way of sleep, so he thought it the lesser of two evils to go into the office before the day shift arrived. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt, badly in need of an iron, then jumped in the car whilst it was still dark. It was only when he arrived at work he realised quite how early it was: 3.30 a.m.
The duty desk sergeant was the only other soul around. He didn’t look overly surprised to see him. ‘Another sleepless night, Alec?’
He just nodded and rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin. He’d known Bill a long time. They’d worked in the same division for almost thirty years. Bill had been happy to stay in uniform, and worked his way into a desk job, always said he couldn’t be arsed chasing criminals. And it was more than just rumour that he spent most of his shift in his slippers, with his Docs tucked out of sight in his locker; hardly worn.
‘Cuppa?’ Again Davies nodded. ‘D’you want a wee dram in that?’ Bill glanced at the clock. ‘You’re all right, Alec, it’s still night-time.’
A whisky would take the edge off things. ‘Go on, then, since it’s you.’ He pushed through the double doors and turned. ‘Thanks, Bill.’
He kept a few things at the station, meaning that he could usually shave and shower when the long shifts extended into even longer shifts and bled into each other, until some days he only knew what day it was by the newspaper in front of him.
He chewed on the end of his pen as he drummed his fingers on the desk, fidgeting with his mobile with the other hand. It had been a few days since he’d last heard from Oonagh. There was no real reason for her to call – aye, they were friends, but their friendship still had its boundaries. He missed her. Hated admitting that, but he did. Despite her problems she brought an element of fun into his otherwise dull personal life. A tiny knot of something, not exactly jealousy, made a wormhole in his chest when he thought of her and that prick in bed together. He switched on the radio, Classic FM, and let Vivaldi fill his head instead. The music washed over him like a comfort blanket as he put his feet up on the desk, closed his eyes for just a moment and settled back in his chair.
‘Comfy?’ The voice sliced through his slumber.
He blinked the sleep from his eyes and sat bolt upright. ‘Shit!’
Threadgold was sitting opposite. ‘Long night?’
‘Sorry, sir, I was just…’ He glanced at the clock: 8.30 a.m.
‘Resting your eyes. I know.’
Fuck, this was all he needed. Threadgold catching him asleep at his desk. He was supposed to be using up his holiday leave before hanging up his truncheon. The fact he was prowling around the station at this hour wasn’t a good sign.
‘Relax, Alec. Bill told me you’ve been in since the wee small hours.’
He smeared a handkerchief across his mouth, aware of the stale smell of whisky and the line of drool that had escaped down his chin. ‘I thought if I came in early I’d…’
Threadgold held up his hand, telling him to calm down. ‘You know, Alec, I’ve been in the force for almost forty years. It doesn’t do to be married to the job. It’s tough enough.’
Davies nodded, not quite sure where this was going.
‘Don’t be afraid to let your hair down now and again. Lighten up a bit.’
Jesus Christ, he must be a right uptight pain in the arse if the Chief Constable was telling him to lighten up.
‘So. How’s it going?’
‘The case?’ Davies felt that telltale burning in his gut. ‘It’s ehm…’ He hadn’t quite got round to telling Threadgold of the latest developments. That Willie Mack wasn’t so much resting in peace as resting in pieces, and that it was growing increasingly likely that someone was tampering with the evidence. ‘There’s been a bit of a development.’ Threadgold raised his eyebrow and Davies let the scenario unfold. He gave his own edited version, deliberately leaving out the part about the evidence tampering. ‘I was going to call you today. To let you know.’
‘I’m on garden leave, Alec, you don’t need to tell me everything.’
Davies knew he was talking shite. Threadgold had ordered this cold case be re-opened. His balls were very much on the line here.
‘So, what d’you make of it?’
He didn’t seem altogether surprised that Willie Mack’s heart had been wrapped in polythene with pages from the bible stuffed inside, but then Threadgold had seen a lot in his years as a cop. He let Davies witter on about his chat with the undertaker. ‘I’ve got a lead on where the mortuary attendant may be now, so I’ll go talk to him today.’
‘And the DNA?’
Davies had almost forgotten about that. ‘Mmm, inconclusive.’
‘Sorry?’ Obviously Threadgold had heard but was looking for a different answer.
‘Sir, the evidence is too contaminated…’
Threadgold stood up and leaned his hands on the desk. ‘Well, get more evidence, then.’
‘And Mack had a cast-iron alibi for at least two of the killings.’
‘Listen, Alec, I want this case closed by the end of the week.’
‘Are you fu… are you serious? The end of the week? That’s impossible.’
‘You’ve got bags full of evidence, some of it must fit. D’you hear what I’m saying? That fat bastard did it, case closed. Organise a press release for next week. Do it after budget day – folk’ll be too busy moaning about the price of beer and fags to bother about much else.’
Davies ran his hands through his hair, surprised that he had any left at this rate. ‘But you could drive a coach and horse through the case against Mack.’
‘Get down off your high horse, Alec. There’s not going to be a court case. Mack has one living relative left: a daughter that says he’s the killer. At least this way the families of those poor girls get closure. It’s win win all round.’
‘This is far from closed.’ His voice came out louder than intended and he fought to keep it in check. ‘What about Willie Mack’s body? What the hell’s that all about? Hacking him to bits in his coffin?’
‘If you find who did it, charge them with desecration of a corpse and move on.’
Davies rubbed his hand across the pulse on his neck. He couldn’t shift the nagging doubt that Threadgold knew exactly what was behind the mutilation.
‘There are bigger things happening in the city now, Alec, than finding out who had a grudge against Willie Mack.’ Threadgold made towards the door. ‘Go home, get some rest, son, you’re heading for burnout.’
Davies watched him walk down the corridor, head and shoulders above the rest of the foot soldiers who had finally turned up as the office sprang to life. McVeigh entered stage left. ‘Bit early for a social call from the Chief. Everything OK, boss?’
‘Does everything look OK?’ Davies had given up keeping a check on his anger. ‘But in case you really are as stupid as you look, no, everything is not OK.’ He didn’t know where to start. ‘I’m going for a shit and a shave – any chance of a decent cup of coffee when I get back?’
McVeigh turned and Davies thought he heard him tut slightly as he walked out of the door. ‘And, McVeigh, I hope you had a good night’s kip. We’ve got a long fucking day ahead of us.’
41
Glasgow 2002
Oonagh stood on the doorstep and pulled her collar tight against the biting wind. The sky was c
risp and blue but the sun provided little warmth in the cold east-coast wind. Typical of Edinburgh, it was always bloody freezing.
It was an expensive neighbourhood; she had no idea why that surprised her. She stamped her feet and was about to chap the letterbox once more when she heard shuffling footsteps from behind the door and the telltale clink of keys being turned in the lock. The heat was the first thing to hit her as the door opened just a few inches.
‘Graham?’ She dropped her head to the side, bringing her eyes in line with his. It was difficult to guess his age. His face was thin, his skin and hair almost the same grey pallor. He nodded and afforded her a smile as he opened the door just wide enough for her to squeeze past. It was only as he locked the door behind her that she realised she hadn’t actually told anyone where she was going, or who she was meeting. Oonagh palmed the car keys in her pocket and wedged the sharp end between her index and middle finger in case she needed a makeshift weapon, but, looking at Graham, she reckoned a bad cold would floor him.
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me.’ She gave him a little smile but tried not to look happy. He ushered her through to the living room, where the source of the intense heat in the form of a wood-burning stove was.
‘Sit down, Oonagh.’ His familiarity took her by surprise; even though she’d set the tone by calling him by his first name. ‘Tea?’
She weighed up her options and decided to buy some time. ‘Go on, then.’
He left the room and it gave Oonagh the chance to take in her surroundings. The room was immaculate and, although sparsely furnished, every piece was expensive and well crafted. There were few pictures; nothing that suggested a back-story. Within minutes Graham came back with a tea tray; he’d clearly had it ready prepared for her arrival.
‘So how did you find me, then?’ He handed her a china mug and let her help herself to milk and sugar.
Keep Her Silent Page 15