Keep Her Silent

by Theresa Talbot

  ‘Why would that happen to Dorothy?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but she was being made to believe she was hearing voices from the other side.’

  ‘Who would do that?’

  ‘No idea, but whoever it was wanted Dorothy Malloy out of the picture, for good.’

  45

  Ayrshire 2002

  ‘How well did you know Andrew Malloy?’ The recorder was already on the table and switched on. Oonagh hardly waited until Maura was seated before starting her questions. ‘And why were the blood products so damaged? I mean, surely then everyone who’s ever had a blood transfusion would be at risk?’

  ‘Can I grab a coffee first?’

  Oonagh nodded, embarrassed slightly at her own enthusiasm, and eyed the waitress to come over. It was off season, and everything in the seaside town looked a bit sad. Judging by the décor the café had seen better days. The cream walls were tinged with decades of nicotine. The Formica tables suggested a bygone age full of teenagers tasting first-time coffee, kisses and cigarettes.

  Maura slid into the booth and cupped the steaming mug with both hands as soon as it was on the table.

  ‘Were you having an affair with him?’ Oonagh cut to the chase. Couldn’t be bothered with the bullshit any longer. Not for the first time she guessed Dorothy Malloy had slaughtered her husband because he’d been playing away from home, and those poor girls had got caught in the crossfire.

  Maura let out a sigh. The tip of her nose stung red. ‘OK, one step at a time. The blood products were so damaged because, to extract the plasma, blood from up to twenty thousand donors had to be pooled together, therefore the risk was higher. Just simple arithmetic. Coupled with the fact that the blood came from skid-row donors, it’s little wonder that factor VIII was a lethal injection.’

  Oonagh was anxious to talk more about Malloy, but allowed Maura to set the pace. For now.

  ‘So, have you any good case studies?’

  ‘I can put you in touch with a mother whose seven-year-old son died after he contracted HIV through contaminated blood.’ She sipped on her coffee. ‘Is that good enough?’

  ‘Oh no.’ This would be manna from heaven to most journalists, and would have been for Oonagh not that long ago. There was a time she would have gorged herself on that information, but she’d lost her appetite for other people’s misery and felt sick at the thought. Perhaps she was losing her edge.

  ‘The doctors had suggested that the boy’s father had had a homosexual affair. Said the boy probably contracted the disease whilst still in the womb.’

  Oonagh pressed her right hand onto her thigh to stop it from shaking. ‘Presumably the family took legal action?’

  A small laugh escaped from Maura’s lips. ‘The husband was found dead in his car. The old rubber hose onto the exhaust pipe routine.’

  ‘Oh, my God, so he was gay?’ Oonagh took stock and quickly corrected herself. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with being—’

  Maura cut in. ‘Of course he wasn’t gay.’ Oonagh wasn’t used to being the slow-witted one. ‘The stress of it all drove him to it.’ She paused; it looked to Oonagh as though she was holding back the tears. ‘Can you imagine what it’s like to watch your baby die a little more each day, and have every family member, every friend, every medic and nurse in the hospital point the finger at you?’

  Of course Oonagh couldn’t imagine it. She found herself saying something for the second time. ‘And this happened here?’ Maura nodded. ‘In the UK?’ Again Maura nodded. ‘In Scotland?’

  The tears that had welled up in Maura’s eyes spilled over and fell down her cheeks. Oonagh passed her a tissue. ‘Did you know the family?’

  ‘No, thank God. That would have been worse.’

  Oonagh nodded but didn’t really know what Maura meant.

  Maura gave Oonagh a pitying look. ‘You’re not quite grasping this, are you?’

  ‘Well, no, not really!’ Oonagh struggled to keep her temper in check. Now was not the time for a bit of petty point scoring. ‘Perhaps you could…’ She wasn’t sure where she was going with this and was glad when Maura cut in.

  ‘We could have stopped it.’

  ‘You and Andrew?’

  ‘There were a few of us, not just him – we started piecing things together. We knew something wasn’t right.’

  The buzzing of her phone made her jump. It was her mum. Shit; they were supposed to meet for lunch.

  ‘Is it OK if I take this?’

  Maura nodded.

  ‘Hi.’ Pause. ‘Oh, Mum, I’m so sorry, I was just about to call you…’ She looked at Maura, offered a weak smile. ‘I’m tied up here in the studio and may not get out for a few hours yet…’ Maura was staring out of the window, looking at something beyond the rain-smeared glass.

  ‘Thanks, Mum, yeah, honestly, I’m good. I’ll give you a buzz tomorrow?’ She pressed her thumb on the end-call button before Fran had a chance to answer.

  ‘Who are the others? Where are they now?’

  ‘Most of them are dead by now.’ Oonagh wasn’t sure whether to believe her. ‘There was a morgue technician who worked with Andrew – he’d been warned off and soon scarpered. They gave him a hell of a time.’

  ‘Oh? How?’

  ‘Rats in his lunch box, pictures of his kids with a noose around their necks. These evil bastards were ruthless.’

  ‘Maura, assume I’m a bit stupid.’ She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. ‘Can you just tell me in plain English what the fuck is going on?’ She paused, not sure she knew what to ask. ‘Who were they? And why’re you acting like a scared rabbit?’

  ‘I live with this every day. That horrible feeling that I could have done more. But they were bigger than us. And you don’t mess with the big boys.’

  Oonagh had a million questions and knew she’d have to tread carefully. She stretched her hand across the table. The door opened and an icy blast caught them both by surprise. A young girl, no more than a teenager, came in; a toddler resting on her hip. Maura looked miles away. Oonagh looked down at the recorder. ‘Maura?’

  The coffee was still hot, she gulped it down, then looked Oonagh in the eye. ‘I can trust you, can’t I? It’s odd but I see another damaged soul in you, Oonagh O’Neil.’

  Oonagh felt the colour rise in her cheek. Wanted to tell her to fuck off, she couldn’t be arsed with the psychoanalysis crap, but instead she bit her tongue.

  ‘We’ve all got our tale to tell. So, come on…’

  ‘I killed my sister, Oonagh.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t stick the knife in myself, but I might as well have.’

  Oonagh let her back rest against the chair and let Maura talk. ‘She was helping me pass on the information from the States to my contacts in the UK. Don’t forget, as I say, we didn’t have mobiles or emails or anything then.’ Maura looked tired. Dark circles had formed around her eyes and her mouth was set in a hard line, which didn’t suit the softness of her face. ‘She was my baby sister and I didn’t do enough to protect her.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘They found out she was the go-between for me and the others in the UK and they took her out. Plain and simple.’

  The same icy blast caught the back of Oonagh’s neck. But this time the door was closed.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Maura simply shook her head. ‘She was a medical secretary and passed on information to Andrew.’

  Oonagh stiffened. She took in Maura’s heart-shaped face, the oval eyes, the blonde hair scraped back off her face. ‘What was your sister’s name?’

  Maura looked around, thrown off guard by this change of pace.

  ‘And your name? Your real name.’

  Maura knitted her brows together. ‘What?’

  ‘I ran a search – you’ve no passport, no national insurance, you’re not on any electoral register.’

  Maura looked into her coffee, bit her lip, played for time. Oonagh reached across and t
ouched her hand. ‘You need to trust me here, Maura.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Otherwise there’s no point in taking this any further.’

  Oonagh tipped the last of her coffee into her mouth and made out she was leaving. Her gut instinct told her Maura would play ball, otherwise she wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to set this whole thing up in the first place. She was slipping her jacket over her shoulders when Maura spoke.

  ‘Channing, Marjory Channing.’

  ‘Janet Channing’s sister?’

  She knew the answer before Maura nodded her head and Oonagh slumped back in her chair. It felt as though she was the last one in on the joke and didn’t know where to start. What a complete fool. She guessed it was no coincidence that Marjory Channing had contacted her with this tainted blood story the same week the police had reopened the Raphael case. It was all from the same stinking cesspit.

  ‘My sister was—’

  ‘Give me a minute here,’ Oonagh cut in, didn’t let her finish. She was too far in to get out. Didn’t want out, if truth be told, but she needed to get back in control.

  ‘You could have gone to a hundred journalists with this story. Ninety-nine of them better qualified to grasp the nuances of a medical story. Why did you pick me?’

  Her answer came just a little too quickly. ‘You were the obvious choice. People respect you, they admire you for being in touch with—’

  ‘I’m flattered. Tell me you can’t believe I’m hitting forty and I’ll roll over and let you tickle my tummy.’

  Maura looked confused.

  ‘Cut the crap, Maura, or Marjory, or whatever it is you like to call yourself. You targeted me for this.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re—’

  ‘Cut the fucking crap, sister.’ Oonagh reached over, switched off her recorder and slipped it into her bag.

  ‘Please…’ Marjory Channing didn’t finish her sentence. Oonagh could feel the colour rise in her cheeks. Hoped she looked angry and not embarrassed.

  Marjory dipped her head slightly. Couldn’t look her in the eye. ‘I found out you were going to see Dorothy Malloy.’

  ‘How?’ Oonagh didn’t try to hide the anger rising from her gut.

  ‘Seriously. That doesn’t matter. I have my sources.’

  At least she admitted it. Admitted it wasn’t just one huge ball of coincidence that rolled it altogether and for now Oonagh would have to be happy with that.

  ‘Oonagh, this is what I meant when I said the shit was about to hit the fan. Dorothy Malloy’s out of Cartland and who knows what’s going to come out?’

  Oonagh grabbed the recorder from her bag and put it back on the Formica table between them. Her mind frantic, trying to connect it all together.

  ‘How well did Andrew Malloy know your sister?’

  Marjory Channing shrugged her shoulders, didn’t quite grasp the question.

  ‘Was he shagging her? Is this what all this was about?’ Oonagh struggled not to raise her voice. ‘He was slaughtered, his whole family destroyed, and for what? A quickie?’

  The tears that had threatened for so long eventually spilled over onto Marjory’s face. ‘No, it wasn’t like that, I promise.’

  Oonagh chewed the inside of her cheek; a faint taste of blood coated her mouth. This was getting grubby. As far as she knew the police had no evidence of any association between Andrew Malloy and Janet Channing, or indeed any of the girls who were killed. She tried to gather her thoughts as her heart ached in sympathy for poor Dorothy Malloy, who killed a poor young girl and slaughtered her own family because her husband wanted his end away, despite Marjory Channing’s conspiracy theory.

  Oonagh softened, got herself in check. At the end of the day this woman’s sister was murdered and that was a sore one. ‘Marjory, you know Andrew was killed by his wife. She, admitted it. They put her away’ She reached across and took the other woman’s hand. ‘Janet, it would seem, just sort of got… caught in the crossfire.’

  Marjory looked her in the eye, demanding an explanation.

  ‘Andrew’s wife, Dorothy, she’s in a bad way. Completely unstable.’

  ‘What’re you telling me here?’

  ‘Trust is a two-way street, Marjory; you need to give me your word here.’

  Marjory nodded. Oonagh wasn’t convinced but she felt she’d suffered enough, and guessed she wouldn’t be running to the police any time soon. ‘Marjory, there was no conspiracy. It’s looking more and more likely that your sister was killed by Dorothy Malloy.’

  Marjory sat back, almost laughed. ‘Where did you get that nonsense from?’

  ‘Hear me out. Dorothy believed Andrew was… having an affair with your sister.’

  ‘That’s well out of order.’ She raised her voice but there was no one in the café who cared. ‘Janet wouldn’t have gone near a married man.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Marjory. I’m not saying they were having an affair, but Andrew’s wife clearly thought so and killed them both.’

  ‘That’s fucking ludicrous.’

  ‘What about the others, Marjory?’

  Marjory said nothing, instead waited for Oonagh to explain.

  ‘There were three girls killed in total. None of the others had any links to this tainted blood thing. The only thing they had in common was they all looked similar.’

  By the looks of Marjory’s expression, she wasn’t grasping Oonagh’s train of thought.

  ‘They were all Andrew’s type.’

  ‘Nonsense. The police must have missed something. They don’t know what they’re supposed to be looking for. Dig a little deeper. You’ll find a link.’ There was an air of desperation in her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, Marjory, Andrew might have been a really good friend, even a nice guy on the surface, but his wife thought he was screwing around and went postal.’

  Marjory put her hand across her mouth but it did little to stifle her cries. The waitress glanced over but quickly turned away when she caught Oonagh’s eye.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Marjory. Janet’s death had nothing to do with you.’

  Marjory slammed her hand on the table. ‘Are you kidding? This makes it even worse. Jesus Christ, I introduced them.’ She pressed the tissue against her eyes, wiped her nose and took a small flask from her bag. Oonagh didn’t need to know what was in it, but guessed that Marjory Channing’s demons were kept at bay through a mixture of drugs and alcohol.

  ‘Sorry.’ Her hand shook as she slipped the flask back into her bag.

  ‘Hey, I’m the one who should apologise. Landing that on you with no warning. But, Marjory…’ time to change tactics ‘… this tainted blood story. We can do things with this.’

  Marjory hesitated. God knew what was going on inside her head right now.

  ‘Marjory?’

  Marjory nodded. ‘Of course, I’ll give you as much information as you need, on one condition.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘My sister stays out of it. There’s nothing that will slur her name.’ She suddenly hardened, gave Oonagh a look. ‘Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Of course, Marjory.’ Oonagh agreed to play ball and ran with it. ‘Have the police spoken to you yet?’

  ‘No, they think I’m dead.’

  Oonagh raised an eyebrow; she needed to hear this.

  Marjory got up to leave. ‘I sort of spread the word that I’d taken a stroke. No big deal, just let the rumour mill do its business, and it worked.’

  Oonagh gave her a smile. ‘Smart move.’ Then raised one hand as Marjory glanced towards the door. ‘I know, you don’t want us to leave together.’

  Marjory smiled and Oonagh reached out to shake her hand, but instead she bent down and placed a kiss on Oonagh’s cheek. ‘Take care of yourself, Oonagh O’Neil.’

  Oonagh decided to order another coffee

  *

  She gave it fifteen minutes before leaving the café and took the A71 east towards the A74. The flat Ayrshire countryside stretched out for miles. There were fe
w other cars on the road and she eased her foot onto the accelerator, taking each curve of the road faster than she should have. Speeding was her only vice. Well, that and smoking, and maybe drinking, and perhaps the odd wee swear word. But on the whole, she was a clean-living gal.

  Marjory Channing’s story really did beggar belief, but she’d manage to dig around a wee bit herself to know that it wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded. The sun through the windscreen warmed her face and the familiar thrill of exhilaration caressed her chest as she eased her car around a hairpin curve, watching the needle nudge up to sixty. Then slammed the brakes on hard as she saw the roadblock ahead. The screech of the brakes pierced the tranquillity as she stopped just yards from the uniformed copper. Shit.

  He gestured for her to take the B road to her right. She put down the window and asked what the problem was. In her head she weighed up the options of waiting it out until the incident was over. The fact there was a plod on duty indicated that this wasn’t a long-term closure for roadworks. Rather some short-term problem that could well be over soon; however, if she took the diversion route she knew it would add over an hour onto her journey and she couldn’t be arsed.

  The plod made his way over. She fished around her bag for her press pass and hoped it would curry some favour in getting information. The press pass could swing both ways: sometimes it did, other times it pissed people off.

  ‘Hi.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘Is the road likely to be…?’

  He was young, looked inexperienced, but tried to look like a proper grown-up. ‘Crash, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Has recovery been arranged? Will the road reopen soon?’

  He looked around, not sure how to deal with a question. ‘Mmm, probably not, could be several hours yet.’

  Oonagh’s heart sank. That usually meant a fatal. No matter how long she’d been in the job she could never get used to the fact that some people woke up in the morning and had no idea it was their last day on earth.

  ‘OK, thanks.’ She started up her engine and took a hard right onto the single-track road. As she steered round the bend the wreckage from the accident came into view. Single vehicle, no other cars in sight. Head first into a tree. No one could have survived that. The winding road took her slightly closer to the scene, which was now to her left-hand side. She recognised the British racing green MG sports car immediately. Only the back had escaped unscathed. The rest was a mangled wreck. Police and ambulance flanked either side. But Oonagh knew by the stance of the paramedics standing idle by the side of the road that Marjory Channing would have been pronounced dead at the scene.