‘And the others. Why were they killed? What did they have to do with it?’
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘No, I wouldn’t like some tea. I would like some answers please.’
Despite this he slowly rose to his feet and padded out of the room. Oonagh wasn’t getting any of this on tape. She grabbed a notebook from her bag and scribbled down as many notes as she could. Cursing the fact she’d missed so many shorthand classes and preferred to spend her days in the pub. She opened the text messages from Alec. There were three in total. The first:
Where are you Oons?
The second slightly more urgent:
Oonagh are you safe. Call me as soon as you get this.
She was just about to open the third when Anderson came back in with a steaming mug cupped in his hands and she slipped the phone back into her bag.
She was anxious to get the story back on track. ‘Are you saying, then, Janet Channing was deliberately targeted to shut her and her sister up?’
‘Happens more often than you’d think.’
Oonagh tried not to think. Not of that anyway. ‘But you’ve no idea who did it?’
He did that shrug thing, which was now starting to annoy her.
‘So it wasn’t Dorothy, then?’
He looked genuinely shocked at this. ‘Dear God! Is that what you think? That Dorothy was the killer?’
A slight pang of embarrassment came from nowhere and pierced her chest. ‘I thought perhaps…’ Then she remembered the diaries once more and galvanised herself. ‘I had good reason to think that – after all, Dorothy’s diaries suggested she had prior knowledge as to when the killings would take place. You must have read it yourself. You gave it to me.’
‘There were a lot of people involved. It was very complicated.’
‘Too right it was complicated. D’you want to just stop skirting round this and tell me what happened?’
‘As I say, we fed her paranoia that Andrew was involved. It was all to discredit him. Shut him up. If he decided to blow the whistle then we’d have Dorothy’s accusations and it wouldn’t take much to drum up some evidence.’
Oonagh wasn’t prepared for what came next. Perhaps it would have been better to believe that Dorothy Malloy, suffering from post-partum psychosis and fearing her husband was cheating on her, had killed three innocent women in Glasgow.
‘It wasn’t too hard to botch the investigation into Janet Channing’s murder. It happens all the time.’
‘What about the others?’
‘You need to believe me that I had nothing to do with any of this. I wasn’t party to this.’
Oonagh reassured him; she was desperate for him to get on.
‘It’s funny how once a boundary is crossed it’s easier to do it again.’
She wasn’t sure where this was going.
‘I’m afraid the other two were collateral damage.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You’ve heard that the best way to cover a crime is to commit another crime?’
Oonagh had never heard of that logic but sort of pretended she had.
‘We had to make Janet Channing’s murder seem like a random act.’
‘Please don’t tell me another two innocent women were killed to make it seem like a serial killer was on the loose.’
‘The police are fucking morons, you know.’
The enormity of what he was saying slowly sank in. The countless people whose lives were ruined, families who’d lost loved ones, years of heartache and for what? The profit of a multinational conglomerate? The ego of a few maniac doctors who thought they’d play God?
‘So, this was all one big giant cover-up? You make me sick.’
He let out a laugh. ‘Oh, the irony, Miss O’Neil, when I’d set out to stop sickness.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t get the joke. It’s just not funny.’
Graham Anderson went on to explain that Dorothy was led to believe that Andrew was the killer. In her psychotic state she was open to even the most fantastic of suggestions. Apparently she’d followed Andrew and saw him meet Janet Channing and believed they were having an affair. Then, when Janet was killed, the phone calls had made Dorothy believe that Andrew was in fact the killer.
‘It wasn’t too hard to frame Andrew. That way we had him back where we wanted him and could force him to keep his mouth shut.’ For a split second Oonagh saw what she thought was a glimpse of remorse. ‘I had no idea Dorothy would kill him.’
‘And Robbie?’
Once again his rheumy eyes threatened tears. ‘That was a mistake.’
‘A mistake? My home perm when I was sixteen was a mistake. This was more than a fucking mistake.’
He could no longer look her in the eye. ‘So who killed him?’
‘He was a great kid. Masses of curls, always laughing.’ He drew the back of his hand across his nose. ‘Something went wrong. Our guys got there and thought…’
She palmed the mobile phone in her pocket. Set it to record. She hoped it was strong enough to pick up at least some of this. When she was confident it was recording she slipped it out of her pocket onto her lap.
‘You telling me they drowned a five year old boy without a thought? But why?’
‘Sometimes things get lost in the chain of command.’
Oonagh struggled not to thump this piece of shit. ‘Apparently by the time Threadgold got there the boy was already dead. Nothing could be done.’
Oonagh had assumed Dorothy had been carted off to Cartland to keep the lid on the fact she thought her husband was a serial killer. But clearly this put it into a whole new ball-park. One whiff from her that her son was torn from her arms and drowned would have been impossible to cover up. ‘Give me a name.’
‘There are no names. There are forces at work here bigger than you can imagine—’
Oonagh thought for a moment, ‘It’s the Masons, isn’t it?’
‘Ha ha, is that what you think?’ Anderson didn’t even try to keep the mocking tone from his voice, ‘D’you think this would be left to a bunch of tossers meeting in a crumby scout hall every week with their trousers at half mast? That lot are the best smoke screen we have. Useless pricks.’
‘Well, whoever it was enjoyed their work.’ Oonagh cut him off.
He shot her a look. He clearly didn’t understand.
‘The police have looked again at the evidence.’ She wasn’t sure how much to tell him, but reckoned she had nothing to lose. ‘Whoever you’re protecting? They held Robbie in the bath face up so your sister could watch as her son was drowned before her eyes.’
‘Bastards.’
‘Save us the tears, Graham.’
Graham Anderson began to gag as he retched. His face distorted as his chin dissolved into his chest. His right hand began to shake uncontrollably as he slumped to one side. His tongue hung from his mouth as the spittle gathered and dripped down his chin. Oonagh lunged forward to catch him before he fell from the chair. One look at his face and she knew. It was the very same when her dad had taken a stroke. That grotesque mask. She pushed his shoulders, leaning him back on his armchair. ‘Graham, I’m going to get you help.’
Her hands trembled as she fished her mobile from her bag. She was about to dial 999 when it rang. Alec Davies. ‘Oh, Gawd, Alec, I need a blue-light ambulance. Fast.’ She gave him the details knowing he’d get one quicker than she could.
‘Oonagh, I need you to get out of that house.’
‘Alec, he needs help. Can you please just hurry up?’
‘Oonagh,’ he was shouting now, ‘for once in your life listen to me. The familial DNA. It’s Graham Anderson. He’s the killer. Get out of that house.’
‘Oh, shit. Just get the fucking ambulance.’
She cut him off, knowing that every second they talked meant a second wasted getting the paramedics. Oonagh had no idea if she genuinely wanted to save Graham Anderson, or if she needed him alive to get the truth out about this story. She rested
her hand on his forehead. ‘You’ll be fine,’ she said, but struggled to find any real sympathy for him. She dabbed his slack mouth with a tissue and felt sick.
He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t form in his mouth. Oonagh leaned forward to hear but couldn’t make anything of the misshapen vowels. He was limp down one side. He reached his other hand and grabbed at her sweater. His grip was surprisingly strong. The smell was odd. It had a shape. It was sharp in her nostrils and caught the back of her throat. She tried to prise his hand away from her chest but he’d clawed his way up towards her throat and wouldn’t let go. She took both hands and tried to prise open his fingers. He pulled her closer. Roughly enough for her to lose her footing and stumble on top of him.
‘Graham, please let go.’ His face was unshaven and rough against her cheek. His breath held stale coffee and mucus. She began to gag as she tried once more to loosen his grip. Then that smell. The sharp one again. It cut through the stench of his breath. Gas. No mistake. A slight flurry of panic gripped her chest. She pulled herself back but he refused to let go.
‘Graham, I can smell gas. I need to get you out of here.’ She glanced in the mirror at the back of his chair and froze. His oxygen cylinders, six in all, were lined up in the adjoining room. Her heart skipped a beat. ‘Graham, please listen to me. Have you left the gas on? We need to get you out of here.’ The heat from the stove was on her back. Fuck. The stove. She twisted her head; there were glowing embers of coal. Enough to ignite a gas leak, that was for sure.
This time she screamed at him, but he just seemed to grimace. He tightened his grip and gave her a lopsided grin then snorted a laugh. The mucus ran down one nostril. Once more he tried to form a word. ‘Fffuu… ffuu…’ She didn’t think she’d be able to carry him out. She shoved her arms around his back and tried to hoist him off the chair, but he was a dead weight. And still he tried to speak, not letting go of her sweater. ‘Fffuu… ffuu…’
‘Graham, please, you need to help me here.’ The smell was growing stronger and Oonagh had no idea how long they had before the cylinders would ignite. She pulled at him once more and finally he managed to utter something which she understood.
‘Fffuuck ooo, bitch.’ He gripped tighter then wrapped his right leg around her knees, pinning her against him once more. ‘Fffuucken bi-itch.’
It suddenly hit her what was going on. He was refusing to let go. He was going and he was taking her with him. Oonagh pulled one knee up, but she was too close to knee him in the balls, so she forced her knee between his legs and knelt on him as hard as she could, at the same time she dipped her head down and wriggled out of her sweater, leaving her free to slam the heel of her hand up against his chin. His head whipped back and instinctively his leg loosed around her. She jumped up and faltered for just a second. Clenching her fist, she punched him full on the face.
‘That’s for Dorothy, you bastard.’ Another swipe, harder this time. ‘And that’s for killing my bloody cat.’ Then she grabbed her bag and ran for the front door. She could hear sirens in the distance. She turned the key in the mortice lock then glanced back. Instead of leaving she ran back inside towards the kitchen. Every gas tap on the cooker was on. The gas sucked the oxygen from the room. She struggled to breathe and buried her face in the crook of her elbow. Quickly she turned the taps off, picked up a stool and smashed it through the window, sending shards of glass into the garden. She ran from room to room, smashing the windows she couldn’t open. She felt her lungs grow tight as she struggled for oxygen. Her legs trembled as she stumbled her way once more to the front door and ran down the driveway onto the street.
58
Glasgow 2002
‘You ready, Dorothy?’
Dorothy nodded and held onto Tom’s arm as he helped her into the back of the car. Oonagh got behind the wheel and checked them both in the rear-view mirror as she fastened her seat belt.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
Both Tom and Oonagh looked at Dorothy. She was more lucid than either of them had seen her.
‘Robbie. He’s dead.’ This time she posed it as a statement rather than a question.
Oonagh paused before starting the engine. She shot Tom a look, didn’t have a clue how to respond. Tom picked up Dorothy’s hand. ‘Yes, Dorothy, I’m so sorry.’
She looked at Oonagh. ‘Some nights I thought I’d dreamt the whole thing. Others I thought I’d imagined having a son at all.’ Oonagh reached round; this time Dorothy didn’t flinch away but took her hand. ‘D’you have children?’
Oonagh shook her head. Her throat had tightened; she didn’t trust herself to speak.
‘Can I try your watch on?’
This time Oonagh smiled and slipped the silver bracelet from her wrist. ‘Of course you can.’ She handed it to Dorothy. It slid over her tiny hand and hung loose on her emaciated wrist.
‘You can keep it, if you like.’
‘May I?’ Dorothy smiled, thoughts of her dead son apparently blotted out once more.
Tom gave Oonagh the nod and she started the engine.
She drove through the Clyde Tunnel towards the south side. Graham Anderson had been transferred to Glasgow’s Southern General Hospital - at Alec Davies’ insistence Oonagh guessed. She glanced every so often in the rear-view mirror at Dorothy in the back seat, who was admiring her new watch.
Graham Anderson had thrown his wee sister to the wolves in order to save his own skin. Oonagh was no longer a believer but prayed there was a special place in hell for such people.
The car park sprawled the length of the hospital grounds and she parked up and let Tom and Dorothy go on ahead whilst she popped the change in the meter. She watched as Tom guided Dorothy by the elbow. To the outside world she could be his mum, an aunt, an elderly neighbour and he the good Samaritan escorting during visiting hours. Nothing belied the tortured soul within. Neither Oonagh nor Tom could fathom if Dorothy knew about her brother’s involvement. She’d never let on.
Despite the sunshine, there was a biting wind coming from the Clyde. Oonagh broke into a run and hurried to catch up with Tom and Dorothy, who were waiting in the warmth behind the sliding doors. As soon as she got in the smell hit her. Hospitals. They smelt the same the world over.
‘I don’t get it.’ Tom sniffed the air. Oonagh told him it was because he’d spent so long in the priesthood and chapel houses. Cabbage-smelling hospitals were a welcome relief.
People thronged towards them; official visiting hour had apparently just finished.
Tom held Dorothy’s hand as they got into the lift. Her collarbones protruded and she kept her eyes down, hardly meeting their glance. Her eyes gave nothing away. As they got into the lift, Oonagh saw a face she recognised. She was about to nod a brief hello, but instead dipped her head and avoided eye contact. The last thing she could be bothered with right now was small talk.
‘D’you two want some time alone together?’ Oonagh directed the question at Dorothy as she watched light on the wall flash the numbers for each floor. The lift moved slowly, but without stopping and smelled of sour milk.
Graham Anderson’s prognosis following the stroke was surprisingly good. His speech was impaired, he’d lost the use of the left side of his body, but the doctors said with the correct therapy he could regain a lot of movement, and even his speech. And his prostate cancer was treatable. Oonagh had been terrified his body was so eaten up with cancer that he’d croak before the trial. No-one asked about the bruises on his face.
Oonagh struggled to find any sympathy for Graham Anderson. ‘Life can turn on a sixpence, Oonagh.’ That was what her dad used to tell her: ‘a sixpence’. Her dad had died at sixty from a stroke. He’d lingered for the best part of a month. No one had given them the glimmer of hope that this shitty bastard was getting.
Oonagh’s own prognosis was decidedly better. No stroke, no signs of epilepsy, no indications of anything more sinister. Nothing at all in fact. It was put down to the panic attacks; she’d told no one about topping u
p her prescription with drugs from the online pharmacy. At first when she’d been given the all-clear the relief had engulfed her and she had sobbed with gratitude. Then she’d burned with shame imagining everyone could see into her soul and know that her condition was self-inflicted.
‘You ready, Dorothy?’ Tom had already briefed Dorothy that her brother might look different on account of the stroke.
As they got out of the lift a nurse squeezed past them, coat on, rucksack over his shoulder, that look of contented relief that his shift had ended. Dorothy smiled and waved, the way a child would. Despite the look of exhaustion, he waved back and smiled as the doors closed. A uniformed officer walked towards them from the direction of the coffee machine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was still chewing. As soon as Dorothy saw him she cowered.
‘Come on, Dorothy, you’re OK.’ Oonagh gestured to the plod. ‘Is it OK if…?’
He nodded. Mortified at being caught off guard, but Graham Anderson was going nowhere. Despite his condition Alec had insisted on a police guard.
Tom pushed through the double doors leading to the corridor, they heard the mayhem before they could see it and the uniformed cop shoved them aside as he broke into a run.
A cacophony of voices and screams came from the single ward, a team of doctors and nurses yelling instructions, panic rising in their tone. The policeman ran then stopped dead at the door, ‘Fuck me.’ He turned and herded Oonagh, Tom and Dorothy against the wall as a crash team wheeled the bed past them at speed. Tom wrapped his arm around Dorothy, holding her head close to hide her view, but Oonagh caught a glimpse of Graham Anderson on the blood soaked bed and the sight of his mutilated face. From the sounds of it he was still alive. Gurgling, choking noises could be heard above the panic. Then they were gone.
A young nurse ushered them all into a family room, she was visibly shaking as she sat them down, her chin trembled as she offered them tea and assured them someone would speak to them soon. Oonagh held Dorothy’s hand and prayed this was another image she would be able to blot from her mind. Dorothy reached out with her free hand and Oonagh flinched slightly as Dorothy tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
Keep Her Silent Page 26