‘It’s ok silly, I won’t hurt you.’
Oonagh nodded. Her nerves were shot to hell. She hated feeling scared all the time and needed a drink.
‘He was a bad man,’
Oonagh nodded, she didn’t know how much Dorothy knew of Graham’s involvement, she looked to Tom, he held out his palms. He was as much in the dark as she was.
‘Even when we were little he was bad.’ Dorothy toyed with her new watch, rolled it around on her wrist. ‘Mummy got me a kitten once. Graham used to hold it under water to see how long it could hold its breath for.’ Her lip trembled, ‘Said he’d do the same to me if I told.’
‘Bastard.’ Oonagh was glad she’d punched him in the face.
‘He used to visit me you know. I told him about the bad men. The ones that didn’t like the noisy ones. He didn’t care.’
The door opened, a doctor eased her way into the room, carefully closing the door with both hands. She touched Dorothy’s shoulder, said her name quietly, and sat down to break the news. It took all of her bedside manner to tell Dorothy that someone had sliced off her brother’s tongue and stuffed it back into his mouth. Oonagh could hear the young cop in the corridor pleading his case, ‘I was only gone a minute. I only grabbed a coffee.’
The team had managed to stabilise Mr Anderson, but he was critical. He’d been choking on his own blood and they had to perform an emergency tracheotomy. It was only when the doctor confirmed that yes he was in a lot of pain and suffering from severe shock, that Oonagh allowed herself the briefest of smiles.
59
Glasgow 2002
Late April brought an unexpected stream of sunny days. Oonagh shrugged her jacket from her shoulders and stretched her arms, enjoying the heat on her back. The waiter placed the coffee on the table as Alec sat down opposite her.
‘Can’t believe we’re sitting outside. Feels like summer eh?’
‘When have you ever known summer in Glasgow to be this warm?’
She noticed the tan line around his hairline. ‘You had a haircut?’
He rubbed his hand across his head. ‘Yeah, is it crap?’
She laughed. ‘No, it’s nice. Very dapper.’ He looked a bit embarrassed that she’d noticed. ‘Say something nice about me now!’
‘Oonagh, you’re terrible.’
‘Is that the nicest thing you can think of? Bloody hell, I must be losing my touch.’
He smiled as he sipped his coffee, leaving a foam moustache across his top lip. Oonagh instinctively leaned across and wiped it off with her thumb. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry. You must think I’m like your mother doing that.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘No, believe me, the last thing I was thinking at that moment was that you were like my mother.’
She stirred her coffee and moved the ashtray onto the table opposite.
‘Have you really given up?’
‘Twenty-six days, four hours and—’ she glanced at her watch ‘—twenty-three minutes.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘So what happens now?’ She needed to steer the conversation away from smoking.
‘With regards to?’
‘Alec!’
He softened slightly, relaxed back into his chair. ‘Well, as soon as Graham Anderson is well enough we’ll charge him with Janet Channing’s murder.’ They both knew that could take a long time and he could well croak it before any formal charges were made. Oonagh tried to shake off the guilty pleasure that at least he’d live long enough to experience some of the pain and torment he inflicted on others.
‘Has he managed to say who attacked him?’’
Alec shook his head. ‘Nightmare. We’re going through CCTV, everything, but it’s just a blank. He’s under twenty-four-hour guard.’ He caught him looking at her. ‘A proper guard this time.’
Oonagh felt a pang of sympathy for the officer who’d nipped off for a fly coffee and left Graham Anderson alone. She imagined Alec had had him shipped off to some godforsaken outpost cleaning toilets with a toothbrush for the next year.
‘What about the bigger picture?’ She was talking about Robbie Malloy, she was talking about Mark Muirhead, she was talking about the whole sorry mess and everyone who’d suffered at the hands of those who were meant to save them.
‘Oonagh. It’s not a simple cut and dried case.’
‘No one will ever be put away for any of this really, will they?’ She knew the answer before she even posed the question.
Alec sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘Well, the Raphael killings, that case is closed.’ He offered it as a crumb of comfort.
Threadgold had already been buried with the full honours reserved for a serving police officer. Official line was that he was cleaning his gun, nothing more than a tragic accident. Oonagh hadn’t gone to the funeral, but, given his status, parts of it had been televised and she’d seen his widow walk the steps of the cathedral with obvious pride at her dead husband’s achievements. Alec seemed to read her mind.
‘Threadgold did the decent thing in the end.’
Oonagh raised an eyebrow.
‘For what it’s worth, I genuinely believe he knew nothing about Robbie’s drowning. He thought Dorothy did it.’
Oonagh wasn’t convinced. ‘So what about Marjory Channing?’
‘Oonagh, I told you, I’ll do whatever it takes to find out if her post-mortem results were doctored. But she’s been cremated – what the hell can we do now?’
‘I just can’t believe it, Alec. I just can’t believe the criminal activities of, of…’ She struggled to find the words. There had been so many lives ruined, so many poor people living every day with this legacy of tainted blood, yet not one person had ever been brought to justice.
‘Your lot can do more about this than we can.’
‘Yip, I’ll make a programme, people will be shocked, then they’ll switch over and be shocked by something else. That’s how it works.’
She felt like throwing the towel in. Buggering off somewhere and making a fresh start. Alec cut through her thoughts. ‘Life’s not fair, Oon. That’s just how it goes sometimes.’
She was surprised to feel tears welling up in her eyes and, despite the sun on her back, she shivered. ‘Dorothy Malloy will probably die in an old folk’s home, Alec.’
He nodded but couldn’t meet her gaze. She’d served her time, but Dorothy would never have the luxury of a normal life afforded to other people.
‘She’s the only one who’s faced justice.’
He let out a sigh. ‘C’mon, why don’t we go get plastered?’
‘That’s it? That’s your answer?’
‘You’ve done your best, Oonagh, now it’s time to move on.’
He stood over her and reached for her hand to help her up. ‘So, you seeing anyone, Oons?’
She shook her head. ‘I thought I wanted a boyfriend, but managed to work out how to set the timer on the central heating myself so thought, naaah.’
He laughed out loud. She bounced the question back at him.
‘Hardly, who’d have me?’
Clearly a rhetorical question but she couldn’t resist. ‘I know; especially with that bloody haircut!’
‘So, where d’you fancy?’
She thought for a moment. ‘You choose.’ They walked down Byres Road with the sun on their backs. She caught Alec eyeing his reflection in the shop windows. Maybe her mum was right, maybe she could do worse.
Epilogue
There was an angry sky as he arranged the flowers, taking the faded ones from their holder and putting them in a poly bag to discard later. St Kentigern’s was set on top of a hill, the Western Necropolis to its left, with Possil Marsh to the right. In the distance beyond the city boundaries the Campsie Fells were just visible through the smirring rain. They’d spent many happy days there as a family. It was their special place. Sometimes Louise would stay at home, allowing them their boys’ day out. Then jokingly chastise them for not wanting their tea when they came home, stuffed from
the fish supper he’d buy them at the café on the corner.
He breathed deeply, allowed his lungs to expand. The air felt cold and clean with none of the grime from the streets below.
The grass had been freshly cut that morning by the looks of it, and he dropped a cushion down to save his knees as he took out a trowel from his rucksack to tend the small area of earth around the headstone. The weekly ritual kept everything neat and tidy. The headstone was clean, but habit forced him to dampen the cloth with the bottle of water from the car and gently wipe away any dust that had settled in the engraving:
Tread softly as you pass by here… for underneath our boy lies sleeping.
The last twenty-three years had done little to dull the pain. The morning Michael died still burned red hot in his chest. His Mikey, his brave boy. Just six years old. They’d fought tooth and nail to have him buried. The hospital had pushed for cremation, said it was policy with HIV patients, but he’d dug his heels in. Louise was gone now too. Cancer was a bastard.
He checked his watch, for time had no meaning here and he often found an hour or two could pass in just moments. He was due back on shift shortly; night shifts were a killer for most, but for him they blotted out the days and afforded him the luxury of not having to communicate too much with others.
The lights were in his favour for much of the short journey, and he drew into the car park a good fifteen minutes earlier than usual; he might even have time to grab a coffee in the staff room first. The heavy weight on his chest felt slightly lighter this evening. Perhaps tonight would be a good night.
He nodded a few pleasantries to the others, who were only too glad to see him, desperate to get home. As usual the handover was quick. After a ten-hour shift most of the staff were on the brink of exhaustion, especially here. Especially in ITU.
He paused at the door of the single ward, pulling on the blue, plastic apron and protective gloves before stepping inside.
The patient’s eyes widened as the charge nurse approached the bed. Tried to call out but the tube from his neck swallowed any sound, impotent limbs jerked and twitched, but he was going nowhere. He leaned over the bed and grabbed his face. ‘Shh, come on, calm down,’ then forced open his mouth to check his handiwork. ‘Not bad.’ The wound had been cauterised; the short stump of what was left of Graham Anderson’s tongue was swollen and bruised. ‘Not bad at all.’
The door opened and the uniformed copper on guard popped his head round. ‘Fancy a coffee, Frank?’
‘Lovely stuff.’
‘He all right?’ He tipped his head at the bed where Graham Anderson lay wild-eyed, paralysed limbs trembling.
‘Och, he’s fine. Hard to kill a bad thing, eh?’
The young cop laughed as he closed the door and Frank sat down, rested his back against the chair. Graham Anderson didn’t take his eyes off him. The room was warm with only the soothing beep from the heart monitor to break the silence. He relaxed and crossed his arms, his tattoo visible through the thick curly hair on his arms. The fox looked as though it was smiling.
We hope you enjoyed this book.
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Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
About Theresa Talbot
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Acknowledgements
Oh where to start! As always, I owe a massive thanks and big hugs to a whole team of people who helped make this happen. Everyone at Aria publishing, especially Lucy Gilmour, Sue & Melanie. Their hard work, attention to detail and all round loveliness are a joy.
My fabulous agent Nicola Barr, who works tirelessly in the background.
My every growing family, especially my niece and brain-twin Toria Law who allowed me to use her name – and quirks – in this book. Follow your dream Toria – to the grave!
Early readers, William George & Brian Hannan who laughed and cried at all the right places. Also, fellow crime writers Douglas Skelton and Michael Malone; they’re bloody fussy eaters but they mean well! A special thanks to Chief Superintendent Stewart Carle from Police Scotland, who I’m sure rolled his eyes at my constant questions, but never let on.
Two fellow writers really pulled out the stops for me; Shari Lowe, whose generosity of spirit never ceases to amaze me, and Denzil Meryick who pushed me in the right direction.
Johnny Green, hairdresser extraordinaire – he comes out with some cracking one-liners and lets me use them.
It’s hard to find the right words for someone who has brought such meaning into my life but I’ll try. Dr Jeremy Fellick, AKA, Bloke With Beard – who is patient, makes great porridge and manages to cope with being woken at 3am with such questions like, ‘how does brain cooling actually work?’ and ‘how tall is tall?’ Jez you keep me calm without quelling the craziness. Thank you, Sweetheart.
Dr Margaret Balsitis, for her help with post mortem proceedures.
A shout out to every reader, blogger and reviewer who breathes life into characters and give writers a reason to go.
My biggest thanks is saved for Bruce Norval, without him I doubt this book would ever have been written. His courage and candour is humbling to say the least. Bruce and the many thousands affected by the Tainted Blood Scandal do not need our prayers or sympathies, they need justice.
Author’s Notes
In the 1970s and 80s, almost five thousand haemophiliacs in the U.K were given Factor VIII – a new blood-clotting product contaminated with HIV, Hepatitis or both. Thousands more people became infected after routine blood transfusions in what Lord Robert Winston described as ‘…the worse treatment disaster in the history of the NHS.’
Much of the blood-product had been imported from the U.S. which used ‘skid-row donors’ – namely prisoners, drug addicts and sex-workers – all from high risk groups who were paid for each donation. The vast profits to be made seemed to incite manufacturers to seek out donors from the most dubious sources. One Canadian drug company has since admitted importing blood from cadavers in the Soviet Block, and re-labelling it as coming from Scandinavian donors. This was a multi-million dollar industry for both the drug companies and the prison authorities alike.
The dangers of contaminated blood-products had been apparent from very early on. In 1975 World In Action1 screened ‘Blood Money’, a documentary which showed that there had been an ‘unprecedented outbreak of hepatitis among Haemophiliacs’ – an outbreak which one consultant linked to a blood-clotting product.2
Donor screening, HIV testing and heat treatment had been recommended by scientists worldwide; despite this, precautions were not adopted quickly enough, and tragically many doctors unwittingly administered the contaminated product believing it to be safe. Others simply used up the ‘old batch’ of Factor VIII on the shelf before ordering a new consignment – one that would more likely have undergone a more rigorous screening process.
British victims and their families have campaigned for decades for answers – demanding to know how such a catastrophic failure could have gone unchecked for so long. Incredibly there have been no criminal prosecutions, unlike in France, where two senior officials were jailed when more than thirty doctors, blood centre officials and ministers were prosecuted for criminal offences.
People have died, lives ruined, families torn apart. Victims were offered ex gratia payments if they signed a waiver agreeing to drop any further claims. Many had no choice but to accept the money – their crippling illness had left them unable to work.
As a journalist I had of course heard of the ‘tainted blood scandal’, but like many, regarded it as a tragic consequence of a new breakthrough treatment. I believed the arguments that suggested most haemophiliacs would have died without the treatment, so at least Factor VIII had given them a fighting chance. S
adly it was killing them; those with the power to stop it did nothing. Instead they sat back and put profit before lives.
Keep Her Silent is set in 2002, before the Penrose Inquiry – ordered by the Scottish Government – published its findings in 2015. The much awaited report which failed to apportion blame was dismissed by campaigners as a whitewash. In July 2017 the Prime Minister Theresa May announced that there would be a full U.K inquiry into the scandal. At time of writing, seventy more people have died from infection since she made her announcement… but now almost one year on, the Inquiry has still not started and there are still no Terms of Reference.
The characters in Keep Her Silent are fictional - but based upon interviews with those who have had their lives ruined by contaminated blood. One person in particular put his trust in me, and I hope that through this work of fiction I can tell at least part of his story. Thank you Bruce.
1 World In Action was a current affairs programmed made by Granada Television.
2 Dr John Craske, a consultant virologist spoke on the programme, a transcript of which was used as part of the evidence submitted to The Penrose Inquiry.
About Theresa Talbot
THERESA TALBOT is a BBC broadcaster and freelance producer. A former radio news editor, she also hosted The Beechgrove Potting Shed on BBC Radio Scotland, but for many she will be most familiar as the voice of the station's Traffic & Travel. Late 2014 saw the publication of her first book, This Is What I Look Like, a humorous memoir covering everything from working with Andy Williams to rescuing chickens and discovering nuns hidden in gardens. She’s much in demand at book festivals, both as an author and as a chairperson.
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