Keep Her Silent

by Theresa Talbot

  McVeigh shuffled slightly. ‘It’s a moustache.’

  ‘I can see that, but have we not already had this conversation?’

  ‘I grew it on holiday. I can do what I like on holiday.’ He looked to Oonagh for backup. ‘Within reason.’

  ‘Get rid of it – you look like a twat.’

  ‘I think it makes you look distinguished.’ Oonagh brushed an imaginary piece of fluff from McVeigh’s shoulder; she caught Davies watching and wiped the smear of lipstick off his cheek with her thumb.

  Davies raised one eyebrow and McVeigh picked up the cue, made his excuse and left.

  ‘Why d’you do that with him?’

  She linked his arm. ‘Do what?’

  ‘The Doris Day routine.’

  ‘Oh, behave. You need the love of a good woman, Alec. You’re too flipping grumpy.’

  ‘Can I start with a few bad ones first, then move on to the good ones when I’m a bit older?’ Someone in the distance suddenly caught his eye. ‘Here…’ he guided Oonagh through the crowd ‘… there’s someone I want you to meet.’

  He was the only man in the room in full uniform. A row of medals decorated his left breast, scrambled-egg braiding adorned his hat, which he held tucked under his arm. She recognised Gordon Threadgold immediately – Chief Constable of Strathclyde Police. Oonagh had had cause to interview him enough times when she was a reporter; he was a high-profile public figure. Alec reached out his hand as they drew near. ‘Sir,’ was all he said as the men shook hands. His face beamed. It was the first time Oonagh had heard him address anyone as sir; she’d never seen him be subservient to anyone in fact. ‘May I introduce you to—?’

  ‘Oonagh O’Neil.’ Threadgold clasped Oonagh’s hand and held it in both of his. ‘What a pleasure to meet you.’

  Oonagh didn’t have the heart to tell him they’d met several times in the past fifteen years, but long before she was a well-known face on the box every night. ‘Pleasure’s all mine, Chief Constable.’

  ‘Only for another,’ he made a big deal of looking at his watch, ‘twenty seven days, then I’ll be picking up my gold clock.

  ‘I thought it was a bit like being the president…’ Oonagh looked him in the eye to see how far she could take this ‘… or the Pope – they could never take the title away from you.’ Alec looked mortified then instantly relieved when Threadgold threw his head back and laughed at Oonagh’s quip.

  The older man placed his hand on Oonagh’s shoulder. ‘Can you excuse us for a few moments?’ he said. ‘I just need a quick word with this fellow.’

  Oonagh nodded and the men snaked their way through the crowd to a clearing near the door.

  Jim sidled back up to her, a fresh drink in each hand. ‘Davies seems very…’ she pondered on the words ‘… smitten with Threadgold.’

  For the second time that night she made Jim McVeigh laugh; this time he almost spilt his drink. ‘He’d belt me if I’d said that to him.’

  ‘What’s the story, then?’ She’d never heard Alec mention Threadgold before.

  Jim just shrugged and carried on drinking.

  *

  Davies looked at the older man’s eyes. They were slightly cloudy, and creased at the edges, but he held himself as tall and as straight as a man half his age. Davies always looked up to him. Admired him.

  ‘You’ve won a watch there, son.’ Threadgold nodded in the direction of Oonagh.

  Alec laughed. ‘I wish! We’re not a couple, sir. Just friends.’

  Threadgold raised a single eyebrow, then changed the subject. ‘Alec, it was me who suggested you for the Raphael cold case review.’ Davies nodded. Threadgold pressed his lips together. ‘I want this closed before I die, Alec; Malloy put his heart and soul into that case.’ He breathed deeply through his nostrils at the memory of his friend.

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Davies’s heart sank. Malloy had been Threadgold’s best friend as well as police coroner. The murder of him and his son had sent shock waves across the entire force. Everyone had liked him. Everyone, it would seem, but his wife, who had killed him right in the middle of the investigation.

  ‘We’ll do everything we can, sir. You can count on that.’ Davies meant what he said, but held out little hope. The so-called fresh evidence amounted to little more than a letter from the suspect’s daughter implicating him in the killings. Even if they could link the DNA, cracking a twenty seven year-old case was almost impossible. And with the key suspect six feet under he would need a modern-day miracle.

  ‘I’m relying on you, Davies.’ And with that he was gone, leaving Alec Davies with the need for a very strong drink.

  5

  Glasgow 1975

  Dorothy looked at the clock, then the telephone. He was late more often this weather, but rarely called. Robbie was tucked up in bed and the wind gathered outside making the windows rattle. She’d loved this old house when they’d first come to see it and together they’d turned it into a home. But lately, inch by inch, the loneliness had begun to crush her.

  The plate of food on the table had long spoiled, but she picked it up and placed it in the oven. It didn’t seem right to let it go to waste. The telly was on in the background, and provided some much-needed company. Next door’s dog yelped from the garden and she turned the dial to increase the volume, just enough to drown out the constant yelping without the danger of waking Robbie. The newspaper lay folded on the table; she scrunched it into balls and threw them onto the open fire.

  Filling the void each day was becoming increasingly difficult. She knew she should be grateful, but it was hard. Her mum told her how lucky she was. Everyone told her how lucky she was; it was every girl’s dream to marry a doctor. That was what they said, so it must be true.

  The nursery door was closed, but she eased it open, taking just a peek. They’d decorated it in yellow and lime green. It was perfect. So still. Not even a breath of wind. Not even a breath. She wrapped her arms around her waist. It felt empty. You can always try again soon. They meant well. They all did. But losing a baby at eight months. The chord still had to be cut. The labour pains endured. Clinging onto that dead child she knew they’d take away and act as if it had never been there. Had it been six weeks later Dorothy would have been afforded all the sympathy of a grieving mother. But this. This. Nothing. A miscarriage apparently was God’s way of telling you the baby was too weak for this world. Too ill. Not right. So she just had to get on with it.

  She had no idea where the scissors had come from. But she clasped them in the palm of her hand. They were too small to do any real damage, but looking down she saw she’d worried a small hole in her skirt. Her beautiful Italian wool skirt. The point of the blade had worked its way into the flesh in her thigh. The release was almost ecstasy. The pressure in her chest eased with every tiny drop of blood that escaped from that wound. Leaning back against the door, she allowed a long deep sigh. A tiny groan of pleasure escaped from her mouth. Dorothy took just a few moments to compose herself, then looked in on Robbie before heading back downstairs.

  The phone rang and she picked up the heavy black receiver, holding it to her ear. They’d had a new trim phone in the bedroom, but she rather liked the old Bakelite model that had already been installed in the hall and they’d decided to keep it.

  ‘D’you know where your husband is tonight?’

  She instinctively stepped back. ‘Sorry?’ she said, her heart missing a beat.

  ‘Ask your husband what he’s been up to tonight.’

  ‘Who is this?’ The line went dead. Her stomach displaced slightly as she heard Andrew’s key turn in the lock.

  6

  Ayrshire 2002

  Oonagh drove north along the coast road, the same one her dad took her on as a kid. Maidens beach stretched out to her left, white horses crashing against the shore; the silhouette of Culzean Castle perched on the hilltop contrasted against the early evening sunlight. She turned left onto a single-track road and eased her car through the woodland area until she
got to the clearing. It didn’t matter how many times she’d visited, the sight of the castle always made her catch her breath. Nestled in the crook of the Ayrshire coastline, the gardens enjoyed an almost tropical micro-climate from the Gulf Stream.

  She’d arranged to meet Maura Rowinson at seven. The estate was part of a National Trust property, but Maura had assured Oonagh she could access the castle after closing as she had rented an apartment.

  Oonagh followed the road round to the right of the main castle to the luxury holiday apartments and parked in the courtyard. There was only one other car there, an MG, British racing green. Oonagh parked alongside and switched off the engine. She caught a brief glimpse of someone at the window, but her arrival would have been obvious for several minutes given the length of the drive. As she got out of the car a slight flutter of nerves played on her chest, but she’d left Gerry, her production assistant, in a pub less than three miles away with a mobile phone, access to a landline and instructions to call the cops if she didn’t check in within the hour.

  A middle-aged woman with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail came out to greet her. She looked familiar, but Oonagh couldn’t place her. ‘Oonagh.’ She stretched out her hand; Oonagh smiled.

  ‘Maura? Good to meet you. In person,’ she added and allowed herself to be led inside and through to the main room, which looked out onto the Firth of Clyde. There wasn’t much that still impressed Oonagh, but this view did. She stood at the window. ‘Wow, this is magnificent.’

  ‘Not bad, is it?’

  ‘Long-term let or…?’

  ‘I’m here for the summer.’

  A slight finger of anxiety stroked her chest and Oonagh wanted the small talk over. The view was impressive and the house designed to within an inch of its life, but that wasn’t why she was here. She’d found Maura online. Or rather Maura had found her. It wasn’t uncommon for people to contact Oonagh with the promise of a story. The next big scoop. More often than not they were nutters, but occasionally there was a story worth following. It had taken several emails and a few furtive telephone conversations before Maura had finally opened up enough to tell her it was a story connected to the tainted blood scandal. Oonagh’s first instinct had been to pass it on to the health correspondent. She had little interest in the saga. Haemophiliacs infected with hep C – or was it hep B she could never remember? – from contaminated blood products. They’d been campaigning for years for compensation and there was little more that could be told on the story. But Maura had convinced Oonagh that her take was different. Said she had a human interest story that would be wasted on the health corr. It had been a while since Oonagh’d been to Culzean so she’d agreed to meet her.

  ‘Tea?’

  There was a current trend for people to have ‘do not resuscitate’ cards on them. Oonagh wondered if there were similar ones with ‘no more tea’.

  ‘No, I’m good, thanks.’

  ‘So, shall we get down to business?’

  Oonagh was a bit surprised, she hadn’t expected her to be quite so direct, but since she was: ‘Yip, fine by me. So, what’s the new angle on this?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure where to begin.’

  Oonagh decided against saying the obvious and just let Maura continue at her own pace.

  ‘I need you to know that the world was a different place then. No Internet, no email – we didn’t even have mobile phones.’

  Oonagh fingered her own mobile in her pocket.

  ‘Oonagh, what d’you know about the tainted blood scandal?’ Maura cut in and interrupted herself before Oonagh had a chance to answer. ‘Of course, you’re completely across it – you’re a journalist.’

  Oonagh felt a wee bit stung, and slightly embarrassed. Yes, she knew the basic details but couldn’t recite it chapter and verse. Medical negligence stories were ten a penny. ‘I’m… familiar with it.’ She hoped Maura would fill in the gaps. She took her hand-held recorder from her bag and placed it on the coffee table.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  Oonagh glanced at the machine and toyed with the idea of switching it on regardless, but didn’t.

  ‘We stumbled across it by accident.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘That doesn’t really matter at this stage, but we had no idea people would get killed.’

  ‘OK, hold on. Can we start at the beginning?’ Oonagh began to feel slightly uneasy. She glanced at her phone. One bar; shite signal.

  ‘Please, just hear me out. It’s not easy to get this all in chronological order.’ Maura was drumming her fingernails on the coffee table. Her nerves were rubbing off on Oonagh, and irritated the hell out of her.

  ‘You seem a little… anxious, Maura.’

  ‘Really?’ She didn’t even try to disguise the sarcasm in her voice. Instead she gave a quick smile and crossed her legs, tucking her hands underneath. Fingers interlocked.

  Oonagh gave a weak smile. ‘What is it you want to talk to me about? It’s not just the tainted blood scandal, is it? That story’s years old.’

  ‘I was a chemist. I worked in the pharmaceutical industry once I’d graduated.’

  Oonagh feared this was going to be a long story, and she had no idea where it was going. But her gut instinct told her to stay put. She guessed she’d need to keep Maura on track.

  ‘I thought I was on top of the world. The pharmaceutical industry had money to burn. It still does. I was going off to conferences in the Bahamas, Bermuda, Virgin Islands, you name it. Unlimited expense accounts. It was unreal. It’s bad now, but back then it was a licence to print money.’

  Oonagh wasn’t sure Maura’s back-story would gain her much public sympathy. But she wanted her to continue. ‘What’s this got to do with…?’ She wasn’t quite sure how to finish that sentence.

  ‘I worked for a Canadian company, Merk-San UN. You’ve heard of them?’

  It was a rhetorical question. Oonagh thought she vaguely recognised the name but nodded anyway. ‘It was the early seventies, and they were among the first to develop a way of extracting plasma from blood products, which could then be used to treat haemophiliacs.’

  Oonagh continued to nod sagely, hoping Maura’s story would soon start to unfold.

  ‘Factor VIII; the vital clotting agent missing in haemophiliacs. It was billed as being revolutionary. The answer to everyone’s prayers.’

  Maura walked over to the dresser and opened her briefcase, which was tucked under the chair. She took out a floppy disk. ‘It’s all in the public domain now, so here.’ She passed the disk to Oonagh.

  ‘What’s on it?’ What she really meant was, Will I need a chemistry degree to understand it?

  Maura seemed to guess what she meant. ‘It states quite clearly that the risks of contamination were known as early as the 1940s.’

  ‘Hang on. You said they’d only discovered the procedure in the seventies.’

  Maura slipped the disk into the PC and the electronic whir sounded as the tiny on-lights flashed on the monitor. She opened a folder, which contained a list of files. ‘Look.’ She sat on the hard-backed chair and leaned to one side, allowing Oonagh to view the screen over her shoulder. A copy of a handwritten note had been scanned onto the file.

  Experiments with human volunteers from the military, prisons and state hospitals were abandoned in 1947 when it became clear that plasma induced hepatitis…

  Oonagh’s eyes quickly scanned the details. She stopped at the last line.

  … carried a high risk of mortality…

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Oonagh let out a long sigh. ‘So why did they start using the plasma products in the seventies?’

  ‘This report had been lost, or deliberately hidden. Whatever the reason blood products were big business in the seventies and eighties. Merk-San UN couldn’t keep up with the worldwide demand.’

  Oonagh’s mind was racing.

  ‘It was worth millions.’

  ‘Maura, I’m sorry but I need to get this on tape.’

  Maur
a bit the inside of her cheek.

  ‘Please?’ Maura said nothing, so Oonagh leaned over and switched the machine to record. The buzz of her phone made her jump. It was a text from Gerry.

  R U OK?

  She was shocked to realise the hour had come and gone. Through the picture window the sun had dipped into the sea and the Ayrshire sky had turned red. Maura switched on the lamp. Oonagh let Gerry know she was fine, otherwise she imagined he’d be at the door with a SWAT team circling the area.

  ‘There was a programme in Arkansas whereby they harvested the blood from state prisoners.’

  ‘Harvested?’

  Maura nodded. ‘It was like a production line. Most of the inmates were serious drug abusers, and as a result had a high risk of hep C. And as it turned out HIV, but that wasn’t known about at the time.’

  ‘I’m still not getting why they had to use blood from prisoners.’

  Maura pushed her glasses up onto her head and rubbed her eyes.

  ‘It takes thousands of donations to extract the plasma for each patient. We couldn’t keep up with the demand. It’s hard enough getting enough donors for ordinary transfusions. This was off the scale. Haemophiliacs needed the plasma products as part of their everyday treatment. The prisoners were an unlimited supply. They were paid for each donation. Seven dollars a pint. They queued up like it was the January sales. It was gruesome. Like a production line. There were no proper hygiene rules followed – they used needles several times over causing contamination before the blood was even in the bag.’

  She explained that skid-row donors – prisoners, prostitutes, drug addicts and the like – meant a constant, cheap supply and no one bothered to check the source.

  ‘Oh, God, I feel sick.’

  ‘You haven’t heard the half of it.’

  Oonagh wasn’t sure she could stomach any more.

  ‘The Arkansas operation could only cover part of the demand. The world was opening up and Taiwan was one of the major customers. So Merk-San moved to Europe and struck deals to ensure the supply continued.’