By now McVeigh’s head was in his free hand, the other arm swallowed by the machine up to his bicep, which was turning slightly blue as the electronic cuff inside grew increasingly tight. The three-day-old ginger stubble trying its best to cover the white tan line under his nose.
‘Is there anyone in charge in this fucking nut-house?’ Davies looked at McVeigh. ‘What happened?’
‘It wasn’t me! I was just checking my blood pressure and stuff when the thing stuck and jammed my arm inside.’
‘Where’s all your gear?’
McVeigh tipped his head towards the chair where his clothes sat folded in a neat pile.
‘You’re best to get weighed without clothes. It says so.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’ve seen it all now.’
Morag was patting McVeigh’s free hand, telling him he’d be fine as someone from maintenance was on their way. She drew Davies daggers for his outburst. ‘I’ll be taking this further,’ she said to him under her breath. Morag didn’t look like the type of woman to be messed with. McVeigh just looked mortified as Davies walked to the other side of the machine and cut the power from the supply at the wall. The machine bleeped twice, before the sleeve deflated inside the cuff, freeing McVeigh.
Davies picked up McVeigh’s clothes and handed them to him. ‘D’you want to get back to work, Houdini? And, Morag?’ She looked at him. ‘Why don’t we both just keep schtoom about this one, eh? And I suggest you get that machine away to fuck out of here.’ This time she drew McVeigh a stinker, and stormed out of the room.
Back at the ranch the office looked like a carefully crafted bomb site; cardboard boxes covered every available floor space. The desk was piled high with paperwork, but each bundle neatly ordered. McVeigh was rubbing his arm, left swollen from his close encounter with the mad-machine. Davies did his best not to laugh, but found despite the situation he was starting to warm to his colleague.
‘Right, what’ve you got?’
McVeigh continued rubbing one arm, trying to get the circulation back as he took the notes from the desk. ‘Raphael’s calling card.’ The original evidence was stored at Forensics, but the photocopied prayer card read the now familiar line: ‘Do that which is good and no evil shall touch you.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’ve went through this with a fine-toothed comb. Got Toria to double check it. This wasn’t mentioned in the original police report into Janet Channing’s murder.’
‘She was Catholic, McVeigh – they’re always carrying wee trinkets and pictures of saints and stuff. The cops originally thought it was hers.’ And that was true. The prayer card had been tucked into the pocket of Janet Channing’s raincoat, and everyone had assumed at the time it’d belonged to her. It had only been when the second girl had been found and the same prayer card left on the body that the significance had taken hold.
‘So why wasn’t it listed among her belongings?’ McVeigh held up the file that presumably listed the murder victim’s belongings.
‘Oh, gawd, this is a total mess. This case was mishandled from the start.’ Davies waved his hand over the boxes lying across the floor. ‘It’s a fucking disaster zone.’
‘We’ve checked, sir, and double-checked. There’s no sign of it anywhere in the original report, yet it’s down on the forensic list. It’d been bagged and tagged along with everything else.’
‘Go on.’
‘I think it was planted afterwards.’
‘Be careful what you’re saying here, McVeigh.’
‘I’m not saying deliberately, sir, but…’ he took a deep breath ‘… well, yes, I am saying deliberately. Had this been found on Janet Channing’s body and thought significant enough to store as evidence then it would have been listed in the original report.’
Davies was slipping up. How the hell could he have missed that? ‘Get the original from Forensics. I want a look at it.’
‘It’s already on its way.’
*
Evidence from a cold case was a copper’s worst nightmare. Toria came in and laid each of the polythene bags on the desk. She looked more nervous than before and glanced at McVeigh who gave her a little smile. ‘It was Toria who noticed it first Boss.’ Davies nodded his thanks and she appeared to relax.
Each prayer card had been carefully documented, dated and with its own reference number.
‘Well?’ Davies could see at a glance it wasn’t right.
‘Couldn’t even be arsed using the same pen.’ McVeigh waved his hand loosely across the table. Each item belonging to Janet Channing had been logged in the same handwriting and signed off by the same forensic officer. Except the prayer card. That was clearly written by someone else.
37
Glasgow 2002
She asked the taxi to drop her off at the south side of the park, a good twenty minutes’ walk away from the hospital but she could do with the fresh air. A breath of warmth eased its way through the thin cloud, bringing a promise of a good day ahead. Oonagh didn’t feel like sunshine today. She wanted mist and damp and cold and rain. She needed the bitter chill of a cold November day. A Big Issue seller stood on the corner, tilting his head up towards the threatening sunshine, daring it to match his grin. She stuffed a tenner into his hand, trying to appease the guilty queue-jumping pleasure that her private health care offered her.
The hill leading to the centre of Queen’s Park gave a panoramic view of the city. Oonagh stopped for a few moments taking it in. Her breath caught slightly in her chest and she wondered if her heart was beating faster than it should do. Ever since her blackouts she viewed each breath, each heartbeat with deep suspicion; accusing her body of letting her down. Wondering which organ had betrayed her. The heart, the brain, the lungs? Or maybe it was the central nervous system or the respiratory system that had decided it didn’t want to play ball any more. Had bailed out, refusing to be part of the team. The sense of treachery overwhelmed her. The anger all consuming. Was this how transplant patients felt? Let down? And how would they ever trust another kidney, heart, lung again if their own let them down so badly? How could they trust the organ of a stranger if their own could just pack up and decide to leave without a care for the consequences?
She’d ditched the Internet-sensation tablets after the blackouts; further research down Dr Google’s worm-hole had brought similar tales of unsuspecting people blacking out, memory loss and one poor bugger said he’d had a fit. The sudden withdrawal had left her feeling sick, miserable and even more anxious. She couldn’t tell anyone, least of all her doctor. She prayed that the medication was indeed at the root of her fainting fits but the sickening fear that there was something seriously wrong with her had already gripped her abdomen.
The tears that had been welling up for days gathered in a pool and threatened to spill out onto her cheeks. She blinked hard and pressed the tissue into the corners of her eyes as she crossed the road. The Victoria Infirmary loomed in the background; thick black smoke belched from a tall chimney. Oonagh wondered what useless organ or limb was being incinerated today. What other poor sod was being told that their body had decided to pull the rug out from under them and bail out or had sneakily let cancer in the back door?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, her mum texting her to say she was on her way. Initially she’d thought against telling Fran; she knew it would freak her out, but she needed some support. Needed her mum’s arms around her. She made her way up to the main entrance. This place should have closed down years ago. It reeked of decay and neglect that no amount of cash could ever put right. A culture of despair seeped from every pore.
Fran was already waiting by the front door. Eyes wide, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She stopped when she caught Oonagh wave to her and faked a smile, which almost convinced Oonagh there was nothing to worry about.
The waiting room had seen better days. An elderly man sat propped up in a wheel-chair, a white, waffle hospital blanket over his knee. He glanced at Oonagh, gave her a wee smile then stared bac
k at the floor. She guessed he hadn’t been fast tracked through the system for treatment like she had, and wondered how long he’d been on the particular list. Oonagh’s consultant had assured her it was commonplace to send private patients to NHS hospitals for certain tests, but she couldn’t help feeling shitty about it and wondered if it was worth the grief. She drained the last of the weak coffee her mum had bought from the W.I. shop downstairs, while Fran picked away at the edge of the polystyrene cup with her nail until the entire rim was in tatters.
‘Mum!’ Oonagh grabbed at Fran’s wrist and already felt a pang of guilt but couldn’t stop herself. ‘Can you not do that, please?’
‘Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t…’
‘It’s making me feel sick.’
Fran just nodded and reached to stroke Oonagh’s arm.
Oonagh’s stomach heaved and an involuntary spasm tightened her throat. She didn’t hear her named being called; it was only when Fran raised her hand to indicate where she was sitting that Oonagh realised the nurse was looking for her. He looked friendly enough, young but efficient. She couldn’t deal with any platitudes right now and she hoped he wouldn’t try out his bedside manner on her. Live in hope, die in despair they say. The young nurse, Gary was his name, wittered on endlessly in the seemingly never-ending corridor. He ushered her to a changing room where a standard issue hospital gown, paper knickers and foam slippers awaited. Oonagh was sure that the kit was the design of months-long consultation by senior surgeons desperate to find the best method of keeping patients in line. What better way than the antiquated hospital gown, buttoned up the back? It was very difficult for patients to become unruly, rebellious and complaining if their arse was hanging out for the entire world to see.
Once in the system she became a name and serial number. Led from room to room, a plastic bracelet giving her name, date of birth and hospital ID number.
She filled out another form asking if she had any piercings – ears, nipples or otherwise – whether she wore dentures or indeed had a wig on. That bucked her up slightly. The fact she had her own teeth and showed no signs of male-pattern baldness slipped her into the super-league bracket of patients.
Oonagh hardly noticed when the girl touched her arm. ‘Oonagh? I’m Kelly. I’m your radiologist.’
She led Oonagh into the room for her MRI scan. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. It will be noisy at times, but here—’ she handed Oonagh a set of headphones ‘—you can listen to music and that helps.’
Oonagh’s quick wit and sarcasm went on a tea break as soon as she saw the massive piece of kit, which in her eyes looked like an iron lung. ‘Has the procedure been explained to you?’ Oonagh nodded. ‘You may feel slightly claustrophobic, but I can stop the test if you feel overwhelmed.’ Kelly must have guessed what Oonagh was thinking. ‘Here…’ she sat her down on the chair ‘… take a few moments, you’ll be fine. D’you want your mum to come in?’
Oonagh shook her head. ‘No, thanks, I’m OK, honestly. As long as you don’t play Kylie when I’m trapped in there I’ll survive.’ Kelly smiled as Oonagh lay down and allowed herself to be swallowed by the machine.
38
Glasgow 2002
Oonagh could see Jim McVeigh’s outline against the frosted glass and rapped on the door. She knew Davies wouldn’t be there – she’d already spoken to him on the phone. The office was dingy with polystyrene ceiling tiles, and the sunlight streaming through the window only served to highlight the gloom as dust settled on every available surface. McVeigh was perched on the edge of the desk but stood up as soon as she entered.
‘The boss isn’t here.’ He looked a bit flustered and was surrounded by countless box files, tattered paper wallets and a seemingly endless sea of paper.
‘Crikey, is that the files for…?’
McVeigh nodded. ‘Aye, I need to sift through it and go through the witness statements again.’
Oonagh stood slightly on tiptoe and peered over the desk. ‘Don’t suppose there’d be any chance of…?’
‘No!’ McVeigh gently ushered her back from the desk with his arm. ‘You kidding? He’d have my head on a plate for that.’
She wasn’t surprised but, still, a slight pang of disappointment pricked her chest.
‘I see you shaved your top lip.’
McVeigh just tutted.
‘Don’t let him bully you, Jim.’
He looked a bit uncomfortable so she steered the topic back to the investigations.
‘Making any headway?’
Oonagh had already gained copies of as much of the press coverage of the crimes as possible, radio archives, television news bulletins and newspapers. Almost every article focussed on the fact that all the girls had been pretty blonds. As though in some way that had made a difference. Killing beautiful women was less palatable to polite society and there was a greater need for their killers to be caught. Beautiful women had earned their right to survive. She wondered how often the media would include a male victim’s looks when reporting a murder. The handsome, blue-eyed father of three… just didn’t have the same ring to it, and it made her feel slightly sick. Even those useless vox-pops so prevalent now after an atrocity carried the same message. ‘She was such a pretty girl… she was so nice… always had a smile on her face.’ Beautiful people didn’t deserve to die that way.
‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ McVeigh held his cup aloft and Oonagh looked at her watch.
‘It’s taken you almost three minutes to ask!’
McVeigh grinned. ‘What kind?’ He was legendary for his tea and could talk for hours on the subtlety of each flavour.
‘Oh, go on, surprise me.’
He gave her a look that she couldn’t read. ‘Oh, I may do just that.’ This time it was his turn to look at his watch. ‘I’ll be gone for about—’ he pursed his lips ‘—four minutes?’ He turned the statement into a question.
‘I hadn’t realised tea making was so precise.’
He looked at his watch again, then glanced at the sea of paperwork. ‘Four minutes.’
With that he was gone and it took Oonagh a few seconds for the penny to drop. Shite! She lunged at the desk and pulled random pieces of paper from files, trying to take in what was the most important. It was impossible to decipher what was the most vital and she knew her golden opportunity had a very small window so she took pot luck. Nothing else for it. She jotted down numbers, names, anything that she thought would be of use.
Jim’s notebook lay open on the desk. Beside it was an A4 sheet of Glasgow University headed paper. It was DNA results. Impossible for Oonagh to read. She tried to scribble down the details as she ran her eyes over the results but couldn’t really take it in. Her eyes scanned the room, then out through the slight crack in the door, and spied the photocopier. The clock was ticking. Four minutes suddenly didn’t seem like a very long time. On-air a four-minute silence was a lifetime, at the dentist with a drill rattling against your teeth four minutes seemed an eternity, but this seemed like the race of her life.
The main office outside was empty. She made a dash for it, slammed the statement into the machine, pressed ‘copy’ and waited. There was a faint electronic click then the lights on the machine flashed red: error, error, error. She could see McVeigh’s telltale red hair at the end of the long corridor; he was walking towards her. ‘Oh, fuck!’ She looked around for inspiration then kicked the photocopier hard enough to hurt her foot. Suddenly it whirred into life. Perhaps it was used to police brutality. ‘Oh, thank you!’ she uttered, and wondered if there was a patron saint of photocopiers.
McVeigh was now visible through the set of double swing doors and held a mug in each hand. Oonagh could see the slight edge of crisp white paper feeding out of the other side of the photocopier. Her right foot tapped on the ground as she willed it to move faster. She held it between her thumb and forefinger, pulling with just enough force to ease it closer to her. McVeigh backed against the doors and kicked them open with his heel, three quarters of the doc
ument was now visible, he then spun round with expert precision to avoid the doors swinging into his back as Oonagh tore the paper from the photocopier and stuffed it into her bag.
Her face flushed red and she swallowed hard to stop the rising panic in her chest. ‘Jim—’ she made a big play of looking at her watch ‘—I’m not going to be able to stay for tea after all…’
‘No worries, Oonagh.’ She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, aware that she was slightly out of breath. ‘If ever you don’t want another cup of tea feel free to pop by.’
39
Glasgow 2002
No matter how long he’d been in the job, no matter how embittered he’d become, or used to the sight of death, the murder of a child still chilled him; affected him like no other. The case was over a quarter of a century old, and, as far as the legal definition was concerned, solved and therefore case closed.
He looked first at the scene of crime pictures of Andrew Malloy to give him an appetite for death before moving on to the boy. The 1970s didn’t seem that far away. It was living memory, yet, in the background of the pictures, several sets of bloodied footprints from the scene of crime officers were dotted around the corpse and a policeman’s hat sat on the sideboard. Contaminating vital evidence.
Andrew Malloy’s body was on a leather armchair. His head tilted back and to the left, his throat open from a single wound, which started from his Adam’s apple and ended just under his right ear. The wound, which had proved fatal, had been inflicted from behind. Poor bugger wouldn’t have known what hit him. It was a clean cut, sliced through the carotid artery. That would have put Malloy out of the game. No chance to retaliate, hence the lack of defensive wounds to his arms. His eyes remained open. His mouth, too, gaped as his chin dissolved into what was left of this throat. His arms hung limp across each side of the chair. One leg stretched out in front of him. Davies wondered if Malloy’s last sight had been of his devoted wife slicing through his chest into his heart.
Keep Her Silent Page 14
