‘I have my methods.’ She slipped her coat off her shoulders; her host made no attempt to take it from her.
‘Can’t have been easy for you these past twenty-five years.’
‘Twenty-seven,’ he corrected without looking at her.
Oonagh worried she was coming across as patronising. But she felt a genuine ache for Graham Semionoff, a man whose life was robbed through no fault of his own.
‘It’s not exactly been a bed of roses, no.’ He shrugged his shoulders; gave her a who cares? look.
‘Are there no support networks, people you can speak to? People in the same boat as yourself?’
He laughed at this last comment. ‘And what boat is that, then, Oonagh O’Neil? The Good Ship up the Creek Without a Fucking Paddle?’
She blew on her tea and put it on the coffee table without drinking it. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and meant it.
‘No, I’m sorry.’ He didn’t sound as though the word fuck came easy to him; he braced himself slightly and gave Oonagh a weak smile. ‘So what d’you want to talk to me about?’
Oonagh took the mini-recorder from her bag and placed it on the table. ‘May I?’ She flicked the on switch with her thumb.
‘No, you may not.’ He shook his head and she realised she’d overstepped the mark. ‘An informal chat, that was all I agreed to.’
Finding Graham Semionoff had not been easy. After his sister had butchered her husband and drowned her son, he, like the rest of the family, had gone into hiding. Guilt by association had robbed Graham of the normality of a family life enjoyed by his peers. As it turned out, his wife had left him, taking their two children with her. No forwarding address. Graham had never tried to find them, he told Oonagh. It was better all round if they could enjoy a new life without the guilt or the stigma of being related to Dorothy Malloy. The mad bitch who killed her husband and son. The apple didn’t fall very far from the tree, they said.
‘I still miss her.’ Graham ran his fingers through his hair, and Oonagh caught a glimpse of the man he once was.
‘How long had you been married for?’
He looked up. ‘Not my wife. I closed that door a long time ago. My sister.’
Shit. Oonagh saw a resemblance around the eyes. ‘But you visited her at Cartland?’ It was through the visitor records that Oonagh had traced Dorothy Malloy’s brother. He was her only visitor in almost three decades.
‘That woman in there—’ he pointed to a faraway place ‘—that wasn’t our Dot.’ He stood up and took a photograph from the top drawer and handed it to Oonagh. ‘She was a great kid.’ He held his index finger to his nose and a trace of grief tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘It killed my mum and dad, you know.’
Oonagh knew, for some people, shit like this just never went away. For most it was a front-page headline, a story at the top of the hour. But once the cameras were gone and the fuss died down the pain settled and festered for those left behind.
Graham Semionoff told Oonagh that after the killings he’d changed his name from Anderson. ‘Just opened the Yellow Pages and picked the most unusual name I could find.’ Apparently he’d thought that would make him harder to trace. ‘I do mainly private commissions now.’ Oonagh looked puzzled. ‘Oh, I’m an architect,’ he explained. ‘The odd job here and there keeps the wolf from the door.’ Judging by the neighbourhood and the handcrafted furniture the wolf wouldn’t be visiting Graham Semionoff’s door anywhere in the near future.
‘Can I talk to you about Dorothy?’
His tongue darted across his lips. He gave her a brief nod.
‘Were you…?’ She wasn’t sure how to word this. ‘Did her behaviour…?’ Oonagh took a deep breath. ‘Was there anything to indicate why she would do such a… such a terrible act?’
Graham sat back in the leather armchair and let out a long sigh.
‘There’s a suggestion,’ Oonagh spoke slowly, ‘that she was suffering from post-partum psychosis.’
‘I saw my sister’s sanity unravel before my very eyes.’
Oonagh said nothing. She allowed the situation to breathe. Graham took a notebook from the drawer to his right. The same drawer that housed the photograph from earlier. ‘I kept her diary. I know that seems a bit…’ he thought for a few seconds to select the right word ‘… sentimental.’
Oonagh smiled, but her heart pounded in her throat.
Graham flicked through the pages. ‘She claimed she was receiving messages from a…’ he looked at Oonagh, then dropped his gaze to the floor ‘… from a disciple.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yip.’
The silence between them forged a bridge. ‘My sister was a beautiful, intelligent, creative girl. She adored her family, and I loved the bones of her.’ A lifetime of memories washed over Graham Anderson. ‘But within the space of a few months she turned into a maniac who killed her family.’ His chin trembled and he lost whatever battle he was fighting with the tears that spilled down his cheeks.
Oonagh stepped towards him and crouched by his side. ‘Here.’ She held a tissue by way of an olive branch in his direction and stroked his arm; a lifetime of loss swam in his eyes. He opened the notebook that served as Dorothy Malloy’s diary.
‘Her handwriting was immaculate.’ Oonagh couldn’t disagree. Every page offered perfectly uniform script and she tried to think of the last time she’d held a pen to write something other than her name or a signature on a credit card. Dorothy Malloy’s diary was a work of art. ‘Take it.’ He pushed it towards Oonagh’s hand, and for the first time she realised that he was looking for as many answers as she was.
‘Graham, d’you want to see your sister?’
By this time, he was clutching both her hands in his. He shook his head. ‘Just promise me you’ll look after her.’
‘You can see her. You can speak to her yourself.’
He freed his hands and stemmed the tears from the corners of his eyes. ‘I can’t, not just now.’
Oonagh squeezed his hand and stood up, clutching Dorothy Malloy’s diary. ‘I’m not sure what I can do.’
Graham Anderson slumped back in his chair. ‘Look at me.’ He tipped his head around the room. ‘I don’t have much time left.’ Oonagh took a sharp intake of breath, ready to tell him he was talking nonsense, when he interrupted. ‘Och, stop it! Look at me, I said. I’ve got months, weeks, shit, maybe even days.’
Oonagh felt a tug at her spine. ‘You know more than you’re letting on.’
Graham eased himself out of the chair. ‘You need to leave.’
‘I want an answer.’
‘Oonagh, you’ve got the whole world in your hands.’
‘For God’s sake, give us a break here. This isn’t The Silence of The Lambs.’
‘Tough titty.’ Again the phrase, the words sounded rehearsed. As if he was trying to be tough.
‘Please, Graham. If you’re dying, just… just say. What d’you know?’
‘Somewhere out there I’ve got a son and a daughter. Maybe even a grandchild or two. You work it out.’ Oonagh hadn’t noticed that he’d ushered her into the hall. He pressed his hand at her back. ‘Take care.’ Suddenly she was back in the street, tugging her collar up against the biting wind, with Dorothy Malloy’s diary clutched in her hand.
42
Glasgow 2002
It had been surprisingly easy to find George McClemand. His widow was still in black, something you didn’t always see nowadays. McVeigh was giving her his best charm offensive, which Davies had to admit was very good.
‘Mrs McClemand, we are so sorry for your loss, but we need to ask you a few questions.’ He paused for a second. ‘But if you’d rather wait until a more convenient time, then we’ll come back, or if you want a friend to sit with you then let us know.’
She’d made them tea, and, judging by the curled-up corners of the sandwiches and the tinned ham inside, George McClemand wasn’t quite cold yet.
‘He was a lovely man, salt of the earth. You know, when our
Geraldine got pregnant he wouldn’t let another sinner say a word against the girl. Stood up, proud as punch of her, the way he was with all our weans.’
Transpired of the five weans Geraldine now had four kids of her own, doing very well by all accounts; of the other four, one was a corporate lawyer, two ran a successful haulage company and the other was a plumber who was about to relocate to Australia.
Mrs McClemand was fierce in her defence of her family; Davies wondered if that loyalty supported her husband too.
‘Mrs McClemand—’
‘Call me Al.’
Oh, fuck, this was proving to be a long day.
‘Al, we just need to ask a few questions about your husband’s time at Wishart Frasers.’ Davies looked over at McVeigh, who was chowing down on the day-old ham sandwich. He stopped mid-chew when he realised his boss was watching and delicately dabbed the side of his mouth with his middle finger.
‘Did he ever mention knowing a Willie Mack?’
George McClemand’s widow shook her head, worrying the twisted paper hankie between her hands.
‘You see, we have reason to believe he may have witnessed someone…’ Davies had to choose his words carefully; so far Al was on their side and he needed to keep it that way ‘… someone interfere with Willie Mack’s body.’
‘Sexually?’ Mrs McClemand didn’t even try to keep the disgust out of her voice.
‘Oh, no, nothing like that,’ McVeigh interjected, although to be honest no one had a fucking clue as to what he’d been doing with the bodies on their final journey. They’d hardly been in a position to blow the whistle on him. ‘Willie Mack’s body had been… cut… in a way that was inconsistent with any post-mortem examination, and we’re trying to find out why.’
‘Well, my George had nothing to do with that. For goodness’ sakes, he’d performed enough of them in his time to know what he was doing.’
Davies and McVeigh shot each other a look. Once again Davies took over. ‘Your husband performed autopsies? Where? I thought he was a mortician.’
Mrs McClemand got up and poured more tea; it had gone cold but she didn’t seem to notice. She nodded. ‘When he worked at the forensics department at Glasgow Uni. Most of the technicians did the initial cutting during the post-mortem in preparation for the forensic pathologist.’ There was a slight hiccup in her voice as she wiped her nose. From what she told them George had clearly talked about his job often enough. ‘He loved that job, he took great pride in the fact…’
‘So what happened? Why did he leave the uni?’
‘Couldn’t stomach it, not after his boss died. Really got to him, you know.’
Davies hardly needed to ask the next question, but the dates tied in. ‘Did George work with Dr Andrew Malloy?’
Again the widow nodded her head. ‘It really affected him when Andrew died. I’d never seen him like that before.’
‘In what way?’
‘George dealt with Dr Malloy, you know, on the slab. Never, ever told me any details, but it must have been bad. After that…’ She struggled to remain composed, ‘well after that he suffered a complete breakdown. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. He was a nervous wreck.’
‘I’m so sorry Al. Had he been particularly close to Dr Malloy?’
She immediately seemed brighter at the memory. Just for a moment. ‘Oh, Dr Malloy was such a gent. A real gent, always treated my George with such respect. You know how some doctors can be real snobby bastards? Well, not him.’
‘Did your husband ever seek help for his emotional problems?’
Again a slight nod. ‘Our GP did the best she could, but other than tranquillisers said there wasn’t much she could do. Then he got made redundant from Wishart Frasers and that was him on the scrapheap.’ The emotion trapped in her chest escaped in one convulsive sob and the tears spilled down her cheeks. Her hand shook as she fished in her handbag for another tissue.
‘Al, I hate to ask,’ Davies gave the widow a few moments to compose herself, ‘But how did George die?’
‘Throat cancer. Only diagnosed ten weeks ago. Horrible way to go.’
Davies felt a wave of relief wash over him. He might not be able to quiz Georgie Boy about his post-mortem pass-times, but at least he wasn’t another one to add to his headaches with this case.
McVeigh stood up and placed a comforting hand on Al’s shoulder as he crouched beside her. ‘Is there anyone we can call? You shouldn’t be on your own.’
‘It’s OK.’ Her voice was coming out in little spasms. ‘Our Sandra’ll be here soon.’
Davies eyed McVeigh and they stood up to leave. He needed to digest this, but it seemed there was little more that George McClemand’s widow could give them. ‘Thanks for taking the time to speak to us, Al. We know how hard this must be for you.’
‘He was a good man, my George.’
They both nodded in agreement and left the widow to grieve in peace, unaware that her George had cut Willie Mack’s heart out.
43
Glasgow 2002
The notebook was bound in a William Morris print, the inside pages neatly lined. She tucked it safely into her handbag. Every instinct told her to call Alec Davies. Tell him what she’d discovered. Or what she thought she’d discovered. Oonagh switched on the ignition and pulled her seat belt tight across her chest and clicked it into place before switching off her mobile; something she rarely did. She hadn’t made an appointment, and wasn’t even sure they’d let her see Dorothy Malloy without Tom being present. She didn’t even know if Dorothy Malloy would still be there. Oonagh wasn’t very well versed on the rights of ex-inmates of Cartland. Were they permitted to see whoever they liked? Was there a ‘handle with care’ order on them?
She drove to the south side; the traffic was unusually quiet. Once or twice her left hand drifted onto her handbag and she eased it open slightly and took a peek inside to make sure the notebook was still there. There was nowhere for it to go, but just in case. She’d been up half the night and could feel the tiredness scratch at the corners of her eyes. The sky was grey and a few drops of rain played on the windscreen, but never developed into anything more. Oonagh felt a shiver and put the heating up a few notches, even though the gauge told her it was already twenty-two degrees inside the car. She stopped off at a florists under the railway bridge near Pollokshaws and selected three bunches of tulips, then nipped next door to the deli and bought an enormous family-sized gateau, a box of home-made macaroons and some Orkney fudge wrapped in cellophane. Apparently, Orkney was famous for its fudge; she’d had no idea. Oonagh got them to box it all and wrap it. They didn’t have a ribbon, but she guessed she could pick one up easily enough before she made her way to see Dorothy.
She stood at the door armed with her goodies and pressed the bell. She felt a bit crumby, bribing her way in, but she reckoned some nice goodies would make whoever was on the door a bit more sympathetic to her request. Truth be told she’d been too scared to phone ahead in case they’d said no.
The Smiley-Faced Lady opened the door, just as happy as the last time. The goodies seemed to work. ‘Oh, hello. You here to see Dorothy?’
Oonagh nodded. ‘Is that OK? I was passing and…’ She decided to quit while she was ahead, and pushed the obvious bribes towards Mrs Smiley-Faced.
‘Dorothy’s in the garden.’
Oonagh took this as a good sign. The garden fence was relatively low. If she was really dangerous they wouldn’t let her out on her own.
‘She’s in good form today, in one of her happy places.’
Oonagh wasn’t sure exactly how killers found a happy place, but followed Smiley-Face to the back of the house and out into the grounds.
‘Tom told me you’d more than likely pop by to see us,’ she said as she opened the back door. That explained the willingness to let Oonagh in, no questions asked. It wasn’t the warmest of days, but Oonagh guessed Dorothy had had her fill of being cooped up.
The garden was well tended, and bursting with the promis
e of spring. Snowdrops were already over, dropping their heads, offering their faded blooms to the ground. Daffodil heads bulged, not quite ready with colour yet, and an air of anticipation enveloped every bud. Dorothy knelt on a pad at the far corner; even from this distance she had an air of confidence. Very different from the Dorothy Oonagh had met the last time. She didn’t much care for the fact she was holding what looked like razor-sharp secateurs. A set of loppers, capable of taking off a finger or two, lay at her side.
‘Would you prefer I spoke to Dorothy indoors?’ Without Tom by her side she felt suddenly vulnerable and swung round quickly, making sure Smiley-Face was close by.
‘Not at all,’ said Smiley-Face and rested her hand on Oonagh’s back, ushering her towards her like a reluctant play-date. ‘Now can I get you tea, coffee?’
‘Whatever’s quickest,’ she yelled. It came out louder than intended and Dorothy Malloy twisted from the waist, pointing the secateurs in Oonagh’s direction.
‘Dorothy?’ Smiley-Face yelled the length of the garden. ‘Tea?’
Dorothy nodded and Smiley-Face trotted back indoors, leaving Oonagh alone with a crazed killer, some lethal garden tools and a packet of home-made macaroons. She swallowed hard and walked towards her, trying not to stare at the makeshift weapon. ‘Tom told me these were your favourites.’ She held the packet towards her. An olive branch.
Dorothy dropped the secateurs, ran towards Oonagh like an excited child and teased open the top of the cellophane. ‘Meringues?’
Shit.
‘Em, sorry,’ Oonagh said, ‘they’re macaroons.’
Dorothy flashed her eyes – they were vibrant green – and pursed her lips slightly to disguise her smile. ‘I’m teasing.’ She popped a macaroon into her mouth and dabbed the crumbs from the corner with her ring finger, giving Oonagh a flirtatious sideways glance.
This all-new, all-singing-and-dancing version of Dorothy really threw Oonagh, who felt ill prepared to be outwitted by a killer who was taking the piss. There was something familiar about her actions that unnerved Oonagh. She seemed to walk slightly on tiptoe, and flicked her head to the left, allowing her hair to fall behind her shoulder. She’d had it cut too. And coloured. The grey, lank style was gone and replaced with a precision-cut chestnut bob, which she most certainly didn’t get on the NHS. Her clothes too were classic and well cut; Oonagh guessed they might well have been Dorothy’s own clothes from more than a quarter of a century ago. All in all, this Dorothy Malloy was a far younger model than the one Oonagh had met previously.
Keep Her Silent Page 16
