‘Looks well, doesn’t she?’
Oonagh spun round and was relieved to see Smiley-Face back with the tea tray. Dorothy drifted off to the back of the garden again, brushing her hand along the tips of the shrubs. She walked slowly but confidently with a deliberate sway of her hips. She tilted her head back and gave them both a smile before returning to her flowers.
‘She’s certainly…’ Oonagh thought for a moment ‘… different.’
‘Oh, she’s harmless enough. All of her personalities seem to be nice.’
Apart from the one who slaughtered her husband, Oonagh thought, but decided against saying it.
‘Good, isn’t she?’
‘What?’ Oonagh wasn’t sure what Smiley-Face was referring to.
‘She’s been watching you a lot on the telly.’ Smiley-Face poured the tea. ‘Even asked Tom who cut your hair. Milk and sugar’s on the tray.’
A mixture of annoyance and fear pricked the back of Oonagh’s skull. She tried to sound casual. ‘Is she impersonating me?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, she does it with everyone, but she does seem to have taken a particular shine to you.’
Her ego, or it might have been her vanity, refused to let it go. ‘Eh, do I act like that?’ she asked as Dorothy Malloy teetered around on tippy-toes, swinging her hips and tossing her hair to one side.
Smiley-Face smiled and sort of hunched her shoulders up at the same time, but Oonagh realised it was the cake she was more interested in as she opened the box to reveal the goodies inside.
Oonagh pushed her fear to one side; she needed to get back in control. ‘Would it be OK if I spent some time alone with Dorothy?’ She didn’t wait for an answer and left Smiley-Face to her tea and cake routine as she approached Dorothy.
‘D’you enjoy gardening, Dorothy?’
Dorothy clutched one hand to her chest. ‘Oh, it’s my absolute passion.’
Somewhere in there was a petrified and abused woman. Oonagh wasn’t quite sure how or when she should reveal the notebook to Dorothy. After all, it was her personal diary, albeit twenty-seven years old.
‘Fancy a seat?’ Oonagh strolled over to the tea and allowed Dorothy to follow. Her heart was beating faster than intended and she was glad she’d taken her inhaler before she’d left the house. She sat down and Dorothy started pouring the tea. She put the milk in first and gave Oonagh three sugars without asking; clearly she’d remembered from their last visit.
‘Thanks.’ Oonagh smiled and wondered what was going on behind those eyes. ‘Dorothy, can we chat?’ The other woman nodded as she sipped her tea then picked her way through the cakes in front of her.
It was time to bite the bullet. ‘I have something here that belongs to you.’ She should have taken a copy of it, she should have told Alec what was in that diary, she should have called Tom. Instead Oonagh reached into her bag and took out the notebook. Dorothy’s eyes flashed just for a moment, then her head dipped and her arms folded across her chest as she rocked back and forth on the garden chair. Apart from the hair, the old Dorothy Malloy was back, nervous, physically smaller and scared as hell. Oonagh had never witnessed such a physical transformation of anyone before.
‘I’ve spoken to Graham, Dorothy.’ She thought she owed her an explanation as to how she acquired the diary. ‘He misses you.’
Dorothy tipped her head very slightly to say she understood. Her right hand reached across her mouth as she chewed on the web of skin at her thumb.
‘Has anyone else seen it?’ The question displayed a degree of cognitive reasoning that gave Oonagh some reassurance. She assured Dorothy the contents had remained private.
‘But I’d like to speak to you about it, Dorothy – would that be OK?’
Again she shrugged her shoulders. Her eyes not leaving the notebook. Then a tiny nod.
Oonagh had bookmarked three pages, all towards the end of the book. She wasn’t sure if she should say it or not, but did so regardless. ‘Dorothy, can we chat about these three pages in particular?’ Oonagh opened a page and began reading.
‘He was with me again tonight. He’s angry. He wants vengeance. Their innocence shall redeem their souls. Dying can end all pain and all suffering. I’ll pray she meets the Holy Father in Heaven once her time in Purgatory is over…’
‘Who did you mean, Dorothy? Who were you writing about?’
Dorothy warmed her hands on the teacup but didn’t answer. Oonagh leafed through to the next marked page. It held a similar message.
‘…for the innocents death holds no fear. The Holy Father shall redeem…’
Still Dorothy Malloy said nothing. Another page.
‘…the evil needs to be wiped out. The devil hides in plain sight amongst us all. She didn’t suffer and will be lifted up to the Holy Father…’
Each diary entry was dated. Oonagh had read the whole book, thoroughly, and felt she was witnessing the sad demise of the life of Dorothy Malloy as she descended into madness.
‘Dorothy?’ Oonagh was careful to speak softly and slowly. Dorothy looked up. ‘Dorothy, each of these entries was written on the day a young woman was killed in Glasgow.’
Dorothy rubbed her hand over her mouth. Oonagh struggled to hear her. ‘I prayed for them. I wanted them to be OK.’
Oonagh considered her next question very carefully. ‘Did you know any of the girls?’
The other woman shook her head. ‘Read about them. The papers.’
Instinct made Oonagh reach across and take Dorothy’s hand. ‘But their deaths wouldn’t have been reported until the next day. You wrote this the day they died.’
‘Did I?’ Dorothy seemed genuinely surprised. She put down her cup and seemed to be happy holding Oonagh’s hand. ‘Can I try on your watch?’
Oonagh moved Dorothy’s hand away from her wrist. ‘Later, Dorothy, this is important.’ She dipped her voice so no one else could hear what she had to say. ‘I’m really sorry, Dorothy, but I need to ask you.’ She took a deep breath, but the words wouldn’t come out.
‘Her nylons were ripped.’
‘What?’ She looked into Dorothy’s eyes but couldn’t read her expression.
‘Just here.’ Dorothy pointed her index finger onto her left ankle.
Oonagh didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. ‘One of the girls who died?’
Dorothy nodded.
‘I thought you didn’t know the girls.’
‘It’s not nice to wear laddered stockings. It’s… it’s vulgar.’
Oonagh had come to visit Dorothy Malloy for this very purpose, only now she was almost too scared to ask the question.
‘Dorothy, did you…?’ She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. ‘Dorothy, you know who the killer is, don’t you?’
Dorothy looked around, but said nothing.
44
London 2002
The queue for the red-eye snaked its way from the boarding gate. Mainly men in suits. Oonagh had opted for hand luggage only. She’d be back up this evening and if not she could buy a few essentials in London. She was sure they’d have shops there. Tom had said he’d meet her at the airport but she’d insisted on taking the Underground on her own. She feared Tom would be a liability.
It’d been a while since she’d been in London. Two years at least. Odd, the anonymity such a vast city offered. She stupidly got off at the wrong station and grabbed a black cab for the few blocks to King’s Cross, where they’d arranged to meet. The traffic was thick and heavy; quicker walking, but she was wearing heels and wasn’t quite sure which direction. The fare was less than what the meter displayed.
‘I always give the Scotch a good discount.’ The driver winked and smiled.
Oonagh grinned back and handed over a tenner. ‘And I always give London cabbies a decent tip.’ She knew it was probably a ruse to get more cash out of her, but she didn’t care.
Tom was exactly where he should be, waving frantically lest she didn’t notice him. Ten a.m. and the station bar was alread
y open and densely populated. They made their way inside and tried to catch someone’s eye. Normally in Glasgow waiters fell over themselves to serve Oonagh. She was instantly recognisable there, but here, well, here she was just another face in the crowd. A short face at that, struggling to get served.
‘It’s a shame you’re not famous down here.’ Tom gave a laugh, eventually attracting enough attention from the barman to be told he’d need to wait.
‘Yeah, funny that. Imagine only being famous in Scotland. What a bummer.’ Oonagh spied a table. ‘Listen, I’ll grab that table, you try to woo old blue eyes there and get us a drink.’
‘He’s got brown eyes actually.’
‘Just get the drinks in.’
Oonagh had copies of some of the most important files from the dossier that Maura Rowinson had given her. As well as photocopied extracts from Dorothy’s diary. And her own notes, of course. Tom eased his way through the crowd and sat opposite her. ‘Good to see you.’
‘You too. You’re thriving, Tom.’ And she meant it.
She took a shot in the dark. ‘You know the police have reopened the Raphael case?’ Oonagh picked her way through the bowl of olives on the table, tried to look casual. So far she hadn’t mentioned her suspicions to Tom. His reaction was right on cue.
‘That’s a bit convenient.’
‘In what way?’
Tom tipped the tonic into both gins and handed Oonagh her drink. ‘They reopen the case within weeks of Dorothy being released from Cartland?’ Clearly he had more than a hunch that Dorothy was in some way connected. Oonagh drummed her nails on the table; she hadn’t even considered the timing before. She was about to say it was just a coincidence but thought against it and instead took the bull by the horns.
‘You already knew, didn’t you?’
Tom dabbed the plate with his finger, picking up the last drops of olive oil, and popped the last olive into his mouth. ‘I had my suspicions. And at the moment that’s all they are, suspicions.’
‘D’you think she was involved? Did she know the killer?’
Tom shook his head. ‘Not quite, but…’
Oonagh thought this might be the perfect opportunity to tell Tom about the diary, but decided to wait and see what his take on it was.
‘Are you going to the police with this?’ Oonagh felt the nerves swell in her stomach.
Again he shook his head. ‘Hardly. They already seem to be ahead of the game with this one.’
‘I think Threadgold’s trying to cover this up.’
‘What would be the point?’
‘The cops have covered this up from the beginning. They banged Dorothy away and kept her out of sight for nearly thirty years. No trial, no reporting of the case, nothing.’
Tom put down his drink. Oonagh had decided against telling him of her own troubles. The blackout behind the wheel, the fact she’d thought she’d killed someone. Thought it best if they concentrated on poor Dorothy Malloy.
‘I know, despite the fact Andrew Malloy was butchered by her, they didn’t want it made public that his wife was a nut-job serial killer.’
‘Oonagh, those sorts of descriptions aren’t very helpful to people suffering from mental health issues.’
‘Really? Neither is festering in your own filth in a secure unit for twenty-seven years, but you’re right. Let’s not offend anyone with our choice of words.’
Tom clearly wanted to steer the conversation back to the case in point.
‘OK, so what’ve you found?’
‘The truth? I don’t know. But something’s just not right here.’
Tom nodded. Didn’t look surprised.
‘I just don’t know how to make sense of it all, Tom.’
None of it made sense. There were too many loose ends. Too many unanswered questions. She fished her hand into her tote-bag, felt the diary was still there.
‘You planning to do another exposé on this?’
‘You read it, then?’ She hadn’t told Tom it was her behind the prison abuse scandal that had dominated every tabloid for the past week, but he was no fool. Her heart skipped a slight beat in case he thought she’d sold Dorothy Malloy down the river, but there had been nothing to connect either Oonagh or Dorothy to the story.
‘You played a blinder there, Oonagh. Let’s hope it’s put enough wind up enough people to at least raise awareness.’
Oonagh nodded, but she knew next week the story would be replaced by another scandal and people’s outrage would be directed elsewhere.
‘There’s a bigger story here, Oonagh.’
She let him speak, wanted to know what he knew.
‘Dorothy’s case,’ he said, ‘it was a miscarriage of justice.’
‘Well, it was a no-justice, to be more accurate. No trial, no justice.’ She hadn’t yet told him about Marjory Channing, or Andrew Malloy’s involvement with the tainted blood scandal.
‘Exactly! No trial. And have you reached the same conclusion that I have yet?’
Oonagh finished off her drink. ‘Tom, how the hell do I know? You haven’t told me anything yet.’
‘I think Dorothy found out her husband killed those girls in Glasgow and that’s why she killed him.’
Oonagh’s heart raced. ‘What evidence d’you have?’
‘I’m not a policeman, Oonagh. I don’t need evidence, but I know how scared she was. I know her sanity was hanging by a thread. She was scared for a reason.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘Not in so many words, but…’
‘She’s not always 100 per cent lucid, Tom.’ Oonagh held back on her own theory for now. ‘Her memory of that time is scant.’
‘That’s all to do with her DID.’
Oonagh raised one eyebrow.
‘Her Dissociative Personality Disorder. There are huge gaps in her memory. Something too traumatic to remember, she just blots out.’
Oonagh thought how lovely that would be at times and pulled a large buff envelope from her bag. ‘Here.’ She pushed the copies of Dorothy’s diary towards him. She’d retyped some of the more pertinent pages. The ones that really mattered.
‘Tom, the dates tie in. Every psychotic episode Dorothy had coincided with a killing in Glasgow.’
She held back from telling Tom about her own suspicions. Instead tried to gauge his reaction as he read through the diary extracts.
‘What’re you saying?’
In truth she didn’t really know what she was saying. Suddenly her suspicion that Dorothy Malloy killed those girls felt like the ultimate betrayal. ‘Tom, I’ve uncovered a whole can of worms here. A big giant family-sized can of worms.’
Tom sat back. Said nothing. Gave her space to say her piece.
‘I can’t work out how it all ties in. But it does.’
‘Not everything’s a conspiracy, Oonagh.’
She chose her words carefully as she told him about her meetings with Marjory Channing. Desperate not to come across as overzealous. Stuck to the facts.
‘Bloody hell. I know! Andrew Malloy was about to blow the whistle on the biggest scandal in the history of the NHS but conveniently dies before it could be made public.’
‘Well,’ He pondered for a few moments, taking it what she was saying, ‘I can’t see how there could be a connection. Sometimes shit happens.’
‘Tom!’ She drummed her fingernails on the table. She knew how annoying it was. ‘I need you in on this, Tom. You can get more information out of Dorothy than I can.’
Tom pondered for a moment. ‘What kind of information?’ He was dragging this out. Making her say the actual words.
‘I think she might have killed those girls.’
‘You want me to get Dorothy to confess to killing those girls? That’s unthinkable, Oonagh.’
‘I’m not looking for you to coerce a confession out of her. As you say, you’re not a copper, but you need to get inside her head. Find out what the hell was going on.’
She still wasn’t sure what she was
looking for. Or indeed why Dorothy would start a random killing spree of young blonde girls in Glasgow. ‘We just need to know why.’ She let him absorb it for a few moments. Tom’s loyalty to Dorothy was obvious. He didn’t want to act the snitch. ‘Listen, Tom, let’s get real here. Even if she does confess she’s done her time. We don’t need to pass this on. It’ll be case closed.’
‘Then why pursue it?’
‘Because she didn’t just do this for the hell of it. Something triggered her off.’ Oonagh spread the copied pages from Dorothy’s diary in front of them. ‘There’s an entry from each day of the killings. Each time she talks about Raphael. Receiving a message. Purifying the world from bad blood.’
‘Raphael was one of the archangels.’
‘I know. I didn’t think she was getting messages from one of the fucking Ninja Turtles!’ She was growing increasingly frustrated at Tom’s insistence on spelling everything out to her.
‘And Patron saint of physicians.’
‘Now that I didn’t know!’ She gave him that one.
‘OK, I’ll talk to her again. But…’
‘But what?’
‘It’s too random. She would have had to be stalking these girls to know their movements. She’d need to have established a link to give her a motive. I don’t know.’
Oonagh wasn’t giving up on this. ‘Tom?’ He looked up, waiting for what was coming next.
‘I think the messages were real.’ He raised his eyebrow, a gesture for her to continue. ‘Oh, I don’t mean from the Archangel Raphael, but I think Dorothy was getting messages, phone calls, whatever. She was being gaslighted.’
‘Gaslighted?’
‘You know, from the movie? When Ingrid Bergman’s convinced she’s going insane but really her husband is manipulating everything, making her believe she’s losing the plot.’
Keep Her Silent Page 17
