46
Glasgow 2002
Her hand shook as she turned the key in the lock. She didn’t remember the drive home. All she could think about was the sight of Marjory Channing’s car wrapped around a tree. She clutched Marjory’s research notes to her chest, terrified they’d somehow disappear, just like Marjory. Once inside she checked and double-checked every lock on every window, and ensured the alarm was switched on. She rattled the box of dried cat food near the back door to encourage Cat to come in early from his neighbourhood jaunt. But the little shit refused to come in. Suit yourself, she thought, and locked the cat-flap out of spite, then unlocked it just as quickly, knowing she was just being shitty.
She flicked through the various news channels but there was nothing about the crash. Maybe too early to be reported. Or perhaps the city was busy with other crimes tonight and another fatal on the roads just wasn’t newsworthy any more. Or would be put ‘under the line’, used as an ‘and finally’ if the sports guys were a bit late with their cue. The arbitrary nature of news sickened Oonagh. If there were five minutes to fill, there would be five minutes of news. If the slot only allowed three minutes, then that was how much news the viewers or listeners would be allowed.
She spread Marjory’s notes across the island unit in the kitchen and looked out of the window into the darkness. Tried to take in the connections between Dorothy Malloy and the tainted blood scandal. She was sure Marjory had got it wrong. Andrew Malloy couldn’t have been killed to shut him up. There was no doubt that Dorothy had dealt the fatal blow. The fate of the other girls was pure conjecture at this point.
She called Alec. He answered after two rings. ‘Hey, sorry to bother you… looking for some info on a fatal in North Ayrshire.’ She tried to sound light-hearted, matter of fact. Not letting on she was personally involved. And there was no way she could tell Alec at this stage who the victim was.
‘Eh…’ He paused for a moment. The area was out of his patch, but Oonagh knew Alec Davies could get information on most police matters across the whole of Scotland. ‘Can you try Jim? I’m up to my eyes in it here, Oons.’ He hung up before she had a chance to say cheerio. She hoped Jim would be a bit more forthcoming. He was.
‘Oh, hi, Oonagh, how goes it?’
‘Great, Jim. Listen, can you get me some info on a fatal RTA from tonight?’
‘Aye, what kind of info?’
Oonagh realised she didn’t have a clue what she was looking for. ‘Eh, causes, et cetera…?’ That was a long shot. Accident investigation work could take days.
‘Right, hit me.’ Jim McVeigh made Oonagh laugh with the way he spoke. Liked to try to use phrases he’d picked up from old reruns of Kojak or Starsky and Hutch. She played along.
‘Right, here’s the low-down.’ Again she took great care to ensure she had no connection to the victim. ‘A71 eastbound at the junction with the A719, single vehicle RTC. Single occupant, driver obviously. Female.’
He let out a laugh. ‘Once a traffic reporter, always a traffic reporter, eh? Right, what d’you need to know?’
She thought for a few seconds. ‘Not sure really – do we have a name, age for the victim? Was she pronounced dead at the scene? Cause of the crash? You know, the usual?’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why d’you need to know?’
‘Oh, I passed this tonight, doing a piece later in the year about carnage on Scotland’s roads, thought it would make a good starting point.’ Lying was becoming second nature to Oonagh; perhaps when the media chewed her up and spat her out she could flirt with the idea of becoming a politician.
‘Roger. Leave it with me.’
It could take hours or even days before Jim got back with anything concrete. She studied Marjory’s notes again. Struggled to make sense of them. Something wasn’t adding up. She tried to put Andrew Malloy and Janet Channing to the back of her mind. Their deaths were clouding the issue at the moment.
This shouldn’t be such a cloak and dagger operation if all the information was already in the public domain. From what she could gather prison services both here and, in the US, had used inmates as a constant supply of blood, which had then been sold on to pharmaceutical companies, who in turn had pooled the supplies and extracted factor VIII and factor IX crucial for the treatment of haemophiliacs. Evidence that the procedure carried risks appeared to have been ignored. With further evidence that the diagnosis of inmates with blood-borne diseases had been played down, or even hidden. Trouble was much of the research and evidence had been destroyed, probably deliberately, but it hampered any investigation into who was responsible. Also the claims that haemophiliacs would have died without the treatment added to the confusion. The authorities claimed they were acting in the patients’ best interests and without the intervention of the blood products the patients would have died years before. They’d actually prolonged their lives.
The whole thing was murky and stank of cover-up after cover-up. The one detail that was significant was the fact that Andrew Malloy had reported an increased recurrence of haemophiliacs with liver disease, which had given rise to the diagnosis that they had in fact been suffering from hep C, brought about by contaminated blood products.
This was more than Oonagh could take in. Among the files were old newspaper cuttings. Tabloids. Every Haemophiliac in Scotland Has Aids was the headline. Oonagh had a vague recollection of it at the time. Her face burned red with shame that it had been no more than a passing headline. No more than a salacious, attention-grabbing line that tore families apart. Left lives in shreds and kicked people out of work, out of communities for fear of contamination through ignorance.
She needed to contact some of the victims; Marjory had already given her some names. Said they were eager to tell their story – those who publicly campaigned would surely be willing to speak to her for an in-depth interview. Oonagh still had no idea how the programme would be formulated, or what angle she would take, but she wasn’t leaving this to gather dust.
The soft banging against the back door made her jump. It was Cat refusing to use the cat-flap. She yelled at him, but he continued to tap the door with his paws. That cat was driving her bloody nuts, and she acknowledged she didn’t have too far to travel on that score. She was about to open the door when her phone rang. Jim McVeigh’s number.
‘Hey, Oonagh, got the low-down for you.’
‘Ooof, that was quick.’
‘Off the record?’
‘Yes, yes.’ She wanted him to cut to the chase. Confirm her worst fears: that Marjory Channing’s brakes had been tampered with, that Marjory Channing’s steering column had been severed, that Marjory Channing had been chased off the road by an unknown assailant. She guessed he wouldn’t be telling her any of this. Oonagh reckoned that Marjory’s luck had just run out. Hit a bad bend on a road notorious for accidents.
‘OK, waiting for official confirmation of name and age.’ She could hear the rustle of the fax paper in Jim’s hands. ‘Local guys still trying to track down relatives so this has to be off the record.’
‘Of course.’
‘And this still has to be rubber-stamped, but the cause from what we can see?’ He was dragging this out; it was his style. ‘Classic case of drunk driving. She was pissed, Oonagh. Four times over the limit. It’s a wonder she even managed to walk to her car, let alone drive it.’
‘Fuck off, Jim!’
‘Eh?’
‘Drunk? I was with her less than fifteen minutes before. She was stone-cold sober. Unless she got in her car and downed a whole bottle of vodka, then she was not drunk.’ Fear pricked at her skull. There was something bigger going on here.
‘I’ll double-check, but it’ll take a few days for a full blood count to be signed off and—’
‘No worries, Jim, thanks for checking.’ She was about to hang up.
‘Who was she? Local cops are trying to name her.’
‘Sorry, Jim, I didn’t catch her name. I’d just got
chatting to her in a bar earlier. I’d been down doing research into a story and was looking for some local gossip.’
She had no idea if he believed her or not and didn’t really care, to be honest.
‘Oonagh, there’s an appeal for witnesses, so…’
‘No can do, Jim, off the record works both ways.’ She hung up and walked to the fridge. Rain tapped against the window and she felt a pang of guilt for leaving Cat out longer than was necessary. But she needed a drink. What the hell was going on? Her hand shook as she poured. Even for her it was a large glass. Shit, shit, shit. The sea of papers on her worktop seemed to grow in volume. Her heart pounded and she tapped her chest lightly with one hand as she tried to steady her breathing. Taking small sips of air through her nose, holding for three, then out for three. It was the only practical advice that helped subdue her panic attacks. The tapping at the door grew louder. She downed a mouthful of wine and opened the back door, ready for Cat to head-butt her shins.
It wasn’t clear at first. The blood looked black, not red. It took a few moments for her to focus. Someone had hung a piece of meat in her back porch. It swung back and forth like a pendulum. She swerved to avoid it hitting her. As the light from the kitchen brought it full into view Oonagh saw Cat’s mutilated body hanging by its neck, his legs had been hacked off and placed neatly on the step underneath.
47
Glasgow 2002
‘Oonagh, open the door. Oonagh. Oonagh.’ The door shook from the force of the banging.
She inched her way towards it, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Put your ID through the letter box.’
‘What the hell’s going on? Open the—’
‘I said put your ID through the letter box.’ She gripped the poker in her right hand. It felt heavy and gave her a crumb of comfort.
‘Oonagh…?’
‘Just do as I ask.’
The letter box flickered slightly then a Strathclyde Police warrant card edged its way through; just enough for her to see Alec’s picture and half of his name. Her left hand shook as she turned the Yale lock and opened the door just an inch. The safety chain was on, but she knew one good boot from a size twelve would put paid to that. Alec Davies was on the other side. Oonagh released the catch from the chain as he eased his hand against the door, encouraging it open. ‘It’s OK, Oonagh. It’s me.’
She dropped the poker behind the back of the door, hoping he wouldn’t notice. As soon as he was inside she lost every ounce of her false bravado and dissolved into a flood of tears. He draped his arm across her shoulder and ushered her through to the kitchen as she pointed her right index finger towards the back door. He said nothing, but she saw the pity in his eyes. He thought she was a nutter. He sat her down and filled the kettle.
‘Shit, you’re not making me tea, are you?’ All she could think about was Cat hanging from the back door just a few feet away.
‘Well, now that I know you don’t need either CPR or a S.W.A.T. team I thought I’d make myself a coffee – is that OK?’
She nodded and felt a bit shitty for snapping at him. ‘There’s wine in the fridge.’
‘Really?’ He made no attempt to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
She held her right hand on her knee to stop her leg shaking uncontrollably. ‘Alec, I really don’t need this shit just now.’
‘D’you want to tell me what’s going on?’
Her earlier resolve vanished as her throat hiccupped. ‘Cat’s dead.’
He held the fridge door open, his mouth gaping slightly in apparent disbelief. She knew what he was thinking. ‘Alec…’ she tipped her head towards the fridge ‘… can you close the door? The motor’ll burn out.’
‘Sorry, Oon.’ He closed the fridge door and sat down across the table. ‘Your cat’s dead?’ He let out a slow exhalation. ‘I thought something had happened. I thought—’
‘Oh, God, Alec, someone killed him.’ She pointed to the back door and covered her eyes with her hands. ‘He’s in the porch. I can’t look.’
Alec stood up and opened the back door slowly, naturally looking down to the mat. It took a split second for him to catch sight of the dead animal swinging on the rope. ‘Aagh…’ He closed the door again quickly. ‘I’m sorry, Oonagh. Look, go upstairs and I’ll deal with this.’
‘No, we need to bury him.’
‘Of course, but I need to get the place dusted for fingerprints. You know, it was probably just kids. I blame these flipping video games, but we’ll get it checked just to make sure.’
‘It wasn’t kids, Alec.’ She’d given up on the thought that a coffee might soothe her nerves and was tipping the remaining contents of the wine into her glass. ‘That was meant for me.’ She told him about Marjory Channing. She struggled to remain calm and blurted it all out in one go. She knew she wasn’t making much sense. She picked up the dossier from the table. ‘It’s here, evidence. It’s all here.’
It took her a couple of seconds to read the look on his face.
‘Channing? Any relation to…?’
‘Sister. But this is bigger than—’
‘You better be fucking kidding me on! You’ve been in contact with Janet Channing’s sister and didn’t think to let me know?’
‘I only found out her real name tonight.’
Alec leaned his hands on the worktop. Dropped his head. Oonagh could see the swell of his shoulders as he took a deep breath. He was clearly pissed off, but giving little away.
‘So, you’re saying someone had her killed then the cops doctored the results of the breathalyser?’
Oonagh knew this was far-fetched. ‘I was talking to her fifteen minutes beforehand. She was stone-cold sober!’
‘It doesn’t take very long for someone to get drunk, Oonagh. She might have had booze in the car.’
Oonagh elected to keep quiet about the hip flask; there was barely enough booze in that to do any damage. She drank more than that some mornings to sober up. ‘We both know that’s shite, Alec. She was onto something and someone wanted to shut her up.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t fifteen minutes, Oonagh. Maybe it was nearer twenty-five minutes or forty-five minutes beforehand. This isn’t the Bronx.’
‘Yea, but we’re not a million miles away from South Yorkshire either.’ It was a low blow, but the tarnished reputation of South Yorkshire was legendary. Journalists knew they’d fabricated evidence on the Hillsborough deaths, but could do nothing about it. Rumour that they were actively ignoring paedophile rings in Rotherham went unreported for fear of repercussions and Oonagh vividly remembered pictures of front-line bobbies on the force waving wads of tenners in the faces of striking miners who were so strapped for cash the arse hung out of their trousers. Alec looked down, said nothing. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but guessed he knew of a few other misdemeanours that had taken place under the watchful eye of that particular force.
The wind picked up outside and once again Cat’s body swung in the breeze, banging against the back door. ‘Can we just get him down? Please?’ Oonagh took a fresh towel from the linen cupboard. ‘Here, wrap him in this.’ She took a knife from the block on the worktop and Alec grabbed her wrist.
‘Hey, what’re you doing with that?’
‘I’m going to cut the rope?’
He blushed and let go. ‘Here, let me.’ He took a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and closed the back door behind him, saving Oonagh from any more bloodshed. He came back in carrying a bloody bundle that used to be her cat. Oonagh did her best not to cry.
‘Pigs, doing that to an innocent wee thing.’
‘Aw, you’re not trying to tell me you think the police were involved in this too?’
‘Eh?’ The penny dropped. ‘No! I mean, animals, bastards…’ she struggled for another word as Alec laid the bloodied bundle on a black bin liner ‘… cunts, that’s what they are, total fucking cunts. With a K!’ She saw him raise an eyebrow at the C word but he said nothing, just wrapped Cat up in the polythene.<
br />
‘We can have a vet perform a PM, but I doubt it’ll tell us anything.’
‘D’you think he suffered?’ What a stupid bloody question – he was mutilated; his limbs hacked off and hung. But she needed some reassurance.
‘I’m sure it was really quick, Oonagh. Whoever did this…’ His voice trailed off; there were probably only so many lies he could tell with regards to this. ‘I’ve called it in. We’ll have the prints guys out very soon.’
‘Poor wee Cat.’
He nodded in agreement, but Oonagh could tell his mind was on other things.
48
Glasgow 2002
Oonagh set her plate down on the table beside him. ‘Hiya, anyone sitting here?’ He’d just taken a mouthful of food and she sat down before he had a chance to answer. They’d worked together on and off for years. Sandy Murray had somehow elevated himself to Health Correspondent, and on a quiet day he’d doubled up as Home Affairs Corr.
‘Can I get you a coffee? They’ve a new machine.’ She nodded over to the stainless-steel monster hissing away behind the counter. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘before someone from Health & Safety comes and takes it away.’
Sandy let out a laugh and eased a bit of bacon back into his mouth with his pinkie. ‘On you go, then. Get me a slice of caramel shortcake while you’re there,’ he shouted, almost an afterthought.
She loitered at the counter, putting the coffee on a tray, planning the best strategy in her head. She got on well with Sandy, but he could be a funny bugger if he didn’t want to play ball.
Keep Her Silent Page 19
