Keep Her Silent

by Theresa Talbot

  ‘Here, try some of this, it’s very—’

  ‘No, sir.’ He held one hand up in protest. ‘I’m driving.’

  Threadgold laughed. ‘You’re hardly likely to get stopped, now, are you? And it’s Gordon.’ He pressed the huge glass into his hand; Davies was careful to hold it by the stem. That was the full extent of his knowledge on wine. He took a sip, slightly bracing himself against the bitter taste but none came. He caught Threadgold smiling out of the side of his eye. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

  Davies had to agree. The wine settled on his tongue for a moment then slipped down and immediately soothed its way into his body, ironing out any creases it found along the way. Davies allowed himself to relax. Slightly. He took his phone out then paused, ‘D’you mind if…’ Threadgold gestured for him to carry on, ‘Sorry Sir, this is important’, then sent McVeigh a text telling him to get a squad car to drop him off near Threadgold’s house in an hour’s time to drive him home. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  ‘So…’ Threadgold sat opposite him in a leather armchair ‘… how can I help you, son?’

  He looked round for somewhere to place the oversized glass and Threadgold nodded to a small nest of tables by his side. ‘Well, sir, Gordon, it’s ehm…’ he held the folder in his right hand, preparing to unleash the contents ‘… Andrew Malloy?’

  Threadgold tightened his jaw at the mention of his friend’s name. ‘There’s something I need to ask about…’ Davies took the charge sheet out of the envelope. He’d left the pictures of the dead boy in the office. Threadgold had been a close family friend – no point in making this any more painful than it was obviously going to be.

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Dorothy Malloy was never arrested.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a charge sheet and no actual charge. She was taken straight to Cartland.’

  The older man leaned forward in his chair. ‘And?’

  Davies had hoped the penny would have dropped and sparked more of a response with Threadgold. ‘Well…’ He wasn’t sure exactly how to word this. Not only was Malloy a close family friend, but Threadgold had been a serving officer during the time of his death. In the same division. ‘She should have been arrested, then taken to a police station, then…’ Explaining the finer points of the arrest procedure to the Chief Constable of one of the country’s largest force didn’t rest easy on him. Thankfully Threadgold stepped in.

  ‘Listen, Alec, that house was a bloodbath.’ His fingers tightened around the stem of the glass. ‘Malloy was slaughtered, the boy drowned, and you’re coming to me to say that—’ a slight beat ‘—that bitch hadn’t been read her rights?’

  Shit, this wasn’t going well at all. ‘No, sir, it’s not that—’ Davies noticed this time Threadgold didn’t correct him when he called him sir ‘—but every such procedure would say that the accused is taken to a police station and from there a police psychiatrist is called in to assess if he or she needs to be hospitalised or sectioned.’

  Threadgold put down his glass and Davies grew more uneasy. ‘Don’t lecture me on police procedure, son.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, but…’

  Threadgold swallowed and seemed to soften slightly. ‘Here, let’s see what you’ve got.’

  Davies held out the charge sheet; a slight pause.

  ‘I assume you’ve taken a copy?’

  ‘Aye.’ He handed it over.

  Threadgold took his glasses from his top pocket. It didn’t take long to read it. There were surprisingly few details.

  He took a sharp intake of breath. ‘You know, I’ve never seen this before.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Couldn’t stomach it.’ His eyes glanced across the page. ‘We see bad things every day, Alec. We see things that no human being should ever see, but when it’s a pal…’

  Davies nodded. And waited. The silence filled the room. He guessed that was meant to be the answer he was looking for. It wasn’t.

  ‘I know this is difficult for you…’ The words were out of his mouth before he realised how trite and manufactured they sounded. Threadgold gave him a look that said, Don’t give me that shite, sonny. ‘Sir, I’m really sorry—’ and he was ‘—but this is a blatant failure in police procedure. Had Dorothy Malloy gone to trial this would have had the case thrown out of court.’ A tiny feeling of recognition pricked the back of Davies’s neck. Dorothy Malloy had never been going to court.

  Threadgold stood up. ‘What the hell is this?’ He didn’t wait for Davies to reply. ‘Has that murdering…?’ He paused. ‘Is she trying to file some miscarriage of justice case? And what the hell does it have to do with you?’

  Davies could hardly tell him he was tipped off by Oonagh O’Neil. ‘I came across it when I was investigating the Raphael case.’

  Threadgold raised an eyebrow. He was on shaky ground. The two files were in different parts of the building. He’d have needed to ask for it specifically. He wasn’t sure if Threadgold knew this, but decided not to take the risk. ‘As part of the investigation I’m looking at all murders or suspicious deaths in the city in the eighteen-month surrounding period.’

  Threadgold seemed to buy this. It was a plausible enough scenario. Davies also noticed that he failed to hand him back the document.

  ‘This was all a long time ago.’

  Davies knew from experience that sentences that started like that usually went on to find some excuse as to why procedures weren’t followed. Certainly in the time Davies had been in the force there had been dramatic changes in policing.

  ‘From what I was told, there had been a lot of confusion that day. I hadn’t actually been on duty, thank God, but it didn’t take long for the events to spread round the station. From what I can gather Andrew’s wife was like a madwoman when our guys arrived. Totally crazy. Thought the devil was in the room. She had to be sedated there and then.’

  ‘So there was a doctor present?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who could have sedated her?’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Threadgold had finished his wine and stood up to pour some more despite Alec’s protests. ‘The paramedics had arrived at the same time as our boys.’

  ‘And the boy?’

  Threadgold frowned slightly.

  ‘Robbie Malloy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Was he dead by the time the emergency services were at the scene?’

  ‘Presumably. Yes.’

  He didn’t elaborate and Alec couldn’t help but think he was being fed a pile of shite.

  ‘We struggled to keep it out of the press, as you know. We were determined that Malloy wouldn’t be yesterday’s fish and chip paper for anything. So, yes, Alec. Mistakes were made, and we probably didn’t follow correct procedures, but it was paperwork, that’s all.’ He screwed the charge sheet into a ball. ‘Just a lousy piece of paper.’

  52

  Glasgow 2002

  She waited until she saw Alec leave. Jim had tipped her off that he was going to pick him up. Tipped off might be a bit strong; he’d dropped it into the conversation. She’d taken to giving Jim the odd call. Usually she had a reason, but this time she’d just called to say hi, and that was when he said he was off out to pick up the boss. He had no reason to think Oonagh would abuse the information. She was sailing close to the wind with this one, and wanted to keep Alec out of it. He’d go bloody mental otherwise.

  Oonagh wasn’t quite used to being on the back foot. But for now, she wasn’t really sure what she actually knew, what she thought she knew, and whether any of it was connected at all. But she decided she’d catch more bees with honey than with vinegar so opted for the softly-softly approach.

  She was nervous chapping the door. Took her back to her days as a reporter when she had to ‘doorstep’ people in a bid to get an interview. Didn’t matter if it was a parent whose child had been killed by a dodgy batch of heroin, a drug dealer suspected of selling his wares at the local primary school, or a local councillo
r caught with his pants down. The pack drill was the same. Batter the door until you get a response, then don’t leave until you get an interview.

  That was the one thing about being a reporter she hated. It made her feel grubby, even if she got the scoop; especially if she got the scoop. One of the last doorstep interviews she ever did still made her feel sick to her stomach. A young guy, a kid really, had died in a fire at work. There had been a fatal accident inquiry, which had uncovered that the boy had died one week after his sixteenth birthday. He’d worked at the factory for almost three months, which made him slightly younger than the legal age to gain employment. But this wasn’t media-land. This was the real world where kids from working-class backgrounds were regularly failed by the education system. Kids who knew they had no real prospects of gainful employment.

  This kid had been proud to be offered a job in a factory and a blind eye had been turned to allow him to start just before the end of the official school term. He’d been proud, his mum had been proud, his sister had been proud; his dad had been nowhere to be seen. Less than twelve weeks later he’d been lying on a slab because the same factory that had cut corners and allowed kids to work on the shop floor had also neglected to ensure their waste was properly disposed of. Especially flammable waste. The wee boy had died when a fire had broken out and engulfed the top floor. It turned out he’d been taking his stint as a nightwatchman. The guard dog had also succumbed to the fumes. The press had made more about that dog dying than the only kid on the scheme with a job.

  When Oonagh had knocked on the door after the fatal accident inquiry she’d hoped they’d slam the door in her face. Instead they’d allowed her inside. Had assumed she had a right to be there. His mum had spilled her heart out, and as she’d done so the dead boy’s wee sister had been on the phone in the kitchen, telling her pals that someone from Riverside Radio was in their hoose. Excited because they’d be on the news that night.

  Oonagh had taken no pleasure in getting the exclusive from that story. No professional pride in the fact the grieving family had opened up to her. Instead she’d felt a sense of shame, revulsion, call it what you liked. But she’d trampled all over a poor family who’d had so little to bank on that the two best things that had happened in their lives were that their fifteen-year-old son had got a job as a nightwatchman, and some lassie from Riverside Radio had been in their house and promised they’d be on the news.

  Her heels sank into the gravel as she walked up the driveway. She’d left her car a few blocks away. Mainly to avoid being tracked down by Alec, who would surely try to find her if he knew what she was up to, but also it seemed a bit rude, even for her, to drive into someone’s driveway without being invited. And if he chased her at the door she imagined leaving on foot would be a more dignified exit than trying to reverse through the narrow stone gateposts onto the street.

  He recognised her immediately and if he was surprised, shocked or even pissed off to see her he didn’t let on. ‘Oonagh O’Neil.’ He made a gesture of looking up. ‘Just shows that prayers are answered after all.’ He did that same thing of clasping her hand in both of his. It caught her off guard for a split second. She hadn’t quite been prepared for so warm a welcome.

  ‘Chief Constable Threadgold. What must you think of me coming here unannounced?’

  ‘Now to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  Oonagh imagined Chief Constable Gordon Threadgold spoke with forked tongue. She couldn’t imagine his addressing much of Strathclyde’s finest like this.

  ‘Would you believe me if I said I was in the neighbourhood…?’ This verbal dance was getting on her tits, but she had to play along.

  ‘I’d like to, but I’m not that vain to suspect you came here for the love of me.’

  ‘Truth is—’ why did she even start sentences like that? ‘—I’m writing a book.’ She saw his eyes flash for a moment. ‘Fiction, a crime book, and, well, to be honest I just wanted a chinwag.’

  ‘You want my deepest darkest secrets?’ He was still holding her hand, but hadn’t invited her in yet. He was in charge and she wasn’t to forget that.

  ‘I’ll come clean.’ She was horrified at how easily she lied. ‘I have a character in the book who was a young PC in the seventies and I want to get it right.’

  ‘And I’m the oldest copper you know?’

  She pulled her hand away and turned slightly, as if to walk away. ‘You know, I’m mortified. I should have called or dropped you a line. Please, don’t give it another thought.’ She was making to leave, slowly, when he called her back. She guessed he knew she was lying. You didn’t get to head Strathclyde’s Finest by believing shite like that.

  ‘D’you honestly think I’d turn a beautiful woman away from my door? Come away in.’ He held his hand on the door frame, allowing her to walk under his arm. He was a big guy, even by police-height standards. Although Oonagh was sure they were all getting shorter.

  ‘What can I get you?’ He’d led her into the kitchen and she sat at the pebble-blue glass island unit, wondering if it was too late to have one installed in her own kitchen. There was a wall of glass that looked onto the garden, which seemed to stretch for miles. It was impressive. She knew chief constables were well paid, but guessed the added extras perhaps came from more nefarious means.

  She’d laid out all the evidence the evening before. Examined it with a fresh eye. Tried to put it into some sort of order. Linking it up had been a nightmare. The facts were there. Three women are killed in Glasgow in 1975. A forensic pathologist is about to blow the whistle on a scandal that could rock the NHS. The same forensic pathologist and his son are killed. Almost thirty years later Marjory Channing comes out of the woodwork with evidence backing his claims. She too is killed in a car crash. And Dorothy Malloy is running about on tippy-toe pretending to live in cloud cuckoo land. Oonagh knew there was a link, but just not sure what. Alec was keeping things very close to his chest, and she feared her increasing paranoia was stopping her seeing things clearly.

  She opted for a glass of red wine. She guessed, with this gaff, he’d have a fairly decent collection. She guessed correctly. He selected a bottle of Petrus Bordeaux. Oonagh tried not to let her mouth gape open and instinctively put her hand out to stop him. ‘Gawd no! Don’t open that on my account.’

  He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, enjoyed the decadence. ‘Mmm, you know your wines. Then you’ll know I’ve had this open for over an hour now to let it breathe. It’s my little luxury.’

  It was a one hundred and fifty quid bottle of wine and Oonagh had her mum’s car parked just three blocks away. She had an uneasy feeling that Threadgold would be pushing her for information rather than the other way around. Despite her protests he poured the blood-red liquid into her glass and waited until she’d taken a sip before pouring his own. She felt like Snow White taking a bite of the poisoned apple.

  ‘You didn’t get that at Tesco.’ She allowed the smoothness to coat her tongue and ease down her throat.

  ‘I have my own supplier. He ships it in from France.’ There wasn’t a hint of smugness. Just matter of fact. He picked a framed photograph from the wall. ‘That’s me in my early days. And my best friend.’

  It was him and Andrew Malloy. So he did know why she was there. This was him letting her know he was onto her. He was setting the agenda. Oonagh grabbed the ball and ran with it. ‘Andrew Malloy? The forensic pathologist who was murdered?’

  Threadgold nodded as he placed the picture on the island unit between them.

  ‘You know I’m in contact with his wife?’ Oonagh didn’t just take the ball and run with it… she was crashing through the defence and battering any remaining opposition.

  ‘Widow,’ he corrected.

  ‘Must have been really hard to deal with.’ She posed it as a fact rather than a question.

  He circled the glass beneath his nose, appreciating the bouquet. The slightest nod, then he reeled his bait back in. ‘But you didn’t come here to talk about that. What
is it I can help you with?’

  Shit! He was playing with her. Oonagh stood up and looked closely at the picture. ‘You haven’t lost your good looks.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Andrew Malloy was a handsome man too. I bet the two of you broke your fair share of hearts back in the day.’

  ‘You don’t look like you struggle much for attention yourself, Miss O’Neil.’

  She really had to rein this back in.

  ‘How well did you know Dorothy?’

  He knitted his brows together, just a tad too much. Was he claiming he didn’t know who she was talking about or…?

  ‘Clearly not as well as I thought.’

  Touché.

  ‘Had I known her better then perhaps I would have been able to…’

  He looked genuinely remorseful.

  Oonagh decided to not quite come clean but give him a little taste of what she knew. Or what she thought she knew.

  ‘She must have been heartbroken about the affair.’

  The faintest sign of a pulse throbbed on his neck. He couldn’t mask his confusion. He pulled back in his chair. Genuinely shocked. ‘What affair?’

  Gordon Threadgold was not a man used to being questioned. He hoisted up one hip and half sat on the worktop. He was tall enough to still have one foot on the floor.

  ‘You and Andrew were best friends, I can see how—’

  ‘Give me a moment please, Miss O’Neil.’ He cupped his glass in his hand. Let the wine coat the edges. ‘What exactly are you saying?’

  He wasn’t a man to get on the wrong side of. But in for a penny. ‘Was Andrew a bit of a…’ she paused, choosing her words carefully ‘… a ladies’ man?’ The wine was certainly loosening her tongue.

  ‘Listen, dear. I don’t know what you know, or what you think you know. But if I ever hear you blacken Andrew Malloy’s name…’ He didn’t finish his sentence, but she got the drift.

  Oonagh had gathered enough information to see that Andrew Malloy had been playing away from home and that had driven Dorothy to kill, not only him, but any woman she’d thought was a threat. It didn’t take a huge stretch of the imagination. She decided not to share this nugget of information with Strathclyde’s Chief Constable. But she needed to test the water.