Keep Her Silent

by Theresa Talbot

  ‘Tom, Tom Findlay, I’m a friend of Oonagh’s. We met when…’

  Davies’s spine tightened – the bloody wee prick of a priest that was always bleating and crying. ‘Father Findlay, sorry, you’ve eh…’ He looked completely different without his black suit, dog collar and weary expression.

  Tom cut in. ‘It’s just Tom now.’ He turned his shoulder to the door. ‘I’ll just go and get Dorothy. Please try and remember she’s been through a lot.’

  ‘Aye, thanks for the advice. I’ll mention that the next time I speak to the families of her victims. You know, the girls whose throats she sliced open.’

  Tom wandered out of the room, leaving the last part of Davies’s sentence hanging in the air. He came back a few moments later with a protective arm around a woman Davies had to assume was Dorothy Malloy. He wasn’t prepared for this. She was tiny, frail, and shuffled as she clung onto Tom’s arm. How the hell could this scrap be responsible for so much heartache and bloodshed? Tom ushered Dorothy to a chair and she kept her head down, avoiding Davies or McVeigh.

  Davies kept his voice down. ‘We’ll need to take her down to the station to get the DNA samples. Does she understand?’

  ‘Is she under arrest?’

  ‘At this stage we’re detaining her under section fourteen of the Criminal Procedure (Scotland) Act. Then if necessary she’ll be placed under arrest.’

  ‘Have I been a bad girl?’ The voice was no more than a whisper.

  Tom leaned over and chatted to her, his voice too low for Davies to make out much of what was said.

  Davies interrupted. ‘She’ll need to be assessed by a police psychiatrist and then it may be necessary to detain her in a secure unit. But let’s just get this over with first.’ Tom was getting on his tits. Shaking off his dog collar had given him a new-found confidence and whatever he was doing now was paying a helluva lot more than the church, given his gear.

  Tom sat in the back of the car, his arm once more around the shoulders of Dorothy Malloy, adjusting her seat belt, telling her she’d be just fine and assuring her that she’d done nothing wrong. Davies decided to drive, wanted to get there as quickly as possible.

  The police surgeon was already waiting for them when they arrived at the station. By all accounts it’d been a quiet day for him. He didn’t spend too long with Dorothy Malloy.

  ‘If you arrest her, Alec, I’ll need to section her straight away. She’s in no fit state to answer questions.’ Davies was afraid of that. ‘OK. Let’s just get the DNA.’

  Swabs were taken from inside Dorothy Malloy’s cheek. At first she refused to open her mouth. ‘Open wide, like you’re in the dentist,’ Tom prompted and she complied.

  ‘What happens now?’ Davies wanted to tell Tom it was none of his fucking business, but realised that getting inside Dorothy Malloy’s head would be no mean feat and he needed this little prick on his side.

  ‘This’ll get fast-tracked through, then once we have the results we’ll take it from there.’

  ‘Meantime?’

  ‘Meanwhile, take her home.’ It was unlikely she’d cause any more damage.

  Tom thanked Davies and let Dorothy take his arm as they walked out of the room. Even beside Tom she looked small, barely reaching his shoulder. Davies caught up with them.

  ‘I’ll get a car to take you home. And, Father Findlay—’ Tom didn’t correct him ‘—you stay with her 24–7, right?’

  Tom looked as though he was about to argue back, but Davies cut in before he had a chance and pointed into his face. ‘I’m telling you, if anything happens to her or if she suddenly goes walkabout you’re a dead man.’

  56

  Glasgow 2002

  Davies drummed his fingers on the desk. The DNA results were being delivered by courier and should have been here by now, but there had been a pile-up on the Kingston Bridge and most of the surrounding roads were gridlocked.

  ‘Have you been home yet?’

  Davies looked up expecting to see Bill, but it was a different desk sergeant. Clearly Bill had a life. Davies gave a non-committal nod. ‘Of course I’ve been home.’ He looked at the clock and realised he hadn’t seen the inside of his flat in thirty-six hours. Not that it was much of a home anyway.

  The double swing doors opened and he felt the cold wind on his back; the leather-clad courier held his helmet under his arm and Davies walked towards him to meet him halfway.

  ‘That for me?’ He gestured to the package in the courier’s right hand.

  The courier squinted at the name. ‘DI Alec Davies?’

  ‘Aye,’ he replied as he signed the paperwork before the guy in leather handed over the package.

  He didn’t open it until he was inside his office. Reading the report, he scanned the pages for the important details then called the lab to make sure there was no room for error.

  *

  He placed the gun on the desk. The world had changed so much and he didn’t want to be a part of it any more. It was customary before such an event to pour the finest whisky; it was tradition, after all. He smoothed his hand along the bottle. The glass almost felt soft as it encased the amber nectar within. The initial drink would be to steady his nerves. It took a lot to shake him, but today he allowed himself the tiniest flutter of nerves.

  Everything was prepared. He couldn’t allow Jean to find him; she’d never get over that. And had to make it look like an accident; guns were always going off when they were being cleaned. He’d bought theatre tickets that morning for him and Jean. Slipped them under the magnet on the fridge door with a note, telling her to dress up for date night. Made a few phone calls too. Arranged to meet the boys for a round of golf on Saturday. A dental appointment as well; that was three months down the line. It was fucking murder getting an appointment there, but that didn’t matter. The important thing was that everything would look as though suicide were the last thing on his mind. An accident. It had to be, why he’d made so many plans, not the actions of a man on the edge of taking his own life.

  The cleaner was due round in an hour. It was a shame she’d be the one to find him. She was a nice young girl. Pleasant enough, but it was either that or Jean, and he couldn’t risk putting Jean through any of this. It would be bad enough, but at least this way she’d have his pension and he’d get the honour of a full funeral with all the top brass. And his record would be unblemished. It was important to keep up appearances.

  He tipped the whisky into his mouth and held it there for just a second before allowing it to slip down his throat. He immediately felt the surge of warmth in his chest, radiating outwards. Gripping the bottle, he wished he could down it all, but that would put everything at risk. Downing a bottle of whisky would raise its own suspicions. Or worse, he might botch the job and end up injured and permanently disfigured. The thought sickened him slightly.

  His finger traced the rim of the glass and the doorbell rang. Shit. He could do without visitors right now. But again, if he didn’t answer then that might arouse suspicions later.

  *

  Davies pressed his finger hard against the bell then ran his hand through his hair. He wished he’d rehearsed what he was going to say; a bit late for that now. There was no car in the drive, and he was secretly hoping he’d be out when he heard the telltale noise behind the door of someone padding down the hallway.

  ‘Sir, can I come in?’ He’d already stepped over the threshold before Threadgold had a chance to answer. ‘It’s important,’ he added, knowing he’d overstepped the mark.

  ‘Well, you’d better come in, then.’ Threadgold walked into the living room as Davies followed. He sat down on the armchair, Davies remained standing. A thin band of sweat lined the older man’s lip; he seemed to have aged since the last time they’d met.

  ‘OK, what is it?’ Threadgold made no attempt this time at pleasantries. No drinks offered, no tea, not even a friendly word.

  ‘We have a DNA match for the killer, sir.’

  Threadgold nodded slowly as he
breathed in deeply through his nostrils.

  ‘You already told me that.’

  No, we had a familial DNA that matched the crime scene, but we’ve now managed to match it to a suspect.’

  ‘I see.’

  This wasn’t quite going to plan. He looked pissed off before Davies had even had the chance to tell him the bad bit!

  ‘And there’s something else.’

  The older man said nothing; gestured for Davies to sit down. He perched on the edge of the settee. Had no idea how he was going to broach this. ‘The day Andrew Malloy was killed, sir.’ Threadgold said nothing.

  Davies opened the file, slid out the photographs and passed one to Threadgold. He didn’t look at it, just held it in his hand. ‘Sir, I hate to ask but…’ he let it rest in the air for just a moment ‘… why did you say you weren’t at the house that night?’

  Threadgold’s eye dropped to the photograph in his hand. The crime scene had been cropped and enhanced, but instead of the fatal wounds of Andrew Malloy the grainy picture showed a copper’s hat, with the name clearly visible on the inside: G Threadgold. And there was no mistaking his reflection in the mirror as he walked up the stairs. Almost thirty years had passed but his solid frame and strong features were the same.

  ‘Who else has seen this?’

  Davies dropped his head in his hands. Shit, he’d hoped he’d just open up. ‘Me and McVeigh. But that’s not the point—’

  The older man cut in. ‘You’re a smart copper, Alec, and I know you’re one of the good guys, but what else could I do?’

  This was lost on Davies; he didn’t have a clue what Threadgold was alluding to. ‘What did you do, sir?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same in my shoes.’

  Davies rested back on the settee, let him continue.

  ‘I let them down, Alec, I let them both down and because of that my best friend and his son were killed. I should have stepped in sooner.’

  Once he started talking he was surprisingly frank. ‘I’d always liked Dorothy, used to tease Andrew that he was punching above his weight with her. She came to me in the beginning, you know. When it was all kicking off. I could see her unravelling right in front of me. I didn’t believe her, of course.’

  ‘Believe what, sir?’

  ‘She told me Andrew had killed that girl. But that was just absurd. She was paranoid, delusional. As the weeks went on her ranting and accusations got worse. But I had no idea she’d snap and kill him, and the boy too.’

  For the first time Davies noticed a glimpse of emotion in Threadgold’s eyes. A tear caught the back of his throat and he swallowed hard. This wasn’t quite stacking up the way Davies had expected. He kept quiet for the moment.

  ‘I did nothing to save Andrew, or the boy for that matter, but I was sure as hell going to make sure he’d be remembered for the good he’d done and not as a crazed killer.’

  ‘But you said yourself that was absurd.’

  ‘And it was, but if the press had got a hold of that. And who knows who else she spoke to, or what she’d come out with?’

  Threadgold sank his head until his chin touched his chest. ‘Fancy a drink?’ This time he poured two whiskies from the decanter on the sideboard. Davies left his where it was. Threadgold downed his in one.

  ‘We got smashed one night. Me and Andrew. He started saying all sorts of stuff about how Janet Channing wasn’t supposed to die.’ He poured himself another drink. A larger one this time. ‘He was with her the night she was killed, you know.’

  Davies stood up, took a few deep breaths before he trusted himself to speak. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me? And why was that never in the original case notes? Andrew Malloy was at best a key witness, if not a prime suspect.’

  ‘Och, calm down, son.’

  Davies paced the floor. Didn’t have a clue how to play this.

  ‘It wasn’t him. He was with me at the time of her death. He’d seen her on the bus then came to meet me.’ This seemed to be Threadgold’s meagre attempt at excusing the whole thing.

  Davies knew estimating an exact time of death was never an exact science. In 1975 it was practically a guessing game. ‘But he carried out her post-mortem.’ He was shouting, but couldn’t care less. The whole case was rotten.

  ‘Aye well, that was a mistake.’ Threadgold jabbed his index finger in the air to make his point, ‘But I never knew that at the time. He never told me he was with her till weeks, maybe a month later.’

  ‘You didn’t believe him, did you?’

  Threadgold looked back at the picture, the memory of that day washed across his face. ‘I don’t know what I believed.’

  ‘You suspected he might have killed those girls, didn’t you?’ Davies guessed Threadgold had done everything he could to keep his best friend’s name out of the picture.

  ‘I’ll never forget that phone call. I’ve killed him, was all she said. I wake up some nights hearing that. In the wee small hours.’

  ‘You knew the shit was about to hit the fan, didn’t you?’

  Threadgold didn’t answer.

  ‘That’s why you reopened the case and trumped up this shite about Willie Mack. Tried to bury this forever.’

  The enormity of it all appeared lost on Threadgold, who suddenly looked from a bygone era. ‘I couldn’t do it alone obviously, but a few of us rallied round, pulled strings, made sure the case would never get to court. It was surprisingly easy, if truth be told. I felt sorry for Dorothy. Truly I did, but she was so far gone by this time that there was nothing we could do for her.’

  ‘It wasn’t him.’ Davies kept his voice low.

  Threadgold looked up. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘The DNA evidence – it wasn’t Andrew Malloy who killed those girls.’

  Threadgold slumped back in his chair and a single tear threatened to spill out from his eye. ‘Thank you, son…’

  It was obvious that he’d had his doubts all along. For the first time in his career Davies almost pitied Threadgold. He’d been played by the system in the same way the rest of them were. Offered a big promotion for keeping everything under wraps and turning a blind eye when the investigation into The Raphael killings hadn’t always followed procedure. Hadn’t taken long to rise up the ranks. His success had been almost meteoric.

  There were too many loose ends and Davies wasn’t entirely sure he was getting the whole truth. ‘You weren’t altogether surprised when I told you Willie Mack’s remains had been mutilated.’ It wasn’t a question but he expected an answer.

  Threadgold shook his head, ‘That fucking idiot McClemand.’ He didn’t even try to pretend to be in the dark with this one.

  ‘He wasn’t an idiot sir.’ Davies thought back to George’s widow, ‘he was a decent, hardworking man who’d done his best for his family.’

  ‘Aye, well he couldn’t hack it.’

  ‘Why the hell did he try to preserve his heart?’

  ‘Fuck knows and who cares.’

  Davies stood up, ‘Well, I fucking care, right!’

  ‘Listen, I tried to look out for that prick. Felt sorry for him. Bailed him out several times when he was caught tampering with bodies. He was fucking mental, had lost the plot and I guarantee if you dig up 10 graves in Glasgow you’ll find George McClemand’s calling card on at least half of them.’ He thought for a moment, ‘Maybe seeing Mack’s body brought back memories about Andrew, and he just went a bit too far.’

  Davies guessed McClemand’s breakdown was down to more than being a bit on the flaky side. That man had been shit scared; not just grieving for Andrew Malloy.

  ‘Who was behind all this?’ He’d been mister nice guy here for long enough. The corruption was leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and he needed answers. As good as Threadgold was, he couldn’t do all this as a rank and file copper.

  ‘You need to understand how big things like this are. It’s never just one person.’

  It was sinking home fast that, despite the fact D
avies had done well as a cop, he’d never reach the dizzy heights that Threadgold had. He felt like a right tit for believing in hard work and determination. What it actually took was street smart, animal cunning and a fucking great big wad of cash to bribe any poor bastard that stood in your way.

  The information started to percolate through his brain. He thought of Oonagh claiming that Marjory Channing was killed because she’d uncovered some information. ‘What d’you know about Marjory Channing?’ He didn’t bother calling him sir, couldn’t be arsed any more.

  Threadgold let out a sigh. ‘Leave it, OK?’

  ‘No, sir. I won’t fucking leave it, and if you ask me again I’ll arrest you for withholding evidence.’

  Threadgold raised his eyebrow and let out a laugh. ‘Took you long enough to get your balls out.’ He held up a glass, pointing it in Davies’s direction. He declined.

  ‘I really don’t know too much about Marjory Channing. But occasionally one is asked for a favour. I was told she knew who killed her sister and—’

  ‘So you had her killed and made it look like she was a hopeless drunk?’

  Threadgold slammed the glass down on the sideboard. ‘I had no one killed. Let’s get that straight. But making someone look like a drunk driver isn’t the hardest trick in the book. For God’s sake, if they can do it with Princess Diana, d’you not think we can pull a few strings with Marjory fucking Channing? I killed no one, just made sure that her death wasn’t investigated as requested.’

  ‘You must have been shittin’ yourself that it would all come out about Malloy.’ He was yelling now. ‘A key witness in one of the biggest murder investigations this city has ever known, not only withheld vital information, but carried out the fucking autopsy on one of the victims. All under the watchful eye of Strathclyde’s finest.’

  ‘It was more the Pandora’s box it would unleash.’ Threadgold looked tired; the fight had gone from his eyes. ‘You going to put me out of my misery, then?’

  ‘Believe me, if I had a gun I would.’ Davies’s phone rang; it was McVeigh. ‘You got an address for us yet?’