The Unravelling Of Thomas Malone

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Book excerpt

Prologue

Thomas Malone remembered very clearly the first time he heard the voice.  He was twelve years, five months and three days old.  He knew that for a fact because it was January 15th, the same day his mother died.

Thomas lived with his mother Clare in the south side of Glasgow.  Their home was a main door apartment in a Victorian terrace.  The area had never been grand, but in its time, it housed many incomers to the city.  First the Irish, then Jews escaping from Eastern Europe, Italians, Polish, Greeks, Pakistanis, they’d all lived there and built communities.  Many of these families became the backbone of Glasgow society.  However situations changed and governments came and went and now the same terraces were the dumping ground for economic migrants who had no intention of working legally, but sought an easy existence within the soft welfare state system.

A large number of the properties were in the hands of unscrupulous landlords who were only interested in making money.  They didn’t care who they housed as long as the rent was paid.  So as well as the people fleecing the system, there were also the vulnerable who they exploited.   Drug addicts, alcoholics, prostitutes, young single mothers with no support, they were easy pickings for the gangsters.  The whole area and the people living within it smacked of decay.  It had become a no-go district for decent folk, but to Thomas Malone, it was simply home.

Thomas and his mother moved to their apartment on Westmoreland Street when Clare fell out with her parents.  The truth was they really didn’t want their wayward daughter living with them any more.  They were embarrassed by her friends and hated their drinking and loud music.  When Clare became pregnant, it was the last straw.  Thomas’s grandparents were honest, hard-working, middle-class people who had two other children living at home to consider.  So when Clare stormed out one day after yet another row with her mother, they let her go.  She waited in a hostel for homeless women for three weeks before she realised they weren’t coming to fetch her home and that’s when Clare finally grew up and took charge of her life in the only way she knew how.

When Thomas walked home from school along Westmoreland Street, he didn’t see that the building’s façades were weather worn and blackened with grime from traffic fumes.  To outsiders they looked shabby and were reminiscent of a mouth full of rotting teeth, but to Thomas they were familiar and comforting.  He didn't notice the litter strewn on the road, the odd discarded shoe, rags snagged on railings, or graffiti declaring ‘Joe’s a wanker’ or ‘Mags a slag’.  He functioned, each day like the one before, never asking for anything because there was never any money to spare.

He was used to the many ‘uncles’ who visited his mother.  Some were kind to him and gave him money to go to the cinema, but many were drunken and violent.  Thomas knew to keep away from them.  Sometimes he slept on the stairs in the close rather than in his bed so he could avoid any conflict.  He kept a blanket and a cushion in a cardboard box by the door for such occasions.  Many a time, when he returned from school, he found his mother with her face battered and bruised crying because the latest ‘uncle’ had left, never to return.  It was far from being an ideal life, but it was all he knew so he had no other expectations.

It was a very cold day and, as he hurried home from school, Thomas’s breath froze in great puffs in front of him.  He was a skinny boy, small for his age with pixie features common to children of alcoholics.  His school shirt and thin blazer did little to keep him warm and he rubbed his bare hands together in an attempt to stop them from hurting.  He was glad his school bag was a rucksack because he could sling it over his shoulder to protect his back from the icy wind.  As his home drew near his fast walk became a jog, then a run, his lungs were sore from inhaling the cold air, but he didn’t care, he would soon be indoors.  He would soon be able to open and heat a tin of soup for his dinner and it would fill him up and warm him through.  He hoped his mother had remembered to buy some bread to dunk.

As Thomas approached the front door something didn’t seem right, he could see that it was slightly ajar and the door was usually kept locked.  There was a shoe shaped imprint on the front step, it was red and sticky and Thomas thought it might be blood.  There was a red smear on the cream paint of the door frame, he was sure it was blood.  Thomas pushed the door and it opened with a creak, there were more bloody prints in the hallway.

Thomas took in a great breath and held it as he made his way down the hall towards the kitchen.  He could hear the radio playing softly.  Someone was singing ‘When I fall in love’.  He could smell his mother’s perfume it was strong as if the whole bottle had been spilled.  The kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it.  His mother wasn’t much of a housekeeper and the house was usually untidy, but not like this.  There was broken crockery and glassware everywhere and the radio, which was plugged in, was hanging by its wire from the socket on the wall, dangling down in front of the kitchen base unit.   A large knife was sticking up from the table where it was embedded in the wood.  The floor was sticky with blood a great pool of it spread from the sink to the door, in the middle of the pool lay the body of Thomas’s mother.  She was on her side with one arm outstretched as if she were trying to reach for the door.  Her lips were twisted into a grimace, her eyes were wide open and her throat was sliced with a jagged cut from ear to ear.  Clare’s long brown hair was stuck to her head and to the floor with blood and her cotton housecoat was parted slightly to expose one blood-smeared breast.

Thomas felt his skinny legs give from under him, he sank to his knees and his mother’s blood smeared his trousers and shoes.  He could hear a terrible sound filling the room, a guttural, animal keening which reached a crescendo into a shrieking howl.  Over and over the noise came, filling his ears and his mind with terror.  Then he heard the voice in his head.

“It’s all right, Son,” it said.  “Everything will be all right.  I’m with you now and I’ll help you.”

He felt strong arms lift him from the floor and a policeman wrapped him in a blanket.

“Don’t be frightened,” the voice told him.  “Just go with the policeman.  Someone else will sort out this mess.  It’s not your problem.  Forget about it.”

“Thank you,” he mouthed, but no sound came out.

The policeman gathered Thomas in his arms and carried him from the room.  It was the last time he ever saw his mother and he cannot remember now how she looked before she was murdered.  The voice in his head, the voice that helped him then, remains with him today guiding and instructing him, often bullying, it rules his every thought.  Sometimes Thomas gets angry with it but he always obeys it.

Chapter One

It was ten to six on Tuesday morning and Angela Murphy was already showered and dressed.  Her charcoal-grey coloured, ‘Next’ suit was well cut and a perfect fit, it clung to her long, lean frame in all the right places.  You could get the wrong impression about Angela when she was dressed in that suit if it wasn’t for the austere white shirt, the no-nonsense opaque black tights and the sensible black leather shoes she wore with it.  But in fact, today was Angela’s second day as a detective and she was excited and edgy because she’d been assigned to a murder case.  Some detectives work their whole career without being involved with anything as meaty, but because Angela was to work with Frank Martin, she went where he went, and he was heading up this investigation.

She sensibly made herself a substantial breakfast and, although she had little appetite because of her anticipation and excitement about the day ahead, she forced herself to eat it all.  Who knew when she’d get the chance to stop and eat again?  Standing in front of the hall mirror for the umpteenth time, she checked her hair and makeup.  Her face had the fresh, healthy look of someone who enjoyed an outdoor life, her skin glowed and her blue eyes sparkled even at this early hour of the morning.  Rich, thick, black hair framed her pretty, heart-shaped face and she couldn’t help smiling at the image reflected back at her.

“You’re smart, you’re strong and you’re ready,” she said to her reflection.

“And you’re very hot,” a voice behind her said, startling her.

She turned to see her husband Bobby.  He was still half asleep but he’d thrown on last night’s shirt and a pair of jeans so he could rush downstairs and see her before she left for work.  His sandy coloured hair had a tousled look that Angela found particularly attractive and his cheeky smile melted her heart.  Bobby was a teacher, head of Maths at his school in fact, and today was a school holiday so he could have stayed in bed.  He was tall and strong and very handsome and he looked more like a professional sportsman than a maths teacher.  Angela had fallen in love with him the first time they met.  On that occasion, she’d been nine years old and the new girl in class and he was the class clown, the daring boy who made everyone laugh, and he was kind to her.  Once they finished primary school they lost touch until years later when, as a young police cadet, she gave a talk to the pupils at the school where he worked.  After that chance encounter they began dating and two years later they were married.

“You didn’t need to get up this early.  You’re on holiday.”

“I wanted to see you off, Darling.  Have you had enough to eat?  Do you want me to make you a cup of tea?” Bobby asked.

“Thanks, but no thanks, if I have any more tea I’ll be peeing all day and I can’t use the loo at the murder scene.  I’ve already been to the toilet twice in the last half hour with nerves.”

“Don’t be nervous, Darling, remember, you’re smart, you’re strong and you’re ready,” he replied with a wink.

“Yes I am, I’m all these things, but I’m also scared shitless.”

“And you need to leave now,” Bobby observed as he glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall.  He reluctantly steered her towards the front door, she looked so sexy that he would much rather have steered her back to bed.

After a last hug and a quick peck on the cheek Angela made for her car.  She had everything she needed with her but obsessively checked her bag once again before driving off to work.

When Angela arrived at the office there were two detectives at their desks, Jack Dobson and Gordon McKay.  Their shift was coming to an end, they looked really tired and their clothes were crumpled.  The office was artificially warm and the air was fuggy.  Being the middle of winter, the two men had left the heating on full blast all night.  Angela couldn’t imagine what it would’ve been like had they been allowed to smoke indoors.  As it was, both men reeked of stale tobacco.

“Is the Boss not in yet?” she asked innocently by way of a greeting.

“Been and gone,” Jack replied without lifting his head from his ‘Classic Cars’ magazine.

“Forensics is still at the scene and the body’s not been shifted yet.  The Boss wants you to meet the corpse in situ.  He said you’ve to grab a driver and make your way over to the scene when you’ve finally decided to grace us with your company,” Gordon added with a smirk.

“But he told me to meet him here at seven o’clock, it’s barely gone six thirty,” Angela protested.

Gordon gave a shrug and Jack didn’t even acknowledge her.  Bristling with annoyance at the injustice Angela made her way towards the front desk to try to commandeer a car and driver.  As she walked down the corridor she heard Jack and Gordon laughing in her wake and she realised they’d been winding up the new girl.  She was angry at herself for being so naïve and rising to the bait.  Bastards, she thought, that wouldn’t happen again.

It took only a few minutes for Angela to locate a driver in the shape of a fresh faced young constable whose enthusiasm about going to a murder scene was actually rather disturbing.  He chattered on and on all the way to Govanhill and by the time they reached their destination Angela had been treated to most of his life story.  It was a relief to finally get out of the car and into the creepy stillness of the murder apartment.

Frank Martin was standing in the narrow hallway of the red-sandstone, tenement flat.

“You took your time,” he said grumpily.  “What’ve you done with your driver, have you sent him back to the job?”

“And good morning to you too,” Angela replied stroppily.  “We had arranged to meet at the office at seven and I was there at six-thirty, so please don’t talk to me like that.  I might be new but I still deserve your respect.”

“Feisty, I like it.  I see you’re going to keep me on my toes Missy.”

He smiled at Angela and she calmed down and managed to return a grimace.  “And don’t call me Missy.  I’m Detective Murphy or Angela if we’re on our own.”

“Yes, Mam,” Frank replied, laughing.  “That’s put me firmly in my place.  As long as you remember that my place is superior to you.  As long as you don’t forget that I’m the boss.”

“Yes Boss,” Angela replied determined to have the last word.

“Send the boy away,” he said, now noticing the young policeman hovering by the doorway.  I’ve got my car outside.  Then come back in here and for goodness sake suit up and cover your shoes.  Although forensics is finished, this place is covered in blood.”

Angela went back out of the front door, she told the young constable that he was no longer needed and he reluctantly left.  She wiped her shoes with a tissue before covering them because they were smeared with blood.  In her rush to get inside she hadn’t noticed just how much of it there was on the floor of the hallway.  It was lucky she wasn’t squeamish.

When she returned Frank had entered the kitchen and he was kneeling beside the body of a young woman.  Frank was a big man.  He was tall and broad with a large, square shaped head and enormous meaty looking hands.  No one would describe him as handsome in truth he was rather ugly.  He had a fat face with little piggy eyes and a squashed nose which had been broken more than once.  His skin reminded Angela of a greasy, pork sausage.  However, incongruously, Frank was a fastidious dresser and Angela knew that under his protective suit, his clothes would be immaculate and expensive.  His hair was perfectly groomed, not a strand out of place and his fingernails were manicured and spotlessly clean.

“Something’s not right here,” Frank muttered.  “I’m having a de-ja-vu moment.  I’ve seen this crime scene before.  That knife embedded in the table and the radio hanging from the socket, I’ve seen all this before.”

Angela didn’t comment.  She stood transfixed beside the corpse.  She didn’t sicken easily but nothing could have prepared her for the brutality of what she saw.

“You see the way the body is draped in that dressing gown with one boob hanging out?  And the way she is reaching towards the door?  I’ve seen this same layout before.  It was about ten years ago.  Just round the corner in Westmoreland Street.  I was new to the job, just like you, and there was a child involved, a wee skinny boy about twelve years old.  He came home from school to find his mother dead, with her throat cut, just like this poor cow.  This is really weird it’s the same scene all over again.  I think someone staged this.  I think there might be a connection.”

After two more hours of Frank’s mutterings and copious note taking by Angela, they’d gathered all the information there was to be had from the apartment.  As they stepped outside onto the pavement Angela found herself blinking at the brightness of the morning sun.  She felt rather dazed by the contrast between it and the dim, dingy, artificial light of the flat and she reached out to steady herself by grabbing onto the railings at the side of the building.

“Your not going to faint on me, are you?” Frank asked as he grabbed her by the elbow.  “You look a bit peaky, are you okay?”

“I’m all right.  It’s just the brightness of the sun after the darkness in there.  I don’t faint but thanks for caring.”

Angela drew her elbow from Frank’s grasp.  The big man gave her a sheepish look and cleared his throat.

“We have months of summer without a hint of blue sky just grey and rain every day and now, in the middle of winter, would you just look at that.”  He pointed upwards with his thumb.  “Bloody cold though, it must be minus something.  After the damp in that apartment I need something to heat me up.  The mobile incident room’s arrived at the end of the street we’ll walk down to it and see if they’ve got the coffee on yet.”

Angela was delighted to be out of the oppressive apartment and she inhaled deeply to try to clear her head.  She hadn’t realised just how bad it smelled in there until she’d stepped outside.  It had been a cloying mixture of dirty cooking oil and cheap perfume mixed with deprivation and despair.  Angela thought it unlikely that the dead girl could even imagine how the other half lived, she’d probably never seen inside a clean, suburban home.

Frank and Angela made their way down the street to the mobile unit and, when they entered it, they were immediately handed polystyrene cups of boiling coffee by a young policewoman.  Frank commandeered the only two chairs and the small desk and, as they sat in the tiny space sipping their coffees, he planned the rest of the morning’s work.  He suggested that Angela go and interview the neighbour who’d made the first emergency call.

“You’ll have to see if you can take a uniformed officer with you,” Frank said.  “I’ve nobody to spare.  We’re stretched to the limit because some people are off sick with the bloody flu.  It should be quite easy to get what you need from the woman,” Frank added.  “I’ve been told that Mrs Ali is the neighbourhood busy-body so she’ll have plenty to tell you.  Just try and sift through the dross until you get to what she actually saw and heard.  It’ll probably take you the rest of the morning.  I’m going back to the office.”

“But you have the car,” Angela protested.  “How am I supposed to get back when I’m finished with Mrs Ali?  You told me to send the other car away.”

“For a clever girl you can be really dumb sometimes.  I do hope you’re not going to be one of these moaning minnies, whining all the time,” Frank answered quietly so as not to be overheard.  “When I leave this incident room you are the most senior officer here.  You are in charge.  Just call for a car when you need it and someone will come and fetch you.  For God’s sake don’t let anyone here think you’re not up to the job or they’ll fall on you like a pack of dogs.  Remember, you’re in charge, right?”

“Yes Boss,” Angela replied embarrassed by her faux-pas.  She’d never been in charge before and she was thrilled by the prospect.   When Frank left Angela made a quick telephone call to Bobby.

“Guess what, Pet,” she began.  “I’m in charge.  Isn’t that so cool?”

“Fantastic,” he replied enthusiastically.  “I knew you’d be okay.  You’re smart, you’re strong and you’re ready, right?”

She laughed softly unable to hide her delight.

“I’ve been to the twenty-four hour ASDA in Toryglen and I’m cooking my special pasta for dinner.  There’s a bottle of Rose chilling in the fridge to wash it down.  Is that okay?”

“Perfect, it sounds perfect.  I’m so glad you didn’t buy steak because after what I’ve just seen, I couldn’t have stomached it.”

Angela noticed that the young policewoman who’d made the coffees was waiting patiently for her to end the call.

“Gotta go now, we’ll liaise later,” she said into the phone, trying to sound businesslike.

“I’ll liaise with you any time you like,” Bobby replied suggestively.

Angela smiled to herself, “Bye now,” she said ending the call.

“I’ve been assigned to you,” the policewoman said when Angela returned the phone to her pocket.  “I’m Constable Brown, Liz Brown.”

“Pleased to meet you Liz,” Angela replied proffering her hand.  “I’m Detective Murphy, Angela Murphy.”

Liz took Angela’s outstretched hand and shook it vigorously.  The two women couldn’t have looked more different.  Liz was short whilst Angela was tall.  Liz was sporty looking and had better muscles than most of her male colleagues where Angela was slim and elegant.  Angela could pass for a model but Liz looked more like an athlete.  Both had naturally pretty faces.  The two women sat at the table for a few minutes and discussed how they were going to handle the interview with Mrs Ali then they left the confines of the mobile unit and made their way down the street towards her home.