The Quiet Ones Read online

  27

  ‘So tell me, Ash, what’ve you got for me?’

  Oonagh had agreed to meet Ash in the little tea house off Otago Lane. No one ever really paid too much attention to anyone else there; disparate elements of society were left free to plan worker revolts, discuss indie referendums or look at vintage knitting patterns unhindered by judgement, prying eyes or earwigging. Also it was where Ash had suggested and it would have taken up too much brain space for her to think of somewhere else. She pulled up a chair, preferring to sit upright as Ash appeared to have been swallowed by an overstuffed beanbag masquerading as a sofa.

  His laptop was open and fired up on the coffee table; Ash had the look of a hungry dog faced with a family-sized bag of biscuits. He licked his lips slightly; this really was meat and drink to him. Whoever would have guessed accountants had so much fun?

  Ash ran through the basics. ‘This guy is loaded, Oonagh, no mistaking that. And, I have to say, his bookkeeping is very impressive.’ Oonagh was beginning to realise that even the most evil villains were looked upon favourably if they had a well-kept set of books.

  From what Ash could see, Nugent had bought up a load of small, almost bankrupt, businesses over the last twenty years. Because they’d been in receivership he’d got them for peanuts, but they were the perfect front for his other business ventures, keeping his name out of it. With over twenty business accounts, he used the failing businesses to make full use of tax benefits and allowances, with a steady income streaming into each one each year. On their own they didn’t amount to much, but lumped together they netted a hefty profit each year.

  ‘You see this part.’ Ash pointed to the screen. ‘He just uses initials for each transaction. And there are properties for each once. Whoever this guy is, he’s accumulating millions. Seriously, I’m impressed.’

  This didn’t really give Oonagh very much more to go on, other than the fact Harry Nugent was loaded. There was nothing to say what the businesses were.

  ‘There’s nothing dodgy here that I can see, Oonagh.’ Her heart sank slightly; this wasn’t quite what she was paying over the odds for. Initially Ash had offered his services for mates’ rates as a favour, but Oonagh had insisted on paying over the odds to get the results quickly. She’d almost balked when she’d seen the email he’d sent with his prices on it. His hourly rate would have paid off the national debt of a small country and she doubted if she’d be able to bung that amount through on expenses. She’d hoped it was worth it, but now wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Right, the initial tender for the parent company, Pitch Perfect, had been granted almost a quarter of a century ago.’ He raised his eyebrows over his glasses and waited for a nod before he continued. ‘But, despite Strathclyde being disbanded as a region more than twenty years ago, Pitch Perfect’s contract had been automatically renewed by the new Glasgow City Council ever since.’

  Forensic accountant seemed so much more exciting than chartered and she was in awe of the way he seemed to be able to gnaw his way through figures and make sense of them all. ‘I know, Ash, but can you humour me here? Where’s the dodgy bit?’ She needed to know what Nugent was up to.

  ‘Oonagh, the accounts themselves are squeaky clean.’

  Shit, she’d been hoping he’d at least been dodging taxes. Something, anything to pin some dirt on this creep.

  ‘It’s this part that gets more interesting.’

  Oonagh stopped sipping her tea for a moment, anxious to hear more.

  ‘From what I can see Pitch Perfect paid no business rates in the first year.’

  ‘That’s not unusual, is it?’ Oonagh knew there were all sorts of incentives for new businesses.

  ‘The premises were leased too.’ Again, it wasn’t exactly earth shattering information. Things that business analysts found fascinating didn’t really do it for Oonagh, and neither did this tea that tasted like the inside of a sock drawer, but she let Ash continue. ‘And this is where it gets interesting…’

  Thank God.

  ‘The only records in any of his accounts for rent or business rates were for a nominal amount.’

  ‘Oh! Tell me more.’ She didn’t feel that excited but Ash seemed fired up so she knew this must be leading somewhere.

  From what Ash could see, after the first gratis year, Pitch Perfect had paid a paltry twenty quid annually for business rates. The lease on its south side factory was even less, the ownership of the factory eventually passing over to Nugent for grace and favour. This was sounding more and more rotten. Oonagh wasn’t exactly shocked at the suggestion that there were some dodgy business deals going on behind the closed doors of local authorities, but Harry Nugent was being handed success on a plate. They seemed to be greasing his palms, not the other way around.

  ‘Do we know who signed off the initial tender, Ash?’

  ‘Yip, the business licensing department. It was rubber stamped and looks kosher.’

  ‘Is there a signature? Do we have a name?’

  Ash ran his finger down the screen. ‘You betcha, got that here. It was… Graham Petrie.’ Ash sat back. ‘He’s the one you need to talk to.’

  Oonagh agreed but, given that he was found swinging from a hook in Bath Lane less than three days ago, that would prove tricky.

  28

  The newsroom was buzzing. The discovery of two more bodies swinging in Glasgow’s city centre minus parts of their faces had taken the investigation into Harry Nugent’s murder on a completely different path. Now it was all systems go to establish a connection between the three men. And from what she could gather, Oonagh was the only one so far to connect two of them.

  ‘I want this story.’ Oonagh had gone over all the arguments in her head about why she, and not the senior crime correspondent, should be covering this; she needed to box clever here. There was no way she could let anyone know at this stage about Petrie’s link to Nugent. ‘I’ve already established a relationship with Nugent’s widow…’ She was champing at the bit, but careful not to let on just how much Sarah Nugent had told her.

  Alan wasn’t really interested. Instead he went for a bit of drama, rubbing his temple with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Oonagh, you’re actually the only person who can give me a headache before you come in the fucking door.’

  ‘Nurofen’s pretty good for that.’

  ‘You’re not the crime correspondent, Oonagh.’ She held her hands out, palms upwards, saying, so what? What she really wanted to say was, and the crime corr is so busy toadying up to Glasgow gangsters and taking backhanders that he’s letting one of the biggest stories of the decade slip from his grasp.

  Alan looked up from his screen. ‘I can’t just hand over a story of this magnitude.’ He stopped and caught her eye. ‘You’ve got something else, haven’t you?’

  Shit. Her poker face was letting her down. She shook her head. Tried to act dumb.

  ‘You know more than you’re letting on, O’Neil.’

  ‘Like what?’ There was no way she was admitting to how deep she was into this at this stage. Not until she had a cast-iron guarantee it wouldn’t be snatched from her.

  ‘Oonagh, we need to work as a team here.’ Alan was trying to appeal to her better nature. ‘If you’re sitting on something that could give us an exclusive…’ he faltered slightly ‘… then it’s your… your duty to pitch in here.’ Unfortunately for Alan, Oonagh had left her better nature at home that day. She’d heard some nonsense in her time, but this was in a class of its own.

  Oonagh was no stranger to how these things worked. ‘No, Alan, honestly. Nothing more than a burning desire to do a good job.’ One look told her he knew she was bullshitting him, but she stood her ground.

  Alan tried to read her expression, then gave up and wafted his hand around, which generally said, close the door on your way out.

  The red tops were scattered all over the news desk. Each headline desperately trying to make a connection between Harry Nugent, Graham Petrie and Andrew Cruickshank. Whatever had happened, thi
s was no small-time drugs deal or a petty gambling debt. That much was obvious. So far Andrew Cruickshank was the missing link. And why the hell Petrie had given Nugent the golden ticket was anyone’s guess.

  Oonagh was desperate to get the low-down from both families, but the police had put a lock down on them and banned the press from even approaching them. She wandered out of Alan’s office, purposely leaving the door open just to annoy him, and pretended not to care as she picked up the phone and dialled.

  *

  The Ship’s Bell was one of the oldest pubs in the west end. Its function in this instance wasn’t just to serve a round of drinks, but it was quiet and dark and she knew they’d be pretty much left alone without too many people trying to earwig in on their conversation. It was also close enough to the studio that she could walk and get some much needed fresh air. The blackboard outside said that steak pie was today’s special. That hadn’t changed since the early nineties but they did fish and chips too. Oonagh noticed a new sign, freshly chalked, informing punters they now served cocktails. It had clearly changed since the last time she’d been.

  Despite the foray into the brave new world of cocktails, the interior looked pretty much as it had done for the past twenty years. Scrubbed clean tables and several booths tucked in along the side of one wall, plush red velvet cushions long since worn flat by the countless bums that had frequented The Ship’s Bell over the years. The place was half empty, or half full, depending on your demeanour and a quick scan told her Alec hadn’t arrived yet. The barmaid’s smile, which was as wide as the Clyde, owed more to a set of badly fitting dentures than a warm personality, but as Oonagh approached the counter the smile reached her eyes as she dried off a tray of glasses and asked her what she fancied. Oonagh had left her car at the studio so decided to throw caution to the wind. ‘Oh, go on, I think I may try one of your cocktails.’

  The barmaid continued to wipe the glasses. ‘Margaret, the lassie that does them, is off sick today.’

  ‘Wine?’

  ‘Red or white?’

  ‘Gin and tonic, please. Double.’ She spotted Alec through the frosted glass of the front door. He was easy to recognise, being taller than your average Glaswegian, so she ordered him a sparkling water; he was a stickler for the rules and never drank on duty.

  ‘I can’t stay long, Oon. I’m up to my eyes in it.’ This seemed to be Alec’s default now every time they met. She leaned over to give him a kiss, but he moved his head awkwardly and Oonagh lost her balance and landed a kiss on his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, rubbing the lipstick from his jacket.

  They sat in a booth, which was surprisingly comfy, and she was surprised to feel a very slight pang in her chest. Whether that was because she was ready for a session or she genuinely was sorry he couldn’t stay, she wasn’t quite sure herself.

  ‘What a fucker of a day this is turning out to be.’ Alec gulped down his water, eyeing the impressive array of whisky along the entire length of the bar.

  ‘So what’s going down?’ She hoped she sounded innocent enough. Alec seemed to have a built-in bullshit alert when it came to Oonagh and knew when she was hiding something.

  ‘Oh, just work, you know.’

  She stuck her tongue in her cheek, tried not to smile. ‘You know what I mean, Alec, stop being coy. I’m talking about the case.’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Your guess is as good as ours.’

  The official line was that the inquiry was still at the initial stages; there was nothing at this stage to suggest the cases were linked. Which was cop-speak for all three people were killed by the same person but we’re not sure who.

  ‘Did you find anything dodgy on Petrie or Cruickshank?’ She waited a moment, desperate to know if either were part of Nugent’s network. ‘I take it you seized their laptops and phones and stuff?’

  ‘How the hell did you know about that?’

  ‘Sarah Nugent. She told me you’d taken Harry’s laptop.’ She reassured herself that she hadn’t broken any confidence. Alec knew she’d been talking to Nugent’s widow. ‘Come on, Alec, it hardly takes a criminal mastermind to think that might be the link.’

  He shook his head, his shoulders slumped; he looked worn out. ‘Nothing. Shit, it would almost have been easier if we had. At least that way…’ He stopped himself, clearly didn’t want to say the inevitable. That they’d have welcomed finding images of abuse if it’d meant cracking this case. ‘Och, you know what I mean.’

  ‘I know.’ She touched his arm and he patted her hand, giving her a little smile. Oonagh was as certain as she could be that the police knew nothing about the link between Nugent and Petrie. She kept her own findings on Harry Nugent very much to herself. ‘They’ll have been up to their necks in something.’ Keeping up the pretence.

  ‘Oonagh, have you ever thought about joining the CID? We could really do with someone with your insight on the team.’

  Alec never failed to make her laugh, even when he was being brutally sarcastic. ‘Thanks, Alec, but I’m not sure I could go back to shift work.’ He was getting harder and harder to get information out of this weather, and she told him so.

  ‘We’re in the very early stages of one of the biggest cases in the city’s recent history and you’ve got a lip on because I won’t start giving you clues?’

  ‘I bet it was gambling.’

  He nodded. ‘Probably, or drugs, or human trafficking, or…’ He was doing that sarcastic thing again.

  ‘Listen, Alec, can you give me anything here?’ One look at his face and she had her answer.

  ‘Can we leave it, Oonagh?’ She was about to interrupt, badger him, when she caught a look in his eye. ‘I’m knackered, haven’t been back at the flat for two nights and I just want an hour away from the office, and phones and questions and…’ He downed the last of his water, then rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. ‘I just want a breather.’

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  He nodded and, despite his reticence at giving her any inside information, Oonagh had that warm fuzzy feeling from the adrenalin rush of knowing that the shit was about to hit the fan.

  29

  The Aston was hidden underneath Glasgow’s Central Station, formed from a subterranean warren of tunnels once used to store liquor and grain brought into the city. With its mood lighting and state-of-the-art décor, it had undergone an impressive transformation. Oonagh walked down the metal staircase leading to the main bar and caught her heel in a hole on the bottom one which sent her flying into the back of a waiter, who thankfully had an empty tray and, from what she could gather, lightning speed reflexes. He spun round and grabbed her under her arms.

  ‘I’m getting good at this,’ he said, making sure she was upright before moving on.

  Oonagh looked round, cursing the stupid bloody interior designer who thought it was a good idea to install a perforated staircase in a Glasgow bar that specialised in gin.

  She didn’t recognise her at first; it was only when she tilted her head to one side and gave a very small nod that Oonagh made her way to the last booth.

  ‘I like the new look.’ Sarah Nugent’s long shaggy blonde hair was gone, replaced by a copper-brown shiny new short cut, flicking out around her face. ‘I almost didn’t recognise you.’ Oonagh waited to see if that was why she went for the change, to make it less likely people would recognise her, but she didn’t offer any explanation. Just asked Oonagh what she fancied to drink, then gave the waiter the order.

  ‘Have the police asked you about Graham Petrie?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘Him and the other chap who was killed.’ At least she had the decency not to act completely clueless. ‘But I couldn’t tell them much. Didn’t know them.’

  ‘Did Harry know them?’ Oonagh already knew the answer to that one, but was keen to hear Sarah’s version of events.

  ‘Not that I knew of.’ For now, Oonagh had to believe her, and at this stage wasn’t sure if the police had made the same connection she had between
Petrie and Nugent.

  ‘I’ve had a forensic accountant look over Harry’s records, Sarah.’ A look flashed across the other woman’s face. ‘Don’t worry, it’s in confidence, there’s nothing to attach you to this.’ Oonagh paused before dropping the bombshell; she wanted to gauge her reaction. ‘Graham Petrie was the one who rubber stamped Harry’s initial business tender back in ’94.’

  Judging by her expression, this was news to his widow.

  ‘He headed up the council business licence department at the time.’ Oonagh knew that it was this initial contract and its subsequent success that had given Harry the help he’d needed. Had secured the much coveted and very lucrative council contracts. What she couldn’t work out was why. ‘Have you any idea why Petrie would give Harry such a leg up, Sarah?’

  She shook her head, her thoughts lost somewhere in the bottom of her glass.

  It didn’t make sense. There was no apparent connection between the men either before or afterwards. But all Oonagh did know was that at one time that pair had been as thick as thieves. ‘I assume it’s no secret to you that Harry was worth millions?’

  Sarah let out a sigh, bit her bottom lip slightly and couldn’t meet Oonagh’s gaze. ‘Yeah.’

  From what Sarah had told her, Harry’s luxury flats were a front for underage brothels that provided entertainment for high ranking public figures.

  ‘Sarah, you need to tell me who these kids are. The ones in the brothels.’ Nugent’s clients had a taste for the twisted and perverse, and Harry had to ensure he had a steady stream of young boys and girls at their disposal. Sarah said nothing. ‘These kids are still being abused. For fuck’s sake. There’s no such thing as underage brothels. It’s child abuse. No other word for it.’ The amount of money Nugent was being paid each month was staggering. And Oonagh guessed it was just the tip of the iceberg. She made to leave. ‘I’ll ask you once more. If you don’t tell me, Sarah, then all bets are off and I’m going to the police.’