The Quiet Ones Page 2

  The police casualty surgeon had long gone, hadn’t taken too much time to pronounce life extinct at the scene. Davies guessed most people would have been able to tell this poor sod was a goner with or without a medical degree. The body was fully clothed – well, almost; one slipper dangled from his right foot, brown leather slip-ons, the other had fallen on the floor. They looked as though they’d cost more than Davies’s monthly mortgage repayment. Hellish little good they’d be doing him now.

  DS Toria Law came through the front door. The house had been cleared as soon as it had become obvious that it was a crime scene. She was covered from head to foot: white paper overalls, hood up, covering the small cap her hair was tucked underneath, double latex gloves, disposable shoes and a face mask. Only her eyes were visible through the Perspex goggles. She looked like a kid as she nodded over to him, her eyes quickly taking in the scene. This was only her second time as a crime scene manager, but she was turning into a good copper. Davies knew he was in safe hands and left her to it.

  Outside the quiet residential street had been cordoned off, with two police cars parked in a ‘V’ shape, stopping any vehicles entering or leaving. This was an area unused to flashing blue lights or the camera crews that Davies could see were now gathering at the foot of the cul-de-sac.

  Nugent’s wife was curled up in the back of the car. Frizzy blonde hair sticking out from the top of the grey blanket she’d been wrapped in. Even from this distance, he could see she was shaking. McVeigh sat opposite her, seemed to be nodding in all the right places, no doubt reassuring her that it was just routine that they’d need DNA swabs. He eased himself out of the car, leaving the grieving widow when he saw his boss.

  ‘What’s she still doing here?’ Davies looked at his watch. Nugent had been dead for the best part of three hours now.

  ‘She wanted back in to collect a few things.’ McVeigh anticipated Davies’s response. ‘’S OK, I told her no. She’s going back home with her sister now.’

  ‘She up to giving a statement yet?’

  McVeigh shook his head, ‘Not a chance, sir. She’s mogged up to the eyeballs.’

  ‘Who the fuck prescribed tranquilisers before we had a chance to speak to her?’

  ‘I don’t think they were quite on prescription, sir.’

  ‘Bloody brilliant.’ It was a bitterly cold night and Davies could see his breath against the clear, dark sky. Why did these things always happen at night? Never on a sunny Sunday afternoon, but then Davies could hardly remember a sunny Sunday afternoon in Glasgow, so the odds were already stacked against that scenario. It’d be a long day tomorrow and if he could make a head start tonight then they’d all hit the ground running in the morning. He was about to get back into his car when he saw her.

  *

  Oonagh had decided to take a taxi to the scene, knowing full well she wouldn’t be able to park anywhere within spitting distance of the house. It dropped her off at the end of the wide, tree-lined cul-de-sac, which was impressive even for Houston. Just three houses in the street, each one with a gravel drive that seemed to stretch on for miles, with enormous gardens offering the owners more privacy than most people could expect this close to the city.

  Oonagh caught DS Jim McVeigh walking towards her, no sign of Alec; she guessed he was still inside the house.

  ‘Hey, this is a bit of a turn-up for the books.’ In light of recent discoveries, Nugent’s obituary had been hastily dropped from the running order. They were leading instead with his murder. Oonagh made to lift the police tape, but Jim stopped her before she could squeeze underneath. ‘Didn’t take you long.’

  ‘Where’s the big boss, then?’

  Jim nodded back to the bank of cars in front of the house.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Oonagh was desperate for answers. ‘I thought it was suicide.’ She was craning her head past Jim, desperate for a better look, but knew it was useless. Even had she been standing at the garden gate the endless gravel drive meant she’d still be too far away to get a good nosey.

  Darkness had descended like a blanket, but without the warmth or comfort. Jim leaned against the street light, hands stuffed into his pockets, legs crossed at the ankles. The irony of the neighbourhood watch sticker peeling on the metal lamppost behind his head wasn’t lost on either of them.

  ‘So, come on, Jim, what’s the score?’

  The place was swarming with police, forensics and reporters. Turned out Nugent’s body was still in the house. Harry had not yet left the building.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Nothing yet, Oonagh. No leads.’

  She liked Jim, almost thought of him as a pal, and God knew she had hellish few of them she could rely on right now. But tonight he was making her work for her money and wasn’t giving much away. News of Nugent’s death had come hot on the heels of his wife discovering the body earlier that evening; it had been all over Twitter that he’d killed himself, been found hanging in the hallway of his home. That part by all accounts had been true. Until Jim had called her there had been no suggestion that it had been anything other than that. Oonagh made a mental note to call back into the newsroom to see who, if anyone, had actually checked the suicide angle.

  She spotted DI Alec Davies emerge from his car. Even from this distance he looked shattered. He faltered slightly, but seemed to change his mind when he saw her chatting to Jim, and made his way over. Oonagh had got the distinct impression he’d been avoiding her recently. She tried to look casual and gave him a wee wave. Camera bulbs flashed, and several mics were thrust in his general direction. He swatted them away, yelling at the journalists to contact the media relations department, adding that a full statement would be issued in due course. He didn’t look to be in the best of moods.

  ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’ He looked even worse close up, as though he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. His eyes were heavy and the grey stubble stabbing its way through his five o’clock shadow did nothing to enhance his appearance. Now wasn’t the time to ask if he’d been avoiding her.

  ‘You look well,’ she reached to touch his arm, but he didn’t respond. ‘So what’s the deal? Was he killed right enough?’

  Alec held out his arm towards the house swarming with coppers. ‘What do you think?’

  Oonagh’s mind was racing, working overtime. ‘Was he robbed? Was the house turned over? Has he been shot?’

  ‘Now, Oonagh.’ Davies cut her off mid-stream and ran his hands through his hair. ‘You can hardly expect me to give you details of the case.’

  She just shrugged; it would all come out eventually. Her mobile phone buzzed; she glanced down and clocked the top-line message. ‘Bloody hell!’ She looked up. ‘Was his tongue cut out? Oh, my God. Is that true?’

  Alec’s face was like thunder. ‘What the fu…? Who told you that?’

  Jim raised his hands, palms facing forward. ‘Wasn’t me…’

  Oonagh held up her phone. ‘It’s all over Twitter.’ She knew full well that relying on social media for accuracy was tenuous to say the least, but Alec’s reaction said it all. ‘So that’s a yes, then?’

  3

  They’d pulled out all the stops with this one. One of Scotland’s most prominent businessmen found hanging from a rope with his tongue cut off was major-league, even for Glasgow. Alec Davies stood at the front of the incident room, a mixture of plain-clothed and uniformed cops filling the front two rows, Jim and Toria slightly to his left. He’d already gone over the bare facts, which were scant to say the least, not that that stopped press speculation. Hardly surprising really. They were baying for blood and demanding answers. Davies wondered what the collective name for photographers was. He’d managed to avoid the mob this morning only because he’d stayed overnight at the station, grabbing a couple of hours’ shut-eye before trying to drag himself awake with a shower and a shave.

  This wasn’t going to be easy and the Chief Constable would have his balls on a plate if he didn’t shut this one down quick-style. Despite the pres
s speculation that the streets of Glasgow were no longer safe as long as this crazed killer was on the loose, Davies doubted they would strike anywhere else. This killer had targeted Harry Nugent for a reason and was unlikely to be a danger to anyone else. But they were still dangerous – make no mistake. He took a strange comfort in the fact, however, that in the wake of such a horror the streets were indeed safer – for a few nights at least – as revellers cancelled plans, and even the die-hard neds chose instead to stay where they knew they’d be safe.

  Behind him, the incident board read like a who’s who of Scottish sports stars, as well as the usual suspects. Family, close friends, relatives, anyone who’d been connected with Nugent. But it was now running into hundreds of people.

  They were waiting for the full post-mortem report, but he’d spoken to the pathologist earlier. Rosemary Gardner was the best they had. Her initial findings were that Nugent had been drugged, then died from asphyxiation through hanging. Lesions around his wrists and his ankles suggested plastic ties had been used as restraints. Despite a detailed search, the ties had not been found, suggesting the killer took the time to remove them. His tongue too, had been sliced off post-mortem, which would account for the lack of blood and the fact his wife had initially thought it was suicide. This was no frenzied, random attack. Nugent had clearly been up to his neck in something, had clearly pissed off someone big style. This was some fucking grudge which bore all the hallmarks of a gangland-style execution.

  ‘The killer might well have paid some heavies to do his dirty work for him.’ Toria looked shattered; Davies guessed she didn’t get much sleep last night. ‘It’s a bit of a high risk strategy doing that lot on your own… and besides…’

  ‘Stating the bleeding obvious…’ DS Gilroy shifted in his seat. Davies had worked alongside him in the same station, on and off, for years.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘but she did state it, which is more than you’ve done so far, Gilroy, so can we just work together on this one?’ Davies checked Gilroy’s smirk as he glanced around the room. You could read a lot into one expression, and from the look on Gilroy’s face came the suggestion that Davies fancied Toria and was cutting her more than the usual bit of slack. He felt weary, and not just because of this case. The thought of coming across as a sad old git fancying a girl young enough to be his daughter, or grand-daughter in some parts of Glasgow, left a bitter taste in his mouth. Truth was she was a good copper; she had an unusual way of looking at things and Davies knew that a fresh eye could often see minor details that a jaded eye could miss. Davies caught Gilroy’s eye and mouthed fuck off under his breath before continuing.

  ‘Right, guys, we need to establish what Nugent was doing in the twenty-four hours before he died. Did he have any enemies?’ As he was saying this he knew it sounded corny. ‘Anyone with a grudge against him?’ He looked at Toria. ‘Anything obvious from the scene?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. No sign of a break-in or a struggle.’

  ‘Obviously knew the killer.’ Gilroy was playing ball now. ‘Any CCTV?’

  Jim looked at Davies, who gave him the nod to jump in. ‘There’re no cameras near the estate, nearest ones are almost a mile away.’

  Every car that had been driven within a mile of the scene in the previous twenty-four hours was being checked and double-checked on CCTV for number-plate recognition. Davies felt his heart sink further into his gut. As much as he wanted to tell the journalists to fuck off, he knew with this one he needed them on board. They’d be relying heavily on witnesses seeing anything out of the ordinary, and on a Monday night in one of the most salubrious areas in the outskirts of the city that didn’t leave much scope.

  ‘What about the usual suspects?’ Gilroy was the first to address the elephant in the room. ‘There must be some gossip. This has got Glasgow crime wars written all over it. I bet every ned in the east end is boasting about this by now.’

  Davies knew he was right. The heavies expected to be able to conduct their business without too much interference, and they’d always throw some fall guy to the wolves who’d be willing to take the rap if the screws were turned tight enough. His budget would be as tight as a drum with this one. There was never too much money thrown at gang wars, but then they didn’t usually spill onto victims as high profile as Harry Nugent.

  The air was beginning to feel stale in the incident room, and there wasn’t much more to be said. They needed to get out and get on with things. Gilroy eased himself out from behind the desk. Davies gestured to Jim and Toria to wait for him outside.

  ‘This is a bastard of a case, Alec.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

  Gilroy stuffed his hands into his pockets and rocked back slightly on his heels. ‘You’re not seriously going to bust a gut finding this guy?’

  Davies raised an eyebrow; he knew what was coming.

  ‘Come on, Alec, this is a gang war. Nugent was up to his oxters in something rotten. I’d bet my pension he was match rigging, or gambling.’

  Davies rubbed his hand over his mouth, feeling a patch of stubble he’d missed in his hurry to shave that morning. He knew Gilroy was right. In truth he was an OK guy, just got on Davies’s tits at times. But then everyone did from time to time. ‘The Chief wants it dealt with.’

  Gilroy shrugged, gave that knowing look; they both knew how it worked. If the police turned the heat up, then some rookie gang member would take the rap. He’d be sent down, then released early for being a model prisoner. He’d be well paid for his trouble, his family taken care of, and Davies knew only too well there’d be young guys falling over themselves to do a stretch like this to prove their loyalty to the gang. It’d also earn them a get-out-of-jail-free card for the rest of their criminal career.

  The early morning sunshine had given way to rain that smeared across the windows. Everything around him looked grimy.

  ‘No leads, then?’

  Davies shot him a look. ‘Shit, Frank, if I had a lead d’you not think I’d be sharing it with the team? It’s not fucking Columbo.’ It was only after his outburst he realised it was a rhetorical question.

  ‘Listen…’ it was water off a duck’s back to Frank Gilroy ‘… take my advice, don’t knock yourself out with this. You’ll get little thanks.’ He let his hand rest on Davies’s shoulder for a second. ‘Get yourself some rest, Alec. You look like shit.’

  Clearly Gilroy thought he was being helpful, but all it did was make Davies’s gut churn more. This wasn’t something that would go cold after a few weeks and people would start forgetting. Even the most horrific murders got lost in the cesspit of crime after a certain amount of time, and no one, save for the victim’s families, pointed the finger if no arrests were made. But this was different. Harry Nugent would be front page news for some time yet. Davies busied himself sorting papers until Gilroy wandered off down the corridor and out of sight. Only then did he drop his head onto his hands. ‘Fuck.’

  4

  Something wasn’t right. Normally celebrities were coming out of the woodwork to throw in their tuppence worth, desperate to big up their part and claim to have had a very special relationship with the deceased, but Oonagh was getting the distinct impression that people were trying to distance themselves from Harry Nugent.

  The silence from the cops was deafening. Nugent had been dead for almost thirty-six hours and apart from a rather scant press release telling her what she already knew – that he was dead – they were keeping their cards very close to their chest with this one.

  Oonagh needed to speak to his widow, and soon. If she played ball, then she’d be better placed to approach Alan for a budget to make a follow up documentary. As it stood he’d given the story to the senior crime correspondent who was a lazy bastard at the best of times, but Oonagh had to admit he had the connections in Glasgow’s underworld that she lacked. And it was becoming more and more apparent that this was an organised attack from a professional hit man – which pointed the finger at
Nugent being up to his eyes in something brown and smelly.

  Mrs Nugent had so far refused to speak to the press, but Oonagh knew she’d need to come at it from a different angle. A human interest angle. Concentrating instead on the impact of violent death on the family left behind. It was what she was good at; getting people to open up, share their stories, tell her their secrets. The public liked her; she knew that. Despite this, Oonagh could feel the nail drive deeper into her professional coffin each year. She was too old to make the leap to print journalism, had priced herself out of the market for most other commercial stations, and knew the screws were tightening where she was now. She knew she was good, but the world was changing and sometimes being good just wasn’t enough.

  It may not have been her story, but she couldn’t let it go. One of Scotland’s most prominent public figures killed and mutilated in his own home and the police seemed to be dragging their feet. However, every item she found on Nugent pointed to him being clean. He gave enough money to charity to pay off the national debt of a small country, helped the poor, Christ, this guy even gave up his Christmas Day and dressed up as Santa to visit sick kids in hospital. And there was nothing to suggest that the sports academy was anything other than what it said on the tin – an academy for sporting excellence in Scotland. Well, it said sport, but in Scotland that meant football. But there had to be more behind that goody-two-shoes image. She’d bet her NUJ subscriptions on it. This guy had to be guilty of more than a dodgy hair weave and badly capped teeth. Despite these, Nugent had never missed an opportunity to get his face in the papers.

  The summer camps for Caledonian Boys’ Club were legendary throughout Scotland. Kids as young as ten were plucked from their working class housing schemes to spend summers in France, Spain, or even Algeria, to be given a chance of a lifetime. The chance of professional coaching, to play their game and make something of themselves. Some even went on to become big names. Not many, granted, but there were a few she recognised as coming up through the ranks, making a decent living for themselves. Local heroes by all accounts.