The Quiet Ones Page 8

  ‘I didn’t even steer the interview along these lines.’

  ‘I told you that Harry and I lived separate lives. I told you that.’

  Given that Oonagh and Sarah were no long best buddies, the fact that she had a prize fighter in the next room and the fact that she was pissed and looked as though she could pass out at any moment, Oonagh decided to try for some damage limitation.

  ‘If that had been my angle…’ she waited until Sarah looked at her ‘… I’d have put it in the interview. I’d have put that in the voice-over. Believe me, it’s easily done.’ And it was. Oonagh knew only too well how easy it could be to manipulate the media. ‘But I didn’t, Sarah. And I’m not here to take the moral high ground.’

  There were a dozen questions she wanted to ask Sarah Nugent, but she waited a moment or two. Oonagh needed to tread carefully here. Did you know your husband was abusing young boys? couldn’t be her opening gambit.

  ‘Were you and Harry still sleeping together?’

  ‘Just a fucking minute.’ She slammed the glass down on the window sill. ‘Don’t think because I gave you that interview it gives you special privileges.’ She was pointing now and Oonagh hoped she wasn’t as handy with her fists as her brother had been.

  ‘Don’t come in here with your half-arsed theories and stupid fucking questions.’

  ‘OK, I’m sorry. Please. Don’t upset yourself. I didn’t mean to offend you, Sarah, but we need to have some damage limitation here.’ Oonagh had already decided on a follow up feature. It was now obvious that Harry Nugent was up to his neck in a lot more than some dodgy gambling racket and she needed this woman on board to uncover the truth. Sarah made to get out of the chair, but it was only when she staggered slightly that Oonagh realised just how drunk she was. That clearly hadn’t been the first glass that morning.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sarah, but you agreed to talk to me, so why not tell me the truth?’

  ‘The truth, the truth? I don’t know what the fucking truth is any more.’ She was slurring her words and Oonagh was surprised at how easily she’d tipped over the edge. But then some drunks were like that. Seemingly able to handle their booze, then wham! Sarah wiped her nose with the back of her hand and staggered over to the window where the wine cooler sat on the floor.

  Her brother poked his head through the door. ‘You OK?’

  She sniffed, nodded to him, then seemed to shoo him away with her hand. Telling him she was fine, telling him to beat it. He was clearly used to seeing his sister like this. In truth she looked far from fine. And this wasn’t just the grieving widow routine. She knew a lot more than she was letting on. The cops would have asked her the usual questions; she hadn’t been flagged up as a suspect. She had a cast-iron alibi and nothing to gain from Harry’s death. Of course, there would be the insurance money. But she had more than a decent lifestyle and, as far as Oonagh could ascertain, Harry had pretty much left her to her own devices.

  She waited until her heavyweight brother had closed the door then topped up her glass. ‘You probably think I’m a total lush boozing at this time of the day?’

  ‘No.’ That bit was true. ‘Not if it makes you feel better.’ Oonagh felt a bit shitty, but the more inebriated Sarah became, the more likely she’d be to open up and spill the beans. ‘After what you’ve been through.’ That last sentence seemed to do the trick and she tipped the remainder of the bottle into her glass.

  ‘The police were here earlier. Took Harry’s laptop.’

  ‘They likely to find anything on it, Sarah?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’ Whatever Sarah Nugent knew, she was keeping it to herself. ‘Someone threw a brick through the window last night.’

  Oonagh told her she was sorry and meant it. Admittedly, Oonagh hadn’t exactly warmed to Sarah Nugent when they’d first met, but she didn’t enjoy seeing her suffer either. The public would not take kindly to her. She waited until Sarah had fallen back into the soft leather armchair, legs crossed, sipping on her wine. ‘Sarah.’ Oonagh needed to think carefully on this one. ‘Is there anything about Harry, anything about his past…?’

  ‘What about his past?’

  Oonagh wasn’t sure just how drunk Sarah was, and how much she could get away with. ‘Was there anything that would back up these rumours?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I spoke to Jack Nesbit a few days ago.’

  Sarah said nothing, which Oonagh took as the green light to keep going. ‘He’s also of the opinion that Harry was…’ she looked at Sarah for a hint of recognition ‘… being, inappropriate, with some of the young boys he coached.’ The high-gloss house seemed to lose its shine. ‘Claimed that everyone on the board of the Boys’ Club knew.’

  Sarah Nugent looked at Oonagh, apparently waiting for her to continue. ‘Sarah, you don’t seem shocked, or even surprised, by that allegation?’

  ‘Takes a lot to shock me, you know.’

  ‘I spoke to George Alexander too.’ Oonagh didn’t elaborate; instead let Sarah make up her own mind about what he’d said. ‘Is there any truth in this?’

  Sarah didn’t answer, preferring instead to get lost in the bottom of her glass. She dropped her head into her hands; everything was turning sour around her. Oonagh leaned forward, touched the arm of her chair. She looked up, her eyes still red. ‘What is it you expect me to say?’

  ‘Just tell me what you know.’

  But the alcohol was taking its toll and Sarah Nugent slumped back in her chair. ‘They knew,’ her voice was slurred but Oonagh could still make it out. ‘They all knew.’ Barely a whisper now.

  Oonagh’s chest tightened. It was the same phrase Harry Nesbit had used. ‘Who knew, Sarah? Who are they?’

  Oonagh crouched down and held her by the shoulders. ‘Who are you talking about, Sarah?’ She shook her gently, tried to make her speak, but it was useless. Her slack mouth fell open as her chin dropped onto her chest and her words became lost in a drunken stupor.

  14

  Parking in the city was becoming a right pain the tonsils and Oonagh tugged at her bag, nestling the strap securely onto her shoulder as she walked through the park. It was easier to leave the car at home today. In truth she was glad of the fresh air and the chance to stretch her legs. Also it meant she could drop in somewhere on the way home and treat herself to some lunch with a glass of wine. She looked at her watch: barely 10 a.m. Had she been working from home she’d have already promised herself a wee drink as a pre-lunch treat in the next hour. This was the better option. She was sure of it.

  Yesterday’s meeting with Sarah Nugent hadn’t gone as well she’d hoped. She’d been too drunk to give any more details about her dead husband’s predilections, but Oonagh was convinced she knew more than she’d let on.

  The sky threatened rain as she climbed the stone steps leading into the main entrance of the Mitchell Library. Oonagh never failed to get a feeling of comfort from its impressive interior; the domed building dominated Charing Cross, and instilled in her a sense of civic pride. With over a million reference books, it was one of the largest libraries in Europe. That and the fact it had free WiFi, a café and newspaper archives going back over a century meant it was the perfect place to while away a morning.

  The Glasgow Room housed most of the Scottish newspapers, thankfully now on microfiche. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, and guessed whatever Harry Nugent’s secrets had been, it was highly unlikely that she’d find them splashed across the pages of a national newspaper. But still, she had to look and see what she could uncover.

  She’d called ahead and they had the files waiting for her: everything featuring Harry Nugent. It was staggering how much was still not online. Sifting through them was no easy task. Her mind wandered constantly and she felt jittery. It was only when a guy on the seat next to her gave an exaggerated cough did she realise the loud rat-tat-tat noise was coming from her fingernails drumming on the desk. She mouthed an over-the-top sorry and went back to scanning the screen in front of he
r, desperately trying to concentrate in case she missed something.

  There was loads that she already knew about – the big stories involving Harry and his good works both on and off the pitch – but there was nothing in print that indicated anything sinister. She scanned the records as far back as she could. There was very little from his early days, which was hardly surprising, given that he wasn’t as famous then, and also the world wasn’t as obsessed with celebrity.

  His wedding had made page six of one of the local rags. A black and white snap of him and Sarah with a predictable caption underneath – I’m just mad about Harry – and a few lines about how the couple met during one of his many charity appearances at Breakmire Hospital. The hospital had been closed for the best part of two decades, but the press coverage of his appearances there was impressive. By the look of it Harry had used his contacts to ensure a steady stream of celebrities through the doors each week. Sporting heroes posing for pictures, singers, soap stars, you name it, they appeared to be a very welcome ray of sunshine in an otherwise dreary place. From what Oonagh could gather, everyone who’d turned up had brought the over-sized comedy cheque, a big bumper donation raised by Generous Harry, topped up or matched by whichever celeb was doing the rounds that week. Oonagh calculated that Nugent’s business earnings and the fact the donations would have been tax deductible meant that the monies amounted to no more than pocket money to someone like him.

  His holier-than-thou persona was getting harder to swallow, even without the rumours of him being a paedophile, abusing boys entrusted to his care. What Oonagh couldn’t get her head around was why Nugent had singled out Breakmire as his charity of choice. He could have visited any number of hospitals in and around Glasgow, and higher profile ones at that. For someone as publicity hungry as him it didn’t really make sense. The asylum had languished on the outskirts of the city and appeared to be no more than a holding ground for mental health patients. Oonagh knew he’d have got far more column inches had he attached himself to one of the children’s hospitals, or a cancer care unit.

  She cross-referenced her search to see if it threw up anything else about Breakmire, but there was nothing. A search of the trustees was less than impressive. Oonagh half expected to find at least a junior royal in there whose coat-tails Harry could have clung to, but they were the usual smattering of local council officials, a hospital consultant and an investment manager. It didn’t do to speak ill of the dead, but it was obvious Nugent was getting more than the warm fuzzy feeling of being a do-gooder from his works there.

  Oonagh sat back and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. This was exhausting. She felt the tension crawl up her spine, settling in the base of her skull with the telltale ache that promised a cracker of a headache later. This was useless, like looking for a needle in a haystack. She’d only been there a couple of hours; it wasn’t yet one o’clock, but she was tired, hungry and desperate for a drink. She was about to call it a day when she saw it. A tiny five line story, tucked away on page eight of The Herald.

  The body of a sixteen year old patient missing from Breakmire Asylum has been found in the hospital grounds. Hannah Gray was reported missing by staff on Thursday evening. A spokesperson from NHS Glasgow described the incident as regrettable, and said their thoughts are with Hannah’s family.

  A report has been sent to the Procurator Fiscal, but there appear to be no suspicious circumstances surrounding Miss Gray’s death.

  Hannah Gray’s death had been over twenty years ago, and, from what she could gather, just before Nugent’s time at Breakmire, but for now it was the only thing Oonagh had to go on.

  Getting a copy of Hannah Gray’s death certificate had been easy enough. Anyone could walk into Martha Street Register Office and buy a birth, marriage or death certificate. It always astounded Oonagh that identify theft wasn’t more common. The extract of the death certificate did indeed confirm that there was nothing suspicious about the cause of death: hypothermia. Oonagh’s heart sank slightly. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, a scandal perhaps, something to build a story around? But this was hardly breaking news, and, from her experience over the years, sadly not that unusual with psychiatric patients.

  The death had been registered by Hannah’s dad, and the girl’s birth certificate gave Oonagh enough information to at least make a stab of tracking down her parents, neither of whom were on the deceased register, so, unless they’d died in the last few weeks, Oonagh felt sure she’d be able to find at least one of them.

  She stuffed the copies of the certificates into her bag, and knew she was clutching at straws. There was no real reason to speak to Hannah’s parents, there was nothing to link her to Harry Nugent, but, as with most journalists, old habits died hard and Oonagh’s mind was already racing ahead with possible theories. Hannah’s death would not have shown Breakmire in a good light, contrary to the myth that there was no such thing as bad publicity. Perhaps a few celebrity visits with the incumbent charitable donations would have taken the heat off things for a while. Parachuting in Harry Nugent with his fake tan and even faker smile would have been a bit of decent PR for the hospital. Even had that been the case, it still didn’t implicate Nugent in any way. But it was always something to squirrel away, another story for another day.

  15

  Tommy Gallagher 1983

  The touchline was freezing, but he didn’t care. Jumping from foot to foot, blowing on his hands, knowing he’d soon be on the pitch. It was just a training match. A few dads were on the sideline; his mum had wanted to come but he’d have got pelters from the other guys had his mammy turned up to watch him play. It was bad enough already. Harry’s Boy, they called him. It was clear from the off he was Mr Nugent’s favourite, or one of his favourites at least. His mum said he’d been picked out because he was the best, showed the most promise. He’d been mortified when his mum had come along to collect him that day, and insisted on hanging around to speak to Harry personally. She’d worn her best coat and those shoes that killed her feet. ‘I want him to see you come from a good family, Tommy,’ she’d said. What difference would that make? As long as he could kick a ball, that was all that mattered, and the one thing Tommy Gallagher had known what to do was kick a ball. The rest of his family joked he could take a header before he could walk.

  He no longer felt the cold, instead his blood felt hot, his mouth dry; he was anxious to get on the pitch. Even on the touchline he hadn’t taken his eye off the ball. That was for losers. That was what Harry had said. Most of the others had to call him Mr Nugent, but Tommy and a select few got to call him Harry. His heart swelled in his chest. Soon he’d be in the big league. Playing in the first division. Harry said his success was ‘a given’. That was the way Harry spoke. Always knew his mind, spoke the truth with no time for losers.

  He caught sight of Harry at the other side of the pitch, snapping his fingers high above his head, then pointing to the green telling Tommy to get on and play. This was his goal, this was his dream, this was his life.

  *

  ‘Well done, son.’ Harry slapped him hard on the back as he waited in line for the showers.

  ‘Aye, well played, big man… Good on you, TG.’ The other guys elbowed him, nudged him, gave him high fives. It felt fantastic. He couldn’t keep the grin from his face. But why shouldn’t he smile? Why shouldn’t he feel proud, happy?

  ‘Can you just come here a wee…?’ Harry looked worried as he ushered him to one side. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Aye, Harry, brand new.’ His pulse throbbed in his neck. Something wasn’t right.

  ‘You got an injury you’re not telling me about, son?’ They were out of earshot now of the other boys, but he could still hear their banter echoing around the shower room.

  Tommy shook his head; there was nothing wrong with him. He’d played like a demon, or so he thought. His gut shifted slightly and he licked his lips, his mouth suddenly parched.

  ‘I don’t want to worry you, son, but, the way you were landing o
n your left leg?’

  This was news to him. He felt fine, but Harry’s face told him otherwise. ‘I’ll level with you, Tommy, if it’s a problem with your Achilles then…’ Tommy’s legs suddenly felt very weak and despite himself he could feel hot tears springing to his eyes. ‘Hey.’ Harry ruffled his hair. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. It’s probably nothing but…’

  Tommy knew an Achilles injury spelled disaster for a player. This could kill his career before it got started. But he felt fine, not even a twinge. But Harry knew his stuff. Something must be wrong.

  Harry dropped his voice slightly. ‘We don’t want to mention this to anyone else.’ Tommy nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Whatever the problem was he just wanted it to go away. ‘It’s just that if the physio finds out, well, he’ll want to tell your mum… She might not want you to play.’ Harry didn’t need to say anything else. But he did. ‘We could be in big trouble if we let you play with such a serious problem. You could be out of the game for months.’

  This wasn’t happening. Tommy hugged his arms around his waist. Breathed slowly. This wasn’t fair. He looked up at Harry.

  ‘Listen, son, I’m no physio but I’ve seen this sort of thing before. It could be something simple like a thigh or groin problem.’ He caught Tommy’s look. ‘Most knee and ankle problems come from the hip,’ he explained.

  ‘Can… can you fix it, Harry?’

  ‘Let’s just have a look and see what’s wrong first, eh?’ Harry knew what he was talking about; he was lucky to have him on his side. Tommy was led into Harry’s office and the banter from the shower rooms became white noise before disappearing altogether.

  16

  Davies couldn’t stomach any more and slammed the folder closed, pushing the pictures out of sight to the far end of his desk. He needed some air and struggled with the catch on the window, forcing it down with one hand as he slammed hard on the frame with the other. He’d reported it as faulty months ago, but as far as priorities went for Police Scotland this was far down the list of jobs marked urgent. Suddenly the window swung open and he heard the crack of glass as the aluminium pane banged against outside wall. That was all he fucking needed. He looked down at the car park two floors below, grateful to see that no one was lying flat out with a shard of glass piercing their skull. Despite the noise, the window had merely cracked and he eased it back slowly, locking it in place and deciding fresh air was an overhyped luxury he could do without.