Also by Theresa Talbot
The Lost Children
Keep Her Silent
The QUIET ONES
Theresa Talbot
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Theresa Talbot, 2019
The moral right of Theresa Talbot to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781788545341
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
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www.ariafiction.com
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6: Tommy Gallagher 1983
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15: Tommy Gallagher 1983
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20: Tommy Gallagher 1983
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36: Tommy Gallagher 1983
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39: Tommy Gallagher 1983
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Become an Aria Addict
For Jeremy
PROLOGUE
‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’
There wasn’t a hint of recognition. It seemed to take him a moment or two to realise where he was. His heels kicked against the floor, but he was too weak to stand up, and the more he struggled, the tighter the ties dug into his flesh. Red welts forming around his wrists and ankles started to weep slightly. Those plastic ties were a godsend. He twisted his head, trying to break free from the gag around his mouth.
‘I’m nothing to you, yet you’ve ruined my entire life.’
He was still drowsy, the sedatives taking their time to wear off.
‘But I will mean something to you. Because I’ll be the last face you ever see on this planet.’
The gag had slipped down, settling on his chin, but it didn’t matter. He was too weak to scream.
‘Is it money?’ His voice was thick, slurred, barely a whisper. ‘Take whatever you want.’ He forced his head up; tears spilled onto his cheeks. At least now he was scared. That was something.
The sheer effort of talking seemed to be too much for him. His head dropped to one side; it sounded as though he was saying please, but it was hard to be sure without getting right up close. It would have been better had he been more alert, fully aware of everything that was going on, but that was too risky. The house was fairly secluded, but screams could carry.
A Tiffany style lamp in the corner bounced a spectrum of colour off the blade. It was beautiful.
‘Please, I have a family.’
‘You see, phrases like that really upset me.’ And they did. As though this were some random attack. As though the fact he had a family were news and could be used as a bargaining tool to curry some favour and get off. Shite like that might work in the courtrooms, but not here. Not in the real world.
‘I know you have a family. I know everything about you.’
He closed his eyes. He at least had the decency to look ashamed as the penny dropped.
‘I’m sorry.’ His voice little more than a whisper.
‘No, you’re not sorry.’
The hand round his throat stole his breath and his eyes didn’t leave the blade as it stabbed into the banister behind him. ‘You’re sorry that you got caught. There’s a difference. A big fucking difference.’
He began to sob.
Snot ran down his nose. He instinctively flicked his tongue out to lick his lips. It was sickening. His crying was starting to grate now.
‘I’ll tell you what I want from you, and it sure as hell isn’t an apology.’
‘Anything.’ His eyes flickered, a desperate man being given a crumb.
‘I want you to tell me what it’s like to die.’
Confusion at first. Then fear. It was strange how you could actually see terror in a man’s eyes. He began to whimper, a wounded animal. ‘What?’
‘You heard. Tell me what it’s like to die.’
His sobs increasing as his throat tightened, every breath laboured, laced with panic. ‘You’re mental.’
‘Mental? You may well be right.’
‘You’re fucking crazy.’ The insult fell on deaf ears.
‘Humour me here. Please. Just talk me through it. Just tell me exactly what it feels like.’
The fear made its way down to his groin and the damp patch spread across the front of his trousers. His whole body trembled, violently shaking now. He dry-retched until the bile rose in his throat and dribbled down his chin.
‘I want to know everything. What it feels like, how scared you are. Is it painful?’
‘Kill me now. Just get it over with, but I’m telling you fuck all.’ The words hiccupped in his throat; it was hard to make them out.
‘Listen very carefully to me.’
He tipped his head up, thinking at least there was still some negotiating to be done.
‘I’m going to cut out your tongue…’
His screams sliced through the room, his whole body seemed to convulse, the dry retch in his throat made way for vomit and he struggled to stretch his head clear from his clothes. As though that mattered at this stage.
‘Shh, shh. Calm down. You didn’t let me finish. I’m going to cut out your tongue. If you play ball and tell me what I’d like to know then I’ll do that after you’re dead.’
This seemed to be the best deal he was getting tonight and there was an almost eager nodding in between the uncontrollable shaking.
‘If you don’t share everything with me, if you don’t tell me exactly what’s going on as you’re breathing your last, then I’ll cut out your tongue and I’ll cut off your balls too and feed them to you.’
He seemed to get the message. His sobs were pathetic, he’d soiled himself too. The place was starting to stink. He was surpri
singly compliant as the noose was put round his neck. It would have been preferable had he done that part himself, but a desperate man was capable of desperate things and there was no telling what he’d have tried had his hands been cut loose.
The rope had been well secured to the banister behind him. Measured to precision to ensure maximum drop without the risk of him actually touching the floor. Once the rope was tight around his throat, only then was it safe to slice through the plastic ties binding his ankles. The ones around his wrists would need to remain until afterwards. He struggled to get to his feet.
‘OK, up you go.’
Harry Nugent did as he was told and climbed the stairs of his Houston home for the very last time.
1
Oonagh O’Neil stared at the clock on the newsroom wall; a slow news day was always a drag and today was no different. She looked at the running order of this evening’s late bulletin and her heart sank further. A royal pregnancy topped the agenda, followed by some nonsense about council spending, gender neutral toilets in private schools, rounded off with the death of some Scottish football coach she’d barely heard of. Thank Christ she didn’t have to read this guff later. That was her only comfort at being sidelined, replaced twice a week by Colin. She couldn’t be arsed to remember his second name, but he was young and slick and she guessed he was still paying off the Italian mohair suit that was so obviously made to measure.
‘You’re not being sidelined,’ Alan, her senior editor, had insisted. ‘It’s just that it’s good for the demographics if we have a…’ he’d faltered, trying to find another word for younger, no doubt, ‘… ease in another presenter that our new viewers can identify with…’ It left Oonagh free to do research and production, he’d said, which in fairness was what she had preferred recently. She had nothing against Colin and his lovely suit, but it was the way things seemed to be happening. And the speed of it too. It seemed like yesterday she was the bright young thing in journalism. When she took her youth and enthusiasm for granted and had no idea of the integral role they’d played in her success. She’d worked hard, no one could ever take that away from her, but there were lots of bright young things who’d worked equally hard.
She browsed the Internet, wondering if it was wise to sign up to another monthly wine delivery, and idled over a few holidays that she had no intention of going on. It had been over a year since she’d actually been away anywhere and she longed to feel the sun on her bones again. It wasn’t that she couldn’t afford it, but rather that she didn’t really fancy going away on her own. Again.
Oonagh wandered over in the direction of the coffee machine, slowing down to peer over her colleague’s shoulder. ‘What you doing?’ She craned her neck to read the screen.
‘Bugger off. I’m busy.’ Sandy Murray could be a right grumpy sod at times but they’d been pals for a long time and Oonagh liked him. ‘I’m doing an obit-pack on Harry Nugent, if you must know.’
Oonagh knitted her brows together.
‘Football coach?’ The high note of sarcasm was evident in Sandy’s voice. ‘D’you know nothing about our beautiful game?’ Oonagh knew full well who he was referring to. Nugent’s death had dropped on the wires earlier that evening and the story was already trending on social media. It all pointed to suicide.
‘I can name the Lisbon Lions,’ she said, ‘but after that I get bored.’ She gave him a friendly dunt on the shoulder, ‘I know who he is, you cheeky sod, but we don’t cover suicides.’ And she was right. There were very strict guidelines about reporting such deaths. The fear that some poor soul on the edge could be tipped over if they heard similar deaths reported was all too real. But Oonagh also realised the death of such a high profile figure could hardly go without a mention.
Nugent was the poster-boy for Scottish football. He’d started the Caledonian Boys’ Club when he was just twenty years old, and he seemed to have all the right connections. He’d coached kids from the age of nine and very quickly CBC was the feeder academy that boasted the cream of Scotland’s youth team. He had it all. Or so it appeared until his devoted wife came home and found him hanging from the banister of their luxury home in Houston.
The full details weren’t yet known, but it would appear that he’d killed himself just in time to squeeze the story into their late night bulletin.
‘Poor sod.’ Oonagh wasn’t sure if Sandy was referring to Harry or his wife. Their wedding picture was already plastered all over the on-line early editions of the morning’s red-tops.
Oonagh tried not to linger on the image in her head. The bulging eyes, his blue tongue and broken neck. In truth she had no idea what his body would have looked like, but her morbid curiosity flashed gruesome images in her head that she wanted gone.
‘What would make him do something like that?’ She was thinking out loud, not really expecting an answer.
Sandy shrugged. ‘Who knows? Sometimes having it all is just too much.’
Oonagh guessed Sandy was just paying lip-service to get rid of her. Putting together an obit-package for television was a pain in the arse, but it would save him from doing any real work for the rest of the day. There were so many in the can already for senior dignitaries, politicians and every member of the royal family. There wasn’t a broadcast journalist in the country that didn’t fear accidentally playing out a pre-recorded obituary for the Queen. There were safeguards put in place to prevent that sort of thing. To avert disaster most of the tapes were held under lock and key with two senior station managers being privy to the security code. Oonagh imagined it would be easier to accidentally set off a nuclear warhead.
‘I know those houses in Houston,’ Oonagh was back idling at her screen, ‘They’ve got high ceilings – would he have jumped from the banister or d’you think he climbed onto a stool or something then kicked it away?’ Sandy shot her a look, which she ignored. ‘How long does it take to die that way anyway?’
‘D’you want to give it a rest, Morticia?’ Sandy was losing patience; clearly he wanted to get his pack finished then grab a last pint at The Curler’s Rest before closing time. Oonagh mulled over the idea of doing a follow-up feature on this. Male suicide was at an all-time high, practically an epidemic, and Harry Nugent must have been in some state to take his own life knowing his poor wife would find him. Such a high profile figure would be the perfect hook for a programme; speaking to the ones left behind, trying to make sense of this tragedy. She scanned the wires from the past few hours and pulled together all they had on his death. There was no mention of a note, or existing mental-health problems, but a few phone calls would clarify the situation on that. Money worries were usually the next port of call. She’d seen men bigger than Nugent lose everything to a gambling addiction. It wasn’t her usual brief, but her hunch told her to stay with this one. Follow the human-interest angle.
She’d already decided to approach his wife, or widow as she now was. But she’d need to tread carefully. Thankfully, it seemed to be one of Oonagh’s talents that wasn’t diminishing with age: the ability to get perfect strangers to open up to her. She’d make sure she gave her enough breathing space before approaching her. But more than that she’d need to tread carefully with Alan. She’d used up most of her senior editor’s goodwill of late. Most people seemed to think presenters had a bit of clout, called the shots, but the truth was Oonagh’s jacket was on a very shaky nail and she knew it. There was always someone younger, cheaper – usually these things came in threes – but all it took was someone younger and cheaper and her seat would be filled before her arse reached the door. Right on cue, Colin breezed past clutching a pile of papers to his chest, looking young enough and cheap enough to give anyone the heave-ho.
Oonagh’s phone, which was on silent, buzzed and bounced slightly on the desk: DS Jim McVeigh. ‘Hey, Jim, how’s you?’
‘Might have something for you, Oon.’
Before she had a chance to answer Alan barged out of his office, pointing his finger at the most senior reporter left in th
e office. ‘You, in here now.’ Alan wasn’t much for small talk or indeed the niceties of life. Oonagh stood up, and watched as the reporter followed Alan back into his office. ‘Jim, can you give me a few seconds here?’
‘Yeah, no worries.’
She kept her hand over the mouthpiece and watched as Alan kicked the door over with his heel. It hadn’t quite closed and Oonagh peered through the gap. ‘Get a camera crew, bring one of the trainees with in case you need a watcher for the van.’
The reporter was scribbling notes and nodding, agreeing to anything and everything Alan was barking at him. He was still nodding as he scurried out of the door. She glanced over at Sandy’s empty chair. That bugger always managed to scarper if there was a sniff of a story before closing time.
‘Hey, Jim, sorry about that.’ She went back to her call.
‘We’ll be issuing a press release, Oon, but…’ Oonagh felt the slight surge of adrenalin, sensing something big was about to unfold. And she was right.
2
DI Alec Davies looked at the body hanging from the oak framed timber balcony and knew he had a major headache on his hands. Harry Nugent was one of the biggest names in Scottish sport, and the Major Investigation Team would be all over this one like a rash. Davies had passed Nugent’s wife on his way in; still sitting in the back of a squad car. The flashing lights of the police cars and ambulance shone through the windows, the light catching on Harry’s eyes, which were still open. His wife had come home around tea-time and found him. Thought initially it was suicide and ran screaming from the house before calling 999. No one had bothered coming out to see what was wrong. It wasn’t that sort of neighbourhood. Davies wondered whether they’d heard Harry’s screams and ignored them too. It was only when blue flashing lights appeared that a few heads bobbed out from behind the cedar gates.
When the paramedics had arrived on the scene it had quickly become obvious that Harry Nugent had been murdered, or at least the death was considered ‘suspicious’. Very few suicide victims had lesions around their wrists and ankles, and even fewer had their tongues cut off and stuffed down the back of their throats.
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