But it wasn’t on the pitch Nugent had made his millions. Sure, that’s where he’d earned his reputation, but the money came from his business off-shoots. The more she delved into it the more Oonagh realised just how much Nugent had been worth – whether he was worth even more dead remained to be seen. A spin off business, ingeniously called ‘Pitch Perfect’, made branded clothing; polo shirts, football strips and blazer badges. It didn’t look to Oonagh like a high end business, but it had made more money each year than the all the sporting achievements put together. Oonagh guessed that might just be enough to dry his widow’s tears somewhat. Despite his whiter than white public image, Oonagh knew that no one got as far as Harry Nugent had without stepping on a few toes.
The stinging of her eyes told her she’d already spent too long staring at the screen; the stiffness in her back told her she needed more exercise. She logged off, glancing at the clock as she packed up for the night. Not yet eight o’clock and she was shattered. Too many booze filled sleepless nights. She made a mental note that tonight she’d only have the one. One glass to help her relax. She pressed her thumbs into the corner of her eyes.
‘Getting too old to be up this late?’ Ross Mitchell walked past her desk.
‘Fuck off, Ross,’ they’d given up any pretence of liking each other a long time ago. A less than average journalist, he’d somehow managed to wheedle his way up to senior management; Oonagh never understood how, but in truth she’d seen it before; arse-licking being a substitute for talent in so many professions.
‘I’ve stuck you down for a presenting shift Sunday evening.’ He held a clip-board, which was the newsroom equivalent of wearing a ‘please kick me’ badge.
Oonagh made a play of fishing in her bag for her phone, refusing to catch his eye. ‘The graveyard shift? I don’t think so, Ross.’ She pulled her jacket on over her shoulders, rounding the desk to where he was standing. Only then did she look him in the eye. ‘I’m a senior journalist and senior presenter. I don’t work Sundays.’
‘We all need to pull our weight. The times they are a changing, Oonagh.’
Whether he’d meant to reference Bob Dylan, or he’d just heard the phrase and thought it sounded clever she wasn’t sure. But it pissed her off big style.
‘Shift.’ He’d wedged himself between two desks, blocking her way. She resisted the temptation to prod him in the gut and instead flashed him a smile.
He stood his ground for a few seconds, then caught whatever look was in her eye and stepped aside. Oonagh felt the colour rise in her cheeks as she wandered through to the sports department, determined not to let her encounter with Ross piss her off more than was necessary. What she needed now was information on Nugent, not to get one over on Ross Mitchell. Information about his career she could find online, but the sports journos would have had more of an inside track on what he was about. And when she spoke to his widow she wanted to be able to hit the ground running.
It was quiet this evening and just one reporter sat in front of a PC battering lumps out of the keyboard.
‘Hey, Lovely,’ they’d been introduced at one stage, but Oonagh struggled to remember his name and thought this kept her on safe ground, ‘you got a minute?’
He grinned when he saw her and swung round in his chair, apparently glad of the break.
‘Harry Nugent…?’
‘Och, that weirdo.’ He butted in before she’d had a chance to pose the question.
‘Oh? What d’you mean, weirdo?’
‘Everyone knew he was a creep. Hanging about young boys.’
‘Really?’ Oonagh’s heart sank, she was hoping for something more than some Neanderthal theory of a sports journalist who assumes any guy mixing with kids is a weirdo. But so far it was the only thing she had to go on. ‘Have you got any evidence… or…’
Rumours being bandied about after someone dies and hard facts are two different things, and Oonagh couldn’t believe that the police wouldn’t be across this. ‘… or anyone that knew him well, or…’ Oonagh didn’t want to come right out and ask the reporter if he was making it up.
‘It’s just common knowledge,’ he offered before his phone rang and he turned his back, taking the call.
If this was true it was a whole new ball game. She knew Alec had been coy these last couple of days. Not answering her texts, giving nothing away about the inquiry. There was no proof yet that Harry Nugent had indeed been guilty as charged, but whatever he’d done had pissed off someone enough to have sliced out his tongue.
5
Initial toxicology reports showed that Nugent had indeed been drugged prior to death, but Forensics were in no doubt he was fully conscious when he fell from the balcony. There was no evidence of a struggle, there were no marks left on the wooden floor, suggesting he’d walked, rather than been dragged, up the stairs, and in fact, had it not been for the plastic tie marks around his wrists and ankles, his death could easily have been mistaken for suicide. Well, those and the fact his tongue had been sliced off.
‘He must have been up to his eyes in some shit.’
Davies couldn’t disagree with Jim. This was a well thought out execution. Whoever did this was sending out a very clear message. Nonetheless, his heart sank at the fact this appeared to be a classic revenge attack, and professional hit men were buggers to track down.
‘No witnesses, no leads, nothing. This case is a bit shit.’
‘You’re not helping here, McVeigh.’ Davies hoped his partner would just button it, but past experience told him that was unlikely.
There was no reason to put on the blue light and siren, but Davies couldn’t be arsed with the traffic today so didn’t object when McVeigh took the initiative and pulled it out from the glove compartment and stuck it on the roof of the car. It would take the best part of an hour to get to Houston; the morning rush hour was not quite over and the M8 crawled along. Davies eased the car into the outside lane and put his foot down, ignoring his partner’s slight look of fear as he gained on the cars in front, relying on them to get their arses in gear and get the hell out of the outside lane. There was a time when just the sight or sound of a police siren was enough to make traffic pull over, but now he was finding that the threat of rear-ending the car in front was a more effective method of clearing the outside lane.
‘She’ll claim she knows nothing, of course.’ McVeigh rarely expected much of a response, which was a good thing. Davies wasn’t one for chit-chat this early in the morning. He’d skipped breakfast again and could feel the slight sting of heartburn rise in his chest and settle in his throat. ‘But she must know what he’d been up to.’
Ideally they’d have interviewed Nugent’s widow at the scene. But as McVeigh had so eloquently put it, she’d been so mogged out of her head that had proved impossible. Subsequently, more conventionally administered sedatives prescribed by her GP ensured she’d remained semi-comatose for the best part of thirty-six hours. Now, almost three days into the investigation, they were no closer to finding his killer and rumours were bouncing off the walls in every pub in Scotland as to who carried out the attack – and why. Everything from him being Bible John to being part of a drug deal gone wrong.
‘You know there’s always been a bit of talk that his interest in those boys weren’t just on the pitch?’
Davies let out a sigh and was glad his partner had kept his mouth shut about this during the briefing. They left the motorway and he put his foot down, jumping an amber, squeezing through the lights before they turned red. He nodded. He’d heard all right, but for now had decided to treat it for what it was: a rumour. Davies knew to tread carefully with this one.
‘Listen, McVeigh, the fact Nugent is dead means there’s a danger every Tom, Dick and Harry will come out of the woodwork and say what they like about him.’ Davies and McVeigh both knew the score here.
‘Turn right here, just after this pedestrian crossing.’
Davies had his mind on other things and slammed his foot on the brake, the car
squealing in protest as he took the corner in fourth gear.
Harry Nugent’s widow wasn’t at her own home; hardly surprising really. The house had been sealed off as a crime scene. It had taken almost ten hours for Forensics to remove the body, ensuring that the hands, feet and head had been effectively bagged to preserve any evidence prior to the post-mortem examination, and the scene of crime officers had everything they needed from the property.
A uniformed officer remained outside Nugent’s house. They could just see him, stamping his feet against the cold as they passed the cul-de-sac on their way, and Davies wondered who he’d pissed off to get landed with such a rotten gig. Sarah Nugent had decamped to her sister’s house, which was just a few blocks away. Davies would give her the green light to go home today, but reckoned it might be quite some time before Mrs Nugent cared to venture back into her own house.
‘I bet that’ll knock thousands off the value.’ Jim just had a way with words. ‘I mean, who the hell would want to live in a house where someone was slaughtered and hung out to dry?’
Davies tried not to laugh as he pulled up alongside the kerb. ‘Yip, nothing like an execution to bring down the neighbourhood.’
*
‘This must be awful for you.’ Jim handed Harry Nugent’s widow a fresh tissue as they sat at the large wooden table dominating the kitchen. ‘It’s a godsend you have your family to support you, Sarah. That must be some comfort at least.’ Davies was secretly impressed that Jim had remembered her first name. Sure, it had been on the briefing notes, but names and faces blurred into one for him and he was always double-checking personal details. This sort of thing came naturally to Jim and she seemed only too happy to chat to him, unaware that just minutes before Jim McVeigh had been speculating on the value of her property.
‘I can’t get the image out of my head.’
Sarah Nugent chewed on the skin around her left thumb, worrying a scratch into the table with the index finger of her right hand. All that Davies had seen of her the previous evening had been her frizzy blonde hair peeping out from the regulation grey blanket. Now that had been smoothed down and pulled back into a ponytail and, although Davies wasn’t normally one to notice such things, he was impressed that she was fully dressed, right down to the high heels, which seemed rather out of place relaxing in the kitchen. Her make-up, although perfectly applied, did little to cover her grey pallor and the dark shadows beneath her bloodshot eyes. Her breath carried that strong smell of mouthwash, strong enough to suggest she was desperate to cover up the fact she’d been drinking since before breakfast. The half-empty brandy bottle by the sink gave the game away too. This poor woman was shattered.
Jim’s very gentle questioning established that she’d been out with friends on Monday afternoon and had come home at the back of six.
‘So what’re you doing to catch this maniac?’
Her sister wasn’t being very helpful here. What did the general public at large actually expect coppers to say to a question like that? Oh, come on down to the incident room, let me talk you through the briefing and then we’ll show you a list of leads.
‘I mean—’ she seemed to be on a roll, ‘we’re not safe in our own homes any more. It’s a… it’s disgraceful. I blame those video games.’ She slammed the tray down on the table slightly harder than intended, by the looks of it, and slops of tea and coffee spilled over the edges of the over-filled mugs.
‘Good job there’re no biscuits.’ McVeigh grabbed his mug from the sopping tray. ‘They’d have been ruined.’ His sarcasm was lost on everyone but Davies.
‘Mrs, eh…’
‘Gill.’
‘Gill, we’ve every reason to believe this was a targeted attack.’ Davies couldn’t be arsed to add that the streets were just as safe now as they’d ever been. Children were just as safe now as they had been in the rose-tinted sixties. He elected not to recite the murders committed by Manuel in the fifties, the horrors carried out by Brady and Hindley in the sixties or the Yorkshire Ripper’s reign of terror in the seventies.
‘We need to know why Mr Nugent was targeted.’ He looked at Nugent’s widow, who’d stopped chewing her thumb long enough to drink her coffee. ‘And I’m sorry, Sarah, we’ll need to ask you some difficult questions.’
There was no rose-tinted version of the past for Davies, he was only too aware that the world had always been a shit-hole. Sadly for Sarah Nugent, it was only when tragedy came knocking on your door did most people then realise just how shitty it actually was.
6
Tommy Gallagher 1983
There was nothing he could do to stop the nerves in his stomach as he was led through the softly lit corridor. He’d been to the toilet four times that morning already, but still the pressure on the base of his spine returned within minutes.
Trophies lined the glass cabinets and the thick carpet stole any sound of footsteps. Pictures of his heroes, ten feet high, smiled down at him; he was almost scared to catch their eyes. The soft thud of his boots patted against his thigh with every step. They were new. Spotless. He carried them over his shoulder by the laces like a badge of honour. To show the world he’d made it. His mum had insisted on wrapping them in newspaper as she’d placed them carefully in his cheap plastic sports bag, but he’d taken them out and ditched the bag behind a hedge as soon as his mum was out of sight. A slight pang of guilt stung his chest and he hoped to God it would still be there on his way home
‘Your dad would be burstin’ the day, son. Totally burstin’ with pride.’ The boots had cost more than the week’s messages. He knew that, but his ma never let on. Her eyes had moistened and a tiny tug at the corner of her mouth had betrayed the tears she’d been holding back. The last time he’d seen her cry, in fact the only time he’d seen her cry, was when Dad died. Even then it had been in secret when she’d thought the rest of them were in bed. He’d stood in the hall, peering through the crack at the kitchen door. The thick black wool coat saved for special occasions had already been hung back up in the wardrobe. She’d smoothed her hands over her dark skirt, the one she’d borrowed from Auntie Ina. Ina’d told her to keep it. Given her a black jumper too. Said they didn’t fit her any more and his mum would be doing her a favour by taking them. But it had been obvious the clothes were new.
His mum had taken the photograph from her purse. Tommy knew that picture well; he’d seen it loads of times. Just a daft one taken at the booth in Central Station. His dad with a thick moustache, grinning at the camera, his mum squished in on the tiny seat beside him, his arm around her shoulder holding her close. Just teenagers, when they’d been courting. His mum had worried the picture in her hands for a few seconds, then placed it on the kitchen table. ‘Oh, Liam, what’re we going to do without you?’ It was only then that she’d begun to sob. Waves of grief had sent convulsions through her body as she’d dropped her head onto her arms. It had been obvious she was trying to be quiet, but tiny gulps and hiccups had escaped. Tommy had wanted to rush in and throw his arms around her. Make her stop crying and tell her that he’d take care of them. He was the man of the house now. But instead he’d sneaked back into his room, unable to bear it any longer. The sadness in his throat almost choking him. He’d tried to swallow back his tears. Hadn’t wanted to wake Ellie sleeping in the bed next to him. So he’d pulled the blankets over his head and pressed the sheet tightly against his eyes to mop his tears.
‘You all right, son?’ The security man wore a blazer with the club’s emblem on the breast pocket.
Tommy nodded, dryness in his mouth catching any words. He coughed slightly and licked his lips. ‘Yes, thank you.’ His mum had warned him to be polite to everyone, but the nerves in his stomach were now so strong he thought he was going to heave.
The security man ushered him forward, a guiding hand between his shoulder blades. ‘Here we are.’ He gave Tommy a reassuring nod before knocking on the door.
Tommy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, making sure there was no grotty sp
it nestling in the corners, then patted the boots by his side. Running his fingers along the studs on the sole. He looked up. Thank you, Dad, he mouthed silently, careful not to let the security man see in case he thought he was a nutter.
His stomach shifted as the door opened. He’d seen him on the telly. On the sidelines at Hampden from a distance. But now here he was, just inches away from Harry Nugent. ‘Thanks, Jim.’ He nodded to the security man before turning his eyes back to Tommy. Tommy wasn’t sure if that was actually the guy’s name, or just a nickname to save men as important as Harry Nugent having to remember.
He reached down and ruffled Tommy’s hair slightly. ‘Come on in, son.’
He tried not to let his mouth gape open as he stepped into Harry’s office. It was bigger than his whole house. A giant window on one wall looked right onto Caledonian Park, where Tommy’s dad had taken him every week until he’d got ill. ‘The green will be greener than any other pitch, son,’ he’d said, ‘and even on the coldest days you’ll feel warm just by being here.’
Behind him Harry Nugent closed the door, and Tommy knew his life was about to change.
7
‘Say what you’ve come to say then piss off.’
Oonagh hadn’t exactly expected a warm welcome but even she was taken aback by this somewhat frosty reception. It wasn’t Sarah Nugent who’d opened the door, but her sister, who evidently wasn’t a huge fan of journalists.
‘It’s OK, Gill, I’m fine.’ Sarah Nugent leaned against the door frame at the end of the hall. She nodded to her sister to let Oonagh in then turned and made her way to the kitchen, expecting them both to follow. She pointed to a chair, supposedly to let Oonagh know it was safe to sit down. It seemed a bit late to try and win the family over with the famous O’Neil charm, so Oonagh decided to skip the bit about being sorry for her loss.
The Quiet Ones Page 3