‘But you didn’t deal with it. Men like him don’t stop because they’ve had a beating. They bide their time, then start again. The abuse doesn’t stop.’ Her throat tightened, tears stinging the tip of her nose.
Jack nodded, his eyes clouded over as he glanced down, no longer able to look her in the eye.
‘He deserved to be punished.’ Oonagh struggled to keep her voice from cracking.
‘And he was.’ He drew his hand along his mouth. ‘End of a rope was where he ended up, and that’s where he belonged.’
‘But those poor boys.’
‘Yes, and think of all the other boys. The ones who lived and breathed football. The club would have been shut down, or worse.’
Oonagh couldn’t quite see how a football club being shut down was worse than a boy being abused, but she was no fool. She knew that had this leaked at the time every fan of the club would be under attack from rival fans. Jack Nesbit seemed to read her thoughts. ‘There’d have been tribal bloody warfare on the streets of Glasgow.’ He clenched his fist against his mouth, as though he was stemming the bile threatening to rise.
‘But the business?’ Oonagh knew that Pitch Perfect was making a killing. Securing lucrative contracts from every club in Scotland. It had made Nugent a millionaire. ‘If he was so despicable, how the hell did his business manage to thrive? He must have had support from teams across the board.’
Nesbit let out a sigh and rested his head back against the chair. ‘Friends in high places. That was Nugent.’ He turned again to look at the view. ‘I made myself a lot of enemies in those days, you know. Cost me dear, too.’
This was news to Oonagh. Nesbit’s reputation was legendary, but, now she thought about it, he’d seemed to drop out of the Scottish football scene with dramatic haste. ‘How come?’
‘Och, I’m not going to pretend. I was past my best. Forty was old in those days. Galloping towards fifty made me seem like an ancient artefact.’ He took a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his eyes.
What he said made sense, but usually men in Nesbit’s position continued in some form in the game. Either as talent scouts, assistant coaches, even popping up on the media as pundits. For some that was a more lucrative career than on the pitch. But Jack Nesbit had seemed to disappear.
‘I was the spanner in the works and they didnae like that, hen. That pig was getting the best publicity for Scottish football since the Lisbon Lions. That summer camp thing of his.’ He shook his head and smirked, as though he was the only one in on a very bad joke.
Oonagh had seen enough press clippings to know that Nugent’s charitable works enabling young boys from deprived backgrounds to go away each year to football camps in Europe were a PR’s wet dream. ‘I suppose his good works fooled everyone.’ Suddenly the penny dropped. ‘The football camps,’ she asked, ‘the ones abroad?’
‘He only ever took the older boys.’ Jack Nesbit jabbed his finger in the air to make his point. ‘Never the younger ones. They had to be at least fourteen,’ he said, as though that had made all the difference.
There hadn’t been much football played at the camps by the sounds of it. The boys had been there for one reason and one reason only. To feed Harry Nugent’s depravity.
9
It wasn’t yet ten o’clock and it was already shaping up to be a crap day. Davies checked his phone. Four missed calls from Oonagh and a text asking him to call. He didn’t bother looking at his voicemail, he knew she’d have left as many messages. Rumours that Harry Nugent had been a pervert, a kiddie fiddler, a paedo, had been gaining ground. But now the flood gates were well and truly open.
He twisted the newspaper between his hands and tossed it to the other side of his desk. ‘Hero Harry Ruined My Life. My hell at the hands of pervert Nugent.’ There had been lots that had sickened Davies in his career as a copper. Things that had turned his stomach. The stench of death that clung to his clothes, drunk drivers slaughtering an entire family rather than pay for a taxi, and old biddies dying alone from the cold because there was no one there to give a shit about them. But of all the things that he’d had to deal with, child abuse made him sick to the core. He was aware his fist had clenched into a ball as the tension enveloped his entire body.
Someone had come forward claiming he’d been abused by Nugent as a kid. But unfortunately they’d gone to the newspapers first. The double page spread in the tabloid had the typical silhouette of the victim. The guy had elected to remain anonymous and Davies couldn’t blame him. These things were a can of worms. Coming forward to admit you have had a grudge against the deceased in an unsolved murder inquiry wouldn’t have been the smartest move for anyone. The press would have a field day on this; his balls were well and truly on the line here. He reached down, absent mindedly checking between his legs.
He stretched and tried to ease the crick in his neck, but it was a waste of time. The headache that gripped the base of his skull was crawling down his spine, spreading out through his shoulder blades. The rough stubble against the palm of his hand reminded him he’d forgotten to shave. The same hand running through his hair reminded him he was getting old. Not that he was bald, not by a long chalk, but it definitely felt thinner than it was, unlike his waist. He stuffed his phone into his inside pocket. Oonagh wasn’t one to hold grudges, but perhaps this time she’d make an exception.
McVeigh did that annoying thing of knocking lightly then coming in anyway before he’d had a chance to tell him to bugger off.
‘Anything?’
McVeigh was chewing on his lip, hard enough to make it bleed if he didn’t let up. Davies pointed to the only chair in the office not strewn with papers, folders and other detritus that seemed to accumulate out of nowhere. ‘You got a hold of that fucking journalist yet?’
‘He’s across in Edinburgh, said he’d swing by tomorrow.’
‘Swing by? Swing by? This is a fucking murder investigation. Not a vicar’s tea party.’ It was no use shouting at McVeigh, but right now he was the only one in his line of fire.
‘You know how these things work sir.’ McVeigh reached down and picked up the newspaper which had fallen on the floor, ‘there’s nothing in there can we can hold him on. Said the interview with the alleged victim was done on the phone, he has no idea who the guy is,’ He smoothed the crumpled pages across the desk with both hands, ‘the whole thing’s peppered with alleged, claims, maintains. He’ll have had it legalled before going to print.’
Davies put his hand up, telling him he’d heard enough. ‘I still want his arse in here. Little shit.’
The article only went to print this morning, and social media was already swarming with allegations of a cover-up. Three more victims had now made themselves known to the police. Davies suspected there would be more. Many more. Those ones that could provide an alibi and wouldn’t be hauled up as a suspect. God knew they’d have had the motive. He couldn’t rid himself of the gnawing feeling in his gut that he’d taken his eye off the ball somewhere along the line.
‘Have you managed to track down any of the old witness statements?’
McVeigh shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘And every force has been checked?’
‘Aye. There’s nothing, boss.’
‘Fuck.’
Those who had come forward claimed they’d notified the police about the abuse when it had happened. This was going back decades. Of the three, two had been in their late teens, one boy just thirteen, but despite this there was no record of any complaints being filed. McVeigh rested his elbows on his knees, ran his hands through his hair. ‘It’s not as though the complaints were all from the same station, boss. That way, then perhaps…’ Davies nodded. That way it could be put down to sloppy station management, but the victims say they all spoke to different police officers at different times and yet still there wasn’t a trace of any sort of complaint against Nugent. The guy hadn’t even been slapped with a speeding ticket in the past twenty years.
‘If they did
make formal complaints against him…’ McVeigh was choosing his words carefully ‘… it either means they weren’t taken seriously and the complaint was binned…’
‘Or?’ Davies hardly needed him to elaborate.
‘Or it was taken seriously and deliberately hidden.’
‘Whatever this fucker was doing, he wasn’t doing it alone.’ Davies struggled to keep the emotion from his voice, wondering how much more shit he could take. Crime was changing and he wasn’t sure he still wanted to be on the side of the good guys. The guys who had to play by the rules. ‘Who else knows about this?’ If there was a cover-up, he needed to play his cards very close to his chest.
‘No one. I came to you first.’ Despite his initial misgiving’s, McVeigh was a good partner. Loyal too. ‘We’ve still to take full witness statements, sir, but so far all three stories are consistent and the guys are all different ages, so from what they’ve told me, I reckon it would have happened over a fifteen year period.’
Despite Nugent’s murder having the hallmarks of another gangland killing, this case wouldn’t be swept under the carpet. A high profile figure like Nugent ensured this would be headline news every day and the emerging allegations of abuse against him just added to the shit pile.
It wasn’t always easy to separate rumour from hard facts in historic abuse, but the evidence was now stacking up. Davies rounded the desk, patting his pocket to make sure he had his keys.
‘Want me to drive, sir?’ McVeigh was already one step ahead.
He nodded as he dropped the keys into his partner’s hand, hoping to God that Mrs Nugent had stayed sober long enough this morning for them to get some sense out of her.
*
Sarah Nugent let her mobile ring four times, picking it up before it went onto voicemail. Number withheld but she guessed who it was even before she heard him speak. Gripping the phone in both hands she squeezed her eyes closed and swallowed hard, but nothing could stop that familiar shift in her gut.
‘I hope you’re not ignoring me.’
She slumped down on the hard kitchen chair, grabbing hold of the table, ‘I’m warning you, stay away from me,’ the slight tremor in her voice betrayed the strength of her words.
He laughed, ‘or what?’
The kitchen was suddenly stifling and her thin sweater clung to her back. ‘I never want to see or hear from you again.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not that easy, Sarah.’ He paused, just for a moment, ‘We had a deal, remember.’
She wanted to scream at him to stay away. Get out of her life forever, but the words choked white-hot in her throat.
‘I’ll be in touch.’ Was all he said, then the line went dead.
He was watching the house. She was sure of it. Gill had only been gone five minutes. She hadn’t wanted to leave her at all today, but Sarah had insisted she’d be fine on her own for half an hour. Three times now, and he only ever contacted her when she was alone. She pulled the blinds down in the kitchen, then double checked the lock on both back and front doors. This house would never feel like home again. She took the picture of Harry from the frame, looking closely, closer than she'd looked when he was alive. Seeing behind the smile, behind his eyes. They were as empty as he had been. The phone buzzed on the table, making her jump; a text from her sister reassuring her she’d be home in twenty minutes.
The bottle of single malt on the table was almost full. She unscrewed the cap, pouring half the contents down the sink. She needed a clear head today. Her scalp tightened at the sound of a car on the gravel driveway; it was too early for Gill. Racing through the hall, she grabbed at the door handle, shaking it, testing it again. It was still firmly locked. Her breath caught in her chest, her pulse throbbing in her throat as she peered out of the side window. Two cops got out of the car. The same two as before. She pressed her forehead against the wall, allowing herself a moment to get her breath back. The tightness in her chest eased as she made her way back to the kitchen. Hardly surprising they were back sniffing around. She knew how these things worked.
The knock was loud, that copper’s knock. Sarah fished a small plastic bottle from her handbag and sprayed some whisky in her mouth, gagging slightly as it hit the back of her throat. They knocked again. She counted to ten, spritzing just a touch more alcohol before making her way to the front door. Playing the hopeless drunk was even more important to her survival now than when she was living with Harry.
10
Oonagh woke with that telltale thump on her temple. Her resolve to only drink at the weekends was continually wavering. Thursday was almost the weekend, and if she worked Saturday morning, which she sometimes did, then that meant Monday could be considered a day in lieu. Today was Wednesday and she’d been pissed last night. She couldn’t remember how much she’d drunk but knew it had very probably been gin from the headache. Oonagh took a very small degree of pride in being able to distinguish between different types of hangovers. She wondered if that set her slightly apart from the other drunks in the village. Gave her a certain standing in the drunky community.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, steadying herself on the bedside table, not quite trusting herself to stand up. The lamp was lying on the floor, the shade detached from the bulb. She must have knocked it off some time last night. She glanced briefly back to the bed – at least she was alone. The shame of her one and only one night stand came flooding back and she had no desire to ever repeat that night. She pulled on a pair of jammie trousers and a vest top before noticing her bra was still wrapped round her waist. She tugged at it several times, unable to loosen the catch, before deciding to shove the flipping thing down her legs and step out of it. The heating had been on since yesterday and the house was stifling, catching the back of her throat as she made her way down the stairs. Walking sideways, one step at a time, clinging to the banister as though it was her only friend, and, given that she had very little recollection of what happened last night, it probably was. She had a vague recollection of stopping off for one drink late yesterday afternoon after seeing Jack Nesbit.
Her purse was at the foot of the stairs, lying next to her bag on the floor, suggesting she’d at least had the sense to get a taxi home. Her kitchen was bright and clean and shiny. She so wished she felt that clean and sparkly, but she didn’t. She felt dirty, grimy, contaminated. The misery of other people, the evil that people inflicted, had bored deep inside her and she was struggling more and more to shake it off. There had been a time when this had all been a big game. Journalists fighting to get their teeth into a juicy story, the more salacious the better, then punching the air when that really big one came good. The one that made people sit up and take notice. But now? Now it made her skin crawl, and she anaesthetised the horror by obliterating every vile image with booze.
What had started as a rumour was now starting to take shape and it looked very much as though Nugent had abused the boys in his care. But how he’d managed to do that for so long without one person stepping up to help those poor kids was a mystery. How the fuck had this man, this monster, been allowed to reign supreme over the misery of others for so long? Oonagh sincerely hoped they found his killer; she’d really like to shake the hand of the man who’d slaughtered that beast.
The coffee was hot and bitter and she was glad she’d splashed out on the state-of-the-art machine as it hissed a refill into the tiny cup that held barely a mouthful. She didn’t know how the Italians coped with just one cup each morning and knew that the hangover along with what was now her third cup meant she’d be wired all day. But that was what she needed.
‘Good morning, lady.’
The voice came from nowhere and she dropped her cup; it smashed against the granite sink as she spun round. ‘Mum,’ she said, clutching her chest, ‘where the hell did you come from?’
Fran made her way across the kitchen and did that thing she did of wiping down an already immaculate surface and making as much noise as possible armed with nothing more than a J-cloth. She mo
ved to the sink and picked out Oonagh’s shattered coffee cup, putting the broken pieces in her hand.
‘Mum, leave that, please.’
But she just ignored her, lips set in a tight line as she dropped the broken crockery into the bin, clearly hacked off at Oonagh’s obvious hangover.
Oonagh looked towards the front door then back to her mum. ‘Did you let yourself in?’
‘Good job I did, you were in no state to answer the door.’
Oonagh lowered herself down onto a chair and let Fran’s voice wash over her. She caught every third or fourth word and nodded whilst holding her head in her hands. She’d completely forgotten they were supposed to be meeting for coffee this morning.
‘It’s not the fact that I was waiting almost half of a full hour…’ Oonagh wondered why Fran never just said half an hour like other people ‘… but I was out of my mind with worry when you never answered the phone.’ She was now emptying the dishwasher with intent, holding up various items of crockery like weapons as Oonagh slumped further into her chair and pointed in the vague direction of whichever cupboard or shelf they’d be best placed.
‘Can we not do this now, Mum?’ What age would she need to be before she stopped getting a row from her mum for being drunk on a school night? Fran ignored her pleas and threw each item of cutlery into the drawer. Every clang making Oonagh’s nerves jump to attention.
‘I don’t know what your father—’ She stopped, then softened. ‘Sweetheart, I don’t like seeing you like this.’
Oonagh was tempted to tell her not to come round uninvited then, but she bit her tongue and instead just groaned further. ‘Actually, Mum, I think I have a bug.’ She rubbed her tummy, going for the sympathy vote.
‘I wish you would meet someone. Someone nice,’ Fran added, sensing that Oonagh was no stranger to total utter bastards.
The Quiet Ones Page 5