‘McVeigh,’ where the hell was Jim when he needed him. ‘McVeigh,’ he yelled, louder now, leaning out of his office door, making sure his voice carried half way through the station.
‘Sir?’ He swung round to find McVeigh behind him. A mug of tea in each hand.
‘In here now.’ Davies took one of the mugs, making his way back behind his desk. ‘What’s the latest?’ He nodded to the folder and struggled to keep the emotion from his voice. Desperately wishing he could un-see those pictures. ‘How’s Toria doing?’ He added.
‘Bearing up. She’s a tough cookie, that one.’ McVeigh tried to sound upbeat, positive, but failed miserably.
They’d seized as much as they could from Nugent’s house once the allegations had come through. His widow had put up no resistance and had been glad to get it out of the house. It was Toria who’d found the images on his laptop. The ones that proved where his sexual preferences had lain.
‘Get the tech guys onto it. See if we can trace the source. Did he share the images with anyone?’ He caught the look on McVeigh’s face. He knew they were already across this. He also knew what a shitty job it was trying to track down the source of some of these sites. ‘Just see what they can do, eh?’
McVeigh nodded, ‘I’ve passed everything on to the National Crime Agency, sir.’ This might have been part of the investigation into Harry Nugent’s murder, but the NCA handled the organised crime, including images of child sexual abuse. ‘This is just the tip of the iceberg. They suspect up to ten thousand Scots use the internet to watch this type of stuff on a regular basis.’
‘What the fuck is wrong with these people?’ Davies was glad he only dealt with homicides, which to him was the lesser of the two evils.
‘A lot of the stuff comes from Russia. It’s a nightmare trying to track it down. Almost seven hundred people were charged last year in connection with viewing sexual images of children. It’s big business, sir, and it’s not going away.’
The sickness in his stomach was creeping up to his throat. ‘Make sure you keep your eye on Toria, McVeigh. You two are pals. The help’s there if she needs it. But for now, we need to find out just how far this fucker was operating.’
Crime was changing and Davies wasn’t sure he still wanted to be on the side of the good guys. The guys who had to play by the rules. Sure, there had always been the sick and the twisted. Brady and Hindley, Fred and Rosemary, shit, some didn’t even need their surnames. But with the Internet it was becoming easier for these sick bastards to find victims, easier for them to exchange images and easier for them to evade the law.
‘Shit, McVeigh, there was time when Glasgow earned its reputation as no mean city. Yeah, it was a dark place, don’t get me wrong. Gang warfare was rife and no hard-man was safe. But women and kids? Fuck’s sake, they were left alone.’
Davies was aware McVeigh was looking at him. It was probably the most he’d spoken to his partner since they were thrown together.
‘Boss, my dad grew up in the Gorbals. But he says you could leave your door open, kids were out till all hours, but you knew who to steer clear of and as long as you did you’d be fine.’
Davies nodded. ‘You’re making me feel old, McVeigh. You know Fred West got run out of town?’
McVeigh sat back, seemed to be enjoying the very slight relief the banter brought from the horror of Nugent. ‘I’d heard that. Thought it might have been just folklore.’
‘Absolutely not. West had an ice-cream run in the east end. Handy with his fists as long as it was a wife or kiddie at the other end of his knuckles.’ It had been before Davies’s time, but he knew the story well. ‘Word got round that he’d been messing with a fourteen year old girl who served in his van. He was tipped the wink and fled before the local gangs arrived armed with cans of petrol, baseball bats and machetes. They’d planned to cut his head off.’
‘Bloody hell. I never heard that.’
‘It never made headline news as, well, no one knew who he was. He was just another creep.’ West had scarpered, leaving his wife and child behind. ‘Point is, McVeigh, this wasn’t a city to harbour child abusers. Or at least it never used to.’
Davies got up and looked out of the cracked window. He got a decent view of the city from here, the jagged skyline a mess of modern abominations blotting out the grandeur of Victorian architecture. Somewhere out there was the killer of Harry Nugent. And also out there were men and boys who’d been abused by him. He knew who he wanted to track down first.
‘You OK, boss? You look like shit.’
Davies let out a laugh, the first time he’d even come near to smiling since he’d seen Nugent hanging from his banister. ‘Call it as you see it, Jim.’ His partner meant no harm; it was obvious to anyone within spitting distance that Alec Davies was struggling with this case. Though not for the reasons some might think. There would be no happy ending here. No satisfaction at catching those responsible for these crimes. Davies and McVeigh both knew that there was every likelihood that this man had died at the hands of someone he had abused, a victim of a revenge attack and, try as he might, Davies couldn’t actually put his hand up and say he wouldn’t have done the same thing in their shoes.
‘I think they’re ready for us, boss.’
Davies ran his hand across his face; he’d left it too late to shave. ‘Aye, OK.’ He had little appetite for this. Fucking press conference. What was he supposed to say? The girl from Comms had briefed him, coached his response, his delivery. Told him how to answer those awkward questions that journalists had a habit of asking. Those questions that suggested Police Scotland was up to its eyes in the biggest fucking cover-up since Jack the Ripper.
He pushed his shoulders back and tugged at the lapels of his jacket as he made his way through the double doors to the briefing room. He recognised most of the faces, radio mics were already set up on the table, TV cameras pointing to the empty chair he would soon occupy, and the dying breed of print journalists poised, pens in hand. He didn’t have to scan the room to find her. Oonagh O’Neil was sitting in the front row ready to take no prisoners.
17
Getting information on those who claimed to have been abused by Harry Nugent was no easy task. Alec imagined they were terrified it put them in the frame as a suspect, but this was no killer sitting in front of him. Then there would be the others who would no doubt follow. The nutters, the bampots, the attention seekers who hadn’t even been in Glasgow during Nugent’s reign. Those who fancied getting in on the act for a few moments of glory, or even a bit of compensation. And that wasn’t counting the inevitable few who would wander through the door claiming they’d killed Nugent, either because they’d heard voices, or their dog had made them do it.
Three credible people had now come forward. Admittedly they had gone to the press first, and Alec had used the threat of a warrant to get the names from the tabloid journalist who ran the story. As it turned out, it wasn’t needed. Joe McLeish had agreed to talk, and had arrived at the station bang on time. Normally with allegations of sexual abuse it was best practice to have a female officer present, but not this time. Joe McLeish had insisted that both officers were male.
An informal chat, they’d said, and Alec tried to keep his tone as light and as neutral as possible, but inside his gut was churning for this grown man sitting in his office. The press conference that morning had not been easy. Batting off questions about why allegations of sexual abuse had not been investigated by the then Strathclyde Police, then to go on to fudge round the issue of having no real leads in the investigation. But there was no doubt about it. Since the allegations of abuse, the heat from the public to find Nugent’s killer had most certainly cooled off. This morning had been a tough one alright, but this was going to be tougher.
‘Joe, I know this is hard, but can you just tell us in your own words what happened?’ The basic details had been outlined in the newspaper article. Joe, or Boy X, claimed that Nugent would take him back to his flat in the south side of Glasgow
and carry out the abuse. He’d been fourteen at the time, and had shown promise on and off the pitch. It had all happened over twenty years ago. Not the best circumstances to gather evidence in an historical abuse case linked to a murder investigation, but for now it was all they had to go on.
‘He used to make me ask him for money.’
‘What?’
‘After I’d, like, after I’d touched him, or during… when it was happening. He made me ask him for money.’
Davies struggled to get his head round this one.
‘Then he’d throw me a fiver, sometimes a tenner. Scrunched it up, threw it on the floor and made me pick it up.’ Joe’s voice cracked at the memory. Alec could only imagine it salved some sort of sick conscience and appealed to his twisted logic if he thought of his victims as rent boys. As though that made it OK.
‘Was there ever anyone else there at the time, Joe?’
Joe worried his hands together then leaned his chin on the steeple of his fingers. ‘Sometimes, but they never saw.’ He spoke softly, taking deep breaths between each sentence. Only the very slight crack of emotion in his voice. ‘I have a family. I don’t want my kids…’
Davies leaned over and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Joe, I promise, you’ll be afforded the very same rights and considerations as every other victim of sexual abuse.’ Shit, even as he said it he knew what a raw deal most women got. Being quizzed about their sexual history, what they were wearing, everything that pointed the finger to their door. ‘You’ll have the right to anonymity and, because of the nature of this case, it’s unlikely to end up in court.’ What Alec needed was to get a clearer of picture of what Nugent was really like. This holier-than-thou paragon of virtue, who apparently didn’t have an enemy in the world until someone decided to mete out some rough justice and hang him.
‘Who else was there when it happened? Were there any other adults involved?’
‘Once a couple of the other lads were there.’ Joe looked up, but Alec didn’t interrupt with the obvious question, just let him continue. ‘We were watching telly. They were lying on the floor – there were cartoons on, I think. I was sitting beside Harry on the settee and he held my wrist and forced me to touch him.’ He pointed to his groin, to make sure Alec understood. ‘Then he touched me.’
‘And the others saw nothing.’
Joe shook his head and swallowed hard, rubbing the palm of his hand across his mouth.
‘Take your time, Joe.’ Alec gave him a tight smile. ‘You’re doing well.’
There wasn’t much that sickened Alec Davies, but child abuse was one of the few crimes where he would gladly throw the guilty party to a baying mob with pitchforks.
‘Can you give me the names of the other boys?’
Joe shook his head. ‘I can’t remember. It was all a long time ago.’ That came as no surprise; Alec bet Joe knew exactly who these guys were. He’d remembered where they were sitting, what they were wearing, what they’d said at the time. But he’d refused to go as far as naming them. Alec would need to bide his time on this one.
‘I hate to ask you this, Joe, but I have to.’ He paused briefly. ‘What were you wearing at the time?’
‘Joggy bottoms. He’d always insisted that the boys wore joggies on and off the pitch.’
‘It’s just that…’ Alec had felt the need to explain, but Joe McLeish held his hand out, telling him he understood.
‘Listen, it’s fine, honestly. It was only years later I realised that was to save him fumbling about with zips and tight jeans and stuff.’
The memory looked as though it was about to overwhelm him. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t kick him or punch him or tell him to fuck off.’ There were tears in his eyes now.
Alec stood up. ‘Joe, please.’ He’d seen it all too often. Victims blaming themselves. This wasn’t what he’d joined the police for. ‘You were a child. You looked up to Nugent, you trusted him and he abused you.’ Joe had started to weep and Alec didn’t have a clue what to do. ‘These guys groom kids from the word go. They use and abuse their power to get what they want.’
Joe McLeish pressed his fingers tight against his eyes, then blew into his hankie. He’d never told anyone of the abuse, kept it hidden for all these years.
‘Why’ve you come forward now, Joe?’
He licked his bottom lip, leaned his forehead on the back of his hand, his fist clenched. ‘Because I can’t fucking stand the way he was being hailed as a hero. That man ruined my fucking life. D’you know there’s not a day, hardly an hour, that I don’t think about him.’
Alec felt weary. More weary than he’d done for a long time. He wanted to tell this man in front of him how brave he’d been to come forward. That he knew how hard this all was, that he was doing the right thing. But he knew it would have sounded trite and condescending.
‘I was a good footballer, you know. Might even have made the premier, but that last day when… I just ran home and I’ve never kicked a ball since.’ Alec could hardly bear to look into Joe McLeish’s eyes, they were so full of pain. ‘I can’t even have a kick-about with my kids. Can’t bear it.’
For some poor buggers the pain never seemed to go away. He tried again. ‘Can you give me any names, Joe? Names of other guys who…’
He shook his head, chewed at his bottom lip. ‘This was over twenty years ago. I’ve tried to blot out as much of it as I can, but all I can see is his face. And feel his breath. I could taste it. He was disgusting.’
Alec nodded. ‘I know. But, please, if you can think of anyone, if any names come to you.’
‘I take it I’m free to go?’
‘Aye, of course.’ Joe McLeish was no killer. This wasn’t a guy who’d meted out his revenge on Harry Nugent. Alec was sure of that. ‘Listen, Joe, take care of yourself.’ Alec shook his hand and, without thinking, gave him a hug.
18
The fact that Harry Nugent had been abusing boys in his care had opened up a big fat giant can of worms.
‘This puts a whole new slant on things.’ Alec Davies knew only too well the allegations of historical sex abuse were a nightmare to investigate. They would be dealt with by Police Scotland’s National Child Abuse Investigation Unit, but they’d need to liaise closely with the team as there was every possibility they could uncover something that proved crucial in the murder investigation. On top of this, they’d need to be across the possibility that allegations against Nugent had been deliberately hidden.
‘What it does is it gives us a possible motive for Nugent’s murder. Up until now we’ve had very little to go on.’ McVeigh and Toria sat in front of his desk at either side. Apparently hanging on his every word. He needed a small team around him. People he could trust.
‘Are we ruling out the gangland connection now?’ McVeigh was the first to address the elephant in the room.
‘We really can’t rule out anything yet, you know that.’ Davies paused and then inclined his head. ‘Toria.’ He gave her the go-ahead to speak.
‘OK.’ She looked slightly nervous and Alec couldn’t help but feel a tiny swell of pride. She looked like a kid but knew how to handle herself. ‘We know at least three victims went to the police with allegations against Harry Nugent, but there’s no record of any complaints.’ She read the mood in the room like a pro. ‘Sadly, this doesn’t necessarily point to a cover-up. God. I wish it did.’ Alec raised an eyebrow. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘at least if it was a cover-up it pointed to a few bad apples. What we’re seeing here is worse,’ she paused. ‘In my opinion.’ Alec couldn’t quite grasp what exactly could be worse, but he let her continue.
‘This,’ she went on, ‘sadly is indicative of how we handled abuse allegations in the past. And I don’t just mean the dim and distant past. I’ve been looking into this. Have you any idea the number of witness statements lost, victims never being contacted again by the police, claims of abuse left un-investigated, and in many cases no action at all taken against potential abusers, not even an initial
visit from the cops. It’s disgraceful. And points the finger at all of us.’
Toria had worked in Rape Task Force for a time before being assigned to MITs. Davies wondered why she’d moved on – she knew her shit, make no mistake.
‘I’m not saying there’s not been some sort of cover-up on this. I’m just suggesting that the way abuse allegations have been handled by the police in the past – and this goes across the force – means it’s hardly surprising. The fact the victims were male, the fact they were young working class kids, and the fact that Harry Nugent was a well known and well respected figure meant that it’s par for the course that the boys weren’t taken seriously.’
Harry Nugent had indeed been a shrewd promoter of his own image.
‘It’s now estimated one in six men will be the victim of sexual assault at some time in their lives, yet government resources, police training, victim support, they’re all geared towards helping women. It’s little wonder so few men come forward. They often feel there’s nowhere to turn.’
‘And the reason some feel the need to hand out their own form of rough justice?’ McVeigh posed it as a question, but no one had the answer yet. ‘Any more victims coming forward?’
Davies knew this could well open the floodgates. Not only would this encourage more victims to come forward, it would give the green light to every nutter who fancied getting their face in the paper for the most outrageous reasons. He was fucking furious that details of the case had had top billing on social media. They never did find out who blabbed that Nugent had had his tongue sliced off. The comms team had managed to trace the first posting of it to a girl in Renfrew, but she claimed she heard it from some guy in Asda. It was a fucking joke. He knew they were struggling to keep up with the changing technology, yet could do little about it.
The Quiet Ones Page 9